Southern California is hardly a freshwater angling destination. When most think of the area, one conjures up surfing, Hollywood, mansions, and sunny weather. The thought of rivers, snow-capped peaks, trout streams, and even animals like bears rarely comes to mind.
There are roughly 40 million people living in the state, and more than 60 percent of them dwell in the southern part. And with people come infrastructure: traffic, highways, buildings, homes, pollution, smog, and concrete. If there are rivers, they are dammed. If there are wilderness areas, they are limited. And if there are animals, they are either extinct or endangered. Humans dominate the area, and it’s hard to fathom a sense of the wild when landing at Los Angeles International Airport.
But 100 years ago, this wasn’t the case. The area was lush with free-flowing rivers, mega-fauna like grizzly bears, elk, and even bison. And the current smog and polluted valleys were pristine and clear to showcase views of the snowcapped peaks that release water that flowed to the sea. And any angler who knows about rivers that flow to the sea knows what kind of fish would live there.
The Fish
Steelhead trout inhabit much of the waters of the western coast of North America. But little do most know, myself included— a native to Southern California—that steelhead live in the rivers of SoCal as well. A hundred years ago, before the industrial development of the area, steelhead spawned in numbers as large as those that we would see on the Klamath, the Rogue, or even the Hoh (at least historically). Celebrities of the 1930’s and 40’s have photographs of themselves holding stringers of steelhead caught during the wet winter months at places like Malibu, Ventura, and Santa Barbara. Places nowadays that are known only for extreme wealth and a healthy surfing population. Despite the historic numbers and the rapid development of Southern California in the 20th century, the resilience of the southern steelhead persisted.
Southern Steelhead were federally protected in 1997 and state-protected in 2024. The Southern Steelhead is a genetically diverse population of salmonid that is different than that of its cousins up north. Different in that it can survive in far warmer stream systems. It can persist through pollution and extreme drought, an adaptation that will be critical to those north of the Golden Gate that are beginning to see warming trends themselves.
What were once numbered in the tens of thousands of fish in the early 20th century, precipitously dropped to a low number of 170 in 2024. It wasn’t until 2023 that I personally got wind of these fish. I was born and raised in a coastal surf community of Orange County called San Clemente. I grew up as a stereotypical SoCal kid with blue eyes, blonde hair, and a surfboard always under my arm. My dad taught me to fly fish at the age of eleven, and we religiously went up to the Sierra and fished the Owens or Hot Creek almost every other weekend. And we did so because my dad taught me that there were no trout in Southern California. He was wrong.
The Discovery
It wasn’t until one day in 2023, when I was walking down to the local surfing wave, that it dawned on me that I had to walk past a stream-fed lagoon to get there. For years, this lagoon was filthy—filled with brown water, trash, diapers, and a bird shit smell that made you walk by faster. But little did I know that this was a river system that occasionally broke to the sea, and when it did, it had a population of steelhead in it.
A guilt washed over me as the tides do over the boulders that came from the creek on the beach. The wave that I grew up surfing was formed by the creek, and that creek had steelhead in it. I went home and began researching these fish like I was an investigative journalist that discovered a key piece of evidence to solve a murder case.
Turns out that throughout SoCal, every stream, at least historically, has held steelhead populations. An organization called CalTrout put out a preliminary report on the fish and mapped out every stream. They listed the barriers and blockages that these streams face and are actively working towards their removal. The murder case I was investigating? The removal of all barriers and diversions of the streams. The prosecutor of these crimes? Me, I felt compelled to do something. The action? 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.
The Trip
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 their historic range, circumnavigating all the creeks where 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 northernmost river in the historic range, the Santa Maria, just outside of Santa Barbara. 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 was 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 as I fell into my tent after a long day. I started connecting the river systems I met at the sea and was astounded at the pristine nature of 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 serenity.
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. I had to blink and rub my eyes as I had gone days without seeing a human, and right in front of me was a large 24” fish, swimming like I wasn’t there. 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, 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. 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 hiking pole as I stepped past.
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 mouth where it met the sea.
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.
I woke on my final morning and started walking in thick coastal fog. But as I kept walking, the fog began to lift almost as if I had a shield on. That worked nearly all day until I got to my hometown lagoon, where the fog decided to stay. The lagoon was clear, and birds were frolicking like the water was as healthy as could be. 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 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. Looking back on the trip, what stayed with me was 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 20 million people. So, my initial goal had always been to bring attention to these fish. Despite what these rivers may look like with concrete-laden shores and trash floating down them, it never meant a fish couldn’t live in them. 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:
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!