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Please click here for Part One
Before They Are Gone
The Newberry Volcano is the second largest volcano, by volume, in the Cascade Volcanic Arc. Looking at the map, as we traveled north on highway 97, the Lady mentioned, “We’ve never been to the Newberry National Volcanic Monument.”
We made a turn east up the road to the monument. We could find no definitive information on if any of the facilities were yet open for the season. The last winter was extremely dry for Oregon. Perhaps the campgrounds opened early? We were pleasantly surprised to find the campgrounds were just opening and - as we like it - mostly empty. There are two lakes in the collapsed caldera of the volcano - Paulina Lake and East Lake. East Lake Campground was small and more intimate and we settled into a campsite away from others and private. We took off on a hike to get acquainted with the area.
In the photo above, notice Central Cone that separates the two lakes. There are two hot springs along the shore.
We intersected with the Newberry Crater Trail and hiked it a couple of miles to the west.
In this area the trail is mostly in a lodgepole pine forest.
Reaching this intersection, we put together a plan for the next day.
After dinner we hiked the shore in the opposite direction. The white pumice beaches of East Lake are amazing, and that’s the steep slopes of Central Cone on the right.
The next morning, we returned to the trail intersection and took the trail that would take us up onto the rim of the caldera. The trail climbed along the flanks of the Big Obsidian Flow.
The Big Obsidian Flow dates from the last eruption 1300 years ago.
It was an incredible view across Paulina Lake with Mt. Bachelor and the Three Sisters (left to right) on the Cascade crest beyond.
We continued hiking up to the rim of the caldera through this amazing volcanic landscape.
We stopped before reaching the highpoint, Paulina Peak, because there’s a road to the top and did want to deal with vehicles. We had not seen another person all day on the trail so we were enjoying the solitude. We reached a highpoint and took a long break. The view was breathtaking.
Another Cascade volcano, Mount Jefferson was now visible to the north of the Three Sisters.
The view of these magnificent volcanoes influenced a decision we made later this day.
We greatly enjoyed the hike back to our campsite.
Back at camp and after dinner, I was outside looking at the map and the Lady’s cell phone. She was fussing inside the camper.
“You know,” I said to her through the open camper door. “We are both mountaineers and we’ve never seen Mount Hood up close. Want to do that?”
“Yes!” the Lady exclaimed. “Let’s go see Mount Hood.”
“Want to get a room at the famous Timberline Lodge?”
“We can’t afford to do that!” came the Lady’s quick retort.
“Here’s a surprise I just saw on the Internet. Listen to this.” I had her attention. “They are running a special. Midweek in June all rooms are half price. Want to look at what’s available and book a night at Timberline Lodge?”
“Let’s do it! It’s something we’d never do otherwise.”
“And” I added. “We’ll get to see Mount Hood up close and personal!”
We booked a room for the night of June 8th.
Our next destination was not a “we’ve never been to.” We’d been to Oregon’s Metolius River once before, over 30 years ago.
It is not often that we fish well known blue ribbon trout streams. We prefer discovering much lesser known places with fewer or, better yet, no people. But the Metolius is a beautiful river in a league of its own.
My cousin, Keith “the Big Guy”, and I share the passion for fly fishing. I don’t recall, exactly, what brought us to the Metolius that one time so long ago. But there we were, Keith and I with our fly rods, the Lady in her always present supporting role, on the shore of the Metolius River. It is often said - and I can confirm it is still true today - it takes a PhD in fly fishing to catch a trout on the Metolius. We started in fishing, trying to figure out how to fly fish this river and entice one of its wary trout to rise to a fly. It was a struggle, especially with my poor fly casting skills back then. My fly line spent most of the time in the air or in trees or in bushes. Places, Keith repeatedly told me, trout do not live. And in the middle of all this, who do we meet? The legend himself. The guy who literally wrote the book on fly fishing the Metolius, John Judy.
We were thrilled, but any notion of getting a few tidbits of much needed information from Judy vanished when he saw the Lady. The choice between two scruffy flyfishers or a handsome woman to engage in conversation? I would have made the same choice. Keith fished and I thrashed the water. John Judy spent time with the Lady.
