South Sister
I've returned from my backpacking trip in central Oregon. I should be sleeping now, in fact went to bed hours ago, but a touch of insomnia has sent me to the keyboard. (I remember now that I didn't say much about my last trip, to Dollar Lake, but I'm sure that this will be plenty of hiking and will fairly adequately represent a summer's worth of trips.)
We went to the middle of the Oregon Cascade range, just south of Sisters and west of Redmond. The terrain in central Oregon is an astounding mix of high desert, pine forest, valley-edge fir forest, volcanic remains, tumbling lumps of mesas and buttes, and prairie, each with its own flora and somewhat separate fauna. The boundaries between these terrains can be abrupt or gradual, and vary depending on the presence of streams or lakes. At one point on the drive, after the forest fires near Sisters but before Bend, we could see Mount Hood, in the distance, then the whole line of pointy Mount Jefferson, craggy Three Fingered Jack, Mount Washington's pith helmet peak; North, Middle, and South Sister, plus the lower humps of the Wife and Husband; and then crumbling Broken Top just south of South Sister, Newberry Caldera, and lastly Mount Bachelor, its ski lifts still and silent above its grassy slopes. I always forget how incredibly beautiful it is out there on the high desert and in steep Santiam and Mackenzie Passes between the volcanoes. Patches of the forest looked ghostly, the trunks of burnt-out firs standing black and white and sentinel, pillars guarding while the underbrush returns. Those fires ran through at least five years ago, out of control due to artificial suppression of natural small burns. They gather up fallen limbs near settled areas, burning brushy haystacks of them on days when the conditions are just right, leaving just enough limbs lying around to shelter gray Stellar's jays and small, curious squirrels.
My mother and I left the house late on our first day: my fault. We drove the longer way, heading south until Albany and east on a slower highway. I set the pace at the trailhead, marching the first two miles up a slight hill at a clip that barely let us appreciate Fall Creek along the right flank. I slowed at the trail junction, but didn't pause for breath. We'd gotten our packs down to thirty (mine) and twenty-seven (Mum's) pounds, what with her new backpack and a shared sleeping bag, so our fresh legs could hold a quick stride. We made it to Moraine Lake with enough time to pitch the tent, cook dinner, scrub the dishes, hang the food bag, and get ready for bed before the sun set completely, but we had to snatch glances at the intense pink glow on Broken Top while finishing camp chores. The shore was wooded to the southwest, and we set up camp on a protected ridge. The north side shot upward into a huge mound of crumbly soil, the remains of the bulldozer load of cinders an old glacier had shoved down the shoulder of South Sister before retreating. The east edge of the lake spread into a small plain tufted with malnourished grasses. We stayed up late, stargazing, astonished at the sheer number of visible stars and at our inability to recall the names of long-forgotten constellations. I know the winter sky better these days.
We set out for Sisters Mirror Lake the next day, a ten-mile trip. I hadn't read the map carefully enough, so we walked farther than intended. My mum wanted to follow the track through Wickiup Plain, too, adding a mile or so. We saw our first rider of the trip heading up toward the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), two more horses packing supplies and a dog yapping along behind. It doesn't seem very efficient to me, but I have to wonder if I'll resort to horseback when I can no longer hike long distances. The lake was warm enough to splash in, with an extremely squishy mud bottom. I lay back on a boulder and read for a while. I have a bad habit of packing hardbound books along with me, the weight be damned. We visited other lakes on subsequent hikes. My mother prefers creeks to still water; I like the motion as well, slightly favoring them over even the ocean.
