[Russell Towle's journal]
“8/4/82 morning at Moody Ridge… A few cirrus clouds grace the sky, temperatures have been cool the past few days. Grappelli/Menuhin: so lovely, so happy. Two violins, a bass, a guitar: a string quartet. Some of the tunes are really touching.
Yesterday, after my morning snooze, I packed up and hiked up to the highest part of Snow Mountain. The nearly flat ridge top, with its half-dozen knolls of frost-shattered bedrock, is intriguing. The bedrock, where not severely disrupted by frost wedging, has planar surfaces of an extent suggestive of glaciation; yet Snow Mountain stands so high above the surrounding terrain, it seems unlikely that it was overridden by ice, and there are no erratics. The northeast flanks of the peak show striae leading away from the summit, and I think it may be that snow was just [...], With the ice piling up thick enough to the side during severe episodes so that snow could accumulate on the very summit's, creating a small, weak glacier that was independent of the main ice sheet. The summit plateau is a remnant of the pre-glacial, pre-uplift landscape. Frost-shattering has been so extreme that in places there are small basins and depressions in the summit plateau, choked with large, angular, frost-riven blocks of rock, and presumably shattered to such depth that snow-melt has washed away whatever [fines?] it could get its hands on, gradually removing support, so that the surface has subsided. Either that, or, if my guess is correct about very-small scale, local glaciation, these depressions could be a result of small-scale, local quarrying and redeposition. Within one of these rocky summit hollows I saw a large, nearly black, rattlesnake.
Depositing my pack near a [indecipherable] mountain hemlock at knoll 8007', where I noted a small circle of rocks on its summit, I set out to explore the rest of the high part of the ridge. Mt. Lassen was visible to the north. And a delightful meadow was near the westernmost knoll, with a pure stand of Western white bark ringed about. Atop this knoll I found the circle of boulders piled up about 3 feet high, which caught my attention immediately as the boulders were covered heavily with lichen, and looked as though they'd been there a long time undisturbed. They enclosed an area of about eight by ten, much of which was floored by a single flat rock (bedrock?) sloping, very slightly, to the south. I got in and found, for the first time since my arrival on the mountain the day before, escape from the wind. Within the ring was a sunny island of warmth, on the highest part of the mountain. At the lowest spot within the ring was a small accumulation of soil. In this soil were numerous flakes of obsidian, and only a very few of the local, west-slope rocks, those by no means certainly West-slope.
So I found an Indian hunting blind. whether Maidu, Washoe, or both, I don't know for certain; the predominance of obsidian hints at Washoe, but the Maidu probably could get obsidian from the Washoe in summer when they'd meet in the higher elevations on the west slope.
I was excited, delighted. pawed the soil, finding a few broken bird points, and enough charcoal and fire-blackened rocks to suggest that a fire had been built from time to time.
This is the first such hunting blind I've come across; I've kept my eye out for them over the years, and thought I'd seen one in the White Mountains from a distance of a mile or so, with binoculars.
I was impressed with the amount of game I saw on Snow Mountain—bucks, bear sign, grouse—now as then it is favored by hunters.
The characteristic flourish of design in the [indecipherable] Snow Mountain blind is its gentle sloping, south-east facing rock floor: a solar collector. These Indians were sun-lovers, and knew the value of morning sun in conquering the chill of night. Thus the southeast slope of the slab. An Indian building that stands to this day. The smaller ring on knoll 8007 is probably a blind, but has been torn apart [...] to make a cairn. Most of the knolls have cairns.
Snow, Snow, Snow. I left around midday, and found a new way back to the jeep trail. The walk out takes between two and three hours, is probably 8-10 miles.”
[Russell Towle's journal]
“8/4/83 [...]
I have been passing my days in quite a monastic fashion; I rise soon before or after dawn, have coffee and a cigarette, and walk over to the old tunnel for the first round of the day's hydraulicking. Perhaps within minutes of the first sip of coffee, before even hydraulicking, I will look over the mathematical work I had been occupied with the night before; punch a few equations through the calculator, rubbing sleepy heads out of my eyes.
The hydraulicking experience is a waker-upper. The rush and splash of the cold water is unavoidable. Holding the 2 inch pipe up and guiding the water here and there is strenuous exercise. With that and the boulder-moving, I've been putting on muscle in my arms. The 500-gallon tank is drained down in about 5 min., and I hammer the plug back in and pitch a few dozen rocks aside, then return to the cabin. at the current 4 gallons per minute rate, it takes about two hours for the tank to fill. A couple of months ago, when I installed the pipeline, the tank was refilling in about 1 hour and 15 min.
