Up a Lazy River, Seeking the Source : Your Explorer Follows in Footsteps of Gaspar de Portola

It rankled. It really did. Nevertheless, there it was.

The Explorer did not know where the Los Angeles River was.

Up to now, the Explorer had taken a modest measure of pride in his firsthand knowledge of geography. Especially rivers. He had grown up on the Hudson. He had loved on the Seine and lived on the Yukon, even on the Nile for a short and scented spell.

He had paddled on the Po, tarried on the Thames, dabbled in the Danube. He had fished the Firth of Forth and beat his feet on the Mississippi mud. He had chugged up the Congo to the incongruous strains of “Doin’ the Lambeth Walk.” He had lingered on the Yalu for word that never came.

He had known many of the mighty rivers, and he had learned to love their rhythms, their high-tide howls and low-tide lisps, their sweet-and-sour smells, their roles in the history of the great lands they traversed.

Living in Ignorance

He had known and loved the great rivers and he had lived in the Southland for 10 years and he was ashamed that he knew not the channel that bisected his own city.

He had heard of the Los Angeles River, of course--the mighty Porciuncula of yore--but he had never seen it. He had even crossed the river, he now knew--more than 15,000 times by rough reckoning--but he did not remember laying eyes on it.

Reason told the Explorer that millions of Angelenos must cross the river daily, most of them two, four, six times. Yet nobody he knew had seen it, save one acquaintance who lived in far-off Glendale, and even he wasn’t sure.

History told the Explorer that the intrepid Gaspar de Portola, on a mission from the King of Spain to annex Alta California and parts of Glendale, had first set eyes on the river on Aug. 1, 1769.

Geography told the Explorer that Portola, moving north from San Diego along the seacoast, must have hit the river first at Venice Beach, boogying on up to L.A. after a quick set of racquetball and a cappuccino.

History had the last word. The original river--called nothing because there was nobody around to name it--moved south to the Civic Center, then hung a right and pushed on through to Venice, where it left as a legacy the fine broad sands of Santa Monica.

In 1825, though, a humongous flood crashed out of the hills and bulled the startled stream south, all the way to Long Beach. History, ever impersonal, does not record the river’s reaction. One suspects, though, that the river, given its druthers, would just as lief have continued trucking on down to Santa Monica. Still, you can’t mess with Mother Nature.

The Explorer, in any case, caught up with the old Porciuncula’s relatively new mouth in Long Beach, and proposed to trace the river to its source.

The river had been in the news lately--a lot of studies by the Flood Control District, the City Fathers, the Army Corps of Engineers. To the Explorer, however, a river freak since birth, flood control, admittedly a matter of life and death, was a dry subject. (Easy for him to say; he lives on the high ground.)

Interested in Human Side

His interests lay more on the human side of river life. What manner of native lived along its banks? What were their tribal customs and rituals? What flora and fauna abounded in its rich alluvial bed? How long was the river? How deep? Where did it begin? Who cared?

For thrills, he might better have charted the Raging Waters of San Dimas. For challenge, he could have rafted the Duck Pond in Dobbs Ferry, N.Y.

On the eve of his expedition, though, as he stood at the mouth of the majestic Los Angeles River, the Explorer’s heart swelled, palpably. “Jeez,” he thought. “I’d better cut down on the cholesterol.”

THE SOURCE

On its final lap to the Pacific Ocean, the Los Angeles River gurgles under the last of its 132 bridges, the Queensway, and ripples half-heartedly against the hull of the Queen Mary before oozing out to sea. Ever vigilant, the radar of the bridge of the QM turns round and round, like a washing machine someone forgot to turn off.

Slightly offshore of the graceful liner, a scow is moored, laden with a dozen spherical buoys gone to rust. The buoys look like World War II mines.

Oblivious to danger, a dozen ducks bob among bits of garbage, segregated by choice from a flock of sea birds. The ducks preen their feathers, scrounging for vermin, and occasionally dive into the half-salt, half-fresh waters for a more substantial snack.

The seabirds, on the other hand, paddle in place, their black heads and curving white throats uniformly facing upriver, waiting for whatever it is that seabirds attend.

On shore, a building identified by lettering as headquarters of Catalina Harbor Cruises stands empty. A man in his late 60s sits alone on a bench outside the building, watching the birds with singular disinterest.

