This article was originally published in The Bend Bulletin on September 19, 2024
September 3 of this year marked the 60th anniversary of the Wilderness Act. On that day 60 years ago, President Lyndon B. Johnson signed the Wilderness Act of 1964 into law, officially creating the National Wilderness Preservation System. With the stroke of a pen, nine Wilderness areas in Oregon were designated–and many more across the U.S.
I was fortunate enough to be hiking in Northeast Oregon’s Eagle Cap Wilderness–one of those first nine, and still Oregon’s largest Wilderness area–to commemorate this big anniversary. Our hike started at the busy Wallowa Lake–its cabins, lodges, and campgrounds full of families enjoying the holiday weekend and last bit of summer. A couple of miles and a few switchbacks later, we were high above the lake and crossing into the Eagle Cap Wilderness. We came across several other hikers and backpackers on the trail, but the quietness was noticeable. As we caught our breath, we marveled at the immense walls of granite towering above us. Songbirds called out and darted between the firs and hemlocks. The sudden snap of a downed branch quickly drew our attention; a moment later, a deer walked out into a lush meadow, framed by stands of lodgepole and the peaks above.
Wilderness areas are some of the last remaining places to find true quietness and solitude like this. They also represent our most intact ecosystems–these places are free from roads and other development and activities that can degrade habitat and isolate wildlife populations. For many species, protected Wilderness is one of the last remaining refuges.
Since the Wilderness Act of 1964, two other major expansions of wilderness in Oregon has been passed. The biggest, the Oregon Wilderness Act of 1984 (celebrating its 40th anniversary this year), added 21 new wilderness areas to Oregon and expanded eight others, totaling 878,000 acres of ecologically important forests and watersheds. The next significant protections came 25 years later when the Omnibus Public Lands Management Act of 2009 protected new Wilderness around Mt. Hood and in the Oregon desert–including the Oregon Badlands Wilderness, just outside Bend.
While Oregonians are fortunate to have numerous incredible Wilderness areas in the state, only 4% of Oregon’s land mass is currently designated as protected Wilderness. This lags far behind our neighboring states of Washington (10%), California (15%), and Idaho (10%). Since the 1984 bill, only 350,000 acres of additional Wilderness have been designated in the state. Over five million acres of wild, forested, roadless lands in Oregon are still unprotected, and even more can be found in our desert landscapes.
There are many ways to enjoy Wilderness, but the most common, and perhaps best, way is to simply go on a hike. And what better time to explore a new Wilderness area by foot than this big 60th anniversary year? Many Central Oregonians are likely familiar with our ‘backyard’ Wilderness areas–the Three Sisters and the Oregon Badlands; others may venture farther to the Mount Washington and Mount Jefferson Wilderness areas. Here are three hikes in Oregon Wilderness areas that require a bit more travel or effort to get to, but are well worth it for the solitude, views, and sense of wildness.
Eagle Cap Wilderness: Aneroid Lake (East Fork Wallowa River Trail)
The Eagle Cap, nestled in Northeast Oregon’s grand Wallowa mountains, is Oregon’s largest Wilderness and one of the state’s first designated areas. Towering granite peaks, picturesque high alpine lakes, meadows full of wildflowers and edible berries, and deep, glaciated valleys are abound here.
The Eagle Cap is also home to a variety of wildlife including deer, Rocky Mountain elk, black bears, bighorn sheep, mountain goats, and wolves that naturally repopulated the area in the early-2000s after being exterminated in the first half of the 20th Century. Large areas of protected wilderness, like the Eagle Cap, allow these species to move around and find suitable habitat away from the pressures of humans.
For a longer day hike, the East Fork Wallowa River Trail to Aneroid Lake provides all of the best the Eagle Cap has to offer. This 12.5-mile roundtrip hike begins near Wallowa Lake State Park and climbs over 3000 feet to the scenic Aneroid Lake. The lake offers beautiful views of the surrounding Wallowas, plentiful spots to enjoy a scenic lunch or camp overnight, and an abundant population of hungry and willing brook trout for those who carry a rod up with them.
