MCKENZIE RIVER VALLEY, Ore. -- It's early and the sun is peeking out in slivers from behind craggy edges of the Cascades. I've just driven 3 1/2 miles up a frosty, winding road in anticipation of taking the first dip of the day in Terwilliger Hot Springs, which trickles down to Cougar Lake and eventually, the McKenzie River.

Lucy, the beaglelike mutt, thumps her tail, knowing that roads like this always lead to woodsy trails where she can scramble through underbrush and dart way ahead of me. I am slightly miffed to see an old silver pickup in the parking area, but there's frost on it, so maybe I still have the place to myself.

Lucy and I park and take the quarter-mile hike through the woods. A cedar-lined lane brings us to a rustic footbridge. I can see steam from the springs climbing up through the trees. Thick silence.

SEATTLE POST-INTELLIGENCER

I feel like Eve about to take a dip in the official Garden of Eden hot springs. Until I see "Adam." At the top pool, there's a guy and his dog; the guy is getting ready to put on his clothes. He seems equally surprised to see me. I mumble an apology and hang back, busying myself by reading an information kiosk.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice what looks like a branch moving. A closer look reveals an enormous raven, with at least a 5-foot wingspan, which swoops up and flaps away, obviously annoyed at the disturbance of its peace.

The guy -- we'll just call him Adam from now on -- has finally dressed and collected his things, and we chat in the middle of the path, our dogs sniffing each other. Turns out Adam lives nearby and has been coming here for more than 20 years.

"It's a way for me to relax. It's a spiritual experience. It hasn't changed a whole lot," he says, mentioning that there have been some structural improvements, but that's about it. He also thinks the pools have expanded over time. And that the raven was talking to him. Huh?

"Adam communed with the creatures," he says. "Sometimes I try to contemplate it. It says that Adam named the animals. Well, who named the plants?"

Stumped, I excuse myself and make my way down to the hot springs, which are so clean and clear and lovely in their turquoise-streaked volcanic pools. If Olympic and Sol Duc hot springs of Washington's Olympic Peninsula are Super 8 motels, this is the Four Seasons.

Maintained by the Blue River District of the Willamette National Forest, this series of descending pools, each about 10 feet in diameter, is a gift from a volcano that erupted 20 million to 30 million years ago.

Quiet but not to be forgotten, the volcano reminds us of its presence by heating underground springs with hot magma and then spitting out the 100- to 136-degree streams at about 60 gallons a minute.

I strip and dip a toe in the pool and ease into the heat. I float on my back and splash around, certain that the minerals are working wonders on my skin and soul. With a digital camera, I take pictures of myself that turn out wonderfully misty.

After trying all the pools -- they get cooler as I make my way down -- I pack up and head back to the car, on the way to my next McKenzie River adventure.

In summer, the McKenzie River Valley bustles with anglers, hikers, rafters, kayakers and other tourists; in winter, it's a quiet escape where you can find yourself alone on a trail or at a waterfall, or nearly alone.

According to Eric Bergland, an archaeologist with the U.S. Forest Service, Native Americans took root in this area at least 10,000 years ago, judging from obsidian spear points found in the region.

While it's tough to date (or name) the civilization exactly, the people left cultural clues on just about every ridgeline and travel route.

"It's my professional belief that these were the ancestors of the Molalla Indians," Bergland says.

"They settled in the Cascades and lived here and had it all beautifully figured out until about 1,000 or 2,000 years ago." Then volcanic eruptions forced the people to move. A lava floe dammed the McKenzie River to form Clear Lake, a pristine, sparkling pool lined with Douglas firs that date back 2,700 years.

Because this area lacked the resources found at the Columbia River -- notably, rich salmon runs -- the people likely were masterful hunter-gatherers who developed their own breed of hunting dog. Which makes my dog, Lucy, seem even more useless; she won't even fetch.

Donald Mackenzie laid his name on the 90-mile river that descends from the Santiam Pass area, sidles down the slopes of the Cascades' Three Sisters range and eventually joins the Willamette River north of Eugene.

Mackenzie (1783-1851), an explorer with the Astor expedition, made his way through the region in 1812 to either study the topography or trade for beaver pelts, or both, depending on whose account you believe. Agriculture wasn't a realistic economy because of the valley's isolation. Now, however, there are a handful of filbert orchards.

European settlers arrived in the late 1860s, drawn by the recreational opportunities so abundant then and today. They soaked in the springs, fished for trout, rafted and hunted for game.

By the turn of the century, stagecoaches were regularly bringing loads of vacationers from Eugene.

In the 1930s, President Franklin D. Roosevelt's Civilian Conservation Corps set up campgrounds, blazed trails and built the McKenzie Ranger Station. Since then, Bergland says, the valley has "provided a real stunning contrast to urban lives."

Another day I am eating breakfast at the McKenzie River Inn, where I meet Bob Miner and Joanna Stevens of Ashland, Ore.

They come to get away and let the river's lull have its way with them. They write. They read and nap. They hike the numerous trails along the river that lead up to secluded, glassy lakes.

Miner spent an hour the previous afternoon watching geese fly upstream just six or seven inches above the water's surface, land, float back down and then start all over again.

"This is one of the most beautiful rivers I've ever seen," Stevens says.

They provide me with a list of things to do, and I set off. First, I find Deer Creek hot springs -- after a prolonged detour. I park in the designated area, hike a mile and a half along the first trail I see and decide that this must not be it. Lucy and I retrace our steps and realize that the falls is on the other side of the road, right where the sign says it's supposed to be.

I take a perilous path that wends up a hillside, get that feeling that I'm going the wrong way again and give up. On my way back to the car, I see a man lounging in the steaming pool, not 30 feet from the trailhead, with an entire picnic splayed out on the bank.

I swallow my chagrin and cast a wry look at Lucy, who thinks all the hiking is just fine and wonders what's next.

I decide to pursue something more obvious. Koosah Falls and Sahalie Falls are a package deal, even though they are 1.3 miles apart. Joined by a well-maintained loop trail that pretty much anyone can take, they also are individually accessible from the main road. Their names translate from the Chinook jargon to mean sky, high or heaven.

Koosah Falls streams in two torrents 80 to 120 feet high, with a rainbow hovering above the surface of the lava-lined depository. Upstream, Sahalie thunders down 140 feet. There are excellent viewpoints below and above the falls.

Feeling triumphant that I have mastered at least two water formations on my trip -- waterfalls and hot springs -- I decide to take on a third before daylight runs out. I head to Smith Reservoir, where I've been told me there is a secret hike that only locals take, from a place called Trail Bridge.

The water is, indeed, magnificent in its serenity, a perfect reflection of mountains bouncing off the glassine surface. Of course, I can't find the trailhead for Trail Bridge. And I'm getting tired. So I head back to my riverside cabin, where a steak and Cabernet await.

On the way back, I stop by the Delta Old Growth Trail, nestled behind a closed campground.

There is no one around. I park and trek past cold fire pits and trees dripping with wintertime moss. I find the trailhead, no problem, and marvel at the Western red cedars and Douglas firs, eight feet in diameter.

I am not sure what compels me to do this, but I can't help but throw my arms around the trunk of one. Insert tree-hugger joke here if you must, but I swear on my dog's dish that I felt a bolt of energy shoot up from the ground and somehow connect me to that tree.

Tears streamed down my face. I said "thank you" to my new foliage friend. And at that moment, I could have been the first woman, or the last, on Earth.

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