Mapping the final segment of the Great American Outback Trail-- Oregon Outback

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The Pacific Crest Overland Route, the Continental Divide, the Trans-American Trail—most would agree, these are some of the classic long-distance overland tracks of North America. But what's North America's answer to Australia's most remote and desolate track—the Canning Stock Route? The Canning Stock Route traverses 1,150 miles of desert through the heart of the Australian outback and features a single fuel stop! One must travel 1,040 km from Wiluna to the Aboriginal community of Kunawarritji. With a population density of just 3.35 persons per sq km, Australia has 1/10th the population density of the contiguous United States (36 persons/sq km), but that doesn't mean there aren't wide-open spaces with people far and few between. One need only look at a dark sky map, and almost immediately the northern Great Basin sticks out. This region covers the Modoc Plateau on the eastern boundary of the Cascade volcanic arc, into the high deserts of central and eastern Oregon, the massive playas of northern Nevada, and the Owyhees that straddle the Oregon-Idaho border (and even some of northern NV). It's a desolate land of wide-open spaces, sky islands that rise from the desert plains, and ancient canyonlands formed from volcanism millions of years ago.

With the Canning Stock Route as the main source of inspiration, I set out with a rather grandiose idea—creating a 2,000+ mile overland track through some of the lower 48's most remote country. I'd already developed a number of tracks and found others in the public domain (like the Modoc Backcountry Discovery Trail) that I could piece together for this grand experiment. But one stubborn section connecting Klamath Falls to Bend eluded me. I searched high and low on various forums, contacted numerous locals, and even contacted a number of National Forest road engineers—all without any luck. I had managed to find the Oregon Outback Bikepacking route, but I wasn't totally keen on the path they chose, and sections of it weren't open to vehicle traffic. After plotting my proposed connector, I loaded the truck up with the dog and hit I-5 northbound on my way to Oregon.

I had planned this to be a 3-day trip, and the first day would take me from the Bay Area up to Mt. Shasta. I'd found a number of potential campsites off Hwy 97 on the north-facing flanks of Mt. Shasta. Turning off the highway, the road turned into a dusty mess of pulverized pumice that acted like fine sand. Man, this would be a total mess if it were to rain overnight, but luckily none was forecasted. I passed an old ambulance that had been outfitted into a mini-RV and continued up the mountain. Eventually, I found a relatively flat spot under a few trees and off the pumice silt, or whatever the heck this stuff is called! It was late fall, and while daytime temps were pleasant, the nighttime temps dipped once the sun disappeared behind the Klamaths on the western horizon. Shasta and I (my pup was visiting her namesake for the first time) putzed around camp, snapping photos of the rising moon and the north side of Mt. Shasta. By 8:30, we were in the truck camper and settling into our beds.

On exploration trips like this one, I'm always filled with a plethora of nervous energy. An early bedtime paired with such energy is a combination for hitting the road bright and early. We hit the 97 before the sun had peaked over the horizon. As the sun's first rays penetrated the forest, I could see the sparkle of frost that blanketed the open meadows between the forest. A low mist hovered above the open meadows, but as the temps rose, the frost and mist soon disappeared. Upon crossing into Oregon, I hit the first diesel station in search of cheap fuel (everything is cheap to us Californians, unless perhaps you're traveling in Europe!). While pumping diesel, a man walked over to me with a big grin and blurted out, "My kid loves your truck. He said, 'Dad, that's a MAAAAN's TRUCK.'" I chuckled and grinned, and retorted in a rather cheeky fashion that it could just as well be a woman's truck

Soon enough, Big Blue (that's the Ram 3500), Shasta, and I were pushing through the town of Klamath Falls. Klamath Falls has a beautiful downtown but also has a bit of a rust belt feel to it. I guess that this once booming lumber town hasn't quite recovered since logging's heyday. We'd follow a track on the outskirts of town that would take us through a beautiful valley and pop us back out onto the 97 on the shores of Klamath Lake. Here's an interesting fact for you: Did you know the Rogue and Klamath Rivers are ancient rivers that predate the upheaval of the Klamath Mountains they pass through in the west? These are the only two rivers that originate in the high desert that pass through the Klamaths and out to the sea. After a very short stint of pavement, we were climbing into the mountains on the east side of the lake. I noticed a viewpoint on my map, and so we pulled over. The view 500' above the Klamath was eons better than any view down on the highway. Up here, the Upper Klamath was an impressive azure blue, and Mt. McLoughlin proudly stood as a reminder we were now in Cascadia.

