Bend, OR
Elevation: 3,623 ft.

Packed and ready to go I settled into my seat and took a moment to close my eyes and let the smells and warmth of my little world seep back into me. Without opening my eyes I put the key in and turned it and like a surprised, waking gasp Rhyhorn’s engine revved and the console came to life. Opening the windows I sucked in the cold mountain air, held it in my chest and, gripping the wheel, exhaled into the sound of the churning engine. That’s how much I like driving. Taking down my sunshield I organized my dashboard, checked my GPS, arranged my charging cords and made sure that my extra fuel and water weren’t leaking. The mission was simple, I had a three day weekend to myself and didn’t know a thing about any of the surrounding area - explore. Putting Rhyhorn into reverse I bid farewell to the HJ Andrews parking lot and set my eyes eastward.

I’ve spent more time among trees than buildings this summer and being surrounded by clean, crisp mountain air has become such a norm for me. I passed the familiar Forest Service sign indicating that I was entering a National Forest, this time it was the Willamette National Forest and as the thick green canopy swallowed me up I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the life I have shaped for myself and for all the people that helped me get here. Like I used to tell myself - these days are numbered. Traveling east on 126 I blasted my latest musical addiction - Bitterwater by The Oh Hellos and hurtled towards the Dee Wright Observatory. Staying eastward I transitioned onto 242 aka the McKenzie Pass-Santiam Pass Scenic Byway and began a long, winding journey into a landscape transitioning from a mixed conifer forest to barren, volcanic lava fields.

It wasn’t until I passed one too many scenic pullouts that I turned to my right and realized that North and Middle Sisters were looming in plain view. Preoccupied with not passing the observatory I fell into a tunnel vision my brother always caught me in - don’t forget to look at the ceilings brother.

The lava fields were a stark contrast to the lush, green forests I had just been driving in. The endless landscape of pumice and bleached snags was a less-than-subtle reminder of Oregon’s volcanic past. Pulling into the observatory parking lot I was surprised to see that the whole structure was made out of lava stone. Named after the Forest Service foreman that led the CCC construction of the Depression-era structure, the Dee Wright Observatory stands an enduring monument to a time long ago.

Built into it’s walls were small windows facing the many peaks of the Cascade Mountains.

Mt. Washington elev. 7,794ft.

Black Butte elev. 3,350ft.

North Sister elev. 10,085ft.

Middle Sister elev. 10,047ft.

A view of North and Middle Sisters from the observatory roof.

The whole experience showed me how powerful the earth was and how old it was. These mountains and landscapes were formed by volcanoes so long ago and have persisted through the years relatively unchanged. If it wasn’t for organizations like the Forest Service these views and places would be lost. Pulling out of the parking lot I continued eastward towards the town of Sisters, OR. As I drew closer I crossed into the Deschutes National Forest and the landscape changed again, this time to shrublands mixed with Ponderosa Pine (Pinus ponderosa) forests. So rich was the vanilla smell of the pines that it filled the air of the town like a heavy perfume. It would become a defining fixture of Central Oregon for the days to come. Pushing onwards I eventually made it to Bend, OR. I had a shopping list that needing checking off (I love excuses to buy outdoor gear): Hiking Oregon Falcon Guide and camp fuel from Mountain Supply, Reliance Aqua-tainer 7-gal water jug from REI and beer and dinner from Deschutes Brewery. To describe Bend would be to describe an oasis hidden away in the cool, high desert climate of Central Oregon where young, beautiful outdoor-minded people mingle among retired golfers, brewmasters and Ponderosas. Originally a logging town situated along the last bend of the Deschutes river, the city was a mixture of industrial park, suburbs and farmlands. It was similar to Portland in that it had a large tourist presence as well as a huge craft beer presence but differed in that there was an authentic outdoor recreation presence. Tucked away between the Three Sisters Wilderness, Deschutes National Forest and Smith Rock State park to the Northeast the city took advantage of hungry, tired adventurers and weekend-warriors. On every street there seemed to be young travelers living out of their trucks and vans rubbing elbows with clean cut, color-coordinated families on vacation. It was a strange mixing bowl of lifestyles and I loved it. Errands out of the way I settled down for dinner at the Deschutes Brewery brewpub. Right off the bat the brewpub felt like a space filled with old friends and family. It was an employee’s birthday and many regulars had shown up to drink and celebrate with him. Golf was playing on the tv’s and a slightly older crowd dominated the bar. I had heard so many good things about the 1988 brewery that I made it a point to get a taster.

