Highway 395
to Lakeview and Valley Falls, Oregon; Highway 31 to Summer Lake Hot Springs
November 22, 1998
Goose Lake
is a big, gray expanse of water that straddles the border between California
and Oregon. Highway 395 runs up the east side to Lakeview. We drove on
through the town because little red letters spelled out "Hunter's
Hot Springs" on our map. It was a chilly day, and the thought of
a steamy soak was enough to keep us rolling until, sure enough, a sign
rose on the left side of the highway.
The parking
lot was deserted, but Hunter's Hot Springs
was nonetheless open for business. After chatting with Ron, the man at
the front desk, we learned that Lakeview is famous among hang gliders.
"See that tower up there on the mountain?" Ron asked, pointing.
"They jump off the top. The world championships were held here last
year."
Ron pointed
out the road that led to the launching area. "You could go up there
in your rig," he said. "The view is fabulous."
After making
arrangements to spend the night in the motel parking lot, we headed back
into Lakeview to explore. Sure enough, a small road leading northeast
from the center of town bore a sign that read "Hang Glider Port."
The sky was blue and clear.
"Want
to go up there?" I asked Mark, and in reply he turned the Phoenix
up the hill.
The road
rose sharply, and soon we found ourselves in a winter wonderland. The
snow was brilliant on the pines, and the road was dry and clear. We arrived
at a fork.
Not going anywhere |
"I don't
know which way to go," said Mark. "Maybe we should turn around."
Maybe we
should have, but we didn't. We took the path that looked more traveled
and continued. The snow was deeper now, the forest even more beautiful
under its sparkling blanket. The road was narrower, too. There was no
place to turn a 32-foot behemoth around.
And it came
to pass that we arrived at a spot from which we could proceed neither
forward nor back, a spot where we metamorphosed from jolly observers into
immobile pieces of landscape. Four-wheel drive was useless. The Phoenix
was stuck in a deep rut. It started to snow.
Mark went
to work with a shovel, and I did the same with a cellular telephone. Mark
dug icy mud from under the tires. I called RV Emergency Road Service.
Maybe we
could have regained mobility on our own, but I for one was relieved to
see the red lights of a tow truck crawl slowly up the hill. I was thrilled
to be on the receiving end of the winching skills of Roger Bryant and
his crew, and even happier to know we'd get down the mountain before dark.
B & T Towing winches the Phoenix back onto the road |
The first
yank with the winch freed the Phoenix from the rut and enabled Mark to
back down the road to a wide spot. Yank number two pulled the Phoenix
out of a snow bank and pointed it in the right direction to follow Roger,
Dale, Lyle & Jeremy sheepishly down the hill.
"We
could have done itourselves," said Mark as we sat under the stars
in the hot pool at Hunter's that night, "But I guess I'm glad you
called for help." And we probably could have.
Roger Bryant |
On the other
hand, we might still
be up there, digging and swearing and uprooting innocent trees with our
winch cable. As I sank under the steamy water and watched the Leonid meteor
shower under an endless sky, I was glad our pride had not been too large
to swallow.
The next
morning, we drove north once more, passing the Albert Rim. Discovered
in 1843 by John Fremont, this basalt scarp rises 2500 feet above the valley
floor, making it one of the tallest such outcroppings in the United States.
Highway 395 follows the rim, skirting the east side of Lake Albert. We
would have followed the historic route if we hadn't spied another set
of little red letters on our map. "Summer Lake Hot Springs"
they read.
"It'll
probably be closed," I said, "But it's worth a detour to find
out." Mark readily agreed, and soon we were heading northwest on
Highway 31, across endless golden hay fields.
Summer
Lake Hot Springs was open. A little sign by the road said so, and
when we turned into the driveway, a man with long hair and a big smile
shouted us a welcome. Although we'd thought we might push on to Bend that
afternoon, "We could stay here," said Mark. "Why not? They've
got RV hookups."
View
toward Summer Lake from Summer Lake Hot Springs |
And so we
stayed a night, and then another. A third night suggested a fourth. By
the time we depart, we will have spent five days basking in the steaming
pool and watching weather blow across the valley. We've made friends with
Rick Hash, the man who'd greeted us, and Diana, his wife. The new managers
of Summer Lake Hot Springs, they've created a haven of warmth and welcome
that goes beyond geothermal activity. Tomorrow, the highway beckons. We'll
be on it, but getting out of hot water to hit a cold road will be tough.
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