Eye Pain

For years my left eye has intermittently caused bouts of SEVERE pain that sometimes lasted for days. Repeated attempts to diagnose have been unsuccessful and the physician assured me there's no way to relieve the pain. And furthermore, he's known it to make Navy SEALS emote.

Yesterday, after several years without an incident, I spent all day, from about 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. in such intense pain I lost control of my bowels. (I was in the hills near Baker City, Oregon.) I tried several times to use the Debreather but each time, after a few minutes, I felt as if I couldn't breath and had to stop. (See Richard's, the inventor of the Debreather, reply on the link above)

The headgear is part of the Debreather II. The chin strap keeps the mouth closed after a person loses consciousness. The fabric is velcro and holds the face-mask in place.

Note swollen left eye

Happy Faces

Apparently the "clearcut" has gone out of style. The "harvesting" is of much smaller trees, debris is accumulated into piles and there ground is only marginally disturbed...or so it appears.

In the days of yore, that shrub in the upper left and lower right wouldn't have been able to come back; the ground'd be covered by the debris. And the trees at the right would've been taken. 

Evidence Of Bear

I discovered a vestigial trail down to the stream I've been camping next to. I carry a take-down bowsaw and clippers just for such occasions. I wish I'd thought to take a "b4" picture. 

Besides water, there's BOUND to be gold in there. Now where'd I put that avarice?

Once I'd cleared some room I noticed the nearby "diggings." My tactic in bear country is to cough. It could be a pretzel allergy, but this afternoon my throat kept itching something awful. 

Chinese Cemetery

I was looking for grocery stores when it came up. It's behind Grocery Outlet.

The prayer house is as humble as it gets. It's empty, with a dirt floor.

The crudity feels like a slap to the face. 

Somewhere....

One of two...

The other...

The rest of them. May they rest in peace.

A weed garden

All there is to know

Across the Street...tilted pigeon roost.

Blue Mountains

It was a long day of driving. Up over the top, above 7,000 feet, then down to Baker City to resupply. Then an hour or more to get back out.

The ridgeline is most dramatic when coming from the West.

There are surrounding peaks that make their own contribution. 

Pipeline

There's a huge dredge in Sumpter that was electric. The story, as told to me, was they imported Chinese to build a pipeline to bring water from Olive Lake to the Fremont Power Plant where it was converted to electricity. This is the pipeline...hidden in the woods.

Disappearing into the Distance

There's a groove along the lowest edge of the board, the parallels, that is so perfect there's not a hint of splinter. The smell of waterproofing tar is still strong.

The survivors supposedly went unpaid. Googling Chinese and Fremont Pipeline brings no mention of their contribution. The only evidence is the cemetery in Baker City. It's condition shows there's been no change in attitude since the earlier era. (see blogpost: The Chinese Cemetery)

Gordon & I

Gordon LeAllen Wickland is a Swede from Minnessota. His grandfather's 2500 acre farm bordered Canada.

He's the middle child of 15 and comes from a town of 2500, two thousand of which are relatives. 

Cheryl characterized him as 77 going on 15....and a *young* 15. She said he once pulled out a gun in the huge, extravaganza flea market Sumpter is famous for, and fired off several shots...just to liven things up a bit. He's one of the funniest people I've ever met.

His right leg was crushed when he was standing in front of a truck and the guy accidentally put it in drive. Gordon was standing in front of a telephone pole and the bumper hit him just above the knee. The miracle of modern medicine enables him to walk but three years post event it still hurts.

I left my Zadrozny Sound-healing wands (that cured my sciatica) with Dennis to see if they'd help his back and encouraged Gordon to try them too.

Dennis, Cheryl & Flash

I was camped above highway 7 south of Baker City and barely starting my day when they first went by. As a concession to the apparent busyness, I put on my pants. When they came back and rolled to a stop, Dennis's first question was, "We're not disturbing your peace and quiet are we?

After the previous day's encounter with the GoWild group (See Aug 17 post), this was a surprise. And so we commenced.

They're gold enthusiasts who've been together since 1974. I'm two months older than Dennis and his broken back has made it impossible to be active and his "physique" is similar to mine.

Cheryl has tinnitus that causes vertigo when she's tired and Flash had his right leg crushed several years ago and spent three weeks in a Boise hospital; it still hurts, he said. But none of them has lost an iota of enthusiasm.

Dennis took me on a tour of Sumpter, where they live and rent out several cabins. We went on to the ghost town of Bourne, population 7, where I got to see the crusher that operated at the turn of the 19th century. 

The Crusher

As with many photos, this one doesn't show the height of 3+ stories of this incredible ruin. There was a tram that carried the ore to the top. All this around 1895.

They're excited about showing me different places and when I mentioned Anthony Lakes said they'd like to go there too.  They have a toy hauler and razor and a Chevy Silverado with 4wd so are fully accoutresized. And they offered to teach me how to pan for gold.

It's amazing how quickly things can change.

The next day, Dennis's back went out and I wasn't sure I'd get a photo of the three of them. Gordon is a real prankster!

The Trio with Luke (on leash) and Good Boy

Wondrous Campsite

It was before nine in the morning when the two vans, one with GoWild on the side, pulled up. They disgorged a dozen yammerers eager to meet and greet; there was one woman.

In my boxer skivvies and naught else, I hailed their fearless leader to inquire of their intentions. "We're on an adventure!" he said.

Overhearing, I realized there was no room for me at their party and there was certainly no consideration of my presence.