The elderly couple next to me turned out to be good friends with the bartender. Asking him such in depth questions about his wife and girls I would have thought they were family. Noticing my hiking book and map the older man and I began to talk. We talked of great places to visit and great places to drink. I consulted him on what places were best to camp and hike and we both settled, in light of my time constraints, on the idea of heading southwest into the Three Sisters Wilderness and attempting the long hike up to the South Sister summit. We began talking about life and work and adventures and before I knew it I was sucked into his high-energy, positive perspective on life! Here was a grandfatherly, patagucci-clad boss of a man telling me of drunken camping adventures and riverside breweries he had done just the weekend before. Young at heart and young at body. Thanking him and the bartender for a long, wonderful evening I made it back to Rhyhorn and made my way to 372. The mission was to find a campsite close to South Sister and to get a good night’s rest. As the sun began to set I started to get worried. Although beautiful, the road was leading further into the wilderness but no where nearer to open campsites. Slowing down to consult my map I let a small, tightly packed OSU sticker clad toyota pass me - travelling students perhaps. A few minutes later the small car turned sharply to the left on what looked like a road to nowhere. Holding out for a better campground I continued on until the road bent southward. At this point I had just passed the trailhead for the hike and it was getting darker so I pulled a u-turn and made for the nowhere road. To my luck it turned out to be a nearly filled campsite with a beautiful view of a (dried up) lake. As an added bonus the OSU car was owned by two, super cute girls. Too tired and shy to make much conversation we exchanged a few kind words and I set up Rhyhorn for bed.

I awoke to the sound of hard rain and scratching. It took me a moment to make sense of what I was hearing and it sounded like a heavy, earthy scratching. As if something large was outside of Rhyhorn kicking up gravel and dirt into his wheel-wells. Staying still I strained my eyes to see out the windows but in the darkness I cold barely make anything out. Suddenly a shape moved past my rear window and a cold sweat formed across my body instantly. It wasn’t animals I was afraid of it was people. Slowly unclipping my ka-bar from its sheath I lay perfectly still on my side listening as hard as I could in an attempt to discern the size of the threat based of the crunch from it’s footsteps. It seemed too small to be a person and more and more I wished I hadn’t cracked my windows as much as I did. Scratch Scratch. I couldn’t take it anymore and sat up straight and fast but there was nothing there. Peering out into the darkness all I could make out was the rain and the distant trees. The girls’ car was peacefully parked where it had always been. Kicking my food box I listened to see if it was mice - nothing. The next morning I did a walk around and found small hoof prints around Rhyhorn but nothing in the way of digging. Crouching down I looked under my seats and along my floorboards and found mice droppings. Not totally convinced that mice could have been making as much noise as I was hearing - I chalked it mostly up to a varmint problem. Bidding the girls safe travels I continued westward on 372 into a foggy, cool morning.

Devils Lake

Pulling into the trailhead parking I gazed up the misty mountain and debated with myself. It was much colder and much wetter than I had prepared for - a rookie mistake. I had become too used to the unrelenting, dry heat of the Klamaths that I hadn’t paid enough attention to the incoming storm. Pulling on my icebreaker long underwear and darn tough socks I jerry-rigged a hiking outfit, grabbed an apple, trailmix bar and my camera and set off up the mountain. The path was steep, moist and soft from the amount of pine needles on it. Hiking upwards I could see far into the open understory where rocks, ponods and hemlocks dominated the forest. From the ferns and moss it was clear that this was a forest with plenty of water.

