From that cute, skinny young lady who spent three years living atop an old-growth redwood tree to the tribes that once brought in a bountiful harvest from the mighty Klamath with nets and spears, I have always favored the environmental underdog. Maybe there will be job losses and the decline of certain industries, but if this is the cost necessary to protect the environment, I'm willing to pay.

At least I was, until the whole thing affected me personally. Now I'm confused. In one swift blow, I've been kicked out of a favorite fishing area and accused of killing one of the world's most endangered species. My sin? Trampling Tahoe Yellow Cress.

Let me back up a bit and set the scene. The Upper Truckee River is Lake Tahoe's largest tributary, and to protect it and other Tahoe streams as the spawning grounds of wild (though non-native) trout and salmon, fishing in these tributaries is only allowed from July through September. This keeps anglers from targeting kokanee (a landlocked subspecies of sockeye salmon) that run up Taylor Creek each fall, as well as the hordes of lake-run rainbow trout that spawn in the Upper Truckee in early spring, and brown trout that use the river for the same purpose in late autumn. During the short open season, though, standard California regulations apply, with bait and barbed hooks permitted.

I have fished the Upper Truckee every summer for the last five years, first with worms and a catch-and-kill mentality, then increasingly with barbless flies and lures in order to release my catch as I've come to realize the important role of this seemingly insignificant creek in the ongoing health of Lake Tahoe trout populations. There is no regular stocking program here, so when you take home a small fish you are removing a juvenile that had the potential to run to the lake and grow huge. Likewise, if you're lucky enough to tangle with a big one, you have hooked one of the broodstock that perpetuate Tahoe's wild trout fishery.

The California Department of Fish and Game probably should restrict the fishing even further, or perhaps eliminate it altogether, but they haven't as yet, so I continue to challenge myself by stalking these powerful, wary fish in a stream so intimate that in many places, the opposite bank can be reached by a single, running leap. One of my most successful tactics has been to cast streamer flies or Rapala plugs from a bar of sand at the river's mouth in early July. Brown trout to seven pounds will chase these minnow imitations from the main channel up a steep incline, to the very edge of the beach- I recall one fat male that actually slid his snapping, hooked jaw out of the water and onto the sand in pursuit of a lure. The key to this aggressive behavior among the brown trout, as well as the presence in the lower river of large, migratory rainbows (mountain steelhead, we like to call them) is a high flow rate in the Upper Truckee. Each year that I've visited this fishery, heavy snowpack in the Tahoe Basin has resulted in high water on the season opener, and I have always had trouble sleeping on June 30. I toss and turn in anticipation of the canoe ride down the river in the pre-dawn dark and the first cast from that magical peninsula my friends and I affectionately refer to as "Goose- Poop Beach", due to the heavy deposits of Canadian honker nuggets.

As anyone who reads the newspaper while flushing away his or her own deposits in a water-saving, low-flow toilet knows, though, California is back in drought mode, with a paltry accumulation of snow in the sierra last winter resulting in less water for rivers, lakes and reservoirs. The Upper Truckee, like thousands of other streams across the country, has an electronic flow-gaging station, maintained by the United States Geological Survey, that transmits its changing flow rates, in real-time, to a database which is made available to the public on the federal agency's website (usgs.gov). I utilize this resource for analyzing conditions on all my favorite rivers, and I went online to check the level of the Upper Truckee frequently toward the end of June, to determine opening day flows (Would I need my full-sink fly line, or just a sink-tip?), and to my chagrin found a trickle of just 14 cfs (cubic feet per second) listed for the river. This was less than 25 percent of the early summer water level I had come to expect, which meant that many of the large rainbows would have already exited the river for the lake, while the brown trout that tend to hang around the lower "delta" all year would be skittish and hard to entice- much more likely to sip a tiny, # 18 pheasant tail nymph tied on 2 pound tippet than to slam a Rapala or Clouser Minnow streamer presented on the 6 to 10 pound test line required to actually land one.

So I wimped out, fishing the East Carson River in Alpine County on July first instead. This is the real secret to avoiding fishless trips. It's not so much about skill level as maintaining a close eye on conditions, so that you hit waters when they are hot and avoid them when they are too difficult. Many people endure unsuccessful outings because they get stuck in a mode where tradition rules ("Three years ago I caught a monster here!"), and current conditions are ignored. Residents and visitors alike fish the Tahoe tributaries hard each year, but as I could have told them based on the low water, things are different this season. Local reports of good catches on the opener were scarce, and the fly fishing shop, with its expert guides, rates the rivers as "difficult".

