The fog horn which tolled through the night continued through rumors of dawn and lightening of the marine layer that coasted Crescent City. For the last time, I turned off the Coast Highway, this time on a diagonal for southern Oregon. Hungry but eager to move on, I went northeast through the Jedediah Smith State Park and its thatch of giant trees. A morning of redwoods did a tired body well. I didn’t take any hikes, but for a few minutes sat roadside among the Smith grove giants, soaking in a little more of their atmosphere as they imbibed the Pacific fog.
A few miles into the forest, the road entered Hiouchi, a patch of hotels, gas stations and restaurants. The Hiouchi Café provided the atmosphere the Beachcomber could not. Local s crowded the counter and regaled me with Crater Lake advice or recalled how they had never visited in 40 years of living in Northern California. It was an older community, as evidenced by the pile of reading glasses on the counter. In the dining room, I would see my only sign of 9-11’s 10th anniversary – group of firefighters enjoying breakfast. The Crater Lake Lodge has no televisions, so I had no worry of further reminders.
Leaving Hiouchi, the trees along Highway 199, the Redwood Highway, would shorten and narrow. The rock formations got steeper. The tough mileage came after the road narrowed and the chain of cars sped through the Smith River gorge. I can’t stop myself from thinking about the consequences of the car rumbling over the embankment. Every time I see the railing stop or steep plunge past the white lines, the thought rolls in. Then came a tunnel and entry to Oregon.
For a few miles I joined with Interstate 5, then split off again to follow the route to Crater Lake. I made few stops, even as the road soared above the Rogue River and the dam-made lakes along it. The national forest hemmed in Route 62 as it barreled toward the park. I rarely exceeded 70 mph, and there was
At the natural bridge lookout, I stopped to take the rare sight – the Rogue River funneled into a lava tube for a few hundred feet, disappearing except for a few geysers springing from the rocks. I’ve never seen a river take such an underground turn. This part of the Rogue was not navigable by boat, but it was nonetheless picturesque.
I grabbed a few bottles of beer at Prospect, the last stop before the road abandoned civilization and cut toward Crater Lake. The road rose in the sunshine, and a brief thunderstorm pounded the Mustang. It handled the hills with skill until we reached the entry shack and a line of cars crawling up the switchbacks toward Crater Lake.
As the rain stopped, I noticed a small spider extended a web from the car ceiling close to the steering wheel. But it stretched too thin, and the current of the open window dragged it away. With the magnificent of Crater Lake approaching, I was better for remembering how small we are.
I had not yet glimpsed the lake, but my eyes fell dejectedly upon a man with a Bluetooth earpiece strolling the lake rim. And he was staring at me. And he would not break out of his state. So I thrust up my hands in my best Don Draper impersonation and mouthed "What?" at him. It flustered him, but not as much as my original planned comment, "Way to enjoy nature" was not uttered. Seriously, at a unique place, there’s always some guy who cannot conceive of missing a call.
While he looked at me bewildered, I turned the corner and left the Mustang. The long wait, the view I wanted to see since I first heard of Crater Lake as a child, was now in view. Deciding to follow the rim road east, I barely went a mile before stopping at Discovery Point, the first place from which white people saw the lake. It should be noted that American Indians lived in the region at the time Mount Mazama blew and collapsed into Crater Lake 6,000 years ago. They had a record, and kept people away from the waters. No one Caucasian saw it until 1851.
The blue was unavoidable. Even with some cloud cover, no lake in North America was as deep or displayed such colors (well, maybe Tahoe). I hiked wherever I could. This was a lake in which altitude matter. Even if most viewpoints started at 7,000 feet above sea level and 500-1,000 feet above the lake surface, I could not skip it.
Up next was the Watchman Trail, which climbed just 400 feet of altitude and 0.7 miles along a switchback trail to the best view of Wizard Island, the large volcanic cone in the lake. It was a brutal hike, but absolutely worth the slog. I got to the top, where a fire lookout sat, and let my heart catch up with the 8,100 feet above sea level. The wildfire burning to the east was plainly visible, and I threw a few questions at the ranger walking the lookout rails.
Created by lightning strikes in a dry summer, the fire burned within the park and at 300 acres, was the largest of three now burning within the park. The smaller ones were visible but less impressive. Trees within the largest fire burned noticeably when the fire hit their sap.
