It's hard to guage distances in a land of this size. The highway's windings provided a partial view...and it was longer than I'd guessed. At a surmised temperature of a pleasant 87 degrees where I was at 4,200', down there, where the Grande Ronde flowed, it was gonna be oven-esque. But I'd espied the road that ran alongside and was certain it needed exploring.
As expected, it was intense, but the river is beautiful. I'd maybe gone about three miles when the Bezona Public Access Area hove into view. After a thorough search for a NO CAMPING sign, we, Phoebe and I, settled in next to the lone pine.
Oven-esque (rumor of 113 fahrenheit)
The piddle to Troy, ten miles, was nice. The heat necessitated keeping my shirt soaked, but its heavy, almost canvas-like cotton worked as a personal swamp-cooler.
Troy turned out to be barely a Bar & Grille with a combo showers and laundry across the street. All closed. Not a soul or sound.
Suddenly a man appeared and asked if I'd seen a white dog. I hadn't but immediately began looking. He soon yelled "Here she is!" and I watched as the animal galumphed across the road, totally ignoring the man's whistles and calls.
"I see she has you trained," said I.
"She's a good bird dog," he rejoined.
I asked about water and he offered me some from his nearby cabin.
After filling the jugs he helped carry one back. During the journey I learned he'd been coming to the area for decades to fly-fish and hunt chukars. To keep in shape, he walked up the nearby hill every other day. Tilting my head alllllll the way back, I could just see the telemetry tower on top...perhaps a thousand feet away, almost straight up. At 75, Martin looked in top condition with not an ounce of fat.
We were perusing my laptop maps when a fellow on a motorcycle came down from the same hill.
The Scotsman -- his accented "hello" had prompted an inquiry -- was returning to Prineville (Oregon) after touring Wyoming, Montana and Idaho on his single-cylinder Honda 650.
As he acknowledged the danger of motorcycling, he told of a plate in his right forearm acquired after he blocked a plummeting boulder while rock-climbing. He'd also crawled three quarters of a mile to his office after his bicycle slid on ice and he broke his ankle. He'd been all over the world including Sumatra, Thailand, Afganistan and Africa. He'd spent the past several days in Clarkston, Idaho, awaiting repairs to cracked rear wheel hub and was now making up for lost time via "the back roads." As we watched him leave, Martin wistfully commented, "That looks like fun." When I asked why he didn't pursue it, he said he was too old.
An hour or so later, looking for access to National Forest, I turned onto a small road that was signed: NO TRESSPASSING, WARNING TRAPS. Noticing a pickup close behind and thinking it might be the landowner, I pulled over.
Kurt, an Enforcement Officer for the National Forest, told me the road was owned by the County and went to Wallowa...where I wanted to go. He warned that the switchbacks were tight and the road, barely a single lane, could be intimidating for those with a fear of heights; I acknowledged my wussness. But he said, "You can do it." He went first as he knew a place to turn around.
He wasn't kidding. If you follow the angle of the hill down to the left, you can just make out where the third switchback comes around from the other side. Still a ways to go to the top.
I'm still wondering what prompted him to follow me and let me know the road went through.
