Shop some of our faves
SHOP PRODUCTSThere was a guilt bubbling down deep inside of me that I couldn’t shake. It felt as if I had just been punched in the stomach by the school bully. My heart was in my throat and my gut felt empty. This all stemmed one day in my hometown of San Clemente, California right after going surfing at my local wave called Lower Trestles. The wave is a cobblestone point break with a lagoon at the foot of it that was blocked by a sand embankment.
The lagoon however, which rarely flowed to the sea, often had everything from dead sea birds to trash and was as brown as the chocolate milk I had drank as a kid.
But one day, I walked past it and thought about where the water had come from. It was freshwater and I scanned inland, way off into the distance and mountains rose precipitously.
I went home and found out that the lagoon was called San Mateo Creek. The creek flowed a couple dozen miles and started up high at nearly 5,000 feet. Which was astounding news. What also was exciting was that it flowed wild and scenic - unheard of for a river to do so in an area of California where roughly 30 million people lived. But as I scrolled further down the website and kept reading, my guilt washed in. I thought I was seeing things or my brain created the words I was reading.
But, there were steelhead trout in the creek.
A steelhead is a fish in the salmonid family of fishes. Like that of salmon in that they are born in a river, swim out to sea to mature and grow – all to return to the river to spawn and repeat the process.
Most of the steelhead in the world are in the Pacific Northwest with some populations in Eastern Russia because of the cold and clear rivers that are abundant in these areas. But a steelhead trout in Southern California?
I was told growing up that there were no trout of this kind anywhere in Southern California. But that moment coming home from surfing and seeing the lagoon, then reading about the fish, I was nearly nauseous. I researched further and found that not just San Mateo Creek had wild steelhead, but throughout SoCal, creeks and rivers flowed to the ocean – holding small populations of steelhead.
Their threats are obvious and exactly what you may think for a fish that lives near Los Angeles. Humans have done everything to a river system you can think of and then some. We have dammed, diverted, polluted, and completely altered about 90 percent of the natural water flows in Southern California. The same waterways that historically held tens of thousands of these fish. And after our alterations, fewer than 170 remain.
But the question arose: why hadn’t we heard about them? Why hasn’t someone like me, who is in the fishing world as an angler and writer, heard about them – a native to Southern California?
So, I felt compelled to do something about it. I found a map of the historical range that showed the extent of their terrain and scrolled out on Google to see what if anything could be done. I gazed and day-dreamed for over an hour. I was leaning back on my office chair staring at the map, and I saw a shape around their historical range.
I figured I could walk the Pacific Coast Highway up from my hometown of San Clemente, connecting all the lagoons and creeks as they met the sea, then walk the inland mountains where these rivers started their lives - eventually looping back around to my hometown. Creating a giant loop around the historic range, circumnavigating all the creeks that these fish live.
One day in spring I took off with a backpack full of everything I needed and took to the coast and started my trek north. I walked for about 300 miles over the course of 21 days and made it to the northern most river in the historic range, the Santa Maria. It was painful, it was arduous, but it was stunning. I connected and saw my home region of Southern California in a way that I never thought I would.
By car, I only saw traffic, million-dollar homes, trash, and heard loud music bumping in the back of cars. But on foot, the sound of the crashing waves, the salt smell in the air, seagulls and pelicans flying by, and even a smile from the local rollerblade girl painted the picture.
But the real star of the show were the creeks.
After three weeks, I was jonesing for the mountains and southeast I went from Santa Maria and up in elevation. Long were the days of concrete, crosswalks, and convenience and now the smell of pine, the vision of prosperity and the feeling of pain took over. My body was revolting.
The pack was heavier, the days were harder, and the effort was exponential - but the views were worth it.
The stars took over at night and the air temperature dropped like I did into my tent after a long day of slogging in elevation. I started connecting the river systems I met at the sea and was astounded at their pristine nature up in their headwaters. What I saw on the coast with concrete lined shores and smog riddled air was replaced by cold and clear water cascading down from elevation with aquatic insects and plant life all thriving in its quiet and untouched serenity. And with that, came others.
