As I headed out of Mt. Shasta City on I-5, the options for seeking--or even seeing--the Sacramento River down in its gorge were limited by both the rugged topography and the fact that offramps and side roads are few and far between. One of my first chances was at Pollard Gulch, a Forest Service day-use site 20 miles south of Mt. Shasta City. There I encountered another extractive industry on the river--not of water, or even of fish, but of gleaming, glistening gold.

In the 1850s, this spot was known as Portuguese Flat and was the site of a rough mining camp. I saw no evidence of that past on my visit, but on the railroad bridge spanning the river I did encounter a fellow, maybe 60, wearing rubber boots and carrying a big white plastic bucket and a wide, flat green pan: an actual gold prospector. He pointed out a clump of rocks on the other side of the river, said a few weeks earlier he’d pulled up some boards that had gotten lodged there and found a dozen gold nuggets. He showed me their size on the tip of his pinky, said he was “excited as a boy.” But then, he wasn’t sure how, the “snuffer bottle” (a small plastic bottle that sucks gold out of a pan) he’d put them in ended up upside down, floating away on the river. And so today he was back, to look again. He explained that he grew up in Mt. Shasta City and used to walk from there to Shasta Lake, all along the river--a distance of 30 miles. “I’m an Indian,” he said. “That’s what we do.” I wished him luck as he clambered down the opposite bank.

For my next stop I planned to visit Shasta Dam, 602 feet high and 3,460 feet across, the second largest in the United States (after the Grand Coulee). Built between 1938 and 1945, it creates the many-fingered Lake Shasta, third largest lake and largest reservoir in California. Or more accurately, the lake is created by the inflow of the Sacramento, Pit, and McCloud Rivers, as well as several smaller tributaries, whose flow is stopped short by the dam. When water exits the lake over the dam’s spillway, it has the dubious distinction of forming the largest manmade waterfall in the world. Somewhere in that torrent, too, it regains the name Sacramento River.

But before I made my way to the dam, I was eager to see the lake behind it. Some wayward, muddy driving brought me near to (but not within sight of) the river, but eventually a friendly couple walking their dog pointed me in the right direction: toward the appropriately named Lakehead. Because Lake Shasta is popular with houseboaters and other recreational boaters, I sought out Lakehead’s marina. Two sightseeing boats were tied up next to the small office, but otherwise the floating docks were empty. A pair of men were doing repairs, and two others were readying rods and tackle to do a little fishing. Nobody paid me any mind, short of quick nods. Looking north, I saw that the river had broadened and slowed beneath low bluffs; to my right, the water spread out, probing with deep fingers into the steep, reddish lakebank laced with manzanita and pines. In the distance, cars on I-5 poured across a bridge.

From where I stood, the dam was 20 miles south and west as the crow flies, maybe 30 as the car flies. I hopped back in my car and headed south on I-5, exiting at Shasta City. Half an hour later I was looking north at stunning views of the dam, lake, and, rising grandly in the distance, Mt. Shasta itself, but unfortunately, I was half an hour too late for the dam tour--the perils of road-tripping sans guidebook.