Mill Creek Wilderness: Twin Pillars Trail
Only a little over an hour from Bend, the Mill Creek Wilderness area in the Ochocos is often overlooked. But this gem is worth the visit for its stands of huge old-growth ponderosa pine, wild streams, and striking rock formations.
This 11.5-mile roundtrip hike offers all of that–and more, culminating at the base of the 200-foot-tall rock spires known as the Twin Pillars.
A portion of the trail travels through a burned area from a wildfire that occurred 24 years ago. This forest (and all Central Oregon forests) evolved with fire and depend on fire to stay healthy. This hike provides expansive views of past burn areas and an excellent example of a forest that is naturally recovering from fire. Snags (standing dead trees) and pockets of trees that survived the blaze scatter the landscape, creating important habitat for all kinds of species, from insects to birds to deer and elk. When we set aside natural landscapes as designated Wilderness, we allow natural processes, like wildfire, to play out in areas where it poses little risk to human communities and presents great value to forest ecosystems.
Mount Hood Wilderness: Barlow Pass
While the Mount Hood Wilderness was originally designated in 1964, the forests around Barlow Butte, on the southeast flank of Mount Hood, were not protected until 2009. This 4.6-mile round-trip hike connects to the Pacific Crest Trail and gradually climbs through an ancient subalpine forest of Douglas-fir, noble fir, hemlock, and Engelmann spruce.
Despite having several designated Wilderness areas, much of the Mount Hood region is still unprotected. There are currently 178,000 acres on the Mount Hood National Forest that qualify for Wilderness protections, including treasured destinations like Boulder Lake, Still Creek, the Salmon River, and Tamanawas Falls. This hike passes through both designated Wilderness and roadless areas that qualify for Wilderness, but are not yet protected.
The situation I find myself in:
The world is spinning; I can’t breathe, I can’t see, I can’t hear. I am currently submerged underwater, traveling at breakneck speeds down a frigid river littered with rocks, drops, holes, and class III-IV whitewater. Picture a load of laundry mid-spin cycle: that would be my current situation, completely at the mercy of the current and the force of gravity. I reach for the surface, but I’m not entirely sure which way is up, or down for that matter. All I see in front me is the violent whirling and foaming of water, and my paddle, which thrashes wildly as I desperately attempt to hold on. How long have I been underwater?
How I found myself in this situation:
We had just put in on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, the beginning to a weeklong rafting trip through vast forests, ceaseless canyons, and untamed wilderness. A combination of my novice-level kayaking ability and murky water due to recent thunderstorms has resulted in me flipping my kayak and swimming through a rapid within the first mile. Six days, 99 miles left to go, and I already have soggy clothes and lungs full of water. What a way to start this trip.
At the time, I was a recent high school graduate, preparing for my first year away at college. In a couple weeks, I would move from my hometown of Bend, Oregon to Idaho, where I would live away from home for the first time. That summer was spent buying books, packing boxes, and gathering all the items needed for the year ahead. I remember it all feeling so surreal, like I was leaving one life and entering another. As I am an only child, my parents were likely also anxious as I prepared for my departure. Since we had traveled extensively as a family throughout my childhood, they wanted to send me off with one final family trip, one we always dreamed of: whitewater rafting down the Middle Fork of the Salmon River.
Now, this is not an easy trip to pull off. Due to popularity that lead to high levels of traffic in the summertime, one must either apply for a permit—which can take years to receive—or join a commercial trip—which costs thousands of dollars. Furthermore, Mother Nature must be on your side. We had actually attempted to run the Middle Fork twice before, but were turned away when wildfires closed down the river. Luckily, I have an aunt and uncle who guide on the river and were able to score us discounted spots on a commercial guided trip. The fires were absent this year and it seemed like the third time really would be the charm. Except now, I find myself sopping wet and cursing myself in the middle of this unforgiving wilderness.
