Important lessons learned on the Rogue River Trail.
When you reach my age (64 and closing in fast on 65), you
tend to dream up things to do to prove to yourself you’re not really getting
old. Many of which are: (a) unrealistic, (b) delusional, (c) potentially fatal (d)
not even things you could have accomplished when you were young.
My original plan for the summer involved walking the length
of the Oregon Coast Trail, some 360 miles, camping along the way and seeking
spiritual enlightenment. This plan ran into some immediate problems, the first
of which was my inability to interest anyone else to tackle this project with
me. Responses ranged from: “you must be high,” to “sounds great, can I have
your golf clubs?” to “you wouldn’t know spiritual enlightenment if it jumped up
and bit you in the yin or yang.” Okay then, perhaps it was time to try plan B.
My son Rob, who initially thought he might come along on the
Oregon Coast Walk (I think he decided someone needed to be on the trip who knew
CPR), suggested we scale back a skosh. After
some palavering (like negotiation done while hunkering), we decided to take a
week, jet boat up the Rogue River and hike, camp, and fish our way along the
trail. I jumped at the idea—a chance to reconnect with my son, eat freshly
caught trout and sing campfire songs (turns out neither of us knew the words to
Kumbaya). What’s not to like? Plus, if I could get spiritually enlightened in
three weeks, I could be 1/3 enlightened in a week, right? 
It was a great experience, one I would recommend to anyone
who wants to spend time away from cell phones, television, people and light
pollution. The scenery is eye-popping, the air is clean and it’s amazing how
you can learn to love food that only requires adding boiling water. Here are lessons learned and more pictures. 
Lesson #2.
Hauling a 40 pound pack up a rocky trail is hard damn work. I’m reasonably
fit, but damn. Schlepping a backpack 360 miles for 3 weeks? My initial critics
were right, I must have been high. We didn’t hike any killer distances.
Lesson #3. If
you’re going to wash your clothing in a fast-moving creek, be sure to grip it
tightly. Some lucky rafter is now the proud owner of a pair of 38-30 cargo pants
that descended from heaven via a stream-fed waterfall.
Lesson #4.
You learn amazing things about people you’ve known all of your life when
you camp with them.
He can light a campfire with wet wood in a
torrential rainstorm, pitch a tent like a pro (is there a league for that?),
and identify all kindsof plants and animals.
For example, he knew instantly
that this was a deer. I was under the impression it was some kind of horned fungus.
He also insisted we leave our campsites cleaner than we
found them. Who knew the kid who grew accidental biology experiments under his
bed would be so tidy?
Lesson #5.
Sodden is an entirely descriptive word for a certain state of being. It
rained hard for one day and most of another. When I awoke on Wednesday morning,
everything I had with me was saturated. I was ready to break camp, hike to the
lodge and thumb a ride back on the jet boat. Rob calmly spent an hour and a
half starting a fire, making us coffee and telling dad to mellow out.
Lesson #6.
Nobody likes a hardhead. Thursday morning Rob even allowed as he could
be convinced to go hole up at Paradise Lodge for the final night. The tipping
point was the realization that we were out of coffee and would face a decaffeinated
scramble to catch the boat on Friday after breaking camp. Both of us craved a
shower, a meal someone else prepared and drinking a beer (or eight) on the deck
and watching the rafters float by. Sleeping on a real bed after 4 nights on
rocks and dirt? Near orgasmic. I recommend this place. It’s a tad spendy but
includes meals. And the view is phenomenal.
