To reach the Rogue
River Trail's east end, take I-5 south to exit 61 and travel
west toward Merlin. Then take Galice Road to Grave Creek boat
landing.
Call (541) 770-2200 for brochures.
To avoid vehicular
theft and vandalism (common at both ends of the Rogue River
Trail), arrange a shuttle with Rogue Wilderness Inc. (800-336-1647)
for $65.
Luckily Debra dropped the bomb after we'd driven past the
Hellgate Canyon overlook, thus avoiding an accidental Thelma
and Louise finale. "This is your first backpack?" I squawked,
as the tires hit gravel.
So far, Debra had thrived on my last-minute adventures,
but we were about to embark on a five-day, 40-mile hike
along the wild and scenic Rogue River--not a stroll up Dog
Mountain. We'd set out to conquer some fears. At 46, I was
scared that middle age would sap my verve; Debra, at 36,
had a more tangible apprehension--falling. But now my anxieties
turned toward our lack of preparation. When we stopped in
Merlin to arrange a car shuttle, I asked how crowded the
trail would be. The lady looked up from my driver's license
and shook her head. "There's hardly anybody on that trail
in August," she said. "It's just too hot."
Day One: Grave Creek 0.0 to Whiskey Creek 3.3
It
was early afternoon when we arrived at the eastern trail
head and its mass of rafts and humanity. With Debra's fear
of bad footing in mind, I eyed the poorly maintained trail
while she noted the stifling heat. We gritted our teeth
and struck out.
It took us four scorching hours to cover three miles. We
dragged ourselves to the beach below Whiskey Creek and staked
out a private corner away from the huge coolers of beer.
It didn't take long to figure out that we would encounter
those ice chests and their raucous owners at nearly every
stop. After resting, we moved into the rafters' camp; our
tents had been dangerously close to a small garbage pit
full of rotten eggs that was sure to attract bears. We painstakingly
removed every crumb of food from our new site and cleaned
up the area near a rafter who had passed out on a cot.
Day Two: Whiskey Creek 3.3 to Meadow Creek 13.6
Debra
was packed up and ready to roll when I poked my groggy head
out at dawn. I cannot break camp before coffee. Debra started
off solo since neither of us was in a mood to negotiate;
bears had shuffled and snorted around our tents all night.
Once caffeinated, I jogged three miles to catch up with
her at a spot where the black walls of Howard Creek Chute
push the trail high up the canyon. Debra slid on a patch
of scree and fell face-down on a rocky ledge. I recalled
the first time I fell with a backpack, the punch of panic
I felt at being pinned down. She had a good cry, and we
soldiered on.
Thirteen miles into the trip we dropped our packs under
two ancient Douglas firs that had grown together to form
a massive slingshot. Debra silently pitched her tent in
the fir's protective arms, crawled in and passed out. Two
hours later, she emerged to drink a half-gallon of water
and shortly thereafter resumed speaking. Day two was Debra's
bad day. She didn't think she could finish the trip.
Day Three: Meadow Creek 13.6 to Rogue River Ranch 23.0
I
had agreed to break camp before dawn, but when Debra started
pulling up my tent stakes, I snapped, "Just leave."
I got my due the first few miles when my hiking poles struggled
to find purchase on the steep lava trail. After lunch, a
vicious arm of salmonberry bush grabbed my backpack. I toppled
over and left blood on the prickers.
Just short of the Rogue River Ranch, I was stopped dead
by a picture on a historical plaque. The woman in the old
photograph held me transfixed. She was sitting straight-backed,
holding a rifle across her lap. The photo was taken in 1903,
about the time Sarah "Annie" Billings opened a trading post
at the ranch.
At Mule Creek I caught up with Debra, who'd powered through
10 miles to get off her mincemeat feet as soon as possible.
Day three was my bad day. I wanted to end the trip
at 24 miles and hike out on Marial Road. A dip in the Mule
Creek swimming hole helped; I imagined Annie Billings sitting
with a washboard on the shady side of the creek and just
knew the next day would have to be better.
Day Four: Rogue River Ranch 23.0 to Camp Tacoma 33.3
Debra
slept in after our first bear-free night, and we embarked
together, high above the river's most dangerous whitewater.
From a narrow shelf on Devil's Backbone, I looked down to
a chute called Devil's Stairs. Waves pushed three tiny rafts
up against a rock wall. At least that wasn't us.
At Brushy Bar, I spied a small stone cottage encircled
by a clothesline hung entirely with green socks. In my deluded
state of near-heatstroke, I thought I might move in with
the rangers.
I was glad I pressed on when I found Debra in the choicest
camping site I'd ever seen--a secluded bowl of sand above
a small beach. "This is heaven," I exclaimed to the baby
trout nibbling my toes. Just then, a posse of rafters approached
to inform us that we were camped between them and their
volleyball court. We didn't budge, but they kept us up all
night, whooping and banging metal pots.
Day Five: Camp Tacoma 33.3 to Agnes 40.0
As I tramped
along that last morning, I became heroic in my own mind,
fancying myself a regular Roald Amundsen, dreaming of cool
snow fields. The crunchy, dry forest snapped me out of my
Klondike fantasy. Maneuvering backpacks past scratchy trees,
I remembered Annie Billings. She must have carried an ax
to clear downed branches from her only supply route.
Recuperating at the Illahe Lodge, we gleefully sat on the
porch and let ourselves be mesmerized by the glittering
view of the Rogue's "Big Bend." We were bruised, blistered
and burned, but deliriously happy. Debra was proud that
her dreaded bad footing didn't hold her back.
As for my obsessive fear of aging, I got a good taste of
youth. I started getting sick around midnight that night
(never drink unfiltered water, no matter how thirsty you
are), but instead of revisiting the flu, I felt like I did
in 1969, when I cheerfully threw up peyote buttons.
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Willamette Week | originally
published June 16, 1999
|
The
photograph of Sarah "Annie" Billings pushed our
exhausted hiker forward.