I was walking along a creek system and wasn’t expecting much until I scanned closer to see a silhouette of a large fish just swimming and unbothered by anything. I had to blink and rub my eyes as I had gone eight days without seeing a human and right in front of me was a large 24” fish, swimming like I wasn’t there. I hadn’t expected to see a steelhead as there were so few, but right in front of me in a creek no wider than I am tall, about 30 miles from the sea, a two-foot-long trout swam in the cold and clear water.
As I trekked south through the mountains on my way down to the international border along the Pacific Crest Trail, I often followed in the footsteps of bear and mountain lion. But never did I expect to see one. One day walking along another creek, I heard the famous chirps of a mountain lion calling to another one, only about 20 yards from me. One night finishing up my journaling near the famous ski and mountain town of Big Bear, I had a 300-pound black bear come waddling into my camp. And on a sunny day, after about 600 miles of backpacking, I had a rattlesnake strike and hit my hiker pole as I stepped past it.
After nearly 80 days and over 1,000 miles, I had finally reached the Mexican border and followed the infamous Tijuana River from its binational headwaters to the river mouth where it meets the sea at Imperial Beach. From there I knew I had a couple days left until I walked north back up the coast to my hometown of San Clemente.
I wasn’t emotional, I wasn’t sad - I was content. I set out and accomplished what I initially wanted to do and because of that I was proud. But one thing remained that I still couldn’t understand and it was the fact that the world I grew up in, and the world I worked in, didn’t know these fish existed. On my last day walking into my hometown, I prepared myself for what I was going to see.
I woke that morning and started walking in the grey of thick fog. But as I kept walking, the fog began to lift almost as if I had a shield on. With each step I took, the fog lifted. That worked nearly all day until I got to my hometown water where the fog decided to stay, despite my metaphorical shield. The lagoon was clear and live birds were frolicking like the water was as healthy as could be.
I had made it to my home and dropped my pack down and sat at my dining room table after 86 days.
I looked to my GPS watch where it totaled 1,196.39 miles of hiking. I looked to my pack that had rips and scars and had faded in color since I bought it while glancing up and out the window to the grey fog still holding its grip on the coast. I smiled knowing that I was able to finish the trip and that the fish gods granted me access to do so, but the fog stayed to remind me that at least metaphorically, the fish were still very imperiled.
I saw dams, I saw pollution. I witnessed smog, concrete, and dehydrated river and creek systems. I walked through urbanization, congestion, traffic, and convenience.
I drank from the water that flowed through all that and thanks to the Sawyer Squeeze system, despite the pollution, I never got sick.
Looking back on the trip, what stayed with me is the sheer magnitude of the historic range and the remoteness of the headwaters. The solution to bring these fish back from the brink is to get them to the headwaters so they can spawn in peace, but that’s the dilemma. Between the sea and the mountains are 30 million people with all mentioned above. So, my initial goal had always been to bring attention to the fish. Despite what these rivers may look like with concrete laden shores and trash floating down them, never meant a fish couldn’t live in it. And once we accept that and notice the potential for life, despite the urbanization, these fish will return. We just have to let them.
Stats from the trek -
Walked 1,196.39 miles, totaled 86 days to complete, took 2,610,706 steps, burned 165,745 calories, crossed 478 cross walks, crossed 26 railroad crossings, took 29 showers, encountered 4 days of rain, 2 days of snow, passed by 13 Ferrari’s, walked 12 piers, hitchhiked 10 times, rattled at by 10 rattlesnakes, witnessed a potential steelhead and had one helluva trip!
शॉन जानसन
Sean Jansen is a freelance writer and seasonal wilderness guide in Yellowstone National Park.
