Holding My Line at the Edge of Crater Lake
We finally reached the part of the trip that had sold us from the start—Crater Lake National Park. Getting there meant a two-hour shuttle ride from Bend, but I had my book club novel to keep me company. (Nothing like murder, family drama, or literary angst to make van hours fly by.) Still, as the views out the window grew more dramatic, the book was set aside.
Sabrina, our fearless leader, pointed over the edge of the rim road and casually mentioned that this was where we’d be biking. “Don’t worry,” she chirped, “people will give you space because they’re used to bikers.” I looked around and noted, politely, that I currently saw zero bikers and approximately all tourists, most of whom had probably driven up that morning and may or may not have ever heard the rule about giving bikes the lane. The drop-off was enough to make a few riders blanch, but I decided to take Sabrina’s advice, hold my line, and hope for the best.
We pulled up to Crater Lake Lodge, perched right on the rim overlooking the deepest lake in the United States (1,943 feet). The lake exists thanks to Mount Mazama, a once-proud volcano that blew itself to smithereens, collapsed, and slowly filled with nothing but rain and snowmelt. No rivers feed it, which is why it gleams that impossible shade of sapphire blue.
The lodge itself—redone in 1995—carries that classic National Park lodge vibe. Let’s just say it might be due for another facelift, but as our guides wisely reminded us: “It’s a view that happens to have a room.” Fair enough.
Once settled, we saddled up for a rim ride. The Park Service had inconveniently closed off a section of road, so instead of a full loop we did an out-and-back—about 35 miles total. The final stretch was steep, but I stayed planted in my lane and let the cars figure it out. Survival tip: act like you belong there, even when you’re not sure you do.
That evening we gathered on the lodge porch to watch the sunset. The lake shifted colors like a mood ring while the jagged outline of the old volcano glowed in the fading light. Over drinks, we swapped stories—this was a crew heavy on recent retirees, each with fascinating past lives and ambitious new hobbies. It felt a bit like speed-dating for “What I’ll Do With My Next Chapter.”
The next morning promised one last hurrah before the long ride back to Bend: a hike up Garfield Peak. Just 3.4 miles round trip—“I walk that every morning with the dogs,” I thought smugly—except for the part about the 1,100 feet of elevation gain. Oh, and the starting point was already 7,000 feet above sea level. Turns out, breathing matters. Still, the higher I went, the better the views, so I just kept chugging. (Carmen and Freddie, if you’re reading this, I still think walking you counts as training.)
Backroads, of course, ended with one more perfectly staged sendoff: a rimside picnic complete with figs and chocolate. Full belly, tired legs, heart full—I sank into the van seat for the ride back, content to let someone else do the work.
By 2 p.m., we were back in Bend and saying our goodbyes. But if you know Chad, you know the adventure doesn’t stop there. Bend happens to be home to Epic Aircraft, makers of a sleek turboprop that Chad had been itching to try. One quick detour later, he was in the cockpit taking an Epic E1000 GX for a spin. Then we got to the factory floor. Very impressive machines. Something tells me this won’t be the last time I see one.
