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< May/June 2004
	Destinations
Untold Oregon A bay and two alpine lakes beckon tourers with clear waters and wildliferegon

While Oregon has hundreds of miles of Pacific oceanfront, the Beaver State also offers plenty of freshwater for canoeists and sea kayakers, giving you reason to pack your wagons and head west.

Riding the Mists of Hosmer Lake

I watched Sharon paddle out onto the still lake, the predawn mists soon embracing and hiding her from view. Quickly, I fastened my PFD and slipped into my kayak, eager to join her on the pewter waters of Hosmer Lake. Despite the coming dawn, the reeds, forest and bowl of mountains remained indistinct. Looking down, the lake shined like obsidian. Dawn would need to come before Hosmer revealed more of its secrets.

Most people who visit a high Cascade lake expect to see clear water in a bowl-shaped lake bed surrounded by deep forests and mountains. Hosmer is different. Often compared to a spring-fed river because of its many reed-lined water trails and outstanding water clarity, Hosmer offers a new vista with every turn of its complex shoreline. When morning light reveals the lake bed, a paddler feels like his or her boat floats above the velvety, glass surface.

Visitors to this unusual Central Oregon lake frequently bring birding equipment. As you paddle near reeds, the birds often ignore you as they go about their business. Paddlers commonly see yellow-headed black birds hopping briskly among blooming lily pads searching for breakfast. Occasionally, bald eagles skim the waters before carrying off a fishy meal. Osprey hunt while the marsh birds sing, work and play around you. Ducks nervously quack if you approach too closely.

Most visitors, however, come for the fishing. Years ago someone introduced carp into the shallow lake (average depth is 6 feet), and these fish stirred up the volcanic silt so much that the lake earned the name Mud Lake. The carp are long gone, and in 1962 the lake’s name was changed to Hosmer, after the naturalist Paul Hosmer. The pure snowmelt and natural spring waters now reveal brook trout and Atlantic salmon—first planted in 1958. Due to the fragile nature of this resource, fishing is by the fly only, with barbless hooks, and the salmon are catch and release.

If you visit Hosmer on a summer weekend, you might see every type of motorless fishing craft. Dozens of mostly unsuccessful anglers try out their gear on the plentiful and wary fish. Every time we paddle this lake, we see hundreds of swimming fish, most measuring between 9 and 20 inches.

Perhaps complicating the weekend fishing are the families in canoes and kayaks out to enjoy the birds, fish, wildflowers, photographic and picnic opportunities. Hikers are usually frustrated by the marshy, reed-choked banks of this 198-acre lake. Prevented from approaching the lake, they rarely see the beauty reflected in its crystal waters or swimming just below the surface. No gas motors are allowed, but a paddler can access all the magic of this lake. Exploring paddlers can find a nice heather-covered island for a picnic surrounded by such peaks as Mount Bachelor, South Sister and Broken Top.

Recently, Sharon and I came midweek before dawn to experience the magic few visitors ever see. Having never been to the lake at this time of day before, we wanted to watch the lake awake from the cold, clear night. Fragile interlocking patterns of ice crystals melted off the decks of our kayaks as we unloaded in the predawn light. Heavy mists rose from the still waters in the silent silvery lake. Dawn gilded the swirling fingers of fog and reflected golden off the lake as we zipped into our NRS Farmer Johns. The water felt warm on our ankles as we pushed our graceful crafts out onto the lake. Already the birds were singing and chirping vigorously, but somehow the dawn would not be disturbed. After our paddle, we loaded up and headed back to Elk Lake and our campsite at Little Fawn Campground. We like to don our wetsuits to practice braces and wet entries at Elk Lake, a pretty, but less mysterious high Cascade lake. When we want eerie morning mists, getting lost on prehistoric water trails, abundant wildlife and magic, we’ll go back to Hosmer.

—Bruce Hansen

Defining Reality at Sparks Lake

The hell of writing for outdoor magazines is that eventually you have to sell your babies. You make a living by revealing your secret lakes, ski runs and trout streams, and every time you go to the well you have to weigh the perils of notoriety against the perils of not paying the rent. Yet there are gems, such as Oregon’s Sparks Lake, whose natural features, such as climate altitude, and access, form a natural defense against the ravages of fame and glory, you hope.