I should note, the Big Guy is also a fly fishing author. His book, “Home Waters,” is, unfortunately, now out of print. It is a collection of his stories. One of Keith’s stories can be found here - “There’s a Cougar Out There.”
We settled into a dispersed campsite and then walked the river, looking for fish, observing insects, and chatting with flyfishers.
“The Green Drake is just not happening,” one gentleman noted. “It’s my favorite hatch. I live in Sisters and I wait all year for the Green Drakes.”
We spent the evening on the banks of the river.
A young man waded into the river from the opposite bank. The Lady talked to him across the river.
“Caught anything yet?” she inquired.
“Nothing yet.” He was happy with the conversation.
“There’s been only a few rises all the time we’ve been here. And we haven’t seen any insect activity.”
“It’s been slow, but this is always a difficult river to catch trout.” he added. “I live on the Deschutes. I know how to catch trout. I catch all the trout I want on the Deschutes, but the Metolius is my favorite river to fish. It is the most beautiful river to not catch fish.”
“How ‘bout the Green Drakes?” the Lady asked. “One gentleman we talked with today said it’s just not happening.”
“I haven’t seen a hatch, but I have a drake nymph pattern tied on.”
“And you have a fish on!” the Lady saw the line tighten the same time he did.
The young man played the fish and brought it to his net.
“It looks like a good one!” the Lady called across. “About a foot?”
“I’d say 12 inches,” he said as he raised the net. “And look at this. It’s a whitefish!”
We went fly fishing the Metolius the next morning.
We did not catch a fish. But we, indeed, had a fine day fly fishing and getting to know this river.
Getting a doctorate degree in fly fishing on the Metolius, I was learning, takes a great deal of work. We crossed a bridge on the river and worked our way up and down the opposite bank. We came upon a fly rod propped against a log. On the other side of the log we saw the old man, bent over, intent of tying on a fly. He had not noticed us. He finished tying and started wading from the log toward shore. There were large rocks and he looked unsteady. I waded out to offer a hand.
Oh thanks,” he said as he looked up. “You want to fish here? You’re welcome to fish here. I caught two, but I’ve been fishing this spot for hours. You can try here. I been using this big mayfly spinner pattern.” He raised it up for me to see. “Last night all the guys were talking about the green drakes. A hatch never got going. There were a few drake emergers, but the adults never hatched. One guy said he got one trout fishing an emerger pattern. I’ve been here with my wife since Memorial Day. We’ll stay longer. I like fly fishing the Metolius. I’ve gotten a few trout, but it takes work. I told my wife I’d only be fishing a little while this morning, but I haven’t stopped and I haven’t made it back to the trailer. She should be used to that.”
We moved down river. This was my favorite piece of water. I was pleased with my casting and long drag free floats. But I did not catch a trout. The Lady informed me she wanted to take some fly-casting photos with her phone.
Back at the campground by the bridge, a woman sitting outside a small trailer waved and smiled and asked if we’d caught any trout.
“Not a one today.” the Lady answered. “But I believe we met your husband. He said he told you he’d be back early today but hasn’t made it back yet. When we last saw him, he was going in the opposite direction.”
“That’s my boy!” the woman said with a big grin.
It was raining the next morning as we packed up. We took our time leaving the Metolius. We stopped at Wizard Falls.
We also stopped at Metolius Spring.
Taku, up in Montana, when he heard we were on the Metolius, shared this website with me as a great source of information on the Metolius.
My Home Waters, The Metolius River
Thanks Taku!
It rained hard all day as we drove to Timberline Lodge. It was 34° and at snowline when we arrived.
The stately old building, a Work Progress Administration project to help bring us out of the Great Depression, is a grand structure.
The storm shrouded the mountain. Mount Hood was not outside the window.
The room was comfortable and cozy. We supplied the chocolate caramels. This was a treat for us to stay and experience this old place.
We enjoyed the outdoor hot pool in the storm. We wandered the building before turning in for the night.
The storm continued to pound the mountain the next morning. We never saw Mount Hood.
Where we will we head next? Our adventure continues in the upcoming Part Three.
