Central Oregon Winter Camping, December 2010, Day 3

Allright, here's the third and final installment of this three day trip.

I drove from the Smith Rock area north to Cove Palisades State Park.  This park is recreational access to a large lake, Lake Billy Chinook, created by the Round Butte Dam.  This dam backs up the water of the three main Central Oregon rivers- the Metolius, the Deschutes and the Crooked.  The reservoir is huge, because is catches most of the snowmelt and percolation from thousands of square miles of the Cascades, as well as from the Ochocos, across the great wide flat valley of Central Oregon.

My first views of the lake were from my car, while driving down a steep, narrow road perched on the edge of eroded rimrock cliffs:

That's rabbitbrush in the foreground.  Those bushed still have last fall's blooms on them.

I drove downhill into the park, which is situated on a narrow peninsula in between the Crooked River and Deschutes River arms of the lake.  After talking to a park ranger and leaving him some money for letting me park my car overnight, I headed back up hill on a trail that leads to the Rim, the Tam-a-Lau Trail:

I wound my way up the slopes, with a moon above and the sun sometimes in my face.  This was really nice, because the sun kept me warm.  These photos might give the impression of warmth, but it was still only in the mid-30's this day.

Upon reaching the rim, I enjoyed panoramic views to the West, with the Deschutes below:

I also enjoyed seeing the table-top flat bench on which I would be spending the night.

As the sun set, I viewed the lake and its redrock in a wash of evening color:

The large, square edged formation in the center of this photo is called the The Island, though it is actually just part of the Peninsula.  It is a protected site that supposedly has avoided the despoilment of cattle grazing, and therefore has a more of an original ecosystem than almost anywhere else in Central Oregon.  Hikers are not even allowed to climb up to the top of The Island, in order to keep invasive species out.

I set up camp on the corner of this large peninsula, with views all around.  There wasn't a huge sunset like the previous nights, but there was an odd shaped cloud toward the Cascades:

I cooked dinner and enjoyed the still evening air while the sunlight dimmed and moonlight took over:

After the moon was obscured by gathering clouds, I walked around the rim and took shots of several cars driving over the park road.  I realized later that this road is the only paved access to a small community on the other side of the Deschutes River- sited on Canadian Bench.  Turns out that this is a pretty lucky fact, because that means the road is well traveled.  The large hill in the distance is Round Butte:

I slept soundly for a good while, but I woke up in the early morning.  In my groggy state, I knew something was going on outside my tent.  As soon as I really woke up, I realized that my tent was much smaller than I recalled.

I could see snow piled up around the tent, and peeked outside to check out the scene:

At this point, I got out of bed, cleaned off the tent, and staked it out to shed the snow a little more effectively.

The next four hours or so went basically like this: sleep a bit, wake up, then bang the inside walls of the tent to keep snow from building up too much and pushing the walls down.  Over the course of the night, about 8 inches fell.  It was a beautiful desert snow- very dry and light.  

The most special thing about this experience was the sound of snow falling and the reaction that caused in my musician's brain: I kept hearing a pulsing chord of high pitches (I don't have perfect pitch, but I think that they were G, Bb and C, or some variation on those intervals).  The tone of these pitches was crystalline and pure- rather like highly competent glass harmonica playing.  I'm sure that the snow didn't sound like this.  

My experience was powerful physically (cold, extreme quiet, darkness), intellectually (thinking of the crystal structures of snow flakes pressing in on the tent) and emotionally (isolation and ever-increasing concern about being able to drive out the next day, tempered by real enjoyment and confidence that I'd be okay no matter what).  

My mind took this stew of my experience and composed a hypnotic musical motif as a background accompaniment.  I can still hear it now, if I think about it.  A real synesthetic experience!

It was still cold and uncomfortable to get up, though this was the warmest morning of the three days on my trip.  

The snow made the surroundings quite different from their appearance the day before:

A little bit of a distant sunrise:

The Island:

I was, as I mentioned, not really sure how I'd get out of the park and up that crazy road to the highways on the main valley floor.  My fervent desires were answered when I heard a heavy engine rumbling and heard a scraping noise down in the park: they'd fired up a big pick up with a plow, and were busily clearing the roads.  That'd make the trip much easier, though I imagined (correctly) that I'd still be white-knuckling it out of there.

Yours truly, before heading back down:

Walking back down was nice, in a cold-feet but warm heart sort of way.  If I'd known it would be so snowy that morning, I'd have brought better shoes and sock, as well as gaiters to keep the snow from wadding up under my heel.  Oh well. . . there was nothing for it!

More transfigured views:

I could see my car down in its lot.  Unfortunately, they hadn't plowed out a path for me, but they had plowed the spur road to the lot.  I knew I'd have to get the car to the road somehow.    

