Let's go on a trip! Mt. Thielsen

On Memorial weekend, which is the first real spring Saturday and Sunday extended by a Monday holiday, usually everybody drives out to meet nature. Camping, barbecuing, fishing, mountain hiking, beach wallowing -- most of all, OUT OF THE CITY. We, on the other hand, had decided that my Hippo would rather work on such a Monday, taking comp-time attached to the following weekend -- and WE would travel on alternative days, which avoids hassle with jammed freeways and hysterical motorists.

We had rented a rubber affair just like these ones for this here Rogue River. It caused unplanned washing of bottom halves of our bodies.

Before we finished packing and arranging last details in the house so that granny and the kids would enjoy full comfort, it was almost Friday noon. Hence the first leg of our trip consisted of some twenty miles -- to Sushi 85 in Mountain View, where we enjoyed our lunch without disturbance of any whiny elements. This seemed to us like a good start. We headed across the City and the Golden Gate Bridge, where I was forced to run out to a bathroom, which had triggered a series of somewhat unpleasant moments. First, a Chinese teenager exiting the car next to us ripped us a dent in our car with her door. When my Hippo confronted the whole family, they refused to talk to us or resolve the situation. After about half hour of arguing about them giving us their reference insurance information, Hippo had to drag in a police officer. The Chinese man insisted that he had a right to verify our identification, which seemed logical neither to us nor the cop, as we had not caused any damage. The uniform eventually convinced the irate perpetrator to surrender his information, albeit with much wiggling and lamenting. When we were finally able to leave, about an hour later, the little man kept yelling something after us, about making it an issue with our insurance. Well, it would be his airtime on his cell phone, and I hope that the insurance company and the policemen continued to refer him to proper places.

This scene had cost us dear time. Friday rush hour was quickly approaching and with it the weekend crowds escaping from San Francisco on the same road as we were. A few miles past Pataluma, the highway got really jammed, and it made us feel rather sour. We were afraid to be bound to go next fifty miles in jumps and lurches. Eventually it became obvious that the whole traffic chaos was caused, I kid you not, by a motorcycle which had lost its mobility and had stopped on the shoulder, with a police car that came to assist towing attempts of the stalled machine, at which all the so-called drivers felt compelled to gape while practically coming to a full halt.

Falls on the upper Rogue were full of water.

Despite our delays we had arrived to Eureka for dinner as planned. Looking for a brewery, where we ate a few years ago, we only found a deserted building. However, there was a red sign Mekong - South Asia Cuisine sign a few houses down the street, and we did not hesitate. Inexpensively furnished, yet clean restaurant with a rich menu and reasonable prices had surprised us pleasantly. Our friendly server disclosed to us that it was a family business and that they were full practically since the day they had opened, although they did not advertise. No surprise there.

Eureka improved our mood after our Chinese incident and we continued on our way much merrier, although the weather on this end of California reminded more of October than May. Our GPS got all crazy near Pelican Bay, and for a moment we got lost on local roads around a federal prison in Fort Dick, looking for a road to the beach and to (our favorite) non-existent seaside resort. Years ago, somebody bulldozed and partially paved "streets" between Pacific Ocean and a lagoon, but it never came to building any houses. All you need is pick a lot and your can camp there. Alas, the access road to the beach was embellished with a portable sign FLOODED and indeed, we had to wade several yards of a foot-deep water. A worse flood blocked the road going to our non-town. I tried to drive on carefully in first gear, but even that was almost too fast. My knees were still trembling when I backed out of the water trap, while big rings of steam emerged from under our hood -- it was quite deeper than a foot. We tried to camp on the side closer to lagoon, but after a few seconds mosquitos led by a score about ten thousand to two, and we gave it up.

Towards the end of May, the Crater Lake is still hopelessly snowed in..

We elected to sleep on the main parking next to the beach, for only in direct proximity of the ocean, mosquitos did not dare to approach. This solution, unfortunately, proved to be wrong, because at two in the morning, two SUVs full of very refreshed weekenders reached the beach. They had probably not noticed us sleeping in our car, for they showed no regard and hollered right next to us. Although these randy people drove away rather soon, we worried that it was not the end of all the fun. Thus we moved our crates to the trunk again, sat in front, and drove deeper into the continent. It was probably reasonable, since Fort Dick, which at ten o'clock in the evening looked like completely de-populated ghost town, swelled with fresh night life at three a.m. We wondered whether these were local fishermen, or perhaps guards with a strange shift schedule, or maybe Friday night was the only fun one must live to the fullest, or could it be that locals reinforce their state of mind with gifts of nature (mushrooms, hemp), to be this frisky at such unearthly hour.

