A voyage across the sagebrush sea of Eastern Oregon, a place where mustangs roam over the bones of their ancestors, a country that has starved many who tried to stake a claim to it, a landscape of upheaval and violence that conceals some of the most remote places in the West.



Researching the history of the Appaloosa, the Mustang and the Buckaroo revealed how much of the American West had roots in the arid lands of the High Desert. When the opportunity arose to take a road trip, Eastern
Oregon, which has cultivated scenic tours since the advent of the automobile, was a natural choice.

We set out with a loose plan, traveling at a pace that allowed us to take in whatever came our way, from planned stops to serendipitous discoveries. There I misjudged - we could easily have spent a month on this journey.

The mission was to follow some of the threads of my research, find new ones, and see the landscape that had shaped the horse culture of the Northwest. What resulted is a tapestry of people, places and history, loosely organized as a travelogue.


DAY 1 - The Long Way

The smouldering bulk of the volcano of Mt. Saint Helen’s isn’t the scariest thing. It’s epic scale of the scattered toothpicks that blanked its north-eastern side – the blowdown from the eruption. Destruction is always compelling.

We have a counterman from De Youngs Feed to thank for this view. A motorcycle enthusiast, he told me to go “ the back way” around the volcano. This would be a fun road on a motorcycle, with its twists and turns and sudden vistas.

It is considerably more impressive to have pedaled all the way up. At one of the many lookout points, a bicyclist he comes over to inspect our dog on wheels, Dex. He’s a surgeon from Tacoma and is curious about Dex's condition and the cart. This is the first of many conversations we will have on this trip about our dachshund, who fell off a couch and ruptured a disk, loosing the use of his back legs. The custom cart enables him to follow the fascinating scents of parking lots and trails and give his Jack Russell companion Ripley a run for the money, at least when it is downhill.

Traveling with dogs does create certain limitations as to where you can stay and go - in National Parks dogs are not allowed on the trails, and we brought with us a list of motels that accept pets - but because it was not the height of summer, with crowding and heat against us, the dogs enhanced our trip, both by creating connections and encouraging us to stop frequently along the road.

We continue on to the overview above Spirit Lake and peer into the collapsed crater of the mountain. The new cone is rising, and where fumeroles leak plumes into the clouds gathering above them. There are ways to get a closer view, but the shadows are lengthening, and we must descend from the mountain down to the Columbia River. Heavy sighs and harrumphs follow each winding turn of the road. Dex was no doubt wishing we had stuck with I-5.

Travelling along the Columbia River the next day would be easier on him - that is - if it wasn't for the passion of a millionare named Sam Hill.




DAY 2 - Unhenged

The Columbia River was the highway of Oregon long before the railroad and tarmac followed its path. It was the trade route for local tribes, fur trappers and later the pioneers traveling the last leg of the Oregon Trail. It cuts through the vast flow of basalt laid down by ancient volcanoes – the Columbia Plateau. Fueled by runoff from the Cascades, nearly a dozen waterfalls cut over the cliffs at regular intervals, most famously Multinomah Falls. These cliffs were the main reason it took so long to build a roadway along the river. Rail blazed the way, and then Sam Hill saw the potential to create more than just a practical way to move goods over land.

Sam Hill loved cars, and had the money to buy them. But he needed places to drive them, and he poured his considerable energies into road building. He was the vision behind the fantastic S curves of the Historic Columbia River Highway, engineered by Samuel Lancaster. This was the first scenic highway built in America - in 1916, the automobile was just being transformed from a luxury into an accessible form of transportation by the Model-T.


The automobile was the way that his aquaintances from Seattle and Portland would travel to his fantasy mansion at the foot of the Horse Heaven Hills - Maryhill.

Perhaps because of his road building experience, Sam Hill was fascinated with concrete. Not only did he build the villa that way, he used it to create the Peace Arch at the border with Canada and another monument here on the Columbia River - a replica of Stonehenge.
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Sam Hill chose to replicate Stonehenge as it might have looked like when it was intact. The ostensible purpose of this folly is as a monument to servicemen of the Pacific Northwest. It also has become a rest stop on a rather remote section of highway – a sign warns “no gas for 84 miles,” on Route 14, the road that heads to Kennewick.

