• Date: Satuday, July 28, 1990

• Destination: Spring Campground, Crescent Lake

• Miles: 73.8

• Total Climb/Descent: Up 5,377 / Down -6,533

• High Point / Low Point: 7,678 feet / 4,221 feet

• Feet Per Mile: 74

• Route Score: 303 (Extremely Difficult)

The sun had turned the tent into a cozy Easy-Bake Oven as we contemplated getting up and moving at Crater Lake’s Mazama Campground. Our legs felt tired and heavy after all the climbing we’d done the past two days. More of that was on tap today, too.

But it was going to be an interesting and scenic route: we’d climb back up to the rim of Crater Lake again this morning before beginning a long descent off the volcano, through forests and pumice fields to a dirt forest road that climbed up and over the ominously named Windigo Butte.

Crescent Lake was someplace beyond that, and it was our destination for the day—a stout 56 miles away, with lots of climbing, much of it on dirt.

Over the past several days, the weather had gradually warmed, and today’s forecast called for hot, dry conditions with temperatures in the high 80s.

We had a quick breakfast at Annie Creek Restaurant and grabbed a few snacks at the Mazama Village Camp Store next door before setting off. The seven-mile climb to the rim was certainly more demanding with loaded bikes, but we managed with only mild griping.

Once past Crater Lake Lodge, the road began to climb once more. “What the heck? Weren’t we already at the rim?” we both groused as we climbed another four miles to Watchman Overlook at 7,600 feet.

We could feel the altitude, the warming sun on our backs, and the heaviness in our legs. When we pulled up at the overlook, however, all of that was forgotten. The viewpoint seemed to look straight down onto Wizard Island, 1,500 feet below, and the immensity of the blue lake filled our view.

That panorama—and the belief that this marked the end of the day’s primary challenge—lightened our mood.

The road climbed for another half mile and another hundred feet, but soon we were past the hump of Hillman Peak and looking north.

A vast panorama of forest and mountains greeted us. The jagged summit of Mount Thielsen was most prominent, along with Mount Bailey. A good way farther—40 miles as the crow flies—was the shield volcano of Mount Diamond, nearly lost in the heat shimmer. Crescent Lake would be somewhere beneath that.

Gravity pulled us down, and the hum of our tires rose with our speed. In the next six miles, we’d give up all the elevation gained during the past two hours of work. We bombed down the quiet two-lane road—zipping past meadows, down dusty corridors of trees—the decline a consistent five percent. We thought it would never end.

But then it did. We came out of the trees into a sunny, hot, open space: the Pumice Desert. Mount Thielsen was in front of us, looking far taller but not much closer than it had from the rim.

I switched to my second water bottle as we began to climb again, sweat rolling down my face and into my eyes. The next three miles were rolling: gradual descent separated by short, steep climbs. We passed Highway 138 on our right—the bailout down to the towns along Highway 97—as the road began to head downhill again.

Something was bothering me, a distant itch in the back of my mind. In the last twenty miles, ever since Crater Lake Lodge, we had passed through unbroken forest. Sure, there were some turnouts and a few pit toilets, but nothing else—no gas stations or resorts or towns—just dry forest under a warm—no, hot—sky.

We were alongside Diamond Lake, 28 miles into the day’s ride, as the clock neared noon. The highway, however, was half a mile to the east of the lake’s shoreline and several hundred feet above it. Some lunch would be nice, a cold drink, a break in the shade. It would be nice to fill our water bottles, which were now disconcertingly light.

But the wall of trees continued unbroken. We began another long descent, our speed drying the sweat of our overheated bodies.

A small sign: Diamond Lake Recreation Area. Resort Area. Quickly followed by a nondescript turn.

My hands hovered over the brake levers, but I didn’t grab them. Why interrupt such a great descent? We continued straight: down the hill and into trouble.

Thirty years later, in the scary early months of the Covid-19 pandemic, Christy and I would find ourselves down there on the shores of the lake. We sat at a picnic table in the grassy shade of the Diamond Lake Resort, eating burgers and enjoying the coldest bottle of Deschutes Mirror Pond pale ale. The lake lapped on the nearby shoreline. It was an idyllic reprieve in a world gone very scary, very fast.

In 1990, we knew none of this. We only cared that we were coasting down a smooth highway. I knew that Lemolo Lake was ahead, and a KOA campsite on its shoreline, which was bound to have food and water.

Five miles later, at mile 34, we saw a sign for Windigo Pass Road and turned right. The poorly paved road quickly turned to gravel as it shot straight through the forest, seductively trending downhill.

