Lookout Mountain

I'm absent-minded, I'll admit it. If there was such an award, I'd probably win the "Most Likely to Forget to Hike With Pants On" trophy. On occasion, I've been known to forget things like food, camera, boots, and hiking pants. But on that last one, let it be known I did not hike pants-less, I just had to hike with the wrong kind of pants. Anyway, I don't need help forgetting things and if life were to inadvertently misplace my gear somehow, my first thought would be that it was my own fault; especially when I'm hiking alone, like on this camping trip in the Ochoco Mountains in central Oregon.

A waving plum of baneberry blooms

The first mile or so of the Lookout Mountain Trail angled uphill and while the day sort of wavered between overcast and sunny, the overall feel was muggy and warm. Naturally, I worked up a thirst but when I pulled on my drinking tube, a mix of mostly air and very little water came through. What the...? I KNOW I filled up my hydration bladder with water before driving to the trailhead, so some more nefarious force was at work here. I sat down on the trail and pulled my bladder out for further inspection. There was about a half-cup cup of water contained within but there was nary a sign of leakage, tear, hole or any other explanation of why I was out of water. Likewise, my pack was dry so it could not have dripped empty while stowed inside the pack. I mean, I just KNOW I filled it up at the campground this morning, but in the absence of any logical explanation for the parched desert that was now my hydration bladder, it must have been my fault again. But dammit, I KNOW I filled it!

The trail provided plenty of quality meadow time

At any rate, I needed to deal with the dry reality of my situation and figure out what to do with this hike. Currently I was in a shady forest and per my GPS, there were springs and creeks nearby. However, there are also abandoned mines nearby and hikers are warned to look and not touch the historical tunnels, buildings, and equipment lying around the vicinity. The reason for the warn-off has something to do with mercury poisoning. So, the first decision made was to avoid refilling from the creeks and springs running across the trail, I wasn't desperate enough to want to risk drinking mercury or any other heavy metals that may have been contained in the water. The second decision was to curtail the full loop hike and just to walk until I was out of water. The lesser decision involved with that was to nurse the remaining water and try to stretch out its lifetime and as a result, the amount of mileage I could get in on this hike.

A small ball of ballhead waterleaf

So, continuing on uphill through the forest it was, while I kept analyzing and reanalyzing the bladder mystery and replaying in my head in an endless loop, my filling up the water bladder this morning. The forest was a bit drier than what I'm customarily used to in the Cascades and the trees tended toward ponderosa pines instead of Douglas fir. However, the wildflower species were friendly and familiar, consisting of old friends such as larkspur, balsamroot, baneberry, star-flowered Solomon's seal, and paintbrush. Less familar were profuse quantities of a low-growing bluebell and balls of ballhead waterleaf, which has a rather unique habit of blooming in small globes at the base of the plant.

One of the larger meadows on the trail

The trail was at this point, angling up and across a forested ridge when the forest disappeared completely while the trail skirted a large meadow consisting of knee-high hellebore plants, a.k.a. corn lily, Off in the distance, were a series of higher mountains without any particular distinctive or dominant peak on the skyline, so we'll just call them by the rather generic term of Ochoco Mountains. I probably would have enjoyed the scene a lot more without the worry about water.

Just gotta love a level trail in sagebrush

Shortly after leaving the meadow behind, the path made a sharp switchback and attained the ridge crest. The back side of the crest was more like a plateau, although it did slope gently downhill away from the trail. Most of that forest I'd been hiking through was now gone, supplanted instead by dense growths of knee-high sagebrush punctuated with the occasional juniper tree. Wow, that was a sudden and abrupt change in vegetation, clime, and overall vibe! I briefly entertained a notion of walking to what I perceived to be the edge of the plateau so see what I could see, but the sagebrush stretched out for a half-mile from the trail or more and that would have been a whole lot of leg scratching as a result. Best to stay on trail, Richard.

Mount Jefferson looms ghostly on the skyline

Ah, the trail. All trails should be like this. The trail was flat and just sort of wandered aimlessly though the low brush, generally hugging the abrupt eastern rim of the plateau. So while I didn't get to see much to the west, openings on the east side provided views of the surrounding Ochoco Mountains. Can't diss the west-side view too much though, because snowy Mount Jefferson was visible throughout, with occasional glimpses of distant Mount Hood and the Three Sisters, depending on the orientation of the trail at that particular moment.