For years, while I was busy paddling the fjords of British Columbia’s Inside Passage, I made the ridiculous assumption that nothing in the Lower 48 could compete with the grandeur of that ocean wilderness. For some reason we convince ourselves that the real world begins on some far shore. Yet Thoreau taught us that the best adventures may lie waiting in our own back yards. Last year, my wife Brenda and I decided that we would dedicate one summer to exploring our back yard, the Cascade mountains of central Oregon.

We discovered a mini-universe of natural wonders, and despite diligent efforts we barely scratched the surface. The apex came one evening in July when our exploration led us to the sandy shore of 400-acre Sparks Lake. The view was, in a word, breathtaking. The unspoken question that hung shamefully between us was, "Where have we been?" A mile high, nestled in a valley of alpine meadows between 11,000-foot volcanic peaks, the first glimpse of Sparks Lake is spun from magic. As we stood there in the fading light the sky began to spit and swirl. The wind kicked up and the surrounding peaks ducked their heads in ominous black clouds. Our 2-year-old daughter, Gabrielle, was hungry and tired. We didn’t know the lake. Night was gathering her skirts. What to do? Would the weather worsen? Could we finding a protected camp site? On the other hand, we could make a dash for a friend’s house in Bend, settle in with a pizza and a movie. Simultaneously, against the weight of inertia and weather and emotion, we blurted, "Let’s do it!"

In less than five minutes all our gear was in the canoe. We shoved off into the gathering darkness and the unsettling unknown. The wind backed to the east and diminished to a zephyr as we paddled. In less than a half hour we found a beautiful campsite, with our own private beach and lava campfire ring. A coyote howled as osprey cartwheeled overhead and plucked fish from the lake in the dying light. We lay in our tent and gazed in astonishment at the imponderable silences of stars. Flickers of amber light marked distant campfires, a mile away perhaps, and the keening yaps of coyotes touched that primal nerve and set it to a quivering that makes you want to draw pictures on cave walls, a quivering in your gorilla hard wiring that says heaven can wait because life just doesn’t get this achingly real often enough.

"You know what it is about this place?" I asked rhetorically, taking a pitiful stab at the ages. "It’s all edges up here. The light is true. No flourishes. God doesn’t cut any deals."

"Hmmmm," said Brenda, weighing my feeble stabs at poetics. "You know what I love about it? We get to call it home."

—Paul VanDevelder

The Scappoose Bay Choices

What was a turkey doing in the middle of the river? From a distance it appeared to be a stump on a tiny grass island, but as we neared it became a large dark bird with a snow-white head. Realizing it was an eagle, we allowed our sea kayaks to soundlessly drift closer, each of us regarding the other silently. On its own mysterious cue, the bird extended its wings and launched itself skyward.

We paddled around a bend, surprising hundreds of migratory waterfowl. Moving as one, they leaped into the sky like the applause of a thousand white-gloved hands. We paddled with strong, deep strokes that sent our crafts skimming along the river. We were granted the illusion that we’d never tire—strength as endless as the beauty and silence around us.

Each time we visit this part of the lower Columbia River, the experience leaves us renewed and revitalized. We paddle Scappoose Bay for the views of the mountains, the virginity of the forests, the eagles, waterfowl, herons, beaver and otter. We paddle for the mazes of channels and intricate paths leading to places few have ever been. We immerse ourselves in the silent golden mists rising off the river.

The best access is from Scappoose Bay Marine Park in Warren, off Hwy. 30. A museum of the area’s once-thriving wooden-ship-building industry highlights the marina, as does a store where you can rent paddling gear.

A wide range of paddling is available in the bay. Two miles downstream from the marina, the main Columbia channel offers the challenge of swift currents, heavy swells and busy river traffic. Miles of quiet waters await those who’d rather see banks crowded with ancient trees than traffic. Fifteen miles up Multnomah Channel is Coon Island, a great camping spot with tables, toilets and fire pits (bring firewood and water). The island is a local’s favorite for exploring the hidden lakes of Sauvie Island, a nationally famous bird sanctuary.

Scappoose’s waters are so still and peaceful it’s easy to underestimate the challenge they offer the casual paddler. Only 80 miles from the ocean, water levels change greatly from high to low tide. Shallow lakes can quickly turn to bare mud flats during ebbs and winds can quickly whitecap quiet waters. Be conservative when planning your first trips. Info: Scappoose Bay Kayaking: (503) 397-2161; www.scappoosebaykayaking.com.

—Bruce Hansen