<< Back 7/31/02 Notes from a volcanic hermitage SMN Nevada came on like an angry wool sweater. We had just passed the impressive (but desolate) Salt Flats of Utah, and had come into the long and empty state of Nevada. There are stretches on this road that’s void of people, buildings, cars, wildlife, and lights. The heat clamps on your body like a suit made of boiling wet cement. And the straight roads made Kansas look like a curve-a-thon. “Dust Storm Area” a sign read, “Please do not stop and get out of your car.” Great. What if you break down? There is a beauty here. The openness is alien to me. I’m used to places where everything is squished together. Here, an eye can hemorrhage from looking into the vastness. Dried up lakes cozy up to the mountains (the Humboldt Range) that somehow still have snow on their peaks. And still we drive. We’re ahead of schedule by four days. The open territory of Nevada has expanded our thought processes: “Should we go see our friend in Portland?” “Should we spend a week in the Redwoods?” “Will my skin slide off if I stay out in the heat?” We stop for the night at a state park called the Rye Patch Dam. The campgrounds are situated beside an emerald river that was created by the dam. With almost 70 miles of shoreline, boaters can find seclusion in the more primitive camping areas. After a quick swim in the morning, we heard the beckoning of California. Within two hours, we pass the gambling booby traps of Reno and into the Big Bear State. The next decision was to get off the main highway: “How about I-89?” Kirstie asks. Hmm, the road traverses through three state parks and not a city within a hundred miles. The loneliness of Nevada had injected “hermititis” into our blood. Without an inkling of regret, we take the mountain road. The pines got taller as we approached Plumas County. And taller. Soon they register a height that could debilitate a craned neck. Canyons, swirling rivers, giant lakes, 90-degree curves, and the absence of traffic mark our trip through Northeast California. Each town we pass through has character and is devoid of any corporate culture. Shops are built with style and not the industrial monoliths that Kafka had nightmares about. Each store reflects the environment around it. It seems that instead of tearing down nature, these towns have collaborated with the foliage. Still, we had no idea where our heads would lay for the evening. Dusk was closely approaching, and the trees were still growing. “How about here?” my beautiful navigator said, pointing at a white spot on the Road Map. “Lassen National Park? Never heard of it.” Neither of us had realized that California had volcanoes. We had tasted Guatemala volcanoes a few years previous, and our palates watered at the prospect of seeing another. Within the hour, Stacy, our trusty automobile, brought us to the entrance of Lassen. We soon discovered that all the campsites were closed until the next day. The park had just opened for the summer. The snow (the brochure told us) had lasted until mid-June. Lassen had gotten over 700 inches during the winter season. The only campground open was on the other side of the park. The length was forgotten as we did an auto-tour of the park. Our first site was Sulphur Works, huge beds of rock that emit walls of steam on the road. Then came the Little Hot Springs Area, a tease to would-be bathers. Temperatures stay at 180-degrees. Only the rocks seem safe to bathe. Entrepreneurs in the 1800’s tried to establish springs here, but the prospect of lost skin kept the customers away. Green and blue lakes waited at every bend. Deer flitted across the road, and sheer drop-offs (guard rails were primarily absent) kept our sightseeing conservative. Lassen Peak greeted us at midway. Snow still caked its rim, and to the side we noticed two behemoth craters. In May 1914, Lassen Peak erupted, beginning a seven-year cycle of intermittent volcanic outbursts. The biggest of these eruptions took place in 1915, when the peak blew a seven-mile mushroom cloud into the stratosphere. The revival of this volcano, which began as a vent on a larger extinct volcano known as Tehama (when it still existed it was believed to be 11 miles wide at the base), profoundly altered the surrounding landscape. Besides Mount Saint Helens, Lassen is the most recent volcano to erupt in the United States. The area was made a national park in 1916 because of its significance as an active volcanic landscape. Lassen Peak is one of many active, dormant, or extinct volcanoes that encircle the Pacific Ocean in a great “Ring of Fire.” This zone of volcanoes and earthquakes marks the edges of plates that form the Earth’s crust. Lassen is the world’s largest plug dome volcano, rising 2,000 feet to an elevation of 10,457. We had stumbled upon a slice of Paradise, and all we could ponder was why hadn’t we heard of it before. We had several theories: 1) There’s no major highway that goes through Lassen, unlike California’s “other” park, Yosemite. 