Western peony was yet another sign I was not in my Cascades

But really, this hike was all about the rock gardens atop the plateau, which was part of Lookout Mountain, if not the actual summit thereof. The clay soil had baked to the consistency of hardened rock and besides which, there was plenty of actual hardened rock strewn about too. The wildflowers were putting on an impressive multi-hued display, although a passing hiker told me that this was nothing, the flowers would "really" start blooming about two weeks hence.  

This balsamroot protected by guard spider

At any rate, serious hiking came to a screeching halt and a lot of my trail time was now spent lying prone on the ground, staring at wildflowers and insects through the viewfinder. As is customary during wildflower season, the blooms were well populated by buzzing bees, wasps, butterflies, moths, flies, and plenty of spiders eating and munching on said bees, wasps, butterflies, moths, and flies. 

Dwarf hesperochiron abounded in the rock gardens

Alas, I was now out of water, so I turned around at a muddy spring at a little over three miles in, and headed back the way I had come. Because I was getting thirsty (the lack of water becomes a mental condition, too) by the time I reached the cluster of trail junctions leading to some of the historical mines, I bypassed the mines and just charged downhill to the car, which had a jug of warm water in it waiting for me.

View to nearby Duncan Butte from the trail

When I arrived at the car and began divesting myself of some of my hiking equipment, the water mystery was solved. The back end of the Jeep was sopping wet, leading me to conclude that a suitcase or container of camping equipment had sat on the bite valve of the bladder, leading it to empty its liquid contents into the carpet. So, I'm still certifiably sane, I just knew I had filled it up!

A beetle in its tiny home

For more photos of this hike, please visit the Flickr album.

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Chimney Rock

Short and sweet! That just about sums up this hike to a rocky landmark overlooking the Crooked River in central Oregon. Yup, you read that right, I went to the foreign lands of central Oregon for a three-day sojourn away from my beloved west-side Cascades. After the nearly five-hour drive to get there, it wasn't like a ten mile, three thousand foot climb was going to be in the works anyway.

The weathered texture of a juniper trunk

After leaving the town of Prineville, the drive up the Crooked River was half the fun. The Crooked River was just that, snaking two and fro in a wide canyon with green pastures and farms populating the canyon floor. But then the wide canyon narrowed considerably by the time the road reached the official boundary of the Crooked Wild and Scenic River. Me, I would have called it the Wild and Scenic Crooked River because that sounds a little more grammatically correct but I don't make the BLM signs. At any rate, the canyon was fairly narrow with imposing walls of rimrock surrounding the snaking river constrained within the defile.

Up the draw we go!

Naturally, it stood to reason that any trail leaving the river and getting to the top of the rim would be steep and taxing and the Chimney Rock Trail did not disappoint in that regard. Beginning under an imposing wall of basalt rock formations, the path immediately started switchbacking across a slope of mostly dry grass dotted with juniper trees, with nary a fern to be seen. 

Spreading fleabane of some sort

Despite the aridity of this desert-like environment, wildflowers were blooming and bees were buzzing from flower to flower. A few flowering species were recognizable and familiar, like common yarrow and golden yarrow. However, from my perspective most plant specimens were alien and strange, sending me delving into the guidebooks to see if I could discern what the heck I was looking at. 

For three centuries, the walls of the castle
repelled invading armies from the west

The rimrock surrounding the Crooked River is sheer, resembling a Spanish castle perched atop a Pyrenean alp. The walls of the redoubt were seemingly unassailable but the weakness in the formidable wall of rock was an arid draw that the path worked its way up. It was either that or start building a giant Trojan Deer. Water probably flows here during rainstorms for the floor of the draw was grassy, sometimes shady, and relatively moist when compared to the dry slopes above the trail. 

This waterfall would be a lot cooler with some water

Eventually the draw petered out and at a saddle, the trail rounded the top of the draw, crossing the dry creek that had created the arroyo I'd been hiking up. Clearly, at times there is or was an impressive waterfall here, which would be even more impressive if there was any actual water spilling over the tall ledge. I should come back during a typhoon or tropical storm for the full waterfall experience here.

