Chuckwagon Adventure: It's Not Just About the Destination

Destination: Crater Lake, Oregon

We are told it is awesome, a “must see.” We rise early. It is raining. We wanted to go the previous week, but the weatherman predicted rain. The weatherman was wrong. We are going today rain or shine, and it is raining lightly, wetting surfaces and making everything slippery including the steps of our chuckwagon.

We dress in layers and gather hats, gloves, camera, maps, lunch, and the Westie. G starts down the steps in his usual heavy-footed, ungraceful descent. From behind I see his sneakered foot slide out from under on the slippery steps. He goes down on the asphalt. Hard. I utter a cry of distress and hurry down to him to crouch beside him full of empathy. He lifts his hand and flexes it.

“Is it broken?” I ask.

“No.” He shows me his pinkie finger and we examine the bleeding abrasion.

G says, “I twisted my knee.” The bad knee; the one that is missing medial cartilage. Bone on bone. The one that hurts everyday and causes him to limp.

This is the second time G has fallen since this adventure began two months ago. I witnessed the other fall when he tripped over a railroad tie and did a face plant in the snow on a Colorado mountaintop.

“Not a good start to our day,” G says.

“Can you walk?” I ask.

G gets up with difficulty, and we go back inside to clean and bandage the abrasion. Thirty minutes later we drive out of the rain down I-5 south and marvel at way the fog is hanging onto the hilltops. Though it’s November in Oregon the grass is still green, and the leaves have turned but still cling to their branches. They are bright red and golden against a backdrop of deep green pines. My eye studies color and shadow. I daydream and forget that I am navigator. We miss our exit, and I am apologetic. We must retrace or recalculate. We recalculate.

We exit further south than planned and head for Wilbur to take a connecting road to 138 East. Wilbur is a “blink and you will miss it” town. We turn left at The Whistle Stop.

The connecting road is a mountain pass which climbs and meanders over and down the other side. For seventeen miles we wander over hills through scenic valleys and sometimes follow a river.

We are captivated and nearly forget our destination. We stop and photograph and imagine a tiny cabin of our own tucked away in one of the valleys. We are at home with the farms, pastures, cows and horses. We fall in love with this place.

G loves rivers and streams. He points out the perfect places to fly fish. “That’s a good place,” G says. “In that pool right below those rapids.”

I glance nervously at the climbing, winding, descending, road and occasional sheer drop-off on my side to make sure we are not drifting dangerously. Someone needs to watch the road.

G is beside himself with delight and no doubt can imagine himself fly fishing in this river. I imagine waking up here and gazing out cabin windows at the scenery while drinking a cup of morning tea.

The pass brings us into the town of Glide, and we turn left on 138 East and enter Umpqua National Forest. The road winds for miles through forest and untouched wilderness until we come upon orange road construction signs and a flagman holding a sign that says STOP. We stop behind a highway truck, and G notices there is a deer carcass in the back of the truck. Road kill.

We are stopped for a long time and G shuts off the engine. He grumbles that ten minutes have passed.

I notice something fly and perch on a treetop. A bald eagle! I have never seen one before. G can’t see him from his side of the truck. The eagle watches the deer carcass. I watch the eagle. After fifteen minutes the flagman lets us pass.

We come upon a road sign with information about Crater Lake. I read that the north entrance is closed. We must go to the west entrance. We were originally going to the north entrance, but I had forgotten to navigate. The alternate route is taking us to the west entrance. Nice. If I hadn’t messed up we would have driven to the wrong entrance and had to go even further. We would have never gone over the mountain pass and never seen the hills and valleys. G would have never seen his river. We would have never fallen in love. I would have never seen the eagle.

I mentally compare this journey to life. We mess up in life. How many times during the mess does God bring startling discoveries into our path to encourage us while we are correcting and muddling through the mess? How many times do we encounter and touch the lives of others in unexpected good ways while convinced we've failed? How many times are we so focused on the destination that we miss the journey? I am learning that it is important to slow down and take note of every moment. This life journey teaches me and causes me to grow. The destination is the reward after all the hard spiritual work of the journey.

We drive by Diamond Lake and turn onto 230 South then 62 East. We are in the middle of nowhere, but signs assure us that our destination lies ahead. We are dwarfed by quiet, snow laden pine forests on all sides. We arrive at the Visitor Center and watch a video about the spring snow removal and history of Crater Lake.

This area receives 500 inches of snow annually, and it takes four months to clear the roads in spring. The collapse of volcano Mount Mazama left a giant crater which filled with rainfall and snow melt. It is 5 x 6 miles across with an average depth of 1,148, the deepest lake in the US.

Rim Drive is closed for the winter, but we drive a little further to the Rim Village to view the lake.

I stand in a foot of snow on the rim of Crater Lake at 6,173 feet above sea level and gaze at the lake. The scenery is draped in snow. A thin layer of ice has already begun to form on the surface of the lake. I see the hidden hand of God in this place. My heart and eyes are open. I stuff the ear buds of my iPod in my ears and listen to a worship song.