There was a guilt bubbling down deep inside of me that I couldn’t shake. It felt as if I had just been punched in the stomach by the school bully. My heart was in my throat and my gut felt empty. This all stemmed one day in my hometown of San Clemente, California right after going surfing at my local wave called Lower Trestles. The wave is a cobblestone point break with a lagoon at the foot of it that was blocked by a sand embankment.
The lagoon however, which rarely flowed to the sea, often had everything from dead sea birds to trash and was as brown as the chocolate milk I had drank as a kid.
But one day, I walked past it and thought about where the water had come from. It was freshwater and I scanned inland, way off into the distance and mountains rose precipitously.
I went home and found out that the lagoon was called San Mateo Creek. The creek flowed a couple dozen miles and started up high at nearly 5,000 feet. Which was astounding news. What also was exciting was that it flowed wild and scenic - unheard of for a river to do so in an area of California where roughly 30 million people lived. But as I scrolled further down the website and kept reading, my guilt washed in. I thought I was seeing things or my brain created the words I was reading.
But, there were steelhead trout in the creek.
A steelhead is a fish in the salmonid family of fishes. Like that of salmon in that they are born in a river, swim out to sea to mature and grow – all to return to the river to spawn and repeat the process.
Most of the steelhead in the world are in the Pacific Northwest with some populations in Eastern Russia because of the cold and clear rivers that are abundant in these areas. But a steelhead trout in Southern California?
I was told growing up that there were no trout of this kind anywhere in Southern California. But that moment coming home from surfing and seeing the lagoon, then reading about the fish, I was nearly nauseous. I researched further and found that not just San Mateo Creek had wild steelhead, but throughout SoCal, creeks and rivers flowed to the ocean – holding small populations of steelhead.
Their threats are obvious and exactly what you may think for a fish that lives near Los Angeles. Humans have done everything to a river system you can think of and then some. We have dammed, diverted, polluted, and completely altered about 90 percent of the natural water flows in Southern California. The same waterways that historically held tens of thousands of these fish. And after our alterations, fewer than 170 remain.
But the question arose: why hadn’t we heard about them? Why hasn’t someone like me, who is in the fishing world as an angler and writer, heard about them – a native to Southern California?
So, I felt compelled to do something about it. I found a map of the historical range that showed the extent of their terrain and scrolled out on Google to see what if anything could be done. I gazed and day-dreamed for over an hour. I was leaning back on my office chair staring at the map, and I saw a shape around their historical range.
I figured I could walk the Pacific Coast Highway up from my hometown of San Clemente, connecting all the lagoons and creeks as they met the sea, then walk the inland mountains where these rivers started their lives - eventually looping back around to my hometown. Creating a giant loop around the historic range, circumnavigating all the creeks that these fish live.
One day in spring I took off with a backpack full of everything I needed and took to the coast and started my trek north. I walked for about 300 miles over the course of 21 days and made it to the northern most river in the historic range, the Santa Maria. It was painful, it was arduous, but it was stunning. I connected and saw my home region of Southern California in a way that I never thought I would.
By car, I only saw traffic, million-dollar homes, trash, and heard loud music bumping in the back of cars. But on foot, the sound of the crashing waves, the salt smell in the air, seagulls and pelicans flying by, and even a smile from the local rollerblade girl painted the picture.
But the real star of the show were the creeks.
After three weeks, I was jonesing for the mountains and southeast I went from Santa Maria and up in elevation. Long were the days of concrete, crosswalks, and convenience and now the smell of pine, the vision of prosperity and the feeling of pain took over. My body was revolting.
The pack was heavier, the days were harder, and the effort was exponential - but the views were worth it.
The stars took over at night and the air temperature dropped like I did into my tent after a long day of slogging in elevation. I started connecting the river systems I met at the sea and was astounded at their pristine nature up in their headwaters. What I saw on the coast with concrete lined shores and smog riddled air was replaced by cold and clear water cascading down from elevation with aquatic insects and plant life all thriving in its quiet and untouched serenity. And with that, came others.
