National Volcanic Park Lassen.

There are folks who take a long time to prepare for their vacations. They browse through offers of their travel agents, read tourist guides, reserve flight tickets, hotels, trips, attractions. We are of the disorganized tourist kind. We up and go, and when we get there, we either like it, and we may stay a few days, or we don't. After two years, we have accomplished to set aside time for family vacation; we knew we would desire to drive north until we, maybe, reach Canada. Then we asked around, what is where to see, and with a vague list in our minds, leaky with amnesia of the aging, we set out.

A cave of the type "lava tube" is created when an underground lava river flows away and dries up.

Not that we wouldn't plan at all — on the first day we reached Lassen, drove through the park and found a campsite. We heated a soup for dinner and answered kids' questions about bears for about half hour. Some information must got lost, for Lisa insisted to stay in the tent — perhaps she was afraid being outside (we rather did not mention the fact that a bear would get into the tent very easily). It surprised me, since I had assumed that our kids can deal with wildlife without a problem — but perhaps it was a combination of an evening forest and the first night out on this trip. I would like to commend myself for the purchase of this tent — we were staying just one night; setting it up and collapsing it took only a minimum of time.

On the second day we did a hike to Bumpass Hell. Children enjoyed snow and wooden platforms, Tom expertly inspected the bubbly pools and hot springs, pondering why some disgorge water and others sneeze steam. I was amused by the gear one could see other tourists wearing — practically anything one can think of — alpine guides with goretex sets and poles, but even a little girl in a pajama and flip-flops (those must have come especially useful when wading through the half-melted snow).

We only drove by another volcano, Mt. Shasta.

On our way out of Lassen we stopped at our favorite lava tube. Lisa performed her usual scene — when we turned off our flashlights, she screamed with fear; when we lit them up again, she merrily declared that she wasn't even a little bit afraid. And then we sat in our car and drove to Klamath Falls — with stop for a photogenic Shasta and for dinner in Weed. That's the real name of the town, and a local brewery started to make beer named Legal Weed — but some humorless bureaucrats forbade it. So we did not have any weed, just a plain pizza.

Crater Lake: the smaller of the its two islands is called Phantom Ship. With a real ship for comparison in the background.

In Klamath Falls, juniors insisted on getting into the hotel swimming pool — neither Hippo nor I gathered enough courage to splash there; after all we don't have the endurance of the young generation. In the morning we headed north again, to Crater Lake. On our way, the whole family wondered whether to pay for a boating trip on the lake, and whether the kids would suffer it — the ride takes two hours, the boat is relatively small, there's nowhere to run or go to bathroom. Children claimed to be ready, and so we decided to try it. A long line of cars dragged on to Cleetwood Cove — besides being a national park (and therefore one finds self within its borders at the mercy of federal employees, who exhibit truly socialist work ethics — which covers everything from state of (dis)repair of the roads to the organization of their work), Crater Lake is found in Oregon, a state priding itself in perhaps lowest speed limits in the Union. Add glacial road work (about ten laborers were indulging in complicated maneuvers of a small bulldozer trying to push a few rocks off the pavement — while two men with shovels would be done with it in three minutes), tourists completely overwhelmed by the fact that they found themselves in the mountains (and thus proceeding at ten miles per hour and covering their eyes before every turn), and you get a rather thorough test of your patience and good will.

At water level of Crater Lake. It's drinkable and very cold.

Before we finished crawling up to Cleetwood, it began to drizzle. I quickly chased Hippo out to buy tickets for the nearest boat and began to dig in the depths of our bus's trunk for some warmer clothing than shorts and T-shirts. Hippo returned complaining that the nearest tickets were available for three o'clock PM (it was noon); so we left the crowded Cleetwood and drove a quarter turn around the lake to have picnic at Cloudcap Overlook — with one of the best views to the lake. We thus passed through the storm — and found ourselves on the other side of the front; now besides long sleeves and pants I began to hunt down fleeces and hats. Juniors did not mind — they rushed to a pile of fallen trees near the parking lot and began to recreate (i.e. run around, climb, jump and cause general mischief).

Our wonderful campsite in southern Oregon. The creek is obligatory named Mill Creek.

More traffic jam awaited us at Cleetwood Cove. Having finally parked the car and packed, near the trail down to the boats we found a sign announcing that the trip at three o'clock has been cancelled due to weather. Not that we would have failed to notice the storm and lightning before, but now it was sunny and the weather was particularly summer-like. Tom started to cry that he wanted to go on a boat. Sid went to return our tickets and I tried to talk our disappointed family at least into a hike to the surface — here being the only access point; everywhere else you cannot reach the lake water level.

It was a breeze running down the nine hundred feet, but then the kids spotted the damned boats again, and we had to explain again that they are not operating because of the storm. I understand that on the background of the blue sky, our parental authority gained another deep gash — but I really haven't invented this weather regulation. The lake looked very inviting, but even our family duck Lisa did not "make it" farther than knee-deep. It's an icebox.

Rafting on Rogue River; give the water temperature, we did not dip deeper than to the knees.