The cold, wet air condensed onto my beard and mustache and kept me cool as I hiked higher and higher. Realizing how much better hiking shape I had become I thanked the Klamath bootcamp. Eventually I broke through the forest and into a high, open valley. Trees became sparse and the soil became sandy. I was at the foothills of South Sister.

Pushing onwards I hiked through the whipping winds peering over each pass to see if I had reached Moraine Lake yet, my turnaround point. Nearly there I ran into a couple from Portland that had entered the hike from the northeast trailhead. They were a friendly middle-aged couple and complimented me on my camera and brave outfit. We made small talk about the area and they recommended me to visit Smith Rock State Park if I had time. They were the second group of people to tell me that since I started the hike so I knew it was fate, the next mission would be Smith Rock. Bidding them farewell I turned around and hiked around another pass and there it was - Moraine Lake.

Climbing clumsily down to the shore I sat down and began to take off my socks. As cold as it was one doesn’t simply hike up half a mountain to not soak their feet.

The fog was so thick you couldn’t see South Sister though it was silently looming over the valley.

Walking around the lake the sun came out in sudden breaks. Never for more than a few minutes. The water was surprisingly warm and I would often walk back into it to warm my feet. Hikers nearby looked at me as if I was crazy, though, from my appearance I wouldn’t blame them. Making my way back to the trail I ran into the middle-aged couple again. Laughing at the coincidence we struck up a more in depth conversation and they asked me about where I was from and what I did for work. Describing Virginia, my trip out west and the Klamath job they excitedly asked me questions on the forest fires and my future plans. The husband had actually gone back to school and graduated with a B.S. in Environmental Science and was commiserating with me on the lousy job market. I told him not to lose hope and to check big job boards like the Texas A&M one. We bid each other farewell with dripping noses, zipped up jackets and cracked smiles - it was cold. I told them that I had applied to Portland Patagonia and that I would certainly see them again there if I were to get the job. The climb down was fast and before I knew it I was back at Rhyhorn heating up and naving myself back to Bend. I didn’t really know anything about Smith Rock but from my guidebook I could tell that it was a climbing paradise and would likely be very very full. With plenty of daylight ahead of me I reasoned out that I would head up towards Redmond, find dinner and beer and then find a campsite close to Smith Rock. Setting my GPS for Cascade Lakes Brewery I gunned it north. As fate would have it the brewery was closed and, consulting yelp, I made it for my second choice. A small-batch craft brewpub called Smith Rock Brewing Company. Pulling into a small neighborhood off the main road I began to get excited. Turn after turn I realized that I had found a local neighborhood brewery reminiscent of Portland’s homey brewpubs. Pulling into the parking lot of the house-sized brewery I immediately noticed their Forest Service themed logo and welcome sign. This was a good choice.

