or the last two years, my friends Jan and David had been planning a trip with me to Crater Lake. Finally, this August, we travelled there with other friends. The week prior, we were starry-eyed with anticipation. In my 48 years of Pacific Northwest living, I’d never seen Crater Lake! Joaquin Miller—Poet of the Sierras—raved about its beauty. Then there were the dire press accounts circulating about energy exploration nearby. Has the U.S. become such a third-rate nation that it must threaten its national treasures to crank out a few dollars? Natural legacies which belong to generations yet unborn! It seems the California Energy Company—innocuous name for trouble!— was poised to do exploratory deep drilling for geothermal energy right at the edge of the national park. Frankly, 1was worried! For five or six years I’ve been researching our neglected writers and poets and teaching an informal class in Northwest literature. Alfred Powers, one of the great bookmen of the Oregon country, was an influential writer, editor and educator. His monumental achievement is the History of Oregon Literature, published in 1935. At 800 pages, it’s a model for regional literature everywhere. Powers loved kids, teaching and history. He wrote a number of juveniles, including the classic, most deserving of being reprinted, Marooned in Crater Lake. At Mazama Camp, I read the lead story to my friends around the campfire, sparks flying up and mimicking the star- filled Southern Oregon night. It begins: In October, 1910, before George Washington’s profile had displaced the picture o f Benjamin Franklin on the one- cent stamps, Jim Turner bought a book o f this denomination a t Medford, Oregon, securing only twenty-four o f the green rectangles for twenty-five cents. But the protective book was well worth a penny when carrying stamps in a warm pocket. Through miscommunications, young Turner soon finds himself left in Crater Jan and Janey on the rim. Dec. 89-Jan. ’90 Lake’s caldera on the last day of tourist season. He’s stranded on the beach with no matches, only a lunch and a fishing pole. The launch has returned to shore and the lodge is being closed up for the winter. How soon will he die o f exposure? First View ur trip began on its own harried note. The mechanic doing a tune-up had left the air cleaner off David’s vintage ‘59 Chevy Bis- cayne. He was furious! We drove late on a Friday night for Eugene.—"Chimpie”—a big, hairy, good- natured chef and mutual friend had joined us. Jan had gone ahead in a rental car with her close friend “Janey” Scott—the female vocalist in the successful a capella group The Bobs. She shared their recent Italian tape, not in U.S. release. Like a hip barbershop quartet, the group harmonizes, snaps fingers and claps rhythmically—no instruments whatsoever. On any such adventure, old friends and near strangers rub elbows and nervous systems. Quirks and foibles emerge. I’m a finicky sleeper. After an evening meal of bean burritos, tedious jokes about flatulence frayed my nerves. The ground was hard, and only our trip-ending soak at Cougar Hot Springs helped us realize our camaraderie and mutual sanity. We reached Crater Lake by way of Roseburg, where' we followed the Umpqua River east to Diamond Lake. It’s a straight . shot through the ranger’s booth and onto the rim highway. To my mind, the first turnout and viewpoint of the lake is the best. Everything I had anticipted. In bright sunlight, a few cumulus scattered above, Crater Lake was an electric-blue jewel. The sapphirecolored water was utterly depthless, distanceless. I he California Energy Company—innocuous name for trouble!—was poised to do exploratory deep drilling for geothermal energy right at the edge of the national park. Frankly, I was worried! Discovered in 1853 by a prospector Hillman—seeking The Lost Cabin Mine— he literally stumbled onto it. If his mule hadn’t stopped, he’d have plunged to his death! It’s tricky to gauge how far down it is from the grayish pumice rim to the water. Just as Miller describes: It lies 2000 feet underyour feet, and as it reflects its walls so perfectly that you cannot tell the wall from the reflection in the intensely blue water, you have a continuous and unbroken circular wall o f 24 miles to contemplate a t a glance. Yet so bright, yet so intensely blue is the lake that it seems to lift right in your face. I left the stone wall beside the highway and ran down the sandy point to a marvelous twisted white pine, onto a rock outcropping. It projected me right above the blue water, it seemed. David said I leaped and cavorted down the slope like a teenager. This is one bit of Pacific Northwest real estate I’ve pondered and imagined for years. One must see the Blue Jewel on the spot. Picture postcards don’t do it justice! We are a chain of consciousness, linking past to future, despite personal mortality. Staking my claim for a piece of Northwest literary history, I casually propped a copy of Marooned in Crater Lake in my hand, posing before the luminous blue of the caldera. Published by Power’s own Metropolitan Press in 1930, its indigo, decodecorated cover and delicate end papers limning an image of Crater Lake give the classic great “book values.” He began to shout a t the top o f his voice, but he was more than two miles from the boat landing, and the nearby walls caught and returned his calls in echoes. His imagination took a tragic direction. Maybe his aunt and uncle would never find him. The next summer, boats would pass by the little beach where he stood. The people in the boats would be startled by what they saw there. The world would know that a boy had been left to perish in that great abyss o f the Cascades. —Marooned Cleetwood Cove n 1888, William G. Steel built and christened a wooden boat from which to measure the depth of the lake.- The cove is named Cleetwood in its honor. Chimpie, stung by a yellowjacket, and sympathetic Janey went off to Mazama Camp, leaving three of us to hike the powdery pumice trail to the boat landing. At its iridescent emerald edge, the Park Service runs tourboats in the summertime. Off we roared, 25 passengers in a jet boat, warned to puke into a bucket, not over the side. The pert guide, in green nylon jacket, at first put me off with her outpouring of geological information. She pointed to every notch and node on the rim—Liao Rock, the Wineglass, the Devil’s Backbone, the Watchman. She kept quiet only when the boat sped forward. I finally warmed to her as we approached Wizard Island, off limits to us because a team of Oregon State University oceanographers were parking equipment there. Team leaders Collier and Dymond were exploring the bottom and testing subterranean water temperatures with a specially equipped submarine—Deep Rover. So far, they have found mysterious blue pools and warmer water. She informed us that if they could prove there was a subterranean thermal source to the lake, they’d be able to prevent the energy company from drilling. I applauded her eco- consciousness. She was extremely concerned that this scenic wonder might be harmed. The company is planning to drill within 5 miles of the lake itself. Will they pull the plug and drain Crater Lake? Is nothing sacred? The Bureau of Land Management should simply put a ban on the disturbing activity. Period. Without further ado. Cruising in the caldera made one giddy. Such an awesome landscape demands a small, pitiful human gesture. I halooed u p - several times—to a viewing platform on the rim. Our guide, in a participatory mode, suggested we do it in unison. We tried to get an echo to penetrate the formidable geologic palisade. As with Jim Turner, it did no good. Within the humongous caldera the human mind is humbled. What if Ma Nature should do her thing once again? The idea crosses your mind. If the boat capsizes, isn’t the snow- fed water too cold to swim ashore? Besides, the evil spirit in the lake would swallow one up. There is something eerie and unsettling about the blueness of Crater Lake.
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