Day Two - Lower Bridge to
Monty Camp
Monty Camp
When I got out of the tent in the morning to make Michelle some coffee and to get breakfast started it
was quite cold. The sun had not yet crested the ridge behind camp and it could not have been more
than a few degrees above freezing. This was a bummer since I had only brought along my flip flops
and sandals, but it was manageable. I boiled water over the fire, made coffee, and hard boiled some
eggs before Michelle came out a little after 9:00am.
We had a lazy morning and by the time we packed up and loaded the raft it was almost 11:00am.
Although we had seventeen miles to paddle and a long shuttle to complete I figured that there would
be no problem since the lower river was reportedly clear and fast for its entire length. Our only
concern was that there was a possibility of hidden strainers in the river that would be tough to avoid
with the raft in the fast current and rapids that supposedly often led around blind corners.
We paddled off and within a few hundred yards the whitewater started and did not let up for the next
seventeen miles. The vast majority of the rapids were splashy class II/III with some larger waves and
holes, but very few rocks or obstacles to avoid. The gradient in the Metolius is incredibly uniform,
much like the well known upper McKenzie River to the west. Man of the heavier spots did indeed come
at bends in the river where the river channelized and was forced to the outside of the turns. Trees in
the water were fairly common, but on this trip most of them were obvious and easy to spot from
upstream.
One of the more significant rapids on the river came early on in the morning a short distance below an
established river left campground. This steeper rapid weaved through some boulders near the top
and again half way down, but the line was straightforward and we did a great job. Middie enjoyed the
bouncing around and she didn’t seem to mind getting splashed by the icy river water. For many miles
we rode this conveyor belt through a mostly pristine landscape full of splashing rapids and big pines.
In many ways the lower Metolius has a remote feel and a look not entirely unlike many of the rivers
that I have paddled in the boreal forests of northern Ontario. Still, in several places we saw signs of an
old road grade and a few cabins in varying states of disrepair. Even with these intrusions, being on
the Metolius makes it easy to envision what Oregon must have been like before it was settled.
was quite cold. The sun had not yet crested the ridge behind camp and it could not have been more
than a few degrees above freezing. This was a bummer since I had only brought along my flip flops
and sandals, but it was manageable. I boiled water over the fire, made coffee, and hard boiled some
eggs before Michelle came out a little after 9:00am.
We had a lazy morning and by the time we packed up and loaded the raft it was almost 11:00am.
Although we had seventeen miles to paddle and a long shuttle to complete I figured that there would
be no problem since the lower river was reportedly clear and fast for its entire length. Our only
concern was that there was a possibility of hidden strainers in the river that would be tough to avoid
with the raft in the fast current and rapids that supposedly often led around blind corners.
We paddled off and within a few hundred yards the whitewater started and did not let up for the next
seventeen miles. The vast majority of the rapids were splashy class II/III with some larger waves and
holes, but very few rocks or obstacles to avoid. The gradient in the Metolius is incredibly uniform,
much like the well known upper McKenzie River to the west. Man of the heavier spots did indeed come
at bends in the river where the river channelized and was forced to the outside of the turns. Trees in
the water were fairly common, but on this trip most of them were obvious and easy to spot from
upstream.
One of the more significant rapids on the river came early on in the morning a short distance below an
established river left campground. This steeper rapid weaved through some boulders near the top
and again half way down, but the line was straightforward and we did a great job. Middie enjoyed the
bouncing around and she didn’t seem to mind getting splashed by the icy river water. For many miles
we rode this conveyor belt through a mostly pristine landscape full of splashing rapids and big pines.
In many ways the lower Metolius has a remote feel and a look not entirely unlike many of the rivers
that I have paddled in the boreal forests of northern Ontario. Still, in several places we saw signs of an
old road grade and a few cabins in varying states of disrepair. Even with these intrusions, being on
the Metolius makes it easy to envision what Oregon must have been like before it was settled.
As we continued the landscape gradually changed as valley walls rose and the
hillsides became more sparsely vegetated, with basalt outcrops becoming more
visible. We were entering the transition zone between the Ponderosa Pine
forests of the upper river and the high desert of the Deschutes River valley.