I was walking along a creek system and wasn’t expecting much until I scanned closer to see a silhouette of a large fish just swimming and unbothered by anything. I had to blink and rub my eyes as I had gone eight days without seeing a human and right in front of me was a large 24” fish, swimming like I wasn’t there. I hadn’t expected to see a steelhead as there were so few, but right in front of me in a creek no wider than I am tall, about 30 miles from the sea, a two-foot-long trout swam in the cold and clear water.
As I trekked south through the mountains on my way down to the international border along the Pacific Crest Trail, I often followed in the footsteps of bear and mountain lion. But never did I expect to see one. One day walking along another creek, I heard the famous chirps of a mountain lion calling to another one, only about 20 yards from me. One night finishing up my journaling near the famous ski and mountain town of Big Bear, I had a 300-pound black bear come waddling into my camp. And on a sunny day, after about 600 miles of backpacking, I had a rattlesnake strike and hit my hiker pole as I stepped past it.
After nearly 80 days and over 1,000 miles, I had finally reached the Mexican border and followed the infamous Tijuana River from its binational headwaters to the river mouth where it meets the sea at Imperial Beach. From there I knew I had a couple days left until I walked north back up the coast to my hometown of San Clemente.
I wasn’t emotional, I wasn’t sad - I was content. I set out and accomplished what I initially wanted to do and because of that I was proud. But one thing remained that I still couldn’t understand and it was the fact that the world I grew up in, and the world I worked in, didn’t know these fish existed. On my last day walking into my hometown, I prepared myself for what I was going to see.
I woke that morning and started walking in the grey of thick fog. But as I kept walking, the fog began to lift almost as if I had a shield on. With each step I took, the fog lifted. That worked nearly all day until I got to my hometown water where the fog decided to stay, despite my metaphorical shield. The lagoon was clear and live birds were frolicking like the water was as healthy as could be.
I had made it to my home and dropped my pack down and sat at my dining room table after 86 days.
I looked to my GPS watch where it totaled 1,196.39 miles of hiking. I looked to my pack that had rips and scars and had faded in color since I bought it while glancing up and out the window to the grey fog still holding its grip on the coast. I smiled knowing that I was able to finish the trip and that the fish gods granted me access to do so, but the fog stayed to remind me that at least metaphorically, the fish were still very imperiled.
I saw dams, I saw pollution. I witnessed smog, concrete, and dehydrated river and creek systems. I walked through urbanization, congestion, traffic, and convenience.
I drank from the water that flowed through all that and thanks to the Sawyer Squeeze system, despite the pollution, I never got sick.
Looking back on the trip, what stayed with me is the sheer magnitude of the historic range and the remoteness of the headwaters. The solution to bring these fish back from the brink is to get them to the headwaters so they can spawn in peace, but that’s the dilemma. Between the sea and the mountains are 30 million people with all mentioned above. So, my initial goal had always been to bring attention to the fish. Despite what these rivers may look like with concrete laden shores and trash floating down them, never meant a fish couldn’t live in it. And once we accept that and notice the potential for life, despite the urbanization, these fish will return. We just have to let them.
Stats from the trek -
Walked 1,196.39 miles, totaled 86 days to complete, took 2,610,706 steps, burned 165,745 calories, crossed 478 cross walks, crossed 26 railroad crossings, took 29 showers, encountered 4 days of rain, 2 days of snow, passed by 13 Ferrari’s, walked 12 piers, hitchhiked 10 times, rattled at by 10 rattlesnakes, witnessed a potential steelhead and had one helluva trip!
शॉन जानसन
Sean Jansen is a freelance writer and seasonal wilderness guide in Yellowstone National Park.
There was a guilt bubbling down deep inside of me that I couldn’t shake. It felt as if I had just been punched in the stomach by the school bully. My heart was in my throat and my gut felt empty. This all stemmed one day in my hometown of San Clemente, California right after going surfing at my local wave called Lower Trestles. The wave is a cobblestone point break with a lagoon at the foot of it that was blocked by a sand embankment.
