Back Roads in Oregon

[TexasShadow]

Day 6: Crack-in-the-Ground

It was another morning of our normal routine that was well established by now: wake up and think about crawling out of a nice warm down sleeping bag in the cold, think about the shock of exposing one's self to the cold and trying to move your stiff limbs, think about how nice a hot mug of coffee would be, think about trying to go back to sleep.

By now, my routine was sleeping in the cold weather Underarmors with socks, having my Duofold longjohn shirt and fleece pants folded into a square with thick socks in the middle, all tucked in between my knees in the sleeping bag (I have to have a pillow between my knees to sleep). They were warmed by my body heat and available to pull on while I slink out of the warm bag. This kept the body heat loss to a minimum. My thick sweat shirt was wrapped around my tiny pillow, also warm, and lined riding pants folded and kept inside the dry bag next to the tent door on my side, along with my boots. It was a process practiced out of necessity, fine tuned and worked well.

We both rose before sunrise and watched the colors develop in the eastern sky, which we faced on the mountainside. Coffee was delightful as we warmed and went through the routine of tearing down and packing the gear. I can't stress enough how simplicity is the key on a trip like this. Pack and carry as little as you can get away with. Yet, those two little camp chairs added a touch of comfort and enjoyment while we sat with coffee and watched life unfold around us, or watched the bright spots in a dark universe while us little dots on the planet spun around the sun.

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Our morning plans were already set: continue south and stop at another intriguing geological phenomenon called Crack-in-the-Ground. This landmark was less known than the former two we had explored. In fact, the sandy road was not even on Google maps; I hunted for it on Google Earth (where nothing can hide from ). We passed the small area and sign for parking the day before, so we knew exactly how long and where. Again, we had fun on the forest road even in the cold. And it was still cold!

Green Mountain is located in an area of volcanic activity (surprised?), with several craters remaining. The area is called the Four Craters Lava Field. In one of the photos in the previous post, layers of solidified lava can be seen like tiers marching down the sides of the craters.

Crack-in-the-Ground is a volcanic fracture -literally, a crack in the ground- over two miles long and up to 70 feet deep. Nearby eruptions in the lava field were accompanied by a slight sinking of the older rock surface, forming a shallow, graben (depression) about 2 miles wide and extending to the south into the Fort Rock basin. Crack-in-the-Ground is the western edge of this small, volcano-tectonic depression.

Cracks or fissures usually fill in with rock rubble and disappear, so this feature in Oregon is uncommon and rare. The opening of the fissure probably took place no more than 1,000 years ago. Although the crack is open for about two miles, it continues to the NW and SE as a trace and can be best seen from the air (Google Earth reveals most of it). The fissure is 10-15 feet wide at the top in a few sections and resembles a slot canyon. A primitive trail traces along the top for a mile or so and the bottom can be accessed in various sections, but in most places the walls have slumped. Large angular blocks have fallen and formed choatic dark gaps and bridges.

In other sections erosion and weathering have filled the bottom with sandy soil. Here in the depths of the widest parts, grass grows where the bottom remains shaded throughout most of the day. Winter ice is sometimes preserved during the summer in the deeper, more cavernous places where cold air is trapped. Reuben Long of Fort Rock (and author of the book "Oregon Desert") reports that when he lived at Christmas Lake as a boy, he used to explore "the Crack" as it was called locally. He remembers the homesteaders went there for picnics and make ice cream, using ice they found in the caves of the fissure.

Hiking out of the crack, we discovered the sun was high and much warmer than we were aware of down below. Time to peel off some layers.

We had not seen another human since leaving the tower the day before. As for the camper in the little SUV near our site the previous night, he made every effort to remain hidden. He seemed a bit peculiar to us, but everyone has a right to have their idiosyncrasies (within reason). No one passed on the forest service road, no one had stopped at the Crack, either. Not until we rode down to the southern-most end of the forest service road (the last two miles) did we see any signs of our fellow species. By that time, we felt like strangers amongst them, not necessarily a bad thing

When riding this stretch for the third time, everyone we passed -in vehicles or outside their ranch houses (alfalfa is the major crop)- waved. Typical of most Oregonians in central and eastern area. We had discussed plans for the rest of the day, of which wasn't a lot left. We had spent several hours exploring the Crack. I suggested that we forgo our earlier plans to stop at the Sand Dunes and Lost Forest because we were already a day plus behind schedule and based on Mickey's comments. And we both agreed that we would certainly be back in this area again. We can explore there another time. So the rest of the day would be 'catch up'.

Before leaving on this trip and while planning routes, I had tried to find a short cut to go from the Christmas Valley area to Burns area to the northeast. The main roads were south and north, both out of the way. But try as I might, I could not find a back country route with some reliability that did not turn into private roads, did not dead end in the middle of nowhere, did not disappear into mountains or craters, or did not to-and-fro in all directions. In other words, I wasn't sure we could get there from here without disappearing into the complete unknown.

Our first destination was Riley at the junction of Hwy 395 and 20. A straight diagonal route was the best, but you know how that sometimes goes. That straight as-the-crow-flies line flies over craters, mountains and a sea of yellow on the GPS and Google maps. When I questioned Greg about a route through that area, he was unsure as well. Considering that we were behind schedule and it was already mid-day, we decided to just bite the tarmac and take the long way round. We can explore another route the next time (this has become almost a challenge that I do want to tackle next visit).

At the end of the sandy road off the Four Craters area and the paved ribbon heading east-west, we stopped and prepared for a long monotonous haul to make some time. In with the ear plugs, fit the water tube for easy access, and gather my neck buff around tight..... we're ready for take-off. Time to cover some ground.

As it was, the haul was long, but not monotonous after all.

 

[Janet]

Of course we are reading this. Silly girl...

 

[TexasShadow]

Day 6: Mad Cow and Frenchglen

This was to be the day of the trip when we rode mostly tarmac. As we barreled along on the highway with the constant protesting drone of the DR, I watched the topography change. We rode by and over faults with uplifts (small ones compared to the biggies), old relic volcanic pimples (cones), lava scattered here and there, lots of sagebrush, and few cars.

