News from Jules | 07.17.2025 | DRT or Bust: Part 7
Because she is constantly changing.
The ding-ding of my phone at 7:12 a.m. meant it had all come together. A wild idea to hike the entire Deschutes River Trail (DRT) during summer solstice was co-created into reality by having faith in community and following the way. This wasn’t about hiking anymore, but so much more.
My neighbor and former REI coworker stood on the corner of my street with her trunk open, ready to drive me and two other REI coworkers an half hour south of Bend, Ore. to the Sunriver Trailhead to start our pilgrimage—walking downstream alongside the Deschutes River for 30 miles over the next two days.
On the drive down, everybody got acquainted and learned about shared interests, including how two of the gals—not me!—compete in ultramarathons. Our driver was in the final days before her Western States 100-mile race the following week, hence being so willing to support us on the trail.
As we geared up and put on our boots in the parking lot, another car pulled up, and out hopped my friend and former Nike coworker with his dog for another joyful reunion. While we follow each other’s outdoor adventures on Instagram—thus seeing my invitation to hike the DRT—it had been over a year since we’d seen each other in person. He happened to be in Sunriver for the weekend, so he was excited to squeeze in a couple of miles with us before his remote work day.
Before setting out, they quietly gathered around me in a circle with curious eyes. They each extended a hand to receive a pinch of tobacco as an offering to the land we were passing through: May we be blessed to tread lightly and open our hearts to connect with everything around and within us.
With our bright orange REI bandanas on, our Strava tracking started, and our location shared, we waved see you later to our driver, snapped a selfie at the trailhead, and finally stepped onto the trail.
We were immediately in the thick of the forest and no longer on the edge of a suburban resort development built in the 1960s. Red Ponderosa Pine trees, green shrubs, and white wildflowers bordered the narrow soil path as we chatted small talk in a single file until the trail widened to where we could walk side-by-side and I could real talk with my friend and his pup about his new job, kids’ college search, and recent outdoor adventures.
About a mile in, we emerged from the forest with collective oohing and ahhing at the rippling river before us, bordered by dark lava rock, bright green grasses, and the lush coniferous forest pointing up to the clear blue sky. And then we grew quiet.
This was not the spring-fed source of the river, but as the first encounter on our hike, it was also special. This was why we were here.
The headwaters of the Deschutes River are at Little Lava Lake, a natural lake in the Cascade Mountain Range about 10 miles southwest of Mt. Bachelor as the crow flies. The river does a huge U-turn, flowing south into the man-made Crane Prairie Reservoir (circa 1922), then into the man-made Wickiup Reservoir (circa 1949), where it bends in a northeasterly direction past the former WWII military camp turned resort community of Sunriver (circa 1965) and into the city of Bend, about 170 miles from its terminus into the Columbia River. All in all, she flows 252 continuous miles, bringing life to four counties in Oregon, according to Wikipedia.
See fun photos & videos of DRT: Day 1 on Instagram.
After my out-of-town friend turned around at the river, the three of us continued hiking while quietly observing our surroundings. The swish of the breeze through the tall grass, the creak of the swaying tree trunks, the chirping birds bobbing from tree to tree. The peace and quiet.
There was a rustle up ahead on the trail, and I got excited. Was it the next friend to join our path?
Alas, an older man and his dog approached, then stopped to say hi. He was surprised to see us on his serene morning walk, especially geared up for our trek, but seemed delighted to share his daily devotion with fellow nature lovers.
As we walked alongside the winding river, our small talk also turned to real talk, and I shared the question my personal coach had posed during our call a few days before the solstice: What did we want to release to the river during our walk?
On El Camino de Santiago, which he had walked over a decade ago, there are many traditions, including carrying a scallop shell to identify oneself as a fellow pilgrim—like our REI bandanas—and tossing a stone at El Cruz de Ferro, about halfway along the most popular route, to symbolize the pilgrim’s journey thus far. We decided to ponder this question as we walked and kept an eye out for pinecones, instead of rocks, to toss in the river at the end of the trail.
Before we knew it, we descended into the next trailhead’s parking lot just as my Climate Resilience co-organizer’s car drove up the road, waving hello before she and her two kids hopped out to zoom alongside us on their bikes for the next few miles.
The three- and five-year-olds’ joy and silliness were infectious, and we were laughing so loud we didn’t even hear the slowly flowing water turn into rapids practically until we arrived at the head of the waterfall crashing through the deep canyon. Things grew even more rowdy while I was riding the three-year-old’s bike down to the viewing platform and somehow ripped a hole in the knee of my leggings.
