Wandering Beyond the Bend: Crater Lake, Oregon
01 September 2005
Rode the Cascade Train from Seattle to Portland, where Gina picked me up at the station. Characteristically, she was on her cell phone when she arrived, already attired in her sportyspice outfit for the drive south. I was hot and bothered in my jeans and long sleeves as she gestured adamantly for me to take the driver’s seat. Normally that’s all fine and good, only I hadn’t a clue as to where, exactly, we were in this City of Roses, so how, exactly, I was to navigate us away from the train station and south to Eugene was a mystery quite unsolvable. So I sat and stewed in the driver’s seat while she continued her cell conversation, the temperature rising along with my annoyance level. Finally done chatting (okay, I will grant her that it was at least a work-related call), we maneuvered away from the tracks and onto the highway. Eugene-bound, we caught up on our past few days and discussed the many fine-freeway-dining opportunities that no doubt lay ahead. Perhaps sushi from Safeway would suffice.
Shopping at the local Safeway while starving was, clearly, not the greatest idea. I lost patience with the woman who, for some unknown reason, found it necessary to fondle every avocado on display. Gina struggled over what meals we should plan for, as her past several weeks road-tripping had dulled her appetite for the usual camping cuisine. And we both could not find a single food item that sounded tasty enough for dinner that night. Having gone over the edge, I whacked Gina on the arm in the checkout line as she anal-retentively wanted to organize each grocery bag by meal as soon as each item was scanned. Deciding there might be food along the way, we headed south again. The local gas station attendant assured us that the Oakridge Dairy Queen was a ‘good’ one. As tempting as that sounded, we passed on through, heading up into the winding, pitch-black mountains for the Willamette Pass Inn, dining on my leftover Amtrak snacks. We arrived at the Inn around 10 pm, exhausted and hungry, yet pleased to be staying in such a super cute room. The free firewood outside our door was a helpful boost too. We showered up, broke the satellite TV (someone insisted on pushing all of the buttons on the remote that the Inn clerk specifically told her not to tamper with) and called it a night.
02 September 2005
We got up semi-early but, in a strange turn of events, I was the one dinking around getting ready. Gina “borrowed” some firewood, loaded the car, and rushed me out of the Inn, which later proved troubling on “Dena’s Rough Day”, as somehow in my haste, I left behind my ziploc bag of sunscreen and facial wipes. After no breakfast but a banana, we were on the road again to Crater Lake. Gina practiced her shotgun driving – not much different than backseat driving, except it is unfortunately louder for the driver and thus harder to ignore.
We arrived at Crater Lake National Park around 10 am, stopped for a quick pic of the entrance sign and Gina in her wild mountain woman persona, and drove speedily toward Mazama Village, concerned that we might not get a good campsite on this holiday weekend. Our first views of the water-filled caldera were astounding, the water as blue as irish eyes in sunlight. We stopped near Watchman’s Point for Gina to chat with a Bicycle Adventures crew. Gina didn’t personally know any of the tour leaders, although recognized the name of one. Together, we smiled at how little we were paying to bike Crater Lake, thanks to her Qwest fuel and lodging subsidy. Thirty minutes and nearly one winding car-sickness event later, we were at Mazama Village Campground, impatiently waiting behind the three manly logger dudes that seemed not to understand our urgency to get settled. Gina probed the park ranger for her recommendations of the best remaining tent sites, managing to talk the woman into letting us amazing-race our way through the campground to check them each out. After burning rubber and perhaps contributing to the untimely demise of a few unwitting ground squirrels, we selected F12. Later, after judging and re-judging all possible sites, we agreed that we definitely got the best one.
The first order of the day was to eat. We downed nearly an entire box of Frosted Flakes, sun on our backs, smiles on our faces, before setting up camp. Then it was time to nap, only by then, it was way too hot in the tent for sleep. We decided to start our park orientation day with a trip to the closest visitor’s center and the ceremonial initial stamping of my Passport book. Gina made me practice my stamping technique until I was so nervous that I nearly botched the whole thing.
After that big event, we drove up to the crater rim to check out the lodge, allow Gina to witness my first epileptic tantrum, and listen to a few ranger talks. The first talk was about the lake itself, but I’m not sure how much either of us learned, as we were both distracted by the ranger’s extremely long fingernails, which on a woman would have gone unnoticed, but this was a guy. Hungry again after so much learning, we sat out on the rim and ate a sandwich, while I wondered what in the hell I was thinking by not bringing a jacket with me. The wind was bitter cold, as was I.
We contemplated hiking Mt. Garfield, but it was clear that we had both been struck by some kind of sleeping sickness, our bodies like lead bricks, unable to energize. We half-way listened to the next talk from the porch of the Crater Lake Lodge before we half-heartedly attempted the Garfield Peak hike. We made it to the first bench, or approximately 100 (uphill) yards, before giving up and giving in to our lethargy. We idled through the tacky trinkets in the gift shop, then back to camp for happy hour and a dinner of baked beans, corn on the cob, and weanies, followed by dishes and a trip to the washrooms for bedtime preparedness.
