A dear friend, who was my travel agent in pre-Internet days and launched my wife and me on special journeys, once said, “Sometimes the best adventures come when plans go awry.” She went on to add, “Put a personal spin on a hitch in your plans by believing that it may be a blessing in disguise and lead you to places or experiences that you would never have encountered.” Her advice has proved true many times.
A November article in the San Francisco Chronicle on the delay of the opening of the 2019–20 commercial crabbing season reminded me of a trip that I took with a younger brother-in-law, Jim van de Erve, looking for my first large steelhead on a fly. Time off around an early spring break gave an opportunity to chase steelhead on California’s Lost Coast. A regular fishing partner bailed out, I worked down a fly-fishing club’s call list with no takers, and my wife suggested that I give her younger brother a try. After an explanation of the itinerary, when I added that I would pick up the expenses, he jumped at the chance to head for an area that he had never explored.
Excitement and optimism led us north. It turned out that we would head into a massive Pineapple Express — what scientists now call an atmospheric river.
Our first stop was in Lewiston, on the Trinity River, where we were able to fish for a few hours before darkness set in. Several steelhead rolled, but that was the extent of it. We made camp under clear, but darkening skies and enjoyed prime-grade New York steaks that my mother-in-law contributed, along with a bottle of decent wine, French bread, and a simple salad. Gray skies turned to rain as we finished our meal. Well before midnight, the accompanying winds intensified into a full gale.
I was bunking on a foam pad in the bed of my El Camino under the shelter of a low-profile Gem Top, Jim in a backpacker’s tent. Not long after dawn, we broke camp quickly and headed into town for hot coffee, breakfast, and information. The Trinity was rising fast. It was obvious that the river was unfishable and would blow out shortly. We looked at each other, knew the rains weren’t stopping, and headed west. I had cruised timber in Humboldt and Trinity Counties a decade earlier and knew the area intimately. We would head for the Smith River, which had a reputation for being the last river to go out and the first to clear, largely because of the nature of its watershed. On the way, we would check out Big Lagoon, an intriguing place off most steelheaders’ radar.
Our drive toward Arcata in a relentless downpour took much longer than usual. We hit the coast, turned north in more rain, and headed directly to Patricks Point State Park. The downpour never let up. A spark of wisdom suggested that a call to Crescent City or Eureka might avert an unnecessary drive. Doubts about the Smith were creeping into our minds. Onshore winds buffeting our vehicle cast more doubt on Big Lagoon possibilities.
Patricks Point is near Trinidad, a small fishing port north of Arcata. We secured a campsite in a nearly vacant state park, drove into Trinidad for dinner, because we didn’t want to cook in the rain, and looked for a pay phone to make a call that could give us some information. It was too late in the day to hook up with a Eureka fly shop or someone on the Smith. A morning call confirmed our fears. The Smith had risen overnight. Though the rains had lessened, steelhead fishing was out the length of the coast.
At a café in Trinidad, a waitress noticed that I was poring over a map of California. In the conversation that developed, I asked if she was a local. Her answer, “Fort Bragg,” gave me an idea. We would head south and explore, looking for a place to wet a line, returning to Sacramento via Highway 20, Clear Lake, and Williams — certainly an interesting drive.
Jim had never been to Eureka. I detoured from Highway 101’s four-lane main drag through town, dreary then, dreary now, giving him a tour of my old haunts. We drove slowly past the Carson House, a lumber baron’s Victorian edifice that had been turned into a private gentleman’s club. My mind flashed back to times when after two weeks in the woods, we would park on a side street next to the Carson House, roll down the windows, sip Budweiser, and drink in chamber music drifting through the open windows.
A few blocks and a turn down the infamous Second Street strip with its bars, poker rooms, and backroom brothels brought back memories of wild times when horny and thirsty loggers hit town after 10 days of 16-hour shifts. It was not uncommon on a Sunday afternoon after a raucous weekend to see a logger barfing off the Mad River Bridge, wiped clean of his pay and needing a ride back to his logging camp.