We also started to see many bald eagles sweeping from the limbs of trees and
heading downstream. The Metolies is a popular stop for migrating eagles in the
autumn, a time when salmon traditionally spawned up the river in prolific
numbers. Unfortunately, dams on the Columbia and Deschutes River have
reduced the salmon runs to the point where it can hardly be considered a
grand spectacle any longer. Still, enough introduced fish do spawn up and out
of man made Lake Billy Chinook to sustain the eagles and bears that call this
basin home.
Through this entire section the river flows quickly through continuous rapids
and there are very few stopping places owing to the thick shoreline vegetation
that lines the shore. Whenever a fair sized eddy was found we stopped to rest
and stretch our legs, but this was really only one or two times. The day was
nice, with plenty of sun, but when it dipped behind one of the clouds that
managed to make its way past the Cascades the chill of autumn was in the air
and we were close to shivering at times. Luckily, most of the time the sun was
plentiful and Michelle and I comfortable.
Just when I was starting to be surprised that we had not yet encountered any
river wide logs we entered a fast channel to the left of a low island and spotted
a mostly submerged trees laying across the stream. We were able to eddy out
on river right and beach the boat before floating into the log which was a good
thing. While it looked like it probably would have been possible to paddle over
the strainer on river left it would have been foolish to take the risk when it was
easy enough to drag the loaded raft a few yards over the low grassy island to
reach clear water again. Kayakers would have been able to easily paddle over
the log, but for us this was definitely the prudent thing to do.
Below this river wide hazard a section of heavier rapids started, with a few
longer drops approaching class III+ in difficulty. At these larger drops the river
steepened slightly and a few larger boulders popped up in the current, and
some larger holes and perverse were encountered. All of this was boat scout
able, and we made excellent time through this section. Kayakers could have
spent hours surfing the many waves in this stretch. While eddies were not
particularly plentiful, there were enough quality waves that catching them on
the fly would not have been very troublesome.
By this time we had been on the water for quite some time and felt that we
should be reaching the takeout sometime very soon. The run was taking a little
longer than I had anticipated and I was starting to realize that the bike ride back
to the put in might take a little longer than I had anticipated. One of our plans
had involved paddling three miles of flatwater across Lake Billy Chinook to add
some time to the second day of boating. However, by this time a solid headwind
had built up and the thought of paddling the raft across the lake against the
cold breeze was the last thing we felt like doing. This made it even more
important to find the upper take out of Monty Camp.
We explored a few likely spots along the way but they proved to be nothing
more than primitive campsites or simple clearing in the woods. Eventually we
noticed a more open area and a sign on river right warning of fish traps located
in the river several hundred yards downstream at Monty Camp. We had
completed the trip and we landed at the first good spot on river right when a
few vehicles were spotted on shore. The take out was sandy and dusty, but
access to the river was quite easy and in less than ten minutes we had
everything out of the boat and up on the shore. e explored a few likely spots
along the way but they proved to be nothing more than primitive campsites or
simple clearing in the woods.
hillsides became more sparsely vegetated, with basalt outcrops becoming more
visible. We were entering the transition zone between the Ponderosa Pine
forests of the upper river and the high desert of the Deschutes River valley.
We also started to see many bald eagles sweeping from the limbs of trees and
heading downstream. The Metolies is a popular stop for migrating eagles in the
autumn, a time when salmon traditionally spawned up the river in prolific
numbers. Unfortunately, dams on the Columbia and Deschutes River have
reduced the salmon runs to the point where it can hardly be considered a
grand spectacle any longer. Still, enough introduced fish do spawn up and out
of man made Lake Billy Chinook to sustain the eagles and bears that call this
basin home.
Through this entire section the river flows quickly through continuous rapids
and there are very few stopping places owing to the thick shoreline vegetation
that lines the shore. Whenever a fair sized eddy was found we stopped to rest
and stretch our legs, but this was really only one or two times. The day was
nice, with plenty of sun, but when it dipped behind one of the clouds that
managed to make its way past the Cascades the chill of autumn was in the air
and we were close to shivering at times. Luckily, most of the time the sun was
plentiful and Michelle and I comfortable.
Just when I was starting to be surprised that we had not yet encountered any
river wide logs we entered a fast channel to the left of a low island and spotted
a mostly submerged trees laying across the stream. We were able to eddy out
on river right and beach the boat before floating into the log which was a good
thing. While it looked like it probably would have been possible to paddle over
the strainer on river left it would have been foolish to take the risk when it was
easy enough to drag the loaded raft a few yards over the low grassy island to
reach clear water again. Kayakers would have been able to easily paddle over
the log, but for us this was definitely the prudent thing to do.
