J U N E 6 - J U N E 1 3 , 2 0 1 3 • V O L . 2 7 , N O . 4 5 • W W W . N E W T I M E S S L O . C O M • S A N L U I S O B I S P O C O U N T Y ’ S N E W S A N D E N T E R T A I N M E N T W E E K L Y

New Times gets its feet wet gets its feet wet examining water quality issues, examining water quality issues,

a rebounding steelhead population,a rebounding steelhead population,and the deep, dark corners of and the deep, dark corners of

San Luis Obispo Creek [16]

Creek life

PHOTOS BY STEVE E. MILLER

BY MATT FOUNTAIN

zii

ok

ADDITIONAL WEB CONTENT DATA:GOPR1185: still photo of male (smaller) and female underwater. Courtesy of Nick Fernella/CA Conservation Corps

Steelhead Spawn 04: female digging a red by self. Courtesy of Freddy Otte/City of SLO

Steelhead Spawn 06: male and female digging red together. Courtesy of Freddy Otte/City of SLO

Rebuilding the cReek

In February, the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency released results

of an unprecedented sampling effort of the nation’s rivers and streams, a survey that assessed such issues as water quality conditions based on a comparison with an earlier assessment in 2004. During the summers of 2008 and 2009, some 85 field crews sampled 1,924 rivers and streams across the country, finding that 55 percent of the nation’s waterways were in poor condition. But that assessment was meant to take a “macro” glimpse at the nation’s waterways, EPA Press Officer David Yogi explained to New Times. It didn’t break down which particular rivers and streams it studied, but instead graded the nation in terms of nine ecoregions. In the Western Mountains—our region—which includes the Cascade, Sierra Nevada, and Pacific Coast ranges in the coastal states, 26 percent of rivers and streams were deemed in poor condition based on the lack of vital macroinvertebrates, and 21 percent were deemed in poor condition in terms of river and stream length for fish. But take a look at San Luis Obispo Creek and you might wonder what the fuss is about. That’s significant, because San Luis Creek accounts for approximately 25 percent of the rearing habitat in the 24 watersheds of SLO County, according to the Ocean Protection Council, and is considered an “anchor watershed.” If you’re talking about a healthy habitat in the Pacific Northwest ecosystem, a robust steelhead population is one of the best indicators, and until recently, that population was thought to be decimated to just a fraction of its historic levels. But it seems—thanks to the coordinated efforts of various agencies, organizations, and volunteers—that the local steelhead trout (Oncorhynchus mykiss)

BBr ii zz

z

SSt

ee

n

nn

ee r C

rre

ee

It never ceases to amaze me how completely naïve journalists can be when first approaching a story.

Only too well does this writer know the pitfalls of diving headfirst into a poorly planned project, only to learn the harsh reality when it’s too late. But by then you’re waist deep in muck, with sweat pouring off your brow, and you’re cursing yourself for under-appreciating the situation. On a starry Saturday night in May, pondering an EPA report claiming that a majority of American waterways are in poor condition, my buddy Dave Seidenzahl and I sat around the firepit in his backyard, perhaps on beer number three or so of the night, wondering if San Luis Obispo Creek was among them. Dave had a simple suggestion: Let’s actually walk the thing—from SLO all the way to where it flows out into the Pacific Ocean in Avila Beach—and take notes along the way of what we see. “Oh, hell yes!” I perked up (that’s how I talk when I get the whiff of a good story). “If we just did it all back-to-back, how many days do you think it would take us?” With that, we both fell silent for a moment, the wheels in our heads slowly churning. “I don’t know,” Dave said. “Maybe two? Three?” He should have known better. As a 16-year former volunteer with Central Coast Salmon Enhancement, Dave had done just that for a water quality and depth survey, though at the pace of one day every weekend for a month. But we’re gung-ho outdoorsy types, sort of, and we were just observing—and we had just finished a six-pack. Surely we could do it in two, easy. After all, we’re only talking about a roughly 12-mile stretch, hiking downstream. But I’m not going to place all the blame on Dave. When I pitched the idea back at the office, equally gung-ho Managing Editor Ashley Schwellenbach challenged my fragile manhood. “Two days? The creek? C’mon, I would think you could do it all in one,” she said. Then I ran the plan past Staff Photographer Steve Miller, who knew he would be right there in the water with us. He barely flinched at the idea. It wasn’t until Dave and I sat down with Freddy Otte, the city biologist for SLO’s Natural Resources Program and Dave’s old friend from the Salmon Enhancement days, that we started to feel a tinge of caution. Freddy—who knows the creek back, forth, and sideways, and has walked it himself more times than he could count—leaned back in his seat and gave us that look that says: “Sure—