The kids went remarkably far, but inevitably petered out and turned around while we continued onward as the hilly trail became flat and the raging river turned into wetlands full of cattails and wild irises. When we stopped to take selfies with wildflowers throughout the morning, we also started decorating each other’s hats with grasses, flowers, and feathers we found along the way.
We made our first pit stop at the next trailhead bathroom, then stopped at my favorite waterfall for our lunch break over halfway to our day’s destination. We each found a spot on the volcanic boulder outcroppings, quietly unpacked our lunches, and munched away. Mesmerized by the persistent and powerful pounding of the river through this canyon—like the heartbeat of this body of water—I remembered my first time here last summer and how it felt like an especially sacred part of the river.
A place where one can feel how ancient the river is and yet always new. Her current course formed by lava flows some 500-1,500 years before the Greek philosopher Heraclitus said, “No [woman] ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and [she’s] not the same person.”
Because she is constantly changing. I grasped how this body of water—fed by the source, as well as snow melt and rain, and released through evaporation—was so similar to myself, drinking and sweating to retain equilibrium in my own body of water.
See our route on Day 1 via Strava tracking.
With tummies full of protein and gummy bears, we set back out on the trail as it quickly descended through the canyon, rapids giving way to still waters flowing through the swamp lands again between the forest and the water.
We realized we had been out of service for a couple of hours, so I was surprised to see my phone ringing while I was taking a picture of the quaking aspen trees. A few minutes later, we cheered as our REI coworker came jogging around the corner while cooling down from her training run, then hiked the next mile with us back to her car. It was just the little perk up we needed in our post-lunch lethargy to keep pushing onward.
The river continued shifting between calmness and wildness—and everything in between—as we hiked past churning rapids, a mile-long island made of lava, caves where indigenous hunting parties sheltered, irrigation ponds created by settlers, and eventually huge homes built in the cliffs and down by the shore on private land so we could no longer walk by the river.
Just like the flow of friends coming and going on the trail, our conversation ebbed and flowed between silence and sharing. In the quiet moments, I realized how many miles I would have walked by myself if these coworkers hadn’t joined me.
I would have been the only one to go the whole distance.
As we started to share our thoughts about what we might be ready to release to the river, we learned more about each other. What brought each of us to Bend and to REI? What was keeping us here and where else might we go? When had we felt in deep community with our strongest sense of belonging? What were we scared of letting go, and what else were we longing for?
And every so often in the lull of someone’s deep share, I would bellow my awkward signature burp and we would all burst out giggling.
Mid-afternoon, our driver texted to see if we needed anything. Due to global positioning system (GPS) live tracking on Strava, I was getting down to 10 percent battery left on my phone, so yes, I needed an older iPhone charging cord, and in lieu of that: We needed cookies! Several miles later, we once again rounded a bend and cheered when we saw her sitting on the sandy shore of the river holding up a baggie of chocolate chip cookies, which we promptly devoured.
As we hiked away from the river into the more arid desert forest, the warmer temperatures caused my sweat to start making my crisply sunburned stomach blister. And the further we went my chronic Iliotibial band (IT) syndrome flared up—as the overused muscle that runs down the outside of my leg constricts, it creates a constant, dull pain in my right outer knee and hip joints—so catching up with my friend about her ultramarathon training, new job, and housing search since she left REI a few months ago was a very welcome distraction over the last couple of miles for the day.
With the increasing fatigue and discomfort, it was harder to notice all the beauty around us, but we still cried out in awe and took pictures when something special caught our eyes. A woodpecker, a bright yellow wildflower, a trail sign showing just how close we were.
Once we arrived at her car parked at Loge, a boutique chain of motels and the mid-way point in our journey, our driver pulled out more candy that we gratefully gobbled down while taking off our sweaty socks and boots and switching into what we’d left in her car that morning. Some 15 miles from where we started our day—the first official day of summer—it was time for some well-earned beers, a quick soak, a big meal, and then a long rest before we completed the second half of our pilgrimage the following day.
May you go the distance this week.
Love,
Jules
P.S. See the whole DRT hike in Google Photos. Photo Credits: Susannah Gingo, Melanie Mitchell, Becky Grebosky, Joe Marquez, and Yung Hae Cho.
Read all posts in the “DRT or Bust” series: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7 & Part 8
Love the questions, laughs, beauty, rush of water, adventure on the solstice! I am transported there! It also makes me think that this day of hiking would be a good adventure for me to do.
I miss Sunriver and the walks in the forest!