F1 Central Oregon is more than forest.
Bend an ear to hear what the Beaver state has in store
Oregon — that land of emerald forests, crashing surf and Portlandia inspirations — is a state we thought we knew. But here in Central Oregon, we’ve ventured into completely unexpected terrain.
It’s a chilly Saturday — the intersection of winter and spring — and we’re balanced atop a steep ladder half an hour outside the city of Bend. Nestled in the rain-shadow of the Cascades, this is high desert country, where the landscapes are rugged, volcanic and wild, crisscrossed by snow-fed rivers and dotted with lakes and inviting small towns.
And don’t let the word desert mislead you. There is water — liquid and frozen — everywhere. The Deschutes River flows down from the Cascades and right through the center of Bend. From our vantage point, we can see snow-capped Mt. Bachelor, Three Sisters and Broken Top and more craggy peaks, buttes and cinder cones than we can count, let alone name. river tube and discover what makes this region so stunning. Our plan is to head off afterwards to explore the modern-day pleasures of Bend and its breweries, bistros and bars. (Of course, by the time we’re done two hours later, we are thoroughly sweaty and exhausted, though exhilarated, and in need of a shower and a nap before digging into the delightful Bs of Bend.)
Our small group descends the steep, ladderlike staircase, then we turn on our headlamps and begin hiking, scrambling, squeezing and crawling through a tunnel formed by a river of rapidly cooling lava 150,000 years ago. The tunnel is only a third of a mile long, but traversing the rugged terrain — this is no paved path, light bulb-strung foray — means you’ll be spending nearly two hours underground. There are rock falls to climb over, around or — gasp — under, through a crevice on hands and knees.
“The hard hats are worth the price alone,” a fellow crawler winces, as the group bellies through a tight passage, bonking our heads.
Chaney, our guide, calls occasional breaks to let us catch our breath as he explains the way lava flows shaped this region, and he offers up bits of volcanic and Bend-centric trivia. For example: They don’t salt icy roads here in the winter; they dust them with crushed, dark red earth from the cinder cones. And Bend’s Pilot Butte makes this one of just a few U.S. cities to have a volcano within the city limits. Also, definitely download the Bend Ale Trail app, he advises.
As we emerge back into the world, ascending from darkness, the greenish-taupe tones of the Ponderosa
pines, the sage-hued scrub and crumbly earth seem a riot of color. The air is sweet, and the sun has broken through the clouds and spattering rain. There is even, incredibly, a rainbow.
BEND AWAITS
Back in town, we can no longer remember which snow-capped mountain is Mt. Bachelor, the dormant volcano-turned-skiing and snowboarding mecca, and which is Three Sisters, and whether the latter is one or three volcanoes. Fatigue will do that to you.
Post-nap: Mt. Bachelor is south of the Three Sisters, of course, and the latter is a single complex volcano with three separate peaks. The Ale Trail awaits. And so do the Dan Dan Noodles at Spork, the IPA-braised Pork Shank at Drake, the Crab Cakes at the new Dogwood Cocktail Cabin and dishes at hundreds of other tempting restaurants.
Four years ago, when the Huffington Post did a ranking of the country’s “most restaurant-crazed” metropolitan areas — places with the highest number of restaurants per capita — Bend came out at No. 3, with 25.9 restaurants for every 10,000 people. (By comparison, New York was No. 5 and the Bay Area tapped in at No. 12.) Since then, even more restaurants have opened — Dogwood, Spoken Moto, a second Sparrow Bakery, plus Drake’s sister restaurant, Washington, to name just a few.
There’s a particularly high restaurant concentration in Bend’s downtown, as well as the Old Mill District. The name? This is where two of the largest pine sawmills in the world began cranking out lumber in 1916. The competing Shevlin-Hixon and Brooks-Scanlon lumber companies brought an influx of workers, businesses and cash to a town whose population had swelled from 536 to 8,821 residents by 1930.
When the logging industry collapsed in the 1950s, one sawmill bought the other and shut it down. By 1983, the Brooks-Scanlon company was done as well, and the Deschutes River was an environmental mess. But Bend’s Old Mill District rose again in the 1990s, this time as a recreational and mixed-development site with more than 90 boutiques, eateries, hotels and other businesses on a river reclaimed.
Today, you can hike riverside trails or rent a kayak or stand-up paddleboard and put in — or just sit on a restaurant deck and gaze at the sparkling water, while geese and ducks honk and quack in the reeds. The city’s new Whitewater Park, with intense whitewater that proved too enthusiastic last year, has been reengineered for kayakers, inner-tubers, paddle-boarders and even surfers. Whether you get wet or not, it’s fun to watch. And that’s just in town. Wilderness — rivers, lakes, trails, mountains and yes, volcanoes — lie less than an hour away.
URBAN KINDNESS
And then there is the joy factor.
Portland and Austin may seek to keep their cities weird — a goal you see on bumper stickers and signs. But stroll the streets of Bend, and you’ll spot bright orange “Share Joy” banners and orange “Joy” cards sitting invitingly atop shop counters, urging you to take one and act upon it.
It’s part of the Bend Joy Project, a self-styled “crazy kindness initiative” designed to encourage community-building, kindness and, well, joy this year. Take one of the 50 cards, do that thing — “Surprise someone with flowers,” “Be a friendly driver” or “Champion love” — and share the joy on Facebook, Instagram or Twitter with #BendJOYProject.
How perfectly appropriate for a town that claims endless vistas, boundless breweries and 300 days of sunshine per year — and contagious joy.