Fremont National Forest
I'm getting ahead of myself by two days, but......
I'm getting ahead of myself by two days, but......
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Back Roads in Oregon
- Thread starter TexasShadow
- Start date
achesley
0
- Joined
- Feb 13, 2008
- Messages
- 4,685
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- 73
- Location
- Jennings,La.
- First Name
- Andy
- Last Name
- Chesley
What great pictures. I just barely touched on Oregon (and Washington ) going through there in '04. Hope to return there for a better look one day.
Oregon Cascades Byway
After packing the Poop-up for a long term hibernation and double checking the bikes and gear, we left the county campground to our departure site in Prineville. Greg from ADV kindly offered a place to park the truck and poop-up while we were in the back country.
Greg runs an outfit, High Desert Adventures, that leads riders through the Oregon back country. His package deals include a chase vehicle to carry camping gear and food, and often center on a theme such as history, old mining camps, etc. I highly recommend Greg and his guides for a fun and thrilling adventure trip!
Greg in Baja on one of his package trips.
He guided us into an empty lot near his place in the suburbs of Prineville, where we unloaded the bikes and geared up. Wiley rode Mobey Dick style. Riding a quick diversion to his house nearby, he shot a photo of us before we headed out.
Based on his recommendation, we altered the beginning of our original route for the first day and went south. Leaving the valley, we headed up the highway and stopped into a rest area to get a view overlooking Prineville. It was warming up quickly.
The first major leg of the trip for the day was Prineville to Crescent, via the Oregon Cascade Lakes Byway.
About 25 miles south of Prineville, we turned west on a back road that transects the north section of the Millican Valley OHV trail area (see trail system map here). This is one of several such OHV trail systems in the state. We briefly rode into a 'staging' area off the county road. It was all sand and more sand. But it looked like it could be fun. Considering that this was only my second long ride on the bike (any bike) since last January, I was a bit more than nervous about riding on sand. And since this was to be our longest route (mileage wise), as well as our first day on out back country trip, I was a bit anxious to be on the west side of Bend.
Back out on the road, we clipped along at a fast pace. Shortly after rounding a bend, a huge hawk flew right over the front of my bike and then I barely caught sight of a tree with sneaker hanging off branches like ornaments on a Christmas tree! We were going too fast to stop and, being the follower rather than the leader, I knew that if I turned around, Mr. Leader wouldn't notice I was missing for a mile or so. But I made a mental note of its location. Later, we found another 'Sneaker Tree' further northeast.
As we rode closer to Bend, it was apparent we were getting into a major city. Much to my surprise. Back in the mid-1990's, Bend was a quaint and moderate size community. Now it's a megatropolis like any other small-but-expanding McCity. I had no idea how to get to where we wanted to go, which was on the west side. I followed Ed with his GPS, which was better suited for large populated areas then my 60cxs.
We topped off our tanks and headed west on the Cascade Lakes Scenic Byway. Finally we were able to leave the megatropolis behind and start ascending into the edge of the Cascade mountains where lakes dotted the valleys. I was surprised to see the lack of snow on the peaks and the water level in all the lakes was unusually low. The sun was hot but the shadows of the trees offered respite.
We stopped for a break and a 'tree visit' beside Devils Lake. At 5446 feet, the road was once an old Indian trail, like most of the roads in this part of the state. The water was clear as a bell. Ed was to notice that lakes and rivers/streams in Oregon are nothing like those in Texas. You can see the bottoms in Oregon
We continued on the paved byway for a bit more. Then we located the jaunt east off the pavement and into the forest. We alternated between gravel and dirt, wound around the base of a few mountains and east of a reservoir (Wickiup), which was dry as a bone.
Eventually we ended back on pavement and headed east towards Hwy 95 that runs south out of Bend. The plan was to gas up and pick up supplies in small town of Crescent. It was there that I delivered the disconcerting news: the DR was running like crap at speeds higher than 45. It ran fine when off pavement and below 46-48 mph. But out on the highway at higher speeds, it started doing its old behavior of spitting, coughing, skipping like an old man with emphysema. And it was to plague me the rest of the trip.
After packing the Poop-up for a long term hibernation and double checking the bikes and gear, we left the county campground to our departure site in Prineville. Greg from ADV kindly offered a place to park the truck and poop-up while we were in the back country.
Greg runs an outfit, High Desert Adventures, that leads riders through the Oregon back country. His package deals include a chase vehicle to carry camping gear and food, and often center on a theme such as history, old mining camps, etc. I highly recommend Greg and his guides for a fun and thrilling adventure trip!
Greg in Baja on one of his package trips.
He guided us into an empty lot near his place in the suburbs of Prineville, where we unloaded the bikes and geared up. Wiley rode Mobey Dick style. Riding a quick diversion to his house nearby, he shot a photo of us before we headed out.
Based on his recommendation, we altered the beginning of our original route for the first day and went south. Leaving the valley, we headed up the highway and stopped into a rest area to get a view overlooking Prineville. It was warming up quickly.
The first major leg of the trip for the day was Prineville to Crescent, via the Oregon Cascade Lakes Byway.
About 25 miles south of Prineville, we turned west on a back road that transects the north section of the Millican Valley OHV trail area (see trail system map here). This is one of several such OHV trail systems in the state. We briefly rode into a 'staging' area off the county road. It was all sand and more sand. But it looked like it could be fun. Considering that this was only my second long ride on the bike (any bike) since last January, I was a bit more than nervous about riding on sand. And since this was to be our longest route (mileage wise), as well as our first day on out back country trip, I was a bit anxious to be on the west side of Bend.
Back out on the road, we clipped along at a fast pace. Shortly after rounding a bend, a huge hawk flew right over the front of my bike and then I barely caught sight of a tree with sneaker hanging off branches like ornaments on a Christmas tree! We were going too fast to stop and, being the follower rather than the leader, I knew that if I turned around, Mr. Leader wouldn't notice I was missing for a mile or so. But I made a mental note of its location. Later, we found another 'Sneaker Tree' further northeast.
As we rode closer to Bend, it was apparent we were getting into a major city. Much to my surprise. Back in the mid-1990's, Bend was a quaint and moderate size community. Now it's a megatropolis like any other small-but-expanding McCity. I had no idea how to get to where we wanted to go, which was on the west side. I followed Ed with his GPS, which was better suited for large populated areas then my 60cxs.
We topped off our tanks and headed west on the Cascade Lakes Scenic Byway. Finally we were able to leave the megatropolis behind and start ascending into the edge of the Cascade mountains where lakes dotted the valleys. I was surprised to see the lack of snow on the peaks and the water level in all the lakes was unusually low. The sun was hot but the shadows of the trees offered respite.
We stopped for a break and a 'tree visit' beside Devils Lake. At 5446 feet, the road was once an old Indian trail, like most of the roads in this part of the state. The water was clear as a bell. Ed was to notice that lakes and rivers/streams in Oregon are nothing like those in Texas. You can see the bottoms in Oregon
We continued on the paved byway for a bit more. Then we located the jaunt east off the pavement and into the forest. We alternated between gravel and dirt, wound around the base of a few mountains and east of a reservoir (Wickiup), which was dry as a bone.
Eventually we ended back on pavement and headed east towards Hwy 95 that runs south out of Bend. The plan was to gas up and pick up supplies in small town of Crescent. It was there that I delivered the disconcerting news: the DR was running like crap at speeds higher than 45. It ran fine when off pavement and below 46-48 mph. But out on the highway at higher speeds, it started doing its old behavior of spitting, coughing, skipping like an old man with emphysema. And it was to plague me the rest of the trip.
To Crater Lake
We knew that the rest of the way to the north entrance to Crater Lake was a straight shot on pavement. I had planned it that way because the total mileage for our first day was over 200 and it was best that we allowed some daylight to set up camp. The ride south was not really fun with the coughing and choking DR, but I gritted my teeth and continued with my ear plugs well pushed in.
I had planned to camp at the smaller campground in the national park, Lost Creek Camp. Unfortunately, the ranger at the park entrance informed us that it was full, to the best of her knowledge. However, we could check it out to see if any sites were open.
The campground is east of the crater, so I had planned to turn southeast at the fork. Ed was tired and didn't see the turn, so we rode on the west side and south. It was a nice ride, but we were racing time and daylight at that point and didn't stop to take in any views. Because the roads follow the rim of the crater, you don't want to really take your eyes off the road. It's a long way down on the side.
We finally reached the southern point where the turn off follows the east side of the crater. The road on this side seemed less populated and more densely forested than the west side. We spotted the turn off that goes down the rim and deeper into the forest. About eight miles down the narrow road, we found the campground. All 15 sites were full. And both of us were tired, hungry, thirsty and tired.
We both had to use the rest rooms, drink some water, eat SOMETHING and just gel. It had been a long day and we were desperate for a place to land and get off the bikes. While sitting on a log near the rest rooms, a family stopped to chat. They were camped in the big main campground and out exploring for the day. They commented that someone in the campground might offer to share their site with us, but we couldn't depend on that. So we decided to head back to the main road and to the main campground near the south entrance.
We found it after back tracking about 12 miles and pulled into a huge parking lot and a sea of other vehicles. I remembered then that this was Labor Day weekend. Holiday. Tourists. National Park. = busy.
I parked scouted out a place to park the bike in the lot while Ed scouted a place to secure a camping spot. I spotted a familiar sight: a V-strom. I pulled up alongside its rider, parked the bike, and with relief pulled off helmet and unplugged my ears. He was on an impromptu bike trip from Bremerton, Washington, with a diversion to visit Crater Lake.
After a bit of chatting, I asked where he was camping the night. He also had discovered that Lost Creek was full and was planning on finding any spot to pitch his tent for the night. I offered to share our spot with him and he accepted. A great way to spend our first night in the sorta back country!
Ed returned with a camp reservation and map. We headed out toward our spot for the night with a sense of relief and anticipation of getting off the bike, changing into comfy clothes and breathing. What a relief after a 200+ mile route as our first day!!!
After setting up camp Ed and I walked over to the camp store, picked out sandwiches and chips for dinner. We were both too tired to cook anything. We each also picked up a toddy out of the cooler. That wine cooler was so soothing as it went down and soothed the tightness developing.
We discovered something that all forest (and desert, too) campgrounds should have: bear-proof storage and trash containers. (The brown boxes in the photo above.) These had a bear-proof door which opened into a good size interior to store food and drinks, as well as what ever else you wanted to store. The trash bins were as heavy duty and bear-proof; just larger. We also noticed the numerous "This are bears in this campground" signs.
I couldn't stay awake for very long and hit the bag soon after sun set while Ed and our fellow camper visited. The owls were awesome.
We knew that the rest of the way to the north entrance to Crater Lake was a straight shot on pavement. I had planned it that way because the total mileage for our first day was over 200 and it was best that we allowed some daylight to set up camp. The ride south was not really fun with the coughing and choking DR, but I gritted my teeth and continued with my ear plugs well pushed in.
I had planned to camp at the smaller campground in the national park, Lost Creek Camp. Unfortunately, the ranger at the park entrance informed us that it was full, to the best of her knowledge. However, we could check it out to see if any sites were open.
The campground is east of the crater, so I had planned to turn southeast at the fork. Ed was tired and didn't see the turn, so we rode on the west side and south. It was a nice ride, but we were racing time and daylight at that point and didn't stop to take in any views. Because the roads follow the rim of the crater, you don't want to really take your eyes off the road. It's a long way down on the side.
We finally reached the southern point where the turn off follows the east side of the crater. The road on this side seemed less populated and more densely forested than the west side. We spotted the turn off that goes down the rim and deeper into the forest. About eight miles down the narrow road, we found the campground. All 15 sites were full. And both of us were tired, hungry, thirsty and tired.
We both had to use the rest rooms, drink some water, eat SOMETHING and just gel. It had been a long day and we were desperate for a place to land and get off the bikes. While sitting on a log near the rest rooms, a family stopped to chat. They were camped in the big main campground and out exploring for the day. They commented that someone in the campground might offer to share their site with us, but we couldn't depend on that. So we decided to head back to the main road and to the main campground near the south entrance.
We found it after back tracking about 12 miles and pulled into a huge parking lot and a sea of other vehicles. I remembered then that this was Labor Day weekend. Holiday. Tourists. National Park. = busy.
I parked scouted out a place to park the bike in the lot while Ed scouted a place to secure a camping spot. I spotted a familiar sight: a V-strom. I pulled up alongside its rider, parked the bike, and with relief pulled off helmet and unplugged my ears. He was on an impromptu bike trip from Bremerton, Washington, with a diversion to visit Crater Lake.
After a bit of chatting, I asked where he was camping the night. He also had discovered that Lost Creek was full and was planning on finding any spot to pitch his tent for the night. I offered to share our spot with him and he accepted. A great way to spend our first night in the sorta back country!
Ed returned with a camp reservation and map. We headed out toward our spot for the night with a sense of relief and anticipation of getting off the bike, changing into comfy clothes and breathing. What a relief after a 200+ mile route as our first day!!!
After setting up camp Ed and I walked over to the camp store, picked out sandwiches and chips for dinner. We were both too tired to cook anything. We each also picked up a toddy out of the cooler. That wine cooler was so soothing as it went down and soothed the tightness developing.
We discovered something that all forest (and desert, too) campgrounds should have: bear-proof storage and trash containers. (The brown boxes in the photo above.) These had a bear-proof door which opened into a good size interior to store food and drinks, as well as what ever else you wanted to store. The trash bins were as heavy duty and bear-proof; just larger. We also noticed the numerous "This are bears in this campground" signs.
I couldn't stay awake for very long and hit the bag soon after sun set while Ed and our fellow camper visited. The owls were awesome.
Day 2: Craters and Lakes
The Big Blue. The Deepest Lake in the World. Mount Mazama. The battleground between the sky god Skell and Llao. Crater Lake has many names and meanings to different people. The single connection between them all is respect and awe.