I've been getting in five or six hydraulickings per day.
Back at the cabin, I have my Mommson, Lucretius, Suetonius, Tacitus, Caesar's Gallic Wars, Plutarch, Cicero, Pliny; half or all the day between hydraulickings may go by in reading. This is not generally the kind of laid-back escapist reading I am so fond of: this is study. However, I take no notes. I have preferred generally, over the years, with whatever course of study I've undertaken, to merely read the same material several times over; what ever else that is peripheral to my interest will sort itself out and add depth, while the core themes are redefined as my perspectives mature, usually over a span of years. Thus I have often in my life read the same book, or scientific paper, over and over. Just as I've always had a fondness for listening to the same piece of music over and over.
Often when the sunset hour is near I take a joint out to the cliffs. If I have started smoking in the morning, as is often my want, I may a nap in the afternoon; upon arising, I will have coffee, and stay up studying and working on math problems until midnight.
Several times a week I water the plants. Say, twice a week. Horrible mosquitoes this year.
The sun has set, the last round of hydraulicking for the day just sloshed on down the ravine—not to reach and muddy the N. Fk., but to soak into the deep gravel beds along the first part of the way.”
[Russell Towle's journal]
“August 4, 1986 Night; it is hot, I am naked, there is a heat wave. Yesterday I had breakfast at the Alta store, where I ran into Dave Black doing the same... Talked Dave into going down to Smarts Crossing for a swim. We had a great time, spent hours there. After swimming and jumping off the big rock into the pool and sunbathing and finding a fish lying at the water's edge with a stick through its gills and throwing said fish up into the poison oak thinking that it was just going to rot and foul the water, was surprised to see Rob Johnson come walking up from downstream, fishing rod in hand, creel at his side. He and I exchanged greetings, and I said something silly about jumping off the Sacred Jumping Rock; Rob, meanwhile, was scanning the bank, and said, “did anyone see a fish lying around here?” So I swam over and helped him retrieve it from the poison oak. Then Rob asked me if I had done the two rock climbing routes at Smart's. I have done quite a bit of climbing around Smart's, and foresaw no surprises. But Rob had some tricks up his sleeve, and led me on some really neat routes. Then he astounded Dave and I both by doing a gainer off the Big Rock... Took Carla there today, nice.”
[Russell Towle's journal]
“8/4/88 Morning. Stiff and sore after the hike in and out of the Royal Gorge yesterday. We drove directly to Wabena Point and descended the spur ridge leading to the two waterfalls visible far below. Encountering a little brush near the top, which gravity helped us through, we had mostly open going over rocky and increasingly steep terrain. When we'd visited The Step near Wabena Point in June we'd seen a cliff facing upslope on the near side of the river which appeared to offer a good route down to the base of the falls from the ridge we planned to descend, and so it happened. The unusual cliff flanks a narrow gully entrenched by the glacier parallel to the river, a gully choked with enormous boulders and graced by enormous canyon live oaks. It was hot. The sun beat so strongly upon the vastness of stone all around us that, well, it was hot.
From red fir and lodgepole pine we had dropped into live oak and douglas fir and bay-laurel, native grape sprawling curtains, a few incense cedars—poison oak! It was hot, the unusual cliff had blocked out all vestiges of the river's sound, the world had shrunk from the far-flung alpine vistas at the canyon rim, Devils Peak, Castle Peak, Tinkers Knob, Snow Mountain looming across the gorge; shrunk to a canyon increasingly dominated by Snow, Snow with its little grove perched higher and higher above us, shrunk into a canyon enlivened by the roar of waterfalls, one of which's top we could now see—then shrunk into this intimate gully sweltering, hidden, closed, guarded, quiet, knowing only itself, encircled by cliffs, choked by the giant angularity of mega-boulders—
A turn to the right, a traversal of trees gnarling to a single blade of stone hundreds of feet long up which we climbed to see that we'd Arrived—at the lowest waterfall/pool. But what a pool! It was elliptical in outline, cliffs falling sheer into the water from three sides, two waterfalls converging to meet at the pool's surface, but the color, the color—the incredibly deep green color betokening incalculable depths. Alders, willows below the pool. Nice big boulders along its edge upon which to sit; we sat, we ate quickly—I'd skipped breakfast and was famished, it was probably, hmmm, one in the afternoon. A 2,500-foot descent. We ate.