We passed the small town (question?) of Waggontire. The only signs of any activity resembling a town was an old abandoned rundown motel and a few small scattered old houses. Waggontire Mountain loomed over the town, but otherwise it was nondescript. It was only later (the next day) that I read about the famous legacies and reputation of Waggontire (several murders, disappearances, duals, adultery, etc). I guess every old town has their ghosts; some refuse to die.

As we closed in on Hwy 20, we saw more cars, more people. It felt strange after being in the back country for several days. Hwy 20 is the major east-west highway from Ontario to the coast. In fact, I used to live off of Hwy 20, but in the coastal foothills. This part of the highway was a different species than that which I was used to. Even with more traffic here.

We pulled into a gas station and convenience store for the the usual maintenance: gas, snack, cold drink, bathroom, and even the post office across the highway, where I mailed a stack of postcards and bills (debt follows you everywhere). While standing next to the DR, ear plugs still in and enjoying the lack of traffic noise, a shiny BMW GS pulls up next to me. The rider is moving his lips, but I don't hear a thing. I point to my ears and he nods, waiting for me to remove my ear plugs.

We chatted for a while and his girlfriend joins us from the store. They are from Portland on a short holiday in central and eastern Oregon. He mentions the 'R' word: rain.

"What? When?", I ask.

"Tonight and tomorrow. A big storm coming in."

Uh oh. We had targeted riding south to Steens Mountain and camping at Fish Lake, several thousand feet in elevation. At that moment, I was rushed with a feeling of dread. Rain + cold = very cold. I wasn't too crazy about camping in the rain. Cold rain, at that.

The GS couple were considering where to stay the night themselves. I mentioned two places that I was aware of: Hotel Diamond and Frenchglen Hotel, both south of Burns on Hwy 205. They commented that they would discuss it over a late lunch in Burns, where they had to stop and pick up a bulb for the GS' headlight.

When Ed came out of the store, I relayed the weather forecast for the night and morning. He wasn't excited about camping in the cold rain either. Originally, we had planned to spend a night at Hotel Diamond after we explored and camped at Steens Mnt. However, it might be prudent if we reverse that. With the help of GS rider's iPhone, Ed called Hotel Diamond to ask for vacancies. They were full, but had a room available the next night. After a quick consultation between us, we reserved a room for the next night. But we still had to decide what to do about tonight.

We decided to take our chances, either with Frenchglen Hotel, or Fish Lake campground on Steens. After a short debate, we decided to take a short cut off road. The original route had us riding on a dirt road off of Hwy 20, south into the Malheur Wildlife Refuge, and then cut east to Hwy 205. The question was can we get there from here? Thus far, reliability of the GPS/MapSource labeling and routes was not exactly confidence-building. I checked the OR atlas (aka the Big Book) and the road was named what I found on Google Maps: Double O Rd.

Both of us were already fatigued from riding the tarmac. Finding a road with dirt or gravel would be welcomed. But now we had impending storms threatening us and we were hoping we would not have to ride or spend the night in them. On we went.

Ed found the road, marked as 'Double O Rd.' at the last minute. We did a quick right turn south and proceeded down dusty sand mixed with gravel. And by that, I mean pea gravel. We passed over cattle guards and by lava-covered cones with no other presence but us. A few miles south, the pea gravel went from scattered to really thick. I soon discovered that the DR does not like pea-gravel, and neither do I. It only took a few times where the front wheel slapped sideways with such force that I thought I was on a bucking bronco. Tank slappers. Adrenaline surged through my body and rolling the throttle open made it worse. I found a speed where the front wheel wasn't thrown around like a balloon in a typhoon and I still had my heart in my chest instead of my throat.

We passed a few cows here and there, but they mostly ignored us. Until we came upon a handful standing in the road. And they didn't want to move. There was one stubborn Mamma cow that refused to budge until Ed made like a giant mountain lion or bear and Mamma cow skittered to the right side of the road. Then I came along, and Mamma cow decided she was mad enough to charge.

So, there I was, moving at a respectable pace and distance, when all of a sudden, Momma Cow snorts, stomps and charges at me from my right side. At that second, my right hand independently of my brain, twisted that throttle wide open and the rear tire blew dust and gravel as it dug its little rubber-knobbed bumpies and pushed me and it out of the way of charging Momma Cow. The muffler was whining a ****-bent 'get outta here!!' while Momma Cow and the DR raced ahead down the road. DR won, but not without me choking on my heart in my throat again.

Then we proceeded to have another several bouts of typhoon tank slappers in the deep pea gravel.

Ed had stopped at a T-intersection and pointed to the east. I interpreted it with a nod, and hoping the terrain was a bit more friendly than that which we had just ridden. Murphy the Man said 'NO'. Figures. Deep patches of pea gravel had me watching the road surface like a hawk and looking for tire tracks made by trucks and a line with more solid footing. We saw ahead two trucks and several men working on fencing off the side of the road. And a big white Ford Expedition coming at us taking up the rest of the road. The only place for DR was deep pea gravel. I just hoped that we didn't pull a tank slapper right into the side of the moving Ford.

We passed a small tan stuccoed school; a private school for the ranch families in the area. Amazing that they would have so far to go for school. The road surface leveled out, as in more solid, and we could see signs of a highway ahead. By that time, my arms and entire upper body was tight and sore; I was relieved. We hit the tarmac and Ed gave a face that reflected how I felt: Yea!!!!! He didn't enjoy the deep pea gravel, either.

We continued south now for several miles and soon approached a group of old buildings clustered on both sides of the road: an old general store, an old farmhouse, another building that looked of same age, but restored (and for sale) and there, gleaming as white as can be: Frenchglen Hotel.

We pulled off the road and parked in front of the Hotel. I was glad to get off the bike and could barely get my leg over to get off the saddle. Ed went inside to see if a room was available.

