Reporter Matt Brown tackles whitewater on the Electra run. (Brian Feulner/News-Sentinel)

Searching for the Mokelumne

On the second leg of their Mokelumne exploration, our reporter and photographer take on wild waters — and see how the river has been harnessed for man's benefit.

My heart thumps. My hands strangle the kayak paddle. My chest heaves. I stare toward a violent, thunderous stretch of whitewater 100 feet ahead.

I bounce from rock to rock. I hit a giant wave that tosses my boat like a twig.

My kayak starts to tip, and my head is rushing toward a slippery slab of granite. I quickly duck my head down, down under the icy Mokelumne.

And hope for the best.

The Mokelumne above Camanche Reservoir is a workhorse. Two dams in this stretch provide drinking water and electricity for millions. The reservoirs created by the dams offer up recreational opportunities for thousands of boaters and anglers.

News-Sentinel photographer Brian Feulner and I set out to explore a section of the upper river as it emerges from the Sierra. The river here is nothing like the lazy waterway that takes its time floating through San Joaquin County, a section we explored in late May.

The river here is in a hurry. It's feisty and wild. But it has also been harnessed and shaped by humans.

Paddling the 22 miles from the Electra Powerhouse near Mokelumne Hill to the Camanche Reservoir will be challenging. Even finding access will be tricky.

Our journey, down dangerous rapids, through narrow canyons, past old mining camps and ancient Indian grounds, would provide a glimpse into the history of this river that continues to function as a workhorse today.

Day 1 — Water gushes, then flattens

Driving down Electra Road to the put in, we pass three memorials to people who have died on the river.

Looking downward, we glimpse the churning whitewater. My pulse quickens at the thought of attacking the violent water.

Just ahead, Pacific Gas and Electric's Electra powerhouse crackles and buzzes as it produces power. PG&E built the threestory building in 1902. A pipeline shoots water down from Lake Tabeaud 1,000 feet above. The falling water turns the turbines and generates power.

Then, the powerhouse spits water into the river.

Brian and I launch, and for a few minutes we are paddling in circles in the calm water just below the powerhouse. We are trying to warm up. It's 9 a.m. and sunlight streams into the deep canyon. The steep slopes are thick with stately valley oaks and fragrant pines.

I take one last look into the calm pool. Ducks floats tranquilly past, so calm, so natural.

But the roaring river ahead scares me. I feel I am at the mercy of the powerful stream. I am also excited to explore this section of river even if it means braving the rapids.

We begin.

The first playful little rapids grab my boat and speed me downriver. I am more nervous because my kayak is not designed for whitewater. It is barely suited to navigate Lodi Lake.

We rush toward the first big rapid. Brian goes first. I watch him effortlessly handle the waves in his small craft made for this kind of river.

I go.

I try my best to keep my meager craft upright, but I flip. My body is tossed from rock to rock by the powerful flow. My helmeted head pings off the boulders. Underwater, my legs and torso thump every rock. I swallow mouthfuls of the Mokelumne.

I slog to shore, dripping wet. I dump the water from my boat and we continue. I am shaken but energized by the shot of adrenaline.

The next rapid is a steep drop over a series of rocks with a plume of fast water that shoots me through.

I wobble.

I almost tip.

Somehow, I manage to hold the craft upright and make it through unscathed. My confidence is regained.

In between rapids, the river slows. Four black-tailed deer dart out of view on the brown grassy hills above. The clear water reveals rainbow trout.

Ron Edgar, a fisherman from Sutter Creek, has been on the bank since 7 a.m. He casts a fly in a graceful arc. It's 10 a.m. Still no bite.

"I don't need to catch fish," says Edgar, who wears green waders and a tan sun hat. "I just love the clear water and being alone here."

The roar of the river snaps our attention back to the river. The next rapid is a plume of water squeezed between two boulders. Brian handles it smoothly, but again I am tossed into the icy water.

After a few more small rapids, we pass under Highway 49. I capsize two more times and ride the rapids outside of my boat.

On the last big rapid, I go first. I am fully prepared to be clobbered by the waves and rocks. I drop in. My boat shakes. I hit a rock and start to tip, but I am able to ride out the rapid in my kayak.

I look back just in time to see Brian hit a rock, which flips his boat and throws him into the river.

We dry off and continue down river, thankful that the whitewater is behind us. The Mokelumne widens and becomes still as we reach the Middle Bar bridge at noon.

Paddling under the bridge and around a big, lazy bend in the river brings us to the first of two log booms marking the eastern perimeter of Pardee Reservoir.