Whilst contemplating these thoughts, we found a turn off to Little Jones Creek, where after a rather long and tiring uphill drive, we stopped the wagon on a hilltop meadow and tried to finish our interrupted sleep. Trained by Lisa's waking, I was up at seven, but fortunately matter won over mind and I succeeded in dozing off for two more hours. I must say that I felt much better at nine than I did at seven. A mild breeze kept mosquitos at bay, but the sun burned, unlike in our yesterday's coastal fog. Driving down to the highway 299, we spotted a small black bear running over our road, which we noted as a good omen -- it had been long time since we had seen a bear.

Our fairy-tale campsite.

We found a grocery store in Gold Hill and bought sandwiches, and soon we were entering Shady Cove. A makeshift sign right on the edge of town promised rafting on Rogue River, and we stopped to ask, if we could go. Before our trip, we had found only limited offers on the internet, mostly all-day expeditions (it was late for that, being noon-ish), and priced generally above two hundred dollars per person. This, apparently, was an enterprise of a completely different class. Inside a wobbly cabin, a lady confirmed that they would rent us an inflatable canoe for twenty five or a raft for fifty, and told us to go sit in a van parked outside, which would take us to the river. This was much quicker than we had thought possible, so we slowed down a bit, asking for some time to eat lunch. In a while we then sat in the van and rattled on the road upstream. A geezer behind the wheel showed Sid a few tricky spots, I was hoping that my husband would remember them; I heard nothing of it, sitting in the back. Still from the road the river looked passable, and I was not worried too much.

Oregon is a jungle - everything's green.

When they unloaded the rafts, there were two surprises waiting for us -- (a) the rubber canoe was assigned only a single paddle, which was (b) the kayaking model. The geezer loaned us a spare, regular paddle and we embarked in a funny setup -- with Sid in front with a kayaking paddle, and with me and a single paddle at the rudder. Rogue River floated down like crazy, but it was not over the top. All rocks sat deep down, all rapids had huge ripples, but completely harmless in an inflatable boat. That is, if I don't count the fact that we got immediately totally soaked, and gathered eight inches of water in the boat. Air had well over eighty five degrees, an icy bath was in principle pleasant, and the rubber canoe did not seem to sink regardless of how much water got inside.

Watson falls: the actual drop is way farther up.

We tried to stop next to one island and pour the water out. Not only was this a complete folly, for the boat seemed to keep a steady level, but it became the moment of the most embarrassing event in my boating experience -- my paddle floated away. It was, of course, the single one, which I can control better than the double. We attempted to catch it, but it got caught in branches in a rapid current place below the island and we had no way to get back to it against the depth, currents, and sharp shrubbery. We had to give it up and continue in the setup with me operating the remaining paddle and with my Hippo as ballast. We made an attempt to switch places, but my Hippo would practically collapse the rear end of the inflatable boat with his mass, and subsequently acted more in a role of a rudder on the Titanic and screamed that he was going to drown. Eventually we restored our original setup -- my Hippo safely lodged in the middle of the boat, with me at the rear -- and we took turns operating the paddle. Hippo would propel the rubber thing in quieter waters, and I was steering in rapids. A bald eagle once flew over our heads -- he sat on a branch of a tall tree above the river and gazed hungrily at us. Perhaps we were a tad too large for lunch.

Watson falls: washing our heads and upper bodies.

After two and half hour, endless sitting in cold water became unpleasant, so the final bridge came just in time, before our fun experience could turn into a tiresome adventure. I have to say that we felt well bathed from about armpit level down -- and they say camping is not hygienic enough! Still we learned a lesson for next time -- such a rubber boat is better solo. Hippo is a hippo, and I am not a beanstalk either, and I think we were well over the conveyance's weight limit.

Back at the rental place, we changed into our remaining clothes. We had packed for two days, and there was not much to choose from -- the result was probably lacking in aesthetics and balance, but at least we were DRY again. We thanked the friendly owners, paid five dollars extra for the lost paddle and continued on to Crater Lake. Our road took us along Rogue River to more waterfalls, which we tend to take picture of every time we visit this corner of Oregon. It was full of water this time, very beautiful. Suddenly, its roar got topped by the sound of thunder, and it started to rain a bit. We did not mind, for we were planning to sleep in the car again, and we did not expect to have to erect a tent and get our sleeping bags wet.

