The trail into Lavazolla Creek is an old miner’s path that runs upstream for several miles to where the small canyon pinches off at a rock wall. There the creek thins out and tumbles down a series of stoney shelves. Above the wall is a series of small pools laced together by thin ribbons of water which hold very few fish. The Lavazolla really begins below this impediment where it becomes a freestone creek typical of many streams in the Sierra foothills. And like many forks of the American and Yuba Rivers, the Lavazzola was panned for gold for nearly half a century. Then the miners moved on, and the trout prospered.
These days only adventuresome fishermen explore the canyon creeks around Downieville, a left-over remnant of the 49er era. This leaves the Lavazzola getting very little attention from anglers more intent on easier access and less challenging conditions. I discovered the Lavazzola in a bar. A salesman I shared a couple of drinks with drew a map on the back of a cocktail napkin. He cautioned it was a good, long hike in, too high to fish in the springtime, and warned that I ‘might see a rattler or two.’ However, summer was perfect he said, with lots of fish to be had.
The first time I fished the creek, I discovered his advice to be spot-on. The sun was at its zenith then, shining light into the canyon, the Lavazolla was clear, clean and cold, the water was lower, flowing over rocks and around boulders, creating ideal holding places for the trout out of the current. And the mayfly hatches, ants and beetles were plentiful. The native trout loved it. And so did I.
I could make a full day of fishing, without ever having to turn around and go back to fish the same stretch. But the stream wasn’t easy. Below the steep walls, the Lavazzola was a tight forty feet at its widest, with the banks lined with overhanging willows. To avoid hanging up in the brush I learned to fish the creek right down the middle, casting between the rocks and boulders, aiming for the eddies in the constant current – the same places where miners sluiced gravel in their pans.
Casting required focus and finesse, plus a little luck. Mending a cast in the air to play the drift near the shore always cost me a fly or two. It was an ever-present reminder: boulders are easy, the banks are hard.
The stream was a perfect habitat for the fish I pursued. Nothing very big. I think the biggest rainbow trout I ever hooked went thirteen inches. On the other hand, you could catch and release twice the limit or more, if you knew what you were doing.
While I had taken one or two friends with me over the years, I usually fished the Lavazzola alone. This probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but it felt like such an intimate piece of water that I didn’t want to share it with others. The one or two times I encountered another fly fisherman, they were along the first mile or two and I remember watching them struggle, getting hung up. They hadn’t made the effort to wade out into middle. Proof that good fishing skills are learned the hard way. Being told rarely makes an impression.
There was one occasion, however, when I encountered another fly fisherman, I’ll never forget. Many years back someone had installed a gate at the trailhead. As usual, there were no other vehicles parked there. It was midmorning. I put on my fishing vest, rigged my 4 weight, and started up the trail. I had hiked three miles or so by the time I got on the water. After fishing for about an hour I was at the widest bend on the creek, a long gravel bar dividing the current. I came around the corner and saw a guy at the top of the gravel bar fishing the eye. I stopped and watched him make several short casts across the flowing water, mending upstream. His casting looked unsure, and I wondered if he knew what he was doing. Then he hooked a nice trout. I watched him play the fish, reel it in and bend down to unhook it. His stance looked awkward when he leaned over, maybe a little unstable. I figured it was just the rocky bottom. He saw me about the same time. He waved and headed in my direction, wading wet, like me. He was working his way through a field of small, submerged boulders.
The water was fast but not deep. Still, it appeared to offer him a challenge. Wading across the current he missed a step and went down on one knee in the rushing water. I thought he would fall, and I started towards him. He raised a hand to signal he was okay and could make it, while struggling to stand up and wade in the rest of the way. It was in that moment I saw the force of the water had pushed his pants leg over the top of his wading boot to reveal a prosthetic leg.
When he reached me, he said, “Hello. How are you doing?”
It felt uncomfortable asking the same question because I didn’t want my words to sound like a comment on what had just happened. Instead, I said, “I’m okay.” And, after a pause I added, “You must have hiked further up.” My response still sounded like I was asking how he did it, without being obvious.
He smiled and set his rod down, leaning it on a bleached log that lay on the rocks of the gravel bar.
“Yeah. I dunno know. Aways upstream or so. Where there’s a rockslide on the other side.”
I knew the place. It was at least another mile above where we were standing.
“Quite a hike.”
Yeah, was all he said then he asked me had fished here before and what was it like further down. More of the same I told him. Also, that I had been fishing this creek for quite a few years.
“Seems like good places like this are hard to find anymore,” he said.
“Sometimes . . . you never know. A guy told me about this creek in a bar. What about you? How’d you find the Lavazzola?”
“I heard about it from another vet in the program, Project Healing Waters.” Then he stuck out his hand. “Name’s Robbie, what’s yours?”
He was a redhead, somewhere in his mid-thirties. I had twenty years on him. “Hank Billings,” I replied. “Project Healing Waters? That sounds like a . . . kind of a religious deal . . ..”
“No, nothing like that. It’s for disabled vets, I’m in it. Say, if you’ve got minute, I can tell you a little about the Healing Waters program.” He seemed to be anxious to say more.
I nodded. “Sure.”
I put my rod down next to his and we sat together on the weathered log. He pulled his trouser leg up to the knee to show me his prosthetic leg. It was hi-tech, polished stainless steel, with a piston-like attachment that, I guessed, had a function to do with the heel inside his wading boot.
“Hank, I’m a vet. Marine Corps. Afghanistan, the last go-around. Leg got blown off in a firefight. After I got home, I suffered with PTSD. You know what that is?” I told him I did.
“Well, Project Healing Waters helped me with that. Get my shit together, the flashbacks and stuff. I never knew anything about fly fishing before I was wounded. I was a city kid. Then a buddy told me how learning to flyfish and all that really helped him. That was Project Healing Waters. Its about working with other vets like me.”
We must have talked for over an hour. About how Project Healing Waters, or PHW as he called it, had taught him to cast and fly fish, which flies to use and how to tie them. Plus, the camaraderie with other vets like him learning together seemed to put balance back in his life. His eyes were bright and happy as he spoke.
Above us, the light had shifted to touch the canyon rim. It was getting on afternoon. We both agreed we had fish to catch. We stood up and looked at each other for a moment, before we simultaneously hugged. Stepping back, there were no words, just a silent nod.
Finally, rod in hand as I prepared to resume fishing I said, “Take care, Marine.”
He tapped the butt of his fly rod against his prosthetic leg. “I’m good,” he said.
When I got back to my car later that afternoon a simple brochure for the Project Healing Waters was tucked under my windshield wiper. Scrawled on the back it said: ‘Oorah! Fish On!’
# # #
Author’s note: The Project Healing Waters is a non-profit organization dedicated to the physical and emotional rehabilitation of disabled active military service personnel and disabled veterans through basic fly-fishing education, fly casting, fly tying, rod building and outings. You can earn more at www.projecthealingwaters.org/programs.