We soon realize why people don't paddle the whitewater and the flat water sections in the same day. Our small boats struggle to cut through the still water of the reservoir. We are forced to paddle twice as hard to avoid being pushed backwards by a strong headwind.

The canyon here is steep, and crumbling granite spires rise straight out of the water, dwarfing our boats.



Severe drought in the eastern Bay Area in the 1920s caused East Bay Municipal Utility District to build Pardee Dam and its 200,000-acre foot reservoir. When the dam was built in 1929, it was the highest in the world. A 90-mile pipeline cuts across the Central Valley delivering water to the Bay Area.

Today, if you go to an Oakland A's baseball game and have a sip from the drinking fountain, that's Mokelumne River water you are drinking.

Brian's boat begins to slowly take on water. He makes a beeline for our put out on the shore. Being stubborn, I want to cut across the reservoir and touch the dam, and thus follow the natural line of the river.

My arms burn with every stroke. The dam doesn't seem to be getting any closer. The gray concrete wall taunts me and spurs me on.

Finally, I am in the dam's shadow. I can hardly lift my arms. Sweat pours down my back. My throat is parched.

Three more strokes. Two more. One more.

I reach out and touch the cold stone.

Done.

I'm grateful this epic day is over.

Day 2 — Mines and Miwoks

We paddle in a blue pool at the base of Pardee Dam. Today, we are on the other side of the of the dam I worked so hard to touch the day before. The 300-foot wall of stone rises up from the canyon floor.

Because of security precautions, access to the river from the dam is strictly off limits. As a result, EBMUD arranged to take us up river from Camanche and drop us. We will float back down.

The river here is nothing more than a dribble in between placid pools. We paddle and drag our boats down the canyon. Towering granite formations jut from the banks. The shallow river trickles over gilded rocks and pale quartz.

Rusty cables dangle from precipices, the remnants of Gold Rush-era bridges.

The river deepens. We float past Penn Mine. The copper mine was active in late 1800s and again during World War II but has since been an environmental hazard. Toxic metals and acid left over from the mining operation have leeched into the reservoir and killed fish. EBMUD spent millions to clean up the site, completing restoration in 1999.

The ruins of the brick smelting house are still visible. Miners melted the rock in bathtub sized vats. The copper was scraped off, and the leftover metal was cooled and dumped on the shore. Black bathtub-shaped rocks still litter the landscape here.

We glide under Buena Vista Road and past the site of Lancha Plana, an abandoned gold mining town that is now underwater. The town, which is Spanish for "flatboat," swelled to a couple thousand people due to its proximity to gold veins and its location at a ferry crossing on the Mokelumne. Piles of rock and sand dot the shore, the leftovers of gold prospectors.

With the river widening, we decide to explore one of the narrow side gulches. After paddling back a few hundred yards, we beach the kayaks and climb up on shore.

In front of us is a slab of granite with a dozen smooth circular holes that resemble cup holders.

A grinding stone.

This tool was used by the Miwok Indians, who inhabited this land for 2,000 years before European settlers. These early Mokelumne residents ground acorns in the grooves of the stone.

The day heats up. My legs are charred. We pass blackened trees from a wildfire seven years ago. This has been one of the driest years on record, and the reservoir is only 60 percent full.

Battling a fierce headwind and choppy waves, we paddle hard through a section known as The Narrows. Then, the Mokelumne pushes us out into the vast, open waters of Camanche.

After heavy floods on the Mokelumne River in the 1950s, the state demanded that EBMUD lower the water level in Pardee Reservoir. Instead, EBMUD decided to build another reservoir 10 miles down river for flood control.

In 1964, Camanche was built and the massive 7,500-acre area was flooded to create the Camanche Reservoir. The lake inundated ghost towns, ranches and even uprooted 50 or so residents of the town of Camanche.

Jet skiers, water-skiers and houseboaters are out enjoying the manmade lake. Another two miles of arm-aching effort brings us to the north shore.

Brian and I share a Cliff Bar and suck down some water to celebrate our effort. Counting our earlier voyage on the lower river, we have now traveled about 80 miles on the Mokelumne, or just over half of the river's length.

Even though we discovered secret canyons and faced dangerous rapids, this section of river was largely shaped by humans who have gained from its many resources.

This section was much harder than it appeared on paper. We are battered and bruised from the whitewater, and exhausted from many miles of choppy reservoir paddling.

I will walk away from the Mokelumne today with a new respect for the river. We did not conquer it. The river allowed us to pass.

Contact reporter Matt Brown at mattb@lodinews.com.