We set out to scale South Sister on the antepenultimate day. It's 10,358 feet high, and though we'd already hiked up over a thousand feet to our base camp, we had 4000 more vertical feet to cover in just under four miles. The first mile was a lark, once we had climbed up to the ridge of the moraine's rocky hump. It didn't take long to reach the timberline, though one patch of shale gave us some trouble. We met a few retired couples and pairs of college students enjoying the remnants of their vacation venturing partway up the mountain, with a few other hikers set to summit or just returning from the peak. Higher, we found strange rock formations and steep sections of crumbling pumice, the kind of slopes that send you sliding down a bit with each step. The first glacier showed up in a deep basin to the right, its crevasses jagged and intimidating in the sharp sunlight. I couldn't see down very far, but the light vanished quickly into shades of clear greeny-blue, then deeper translucent blues and finally black. We were climbing another exposed ridge at this point, perhaps only just over a mile from the top. After a smaller glacier appeared on the left, along with a few snow fields, we made it to the toughest portion of the ascent. The ground turned back into pumice after a chunky obsidian and stone respite, only this time a deep brick red instead of the quieter gray down below. It must have taken a couple of hours to climb the last few thousand feet, on what often was no trail at all and probably a good thousand vertical feet as well. The red pumice grains had us slipping around and sliding back even more than we had on the lower sections. Finally, after multiple false rims, red dust coating our legs and settling on our sweaty necks, and stopping four times to rest in a distance roughly as long as a city block, we pulled ourselves over the true rim and faced the cratered summit. South Sister blasted us with a southerly wind straight off the glacier filling its caldera, and we ducked into a circular windbreak to pile on more synthetic clothing. Emerging into the icy blasts, we refilled our empty Camelbaks directly from the meltwater streaming off the glacier rim. For the record, it was delicious and stunningly cold.
We had to hike around the rim to reach the true summit, but it was more than worth it. The rim was thin, but afforded splendid views of adjacent Broken Top's razor-thin summit ridge and the other two Sisters. North Sister looked most intimidating of the pair, her jarring accumulation of black peaks all the way up to a sharp point contrasting with both the softer snow patcheson Middle Sister and the crater in which we stood on the tallest, South Sister. Climbing Broken Top would be unimaginable, its dark spikes straight out of fantasy lands. We pictured Mordor, hordes of evildoers camped out in a fortress within the mountain's fierce crags. South Sister's central glacier collected its own tiny lake, its waters that peculiar milky green of all glacial lakes and secure under the sweeping curve of the glacier's wind-sculpted pompadour. Calves screaming, we finally pulled ourselves up to to the summit for photographs before dropping back ten feet to celebrate with a large dark chocolate espresso bar and dried cherries, black hawks swooping just above our scalps.
The hike down tore at my quads despite rugby and bike training, but we were back to camp early, as planned. We cooked up a 1,000 calorie dinner and tucked unto the tent early, somewhat wary of the fog that had drifted around neighboring hills during our descent. A cloud drifted above our lake, then retreated quickly. We were right to be ensconced in our sleeping bag by 8:30 pm: a windstorm blew in at 9:00 pm and kept on until just after 3:00 am. It blew a fine grit into every crevice, around the tent fly and through the screens. We didn't sleep well, waking to clear out our eyes and noses every hour at most. We slept in, cleaned up as best we could, and headed uphill again to Green Lakes by mid-afternoon. We didn't have as much time at the triad of lakes as we'd have liked there, due to the storm. They're every bit as lovely as reported. I read some more, and we cooked up freeze-dried mushroom couscous for dinner before we left.
Our final hike out was rushed as well, but we did spend some time visiting the Metolius River the next morning, after two showers and a stint in the hot tub. The Metolius appears to burble up out of nowhere ever since a volcanic eruption blocked its path, forcing its real head underground. We mostly just sketched and read on the banks of the Metolius, relaxing after hiking about eight miles per day for the past week, much of it up or down steep slopes.
Fall Creek on the way in.
South Sister from Wickiup Plain, with Middle Sister peeking over the lower ground. The small hill to the right actually contains a little crater.
Clumps of fireweed along the trail seemed to crackle in the glaring sun.
Broken Top from across one of the lower glaciers.
Resting in a windbreak on one of the exposed ridges.
The broad glacier at the summit, tucked neatly into the central crater.