Another turn took us toward the wharf. Fishing boats lined the dock, steam whistles and the piercing whine of huge saw blades from the mills drifted across the channel from Samoa. Lazio’s Restaurant and Fish Market was still there with the same red neon sign, and a hand painted sign on a piece of cardboard said, “Dungeness crab.”
Two freshly boiled and cleaned crabs, a pound and a half of fresh shrimp, and a mesh bag of clams would be the nucleus for our dinner. I had recently found an interesting cioppino recipe for San Francisco’s signature fish stew and wanted to try it. Fresh ingredients sealed the deal.
Heading south on Highway 101, we crossed the high, muddy water of the blown-out Eel River. I had driven 101 many times, but decided to turn west when we got to Leggett and come into Fort Bragg from the north. The intensity of the storm was slackening. We headed down one of America’ great drives, pausing a few minutes to stretch our legs on the Avenue of the Giants before turning west on Highway 1, a road I had never traveled.
Our map showed McKerricher State Park a few miles north of Fort Bragg. A chatty ranger asked where we had come from. We told of chasing steelhead and running from the storm. He said, “Don’t know if it interests you, but there’s a great run of redtail perch on our beach . . . largest we’ve seen in years.” My spirits perked up. Our ranger added, “I’ve given you one of the best campsites. It’s protected from the wind. Stay well up on the beach if you fish.”
I had shrimp, crabs, and clams, but needed fresh fish for the cioppino. One look at the surf told me I didn’t want to wade. I took a fly reel off a 10-1/2-foot f ly rod and used duct tape and wire to secure an Ambassadeur level-wind reel higher up and upside down on the reel seat. Apparently the perch were locked in on shrimp. Before long, I had several fat ones that would go into the cioppino pot. They were huge and used the surging ebb and flow of storm surf to their advantage. It was good sport, and I could envision my cioppino coming together. Like crappies and bluegills, surfperch become monsters when they get to the two-to-four-pound range.
I found a cleaning bench, filleted and chunked the perch, and returned to camp. The adrenalin rush of a storm, a new beautiful place, catching another species, and successful foraging to fill a need shook off an early March chill. Jim had a fire going and was talking with a bearded, bedraggled-looking man in a black leather jacket. A huge Harley and its small road warrior cycle trailer were in the next camp. Jim turned and said, “I hope you caught some fish. We have a guest for dinner.” We introduced ourselves, and I noticed an interesting demeanor in his voice. Those words would prove fortuitous.
Our guest took a last pull on his beer. He said he was going to shower and head into town for more. He asked, “Do you need anything?”
“If you can round up a good bottle of zin or two, it would be appreciated. Throw in some French bread if it looks fresh . . . a head of garlic too, and some salad makings. We will be happy to pay you. It saves us a trip into town.”
“Anything else?”
“No, I have the rest of what I need for a crab-based cioppino.”
Our barely new friend unhitched his motorcycle trailer and headed toward Fort Bragg, the throaty roar of his Harley momentarily blocking the crashing sound of immense breakers hitting the beach and the wind shrieking in the trees. After prepping and setting up to cook, I took a shower and donned a fresh shirt as the motorcycle rider throttled down and turned into his campsite. Bulging saddlebags suggested pay dirt. Jim had gathered firewood. We had everything we needed for an interesting evening.
Cioppino, conceived by immigrant Italian fishermen, has as many variations as does Spanish paella, French bouillabaisse, and Texas chili. Fresh local ingredients are blended with what can be foraged or found in your pantry. I had two cans of “Italian” stewed tomatoes with oregano and basil. Our guest had found clam juice, fresh celery, sourdough bread, and heads of garlic. I rummaged for carrots, onions, chicken stock, white wine, and some dried spices in my kit.
Our guest’s name was Jeremy, and he cleaned up quite well, actually looking a bit professorial. It turned out that he was. Originally from England, he had accepted a job at Iowa’s fabled Writer’s Workshop and had moved to America. He had earned a sabbatical and was seeing the American West on a Harley. I asked, “Are you writing a sequel to Easy
Rider?”
