This hike actually happened months ago, but I finally got around to writing about it now. Time for a two-part tale of my Rogue River Trail adventure, which sadly didn’t feature any hobbits, but did in fact feature caves and guns and plenty of poison oak.

2020 was a weird year to plan a hike. Any long trails requiring resupplies or trail town stops were out of the question due to covid, and in the weeks before my scheduled time off work, nearly the entire west coast caught on fire. But this year, more than ever, I needed a break out away from everything, so I forged ahead with making plans to hike the Rogue River Trail with my youngest sister, Alaina. (Britta was sadly unable to join us this time.)

The Rogue River Trail had caught my eye early on when researching trails I could hike in a week. The southern Oregon trail was forty miles one way, which meant a nice 80 miles if we parked at one end and hiked there and back. Bonus: this trail was supposedly a safe plan even into October, when many trails risked having snow already. (We hiked the week of 9/27-10/3, and enjoyed weather in the 90s all week long.) This was my first “yo-yo”, an out and back, and while I was initially unsure if it’d be fun to spend half the hike covering ground I’d already traveled, it ended up being an absolutely fantastic experience.

DAY ONE: Driving up to Foster Bar – the western end of the trail where we planned to park the car – was more of an adventure than I’d expected. We followed the GPS across a one-lane bridge and up onto an extremely twisty road full of obstacles. We’d round a hairpin corner, and there’d be a large, fallen branch over half the road. Round the next one, and chances were good there’d be an errant boulder directly in front of us. Alaina drove, I yelled helpfully from the passenger seat, and together we white-knuckled it up to the boat launch parking lot, which was surprisingly full.

We parked and walked the supposed one mile from the parking lot to the trail head, but which was probably half that in reality.

The first day’s hiking was lovely even though two things quickly became clear. One: the reports of abundant poison oak on the trail were not exaggerated. The waxy scarlet and green leaves were everywhere – carpeting the ground beneath trees, stretching out over the trail, growing up between the rocks. If you happen to be highly allergic, this trail is not for you. And two: because the trail hugged the side of the canyon, level spots to stop and take a break were few and far between. We ended up sitting directly on the trail for lunch that first day since we hadn’t seen another person in hours. Of course, Murphy’s law meant that we had to scramble to move just minutes into our delicious avocado, bean, & tortilla wraps when a hiker rounded the bend.

It was a warm day, but there were enough trees to provide a good mix of sun and shade. We saw a bunch of boaters out on the river, only a few hikers, and one completely gorgeous waterfall.

We’d planned to stop around twelve miles in, but a giant party of rafters at the target campsite thwarted our plans. Rather than risk getting no sleep, we walked on another two miles to a small and quiet campsite tucked right next a tributary up above the Rogue River. There was a both a bear box and a hoist at this campsite since the area is known for bear encounters, but after ten minutes spent attempting to open the bear box, we decided it was broken, opting to hang any food which didn’t fit in the bear canister we’d brought.

We sat out on the giant rocks above the Rogue to eat a cold-soaked ramen dinner, then fell asleep to the sounds of rushing water.

DAY TWO: The morning started out with a visit from a friendly mountain goat, who was breakfasting on delicious rose hips just below our camp. He was kind enough to stick around for a selfie before moving on.

The section of trail from our campsite up past the halfway point was perhaps the most gorgeous stretch of the trail – sheer rock faces both above and below the trail, with the Rogue River foaming along between the rocks at the very bottom of the canyon.

From there, we continued on and passed the halfway point, spying a ring-necked snake as well as a rattler. There were a couple miles of a gravel and dirt road in the middle, which included a bridge quite clearly marked as closed (to cars, we’re assuming).

Did we walk past the signs saying “Bridge Closed” and “Danger-Bridge Out-Danger”, and obey the horror-movie-esque spray-painted directions to walk across the bridge?

Yes, yes we did.

With temperatures soaring into the nineties, we took shelter at a cool stream for a late lunch. It was a struggle to get back on the trail in the heat, and we ended up moving slowly the rest of the day, finally camping just before six o’clock after eleven miles.