Below this river wide hazard a section of heavier rapids started, with a few
longer drops approaching class III+ in difficulty. At these larger drops the river
steepened slightly and a few larger boulders popped up in the current, and
some larger holes and perverse were encountered. All of this was boat scout
able, and we made excellent time through this section. Kayakers could have
spent hours surfing the many waves in this stretch. While eddies were not
particularly plentiful, there were enough quality waves that catching them on
the fly would not have been very troublesome.
By this time we had been on the water for quite some time and felt that we
should be reaching the takeout sometime very soon. The run was taking a little
longer than I had anticipated and I was starting to realize that the bike ride back
to the put in might take a little longer than I had anticipated. One of our plans
had involved paddling three miles of flatwater across Lake Billy Chinook to add
some time to the second day of boating. However, by this time a solid headwind
had built up and the thought of paddling the raft across the lake against the
cold breeze was the last thing we felt like doing. This made it even more
important to find the upper take out of Monty Camp.
We explored a few likely spots along the way but they proved to be nothing
more than primitive campsites or simple clearing in the woods. Eventually we
noticed a more open area and a sign on river right warning of fish traps located
in the river several hundred yards downstream at Monty Camp. We had
completed the trip and we landed at the first good spot on river right when a
few vehicles were spotted on shore. The take out was sandy and dusty, but
access to the river was quite easy and in less than ten minutes we had
everything out of the boat and up on the shore. e explored a few likely spots
along the way but they proved to be nothing more than primitive campsites or
simple clearing in the woods.
Now that we had safely completed the river I could shift my attention to figuring out how I would
bike back to the put in at Camp Sherman, some thirty miles away. Basically, there were two
options I could chose from. The first involved riding Forest Service Road 11 out to the main
highway and dropping into Cam Sherman from above. This would be doable, but I was unsure of
the directions and weather or not the road would be hilly or level. The second option was to follow
rough, unmentioned forest service roads back up the Metolius to lower Bridge, where I would then
be able to follow paved roads for 8 miles back to the camp. On paper the second option was
better since it required much less distance and would only climb as much as the river had
dropped. The main problem was a two miles section where there was no road. My map showed a
trail marked through this stretch, but I knew nothing of its condition. I had pretty much made up my
mind to follow the river back upstream, but I decided to ask the group of cammo clad folks
standing around at the take out.
This folks turned out to be really friendly, and one short and round guy was particularly helpful. He
explained that I could indeed make my way back to Camp Sherman by following the river and he
expected it would only take about an hour with the bike. Now, I knew this was wrong by virtue of
the fact that the put in was thirty miles away, but his advice was otherwise sound. He also
explained the best route back to the take out from Camp Sherman and advised against going
around on Forest Service Road 11. He detailed a route up and over Green Ridge that would save
a good bit of time, and it roughly corresponded with the directions I recalled having read in our
guidebook for the river.
It was just about three o’clock and I got going, agreeing at the last minute to take Michelle’s last
Cliff Bar for the ride. I told her that I would be back by dark and that she should not worry because
this was likely to take longer than she expected. The ride started out quickly enough along a
rough yet manageable dirt road full of loose stones and the pace I was going at would have
placed me back on the pavement in less than two hours. Then I came to an intersection and
mistakenly followed the more heavily used road, which promptly dead ended at a cabin marked
with “No Trespassing” signs and guarded by Doberman Pincers. I spent well over a half hour
wandering around side trails in this area looking for a continuation of the path, but kept ending up
back in a large pumice field to loose to ride through. Tired, hungry, and pissed, I headed back to
check out the road I had passed up on.
This road was pitiful and covered in loose stones ranging between fist and bowling ball size. The
riding was pathetically slow and in places the road was nothing more than an overgrown double
track. Despite the poor condition of the route it did follow the river and there were other bike
tracks in the dusty soil. My spirits rose, and I assumed that this was the stretch marked as having
no road, but these hopes were dashed when the rugged, often washed out double track ended
and a piece if surveyors tape marked a single track path continuing on into the woods.
For the most part this single track was incredible overgrown and more reminiscent of a game trail
than a hiking path. However, occasional flagging and some other tracks suggested it was indeed
the correct route. For the better part of two miles I carried the mountain bike over my shoulder
and plodded along through the tangled underbrush at a steady trot. One of the few times that I did
decide to ride my bike I ended up plowing through some low hanging branches and poking myself
in the eye with a stick. This was the worst experience I had ever had involving my eyes while
mountain biking and for a while I was convinced I had broken off a part of the stick in my eye.
