Bob Koscik - Searching for the Skyline

    Hello, I'm Bob Koscik.  Perhaps you found out about me through Oregon Field Guide.  I've been wandering the woods of Oregon, looking for traces of time gone by.  For the past 20 years, my daughters Eva Rose and Terian Deveyra have been my companions through many of these journeys of discovery.  I've also worked with the fine people at www.trailadvocate.org for a lot of that time.  I'd like to tell you a little bit about myself and what brought me here.  I'd also like to talk about the rugged, yet delicate natural places that make the Northwest so special.

    I grew up in the Midwest, in Chicago Illinois, about as far removed from Oregon as you can get.  It's a place of harsh winters, sprawling farms and factories - the City of Big Shoulders.  The winter wind roars across Lake Michigan and slices through your bones like soft cheese.  I didn't mind the weather so much; we grew up sledding down suicide hills and waited for hours for buses in the snow.  

    As I left childhood behind, I began to notice the natural places in a different light.  Sure, the woodlot preserves and tadpole pools always fascinated me.  "Look, they already have tiny legs!"  Time does a strange thing: it makes your world smaller.  I began to go farther away from the cornfields and small prairie remnants.  I wanted to see what the true Earth looked like, in a time before cities and steamships.  Eventually, in my late 20's, I came home to Oregon.  I hope someday that my bones will nourish the next generation of ancient forest.

    Marriage came along, and a baby.  Priorities changed, but I couldn't escape the call of the old places, where time seems to stand still.  I found a map while wasting time at a used bookshop on Hawthorne Street, from the early 1950s.  Metsker's Map of Clackamas County, the map that changed my life.  In 1951, the roads and clearcut forests were missing.  In their place - trails, wilderness, log cabins and forest rangers.  10, 20 years later it would all change as a nation hungry for timber began to log the untouched places.  By the time I arrived in Oregon, the damage had already been done.  50% of the state had been logged in a checkerboard fashion.  It literally brought tears to my eyes to realize that the legend of wild Oregon was somewhat of a lie.  Much of the wilderness had been taken away.  In place, a maze of roads that would stretch to the Moon.

    But, to my great surprise, a few fragile pieces of wild mountains still remained.  Places where it was still the same as it ever was, trees too fat to put your arms around.  Forests that were older than some countries.  And yet, everything was alive.  This wasn't an abandoned Roman temple 20 feet down into the dirt; no, this place was alive and breathing.  One foot in the ancient, the other foot standing here today.  Where else can you experience the past and the future?

    The Trail Advocate guys taught me a lot about trails - how to find and fix them, what tools to use.  They also showed me how to live and thrive in a harsh place where the cold rain sometimes falls in sheets.  But from the beginning I was home, again.  There has always been a part of me that feels connected to these places.  I miss my old wool Ranger uniform with the wrecked fedora.  It seems strange that the ranger cabins are collapsed and rotten.  It feels like yesterday, when you could ask for a cup of coffee from one of those ghosts.

    We grew up together, my kids and the forests too.  The Mt. Hood National Forest became my home, and in many ways it connected me to my real self when a city just makes you crazy.  I began to realize that some of these trails were, perhaps, as old as the forests.  Native people have been here for at least ten thousand years.  Just imagine that.  The United States is only a couple centuries old, and our future is tenuous at best.  But the people who lived and thrived here became part of the land.  Their cultures were a very celebration of survival, in a place of plenty. 

    Some of the old trails are long gone.  US26 crosses the south flank of Mt. Hood, but before that, it was part of the Oregon Trail: the Barlow Road.  Close your eyes and imagine this place without the screaming trucks billowing black smoke into the clear air of the mountains.  There, through the dark forest ahead: a well worn trail that has felt the feet of many generations.  It's still there, but buried under the thick tar of progress.  The people of Warm Springs called this land home, and left very little damage behind.  They managed the forests through natural processes, such as controlled burns.  But the Earth was, and still is Mother.  Today, the sounds of commerce and industry have spread through out the globe.  Clearcuts are no longer just a local phenomenon.  We are eating the Earth alive.

    Other trails have survived.  The old ones, the ancient routes that would take you someplace sacred.  There aren't many left - some are popular recreation trails, others forgotten for 200 years with fat firs growing right in the middle of the trail tread.  When you go to these places, there is still a strong energy that has been there all along.  You realize that the past is just a concept.  It is this searching that brought me to the Oregon Skyline Trail.

    In the summer of 2016, my life was changing yet again.  On the eve of divorce, I decided to continue my research into the Oregon Skyline.  It had been created with great excitement in 1921, only to fade away into oblivion just 30 years or so later.  Equipped with a fat packet of vintage maps and research materials, I started in Government Camp with the intention of finding the lost Skyline Trail.  Two months later, I sat my sweaty pack next to the sparkling waters of Olallie Lake.  It was over 100 miles of searching, but with my daughter's help I found it, the Mt. Hood National Forest section at least.  In 1921, the Trail continued another 200 miles to Crater Lake!  Imagine the lost miles yet to be discovered.