Some of that Crooked River scenery

A few more switchbacks and woo-hoo, the trail leveled out on a broad plateau covered in sagebrush and juniper trees. In the direction of the Crooked River, currently hidden way down in its gorge, was the chimney-like tower of Chimney Rock itself. A few primitive benches conveniently sited at the edge of the plateau provided a place for contemplating the awesome views of the Crooked Wild and Scenic River, accent on the "Scenic".

Quite the view from Chimney Rock

The drop-off from the plateau was abrupt and sheer, with the river zigging and zagging about six hundred feet directly below my totally impressed hiking boots. Carved out of the surrounding basalt, the opposite rim of the gorge loomed less than a half-mile away as the crow flies, although there was a lot of air and one river between rims. Because the river snaked to and fro so emphatically, the visual effect was that of layers and layers of canyons stretching out to the horizon. It was a huge payoff for what was a less than three mile hike and I just sat for a while in Chimney Rock's figurative hearth, just taking it all in.

Chimney Rock, raison d'être for this hike

All good things come to an end, though, and I had to find a place to sleep and do all that housekeeping stuff. Sad but true, it was time to head back down the trail, but not before taking a short detour along the plateau rim before rejoining the dusty path heading back down to the river.  Although the hike was short, Chimney Rock was a good introduction to the splendors of this area.

If you like basalt, then you will love this hike!

For more pictures of this hike, please visit the Flickr album.

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Smith Rock State Park - Misery Ridge Loop

The names say it all: Voyage of the Cow Dog, Cocaine Gully, Time to Shower, Phone Call from Satan, Scrotal Avenger, Disposable Heros, Vomit Launch, and my favorite: Bubbas in Bondage. What are these, you ask? Punk rock bands? Mixed drinks? Canceled TV shows? Amusement park rides? Nicknames of ex-girlfirends? The answer is none of the above, dearies. These are simply a colorful smattering of climbing route names at Smith Rock State Park.

Ant on a wall

Now, contrast the climbing flair with the staid and steadfast names of the hiking trails in Smith Rock State Park (Chute, Homestead, Summit, Canyon): boring, boring, boring. One can only conclude that hikers are a much more sensible and safe group than climbers. Of course, we we do sport the Rope-de-Dope Trail and Misery Ridge Trail so maybe we hikers are only just marginally more sensible than climbers. At the base of each climbing route, there are first aid stations complete with splints, casts, and stretchers that speak volumes to me about the mental illness associated with climbing. And speaking of mental illness, today's subject is about the self-inflicted misery associated with doing the Misery Ridge loop at Smith Rock State Park.

Monkey Face

Monkey Face is an iconic rock pillar at Smith Rock, so I brought two monkey faces with me: grandsons Issiah and Daweson. We left Roseburg in the wee hours of a Saturday morning to make the long drive to Smith Rock. Well,  that's not entirely accurate as we actually left in the middle of the night which meant no repetitive " Are we there, yet?" or "How much further?" as the boys snored away the hours and miles on a dark highway. Arriving at the park in the early morning, we hoisted backpacks and walked about a quarter-mile into the bivouac camping area (there is no car camping at Smith Rock) and set up tents.

Daweson hikes next to the Crooked River

Once our camp set-up chores were done, we headed down the Rope-de-Dope Trail which had an awesome and iconic view of Smith Rock lording it over the wiggly course of the Crooked River. And across the river loomed walls of orange colored rock similar in tone and hue to the unnatural spray-on tan of a certain presidential candidate. The two lads were suitably awestruck as we navigated the switchbacks down to the river's edge on the Canyon Trail.

Rocky color palette

Smith Rock is an incredibly popular place and is quite busy on any given day due to its proximity to Bend. Already, hordes of climbers and hikers were out and about so we had plenty of company on our hike. Crossing the river on a stout wooden bridge, we hung a left and began a several-mile amble along the Crooked River along with half the population of Crook County.