The lagoon however, which rarely flowed to the sea, often had everything from dead sea birds to trash and was as brown as the chocolate milk I had drank as a kid.
But one day, I walked past it and thought about where the water had come from. It was freshwater and I scanned inland, way off into the distance and mountains rose precipitously.
I went home and found out that the lagoon was called San Mateo Creek. The creek flowed a couple dozen miles and started up high at nearly 5,000 feet. Which was astounding news. What also was exciting was that it flowed wild and scenic - unheard of for a river to do so in an area of California where roughly 30 million people lived. But as I scrolled further down the website and kept reading, my guilt washed in. I thought I was seeing things or my brain created the words I was reading.
But, there were steelhead trout in the creek.
A steelhead is a fish in the salmonid family of fishes. Like that of salmon in that they are born in a river, swim out to sea to mature and grow – all to return to the river to spawn and repeat the process.
Most of the steelhead in the world are in the Pacific Northwest with some populations in Eastern Russia because of the cold and clear rivers that are abundant in these areas. But a steelhead trout in Southern California?
I was told growing up that there were no trout of this kind anywhere in Southern California. But that moment coming home from surfing and seeing the lagoon, then reading about the fish, I was nearly nauseous. I researched further and found that not just San Mateo Creek had wild steelhead, but throughout SoCal, creeks and rivers flowed to the ocean – holding small populations of steelhead.
Their threats are obvious and exactly what you may think for a fish that lives near Los Angeles. Humans have done everything to a river system you can think of and then some. We have dammed, diverted, polluted, and completely altered about 90 percent of the natural water flows in Southern California. The same waterways that historically held tens of thousands of these fish. And after our alterations, fewer than 170 remain.
But the question arose: why hadn’t we heard about them? Why hasn’t someone like me, who is in the fishing world as an angler and writer, heard about them – a native to Southern California?
So, I felt compelled to do something about it. I found a map of the historical range that showed the extent of their terrain and scrolled out on Google to see what if anything could be done. I gazed and day-dreamed for over an hour. I was leaning back on my office chair staring at the map, and I saw a shape around their historical range.
I figured I could walk the Pacific Coast Highway up from my hometown of San Clemente, connecting all the lagoons and creeks as they met the sea, then walk the inland mountains where these rivers started their lives - eventually looping back around to my hometown. Creating a giant loop around the historic range, circumnavigating all the creeks that these fish live.
One day in spring I took off with a backpack full of everything I needed and took to the coast and started my trek north. I walked for about 300 miles over the course of 21 days and made it to the northern most river in the historic range, the Santa Maria. It was painful, it was arduous, but it was stunning. I connected and saw my home region of Southern California in a way that I never thought I would.
By car, I only saw traffic, million-dollar homes, trash, and heard loud music bumping in the back of cars. But on foot, the sound of the crashing waves, the salt smell in the air, seagulls and pelicans flying by, and even a smile from the local rollerblade girl painted the picture.
But the real star of the show were the creeks.
After three weeks, I was jonesing for the mountains and southeast I went from Santa Maria and up in elevation. Long were the days of concrete, crosswalks, and convenience and now the smell of pine, the vision of prosperity and the feeling of pain took over. My body was revolting.
The pack was heavier, the days were harder, and the effort was exponential - but the views were worth it.
The stars took over at night and the air temperature dropped like I did into my tent after a long day of slogging in elevation. I started connecting the river systems I met at the sea and was astounded at their pristine nature up in their headwaters. What I saw on the coast with concrete lined shores and smog riddled air was replaced by cold and clear water cascading down from elevation with aquatic insects and plant life all thriving in its quiet and untouched serenity. And with that, came others.
I was walking along a creek system and wasn’t expecting much until I scanned closer to see a silhouette of a large fish just swimming and unbothered by anything. I had to blink and rub my eyes as I had gone eight days without seeing a human and right in front of me was a large 24” fish, swimming like I wasn’t there. I hadn’t expected to see a steelhead as there were so few, but right in front of me in a creek no wider than I am tall, about 30 miles from the sea, a two-foot-long trout swam in the cold and clear water.