"Crater Lake partially fills a 1,200-meter [4,000-foot] deep caldera, a depression formed by collapse of ancestral Mount Mazama during the violent eruption of 50 cubic kilometers of magma, or molten rock, about 7,700 years ago... By comparison, Mount St. Helens in 1980 erupted about half a cubic kilometer of new magma. Geological history shows that catastrophic events of this kind can repeat. Are volcanic eruptions likely again at Crater Lake? One of the approaches U.S. Geological Survey scientists are using to answer this important question is to unravel the geologic history of the Crater Lake caldera floor." - Dr. Hans Nelson and Dr. Charles R. Bacon, U.S. Geological Survey
Ancient peoples were in the area 7,000-5,000 years ago during local eruptions, including Mount Mazama. Myths were passed down from the ancestors of the Klamath and Modoc tribes to explain the earth-shaking events that resulted in the formation of the Cascade Mountain Range. These myths survive today.
It is interesting to note certain myths and legends presented by the Northwest Indians to explain the origin and formation of many prominent geographical features in their environment. If the supernatural elements are overlooked they correlate closely with scientific theories. One of the best examples of the parallel between an Indian myth and modern geological theory is the Klamath Indian legend concerning the formation of Crater Lake.
The central tenet of the myth is the long battle between the god of light and the god of the underground with various other players involved. The tale parallels the known general timeline of several eruptions: Mount Mazama, the cone that is now known as Wizard Island, and the formation of the Pirate Ship. The subsequent eruptions in the legends are supported by modern geological investigations.
Human memory can reach back several thousand years, demonstrated by many indigenous peoples around the globe. Indians were known to have inhabited the area of Mount Mazama before its final eruption. Thus, it is highly probable that the story of such a dramatic event could have become an integral part of tribal history and have been transmitted orally for thousands of years.
And all the mysteries of Crater Lake are still not known.
Our fellow camper packed up early and headed for a ride around the crater before all the other vacationers took to the same road. We were not far behind after morning coffee and breakfast. Rather than rush to pack up camping gear we decided to leave everything and ride around the crater with unencumbered bikes, then pack up before leaving around mid-day. It was a good decision.
We stopped at most of the various pull outs around the crater. It's hard not to. You want to see all you can, and early morning offers fantastic views of reflections in the water.
Wizard Island is a cone that grew inside the crater after Mount Mazama erupted. In the distance it seems as though it is covered with green fur. And it is, is some respect: tall conifer trees. If you look closely, you can see the shape of the concave top of the cone.
One overlook offered views of the crater rim in the shadows, as the sunlight had not risen high enough yet. Shadows and color, one of my favorite photographic subjects. I captured a few studies in tones.
The haze from nearby forest fires added an element.
On the top of the hill below is a large wooden lookout. The trail up is steep, and we were not really prepared to hike it. Next visit, I intend to, however.
The cliffs facing the water are just as dramatic.
On the opposite side of the western rim are high prairies. Even this late in the fall, they had color imparted by pumice, grasses and wildflowers.
The area is rich in wildlife. These little guys, chipmunks, were a delight throughout the entire area near the Cascades. You can hear and see them everywhere!
Two boats carry visitors around the inside of the crater. The hike down to the boats is very steep. A boat also stops at Wizard Island to let off hikers. Those considering that must get a permit; the Park limits the daily number of people on the island. This, too, I intend to do next visit.
Even in September, patches of snow can still be seen on the inside of the rim.
This is the Phantom Ship, or, depending on who you talk to, Pirate Ship. It is called a 'ship' because of the vertical spikes made of lava that stick up. Under certain lighting conditions, the 'ship' seems to disappear. Hence the name, Phantom.
Wiley also enjoyed the views.
Soon, it was time to return to camp and pack up. We had gravel to cover before the end of the day.
The Big Blue. The Deepest Lake in the World. Mount Mazama. The battleground between the sky god Skell and Llao. Crater Lake has many names and meanings to different people. The single connection between them all is respect and awe.
"Crater Lake partially fills a 1,200-meter [4,000-foot] deep caldera, a depression formed by collapse of ancestral Mount Mazama during the violent eruption of 50 cubic kilometers of magma, or molten rock, about 7,700 years ago... By comparison, Mount St. Helens in 1980 erupted about half a cubic kilometer of new magma. Geological history shows that catastrophic events of this kind can repeat. Are volcanic eruptions likely again at Crater Lake? One of the approaches U.S. Geological Survey scientists are using to answer this important question is to unravel the geologic history of the Crater Lake caldera floor." - Dr. Hans Nelson and Dr. Charles R. Bacon, U.S. Geological Survey
Ancient peoples were in the area 7,000-5,000 years ago during local eruptions, including Mount Mazama. Myths were passed down from the ancestors of the Klamath and Modoc tribes to explain the earth-shaking events that resulted in the formation of the Cascade Mountain Range. These myths survive today.
It is interesting to note certain myths and legends presented by the Northwest Indians to explain the origin and formation of many prominent geographical features in their environment. If the supernatural elements are overlooked they correlate closely with scientific theories. One of the best examples of the parallel between an Indian myth and modern geological theory is the Klamath Indian legend concerning the formation of Crater Lake.
The central tenet of the myth is the long battle between the god of light and the god of the underground with various other players involved. The tale parallels the known general timeline of several eruptions: Mount Mazama, the cone that is now known as Wizard Island, and the formation of the Pirate Ship. The subsequent eruptions in the legends are supported by modern geological investigations.
Human memory can reach back several thousand years, demonstrated by many indigenous peoples around the globe. Indians were known to have inhabited the area of Mount Mazama before its final eruption. Thus, it is highly probable that the story of such a dramatic event could have become an integral part of tribal history and have been transmitted orally for thousands of years.
And all the mysteries of Crater Lake are still not known.
Our fellow camper packed up early and headed for a ride around the crater before all the other vacationers took to the same road. We were not far behind after morning coffee and breakfast. Rather than rush to pack up camping gear we decided to leave everything and ride around the crater with unencumbered bikes, then pack up before leaving around mid-day. It was a good decision.
We stopped at most of the various pull outs around the crater. It's hard not to. You want to see all you can, and early morning offers fantastic views of reflections in the water.
Wizard Island is a cone that grew inside the crater after Mount Mazama erupted. In the distance it seems as though it is covered with green fur. And it is, is some respect: tall conifer trees. If you look closely, you can see the shape of the concave top of the cone.
One overlook offered views of the crater rim in the shadows, as the sunlight had not risen high enough yet. Shadows and color, one of my favorite photographic subjects. I captured a few studies in tones.
The haze from nearby forest fires added an element.
On the top of the hill below is a large wooden lookout. The trail up is steep, and we were not really prepared to hike it. Next visit, I intend to, however.
The cliffs facing the water are just as dramatic.
On the opposite side of the western rim are high prairies. Even this late in the fall, they had color imparted by pumice, grasses and wildflowers.
The area is rich in wildlife. These little guys, chipmunks, were a delight throughout the entire area near the Cascades. You can hear and see them everywhere!
Two boats carry visitors around the inside of the crater. The hike down to the boats is very steep. A boat also stops at Wizard Island to let off hikers. Those considering that must get a permit; the Park limits the daily number of people on the island. This, too, I intend to do next visit.
Even in September, patches of snow can still be seen on the inside of the rim.
This is the Phantom Ship, or, depending on who you talk to, Pirate Ship. It is called a 'ship' because of the vertical spikes made of lava that stick up. Under certain lighting conditions, the 'ship' seems to disappear. Hence the name, Phantom.
Wiley also enjoyed the views.
Soon, it was time to return to camp and pack up. We had gravel to cover before the end of the day.
By the time we finished loading the bikes with camping gear we were ready for some lunch. At the camp store we bought some goodies to eat and sat outside with a crowd of holiday folks waited to check into their campsites and cabin. On the way out of the park the line of vehicles at the entrance post station was......... long! I was glad we were not one of them. Note to self: do not go to Crater Lake during Labor Day weekend.
We rode the highway east to Fort Klamath, a small town containing an old building serving as a gas station and convenience store. We had stopped at the post office so I could pick up some postcard stamps. That, too, was in an old building. Outside I found Ed engaged in conversation with an older gentleman wearing the ubiquitous blue denim coveralls, unruly white hair and beard. But welcoming the conversation.
Two things in common we encountered so many times in Oregon were the friendliness of everyone in the countryside and "Oh yeah, I was in Texas once; oh, way back when......" The we get the mini-stories of when and where, their lives during that time, and so on. I really enjoyed that; it was a connection that people grabbed onto and a conversation piece. And when they learned that I had lived in the Valley for 14 years, it was as if I was a member of the family that had come home for a visit. And they all made us feel at home, no matter where we were.
Turning south and east again we stopped in Chiloquin to top off our tanks and before heading into the forests. The rest of our day would be riding in Winoma and Fremont National Forests. Originally, the planned route was to make Paisley and camp on the river south of town. Since we spent 1/2 a day at Crater Lake, we relented to the fact that we might not make it to Paisley. Fortunately, I had marked as way points two campground on the route closer to Paisley if we needed to stop earlier.
On our way we discovered that the GPS maps did not agree with the google maps which did not agree with the forest service maps. So we had THREE sources that we had to configure our way and which roads we were on. At one section my GPS showed us riding in the Sea of Yellow: no roads showed on the GPS. I was a bit nervous when Ed, who was leading and had the GPS routes in his unit, turned down what started as a two track, then turned into a cattle trail. In fact, I was quite nervous, muttering in my helmet "Where the .... are we????" Frankly, I don't even remember how we got to the main road; I was just relieved as all getout that we were ON a road again. At least the road goes 'somewhere'; eventually a sign with a forest road number shows up.
We climbed and climbed in elevation; the forest became thicker and thicker. We rarely saw anyone else. At one point, we pulled off the main gravel road and onto a sandy two track in the pine trees for a break. It was nice in there and I kept 'drinking' in the smell of the pine trees.
Later on we rode down a forest road with a sign that read "Contract Logging Area." Piles and stacks of limbs and brush everywhere. Some machinery, skidders, etc. I was glad to see a sign amidst the brush piles that read "Sandhill Crane Crossing Campground". We turned and saw a couple canvas tents. Since this campground has only 5 sites, we were a bit unsure if one would be available. Trying to locate the exact sites was also difficult because of the brush piles scattered everywhere. It turned out the very last site, #5, was empty. It had a picnic table covered with chainsaw bar oil and a contained campfire circle.
A former colleague and her husband used to camp here often; it was one of their favorite retreats. I don't think Kathy would like how it looked then. Most of the trees had been cut down and shade was at a premium. Piles of brush were every 12'. And the canvas tents made it look like an outback town site. I suspected that these were loggers camped here judging from the chainsaws, firewood, logger pants hanging up, etc. Everyone was gone for the day so when we arrived it was completely empty of other people. We were tired and we didn't care.
The campground is located along the North Fork of the Sprague Wild and Scenic River near the headwaters. At 6,306' in elevation, the cold air settled in fast as the sun disappeared behind the trees and mountains. The first thing I looked for was a water source. I found a hand pump near Site #1 and filled up the folding water container for the first time since I bought it. I carried it back to our campground and set it on a rock. And learned shortly afterward that a level surface is best for landing the thing; it tipped over and spilled all the nice cold water on the ground. That little fold-up bucket was one of the best items I picked up for this trip. I thought I had taken a photo of it, but I can't find it.
A close look at the trees nearby let me to suspect that the logging was a thinning job. There was a lot of standing dead trees that looked like disease or insect damage, more like the latter. My suspicion was confirmed a day latter that this area and south had suffered several years of bad beetle infestations. With the droughts and increase in forest fires, the forest service contracted with locals to thin out the standing dead timber, especially along the roads. This helps form a fire break, reducing the spread of wild fires, but not prevent fires from jumping across. It's one of those necessary evils. In some regions the dead timber is allowed to succumb to the natural way of cleansing the forest; usually wind and snow fall (snow loads eventually cause the dead trees to break and fall). Or wildfires. But in some areas, human intervention is justified. Forest management can be complex at times.
After a quick dinner, we were both beat. I crawled into the bag with my long johns on; it was getting mighty cold. And then drifted off to sleep, only to be woken up by the sound of a truck pulling in and voices. Then music, then laughter, then howling... the human kind.
We rode the highway east to Fort Klamath, a small town containing an old building serving as a gas station and convenience store. We had stopped at the post office so I could pick up some postcard stamps. That, too, was in an old building. Outside I found Ed engaged in conversation with an older gentleman wearing the ubiquitous blue denim coveralls, unruly white hair and beard. But welcoming the conversation.
Two things in common we encountered so many times in Oregon were the friendliness of everyone in the countryside and "Oh yeah, I was in Texas once; oh, way back when......" The we get the mini-stories of when and where, their lives during that time, and so on. I really enjoyed that; it was a connection that people grabbed onto and a conversation piece. And when they learned that I had lived in the Valley for 14 years, it was as if I was a member of the family that had come home for a visit. And they all made us feel at home, no matter where we were.
Turning south and east again we stopped in Chiloquin to top off our tanks and before heading into the forests. The rest of our day would be riding in Winoma and Fremont National Forests. Originally, the planned route was to make Paisley and camp on the river south of town. Since we spent 1/2 a day at Crater Lake, we relented to the fact that we might not make it to Paisley. Fortunately, I had marked as way points two campground on the route closer to Paisley if we needed to stop earlier.
On our way we discovered that the GPS maps did not agree with the google maps which did not agree with the forest service maps. So we had THREE sources that we had to configure our way and which roads we were on. At one section my GPS showed us riding in the Sea of Yellow: no roads showed on the GPS. I was a bit nervous when Ed, who was leading and had the GPS routes in his unit, turned down what started as a two track, then turned into a cattle trail. In fact, I was quite nervous, muttering in my helmet "Where the .... are we????" Frankly, I don't even remember how we got to the main road; I was just relieved as all getout that we were ON a road again. At least the road goes 'somewhere'; eventually a sign with a forest road number shows up.
