Lassen Peak is 10,457' and the road rises to 8512', making this the easiest summit (5RT/2000’) of any of the Cascade stratovolcanoes. I had hoped to hike it - it would be only the second Cascade volcano for me, after Oregon’s South Sister - but the peak was not at its best. Lassen was only hazily visible through the smoke from the area’s forest fires, the view from the top would have been useless, and I would have been breathing smoky air, so I had to pass this time. (I would return and achieve this modest ambition in September 2016 - Lassen Peak Ascent)
Instead I went to Bumpass Hell, the park’s prime showcase for active volcanic processes. Steaming, sulphorous, discolored rock and slime, it looks, smells, and feels like a toxic waste site. If it were an industrial site we'd be trying to shut it down. But it's natural and a part of a national park and a very popular destination. I quickly found the sulphur, the blinding white clay, the steam, and the crowds too masochistic for a hot summer day, so I retreated and spent a pleasant afternoon at a picnic table in the shade above a lovely hazy Lake Helen. I returned to Bumpass Hell in the early evening and had the place to myself. Still smelly and steamy, but without the hot sun it was a lot more fun. I did get a steam blast, temporarily blinding me, while walking on a boardwalk over the hot cauldrons. Since I was there alone I would likely have disintegrated if I had fallen in. Joe Bumpass, the guy they named the place after, was there with a group, so when he fell in he only lost his leg.
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| Bumpass Hell |
Cinder Butte
My grand strategy called for me to mix some backpacking in with my car camping. Save a few bucks, widen the experience, maybe develop some skills, as I am far from a seasoned backpacker. I figured Lassen, a less-visited national park, would be a good place to break the ice. It has no designated back country sites, no reservations, permits are free and easy to get. I hatched a plan to pack in about five miles, set up my camp, and then go on with a lightened load another four miles to the Cinder Cone area in the far northeast corner of the park. There I would eat in the picnic area and replenish my water before hiking the four miles back to my tent. This would make for a 13-mile hike, only five of those with full pack, and with very little elevation change. And that’s what I did.
The first leg went smoothly, five miles of upsy-downsy trail winding along Summit, Echo, Upper Twin, and Lower Twin Lakes. Nice temperature and few bugs; how many Cascade lakes could you sit around on a warm July day without getting driven to distraction? I pitched my tent near Rainbow Lake, dropped my sleeping bag, and proceeded on toward Cinder Cone and Butte Lake. I had run my plan by a ranger at the Visitors Center, and while she mentioned the Cinder Cone section of the park had areas closed to hiking, she did not mention that these last four miles would be grueling. First the trail passed through a recent burn, which is to say it was totally exposed to the midday sun, and then it entered into an ash fall hell - thick, soft, sand-like pumice, tough walking, nearly treeless, hot as a parking lot.
Cinder Cone eventually came into view, and it was impressive indeed.
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| Cinder Cone |
The newest volcano in the Cascades, Cinder Cone was created about 350 years ago, probably in a matter of months. It is almost perfectly symmetrical, surrounded mostly by ash fall, lava bombs, and a smattering of young pines. The scene demanded exploration but by then I was too hot, tired and hungry to do anything more than gawk as I stumbled through a lovely but too-little-too- late stand of Ponderosa Pine and into the picnic area for a late afternoon dinner.
Here at least my plan proved sound. A picnic table in the shade, fresh drinking water, a cool breeze off the lake. As I ate I noticed that the people who were only out for the day were going home, and the campers were heading back to the campground, leaving the day-use area empty on this lovely summer evening. I yearned to stay but had to hike the four miles back to my tent before dark or I would never find it. So I did. And early the next morning I packed straight out to my car and drove the 45 minutes or so over highway and up a long gravel road to that entrance of the park, and proceeded to spend two lovely nights there, the best two nights of my trip thus far.
Butte Lake (6100') is an odd juxtaposition of bucolic lake and fresh looking volcanic rocks solidified from the lava flows that first created the lake. It has a fine little beach where people come to fish and picnic and swim and sit under beach umbrellas. Even I summoned the gumption to dive into the water and flail about. It felt great. A sign warned swimmers that a river otter had badly injured a young girl in the lake just a couple of weeks earlier, though the story suggests she had initiated the encounter, however innocently. Afterwards I sat in the shade of a Ponderosa Pine reading Atmospheric Disturbances, which I liked quite a bit even though it was taking me all summer to read. Heh, I'd been busy.
Sure enough, by late afternoon every one had drifted away and I had the place to myself. I was wearing shorts, a short sleeve shirt, and sandals with early evening temperatures in the 70s. I felt like I was in the tropics. A bald eagle swooped into the lake and snagged a fish. I gave some thought to hiking up Cinder Cone in the evening, but I was too happy enjoying this lovely lakeside leisure. Plus I had a little blister. Morning light would be nice too, right? On the other hand, Roadside Geology of Northern California was so unsatisfying that I got up to mosey around the lake. I spotted a crustacean of some kind trying to absorb a fish twice its length. I watched for a while and it made no evident progress, so I left it alone to wander further along the lake. When I returned they were in the exact same position and I wondered if it wasn't predation but rather an interspecies love that dare not speak its name.
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