Mental illness at work

The Crooked River is just that, from the air it looks like the squiggles of a spent rubber band. At ground level though, we were relatively unaware we were walking hither and yon, so to speak. Progress was slow as we continually gawked at the orange rock wall looming above, topped only by a deep blue sky. As we walked, a river otter swam across the river and several bald eagles were spotted fishing the green waters of the river. Climbers, looking like ants on a stucco wall, made painstaking progress up the sheer cliffs flanking the river.

A closer look at Monkey Face

Once we were a couple of miles out, Monkey Face came into view. The iconic rock is a tall pillar whose large knob on top has a couple of strategically placed caves that really do make it resemble a giant monkey face. Continuing the monkey metaphor, small  climber "fleas" crawled in Monkey Face's eyes and mouth. Fortunately for the "fleas", Monkey Face did not stick out his tongue.

View from the Mesa Verde Trail

The Mesa Verde Trail is a shortcut from the river trail to the Misery Ridge Trail and the steep climb around Monkey Face's back side was a harbinger of misery and woe to come. Climbing steadily and steeply, views improved to the point we could see a chain of Cascade Mountain peaks stretching from Diamond Peak to the south and Mount Hood to the north. Epic, plus the view did provide an excuse to stop and wait for the pain to subside.

"Let's go climbing!" he said

The Misery Ridge Trail zig-zagged up the steep wall and conversation pretty much stopped as we huffed and puffed and tried to cajole our burning leg muscles to execute one more step. Almost at the top, we stared Monkey Face in the eye as we had arrived at face level. Just 30 yards of air separated us from Monkey Face and we observed some rappelling groups blithely dangling in empty space.  Issiah was quite entranced by the climbers and he asked "Grandpa, can you take me rock climbing?" Sure, Issiah, as soon as my hair grows back, I'll take you climbing!

View from the crest of Misery Ridge

By now, we were cresting Misery Ridge and we were treated to a view for the ages. We were on the knife-edge crest and could observe the Crooked River on both sides of the rocky ridge. The trail, comprised of endless switchbacks and steep stairs, dropped away at our feet. Views of the Cascades and nearby Gray Butte were simply astounding.

Rickety trail 

A steady procession of hikers were coming up the stairways and were silent except for the heavy gasping. We could relate because that was us before we had started to head downhill. At any rate, after carefully picking our way down the rickety trail, we arrived at the river. From there it was a short walk along the canyon rim back to our campsite.

The Crooked River

The boys played at a climbing wall, perhaps inspired by all the climbers they'd seen on this hike. The next morning, we hurriedly struck camp before a rather vigorous rainstorm began dumping water on our heads. A good time was had by all us monkey faces despite, or maybe because of, the misery on Misery Ridge.

My people

For more pictures of this hike, please visit the Flickr album.

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Crack-in-the-Ground, Fort Rock, and Homestead Village

After 8 fun-filled days in the Oregon outback, it was time to go home.  So John, Merle and I tossed our gear and man funk (we hadn't showered in 8 days) into the car and began the journey home. Even though we were leaving, we had to get some last hikes in before returning to the unreal world.

Nature's plumber's crack

The first stop was at Crack-in-the-Ground, near Christmas Valley. Having been to Christmas Valley, I think it safe to say that Santa does not live there and the residents don't not look like elves or Santa's helpers.

John and Merle get cracking

Eons ago, four nearby cones erupted and covered the land with extensive lava flows. However, as the magma chamber emptied, the earth shrunk like a deflated balloon and the the ground sunk, causing a large crack to form in the hardened lava flow. The net result is a two mile crack with a trail at the bottom in what arguably is the largest plumber's crack in the world. The path is narrow and most times both walls can be touched with one arm span. It is not your hike if you are claustrophobic.

She did not make us feel welcome

When Merle, John, and I exited the crack, a hawk screeched at us in obvious irritation. She no doubt wanted us to keep away from her nest which was probably nearby. Horseflies also greeted us, but in bloodsucking joy with no distress. The only non-nest-related distress was that of victimized hikers.  

Fort Rock

Further down the road, we visited Fort Rock State Park. We had seen the iconic monument from Hager Mountain, Fort Rock was notable even from that distance. The fort is a volcanic crater that eroded over time, attaining it's current U-shaped form.  

