It wasn’t supposed to be that hard! Everyone said the Steens Mountain area is beautiful in November. There just hadn’t been a November this wet in decades.  600 miles to get there and my windshield wipers do not get a break from the rain. Neither do I!

I hate camping in the rain. Everything gets wet. Packing up a wet tent (or in my case a tarp), running around in damp cloths, trying to dry out socks with the truck’s defroster…  it sucks.  Two days into this adventure and everything in the back of the truck is damp.  I it still have 150 miles to go.  When is the good part?

The appeal of the Steens Mountain area is that there is not much around it, at all.  Burns, Or. is the last real town I’ll see for the week,  next stop is at the north end of the wilderness, a little dot on the map called Frenchglen.  A historic hotel, a tiny general store and one working gas pump.  Grab a couple jugs of water, fill the truck and spare Jerry cans. It may be awhile before I see Fields, the only other spot on the map with gas and supplies down at the south end.

As I set up camp at Page Springs the sun is finally braking through the clouds and this promises to be a great trip.

The Donner und Blitzen, a beautiful little trout stream, runs right  through Page Springs campground. The fall colors are magnificent and a small herd of deer have made this campground their home.  Everything is starting to look up as I lay my head down under the tarp, shaking off the last of the dampness.

The Steens Mountain area is made up of 170,200 acres and was designated as a wilderness area by congress in 2000. Today’s plan, follow the mountain loop, a gravel road up to the summit, find a cozy  place up top to spend the night and enjoy an evening by the fire under the stars.

The sun is shining bright, the sky is cloudless and blue.  I’m making good time driving the gravel loop as it works it’s way up into the hills.  Continuing to gain elevation the road is showing light but increasing snow cover.  Passing Jackman park, the snow on the road is around six inches deep with no tire tracks.  I realize as I continue to drive, it is unlikely anyone will be coming along behind me if I get stuck.  I tell myself, it will be fine, just keep it slow and steady. Around Kiger Gorge lookout, the truck is starting to fishtail back and forth every once in awhile in the sloppy snow now 10-12 inches on the road.  Time to consider my options.

The easy choice, the safe choice, is to turn around and call it a day.  But I’m not known for hitting the easy button.  I weigh the risks, consider various ways I could die on the mountain and come to a decision.  Time to chain up.

Chains and mud tires were never meant to go together,  The tire lugs are making it a pain in the ass to get the chains lined up and tight.  At 9,000 ft(ish) I’m getting winded with all this work, humping chains around, setting up camera shots, shoveling snow to clear the tires…  Should have packed an oxygen bottle instead of that extra pound of bacon.  Time to get back in the driver’s seat.

The FJ Cruiser is motoring along great but the snow drifts are quickly getting deep.  The rear wheels push the truck forward but the front skid is riding up like a toboggan in the deep snow and lifting the front off the ground.  Progress is limited to push forward 10 feet until the front lifts off the ground and before the rear tires lift, back up, get a running start and push forward another 10 feet.  Rinse and repeat for the next 20 minutes and hope the truck doesn’t high-center in the snow that is now about two feet deep.

I’m walking sections of the road to see were the edge is before charging forward.  I’m shoveling areas to clear the pile of snow my front-end pushes up.  This is frustratingly slow and taking a toll on my mental state.  We’re close to the top but it is getting late.

A couple more long pushes and I’m moving free again.  This is it.  Now hike the last bit…  Cold, windy, and getting dark. So worth it!

The flat spot if found for the night has a great view but the idea of setting up the tarp with the wind hollowing is more than I can manage.  I’ve napped in the truck’s front before…  how bad could it be.

As night falls I sleep a few hours, wake up, try to find a less uncomfortable position that doesn’t require master yogi skills and sleep a little more.  It’s a rough night.

First light lets me know I’ve survived the night. Time to get off this mountain.  But first…  Breakfast!

Episode 2 – Steens Overland Adventure on to the Alvord Desert

We’ve gone across the Rubicon Trail in our FJ Cruiser twice without so much as a scratch… well without noticeable body damage.  But it is the relatively easy Naches wagon tail that seems to always cause us problems.  Sure we have followed the Naches wagon trail dozens of time to cross over Washington’s Cascade mountains but it’s this easy trail that has caused all of our body damage.  And this time we captured it on video!

We all have those places we cherish and this trail remains one of our favorite ways to spend a day.  You’re hard pressed to find a trail with more spectacular scenery.  There is just enough hill climbs, off camber and bumps to keep it fun along with several tight squeezes that prevent you from thinking this is walk in the woods.

Maybe it’s karma, maybe it’s just bad luck, or what ever that this wagon trail we love caused us so much pain.  Will it stop us??!! Absolutely not!   We really do love this place.

It’s Thursday, our FJ Cruiser, the Blue Bunny, is fully packed and sitting out front of work like a beacon to the weekend’s off-road adventure. Punch the clock at noon and I’m out the door to jump start the long weekend adventure. This is going to be great.

By 12:05p.m. I’m on I5, stuck in traffic trying to get out of Seattle.  The speedometer registers 10mph…  when we’re moving at all that is.  A cool breeze is caressing my face, uninhibited by the Meta Tech 4×4 tube doors that hang in the space once occupied by factory sheet metal and glass.  Other drivers wave.  Some inquire where we’re going.  I smile and shout back to each probe; “Heading off the grid in central Oregon.”

2:30p.m. and the traffic snarls of Seattle, Tacoma and JBLM are a distant memory. This is going to be great.