We plunged into the pool, water clear water cool. Water shallow beneath the falls, water at low flows, levels, volumes, all of the above, water dashed white and enlivened by falling ten, twenty feet. Water cool, climb out, dry in the hot sun and strong canyon breezes shimmering the pool and then dive, and swim, and peer into the impossible and wholly undiscernible depths. Trout, ouzels.
Trout and ouzels and granodiorite—no—the rock scoured white to a distance of ten feet or more above the pool, suggesting that the river does indeed roar during the snowmelt. The repeated and intense scouring has not permitted trees near the pool, and the purity of water and rock and air and very little else has an otherworldly character. Perhaps primitive, like, only First Things allowed here.
A ledge provided access across the cliffs to the next pool/waterfall just above. Tiny circle of an impossibly deep pool, water falling twenty feet in column to plunge into deep water, we swim beneath the plunge, are massaged, pounded.
After explorations in the area and more swimming in the Big Deep, we proceed upstream, rock-climbing. After a flat stretch, another sequence of pools and falls, little falls, we stopped below a pretty little double fall, photographed, continued, clambered, were amazed by the discovery of another Big Deep. Triple waterfall over blank vertical granodiorite (we'd passed the contact zone) surrounded by other blank flat cliffs, deep, deep, big overhang along one side: amazing in the extreme! Above, another deep, deep pool, no waterfall. Flat stretch, then, as we approach the confluence of Palisade Creek, another large waterfall and pool, this one a double fall, very pretty, with rocks suitably positioned for up to seventy-foot jumps into the pool. A large camp-site not far away signaled the proximity of the trail and bridge. Sure enough; and we hiked up the trail in gathering darkness, arriving at the car when stars grew bright. Home at midnight, sleep, awake, drink coffee, smoke substances. Finally, after all these years,
the ROYAL GORGE”
[Russell Towle's journal]
The Placer Queen
North Fork Trails blogpost, August 4, 2003:Gus Wiseman, a student at U.C. Davis, joined me Sunday for an exploration of upper Wildcat Canyon and the Placer Queen Mine. For those who aren't familiar with that area, Wildcat Canyon is a short tributary of the North Fork American which heads up along the Foresthill Divide, east of Robinson Flat. From Auburn one drives northeast through the town of Foresthill a long ways, losing the pavement at Robinson Flat. The sign there tells us that it is 25 miles on to Soda Springs on I-80. The Foresthill-Soda Springs road is often fairly rough over this high country reach. I consider it one of the great drives in California, with wonderful views of the North Fork canyon and the Sierra crest.
[http://northforktrails.blogspot.com/2003/08/placer-queen.html ]
A couple miles east of Robinson Flat is the unmarked trail to Sailor Meadow and the Walker Mine. Another couple miles east brings one to the unmarked trail to the Placer Queen Mine, a drift mine near the confluence of the east and west forks of Wildcat Canyon. Sailor Meadow is notable for its large tract of old-growth forest, at about 5600' elevation. This forest, and several wet meadows, inhabit a broad bench or terrace along the east side of Sailor Canyon. Both Sailor Canyon and its neighbor to the east, Wildcat Canyon, are notable for the unusual thickness of the "superjacent" young volcanics lying on top of the vastly older "subjacent" bedrock. The young volcanics are comprised, from the top, down, of the andesitic mudflows of the Mehrten Formation (about 1000' thick here!), the "pink welded tuff" of the Valley Springs Formation, and then, beneath that, more rhyolite ash of the Valley Springs fm. Beneath all these volcanics is at least one old river channel, with gold-bearing gravel, so, in both Sailor and Wildcat canyons, there are various drift mines, where tunnels were driven into the ancient channels.
The underlying bedrock is metamorphic volcaniclastic rocks of the Sailor Canyon and Tuttle Lake formations, which appear to have been deposited in an oceanic environment, before being rotated almost 90 degrees to the east while being smashed up against the western edge of North America in the Jurassic, say, 140 million years ago. So all the strata are "on edge," nearly vertical. This rock was then uplifted and eroded, valleys formed, rivers flowed, then all was buried beneath the "young volcanics," and then, at last, our modern canyons were eroded into all of this, cutting right through the young volcanics, into the subjacent bedrock, and on down below the levels of the ancient, pre-volcanic rivers.