you do that and tell me how it goes.” But Freddy was all for the idea of giving us a first-hand tour of the creek. For one, San Luis Obispo Creek is Freddy’s baby. He and his colleagues in city staff, the Land Conservancy of SLO County, the California Conservation Corps, the California Department of Fish and Wildlife, and countless other volunteer groups have put tireless hours into caring for its health. And it appears their efforts are working. In this area, a robust annual steelhead migration from the ocean for spawning is an easy indicator of a healthy creek. Over the last several years, the native steelhead appear to be returning after a long decline due to both man-made and natural causes. One doesn’t have to go far—take a peek over the Nipomo Street Bridge—to see a few healthy, two-foot-long steelhead trout skimming the surface. Give it a minute; they’re there. Freddy said this is the result of a number of efforts by the aforementioned agencies and nonprofits. And he was more than happy to show us just what he was talking about. But two days wasn’t going to cut it. Unfortunately, that’s all we had. By now, the deadline was looming, and getting four of us together for however long it would take would be a challenge. And walking the entire

way downstream would send clouds of sediment along with it, obscuring the redds—those steelhead spawning sites—

from view. So Freddy offered to take us through the main areas, during about half of which we would be going upstream. On May 17, a Friday, he would walk us through select areas in the upper watershed, around Reservoir Canyon, all the way through downtown SLO, past Los Osos Valley Road, and into the creek off of South Higuera. Friday was supposed to be Freddy’s day off. The next day, he would have to be back at work, and Dave, Steve, and I would be on our own to make it as far toward Avila as we could.

Old Stagecoach Road You couldn’t have asked for a better morning to break free from the office routine. When Miller and I meet Freddy in the New Times parking lot, it’s 8 a.m. and the sun is already hanging low and warm in the clear sky. None of the staffers have yet arrived for the final glorious day of their workweek. Soon Dave strolls up casually with his bag slung over his shoulder, and Freddy gives us a quick rundown of the day’s itinerary. As Dave and Freddy hop in the city truck and Steve and I in his, Staff Writer Glen Starkey, early riser he is, pulls up, coffee thermos in hand, and tosses us a quizzical glance before

eaRning ouR cReek legs

REBUILDING continued page 18

THE UPPER WATERSHED The

first stop was off Old Stagecoach Road, where the city and Land Conservancy

focus on bluff stabilization efforts.

1

2

RESERVOIR CANYON Aside from picturesque hiking trails, Reservoir Canyon also has turtles!

Going gonzo in trout countryNew Times splashes feet-first into SLO Creek improvementsBY MATT FOUNTAIN * PHOTOS BY STEVE E. MILLER

ol

CCr e e kk

l

aa

RRRee

sse

r v ooooi r

CCy

n.

