Where the Crater is a Caldera
It shimmers like a sapphire pool in the sky. At 1,956 feet, Crater Lake is as deep as Mount Denali is tall. I remember the thrill of glimpsing North America’s tallest peak from a sightseeing train on the Alaskan coast, tussling with other tourists to get my cell phone poised to capture the iconic mountain that is usually shrouded in fog.
But at Crater Lake, I have my pick of vistas. The water is rimmed by mountains of pumice and ash, remnants of the volcanic eruption of Mount Mazama eight thousand years ago. Technically, it is not a crater, but a caldera, formed by the collapse of a volcanic mountain. Over thousands of years, the cavernous hole filled with pure rainwater and snow, insulated from potential pollution by steams or rivers. The result is the most pristine and bluest lake in the world. Crater Lake is so remote that when the Coast Guard delivered new tourist boats to cruise around the lake’s Wizard Island, they had to be dropped by helicopter. I soak it all in and marvel, me, a child of the prairie.
The lake’s most venerable inhabitant is The Old Man, a 450-year-old hemlock log (we know its age from carbon dating) forty feet long, which bobs around as if playing Where’s Waldo. The old guy exposes his top three feet above the water’s surface. Park rangers recount that when a scientific team charged with exploring the lake’s bottom with a submersible tied up the old man on the shore so he wouldn’t interfere with the mission, fierce storms blew in, followed by snow. Defeated, the scientists released the Old Man. The sun returned the next day.
Landmarks here evoke sorcery. The Devils Backbone, a dike of molten lava resembling the tailbone of a lizard, runs from the lake rim to the shoreline. Wizard Island, itself a small volcano, is shaped like Merlin’s hat. With its super spiky tip, nearby Mount Thielson looks as menacing as the Dark Tower inhabited by Sauron in Lord of the Rings.
Yet this is sacred ground. Ancestors of the Klamath Tribe, according to legend, survived the Mount Mazama eruption by breathing through reeds in a nearby pond. I imagine frantic mothers helping their children suck in oxygen through green stems, like parents putting oxygen masks on toddlers in an airplane. Because most of the volcanic ash drifted in the opposite direction of their village, some Indigenous peoples survived.
The water that piled up in the massive caldera was named “Gii waas,” a sacred place. Thousands of years later their descendants, members of the Klamath tribe, visit the park on vision quests, seeking a spirit guide among the volcanic rocks and blue waters.
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In 1865, Annie Gaines became the first white woman to dip her hand in Crater Lake, braving a steep hike 1,000 feet from the rim to the shore. I doubt if she were wearing hiking boots. When my bones were more supple and spirit more daring, I backpacked on the Appalachian Trail, climbing over rocks and ascending mountain tops in Pennsylvania and following the gentle trail of Rip Van Winkle in the Hudson Valley. But not once did I descend a path this steep. I try to imagine Annie stepping through the hemlock forests, clenching her teeth as she tries to avoid slipping on volcanic rocks. After reaching the water’s edge, she yells out a whoop and claps wildly, astonished at her achievement.
After this brave feat, Annie died at 23, only days after giving birth. There is a restaurant that bears her name in nearby Mazama Village, a refuge for campers looking for a night off from cooking. After a day exploring Crater Lake Park, I sip a stale cup of coffee and treat myself to a slice of cheesecake drowning in cherries. Annie deserved more.