Logan and I have driven about 30 minutes northwest of our two-star motel in Grants Pass, Oregon when the reception bars drop to zero and the GPS stops tracking. I maneuver the narrow, wooded roads in our shiny, rented Nissan Altima and feel incredibly tense: we’re on a deadline to return our rental car to a place in Eugene two hours away, and we’re already two hours late for the hike.
I’ll have to forego the hike if we can’t locate the trailhead relatively soon. Logan won’t mind— he’s dazed with pain from a ten-hour tattoo session and will be recuperating in the car. But me? This hike will be, I’ve decided, at least a temporary panacea to the deep unrest I feel living a life so far removed from nature.
It will be enough for a while.
It will have to be.
We chose Oregon for our impromptu getaway for two main reasons: (1) Logan’s tattoo artist moved from Illinois to Oregon and (2) Oregon’s the place I tell Logan to find me if I ever lose myself. It has everything I assume I’d be looking for in the midst of heartbreak and a bout of fierce existentialism: fog and deep woods and an ever expanse of ocean and sky.
Today, I’m here. We’ve traveled 2,000 miles to see the ocean claw at the jagged edge of everything I’ve known and the whole state glisten with winter rain.
The Pacific Northwest is known for its diversity and drama, a region home to mountains and grasslands and temperate rainforests with carbon-storing trees so old they stretch both ways.
The biomass in select parts of the Pacific Northwest is denser than any other region in the United States, largely due to a temperate climate of mild, wet winters and dry, foggy summers that encourage new growth. The result is a florid display of ferns and fungi, among other flora.
Douglas fir, red cedar, Sitka spruce, and western hemlock call much of Oregon home, while species like northern spotted owls and red tree voles find their niches shrinking as loggers’ voracious appetites grow. Tragically, only five percent of Washington, Oregon and California’s temperate rainforests remain intact.
The dripping ferns and cascading falls of the Pacific Northwest are a luxury finer than the softest silks, and a $500 Southwest ticket is the price.
Eventually, the narrow Galice Road gives way to small, remote residences, and a heavily bearded man standing outside his home confirms we’re headed in the right direction.
A few minutes later, we arrive at Grave Creek Bridge. A gathering of Subarus and SUVs line the sides of the road near Rainie Falls Trail, a displeasing sight that challenges the “lightly trafficked” description of the online trail guide.
But alas, I am here. Logan gets comfortable in the passenger’s seat as I throw on my apple red Camelbak and nearly forget to say goodbye.
“Is Rainie Falls trail this way?” I ask a family man with a daypack turned belly-in. Yes, he responds.
“Is it a difficult trail?”
“You can practically run it," he says.
But no, I'll walk--
Into a silence monopolized by the rushing Rogue River;
Into a solitude compromised only by a stray hiker or two.
Mostly, the trail is mine, and I stop at its bends to breathe. I trace my fingers along moss-covered rocks and indulge in cold mountain streams. The turquoise river that flanks the trail dissolves into caps of white as the sun casts jagged shadows on the canyon’s verdant slopes.
The Rogue River is a federally designated “Scenic Waterway” as defined by the Wild and Scenic Rivers Act of 1968 signed by former President Lyndon Johnson in the golden age of (fleeting) environmental consciousness. This year marks the 50th anniversary of the act, which protects select sections of waterways that possess “outstandingly remarkable scenic, recreational, geologic, fish and wildlife, historic, cultural or other similar values.”
Today, there are more than 200 rivers that fall under the act’s protection (check out this awesome ARC GIS story map from the National Park Service here), but the 200-mile Rogue River stands out as one of the original eight.
The river, which winds from the high Cascade Mountains near stunning Crater Lake to the Pacific Ocean at Oregon’s Gold Beach, includes about 84 miles of federally protected water. Robust salmon populations and the rugged canyon passage lure outdoor enthusiasts who kayak, fish, and float.
The four mile (out and back) Rainie Falls Trail provides an exclusive vantage point for observing the adjacent 40 mile (point to point) Rogue River Trail, a path on the river’s far side that, today, challenges four backpackers and a bouncy dog.
To my right is the river; to the left are the fragrant, lush woods of The Rogue River-Siskiyou National Forest, home to 324,000 acres of isolated wildnerness. Here, streams tumble down slopes and gather in pools as clear as tap water.
I bite my Camelbak tube and drink excessively in celebration of water’s long journey from snowcap to stomach...and also because I’m trying to stave off a dehydration-induced headache.
And then, soon after, I arrive at the falls, a boisterous patch of whitewater that serves as a major obstacle for migrating salmon in the fall. A few other hikers have collected here at the boulders, and we watch a group of rafters and their life-vested dogs pull over and hop trailside to study the falls up close.
Will they take the plunge into the class V whirling white, or choose the path agreed upon by the spectators who murmur danger and death? The decision doesn’t seem to be easy; the rafters sip canned beer and discuss.
This could take a while, so I indulge the desire to walk past the falls, the technical end of the trail despite its continuation. In a subtle show of camaraderie with the Rogue River Trail hikers, I press onward toward the riverbend.
And then I hear the rafters. They cheer as they circumnavigate the falls on the far right, lower-class rapids known as the fish ladder.
Their fading voices are my cue to head back upstream. The trail now bustles with couples that link fingers and children that hold hands, and I feign that smiling nod as they pass— a greeting that suggests I’m happy to share this rooted path, this once solitary space.