My hidden car:

I dug out with the shovel I'd brought for just this purpose.  I put my chains on the front tires for traction.  Then I got the car revved up and starting driving toward the spur road.  Of course, when they'd plowed that road, they'd pushed up a wall of compacted snow at the edges.  Luckily, my car was parked uphill of that obstacle, and with only a little tap of the gas, I barreled down the hill and busted right through the snow!  It was actually quite fun.  

Then the fun ended, and I spent 4 hours driving home, putting on and taking off my chains several more times (they always seemed to be on when the road was melted out, and off when there was suddenly ice and snow).  There were white-out conditions for a short time, which didn't seem to bother the other drivers on the road.  This really made me feel incompetent!  How far I've come from my Iowa days.

I made it back without a scratch.  I hope you enjoyed my trip!

Charley

Central Oregon Winter Camping, December 2010, Day 2

Since I left my trekking poles on the driveway in Eugene (they were cheap children's size ski poles that I bought used, so I didn't feel too bad when my fiance reported that they were stolen) I needed to buy a pair.  I drove into lovely Bend to accomplish that, and then immediately took off up the highway to the Gray Butte Area.  Gray Butte is a large, conical butte that backs up against Smith Rock State Park.  It's located in the Crooked River National Grassland.  Smith Rock is a spectacularly scenic and world-renowned location for difficult rock climbing, while Gray Butte is just a brown, road-scarred and cattle-grazed lump with a radio tower at the top.  But it's on federal land open to dispersed camping, whereas Smith Rock is a buttoned-down day use area only kind of place.  Most Oregon State Parks are like that, unfortunately.

I parked on a dirt road that seems to mainly see ATV and rancher traffic, then found a trail heading up into the hills.  I followed the tracks of a lone mountain bike rider over a thin crust of recent snow.

I got lost a time or two, where the apparent trail is not actually the route up to the side of the butte.  I managed to stay oriented though, and the bushwhacking was easy, as this dry place doesn't grow heavy underbrush.  In my wanderings I passed a "redneck campsite" (truck accessible only, with trash and spent shells everywhere) with this odd graffiti:

I don't know who came down from Washington, but apparently they aren't welcome.

After finding my route again, I followed the trail around the side of a long ridge, with views of the Three Sisters always to my front:

This whole area is part of the Crooked River National Grassland.  These lands were purchased by the Federal Government from the French (Lousiana Purchase), wrestled from English control (the Hudson's Bay Company was the first white settlement in Oregon), and finally, made clear of Indians by genocidal war and disease.  Then, the government gave this land away to white settlers, who homesteaded on the dry juniper benches around the Crooked River, beginning in the 1880's.  The land was not fully cooperative, though, and by the 1930's Dust Bowl, many of the farms had failed.  The Government then bought the land back from the families and started the job of revegetating the badly scarred soil.  Now the Grassland is used for cattle grazing and recreation.

I passed towers of rock along the ridge crest:

 
And I noticed the moon in the sky again.  This is why I come to Central Oregon.  Being able to see some sky makes all the difference in the world to a landscape photographer.  I don't have anything against cloudy days, but cloudy days with rain just don't make for spectacular photographs.  Sure, great photos are always possible, but it's a more limited pallet of colors and moods.  And cold rain with 15 hour nights can be pretty miserable travel.

When I got to the overlook of Smith Rock, the sun was behind clouds at the Cascades.  I thought, well, that's too bad, because then there won't be a sunset.  I saw a man and woman sitting up on a rock watching the clouds and said "doesn't look like there'll be much of a sunset, eh?"  But I was wrong!  The sun soon went underneath the clouds, and I got one of the best lightshows I've ever seen.

Here's Smith Rock:

And here are the Three Sisters (Faith, Hope, and Charity) across the grand valley of the Deschutes and Crooked Rivers:

Here's a view back to the East, of the huge cliffs to my back:

And the moon, again:

Even after the sun had definitively set, there were great views all around.  I saw a lunar halo that night, a phenomenon caused by sunlight bouncing off the moon, traveling through cirro-stratus clouds (thin, high clouds composed of ice crystals) and refracting at 22 degrees.  Quite a thrill:

 
My night was cozy and warm, because I brought more clothing than the first night.  That's Gray Butte itself, in the distance:

The next morning, I woke up to more scenic wonders- a carpet of fog covering the large valley.  I was excited, because I could count on great light hitting the clouds from above, creating colors all over.

Before sunrise, with Smith Rock poking out of the fog:

First light on the Three Sisters:

To the South:

Finally, the island of exposed rock at Smith Rock enjoys the morning warmth:

The nicest thing about traveling and photographing this time of year is that the sun is so low in the sky that the great light lasts hours (and not under an hour as it does at lower latitudes).  I hopped all over with my tripod:

The fog eventually lifted along the banks of the Crooked River:

A Juniper snag:

I retraced my steps back to my car, and cooked myself some lunch.  I got back on the highway, and drove up towards Lake Billy Chinook, my next destination.  Along the way, I passed over a low pass that had a film of rime ice over all the trees.  I don't get to see that very often either.