Back in the tent we discovered, much to our alarm and dismay, that our sleeping bags were little protection or comfort against the deathly chill that had descended over (and within) the half dome haven we called home. While I donned nearly every article of clothing I had brought, Gina managed to trap herself in her mummy bag, sparking a frightening, but fortunately brief, panic attack as she tried madly to free herself. I might have been able to help if I hadn’t been such a puff-daddy at that point who couldn’t even bend her own arms. The rest of the night was spent restlessly, trying to keep warm in the subarctic temps that became a way of nighttime living at Crater Lake.
03 September 2005
Awoke to the sound of icicles breaking off of the tent. Or maybe it was frozen chickadees falling from their treetop perches, landing with a sickening thud on the arctic tundra of our campsite. It was late. Gina and I had made a quick washroom trip into the arctic zone before the sun came up, but it was many hours later before we emerged into the blessedly warm morning. Gina, the official campground chef, rustled us up a delicious breakfast of eggs and sausage, while I, unknowingly at the time, began “Dena’s Rough Day”, which initially consisted of spending an inordinate amount of time wondering what had become of my facial wipes. (Harken now back to the Willamette Inn and you just might find them.)
We somehow survived the morning, hopped on our bikes, and began the day’s pedal. Riding around the rim was truly the best way to experience the lake up-close-and-personal. It was an overcast day, and, like idiots, neither one of us brought along our tights or long-fingered gloves. Gina reminded me that I had snapped at her about wearing her tights before our initial 3 mile climb, which, in my defense, would have been silly, but in retrospect, if i had not done that, would have meant that the tights would at least have been along for the ride, and, perhaps, would have lightened up the darkness that was quickly spiraling downward into Dena’s Rough Day. We stopped at viewpoints, I complained quite consistently about my cold feet, and Gina decided that she was once and for all, “over” turkey sandwiches.
We climbed and climbed and climbed some more before we descended to Vidae Falls (more aptly named “Imjusta Trickle”), where an older Oregonian asked us if we were friends. After saying yes, she shared with us that she had a good friend like that too. I thought to myself, unlikely, but smiled and nodded. We got back on the bikes and finished the ride and, despite the weather-related difficulties, agreed that it was a beautiful and breathtaking (besides just the altitude) ride.
Back at camp, Dena’s Rough Day continued at the showerhouse, where we got a most welcome and satisfying hot shower. Until, that is, it turned icy cold while I was taking my turn in it. I ended that experience with a(nother) temper-tantrum that could only be tempered by the forthcoming gourmet meal (burritos), hot campfire, s’mores, and another nightly adventure in the arctic air of our tent.
04 September 2005
Untrue to a typical lazy Sunday morning, we rose early, hoping to greet the sun as soon as heavenly possible to begin the thawing-out process. Gina didn’t know this, but it was about to be a rough day for her, as apparently mine was now over and the bad ju-ju had to deposit itself somewhere. We hung out at camp, enjoying the sun on our faces and a hot breakfast in our bellies before finishing up the never-ending camp chores and finalizing our plan for the day. We would spend our morning pedaling out to the pinnacles – which we had skipped the day before and for which, after we started the route, we were forever grateful – and the afternoon hiking up the tallest peak in the park, Mt. Scott. Being smarter today, after gaining the wisdom that only one more day in this why-am-I-always-bitterly-cold-here-in-this-national-park could bring, we packed all of our warm cycling gear for this morning’s excursion. On our way out of the campground, we stopped at the sparsely stocked campground store for a Sunday paper, as we were both eager to get updated on the latest news over Hurricane Katrina. But alas, as the store clerk so dejectedly related, we truly were out in the middle of a land called nowhere, with not even a single shred of a local paper available. This, I think, was the first installment in Gina’s Rough Day.
We drove to one of the 14,389 lookout points along the rim, this one overlooking phantom ship, parked the car, bundled up, and started our ride out to the pinnacles. To our delight and later, our dismay, the ride out did not require us to spin our pedals around even once, being a long, slow, delicious downhill descent toward those strange rock formations. We stopped at the Lost Creek Campground along the way, once again deciding that F12 at Mazama Campground was truly the place to be, fueled up on an orange and warm sun rays, and then continued our descent. Gina’s day was looking up at this point, but not for long.
We arrived at the pinnacles, observed some rather phallic-looking stands of stone, hastily began removing our many layers of now unnecessary clothing, and spoke with an older couple traveling the west coast in their RV, that, when we first arrived at the pinnacles, came close to taking us both out. The gentleman informed us that he’s using roughly the equivalent of six year’s worth of gas on this summer trip. A small plume of dust erupted around Gina and I as our jaws hit the ground at this nugget of news. With that, we decided that it was time to use our pedal power to leave this valley of grey stone. And thus began the second installment in Gina’s Rough Day, as the 7 mile uphill pedal proved quite challenging, particularly for a ti-red girl such as her. Much moaning and groaning ensued before I pedaled ahead out of earshot.
