It’s hard to imagine there was a time when the Los Angeles River was wild and free-flowing, flanked by thick reed forests and teeming with rainbow trout, instead of being lined with concrete and sandwiched between swollen highways and freight train tracks.
Centuries ago, in the areas that are now the back of commercial centers and housing estates, the Tongva natives lived in villages along the river and relied on fishing for food. After the arrival of Spanish settlers in 1781, the population grew along the banks of the river, which served as the main source of water for Pueblo de los Angeles.
Rains often turned the river’s flow from a trickle to a torrent in just a few hours, making flooding a recurring problem. Following a catastrophic flood in 1938 that destroyed thousands of homes and killed nearly 100 people, the Army Corps of Engineers decided the best solution was to channel 278 miles of the river and its tributaries, including the 51-mile stretch from Canoga Park to Long Beach: with concrete embankments.
Today, the waterway is more reminiscent of an oversized storm drain than a river, with only a slow trickle of water flowing down the center of the concrete-lined channel. The images it evokes for most people are the settings that appear in scenes from famous movies, such as “Grease” or “Terminator 2: Judgment Day”.
But tucked away in a small corner of Los Angeles, below the intersection of two highways, is a neighborhood known as Frogtown, along with a small, lush section of the Los Angeles River.
This pocket, called Glendale Narrows, never had its bottom paved, which has allowed trees and plants from the river to continue to grow in its center, where the water flows.
Like the coyotes that live among the houses and vacant lots on the neighboring hills, many waterfowl and fish have made this stretch of the river their habitat. While hardly reminiscent of the untamed river of earlier centuries, this section of the river today feels like a natural respite from the surrounding urban environment, even if there appears to be an equal amount of trash and vegetation.
I found myself spending a lot of time on this section of the river last winter during the height of the coronavirus pandemic. The wintry light and yellowing leaves on the trees made me feel like I was spending time somewhere completely outside of Los Angeles, when in fact I was only a few miles from my apartment.
Along the river, people biked, walked, skated, bird-watched, and met friends. But I found myself more intrigued by the people who were fishing. In this unexpected environment of concrete, buzzing traffic, and garbage, the act of fishing seemed almost challenging: a quiet outdoor activity against a backdrop of freeway overpasses.
On the recommendation of a fisherman I met, I expanded my focus to include a few local parks as well: Echo Park Lake, Hollenbeck Park, and Lincoln Park, each of which contains lakes popular for urban fishing. For the next three months or so, I would spend three or four afternoons a week shooting, alternating between the four locations.
There were many days when he found only scraps: a tackle box left behind by a tree, a tangled fishing line, some dead fish. On other days you would find a person fishing. On the best days, he would find some.
As the pandemic progressed and everything about life in the city felt so chaotic, there was something almost meditative about spending this time outdoors and seeing other people doing a bit of the same thing: just hanging out, trying to catch one or two fish.
One afternoon, looking over the Fletcher Drive Bridge, overlooking the downtown Los Angeles River, I saw a man perfecting his fly put. Another day, I spent hours talking to a fisherman who used sausage bait and listened to heavy metal music while casting because he thought the fish liked it.
The images of outdoor sports shown in magazines and advertisements often show the remote nature and highly technical athletes with expensive branded equipment, things that are beyond the reach of the average person.
In the city, however, the fishermen I met along the river were locals from nearby neighborhoods, people who lived around the corner. They often walked there. They came to spend a few hours in the water, especially after work or on a day off.
Fishing along the river wasn’t part of a grand adventure, and that was the point. It’s just a little respite, a break from the daily grind.
cool madeline is an editorial photographer based in Los Angeles. You can follow his work at Instagram Y Twitter.
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