The trip didn’t start with ghost towns or cult whispers, it started with a river that bursts straight out of the earth. A random stop on the way to Shaniko, nothing planned, just a detour that pulled us in. Sherman Campground and the Head of the Metolius River, quiet on the surface, but buzzing underneath like some prehistoric engine.

We rolled in, stretched our legs, and decided to wander. Cameras ready, boots hitting the trail, chasing that sharp clean smell of pine and water. The forest was green and alive, the kind of place that tricks you into thinking the world hasn’t gone completely to hell yet.

And then the Metolius appeared. Not a creek, not a trickle, a river, fully formed, exploding out of the ground like the planet had punched a hole in its own side. No hesitation, no warm-up, just a violent birth of cold water rushing downhill as if it had been waiting a thousand years to be free. You stand there and feel it in your bones, the power, the fury, the indifference. This wasn’t a gentle nature walk; it was the raw unveiling of something old and untamed.

We spent a few hours hiking, circling, trying to trap pieces of it with our lenses. Light cutting through the trees, moss glowing neon in the shadows, the river carving its path as if daring anyone to stand in its way. Every shot felt like theft, the place was too alive to be pinned down in pixels.

But that’s the beauty of random stops: you don’t plan them, you just collide with them. Sherman and the Metolius weren’t on the agenda, but they set the tone. The wilderness showing us its teeth right from the start, reminding us who’s really in charge.

We didn’t stay the night. We didn’t need to. A few hours there was enough, the roar of the water, the weight of the pines, the sense that the trip had already crossed the line from casual drive to fever-dream expedition.

From there, the road unspooled toward Shaniko. But the Metolius stayed with us, a river born in a single violent instant, carrying us forward whether we were ready or not.