Hill’s Henge is a curiosity, but not so great a one as the museum he built 5 miles to the east, the villa on the cliffs. Originally intended as his residence at the center of an utopian agricultural community, he decided to make it into a museum when his land company failed. It was not until 1940 that the museum of Maryhill was able to open its doors.

Fortified with fresh nectarines from the Maryhill fruit stand, we searched in vain for a shady parking spot. Without shade for the car and the dogs, our visit will have to be high-speed. We hustled up the long ramp that leads up to the house (originally designed so that visitors could drive right up to and even inside it).

The museum houses the quirky collections Sam Hill amassed, from the throne of the Queen of Romania (she came to dedicate the museum in 1926,when it was still an unfinished structure) to chess sets from around the world, European and American painting and an extensive Rodin collection including little-seen drawings, as well native American basketry from all corners of the continent.

I was looking for horse-related objects, but found only the twined gathering bags of the Nez Perce and this high-ended Sioux saddle. There were of course many other fascinating objects, but with dogs waiting in the car I couldn’t do justice to everything there.

The saddle was no stranger looking than one that I saw at our next stop. Pendleton was readying itself for an influx of visitors -- the famous Pendleton Roundup began the following week.

There were many beautiful historic saddles among the contemporary ones that fill the store. Pendleton stands near the head of the great Basin, where buckaroo culture is still a strong component local identity. Though there is much else to see in the area, it was too hot and sunny to leave the dogs alone in the car for long, so we passed by the museum of the Cayuse, Umatilla and Walla Walla tribes, The Tamastslikt institute - a shame, as these tribes, along with the Nez Perce, developed a strong horse culture.


As we turned off of 84 and headed over the Blue Mountains from La Grande, our last stop was the Oregon Trail Interpretive Park. Peering into the Ponderosa forest, looking for wagon ruts, Dex’s little cart began a conversation with a woman who breeds Alpacas in Taos, New Mexico, and uses Bernese Mountain dogs to guard them. Her formerly urban neighbors don’t always appreciate how vocal her dogs are in protecting the flock. The same blurring of suburban and rural values that afflict the East Side exists across America, it seems.

But the pioneers who came to Oregon were seeking land, and if they didn’t start out with rural skills, they learned them fast along the way. By the time they reached the Blue Hills, they were exhausted, but the steep climb up tree covered slopes was still preferable to the endless miles of sagebrush that lay to the East, at least to the party of Mrs. Amelia Knight, who wrote in her diary on Thursday, August 18, 1853:

“Commenced the ascent of the Blue Mountains. It is a lovely morning and all hands seem to be delighted with the prospect of being so near the timber again, after the weary months of travel on the dry, dusty sage plains, with nothing to relieve the eye. Just now the men are hallooing so their echo rings through the woods.”

Most of the wagon trains kept rolling onwards towards the fertile Willamette Valley. It was the gold rush that brought Easterners and Californians permanently into the Blue Mountains, and into conflict with the native tribes.

http://www.historylink.org/essays/output.cfm?file_id=5072

http://www.maryhillmuseum.org/

http://www.fs.fed.us/r6/w-w/recreation/trails-lg/ortrail-th.shtml


DAY 3 - TRAIL OF TEARS



On the phone, the proprietress of the Mingo motel had sounded doubtful about accepting our dogs, saying she hadn’t done that for six years, but she would make an exception for us. When we woke in the morning, we found company in the parking lot – not just the gangs of firefighters who were going off to fight local blazes, but another family traveling with their dog, so appparently we weren't so special after all.
We picked up some morning coffee (lattes at the Human Bean - espresso culture has spread even to rural Oregon) and drove into Enterprise, the business center of the Wallowa Valley, for breakfast.

Enterprise sits at the intersection of two highways, and captures most of the industrial and business activity of the valley. The signs were clear that business here mostly revolves around cattle.


Further down the road, though, the town of Joseph seems to thrive on tourism.

The Joseph foundry specializes in casting large pieces, from the horses outside the foundry itself, to the many pieces that line the Main Street. For now we passed through, heading on to Lake Wallowa, where Chief Joseph is buried. Denied a return to his homeland in life, his grave has now become something of a shrine.