We climbed and climbed in elevation; the forest became thicker and thicker. We rarely saw anyone else. At one point, we pulled off the main gravel road and onto a sandy two track in the pine trees for a break. It was nice in there and I kept 'drinking' in the smell of the pine trees.
Later on we rode down a forest road with a sign that read "Contract Logging Area." Piles and stacks of limbs and brush everywhere. Some machinery, skidders, etc. I was glad to see a sign amidst the brush piles that read "Sandhill Crane Crossing Campground". We turned and saw a couple canvas tents. Since this campground has only 5 sites, we were a bit unsure if one would be available. Trying to locate the exact sites was also difficult because of the brush piles scattered everywhere. It turned out the very last site, #5, was empty. It had a picnic table covered with chainsaw bar oil and a contained campfire circle.
A former colleague and her husband used to camp here often; it was one of their favorite retreats. I don't think Kathy would like how it looked then. Most of the trees had been cut down and shade was at a premium. Piles of brush were every 12'. And the canvas tents made it look like an outback town site. I suspected that these were loggers camped here judging from the chainsaws, firewood, logger pants hanging up, etc. Everyone was gone for the day so when we arrived it was completely empty of other people. We were tired and we didn't care.
The campground is located along the North Fork of the Sprague Wild and Scenic River near the headwaters. At 6,306' in elevation, the cold air settled in fast as the sun disappeared behind the trees and mountains. The first thing I looked for was a water source. I found a hand pump near Site #1 and filled up the folding water container for the first time since I bought it. I carried it back to our campground and set it on a rock. And learned shortly afterward that a level surface is best for landing the thing; it tipped over and spilled all the nice cold water on the ground. That little fold-up bucket was one of the best items I picked up for this trip. I thought I had taken a photo of it, but I can't find it.
A close look at the trees nearby let me to suspect that the logging was a thinning job. There was a lot of standing dead trees that looked like disease or insect damage, more like the latter. My suspicion was confirmed a day latter that this area and south had suffered several years of bad beetle infestations. With the droughts and increase in forest fires, the forest service contracted with locals to thin out the standing dead timber, especially along the roads. This helps form a fire break, reducing the spread of wild fires, but not prevent fires from jumping across. It's one of those necessary evils. In some regions the dead timber is allowed to succumb to the natural way of cleansing the forest; usually wind and snow fall (snow loads eventually cause the dead trees to break and fall). Or wildfires. But in some areas, human intervention is justified. Forest management can be complex at times.
After a quick dinner, we were both beat. I crawled into the bag with my long johns on; it was getting mighty cold. And then drifted off to sleep, only to be woken up by the sound of a truck pulling in and voices. Then music, then laughter, then howling... the human kind.
ed29
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The bucket. Folds flat for traveling, should be suspended by the handle when full. Otherwise the slightest touch collapses it and spills the contents. Good call packing it for the trip.
Day 3: wow
The sound of trucks woke me up; there was barely any sunlight. My nose told me it was more than cold. Snuggled in my down bag, I listened to several engines starting and tires creaking on the gravel as they left. I didn't want to get out of my warm cocoon.
Eventually I had to get up and out to use the privy. I bundled up in anything I had easy access to. I learned that morning to keep my riding pants and sweat shirt inside my dry bag during the night. I also stuffed my warm thick socks and Duofold thermal shirt inside my sleeping bag with me. That way I had dry and semi-warm clothes to don in the cold mornings. A few nights later, I began wrapping my big sweatshirt around my tiny pillow for added warmth and cushioning. This became a part of my camp routine for the rest of the trip.
I don't recall who braved the cold first, but neither of us were ready to function properly for awhile. All I could do was grunt while shivering until I had some hot coffee inside me. Hot breakfast of dehydrated eggs with bacon was welcomed and relished. They are actually quite good!!
While trying to warm up I walked around with the camera and took a few shots. The tent cabins were deserted again. The smoke from the wood stove in one of the cabins still lingered. I recall hearing someone chopping wood during the night and smelling the smoke. The cabin's canvas door was tied open again, I presume to air the entire for the day.
Shadows were cold but the sunlight was getting nice and warm. Ed and I wandered on a path to the river and I was delighted with the meadows along the banks. Dew still clung to grasses and leaves, glittering in the morning sunlight. Shadows were long and cool while the water babbled filling the silence. Again, the water was clear as can be. Ed mentioned he saw fish and we later learned that this is a good spot for rainbow trout fishing.
Smugmug seems to be having a meltdown this morning.... to be continued later
The sound of trucks woke me up; there was barely any sunlight. My nose told me it was more than cold. Snuggled in my down bag, I listened to several engines starting and tires creaking on the gravel as they left. I didn't want to get out of my warm cocoon.
Eventually I had to get up and out to use the privy. I bundled up in anything I had easy access to. I learned that morning to keep my riding pants and sweat shirt inside my dry bag during the night. I also stuffed my warm thick socks and Duofold thermal shirt inside my sleeping bag with me. That way I had dry and semi-warm clothes to don in the cold mornings. A few nights later, I began wrapping my big sweatshirt around my tiny pillow for added warmth and cushioning. This became a part of my camp routine for the rest of the trip.
I don't recall who braved the cold first, but neither of us were ready to function properly for awhile. All I could do was grunt while shivering until I had some hot coffee inside me. Hot breakfast of dehydrated eggs with bacon was welcomed and relished. They are actually quite good!!
While trying to warm up I walked around with the camera and took a few shots. The tent cabins were deserted again. The smoke from the wood stove in one of the cabins still lingered. I recall hearing someone chopping wood during the night and smelling the smoke. The cabin's canvas door was tied open again, I presume to air the entire for the day.
Shadows were cold but the sunlight was getting nice and warm. Ed and I wandered on a path to the river and I was delighted with the meadows along the banks. Dew still clung to grasses and leaves, glittering in the morning sunlight. Shadows were long and cool while the water babbled filling the silence. Again, the water was clear as can be. Ed mentioned he saw fish and we later learned that this is a good spot for rainbow trout fishing.
Smugmug seems to be having a meltdown this morning.... to be continued later
Day 3: Paisley
Smugmug's meltdown lasted until mid-day Sunday, and my satellite and wireless router have been having a meltdown. So I'll see how much I can nab of a working system tonight.
We wandered down to the river while the sun was still rising. Frost still lingered in the shadows and dew from melted ice glistened in the angled sunlight. It was chilly but refreshing.
One thing about Oregon is water is everywhere. Not like swampy Louisiana, but rivers, streams, lakes, ocean.... Considering that Oregon (and Washington) were birthed from millions of years of volcanic activity, then glaciers, floods and ice, channels of water have been gouged out of volcanic mass, changed and flowed, evaporated and refilled. The stream next to the campground was where the headwaters started rolling from high volcanic ground. This North Fork of the Sprague River would eventually converge with the South Fork and then join the Williamson River near Chiloquin where we gased up the day before.
Returning to camp, we packed up the tent and supplies. One of the tent occupants returned and was on an ATV, so we walked down to chat a bit. He must not have noticed that there was an odd couple down at the end of the sites; I think we startled him. He was getting ready to go back out hunting. A couple of his buddies were camped in around one or two sites. He asked if we had seen any deer. It was bow season, and the deer are smart enough to scatter. Nope, we hadn't seen any. That morning.
I did my second day annotation with the pocket video camera. The first one that I did at Crater Lake.... I must have not turned it on because it isn't there. Oh, well.
Back on the gravel, ahuh, ahuh, I like it!
As in most public places, signage is not the best in the National Forests. For miles it may be glaringly empty and you wonder if you are really where you are supposed to be, or going in the right direction, or wondering "Will I get there from here??" Then it's all in your face.
Even Wiley would occasionally raise him arms in confusion and ask "Where ARE we?"
That morning of the third day would complete the route that I had planned for the end of the second day. But that was all right. We camped in the forest on the mountain instead of camping by the river south of Paisley. All was well.
The route wound along the southeast edge of a ridge of mountains. Still deep in the forest, I stopped alongside the road when I saw a gap in the big pines. The vista was awesome and I got the first glimpse of the basin below.
Ed led the route most of the time, but we traded off and on. Some times I would pull off and stop. Eventually he would realize I wan't behind and circle back. Here we stopped for a break and to enjoy the sun filtering down through the trees. It was warming fast and time to shed a layer or two that had helped keep off the earlier chill. And photo op time.
As we began descending, the gravel road wound tightly to the edge of the mountain slope. The trees gave way to grass-covered steep slopes. At a sharp curve to the left was a pull off on the right. I pulled, or coasted in with careful braking, and turned off the engine. In front of me was an open vista of mountains and a ribbon of river below. If only I had wings, I'd be floating on the thermals there. The views were incredible.
A truck pulled in with a family piling out to share the views. As we all stood on the narrow ridge jutting out over the valley below, we chatted. They were there to perform a ceremony for the wife's ex-husband. They planned to scatter his ashes in the wind over the valley below. The two teenaged kids were trading off taking photos, while Mom was a bit solemn. We apologized for intruding on their privacy, but they assured us we were not and they welcomed us with conversation. We were to run into them a few times later that day.
We reluctantly got back on the bikes and rode down the winding steep gravel road and into Paisley. I admit I took my time; the views were just too grand to waste by fixating on the road. Eventually we made it into the small town and gassed up the bikes at the only pumps for miles around. We noticed a diner across the street and we both nodded that we were hungry.
Aside from a local couple seated at the table inside, we were the only ones there. We ate a very good hamburger with fries (which was to bite me back later) with iced tea. Then... I learned they had boysenberry pie. Not really a pie fan, I love boysenberries, which I have not eaten since leaving Oregon over a decade ago. I really didn't have room for it, but I ate it anyway. It was deeeelicious.
Next: Winter Rim
Smugmug's meltdown lasted until mid-day Sunday, and my satellite and wireless router have been having a meltdown. So I'll see how much I can nab of a working system tonight.
One thing about Oregon is water is everywhere. Not like swampy Louisiana, but rivers, streams, lakes, ocean.... Considering that Oregon (and Washington) were birthed from millions of years of volcanic activity, then glaciers, floods and ice, channels of water have been gouged out of volcanic mass, changed and flowed, evaporated and refilled. The stream next to the campground was where the headwaters started rolling from high volcanic ground. This North Fork of the Sprague River would eventually converge with the South Fork and then join the Williamson River near Chiloquin where we gased up the day before.
Returning to camp, we packed up the tent and supplies. One of the tent occupants returned and was on an ATV, so we walked down to chat a bit. He must not have noticed that there was an odd couple down at the end of the sites; I think we startled him. He was getting ready to go back out hunting. A couple of his buddies were camped in around one or two sites. He asked if we had seen any deer. It was bow season, and the deer are smart enough to scatter. Nope, we hadn't seen any. That morning.
I did my second day annotation with the pocket video camera. The first one that I did at Crater Lake.... I must have not turned it on because it isn't there. Oh, well.
Back on the gravel, ahuh, ahuh, I like it!
As in most public places, signage is not the best in the National Forests. For miles it may be glaringly empty and you wonder if you are really where you are supposed to be, or going in the right direction, or wondering "Will I get there from here??" Then it's all in your face.
Even Wiley would occasionally raise him arms in confusion and ask "Where ARE we?"
That morning of the third day would complete the route that I had planned for the end of the second day. But that was all right. We camped in the forest on the mountain instead of camping by the river south of Paisley. All was well.
The route wound along the southeast edge of a ridge of mountains. Still deep in the forest, I stopped alongside the road when I saw a gap in the big pines. The vista was awesome and I got the first glimpse of the basin below.
Ed led the route most of the time, but we traded off and on. Some times I would pull off and stop. Eventually he would realize I wan't behind and circle back. Here we stopped for a break and to enjoy the sun filtering down through the trees. It was warming fast and time to shed a layer or two that had helped keep off the earlier chill. And photo op time.
As we began descending, the gravel road wound tightly to the edge of the mountain slope. The trees gave way to grass-covered steep slopes. At a sharp curve to the left was a pull off on the right. I pulled, or coasted in with careful braking, and turned off the engine. In front of me was an open vista of mountains and a ribbon of river below. If only I had wings, I'd be floating on the thermals there. The views were incredible.
A truck pulled in with a family piling out to share the views. As we all stood on the narrow ridge jutting out over the valley below, we chatted. They were there to perform a ceremony for the wife's ex-husband. They planned to scatter his ashes in the wind over the valley below. The two teenaged kids were trading off taking photos, while Mom was a bit solemn. We apologized for intruding on their privacy, but they assured us we were not and they welcomed us with conversation. We were to run into them a few times later that day.
We reluctantly got back on the bikes and rode down the winding steep gravel road and into Paisley. I admit I took my time; the views were just too grand to waste by fixating on the road. Eventually we made it into the small town and gassed up the bikes at the only pumps for miles around. We noticed a diner across the street and we both nodded that we were hungry.
Aside from a local couple seated at the table inside, we were the only ones there. We ate a very good hamburger with fries (which was to bite me back later) with iced tea. Then... I learned they had boysenberry pie. Not really a pie fan, I love boysenberries, which I have not eaten since leaving Oregon over a decade ago. I really didn't have room for it, but I ate it anyway. It was deeeelicious.
Next: Winter Rim
Day 3: Winter Rim
Full of lunch- perhaps too full- we started to retrace our route back up the slope of the mountain ridge that looms over Paisley and the basin. It was just as fun riding up as it was down. I think I could do it over and over again and not get tired of it, seeing something new each time.
