This is the Rogue at Horseshoe Bend, just around the corner from where PK and I camped earlier this month on the first night of a three-day trip down the
Wild & Scenic section. The Rogue is known as a "family river" because it has just two Class 4 rapids but the rest of it is easy Class 2 and a little tougher Class 3, and much of its 33 miles looks a lot like this - flat, green, and gorgeous. Isn't it weird and terrible that I'm bored with it?
Because it was just the two of us, as opposed to the group thing we've done on approximately 150 other Lower Rogue trips over the past 30 years (Is that why it no longer thrills?), we tucked in behind a shade rock on a patch of sand not previously considered camp-able beneath a wide bench that's the popular Horseshoe Bend camp. On this afternoon, it was swarmed by a diverse commercial group, by which I mean that there were black people! The first I've seen on the Rogue ever!
One sorry thing about Southern Oregon is that we're racially/culturally homogeneous. We do have a growing Hispanic population, but our gradations are more along the lines of white trash, whiter trash, Rushbots, and right-wingnut conservative NRA "we don't like them other news organizations" types, in addition to all of all us other really big, cool, and excited white people.
We waved at our neighbors en route to the potty, which is on the far side of their camp and a major benefit in hunkering down within walking distance (but not earshot) of another group. Without the potty, we're honor-bound to pack out our crap. And we have what we need to do it, thanks to the "checkers" at the Rand permit check-in office.
I remember the pre-permit and pre-regulation days—the late 1970s— when i was rowing an old yellow Maravia raft while PK kayaked his blue Perception Dancer, and we always went with groups of 6-16. We dug fire pits and toilet holes. We cleaned up after ourselves in those days without BLM regulators, but we were greeted at numerous camps by stinky toilet paper gardens and firepits studded with trash.
Because anybody could go on the river at any time and do anything (we heard gunshots, saw fireworks), we jockeyed for camps and once ended up settling after 8 p.m. for a patch of sand stinking of dead salmon and with the warning "BEARS!!" scratched into the sand. We heard them all night—we all slept together around the fire for protection—and in the morning a mama and two cubs rambled through our breakfast en route to the salmon. We clanged pots and pans and yelled to no avail, and finally settled on rock-top observation posts and enjoyed the wildlife show. It was one of my best river trips. But that was then.....
Even through I abandoned an 18-year tradition of annual women-only raft trips and have somewhat grudgingly agreed to go with PK at least once a year, here's what I still love about the Lower Rogue.
- The color of the water and the diamond-y sparkle of it in early morning, late afternoon.
- The way the river smells - rich & musty, yet fresh, especially going through rapids.
- The osprey, eagles, bears, fish, and even the rattlesnakes. I don't really LIKE seeing the snakes, but when I do, it is always a big surprise and it doesn't hurt to scream like that every now and then.
- Camping. I like camping almost no matter where. I like cooking outside and I don't even care if it's windy or raining, so long as there's a kitchen tarp.
- Being in the wilderness. The Rogue is designated as such, even though you'll see people, including huge commercial boatloads of them below Blossom Bar jetting up from the coast.
- It's mostly quiet, though, except for the wind and the water and the birds.
- It's familiar. It's our backyard. Our sons grew up here. Well, one grew up. The other is still either on a river somewhere or thinking about it.
What I don't like and why I gave it up, much to the consternation of my former women's trip raft passengers, Laurie & Jeanne, and PK:
- Sitting for five or six hours a day, even if I'm rowing. So it isn't just the Rogue that's off my list, but almost any river. This is the most important reason, and why I now hike much of the Rogue River trail while the rest of my group is rafting.
- The sun and excessive heat. I don't like it anymore and never was a sun worshipper.
- Schlepping heavy coolers and gear over rocks and up steep banks, and the bruises and dings I invariably get doing so.
Ok. I'm done whining. Here's a look at the two class 4 rapids.
This is the entry to the mile-long Mule Creek Canyon. Those rocks are ominously named The Jaws, and the upper part of the rapid is The White Snake.
This is where you don't want to swim. Bad as it looks, it's pretty easy rafting and the only people who've drowned here are idiots without lifejackets who, incidentally, are often drunk.
More of the narrows.
Here's a boil in the infamous, at least to Rogue rafters, Coffee Pot, a surging piece of water that can suck down a raft tube and gives driftboaters a thrill. And some dents. Years ago Paul flipped his kayak here and when he tried to pull off the spray skirt while upside down, the ball came off in his hand. He was underwater a long time prying off the skirt, and I was sitting in an eddy with my heart in my throat, wondering how I'd raise Quinn alone. (pre-Chris days)
This is the top of Blossom Bar, the second Class 4 of the trip and about one mile downstream from Mule Creek. When entering Blossom at lower flows (around 2,000 CFS), this is what you see. Those rocks where the water is piling up are called the Pickett Fence. They're not terribly difficult to avoid, especially at this water level, but this is the exact spot that most people drown on the Lower Rogue. Don't freak out. A tiny percentage has any problem whatsoever. But sometimes boats flip or get pinned on the Pickett Fence, and people can get trapped in the rocks. For safe passage, you head straight for the unseen-in-this-photo narrow passage on the right, although the route can change at higher water.
Looking back upstream in Blossom, there's the Pickett Fence with the pour-off on the left that you want to get a boat through. Sure looks easy, huh? According to my son the extreme and crazy kayaker, this is SO nothing. But to most rafters, driftboaters, and kayakers, Blossom Bar is a significant challenge. It scared me every time I rowed it—at least 100 times—but now that I've given up the river except for maybe once a year as a special favor to PK, I can enjoy it for the adrenalin boost.
And finally, here's a salmon gulping cool fresh water where Rum Creek flows into the Rogue. It's a hot August day, the river is low, and even though fish are jumping, there are a lot of belly-up salmon. They don't go to waste. We saw a bear taking a huge fish up the bank into the woods across from Horseshoe Bend, and a bald eagle carrying one high above the river. I can't argue with the wonder of such sights.
The garden overfloweth, and the six eggplant factories in row two between the Brandeywines and the basil just keep pumping out purple/black shiny things. I marinate. I grill. I stir fry. But mostly, I make eggplant Parmesan, which is so much easier when you skip the salting-the-sliced-eggplant-then-rinsing-and-drying steps and also the dredging-in- flour-or-crumbs part.