A low stone wall surrounds a little hill, where a monolith marks the spot of his reinterment. The base is covered with small offerings and tokens. I found a bright orange feather in the grass and added it to the collection.

To continue onwards to Hells Canyon, where the Snake River carves its way along the border between Oregon and Idaho, we had to return to Joseph. We saw that the Joseph Historical Society had opened its doors. Things were quiet after the Labor Day weekend – in fact, the Society would be closing for the winter in mid-September. Preparations had already begun upstairs, where we found a woman cleaning and oiling some tack to protect it from the winter temperatures. The bridle she holds is over a hundred years old, but it looks completely serviceable, as does the Western sidesaddle next to her.

She tells me that yes, all Western women rode in these until riding astride became socially acceptable, as late as the 1920’s for some. And everyone rode when she was growing up on a ranch. If you wanted to go to town, you rode. If you wanted to go to a dance, you rode – and stuffed your dress into a saddlebag. Unfortunately, as it happened to her grandmother, if your horse looses its footing and rolls in the river, you may have to borrow some clothes while your travel clothes and party dress dry off. With a smile, she tells us that an elderly gentleman used to discomfit her grandmother on a regular basis by reminding her it was his long woolen underwear she borrowed on that occasion.

Horses and riding were critical to ranching life then – although recent winters have been mild, drifts used to fill the valley with snow up to ten feet deep. The valley is still mostly ranchland, although Joseph has the feeling of a summer resort town and there are summer houses built around the Lake. Incidentally, I only saw a single Appaloosa as we drove through.

From Joseph, we travel through the hills and ascend to a ridge where we can look over Hells Canyon, the deep gorge carved by the Snake River. Ridge after ridge of mountains stretch Eastward into Idaho - intimidating terrain. This scenic area is used by hunters , btut this is also a popular route for touring with motorc
ycles - not just for the scenery but because Eastern Oregon has 300 days of sunshine a year. Today, however, thunderclouds are gathering over the Wallowa Mountains as a group of bikers stop to ask questions about Dex and his wheels.

From the low point of the Canyon towards Baker City, we pass the bikers several times. The clouds are growing steadily more ominous, and we are not suprised when they do not stop with us at the Oregon Trail Interpretive Center. Before this trip I had thought of the Westward migration as a Great Plains phenomenon in which the Rocky Mountains were the greatest obstacle. That's partly because I lived in Colorado for ten years. Having seen the Snake River, it has no relation to the easy progress along the Platte. To cross these last ranges to get to the Willamette Valley, the wagon trains had to resort to extraordinary measures, lowering oxen and horses over cliffs, along with the prairie schooners, or simply abandoning their wagons for a perilous raft voyage down the Columbia River.

At the front desk of the Center, a casual comment about the coming storm evokes a reminder that though the storm might bring a little rain, it is the lightning strikes and potential fires that are more on the mind of local residents.

Before the rain actually hits, we are treated to a pair of golden eagles performing acrobatics in the rising wind, and then after we have driven through the storm, a series of Ospreys. At John Day, another biker tells us they were caught in a hailstorm, but there were no reports of fire even though lightning lit up the sky. These storms were traumatic for the pioneers because a they often caused the cattle to stampede. Without the oxen who often gave their lives to moving the big wagons, the massive exodus, with up to 50 thousand people crossing the continent a year, would not have been possible.


DAY 4 - GOD'S BONES

“In the valley of the great Columbia, a rock with tooth protruding was passed by careless men in quest of wealth until there came one with sympathetic vision who caressed the rock with loving touches and carried it away from its bed of mud, hardened into stone. With infinite care he chipped away the fragments of rock until the one tooth was joined by its fellows and there stood out in clear and perfect form the skull of the ancient horse. Even careless men now admired the beauteous sculpture of nature’s older days; but the inspired geologist bore his treasure to the summit of the hills, and by a subtle chemistry of the soul he clothed it anew with flesh, and from words strange to other ears he learned of the mighty lakes and forests, of the many horses and camels and of the herds of huge mammoths whose trumpetings drowned the voices of many roaring waters.” Edmond S. Meany, (editor & publisher of the Seattle Post Intelligencer)


When U.S. soldiers told Reverend Thomas Condon of the fossils they had seen exposed in the rocks while riding through the Oregon territory in 1861, an old flame was rekindled. Condon had not always been a missionary. His family had immigrated from Ireland to New York, where he became a keen student of nature while rabbit-hunting in Central Park, was a schoolteacher for many years, and had developed a deep interest in fossils while at the seminary in Central New York State.

