Strawberry Mountains Forever

Like a singer in a rock and roll band embarking on a reunion gig, I sallied forth in an easterly direction on July 29 to begin my commemoration tour honoring the 50th anniversary of the Wilderness Act of 1964. First stop: the Strawberry Mountain Wilderness on the Prairie City Ranger District of the Malheur National Forest.

Having worked for the concessionaire at Crater Lake National Park as a tour guide during the summer of 1973, I was determined to find a better paying assignment for the next summer. A buddy of mine who worked on trail crew at Crater Lake suggested that I apply for positions with the National Park Service or the U.S. Forest Service.

At his suggestion, I applied to over 50 national parks and forests during the course of my sophomore year at the University of Oregon. Coming up empty on nearly every application, I finally scored an offer for a forestry technician position on the Malheur National Forest headquartered in John Day, Oregon.

The assignment would lead to a ten-year career as a seasonal employee for the U.S. Forest Service in Oregon and Washington. That first year, I was basically a factotum, or jack-of-all-trades, working as a wilderness ranger, lookout, firefighter -- and timber cruiser in the fall -- to help finance my college education at UO.

My territory as a backcountry guard was the Strawberry Mountain Wilderness near Prairie City, Oregon. Small compared to wilderness areas in Washington, the unique reserve weighs in at only about 69,000 acres, compared to Glacier Peak at just over 566,000 acres. It was, nonetheless, a delightful place to explore for a summer.

Dominating the scenery at the head of the John Day River is Strawberry Mountain, elevation 9,044. The wilderness itself varies between 3-5 miles in width and is 18 miles long, and includes such mountains as Pine Creek, Indian Creek Butte, Strawberry and Rabbit Ears, which range in elevation from 7,900 to over 9,000 feet.

With five glacial tarns, including Strawberry Lake (above), the area is extremely diverse, with five of seven of North America’s life zones encompassed within its boundaries. The wilderness also includes thousands of acres of alpine and sub-alpine flora and fauna, and spectacular views in every direction.

In December, 1974, I left the John Day Valley, never to return -- or so I thought. Hired on the Lake Wenatchee Ranger District on the Wenatchee National Forest in 1975, I would spend the next nine years of my Forest Service career in Washington. But now, it was high time to return for another trek to the summit of Strawberry Mountain.

Driving across Eastern Oregon, I had forgotten about the hot, dry and dusty nature of the country -- with sagebrush, grasslands, cows and cowboys as far as the eye could see. I was also reminded of the political perspective in this part of Oregon, as witnessed by the very large “Impeach Obama” sign in Dayville.

After a meal at “The Hitchin’ Post” in Prairie City and a visit to my old residence at the bunkhouse on the compound at the ranger station, I promptly scampered up the road south to Strawberry Campground. I knew it would be cooler than the 100-degree temperatures in the John Day Valley, and indeed it was.

The next morning, I hit the trail to Strawberry Mountain at 7 a.m. to beat the heat.

About a mile up is Strawberry Lake, and after another mile, Strawberry Falls (left), where I was tempted to shower on the way back down.

At the falls, I met two Lane Community College instructors and we agreed to take pictures of each other at the summit of Strawberry Mountain.

The trail was better -- and worse -- than I remember. After the falls, the path becomes more precipitous, but it leveled out on the ridge. After another reasonable section, the serious work begins. Though there’s a trail the whole way, the final section near the summit features scree of all shapes and sizes, making for difficult footing.

We all reached the top at 12 noon, took the requisite pictures at the summit, then headed back down the mountain. The LCC instructors promised me a cold Ninkasi brew back at camp to encourage my trip back down the trail. Needless to say, I was motivated to make good time and accomplished the task in three hours.

I was surprised to see more than a dozen -- mostly antique -- trekkers that day. Many were in their 60s and 70s, which is encouraging to see. Guess I’m not the only one who can lay claim to the trail name of "Midwochen." Apparently, many others of my generation have caught onto the concept of avoiding the weekend crowds in the backcountry.