Walking into the brewpub I was hit with the smell of burgers, fries and beer. The dimly lit room had a total of 4 people in it and was roughly the size of a living room and kitchen. Sitting at the bar was a laughing man in golf attire making conversation with the older man behind the bar. Greeting them I placed my empty water bottles on the counter (I hadn’t been able to find water to fill my jug yet) and sat wearily in the seat. I complimented the man on the decorations and the feel of the bar, I told him it was my first time. He explained to me that they were a family-owned small-batch brewery. They only had 2 taps at a time and only brewed one keg of beer at a time. The man at the bar told me it was the best beer in Redmond. I told the bartender that I liked how the bar was Forest Service themed and asked if the brewmaster worked for them at all and he simply replied, “Haha oh no I never worked for them”. I laughed and apologized and said it was a pleasure to meet the brewmaster and he laughed replying that he wasn’t a brewmaster just a brewer, shaking my hand he told me his name was Kevin. The brewery was the product of his attempt to improve upon his wife’s hobby of making home brews. One thing led to another and the next thing that they knew they were applying to become a brewpub. His wife handled the attached kitchen and it was now him solely handling the brewing. Ordering the stout and a burger I began talking to the man at the bar. We talked about beer and good beer and bad beer and work and life. It seemed to be a theme of this trip. The more I made it a point to talk to people and to step out of my comfort zone the more my life seemed to expand. Really it was the expansion of my perceptions from hearing new ideas and having new conversations about things I wouldn’t normally talk about that does it. In almost a “yes man” attitude I have been taking leaps and bounds out of my normal routine. Talking to him about what I did for work I told him that I believed that anything can become work. That even the beauty of the outdoors can become overwhelming when enough tasks were assigned to it. Only after an hour or so of drinking and laughing and cursing did he reveal to me that he was a PGA pro (Tam Bronkey) and that even golf had become a job to him but that at the same time he was able to wake up everyday grateful that his job was to do something he loved. Kevin said that he loved what he did at the brewery but that if someone told him they would pay him $25 an hour to pump gas that he’d kick us out and shut the doors that night. Laughing we all agreed that no one was going to pay anyone that much to pump gas. Thanking Kevin for the amazing food and beer I asked him about camping advice and he told me to go straight for Smith Rock State Park itself and to camp at the Bivouac campground for $5 you could get water, a spot and a hot shower. Blown away I thanked him and hit the road.

Pulling into the campsite I wasn’t sure what to expect. Driving towards the state park I was already blown away by the size of the rock formations. It was the kind of magnitude of nature I expected of a National Park. Instantly I realized that I was camping at a climbing mecca. Pulling into the parking lot I slowly made my way to an empty spot. Everywhere there were young people living out of their trucks and vans laughing and organizing climbing gear. Every other guy seemed to have either dreadlocks, long hair, an amazing beard or an amazing long dreadlocked beard and every girl was a tan, earthy climbing goddess. I had no idea where the hell I was. Parking Rhyhorn and climbing out to stretch and pay for a spot I was met with approving glances. With my dreads and adventure rig I realized I blended in perfectly but oh god I was no climber but rather a cowardly hiker/photographer. Having already eaten I began to unpack Rhyhorn and filling up on water. The campsite was set up community style with just a large open area fenced away from the restoration areas of the park filled with flat areas and tree shade for campers. You just had to pay $5 and hike out and find a good spot for yourself. As the sun set on the distant hills the sounds of laughter and music drifted through the air. The smell good dinner and herb filled the air as well and I found myself struggling to socialize. I never had too much of a trouble traveling solo but for the most part I was often time alone and in pretty secluded areas. This was like a beautiful outdoorsy young people convention and the bravest thing I could muster was to sit on the back of Rhyhorn with a beer planning the next mornings hike and smiling at passerbys. It was embarassing and I regret it. A number of times cute girls peered into my trunk and smiled at me and of course I smiled back. In retrospect it was likely because I had tied up my Bob Marley tapestry over the back of Rhyhorn and, with dreadlocks draped over my shoulders as I read, probably looked like a weed dealer. Feeling like I had embarrassed myself enough I headed back to my tent and read before calling it a night.

I started the next morning early I had a lot of hiking to do. Making instant noodles at the food area I made friends with a traveling couple. The two were from Arizona and were taking half a year off to travel and climb around the west coast. Giving me a generous pour of coffee from their percolator we talked about traveling, their dogs and how awesome the toyota 4Runner was. They were a good pair of people and were no strangers to hard work and responsibilities but knew how to live at the same time. Bidding me good luck on my job search they told me to enjoy life and to not work too hard - life was simply too short. With their words in mind I strapped on my daypack and grabbed my camera and descended into Smith Rock.

Carved out of basalt by the Crooked River, Smith Rock was a breathtaking set of ridges and flat rock faces nestled quietly north of Redmond, OR. Surrounded by private, Forest Service and BLM land the surprisingly affordable ($5) and sinfully accessible state park quickly became one of my favorites. Hiking along the Crooked River I circled the main ridge clockwise.