    These explorations became a manuscript, and over time it has evolved into a book.  Searching for the Skyline has now been professionally edited and will soon be in publication.  It tells the story of the Skyline Trail, as well as the spiritual discoveries that come from spending so much time in a sacred place.

    From the beginning, the PBS series Oregon Field Guide has been my favorite.  The show literally takes you to the most special places within our borders.  For a half hour every Sunday, little Eva would climb on my lap to watch "Papa's Stories".  That was certainly our special time, her little legs crossed just like mine as we sit in silence, completely lost in the stories.  Steve Amen, the executive producer of the show became my all-time hero and Eva's first TV celebrity.  "Who is that, Eva?" I would ask.  "Steve Amen!".  I looked forward to seeing my friend all week long.  The stories inspired me to look deeper into the subtle nature of wilderness.  To find little traces of things that you wouldn't normally notice.

About year or 2 ago, Oregon Field Guide was looking for stories for the next season.  At the time, I was wrapping up Searching for the Skyline, and my life was changing yet again.  I thought to myself, "well, this is a good chance to put the story of the Oregon Skyline Trail out there."  

I talked at length with producer Ian McCluskey, who was fascinated with the adventures of the past.  He grew up in Oregon, and has always been very interested in the natural world and those who left their mark before us.  By August 2021 we were out in the wilds of Mt. Hood putting together a video story.  The star, or course, is the Oregon Skyline Trail and our search for meaning.  It was one of the greatest honors of my life.

For the Oregon Field Guide story, along with a radio interview, please see:

https://www.opb.org/article/2022/09/03/oregon-skyline-trail-mount-hood-cascades-crater-lake/

    Why am I doing this?  True, I'd rather be alone in the forest contemplating deeper thoughts and enjoying the autumn bliss.  I've had enough of gunshots and the violence and stress of urban life.

I've only been doing this for a couple of decades.  But during this time, I've seen the ancient places shrink before my eyes.  A narrow dirt road from the Twenties becomes a gravel highway for the logging trucks.  An ancient trail through even older trees is removed from the Earth forever, the blazed giant trunks carried away on the backs of trailers.  All that is left is the blazing hot sun baking a shocked soil.  Piles of smaller trees, cut down and piled into giant hills.  Then the fires come, from climate change, from careless campers with campfires during extreme heat events.  Right in front of us, the ancient places are shrinking. If this much damage has occurred in 20 years, then we don't have much time left if we want to experience these places.

    Temperate rainforests like this are only found in the Pacific Northwest.  Here, the steady rain for 9 months nourishes a green land of ferns taller than your shoulder, trees that reach two hundred feet into the heavens.  Once, an unbroken forest of wilderness stretched from coast to coast.  Can you imagine?  There was no Indiana or Pennsylvania.  There were many nations in between, all speaking different languages and celebrating Mother Earth with their own words.  These days are gone, and bringing them back would be impossible.  We are here today.  We are here with only the scraps of an intact Earth, just little pieces.  What is left will take your breath away and give you back your senses.  

Join me out there!  Let's become whole again.  And please keep your eyes open for Searching for the Skyline later this year.  If you love forests than I'm sure the story will resonate with you.  Thanks for reading and I'll see you later.

Ethics, Rain and Confusion (September 2009)

 Part 3 in a series of unpublished articles that I didn't want to lose into the cracks.  Here we return to S. Fork but a season later, now almost October.

It was great to experience this place in it's wild days.  Today, the habitat will take a long time to recover to what it was.  But what is 1000 years to old Mother Earth?  A millionth less than the breath of a moth.

They called me Hambone in those days, and a few still do.  The Bus Camps were taking on steam...we were also getting more bold with remote locations and bad weather.

I make no apologies for the ramblings of this younger man, but I do support his cause for it is mine as well.

"Ethics, Rain and Confusion"

What a jumbled mess my head is. Maybe it's the stockpile of intoxicants, the change of seasons, or just encroaching madness. Does anyone else feel crazed after spending time without a roof, then returning? Today has been especially powerful, I feel like I'm in a funk. Too many conflicting feelings; perhaps it should be handled in the land of no-thought, where all peace arises. Perhaps the mountains are stained by too much beer. But I do know that merriment and the bond of rekindled friendships touch more than can be defined.

