Writing this blog

What a love/hate relationship I have with this blog.  It is the perfect avenue for me to share with whoever cares to read it.  Always, whenever I have been enjoying anything - savoring downtown Prescott, climbing a mountain, fishing in the Verde, bushwhacking through some outback - my mind was formulating the sharing of it.  Sometimes it would be actual sentences in my mind as if I were writing it; other times it would be just the sense of wanting others to be able to enjoy it, also.

When we embarked on our first travel trailer adventure, friends were emailing asking about what and where, and I was trying to return with answers when it became obvious that I could either do or write, but I couldn’t do both.

Time necessitated making a decision, then along comes blogging, or at least my first knowledge of it.  I wanted to share my experiences, but could not do it individually.  Writing it once for all was the obvious answer.  And all those day trips to here and there could also be chronicled.  It makes me happy to share my experiences, and some even say they enjoy reading them.  It’s probably good for my brain, too.

Not wanting to cut into doing what life has to offer, of course, the posts are primarily done in a slap-dash hurry and often in fits & starts when I can fit it in.  That requires that they be far less detailed than I would prefer, and certainly not as polished.  Some things get glossed over and others left out entirely, but they work as an overview, at least.

The Blogspot site, however, gives me all kinds of grief.  It’s unwieldy and difficult in some ways; loading photos can be very time consuming and problematic.  I’ve found ways around some of the site’s issues, but others I have to live with, such as when it changes the leading (the space between lines) whenever it has a mind to, making it hard to read, and there’s not a blamed thing I can do about it.

The barn . . . all of which brings me to the Pete French’s round barn.  Somehow, the best photos that showed the center construction support were omitted.  Possibly operator error, but I’d rather blame Blogspot.  Disappointing enough that I went back and added them, something I never do, and I’m including here three that were left out, also, just because that construction was easily the most impressive I've ever seen.

 

 

 The birds seem to be fond of it, too.

 

A return . . .

It was irresistible; we enjoyed Crystal Crane’s mineral hot water so much that we returned for a second soak.  The pool was being filled, readying for its reopening, and we took a look at the even larger natural pond beyond it.  That spring water requires a good bit of cooling before it can be used; it emerges from the ground at between 140 and 180 degrees!

On our return, we spotted the huge smoke plume of a wildfire, unimaginable in those winds that were whipping and gusting.

Harney County, where we spent most of the week, is Oregon’s largest county, while also being its least populous, which explains the endless miles of nothingness.  

When we saw a sign indicating the Burns Paiute Tribe near Burns, we drove through there.  There were only scattered houses and no commercial enterprises at all.  We later learned that the Northern Paiutes had ranged over a huge area in Oregon and Idaho; their reservation encompassed the entire Harney Valley, including Malheur Lake, but that changed with the encroachment of Anglo settlers; President Ulysses Grant opened the area to settlement.  

The Burns Paiutes formed when homeless Northern Paiutes gathered in the area of Burns which was allotted to the tribe in 1897.  They now own the ten-acre reservation there and additional lands that are split into separate tracts.  The tribe's population is less than 400.

The region remains ranching country, as does much of eastern and central Oregon, little populated except by sagebrush and cattle.

Another wander we ventured out on took us along a ridge-top dirt road through (what else?!) sagebrush and some junipers, dropping into ponderosas in a canyon.  We went until we couldn't go any more; actually, we could have continued down that steep drop alright, but we wouldn't have come back up it.  Without knowing whether we had egress somewhere down the line, it would have been foolhardy to go forward.  One of us (it wasn't the señor) was anxious to keep on, but if we had, I probably wouldn't be writing this now.  No cell service out yonder and it was a heck of a long walk back to civilization.

We finally encountered the first pronghorn of the trip.  I felt sorry because they had come to a waterhole for their evening drink and were spooked away at our approach.  This one stopped to take a look back at us.

 

 

 The few tanks thereabouts are similar to this one . . .

 

. . . but one we spied after climbing a hill to peer down into a canyon was obviously fed by a perennial spring.  It was large and lovely, with shoreline made green and lush by reeds and other water-loving vegetation. 

There was a vehicle track down there alongside of it, but we had no way of being sure how to get there, nor if it would require another climb too steep for Taco, our sturdy Tacoma that pulls Woofy the trailer just fine, but cannot negotiate the grades that Ruby the Four Runner does easily.

Berries of many varieties unknown to us abound in the region.  They are of every red hue imaginable, seems as if they might be palatable to bears, but we encountered none of those.

While in the RV park, I saw a doe casually strolling down the lane, so of course I followed for a photograph.  Evidently, she did not see me when she startled at the sight of some other folks, because she dang near ran right over the top of me, veering off just in time to keep from knocking me head over keister.
 

The Sisters . . .

I often talk about “the sisters”,  by which I am referring to my two female siblings.  In Oregon, though, the Sisters takes on a whole other connotation.  As we traveled westward after leaving Burns, there was more of the same landscape we have seen through much of Nevada and eastern Oregon.

But then . . . The Three Sisters!  We pulled over to get a shot of our first view of them, a trio of magnificent mountains, all higher than 10,000 feet: faintly blue in the distance against the lighter hued sky and showcasing snowy flanks.

 We are spending two nights in the town of Sisters, a short hiatus on our journey to the coast.  My initial sense is that Sisters is a charming town, one in which I would consider living; at least that sounded like a a super idea until we checked the real estate prices.  Hard to complain about Prescott prices after that. 