“No, but there’s a story out here somewhere. If you’re from Europe, even Iowa, you can’t begin to grasp the vastness and wildness of this part of the United States.” I put together my improvised f ish stock and set it simmering in a Dutch oven. We were in no rush, and I was able to concentrate the flavor of carrots, onions, and celery by simmering the diced vegetables in olive oil and then deglazing with chicken stock, white wine, and clam juice.
Ten minutes later, I added the stewed tomatoes with garlic, basil, and oregano, a dash of Tabasco, and a pour of Zinfandel. I could relax. Fish, crab, shrimp, and clams go into the pot a few minutes before the dish is ready. Time is your friend when cooking cioppino.
My brother-in law Jim, a journalist almost a year out of UC Davis, was working for the Nevada Union newspaper in Grass Valley and had received a book commission to live on a Nevada cattle baron’s ranch and write the owner’s wife’s biography. Doctor Mary was the first female physician in Nevada and in time became a pioneer legend. A graduate of medical school, she was initially allowed to only treat Paiute Native Americans. Fred Fulstone, her husband, was a legend in his own right.
Jeremy was as interested in Jim’s accounts as we were of his adventures and academic life. Later, Jim used his experiences in Nevada in his novel Last of the Buckaroos, one of the three novels he would write after a career in tech. We went through the first bottle of our requisitioned Lodi zinfandel quickly.
My cioppino was a rustic version, in that the shrimp were not deveined and went into the finished stock with tails and shells intact, along with my fresh perch, cracked crab, and clams. I was winging it, but knew enough to use the shells to build rich flavor and not to overcook the protein. Crab legs and bodies went directly into the pot. Cioppino is ready when the clams open up. Discard any that don’t.
Cioppino does not lend itself to being eaten from a bowl in your lap sitting at campfire’s edge any more than it does to using white linen napkins. We moved to a weathered campground table and did more than justice to my meal. It was a hit. Having fresh ingredients helps, but so does the metallic smell of salty air, the sounds of raging water, and a roaring fire.
Our invigorated crew moved back to the fire pit. We were grateful for our protected campsite. Another bottle of zin, and then what was left of the white wine that went into the cioppino stock found its way into our tin cups. Jeremy told of his adventures riding on back roads from Iowa, of an education at Oxford, and the writing talent that surrounded him in Iowa. I was able to throw in a story or two of my times as a timber cruiser on an even wilder Lost Coast.
Jim and I and our wives have since shared memorable meals on both coasts and in wild places in between. Often we forage outdoor markets or the docks with no preconceived idea in mind, opportunistically waiting for a special ingredient to catch our eye so we can build a meal around it.
There’s lots of latitude in a cioppino ingredient list, though the essentials are Dungeness crab, fish, and a hearty, flavorful stock built around the flavors of tomatoes, basil, garlic, and oregano. Good company and a special setting help, too. Obviously fresh ingredients should be used whenever possible. I’m an intuitive cook, rarely follow recipes closely, and chase the yins and yangs of flavor in building a dish and then a meal.
Cioppino stock can be made in advance and frozen. In camp, just thaw it and add the crustaceans and fish that foraging came up with, along with more wine and fresh herbs. Another route, if in a hurry, is to use a commercial “simmer sauce” and ramp it up with fresh herbs. Williams Sonoma sells good product.
As I did that night on the beach, just wing it. You will become a more creative and more relaxed cook.
Cioppino
Crab, shrimp, clams, mussels, fish chunks, calamari rings
Extra-virgin olive oil
1 diced carrot
Half a diced green pepper
1 diced yellow onion
4 cloves chopped garlic
2 diced celery ribs
White wine
Fish stock, or clam juice and chicken stock
Tabasco to taste . . . don’t overdo it
A squeeze of lemon juice or red wine vinegar
Chopped oregano
Chopped basil
Freshly ground black pepper
1 bay leaf
A dash of Worcestershire sauce
Stewed “Italian” tomatoes
Cioppino in its original versions, cooked by fishermen on small boats with limited galleys, was likely ad hoc, using whatever was at hand — fresh fish, of course, plus a few pantry items such as canned tomatoes, wine, dried herbs, maybe an onion and some garlic. Simple is appropriate!
— Richard Anderson