We tried dinner in a tourist center near a lodge on the rim. Despite a discouraging appearance, the local cafeteria offers good stuff like beef stew in a (whole) sourdough bread; kids liked it. The only thing left to do was finding a place to sleep — we had a tip from last year and "our" beautiful campsite was free. Also, some previous users had dammed the creek and created a three-foot deep pool, giving us a chance to bathe. Of which we were in dire need, after huffing and puffing up from the Crater Lake surface back to the rim. Tom finally forgot the injustice of cancelled boating and focused on chasing grasshoppers in the meadow.

At one moment, two people on ATVs drove by — but slowed down politely near our camp to not cover us with dust, and came to exchange a few words with us on their way back. Our children did not bring up the topic of bears, and went to sleep without trouble. Late at night we got woken up by some deer or elks — apparently they were used to come to the creek to drink, and our tent surprised them.

As soon as they shook off and stopped screaming in the rapids, our kids became old rafting hands.

I found a tiny frog in front of our tent in the morning; I caught it in a paper cup to show it to the kids later. I was the only one family member who's organism still insisted on getting up at seven, as if we were going to school — Hippo and juniors slept in and I was bored. Eventually they all stumbled out — the longest sleeper on this trip was, surprisingly, Lisa — and we tried to make good on our promise to Tom that we would take him on a DIFFERENT boat.

Trees fallen over Clearwater Creek near (guess what?) Clearwater Falls became a welcome playground for our children.

Hippo and I had tried rafting on Rogue River on previous year; we were hoping that it would work out again this year. On this section of Rogue, boats are launched under a dam, where the water level does not change much. Driving down on the road loosely following the river, we were worried that we could not see any vessels floating down the stream. Still our proven rental place in Shady Cove was open and batik-clad geezer told us to hop in (his van). We had to put on breaks — we first wanted to swallow some food. There was a newly opened Asian restaurant across the street from the raft rentals, and we decided to risk it. Well, let us say — only Hippo got a little sick later and the food was relatively warm.

Rogue contained a pleasant, absolutely negligible number of other boats (during our three hours, we met about three rafts); it offered quiet, comfort, and SPACE. We had received four paddles, and we could sometimes show the kids how to use them (within the scope of their patience), the river gave us enough choices where to go, and soon the young midship(wo)men stopped screaming from fear in the rapids and began enjoying large waves and splashes. The only negative of Rogue River is the temperature — the reservoir is being drained from the bottom, and the water is incredibly icy — you cannot swim in it. But on a hot day this is not a problem. We did not risk an exotic dinner and had a pizza — they can hardly ever do it wrong. And they had beer there, allowing me proper refreshment after a busy day.

Huge butterflies soared over pools above Clearwater Falls.

We were sad to say good-by to our campsite in the morning, driving out on the unknown and unplanned part of our vacation journey. On our way we stopped by two waterfalls. We have never been to Clearwater; kids were ecstatic how beautiful playground it is. Tree trunks had fallen over crystal clear water stream, and one could walk on them. I wondered who'd be the first one to fall in, but neither of them scored, although I had to rescue Tom from one tough spot. Clearwater Falls were a strong success, unlike Watson Falls — which we had liked on spring a year ago, but now at the end of the season it was not quite as lush as there was less water.

We were eagerly looking out for Watson Falls.

And then we just drove and drove, until we traversed the whole Oregon and crossed a (symbolic) border of Washington state. The landscape was spectacular; for us living in a savanna, meadows and groves hold much appeal. Sun was shining, which is rather untypical for this state, and it gave us the impression of a wonderful summer. Then the sun set and we were still driving on Highway 5, not knowing where to settle for the night. Things announced on the map as cities were in reality altogether shabby hamlets, and we began to contemplate a cowardly return to Oregon, when we spotted hotels in Kelso. We found the advertised Best Western after half an hour of random cruising, hiding behind some dubious businesses, and we rejected it as unpromising. We let ourselves enticed by Red Lion, which was probably a mistake. The hotel was nice from outside, but it must be very moldy inside in their moist weather. A stuffy smell lingering in hallways and our room set us back, but it was really late and we decided to somehow survive it.

Sid still insisted on washing laundry (he packed fewer things along than I did for me and the kids), and jumped till midnight in the laundry room. I did not last and fell asleep, before he returned with his last batch.

A helicopter parking under the volcano Mt. St. Helens is a clear challenge.

In the morning we pondered over maps and internet, what to do next. We knew we wanted to visit Mount St. Helens, but a closer study revealed that one can reach the famous volcano from south (we had passed the turn-off on previous evening) or from west, which seemed less touristically interesting. Eventually we opted for the west access route — planning to return to Kelso and checking out southeast part of the area on the next day. Before we set out, we stopped by a local Safeway and obtained pencils and paper for the kids. Somehow I forgot to pack these necessities along, and Tom had been planning for a few days already, what all he was going to draw. For the rest of the trip, juniors carefully recorded their greatest impressions — they were drawing in the car (while driving — I would have thrown up, but they obviously don't care), on hotels, in restaurants, everywhere.

Volcano St. Helens and landscape devastated thirty years ago.

