Downieville breathes.

A mountain biker rolls through Main Street in Downieville, CA.

And in the in-between breaths—when in and out take a pause—there’s something magic about this former gold mining town that’s tucked deep into a canyon through which a river as clear as glass cuts. It’s a town of ghosts, dragonflies, blackberry bushes, and a sky broken by the jagged tips of proud evergreens. 

This is where I find myself, in Downieville’s in-between, on the heels of the town’s annual Mountain Brewfest. 

It’s September, and I am here to write. The plan was to write about the shadows of Downieville, its history of Italian and Irish immigrants seeking a better life, fortune, gold. Of an 1850s town that once boasted over 5,000 residents, 15 hotels and gambling houses, four bakeries, and four butcher shops. Today, it’s home to barely 200. 

But Downieville has other plans for me, other stories for me to tell, and so what I do is lean in, shed expectations, watch, and listen.

Downieville locals gossip at the grocery store.

___

I booked my stay at Downieville’s Carriage House Inn for a weekend in October. The hotel is situated right next to the Downie River which flows into the Yuba River, and I chose a room with a balcony and river view. My daydreams were filled with peaceful days on that balcony, pen in hand.

“I’m so sorry, but we forgot to block off your room and we need it for an event the weekend you booked. Is there a chance you can change your dates?” asked Lydia, the friendly hotel host on the other end of the line a few months before my stay. “We can give you an extra night, and a bigger room,” she offered in hope. I agreed, my schedule was flexible. 

What I didn’t know at the time, was that I lost my coveted river balcony. Which would also change my trip—but in a way I could not have predicted.

A man walks in front of the Carriage House Inn Lofts in Downieville.

___

So, I arrive. My room, which is HUGE, is a one-bedroom apartment loft with kitchen. It’s wrapped in windows and sunlight streams in over the shiny wooden floor. It’s clean and comfortable. It’s upstairs and has a deck that overlooks Main Street. The deck is wood and painted white. An old, grey, 19th century grocery store barely hangs on across the street. Above it all is a canopy of evergreens and deciduous trees peacocking every single shade of green that exists.

My expectations of writing on a river-view deck in dreamy poetic reverie is dashed. I immediately text Lydia: One quick question- is there any chance there's a room available with a river view? No worries at all if not, just thought I would check! 

I'm sorry we are fully booked for today.

Dang it. I figure as much, because as I rolled into town, its side streets were lined with parked cars, something I usually see when I come here to volunteer for the Downieville Classic, an annual, grueling mountain bike race. I had driven over the one-lane bridge into town, and the Downieville Mountain Brew Fest greeted me on my right.

I fall asleep to the sounds of drunks patrolling the street below. 

Downieville breathed in. And then she breathed out. And the next morning, the brewfesters breathed out with her. And this is when the magic begins.

At the Boomtown Lounge in Downieville.

______

“It has this…” he turns thoughtful, eyes shifting to the right and then a gaze at the ceiling, “...mystique about it.” I grin at him, this older man at Boomtown Lounge & Backyard, the self-proclaimed speakeasy bar where I’ve parked myself in a leather chair next to the window, with my notebook and pen and glass of wine—you know, like a true writer. 

I’m scooping potato salad out of a plastic container into my mouth with a plastic fork. This picnic-style setup is in stark contrast to the swankily decorated space that includes a jackalope head nailed to the wooden wall and an old couch that reminds me of the one my grandma had when I was young—the one I accidentally spilled a red candle and its wax on and got in really big trouble. Four friends play a game of Connect Four behind my new friend, this man, who finds mystique in Downieville. 

Mystique … This is the right word, I decide. I scribble it down in my notebook so I don’t forget. You see, I couldn’t find the word earlier as I was driving into town. There’s something … something that comes over me when I get close … what is it?? 