I follow tradition, too though, and have long appreciated the secluded beach at the mouth of the Upper Truckee, where the goose droppings and lack of vehicular access keep the area nearly deserted, while public Tahoe beaches are in the full grip of summer tourist season. In addition to my serious early morning fishing trips, I've often enjoyed loading my family into the canoe along with a blanket, towels and a cooler full of picnic foods, then paddling downriver from a launch spot off Venice Drive in the Tahoe Keys, all the way to the Upper Truckee's junction with the lake. There we have spent many relaxing days on "our" beach; eating, splashing in Tahoe's cool waters, and watching the birds- mallards herding their military lines of fuzzy ducklings up and down the river, mergansers disappearing beneath the surface for impossibly long periods in search of minnows, and best of all, huge osprey and bald eagles divebombing the lake just offshore, snatching whitefish and trout from the shallows.

So, it was with these fond images in mind that I decided to take my three kids (Jessica, 10, Joey, 9, and Arielle, 3) for just such a trip down to the river mouth on July ninth. We brought lunch, sodas, toilet paper and two light spinning rods; my wife was working, and I've found it's always easier to spend my day off babysitting when I can fit a little fishing into the schedule. Joe helped me paddle my 17 foot Coleman, while Jessica kept watch over Arielle, who was experiencing her first canoe ride- she kept trying to lean over the side to touch the water, repeating "Oooh! Aaah!" as she stared enraptured at her own ripple-distorted reflection.

When we arrived at the sandy river mouth, I beached the bow of my vessel as the children simultaneously jumped out then ran with shrieks and giggles down the shoreline. After dragging the canoe further up onto the beach, I looked back out at the low, clear river and pondered just what lures I might possibly have in my tackle bag that could catch fish in these conditions. As I absentmindedly sifted through a box of Panther Martin and Vibrax spinners, I turned my gaze toward the north, where I noticed a small wooden sign attached to a post stuck in the sand about 20 yards away, at the point where the river meets the lake proper. This had not been there the year before, and whatever the message, it was written on the opposite side, facing out into the lake. Curious, I sauntered over and circled around to the sign's front to read it. I assumed it would be a warning to boaters about Tahoe's shoreline no-wake zone or the prohibition against motorized watercraft in the river, and was surprised to see a request that read "PLEASE DO NOT ENTER- RARE AND ENDANGERED PLANT HABITAT". The sign went on to name Tahoe Yellow Cress, describing it as a member of the mustard cress family and extremely rare, found only on the shores of Lake Tahoe. At the bottom was the title " California Tahoe Conservancy", which I recognized as an organization that has been buying large tracts of land around the basin, to keep them from development and restore the environment. I then recalled how I read in the newspaper last year that the conservancy had in fact purchased this land, including an extensive wetland area adjacent to the river, collectively known as Barton Meadows, from a pioneer Tahoe cattle ranching family.

I should have just obeyed the sign and left right away, but as I hesitated, considering for a mere second the validity of faceless authority, a large fish splashed out in the river channel. As any good trout bum knows, such a sight is the basis for all manner of rationalization ("I can't go home now! Besides, my wife and I have an anniversary every year."), and in thinking about the situation, I became, well, a bit disgruntled.

I try to keep up with local news, and when I read about the land changing hands, there was no mention of any restrictions to the public. People have walked their dogs in the meadow and fished off this beach for years, and I admit to a feeling of having "squatter's rights" to the area through my previous usage. I had planned and packed for a picnic-outing with three young children (no small task in itself), then paddled all the way down the river without seeing a single sign warning me that my beach was off limits, and now here was this dinky little placard, aimed in the opposite direction, asking me to "please" keep off, with no fence and no harsh wording such as "violators will be prosecuted". I politely told the sign (which didn't even have a picture and description of the plant so I could avoid it) that, no, I would be staying, at least for a little while.

Well either that sign had a microphone and transmitter inside or the conservancy folks have some powerful binoculars, because barely twenty minutes into our stay, as my son and I cast lures without success into the river, we were approached from behind by a young woman in shorts, sandals, a Tahoe Conservancy polo-shirt and expensive sunglasses.

