A hole at the top of the world

Crater Lake is one of the wonders of the world.

Bruce has craved to see it all his life.

This is a pilgrimage.

And so we leave lovely Ashland which turns into an American super-comsumer-land on the way out with several miles of huge retail stores and family restaurants and banks and insurance companies and outlets and and and…

Massive strip shopping which can only be done by car.

It is boggling in its scale - and such a schizophrenic contrast to that pretty little arty town full of aromatic cafes and moody bookshops.

We drive up into the hills. Google Maps tells us it is 2 hours and 9 minutes to our destination unless one wants to take the alternative route which is 2 hours and 10 minutes.

Hell, let’s save the minute!

The road is very good. It curves and winds but is not like the Avenue of the Redwoods with vertiginous S-bends and endless road works for subsiding cliffs and rock falls. That was one scary piece of travel and I was terrified.

These are sleek, well-cambered roads. Lorries loaded with redwood hum down from the mountains.

RUVs of all shapes and sizes chug up and down. Grey nomads do it big here. Many of them tow full-sized SUVs behind their gigantic mobile homes and caravans.

The higher we go, the colder the outside temperature.

After a while, the towering woods, which are a mixture of redwoods and other giant hardwood timbers, start to thin out. The higher we go, the skinnier the tree trunks. Finally, we are seeing snow.

It is glorious. Picture postcard. Christmas cliche.

Trees white-tipped range up the mountainsides. Snow in streaking strands lies thick and stubborn.

It is not going anywhere. In fact, there will be more tonight, the forecast says.

We are warned a storm is on the way. The park ranger who takes out $15 admission to Crater Lake Rim says she thinks we should get a good view despite the gathering clouds. It’s hard to get a view of the lake if clouds roll in.

We have sun.

Nonetheless, we don extra layers. The temperature is now 4 deg C.

Brisk, one might say.

There are lots of people up there.

This is one of the great natural phenomena of the USA and it draws much interest - from the terrific sort of people for whom nature holds a fascination.

There are plenty of facilities for them, tucked in wooden cabin architecture - information centres and cafes and loos.

The view is sublime. Exquisite. Astonishing. Spellbinding.

South Australia’s Blue Lake is a distant cousin to this great round lake of purest blue.

It is a tiny, weeny, miniature version.

We say the Blue Lake is bottomless.

The Americans just say that Crater Lake is the deepest lake in their country.

Only snow melt runs into the crater. No streams or rivers run in or out. It is simply snow catchment.

It is deemed the most pristine water in the world.

There is an island.

It is actually a cinder cone.

Steep cliffs girdle the lake. In some parts, there are snow-draped fir trees perched precipitously on the slopes. In other parts, smooth drops suggest avalanches.

We walk along the pathway. There are expanses of snow here and there. I stick my finger in.

Silly, really. I’m already feeling freezing. My clothes are definitely not snow gear.

Crater Lake is actually a sleeping volcano. Mount Mazama. The whole of Cascade Range is alive but mainly dormant.

It did its block 7,700 years ago - the massive explosion reducing it from a 12,000ft mountain to a 7,000ft mountain. It blew a mile off the top! It destroyed every living thing in a 30-mile radius.

Its caldera became a giant water catchment in this lush and rainy state - and here it is.

The predicted storm still has not come, but it has started to rain.

We drive down the mountain to the information centre and join an earnest audience of visitors in a small auditorium to watch a wonderful 45-minute documentary on the formation, history and cultural connections of Crater Lake. We’re in Klamath County.

Klamath sounds so much like an Irish name but it is American Indian. It was the language spoken by the Klamath and Modoc people of the area.

Umpqua has a more indigenous ring to it. There are Umpqua banks in every town. And, yes, it is the name of a regional people.

Better informed, we head off to find food. The cafe at the park gates looks wonderful but it has a 30-minute wait for a table. Luckily, we find Beckie’s, a log cabin restaurant in a little settlement further down the mountain. It has a diner-style menu and is hopping with action. A pile of local search and rescue sheriffs have arrived. Called out on a false alarm, they are regrouping for lunch. We order coffees and salads and relish the ambience.

Thence to Prescott and the Prescott Hotel run by Karen and Fred Wickman. It has been an inn for travellers since 1888. We are allocated the Record Suite. Record was the name of an early founder of the hotel, apparently.

Teddy Roosevelt once stayed here. Zane Grey, Jack London and John Muir, also. They are honoured with rooms in their names.

It is a mighty climb. It is third floor, the attic, and the last flight of stairs is very narrow and extremely steep. With a manic pattern of carpet beneath the feet, one holds the balustrade and takes care.

Our suite is more or less two rooms as one with a queen bed in each. Lovely. The patchwork quilts are magnificent and quaint olde worlde nick-name ornaments make it all very classic and period. Oh, but the wireless Internet…..sigh. It is a non-event. There won’t be any blog posting or email reading from here. There is no TV, either.

But we have Kindles and books.

The rain seems to be holding off so we follow Karen’s directions and walk out to look at waterfalls. It is a glorious walk on a woodland path, wet and mossy with towering trees, lots of fallen logs abounding with ferns and lush life, the sound of rushing water close at hand - and then the little branch of the Rogue River which whooshes and surges merrily over its rocky bed, crashes off a sharp little cliff face in a sprawl of waterfalls, to rush on its way over and around its path of worn boulders.

There are lots of boulders on the steep hillslopes and on the path. Massive ones and small ones. They are lava bombs from the explosion of Mt. Mazama. They are now green and mossy.

Rain is threatening. Storms have been predicted. We hustle back before we get caught in a downpour, pausing only to poke into a quaint local general store to buy a couple of limes. By the time we have reached the shelter of the hotel’s broad, armchair-lined porch, we are decidedly wet.

But we have all the makings for our bloody marys.

We have a couple.

Then repair to the quaintly formal dining room where waitresses are bustling with seasoned efficiency and other guests already are well into dinner. I order another Oregon savvy. It is gorgeous.

Dinner is upmarket homey. Lamb chops for me. Prime rib of beef for Bruce. Very nice indeed. Our waitress, who has worked the room with chat for every table, convinces us that even if we are too full for dessert, we should nonetheless take a serve away to our room because it would be a crime to miss out on Prospect Hotel carrot cake.

We obey.

I eat carrot cake in bed. I swoon at every morsel. Was there ever a more delicious sugar hit? I doubt it.

And thus to the dubious contentment of food coma.