A question I keep asking myself:
I will be starting school soon and have no idea what to study. What will be my major? What will I do with my life? These questions rattle around in my head and become increasing louder as move-in day approaches. Additionally, it seems each person that hears I am starting college is equally curious of the answer to this question, further compounding my angst.
“What are you majoring in?” repeats a guest on the trip as I stare back blankly after the first time she asks.
“Umm…I haven’t decide for sure but I’m thinking business…yes, business.” No offense to business majors but this seems to be my default.
“So, what do you want to do with that?”
Oh, fuck. She went there. Isn’t there something else we can talk about? Anything else? I usually like to let a far-superior future version of myself decide these important life questions, but no matter how much I attempt to avoid them, they keep recurring like a bad Chainsmokers song.
A day on the Middle Fork:
A trip on the Middle Fork includes six days and fives nights of epic whitewater rafting down 100 miles of untamed river through landscapes that range from dense spruce and Lodgepole pine forests to desert canyons. Gourmet dinners of grilled salmon, roasted fresh vegetables, and Dutch oven baked desserts consume our evenings and nights are spent reminiscing on who had the best ‘swim’ of the day—which always seems to be me—before crawling into sleeping bags and dozing off under the stars.
It’s day 4, my kayaking skills have dramatically improved since that dreadful first day as I expertly navigate the first set of the Tappan rapids—one of the more notorious series of whitewater on the river, ending with Tappan Falls. I watch as my companions, one by one, successfully maneuver the rapid. First the oar rafts, followed by the paddle boat, then the kayakers; finally, it’s my turn. This is the largest waterfall I’ve run to date, but I remind myself to lean forward and keep paddling through it. As the nose of my kayak begins to drop over the lip, I make one final vertical stroke, accelerating through the air and landing at the base a few feet below. Cold water splashes all around me and the jolt of the landing throws off my center of gravity, but I remain upright. Ecstatic and brimming from ear-to-ear, I join the others, who have eddied out below the falls.
That evening, we enjoy a meal of fish tacos and margaritas at camp. This is one of the most sought after campsites on the river, as it is nestled just below the confluence of the river and Loon Creek, where a short trail leads to a natural hot springs pool along the creek. The river is littered with hot springs along its course, but this is one of the few campsites that is within close proximity to one.
As I lean back in the warm pool, I feel the muscles in my back and shoulders slacken from the tightness caused by dozens of miles of paddling. I sip a chilled PBR—my drink of choice for river trips—while chatting with my parents, my uncle, and two cousins who have joined us on the trip. My gaze wanders into the distance. The warm hues of the sunset illuminate the sky with shades of orange and smears of lavender, while a steady, yet calm breeze makes its way through the canyon, stirring the pines as it passes by. We are all quiet for a moment, absorbing the serenity of the wilderness around us.
A journal entry I wrote on wilderness:
Wilderness is an interesting concept. First, there is true wilderness—the wild, where the law of nature governs and man is just another mortal inhabitant of a deeply primitive and interconnected system. On the other end, there is legislative Wilderness; note the capital “W,” plots of public land set aside to be protected from development and human influence. The question is: does this planet really contain any land that has not been impacted in some way by humans? Is there any true wilderness left?
The Middle Fork flows through the heart of the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness—the largest federally protected Wilderness area in the United States outside of Alaska. This place feels wild. The air is crisp; the river flows free, and wildlife roam without determent. Yet, human influence is ubiquitous. Each summer, thousands of tourists flock here to spend a week rafting and camping along the celebrated river. We pass countless other groups each day. Campsites must be reserved beforehand, and only a limited number of groups can launch per day. There are times I feel more at a theme park than a remote wilderness.
For all that, there are still moments of pure awe. This happens usually at night, whilst lying beneath an unobstructed starry night sky, listening to the crackling of a dying fire, and the distant lonely howls of wolves that lurk in the woods beyond. This is when I feel truly wild. I begin to think we need more places like this, that the world needs more places like this.