While I was stretching hamstrings and hip flexors, a couple rode up on bikes. He on a big BMW GS, she on a GS 850. I walked over and we chatted a bit. Turned out, the gentleman worked at Twisted Throttle in Washington; they were on a holiday trip and riding some of the Oregon Backcountry Discovery Trails. I was admiring the map on his wife's GS: it hooked to the handlebars, folded, and could hold an entire letter-size page. I liked that! He told me what it was and gave me his card, telling me to contact him and he'll help me find one (it is a TT item, afterall).

They went on their way and Ed came out with good news: the hotel just had a cancellation and a room opened up for us. Sweet!!!

We unloaded the bikes and took our stuff upstairs to our room. It was a nice opportunity to change into non-riding clothes and switch from vagabond bike riders to just tourists for a change. Ed went off to do his thing; I grabbed the camera and explored outside.

Sure enough; storms were begging to roll in. But before they did, we had a chance to peruse the town and the hotel, meet a group of fascinating people and bump into a premonition for two days later.

 

[Tourmeister]

Are we reading...?

 

[TexasShadow]

Are we reading...?

I'll have to continue after I return from two weeks at Home, El Punto Coyote, in the Terlingua desert.

 

[hardybaker]

At the time of your "posting", I thought you two would have been half-way there by now. I just finished spliting a half a cord of wood this morning for the campfires. Ya'll come-on by here and we'll load half of it in your truck. Nevermind, I'll see ya'll the first of the week. HB

 

[Hemibee]

I really didn't think anyone was reading this.

Not yet... I'm just looking at the pictures and videos. I'll read it later.

 

[TexasShadow]

At the time of your "posting", I thought you two would have been half-way there by now. I just finished spliting a half a cord of wood this morning for the campfires. Ya'll come-on by here and we'll load half of it in your truck. Nevermind, I'll see ya'll the first of the week. HB

Gee... I just saw this, Hardy. Oooops.

Please, please forward my thanks again to Clark for the plane ride. I can't thank him enough for the opportunity to fly over and see with a bird's eye view.

If you're still giving wood away.....

 

[TexasShadow]

Day 6: Frenchglen

Picking the story back up......

I spent some time outside, just rambling about to work out some stiff shoulders and back. I heard the distinctive sound -that almost high-pitched fast twittering- of a small dualsport. But it was coming from above me.
'What the heck......?', I thought. 'How can that be coming from above me??'

I turned to look south down the road and then saw a distinctively blue DS bike riding down out of the trees. 'Huh?' It wasn't until a few moments that I realized the road heading south sharply turns west and climbs the side of a mountain before heading south again, much higher up.

The little whining Yamaha rode across the highway and pulled up along a sign at the junction of the tarmac and gravel road heading towards Steens Mnt. I watched as a few moments passed before other DS bikes trickled down the same mountainous road and towards the blue Yamaha. As soon as they began appearing, the Yamaha took off like a speeding bullet down the gravel. Wow. There's a big flock of dualsport bikes. 'I wonder where they're going,' I pondered, feeling an instant pull to hop on the bike and trail behind.

Nope, not this time. I wandered around and took some shots of the few remaining quaint buildings and other oddities in the tiny hamlet of Frenchglen.

The local phone booth. Not sure if it actually works, but Dr. Who might want to use it.

A different perspective on Through the Looking Glass.

It didn't make it in time.

The iconic village store/post office/gas pump/stopintogossip building and front porch.

Lovely silver/gray Artimesia against the weathered wood of the old carriage house/barn.

A wonderful, recently renovated building between the historic hotel and the village store. It had an instantaneous feeling of welcome and warmth with porch, big windows and doors, wild garden and wooden stairway going up to a living area on second floor. And it was for sale. 'I could live here,' I thought. But I wasn't interested in buying it.

Self-portrait in the buildings door.

The wide stairway going up.

Across the highway were two signs conveying information, both historical and present, about the small hamlet of Frenchglen and Steens Mnt., as well as a former local favorite cafe: Jo Mama's. It was closed (for good?) when we were there.

Walking back to the hotel, I saw a yellow motorcycle descend the mountain road. Didn't look like the rider was in a hurry. He stopped at the sign and looked around. Thinking this was a member of the group that preceded him, I waved and pointed the way the bikes went. The rider then turned around and rode up to where I stood.

The yellow bike was a KLR. With a giant shaggy sheepskin on the seat and a large decal on the fairing, "CAT". I recognized it as the logo for Caterpillar heavy equipment. I smiled at the irony of a KLR being disguised as a Caterpillar. Turns out, the rider matched the character of the bike.

We chatted for awhile. He thanked me for the information on where the rest of the group was, suspected they went that way; no, he wasn't in a hurry and, "Where are you from, anyway?" So I proceeded to relate our story and journey of the past few weeks.

Then I learned he lived in Eugene, so that led into "I lived in Corvallis area for 14 years," and on and on it went. Then I learned he was originally from Montreal, which then explained his accent. Which led into stories of "Cool! My family went into Canada couple times a year, and have relatives in.....". So we shared riding stories, growing up in the Northeast stories, living in Oregon stories, what's Texas like stories, riding in Eastern Oregon stories....

Ed finally came out, changed and showered, and joined in. Finally, we shared ADV screen names and promised to get in touch and he was on his way to join the rest of his group.

Right before we went inside again, three other DS riders showed up. They were tired and not eager to spend the night on the mountain in the rain (Caterpiller rider didn't care if it rained; he's from Eugene, after all). They made a group decision to see if there were any rooms left. I told them I we had lucked out by getting one of two cancellations; one more room might be left. They then argued about who would sleep where, who snored the loudest, who farted the worst, and who was going to shower first and how long are you going to hog the shower?? I slipped in that they might want to see if a room is available before it gets completely dark. And left.

We went inside again. Now, in the central lobby which also serves as the dining hall, many people were present. The hotel was full. And it was approaching dinner time. I went upstairs to our room to immerse my face in some warm water. For a moment, I just stood there in the room, looking out the window and wondered what it may have been like back then, when this sleepy hamlet was a thriving town for lumbermen and cattle ranchers.

