As soon as I took my first steps on soil again this spring—not only because the ground had thawed but my fractured shin bone was healing—I was scheming about truly getting back into nature. Not just out for a hike, but living there.
So, when close friends from Portland mentioned they’d be camping at Pioneer Ford Campground on the Metolius River over Memorial Day weekend, I immediately asked if I could join for a night even though I was working at REI all weekend.
Sitting around the fire until the only being visible was the glow of the orange flames; Drawn into our tents as the sun and temperatures dropped well below the horizon; Eventually falling asleep to the white noise of the rushing river and wind whirling through the tree limbs above; Sleeping with the contours of the ground and roots and twigs under the thin layers of my tent footprint, pad, and absolute favorite Roxy Ann 15° down sleeping bag by Big Agnes (impressively innovated since 2019); Awaking to the chirping birds in conversation at first light; Walking the animal path alongside the rippling current of the Metolius River and stopping to examine wildflowers and mushrooms together.
Calm, intuitive, connected. Nearly impossible in the hustle, bustle, beeping, blinking, hum drum norm of our days living indoors.
Yes, this was what I was longing for!
I went back to town and drafted a “Want to Go” list for the summer of other nearby hot springs, rivers, lakes, mountains, and campgrounds—both new and favorites—plus my Deschutes River Trail section-hiking project, and a few National Parks in Washington near my family reunion in July. Bearing my injury in mind, nothing crazy, just doable.
Before I could even look at the little green flags I’d saved in Google Maps for inspiration, a memory from September 2020 sprang to mind like I was still there.
I remembered laying nude on the rocky beach after a hot hike followed by a brisk swim in the crystal clear water at one of the dozens of obscure lakes off the Cascade Lakes Highway near Bend, Ore. It was an accidental find after an impromptu night camping at nearby Elk Lake on Labor Day weekend.
My short, caramel hair barely grazed my shoulders under my Mt. Hood trucker’s hat, so the warmth of the midday sun baked my back as I read a novel by my favorite author, Barbara Kingsolver. Absorbed in her engrossing storyline per usual, I was also slightly sensitive to the exposure. Newly at home in my bare skin “out in public” there was a prickly feeling, like a tiny tongue licking my skin.
When I glanced over to my surprise, there actually was a tiny tongue licking my skin. A butterfly with orange ombre and black spotted wings was slurping the salty sweat off my shoulder. While I paged through several more chapters, my companion stayed put and tip-toed around my back for over an hour. I could have stayed there all weekend.
Eventually, I needed to get dressed and begrudgingly hike the couple of miles back to my car for the long drive back to Portland. The butterfly fluttered off briefly then returned to graze my shoulder for a selfie together and farewell before I hoisted on my backpack and she flew away.
In the meantime, I was also surprised to find a few steps up from the tiny beach a woman had set up a hammock attached to the sparse trees near her tent and a small firepit on the peninsula where she too was quietly reading. I apologized for the nudity and she chuckled that it was completely natural.
She said it was one of her favorite local camping spots each summer so she liked to arrive early in the morning to grab one of the few campsites around the lake before her friends and their kids arrived later. Because of the short approach, she agreed it was easy to bring luxuries like her hammock, book, beers, s’mores, and home-cooked meals. Like being at home.
A little green flag pinned in my heart as I listened. I want to come back here.
Thus, that special locals-only spot on the Cascade Lakes Highway that I discovered four years ago was at the very top of my “Want to Go” list for this summer. So, when my Bend Climbing Club friend texted a week ago asking: “Whatcha doing this week during your days off?” I quickly replied about backpacking there.
She texted back a photo of a sparkling sapphire lake: Was actually just up there today, look at that water—gorgeous up there. Perfect!
About 2.5 miles from the car and 500 feet of elevation gain from the parking lot to the lake at 5,500 feet, it was an ideal first attempt backpacking post-injury for me and a second trip for her adventure-in-training eight-month-old shaggy black and white Border Collie, “aka purebred chaos goblin” as she described him.
I tried to pack ultralight to bear less weight on my recovering right leg, but I couldn’t resist the necessities of a hammock, book, sketchbook, and beer to fulfill my daydream. Equally inspired, my friend texted me the night before our departure asking if it was crazy to pack her twenty-pound inflatable standup paddleboard (SUP), pump, and paddle.
