This was the Mt. Jefferson Wilderness, where I spent many, many happy summers in my youth. This first shot is Marion Lake and Mt. Jefferson, as seen from an unnamed butte at 44º 31.706’ N, 121º 52.148’ W. There’s a story about this that I’ll tell in a bit.
The second shot was taken less than a mile away, at the shore of Jorn Lake with a view of Three Fingered Jack.
These shots were taken on my last visit to the Eight Lakes Basin when I was 38 years old. It burned in 2003, leaving the right half of the first photo, and all of the second photo, a blackened moonscape. These photos are precious to me. They are all I have left of that magical place - they, and my memories.
Here is a piece of the USGS Topo map of the area:
There are two ways in to Blue and Jorn Lakes: Blue Lake Trail 3422 which goes south from Marion Lake, and Duffy Lake Trail 3427 (not on this map) which goes north from Big Meadows and winds past Duffy Lake, Mowich Lake, etc. on its way to its terminus at the end of the Blue Lake Trail. Like our grandparent’s path to school, both ways are uphill.
Now for some stories.
My dad, my brother, Dad’s best friend and his two boys (and sometimes various kids in my dad’s 4H photography club) spent most of the Sixties backpacking and camping up here. Our first trips were into Marion Lake before Congress had passed the original Wilderness Act. There was a staffed ranger station, an outhouse, and one of the classic three-sided Forest Service camper shelters there then. They had to burn all of that down when the Wilderness Act passed. And there were boats chained to the trees, which also had to be removed.
But Dad wanted to go farther. He wanted to see the Eight Lakes Basin. So one summer the six of us endeavored to hike past Marion Lake up to Blue Lake.
The trail goes over an unnamed bluff, from which, decades later, I took the first shot in this post. It’s a spectacular view, eh? There was a handmade wooden sign up there that said, “Constad Butte.” To this day, those of us who are still alive still think of it by that name.
We hiked that trail many times, and my memories of it are fond. The photo “Wilderness Fisherman,” my first post in this series, was taken within a mile of these two photos. One time, we even went deer hunting up there. We hoped we didn’t find any, because packing a deer carcass out of there would have been brutal: the only reason we were going was to be in the woods and “get away from the women” as my dad, an old Boy Scout, used to say. But we took our guns.
We camped at Blue Lake. We got lucky: we never saw any deer, but the Camp Robbers (Perisoreus canadensis) aka “Whiskey Jacks,” “Grey Jays,” “those damn birds,” et. al. found us and entertained us for our entire visit, eating our pancakes out of our plates, stealing bread, and other fun. I took several photos of them, but never scanned any of them so no Camp Robber pics for you today. I’ll make another post, just about them, someday because there are many tales to tell.
In later years, we took the other trail in that comes from the south. That one has the advantage of having a decent lake along the way to stop at and spend a night on your way in. Makes it easier when the older men get old, you know.
Jorn Lake was my favorite. You could see both Jefferson and “Jack” (Three-Fingered Jack) from there, but not both from the same spot. At different times, I took each of my two wives up there.
My last trip there was on the July 4th weekend of 1990. My youngest son was three months old and his mother carried him in a front sling with her backpack on her back. She was one tough mama back then.
We went in from the south, and camped the first night at Duffy Lake. A Forest Service crew showed up the next morning and proceeded to prepare a trampled patch of soil to replant some native species. They consisted of two people: a young, skinny guy who did all of the work, and fat, older woman who just sat with her radio and watched him!
Your taxpayer dollar at work.
My lovely wife and I left. We went up over a small, little pass that had some bear poop on top of a snowdrift, stopped to eat lunch, and descended into Paradise: that small peninsula on the west end of Jorn Lake (see map). Gawd, I loved that spot. I took the sunset shot of Three-Fingered Jack that evening.
The next day, she felt an infection in her Lady Parts coming on and we abandoned camp in a hurry. Left everything there and walked out with the baby.
Back at home, a discussion ensued about how to retrieve our gear. Her tough, belligerant teenaged son, who later joined the Marines, volunteered to come with. He brought along a friend of his.
This time, we took the trail up from Marion Lake. It was just as beautiful as it had been twenty years earlier, with spectacular views of “Jeff” and “Jack,” as I call my two old friends. Of course, we stopped at “Constad Butte” on the way there. How could I not stop there? - and I took the first shot in this post. To this day, I still treasure that photo: it was the last time I saw it, and no one will ever see or photograph that view again. It will take 120 years for those trees to grow back.
At camp, a herd of deer found us. All does, and they were clearly acclimated to humans: they begged for food, and even licked out the pots & pans after dinner. I remember one with greying fur on her face. We called her “granny.”
While there, I watched as a huge twin-rotor helicopter descended to a few feet above the lake and discharged a milky liquid. I presumed that he was stocking the lake with trout fry. The bird was so close I could see the face of the pilot.
We got all of the camping gear out of there, and back home in time to go to work after the long weekend.
The B&B Complex Fire was first detected on August 19, 2003. It was originally two fires: the Booth fire to the south, and the Bear Butte fire to the north; both were detected on the same day; apparently ignited from lightning strikes two weeks earlier. The Eight Lakes Basin reportedly burned on Sept. 3, from the Booth fire. The two fires merged the next day. In all, ninety thousand acres of forest had been destroyed.
Let us have a moment of silence for the memory of the Eight Lakes Basin, which once upon a time was my favorite place in the whole world. I no longer have any desire to go there.
WOW! That picture of Three Fingered Jack is jaw dropping great, and so are the stories, albeit such a sad ending. I really love it when you get into the details and descriptions of people and surroundings. This has been your best so far. Keep up the good work!