The señor suggested a drive up to McKenzie Pass, a summit with an elevation almost exactly the same as Prescott, although it seems so odd to find that place in the Cascades to be the same as home.

We found ourselves on Oregon Route 242, an historic narrow roadway with very tight switchbacks that cannot accommodate trucks or trailers.  It traverses and winds through a stupendous 65-square-mile lava flow with incredibly rugged and amazing long steep-sided ridges and precipitous canyons.

As we topped out, we stopped at the Dee Wright observatory, certainly not the type of structure we expected for an observatory.

A trail climbs the grade to the odd rock building.  Peepholes built into the walls of the round structure allow looks out at the distant peaks and craters; each one has an inscribed plaque explaining the sight and its distance.

The Sisters, with their glacier-covered slopes were a dominant landmark, although only two of the trio are visible from that vantage.  The South Sister is hidden behind them.  They are named South, Middle & North.  Not that catchy in the name category, but easy to remember.

We took advantage of a half-mile walk through the jumbled field via a paved path signed with excellent explanations of how various formations occurred.  Very educational and a great chance to be out in the midst of that amazing and overwhelming place.

I was startled to learn that a wagon road had been built through that seemingly impassable landscape.  A section of the McKenzie Salt Springs and Deschutes wagon road was visible alongside our trail.  It was constructed between 1866 and 1872.  A torturous route no doubt strewn with broken wagon wheels and parts, it was preferred over a previous higher route, the Scott Trail.  That difference in elevation would surely lengthen the season when the area could be accessed.  The region receives a winter snow pack of up to 20 feet.

This photos shows a portion of the old road alongside the current paved highway.

Being at that height also gave us a view of a horrendous wildfire smoke plume.

When we set out our bird feeders in the nice piney creekside park in Sisters, (yes, we always put out a nectar and a seed feeder to see what shows up), we heard a lot of twittering in the adjacent sapling.  Investigation revealed a nest with three lesser goldfinch babies.

The town . . .

I loved the town of Sisters on first sight, and had just about decided to relocate there on second sight; as I said, those prices are outta sight.  And we thought Prescott was expensive!  At any rate, small town Sisters made me pine for small town Prescott, gone forever now and mourned by many.

We found a real treasure in a fruit stand joined to a lovely nursery.  Their peaches and berries were vine  and tree ripe, with flavor usually enjoyed only out of one's own garden.

 

 

I was curious about the vines growing on their fence.  Of course the señor knew the answer and of course I had to have it verified: it was hops, an interesting plant.  It's used to brew beer; that's the extent of what I know about hops.

An awesome saunter . . .

It's one thing to search out sites on a map, another to peruse them on Google Earth, then yet one more to see it up close and personal.  The señor has gotten to be enamored of that Google Earth site; he uses it for finding out about access in cities and for following multiple dirt tracks out in the forest.  It also makes it more difficult for me to argue in favor of which direction to try, but doesn't stop me from doing it anyway.

Because we know nothing about the Sisters region, our options were wide open.  We headed up into the mountains for a trek to Little Three Creek Lake, or if ambition overcame us, up a high ridge.  Ambition did not win out; peering way up at that destination made it look like an exposed forced march.

But first, we were at Three Creek Lake (the granddaddy version), and I was enchanted!  An absolutely wonderful body of water: lots of open beachy shoreline, nice forest environment, great clear swimming/kayaking/paddleboarding water, excellent accessible campsites with trailer availability - I was hooked immediately - a definite must return to camp.

And then we were off on our upward climb.  It began to appear that it would not be a very scenic hike: there were huge swatches of what I think were beetle-killed trees, impossible to get through without a trail being cleared and fallen trees removed regularly.

As we began to follow a creek that was outflow from the lake above, the environment changed dramatically.  It was a visual feast!  I became pretty snap-happy at every juncture, wanting to capture the scenes.  

There were few others on the trail, but once when I was crouched down to photograph a particular flower, a trio of folks happened by and stopped to chat.  When they asked the name of the blossom and I didn't know, one of them whipped out her phone and an identifying app.  It was a Lewis' monkey flower, she declared.  I said I would give her credit in the blog; she self-identified as a gray-haired woman, and so I'm giving her her due.  

Unfortunately, the pic is not very good, but now I'm beholden to use it. 

Because those folks were so friendly, I'm going to backtrack here.  When we drove through Bend, it was a bit of a shock after being in the boonies for so long.  Both there and around Sisters, people have gone far out of their way to be thoughtful and kind.  They ask if we need them to move their cars for our convenience or they wait and give us the right-of-way.  One in the RV park even asked if it would bother us if he started his truck when he saw us peering through our binos up at a pygmy nuthatch in a tree.  And by the way, that was a new one for the trip list.  We also added yellow-rumped warbler and spotted sandpiper.  As the list grows, it gets harder to add new ones.  Surprisingly, we never saw a single hummingbird during out stay at Sisters.

 

 

Walking that trail got me to thinking about how much Darren relished being out in nature and how excited he was to savor all that was around him.  He usually was in the lead, bounding ahead and off to the sides in order not to miss anything.

When he was young, I devised a plan for while we were out.  Bowing to inevitability, he was allowed to be out of sight, but was always to be within earshot.  I would occasionally call out and he would respond (most of the time).

Knowing how much he would have enjoyed our trek, we left more of his ashes at that glorious place.

 

Scarcely had we turned our backs for our return down the mountain when smoke quickly filled the area.  If we had been later in the day, we would not have had that beautiful clarity.