Pushing on and into the forest, we passed an old beat-up sedan. The occupants seemed to be busy participating in some sort of illicit activity with the help of a glass pipe and lighter. My guess is they had helped contribute to the trash that seemed to pervade the viewpoint we'd just visited. Luckily, that was the last person/vehicle that we'd see for several hours. The forest wasn’t dissimilar to those you’d find around Bend—a mixture of large pines and scattered shrubs. While we were in the mountains, the topography felt like we were traversing a series of hills. Most of the roads were in rather good condition, save for a few short rocky and steep portions, which a Sprinter could easily manage by driving slow.

As we neared the headwaters of the Klamath River (Klamath Marsh), I pulled over to get a shot of my truck. And what do you know, the first trail traffic of the day—a fellow on a bright orange KTM zoomed by. Just a mile down the road, my track followed the pavement of Silver Lake Road for a few miles. I noticed he'd pulled over and was studying a map. I inquired if he had followed the Oregon Outback bikepacking route—to which he replied no. I told him about the endeavor I was on, and he smiled and wished me luck as we went our separate ways. Big Blue, Shasta, and I would follow the pavement for several miles before we hit the dirt again. The sky was consumed with gray, and a light breeze pushed through the trees. We stopped for lunch at one of the local campgrounds. We'd passed one truck on the way, but the campground was totally vacant and a bit eerie. Perhaps it was the gray, brooding skies. I wondered if a storm was brewing, but the weather forecast begged to differ, only calling for a slight chance of rain (20%). Lunch was rather hasty, and we were back on the trail.





The final version of the track passes through some of the most remote regions in the lower 48.


Our first night of camp, Mt Shasta looms in the distance.



Upper Klamath Lake is soooo much prettier from above.


You're in the American Outback now!


Shasta wondering what the heck I'm doing.


The old Church at the Fort Rock museum and village.


This photo only captures a small portion of the massively ring shaped Fort Rock.


I asked for it, but all I got was this empty cart?!


This is apparently a favorite camping location of bikepackers who flock to the region in Spring and late summer.


So much for that 20% chance of precipitation!

 

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Continued because of Expo's 10k character limit....
Now we were finally climbing into what I'd consider real mountains. They weren't grandiose like the eastern Sierra or San Juans, but they were mountains nonetheless. I noticed a lookout atop Bald Mountain (elev. 7,343'), but upon veering off the main track, a locked metal gate impeded our progress. With the threatening skies still looming overhead, I wasn't feeling in the mood to make the mile out-and-back trip up to a lookout I wasn't even sure was still there. Not long after jumping back onto our planned route, we were descending into the expansive high desert of central Oregon. And Oregon's answer to the Red Rock of Uluru (you may know it as Ayers Rock) stood on the horizon—Fort Rock. Fort Rock is the remnant of a maar volcano, leaving a fort-like ring of volcanic rock. Like the red rock of Uluru, native tribes like the Paiute and Klamath took advantage of the shelter Fort Rock provided for thousands of years. There's also a rather charming Fort Rock museum and village, but it was closed upon my arrival in the middle of fall, well beyond the tourist season I'd guessed.

Pushing northward yet again, pines and junipers began to appear on the horizon of the massive sagebrush ocean. We were nearing the old Cabin Lake viewing blind, which appeared to be a defunct and abandoned forest service station. This was apparently a popular stop for bikepackers along the Oregon Outback route. I found a nice spot with a big fire pit below some large pines. The wind was really starting to kick up. I was concerned that the 20% chance of precipitation was looking more like 50-50%. But I cracked a few cold ones and explored the old defunct buildings. I had a neighbor about 300 yards from my camp, who was camped out next to some of the old structures. Doing my best to give them their privacy, Shasta and I hiked a vast area and probably covered two miles over the course of our explorations. We headed back to camp, made dinner, and settled into our beds once again. The wind really began to howl overnight, and I was concerned that perhaps I should've positioned the truck further away from the giant pines.

