We would drive half the night to get there, north through the Central Valley, then northeast on 299 to split the gap between two volcanoes, Shasta and Lassen, before entering Fall River Valley, elevation 3,000, population 1,000, watery and moonlit. The pitch-black last mile by dirt wound eerily through forested lava rock, rabbits and coyotes darting into the headlights. When we got close to the cabin, the kids, Rachel and Neil, would sense it, waking to shout as they spotted it yards from the narrow, spring-fed river.
At dawn, Neil would rise to the honking geese overhead, and he and I would head out. Imagine a stretch of pristine river in California’s empty corner framed by meadow, a small peak, and birdlife that practically roars. Neil was born a birder,…