We pulled off the side of the gravel road where Ed was bound and determined to explore a track that grabbed him on the way down to Paisley. Here was a single track that went up and up a naked slope of grass. Learning from the driver of the truck at the overlook, this was BLM land. Which means public land. To a degree. Public does not equate with full access, as many of us know.
I pulled out the Canon for this because the scale could not be captured with the Kodak pocket vidcorder. As Ed rode up the slope, my naked eye lost sight of him and the bike. Only a speck of bright yellow (his jacket) revealed where he was. But the superzoom on the Canon was able to visualize him and the bike, like a pair of binoculars. And so I captured his ride down with the Canon, both a few still shots and a movie. Nonetheless, neither accurately represent the distance and scale of the mountain slope. At one point on the way up, he 'disappeared'; the bright yellow speck was no where to be found. Nor could I hear the rhythmic whisper click-click of his bike off in the distance. Uh oh...
When Ed pulled up on the side of the road he had a big grin on his face. He then explained why he 'disappeared.' As he rounded a cambered curve with deep ruts, there was........ a fence and gate. It took a bit of quick ingenuity to stop and turn the bike around on a steep slope. But he did with no mishaps.
Getting back on our way, we found the road that cut off from our former route and that would take us up on top of Winter Rim. The rim borders the NW edge of the Great Basin, which covers most of SE Oregon.
What is the Great Basin? As our planet's crust stretched during continental formation, faults developed (and still do) to accommodate the movement. Some of these blocks of crust fall creating basins, others rise creating escarpments, often called 'rims'. Sections of the crust are heaved up creating mountain ranges and basins collect water from run off (referred to as basin and range geography). During the Ice Age these basins collected water from falling precipitation and run off during times of melt. The largest basin and lake covered nearly 200,000 square miles and covered areas of five western states including nearly all of Nevada.
As the climate continued to warm after glacial melt, the large lake dwindled to individual lakes, of which the Bonneville Lake was the largest. Now, much of the Great Basin area that was once covered with water is arid desert. But playas (small pockets of seasonal water collection) still dot the basin floor, often at the base of steep rims, like Summer Lake and Winter Rim.
Because of its location and climate, many bioregions overlap in the Fremont National Forest and on Winter Rim. The forest here is a biological mixture of plant species found in the southern Cascade Range, the northern Sierra Range and even Rocky Mountain Range. It also borders the desert region of the Great Basin. On the eastern edge (the summit) of Winter Rim, precipitation falls off and the steep escarpment is largely treeless, except for a few junipers.
During our ride along the rim we would see evidence of the Winter Rim fire of July 2002. Lightening strikes formed a series of fires which combined burned a total of 105,000 acres. The majority of the rim and slope, over 34,000 acres, burned except for the most southern section near Paisley. (website with photos of the fires)
I had plotted a few points of interest on the route, mostly overlooks. Several were sites where hand gliders can launch from the rim over Summer Lake and beyond. I was hoping to see one of these, but either conditions or climate were not right for gliding. At the first overlook, who should pull in but the same truck and family that we ran into earlier that day. We also shared stories about the pair of jeans found on the ground at the edge looking over the escarpment and the southern edge of the basin below.
We rode on, not really sure of where we were going sometimes. My GPS again showed we were in the Great Sea of Yellow, Garmin maps did not agree with the Forest map and both did not agree with the atlas maps. One of the legs I had routed supposedly followed the edge of the Rim north to Fremont Point, an overlook supposedly accessed by a paved road.
As we turned off on this 'road', it was a nice wide gravel stretch passing an equine campground. There was one horse tralier/RV rig parked but no one around. As we continued on the pumice gravel, the road narrowed. Then it suddenly became a cattle trail with a fallen tree across it. By this time a bad case of heartburn was making me take shallow breaths and generally uncomfortable as all get out. This, coupled with the fallen tree and muddy/rocky cattle trail, made me stop. At this point, I couldn't concentrate on anything but dealing with this heartburn and decided that in interest of avoiding mishaps, it was time for me to turn around and find an easier route that did not require all my attention.
Ed turned around faster than I did and was off down the road. I took my time since I could hardly breath comfortably and equally took my time retracing our route. Oddly enough, three or four bikes suddenly appeared heading in the opposite direction. The lead rider on a BMW GS stopped and I warned him that the road terminates in a cattle trail with a fallen tree. I mentioned that a single track with bike tires suggested that the tree can be navigated around and he shrugged it off with a brash comment, "We can handle that." I thought to myself, 'Well, go for it then', but kept it to myself. I wasn't willing to discomfort myself more with further conversation. The rider in the back gave me a smile and 'okay' sign; he seemed the friendliest of the bunch. All I could do in reply was nod. Carry on, dudes.
I made it back to the main graveled forest road to find Ed waiting for me. I asked if he had seen the riders and he nodded. He thought he recognized the last rider; he resembled Tor, one of the riders in the movie Get Lost: Oregon. Not really in the frame of mind to entertain the idea, I didn't agree or disagree except to comment that he was the most friendly of the group.
We continued on our way and found the road that off shoots to Fremont Point. Which was not paved, nor did the Forest Road number match. We discovered it only because of a sign after the turn that pointed to the road as 'Fremont Point'. We turned around and went down the No Number Road and finally arrived at the overlook.
After parking the bike, I was partly relieved to see a privy. I headed over to it to see if I could find more relief. I don't recall having heartburn this bad in years; figures it would happen on my back country trip. Lesson reminded: don't eat raw onions again, especially with French fries (which I rarely eat).
While we were at the Point I heard the distinctive sound of motorcycles in the distance. Sure enough, we saw through the trees the group we had passed near the Cattle Trail (my name to it) zooming by without stopping. So the Cattle Trail did pass by Fremont Point. But it was not the paved road that showed on the forest map and the GPS map. Another reminder: don't trust just one map in the outback.
Ed walked up a trail to the very top of the summit (trail begins right of the sign in the photo below) while I hung out at the overlook in the chilling wind and still trying to get over this heartburn. He returned in short time and rode the bike back up for photos.
I bundled up and took a few shots while Ed was gone. The overlook is about at the middle of the rim and the views are outstanding. Summer Lake stretches out below with irrigated circles and the paved highway hugging the edge below the escarpment.
All the names here -Winter Rim, Summer Lake, Fremont Ntnl. Forest- originate with one man: U.S. Army Topographic Engineer and explorer, John C. Fremont. He led a exploration party, including Kit Carson, from the Klamath area of south Central Oregon eastward into the forested mountains in late November of 1843. They encountered a bitter snow storm on the way and finally broke through the trees onto the top of the escarpment at this point in early December. They were astonished at the view below them where sunshine shone on a large basin and grass-edged lake. Fremont, often categorized as a 'colorful' character, christened the lake below as Summer Lake, and the stormy prominence upon which they stood, Winter Rim. The national forest along and south of the rim bears his name.
Back on the bikes, we departed Freemont Point. Although there for at least 45 minutes, we encountered no one else there. In fact, we met very few vehicles except for an occasional truck of hunters on the main forest roads. Back in the trees, and on a gravel forest road that showed up on my GPS, I noticed we were getting close to the northern end of the rim. I had no idea what the road was like that winds down the rim except for the many hairpin turns and switchbacks that showed up while I was planning this route. I had no idea how lovely, fantastic and wonderful this section of the route was until riding it down.
Ed concentrated on the fun factor of the ride down; I was in awe of the "Wow!!!" factor: the expansive views all around me as I rode. No photos this time; this was completely devoted to absorbing the full experience of the ride. Thankfully the heartburn had subsided so that I could thoroughly enjoy it. Sometimes I geared down to second just to go slow and absorb it all. I know I was grinning widely in my helmet and the visor was pushed up all the way so I didn't miss a thing. It was fantastic; I wanted to ride up and do it again. I remember whooting at the bottom of the gravel road where it intersected with the paved highway. I can't wait to go back and ride this again. I implore everyone in this area to ride this leg of the road; it should not be missed.
We were back to civilization, or a semblance to it. Ed was waiting at the bottom of the road. We decided we had had enough for one day and the long shadows reminded us that we were losing daylight. We headed north into the wind and chill at highway speed. I was once again reminded that the DR did not want to go above 45 mph on this trip, and I swore at every sputter, skip and cough. Actually, I think it hated pavement because several times we rode at a fast clip on gravel (45 and over) and it was fine. Only during those speeds on pavement was it troublesome. I have no explanation.
Ed pulled over to the side of the road at the turn off to Christmas Valley, our next destination. At that point, we decided to continue north to the small community of Silver Lake and try to find food, gas and a place to camp for the night. I recalled that a campground was near the town, but no details on its location.
Upon entering the community, we saw a small motel with only a few units and a smaller store next to it. We learned that the only accommodation in town was the motel which was full of hunters. The store owner wasn't too sure about where a campground was except for 'Oh, I think it is north somewhere'. However, we were told we could set up camp for the night in the community park.
Two other bikes pulled in to the pump for gas. Ed chatted with them for a bit; I was still too busy relishing the ride down the rim. I don't remember any of the conversation except that they had ordered a meal from a large tepee set up next to the little store. Ed later told me they were just embarking on doing the Trans-America Trail, starting from the west end. They were planning on riding up the same road to Winter Rim after dinner, to which I recall thinking they were insane to do so with so little daylight remaining. Although I loved riding the forest roads up there, I did not consider it fun to do so in the dark.
Following the directions given us, we found a small lovely grassy area behind a community service building. In the parking lot was an area painted with the universal signage for helicopter landing. Yet there was a sign that explicitly stated "No Helicopters". We shook our head at the irony.
I picked out a spot on the grass near the covered picnic area and cottonwoods. A hand pump was near by and I washed my socks, my face and hands in that order. I was releived to see a portable privy next to the building. Our needs were taken care of.
As we set up the tent, Ed noticed pop-up sprinklers nearby. Realizing that if they went off, our tent and everything else would get wet. Given the plummeting temperatures, we knew that would be ice over night. Ed absconded several large rocks near a graveled swing and play area to put on top of the sprinklers or next to them to deflect the water. It worked, except for the one sprinkler missed near the picnic table.
We set up our camp chairs to enjoy the remaining sliver of day light whilst relaxing with a toddy. We were serenaded to sleep with coyotes close by and owls hooting above us.
Next: Fort Rock
Full of lunch- perhaps too full- we started to retrace our route back up the slope of the mountain ridge that looms over Paisley and the basin. It was just as fun riding up as it was down. I think I could do it over and over again and not get tired of it, seeing something new each time.
We pulled off the side of the gravel road where Ed was bound and determined to explore a track that grabbed him on the way down to Paisley. Here was a single track that went up and up a naked slope of grass. Learning from the driver of the truck at the overlook, this was BLM land. Which means public land. To a degree. Public does not equate with full access, as many of us know.
I pulled out the Canon for this because the scale could not be captured with the Kodak pocket vidcorder. As Ed rode up the slope, my naked eye lost sight of him and the bike. Only a speck of bright yellow (his jacket) revealed where he was. But the superzoom on the Canon was able to visualize him and the bike, like a pair of binoculars. And so I captured his ride down with the Canon, both a few still shots and a movie. Nonetheless, neither accurately represent the distance and scale of the mountain slope. At one point on the way up, he 'disappeared'; the bright yellow speck was no where to be found. Nor could I hear the rhythmic whisper click-click of his bike off in the distance. Uh oh...
When Ed pulled up on the side of the road he had a big grin on his face. He then explained why he 'disappeared.' As he rounded a cambered curve with deep ruts, there was........ a fence and gate. It took a bit of quick ingenuity to stop and turn the bike around on a steep slope. But he did with no mishaps.
Getting back on our way, we found the road that cut off from our former route and that would take us up on top of Winter Rim. The rim borders the NW edge of the Great Basin, which covers most of SE Oregon.
What is the Great Basin? As our planet's crust stretched during continental formation, faults developed (and still do) to accommodate the movement. Some of these blocks of crust fall creating basins, others rise creating escarpments, often called 'rims'. Sections of the crust are heaved up creating mountain ranges and basins collect water from run off (referred to as basin and range geography). During the Ice Age these basins collected water from falling precipitation and run off during times of melt. The largest basin and lake covered nearly 200,000 square miles and covered areas of five western states including nearly all of Nevada.
As the climate continued to warm after glacial melt, the large lake dwindled to individual lakes, of which the Bonneville Lake was the largest. Now, much of the Great Basin area that was once covered with water is arid desert. But playas (small pockets of seasonal water collection) still dot the basin floor, often at the base of steep rims, like Summer Lake and Winter Rim.
Because of its location and climate, many bioregions overlap in the Fremont National Forest and on Winter Rim. The forest here is a biological mixture of plant species found in the southern Cascade Range, the northern Sierra Range and even Rocky Mountain Range. It also borders the desert region of the Great Basin. On the eastern edge (the summit) of Winter Rim, precipitation falls off and the steep escarpment is largely treeless, except for a few junipers.
During our ride along the rim we would see evidence of the Winter Rim fire of July 2002. Lightening strikes formed a series of fires which combined burned a total of 105,000 acres. The majority of the rim and slope, over 34,000 acres, burned except for the most southern section near Paisley. (website with photos of the fires)
I had plotted a few points of interest on the route, mostly overlooks. Several were sites where hand gliders can launch from the rim over Summer Lake and beyond. I was hoping to see one of these, but either conditions or climate were not right for gliding. At the first overlook, who should pull in but the same truck and family that we ran into earlier that day. We also shared stories about the pair of jeans found on the ground at the edge looking over the escarpment and the southern edge of the basin below.
We rode on, not really sure of where we were going sometimes. My GPS again showed we were in the Great Sea of Yellow, Garmin maps did not agree with the Forest map and both did not agree with the atlas maps. One of the legs I had routed supposedly followed the edge of the Rim north to Fremont Point, an overlook supposedly accessed by a paved road.
