Shellburg Falls (1st hike of the 33)

This adventure began with a wrong turn. Those who know me, know that I have a tendency to get lost. However, just as I lose my way I learn to find it again, though not always by turning back. That's how this morning began. I turned early off the highway onto the road I knew I was to take. My old car chugged up the hill groaning a bit at the incline. Well past the 1.3 mile spot where the trailhead should have been the country side was covered with golden grasses, isolated country homes and aging barns. Not a trickle or stream in sight. Without them a waterfall seemed unlikely. I contemplated my wrong turn and considered doubling back. The road had risen up the ridge and the vista with hills glowing in the morning sun seemed more appropriate than the raging tunnel of the highway. I rightly assumed that the road I had taken must wind back down to the spot where I should have turned.

Tucked into the rolling Santiam foothills off Highway 22 on the way up into the Cascades is Shellburg Falls. From the five car parking lot on Fern Ridge Rd. with a bent day-use recreation sign I headed up the gravel road. At 9:30am it was already warm and humid. The sky wasn't quite blue, but streaked with a bright cottony haze. The road passed through overgrown fields lined with tall and overgrown Christmas tress. I had been hoping for a myriad of wildflowers dotting the roadside, instead a few blackberry brambles, some Queen Anne's lace, an occasional thistle and a bright yellow flower shaped like miniature daisies were all that noticed. Despite it being the first weekend in August, the blackberries, with the exception of those right close to the trailhead, had not yet ripened. Gravel crunched under my feet and beads of sweat began rolling down my temples less than half a mile up the way. The smell of drying grass hung in the air. Occasional cattle grids in the road caused me to step more carefully.

Soon I passed a grove of five to six foot Christmas trees all lined up perfectly. It seemed a great place to play hide and seek, if I were younger. After that point trees and forest more closely lined the road, offering more shade, but little relief from the humidity. My GPS indicated that the official trail had not yet been reached and I fought the urge to wander off on the paths leading off into the woods. When I first caught glimpse of the forest boundary sign, I let out a little whoop eager to escape the crushing sound of gravel under foot, but it was few tenths of a mile too soon. Just about where William Sullivan's guide book said it would be, there appeared a trail marker and signboard. Unfortunately, some vandalous hiker had removed all of the signs from the board. I gave myself a pat on the back for having grabbed a copy of the trail map at the trailhead.


Here I paused to snap a few pictures out to the south, a landscape of seemingly infinite mountains. With the light and the haze, only at certain angles did the photographs appear to have any depth to them. I pondered how many climbable peaks there may be out there, and what treasures they might hide. Then I drank down a good portion of water and ascended the shored up stairs behind the trail marker. Not but a few steps down the path the sensation of sticky spiderwebs clinging to my limbs sent me into a semi frenzied dance. I'd free myself only to take a few more steps and begin the dance again. I couldn't help but wonder when the last person had trekked up that trail.

Almost too quickly a sign post for the lower falls came into view. I scrambled down to the lookout point through more spiderwebs. The thought had occurred to me that I might arrive to find a dry waterfall. after all, the last rains were already erased from my memory. Record temperatures had oppressed us for nearly a week. The trickling of water gave me hope, that I had not come to see an imaginary cascade, but that in fact there might be something tangible there. Water was indeed falling, but it was falling like from a shower head with weak pressure. More impressive than the water, was the giant rock formation over which it tumbled.



After a short scramble down to the puddle beneath the falls I decided to continue on my trek. I had forgotten that the trail description had mentioned how the path cut under the boulder behind the waterfall. The view was beautiful with the sunlight catching on the water so it fell like shards of crystal. However, soon the realization that tons of rock were balanced above my head and a decent earthquake might change the shape of the local scenery, squashing me in the process, sent me scurrying out from under the outcropping.

Once above the falls I walked happily, briefly imagining that everyone else in the world had disappeared. There was no work to return to, no stores to shop at, no farmers, no restaurants, civilization was suddenly gone. And for a few moments, it didn't disturb me. For that brief period of time, I was willing to eke out a livelihood there in the forest. As soon as the path ended at the upper trailhead I sighed, not relieved, but accepting.

Once again I was dumped on a gravel road to trek back down to my vehicle. Had I paid a bit more attention to the legend on the trail map, I might have taken a more picturesque, perhaps even longer, trail part way back. Instead, I crunched on down the gravel road, the upper portion dotted with slowly withering purple foxglove.

Trail distance R/T: 4.3 miles according to my GPS, but it cut out for a little bit around the waterfall. Sullivan lists it as a 4.8 mile loop.

I found this trail thanks to William L. Sullivan's 100 Hikes in the Central Oregon Cascades (3rd ed.)