Crater Lake was all still snowed in, they haven't even opened the rim road. Even so, it was very pretty, especially while we realized that only one hour earlier, we had sweated in its sun-baked foothills, and now we trotted in the snow wearing sandals. We had encountered two young Czechs at the viewpoint, in a company of a retired American teacher, who was their guide. We got much encumbered in talking, ignoring pestilent mosquitos. Then the storm reached our location and we were bound to run away.

On our way to another waterfall: new life growing on a dry branch.

Hippo and I drove into the unknown on highway 230, which circumvents the closed Crater Lake. We wondered whether to drive all the way to Diamond Lake, where according to the ranger was supposed to be an open gas station, but then we figured it won't run away before morning, and turned into the forest to find a place to overnight. A dirt road looked rather unpromising for a while, but then we saw it. A campsite like from a fairy-tale -- we were totally smitten. My paranoid Hippo kept threatening with mosquitos, for the beautiful meadow on the edge of a grove with a bubbling brook looked like a veritable mosquito hatchery, but in the end it was not so bad.

We parked our wagon among the trees. It rained a little and thus we were a bit protected from having water pour in with every opening of doors. We ate our dinner and crawled into sleeping bags. Drops that accumulated at the end of a large branch directly overhead, were hitting the edge of a partially opened window i our car, and splashing directly on Hippo's face. He cowardly closed the window and we opened a gap in the front row, out of range of our faces. We woke at six in the morning. My back hurt from paddling and sitting in cold water, and I tried to stretch a bit. When I finally relaxed all tired muscles and my spine, and was ready to slip back into my sleeping bag, Hippo was full awake and ready to get up. We must have been caught up by old age sleep deficiency (or was it the fact we got in the sack before it got dark?).

Getting back on the road, we expected to reach a village of Diamond Lake with the aforementioned gas station, but we missed it. Apparently we were supposed to turn off into a campground and try our luck there. The next named spot on the map, Steamboat, was some seventy miles farther down, marked with an optimistic circle, but it turned out to be a single riverside hotel building. Fortunately our tank held just enough that we could hope to reach the freeway. Thus we stopped worrying about nonexistent services, and stopped randomly at Watson Falls, to enjoy some more nature before getting back on the boring highway five.

Could someone knowledgeable tell us, botanical barbarians, what kind of wild flower is this?

While still at the little parking lot and mostly by mistake, I looked towards the tops of surrounding hills and saw a WATERFALL there. Until getting back home, we had no idea that Watson is one of the largest waterfalls in Oregon (and they have a few there!). Two hundred and seventy two feet high, now in spring full of water, it's definitely a place to see. For us, used to deserts of California, Oregon seems exotic exactly because of its moisture. Forests seem more like a jungle and water can be found everywhere. Especially near a waterfall, where a stream falling from high above mixes with impact spray bounced of rocks at the bottom, together forming a cloud of small droplets that make you immediately and completely soaked -- after thorough dipping on the previous day, this time we were subject to a hair shower (some of us, bald rinse), and washing predominantly upper body parts.

This waterfall does not flow out of Crater Lake, but it, too, feeds Umpqua River.

Only on our way back to the parking, we met that day's first geezers -- it would seem that getting up early has its advantages. We could enjoy a famous waterfall all in private and peace. Cars kept coming to the small parking lot and we moved on. We had plenty of time, and we opted to check out one more waterfall -- Fall Creek. A somewhat longer trail led up to it, again through a magical green jungle. The hour was getting late, and we were certainly not alone on this trail, our company being another pair of senior citizens. Even so, we got to the actual falls before real crowds.

The rest of the way to Roseburg followed Umpqua River, which is famous for rafting, but we had not spotted a single one on it. Its upper part seemed quite wild, the stream full of logs and branches, waters brown and scary. Then it suddenly cleaned into blue and Umpqua started looking very much like Rogue -- a green-blue mountain river. Still there were sections that seemed very wild to me, even for a raft; it would be impassable on a rubber boat like the one we had rented on Rogue.

And then came Roseburg and a lunch in a Chinese restaurant, followed by a stop at a gas station with a paranoid attendant, who told us that Mt. Shasta was spewing ashes and Yellowstone had been closed, for a super-volcano was about to erupt there (I don't know if he was making fun of us or if somebody had made fun of him before). Oregon has a brain-dead law that forbids you, the customer, to operate the gas dispenser, for it is so dangerous that only a trained professional can do it; to compensate, it is legal here to perform a doctor-assisted suicide.

At one thirty we left Roseburg and then sped south on highway five. Strangely, there were no traffic jams near California's capital, Sacramento, towards the evening, and we got home by nine. We drove 1,270 miles (about 2,000 km) in three days.