Just south of Olympia, Washington the speed limit jumps to 70 MPH.  It is at this point the clouds unload.  A few drops at first.  Then a bit stronger.  A mile further we’re driving in a monsoon with winds pushing rain sideways through the large opening to my left and right.  Every 18 wheeler that rolls by creates a mix of water, oil and road grime that washes into the cabin.  An inch of water is pooling in the floor mats.  I’m wiping down the inside of the windshield with a towel, everything I own is getting wet.

This adventure is not off to a great start.

By the time we reach Portland, Oregon the rain is a manageable sprinkle but commuters desperate to return home have created gridlock.  All ODOT message boards read: “Congested Traffic Ahead”.

I’m wet, in need of fuel and looking at cranky in the review mirror. Wilsonville, Oregon means a stop for gas and a quick howdy to family who offer a dry towel.

You really can’t say a quick hello to family who live 300 miles away.  There is the obligatory one beer.  Stories of the girls soccer game.  How’s work going questions and the polite chit chat that follows.  The clock reads 8:00p.m. and I’m starting to fidget.  We have to get on the road.  It’s still another four hours to our destination.

Despite being off schedule, the time spent with John and the girls is exactly what was needed.  The rain has let up.  The traffic is light again and the sun is casting its late evening colors across a darkening sky.  I’m dry (ish) and heading south once more.  This is going to be great.

You don’t normally consider hypothermia a threat while driving down the highway.  Cruising up the mountain passes the temperature is quickly falling into the low forties.  Add to that the windchill factor of tube doors, combined with a general dampness that clings to every article of clothing and you can see how the gods have conspired to lower the entertainment value of this trip.  I man up, one hand on the steering wheel while the other is perched over the open heater vent until it is warm enough to take its turn on the wheel.

I spent a great deal of my youth camping, fishing and exploring the headwaters of the Metollious River.  In those days, I never had reason to keep going.  These days, if you want to get away, you have to keep going.

Google map’s directions call for a right onto a forest road before Camp Sherman.  According to Google, forest road 1400 makes a few turns and intersects with FR 1490.  The problem is Google’s directions, the forest road numbers and my vague memory aren’t lining up.  Drive a mile or two down the gravel road, look at the directions, check the map, turn around try the other direction…  It’s 1:00a.m.! Emotional turmoil does not begin to describe this mess!  It’s time to stop!

Camp ground after camp ground along the headwaters and all spots are occupied with trailers, RVs and blaze orange tents or worse, big “reserved site” signs. Since when do they take reservations here!! Oh my hell, it’s the middle of the week, don’t these people have jobs??!!  The one open spot I can find in the dark is next to the outhouse, across from the garbage bins with ground that slops down hard to the left.

The night is black as ink, misty and cold.  No camp niceties tonight, just get the tarp up and sleeping bag down so i can warm up and grab a few winks.

The trip may have gotten off to a rocky start but morning brings a renewed vigor. Armed with a couple maps,  my sidearm,  and the desire to get off the grid we  orient  and motor past the general store, by Wizard Falls and beyond lower bridge where the pavement ends.  Twenty five miles of dirt road, not recommended for passenger cars, trailers or anyone concerned with their suspension separates us from our destination.

Crushed red lava rock gives way to exposed football sized stones and washboard as we endeavored to persevere This is going to be great.

The Metolius River’s head waters gush directly out of the mountain side.  It is a site that  seems to contradict conventional thought.   By the time the Metolius reaches Lake Billy Chinook, the gentle spring creek has turned into a raging river. Camp Monty sits where the two waters collide.  No cell coverage, no electricity, no potable water  and no one else here!  This is going to be great.

For the next few days we venture out exploring unnamed two tracks.  A few clouds break up the blue sky.  The sun’s rays warm our face and a light breeze is at our back. Song birds sing their tune. Ground squirrels dart back and forth across the trail ahead of us.   Our pace is slow, we’re in no hurry.  Each time we round a bend, the trees open up to valley views that stretch for miles before us.  In the distance Mt Jefferson and Black Butte make their presents known.  And still we haven’t seen anyone else.  This is a great adventure!

When I was young I would follow the Clackamas River up into the mountains looking for a quiet place to wet a fly and spend a night under the stars.  One of my favorite areas was around the Ripplebrook Ranger Station.  Once again I find myself in Portland with my FJ Cruiser,  a free Saturday  and a desire to head back up the river to explore my past.

Late fall and the traffic is sparse as the river narrows and I close in on the ranger station.  I pass familiar camp names like Roaring River, Rainbow River and Alder Flats.  Not much has changed in the sparse camp sites.  Their only amenities  are a rustic hand pump for potable water, heavy wooden picnic tables, fire rings  and a couple of outhouses.  What they lack in creature comforts they more than make up for in natural surroundings.

Even 30 years later there is still room to explore up here.  The endless unpaved backroads go off into the hills, climbing over passes and dropping down into valleys filled with tumbling streams and small shimmering size lakes.   Views of Mount Hood and the sound of moving water seem to be around every turn.  It’s the water that draws me back here.  The sound of moving water causes a cascading flood of wonderful memories: Fly fishing for small, native Cutthroat and Rainbow Trout, camping along a babbling brook, quiet nights alone by a fire, exploring unnamed forest trails…  The water reminds me that life is best experienced by letting it wash over you and drinking it in fully rather than battling the currents in a rush to get out of its way.

As darkness overtakes the day, I find myself sitting next to a small lakeside fire, listening to the forest as the flames push back the high mountain chill.  I’ll head back down into the hustle and bustle of PDX soon but for now I’m content to appreciate one of the places that taught me the value of looking beyond the next bend in the road.