As we turned off on this 'road', it was a nice wide gravel stretch passing an equine campground. There was one horse tralier/RV rig parked but no one around. As we continued on the pumice gravel, the road narrowed. Then it suddenly became a cattle trail with a fallen tree across it. By this time a bad case of heartburn was making me take shallow breaths and generally uncomfortable as all get out. This, coupled with the fallen tree and muddy/rocky cattle trail, made me stop. At this point, I couldn't concentrate on anything but dealing with this heartburn and decided that in interest of avoiding mishaps, it was time for me to turn around and find an easier route that did not require all my attention.
Ed turned around faster than I did and was off down the road. I took my time since I could hardly breath comfortably and equally took my time retracing our route. Oddly enough, three or four bikes suddenly appeared heading in the opposite direction. The lead rider on a BMW GS stopped and I warned him that the road terminates in a cattle trail with a fallen tree. I mentioned that a single track with bike tires suggested that the tree can be navigated around and he shrugged it off with a brash comment, "We can handle that." I thought to myself, 'Well, go for it then', but kept it to myself. I wasn't willing to discomfort myself more with further conversation. The rider in the back gave me a smile and 'okay' sign; he seemed the friendliest of the bunch. All I could do in reply was nod. Carry on, dudes.
I made it back to the main graveled forest road to find Ed waiting for me. I asked if he had seen the riders and he nodded. He thought he recognized the last rider; he resembled Tor, one of the riders in the movie Get Lost: Oregon. Not really in the frame of mind to entertain the idea, I didn't agree or disagree except to comment that he was the most friendly of the group.
We continued on our way and found the road that off shoots to Fremont Point. Which was not paved, nor did the Forest Road number match. We discovered it only because of a sign after the turn that pointed to the road as 'Fremont Point'. We turned around and went down the No Number Road and finally arrived at the overlook.
After parking the bike, I was partly relieved to see a privy. I headed over to it to see if I could find more relief. I don't recall having heartburn this bad in years; figures it would happen on my back country trip. Lesson reminded: don't eat raw onions again, especially with French fries (which I rarely eat).
While we were at the Point I heard the distinctive sound of motorcycles in the distance. Sure enough, we saw through the trees the group we had passed near the Cattle Trail (my name to it) zooming by without stopping. So the Cattle Trail did pass by Fremont Point. But it was not the paved road that showed on the forest map and the GPS map. Another reminder: don't trust just one map in the outback.
Ed walked up a trail to the very top of the summit (trail begins right of the sign in the photo below) while I hung out at the overlook in the chilling wind and still trying to get over this heartburn. He returned in short time and rode the bike back up for photos.
I bundled up and took a few shots while Ed was gone. The overlook is about at the middle of the rim and the views are outstanding. Summer Lake stretches out below with irrigated circles and the paved highway hugging the edge below the escarpment.
All the names here -Winter Rim, Summer Lake, Fremont Ntnl. Forest- originate with one man: U.S. Army Topographic Engineer and explorer, John C. Fremont. He led a exploration party, including Kit Carson, from the Klamath area of south Central Oregon eastward into the forested mountains in late November of 1843. They encountered a bitter snow storm on the way and finally broke through the trees onto the top of the escarpment at this point in early December. They were astonished at the view below them where sunshine shone on a large basin and grass-edged lake. Fremont, often categorized as a 'colorful' character, christened the lake below as Summer Lake, and the stormy prominence upon which they stood, Winter Rim. The national forest along and south of the rim bears his name.
Back on the bikes, we departed Freemont Point. Although there for at least 45 minutes, we encountered no one else there. In fact, we met very few vehicles except for an occasional truck of hunters on the main forest roads. Back in the trees, and on a gravel forest road that showed up on my GPS, I noticed we were getting close to the northern end of the rim. I had no idea what the road was like that winds down the rim except for the many hairpin turns and switchbacks that showed up while I was planning this route. I had no idea how lovely, fantastic and wonderful this section of the route was until riding it down.
Ed concentrated on the fun factor of the ride down; I was in awe of the "Wow!!!" factor: the expansive views all around me as I rode. No photos this time; this was completely devoted to absorbing the full experience of the ride. Thankfully the heartburn had subsided so that I could thoroughly enjoy it. Sometimes I geared down to second just to go slow and absorb it all. I know I was grinning widely in my helmet and the visor was pushed up all the way so I didn't miss a thing. It was fantastic; I wanted to ride up and do it again. I remember whooting at the bottom of the gravel road where it intersected with the paved highway. I can't wait to go back and ride this again. I implore everyone in this area to ride this leg of the road; it should not be missed.
We were back to civilization, or a semblance to it. Ed was waiting at the bottom of the road. We decided we had had enough for one day and the long shadows reminded us that we were losing daylight. We headed north into the wind and chill at highway speed. I was once again reminded that the DR did not want to go above 45 mph on this trip, and I swore at every sputter, skip and cough. Actually, I think it hated pavement because several times we rode at a fast clip on gravel (45 and over) and it was fine. Only during those speeds on pavement was it troublesome. I have no explanation.
Ed pulled over to the side of the road at the turn off to Christmas Valley, our next destination. At that point, we decided to continue north to the small community of Silver Lake and try to find food, gas and a place to camp for the night. I recalled that a campground was near the town, but no details on its location.
Upon entering the community, we saw a small motel with only a few units and a smaller store next to it. We learned that the only accommodation in town was the motel which was full of hunters. The store owner wasn't too sure about where a campground was except for 'Oh, I think it is north somewhere'. However, we were told we could set up camp for the night in the community park.
Two other bikes pulled in to the pump for gas. Ed chatted with them for a bit; I was still too busy relishing the ride down the rim. I don't remember any of the conversation except that they had ordered a meal from a large tepee set up next to the little store. Ed later told me they were just embarking on doing the Trans-America Trail, starting from the west end. They were planning on riding up the same road to Winter Rim after dinner, to which I recall thinking they were insane to do so with so little daylight remaining. Although I loved riding the forest roads up there, I did not consider it fun to do so in the dark.
Following the directions given us, we found a small lovely grassy area behind a community service building. In the parking lot was an area painted with the universal signage for helicopter landing. Yet there was a sign that explicitly stated "No Helicopters". We shook our head at the irony.
I picked out a spot on the grass near the covered picnic area and cottonwoods. A hand pump was near by and I washed my socks, my face and hands in that order. I was releived to see a portable privy next to the building. Our needs were taken care of.
As we set up the tent, Ed noticed pop-up sprinklers nearby. Realizing that if they went off, our tent and everything else would get wet. Given the plummeting temperatures, we knew that would be ice over night. Ed absconded several large rocks near a graveled swing and play area to put on top of the sprinklers or next to them to deflect the water. It worked, except for the one sprinkler missed near the picnic table.
We set up our camp chairs to enjoy the remaining sliver of day light whilst relaxing with a toddy. We were serenaded to sleep with coyotes close by and owls hooting above us.
Next: Fort Rock
Howdy from Silver Lake, OR
A cap on Day Three
I finally found my little yellow log book from the trip. And downloaded ALL the videos yesterday. I put this together as a cap for the day.
I finally found my little yellow log book from the trip. And downloaded ALL the videos yesterday. I put this together as a cap for the day.
Day 4: Fort Rock. The town.
Morning greeted us with frost again, although not as cold as the previous morning. We moved the tent in the sun to dry the dew that dripped off of everything. Items that we left on or near the picnic table were wet from a nearby sprinkler that we missed. Otherwise, Ed’s trick of using rocks to deflect water from the sprinklers worked. This was our first of many encounters with sprinklers at camp sites.
We took our time preparing coffee and breakfast that morning. The heavy dew prevented us from packing the tent and other gear until the rising sun dried it. The socks I washed the night before were soaking wet from being dowsed with sprinklers. Neither of us had slept well or were motivated much to get out of our cozy down sleeping bags.
Finally getting back on the road, we turned north off Hwy 31 onto a gravel county road. Most of the county roads in Central and Eastern OR have strange numbering systems. They probably make sense to someone, more likely who ever developed the numbering system. But I couldn’t figure them out. We rode on CR 5-13 to CR 5-10, which then turned into CR 5-14. They also have names; we passed CR 5-13C which is also called Peaceful Way. My GPS alternated between road numbers and road names, both which sometimes agreed with the atlas, but many times did not.
Since Ed’s GPS was loaded with the the routes I had made, sometimes he just followed the purple line. Many times, we followed the GPS compass double checked with the atlas. The latter was correct most of the time, and this proved to be our most reliable reference. Ultimately, we did a LOT of cross-referencing between maps.
Pulling over at the intersection in the small community of Fort Rock, we had to decide between visiting the state park first or the heritage museum. Greg had recommended the museum as well as the geological namesake, so we decided to go to the museum first.
We didn’t have far to go; just around the corner of the intersection. Nor was there much to choose from. Other than the café on the corner, a church across the street and another building down the street towards the east, Fort Rock was another small town in Eastern Oregon. I didn’t even see a gas pump anywhere. We headed west a short distance and pulled into a gravel parking lot. Two other vehicles were parked, but none obscured the view of the large red-brown ring of rock in the distance. It didn’t look far away, but I knew from the maps that it was several miles north of town.
The Fort Rock heritage museum reminds me of similar historical displays in Texas. The most similar that I am acquainted with is the Buffalo Gap Village. So similar are they that the universality of early settlement spans from coast to coast. Similarities in house construction, decorative accoutrement, hardware, furniture, even floor plans. Americana ranges far and wide across this nation, then and now, when modern houses seem to be cookie stamped on similar subdivided lots.
Despite the repetition, many little personal and individual touches were scattered. Even the outhouse (which is lacking in the Buffalo Gap Village; out houses are apparently omitted from Texas history). The main focal interest here is the setting. Many of these buildings had residents from various parts of the country who came looking for a new life in the ‘promise land.’ Publicized and touted as prime farm and range country, families bought land and built lives here, if only for a short time. They fled when their crops dried and cattle died. It was a hard life; when they had enough, they left and tried elsewhere.
Many of the buildings were moved here, renovated, and stabilized, placed in some semblance of a thriving community of ghosts that can’t leave the past behind. Instead, we’ve all left them behind, coming to visit and see how easy we have it now since the grandchildren of their grandchildren. And, after we’re done browsing amonst their lives, we leave and continue on with our own. Some remembering, others never really knowing.
Next: Hole-in-the-Ground
Morning greeted us with frost again, although not as cold as the previous morning. We moved the tent in the sun to dry the dew that dripped off of everything. Items that we left on or near the picnic table were wet from a nearby sprinkler that we missed. Otherwise, Ed’s trick of using rocks to deflect water from the sprinklers worked. This was our first of many encounters with sprinklers at camp sites.
We took our time preparing coffee and breakfast that morning. The heavy dew prevented us from packing the tent and other gear until the rising sun dried it. The socks I washed the night before were soaking wet from being dowsed with sprinklers. Neither of us had slept well or were motivated much to get out of our cozy down sleeping bags.
Finally getting back on the road, we turned north off Hwy 31 onto a gravel county road. Most of the county roads in Central and Eastern OR have strange numbering systems. They probably make sense to someone, more likely who ever developed the numbering system. But I couldn’t figure them out. We rode on CR 5-13 to CR 5-10, which then turned into CR 5-14. They also have names; we passed CR 5-13C which is also called Peaceful Way. My GPS alternated between road numbers and road names, both which sometimes agreed with the atlas, but many times did not.
Since Ed’s GPS was loaded with the the routes I had made, sometimes he just followed the purple line. Many times, we followed the GPS compass double checked with the atlas. The latter was correct most of the time, and this proved to be our most reliable reference. Ultimately, we did a LOT of cross-referencing between maps.
Pulling over at the intersection in the small community of Fort Rock, we had to decide between visiting the state park first or the heritage museum. Greg had recommended the museum as well as the geological namesake, so we decided to go to the museum first.
We didn’t have far to go; just around the corner of the intersection. Nor was there much to choose from. Other than the café on the corner, a church across the street and another building down the street towards the east, Fort Rock was another small town in Eastern Oregon. I didn’t even see a gas pump anywhere. We headed west a short distance and pulled into a gravel parking lot. Two other vehicles were parked, but none obscured the view of the large red-brown ring of rock in the distance. It didn’t look far away, but I knew from the maps that it was several miles north of town.
The Fort Rock heritage museum reminds me of similar historical displays in Texas. The most similar that I am acquainted with is the Buffalo Gap Village. So similar are they that the universality of early settlement spans from coast to coast. Similarities in house construction, decorative accoutrement, hardware, furniture, even floor plans. Americana ranges far and wide across this nation, then and now, when modern houses seem to be cookie stamped on similar subdivided lots.
Despite the repetition, many little personal and individual touches were scattered. Even the outhouse (which is lacking in the Buffalo Gap Village; out houses are apparently omitted from Texas history). The main focal interest here is the setting. Many of these buildings had residents from various parts of the country who came looking for a new life in the ‘promise land.’ Publicized and touted as prime farm and range country, families bought land and built lives here, if only for a short time. They fled when their crops dried and cattle died. It was a hard life; when they had enough, they left and tried elsewhere.
Many of the buildings were moved here, renovated, and stabilized, placed in some semblance of a thriving community of ghosts that can’t leave the past behind. Instead, we’ve all left them behind, coming to visit and see how easy we have it now since the grandchildren of their grandchildren. And, after we’re done browsing amonst their lives, we leave and continue on with our own. Some remembering, others never really knowing.
Next: Hole-in-the-Ground
Day 4: Hole-in-the-Earth and the Big Boom
After spending some time at the museum, we were both hungry. I had spotted a small restaurant east of the intersection where we arrived and we headed that way to check it out. It was relatively modern, not the wooden clapboard buildings found in most small towns in the OR back country. We were too hungry to care; as long as they had food.