Luckily this was not the case and I continued along more cautiously, riding only where I was sure
the trail was open enough.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour, the path expanded to double track and eventually met up
with a passable dirt road. While the road was still covered with loose stones and it rolled along
with many small climbs and descents, it was clear that my pace would dramatically improve. By
now I was thoroughly tired out and my legs were shot from running through the forest with the
bike, but I pushed on as fast as I could, knowing that Michelle was sitting in the cold along with the
dog at a remote empty campground. Somewhere in this stretch I came really close to bonking
hard, but the Cliff Bar Michelle had given me was enough to keep sugar levels up and the motor
running.
By the time I reached pavement at Lower Bridge it was obviously later in the day and the
temperatures were quite chilly. It stood to reason that this final 8 miles would be a breeze, but the
road climbed significantly and my already tired legs made the last stretches a solid grind. By the
time I cruised down the final hill into Camp Sherman I was totally exhausted, thirty, and starving. I
staggered into the general store looking and smelling like a dirty sasquatch dressed for a bike
race. Thankfully no one refused service and I was able to get a drink, some banana bread, and a
confirmation of the directions I had been given to reach the take out.
The drive turned out to be surprisingly stunning and scenic and while I consistently drove ten to
fifteen miles an hour faster than I should have the spectacular nature of the route was not lost on
me. From the top of Green Ridge view of the clouded in Cascades were prominent and as I
dropped down the gentle eastern side of the ridge the desert view stretched from Redmond to
Smith Rocks jagged profile and beyond. The condition of the road was truly atrocious for much of
the distance, but things became better the closer I got to the Lake and maintained Road 11. Just
as dusk was starting to think about setting in I rumbled into Monty Camp and gave a cold and
hungry Michelle and big hug. I had just made it back before dark and she was really happy about
this.
The last thing I felt like doing was loading up the truck, but we packed up and hit the road, with
one deer sighting as a buck and doe wandered across the road, a quick dinner stop in Sisters
and a rainy drive home once we crested Santiam Pass. By the time we rolled into Eugene at mid
night everyone, including the dog, who had just slept for the last two hours, was ready for a long
night’s sleep.
bike back to the put in at Camp Sherman, some thirty miles away. Basically, there were two
options I could chose from. The first involved riding Forest Service Road 11 out to the main
highway and dropping into Cam Sherman from above. This would be doable, but I was unsure of
the directions and weather or not the road would be hilly or level. The second option was to follow
rough, unmentioned forest service roads back up the Metolius to lower Bridge, where I would then
be able to follow paved roads for 8 miles back to the camp. On paper the second option was
better since it required much less distance and would only climb as much as the river had
dropped. The main problem was a two miles section where there was no road. My map showed a
trail marked through this stretch, but I knew nothing of its condition. I had pretty much made up my
mind to follow the river back upstream, but I decided to ask the group of cammo clad folks
standing around at the take out.
This folks turned out to be really friendly, and one short and round guy was particularly helpful. He
explained that I could indeed make my way back to Camp Sherman by following the river and he
expected it would only take about an hour with the bike. Now, I knew this was wrong by virtue of
the fact that the put in was thirty miles away, but his advice was otherwise sound. He also
explained the best route back to the take out from Camp Sherman and advised against going
around on Forest Service Road 11. He detailed a route up and over Green Ridge that would save
a good bit of time, and it roughly corresponded with the directions I recalled having read in our
guidebook for the river.
It was just about three o’clock and I got going, agreeing at the last minute to take Michelle’s last
Cliff Bar for the ride. I told her that I would be back by dark and that she should not worry because
this was likely to take longer than she expected. The ride started out quickly enough along a
rough yet manageable dirt road full of loose stones and the pace I was going at would have
placed me back on the pavement in less than two hours. Then I came to an intersection and
mistakenly followed the more heavily used road, which promptly dead ended at a cabin marked
with “No Trespassing” signs and guarded by Doberman Pincers. I spent well over a half hour
wandering around side trails in this area looking for a continuation of the path, but kept ending up
back in a large pumice field to loose to ride through. Tired, hungry, and pissed, I headed back to
check out the road I had passed up on.
