Smoke at the Bolan Mountain Fire Lookout

Bolan Lake as seen from below the fire lookout.

I stood at the edge of Bolan Lake, it's clear waters rippling in the gentle breeze.  Serene lakes always seem to deepen the mind and reflect upon the soul.  Across the water the deep green trees covered ridges surrounded the lake like mountain cathedrals.  In my own life's pain and confusion, I look to the forests for solitude and solace.  Paths intertwine with one another and life normally finds clear views ahead.

But the valley was somewhat obscured here as it is in my own life.  Smoke from the Nachez fire just south across the border in California shrouded the valley all around us as a fellow ranger and I began our trek up to the Bolan Mountain Fire Lookout above the lake.  It was mid morning, 70 degrees, and our hike would take us 1.7 miles  to an elevation of 6242 feet.



Indian's Paintbrush

Our feet crunched beneath the deep rich soil, rocks and pine needles that had scattered.  Douglas firs filled the forests  around us as well as various shrubs and ferns that carpeted the forest floor.  As we gained elevation, the Douglas firs were replaced by subalpine firs and mountain hemlock.  Wildflowers scattered upon the occasional meadows we'd come across.  Blues, purples, oranges.  Fireweed.   Indian's Paintbrush,  and others I'm not familiar with being new to the region.  The forest was alive with color and contrast.



The trail to Bolan Mountain Fire Lookout

The trail pushed us further up.  We crossed over a section of basalt piled up from a landslide long forgotten-its gray jagged forms covering all things living.  My partner mused the rock pile could easily be a covering for a cave for a mountain lion or a bear.   I stood looking down through the narrow openings between the rocks and wondered if that could be true.  I thought about climbing down to the face of the mountain below us to find out, but decided against it.  We had to get to the fire lookout. 


The trail continued upward with switchbacks changing our direction often until we went over the saddle and down into the adjacent valley.  More paths intertwining with each other.  The trail hit a junction where we had the option of continuing on to Kings Saddle just south of Grizzly Peak, or turn right and head down a small valley and back up toward the lookout. 

Pondering the mindset of people over time and the naming of Grizzly Peak.  Oregon hadn't seen grizzlies since the early 1900s--the result of heavy predator hunting by pioneers of the time.  Still the name gives one pause as to its origins.  I wondered what these mountains may have been like back in the 1800s, when hiking similar trails was more out of necessity rather than recreation, and the fear of America's monarch of the wild, the grizzly bear, was among the greater fears of being present in these rugged mountains.  It was the mindset back in the day to kill all bears and make the mountains safer.  Many still feel that way.  But the whole concept that a keystone species like the wolf and the bear are actually better for the environment making forest ecosystems stronger wasn't considered until recently.  Discussions of returning grizzlies to the Cascades in Washington and other places are now at least  being talked about. 

Change happens. 

I have to wonder if some day I will walk these mountains with a feeling of danger and wariness with the idea grizzlies could be here.  The thought excites me.  We look for change in the drywalled and concrete canyons of the halls of government, but it's here in the mountains that the real changes are inflected.

At trails end, we found the road to the lookout and made our way to the top.  Bolan Mountain Lookout stood on the top of the ridge, as most lookouts do, for the purpose of detecting fires.  Replaced by modern technology of air craft and other resources, many fire lookouts have been decommissioned.  They either stand empty, boarded up and forgotten, or they become cabin rentals.  Bolan falls into the latter of these with its latest occupant having picked up the key the day before on her two day adventure. 



Bare necessities inside the Lookout.

But the parking spot was void of any vehicle and the lookout locked up and quiet.  The occupant had departed early.  I climbed onto the deck that wrapped around the entire lookout and peered in the windows.  The scientific and radio equipment was removed and replaced with the bare necessities for a cabin rental:  table, chairs, bed, cabinet and amazing views.  An outhouse sits about 20 feet below. 

All the modern conveniences of life. 

While standing on the decking and looking both inside the lookout as well as at the smoky views around me, it gave me a moment to wonder what the summers were like for fire lookout rangers.  Most stayed in these primitive settings for months at a time with little contact with the outside world besides the occasional radio checks and shopping trips for food.  Solitude is what I think of.  No internet.  No cellphones.  Just the quiet of being on top of a mountain.  Viewing a lazily soaring red tail hawk.  Looking for fires.  Experiencing the violent rush of lightning storms crashing all around and then looking more aggressively for fires afterward. 

Then returning to the quiet.  


Author standing on the decking amid smoke filled skies.