The day was getting warm and we were both still out of kilter. While eating our lunch we discussed plans for the day. Both of us preferred a light day of riding, so we then investigated nearby camping options. Flipping through two local publications (out of nearby Christmas Valley), we discussed two candidates (the options were slim).
I had read conflicting information about the nearby state park; several online references mentioned a small campsite at the park (including the forest service map I had), a few others commented that no camping accommodations were at this state park. So we decided to ask the waitress. And learned that the latter is correct: no camping. There was, however, a primitive BLM campground several miles north of the state park.
The other candidate was a campground advertised with drinking water, showers and rest rooms. Ed was inclined to the campground and its amenities; I was indifferent to nearly everything except agreement that a light day would be welcome. Cell phone coverage was spotty, but Ed managed to get through to the campground and ask about vacancies. He was informed that there was plenty of tent spaces, in fact, there was no one else with tents at the time. A few RVs were there, but we were assured it was a former large horse ranch with a few camping sites, quiet and peaceful. And only 7 miles from Fort Rock.
We decided to postpone our visit to Fort Rock (the rock, not the town) until the next day. Instead, we would check out it's sibling -Hole-in-the-Ground- after we set up camp and unloaded all the gear from the bikes.
We pulled in a gravel drive alongside a pasture with a few horses and a small wooden building. This is where we checked in and, judging from when we walked inside, served as a small convenience store. The young lade behind the counter was a bit of a surprise: pierced nose, tattoos, and wild hair. But as friendly as can be. Like most people in Oregon, she offered the story of how she and her family got to be there. She and her husband, along with their five-year old son, decided to drop out of the rat race in Portland and move to 'the other side' (east of the Cascades). They had recently landed a job at the ranch to manage the place: redo their website, their brochures, pricing list, and general maintenance. In fact, they had only been there a little over a week.
We were directed to pick a spot on the green grass, which was being watered with sprinklers, and underneath the towering pine trees. The area was in the middle of a large circle formed by the gravel drive. A few picnic tables were scattered about, so we picked an area in the shade and near a table. They were kind enough to shut off the sprinklers for us. Six RVs of various sizes were parked under pine trees on one side of the outer perimeter of the circle. A caretaker's house was on the other side. Otherwise, it was quiet and peaceful. We had the interior of the circle all to ourselves.
After unloading gear and setting up camp, we prepared to go play.
After spending some time at the museum, we were both hungry. I had spotted a small restaurant east of the intersection where we arrived and we headed that way to check it out. It was relatively modern, not the wooden clapboard buildings found in most small towns in the OR back country. We were too hungry to care; as long as they had food.
The day was getting warm and we were both still out of kilter. While eating our lunch we discussed plans for the day. Both of us preferred a light day of riding, so we then investigated nearby camping options. Flipping through two local publications (out of nearby Christmas Valley), we discussed two candidates (the options were slim).
I had read conflicting information about the nearby state park; several online references mentioned a small campsite at the park (including the forest service map I had), a few others commented that no camping accommodations were at this state park. So we decided to ask the waitress. And learned that the latter is correct: no camping. There was, however, a primitive BLM campground several miles north of the state park.
The other candidate was a campground advertised with drinking water, showers and rest rooms. Ed was inclined to the campground and its amenities; I was indifferent to nearly everything except agreement that a light day would be welcome. Cell phone coverage was spotty, but Ed managed to get through to the campground and ask about vacancies. He was informed that there was plenty of tent spaces, in fact, there was no one else with tents at the time. A few RVs were there, but we were assured it was a former large horse ranch with a few camping sites, quiet and peaceful. And only 7 miles from Fort Rock.
We decided to postpone our visit to Fort Rock (the rock, not the town) until the next day. Instead, we would check out it's sibling -Hole-in-the-Ground- after we set up camp and unloaded all the gear from the bikes.
We pulled in a gravel drive alongside a pasture with a few horses and a small wooden building. This is where we checked in and, judging from when we walked inside, served as a small convenience store. The young lade behind the counter was a bit of a surprise: pierced nose, tattoos, and wild hair. But as friendly as can be. Like most people in Oregon, she offered the story of how she and her family got to be there. She and her husband, along with their five-year old son, decided to drop out of the rat race in Portland and move to 'the other side' (east of the Cascades). They had recently landed a job at the ranch to manage the place: redo their website, their brochures, pricing list, and general maintenance. In fact, they had only been there a little over a week.
We were directed to pick a spot on the green grass, which was being watered with sprinklers, and underneath the towering pine trees. The area was in the middle of a large circle formed by the gravel drive. A few picnic tables were scattered about, so we picked an area in the shade and near a table. They were kind enough to shut off the sprinklers for us. Six RVs of various sizes were parked under pine trees on one side of the outer perimeter of the circle. A caretaker's house was on the other side. Otherwise, it was quiet and peaceful. We had the interior of the circle all to ourselves.
After unloading gear and setting up camp, we prepared to go play.
Holes in the ground
Oregon's Fort Rock Basin is a field of siblings: maar siblings. Many millions of years ago, the Fort Rock Basin was a large lake formed from melting glaciers. It was also a time of volcanic activity (when was the PNW ever not a time of volcanic activity?). During crustal expansion and rotation, pressure has to go somewhere. In this Basin, scattered vents erupted with exploding rocks and exuded hot lava like a field with a bad case of acne.
When this hot magma reaches the outer surface of the small volcanoes and interacts with water, it hardens and forms a shell around the center of the vent. Continued eruptions blow rock and other matter out of the vent. With Hole-in-the-Ground, some of the ejected blocks are up to 26 ft in size, were ejected at speeds of up to ~650 ft/s and up to 2.3 miles away. Talk about bad gas.
Now what is left are broad, low-relief volcanic craters. These are maars, of which about 40 with different sizes dot the Fort Rock Basin. Two of the most well-known were probably created about the same time, but now look very different. One reason for that was water; one of the most powerful earth shapers.
The rim of Hole-in-the-Ground (HG) is relatively shallow compared to that of Fort Rock. Most of the latter crater is above ground whereas HG is just that: below the ground level. Most of the rock that formed the rims of both of these maar, as well as all the others, have eroded in time by wind and water. Sediments cover most of the FR Basin floor and waves of the ancient lake eroded FR's walls and breached the south section which is now completely missing.
HG is nearly a mile in diameter and about 500 feet below ground level and at 4340 feet above sea level. The rim is 115-215 feet above ground depending on where one stands. No matter where one stands in the crater or on the rim, the scale of size is deceiving. Only an aerial view can offer such a perspective, and for that I used our friend Google Earth.
From the highway we turned onto a sandy road weaving east through the tall pine trees. We passed what appeared to be a private ranch having a gathering or celebration of some sorts. Further east we tried to find our way on a maze of sandy roads that cut across sagebrush. Finally, we came to a rise over which we couldn't see anything. Getting off the bikes, we walked to the rise and saw what no words can describe. Stretched out in front and below was a giant dry tub. We could see some trees down in the bottom and dotting the way down, but they were so small they didn't look real.
I knew from reading an ADV report that a road went down into the maar to the bottom. I found traces of trails leading down when studying it on Google Earth before we left. When I asked Greg about it, he told with no hesitation not to try the trail and instead stick to the primitive road that winds down. Standing on the rim, I think I can see why.
Ed decided to try out the road down. Me, I was happy to stand on the rim and just take in this entire relic. Besides, someone had to photograph him riding down. He started out on the sandy road in the photo above and then was lost behind the pine trees. Again, the only way I could detect his location was the tell-tale yellow jacket. If you look very closely toward the bottom third in the photo below, you can barely see a yellow spot. That's him on his way down to the bottom of the maar.
The road winds down; the trail literally dives down. A drop off from the rim, it dives straight down to the bottom. In sand. Surely a trip for the adventurous, but I wasn't going to spring for it.
After he returned, he told me that the road down was like a motocross trail with sandy whoops and cambered curves. Having recently recovering from a serious pelvis injury, I was glad I chose to rim-sit. (maybe next time) We both geared up and rode along further along the perimeter of the rim to a 'landing point', a place to park and view the maar. Except, this day it was occupied by a gang of men and women set up to shoot at a target placed in the bottom of the hole. And what they were shooting with garnered respect. I'll let Ed explain the thing, but it was capable of hitting a target a mile away and making one's ears hurt.
We stood and chatted for awhile and Ed thanked them for holding their fire while he was down there. When they shot off the giant gun, they donned ear protectors; we covered our ears with our MX gloves and hands. I could feel the reverberation of the shots through my body. I can't imagine being a target of that thing. They had to use binoculars to check the target in the bottom of the maar. And for real close scrutiny, a couple of them crawled into a Mule ATV and tooled off down the sandy road to check out the target. They became spots against the sandbrush and sand of the maar in no time.
After leaving the shooter folks, who were camping at the spot (they had made something like a fort there; reminded me of the forts I made as a kid), we retraced our sandy tracks and returned to camp. We both availed ourselves of the shower and decided to take a hike up the ridge behind the ranch during sunset. From the top of the ridge, Fort Rock glistened in the rosy light of the setting sun.
Like many places we encountered in Oregon, trails dotted the landscape. So many 'come hithers', 'follow me', sandy, rocky, gravelly winding trails that criss-crossed everywhere. It's a pull, but sometimes you have to say "Not this time; but I will be back."
We were losing light fast as the sun sank behind the ridges and volcanic cones to the west. We made our camp site just before darkness. Spending a few moments enjoying the stars and smells at the picnic table before we begin to succumb to sleep. Wiley enjoyed it, too.
Oregon's Fort Rock Basin is a field of siblings: maar siblings. Many millions of years ago, the Fort Rock Basin was a large lake formed from melting glaciers. It was also a time of volcanic activity (when was the PNW ever not a time of volcanic activity?). During crustal expansion and rotation, pressure has to go somewhere. In this Basin, scattered vents erupted with exploding rocks and exuded hot lava like a field with a bad case of acne.
When this hot magma reaches the outer surface of the small volcanoes and interacts with water, it hardens and forms a shell around the center of the vent. Continued eruptions blow rock and other matter out of the vent. With Hole-in-the-Ground, some of the ejected blocks are up to 26 ft in size, were ejected at speeds of up to ~650 ft/s and up to 2.3 miles away. Talk about bad gas.
Now what is left are broad, low-relief volcanic craters. These are maars, of which about 40 with different sizes dot the Fort Rock Basin. Two of the most well-known were probably created about the same time, but now look very different. One reason for that was water; one of the most powerful earth shapers.
The rim of Hole-in-the-Ground (HG) is relatively shallow compared to that of Fort Rock. Most of the latter crater is above ground whereas HG is just that: below the ground level. Most of the rock that formed the rims of both of these maar, as well as all the others, have eroded in time by wind and water. Sediments cover most of the FR Basin floor and waves of the ancient lake eroded FR's walls and breached the south section which is now completely missing.
HG is nearly a mile in diameter and about 500 feet below ground level and at 4340 feet above sea level. The rim is 115-215 feet above ground depending on where one stands. No matter where one stands in the crater or on the rim, the scale of size is deceiving. Only an aerial view can offer such a perspective, and for that I used our friend Google Earth.
From the highway we turned onto a sandy road weaving east through the tall pine trees. We passed what appeared to be a private ranch having a gathering or celebration of some sorts. Further east we tried to find our way on a maze of sandy roads that cut across sagebrush. Finally, we came to a rise over which we couldn't see anything. Getting off the bikes, we walked to the rise and saw what no words can describe. Stretched out in front and below was a giant dry tub. We could see some trees down in the bottom and dotting the way down, but they were so small they didn't look real.
I knew from reading an ADV report that a road went down into the maar to the bottom. I found traces of trails leading down when studying it on Google Earth before we left. When I asked Greg about it, he told with no hesitation not to try the trail and instead stick to the primitive road that winds down. Standing on the rim, I think I can see why.
Ed decided to try out the road down. Me, I was happy to stand on the rim and just take in this entire relic. Besides, someone had to photograph him riding down. He started out on the sandy road in the photo above and then was lost behind the pine trees. Again, the only way I could detect his location was the tell-tale yellow jacket. If you look very closely toward the bottom third in the photo below, you can barely see a yellow spot. That's him on his way down to the bottom of the maar.
The road winds down; the trail literally dives down. A drop off from the rim, it dives straight down to the bottom. In sand. Surely a trip for the adventurous, but I wasn't going to spring for it.
After he returned, he told me that the road down was like a motocross trail with sandy whoops and cambered curves. Having recently recovering from a serious pelvis injury, I was glad I chose to rim-sit. (maybe next time) We both geared up and rode along further along the perimeter of the rim to a 'landing point', a place to park and view the maar. Except, this day it was occupied by a gang of men and women set up to shoot at a target placed in the bottom of the hole. And what they were shooting with garnered respect. I'll let Ed explain the thing, but it was capable of hitting a target a mile away and making one's ears hurt.
We stood and chatted for awhile and Ed thanked them for holding their fire while he was down there. When they shot off the giant gun, they donned ear protectors; we covered our ears with our MX gloves and hands. I could feel the reverberation of the shots through my body. I can't imagine being a target of that thing. They had to use binoculars to check the target in the bottom of the maar. And for real close scrutiny, a couple of them crawled into a Mule ATV and tooled off down the sandy road to check out the target. They became spots against the sandbrush and sand of the maar in no time.
After leaving the shooter folks, who were camping at the spot (they had made something like a fort there; reminded me of the forts I made as a kid), we retraced our sandy tracks and returned to camp. We both availed ourselves of the shower and decided to take a hike up the ridge behind the ranch during sunset. From the top of the ridge, Fort Rock glistened in the rosy light of the setting sun.
Like many places we encountered in Oregon, trails dotted the landscape. So many 'come hithers', 'follow me', sandy, rocky, gravelly winding trails that criss-crossed everywhere. It's a pull, but sometimes you have to say "Not this time; but I will be back."
