I have always been spellbound by Crater Lake in Oregon, not only for the beauty of its spectacular blue color, but also by its eerie depth, its mysterious island and rock formations, its fascinating geologic history and wildlife, and the Indian legends and explorers’ stories about it. I grew up during the 1940s and early ’50s in Klamath Falls, Ore., only about sixty miles south of Crater Lake National Park.
My dad was the chief electrician for the regional power company and was responsible for maintaining the electrical power for the park’s ranger station and headquarters. Power failures usually occurred in winter, when snowfall and depths reached record levels, and Dad was called out to fix the problem. Often, that meant Dad had to snowshoe for long distances into the park and through the forest to reach broken power lines or other snow-damaged equipment, and he’d often be gone for several days at a time. He grew to know the park, its rangers and their stories very well. On long winter nights, before television was available in our town, we’d all sit around the fireplace and Dad would tell us about his treks into the park and what he’d learned about Crater Lake.
Among my fondest childhood memories of Crater Lake is one Sunday morning in January 1949 when I was 11. The snowfall had been especially heavy and deep that year. Although we never knew what prompted him, I think Dad wanted us to experience something of what he’d felt on his treks. Early that morning, he roused everyone and announced that we were going skiing. So Dad, Mom, my two big brothers, Punky the fox-terrier and I piled in the old gray Buick, three pair of skis strapped to the roof, and headed to Crater Lake. We drove up Annie Creek Canyon to the rim, unloaded the car and carried our gear up 20-foot snowbanks to reach the trailhead. With much struggling, my brothers and I strapped on our skis. Dad, Mom, and Punky drove back down to meet us at the ranger station.
It was five below zero that glorious, calm, clear morning as I took a last look at the ice-blue lake and then pushed off down the five-mile ski trail. My brothers had taken off ahead of me and were out of sight, but I wasn’t scared to be alone, out on that isolated trail. It seemed magical as I skied into that white world. As I glided along the trail, I passed over, around and among the tops of snow-covered, fresh-scented fir and pine trees. I really was skiing at treetop level. The snow was that deep!
