Cinder and Sagebrush

(Modoc Land)

At the tail end of my first cross country road trip I turned south off Stateline Road, which splits Oregon and California, and onto a two lane street with a sign that promised to deliver me to my destination. The road skirted the edge of a massive fault block and the first thought I had was that this landscape was straight out of my geography textbooks. Soon, the farms to my left yielded to Tule Lake, an expansive remnant of the shallow seas that once filled the basin and range from California to Utah. Flocks of birds wheeled and soared above the lake, while even more floated on the placid water. Eventually the ground rose and the lake receded. I was thrust into a sea of sage and bunchgrass saturated with the warm light of the sun, low on the horizon. From here I could see the great dome of the Medicine Lake Volcano, the glassy sheen of the obsidian flows near the summit, the matte black of twisted and jagged basalt, and the towering cinder cones casting their long shadows eastward. It was a dramatic approach to a landscape as spectacular as any place I’ve been, and one totally foreign to me. That first experience was enough to leave me hopelessly smitten, but it was uncovering the hidden secrets, learning the history, building a community, and the self discovery that made me fall deeply in love.

It snowed every other day for the first month after I arrived at Lava Beds, and it kept falling into June. Snow is one of the few things that can totally transform the Lava Beds landscape. It softens the sharp edges and drapes the black rock in a white blanket. I revelled in the fluffy powder. It was equally fun to sit on the couch with a cup of tea and a blanket as it was to put on every stitch of clothing I had and lean into the gusty, swirling flakes, leaving tracks that would be obliterated before I returned.

During that first snowy month I got to be the tail on a tour of Crystal Ice Cave. One by one the 8 of us, led by a spry 75 year old volunteer, disappeared through the gate and into the dark. After climbing down the ladder we switched on headlamps and looked around. A 30 foot ice slide sloped away below us. At the base was a shimmering chandelier of crystalline ice oozing out of the cave ceiling. We descended through tight squeezes and over teetering boulders until we came to a curtain of ice that nearly blocked the entire cave passage.

After skirting the curtain we stepped onto a floor of ice more than a foot deep, the ceiling opened above us, and frozen waterfalls poured in from every side. Gnarled hoodoos rose from the floor, some nearly as tall as us. We lingered in the room as long as we were able before retracing our steps to the exit. Silence enveloped the group as we retreated, each of us trying to process what we had seen. Over the next 3 winters I was privileged to lead that tour many times. The feeling of awe I had that first time never diminished.

That sense of awe took hold again later that summer when I found myself standing in a nest of emerald ferns 40 feet underground. We’d hiked miles across the parched volcanic gravel, two of my caving mentors, myself, and a fellow intern, when we came to the void. No more than 8 feet across, the circle of black at our feet was deep enough that we couldn’t see the bottom. Some nearby lava provided and anchor and we carefully descended one by one into the dark. We did our best to avoid damaging the greenery as we made our way to bare rock. Moss coated the boulders, tree frogs hopped into hiding, and ferns climbed the walls reaching for sunlight. Once again I found myself in a place that defied reason in such an arid landscape. We sat in awe of the subterranean rainforest until we remembered after more than a few minutes that we had data to collect.

Another cave filled with ferns has served as a place of worship for the Modoc people and their ancestors for thousands of years. The entirety of the Lava Beds landscape is sacred ground. It is where their creator began building the world, where their ancestors lived, and where their people made their last stand against the U.S. Army. Perhaps the place where this connection can be felt most powerfully is the sheer face of a former island on the east side of Tule Lake. The first time I visited Petroglyph Point I stood with my fingers curled around the chain link fence, searching for lines in the gray rock. After a moment, I began to pick them out. As I walked along the fence the figures became more and more dense, sometimes carved on top of one another. An indecipherable tapestry of more than 5,000 abstract figures told the story of the people who came over the centuries to inscribe their memory on the rock.

To celebrate the end of my time at Lava Beds I decided I wanted to run the entire length of the park road. I trained through the winter, mostly running under the stars or moon, occupying my mind by telling myself stories and composing haikus. Lava Beds is so dark that I was able to follow the white line on the road without a headlamp, even on a new moon. On a bright day in January I strapped on my small pack filled with water and snacks and trotted out the door. 

The run itself was nothing remarkable, just one foot in front of the other for something like four and a half hours, but it was the perfect way to cap my Lava Beds experience. At human speed I experienced in reverse the drive that made such an impression on me three years earlier. As each landscape feature appeared and grew closer I thought of the layers of meaning they now held for me, the experiences I had there, the people I had them with, the history, the sorrow, and joy. When I reached the southeastern corner of Tule Lake I hit a low point. I was already many miles beyond the farthest I had ever run and still had an uncomfortable distance to go. I was tired and the terrain was becoming less interesting. As I plodded down the last hill, nothing but a flat expanse before me, I spotted a hawk perched on a post by the road. When I got within 15 feet, the hawk flew to the next post. The hawk watched as I closed the distance, then it took off again. It settled a few hundred feet away and the game started over. For more than a mile the hawk pulled me along, giving me a lift just when I needed it most. Finally, I ran the last steps down the gravel road to where I had parked my car the day before. I finished my celebration of place at Petroglyph Point, where so many had made pilgrimages before me.

Of the many times I’ve been back to Lava Beds this one, 2 years after I left, felt the weightiest. On the drive in I felt the memories of all of my friends, most of them now gone, in our favorite places. I stayed in the research center with Katrina, a close friend who was back to conduct research for her masters degree. It was the coldest and snowiest I have ever seen the park, and in the warmth of the living room we reminisced about the potlucks, parties, and people that had come together during our time working and living there.

The next day we trudged through the deep snow to get to the cave entrance. We climbed down into the basement of the cave, where a homesteader once drew water for his sheep in the summer. The ice floor, once more than 5 feet thick, was now less than a foot in depth. It felt like the end of something. My friends had gone, caves were changing, it was a different place than when I lived there. 

Relationships evolve. Lava Beds is a place I still love deeply, and each time I return it feels familiar and comfortable and full of memories. It will never be the same as it was when I lived there, but I will continue to cherish it, share it with new people, and create beautiful memories there.