Forever on Our Mind: Silver Linings and Electric Sunsets
Looking for silver linings in the smoke and haze at Diamond Lake Campground
03. Silver Linings and Electric Sunsets
August 2015:
After squinting to see Crater Lake through the haze, I give up on this grand adventure, return to my car, and begin the drive north to a waterfront site at Diamond Lake Campground.
Nearly two hours later, I enter what appears to be a zombie apocalypse.
Instead of a friendly volunteer at the campground’s entrance, I’m greeted by an orange sign that warns: “CAUTION SMOKE AHEAD”. And it’s true: The smoke is indeed ahead. It is also above. It is behind me. It is in my hair, tickling my nose, embedding itself in my T-shirt. The smoke is everywhere.
Most sites sit empty; the few occupied by RVs and fifth-wheels are as still as Diamond Lake’s placid waters next door. Checkered tablecloths cover picnic tables, but no one sits down to dinner. Instead of racing up and down the campground’s roads, unused bikes remain tethered to roof racks and propped against travel trailers. Empty camp chairs beg for laughter, storytelling, and cold beers around deserted fire pits.
I pull into site G37, pitch my tent on a concrete pad, and fumble for ideas to pass the time. It feels too late to seek refuge in an air-conditioned hotel room, and the haze puts my sinuses in a chokehold—rendering moot the notion of a waterside walk or short hike—so I spend most of the next few hours leafing through a book in the drivers’ side seat of my Honda Civic.
At around 7:30 p.m., I paw through the cooler and grocery bags in my trunk to cobble together a dinner that doesn’t run afoul of a regional campfire ban. I settle on a few chocolate donuts from Franz Bakery, half a container of macaroni salad, and an Oregon-brewed IPA.
In between bites and while surveying the empty campground from atop a picnic table, I beat myself up for wasting so much time and not checking those damn webcams. I feel sorry for myself and my pitiful dinner—and go back to finish the rest of the macaroni salad. I think about how I’ll return next summer. I get excited for sunnier skies and better views. I decide to abandon my site tomorrow and head to Bend—where the smoke won’t be so oppressive.
After a few minutes, the winds shift just enough to send the clouds scattering. In their place, the sun sneaks through cracks in the haze—just in time to start sinking behind the hillsides across Diamond Lake.
Streaks of red and orange dance on the horizon. Pink fireworks burst across the sky. The heavens above turn almost navy blue—the same shade I imagined Crater Lake might have been a few hours earlier. When the sun disappears altogether, it leaves behind a purple and blue canvas onto which a few stars will soon be painted.
The winds will shift again overnight, and the sun will retreat behind a concrete wall tomorrow. But I will worry about that then. Here and now, I toast a mostly empty Workhorse IPA to Mother Nature, grateful for a front-row seat to her soul-stirring performance.
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