But it was not easy to satisfy his curiosity about the fossil beds, as the miners activities in the area had turned the Indians hostile, not to mention the day to day demands of his family and congregation. It was four years before he left his Congregational church at the Dalles on the Columbia River to accompany an army patrol through the John Day area.

The fossil leaves he found there and those brought to him by friends in the army began to form a substantial collection, and when a U.S. geological survey team arrived in 1867, Condon now had a way to find out more about them. A box was sent back to a Columbia college professor, and by 1870, Condon was sending specimens to the Smithsonian and taking the most distinguished paleontologists in America on tours of the fossil beds, He found his ultimate calling as a teacher at Oregon’s first university and wrote about the geology, natural history and first peoples of the region.

He never participated in the “bone wars” that characterized the contentious early days of North American paleontology, nor did he name many fossil species – but now the new Thomas Condon Paleontology Center creates a monument to his enthusiasm. This low-key concrete building is filled with relics and replicas of the creatures that fascinated him, together with exhibits that recreate the environments they roamed through.

Elontodonts and Chalicotheres, Tragulids and Nimravids ruled the land when these layers of bluegreen claystone were created from volcanic ash over 50 million years ago. Their forms are as unfamiliar as their names and habits. But the early horses, Orohippus, Haplohippus and Epihippus already had much in common with the modern equus, although they were small and multitoed. Through the succeeding epochs, larger horses like Miohippus and Mesohippus used bigger and stronger jaws to specialize in grass, and as the landscape grew drier, they thrived, in spite of the catlike predators Hoplophoneus and Dinictis who harried them. Their skeletons can tell us how they moved, their teeth what they ate, but the muralist Roger Witter and the research team who helped research the subjects looked to modern equids to portray their coat patterns and behavior in the murals that line the walls of the center.

The exhibit is small enough to digest easily and won’t take a huge chunk of your day – that’s important because the landscape as it exists today is the main attraction. The John Day river and the creeks that drain into it have carved down to expose the colorful layers of each epoch, from the blue-green claystone of Turtle Cove, where Thomas Condon collected his first fossils, to the red and yellows of the Painted Hills.

The enduring mystery is what exactly caused the horse’s extinction in North America. Along with Mastadons, Wooly Mammoths, true elephants, giant bison, ground sloths, the dire wolf, giant bears and many other large mammals of the late Pleistocene, they vanish from the fossil record about 10,000 BC

Arguments are made both for climate change (a long period of glaciation ended about 12,000 years ago) and for the arrival of humans in North America over the Bering Land Bridge about 14,000 years ago having exterminated many large mammals through hunting. There is as yet no conclusive evidence or anything approaching consensus on the subject. It may seem like a debate about angels dancing on the head of a pin, but the lack of a dominant theory fuels continuing controversy about who owns evidence of prehistoric humans, as well as whether the horses on public land are a sustainable part of the current ecosystem.

On the way back out of John Day towards Burns, an enormous number of wagon wheels piled agains a barn required investigation.

The Ox Bow Trade Company has more wagons, carts and sleighs than I have ever seen in one place, along with knick-knacks, cast iron ornaments and other artifacts of Oregon’s horse-dependent days. The carriage industry is still alive and kicking here - Ox Bow builds and restores carts for those who love driving - including scaled -down stage coaches, sleighs, and the cart they were preparing for pickup - designed especially for a team of mini-mules.

In the vast barn full of vintage vehicles, parts
and other flotsam, I found two more sidesaddles. Though the leather was rather dried out, I did briefly consider whether we could add one to our baggage, but they looked s though they were designed for a wider horse than
By the time we found the Bureau of Land Management offices, they were closed, but at least the information kiosk provided us with a map that showed the location of the corrals just a few miles down the road on Route 20.