For some, fire lookout duty undoubtably  would be an extremely loud silence.  Exhaustive to spend so much time alone.  For me I think I would have embraced it with long hours of writing, exploring and deep contemplation about life and spiritual connections.  I'd get lost in my own muses and likely come back down off the mountain a different person when the fall turns to winter and the snows cover the mountain blanketing it in cold hard change and driving me to other adventures.

To be someone who is willing to take a long moment to pause in the vast geologic expanse of time and open yourself up to become something more profound--so profound that words cannot express it.  Nothing can.  To see the world differently.  To see the mountains for what they are.  To see the bears for what they are.  To allow yourself to breathe in the world around you in its stillness and listen to the voice within.

Change.

For today, the world is obscured.  The paths here are intertwined and it's hard to see my way ahead.  It's obscured not only by the smoke that surrounds the peaks around this fire lookout, but also by the limited time spent here.  For being here for just a moment in a day is much less significant than an entire season, and a season much less than a lifetime.  But we all play our part.  Each of our life's experience changes us in minute ways, sometimes as quiet and unseen as the carving of sandstone over decades, or as explosive as the strike of lightning across dry forests in southern Oregon engulfing it in smoke and fire.  Eventually the smoke clears and a new way forward is seen.  The burn scars remain but regrowth happens.  Time heals all wounds.

My moment has ended.  It's time to head back down the mountain.  Some day I'll be back here, or perhaps to another fire lookout for I'm hooked.  Maybe I'll stay for a night or two.  Maybe I'll stay for a season. 

It might even change me for a lifetime. 



The Wandering Ranger

I'm looking for new inspiration to write, to share and to illustrate the deeper thoughts and feelings within me.

On a quiet Sunday evening while working on my book, I find myself taking the time away from writing to think about all the adventures I have been graced to witness in my life.  Not that I'm gloating but rather that I feel blessed.  I've been to Canada and Mexico, driven the Alaska Highway 6 times, lived in Germany and Holland and have traveled as far as the middle eastern country of Kuwait.  Each place has had it's unique qualities and differences from one another.  Primarily, those times when I found myself in desert, I longed for the mountains.  Or when I was in the mountains, I longed for the ocean.

My hero is Edward Abbey.  I first read his book when I was a teenager in high school.  My 10th grade biology teacher had given my brother and I the book as an end of year gift.  He didn't do that for many, but I guess he felt a connection with us.  I read the book.  I was intrigued with the experiences a park ranger could have in Arches National Park.  The crudeness.  The dry humor.  The passion.  When I sought to be a writer back in the 80s and 90s, I always found myself falling way short of things to write about.  After all, I wasn't a park ranger in a pretty awesome place like Arches National Park.  What would I have to write about?

But writing is about experiences.  It's what is in us each and every day.  My writing was limited to occasional attempts at journaling typically in the fall season when I felt inspired.  But ultimately, I had been only trying to emulate my hero.  Everything crumbled.  I prayed to become a writer, and the only response I got was "write!".  But I wasn't writing for myself.  I was writing to perform.  Within that, it was never me.  I had lost my voice.

My voice came when I was hired as a ranger in 2015 aboard the glacier boats in Prince William Sound, Alaska.  I started by journaling my experiences.  As I reread my journal of that time, I recognize quickly that I had begun with the same mistakes of the past:  to perform.  But over time, I discovered 30, 50 or 100 pages in, that what I had been writing was in me.  I was finally pulling out from the depths of my soul my inner thoughts and passions.  On occasion, I even found passages I was truly proud of.

Since then, I found myself on a journey I didn't expect.  I couldn't find work locally in southern Oregon, but quickly got picked up by Olympic National Park with job offers from 4 other national parks or monuments that same spring.  I went to Olympic and guided people on nature walks, patio talks, and campground presentations.  I lived on a lake with Western Red Cedar and Douglas Fir as my primary protection from the world around me.  My summer was filled with awe and wonder with the changing weather, the high altitude views and the ability to be in wilderness.  I'd move on to Mount Rainier where I lived in a 19 foot travel trailer with snow falling, leading snow shoe hikes atop of 17 feet of snow, and sitting in a small museum looking out at the winter around me.

Glaciers, mountains, ocean and temperate rainforest.  They were a far cry from the desert solitaire of Arches National Park.  But it was my world, not Abbey's.  I was a wandering ranger.  I had found my voice.



And with that a new inspiration to write, to share and to illustrate the deeper thoughts and feelings within me.