As I trekked south through the mountains on my way down to the international border along the Pacific Crest Trail, I often followed in the footsteps of bear and mountain lion. But never did I expect to see one. One day walking along another creek, I heard the famous chirps of a mountain lion calling to another one, only about 20 yards from me. One night finishing up my journaling near the famous ski and mountain town of Big Bear, I had a 300-pound black bear come waddling into my camp. And on a sunny day, after about 600 miles of backpacking, I had a rattlesnake strike and hit my hiker pole as I stepped past it.
After nearly 80 days and over 1,000 miles, I had finally reached the Mexican border and followed the infamous Tijuana River from its binational headwaters to the river mouth where it meets the sea at Imperial Beach. From there I knew I had a couple days left until I walked north back up the coast to my hometown of San Clemente.
I wasn’t emotional, I wasn’t sad - I was content. I set out and accomplished what I initially wanted to do and because of that I was proud. But one thing remained that I still couldn’t understand and it was the fact that the world I grew up in, and the world I worked in, didn’t know these fish existed. On my last day walking into my hometown, I prepared myself for what I was going to see.
I woke that morning and started walking in the grey of thick fog. But as I kept walking, the fog began to lift almost as if I had a shield on. With each step I took, the fog lifted. That worked nearly all day until I got to my hometown water where the fog decided to stay, despite my metaphorical shield. The lagoon was clear and live birds were frolicking like the water was as healthy as could be.
I had made it to my home and dropped my pack down and sat at my dining room table after 86 days.
I looked to my GPS watch where it totaled 1,196.39 miles of hiking. I looked to my pack that had rips and scars and had faded in color since I bought it while glancing up and out the window to the grey fog still holding its grip on the coast. I smiled knowing that I was able to finish the trip and that the fish gods granted me access to do so, but the fog stayed to remind me that at least metaphorically, the fish were still very imperiled.
I saw dams, I saw pollution. I witnessed smog, concrete, and dehydrated river and creek systems. I walked through urbanization, congestion, traffic, and convenience.
I drank from the water that flowed through all that and thanks to the Sawyer Squeeze system, despite the pollution, I never got sick.
Looking back on the trip, what stayed with me is the sheer magnitude of the historic range and the remoteness of the headwaters. The solution to bring these fish back from the brink is to get them to the headwaters so they can spawn in peace, but that’s the dilemma. Between the sea and the mountains are 30 million people with all mentioned above. So, my initial goal had always been to bring attention to the fish. Despite what these rivers may look like with concrete laden shores and trash floating down them, never meant a fish couldn’t live in it. And once we accept that and notice the potential for life, despite the urbanization, these fish will return. We just have to let them.
Stats from the trek -
Walked 1,196.39 miles, totaled 86 days to complete, took 2,610,706 steps, burned 165,745 calories, crossed 478 cross walks, crossed 26 railroad crossings, took 29 showers, encountered 4 days of rain, 2 days of snow, passed by 13 Ferrari’s, walked 12 piers, hitchhiked 10 times, rattled at by 10 rattlesnakes, witnessed a potential steelhead and had one helluva trip!
शॉन जानसन
Sean Jansen is a freelance writer and seasonal wilderness guide in Yellowstone National Park.
Recent articles
Other categories
You might also like
Explore All Sawyer has to Offer
Built for the Outdoors
see ALL PRODUCTS
हमें इंस्टाग्राम पर फॉलो करें
एक बाहरी कंपनी से अधिक।
@sawyerproducts
हमारा अनुसरण करो
From the trail
हमारे राजदूतों से मिलें। वे निशान पर विशेषज्ञ हैं जो हमारे उत्पादों को तत्वों के लिए खड़े होने के तरीके से प्यार करते हैं और हमें उनके अगले स्तर के कारनामों की कहानियों से प्रसन्न करते हैं।
meet our ambassadors