I went downstairs to join the other hotel guests for dinner. Two wooden plank tables were lined along one side of the room. The thick wood was old and oiled to a dark smooth patina. Two shorter tables on the other side of the room provided enough of an aisle for people to move from door to the hallway and bar/regestration counter. The entire building reflected the age of the small town, but it aged gracefully with a feeling of warmth and welcome. Who knows how many people came to stay for the night and partake in good food and company. The walls don't really speak, but if one is receptive enough, and let your imagination loose a bit, you can get the feeling that a lot of laughter and stories rattled around in those walls.

The entire hotel had been reserved by a group of people for a Nature Conservancy weekend outing. A few cancellations due to forecast bad weather opened up three rooms, which we had luckily taken advantage of one. A traveling couple took one, and the three riders took the last room. Nearly all of the participants for the Conservancy event were of retirement age, nor was this their first attendance. Apparently, this was an annual event with a waiting list. The only younger person was a man who managed the event.

All but Ed and I were members of the event. We sat across the table from the gentleman who was in charge of the tours. They would be driving up the Steens Mountain in two vans and then into the Malheur Wildlife Refuge which spanned east west and north of the mountain and almost up to Burns. He was a very quiet person, but we chatted a bit about matters of conservation and such after we learned that we had similar educational backgrounds. Although, his path led him to mostly field work, whereas mine eventually veered to halls of academic research labs. I felt that tug of desire to be back in the field and asked with interest what his position entailed.

Dinner was a three course meal and was exceptional. I hadn't had such a full and wonderful meal like that in a long time. And being in the back country for a week made it even more enjoyable. Everyone was kind, curious, full of questions and anecdotes. It was almost like a big family gathering for dinner.

After a full glass of wine and then a cup of coffee with desert, I was fading fast. As guests began to leave for their rooms, I fell in behind and found my way upstairs to bed. I slept like a rock in the first bed I've slept in since leaving Texas, in what seemed weeks, maybe months ago. It was pleasant.

Pattering of rain on the roof and windows woke me. In the heavy darkness of the night, I listened to its pattering with no other light, no other sound. Again, I felt light, content, and happy to be where I was. And happy to finally do what I had wanted to do for many years.

Here I was, riding the bike into terrain, weather, people's lives and towns, where I had never been. It was nothing unknown to anyone else. But it was unknown to me. All these experiences: the land, the people, the towns, the roads, animals, weather, smells, sounds, food, all of it - was so wonderful, I didn't want it to stop. I felt I could do this for a long time. I wanted to experience it all. And not stop.

The rain lulled me to sleep again, with a thankfulness that we were not camping at Fish Lake high on the Steens Mountains. I knew it was snowing there.......

 

[TexasShadow]

Day 7: Diamond Craters

We woke to rain. Typical Oregon rain. It doesn't fall from the sky like buckets, doesn't pelt, nor pound. It weeps. Light, misty, slow, persistent rain. In the Valley, sometimes it seemed like the rain was suspended in the air; never big or heavy enough to fall. Just slowly meandered from above and took its time to drip on everything below. The saying goes that you can tell a true Oregonian by the webbing between his/her toes. Or the moss hanging from their hair. Lambing in it sucked.

We got up, dressed and meandered downstairs for some coffee. When we pulled in the evening before, I searched for a cup of coffee like a bloodhound looking for fresh blood. The proprietor (a couple manages the hotel for the state) obliged me by brewing a pot. That morning was a repeat: coffee. Must. Have. Coffee.

I threw on my riding jacket and wandered outside with hot cup of java in hand. Looking east, there was no way to ignore the white on the horizon. It snowed on Steens Mnt. last night while we got rain. I looked in amazement; I never expected to see snow here. In the Cascades, yes -and there wasn't any- but not here.

Folks with the Nature Conservancy outing rambled about, throwing out feelers on if the tour would be canceled or not. Short questions, short answers of ignorance; defer them all to the poor fella that organized it.. and driving. The two vans were out front, but no one in them. Yet.

A short young gentleman arrived in his Jeep wearing a ball cap stating 'OSU Dept. of Forestry.' Officially, his expertise, and his tour/lecture, was wildfire ecology. I was interested in that myself, considering that forestry practices have changed since I left. Now, the foresters -national and state- make snap decisions at a moments notice whether or not to fight wildfires, let them burn, or contain them to specific areas.

It took decades, almost a century, for professionals (including scientists) to recognize that grassland and forest fires are part of the natural ecology and lifecycle. While they believed their good preservation intentions, it took many years of integrated research (including history) to convince them that sometimes letting Nature do its thing is actually in the best interests of everyone. Ironically, many of the eastern states realized this long before the western forest managers would even consider it.

Three strapping young men (by that, I mean lean, muscled men that physically work most of the day) came in and grabbed some breakfast at the hotel, sitting at the tables in the screened porch. I overheard them chatting about the weather, snow, and procrastinating if they were going to continue fencing in it. It wasn't until later that I determined they were seasonal hire for the nearby wildlife refuge. And they usually ate breakfast where we would be going later that day.

The three motorcycle dudes wandered down for their breakfast, or what was left of it, well after everyone else was done and on about their business. They looked like they had a hard night sleep. Possibly fueled by a bit too much alcohol (I saw two of them take a bunch of beers to their room the night before). They were silent and grumpy.

A few people had trickled in for breakfast that had camped in the campground (maintained by BLM) a few miles east. They complained about the cold and rain, sometimes mixed with snow. We had an interesting conversation with a couple from eastern OR. She was an academic zoologist, doing research on frogs in Oregon streams: depopulation, repopulation and habitat changes. They were both very entertaining with many stories to tell; she liked snakes and he didn't. I would have liked to spend more time visiting, but it was time to pack up and move on.

We changed into our gear and packed the bikes amidst many of the NC folks watching the procedure and asking questions. They were truly interested in our routines, our travel and camping methods, etc. They were enjoyable, too.