At mile 39, we passed over the shallow and thin Umpqua River, and I realized Lemolo Lake was five miles to our left, in the entirely wrong direction. Christy looked tired and sweaty—more than a little worried. We had another 16 miles before our campground. Could we make it that far with the water we had? Was adding another 10 miles to visit the KOA on the lake worth it?

I argued that the area was full of campgrounds and we’d stop at the first one to fill up. Christy, reluctantly, agreed. We turned right, rounded a bend in the road, and the road began to climb. Over the next three miles, we climbed 1,000 feet as the dirt forest road snaked up the forested slopes.

We focused on the hard work in front of us but kept expecting a campground. None appeared.

Christy began to ask me how far it was to the summit. I did the calculations in my head. It was about a 1,700-foot climb over 8 miles. We had done more than half the climbing but had about 4 miles left. “Not very far. A few more miles,” I said, finishing all my water except for a final, emergency sip.

The road did seem to be flattening. With full water bottles and lunch in the belly, it would have been fun. Now it was just hot, thirsty work. The bonk was creeping closer.

Then a miracle! The first car we had seen since turning off the highway was heading toward us down the gravel of the forest road.

We gave a wave, trying not to look desperate, and the pickup came to a stop in a cloud of dust. “Do you have any water?” I asked, holding up my empty bottles as proof of our situation. The couple looked at each other and then around the insides of their cab, before the hammer blow: “No, I’m sorry. We don’t.”

We watched them recede down the hill. The good news? They said the pass was just around the corner. The bad? There would be no campgrounds—or water—until Crescent Lake.

We continued around the corner, and the road kept climbing. No pass could be seen. I could hear Christy quietly crying behind me.

The next two miles were a mind game. That gap in the trees was surely the pass, right? “I think I see it!” I exclaimed, only to be proved wrong as the road continued up. Christy thought I was doing this on purpose and fell silent.

Finally, we reached the pass. The climbing road eased, went flat for a hundred yards, and began to descend. There could be no doubt: the Pacific Crest Trail crossed our road. We had made it!

Christy pulled ahead, rode around a sweeping corner, and went down. It was a slow-motion crash caused by deep sand grabbing her front wheel.

She wasn’t hurt, thank god. But she had passed her limit, tear tracks down her dusty face, and a fuck-it-all disposition that I knew included me.

We continued in silence. The lemon juice in the fresh cut? We now had to pedal hard—downhill!—to float over the sandy stretches.

This would be no victory coast to the lake.

Crescent Lake, four miles long and about two miles wide, was a scenic but modest destination. Its blue waters, surrounded by conifers and lodgepole pines, gave it the character of a high-elevation alpine lake—even though it sat at 4,800 feet.

But it felt nearly deserted—less than five of its 70-odd campsites were occupied. We chose a spot near the lake, found the water spigot, and began to rehydrate. Never has water tasted so sweet.

The final thirteen miles had been a thirst-addled blur, characterized by a forest road that steadily improved, but never lost its patches of loose dirt and sand. We were heads down, thankful for the decline but ready to be done.

At mile 56—supposedly the end of the day—we reached a junction with a sign: Crescent Lake 4 Miles. The arrow pointed to our left, a steady climb that bowed out of sight. I felt Christy's exasperation radiating like a nuclear reactor two hours after a meltdown.

I apologized. We rallied through our exhaustion, and we finally made it to camp. And yet, the feeling persisted that we were in the deserted middle of nowhere. The afternoon wore on, and our stomachs gnawed at us. What we wouldn’t have given for cold drinks and a burger! We were out of food, except for our emergency rations: two dehydrated backpacking meals.

Then a daft idea: let’s cycle around the lake to the resort on the north shore, resupply, load ourselves down with all sorts of drinks and treats, and then come back to the campground reinvigorated. Maybe there would even be a restaurant.

We had already gone 60 miles and climbed 5,000 feet—much of it with little to no water. If we stopped then and there, it would already be the second hardest day of the whole tour. And yet, and yet, we couldn’t get the idea of a burger and cold drinks out of our mind.

We set off again, our cooling legs complaining with every pedal stroke. The miles passed. The afternoon light increased its slant and then abruptly disappeared behind the mountains to our west. Like everything else on this day, the trip around the lake was farther and harder than we thought. Seven miles one way.

The resort felt like a gilded reprieve, although it was half deserted. The restaurant was closed, but we were able to pick up supplies and drinks, load them on our bikes, and wobble back around the lake in the blue hour past sunset. We ate in exhausted silence in the quiet campground.

The day was done, and we had made it, but could we stand anything resembling an encore?