We were losing light fast as the sun sank behind the ridges and volcanic cones to the west. We made our camp site just before darkness. Spending a few moments enjoying the stars and smells at the picnic table before we begin to succumb to sleep. Wiley enjoyed it, too.
ed29
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The noise maker was a 50 caliber rifle. A steel plate in the bottom of the hole was leaned against a drum. A roughly 8 inch circle was painted in hi-viz orange as a bullseye. The shooters used an optical range finder to measure distance to the target.... Are you sitting down?? 1,400 yards to the circle. I do not remember what optics were on the rifle, but they had scored one hit on the circle and several hits on the plate steel from three quarters of a mile! I am impressed.
Day Four narrative
Hopefully this works....
Hopefully this works....
ed29
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- Joined
- Apr 1, 2007
- Messages
- 5,174
- Reaction score
- 17
- Location
- Terlingua Tx
- First Name
- Ed
- Last Name
- Hegarty
If you do a quote of this post you will see what I trimmed out of the link to get it going.
Which is weird because I trimmed off what I had in a previous embedded video, and which worked then. This time it didn't.
*shrug*
Thanks for fixing it.
Day 5: Fort Rock
Got up, got outa bag, dragged a face mask over my head....
Found my way out the tent and had a cup
A coyote barked and I went into a......
Oh, wait. Wrong song lyrics.
It was cold. As usual. A bit of frost nipping the air, but like most mornings, the air warms as the sun rises. Had breakfast, broke camp and headed back to the town of Fort Rock. This time to visit its namesake.
There are several back roads to approach Fort Rock and we took the easy way. It takes me a few warm hours in the morning to warm up inside and out; I wasn't keen on conquering sandy back roads that early, but I told Ed he could go ahead and I'd meet him there. He opted to join me for the short stretch of pavement before we cut off on gravel to approach the place from the south.
No one was there when we arrived. Except for the camp host and their big travel trailer, and even they weren't in sight. As we discovered later, they were on their morning hikes in and around the giant maar.
About 4,460 feet in diameter, the perimeter walls around this ancient volcanic relic are about 200 feet high. The stone walls resemble palisades of an old fort, hence the name given it back in the 1920's. Like Hole-in-the-Ground, it was born of violent activity in the depths of a shallow lake. Except that when the molten magma met with lake mud, it spewed both that and the bits and pieces, along with ash up in the air. Much of the ash fell around the base of the vent and piled up to form a tuff ring around the center. Many of the large blocks blown out of the valley floor melded in with the tuff ring.
Waves from the lake eroded the walls and created terraces about midway up the rim wall. These are very obvious and if you hike up the wall and along the edges where the south wall was (waves breached this wall and collapsed it), sections of the rock wall are smoothed and flowing in the patterns of waves hitting and rolling away from the surfaces. Because the ring comprises of tuff, mud and various blocks of crust, the textures and colors vary. A lot of fun to photograph.
Looking at Google Earth again, you can see how the walls raise well above the valley floor, and the remnants of the base of the south wall. Also the network of hiking paths throughout the interior. Hiking inside it was awesome, affording an intimate view of what happens to volcanic vents and craters over time.
And walk we did. We examined the rock and the plant life inside the maar, amazed that plant grew in there. Then found out that the immediate area is famous for several archeological findings, such as a large catch (collection) of grass sandals and other human artifacts, dated human artifacts dated ~ 9,000 to 10,000 years ago. The camp host also related several stories about how local cattle drivers would use the interior of the maar for holding their cattle for the night and taking shelter against winds and storms.
The day was beginning to warm up quite a bit. I was glad I had changed out of my boot and into sandals, but the riding pants and several layers on top were causing me to sweat like a leaky sieve. Nor did I remember to bring my hydration pack on the hike. We decided to call it quits and head for water and shade.
On the way back to the bikes, I saw smoke rising in a plume and thought, 'Oh, that can't be good.....'. Getting closer and using my camera to zoom in, the image confirmed my suspicions.
Several other people returning from their hikes or pulling into the parking lot were gathering around watching now. The metal building housed hay or alfalfa (which is grown all over the place there) and it was literally melting at that point. We saw a State Park Ranger truck speed down the road towards the fire, but no other emergency vehicles came while we stood drinking water and watching the inferno.
A small red fire engine finally arrived and the smoke changed color, indicating water was being put on the fire. But by that time, it wasn't going to save anything; the fire was too hot and the building too far gone with all that stored dry organic material feeding it.
We headed back into town to search for lunch and found that plus more at an old wooden place called the Watering Hole. More on that later.
Got up, got outa bag, dragged a face mask over my head....
Found my way out the tent and had a cup
A coyote barked and I went into a......
Oh, wait. Wrong song lyrics.
It was cold. As usual. A bit of frost nipping the air, but like most mornings, the air warms as the sun rises. Had breakfast, broke camp and headed back to the town of Fort Rock. This time to visit its namesake.
There are several back roads to approach Fort Rock and we took the easy way. It takes me a few warm hours in the morning to warm up inside and out; I wasn't keen on conquering sandy back roads that early, but I told Ed he could go ahead and I'd meet him there. He opted to join me for the short stretch of pavement before we cut off on gravel to approach the place from the south.
No one was there when we arrived. Except for the camp host and their big travel trailer, and even they weren't in sight. As we discovered later, they were on their morning hikes in and around the giant maar.
About 4,460 feet in diameter, the perimeter walls around this ancient volcanic relic are about 200 feet high. The stone walls resemble palisades of an old fort, hence the name given it back in the 1920's. Like Hole-in-the-Ground, it was born of violent activity in the depths of a shallow lake. Except that when the molten magma met with lake mud, it spewed both that and the bits and pieces, along with ash up in the air. Much of the ash fell around the base of the vent and piled up to form a tuff ring around the center. Many of the large blocks blown out of the valley floor melded in with the tuff ring.
Waves from the lake eroded the walls and created terraces about midway up the rim wall. These are very obvious and if you hike up the wall and along the edges where the south wall was (waves breached this wall and collapsed it), sections of the rock wall are smoothed and flowing in the patterns of waves hitting and rolling away from the surfaces. Because the ring comprises of tuff, mud and various blocks of crust, the textures and colors vary. A lot of fun to photograph.
Looking at Google Earth again, you can see how the walls raise well above the valley floor, and the remnants of the base of the south wall. Also the network of hiking paths throughout the interior. Hiking inside it was awesome, affording an intimate view of what happens to volcanic vents and craters over time.
And walk we did. We examined the rock and the plant life inside the maar, amazed that plant grew in there. Then found out that the immediate area is famous for several archeological findings, such as a large catch (collection) of grass sandals and other human artifacts, dated human artifacts dated ~ 9,000 to 10,000 years ago. The camp host also related several stories about how local cattle drivers would use the interior of the maar for holding their cattle for the night and taking shelter against winds and storms.
The day was beginning to warm up quite a bit. I was glad I had changed out of my boot and into sandals, but the riding pants and several layers on top were causing me to sweat like a leaky sieve. Nor did I remember to bring my hydration pack on the hike. We decided to call it quits and head for water and shade.
On the way back to the bikes, I saw smoke rising in a plume and thought, 'Oh, that can't be good.....'. Getting closer and using my camera to zoom in, the image confirmed my suspicions.
Several other people returning from their hikes or pulling into the parking lot were gathering around watching now. The metal building housed hay or alfalfa (which is grown all over the place there) and it was literally melting at that point. We saw a State Park Ranger truck speed down the road towards the fire, but no other emergency vehicles came while we stood drinking water and watching the inferno.
A small red fire engine finally arrived and the smoke changed color, indicating water was being put on the fire. But by that time, it wasn't going to save anything; the fire was too hot and the building too far gone with all that stored dry organic material feeding it.
We headed back into town to search for lunch and found that plus more at an old wooden place called the Watering Hole. More on that later.
Re: Green Mountain
Walking into The Watering Hole is like walking into someone's kitchen. Well, a kitchen in the back country fifty years ago. At first I felt like the stranger that I was, as if accidentally entering someone's house; that feeling of entering their private life. As it was, we were. Because The Watering Hole was obviously the place where the locals 'hang out'. And there aren't many locals.
We sat at a long table in the corner kiddy-corner to an L-shaped bar. Like the exterior, the interior was old worn wood. Maybe like the inside of an old tree with a few windows. A few lights lit the bar area, the ubiquitous over-the-bar TV glared in the dark and only a few people occupied the bar stools.
A quick nod of acknowledgment by the older woman behind the bar and a confirmation of our question if lunch is served there. A glance at the menu revealed the typical small town food fare and I chose a hamburger with chips and iced tea. Then I sat back and watched the real town of Fort Rock.
The dominating topic of conversation was the barn fire. With chuckles and comments, we inferred that this was not an uncommon event. Additionally, we learned something of the 'goings on' around the area. The area communities -Fort Rock, Silver Lake, and Christmas Valley- don't necessarily like sharing services, including emergency services. Silver Lake might send a fire truck, but Christmas Valley won't, and if any assistance comes, it is usually an hour or two too late. (as we later discovered, this all extends to the National Forest Service, BLM and State Parks as well). The locals don't seem bothered much by it, they all laugh and make fun of the others and themselves. I guess they don't have much else to do.
When asked if we had seen the fire, we replied that we had from the state park at the Rock, and got some mighty good photos of the fire's progress. Ironically, one of them circulated a printed color photograph of the fire. When I asked how they did that, considering the fire had only started no more than 30 minutes ago, an older local gentleman showed us how. On the end of the table in front of us was a small white box with a handle. It was a color printer. I was amazed; where the heck have I been? I live in a big city and wasn't even aware these tiny on-demand printers existed.
The kind gentleman seemed amused at my ignorance -and rightly so- and proceeded to demonstrate the little boxes prowess. He pulled out his little point-and-shoot camera, took a shot of Ed and I at our table, plugged his memory card into the little box. Out of another slot rolled a color print of us sitting at that very spot; it reminded me of a tongue sticking out with "Nanny nanny boo boo" as the gentleman beamed with pride. I played along with with it.
Exclaiming my amazement prompted him to print another photograph to give to us as a remembrance. When asked by the woman behind the bar where we were from, everyone turned in amazement when we replied "Fort Worth, Texas".
"Really? You rode all that way on those little bikes out there?"
"Well, no. We cheated half way by trailering the bikes and parking the truck in Prineville. We are living off the bikes for 14 days while we travel around central and eastern Oregon."
"Fort Worth, huh? I have a relative there..... Well, you are going to be famous now."
The bar woman wrote "Fort Worth, TX" on the first photograph and posted it on a wall with other photos of visitors. So in a sense, we are still there, amidst other selected visitors to The Watering Hole.
We enjoyed the conversation with the locals as they came in and out as if it was part of their daily routine. And we were no longer strangers in someone else's house.
Green Mountain
After a fulfilling lunch, we decided to find a lookout tower that I had discovered before we left. I wasn't too sure on its exact location, nor how to get there. Ed had a waypoint on his GPS for the possible location of the tower and set his GPS to 'find' a route to it. As was a common experience, MapSource was wrong.
Riding on pavement for a few miles, we turned north on a dirt road following Ed's GPS route. After a few miles Ed turned east (I think) and onward we rode on gravel. But something didn't seem quite right. A minivan turned on the same road in front of us and we followed it. I don't recall what little intuition was nagging me, but the further we rode, the more it grew into "Wrong turn!!" Unable to communicate this nagging doubt to Ed, I settled into following with an "Oh well, we'll find out soon enough!"
And we did. The minivan turned into a ranch with a man standing by the gate. Out piled a woman with small child, a youngish man driving, all attired in rough working clothes. These weren't tourists; they lived here. Ed stopped, I stopped and Ed chatted with the man at the gate while the others glared at us. Unable to hear the conversation, I surmised from gestures that my doubts were confirmed: we took the wrong turn.
Ed turned around on the bike and pulled up beside me, "This isn't a public county road; it's a private road." All I could do was nod; I already knew. We retraced our route to the main county road and continued northeast. We were gaining elevation and the area vegetation changed from low profile scrub sage to tall gnarled junipers and occasional lodgepole pine trees. Dark brownish red and black lava rocks scattered the ground and the tan sandy road gravel became brick-colored crushed lava rock. It was warm and dry.
We turned on a narrow road south and continued on watching for any signs indicating the Green Mountain lookout tower. A few winding miles south, we found a sign for the tower and another sign that exclaimed "CLOSED". Crap.
We stopped on the road and conferred what to do. Ed exclaimed "I'm riding up there to see", which he did. I stayed, turned the engine off and enjoyed a long drink of cool water from my hydration pack. The silence was wonderful.
Ed finally returned and reported that the tower was manned and we were invited to come up for a visit. I was thrilled.
At the crest of the mountain was a lookout tower that was short and quite modern compared to the one I used to man in Maine a few decades ago. The lookout station squatted on a big box of cement block with a deck, which impressed me. Of course, that probably reflects the difference between national forest (of which this one was) and state forestry departments.
We were greeted at the top by a US National Forest Ranger, Mickey, who invited us in and related the history of not only the tower but with tidbits of the entire area. Living in Lakeview, he had grown up in this area as did his grandparents and those before them. We were treated to personal stories of Reub Long, an Oregon favorite and famous in the Central Oregon area; how his grandparents used to travel to dances and outings with Reub Long as the host, stories passed on about Long's horses and love for Central Oregon and, most famously, Long's sense of humor.
When I spotted a thin column of smoke in the distance, I asked which way was Fort Rock. He pointed toward the smoke and we told him we came from there and watched the fire at it's earliest. We then listened to more politics of the towns and the National Forest Service; how the NFS doesn't meddle in the area towns' business, including emergencies, and the subtle tension between BLM, NFS and the State. I rolled my eyes, snickering inside and thinking 'Can't we just all get along?'
