Topping off a resort vacation on Oregon’s Smith Rock

IN THE QUIET of the dawn, my sisters and I sat on what felt like the top of the world. We were in Central Oregon, perched at the summit of the volcanic spires of Smith Rock that shoot up, almost violently, 600 feet straight into the air. From that dizzying vantage point, we watched prairie falcons and golden eagles soar above the blue curl of the Crooked River in the canyon below and, in the distance, could see the jagged peaks of the Range - Mount Jefferson, Mount Bachelor, Broken Top, Three Sisters. The cool morning air was pungent with sage.

To stand atop the aptly named Misery Ridge, after a punishing climb virtually straight up the eastern face of Smith Rock or the more gradual switchbacks up the western face of the Mesa Verde Trail that we took, is to witness geologic time written on the land spread out before you in fearsome display.

We were, in truth, standing on the far north-western rim of an ancient caldera. Some time between 27 million and 29 million years ago, give or take the argon dating, back in the Oligocene epoch, when the first grasses began to sprout and horses and a strange mammal with a trunk began to appear on Earth, an upswelling hot spot of molten rock, or magma, fissured a large swath of weak bedrock in what is now the high desert of central Oregon, causing it to collapse and form this enormous Crooked River Caldera.

It was one of the largest super volcanoes ever to erupt, leaving a crater 26 miles long by 17 miles wide. (Geologists now think that, over millions of years of shifting tectonic movement, that same hot spot has now migrated and sits underneath Yellowstone National Park.)

After that first massive rupture of the Earth’s crust, a series of catastrophic eruptions followed that filled the caldera with ash and debris, which was superheated in the magma and fused into what’s known as welded volcanic tuff - the stuff of Smith Rock.

About a half-million years ago, 50 miles to the south of where we stood that morning, the Newberry Volcano erupted. Hot lava poured into the caldera and hardened into basalt cap. Over time, wind, rain and the persistence of the once-raging Crooked River eroded the tuff, ash and basalt until all that remained in this spot was the buff and tan-coloured Smith Rock formation - cathedrallike spires, whimsical pillars (including one called Monkey Face that looks exactly like Curious George) and curved, serrated ridges that rise from the desert like dragon’s teeth.

On this particular morning, it simply took our breath away.

My sisters and I had found the Smith Rock formation almost by accident.

Though we were born and raised in Oregon, and my sisters live there still, we had only vaguely heard of the place. We had come to the high desert seeking refuge from our often hectic lives, on a sisters’ weekend retreat.

They had “kidnapped” me for our first retreat in Sedona, Arizona, when I turned 40. We kept promising ourselves that we’d get together and go someplace special again someplace awe-inspiring that would jolt us out of the stress of endless to-do lists and into a state of wonder.

Someplace that would help us in our far-flung lives reconnect to each other. It had taken us 13 years.

At almost the last minute, we’d decided to take advantage of a reporting trip I would be making to Oregon, a long weekend and the proximity of my sister Mary’s birthday.

We’d also decided that this time we’d take along our 83-yearold mother - who, though spry, can only travel so far.

That limited our options. We scoured websites and made calls to lodges, spas, hotels and retreats throughout the Pacific Northwest, coming close to booking a yurt on a vineyard in western Washington or a hotel on the Columbia Gorge.

We finally settled on a threebedroom cabin in Central Oregon’s Powell Butte. (My sister Claire and I shared a cosy room.)

The 1,800-acre Brasada Ranch Resort and Spa is perched on a rise. We arrived late at night, tired from driving in a hard rain, and were immediately shown into the casual Ranch House restaurant.

We warmed ourselves against the late autumn chill, sitting on dark leather couches by the big stone fireplace, and ate a light supper of local farm greens and sirloin dip sandwiches.

What followed was to become our evening ritual for the remainder of our stay. — WPBloomberg