We were on our way to our next destination, for we had made a reservation. It was the one real destination that I had planned for on Greg's recommendation. Our stay at Frenchglen was a spontaneous decision and enjoyment: a bed, shower, excellent food, and good company. Most of all, we didn't get snowed on. But now, we were headed to another unknown place, which was merely a recommendation by a rider that visits often. I was not prepared for, nor did I ever expect, how much this upcoming place would grab my heart.

It began to rain again. Drip, drip, drip harder. Or it seemed like it while going 55 mph on the DR and in a dualsport helmet. I basically put my head down and used the helmet beak to ward the raindrops off my face. Didn't matter, though; water ran down into my helmet, inside my jacket and my butt was wet. My hands were also wet, and cold. I was glad to see the turn off the highway to go east towards the town of Diamond.

By that time, the rain let up and we could actually sit up and enjoy some of the scenery. It was almost as if we rode through the wardrobe and entered Narnia. Leaving the high faults behind, we were soon on a prairie covered with tall golden and green grasses. Here and there were haybales in the fields, giant tall Lombard poplars were like green spears guarding the side of the road. The road, which had narrowed had no markings, no white or yellow lines, no signs except one pointing east towards the town, one pointing north towards the Diamond Lava Craters National Monument. A few horses grazed here and there, few if any buildings except for scattered old pole barns.

Soon we came upon a group of tall poplars that seemed to reach way up to the sky, and a weathered wooded building with a small gravel parking lot in front of a magnificent wrap-around screened porch. We were here.

The two story building was the historic Hotel Diamond, one of the three or four buildings left from the towns former glory days as a thriving ranching community.

Here, and for miles around, including Frenchglen, was a thriving and active cattle ranch. One man is associated with most of the area: Peter French, the Eastern Oregon Cattle King. This land was his: most of Steens Mnt, all that the Malheur Wildlife Refuge now occupies, Diamond Lava Craters (now BLM), and more. He left a legacy, which was difficult to tease apart fact from fiction while we were there. I sensed that the markers were not exactly accurate, and my curiosity was peaked, so I researched his history, and that of the area, after my return.

Diamond Valley was an integral part of that history, and few remnants remain. The Hotel is the central building. Next to it is a stone structure, for storage, I think. And across the parking lot is the remains of the community center and dance hall. That, also made of stone blocks, was not much more than a few walls with windows, now just vacant stares.

Two or three small farm houses are scattered around the Hotel. One belongs to the proprietors, Gretchen and her sister. As descendants of one of the original founding families in Diamond, they purchased the Hotel and renovated it in 2001. These two wonderful ladies do a fantastic job of maintaining the Hotel and taking care of their guests. Their meals, all of them, are outstanding, even better than those at Frenchglen. They are personable, hospitable and just truly endearing.

Two other small houses are working farms, one which is inhabited by an elderly local, the other a ranching family. Much of the farmed land is overseen (owned by and/or leased) by another long-time family descendant, John Jenkins. He not only ranches, but also provided guided tours of the area, including Steens. I hear he knows the history, geology and archeology of the area very intimately.

I peeled out of my wet gear and clothes, changed into dry warm items and wandered around outside a bit. It was quiet and the smells were wonderful in the moisture of the morning. The stroll was refreshing.

Next: A bit of Diamonds that never rust.

 

[TexasShadow]

Day 7: Diamond and Round Barns

While waiting for our gear to dry, and us to warm up, I learned about the history of the small ranching town and the hotel from the old photographs mounted on the walls. Like most buildings constructed before and around the turn of the century (<1900), the hotel went through many changes and owners. It was renovated and reopened in 1990 by the couple that were caretakers of the Frenchglen Hotel. The circle was completed when descendants of one of the town's founding families purchased it in 2001. Gretchen Nichols and her sister practically run and manage the place themselves with some seasonal part-time help. Their hospitality and devotion to the place is evident in every aspect of the place.


I strolled around the Hotel Diamond and took some photographs. A screened porch with tables and chairs wraps around one corner of the main building. Adjacent to the main great room of the hotel is a small addition that serves as a saloon and TV room.

Next to the far back corner is a huge tree, which is evident in the photo above. A limb was cut from the side of this tree not too long ago. As you can see, the massive circumference of the tree trunk and the cut surface suggests the age of this tree.

Not far from the outer corner of the building and the parking lot is cabin No. 8.

Clouds parted to dry us, the bikes and the ground a bit. Since the day was still young, we geared back up and went for a ride. One of the historical points of interest on this leg of the trip was one of Peter French's round barns. One of several built throughout French's area cattle kingdom, this is the only one that remains today.

These barns served to train horses during the winter months. The inside of this barn was constructed from juniper posts and lumber that was hauled from over 60 miles from the north. This particular round barn was built in the late 1870's or early 1880's, and remains much as it was in Pete French's day. Minor repairs to the outside and roof were made by the family that purchased a portion of French's empire in the early 1900's. The Jenkins family donated the structure and surrounding lands to the Oregon Historical Society in 1969, and it was listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1971.

The landscape upon which the barn stands is captivating. Even with threatening storms in the distance.

The Round Barn is now a part of, and maintained by, the Oregon State Parks system.

The structure is actually two: an interior series of corrals and an exercise area outside of the stone interior with openings to the exterior of the entire structure. The center pole is impressive.

​

Cattle range surrounds the barn just as it did back in the late 1800's and early 1900's.

It was peaceful there. Although the barn no longer serves the cattle ranch, the presence and sounds of horses, their trainers and riders can easily be imagined.

Storms were lurking on the edges of the horizon. It was time to head back to the hotel. On the way, I wanted to stop and see the lava craters which this area is known for.

Next: Diamond Craters

 

[The Bruce]

That round barn is very cool.

 

[TexasShadow]

Day 7: Diamond Craters

Here we were; the middle of our road trip on the bikes, Day 7, at one of the most memorable places. The map above shows the route from Frenchglen (little green bubble in the south) to Hotel Diamond (yellow bubble closest to the middle), up to the Round Barn (second yellow bubble closest to upper right corner), a stop at the Diamond Craters, and then loop back along the base of an uplift, down into Diamond Valley, and back to the hotel.