What I’ve learned as we near takeout:
On day 6, we conclude our journey as we emerge out of Impassable canyon, joining the waters of the Main Salmon as it makes its way towards the Snake, then the Columbia, before ultimately reaching the Pacific Ocean. Our takeout is a few miles below the convergence of the Middle Fork and Main Salmon.
As we float the final miles towards the takeout, I hear a faint whine in the distance. It sounds like that of a mosquito, but I can’t quite make it out. The sound grows louder and sharper as we approach, until it overpowers the acoustics of the flowing current. At that moment, a large speedboat breaks the horizon line, whizzing towards us as its engine pierces through the breeze. A group of hunters standing towards the bow give us a friendly wave as they pass us and continue their crusade upstream. Following the course of the river, cars ramble by on the highway leading back to the town of Salmon. I realize I’m no longer in the wilderness.
Over the course of the last six days of rafting, five nights of sleeping under the stars, and 100 miles of traveling by boat—entirely at the speed and mercy of the river—I find myself with a clear mind and a new perspective on the days that lay ahead. I carry the lessons of the wild with me as I re-enter the civilized world: to be patient and follow the current, eventually it will lead to your destination; to lean forward and keep paddling in times of stress; to take a moment to admire the grandeur of what is around you. It’s true that there may not be any true wilderness left, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t still places that are worth preserving. This is one of those places.
The situation I find myself in now:
At the time of this writing, I have just finished my four-year degree, graduating with a Bachelor’s of Science in Environmental Studies—a decision largely a result of that trip down the Middle Fork four years ago. I am about to depart on a one-and-a-half year journey traveling around the world where I hope to seek out more wilderness and further fine-tune my life and career path. To this day, I still carry with me a passion for wild places and for preserving them. Whoever coined the term ‘River of No Return’ got it spot on. In many ways, the person who ventures down the river does not come out the same. In others, a piece of that person stayed behind, endlessly calling him back to the wild.
Featured: Overlooking Hanalei Bay
1. A waterfall glides over the cliffs of Waimea Canyon.
2. Hikers enjoy the view from the chin of the Sleeping Giant.
3. Morning fog on the Na Pali Coast.
4. The view from above Kalalau Valley.
5. Looking towards the mountains from Hanalei.
6. A secluded beach on Kauai’s eastern shore.
Tourism to Katmai National Park in southwest Alaska is driven by one factor: viewing Alaskan brown bears. The park’s expansive boardwalk system allows one to safely get within close proximity to these majestic beasts. These photos were taken towards the end of July–the end of the peak sockeye run that attracts so many bears to the area.
Featured: Heceta Head lighthouse overlooks the Pacific.
1. Morning light shines through the thick woods of the coast.
2. The Oregon Coast is a landscape shaped by water–salt and fresh.
3. A secluded beach near Florence.
4. Few humans, but plenty of wildlife to be found.
5. The iconic rugged coastline of Oregon.
6. The sun sets over the Pacific.
I’ve been on the line for twelve hours, four more to go. The whining white noise of factory machines fill the background, interrupted by Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline, which has cycled around for what seems like the 10th time today. Fuck that song. Day and night blur together; the days blur together. How many 16-hour shifts have I worked in a row? I presume it has been about two weeks. A bone-chilling cold seeps through my rubber boots and wool socks. I’m used to it by now—my big toe has already lost the feeling in its tip. Salmon guts cover me from neck to toe and the smell of fish has become immune to my olfactory senses. My hand is starting to cramp, but salmon carcasses continue gliding past me on the conveyer belt and I continue carving fillets with my knife. I feel as though I am cemented in a never-ending cycle. One hundred thousand pounds and counting processed today.
