Forever on Our Mind: Seeing Where Crack-in-the-Ground Takes Me
Heading underground in the heart of the Oregon Outback
105. Seeing Where Crack-in-the-Ground Takes Me
July 2016:
A rugged stegosaurus spine of sun-bleached rock rises from the otherwise deserted field before me. Sagebrush and juniper, centuries-old barnacles clinging to life on the slab’s slow-moving journey through time, line its edge.
Slicing through the prehistoric scene, a subtle path—no wider than a bicycle’s tire tread—descends into the rocky mosh pit and disappears behind a parting curtain of basalt below. Beyond that point, some 20 or 30 feet ahead, the Earth swallows the view whole.
Crack-in-the-Ground, not far from Christmas Tree Lane and Snowman Road in nearby Christmas Valley, is exactly what it sounds like: a two-mile-long, 70-foot-deep crack … in the ground. A quick trek to the subterranean trail’s crowded base leaves you feeling as if you’re tunneling beneath the Earth. If it was any longer, you just might be.
The volcanic fissure formed a millennium ago—likely after an earthquake or volcanic activity. Most similar fissures fill over time, but the surrounding arid landscape offers precious little soil or rocky debris to help that process along. As such, Crack-in-the-Ground has barely changed since opening in the Earth’s surface more than a thousand years ago.
It is one of a few local landmarks that seemed to have been named by someone with all the imagination of a burnt-out office park planner. (The others are Hole in the Ground and Big Hole—both real places that actually exist. Apparently, “The Place With the Hole” was already taken.)
Even so, that unimaginative name betrays the attraction at the literal heart of this natural marvel: a hiking trail that twists and turns while descending into a subterranean canyon. There, where the sun can’t quite reach, temperatures can be up to 20 degrees cooler than back on the surface.
In less nefarious hands (the site is maintained by the Bureau of Land Management), Crack-in-the-Ground might have once wound up a curious roadside attraction, bilking travelers en route to Bend or Crater Lake. It’s easy to imagine old-timey carnival barkers covering the entry with a red-and-white tent while inviting visitors to see what lies inside the “Crack of Mystery” or to walk the “Rocky Road to Hell.”
I stand alone at the entry on this warm July afternoon. The temperature cools noticeably, almost as if Mother Nature finally figured out how to fix the broken air conditioner, as I inch down the dirt path below surface level. Within seconds, the rock walls loom some 20-30 feet in every direction; some curve effortlessly, not unlike futuristic cars from the 1960s, while other passages resemble the teeth of an open mouth—daring visitors to make it through before the jaws clamp shut. The sun, once an oppressive nuisance, peeks through only occasionally—and does so meekly when it actually reaches my sweaty brow.
The air stagnates like an old motel room that’s long overdue for a fresh coat of paint. Explosions of lichen thrive on the rocks at eye level, just beyond the reach of the sun’s rays. At my feet, a few resilient patches of grass fight through the rocky surface. Some of the pock-marked crags seem to have fallen off the Moon and into this crevice.
I rarely see more than 15 or 20 feet ahead inside the claustrophobic canyon; I ascend rocky staircases, slink around rocks that poke and prod from every angle, and fall to my hands and knees to slither through narrow passes. Every twist, turn, dip, and dive reveals precious little of what’s to come; even with creaky ankles, scraped-up knees, and stinging elbows, the thrill of “what’s to come?” permeates every step of the journey.
That sense of wonder, unfortunately, takes me only so far. After a half-mile or so, the rocky curtain almost wholly closes in front of me. My skinnier friends might handle this pencil-thick passage with aplomb, but no amount of sucking in my gut will see me through to the other side.
Just before turning around, a western fence lizard scampers by, oblivious to my presence. Blending into the rock behind it, the lizard scurries through the passage and behind a bend, around which I cannot see. I crane my neck and look for another way forward; I ache to see where this path leads and what lies beyond, but some millennia-old mysteries remain unsolved.
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