Not for you!, I quickly replied knowing how many thousands of miles her burly legs and strong back had traveled on foot, bike, and backcountry skis during the short year-and-a-half that I’d known her.
An hour and a half after I clocked out from work last Wednesday afternoon, a kind family in the parking lot took a photo of us before we embarked from the trailhead. We quickly lost sight of the cars and the highway and started to ascend into the Three Sisters Wilderness. We barely saw anyone so her puppy could happily roam off leash and bound off to taste every creek, stream, and puddle we passed.
See photos of our backpacking trip on Instagram.
Even though it was mid-June, the forest air was only in the high 60s° Fahrenheit as we trudged across snowy patches on the trail and walked beside gurgling creeks of runoff that would disappear in a month or two once it was actually summer.
As we approached the lake and saw blue up ahead, we were as excited as her pup sprinting out and back ahead of us. We were definitely back in my butterfly friend’s neighborhood.
From the main trail, I saw the same offshoots down to the lake on the right that I remembered, but there was a lot of tree and branch blowdown from winter storms making it difficult to recognize which path led to that idyllic campsite from my first encounter. We took our best guess toward a peninsula but it was the day-use-only site so back-tracked along the lakeside trail.
With mosquitos starting to buzz around us and my stomach grumbling, we settled for a different but equally serene peninsula with good hammock trees, two flat tent spots, a small fire pit, and a great boat launch spot.
As I set up and settled into my hammock, my friend pumped up the SUP and then coaxed her puppy onto the board for her well-earned opportunity to explore the lake from the water. They noticed one other family with a dog on the opposite side of the lake whose orange campfire I’d see later on when I took the SUP out after sunset.
As I drifted away from the shore scattered with boulders and driftwood, the water became even more amazingly clear, but what really took my breath away was looking down at the bottom of the lake. There was nothing there. No rocks, no logs, and definitely no tires or trash. Just a soft, silty layer of decomposing matter like a velvet blanket.
Once I turned around to row back to our campsite, more awe lay before me on the horizon. The curvy outline of the ski slopes running down the backside of Mt. Bachelor where I worked, skied, and broke my leg last winter glowed in the dusky light and reminded me how close we were to home. Well, our indoor homes.
Once ashore again, we used headlamps to make dinner on the boulder that was our outdoor “kitchen” and then retired to our “living room” near the silvery snag covered in lime lichen at the tip of the peninsula. Even though the temperature was moving toward the high 30s° Fahrenheit, we stayed up way too late chatting philosophically under the Big Dipper.
The night was still and quiet—except for the bullfrogs who seemed to be the only one of our animal neighbors still awake—but we all had a hard time settling in.
In the middle of the night, we switched tents so the puppy was more comfortable. While I’d slept in a regular tent probably a hundred times, it was my first time sleeping in an ultralight tarp tent, which is pretty much what it sounds like—a tarp draped over trekking poles and staked to the ground with a small mesh perimeter but no actual bottom. Literally sleeping on the ground.
I tossed and turned all night, finally pulling my sleeping bag all the way over my head and tucking my cold arms inside my fleece vest so I was warm enough to fall asleep an hour before sunrise.
Even though the three of us woke up exhausted, the turquoise early morning water beckoned for more paddling before we packed up and headed back to town after our 24-hour trip. It was just too beautiful to resist. We quickly forgot about any bug bites, scrapes, soreness or lack of sleep.
As I pushed away from the shore barefoot, still in the same dirty, smelly outfit as the day before, with my messy morning hair, I didn’t care one bit. I chuckled to myself: it was completely natural.
Gliding over the surface, I was once again mesmerized by the ripples of light undulating through the water, the shifting shades of green to blue as the water grew deeper, the thinner and thicker patches of seeing the forest for the trees, and the boulders skirting the shore that were put there by unimaginable forces of nature.
So vast, yet all connected.
Eventually, I drifted by and spotted that idyllic campsite peninsula from four years ago which was closer to the middle of the lake than I remembered. It didn’t matter. We weren’t there as visitors seeking the perfect adventure to check off our bucket list but as residents.
Sadly I didn’t reconnect with my butterfly friend, but that day and night we did become better acquainted with our local kin—the water, boulders, mosquitos, toads, lichen, pines and more—and our celestial neighbors—the stars, moon, and sun.
Not just out for a hike, but living there.
May you feel at home with yourself this week.
Love,
Jules
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