Mill Creek Memories page two

Firewood and Fishing

I had arrived in Mill Creek in May from the coast expecting the winter to be over–– and it was at the altitude of the town of Mill Creek, but Mount Lassen still had lots of snow on its upper slopes so I couldn’t climb around on it like I wanted to. When I had discovered what a good place this little town of Mill Creek was, I decided to live here for a while even if there was not much work available.

Then I heard there was a very remote fishing camp maybe ten miles further into the wilds downstream from the town called “Hole in the Ground”.

My good old Ford pick-up made it down to the camp and I found it was a very lovely, quiet, free Forest Service camp with parking places, tables and fire pits right on Mill Creek. A fisherman was already there with his camper but he had his own camp and minded his own business. . I didn’t fish. I didn’t have a license or any tackle.

About the second morning I was there a tanker truck arrived and the driver started transferring nice, big trout from the opened top of the tank to the river with a long-handled fishing net. This was something new for me. There were more fish than I could imagine going into the river right at my feet. One big trout leapt out of the net and landed at the feet of the fisherman. He grabbed it with his bare hands and tossed it into the river with its buddies.

“Man, you had that fish! You caught it fair and square––why’d you throw it in the river?” I exclaimed.

“Aw, that’s no fun.” He said.

I stayed on a few more days. No one else showed up and every day the fisherman would give me a couple of trout for breakfast so he wouldn’t go over his limit.

So. You see, I imagined Hole in the Ground to be a perfect quiet fishing place.

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My firewood boss Harry kept a very neat firewood cutter’s camp. He was very proud of the neat cords of wood he carefully stacked before we loaded them into the old truck he rented to carry the firewood down to Chico. He also loved to fish and when he wasn’t taking care of his camp like a Boy Scout he was off fishing in the narrow deep streams of the meadows.

I was getting stronger and more agile tossing two split pieces of firewood at a time into the big truck and rolling the big “rounds” of cut wood to the pickup truck and hoisting them in.

I didn’t do much cutting because the chainsaws were pretty expensive and I never bought one––but there was more than enough other work

Harry told me we would take the Fourth of July off which was OK with me!

Then he asked me if I knew of any good fishing holes nearby where he could indulge his passion. I told him about The Hole in the Ground and offered to guide him there.

So the next morning, which was the Fourth of July, Harry picked me up at my camp in Mill Creek and I showed him the dirt road that led down to my quiet fishing hole.

But, Holy Mackerel, there must have been two hundred fishermen with their wives and children all over the camp––wall to wall trucks and campers and tents and smoky campfires smelling of hot-dogs––unbelievable!.

So Harry tossed his line in with all the rest and took it all with good humor. I wasn’t faking my astonishment!

But just after the fourth of July Harry told me that the area of trees his license allowed him to cut was about finished and he was packing his camp and heading back to Chico to his regular job as a bartender. I would have to find another job.

I wanted to stay in the Lassen area very much—I discovered that I really liked it!

But there was nothing much for me to do to earn money––even the humble subsistence level I needed.

I learned that there was a big construction project just starting for the Lassen Volcanic National Park late that summer. The Forest Service had signed a permit to allow a ski lift to be built on a high slope in the Park. Visions of wealth and employment excited the few people who actually lived in the nearby mountain towns scratching a living from the land in any way they could (state highway maintenance, gas station operator, school teacher, cafe waitress, bar owner, motel people, truckers and my people, the firewood trade scavengers).

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