Daily: 193 Miles / 35.6 MPG
Total: 701 Miles / 34.8 MPG


We left the coast this morning, heading east from Crescent City. Over 500 miles of coast and it’s the first legitimate small boat harbor we’ve seen since leaving San Francisco Bay. Our route followed the Smith River over the coastal range again, across the Oregon border into the high dessert-like Illinois Valley. The soil turned from black to red and the dense forest vegetation of redwood and fern was replaced by stands of pine and sun parched dry grass.

Lynn indulged me and we took a 20-mile detour up yet another twisty-turny road to the Oregon Cavern National Monument. It is one of the few marble caverns in the world, most caverns being formed in limestone.

Millions of years ago, an archipelago slammed into the western edge of the continental plate, raising a plateau between the landmasses. Water filled the plateau and over eons a 300-foot of limestone was deposited in this inland sea. Further tectonic action forced molten magma under the limestone, “baking” it into marble while raising it to an elevation of 4000-feet. The mountain building cracked the marble, allowing acidic rainwater to enter, etching the extensive caverns.

We toured over a mile of the 3-miles of known passages, oohing and aahing at the variety of formations; stalactites and stalagmites, popcorn, flowstone, moon milk and cave bacon. A spectacular exhibition. We concluded with a quick tour of the 30’s era lodge and regretfully pushed on.

It was getting late and our directions to our campsite were a bit sketchy. A call to the off-site office weren’t particularly illuminating and then we lost cell phone service. A few false turns, a couple of extra long “short cuts” added to the hour and our growing anxiety.

The guy at the office said the site might be a far as a mile from the access road. The website didn’t mention that, or the 7-mile of unpaved access road. We finally found the access road, never found the office. Once on that twisty, bumpy gravel stripe they called a road, we found it was one lane with a cliff on one side; a ravine on the other, there was no room to turn around. Our poor little low-slung car!

Seven miles later the road ended. There was a parking lot with a few dust covered pick-ups and SUV’s. No campsites, no signs, no Squaw Lake in sight.

It was now after 7:00 on the Fourth of July. With no clue as to where our reserved campsite was, or where we might find alternative lodging, we decided to trust fate and return the way we’d come.

Another seven-mile torturing our little car, we emerged back on pavement. We blindly headed toward Medford, the only town within 30-miles, towards who knew what. No cell service, no Google, no way to call ahead to secure a motel room or find another campsite. An unspoken despair was settling over the crew. And then, around a turn, out of nowhere a little National Park campsite appeared on our left. “That’s not on the map!” We turned in the drive, were given our choice of four open campsites and ten minutes later we were encamped by the banks of a babbling river.

The river sang us to an early deep satisfying sleep.