The man, whose name is Sutherland, lives in Anaheim. “I come down here and walk around ‘cause I got nothin’ else to do,” he says. “I should hang out in a bar?

“Sometimes I see something, sometimes I don’t. They dredge sometimes. They been dredging the harbor for the last 40 years. Doesn’t seem to do ‘em a damn bit of good.

“Fish, too, there’s fish to see. Last time I was here there musta been a million sharks.”

Signs of Life Upstream

A hundred yards upstream, the launching pad of the Inland Express Helicopter Service juts out into the sound. A young man in blue shorts, red T-shirt and green earmuffs loads valises onto a brown-and-white chopper, waves two passengers goodby and repairs into a tiny lounge.

Behind the desk is another young man, called Randy. The Explorer checks out Randy’s lore anent the river that flows past his heliport--a wide and winsome waterway here, smaller than the Amazon but bigger than a breadbox.

“Search me,” Randy says. “I know it’s a river, that’s fer sure. I just don’t know the name of it.”

Outside, a big yellow Arrowhead truck delivers water in competition with the river. Arrowhead by a nose.

Farther upriver, the channel is lined on both sides with huge square boulders, 6, 8, 10 feet across. The great stones are scattered randomly, as if some ancient God had snatched up Stonehenge and used its rocks in a celestial game of craps.

On a dusty levee above the boulders, a sign reads “NO FISHING.” For emphasis, there is a picture of a roundish fish, probably a tuna, with a verboten stripe diagonally bisecting its gravid belly.

A Mussel Harvester

Down by the river, right under the sign, a woman in a white blouse and damp jeans harvests mussels, while her two children play on the boulders. The Explorer approaches.

“Poison?” the woman says, barely looking up. “Mister, I’ve been gathering these mussels for five years here. Never been sick a day in my life. And now you wanna tell me they’re poison ?”

She continues yanking off mussels and scooping them into a large saucepan. From two yachts anchored 50 yards off her claim, half a dozen fishing poles bobble over the forbidden waters.

From the levee, a sidewalk follows the river north, past the clipped lawns, pruned flowers, fishpond, tennis courts and waterfall of the Queensway Hilton. There is a pleasant outdoor cafe extended from the Hilton restaurant, called Adolph’s.

Inside Adolph’s, Christy, a stunning barmaid sporting a single long, blonde braid, mixes the day’s special, a Nutty Irishman, and mulls the source of the Los Angeles River.

“It’s got to start in L.A., right? No, probably farther up, in the San Gabriel Mountains maybe. If I’m right, be sure to mention that this disproves the theory that blondes are dumb.”

The Explorer promises. Renewed by his Nutty Irishman, he heads for the door.

“Wait a minute,” Christy says, “don’t I win a trip to Hawaii? Tell you the truth, I’d settle for Azusa.”

Up and over the Queensway Bridge to the east side of the river’s mouth. Underneath, a Jet Ski kicks back a splendid spume. In its wake, tiny speedboats race an oval course.

A Neat Lineup of RVs

On the east side are the grass, palms and bike paths of a city recreation area. RVs lined up neatly. Dogs too. A little flat and antiseptic, but a pretty place nonetheless. Off a little pier, five teen-agers dip fishing rods and drink Diet Coke.

Retracing his steps to the Queen Mary, the Explorer passes mussel shoals again and trips this time over a cluster of six small metal pipes surrounding a large concrete one, like a Gatling gun standing sentinel over the entrance to the harbor. What it is guarding in fact is a splendid variety of jetsam floating seaward.

A spent package of Dorito Chips drifts by, then a three-legged stool, remarkably intact. Next, an empty container of Montebello Original L.I. Iced Tea Cocktail. Finally, a dead mouse.

Duly noting these signs of life, the Explorer regains his starting point. Sutherland is still there.

The river philosopher delivers himself of some choice comments on Jane Fonda and the Los Angeles Times, remarks that “Them mussels is polluted,” opines that the L.A. River “must start in the mountains. All’s I know is when I cross the freeway.” Then he waxes contemplative.

“Crikey,” Sutherland says, “I wanna go back East. I’m half-Italian, you know. There’s real people back there.

“And let me tell you somethin’ else: There’s real rivers.”