The airport in King Salmon, Alaska is little more than a small warehouse with a luggage carousel. Only two flights depart and arrive each day: one in the morning and one at night. A combination of a lust for adventure and a depleted bank account has brought me here to the sockeye salmon capital of the world. I would spend the next month working at one of the numerous salmon processing plants in the town of Naknek. Each summer, thousands of fishermen and workers flock to this tiny town on the Bristol Bay shore seeking riches from the annual salmon run. For most, this is their version of the gold rush. I glance around at the dozens of nervous, eager faces that arrived on my flight. I can’t help but think to myself, “What the hell have I gotten myself into?”
It helps to think of a shift as four separate four-hour shifts. I’ve learned that the first one is the worst as I basically sleepwalk through it. The person next to me is attempting to have a conversation but my brain struggles to find the words or motivation to keep up. I just smile and nod, continuing my work, hoping my lack of focus doesn’t result in an amputated finger. Don’t look at the clock. Damn, it’s cold in here. Every four hours we get a break to warm our bodies with coffee or spend our hard-earned money on cigarettes, the only commodity one will find around here. I feel myself gaining energy as the day progresses. I sense my shift is almost over. Don’t look at the clock. My feet have been aching since lunch, my hand has glued itself into a claw from cutting fish all day, and the biting cold is piercing deep into my core. I play 20 Questions with my comrades beside me to distract myself from the discomfort. I know I will soon be able to eat, shower, and crawl into my warm bed, my one area of privacy, where I can forget work for a few hours, and dream of returning home to freedom.
The fishery I work at is located a few miles outside the town of Naknek. Upon arriving, I am humbled by the wildness of Alaska. The air is saturated with the scent of salt…stinging my nostrils, the shrieks of seagulls and Bald Eagles cut through the sky as the birds scour the shore for dead salmon, and the rusted carcasses of old retired fishing boats litter the shipyard. The temperature is cool, but comfortable, and the sky is an ominous gray, as it would be most of my time here. I know there is nearly 24 hours of sunlight in summer this far north, but that doesn’t matter when it’s always overcast and you work inside all day.
The first day is pure chaos. It feels like the first day of summer camp, or move-in day freshmen year, as I make myself dizzy scampering around in a frenetic whirlwind attempting to meet as many people as possible. Soon, we are herded into the mess hall for orientation. A large, burly man who looks like he’s seen too many Alaskan winters greets us. His thunderous steps rattle the floor as he walks, and the stench of stale whiskey diffuses outward each time he opens his mouth to speak in what resembles more of a growl than a human voice. I was convinced that if I saw him in the dark I would mistake him for one of the many brown bears that roam the grounds around camp. This is the plant’s production manager.
After orientation, we are given a tour of the plant, which includes the mess hall and break room, a large production facility where all the salmon is processed, the docks and shipyard, and several dormitory-style bunkhouses where we would share cramped rooms with up to five other roommates. Personal space would come at a premium this next month, but little did I know the impact all these new people would have on my life.
The alarm startles me from my sleep. I lay in my bed for a few moments cursing the Earth’s rotation for spinning too quickly. What I would give for a full eight hours of sleep. I’m lucky to get six. Every minute of sleep is precious and one must make sacrifices in order to gain or lose more. Eating breakfast requires losing a half-hour, a shower 15 minutes. I decide breakfast is non-essential. I’ve been a little sick for the past few days and quitting and going home to Oregon is always on the back of my mind. There are fewer and fewer faces each day as the season wears on. Nonetheless, I drag myself out of bed and limp my way to the production facility. Time to start the cycle again: work and sleep, work and sleep. Each shift begins with the monotonous routine of clocking in, donning the processor attire of hairnet, safety glasses, and gloves, and securing a spot on the assembly line. A couple weeks in and I know most the people in my department; inherently, I like some more than others. Today, I am stationed next to two fraternity brothers from Chico State, a recent high school graduate making extra money for a backpacking trip to Southeast Asia, and an older Filipino man who has spent the last 15 summers working as a salmon processor. The conversations we have seem insignificant at the time, but this is what gets us through the long days. Here, everyone is connected by a shared struggle.
