COVERED IN MUD from head to toe, I surveyed my options. On one side was the Gifford Pinchot National Forest, which encompasses Mount St. Helens, Mount Adams, and 1.3 million acres of some of the harshest and most barren wilderness in Washington State. On the other side was the cold, wide Columbia River. Its currents were treacherous, and I knew if I fell in my chances for survival were slim. I had to make the right decision.
So I let my masseuse—a very pleasant woman from New Jersey named Eileen—wrap me in a warm, cotton blanket, which was part of the Rejuvenating Mud Wrap treatment at the Skamania Lodge’s Waterleaf Spa, where I wallowed. After a short nap, I showered off the mud, took a sauna, and decided which bottle of wine to have with dinner. You know, really roughing it.
The Skamania Lodge in the tiny town of Stevenson may be in one of the most remote areas in Washington, but its creatures are comforts, and the worst exposure one can suffer here is getting chilled while scampering to the most-excellent outdoor hot tub. And rural Skamania County—a two-and-half-hour drive south and east from Seattle—may not have the cultural attractions of, say, Wenatchee, but few places can compete with its natural beauty.
The show begins as you head east on Highway 14 from Vancouver and pass through the Portland suburbs of Camas and Washougal. The Columbia River’s to the right, tall mountains straight ahead. Entering Skamania County puts you on an ascending path up a headland that, hundreds of feet in elevation later, comes out to reveal a stunning vista at Cape Horn, with the river now far below and cutting through mountains on both sides. This is the beginning of the Columbia River Gorge National Scenic Area, an 80-mile long stretch of the river where the canyon walls can rise as much as 4,000 feet, seemingly straight up.
Later there’s Beacon Rock State Park, named for a sheer, 848-foot column of basalt, a landmark for everyone from Native Americans to those intrepid bad spellers, Lewis and Clark. In October 1805, with their long, painful slog to the ocean nearly finished, Clark wrote of a “remarkable high detached rock…we call the Beaten Rock.” On the return trip the following year, they amended it to Beacon Rock, which became the official name in 1916 after a few years of being called Castle Rock.
Published: May 2009
