Crater Lake National Park

From any high point in the Pacific Northwest, volcanoes can be seen soaring well above the rest of the Cascade Range. One volcano, though, is not visible. The glory of this fallen giant lies not in its height but in what it cradles in its summit, Crater Lake, the clearest, deepest, bluest, most breathtakingly beautiful lake in the United States.

Hidden from view, the lake seems little more than a promise to first-time visitors. Roads climb slowly, offering no hint that they lead to one of the world's greatest natural wonders. Near the top, you expect the roads after rising 2,000 feet or so in 10 miles, to continue their gentle ascent. Instead of reaching toward the heavens, however, the mountain plunges earthward, disappearing into an immense bowl.

In a sense, Crater Lake offers an experience like that provided by the Grand Canyon, the jolt that comes with finding that you are at the edge of a precipice. In one lavish crescendo you are faced simultaneously with a lake six miles across, canyon-like depths, mountainous cliffs, and a natural amphitheater where light and color play leading roles. Visitors seldom react indifferently. Some are astonished. Some step back, uncertain. Few can look away.

On all sides, the rim of the large bowl circles into the distance. Below the rim, steep slopes drop nearly 2,000 feet to the lake. A small island, Wizard Island, juts from the water: from its shores, the feeling of being inside a vast basin is awesome. Smooth slopes and jagged cliffs rise all around and up to the rim, creating a world that would seem harsh and forbidding were it not for the firs and hemlocks that soften the contours. The trees are proof that life exists.

Dawn's awakening
July and August are the only times when snow does not cover the entire rim. Although occasional storms sweeping in from the Pacific may disrupt the peace, this is the season of serenity at Crater Lake.

Imagine a summer dawn, crisp and still. A robin calls from somewhere, breaking the silence. Within a few moments the bird sounds are more insistent. An orange glow on Garfield Peak, along the southwestern rim, heralds the sunrise across the water, but the lake remains in shadow. In the stillness, the rim's reflection transforms the lake into a giant mirrow. Steadily the sunshine moves down the wall until finally the reflection is lost.

With the shadows gone, the full glory of nature's colors bursts forth, proclaiming a new day with the clarity of a bugle. A breath of air stirs the evergreens and sets a clump of lupines asway. A pair of ravens whirls by, climbing and diving in aerobatic displays. Periodically, one does a roll while sounding a musical, bell-like note completely at odds with its usual hoarse cries. Then the performers exit the stage.

Another breeze rustles the branches of aspens and cottonwoods, sending a dusting of pollen into the air, which is beginning to warm. A ground squirrel scampers a few feet, stops, and waits; a rabbitlike pika squeaks a warning and scurries to safety. A Steller's jay utters a coarse cry, while a chickadee chatters anxiously in the trees. The watchers have awakened.