Plans made way in advance crumbled like old wet cracker boxes. As I started my sunny Friday, bright and early with kindergarten delivery, I felt a sense of sadness, alone in a crowd as my kid mingled with the pool of other children. As mercury drops they form and dance as one. Soon fighting traffic and crossing guards, I knew I'd be alone and far removed from this workday bustle. Companionship seemed like a lost ship as I drove further away, high into the bright Old Cascades. For weeks I've studied maps, searched for written history - to only be dropped into the reality of the place, far removed from inkstains and imagination. This was real. A spinning dividing green sea, defining logic or understanding met my gaze as the road lifted like a rocket climbing thousands of feet into this leafy maze. It almost seemed too much to eat as one meal.

Arriving onto the knob-top peak of the world at nearly 5000' encased under deep blue skies, I tacked up an old hubcap and smiled, king of lofty peaks.

The day passed slowly. Funny, some times I feel a deperate need for solitude. This day was different. I felt a strong need for kinship, for connection of a deeper human source. But instead I sat perched in perhaps the lonliest loft in Oregon, biding my time and watching the slow sweep of the second hand on my chipped and well worn Walgreens watch. I amused myself for a spell climbing ridges and chasing ghosts, but dreaded a twisted ankle down the slippery slope of a recovering clearcut. How can a path turn into an impassible tangle? Time, the great void enforcer. None can detangle from the Great Web.

The night fell splendidly, slowly as the finest silk gauze, thin as breath, smoke flowing with temporary form and caressing the hills with the milky glow of starlight.

"Where is everybody?" I thought, spoke, paced and yelled.

Hours pass. "this is most disappointing" I frown, as midnight approaches. Every jet is a VW, every breeze tires on gravel. I note that most flights are heading south with frequency, then taper off as the night progresses. I see Portland twinkling orange in the far off valley, and wonder how the people I care about are doing on this fine lonely night.

Suddenly, the sound of motors pierces the night.  I am bathed by headlights, crabby and reluctant for company once the moment has arrived. I am tired at this point and in no mood for chit chat.

Maps, the wires that hold the current of knowledge have been forgone this vast evening causing a delay in human delivery, but at least everyone arrived safely. It is not an easy path up to South Fork, it's like the road itself is Coyote the Trickster, intent on confusion. "Every road will take you there". Perhaps, but not to this place. It's ridiculous that a road even exists where a helicopter or some sort of buzzard would roost, but it's ordinary in this armor clad world. For a spell at least, until the Earth again folds in like cake batter and all is made new again.

In spite of my mood, it was very good to see my friends in such an unlikely place. We watched the stars dance, and nearly the sun slip from the shadows but the call of slumber was too deep, and well earned by this time.

I am awakened by the tinny dance of raindrops on the thin steel above my head. As promised the rain has arrived, ocean borne clouds streaking and dropping their heavy payload as the new dawn races quickly behind. Suddenly it is daylight, and the mists are howling past. It is time to face the water element head on. Soon I am soaked, but enjoy a hearty breakfast and a hot cup of tea. It is not cold, just wet wet wet and the clouds are hurtling sideways. The boys set up camp a bit down the road from me, so I become the High Count on the hill, overlooking the serfs down below. It is a position I hold with great power and I'm sure they still tremble with fear at my might.

Fortified and with some deliberation we decide to head down the old trail to Memaloose in the rain. With little dogs providing amplification to footfalls, I slowly fall behind as I chop brush on the soggy hillside so the trail can exist as an independent entity. Once again alone, but too busy now to care I slowly make my way down the mountain to the glorious gray lake, veiled in rain and clouds, washed away by the watercolors of the cold earth. Soon, it's time to head back up the hill and we repeat the performance, I lagging behind to clear trees and bushes, history denied root, but this failure quickly extinguished by my mindless chopping. "why do I do this?" I wonder...

Back on top I marvel at how autumn has become, as witnessed by gentle hues of golden and red in the huckleberry bushes, soon to sleep for another winter. At the lake it is still summer, with a green quilt and ripe berries fat for the picking, but here on top fall dances with the rain.

As clouds begin to part, and the day slowly drops, we cheer momentary breaks of sun, as the glorious orb appears like the moon thru these racecar mists. Alas we are forced to endure the gray until evening approaches. Various whiskeys appear and the fog of my own brain seems to escape out my ears and mingle with the clouds. Great Discussions ensue, "does a man have an ethical duty to project God thru their lifework?" The results are still undetermined. The jury is questionable at best.

As a huge stump is carried like a coffin up the night road, a growling comes from the darkness. No, it is the insane Gypsie scaring the crap out of us. Thank you again for that. A Sasquatch bride sits lonesome this evening, missing their true counterpart.

Sleep comes quick. As another new day approaches, the mists do finally part allowing the splendor of God's Green Earth to explode below in all directions. But it is time to pack and deal with the red dirt encasing everything, red mud ash from eruptions before an atmosphere.

