Adventures on the Rogue River

We had a blast on this southern Oregon river, despite foreboding rangers, tick potentials and an all out lack of alpine lilies.

We took the day off on Thursday and headed south for the first backpack of the season. The rolling hills of the Willamette Valley gave way to forest as we wound south and west, until finally making it to the trailhead for the Rogue River trail. Our guidebook said to park on the south side of the bridge over the river as there is no overnight parking allowed at the trailhead. However when we got to the bridge it was lined with “no overnight parking” signs. So we headed to the nearby trailhead, also lined with “no overnight parking” signs, and started scratching our heads about where we were meant to leave the car on this popular multi day backpacking trip.

There was a ranger trying to fix the door of the bathroom at the trailhead. So I put on my butchest hat and swagger and headed over to ask about parking. The Ranger said that the Sheriff didn’t want folks parking at the trailhead because “weird stuff happens here.” “You mean break ins?” I asked for clarity.

“I mean ‘weird stuff’,” he reiterated.

This sounded strangely supernatural and rather foreboding. I told him our guidebooks said to park on the south side of the bridge, but the ranger said he wouldn’t do that if he were us. “We have a guy who’s been throwing cars into the river.”

I asked him where he would park if he was us, and he stared back at me and shrugged.

My map and guidebooks didn’t indicate any options for parking within several miles of the trailhead. So I asked the ranger if we might get towed if we parked at the trailhead for the weekend, and he gave me the first piece of actionable information of the encounter, which was that we most certainly would not. Then he added ominously, “The ‘no parking’ signs are just for your protection.”

We stared at each other for a minute and then he cracked a smile that wasn’t necessarily friendly, and said, “Well, you have a good trip now.”

I walked back to Shawn at the car and debriefed this strange conversation. We didn’t have too many options, and so opted to leave the car at the trailhead (which was notably empty of cars) because whatever “weird stuff” might happen to the car at the trailhead seemed more workable than the car being thrown from the bridge into the river. And with that cheery welcome, we hit the trail.

The trail was immediately stunning, climbing a ridge line by the river.

Somehow all my photographs of the Rogue River seem to wash out the color and flatten the distances, so you’ll have to take my word that this trail is stunning and magical. I’ve never hiked a river trail like this, and I somehow imagined just walking along the banks of a river.

The Rogue River trail was entirely different; It climbs crests and buttes to the north side of the river and winds in and out of ravines with creeks and streams running through. The river cascades below, eddying in different parts, sometimes rushing, sometimes calm, cresting around sand banks.

We came a bit early in the season, but still caught many parties of rafters navigating the river below. And overhead, eagles and ospreys soared through the air. At one point on our second day, the river valley opened up and an eagle flew right over Shawn’s head so close they could hear the thwap of its wings and feel the air rushing beneath. Shawn yelped in delight. I wish I had gotten a photo of that moment; you would have loved it.

Shawn beside big aggie at our first camp site.

Groups of rafters passing the rapids on the river below. you might have to zoom in.

So we walked and we walked and passed very few other folks on the whole trail. There were so many shades of green, including the emerald river itself. And Manzinitas everywhere along with Pacific Madrones, with their strange and smooth orangey purple bark.

On our second day we camped on a bank by a rock outcropping with many places to sit and perch, and our own personal rapids.

The camp was around the bend from this creek and pool, that we had intended to swim in, but somehow forgot.

Note to future self: swim here.

On the third day we kept passing people with their socks pulled over their pants, and who kept eyeing me in my booty shorts. Naturally I thought they were checking me out, until one hiker, staring at my bare legs, shared that the trail was lined with ticks and maybe we should be a little careful. Go figure.

We passed a group of older folks, including one man who asked if we had seen any delicate purple flowers on the trail, he thought they were called “alpine lilies.” I replied that I think those lilies typically like to hang out in the mountains at elevation. Alpine meadows and that kind of thing. He nodded slowly.

While we were contemplating the incredibly beauty of this area, we were also remembering the ranger’s warning and imagining what kind of weird stuff might be happening to the car.

“Like, how weird do you think it could be?”

So we imagined folks lighting the car on fire, or urinating all over the seats or making public art out of it.

On the final day we booked it back to the car a bit to see what might have happened.

Shawn booking it.

We were quite happy to turn a final bend and see Drake (the car) beneath us right where we had left him. When we came off the trail, we found that nothing even a little weird had happened to him. We were obviously relieved, but also just a tad sheepish to have had such a lovely adventure for ourselves, and here poor Drake, who loves a good adventure, had just sat there having a regular degular time. Alas.

We will certainly be back to the Rogue River trail, and Shawn still closes their eyes and remembers the air rushing off that eagle’s wings, and probably will forever. Thank you, river.