Inside the crater

We did the short 1.5 mile hike in the crater's interior. John's hike might have been a little bit longer as he (illegally) angled to the cliff's base where ravens screeched and dive-bombed him. They get touchy when people get near their cliffy nests. We enjoyed close-up views of the crater rim with expansive views of the small town of Fort Rock and surrounding valley with Hager Mountain looming high in the distance.

Hallelujah!

Our last stop was in the small town of Fort Rock where we visited the Fort Rock Homestead Museum. Back in the late 1800's (and no, kids, I was not alive back then), homesteads were awarded to those who dreamed of owning their own land. Part of the requirements for keeping the homestead was that the homesteaders needed to farm the land and make it self-sufficient. Alas, the dry desert terrain was not conducive to good farming and most homesteaders rapidly went broke, losing everything they ever owned. Not a happy story in most cases. At any rate, some of the the old buildings from that era have been relocated to the museum grounds making the homesteader's financial ruin our happy gain.

Bye, vacation

Well, our vacation to the Oregon outback was over and we headed back to Roseburg for a joyous reunion with a shower nozzle.  Some of us had to to first reunite with a garden hose before being allowed inside the house. For more pictures of this travel day, please visit the following albums:

Crack-in-the-Ground

Fort Rock

Fort Rock Homestead Museum

Hager Mountain

So, after our Winter Ridge hike, we spent the afternoon huddled around a campfire while snow swirled around. The good news was that by the time evening rolled in, the snow-dropping clouds had broken up and we had no more issues with rain and/or snow. However, the cold stuck around and it was cold, cold, cold. I hadn't been checking the thermometer in the car but each morning we had ice encrusted on our tents; on this morning it was considerably colder and I decided to stay huddled at the bottom of my sleeping bag like a lump of coal in the toe of a Christmas stocking, and believe me, I would know about that.

Hager Mountain false summit

Fortunately, the weather gods showed us some mercy and the sun quickly warmed things up as we drove over to the Hager Mountain Trailhead. The trail headed up a gentle slope of pine trees with sunflower-like balsamroot blooming away in the shade. At the first switchback, we said goodbye to the gentle slope as the trail headed steeply up the slopes of Hager Mountain.

Up, up, up...

"Up" was the operative word as the vegetation transitioned from the relatively green balsamroot and grasses to the more familiar blue-gray of sagebrush. The flowers were putting on a show alongside the trail with the usual suspects: scarlet Indian Paintbrush, yellow balsamroot, blue flax, just to namedrop a few.

Mount Shasta, beyond Thompson Reservoir

The trees transitioned from tall pines to mountain mahogany, all stunted and misshapen like a novice hiker after a Richard Hike. As the trail inscribed long switchbacks to and fro, the views opened up.  Mount Shasta's snow cone rose up on the southwestern horizon above the blue and islanded waters of Thompson Reservoir. To the north, were the handful of buildings that is the small town of Silver Lake. A small horseshoe shaped rock formation beyond the town was famed Fort Rock. We could also see Crater Lake, Mount Thielsen, Tipsoo Peak, Diamond Peak, and the Three Sisters, all cherished and familiar hiking haunts for us. The entire geology was laid at our feet and one could see the path of the massive lava flows that eventually formed the Oregon we know and love today.

The Three Sisters

The views only improved the higher we climbed, and eventually the trail spit us out to a picnic table situated just underneath the lookout affixed on the summit. We paid a social visit to the resident lookout, a delightful woman by the name of Kathi, she'd been a lookout for several decades and she regaled us with tales of lightning strikes and bitter cold nights. In particular, while we were sitting around the campfire the night before, the same storm left about 6 inches of snow on the lookout while she actually slept in all her clothes, blankets, and even dish towels in a vain attempt to stay warm.

View on the way down

Unfortunately, we had to say goodbye to our new-found friend and head back down the trail. On the way down, we got to enjoy the flowers and views all over again; perhaps even more so as we didn't have to labor up the mountain. And the good news was that it was warm that night, it was a confirmed and balmy 27 degrees the following morning.

Hager Mountain panorama

For more pictures of this hike, please visit the Flickr album.