Carry On Camping

With German accordian music still ringing in our ears, we set Spot to task again and thundered south west and out of the Cascade mountains. With no solid plan, we simply enjoyed the winding forested roads as rusty waves of autumn leaves showered down around us. 


Passing through the volcanic Gifford Pinchot National Forest, the roadside was marked every few miles with exceptional natural formations to go and explore. Recognising the name from a past conversation, we followed the sign for the excitingly titled Ape cave. The cave is a lava tube, formed millions of years ago by an ancient eruption. It was discovered in the 60s by a farmer who apparently drove his tractor into the concealed cave entrance, opening up the previously hidden crevice.

      

Displaying our trademark organisation and preparedness we gathered together as many half-working torches as we could find in the van, put on all our layers  (several pairs of shorts) and struck out towards the foreboding cave entrance. The light quickly faded away as did any warmth as we ventured deeper down the arched tube. With our flickering beams of weak light just about illuminating the closest outcrops of jagged rock on the cave floor, we started to regret not shelling out a few bucks for some slightly more heavy duty torches. Being self-appointed aficionados of night photography, the pitch black conditions of the cave presented an irresistible challenge. We set up the tripod and with the camera drinking in light for 30 seconds, we began 'painting' in the cave's features with our torch light. 

As we pressed on down the ice cool channel the sides of the cave started to close in on us, the tube becoming narrower towards the far end. Having recklessly blasted through the batteries during our photography escapades, the light from our torches was now struggling to reach the treacherously uneven ground. We had come too far, our only option now was to reach the end of the tube and climb back to safety. Looking for any glint of light at the end of the tunnel, we nervously edged into the blackness confident that almost half an hour into the cave, we would reach the end soon. Suddenly the cave's ceiling started dropping alarmingly, restricting the passage to crawling height: we had reached the end. Somehow in our extensive planning session we had overlooked the basic structure of the cave (only one entrance/exit) and now faced a 30 minute trek back to the other end with the looming possibility of being plunged into total darkness at any point. Throwing caution to the wind/cavernous breeze, we rushed into the darkness, dodging the unpredictable rocks that loomed out of the darkness in a race against the rapidly fading torches. As our dim light finally flickered out completely, our path was revealed before us, picked out by natural light flooding in from the tunnel entrance. As we emerged from the cave, our senses were blown away by the wealth of colour and contrast that the darkness had deprived us of.

Shaken and awestruck by our subterranean adventure, we retreated to the comfort of Spot where we constructed more sarnies, had a quick lunch and got back on the road. Within minutes another volcanic landmark revealed itself: Lava Canyon. In 1980, Mt. St Helen's exploded, sending thousands of tons of mountain hurtling through the neighbouring valleys in a catastrophic landslide. It was this violent event that exposed Lava Canyon, a brutal boulder-strewn scar on the lush forested slopes of the mountain. We explored the rocky trails, negotiating precarious sheer drops, and drinking in the majestic view of a huge waterfall. As the trail criss-crossed an angrily frothing river we found ourselves shimmying across an Indiana Jones style rope bridge, suspended high above the cascading water. We headed back along the other side of the valley, scanning the canopy for the scarred trees that serve as a lasting reminder of  an eruption that was measured to be equivalent to 500 times the power of the atomic bomb that flattened Hiroshima.

At the end of such an action packed day, it became obvious that we weren't going to reach our intended destination; Portland. We began searching for a place to stay for the night.  With darkness closing in around us, Spot's headlights picked out a sign by the side of the road signaling a camp ground. We pulled off and drove around the abandoned camp site, bemused as to what to do. Eventually we sought help from the only other campers in the site, who revealed that they had been camping free of charge for a week, as out of season, the warden wasn't on site to collect money. The cashbook gave a nod of approval and we parked up in one of many free spaces. We scavenged the surrounding area for firewood and made our first fire. Sipping on a couple of PBR's in the warm glow of our own fire was a pivotal moment in the trip; campsites would become an important new mode of accommodation.

As the last embers faded, we hopped into the van, constructed a few forest sandwiches with our makeshift Kitchen Management System (KMS) and continued slurping our luke warm beers. Inevitably, the causal chain of excessive PBR consumption led to a strong need to jettison excess fluids. Peering out of Spots' windows revealed a wall of blackness, and with imaginations running wild we pictured an amphitheatre of bears awaiting a delicious feast of unprepared campers. Hesitantly, we wound down the passenger's window and with a pose that any contortionist would be proud of, lurched our upper bodies outside to release a steaming torrent of processed PBR. Relieved, we crawled into our sleeping bags and fell into a deep slumber.