So we shelved that visit for the next morning, and went to the Harney County Fair instead at the tail end of the day’s action. Prize pigs slumbered, shorn sheep wore sleezies, and cows took baths. The county fair is also part of the parimutuel thoroughbred racing scene, and although there would be no racing until the weekend, we found a few horses in the racing barn. Their trainer gave me a quick view of life on the county fair circuit. Of his five horses, one was an older mare with knobby ankles, who, as he said, needed a new job. The second was an attractive chestnut mare, a daughter of Alphabet Soup, who he had high hopes for, and a grey filly he had picked up with her who had some issues with her hind end. The other two were bays, and one was a gelding by Wekiva Springs that was his best horse.

Racing on the circuit means traveling from track to track as the Oregon State racing commission allots racing dates. Grant’s Pass and the Pendleton Roundup are two other stops on this tour, and the race track in Salem where Go Salem By made his debut used to be part of it. Each track has its own surface and conditions. The Burns track is only 1/2 mile, a “bullring” with sharp corners. He finds local exercise riders, but is groom and barn foreman himself. He had negotiated the pens where his horses stand to give them a little room to move around. He is tired and ready to go home he says, but when he talks about the chestnut mare, his eyes light up. She has a good shot.

Too bad we won’t be there to cash a ticket.


DAY 5 - MUSTANG MADNESS

It is just after eight in the morning when we cruise down the driveway to the BLM corrals. There is no-one in the office, just a man on a tractor in the distance. But a sign points to an “auto tour,” so we set off down the gravel road.

There are many mustangs in the large pens. The first one contains forty or fifty mares and foals. When we arrive they shift backwards towards the fence, all except one starred bay youngster, whose curiousity is greater than his caution. As they settle, it is evident from color and type that many of these horses are related. One group consists of all red roans, while another are dark bays of a very light type, and yet another group have extremely wide white blazes.


This pattern repeats itself in the next pen, where there are several dun mares of what looks to me like the Kiger type. One of them comes walking with purpose towards me, followed by another and a young foal. I am surprised, but the mission is apparent when she noses the water tank, which is turned over. Whether she thought our arrival meant the tank was to be filled, or whether she is actually communicating their need to me, I don’t know, but the other mare’s youngster imitates her actions. Then we see that the first pen of horses are receiving hay, thrown from a tractor as it drives through the pens.

Soon all the horses are busy, heads down. They are a true range of types, from drafty looking creatures with big hairy feet to the light, refined type of the “Kiger” mares to the thoroughbred look of the dark bays.

This stallion was perhaps the closest to the “mustang” ideal – well coupled, muscular, and proportional, with the proud carriage of Spanish/barb ancestry, he looked as though he was on the job.

As we finish our auto tour, a man in a cowboy hat hails us. Turns out he’s the boss, covering all the chores while his crew has the day off at the county fair. At least, he’s acting boss, - Bill Pieratt, called in from Prineville to cover for a medical leave.

He’s having a great time, he said. His father was a rancher, and so he’s perfectly at home running the tractor, filling the tank and even doing some ground work with Cisco, a young mustang who will be raffled off at the fair this weekend.

Cisco has had some training, but he could use a little more exposure to people, so we head over to his corral to visit him.

This sweet, slightly wary soul is just about halter broke. Bill hopes he will go to someone with horse experience.

I ask him about the “Kiger” mares. He said, no, technically they are not Kigers. These horses are all from Beaty’s Butte, pulled off the range because of a water shortage. Eastern Oregon has been in a drought cycle for the last several years, and this year it became critical. But Beaty’s Butte is where the horses that became the Kiger herd were found, so its not suprising that there are still horses of a similar type out there.

The Kiger is really a manufactured label for a group horses that are very close to what we imagine the foundation mustangs to be – a vestige of an antique Iberian horse, the Sorria that has nearly disappeared from Spain and Portugal. When the group was found on Beatty’s Butte, it was decided to move them to a more isolated range, and to divide them into two groups to give them a better chance at surviving.

Over the years, the Kigers thrived in their new ranges, and they have served well as poster children for the Mustang – from Spirit. They are neat and refined creatures in the distinctibe “wild” dun and grulla colors, although, because these patterns are dominant, the wild herd still produces some bays even after thirty years of isolation.