Yes, that is the barn fire and Fort Rock from the lookout tower.
I goggled over the huge azimuth in the center of the tower; this was SO much bigger and modern than that in the tower on Streaked Mountain! The surface even contained a topo map with the long/lat data points. I was almost drooling.
When I explained that I did tower duty for the state of Maine, but three decades ago, there was an instant spark of almost kinship. We compared tower stories, and I related how old all the equipment and structure was compared to this tower. He related his routine and I related mine; much of it was still the same: weather reporting, log keeping, lightening storms, etc. I was infused with nostalgia of how much I enjoyed my term in the tower; the solitude, peacefulness, the opportunities to see things -wildlife, sunrises and sunsets, storms, etc- that others don't from the perspective of elevation and a 360-degree view. That empathy elicited a change in his demeanor towards us; the usual reservations for 'tourists' were replaced with a genuine and shared experiences and warmth. Which prompted him to share more stories.
In response to a quizzical expression on his face, my chuckle and nod at one story must have alerted him. He had mentioned a scientist at Oregon State University whom I had known as a rather eccentric character (rather, the rest of the academic community thought of him as such). I liked him because he was not intimidated or impressed with typical academic arrogance and he was outspoken about it. Which sometimes rubbed his colleagues the wrong way, but then again, what does one expect from a range scientist. They are often a breed apart because they grew up on the range and in the back country; they aren't easily impressed and this infuses their sense of humor. As you can see in the next photograph.
When we mentioned our plans to head to the Sand Dunes and Lost Forest, we were warned that our timing was not the best. Mickey related that the recreation area there was usually crowded this time of year (it was still Labor Day weekend; I think) and he has seen dozens of people air-flighted out of there due to the many accidents and injuries of crazy people on their ATVs, bikes and other recreational vehicles. We nodded and kept that information for future consideration in planning our next day.
Ed and I shared a knowing glance interpreted as 'Time to go!'. Mickey had spent the night in the tower and seemed ready to go back to human company because he chatted almost endlessly. He was headed home to Lakeview for the weekend unless called in to man the tower again (which he was). He suggested we camp at a less-known primitive BLM campground not far below the tower. He also provided us with approximate milage to Crack-in-the-Ground and Christmas Valley, both of which were south of the tower and mountain.
Back on the bikes, we agreed to check out the BLM campground and rode on to find it. Following Mickey's directions, Ed rode up a narrow gravel road to check out the sites and reported back that they were indeed primitive, but had picnic tables and a privy. Since we needed supplies for the night and morning (including gas), we chose and staked out our campsite and geared back up to ride the 12 miles into Christmas Valley.
Riding the road south was a blast; it wound around and down out of the mountain, past the pull-off for Crack-in-the-Ground and into the valley. The terrain changed from lava to sand and a few times we both did a few slides on the curves. Mickey's mileage was a bit off by a few miles, but no matter. What we needed to do, however, was get into town, gas up, get supplies, and be back to camp before dark.
The gas and convenience store on the road just east of town was a bit crowded. Inside was an odd mix of locals, tourists, and everyone else. I think some of you can empathize with going into a strange place and being haunted by an odd feeling of being watched, judged and just hovering weirdness. This was the only time on the entire trip where this feeling was so prevalent I couldn't wait to get out of the store and out of town.
We piled up on food stuffs for dinner and breakfast, as well as two cold bottled Starbuck coffees for a treat, and headed back to camp. I was glad to get back on the sandy road (and skirt widely the blown sand dune that crossed half the road in one spot!) and head back north. Again, we had fun on the windy narrow road and I enjoyed how the scenery and smells changed as we rode higher into the forest.
We set up camp, had our dinner and sat to enjoy the view. Our lone neighbor, who occupied his tent, kept his distance from us. He tacitly made it known to Ed that he wasn't really excited about having company there, but he didn't verbalize it. He only asked if we would be playing radio or music. All I heard were coyotes and owls.
Walking into The Watering Hole is like walking into someone's kitchen. Well, a kitchen in the back country fifty years ago. At first I felt like the stranger that I was, as if accidentally entering someone's house; that feeling of entering their private life. As it was, we were. Because The Watering Hole was obviously the place where the locals 'hang out'. And there aren't many locals.
We sat at a long table in the corner kiddy-corner to an L-shaped bar. Like the exterior, the interior was old worn wood. Maybe like the inside of an old tree with a few windows. A few lights lit the bar area, the ubiquitous over-the-bar TV glared in the dark and only a few people occupied the bar stools.
A quick nod of acknowledgment by the older woman behind the bar and a confirmation of our question if lunch is served there. A glance at the menu revealed the typical small town food fare and I chose a hamburger with chips and iced tea. Then I sat back and watched the real town of Fort Rock.
The dominating topic of conversation was the barn fire. With chuckles and comments, we inferred that this was not an uncommon event. Additionally, we learned something of the 'goings on' around the area. The area communities -Fort Rock, Silver Lake, and Christmas Valley- don't necessarily like sharing services, including emergency services. Silver Lake might send a fire truck, but Christmas Valley won't, and if any assistance comes, it is usually an hour or two too late. (as we later discovered, this all extends to the National Forest Service, BLM and State Parks as well). The locals don't seem bothered much by it, they all laugh and make fun of the others and themselves. I guess they don't have much else to do.
When asked if we had seen the fire, we replied that we had from the state park at the Rock, and got some mighty good photos of the fire's progress. Ironically, one of them circulated a printed color photograph of the fire. When I asked how they did that, considering the fire had only started no more than 30 minutes ago, an older local gentleman showed us how. On the end of the table in front of us was a small white box with a handle. It was a color printer. I was amazed; where the heck have I been? I live in a big city and wasn't even aware these tiny on-demand printers existed.
The kind gentleman seemed amused at my ignorance -and rightly so- and proceeded to demonstrate the little boxes prowess. He pulled out his little point-and-shoot camera, took a shot of Ed and I at our table, plugged his memory card into the little box. Out of another slot rolled a color print of us sitting at that very spot; it reminded me of a tongue sticking out with "Nanny nanny boo boo" as the gentleman beamed with pride. I played along with with it.
Exclaiming my amazement prompted him to print another photograph to give to us as a remembrance. When asked by the woman behind the bar where we were from, everyone turned in amazement when we replied "Fort Worth, Texas".
"Really? You rode all that way on those little bikes out there?"
"Well, no. We cheated half way by trailering the bikes and parking the truck in Prineville. We are living off the bikes for 14 days while we travel around central and eastern Oregon."
"Fort Worth, huh? I have a relative there..... Well, you are going to be famous now."
The bar woman wrote "Fort Worth, TX" on the first photograph and posted it on a wall with other photos of visitors. So in a sense, we are still there, amidst other selected visitors to The Watering Hole.
We enjoyed the conversation with the locals as they came in and out as if it was part of their daily routine. And we were no longer strangers in someone else's house.
Green Mountain
After a fulfilling lunch, we decided to find a lookout tower that I had discovered before we left. I wasn't too sure on its exact location, nor how to get there. Ed had a waypoint on his GPS for the possible location of the tower and set his GPS to 'find' a route to it. As was a common experience, MapSource was wrong.
Riding on pavement for a few miles, we turned north on a dirt road following Ed's GPS route. After a few miles Ed turned east (I think) and onward we rode on gravel. But something didn't seem quite right. A minivan turned on the same road in front of us and we followed it. I don't recall what little intuition was nagging me, but the further we rode, the more it grew into "Wrong turn!!" Unable to communicate this nagging doubt to Ed, I settled into following with an "Oh well, we'll find out soon enough!"
And we did. The minivan turned into a ranch with a man standing by the gate. Out piled a woman with small child, a youngish man driving, all attired in rough working clothes. These weren't tourists; they lived here. Ed stopped, I stopped and Ed chatted with the man at the gate while the others glared at us. Unable to hear the conversation, I surmised from gestures that my doubts were confirmed: we took the wrong turn.
Ed turned around on the bike and pulled up beside me, "This isn't a public county road; it's a private road." All I could do was nod; I already knew. We retraced our route to the main county road and continued northeast. We were gaining elevation and the area vegetation changed from low profile scrub sage to tall gnarled junipers and occasional lodgepole pine trees. Dark brownish red and black lava rocks scattered the ground and the tan sandy road gravel became brick-colored crushed lava rock. It was warm and dry.
We turned on a narrow road south and continued on watching for any signs indicating the Green Mountain lookout tower. A few winding miles south, we found a sign for the tower and another sign that exclaimed "CLOSED". Crap.
We stopped on the road and conferred what to do. Ed exclaimed "I'm riding up there to see", which he did. I stayed, turned the engine off and enjoyed a long drink of cool water from my hydration pack. The silence was wonderful.
Ed finally returned and reported that the tower was manned and we were invited to come up for a visit. I was thrilled.
At the crest of the mountain was a lookout tower that was short and quite modern compared to the one I used to man in Maine a few decades ago. The lookout station squatted on a big box of cement block with a deck, which impressed me. Of course, that probably reflects the difference between national forest (of which this one was) and state forestry departments.
We were greeted at the top by a US National Forest Ranger, Mickey, who invited us in and related the history of not only the tower but with tidbits of the entire area. Living in Lakeview, he had grown up in this area as did his grandparents and those before them. We were treated to personal stories of Reub Long, an Oregon favorite and famous in the Central Oregon area; how his grandparents used to travel to dances and outings with Reub Long as the host, stories passed on about Long's horses and love for Central Oregon and, most famously, Long's sense of humor.
When I spotted a thin column of smoke in the distance, I asked which way was Fort Rock. He pointed toward the smoke and we told him we came from there and watched the fire at it's earliest. We then listened to more politics of the towns and the National Forest Service; how the NFS doesn't meddle in the area towns' business, including emergencies, and the subtle tension between BLM, NFS and the State. I rolled my eyes, snickering inside and thinking 'Can't we just all get along?'
I goggled over the huge azimuth in the center of the tower; this was SO much bigger and modern than that in the tower on Streaked Mountain! The surface even contained a topo map with the long/lat data points. I was almost drooling.
When I explained that I did tower duty for the state of Maine, but three decades ago, there was an instant spark of almost kinship. We compared tower stories, and I related how old all the equipment and structure was compared to this tower. He related his routine and I related mine; much of it was still the same: weather reporting, log keeping, lightening storms, etc. I was infused with nostalgia of how much I enjoyed my term in the tower; the solitude, peacefulness, the opportunities to see things -wildlife, sunrises and sunsets, storms, etc- that others don't from the perspective of elevation and a 360-degree view. That empathy elicited a change in his demeanor towards us; the usual reservations for 'tourists' were replaced with a genuine and shared experiences and warmth. Which prompted him to share more stories.
In response to a quizzical expression on his face, my chuckle and nod at one story must have alerted him. He had mentioned a scientist at Oregon State University whom I had known as a rather eccentric character (rather, the rest of the academic community thought of him as such). I liked him because he was not intimidated or impressed with typical academic arrogance and he was outspoken about it. Which sometimes rubbed his colleagues the wrong way, but then again, what does one expect from a range scientist. They are often a breed apart because they grew up on the range and in the back country; they aren't easily impressed and this infuses their sense of humor. As you can see in the next photograph.
When we mentioned our plans to head to the Sand Dunes and Lost Forest, we were warned that our timing was not the best. Mickey related that the recreation area there was usually crowded this time of year (it was still Labor Day weekend; I think) and he has seen dozens of people air-flighted out of there due to the many accidents and injuries of crazy people on their ATVs, bikes and other recreational vehicles. We nodded and kept that information for future consideration in planning our next day.
Ed and I shared a knowing glance interpreted as 'Time to go!'. Mickey had spent the night in the tower and seemed ready to go back to human company because he chatted almost endlessly. He was headed home to Lakeview for the weekend unless called in to man the tower again (which he was). He suggested we camp at a less-known primitive BLM campground not far below the tower. He also provided us with approximate milage to Crack-in-the-Ground and Christmas Valley, both of which were south of the tower and mountain.
Back on the bikes, we agreed to check out the BLM campground and rode on to find it. Following Mickey's directions, Ed rode up a narrow gravel road to check out the sites and reported back that they were indeed primitive, but had picnic tables and a privy. Since we needed supplies for the night and morning (including gas), we chose and staked out our campsite and geared back up to ride the 12 miles into Christmas Valley.
Riding the road south was a blast; it wound around and down out of the mountain, past the pull-off for Crack-in-the-Ground and into the valley. The terrain changed from lava to sand and a few times we both did a few slides on the curves. Mickey's mileage was a bit off by a few miles, but no matter. What we needed to do, however, was get into town, gas up, get supplies, and be back to camp before dark.
The gas and convenience store on the road just east of town was a bit crowded. Inside was an odd mix of locals, tourists, and everyone else. I think some of you can empathize with going into a strange place and being haunted by an odd feeling of being watched, judged and just hovering weirdness. This was the only time on the entire trip where this feeling was so prevalent I couldn't wait to get out of the store and out of town.
We piled up on food stuffs for dinner and breakfast, as well as two cold bottled Starbuck coffees for a treat, and headed back to camp. I was glad to get back on the sandy road (and skirt widely the blown sand dune that crossed half the road in one spot!) and head back north. Again, we had fun on the windy narrow road and I enjoyed how the scenery and smells changed as we rode higher into the forest.
We set up camp, had our dinner and sat to enjoy the view. Our lone neighbor, who occupied his tent, kept his distance from us. He tacitly made it known to Ed that he wasn't really excited about having company there, but he didn't verbalize it. He only asked if we would be playing radio or music. All I heard were coyotes and owls.
A Day of Play at Hole-in-the-Ground
- Joined
- Feb 28, 2003
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- Location
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- First Name
- Scott
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- Friday
I really didn't think anyone was reading this.
Reading this? No, we're there WITH you. HB