Middle Sister, North Sister, me: view from the top. They say you can see half the state on a clear day. We had a touch of haze, so maybe only a third of Oregon was visible. These photos don't do it justice.
I did make it, really.
Resting at the central Green Lake after the descent.
We went to the middle of the Oregon Cascade range, just south of Sisters and west of Redmond. The terrain in central Oregon is an astounding mix of high desert, pine forest, valley-edge fir forest, volcanic remains, tumbling lumps of mesas and buttes, and prairie, each with its own flora and somewhat separate fauna. The boundaries between these terrains can be abrupt or gradual, and vary depending on the presence of streams or lakes. At one point on the drive, after the forest fires near Sisters but before Bend, we could see Mount Hood, in the distance, then the whole line of pointy Mount Jefferson, craggy Three Fingered Jack, Mount Washington's pith helmet peak; North, Middle, and South Sister, plus the lower humps of the Wife and Husband; and then crumbling Broken Top just south of South Sister, Newberry Caldera, and lastly Mount Bachelor, its ski lifts still and silent above its grassy slopes. I always forget how incredibly beautiful it is out there on the high desert and in steep Santiam and Mackenzie Passes between the volcanoes. Patches of the forest looked ghostly, the trunks of burnt-out firs standing black and white and sentinel, pillars guarding while the underbrush returns. Those fires ran through at least five years ago, out of control due to artificial suppression of natural small burns. They gather up fallen limbs near settled areas, burning brushy haystacks of them on days when the conditions are just right, leaving just enough limbs lying around to shelter gray Stellar's jays and small, curious squirrels.
My mother and I left the house late on our first day: my fault. We drove the longer way, heading south until Albany and east on a slower highway. I set the pace at the trailhead, marching the first two miles up a slight hill at a clip that barely let us appreciate Fall Creek along the right flank. I slowed at the trail junction, but didn't pause for breath. We'd gotten our packs down to thirty (mine) and twenty-seven (Mum's) pounds, what with her new backpack and a shared sleeping bag, so our fresh legs could hold a quick stride. We made it to Moraine Lake with enough time to pitch the tent, cook dinner, scrub the dishes, hang the food bag, and get ready for bed before the sun set completely, but we had to snatch glances at the intense pink glow on Broken Top while finishing camp chores. The shore was wooded to the southwest, and we set up camp on a protected ridge. The north side shot upward into a huge mound of crumbly soil, the remains of the bulldozer load of cinders an old glacier had shoved down the shoulder of South Sister before retreating. The east edge of the lake spread into a small plain tufted with malnourished grasses. We stayed up late, stargazing, astonished at the sheer number of visible stars and at our inability to recall the names of long-forgotten constellations. I know the winter sky better these days.
We set out for Sisters Mirror Lake the next day, a ten-mile trip. I hadn't read the map carefully enough, so we walked farther than intended. My mum wanted to follow the track through Wickiup Plain, too, adding a mile or so. We saw our first rider of the trip heading up toward the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), two more horses packing supplies and a dog yapping along behind. It doesn't seem very efficient to me, but I have to wonder if I'll resort to horseback when I can no longer hike long distances. The lake was warm enough to splash in, with an extremely squishy mud bottom. I lay back on a boulder and read for a while. I have a bad habit of packing hardbound books along with me, the weight be damned. We visited other lakes on subsequent hikes. My mother prefers creeks to still water; I like the motion as well, slightly favoring them over even the ocean.