The “Kiger” type mares from Beaty’s Butte illustrate that the boundary drawn around the breed is essentially manmade – as is the BLM management program. Indeed, the BLM are reluctant ranchers of the mustangs – and by selecting which horses to re-release into the wild, they have an eye towards “adoptability.” The variety of horses out there in the pen illustrates how each generation of humans have tried to bend the Mustangs to their own ends, from Native Americans to the U.S. Cavalry – and yet their stubborn survival and persistence is a reminder that horses don’t really need us – perhaps that’s why we need the mustang.

We take our leave from the corrals and head south towards Steens Mountain, where we hope we might in fact see some mustangs in their environment. By taking a less direct route, we can also cross another BLM range – Palamino Mountain.

But along the straight-running Double O Ranch Road, we see nothing but cows in the sagebrush. On one dusty stop to let the dogs stretch their legs, we realize we are being attacked by mosquitoes – in the middle of the desert. The mystery is revealed a few hundred yards down the road. The silver sagebrush gives way to a virulent green and a patch of water reveals what my husband swears was an otter. We have hit the fringes of Harney Lake.

Three lakes, Malheur, Mud and Harney, are the remnants of a lake that once covered most of the Harney basin, Six thousand years a volcanic flow blocked its drainage into the Malheur River, so the lake boundaries vary greatly from year to year, depending on the amount of runoff from Steens Mountain. Most of the rivers feed into Lake Malheur, keeping it the freshest of the three lakes, but still highly alkaline and only about five feet deep. Tule rushes surround the lake, creating a nesting habitat for migrating birds, from coots to egrets, and even pelicans use the lake in the summer.

In fact, this area was one of the important building blocks in Theodore Roosevelt’s conservation campaign – in 1908 he proclaimed it a national wildlife refuge to protect the egrets and other water birds from the feather hunters who were decimating their population. We could not linger too long to watch the birds, because we had other quarry that day.

We soon left Highway 205 to follow the Diamond Ranch loop towards the Pete French Round Barn. This structure was essentially a covered round pen, where cattle boss Pete French kept his men out of trouble through the winter, starting young horses.

With wood at a premium, brought in from Burns, over 50 miles away, local basalt stone was used to build the lower wall of the central corral, and the roof rose like an umbrella above it, supported by a giant central juniper post that was probably several hundred years old in the 1880s. A track ran outside the corral under the umbrella roof, wide enough to drive a team around.

The building is remarkable as a testimony to ambition and to the mutability of the landscape. Although the round barn was far from the lake when it was built, 100 years later it was flooded with 3 feet of water, when Lake Malheur grew after record rains.

This round barn was the first of three Pete French built as part of his attempt to meld Industrial Era efficiency to the traditions of running cattle on the open range. Still, it can hardly compete with the more ancient volcanic engineering that has shaped the Diamond area. Even after thousands of years, the vegetation has not conquered the fields of pahoepahoe lava which stretch like jumbled asphalt for miles, pockmarked with craters.

Soon we were drawn off onto yet another loop – a “Wild Horse viewing point.” Although we didn’t really expect to see mustangs here, I wanted to see their environment, so we bumped and churned over a rough road that climbed steadily upwards. On reaching the ridge we had a sweeping view of the lower slopes of Steens Mountain. Even with the binoculars we could detect nothing moving.

But when we wandered through the torturously twisted junipers, we did stumble across evidence that horses had been there, most likely mustangs – well, anyway, so I’d like to believe.

By the time we began our descent, it was getting late, and it was clear Steens Mountain would have to wait for the following day. Like the early wagon trains who crossed here, we were finding the country was bigger than it looked on the map.

However, we were equipped with a cell phone, and fortunately were able to find refuge at the Steens Mountain Resort just outside of Frenchglen. There, finally, we saw our mustang – Kiger Star, an 18 year old mare and longtime resident, who ambled over to greet us over sunset on the deck of our bunkhouse.


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pete_French_Round_Barn


DAY 6

Breakfast the the Frenchglen Inn got us off to a strong start – we realized that we were the only mustang tourists there – there were birders of every feather, from Lopez Island migrants to Portland webfeet.

The West side of Steens mountain rises with deceptive gentleness, and it is a nearly 30- mile drive to the summit from Frenchglen. Gradually the Big Sagebrush grazing lands yields to aspen groves and small lakes and meadows, then finally to alpine tundra, with dramatic views down into the u-shaped gorges that glaciers carved out of the mountain.