The woman (I'll call her "Willow") was carrying a clipboard, and she began speaking in a casual yet businesslike tone about the conservancy's purchase of the land from the Bartons, whom she said had owned it for "hundreds of years." This struck me as odd, since the white man's history in the Tahoe basin extends back only to the mid- 1800's. I let her continue, though, as she went on to describe the conservation work being undertaken by her agency and the importance of protecting the endangered Yellow Cress. I asked her to point out the plant in question, and she did- it was very small, growing only an inch or two out of the sand, sprouting a half-dozen or so oblong, serrated-edge leaves. I told her I would show it to my children and that we would be careful to avoid it, but she retorted that it had an extensive yet delicate root system which would be damaged simply by walking near it. This also seemed odd, as there she was, standing and walking with me on the very same roots.

Willow resumed her talk, and blurted "Let me finish!" every time I tried to interject any more comments or questions. So I did just that, and she eventually wound up a final run-on sentence with "So if you could please pack up and pick another place to go fishing, we'd appreciate it."

Now, anybody who's spent time with me knows I can be a contrary son-of-a-bitch, but Willow was a stranger, and her tone was actually quite polite, so I replied with equal courtesy.

"I definitely appreciate getting the information, and you've been very nice, so I don't want you to take this personally, but we're going to go ahead and stay for a little while. If I come down here again, I'll anchor in the river, and we'll sure be careful not to step on the cress today, but in that the sign says "please" not "no trespassing" and it was quite an effort to get down here..."

That's when things turned sour. At first Willow just looked at me, her mouth slightly agape, as if searching for a response to a turn of events she had not anticipated. She soon regained her composure, though, and shot back in a professional, yet somewhat strained tone-

"Well if it's all right with you to have your children stomping all over an endangered species, that's your choice. You also have your canoe sitting on top of the greatest concentration of the plant left in the world, and if I see you down here again I'll call the South Tahoe police department, who will back me up on a criminal trespass charge."

With that she stomped off, rather heavily for those delicate root systems she was treading upon. Kill 'em with kindness, I figured, so I called after her-

"Okay, thanks for the warning, and for the education about the cress. We'll keep off it while we're here." Her guilt trip did have somewhat of an effect, though, so I moved my canoe back to the water's edge, revealing several of the plants beneath, only slightly flattened, then I gathered my children to show them these sprouts, telling them not to step or play in areas where they grew.

Actually, except for the confrontation over trespassing, my interaction with Willow was quite pleasant. She was clearly knowledgeable on the subject of local plant life, and seemed to take the endangered state of the Tahoe Yellow Cress to heart. As we stooped over the sad, little weed, I complimented her on her expertise and asked if her educational background was in botany.

"I am botany" was her strange reply; like "I Am Woman", or "I am the God of Hellfire."

Anyway, after she left we enjoyed another hour on the beach, stepping carefully and throwing a variety of spinners, spoons and plugs toward the splashes made by hefty trout in the river channel. Some were clearly feeding upon a small surface insect, but I had left my fly gear at home. It was around noon by this time, and storm clouds had gathered; thick, bulbous and gray-black, blotting out the sun. Spectacular streaks of lightning lit up the sky over Mount Tallac, and just as I was considering packing up and leaving in the interest of safety, we were approached by another representative of the Tahoe Conservancy- I'll refer to this lady as Aspen. She was a bit older and more full-figured than Willow, but dressed identically, also with a clipboard in hand.

Aspen had a different approach, though; quite friendly, charming, even. It became clear as she spoke about many of the same things Willow mentioned that she was the second line of defense, sent down in a diplomatic effort to dislodge me from the beach after hearing from her co-worker of the failed initial assault. I suggested that a strong fence and more strongly worded sign would aid their cause, but she said that for the first year, they were stressing an educative approach. (Translation: getting people used to the idea of being kicked out by doing it slowly and incrementally.)

She overstepped her bounds, though, when she responded to my promise to anchor offshore in the river channel on future fishing trips.

"Actually, we would discourage any disturbance in the river itself as well, since this is a critical area for a number of important birds. There's a bald eagle that perches right up there in that dead tree, and they're very sensitive to human presence."