C k

ashrugging it off and sleepily trudging down the steps to the New Times dungeon. We merge onto Highway 101 and quickly make our way up the Grade amid the frantic morning traffic. First stop, we pull left onto Old Stagecoach Road and head down the dirt road that follows alongside the creek. The scene is calm and quiet, the only traffic consisting of a bicyclist or two we pass along the way, the only noise the faint hum of highway traffic in the distance. We reach our destination about two miles or so up, so we pull the trucks alongside the road hugging the creek bank, and Freddy unloads our city-provided waders and boots. Because real men wear protection. Though we could have survived the water levels in the upper watershed with a simple pair of galoshes, Freddy swears that we’ll be glad we have them later. Plus, they make us look pretty legit. With Freddy leading the way, we scale

the bank, dodging oak trees and shrubs before splashing down in the shin-high water. Dave follows close behind him, followed by Steve who’s deciding whether to shoot or watch where he’s stepping. I’m bringing up the rear, 10 feet or so behind him, notepad in hand, feverishly scribbling what Freddy’s saying while trying not to trip and make an ass of myself two minutes into our hike. This is the formation we more or less hold throughout the day. Freddy notes that with some of the relatively lightly vegetated banks leading up to the creek, the areas in the upper watershed can be greatly affected by grazing cattle, of which there are plenty up here, and which aren’t always well regulated. But the city is realizing—as are, to an extent, local ranchers—the significant effect that grazing cattle can have on the area. They feed on vegetation that leads to the destabilization of the banks, which in turn leads to erosion, which then leads to sediment dumping

straight into the creek come a good rain, which leads to poor water quality and a creek that migrating steelhead can’t navigate. Then there’s the feces. “We pulled a dead cow out of here once,” Freddy says matter-of-factly as he steps over a downed tree. “Let’s just say ranching could be regulated better.” I get the feeling that maintaining a good relationship with the ag community isn’t always easy for a biologist. A little farther downstream, the creek sinks deeper into the banks, which are themselves becoming steeper and seem at points to be held together by little more than roots. With the water as shallow as it is, combating erosion in this area is a constant battle. Add to the mix pesticide and fertilizer runoff, and you have a real storm water issue. Freddy explains that when he started with the city, storm water wasn’t considered a big issue, but since the early 2000s the State Water Resources Control Board requires storm water permits of cities and agencies that could affect the state’s watersheds. CalTrans just renewed its permit, and the city is set to apply for its new permit in July. We spot other hazards to the creek along the banks: invasive non-native plants, such as bog thistle, pampas grass, and French broom, which has made it all the way down to Mission Plaza, Freddy said, and which smothers native plants

that naturally keep the banks in place. We pass an old wooden spring box, historically used to collect and pump small amounts of water, what he calls “old-school water delivery.” “This area here is about as natural as you can get,” Freddy says as we pass a cluster of wild turkey feathers strewn about the side of the creek. We pass a number of downed trees, which might seem problematic for the creek; Freddy explains that they actually provide shade and nutrients, which result in some of the best natural habitats you can have. As the water gets a bit deeper and the three of us non-biologists clumsily jockey over tree limbs and rocks, Freddy notes that he’ll sometimes do this walk with a 50-pound electro fish pack, used to temporarily knock out fish during sampling, strapped to his back. We, on the other hand, clearly need to earn our creek legs. We find a good spot to breach the bank and return to the road, where we walk the half-mile or so back to the trucks. Neither Steve nor Dave says anything, but I know we’re quietly thankful to be back on level ground. We hop in the trucks and head back south about a mile, closer to the highway. Here Freddy takes us back into the creek, to a spot with weaker flow and a shallower bottom, an example of one location that could benefit from more step pools to assist the fish on their journey. As we head back up toward Stagecoach Road, we emerge from the brush to see a PG&E helicopter hovering over two workers on a transmission tower, part of PG&E’s effort to upgrade their vital power lines from Atascadero to SLO along the 101. Freddy notes that the city at first had “grave concerns” about how the utility planned to do the project—which hasn’t been undertaken in that spot in nearly 90 years—but that the city is pleased that their impact on the land so far has been minimal.