Along the cliffs of the Kiger and Big Indian gorges, Golden Eagles soar, while hawks hunt the rabbits, gophers and mice. The wind is high, and the temperature at least 15 degrees less than lower down. The Northern Paiute called this “the Cold Place” for good reason.

Officially, it is the Steens Mountain Cooperative Management and Protection Area, after nearly being designated a National Monument by Bill Clinton in his attempt to rival Theodore Roosevelt as a preservationist of public lands. Under the BLM, there is a more mixed use of the lands, and although steps have been taken to limit grazing, there are still sheep and cattle on portions of the mountain. These livestock far outnumber the mustangs, and there is pressure from environmental groups to restrict grazing altogether. The many different vegetation layers on the mountain provide habitat for mountain lions and bobcats, bighorn sheep, wapiti and mule deer, as well as many smaller mammals, and the creeks feeding the Blitzen River are popular with fishermen seeking redband trout.

The trip down the mountain is not as well groomed as the road up, though in good weather it is certainly not hazardous except to your oilpan. In its lower reaches, where it is washboard rather than rock hazards, we saw plenty of horse manure along the road, but I don’t think this was from hitchhiking mustangs. So regretfully we left Steens with only Kiger Star for a memory, and returned to Frenchglen to get some gas for the next leg of the journey.

While waiting for our lunch sandwiches from, yes, the Frenchglen Hotel again, we asked whether the road towards Hart Mountain Antelope Refuge was as rugged as the Steens Mountain Loop. After that shaking up, we were even considering driving down 205 into Nevada to avoid any more dirt roads. A longtime resident said he could do the Hart Mountain road at 50 miles an hour.

I drove a little slower. Partly because yes, there was washboard here too, and the speed limit was set at thirty, but more because there were antelope. When we see how they stand out in the sagebrush, we are confident our failure to spot mustangs was not due to tunnel vision or desert blindness.

Even at my sedate speed, we are crossing in a matter of hours what had been a waterless drive of several days for the few wagon trains who came through in the 1850’s, seeking to avoid the tolls and ferries that entrepreneurs had set up on established routes.

Even the Northern Pauite band, the Wadatika, who occupied this area rarely traveled west from Steens, particularly in the heat of summer. The intransigent sea of sagebrush kept them safe from more aggressive tribes in the Klamath region, but the bunchgrass that grew amongst it was the lure that finally brought settlers to the region. Their livestock destroyed the lakeside habitat the Wadatika depended on, and sparked the Bannock Wars.

Farming was difficult here. A real estate ad for Harney county property puts this spin on the 10-inch annual rainfall ” That's over 25 cm. It's not a lot of rain, but if all that water would fall on the ground instantly, it would be enough to swimm [sic] in.”

If you are a minnow, maybe. For $400 an acre, what do you want?

Most of the settlers wanted slightly more. They abandoned their claims or sold out to big cattle companies, but not before they had changed the pattern of the basin forever. The surviving cattlemen soon found the yield from the land diminished from overgrazing. Livestock is now banished from the Refuge, established by another Roosevelt, FDR, in 1936 and the antelope are flourishing, at least to the degree necessary to sustain a fall hunting season.

It is the ability to thrive with the low rainfall and a short growing season that has preserved the sagebrush sea for thousands of years – along with the frequent fires caused by lightning strikes and perhaps native American intervention in places. Now, the juniper is increasing rapidly, and with its ability to suck moisture from deeper in the water table, outcompeting the sagebrush and rabbit brush.

Why do environmentalists mourn a little less grey-green scrub? Because the land was already degraded by heavy grazing, and becoming steadily less habitable for many native species, like the sage grouse and the pronghorn antelope. We are taught to think of trees as “good” and they are a harvested commodity throughout the Northwest. But juniper wood, while useful for fenceposts, is too deeply knotted for lumber and has so few commercial uses besides barbeque chips.

Land use is always a hot issue in Eastern Oregon, and Hart Mountain Antelope Refuge has provoked its share of controversy. The banning of livestock (along with the removal of “feral” horses – not protected on Fish and Wildlife land – and controlled burns) did not sit well with local ranchers, even though a drought had suspended grazing anyway. Grazing rights are sold with a property, and so form part of the collateral for mortgages.