The next day we awoke to giant, puffy snowflakes falling from the sky. And that was all Shasta needed—the snowflakes had kicked her into full-on zoomie mode. And being half Siberian Husky, she does the zoomie thing rather well! Luckily, the snow didn't seem to be sticking. Yet again, we were back in the truck and headed north. The road was a well-graded and rather wide dirt road, most likely the main thoroughfare through the forest in these parts. The road continued its gentle ascent higher into the forest. As we gained elevation, the snow began to thicken, and soon it was 3" deep. My planned route would take us on a secondary forest road on the southern flanks of Paulina Peak, the highest point in Newberry Volcanic National Monument. The snow continued to fall, and now I was trudging through 4-6" of freshly fallen snow. I was getting a bit concerned, especially as the pines began to encroach on the trail, and then the trail seemed to narrow to an ATV trail. Mind you, Big Blue is a full-sized truck with a pop-top camper shell. So picking up pinstripes is never a problem, but things were just getting way too narrow, and the white stuff kept accumulating on the trail. So we turned around in search of a reroute up the mountain, which led us to a number of sizable fallen trees, including one that was probably 40" in diameter.

So we backtracked to the main thoroughfare and continued north yet again. I decided it would be fun to visit Paulina Lakes at Newberry National Monument. The road was much wider, but there was still plenty of freshly fallen snow. Upon cresting the summit, I could no longer see dirt in the tire tracks in my mirror, just snow. Upon making it to the lakes, some nutball was out fishing in a small raft in gale-force winds. The truck read 27°F, but the wind was blowing hard. Upon jumping out of my truck, I was immediately pelted in the face by stinging snow. I'd snap a couple of photos, but my patience wore thin after about a minute, and I jumped back into the heated cab of Big Blue. It was a bit of a crazy phenomenon and one I’d never witnessed before, but it seemed like the storm's epicenter was hovering right above East Paulina Lake. We drove along the icy roads over to West Lake to see if the visitor center was open, which it wasn't. The weather was much calmer over here, so I took Shasta for a short hike along the shoreline. The choice now was, do we try and head back over the summit and onto our planned track or take the road down to Highway 97?

Well, if you know me, then you already know the answer. I'm heading back over the mountain! Passing East Lake, the wind was howling and the snowfall once again commenced. The road seemed a lot steeper on our way up, and there was definitely more snow! Worst come to worst, I figured it would be easy to turn around and head back to the pavement of East Paulina Lakes. I was becoming worried that would become a reality, but upon cresting the summit, the snowfall ceased, and I could see blue skies above us and in the distance. What the?! But rather than follow Forest Road 18 to Bend, I'd be taking Road 970. Road 970 is a secondary forest road that's rather narrow. I'm sure when it's not covered in snow, it's rather easy to manage. But there were sections that were rather narrow for Big Blue, and I was worried he might slide off the trail on a patch of deep snow or ice. We plodded along at a rather modest yet safe pace. It seemed like nobody was out in this part of the forest, and then I noticed tire tracks, which helped calm my nerves. Several hours later, we came across a pair of motos who asked about the trail ahead—"All clear," I yelled out! Well, at least I knew I wouldn't be stranded in the middle of the forest during a snowstorm! Speaking of snow, our travels were dotted by periods of sporadic yet light snow. It seemed that the storm stubbornly wanted to torment the few brave souls out in the National Monument.

The narrow trail soon turned onto a wide dirt road, what I'd call a primary route through the forest. The snow began to dissipate as we descended down to the Bend area, and more vehicles and people began to appear. Finally, we'd reached the outskirts of Bend. I made a beeline to town and found a nice bar and grill. Shasta would need to wait in the truck while I enjoyed an incredibly tasty meal of mac and cheese with broccoli and carrots mixed in. Paired with a local pilsner, the meal was DAMN good. I'd planned to visit Crater Lake on the way back south, but it turned out that the National Park Service had closed the Rim Road because of the storm I'd just driven through. My crazy self ended up making the 8-hour drive back home after spending 6 hours driving off-road. The next day, I wondered why my back was aching—hah!

And so as you may have deduced by now, the trip was a success. We'd figured out the final leg of what would become the Great American Outback Trail!


I wasn't too worried as long as the snow didn't keep getting deeper...


The storm over East Paulina Line. If you squint really hard, you can see that crazy nutjob in his inflatable raft on the left half of the lake. With the wind chill, I'm guessing it was in the teens!


Shasta was enjoying the snow!


Beer, Mac n cheese, and a tasty pilsner!