Leaving the Round Barn.........

Few, if any, dinosaur fossils are found in the Pacific Northwest. Simply because the west was submerged below the ocean until the Rocky Mountains began forming 300 million years ago. On the other hand, or side of the continent, eastern North America emerged from the ocean 500 million years ago. Thus, early fossils in the Northwest are primarily sea creatures and few land animals.

The Pacific Northwest became drier after extinction of the dinosaurs. Between 25-5 millions years ago the land and climate changed with volcanoes oozing lava and spewing ash, their deposits covering what were once shallow seas. Grasslands grew on top of the lava and became savannahs, similar to those in Africa today. Along with the grass was an abundance of grazing animals and their predators.

During the Ice Age, which lasted from two million years to 10,000 years ago in the Pleistocene period, glaciers scoured the land. Many large mammals inhabited the continent – giant sloth and polar bears, American cheetahs (not true cheetahs), saber-tooth tigers, dire wolves, llamas, camels, bison, musk-ox, zebra-like horses, mammoths and mastodons, giant beavers and many others. Where did they go?

Several events occurred near the end of the Pleistocene. Between 30,000 to 14,000 years ago, humans migrated in waves from across the Bering Strait, into what would later be Alaska, eventually inhabiting the southern-most parts of Central and South America. The end of the Pleistocene age also saw the second Great Extinction: most of the Ice Age Megafauna perished. Not just on the North American continent, but globally. The time of oversized glaciers, oversized mammals, and oversized floods went out with a bang; in just a few thousand years.*

It’s hard for us to think in terms of that length of time. Yet, compared to previous history, evolution of these animals, and upcoming changes, such a rapid extinction over a few thousand years is relatively fast. Now, we are seeing species extinctions at even faster rates previously unknown in our planet’s history. Because our lifespan is so short, we humans have difficulty comprehending how rapidly changes are occurring during our past few generations.

While I stood on top of a dome of solidified lava near Diamond Valley, it seemed as though thousands and millions of years marched before and after me. As though I was suspended in time, a time that was not mine, but which I would later inherit a tiny speck of to call my own. As though I, and the rock I stood on that was once molten deep down in the mantle, were suspended in disbelief.

During the late Pleistocene age, about 20,000 to 17,000 years ago, the continent’s crust was expanding and rifting. In southeast Oregon, small basalt volcanoes were erupting in an area of 40 square miles. As the earlier lava flows from the area’s vents cooled, more molten basalt was injected below the original flows. Six inflated domes filled with molten basalt dotted the area. These later cooled and collapsed, but ensuing eruptions from their edges spewed molten lava like hot ropes across the terrain.

Today the area takes on an ethereal landscape, as if one is walking on a newly formed planet. Big and small pieces of lava, black like rough jellybeans, cover the ground. You can hear them crunch under your feet. Then, standing atop the ridge of a crater, you can see the reddish-brown broken cinders of another type of rock littering the hillside. Pockets of pale yellow dry grasses struggle to root and draw sustenance. Giant fluid-looking blobs of hard sterile lava resemble giant cow pancakes. Looking further I can see the great rift in Steens Mountains that is 60 miles north, the golden waves of Diamond Valley grass, and black edges of eroded lava shelves.

And to know that while these craters were forming, the glaciers of the Ice Age were beginning to retreat, temperatures and waters were rising, humans may have been traveling by, and a big change was about to come.

Talk about Where Time Stands Still……….

​

While I stood and disconnected with the present, Ed found a trail that lead up a hill. Off he went on the bike until I could barely see him anymore in the distance. I heard in the distance the whine of his WR many minutes later. Getting the pocket video out of my jacket, I caught him as he approached where I stood. When he stopped, I pointed to the east: we were soon be engulfed in another storm. I had watched in sneak towards us from the east and southeast. We thought it prudent to curtail our explorations and head back. Neither of us longed to get wet again.

We found a cut-off from the Crater Loop that lead back to the road near the Hotel. As we rode through a saddle in the hills, a panoramic view of the valley opened up. I pulled off the side of the road and stopped mesmerized. It was beautiful beyond words, except for uttering under my breath, “I could live here…..” I knew then that I would be coming back here in the not-too-distant future.

After drinking this all in, we mounted up and went along our way. Pulling into the Hotel parking lot, again avoiding a downpour. Camera in hand, I took a few photos around the inside of the Hotel. And then ventured out again.

Wiley was waiting for me.

The poplar trees were commanding; in the waning light they looked like Ents, giant trees that have seen it all and stood the test of time. The light also christened the hayfields and nearby hills. Red rosehips gleamed with dew. And the rain finally caught up with me again.

I took refuge inside the Hotel and read a coffee table book full of photographs of ranches in local counties. The western lifestyle still lives on here, perhaps even moreso than in Texas. Fewer fences, more working cowboys and horses, many mountains, lakes and streams. The West wasn’t ‘won’ here, people learned to live with it like it was. The West won them over.

More people where at the Hotel. In fact, it was booked. A couple were temporarily put up in a nearby ranch house. Like those at Frenchglen the day before, most of the folks at Hotel Diamond were older, most retired, and several had signed up for a tour of the area, including Steens Mountain. We soon learned that a local rancher, Mr. Jenkins, was a guide and offered tours of the area. Jenkins’ family history went all the way back to Harney County when Pete French was still alive; in fact, he was a descendent of the Jenkins that bought the land upon which Pete’s famous round barn sits. It was his family that donated it to the state historical society.

We were told that Mr. Jenkins canceled his tour the day before due to the weather. Supposedly it was the first time in ten years that he had to cancel one of his tours. Folks were disappointed because Mr. Jenkins is a wealth of local lore, history and he knows the all the area’s wildlife and special places. But given the inclement weather conditions, they understood.

We also met another couple (late forties) that had left the campground, Fish Lake on Steens Mnt., where I had intended for us to camp the night before. Their tent was set up and drying in on the lawn behind the hotel. We listened to their account of the snow, bitter cold and wind, and plain uncomfortable camping conditions up there. Inside, I was perfectly glad that we were not up there as well.