If one is sensitive to the variable thickness of the young volcanics, as seen along the ridges between the modern canyons, one can deduce the presence of the ancient valleys of the ancestral Sierra. Where these valleys were, the young volcanics are thicker than usual. This is especially evident around Sailor Canyon and Wildcat Canyon, where the ridgetops are up around 7000', and the ancient channels down around 5400', so that the exposed section of the volcanics is around 1500 feet thick.
At any rate. I cannot refrain from mentioning one of the most obnoxious timber harvests to take place in Tahoe National Forest in recent years. It went by the name of a "hazard tree removal" along the Foresthill Road, above Robinson Flat. It sounded innocuous enough: if some big old tree is leaning over the road, and might fall, cut it down. However, what actually happened was that, in a broad zone along either side of the road, many large trees were cut, bulldozers scrambled everywhere, log landings were constructed, and the tops of the Sailor Meadow and Placer Queen trails were obliterated. What especially galls me is that this part of the road was so especially virginal and lovely, winding narrowly through one of the all-to-rare unlogged parts of Placer County, a forest often dominated by Red Fir, with some Jeffrey Pine and Western White Pine here and there. So, what had been quite palpably virgin forest, often extending for miles to either side, now has the generic appearance of the run-of-the-mill logged forest.
It amounts to petty vandalism on the grand scale.
So, then, Gus and I drove up the Foresthill road, and a little past the side road to Deadwood, an old mining camp, we explored an obscure road on the left which was cut directly into the line of the historic Iowa Hill Ditch. This ditch was constructed in the 1870s, and was projected to take directly from the North Fork, way upriver, not far from the Cedars, and to take also the waters of all the North Fork's southern tributaries: New York Canyon, Sailor Canyon, Wildcat Canyon, Wabena Canyon, etc. Fortunately it was never completed; it ends a little east of Tadpole Canyon, and never reached New York Canyon. We followed the road east for a mile or so; it has been freshly re-graded only this year, and the newly-bulldozed road eventually leaves the line of the ditch and drops towards one of the several drift mines on the north, North Fork side of Hogback Ridge. I have no idea what's afoot down there. It worries me that so much expensive work has been done.
Where the road leaves the ditch, the ditch-road itself continues east, I don't know how far, seemingly in TNF lands, and purposely blocked by a large dead tree and berm of dirt. We walked in a short distance, then returned to the car, drove back to the Foresthill Road, and on up to the Placer Queen Trail. Parenthetically, I have wondered whether this part of the historic Iowa Hill Ditch might form part of the proposed Capitol-to-Capitol Trail. It would certainly make for a beautiful trail; there are some great views out into the North Fork, with Big Valley Bluff almost directly across the canyon, and Snow Mountain to the east.
I had scouted around for the trail down to the Placer Queen several times in years past. The USGS 7.5 minute Royal Gorge quadrangle shows the trail following a ridge crest down into Wildcat Canyon from a point along the road, a little east of Sunflower Hill. This time I stored waypoints for the trailhead and several points along the trail onto my GPS unit, and even with this additional help, it was very hard to find the trail. That wonderful hazard tree removal had done a good job of tearing things up at the trailhead, and what trees which might have carried blazes had been cut. We struck a likely line and started down, but, after a descent of perhaps 150 feet in elevation, when we broke free of the forest onto the crest of a barren little ridge of andesitic mudflow, I saw the true trail beside us, coming down very slightly to the east side of the crest. So, we had missed the uppermost line of the old trail.
Continuing down the mudflow ridge, we saw signs that this trail had actually been a small road in its day, a jeep trail, perhaps, although more likely it long pre-dated jeeps, and was either a wagon road, or a track used by some kind of ancient light truck, or both. Whatever the case, it has not been driven for a long, long time, and is fairly steep. As we passed again into forest, heavy brush buried the trail in places, and we sometimes simply had to veer away into more open terrain, and come back to the trail somewhere below. I had my loppers and was able to open up a few sections of trail.