After a few more photogenic stops, I reached Cleetman’s Cove, the only path to the lake shore. It was too late for a boat ride around the lake, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to reach down, cup my hands and take a drink from that impossible blue. Walking down was simple. I passed people of all ages, and passing the obese and elderly only encouraged me that the upward return trip would pose no problems. German tourists stripped to Speedos and dove in. Others corralled chipmunks accustomed to people and posed for photos. They got their swims, I inches out onto the rocks and got my drink. Water never tasted better.
On the return path, I passed French, Scandinavians, Germans and Japanese. It was every bit the challenge I never anticipated, covering 1.1 miles but all uphill. I finished and my heart reminded me of its presence. I struggled and my pulse showed it. Immediately I turned to Skell Head, one of the viewpoints. Here again I was pleased to be alone just miles from Cleetman’s Cove.
I skipped the Pinnacles, a collection of volcanic features down a one-way road. At the Phantom Ship Overlook, which highlighted a volcanic cone which predated Mount Mazama and somehow survived the blast, I heard a curious conversation. One woman ranted how the afternoon haze and the forest fire burning had "ruined their afternoon."
I waited half a lifetime to see Crater Lake. I got all kinds of blue-sky photos early in the day, and just miles from the fire got great pictures of Wizard Island from Watchman’s Peak. Holding my tongue, I contained all sorts of comments like "Did the fire burn down your house? Then it didn’t ruin your day." Sorry, but I am tired of soft American nonsense. Unless the fire raged on Crater Lake’s rim, there is no way it should ruin anyone’s day. A little smoke lingered in the air, but I arrived at 1 p.m. and had no problem getting crystal blue views.
Leaving the complainers behind, I was alone until the parking lot for Sun Notch, an excellent view of the Phantom Ship, named for its resemblance to a giant boat on the lake. I got much better pictures scrambling past the orange barricade fence to the steep incline down to a viewpoint rife with gnarled trees. My best photos of the Phantom Ship were taken here, alone and without interference from people who had no faith in the lake’s beauty. Around Sun Notch, the wildflowers of Crater Lake’s short growing season grew into a dazzling array of color. Crimson and violet brightened the grass.
Curling back up the switchbacks toward the lodge, I shared an unguarded moment. I spotted a young deer grazing in a ditch along the road. It was the purest representation of the species, a young foal that likely just left its mother but established itself as independent. We traded stares, no one else joined in, and I didn’t bother with a picture because I would not forget that little encounter. Usually deer ran at first sight of cars or humans, but this one gently raised its head from the tall grass and blinked its giant obsidian eyes. I couldn’t shake that one moment with the wildlife of Crater Lake. Backcountry hikers were often the only ones to encounter fauna at Crater Lake. The rim was too populated for animals to venture that way. I got one deer encounter independent of the masses, just minutes outside the caldera. Its beauty so pure, the foal almost brought tears to my eyes.
Just before 5, the park was empty. It made perfect sense – aside from the park lodge and accommodations at the Mazama facilities just outside the caldera, every other stop required an hour of driving. Most people had gone by then. In the hall of the lodge, where drinks and appetizers were in order, I found myself among the youngest enjoying the lodge – by generations.
I alternated between beer, postcard writing and walking along the lake ledge. Week One of the NFL season raged somewhere else, as did the somber memorials for a terrible Tuesday in 2001. Patches of snow clung to the cliffs near the lodge. Rather than drink myself silly prior to a 9 p.m. dinner, I sat with appetizers and talked with George, a Greek native who claimed his homes as Athens, Toronto, NYC and Los Angeles. He was driving to British Columbia from L.A. and hit all the sights on the way up, including the Oregon Caves National Monument, which his T-shirt indicated. He was the luckiest man on Crater Lake, a noisy room opened up that afternoon, so with no notice, he got lodging on the rim. Sure, I made my reservation in March, but had to salute his good fortune.
After a long bath and dinner in the lodge, the best fine dining along my route, I crashed hard. All that hiking caught up with me, and the alcohol did not hurt. Without air-conditioning in the lodge, I never missed it. The smell of the forest fires infiltrated the room, but the smoky odor never intruded too deeply. I poured myself an after-dinner and laid on the bed. At 1 a.m., I awoke again, having never taken a sip.
Shortly before 6 a.m., the smoke subsided and sunrise clung to the rim ridges. I hurried to pack and get on the road. The views from Discovery Point and the bottom of the Watchman Trail emanated colors unavailable at other hours. The deep-blue lake had fall under a yellow-purple haze. There I would leave the mythical lake on its mountaintop to my memory and turn north into more uninhabited Oregon.
No comments:
Post a Comment