John Cassidy, Alpine County planning commissioner, river guide and weekend prospector, wears a troll figurine around his neck when going down the river in a boat that is not his own. The wiry, wild-haired 59-year-old says the troll is his river charm, his way of making peace with the river gods.
"In the last 30 years, I've been down this river so many times that I've lost all count," he said. "But every once in a while, the river gods will remind you who is in charge."
It should have been an awful portent, a malevolent omen, when on Sunday, Mother's Day, 18-year-old Trinity Vevoda found the troll partially broken in the bottom of a hot springs pool half way down the river.
"How'd that get away from me?" John said in the shuttle van back to Gardnerville after the trip, when Trinity produced the troll from her pocket to show everyone. She then gave it back to him. "I was thinking," John said, "Nothing happened that would have knocked that off my neck."
Indeed, the river gods had looked favorably upon our trip down the East Fork of the Carson River. There were a few scares, a few turnovers for the lone kayaker following us down, but no serious wipeouts, no near-death experiences.
Carson Valley is green because snow in the High Sierra melts, runs off the slopes and dumps into the East and West forks of the Carson River. The East Fork starts in the Carson-Iceberg Wilderness, receiving drainage from a handful of towering peaks as it makes its way north easterly. By the time it nears Markleeville and merges with Markleeville Creek, the river, in the spring of a good snow year, is a surging, white-lipped torrent of ice water. For 20 miles, between Markleeville and the broken dam in Gardnerville, the river runs savage and unobstructed through canyons of rust-colored volcanic rock, alpine meadows, riparian matrices of willow, wild rose and aspen, and finally the pinon-juniper woodlands of the lower foothills.
Mother's Day proffered perfect weather for rafting: minimal wind and a slight overcast to lessen the intensity of the sun. A flow of 1,200 cubic feet per second attracted a motley crew at Hangman's Bridge near Markleeville. The planned trip included three rafts and one inflatable kayak. My father and I hopped on a raft with John and his troll. Pat Fried, owner of Great Basin Sports, took another boat carrying Alpine County District Attorney Will Richmond, and his friend, Lysa Eldridge. Gardnerville counselor Lance Crowley manned the largest raft, carrying Tahoe City residents Nancy and Trinity Vevoda, Llori Meeko and her son James, San Jose resident Wyn Blackwell and Maria Stafford who works for the Carson Valley Chamber of Commerce.
"This trip is totally unrelated to my work," Stafford said from early on.
Trinity, 18, just recovered from appendicitis.
"This is kind of her big comeback," said mother Nancy.
Following the posse in a kayak was Gardnerville resident Debra Potosky.
The first couple of miles was a process of acclimatizing to the cold spray and constant rocking of the water. After paddling through the first dozen holes, depressed rapids where rock meets river, the turbulence became normal, and flat water became the strange thing.
"Yeehaw," everyone would yell when leaping out from a swell.
The rush and pull of the rapids, the crashing, icy shock, thrilled the senses, but the paddling muscles, the shoulders, arms and chest, wore out quickly.
It was on the intermittent flat water where everyone socialized and bonded. The boats bumped into each other as they drifted downstream, the whole lazy scene framed by the snowy peaks of the Sierra. Will wrapped an American flag bandanna around his head.
"I'm the Easy Rafter," he said, grinning.
John talked about dredging the East Fork.
"I probably have a couple thousand dollars worth of gold I've found over the years," he said.
I told him about my prospecting experience, and we were both reluctant to reveal exactly where and when we had found pay dirt. He pointed out an old prospector's cabin along the banks of the river and then drew our attention to some discolored, mineralized areas along a rock wall we were passing.
About 10 miles downstream from Hangman's Bridge, we crossed into Nevada. We stopped at the hot springs and ate lunch. John had been among those who over the years had built up stone walls around the springs to pool the warm, sulfurous water. One pool was on the edge of a cliff directly above the river. The water trickled over the side and steamed against the massive current.
"You can sit in the hot springs and cast your fishing line out into the current," Pat had told me before the trip.
I had neglected to bring my pole, but the subject of fishing came up again. Leaving the hot springs, we stumbled upon some fishermen who'd driven in with a four-wheeler on one of the few crude Jeep trails that grant access to the otherwise inaccessible area.
"Hi, Ho!" we yelled to the fishermen, who were perched on a far bank testing a deep, still pool with their lines.
"Hello!" they yelled back.
I asked John what the largest fish he ever caught on the river was, and he said a five- to six-pound trout.
"A lot of the trout are planters," he said. "But they get up where no one fishes them and find some nice holes to survive in for a couple of years."
Pat had an ongoing joke about fish jumping into people's mouths. Debra would have had the most trouble with that since being in a kayak put her closer to the water and caused her to spill a couple of times. In fact, she had hit a few rocks, and John and Lance were teasing here.
"Debra will kiss anything," John said.
"Especially a guy named 'Rock,'" Lance added.
Such good humor prevailed the rest of the way down, past Horseshoe Bend, and finally to the take-out near the broken dam in Gardnerville. We'd been passed by a few boats on the river and were all surprised to find hordes of people at the take-out, de-rigging at least a dozen boats and loading them atop SUVs.
"When I first started 30 years ago, no one was running this river," John said. "Now, I'll see a hundred people at the hot springs."
True, the Class II and III rapids of the East Fork are a mixed blessing. They offer excitement without requiring too much skill. That fact, coupled with the unparalleled beauty of the area, will undoubtedly attract crowds on the weekend. But no one knows the river, that wild stretch of our own backyard, better than Pat, John and Lance of Gardnerville-based Great Basin Sports. And no one else I've met has a troll figurine that so faithfully procures the smiling of the river gods.