Reservoir Canyon In the trucks, we cross cautiously across the 101, past the Lowe Ranch to Reservoir Canyon, one of San Luis Creek’s largest tributaries. Here we find Reservoir Canyon Creek interrupted by a

CREEK continued page 18

rrshrugging it off and sleepily trudging shrugging it off and sleepily trudging rshrugging it off and sleepily trudging rrshrugging it off and sleepily trudging r the bank, dodging oak trees and shrubs the bank, dodging oak trees and shrubs

Pref u m o C r e e k

S a n L u i s Ob

i sp

oC

ree

k

S a nMi g ue l i t o

F roo m Cr e e k

B r i z z i ol a

r i

Reservoir Cyn. Cr eek

St e

n ner C

r ee

k

µ0 1 2 3 40.5

Miles

2

3

3

4

4

5

67

1

THE UNDERBELLY OF DOWNTOWN SLO The Deep Dark runs straight through the downtown core, and provided some of the neatest sights of the day.

STINKY! Despite the two dead steelhead

we found, Cuesta Park is considered good

breeding grounds for fish strong enough to

make it.

san luis obispo cReek

µµµµµµµ

MAP COURTESY OF CITY OF SLO - SLOGIS

r

ee fff u m

ue

liii

too

oo CC rr ee ee kk

FFFrr ooo o mmm CC rr

eee kk

massive piece of naturally formed bedrock that forms an idyllic waterfall, masking a dark and not very inviting-looking cave Freddy said is deep enough to walk into quite a distance. We scale the bedrock, surrounded by a sea of ferns and thin grasses, the tips of which illuminate in the morning sun. Aside from scattered low-growing trees, not much else can grow in this spot, Freddy says. It’s a serpentine outcrop, characterized by poor soil quality, poor diversity, and shallow root depth that create more of wetland terrain than anything else. But what it does provide, he says, is a good habitat for the southwestern pond turtle, which is supposed to thrive here. I scour the grasses for a sight of one, but after a minute or so, I admit defeat. Guess they’re too quick for me.

Cuesta Park Just as we’re emerging from the trucks at the next stop—Cuesta Park—“Mr. Steelhead” pulls into the parking lot. Dave Highland is a 34-year veteran fish habitat specialist with the California Department of Fish and Wildlife, or Freddy’s equivalent for our region on the state level. Turns out Highland was downtown while we were farther upstream, and he’s checking out a dead 22-inch steelhead found by a State Parks ranger in the creek nearby. We marvel over the find while Freddy swears up and down he didn’t stage this for our tour. Highland examines the female steelhead, which he figured probably traveled all the way upstream to our location from the ocean to lay its eggs. He explained the emaciated nature of the fish with the fact that steelhead coming upstream to breed typically won’t eat and are therefore pretty haggard by the time they make it. “If they get this far, that’s one pretty strong fish,” Highland said. Next, he’ll take the body back to his office and pop it in the freezer in case the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration wants to come in and take a sample for its genetics lab in Santa Cruz. After we get over the coincidence of the find, we head down through the park to the creek, which, in this part, is very well maintained with decent flow and enough depth for a good-sized fish to easily navigate upstream. The creek floor consists of the perfect flaky pebble silt ideal for spawning. We don’t spot any redds, but we note plenty of really little infants, so Freddy says they must be somewhere nearby, probably farther away from the congregating spots of the park. We trudge through the creek under the tunnel for the 101 overpass at the end of San Luis Drive, which Freddy explained is an ideal working tunnel with enough depth and slope for migrating fish to easily maneuver. “This is about the time of year we’ll start to see carcasses,” Freddy says. “But that’s good, as a survey, to see how far they are getting.” No sooner has he spoken than we come upon—or, at first, smell—another adult steelhead, this one even larger than the first, though mostly picked to pieces by wildlife. We call Highland, who luckily is still in the parking lot, and he comes running down to take a look. This one’s a bit too chewed up to take back to the office, he says, but he uses the GPS to note the location, and we head back to the trucks.