Talk about very sensitive. I pointed out that under California law, navigable waterways such as the Upper Truckee are public domain, and I had the legal right to travel wherever I pleased within the confines of the river's banks. Aspen grudgingly conceded this point, and just as she returned to her fallback position of an "educative approach" another conflict was averted by a stiff breeze and sporadic pea-gravel hailstones that caused her to make a quick exit, jogging back across the meadow the way she had come, with her clipboard held atop her head for protection.

"I better get out of here!" were her final words as the sky turned a shade darker and thunder rolled ever closer. I replied in agreement, loading my gear and children back in the canoe for a hurried trip upstream. When we had launched and I'd shown Jessica the proper technique for poling with the paddle, pushing off the river bottom rather than paddling to provide forward momentum in shallow areas, I took one long, last look back at the mouth of the Upper Truckee, where I'd idled away so many hours, weaving trout-fishing magic and forging indelible memories. Goodbye, Goose-Poop Beach; goodbye forever.

I've thought about this incident quite a bit over the last few days, and the first thing I realize is that I just should have left, willingly, as soon as I saw the sign. I have a firm conviction, though, that any outdoor writer worth his salt should be a bit of a curmudgeon and rabble-rouser, questioning authority whenever it chafes against his common sense. (Keeping antiquated expressions such as "worth his salt" and "curmudgeon" alive in the popular lexicon is also important.) So, in homage to the proud history of outdoor writing as a fringe element in literature, let me offer a few final observations:

If an endangered tree falls in the forest and nobody is there to hear it, who will give a sh--? Rare species need protection from man's excesses, but if outdoor enthusiasts, the people who have the greatest and most immediate interest in the environment, are shut out from their beloved places, conservationists will have lost their staunchest ally.

If we are to co-exist with threatened species, an integrated approach must be taken. Rather than just closing off the last minuscule piece of land known to harbor Tahoe Yellow Cress, why not take a few of the specimens left, give them to a horticulturist with experience breeding sandy-soil sierra plants, and let him or her raise a truckload of them for transplant back to a number of areas? This might be the best approach for a species with no "cuteness" appeal- (think big-eyed red wolf puppies) and no economic, cultural or medicinal value. I cannot speak with confidence on the role of Tahoe Yellow Cress in the great, interconnected web of life on this planet, but if it was an important food source for any animal, it would be long gone. Some of the well fed, panhandling, Canadian geese on the beach exceed thirty pounds, and I have seen them kick and dig up quite a bit of sand in the imperiled cress habitat to make a comfortable roost. They don't read signs very well, so how will they be informed of the new regulations? Am I being overly simplistic? If you're running out of a certain plant, grow new ones! We have the technology. As for the sensitive bird life at the river mouth, I have spent countless mornings watching many species, including the bald eagles, go about their business, feeding and raising their young with no regard for my quiet, canoe-borne presence. Following the Tahoe Conservancy's example, I vow to take an educative approach. Human population trends in the Tahoe basin show no sign of abating, so if the eagles are to thrive here, they MUST become acclimated to human presence. I consider it my environmental duty to spend as much time as possible near these "critical" areas, so the birds will evolve to become accustomed to the sight of people.

Finally, I have a revelation for Tahoe residents, especially those who recently attended a meeting where the conservancy offered a beautiful, multi-media presentation to locals who were concerned about the possible loss of access for dog-walking in the Barton Meadows. If you just moved here or don't follow local politics and land use trends, you might be blindsided by the events that will ensue, so let me enlighten you. In this town, statements like "public input period" and "formal public hearings" are simply legalspeak for "We've already decided what to do and will now pretend to take and evaluate your comments, then proceed as we damn well please." Kiss your access goodbye.

Watch for the same access elimination on the Upper Truckee near the airport, where the California Tahoe Conservancy has purchased riverfront property from the former Sunset Ranch. If anyone at the conservancy is reading this, please take a look at what the better known, national organization The Nature Conservancy has done on California's McCloud River to allow angler access while minimizing impact. There a streamkeeper maintains limits on angler numbers, allows only catch-and-release fishing, and requires adherence to established trails in order to reduce erosion. Call me before you close this water off to the public entirely; I'd be happy to act as "old man of the river" and enforce rules that would allow access and ensure public support while preserving the area. I believe I would be highly effective against poachers and those who might degrade the environment. I stood up to you folks, didn't I?

Until next time, Don't Press the Cress.

Mark (Never stand in a canoe) Wiza