Emotions ran high and threats were made by property owners to close off the roads to the Refuge. Finally, tradeoffs were made in the form of improvement for local roads. With the absence of cattle, the native grasses and other forage plants are making a comeback.

The constituency of the Fish And Wildlife agency were visible, in spite of their camoflage, along the road, and when we drove through the lakes of the Warner Valley to Lakeview, their economic impact is plain through the signs that welcome them at motels and gas stations.



Day 7 - DEEP BLUE

The last day of a trip is usually a bit anticlimactic, and this one is no different, as a yen for home begins to overtake our travelers’ curiosity. But when we see a cluster of horse trailers, there is a consensus to stop.

It’s a rodeo – seemingly a very local affair, but well attended. The arena is full of riders warming up as the loudspeakers blare, well, surprise, Country music. A pen of steers with protective leather capping their heads and horns look uneasy, but the people appear to be having a good time. This looks like a family event here, with everything from battered stock trailers to fancy rigs circled around the arena.

The last time I felt my hair blowing in the breeze while riding was when I forgot to put my hardhat on. Though I can't help but think everyone should wear one, it does look free and fantastic. The sight of all those horses makes me miss my own and we get back on the road. Still, we can’t ignore Oregon’s only national park. After all, that’s the reason we dipped down to the southern edge of the state.

I have been here once before – on a family camping trip I was too young to remember.

It was gold the men were hunting for, not azure, but when the three prospectors reached the rim of what the Klamath Indians called Llao, they called it Deep Blue. Since then, Crater Lake has become a familiar icon. But the intense, saturated blue of the lake is still astonishing, as though it has been sucking color from the sky since it first filled the deep caldera six thousand years ago.

The eruption of Mount Mazama sent ash as far North as Portland, and is described in Klamath legend. In the intervening time the Lake has since developed its own unique ecosystem, thanks to the microclimate created by the enclosed walls and the nearly 2,000 foot depth – the polar opposite of Lake Malheur – in fact, this is the deepest lake in the US. In 1988 a submersible was sent down to explore its depths and discovered that the moss growing on the caldera walls extends down to nearly 800 feet, where enough light reaches it due to the incredible clarity of the water. The moss supports colonies of algae, bacteria and phytoplankton. The depth of the water is what prevents the lake from freezing over completely except once in a blue moon, or in 1949 and 1924, to be precise, although the lake is fed by a snowfall at the summit that averages 533 inches a year.

Crater Lake was made a National Park in 1902, when it had already been stocked with salmon and trout. Because the lake did not drain or connect with other bodies of water, it had no naturally occurring fish, and you can fish without a license from the shore. You can scuba dive, take a boat trip, hike, and in winter, snowshoe and ski. We did not do any of that, confining ourselves to stopping at every other overlook on the drive around the lake to ogle the blue depths.

Finally, sated, saturated and stupefied with scenery, we headed north on I-5. On a quest for a cup of coffee, my husband pulled in at Portland Meadows, where the day’s racing was over, but where the simulcast from other tracks was still playing.

If you want to buy a racetrack, it is for sale. Magna Entertainment, the company of Frank Stronach which has bought up tracks across America in hopes of capitalizing on their conversion to racinos, is giving up on Portland Meadows.

[The only thing about the track I know is that Magna has forbidden people to take pictures during the race, so as not to compete with the official track photographers. There was no competition today, so I snapped a couple of shots of the track’s most bizarre feature – the golf course on the infield. On reflection, it’s a fairly logical idea – after all, most infields are landscaped with ponds already – just add a sand trap!

We drove out past the backstretch. Apparently Magna never invested in a makeover. The hands-on, makeshift fair circuit looked more appealing than this grim, industrial shabbiness.

After the isolation of the desert roads, where you turn your head at every passing car, the relentless flood of traffic traveling North on I-5 is disconcerting. But soon the exits are familiar and the homing beacon draws us safely back to Seattle, to wash off the desert dust, to pile the rocks on the mantel, and resume the rhythm of daily life.

But already I am thinking that my horse will need to learn a thing or two before we head off on a trip up Steens Mountain to find the Kigers on their home turf. Not in a sidesaddle, though!