At last we reached the top of an especially steep and forested section, and completely lost the line of the trail. We scouted back and forth along the hillside below, and picked it up again. This is the lowest, most northerly section depicted on the Royal Gorge quadrangle. The map is in error, for it shows the trail leading straight down the hill to the mine, when in fact it has several switchbacks. It is quite wide, but badly overgrown, and many were the eight-foot branches of Pacific Dogwood, many the small White Firs, I cut away from the trail. We had descended through the entire section of mudflow and were entering the pink welded tuff in particular, and the rhyolite ash of the Valley Springs fm. generally, which formation, almost everywhere in the Sierra, is the source of springs and seeps. Thus the many dogwoods, thus the rich forest of large pines and firs and Douglas Fir and Incense Cedar.
We saw that someone else had lopped branches along the trail, perhaps ten years ago, or more. However, just to follow the trail was quite a challenge, and at one point we succeeded where the previous explorers had failed, for there were no more old lopped branches. Eventually we reached a forested flat—truly flat—where several stumps spoke to the needs of the miners, perhaps for timbering in the tunnel, or for a cabin; but no cabin site was evident.
We rested a very short while, until clouds of mosquitoes discovered us, and I began scouting back and forth along the flat terrace. I soon struck an old human trail leading back to the north into the east branch of Wildcat Canyon, so I went and got Gus and we explored along the trail for quite a ways, until it diminished into almost nothing as it neared the creek.
We were just above the point where the creek crossed from the young volcanics upstream into the old bedrock downstream. A moderately large landslide in the weak almost white rhyolite ash flanked the creek on the west side, apparently freshly remobilized and cut by the January 1997 flood event. We were to see several other, similar slide areas in the volcanic ash, in the general area.
We followed the creek down into the bedrock, which looked to be metavolcanics of the Tuttle Lake fm. This is variegated, with layers of pyroclastics, similar to the mudflows of the young volcanics, but all squished and metamorphosed and much harder and denser, and layers of fine-grained dark sediments, sometimes showing tight folds. The creek was charming, a little difficult to follow, and when we reached one deep little pool, of a sort which made one want to swim, I wondered whether a trail might have led to the pool from the mine, saw a terrace just above, and so we climbed back up and scouted the hillside. While we found no particular trail to the pool, we did strike the continuation of the main trail, again, very broad, which I had missed altogether in the large flat with the stumps, somewhere above us.
We followed along in a westerly direction and soon reach the mine residence, a log cabin around twenty feet square, with carefully hewn logs, squared off on the inside, still showing the marks of the broad-axe, and a shingled gable roof. The cabin had collapsed, probably many years ago. There was a fair amount of milled lumber in the thing, too, and an old wood stove, and so one, and all round nails, so, certainly 20th century; but nothing I saw could pinpoint the date of its construction. It might have been as late as the 1930s, maybe even a little later.
We found that the trail continued down and to the west, and followed along. We never found the main tunnel of the mine, although we saw many prospect holes, and did pass one very likely candidate for the tunnel, at least, it looked just as though a large tunnel had collapsed, along with portions of the steep slope above it.
The trail continued. We reached a rather large and steep slide area in the Valley Springs rhyolite ash, with many springs and seeps and dogwoods and alders along its base, lost the trail, and eventually emerged on a steep bank above the west fork of Wildcat Canyon. Here we decided to cross the creek and strike west and north on a contour, towards Sailor Meadow. If the going got too rough, we could always retreat to the Placer Queen.
Looking for an easy place to make the steep 100' descent to the creek, I saw what seemed like a continuation of the old trail, and joked to Gus that I was always seeing old trails, whether they existed or not. We followed it down and looked for a way up the far side; only one good possibility presented itself, and after a bit of a scramble, we were on steep heavily forested slopes, and immediately struck an unequivocal old human trail.
It was easy to lop the obstructions away, as the trail made an easy climb to the northwest. Soon we topped out on a small ridge, which at first I mistook for the main divide between Wildcat and Sailor canyons. A large flat lay just west, and we were unable to pick up the line of trail across the flat. Huge Sugar Pines and White Firs towered everywhere, with many fallen giants making for an intricate sequence of climbing and jumping and weaving back and forth.
Checking my Royal Gorge quadrangle, I saw that, as is often the case, this large flat area was not well expressed on the map, and that we must be a quarter-mile away from the divide. We contoured along and climbed a little, unwillingly, for my sense of location indicated we were on a perfect elevation to feather right in to the level part of the divide, where the long narrow pond lies, and the unmarked trail west to Sailor Meadow breaks west from the trail on down to the Walker Mine. I was sure that the old human trail must continue to the Sailor Meadow-Walker Mine Trail, but I saw no sign of it.