Downtown SLO and ‘Deep Dark’ Parking back at New Times, we hop the banks by the Marsh Street Bridge, one of the most heavily patrolled areas for homeless encampments, and head upstream. Sooner or later we knew we were going to encounter the encampments—and lots of garbage, which, up to this point, has been minimal—and sure enough, under every bridge, at every spot of level ground where

one could perceivably lay their head, there are plenty of signs. Under the Marsh Street Bridge, for example, we find lots of cardboard, muddy clothes, stuffed animals, hypodermic syringes, and Narcotics Anonymous literature. Freddy tells us that at last year’s Creek Cleanup Day, they hauled off some 8,000 pounds of trash. He takes us up near Toro Street, where the creek water is topping out at waist high and the creek gets pretty hard to navigate. We rely on vines at many points to make it through. Freddy points out the retaining wall on the creek’s northern side, which is badly in need of repair, with concrete crumbling into the water.

He said the city has been looking at installing a new one for the last five years, one that would be self-mitigating and undercut enough to keep some overhang for native red-legged frog habitat. We emerge—some of us with much difficulty—at the entrance of the Dallidet Adobe and strut, in full wader attire, back to the New Times parking lot for our brown-bagged lunches. Next, we strut our stuff—again in full wader attire—down Higuera Street into the middle of the lunchtime rush, headed toward the Broad Street Bridge. We get funny looks, to say the least, from just about everyone we pass. But no one says anything. Hey, we’re on the job. “We’re definitely making a fashion statement,” Steve quips as we casually pass a family with a little girl who looks mortified before shying away. Descending the bridge, Freddy notes that it’s looking pretty good—no garbage, good flow, shin-high depth. From the top, we notice right away a good foot-long steelhead amid the smaller infants and two- to four-inchers. Freddy has said since the beginning of our

trek that there are a few families of steelhead known to reside in the downtown area. “They might stay here all summer,” he says. “It’s cool, it’s deep, it’s protected, there’s plenty of oxygen, and people will throw cheese from the restaurants above.” He also said he comes down here a few times a year, more so in recent months ahead of the new storm water permit, which requires the city to educate the restaurants’ staffs about mitigating the loss of menus, forks, and napkins to the creek. As we walk upstream, he points out examples of some of the biggest problems in the downtown area: pigeons, swallows, and

at night, bats. The city has an ongoing effort under bridges and overhangs to block off roosting areas with wire netting. Ironically, as we walked below the Chorro Street building now housing Luna Red, we discovered evidence of a redd in shallow water, with the silt on the creek floor parted in a circular shape, as if by a tail. We cautiously step around the area as we enter the infamous tunnel that runs under nearly three blocks of downtown, known by many as “Deep Dark.” If the name doesn’t say it all, it truly is just that: It seems to go forever, the water is relatively deep throughout, and it gets pitch black somewhere in the middle. At its beginning, however, there’s enough light to make out just how old the city’s design is. “We’re truly in the underbelly of SLO,” I tell Dave as we fall behind the rest of the group. We catch up to Freddy pointing his flashlight toward the ceiling, pointing out street water pouring straight into the creek. “All kinds of stuff comes in off the streets,” Freddy says. Looking up, we see piping from the

population is staging a comeback.

The parties are bringing the fish back by focusing on certain issues, including sedimentation, which can greatly affect the fish’s breeding habits. Steelhead need clean gravel beds—called redds—to spawn, and preventing erosion can keep redds from smothering in silt. As a result, bank stabilization is a major focus.

Another is the reduction of both man-made and natural barriers to migration, including dams and weirs. Locals have been giving increasing attention to the construction of step pools and fish ladders to assist in that migration.

Invasive species such as carp and catfish can also suck up valuable resources, as can non-native plants, which can congest waterways by taking over native species.

Creek watchers are also working with the ag community to reduce runoff caused by grazing, or polluting factors such as pesticides and fertilizers.

Of course, efforts to further remedy and beautify the creek continue—and there are plenty of opportunities for everyone to take part. First, the annual Creek Cleanup Day is held on Sept. 21 every year. The Land Conservancy of SLO County is always looking for volunteers; find more information at volunteer@lcslo.org or by calling 544-9096.

The city has a volunteer program of its own for what they call Community Involvement Projects. For more info, give Freddy Otte a call at 781-7511.