This road was pitiful and covered in loose stones ranging between fist and bowling ball size. The
riding was pathetically slow and in places the road was nothing more than an overgrown double
track. Despite the poor condition of the route it did follow the river and there were other bike
tracks in the dusty soil. My spirits rose, and I assumed that this was the stretch marked as having
no road, but these hopes were dashed when the rugged, often washed out double track ended
and a piece if surveyors tape marked a single track path continuing on into the woods.
For the most part this single track was incredible overgrown and more reminiscent of a game trail
than a hiking path. However, occasional flagging and some other tracks suggested it was indeed
the correct route. For the better part of two miles I carried the mountain bike over my shoulder
and plodded along through the tangled underbrush at a steady trot. One of the few times that I did
decide to ride my bike I ended up plowing through some low hanging branches and poking myself
in the eye with a stick. This was the worst experience I had ever had involving my eyes while
mountain biking and for a while I was convinced I had broken off a part of the stick in my eye.
Luckily this was not the case and I continued along more cautiously, riding only where I was sure
the trail was open enough.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour, the path expanded to double track and eventually met up
with a passable dirt road. While the road was still covered with loose stones and it rolled along
with many small climbs and descents, it was clear that my pace would dramatically improve. By
now I was thoroughly tired out and my legs were shot from running through the forest with the
bike, but I pushed on as fast as I could, knowing that Michelle was sitting in the cold along with the
dog at a remote empty campground. Somewhere in this stretch I came really close to bonking
hard, but the Cliff Bar Michelle had given me was enough to keep sugar levels up and the motor
running.
By the time I reached pavement at Lower Bridge it was obviously later in the day and the
temperatures were quite chilly. It stood to reason that this final 8 miles would be a breeze, but the
road climbed significantly and my already tired legs made the last stretches a solid grind. By the
time I cruised down the final hill into Camp Sherman I was totally exhausted, thirty, and starving. I
staggered into the general store looking and smelling like a dirty sasquatch dressed for a bike
race. Thankfully no one refused service and I was able to get a drink, some banana bread, and a
confirmation of the directions I had been given to reach the take out.
The drive turned out to be surprisingly stunning and scenic and while I consistently drove ten to
fifteen miles an hour faster than I should have the spectacular nature of the route was not lost on
me. From the top of Green Ridge view of the clouded in Cascades were prominent and as I
dropped down the gentle eastern side of the ridge the desert view stretched from Redmond to
Smith Rocks jagged profile and beyond. The condition of the road was truly atrocious for much of
the distance, but things became better the closer I got to the Lake and maintained Road 11. Just
as dusk was starting to think about setting in I rumbled into Monty Camp and gave a cold and
hungry Michelle and big hug. I had just made it back before dark and she was really happy about
this.
The last thing I felt like doing was loading up the truck, but we packed up and hit the road, with
one deer sighting as a buck and doe wandered across the road, a quick dinner stop in Sisters
and a rainy drive home once we crested Santiam Pass. By the time we rolled into Eugene at mid
night everyone, including the dog, who had just slept for the last two hours, was ready for a long
night’s sleep.
Michelle and Middie enjoy the warmth of our morning fire while we lazed around,
made breakfast, and waited for the day to warm up before getting on the river.
made breakfast, and waited for the day to warm up before getting on the river.
Good stopping places were few and far between on the lower Metolius, and tended to take advantage of those
suitable for stopping the raft.
suitable for stopping the raft.
Michelle smiles with a typically splashy class II/III rapid can barely be seen in the background. Miles of this
kind of water are found on the lower 17 miles of the Metolius.
kind of water are found on the lower 17 miles of the Metolius.
Middie has come a long way since her first experience with whitewater in Hells Canyon a
few months ago. Now she eagerly hang out in the front of the boat and waits for waves.
few months ago. Now she eagerly hang out in the front of the boat and waits for waves.
Sunshine, smiles, and crystal clear water belie the fact that the day's high temperature
probably did not crack sixty. Still, we had an excellent time on the numerous easy rapids
found on the lower Metolius.
probably did not crack sixty. Still, we had an excellent time on the numerous easy rapids
found on the lower Metolius.
Our miniature portage around the one river wide log on the lower Metolius gave Michelle and Middie a chance to stretch their legs.
Middie spent much more time smelling thing and eating grass during this stop than Michelle did.
Middie spent much more time smelling thing and eating grass during this stop than Michelle did.