An eastern approach to the town takes you through a canyon with giant walls covered in evergreens that jut up on each side of you. The North Yuba River sparkles on your left, bubbling over rocks and cutting through granite outcroppings. The effect is mesmerizing, and it’s distracting and difficult to drive.

But the real portal is over the one-way bridge that carries you over the Downie River and into Downieville proper. You roll into a ghost of a town, paint chips peeling off homes and buildings built in the 19th century, balconies threatening to topple over at the next gust of wind, and tin roofs rusted to a deep, dark orange. 

My new friend at Boomtown then says something equally delightful, “It’s old … but without being creepy.” I couldn’t have said it better.

The Downie River in Downieville.

___

Okay, so I’m here to write. And I’m anticipating feedback from a new editor that I recently submitted several stories to. They’re my first for this client, and I’m eager to hear her feedback. I open my computer in the morning, and her feedback is: Your draft was a fantastic starting point. She’s looking for more description, less journalism. I hear her, and I commit to getting to work. But first, coffee.

The stairs creek loudly as I walk down them and out onto Main Street. To my left is Cold Rush Café, and I have a coupon for $6.50 that came with my room. I open the old door to this modernized ice cream shop / coffee shop /  breakfast diner / provisions market, stocked with things like organic oat milk, frozen meat, and really nice socks. I buy ground coffee that I can make in my room over the next few days, oat milk, and some organic pop tarts.

Back up the creaky stairs, back to my computer, and I start to write. And, with my editor’s instructions in mind, something opens up in me. My creativity flows easily and I’m reminded of the emo ramblings of my high school days. 

I write over the course of the next two days, revising for my editor and collecting tidbits about Downieville. Another setback: all the museums are closed. So instead of digging into Downieville’s history, when I take breaks, I explore the in-between magic, something I might not have done as often had I gotten the room with the river view. My days look like this:

I write.

I take a break and wander down to the river, where I meet some women who lean over their balcony, point under the bridge to the left, and tell me there’s secret underground tunnels, “right there! They’re creepy tunnels that go under all the shops. You should check it out! Bring a flashlight.” I don’t have my phone, which means I don’t have a flashlight. I don’t check out the secret underground Downieville tunnels, but I make a mental noted to do it when I’m here again.

I write. 

I take a break and sit on my deck and eavesdrop on the old locals gossiping in front of the market across Main Street. ~Did you hear about the fire at his house? ~Yea, he started it himself!

I write. 

I take a break and grab a patio table at Downieville’s super-fresh Mexican restaurant, La Cocina de Oro, where I encourage the staff to please package their homemade arbol sauce and creamy cilantro dressing (they are both really divine). I dine on salad, fresh guacamole, and a carne asada street taco to the sound of the river flowing below.

I write. 

I take a break and wander down the creaky stairs again, but this time to the right and into the Yuba Gallery. I peruse the locally made-by-hand beanies, jewelry, and the antiques. I buy a book, Heart Wood, by Shirley DicKard. Inside is a gift: a dried maple leaf.

I write. 

I take a break, grab my new book, and walk to the back of the Carriage House Inn to their grass lawn that lines the river, and I read my new book. The breeze plays music with the wind chimes.

I write. 

I take a break and again sit on my deck, watching Downieville breath in: a motorcycle group cruises through town and kicks exhaust up to my senses; a group of locals greet each other in friendly camaraderie; pickup trucks drive through packed with mountain bikes and camping gear. 

Downieville breathes out and the dragonflies are eased off their path and the river travels forever over orange, black, and carmel-colored rocks.

And then my writing is done. 

I turn in my new drafts, walk over to St. Charles Place, the town’s dive bar that holds more stories than will ever be told. An older gentleman sidles up next to me, tells me about the awe of this town that he’s never been to before. His gravelly voice booms through the dark space, over the jukebox and pool table, and across the bar. “I don’t know what it is … but I have this feeling that I’m gonna be connected to this place for the rest of my life.”

I know exactly what he means.