Oroville, sandhills
February 14, 2017

I am horrified and disgusted by the news about the impending Oroville dam disaster, less certainly than the displaced residents of the towns below the dam, but more than some others because of my history with that wonderful place of my childhood.

I spent portions of quite a few summers in Oroville at the home and farm of my grandparents, Zack and Pearl (Taylor) Kelley, and savored every bit of it. 

My mind is unrelenting in conjuring those memories, so I will allow myself to record what I can recall of those times.  Zack & Pearl worked their Oroville farm for more than 20 years, having acquired it after they left their desert ranch on East Antelope Creek in Yavapai County, Arizona.

I remember when the dam was under construction that Grandpa semi-retired from farming.  He built three houses fronting the road; he and Grandma moved into one and rented or sold their farmhouse and the other two houses.

One of the new residents was involved with the dam construction.  The most I remember about that family is that they owned a ski boat and were perfectly fine with taking me and my sister along on outings where we learned to water ski on the Feather River.

The river was the universal center of all recreational activities for pretty much everyone in the area.  It had a wild & woolly past, having been dredged by gold seekers in the previous century, resulting in large gravel mounds lining its banks in places.

Other places along its course bore the remains of early habitations and commercial enterprises.  One of our favored fishing spots was near the bridge in Oroville; my grandparents loved to fish.  I remember the day Grandma got a fish hook stuck into her thumbnail from a casting line (probably Grandpa’s).  That required a trip to the hospital and resulted in a lifelong mangled thumbnail.

Further up in the mountains was a place called Bidwell's Bar, a super picnic and swimming spot that we often frequented.  The Feather River was known to be treacherous for swimmers; stories abounded about people being pulled under the water’s surface by whirlpools and quicksand while wading.  Drownings were common, or so it sounded to me.

A bridge crossed the river just above Bidwell’s Bar, allowing us to walk across to the other side.  I think that my father, Ira, Uncle Lewis and my older brother, Frank, were in a group that crossed the bridge, planning to swim back.  To this day, I am a very weak swimmer, certainly no match for that wide water with swift dangerous currents, but foolishly, I went along.  I have no idea why I was allowed to attempt that.  I gave it every ounce of energy I had, but remember sinking somewhere out in that vast expanse; I shall never forget going down to a level where my eyes were just above the water’s surface and seeing far on the shore all the picnickers, including my mother, and realizing that I could not get there.

And that is where that story ends: how I escaped the clutching waters of the Feather River is erased from my mind, but evidently I did, because here I am.  Somehow, that experience never diminished my love and admiration of that magnificent river.  When we visited Oroville a few years back, I was actually able to find my way to our fishing spot near the bridge.  That was in Oroville at a section now below the dam.  By then of course, all those wonderful places above the dam no longer existed, covered by the lake.

The farm . . .

My grandparents’ farm is just possibly the most idyllic place I have ever had the pleasure to visit.  Their driveway was marked by two stone posts that Grandpa built (they were still there when we visited in 1997).  Their house was not visible from the road, being set far back along the lane. 

The house had an attached garage, quite a marvel to us who had never seen such.  A few steps up from there took a person into the house.  My greatest fascination was reserved for the cedar-lined closet that was so deep it served one bedroom from one end and another from the other end.

Walking along that dirt lane was a true pleasure of the senses; I most remember the serenity of the place and the subtle smells.  Even now, the smell of a fig tree conjures those carefree summery memories.

To the left was Grandpa’s olive orchard that he watered via sprinklers on metal pipes that he set up and took down every irrigation.  What a hard worker he was, my short wiry Grandpa!  He had crews of workers come in to do the harvests.  I remember the hubbub of the men clambering up and down ladders.

That orchard is where I chipped my little brother’s front tooth.  We were messing around out there  - me driving the car (I started driving at an exceptionally young age, far too inexperienced to have a car full of younger rowdy kids).  David was sitting on the open back window ledge and refused to get down when I told him to, so I started up anyway, causing him to fall forward and crack his tooth on the roof of the car.  I undoubtedly caught holy hell for that stunt; there are things I wish I could remember - the consequences of that action are not among them.

Back to walking down the lane: there was a field on the right before coming to the house.  The house fronted on the drive and was a lovely old farm house with a swing on the porch and a peach tree within arm's reach (Oroville was superb fruit country).  Picky and spoiled I was, without a doubt; I loved peaches, but not that fuzzy skin, so someone always peeled them for me while we were all relaxing on the front porch, a favored non-activity on those long summer evenings.