DAY THREE: We got a nice start and were on the trail before 7:30, probably because I was jumping around and noisily packing things up until Alaina gave up on trying to sleep.

We got some good miles in before lunch at another cool creek. It was blisteringly hot again that afternoon, but we used my favorite-ever hiking strategy of soaking our buffs in water and wearing them around our necks until they’d dried out. A small thing, but one which always makes hiking in the heat seem reasonably comfortable to me.

At one point, we passed an unfortunate river rafter who’d gotten stranded. The man’s bright red raft was folded nearly in half over a rock in the middle of some rapids on the Rogue. He stood in the middle of the raft, ignoring the water swirling around him, yelling back and forth with the groups gathered on shore.

There must have been at least a half dozen kayaks and rafts and boats already on the scene, and even more people, all of them scheming a way out of the predicament. The bank between the trail and the river was far too steep for Alaina and I to go down to offer our help, so we moved on, silently wishing them all the best of luck.

One of my favorite parts in this section of trail were the giant ferns. The scale can be difficult to grasp from pictures, but many were nearly as tall as me, making it feel a little bit like walking through Jurassic Park. I wouldn’t have been surprised to run into a T-Rex.

By the time evening arrived, we’d nearly reached the eastern end of the trail. Dusk was settling in, and we decided to camp at a site which was only 1.7 miles from the end.

The campsite we’d chosen was below the main trail and down a short access path. Although there was room for a number of campsites, we had the whole place to ourselves – or, we did, until suddenly a man appeared on the access path. He was walking quickly, appearing to focus directly on us instead of glancing around to see what other campsites were open.

The first thing I noticed was the small daypack on his back, certainly not large enough for a tent or overnighter. We were close enough to the trailhead that running into a day hiker wouldn’t be unusual at all, except it was getting dark, and this man had just left the main trail to head further down toward these campsites and a side trail winding off along the river.

The second thing I noticed was the gun, strapped to a holster across his chest. This was around the time he started yelling over to us.

“Hey! Hey!”

“Hi,” I called back, still trying to piece together the situation.

“You hiking or rafting?”

Well. Our giant backpacks sitting on the ground should probably have been a clue, but I answered anyway, because it felt safer to have a disarming, friendly conversation. “Hiking.”

“Where’d you start?”

Despite this conversation mimicking every typical hiker conversation — the wheres and how fars — it felt less casual. I’d stood up from my seat atop the bear canister, where I’d been waiting for our dinner to cold-soak. Alaina was also standing, smiling agreeably, but it seemed clear she thought this conversation was a bit stranger than the other ones we’d shared with hikers.

“We started back at Foster Bar,” I answered.

The man’s forehead creased, as though thinking intently. “Okay so like you’ve been past – what is it – Bronco Creek? You passed Whisky Creek?”

We’d also passed Booze Creek and Rum Creek, all within the span of several miles, making it clear what was on the minds of the miners who probably named them. “Yeah, we did.”

“Did you notice any foul odors? Strong smells when you were walking?”

What the heck. Alaina and I looked at each other, puzzled.

“No?” she said.

I shook my head as well. “I didn’t?”

“Oh,” the man said. “Well, we got reports of a strong smell in this area from someone, and there was a hiker who went missing back in June, so we’re checking it out.”

He went on to explain more details, completely oblivious to the fact that maybe – just maybe – he should have led with this information, and we promised to keep an eye out for anything. And then he was off, heading out to go scout out the area before eventually returning and bidding us goodnight on his way back to the trailhead.

Overwhelmingly the people I meet on trail are wonderful and kind and the very best sort of people; the trail community is one of the reasons I love hiking. And this guy was likely part of a volunteer search and rescue group, which is a vital job. But here’s the thing: if you’re a guy out hiking, just be aware of how you approach other people. Did it feel unsafe? No, not really. A little uncomfortable? Yeah, a bit.

After settling back down from this encounter, we ate our dinner and crashed. It was a warm night, and I fell asleep with the excitement of knowing we’d reach the end tomorrow, and then get to turn right around. We had nearly 40 miles down, just over 40 to go.