Sun 18 Aug 2019
Having crossed the Columbia River back south into Oregon at Biggs Junction, we traversed down through Gilliam County, heading for the Painted Hills Unit of the John Day Fossil Beds National Monument in Wheeler County.
We were inspired to visit this little-known area as a result of a random screensaver that had briefly flashed up on Dave’s Windows 10 laptop a year or two previously. The journey down was stunningly desolate and we couldn’t resist making a few stops.
From a viewpoint on Highway 206 between Wasco and Condon, we could see several, snow-capped volcanoes spaced out along the horizon: Mount Hood and Mount Jefferson heading left of centre, Mount Adams and Mount Rainier heading right of centre, and Mount St Helens in the middle, although not really visible today. It was reminiscent of being back on the island of Chiloe off the coast of Chile (where we were with the girls in 2011), when we looked across to the Chilean mainland and saw a long line of Andean volcanoes strung out along the horizon.
We stopped in Condon, set in the barren, hot, dry, still landscape of Gilliam County, to get water, fuel, a few groceries and lunch. The initial fuel station was a lost-in-time, deserted affair, but we found a second fuel station with a bit of life. They let us top up all our water containers in their small staff kitchen. We then found a bit of tree shade on a small, watered, grassy patch forming a tiny green space in the small town, and ate our picnic lunch there.
[Use arrows or swipe to scroll photos.] Landscape between Condon and the John Day Fossil Beds.
We continued the drive down through a bewitching landscape of dry, brown, rocky bluffs interspersed with sprinklings of pale green vegetation and small, dark, coniferous trees in the valley bottoms where the occasional watercourse cut across, eventually arriving at the gloriously coloured Painted Hills Unit of the John Day Fossil Beds.
[Use arrows or swipe to scroll photos.] Painted Hills Unit, John Day Fossil Beds.
We wandered around in the bright sun, hiding under our flimsy umbrellas. The formations were beautiful and interesting and, although it is possible to photograph the colours, words cannot bring you the stillness and emptiness and debilitating heat (36 deg C) nor the hot leaf scents of the trees, sagebrush and other shrubs.
Again, we were transported back to South America, this time to the hot, dry, reddish landscape, silence and eucalyptus scents of the deserted, deep countryside around Tilcara in northern Argentina, Tupiza in south-west Bolivia and Isla Negra in Chile. No wonder there are so many Americans who do not feel the need to travel outside the USA (only 10% had passports in 1994, 27% in 2007 and 42% in 2016) – there is just so much variety within their own country.
We drove slightly east and south to find somewhere to stop for the night, and stumbled upon Barnhouse campground just inside the Ochoco National Forest. This secluded, free-of-charge, wooded site was completely empty of visitors, so we set up camp in the most beautiful spot and took in our surroundings. It was blissful: a tiny stream (no water tap or water pump), a shared long-drop toilet, and our own firepit and picnic table.
We popped some paper and kindling into the firepit and, after a minute or two, it started smoking without the use of matches (obviously the hot day had prevented the heat dissipating from the campfire that someone must have had last night) and a quick blow from ‘Dragon Breath’ May was enough to send up some flames. It shows just how easily forest fires can start in hot, dry conditions.
The evening slowly began to chill (as happens even after a hot day when at an altitude of 4500 feet), and we cooked, ate, chatted and laughed together, sat around our little campfire.
We pored over a Google map of the area on my phone and chuckled at the name of the 5000 foot peak 20 miles south-east of here: Bear Butte. We were thankful that, just a few short months ago, I had, at last, (semi-)retired my basic, 15-year-old mobile handset and succumbed to the twenty-first century draw of a smartphone (the only one of us four to modernise our phone technology). A smartphone is so incredibly versatile for travel – even after mistakenly throwing away your own SIM card near the start of the holiday (which brings a whole new meaning to a SIM-free phone).
It must be said, however, that the on-screen keyboard on a smartphone is miniscule: I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve hit ‘i’ instead of ‘o’ and ‘g’ instead of ‘h’ – and repeatedly tried to access my ‘gitmail’ account.
Even Grandma (Dave’s mum) got a smartphone several years before us. Apparently, her phone is not entirely touchscreen-controlled, however, as it still has a few actual buttons. May says it is therefore only a smart-ish phone. Dave wonders what the buttons are like: if brightly coloured and round, perhaps it is a Smarties phone. Enough of this!
We swapped stories and tips. I recalled a travel tip given to me more than two decades ago by my friend, Tim, based on the advice of another of his friends. “Travel with three socks.” This doesn’t mean three pairs, it means three socks, two to wear and one in the wash. Each morning, you move your left sock to the wash, your right sock to your left foot, and the spare, clean sock to your right foot, making sure never to forget which direction you’re rotating in. Pooh! We are famously sparing when we pack, but even we are not this sparing!
The girls browsed a campground information sheet that we’d found, and May announced that the longest RV (i.e., recreational vehicle or motorhome) permitted at this site is 42 inches. It seemed rather small (42 inches being 3½ feet or just over a metre) – she had, of course, misread 42’ as 42 inches instead of 42 feet (42” means 42 inches).
I reminded May of another night, another bonfire, long ago ... half her lifetime ago, when she was just six years old. We were sat in the garden, just the two of us, enjoying the dying embers of a small bonfire under an expansive, clear, night sky. The moment had been magical. I’d gazed up at the stars - overwhelmed by their beauty, in wonderment at the infinite - feeling such nostalgia for my own childhood half a century ago. I’d leant over, hugged May, asked her what hopes and dreams she had for the future. She’d paused, thinking seriously, took a breath, then replied, “Well, Mummy, I want to watch television every single day.” I came to earth with a bump.
Mid-evening, another family in two cars with a small trailer tent and small ordinary tent arrived at the campground and pitched at the very furthest end from us. But, thankfully, no RVs arrived, not even an RV just 42 inches long. We and the other family were mutually considerate and each kept ourselves to ourselves, so that we could all enjoy the peace and isolation.
That is, except for one mortifying episode in the late evening when Dave went to unlock our car door using the proximity key and, in the pitch blackness, accidentally pressed the ‘panic’ button! In his agitation at setting off a piercing car alarm in the deep silence of the forest, he thrust the damned key device at me and left me fumbling around in the dark to try to find a way to turn it off.
But silence soon resumed even deeper than before. The chores were done, the girls had gone to bed. Dave and I sat beside our small fire, watching the little, leaping flames and star-filled, cloudless sky visible through the small patch overhead between the trees. It was an enchanting end to a heavenly day.