Oh what a lovely morning to leave the Rose City. The bus packed and shiny, Eva bright and eager and delighted to have Papa all to herself for a spell.
"How long do you want to camp this time?"
she deliberates.
"1000 days"
Yes.
A smooth drive down snaking roads, bright in the new sunstreaked dew. Smooth asphalt gives way to switchbacks, then potholed recovering hell war zone of former logging camps and drunken fisticuffs. Yes welcome to Ladee Flat and 4610 (or the Abbot Road west as we like to call it here on th IAC), scourge of the Clackamas, gem in hiding until the Cultural Revolution concludes. If these trees could talk they'd scream.
Well no matter. The locomotives and men no longer spit steam and semen, both lie to rot in their respective holes as they await the rapture.
In the midst of all this mess, a road junction appears. 4611, another dead railroad turned to road in 1930. In truth, it is a reluctant road, almost eager to regain the rotting boilers and bones. Dips, dives, and ruts, large alders reclaiming the muddied strip for her own.
I am in 1st gear for 6 miles. I am white knuckled but exuberant, as each mile passed in hilarious rollercoaster fashion is a moment closer to ending this mad journey. Eva is loving every moment of it as delighted chimp chatter and twinkling eyes radiate from the backseat.
Finally, we arrive.
The end of the road is not for the timid. Here on the ridge of the Roaring River, you can still smell the stink of diesel and woodsmoke and steam and sweat, although the boneframes themselves are no longer sufficient to support and frame flesh. The Earth is still wounded on this circle strip of extraction - "cut it and run!" But beyond lies wonders little changed in 10,000 years.
The fog of my memory recovers the image of Grouse-Huxley Camp (yes, the hypen is essential), just past a muddied strip and on to the promised land of ferns and dew and dripping ancient firs. Yes, just past the mud pit.
I spend 2 hours draining this former road turned to newt pond, smug at my resourcefulness.
After repeated measuring, I deem this mud pit sufficiently drained to attempt crossing, although my instinct attempts to dissuade.
A mighty muddied splash! And after nearly getting bogged into the pit I am able to barely cross and quickly set up camp, hands shaking.
However. The water continues to drain, but the mud coagulates and collects. It is now deeper than before. I realize that I must cross before I am stuck, miles from nowhere with child in tow. Huberis drains quicker than Hindenburg gas until the fateful moment when I go flying through the bog with as much hope as can be mustered. I made it, although just barely. The engine mounting bar has scraped along the top goo, causing a new union of engine and mud, but luckily no damage is caused. New knowledge is gained: a mud/water level just below the exhaust pipe is insufficient clearance.
Shaking like a leaf, I stop this craziness and set up camp again, but this time on gravel and surrounded by ugly puddles. Sometimes you have to retreat and lick your wounds.
I am able to barely, just barely enjoy the setting sun and down tiny beers to steady my rattled nerves.
The sun falls in a hush and an early bed awaits.
Deep into the night the rhymthic tinkle of rain caresses the sleeping bus, dully shining amongst the alders and their new leaves. In the morning, the mud is renewed, anxious to meld and coat everything.
After a quick breakfast we decide to head down to the Roaring River, as the sun pokes out thru the clouds hesistantly.
A new T, a soda can in a former life.
This way
Soon we are once again swallowed by forest primeval. A trail where the indigenous once tread still winds its way down to a very remote river, still resembling the land before the White Man did his varied deed.
Same place, 2 years previous. Nice to see how the trail work has survived.
Finally at the bottom, the Roaring River roars and sparkles sweetly in it's bejeweled canyon, an ignored machine of perpetual motion.
Apple of my eye
But no, this dry peace is not to last. Just after returning, the skies again open up with a torment of wet, with taunting sunbreaks and hailstorms.
Our camp becomes a big mud pit.
But any Oakie would feel at home.
But wait! Now with time to exlore, I search the nearby road branches. There are 3, one to a trailhead and road-to-ponds, another to nowhere, and the last - to a lovely camp surrounded by luscious forest. Of course.
It looks passible, if the ruts are straddled
Camp Better Than Mud Pits
and wet ferns
Disgusted, I return to our mud pit and light a fire using all the tricks possible. It eventually smolders to life just in time for a mighty storm to soak it to it's wooden bones. I watch helpless as it slowly smokes to death.
No matter, it is not terribly cold and Eva is still having a laughing great time in spite of it all. Kids are wonderful, they really are. So much joy and hope and enthusiasm when others would crumble from discomfort.
We laugh into the night surrounded by mud and dripping lanterns.
And then it's time to go home.
I'd return again to Grouse-Huxley, but not alone.
It is both damaged and pristine, accessible but incredibly remote. Beautiful and ripped apart. Strangely I feel complete.