Our broad flat had narrowed to a terrace, and that in turn ended on steep brushy slopes which forced us still higher. We struck the main trail a scant hundred feet above the level reach by the narrow pond, and crossed right over to the west, circling around the north side of large and lush Sailor Meadow, then around the west side to the Indian grinding rock, and the old stockman's camp; for someone had grazed cattle here, once upon a time.
The ancient forest around Sailor Meadow is so very lovely, so amazing. Just west of the stockman's camp is a grove of tremendous Ponderosa Pines which range towards eight feet in diameter. Gigantic Sugar Pines are everywhere, along with huge White Firs and Incense Cedars. The largest Douglas Fir I have seen in the Sierra, maybe ten feet in diameter, is somewhere to the north; I have passed it twice in years past, wandering the broad terrace, over a mile long, but have been unable to find it again in the past two years.
A breeze blew up and scared the mosquitos away, and made the aspens tremble, and billowing cloud castles half-filled the sky, and distant thunder was heard, while we rested and ate a late lunch. Around 3:30 p.m. we started up and out, following the Sailor Meadow-Walker Mine Trail up the divide, a climb of about 1500 feet, to the Foresthill Road. This we followed east to Sunflower Hill, and then took a shortcut, contouring around the steep north side of Sunflower, which faces into Wildcat Canyon, and merging with the road again a half-mile to the east. We were a scant hundred yards from the car.
During the long drive down to Auburn, Gus fell asleep while I rattled on about the Placer County Big Trees and William Lardner's ~1925 expedition. So I held my peace and drove and drove and at last we reached Auburn and stopped in at the Shanghai for supper, where I chatted a little with my friend, the genial Richard Yue, proprietor. A blues band was revving it up nicely to an appreciative audience on the outdoors terrace, but Gus and I stayed tamely inside and listened to a strange old player piano execute jazzified versions of jazz standards like "Green Dolphin Street" and "When Sunny Gets Blue," both favorites of mine, which I play on guitar and piano. The food was fine.
Such was another day exploring the upper North Fork, with so many great views of Snow Mountain, and Devils Peak, Sugar Pine Point, and the many side-canyons, all made more dramatic by cloud shadows drifting slowly over the cliffs and forests.
Date: Mon, 4 Aug 2003 10:02:10 -0800
To: North Fork Trails
From: Russell Towle
Subject: Lost Camp THP
Cc: Steve Hunter
Hi all,
I spoke at length this morning with CDF archeologist Jeff Dowling, about the Timber Harvest Plan for sections 22, 23, and 24, including the site of Lost Camp, an old gold mining town. This is THP code number 2-03-040-PLA, and involves 590 acres.
Jeff seemed to know all about me, from my opposition to a timber harvest here in the Dutch Flat Diggings, a few years ago. He was rather full of scorn and dismissal towards me and all my tree-hugging kind. I was a little surprised by the vehemence of his feelings. I tried to keep things on an even keel, but again and again Jeff took me to task for wanting to stop all logging.
Nevertheless, I obtained some useful information about the Lost Camp timber harvest. In brief:
1. The property is owned by Sillers Bros. lumber company. One of the principals, Andrew Siller, recently died.
2. The THP may or may not still be open to public comment. I should call the main office in Redding to find out.
3. So far as Jeff is concerned, the site has been adequately surveyed (by the Register Professional Forester and his assistant, Dave Levy and Steve Furlong), and all historic sites well protected. He says that the steeper slopes will be helicopter logged, and that impacts using this method are so light that there is no restriction upon where trees may be taken. Jeff has, in the past, walked "all over" that area.
4. Jeff says the harvest itself will likely not take place for one to one-and-one-half years.
5. Jeff said, if I want TNF to own Section 23, then, don't wait for TNF to find the money, find it myself, contact Siller Bros., and hope for the best.
6. If I have any concerns about protection of historic and archeological sites in this THP, I should write to Rich Jenkins, CDF, 6105 Airport Road, Redding CA 96002. If I do write, Jeff will receive a copy of my letter, and, (sigh) he and Rich will then have to go out and re-survey the area themselves.
Such is what I learned about the Lost Camp THP. I have not yet seen the THP myself. It may be, as Jeff characterized it, a rather benign timber harvest, as such things go.
Cheers,
Russell Towle
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