On the trail I greeted fellow hikers but off the trail I gazed up in awe (and terror) at climbers tackling the various rock faces. Towering above the river to the west side of the park was a particular ridge that climbers had tethered a slack line across. From the ground it was barely discernible but just watching as vultures flew around it doing loops above and underneath it made my knees weak.

Rounding the bend it began to rain heavily. Putting my DSLR away I whipped out my trusty iPhone and began the gradual climb up the north face of the ridge. Instantly there were fewer tourists and for much of the hike I was left alone with the river, the trees and the sound of the rain.

Climbing higher and higher the trail began to narrow and become less maintained. Through the mist and rain a foggy valley came into view. Beyond it lay a hidden expanse stretching north into Central Oregon. Hiking to the sound of my own tired breath the song, Down in the Valley, came to mind.

Nearly to the ridge I ran into a man gazing into the valley. We talked about the park and how undervalued it seemed to me and how unbelievably cheap and pristine it was. He agreed and laughed and told me that he had been here for many years and it never got old. I asked him if he lived here and he said yes and that he was the creator of smithrock.com embarrassed and surprised I apologized and asked him about the site and he explained that it was a site dedicated to climbing and recreating in the park and that it has been a pet project of his and his wife’s for a long time. Shaking his hand we gazed out towards the famous Monkey Face rock face and oohed and ahhed at the climbers attempting it.

Hiking onwards I reached the ridge just as the sun came out. Bathing the park in it’s orange glow it warmed up my bones and dried my clothes. Finding the perfect lunch rock I laid out my clothes, kicked back and ate like there was no tomorrow.

As I began my descent down the south face of the ridge I began to run into more and more tourists. It seemed that the counter-clockwise route was more popular. This half of the hike offered views down into the river valley and ridges to the east of the park.

Tired and all adventured out I climbed into Rhyhorn and set off for HJ Andrews. It had been a wild weekend with as much time as possible spent outside and it was so rewarding. Passing through Bend and Sisters I found myself back on the windy road home and welcomed by rain and fog. It was the rain that the region has really needed and it was a good thing that we were finally getting some. Passing back through the lava fields I stopped and grabbed a picture that must have come straight out of Interstellar.

Nearing HJA I had a decision to make. From the beginning of the trip I had been trying to engineer the logistics so that I was worn and weary by the time I arrived back in Blue River, OR but with enough daylight to warrent a trip to Terwilliger Hot Springs. It had been on my list of things to do and seeing as how I was worn out, weary AND cold I hung right and went for it - and jesus fuck was it worth it!

Hiking towards the hot springs I could see the steam rise from the forest. I had heard good things about this spring and as I descended through the wet, fern forest my excitement built like no other. I knew that it was a clothing optional spring and was debating on going in nude. Now everything about me is generally cautious and safe and reserved so I was battling a lot of my comfort zone as I hiked closer and closer to the springs. By the time I reached it and saw that most of the folks in there were nude I decided, fuck it, I’m out here on the west coast winging it and lord knows what the hell I will be doing months from now but right now I am here and I am going to live it! dropping my shorts I tied up my hair and slid into a wonderful pool of 106ºF heaven.

It was a weekend to remember and I made more friends and learned and experienced more things than I could have hoped for. The trick was to keep my mind open and my heart brave. It’s a pretty neat world out there and at 25 I am a quarter done with my stay here so I need to live it up. This weekend I am already back in Bend typing this up in Bend Brewing Company. The sun is setting and I’m not really sure where I’m staying tonight but Rhyhorn willing I’ll find a place. Here’s to living life simply to live life - celebrate the moments and get naked!

As always, love and miss you all,

Chris

On Gratitude and Living for Yourself

Central Oregon pt. I: Three Sisters, Bend and Smith Rock