For more information about what the California Conservation Corps has to offer, call the Los Padres District Office at 549-3561.

REBUILDING from page 16

CREEK from page 17

CREEK continued page 20

5

THE OVERPASS The creek will be a bustling place when the city begins its widening project of the Los Osos Valley Road/Highway 101 interchange.

S a nn LL uuuii s

Ob

iis

pppo

Cr

eee

kk

Saa

nMMM i ggg

uu

el

iiit

oo

buildings above, one clearly a toilet line; plenty of intertwined cobwebs that look as if they’ve been there so long and attracted so much dust and debris we could twist them into rope with our hands; and lastly, the bat boxes. In order to keep the bats from nesting and breeding in sensitive areas that contain piping, the city installed boxes that look like pieces of plywood attached to the crossbeams with enough space—about an inch—in between that bats wedge right into. The air is humid and smells like your grandparents’ attic. Our voices echo off the old set-stone walls and waft around us. Floating in the various step pools below us—which grow increasingly deep—are steadily moving gyres of wrappers, beer bottles, and needles. About a third of the way through, we stand below an opening to the backside of the Court Street buildings—one of the windows in the old McCarthy’s bathroom above—and breathe in the slightest hint of fresh air. As we press on, the “dark” comes into play and it grows nearly pitch black. The walkable parts of the step pools thin out to the sides of the walls, and it becomes increasingly difficult to navigate. Of course, Freddy is the only one smart enough to bring a flashlight, so the rest of us pull out our cell phones, grip them for dear life, and use them for light. The downtown section of the creek has come a long way from the days prior to the Cold Canyon Landfill when it was used as an impromptu dump by residents and as a receptacle for detergents and other waste from downtown businesses. A 1966 biological survey by the Regional Water Quality Control Board described the experience of walking this part of the creek as aesthetically “disgusting.” Soon we emerge at the banks of the creek next to Firestone Grill and make our way back to the trucks. But first we get some coffee to refuel. Los Osos Valley Road We park the trucks across from the strawberry fields on LOVR and make our way to another area the city frequently patrols for transient camps. Freddy concedes that not all camps are bad or dirty, but it’s his duty to warn inhabitants of the danger of camping close to the creek, which can rise on the turn of a dime given the right weather conditions and wash someone and their belongings clear out to Avila Beach. It’s happened. This section just south of LOVR is much wider than anything upstream, with a strong flow. Here, Freddy says, the water quality is quite good: “not quite drinking quality, but close.” Approximately half the water here comes from the wastewater treatment plant. He also added that about 40 percent of steelhead spawning occurs from here downstream. The wastewater facility discharges a dry-year monthly average of 5.1 millions of gallons per day into the creek about seven miles upstream from the creek mouth at Avila Beach. The city recently proposed to decrease that amount by diverting the treated water to irrigation and other uses. When we jump in about quarter mile south of the overpass, the water is more or less waist high, and we work very slowly upstream, ducking the overgrown vegetation and eucalyptus trees and grabbing on to the Arundo donax bamboo that grows in abundance. Steve notices castor oil plants, the seeds from which the toxin ricin is derived. A large carp darts out from the banks as we pass. The city has been working with the Land

Conservancy on silt removal in this area for the last five years, Land Conservancy Project Manager Carlos Torres tells me later. The long-term plan is to acquire some of this land for the Bob Jones Trail, but in the meantime, the LOVR widening project will keep the area busy. We approach the overpass to gauge what the new configuration will look like, and lo and behold, a lone tent held up by Arundo bamboo sits alone underneath, the campsite remarkably clean. Nobody’s home. We walk up over to the city’s old chorine treatment plant, which sits idle as it’s now used mainly for storage. Beyond the plant, we see another set of step pools installed by Land Conservancy volunteers. It’s almost 5 p.m. when we get back to the trucks, and Freddy’s got to get going. He kindly allows us to keep the waders for the weekend should we want to push on tomorrow. Of course, we do, but we’ve since cozied up to the idea of doing this journey in segments. He gives us a quick rundown and we thank him for taking his day off to show us parts of the creek we—along with 99 percent of most city residents—would never have seen otherwise. As he’s walking toward his truck, Freddy looks back and shoots a glance that tells us he’s as stoked as we are. “This is like Xanadu to me,” he says. “There are huge opportunities that we have here—and we’re going to make it even better.”

