Crater Lake National Park

The hangover the next morning is massive. I haven’t had much to drink, but it seems to have a triple effect on my travelling speed. I wind my way over mountains and through valleys and from coffee to coffee until I reach Crater Lake National Park, about 150 miles away.

Within a radius of 30 miles around Crater Lake there are only pine trees, with the occasional spruce in between. Everything is dust-dry, red lava sand, highest fire warning level in the desert. Even the drive up to Crater Lake is breathtaking. After a quarter of an hour, I look into the crater for the first time and see the bluest blue of my life.

The volcano exploded a few centuries ago. If Mount St Helens was a pressure cooker, then this volcano was Enschede. It’s not the tip that’s missing here, practically the whole volcano is missing. Several cubic kilometres of lava were ejected, after which the volcano collapsed. Over the centuries, the crater filled up with the purest water from rain and snow. The result was the deepest lake in America at almost 600 metres. The Indians have marvellous legends about it.

At just under 2000m, I meet two real freaks at the visitor centre. They are hiking the entire Pacific Trail across the Rockies from Mexico to Alaska in 6 months. I give them a ride and enjoy the sweat of weeks. We ride around the 6 kilometre crater. Then time is of the essence again.

The tour continues to California. Immediately after the last mountains in Oregon, the temperature drops by around 10 degrees… Hello? California? Sun and sweat and stuff? Highway 101 winds its way down the mountains towards Redwood Forest State Park. I squeeze in behind a speeder who is supposed to catch my tickets. We’re playing 50 miles of 101, and when I see the first redwoods just before Crescent City, I have to let him go. Two near-accidents due to eyes up and bend down. With a trunk 3 metres in diameter right next to the highway, even my thick skull might lose out.

I misjudge again. I arrive much too late after another 100 miles in Arcata at my new host Waylen after sunset. I’m exhausted. Another 12 hours on the road. I don’t see Arcata again. But it must be beautiful. A small, sleepy town on the Pacific, all extra-eco and mega-hippy with a green mayor and well-known farmers’ market. I make myself a completely non-organic pizza and fall into bed.