Piling their baggage in front of the info board, an intense exchange went round over who had which and how many bottles; the scotch was of particular concern.

I packed and was able to leave just as the trailer with their mules arrived.

The Mules & the Only Backpack

I took the first side road I came to. Perusing my 1:24000 scale maps, it looked as if there might be water. And so it was that we found ourselves tucked into one of those special places that keeps me wandering. The stream was about 12 feet wide with a deep enough pool that, in my twelve-dollar Walmart slip-ons, made filling the jugs ezee-pezee. Within less than a minute my feet were freezing. 

The site was close to the road but the traffic was so sparse it wasn't an issue.

When I went into a roof box for something I must've hit the ON button cuz suddenly I noticed 'em.

I'd found 'em earlier in the year half draped on a tree at the far end of a forest road. The control box was about 20 feet out from the tree with the string lying on the ground; I figured it was my turn to have 'em.

There's a timer that turns 'em off at some point that's past my bedtime so I've yet to tell how long they go. But it seems a nice way to alert the late-comers that this site is occupied.

I thought about teleporting to the group of self-absorbeds to thank them for the motivation, but I was too busy just enjoying this wondrous camp at Indian Creek.

Anthony Lake - NOT

Due to its higher elevation & cooler temps, Anthony Lake came highly recommended. With 9 miles still to go and it being past time to make camp, I took the first forest road.

Camp was just above the pavement and the traffic convinced me to explore the forest road. It ended at a trailhead where I, for the first time in decades, headed out.

A Venerable Sign

I wasn't able to go far, a straight-line distance of a little over 1,500'. And though it only ascended from 5048' to 5138', for a stretch I was leaning forward at about a 15-degree angle and using a real, live stair-stepper.

Beyond the top and starting down the other side, I checked Google Maps for the distance to Dutch Flat Creek. A mere 16 minutes, and all downhill. I'd been on the trail more than two hours; I doubted I could make it back up.

A Nameless Reservoir

It'd been 12 hours since morning meds. Usually I take 'em 8 hours apart skipping the middle of the night dose.  Nearing camp I noticed some twinge, but nothing of concern. 

I'd have liked to see how long it'd have taken me, but today was a gift!

Baker City Chords

I've been enjoying noodling, but it's begun to sound repetitive. When I stopped in at The Bead Store in Baker City, the young woman showed me how she and her husband use these three chords to create a "dark" waltz.

Her black shorts and bodice evoked visions of Fetlife, which, at the time, I was thinking about. Her mother, around my age, around my age, was also in the shop. Interacting with the two was a reminder of how my age has moved me beyond the realm of some possibilities.

F3 Tornado in Wallowa

I was camped about 5 miles out and saw the clouds. Something prompted me to go into town. The road was covered with leaves...a curious sight.

The aftermath showed the hail

was coming horizontally

See all the leaves?

Dents all across the side

7

The old Methodist Church

Frawgs!

In the hills of eastern Oregon!

There was a troop of them; all less than the size of a penny, hippity-hopping their way acrosst the dried area of the campsite. 

No bodies of water nearby; they must be toads.

Later that day, I visited the Lostine River

Craig's Antiques

At Faerie Beads a pair of small abalone shells were displayed on a beautiful Noritake plate that looked like a copy of Meissen or Rosenthal. The trio made an "ensemble" but the plate belonged to the owner's mother and she wouldn't sell it. She sent me to Craig's to see if he had something.

Craig's is the real thing. Tall display cases alternate with items less-purloinable carefully piled in-between.

He told of having graduated in the early '70s when his degree in Business Management was useless. Needing employment, he worked at logging until, eventually, a lumber company hired him to manage their business. Interaction with customers was sometimes difficult prompting him to quit a number of times; but they always managed to lure him back.

He described driving down the street one day when God turned his head so he'd notice the empty storefront for sale. Leaving the lumber sales business, he said he came to realize it was his "job" to be there for all the people who come from all over the world. He has friends from the Marshall Islands to Portland and while I was there a steady stream came through. A couple spoke of their visit several years earlier and how much they'd enjoyed it; a woman came to invite him to a funeral; I watched as he coaxed a tidbit of info from another that enabled him to connect one of his nephews with her sister-in-law; it was heartwarming, a kind of interaction that I gathered is not all that uncommon in rural towns.

The shop is over-flowing and most of it is older than I. Whilst standing in front of a case perusing, a man came up and pointed out some Murano glass from Italy; I recognized a long-barreled pistol from my preschool days when I sported twin holsters and put in a hard day on the range before my afternoon nap.

He was completely opposed to photos of himself or the interior and NO means NO so you'll just have to go see. It's a destination. He did, however, express enthusiasm for a photo of the exterior.

The only signage is a handwritten note at eye level on the door that reads, "Craig's Antiques."

Keeping Track

Camp, about 20 minutes from La Grande, Oregon.

I discovered the car registration and insurance card had disappeared. I surmise it might've been taken by the pranksters who let the air out of the right front tire.

Replacing the insurance card was easy enough with a trip to the library. But the registration involves getting ahold of Motor Vehicle Division in New Mexico. I've called the Governor's office twice to see if they could help me get through. 

This is my fourth day and not a single car, atv or hiker. Bliss!

7pm Update: I jinxed it. No sooner than I used the B word (we'll whisper it: bliss) than a friggin sheepherder from Ecuador shows up! We managed a five-minute conversation, in Spanish, about our origins before we gave up.

Exploring West of Sumpter

 Where I made my first Cat Odor Review video.