And then the numbing drive home, snaking down miles of pothole roads, into the womb of human creation, the grids snaked out, the streaked peaks fading into the background like a Jr. High lunch, forgotten, eaten, gone but causing an intense self fortification.

These places seem to exist in a dream. My bus is only a lozenge dissolved under the tongue, while my eyes soon dart awake, fearful, full, and facing the light at whatever cost and internal consequence. One can plan and read all about it in various papers and personal anecdotes, but only when the poison pen is destroyed and the viscous paper extinguished can a person truly experience these mysteries of life.

A Mountain to the South (June 2009)

 Hello!  This is a continuation of recent "classic" articles written by yours truly in the watermelon days of summer.  I wanted to get them into circulation before I keel over from too much fun.  Little Eva featured in this story is just about to turn 18 and head off to college.  I still remember this trip so clearly.  Life is ridiculous, isn't it?

I'm also sad to tell you that the forests on these ridges are completely dead for many miles.  They were killed in the fires that swept the Northwest two years ago.  It is a land of complete devastation that is still closed to the public.  It will be very different out there.  But of course, Nature rebuilds at a schedule far greater than our own tiny lives.  Those of us alive today will never know the ancient forests that will return to this wasteland. 

Strap on your pack, don't forget the sunscreen...

"A Mountain to the South"

It was just the lovely Eva and I, up on top of the giant's head we now call a mountain. Yes folks, 3 days with a 5 year old in the wilderness. She is becoming a great camper.

We arrived to clouds swirling past, after traversing the usual potholed post apocalyptic forest service snakeroute, climbing nearly 5000' into the abused-but-still-beautiful Clackamas foothills. I fretted about potential snow, but those fears were unfounded, as only a couple tiny patches still sat in sheltered bowls. This is good news for highcountry camp season - it's open!

So we sat for a while, gathered slimy wood for a meager smoky fire as the clouds shuffled past like puffed ghosts. Eva remarked how we were "breathing clouds" and indeed this was literal, as our exhalations slid down the onramp and flew down the misted freeway.

She went to bed, I stayed up for a spell until the clouds came into camp with reinforcements, dropping a cold wet blanket on the camp and filling me with enough spookies to call it a night and hide under the sheets.

After a long cold night, the new day sun broke through, dragging a blue sky behind like a much loved rag doll. Being a student of history, I took the opportunity to revisit 1910 with newly appointed Ranger Petey and myself. We made plans to hike down to Memaloose Lake and pick up our Forest Service horses, freshly watered and rested. Then, to ride to the Cold Springs ranger station. Of course most of the trails have been abandoned 70 years, the ranger station just a dream in some granddad's craw, and the fire lookout a scattered pile of rusted nails and windowpanes melted into unique blobs...but that did not stop the intrepid rangers on their rounds.

We did hike down to the lake, shining gloriously in the new summer sun. The trail up to the peak of S. Fork Mountain is an original forest service trail, constructed around 1900 but probably older than that. It is not officially maintained (as a sign proudly proclaims at the base of the mountain), but it is in excellent condition regardless. We spent the day chopping brush, and even make it back up to the top in spite of frequent whining. It's hard to be little as 1000' in elevation beckons.

Of course the horses were nowhere to be seen, curse the beureacracy. And once on top, we were dismayed to find the trail to the ranger station nearly obliterated with time, a disturbing fate. What remained of the rangers themselves is still a mystery.

The views! Spectacular. One can see many vistas and all local volcanic peaks, as far north as Mt. Rainier and 3 Sisters to the south. At night, the lights of Portland twinkle orange and strange, weird to see littered across the valley as we sit up high among the beargrass and crescent moon.

Nails, however are a very real hazard on this lofty perch. The 1960s were a strange time in our nation's history. Besides the race riots and other colorful adventures already burned into our collective, our penchant for natural resource extraction took a feverhold as many miles of solitary-purpose roads were stabbed into the crumbling highcountry. Historic sites such as backcountry ranger stations and high peak fire lookouts were simply burned to the ground to avoid the bookcost of maintenance. I suppose fire is the great purifier; or at least does a damn good job of rearranging molecules. Even the Indians would seasonally burn their prized hunting grounds and mountain berry fields for their own personal gain. This weird grasping for history seems to create more questions than clarity, but it is an interesting trip to puzzle out how it felt 100 years ago when these magnificent clearcut lands were nothing but miles and miles of ancient wilderness. We are spoilt, the land has been spoiled. But inbetween it's glory in excess as always.

Spending a few days on top of a mountain with just a little one whom I love as much as breath certainly gave me a unique perspective. Although there are moments of pure madness, such as a bottle of OJ dumped all over the camper cabinet and floor, the moments of true love and gentle bliss soaks into consciousness until everything else is swept away in the high wind.