Gina arrived several minutes later at the car, loudly proclaiming that that was THE HARDEST RIDE EVER. Apparently, as what is wont to happen with women who choose to have more children despite the excruciating pains of that first delivery, Gina had forgotten all about Pedal the Peaks. She was also heavily jonesing for a coke, repeatedly threatening to approach any and all strangers to ask for one if I wasn’t going to do something about the situation. Having left my magical wand at home, I was not capable of materializing a cold soda for her out of thin air, so I encouraged her to take the matter into her own hands. Which she started to, until she realized that that couple with the frosty aluminum can was actually drinking Coors Light. Call me crazy, but having a cold one in the middle of the day while driving along a windy road that with one small hiccup could result in you, your vehicle, and your cooler full of beer launching a sum total of 3000 feet down into the icy blue depths of Crater Lake, well, that just seemed like too George-Bush of a move for me. After considerably more moaning, groaning, and jonesing, the bikes were loaded, lunch was eaten, and we were on our way to the Mt. Scott Trailhead.
The next major incident in Gina’s Rough Day occurred early in our hike, as somehow she walked right into an overhanging tree branch. I guess that’s what happens to tall people – personally, I wouldn’t know. It was hard not to laugh as she ricocheted back onto the trail. So hard, in fact, that it didn’t happen. But like a trooper, she kept on walking, our ascent of this 8,929 foot peak underway. It was a long climb, with stupendous 360 degree views as we ascended, stopping here and there for photo ops. Like a roadrunner – beep, beep – I passed her coltish form more than once on the way to the top, those spindly legs of hers defying all known laws of physiology and the universe, unexplainably managing to propel her upwards.
The view from the top was simply fabulous, more gratifying than when on the rim, the artifact of momentarily stepping back to gain a greater perspective on the whole. The watchtower at the top was an active fire lookout, so Gina got out the binoculars to see if she could lend a helping hand. Unfortunately, as what had become the trademark sensation of the trip, we were quickly forced to retreat back down the trail, the icy winds threatening, once again, to muscle us into a hypothermic state should we stand there much longer.
05 September 2005
It was the last day of our camping trip, and we awoke to a deep frost. My face was stuck to my pillow, frozen in place. I contemplated the thought that perhaps hell isn’t hot at all, but rather a sub-zero half-dome tent in a national park. After a bit of dinking with the many layers of down insulation in which we were each encased, we decided to get moving, as today was another full day in the park, including breaking down camp, which is never a fun chore and was made worse by the fact that everything, I mean EVERYTHING, was filthy. We’d been camping in a dust bowl, and it showed.
It was hard to move our fingers and toes as we dealt with the morning breakfast. The hot water never got hot, which meant cold tea and coffee, further translating into a cranky me, concerned that my addiction would get the better of me if I didn’t get hot coffee soon. Gina started a campfire and comforted herself with a couple of morning s’mores. This was soon followed by a major temper tantrum when she attempted to pack the camping chairs. I was only sorry that from my location in the tent, where I was packing up our frozen goods, I missed seeing her angrily throw the chairs to the ground. The rest of the campsite breakdown followed suit, with bickering and silence and just plain tiredness of the cold holding reign over the next hour. But, as always, our morning ordeal ended in smiles and laughter, the now loaded Jetta headed for the Watchman Trailhead. It was a beautifully clear morning, and the view from the 8,013 foot top was, again, amazing. Gina declared this to be her favorite spot in the park, from which we could even see into California, the white form of Mt. Shasta off in the distance.
Next stop was Cleetwood Cove Trail, where we descended a steep, one-mile path into the crater. On the way down, we discussed the nature of relationships, and Gina profoundly stated that it’s not necessary for couples to spend “every aching moment together.” With that grain of wisdom in hand, we arrived at the lake’s edge, watched a brave tourist plunge 25 feet off the rocks into the 50 degree water, then boarded our tour boat that motored us over to Wizard Island, where we debarked for our next hike, to the 6,940 foot cone summit. Expecting an overwhelmingly violent chasm of molten lava and virgin sacrifices, we were somewhat disappointed at the cone’s rather dull display, which looked more like an abandoned landfill pit (sans trash). But the hike around the cone rim was gratifyingly unique, us being the only humans up there and treated to seeing the lake and rim from this viewpoint within.
We caught our designated 4:30 boat back to civilization, being toured around the lake for the next hour, entertained with a trip past phantom ship rock, a visit to the old man of the lake, and a priceless moment when Gina thought the tour guide was going to tell her to sit her butt back down in the boat. Back at Cleetwood Cove Trail, Gina took off at the speed of light up the trail (who knew she could do that?) as I tried to keep up, only to watch, for the first time ever, her already slight form getting fainter and fainter in the distance. The hallucination ended, however, after about 15 minutes or so, when I finally caught up in time to hear her moan and groan the rest of the way up. With that we piled back into the (filthy) Jetta and left Crater Lake Park behind. On the way out, we agreed on taking a different highway to Eugene, which proved to be a faster route, as well as a lovely drive through Oregon’s verdant green forests.