2) Lassen is still considered active, and many geologists believe it will erupt again. Perhaps as fascinating as the park itself are the people that have become associated with the park’s history. Peter Lassen, whom the park is named after, was not your typical founder. He seemed to be a carrier of bad luck, a man forever trapped in a field of three-leaf clovers. In 1843, Lassen, a Danish immigrant, began explorations of Lassen Park (first discovered by renowned fur trapper Jebediah Smith), and was granted a 22,000 acre land parcel by Mexican authorities. He named it Rancho Bosquejo, and it was located on the Sacramento River. It was supposed to be used as a part of the Oregon Trail, but had to be abandoned after “thousands of emigrants suffered numerous hardships” (excerpted from Lassen Volcanic: The Story Behind the Scenery, by Ellis Richard). The gold rush of 1848 (and the discovery of gold on Clear Creek near Lassen) sent a tidal wave of fortune seekers into California. Lassen tried all kinds of ventures, but his economic aptitude and navigating skills (his trails to the goldfields were considered some of the most difficult) came up short. Gold prospecting was Lassen’s next scheme. He had heard tales of a mythical gold lake, and he even led a party of men in search of the liquid royalty. Unable to find the lake, Lassen moved to Indian Valley and then to Susanville in 1865 (which he helped found). The Lassen legacy came to an end in 1869 when “unknown assailants” murdered him and a partner. He had been prospecting for the elusive gold. Despite its unlucky founder, we found Lassen to be magical. Campgrounds (once they opened) could be found until late afternoon, even on the weekends. And traffic usually consisted of a pair of cars. After spending the night in the very touristy Manzanita Lake, we headed up for opening day at Summit Lake. We found a pristine spot under the watch of four 100-foot plus pines. To our right was a swampy meadow that housed rich green foliage and an armada of wild flowers. We had decided on a trip to Echo and Twin Lakes (round trip a little over eight miles). Whispers of bear sightings had clung to my psyche. I knew what I was supposed to do if I encountered a bear, but would my instinct allow such rational thought? Or (the more likely scenario), would I run off, screaming and wetting myself through the woods, as my furry friend rummaged through my abandoned pack? I shuddered at my predicted cowardice. The feeling of meeting a large mammal dissipated as we made our jaunt to Echo. At our first peak, we got a backside glimpse of the majestic Lassen. I thought again about poor Peter and surmised that it seemed ironic that a figurehead of volcanic destruction was named after a man whose luck exploded in the same way. The further we hiked, the less people we encountered. By the time we reached Echo Lake, it was just us, the trees, and noisy little bluebirds called Stellar’s Jays. These birds (like the Blue Jays) are quite aggressive (they dive bombed our picnic table on several occasions), and they have a dark blue cap that resembles a papal hat. The deep green of Echo was all ours, and we sat on a fallen tree, reveling in our isolation. We then made our way to Twin Lakes, and (as we coined it) “the land of many trails”. Once we approached the fraternal lakes, the trail turned into a confused circulatory system. Trails jutted up the hill, around the lake, and we had nary a clue of which one to take. Staying close to the water’s edge, we stumbled upon a doe, cooling herself in the lake. “Should we try to go around her?” Kirstie asked. The only way around her was a steep canyon where her male counterpart timidly awaited. Although she was far from our gawking eyes, the doe seemed bothered. Just as I made a step up the hill, I saw her concern. Nestled under a sapling was a fawn that had literally just seen the light of day. It’s legs, still folded under its body like a collapsible table, had yet to discover walking. We slowly walked backwards and into the maze of trails. Once we reached the bottom we made another discovery—fresh bear tracks. We knew they were fresh because we had come across this same trail minutes before without a trace of indented paw. I thought of the defenseless fawn and cursed the creed of natural selection. I then thought of the dirty rules of human selection, and how numerous Indians were “escorted” off this patch of heaven. It made me remember the story of Ishi, the last survivor of the Yahi tribe and the last “free” Native American in the U.S. In the summers (before the advent of white settlers), the Yahi Indians moved up to the canyons of Lassen when the food became scarce in the foothills. The Yahis were believed to have been exterminated by 1871, due to bloody battles with white settlers in the Central Valley. But in 1908, surveyors came across four Yahis around the Deer Creek area (in Lassen). The Indians quickly headed for the woods. The surveyors surmised that it would be “best” to take all the tools, utensils, and blankets as “souvenirs.” The brainy surveyors returned the next day and were (go figure) surprised to find no trace of the Indians. Four years later, a lone Yahi materialized at a slaughterhouse near Oroville, California. Alone and without any contact or nurture from his extinct tribe, the Indian had become desperate for human contact, even if it was a white one. He was given the name, Ishi (believed to be the Yahi word for man) and was placed in the care of the Department of Anthropology at the University of California. For five years, Ishi helped his caretakers learn Yahi customs, and he lead parties back into old Yahi territory. Described by one friend as having, “the heart of a child and the mind of a philosopher,” Ishi died of tuberculosis in 1916. I quickly forgot Ishi when we ran across a second track. We took it as sign to head back. We took a few pictures of the lakes, spent eons figuring out the topo map (which didn’t recognize the labyrinth of trails), and we headed back to our domicile at Summit Lake. Lassen had not only given us unique beauty, but it was also the first time that we had been that close to birth in the wild. Next week: We head to land of elves, pixies, and wood nymphs. Otherwise known as the Redwood Forests.