The tables were covered with white linen tablecloths, wine glasses, stoneware plates, and silverware were carefully placed on the tables. Again, there was a long table and two smaller square tables. People arranged themselves for dinner with friends or with strangers. Not far long into the meal, no one was a stranger.

Gretchen and her helper brought out large platters and casserole dishes of food that they had spent the entire day preparing. My favorite, which occasionally creeps back into my head even now, was a French onion and cheese casserole. The last time I had good French onion soup was probably decades ago. But Gretchen’s was more like a casserole than a soup. It was so delicious, I had three helpings.

The entire meal - meat, side dishes and desert - were the best meal I had on the entire trip. We chatted with our neighbors at the table; a light and lively conversation full of wit and anecdotes. Of course, we were plied with questions about where we live, what we do, and what on earth were we doing on those little motorcycles??

After desert and coffee, people began drifting away from the tables and going to their rooms. A few sat on the comfortable couches and read. I was absolutely full and tired. After excusing myself from the table, I barely remember going up to our room and getting into bed.

I do remember waking up in the middle of the night hearing coyotes yipping and rain droplets spattering lightly on the roof above. I also remember that in my dream, I was one of those coyotes, running and howling. In fact, my side of the blankets was tossed about as though my legs and feet were following my dream. I also remember how good it felt. Funny how dreams work like that some times.


* The cause, or probably more accurately, causes of this mass extinction have been debated since debate began. Causes are attributed to one or several hypotheses: climate change (which is substantiated by the most evidence), overkill by humans (which seems the weakest hypothesis), or disease. It seems to me that an overlap of two or more of these could certainly contribute to mass extinction, and with varying ratios over time. Climate change was relatively rapid and will impact habitats in addition to susceptibility to, and/or recovery from, diseases. With increased pressure from predators, of which humans were a component of, populations can rapidly decrease. We may never know for sure, but a multifactorial approach appears more feasible, and realistic, than merely attributing a mass extinction to one single factor.

 

[ed29]

Here is the hill she mentioned....

and a shot of your Oregon tour guide capturing one of her great shots..

Does the big straw bale look familiar?

 

[TexasShadow]

Here is the hill she mentioned....

When I go back there, I'm going to ride up that hill, sit and drink a glass of wine. Might even camp there the night; it's BLM land.

 

[TexasShadow]

Day 8: Bad to the Steens

I woke early. Got up early. Restless.

Tip toeing downstairs from my room, I heard rattling in the kitchen. And smelled coffee. Must. Have. Coffee. I poked my head inside the big open room and there was Gretchen. Canning peaches.

"Don't you ever sleep?"

"Sometimes."

She explained that someone had dropped off a crate of peaches and... well, what else do you do with a crate of peaches? Can them, of course. (I remember those days well). She passed me a cup of coffee and we chatted awhile. Then other hotel guests were moving about downstairs hunting for breakfast.

Breakfast at the hotel is an informal affair. Pastries, cereals, toast are on a buffet along the backside of the dining room. The coffee urn is full of hot black coffee. Milk, yogurt and cream are in a small under-the-counter fridge. Two platters are piled with fruit. It's self-serve, which is befitting a morning in the Oregon back country.

Guests are concocting their own breakfast architecture, visiting and comparing notes on what to do, where to go, and 'What's the weather forecast?"

We were soon packing it up, loading the bikes, eager to return south for a second attempt -come snow or water- to Steens Mountain. Before leaving, we had another opportunity to chat with Gretchen. She mentioned that she was short on help at the hotel for a week or so and her sister was ready to put in fewer hours in the future. I half-joking asked if she needed help, and she asked if I could start right away. She was serious.

"You have no idea how tempting that is," was my response. She told me to keep it in mind next year; she would have to hire additional help for the season. I wrote down my contact information and some background, mentioning to her to pass that along to anyone from the Wildlife Refuge, too. I knew I would be returning.

We mounted our trusty mechanical ponies and started the trip south towards Frenchglen again. We agreed to stop and gas up at the pump in town before heading towards the mountain. Not really sure where we were going to stay at that point. The roads were still wet and we rode through a few sprinkles on the way.

Stopping at the pump, I reminded Ed that the store owner has to turn on the pumps before we can put gas in the tank. While he was inside, I got off the bike and stretched. Then I saw a bike coming from the south. Then two. Then more. Soon I was in a gaggle of dualsport bikes.

There was Yamaha WR250 like Ed's, a couple KLRs, I think a Beemer and a DR. Then a straggler pulled up that I recognized: The Caterpillar. After a few introductions, I learned that this was the group that we had seen the day before yesterday when they crossed the road near the Frenchglen Hotel and headed onto Steens Mountain.

They had all camped at the larger campground near the north end of the Loop: Page Springs Campground. They recommended it to us when we inquired about places to camp. At 4,200 feet elevation and three miles from town, it seemed to be a better choice than higher up the mountain. Besides, they invited us for campfire dinner that evening.

They also confirmed reports of snow on the mountain. But with an improvement in the weather, they all decided to find places to ride that were not in the mountain snow. A few of them gassed up their tanks after us while we all milled around with the usual bike talk. At that point, I typically do a quiet retreat to the edges and lurk, often taking shots with no one noticing.

Everyone dispersed while Ed and I rode east and searched for the campground. We found the place and rode around a few times to pick a spot. There are only a couple full-hook up places for RVs. Most spots are rustic with a picnic table and fire pit. Some spots are in open grassy area, many nestled in the trees with pine duff for a soft mat. I chose one of those spots.

We found where the group was camping, judging by the drying bags and clothes hanging up, a tarp over the table, and several tents grouped closely like a little village of modern Indians. Their spot was on the other side of the campground, across the creek, through some tall grasses and shrubs, and on a grassy area.

We set up 'house', so to speak, and then debated on what to do next. The rest of that day, up until dark, is a blur. Except for the craziest ride that I will not forget.