Our kids love "muselums", hence our first stop was in an information center. Before we managed to pay, kids slithered their way into the depths of the exhibits, and we followed on a mad chase among throngs of tourists. We could have thought that they would be inside a model of a volcano. An interpretive movie followed — I know, we're impossible parents, but our children have never been to a real cinema! — poor things, they were so excited watching the documentary. Lisa got relatively shaken, and I don't blame her. Mount St. Helens exploded on May 18, 1980; it devastated a wide area and killed 57 people (with most residents already evacuated). We had to swear to our daughter several times that the volcano wouldn't be erupting on that day, that it is preceded by earthquakes, which is carefully monitored by everybody, etc. In the end I had the feeling that I succeeded in quieting her down.

We followed a road surrounded by planted forest, stopping at various viewpoints, including one with an elegant, blue helicopter on a heliport. Hippos eyes started flashing. He had to keep convincing me for awhile and we had hard time parting with a relatively large chunk of money for the flight to the volcano, but then we reserved it for four o'clock in the afternoon. We had been hoping to take Tom into a small plane or a helicopter for a long time already, and after all it is better to sightsee some interesting spot than just circle an airport near home.

Flying in a helicopter must have been a big deal for both children.

We still had several hours before our flight. Having reached the last viewpoint to the erupted side of the mountain, only an area devastated by the landslide and the ashes, stood between us and a lava dome that has been slowly growing for the last thirty years. We saw yet another documentary about the volcano in yet another tourist center, hiked a small paved loop, and then we had to return to our chopper.

A view to Mt. St. Helens from the helicopter.

My worries began to dissolve, when we got introduced to our pilot. Not only he had allegedly logged twelve years flying for Bundeswehr, he was also very attractive. Hippo and Tom could not quite appreciate the second attribute, but Lisa's admiring looks did not leave me doubting that my daughter has a similar taste like yours truly. Perhaps I should start looking for some boarding school (girls-only, of course) for ages ten to eighteen — I really can't wait for puberty to hit us.

Given Hippo's size, we had to be carefully seated in the helicopter for the weight to be more or less balanced. Tommy was the winner, for he was assigned an exclusive seat right next to the pilot, with a clear view to all sides. Hippo sat right behind Tom, I sat behind the (piloting) Heiko, and Lisa between her parents. She probably could not see anything, but she was flying for free. And by her blissful smile I think she enjoyed the flight quite all right. Tom (as opposed to Lisa) managed to deal with the intercom, and he said a few things sometimes. Heiko covered most of the talking, which impressed even my Hippo — first, Heiko flew with us like if transporting a pallet of eggs — practically no jerks, lurches or unpleasant feelings; if there were no noise from the propellers, it would all seem to me like free floating through the air. Heiko was talking at length about the volcano's history (in English, which is not his native language) and he still managed to point and wave his hands about, without affecting the smooth progression of our flight.

In the midst of the volcano's crater, an active lava dome is (literally) growing larger.

Toutle River has carved a new bed in the hundreds of feet of soft ashes.

I must say that the view of the landscape, devastated thirty years ago, was amazing. We could gaze into the crater and saw the growing lava dome, we saw Spirit Lake, whose surface is to this day partially covered by dead trunks of trees smashed by the eruption. We saw a new bed of the Toutle River, carved in layers of ashes hundreds of feet deep; we saw small craters that were created by explosions of water-turned-wapor under the ash. And we saw new trees — natural forests differ from those planted by people mostly in being mixed, no monoculture. On our way back we could fly low, for this area is still out of limits for all visitors, and hence there's no FAA regulation. Heiko promised us elks; in the end we could not find them, but it bothered us none.

And then we were landing back at the heliport; I would have loved to keep flying. Lisa while disembarking refused the hand of her boring mother; with the grace of a primadonna accepted the hand of our handsome pilot (see my earlier thoughts about the boarding school). Tommy kept for a while dithering over various instruments and gadgets of the helicopter (first I thought the pilots were kidding us when they told us that a sharp beak mounted on the cabin serves the purpose of clipping power lines during emergencies, but they had been apparently serious).

Pleasantly fulfilled we stopped on the side of the road on our way down, at 19 Mile House restaurant, which we had spotted going up. We took our dinner on a deck overlooking Toutle River, topping the whole experience with cobblers — warm soft-boiled fruit, squeezed in pastry and topped-off with a dollop of ice cream. Tommy was making faces that he only wanted ice cream, but then he finished even Lisa's cobbler.

Returning to Kelso and determined to avoid the stinky Red Lion, we found Guest House Inn. It not only was not moldy, but it was cheaper than the gilded, kitschy Lion, and offered tons of space in the room. We planned another day going to St. Helens, but then we learned that on Saturday, our planned day to pass through Seattle, Blue Angels would be flying there and one of the major bridges was to be closed; Lisa (now back to her normal merry and careless self, no longer fearing the volcano) began to draw a person scared by the eruption of the volcano, followed by a man who did not survive it. We concluded that we'd rather move on to the north on the next day (Friday), as we had have enough of volcanoes.