There’s a butte, and then there’s a BUTTE.

The former is the quick-jaunt butte requiring less than an hour of your time, and little in the way of gear or preparation. Bessie, Lava and Pilot are prime examples. Each rises somewhere around 450 to 500 feet in prominence, making for quick uphill hikes of a mile or so that even the not-so-fit can make it up sans (much) complaint.

The fitness crowd can sprint up these with large, life-loving grins, which the mortals on the trail politely try to reciprocate before the runner passes and their smiles dissolve into sneers.

But I digress. However quickly you arrive at their summits, these buttes have much to recommend them — including some spectacular views of the high desert, Smith Rock, various peaks and, yes, more buttes.

By BUTTE, I mean the doozy, the whopper, the one Sir Mix-A-Lot would like if you removed the E. I’m talking about a butte so imposing it might as well be a mountain.

I’m talking about Black Butte, which my wife, Catherine, and I hiked up June 21. It was the first day after sending our three kids to Illinois for a couple of weeks with the grandparents, an annual tradition of four years.

It’s taken years for me to accept — and I’m sure someone will feel compelled to email me about their successful techniques for dislodging kids from furniture — but in our household, it’s just easier to recreate without making the kids participate.

Over the years, I’ve bribed — “Village Baker or Cuppa Yo after?” — and cajoled — “C’mon! You always have fun once you get there!” — and shamed “You don’t do anything!” more than I care to remember. Now, I just tell myself I’m setting a good example and head out the door without them, heart heavy even as I take part in earth’s two freest, legal forms of therapy: exercise and the outdoors.

When the kids are gone, so’s the guilt and hand-wringing. After six-plus hours in the car the day before, we didn’t hesitate to jump back in the car for the 40-minute drive to Black Butte.

To get there from Bend take U.S. Highway 20 through Sisters, continuing on 20 another 6 miles. Watch for signs on the right for Forest Road 11/Indian Ford Camp. Continue on 11 another 3.9 miles and turn left onto Forest Road 1110 and follow it for about 5 more winding, gravelly miles to the trailhead. A four-wheel drive, higher-clearance vehicle would make the washboard sections a little smoother, but our front-wheel drive minivan made it just fine.

Even the drive is scenic in that Camp Sherman, Metolius-area manner, at least for passengers not preoccupied with staying on the road, and it puts you a good ways — 4,880 feet — up the 6,436-foot butte.

The summertime crowds were out in force judging by all the cars in the parking area. Fortunately, if you’re willing to walk a short distance, which you of course are or you wouldn’t be there, there’s plenty of parking to be had. Just don’t forget $5 for the day fee or your Northwest Forest Pass.

As we walked to the trailhead along the road, we had the misfortune of seeing a man urinating next to a tree. Mercifully his back was to us. He was directly across from the public toilets — not to mention surrounded by miles of forest — but he had to do his business right in the parking area, with lots of people around. Stay classy, dude.

Our arrival time of noon meant we were somewhat in between the morning and afternoon crowds. As we hiked up, group after pair after family passed us on their descents. Our hopes for a little more solitude up top were stoked by this, figuring that many of these belonged with the vehicles down below, harboring hopes that the summit of this composite volcano would be less crowded than we’d assumed it would be.

While I’m on the subject of traffic: It may indeed be the case that “It’s hard to stop when you’re going downhill!” as one older gent said as we stepped aside for his party. Nevertheless, it bears repeating — downhill traffic yields to uphill. It’s proper trail etiquette.

Most hikers seem content to play a sort of hiking-trail game of chicken each time they pass someone in a narrow spot on the trail. I didn’t mind at first, but on a more crowded trail, it gets old quick, stepping aside for people who wrongly think they have some sort of bigger claim on the trail.

The two-mile trail up Black Butte is a steep climb in places, and it’s not always easy to find a spot to step aside. But it’s single-track, quite narrow much of the way, which makes it all the more important to give other parties room.

OK, back to the hike. The first mile is beautifully forested with ponderosas and mixed conifers and other plant-life. My wife, who’d never done the hike, was surprised by the amount of vegetation. Even after emerging from the forest, the butte’s face is full of manzanita, blooming Indian paintbrush, lupin and other treats.

Up top, where there were still plenty of people milling around, we gawked at peaks as far away as Washington’s Mount Adams. But it was getting to see Three Fingered Jack, Mount Washington and Mount Jefferson up close that was the highlight.

We relaxed with some trail mix and our bottled water. I was surprised by how many hikers I saw who didn’t even appear to be carrying water. For once, we seemed to be the better-prepared hikers. Usually, it’s the other way around.

After taking photos of the mountains and fire-watch structures that have endured the harsh elements for decades, we reluctantly made the decision to start back to the car. Watch for rocks, plenty of which pepper the trail. For some reason, they seem easier to miss at a slightly faster downhill pace.

On the way down, we made plans to get our dusty, hungry selves to Three Creeks Brewing in Sisters for a late lunch/early dinner.

And darn if that man hadn’t been right: It wasn’t easy to stop on the way down. Mostly because that was the path leading to food.

— Reporter: 541-383-0349, djasper@bendbulletin.com