Crater Lake, OR

Day 9:  August 30, 2018

Another fine day at Crater Lake. Superb, really. The smoke has gone away, and it was a clear day with a few streaks of clouds here and there. Started the day early, around 5:30am; stopped at one of the lookout points in West Rim Drive, just past Discovery point, found a spot and settled down in my chair just in time for the sunrise. The sky was already starting to light up when I got there. There was a haze of clouds, or smoke, over the horizon deflecting light, scattering patches of pink, red, and yellow-orange in the sky. The sun still not visible at the time. It was as if the sky was just waking up, scrambling to set the stage for the sunrise. I waited. I sat there, a spectator of a show that never gets old.

      I looked around and realized I wasn’t alone. I was the only person there, yes, but not the only living, breathing thing; surrounding me were the trees—pines and spruces—scattered on the inside wall and top of the rim of the caldera, and also on Wizard island. All were standing still, even the waters of the lake shared the same calmness of the surrounding trees. All seemed to be waiting for the sun’s command to start their business for the day. Needless to say, the sunrise was magnificent.

      When the sun became too bright for me to stare at it, I got up and took a walk along the rim of the caldera. I saw what looked like fresh tracks of a black tail deer. I stalked the trail, hoping to see one; no luck. I stopped at an overlook along the trail. It was a small area of rock protruding towards the inside or center of the caldera. It was a high point along the rim, though not the highest. Looking down, it was a steep cliff heading straight down the rocky shores of the lake. I stood there, as close to the edge my gut would allow, and stared at the rocks lining the inside of the caldera wall. One section was cut so that it exposed the rim’s sagittal plane. And there you can see, the layered segments of rocks sloping outward and down towards the base of the mountain. Each layer formed hundreds of thousands of years ago and hundreds or thousands of years apart. Each layer formed by magma oozing out from the earth, spreading outward and down, then finally cooling and solidifying. Repeat that thousands of times spread through thousands of years and you have Mount Mazama. I imagine the rock layering of this mountain to be somewhat like the rings in tree trunks. Trees, like some mountains, grow layer by layer, through time. I was lost in thought: I was trying to see, in my mind, the different stages and form of Mt. Mazama as it was growing from the beginning, to its peak age, all while staring at the layered rocks in front of me.

There is much to think about here. I took one last glance of the lake as a farewell, for now, before I headed back to my car. The color of the lake is blue, and at that time it was a magnificent pastel blue—cool to the eye and refreshing to the spirit! The air was calm, only giving rise to small, quiet ripples on the surface of the lake, each carrying a flash reflection from the slant of morning light. A portion of the lake was tricked out in a dazzle of lights, flashing randomly in every direction, reflected for the eyes of whoever was watching. I looked and gazed and tried to catch it all, all those flashing, fleeting lights.

I went back to camp to pack up. I still had time, so I did the Annie Creek trail as a final excursion before leaving. And I’m glad I did. I was blown away by the stillness and serenity of that place. It’s a trail that runs along the rim of a canyon then descends approximately 200 ft. down to continue along the side of the creek. I walked upstream, observing the waters as they rushed toward my direction. The meadows by the creek were still and green—a pocket of stillness in the canyon. Trees, plants, flowers and birds were scattered all over the trail’s surroundings. The trees along the flanks of the canyon were bent upward at an angle near their roots, so that most of the length of the trunks were not at right angles to the soil from which they sprouted, but at an almost 45-degree angle, bent up toward the sky. They must’ve been there before the canyon was fully formed: young trees pointing upward, rising perpendicular from the ground, but as the canyon formed, sloping the land, the trees found themselves now at an angle too. But they were having none of it, so they corrected their course, and pointed up, producing the bend near the bottom of their trunks. All the trees in the area seemed to be running a centuries-long marathon heading to the skies.

      In the creek itself were islands of rocks, each about 5-8 feet long and 2-3 feet wide. Those rocky islands now serve as a bed for thriving mosses, flowers, and other plants. The waters from the creek underneath and sunlight coming down through the canyon help them flourish. They sit there, on top of small islands in the middle of the stream. They look nice. The Steller’s jay, cousin of the Blue jay, were all over the place too. They too are mostly blue, but they have a black upper body and head as opposed to having a white body like the Blue jay. It was there along the trail where I saw the biggest, bluest Steller’s jay I have yet seen; probably about 8-10 inches from head to tail. A flying feather of blue swooping past a backdrop of leafy greens. It was a beautiful trail. With almost every turn I found myself stopping dead on my tracks, astonished at scene that came next.

From Crater Lake, I drove west to Oregon’s coast and finally stopped for the night at Coos Bay. I checked in at a hotel, tired but happy. I’ve been camping 7 out of the past 8 nights. Camping is great but right now, I want a bed to rest on. Tomorrow will be spent driving along Oregon’s coast, then, Portland!