And root beer floats!  That’s where I learned to love ‘em.  Grandpa would bring home a frosty gallon jug from A&W that we would savor poured into glasses filled with vanilla ice cream. 

A special treat was taking a sugar bowl out to Grandma’s strawberry patch and dipping those lusciously ripe berries before popping them into our mouths.  That was pay for ridding the tomato plants of horn worms - a job given over to my sister Vicki and me.  We couldn’t bear to step on them and hear them squish, so we would roll a large stick of firewood over them.

Another of our escapades involved open-ended 50-gallon barrels and a slight incline.  We took turns climbing in, tucking chin to chest, knees around our ears, and allowing someone to give us a good kick downhill.  Truthfully, it didn’t feel all that great to remain in the barrel until it came to a crashing stop against a tree, but it was even less fun to fall out along the way.

Grandpa also raised pigs and had a small dairy; the pig sty and milking barn were further back along the drive.  It was fun to watch his small herd come in from the pasture at the end of the day, where he called each by name as they went to their assigned stanchions.  He milked them by hand and then the refrigerated stainless steel tanker truck came to pick up the milk as it did at numerous other small dairies.

The creek . . .

I’ve saved the best for last.  At the very back of the farm past the drive, past the barns and pens and beyond the pastures was the most intriguing creek ever!  Its banks were mostly obscured by brambles of blackberry vines.

My cousin Johnny and I spent untold unfettered hours there.  By way of preparation for going down to the creek, we would secure a sturdy branch of just the right length, tie a string onto one end, procure a sturdy straight pin that we bent in the middle at a 45-degree angle to knot onto the end of the string and, with Grandpa’s dog Queenie happily joining us, we would set off across the back field. 

Queenie was not so fond of us as she was of what we did along the way.  You see, there was an ancient long unused outhouse back there, which when kicked, would result in large rats racing out in every direction.  It was Queenie’s great joy to wildly careen back and forth chasing them until all were out of sight.  It's a wonder rats didn't run up our pant legs.

All that was then needed was to find a way through the thicket and to quietly drop our lines in, hoping for a big strike.  I think we mostly caught catfish there, and I remember excitedly watching a muskrat swim by once right in front of me.  In some places, the creek was shallow enough or the fish large enough that their backs would stick out of the water.

We were told that the water was contaminated from the hospital expelling waste into it, meaning that the fish we caught had to be soaked in salt water before cooking.  Somehow, that was supposed to decontaminate them - how naive we were in those days!  Or perhaps it was not polluted at all - I have no idea - it looked and smelled very nice, and we were happy. 

Typically, we would carry a pail to the creek; when we tired of fishing, we picked blackberries for Grandma to bake into cobbler.  She, too, was constantly on the go - cooking, canning, sewing - they were quite a pair: he was so short that even as a child, I had to bend down to give him a hug, Grandma taller and somewhat the other direction from wiry.

He was quite the master at dominoes and loved to entertain us by standing on his head, even at an advanced age.

In addition to destroying the beauty of that fascinating Feather River, the dam dried up all the tributary creeks, including the one on Grandpa’s farm.  I was so saddened to discover that when I ventured back to share its remembered wonders with my family.

Now the Oroville Dam is on the verge of doing the unthinkable, and the folks in the charming town on that magnificent river are in danger of losing their homes, business and livelihoods - what a travesty!

Michael & Christina . . .

Returning to the Goose Loop Trail from my walk down memory lane: subsequent communications with the nice young couple we met there, Michael & Christina, convinced us to return to the Cibola Refuge and remain until late in the day for the opportunity of more birdwatching and maybe seeing more sandhill cranes.

As we traversed the outback of the Refuge, we came upon approximately 75 to 100 white pelicans and the snow goose population had increased to something in the neighborhood of 300. 

Burrowing owls were satisfied once again to pose for portraits.

The real prize, though, was the sandhill cranes!

When we there earlier, we thought there just were not many wintering at the Refuge.  We now had the thrill of watching and hearing them coming in for their evening roost - hundreds of them arriving in formations of 20 or so each as if magically materializing in the air, announcing their arrival with their unique purr-like call, and jockeying for space near the pond - a magnificent sight indeed - what a privilege to witness it!

Scouting along the Colorado River, we found a superb fishing spot on a sand bar - good fishing, not so much for catching.

This metal sculpture caught my eye - loved how they had the old trailer there looking ready to load.