Fear and Loathing at Crater Lake
Agony and the deepest lake in North America
Crossing the country in three white vans, we see mountains and lakes, hills and valleys, mesas and cuestas, rivers and deserts. These landscapes are distinct and unlike anything we’ve seen before, many of us never having been west of the 100th meridian before. We see a new landscape with each new state, or even each new stop. There’s one thing these landscapes have in common: they are all sublime.
It’s a Saturday morning in July. We pack up from camp in our sweatshirts and apprehensively grab our bathing suits, still groggy from sleep. We drive north to Crater Lake. After knowing many other students who went on IFP in past years, I knew what we were really looking forward to, but I didn’t see it upon arrival. Incredible fog coated the mountain roads and trees. Most of us fall asleep (as usual) on the drive, and we woke up to this oblivion. Someone opened the door, exposing us to a sharp chill.
Coming from Georgia, we hadn’t experienced that cold since February. We walked to the lookout for a lecture bundled up in three layers and hats. The water was almost undetectable. The bluest water in North America appeared faded and grayish. A large amorphous shape, later revealed to be the resurgent dome Wizard Island, could only be vaguely identified.
Paulo and Doug told us about this very unique place. A huge lake: the deepest in North America at almost a mile deep and nearly six miles across with almost no life. The eruption that occurred here in what was Mount Mazama 7,700 years ago was cataclysmic. Magma and ash erupted 30 miles into the atmosphere and blew off thousands of feet of elevation from the mountain. Silica-rich, this magma had been building up for hundreds of thousands of years. From the magnitude of the eruption, the caldera that formed collapsed in on itself and the crater deepened. Resurgent domes formed, and the caldera filled with water.
As we began to understand the magnitude of the events that formed this massive landform, the sky began to clear and the incredible blue water finally revealed itself. A color so blue you were under the impression that it can only exist in artificial dyes and inks. The water comes mostly from rain and snowmelt down the sides of a relatively lifeless crater, so it contains very little nutrients by the time it reaches the lake itself. Low nutrients in the water then cause the lack of life in the lake that allows UV rays to penetrate the water and reflect the blue sky so beautifully. There’s something really special about that. It’s the absence of life that gives you this feeling of being so alive.
Then there’s the fear.
In 18th century British literature, a discussion regarding the sublime and the beautiful ensued among writers. Of them, Joseph Addison wrote in The Spectator, no. 412:
“Whatever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain and danger, that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible…is the source of the sublime, that is, it is productive of the strongest emotion which the mind is capable of feeling…But at certain distances, and with certain modifications, they may be, and they are delightful, as we everyday experience.”
The sublime is also characterized in this discussion by inciting astonishment and by amazing vastness. Crater Lake is incredibly vast. The viewer cannot see the entire width of the lake at once, and cannot begin to comprehend the depth, but the clear, rich blue water allows you to see into the water itself. This is a site that astonishes upon first viewing it. There is very little noise from our group when we first come upon a new place. The magnificence speaks for itself. Words seem small and irrelevant. In a sense, Addison is right about it being terrible, and on IFP, we do experience it everyday.
To witness the immensity of this place, as well as many others this summer, is also to feel incredibly small. As an individual and as a populace, we are so small. Somewhere like Crater Lake holds a unique timelessness, and we can relate to the words of a writer who lived hundreds of years ago through this place. It’s both wonderful and terrible. From a distance, on a lookout or on a hike, these places are indeed delightful.
From not so safe a distance, like on a cliff 15 feet in the air above 45-degree water, I agree with Addison — it is terrible. I was one of the lucky 14 students to jump into the icy depths of the lake from such a height. In this circumstance in which pain and danger are excited like Addison describes, you are unable to think of anything but the drop below and the following impact of the surface of the water. You are consumed by the strongest emotion: fear. Reluctantly, and after much convincing and moral support from the rest of IFP as well as other park visitors, I leapt off the edge, terrified.The impact of the cold water is a shock to my system, and I don’t waste any time swimming to the surface. Opening your eyes doesn’t necessarily help; the clear water allows you to see far beneath you.
This water is not merely “refreshing” like Georgia’s man made lakes in the summer, but more shocking, causing my muscles to freeze up, making it very difficult to actually get out of the cold water. Once I’m out, I see the rest of IFP clapping, cheering, and smiling at me, loving and proud. The agony of the experience is erased, fear turns to delight, and I’m proud of myself too.