Maybe all of this just looks "old hat" to Bend area locals, but I tend to think not.  They have a more exciting and interesting climate and a more variety of sceneries than we have in Western Oregon.  Though familiarity must change a person's experience of a landscape, unfamiliarity cannot be the sole reason so many people find these landscapes particularly scenic.  There must be some objective, intrinsic aesthetic reason for the popularity of spectacular desert landscapes, as opposed to spectacular forested landscapes.  And certainly there are more opportunities for this kind of photography here than in the Midwest or East Coast.

Sometimes I read quotes like "you don't need the grand scenery of the American West to take great landscape photos" but I think that's sort of a cruel joke.  A great photo of a spectacular, iconic subject will be a more interesting photo than a great photo (no matter how well composed and executed) of a merely pretty or pleasant subject.

Pictures of eastern American landscapes can rarely compete, in my mind, with pictures of the open spaces of the west.  They don't use the term "monumental" to describe pictures of the Smokies, while "monumental" is the going word to describe Ansel Adams' photos from the 1940's, almost all made in the West.  Eliot Porter's photos of the Appalachians are beautiful, well composed, and technically innovative (for being among the earliest color landscapes) but there's a reason why these photos are less well known that Ansel Adams' "old fashioned" black and white prints.  Adams' and Galen Rowell's photos have a quality that I'd describe as "stunning" or "shocking," and it's easier for me to emulate this quality when I'm east of the Cascades.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading!

Central Oregon Winter Camping, December 2010, Day 1

Well, this is quite overdue (months!) but I thought you'd enjoy this blast from the recent past anyway.  I had several days off in December, and used my time off to take a winter backpacking trip to Central Oregon.  I could count on days of cold rain or snow in the Western Oregon Cascades, and decamping to Central Oregon would at least give me a chance for interesting, maybe even sunny weather, though I was guaranteed cold weather, and the chance of a transportationally crippling snowstorm was ever-present.  More on that later!

First, I had to get there.  From Eugene, I drove over Santiam Pass to Bend.  The weather was great, but the roads were all sorts of conditions.  In this photo conditions weren't so bad, but later they were covered by deep snow.  I chained up and white-knuckled for hours through winter wonderland.  

My first destination was a recently declared Bureau of Land Management Wilderness Area called the Oregon Badlands.  I've back country camped here one time before, in the summer.   
 

I arrived in the evening: 3 pm.  No, that's not a joke.  With the sun setting at 4:27 that day, I had only an hour to get out a few miles to a campsite.  I made my way out from my car through a dispersed woodland of juniper and sagebrush, while the moon set to the east.   

 

My campsite this night was beside a rock outcrop called Flatiron Rock.  It's not quite flat, but it is rock.  From there I enjoyed a sunset of chilly temperature and warm colors:

After sunset I headed back down from the top of the rock to set up my tent and cook some dinner.  On the positive side, the long nights (15 hours from sunset to sunrise) allow plenty of time for rest.  On the negative side, that's a long time to lay down on meager sleeping pads and try to stay warm. 

Observed low temperature in nearby Bend this night was 13F.  I was a bit cold, even in my sleeping bag, so the next few nights I packed an extra jacket, baselayer and gloves, which did the trick quite well.

 I got back up, retrieved my food (hanging from a bear bag on a nearby juniper), and threw a few granola bars into my pockets to thaw them out.  I headed up to Flatiron Rock to see the sights. 

The Badlands is a flattish area between ridges and mountains, bordered by roads on all sides.  It's only about 15 miles east of Bend, and as more and more people find out about the trails on the land, it will grow in popularity.  It seems to be more popular even than the first time I went out there.  I've especially noticed that it's well-used for dog walkers.  Here's a view to the West, with the Three Sisters and Mt Bachelor on the horizon. 

Juniper and Basalt rock:

 

For this trip I decided to use a more snow-worthy shelter.  Tarps are great, and many tarps are strong enough for snowy conditions, but I didn't relish the thought of fighting spindrift all night during a snowstorm.  Given the chance of a real storm on this trip, I thought it'd be worth buying a more enclosed shelter.  I found this Golite pyramidal structure to be quite adequate for winter camping in normal conditions (as I later found out).  It's not exactly a tent- there's no floor and no tent poles.  So it doesn't weigh too much, and it breathes (exhales, really) much better than a traditional two wall tent, because it's not airtight.  It is open to airflow around the bottom and through two vents at the top.  In very cold temperatures, the air temperature in the tent is low enough to allow condensed moisture from my exhalation to freeze harmlessly onto the tent walls, even if the ventilation at the floor level is covered over by fallen snow.  This night, with clear skies, I just left the front door of the shelter open.  I still prefer a tarp (better views), but in winter time, this shelter is much more open and fun to use than a heavy, closed-up double wall tent.  

 Day two is coming up. . . soonish.