We set out to scale South Sister on the antepenultimate day. It's 10,358 feet high, and though we'd already hiked up over a thousand feet to our base camp, we had 4000 more vertical feet to cover in just under four miles. The first mile was a lark, once we had climbed up to the ridge of the moraine's rocky hump. It didn't take long to reach the timberline, though one patch of shale gave us some trouble. We met a few retired couples and pairs of college students enjoying the remnants of their vacation venturing partway up the mountain, with a few other hikers set to summit or just returning from the peak. Higher, we found strange rock formations and steep sections of crumbling pumice, the kind of slopes that send you sliding down a bit with each step. The first glacier showed up in a deep basin to the right, its crevasses jagged and intimidating in the sharp sunlight. I couldn't see down very far, but the light vanished quickly into shades of clear greeny-blue, then deeper translucent blues and finally black. We were climbing another exposed ridge at this point, perhaps only just over a mile from the top. After a smaller glacier appeared on the left, along with a few snow fields, we made it to the toughest portion of the ascent. The ground turned back into pumice after a chunky obsidian and stone respite, only this time a deep brick red instead of the quieter gray down below. It must have taken a couple of hours to climb the last few thousand feet, on what often was no trail at all and probably a good thousand vertical feet as well. The red pumice grains had us slipping around and sliding back even more than we had on the lower sections. Finally, after multiple false rims, red dust coating our legs and settling on our sweaty necks, and stopping four times to rest in a distance roughly as long as a city block, we pulled ourselves over the true rim and faced the cratered summit. South Sister blasted us with a southerly wind straight off the glacier filling its caldera, and we ducked into a circular windbreak to pile on more synthetic clothing. Emerging into the icy blasts, we refilled our empty Camelbaks directly from the meltwater streaming off the glacier rim. For the record, it was delicious and stunningly cold.
We had to hike around the rim to reach the true summit, but it was more than worth it. The rim was thin, but afforded splendid views of adjacent Broken Top's razor-thin summit ridge and the other two Sisters. North Sister looked most intimidating of the pair, her jarring accumulation of black peaks all the way up to a sharp point contrasting with both the softer snow patcheson Middle Sister and the crater in which we stood on the tallest, South Sister. Climbing Broken Top would be unimaginable, its dark spikes straight out of fantasy lands. We pictured Mordor, hordes of evildoers camped out in a fortress within the mountain's fierce crags. South Sister's central glacier collected its own tiny lake, its waters that peculiar milky green of all glacial lakes and secure under the sweeping curve of the glacier's wind-sculpted pompadour. Calves screaming, we finally pulled ourselves up to to the summit for photographs before dropping back ten feet to celebrate with a large dark chocolate espresso bar and dried cherries, black hawks swooping just above our scalps.
The hike down tore at my quads despite rugby and bike training, but we were back to camp early, as planned. We cooked up a 1,000 calorie dinner and tucked unto the tent early, somewhat wary of the fog that had drifted around neighboring hills during our descent. A cloud drifted above our lake, then retreated quickly. We were right to be ensconced in our sleeping bag by 8:30 pm: a windstorm blew in at 9:00 pm and kept on until just after 3:00 am. It blew a fine grit into every crevice, around the tent fly and through the screens. We didn't sleep well, waking to clear out our eyes and noses every hour at most. We slept in, cleaned up as best we could, and headed uphill again to Green Lakes by mid-afternoon. We didn't have as much time at the triad of lakes as we'd have liked there, due to the storm. They're every bit as lovely as reported. I read some more, and we cooked up freeze-dried mushroom couscous for dinner before we left.
Our final hike out was rushed as well, but we did spend some time visiting the Metolius River the next morning, after two showers and a stint in the hot tub. The Metolius appears to burble up out of nowhere ever since a volcanic eruption blocked its path, forcing its real head underground. We mostly just sketched and read on the banks of the Metolius, relaxing after hiking about eight miles per day for the past week, much of it up or down steep slopes.
Fall Creek on the way in.
South Sister from Wickiup Plain, with Middle Sister peeking over the lower ground. The small hill to the right actually contains a little crater.
Clumps of fireweed along the trail seemed to crackle in the glaring sun.
Broken Top from across one of the lower glaciers.
Resting in a windbreak on one of the exposed ridges.
The broad glacier at the summit, tucked neatly into the central crater.
Middle Sister, North Sister, me: view from the top. They say you can see half the state on a clear day. We had a touch of haze, so maybe only a third of Oregon was visible. These photos don't do it justice.
I did make it, really.
Resting at the central Green Lake after the descent.