San Luis Bay Drive The next day, Steve, Dave, and I get something of a late start and head out with damp waders to San Luis Bay Drive, where—Meredith Hardy, fish specialist for the local Los Padres District of the California Conservation Corps, later explains—the CCC had conducted a snorkel survey of steelhead populations, as well as a bank restoration project. Not only did they see plenty of steelhead, Hardy explains later, they actually witnessed one spawning. And we can see why: The water is as clear as we had seen it so far and flowing strongly, there’s plenty of vegetation to provide nutrients, the willows create a shady canopy, and the creek doesn’t exceed knee height.

Bob Jones Trail As we pull into the parking lot for the Bob Jones Trail, near Salisbury Vineyards on Ontario Road, the place

is packed and again people stop and stare as we get out and walk straight for the tall reeds and vegetation surrounding the creek, which runs under the highway. On the walk over, I ever so gently brush against what I later learn is stinging nettle. For the rest of the day I have a nice burning rash on my arm. Creek walkers beware. We notice that the creek is flowing pretty well over here, and at about stomach-height in certain parts. Another thing undeniably noticeable when we walk the many bridges and underpasses along the creek—other than skin-burning bushes—is the graffiti. Some like it; most don’t. Regardless of whether you morally approve, however, you have to hand it to a few of these guys,

whoever they are: Some of them are downright creative. People who spend their free time under bridges have to be creative, right? The highway overpass across from the apple orchards would qualify as bearing some of this creativity. “A war raging dppp inside my head” is pretty insightful, methinks. I just hope whoever wrote that little gem isn’t the same A-hole who left a bunch of empty spray cans on the side of the creek. Some of my other favorite thought-provoking ditties came earlier in the walk, seen at the entrance of Deep Dark (“Beware: Zombies—>), near the middle of Deep Dark (“What are you doing in such a dank place as this?”), and under the San Luis Drive overpass in Cuesta Park (“God is Gay”).

Marre Dam With the afternoon sun burning through our waders and the rash on my arm burning through my patience, we walk the bike path to the Marre Dam, and Avila residents out for a stroll again give us the “what are you weirdos doing?” treatment. But by now, we don’t care. We came to see the Marre Dam! A 10-minute walk later, and there it is. If we thought we were going to walk the entire creek—no matter how many days it took us—the only way we were getting close to that dam would be by kayak or snorkel. We sit on the fish ladder on the dam’s north side, cooling the lower half of our bodies in the shade, and we notice a notch on the other end, a mechanism that will be opened every winter as the steelhead are migrating up the creek. The project was completed just two weeks ago, headed up by Torres and his crew at the Land Conservancy of SLO County. In the end, what Dave, Steve, and I agree on is that the creek is less of a dumping ground than we’ve been led to believe from all we’ve heard. On the contrary, certain parts are as beautiful and seemingly secluded as any campsite I’ve been to, and no two sections we observed were alike, each bearing a character, a temperature, a smell, and—as Freddy said—an opportunity all its own. ∆

News Editor Matt Fountain can be reached at mfountain@newtimesslo.com.

CREEK from page 18

CHECK OUT MORE ONLINE Visit newtimesslo.com for additional photos and videos from New Times Staff Photographer Steve E. Miller and the City of San Luis Obispo’s Natural Resources Program.

6

7

UNDER THE HIGHWAY Some very happy graffiti artists exhibit their art under the Highway 101 overpass in Avila Beach.

HOT DAM The Marre Dam in Avila Beach just got a new notch—thanks to the volunteers at the Land Conservancy—of SLO County that will allow the steelhead to migrate upstream.