During the peak of the salmon season, typically beginning in early July, the plant is in production 24-hours a day. We are divided into three different shifts: A-shift starts at 4 AM and ends at 8:30 PM, B-shift from 12 PM to 4:30 AM, and C-shift from 8 PM to 12:30 PM. Within these three shifts, we are further separated into various departments. The production plant runs as a systematic, well-oiled machine, a continuous cycle. Once the salmon arrive from the boats they are unloaded at Fish House—where the heads and guts are removed; from there, they are sent to the Fillet department, responsible for removing spines, fat, bones and any other unwanted parts until a neat fillet is all that is left; the high-quality fillets are then sent to Vacuum Packing, and finally packed into boxes and prepared to be shipped out by the Packing department. I am assigned to C-shift Fillet.
In Fillet, there are three main jobs: those who cut, those who pick bones, and those who grade. I would primarily cut, and with fillet knife in hand, slice off belly fat, spines, and any leftover fins. We would cut off as much as we could, leaving bone-pickers to do exactly that: pick bones. Graders would determine which fillets were of high quality and would be granted the honor of being sent to vacuum packing, or which were doomed to be frozen and grinded into dog food. We did this 16 hours a day. For the next month, this would be my reality. A reality governed by salmon and sleep.
We play games to pass the time and keep ourselves sane. 20 questions. Never Have I Ever. Would You Rather. Sometimes we even invent new ones using the unlimited pieces of salmon lying around. A classic is to creep up behind someone and carefully lay a small piece of fish on his or her shoulder without being caught. Some people could go hours without noticing they had salmon on them. When the supervisors weren’t looking, we have even had a few salmon fights, flinging bits of fish back and forth between lines with our knives. These games, although childish, and not quite sanitary, are the memories that stick with me. The days of work all blur together, but it is the conversations I have and the people I share them with that I will always remember.
People are starting to be sent home. The boats are bringing in fewer and fewer fish, marking the near of the season’s close. Each day I say goodbye to new friends I’ve made and check the list to see if I’ll be on the next flight out. 16-hour shifts turn to 12, and then 8. Naknek lacks much entertainment when there isn’t work. We pass the time with bonfires on the beach and boozing at the bar. I feel my strength regaining in my body, my blood recirculating, and for the first time in three weeks I am neither sick nor sleep deprived. The fact that I will be home soon propels me forward. Finally, the day comes. I am given two days notice for my departure. Two days until I am home. Two days until I am free.
There is a famous National Geographic photo of a large male brown bear standing atop a waterfall catching salmon that leap over the falls in an attempt to continue their migration upstream. I decide to spend my final day in Alaska at Brooks Falls in Katmai National Park, where this photo was taken. I’ve actually been here twice before, when I was much younger on fishing trips with my dad. But this time would be different. This time I am here to reflect. I spend the day, camera in hand, watching bears roam up and down the river, cashing in on the sockeye salmon season just as I had. When I arrive at the falls, there is one bear fishing at the base. He catches salmon with ease, fattening up for the long winter. In an hour, I count 12 fish that he consumes. Downstream, thousands of salmon line the river from bank to bank, vying for the optimum spots for making the leap over the falls. They are so abundant the river seems to run red.
I watch these salmon and think of all they had to go through to get here, a never-ending cycle of life and death. Past all the predators in the open ocean, the scores of commercial fishing boats, the bears, and finally, this challenging jump over Brooks Falls and into the promise land, where they can complete their several thousand-mile journey and life’s mission to spawn and die in their home stream. Only a fraction actually makes it. I think of all the processors I worked with who quit because it was too demanding, or were sent home due to injury or illness. Then I think of the ones who helped me make it through the last month, whether it was a simple conversation or some stupid game. Like everyone else, I came for the quick money. But I also came for another reason. I wanted to challenge myself. I wanted to break myself down physically and mentally, because I knew if I could make it through this, I could make it through life’s next challenges. This was the single most demanding thing I had ever done and I had succeeded. The cycle has ended. I had made it. Just like the salmon.