Caterpillar, aka Croissant Warrior (ADV handle), aka... can't remember names, asked if we wanted to try to go up on Steens Mnt. No one yet from the group had been able to ride up because of the snow and sleet over the last few days. But right now, a break in the weather taunted us.

The three of us turned east out of the campground and began our ascent on the well maintained (mostly) gravel road. Taking our time, we did some sight-seeing, stopping to read one of the interpretive exhibits. The 52-mile Steens Mnt Backcountry Loop affords only a glimpse of the 900,000-acre area under joint management of the BLM and Oregon agencies. A small portion of that acreage is cooperative grazing and there are few, few fences. As usual, we came upon cows in the road. Here in Oregon, cows are a common feature of the roads and people just take them in consideration like big potholes: you slow down and go around them, then continue on without another thought. What disturbed me more was the increasing number of snow patches alongside the road.

As we started climbing, I noticed the sky became gray and the air was getting biting cold. In fact, I was getting quite chilled. Caterpillar pulled into the turn off for Fish Lake campground and stopped. He pointed at the sky behind us. I turned around to look and was chilled even more. Another storm, an angry, purple and gray one, with streaks of lightening, was barreling down on us from the west.

At the suggestion of turning around an heading back, we all nodded. Before that, however, Caterpillar and Ed decided to play musical bikes: Ed hopped on his KLR and Caterpillar, who is maybe another foot taller than Ed, hopped on the WR. Ed took the lead, I in the middle, and Caterpillar followed.

Then all **** broke loose. It first started as hail. Then sleet, then mixed with rain, then snow, wind, and all of the above. Something inside me rose up and took the reins.

I stood up on the pegs and found my center; and from then on the bike and I were one entity. Knees, ankles, wrists and neck all became a fixture of a crazy being riding a steed of fire on the glaciers. We were no longer riding the road, we were riding the weather. Using my body to signal the bike where and when to lean, absorb the impacts to lighten the load and not disturb the flight, weighting the peg on one side, then the other. Meanwhile, there was a maniacal loud cackling emitting from my mouth and out of my helmet only to be pounded back in my face by the sleet and wind.

This was flight. It was wild and crazy and I loved it. The only things that kept me in check were Ed, in front of me, whom I could barely see, and who was going too slow for my likes, and a little spirit of consciousness on my shoulder reminding me that another rider was behind me on a bike he was unfamiliar with. Visibility was almost nil most of the time either because of the pelting frozen precipitation, or the ice forming on our helmet visors. I barely was conscious of my hands getting wet and cold, or the rest of my gear for that matter. The adrenaline from the ride was keeping me warm. But I didn't want to lose Caterpillar behind me. I didn't let him out of my sight in my mirrors.

We made it down a lot faster than the way up. By the time we rode into the campground, the storm was in full force on top of the mountain and we were below it enough to get some relief from the cold and wet. Caterpillar pulled into his campsite and we headed towards ours. My heart was pounding, and the sardonic grin on my face was a visual ruler of my enjoyment of that ride. It was crazy and wild, and I flew.

Then it was time to dry off.

Next: The river and the stories

 

[saikhan]

Brilliant report. Wheres the rest??


This must be how they felt in the old cinema days with the weekly serials.

 

[ed29]

Too slow..... 40 miles per hour on gravel with sleet sticking to the face shield. On someone else's motorcycle to boot. I had to open the visor to see once the shield iced over.

At the turn around point... and here is the CAT that I rode down the mountain...

More to come indeed including snow!

 

[TexasShadow]

On Donder und Blitzen!

After returning to the campground, a short hike along a river nearby provided relaxation and an opportunity to stretch tight and cramped muscles. Along this hike we met a very beautiful river with an interesting history.

The 1st Oregon Cavalry under Captain George Curry crossed the river on horseback in 1864 while scouting a route for a road connecting the Willamette Valley and eastern Oregon. While crossing, they encountered a magnificent but violent lightening storm. Curry, well educated in German, named the river 'Donder und Blitzen', translated as 'thunder and lightening'. (Curry also named the mountain they were approaching after his Major, Enoch Steens.)

Cattle were brought in by settlers beginning in 1872 and by the late 1800's livestock -cattle and sheep- numbered over 100,000 in the valleys around Steens Mnt. A former neighbor and local patron where I lived bought the Riddle Ranch -some 1,120 acres on the west flank of Steens Mnt. The ranch land was sold to the BLM in 1986 and the Riddle Ranch was listed as a national historic site.

Managed under the helm of a local, state and federal cooperative, Steens Mnt. area is a mixture of wilderness, scenic rivers, recreational and managed grazing lands. But no matter where one goes in the area, someone has trod before you. Little remains indicating that this area was once more populated than it is now, that cattle and sheep roamed everywhere, and people camped, played music, cooked over campfires, and lived most of the year in canvas tents. Except for the occasional seasonal shepherd's tent, one of which we spotted in a high pasture, little remains behind. The land has reclaimed its own.

The watershed for the Donder und Blitzen River is fed by streams, creeks and small rivers that flow down the flanks of Steen Mnt. This river feeds tributaries that serve as permanent and seasonal homes and feeding grounds for thousands of migratory birds and many mammals. Nearby Malheur Wildlife Refuge, which stretches from the mountain north for many miles, is a focus and hub for birders throughout the year.

The river's crucial role in the entire ecosystem prompted categorization as a national wild and scenic river in 1988 and 2000: 72 miles of it. It's waters are clear and pristine. Visible trout swim under the surface and myriads of ducks and herons can be seen along its length. Glaciers reach down and touch the waters, leaving their mark of coldness. The river speaks to you and beckons you to sit, relax, take a nap along its banks.

Our hike was cut short by the setting sun. But we would return the next day for another visit.

Back at our camp site, we cooked up some dinner and then wound our way around the creek and found the camp site of the Hunsucker's group. There we enjoyed stories, more stories, and then more stories. We made it back to our tent and slept a night of the dead. Except for the screech owl that insisted on invading my sleep while sitting in the pine tree over the tent.

Next: On top of Steens Mnt, all covered with snow, I lost my traction, and.......