We left Bend Friday morning, April Fools Day. Storing some winter things in Scott’s garage, we loaded our four travel bags, several shopping bags, two old purses, and randomly thrown shoes, using up most of the available space in the back of the Scion IQ. We paused to have some breakfast—Leslie and Scott are partial to smoothies, healthy homemade ones—and bid them our love and good wishes. We each tried one last April Fool caper on Paige: She saw right through it.

They drove off to their outside lives and, after some more looking into corners and under things, we were ready to go.

No simple getaway, not yet—we needed gas, coffee, money, and highway 2o. Pulling onto US 97 a few minutes after 10:00, we randomly stumbled through our appointed stops; only we did the order as money, coffee, gas, and finally the drop off 97 onto 20 and we were rolling eastward with a clear sky and only a few juniper-treed hills obstructing our view.. This is a  stark, lonely road, even with  traffic. The few remaining towns are being abandoned. Empty buildings in disrepair dominate. Ranches are scattered. Streams of dust in the distance indicate someone working a field or driving a graveled road.

The juniper landscape near Bend transitioned into sage brush as we drove.  “I couldn’t live out here,” said Pat, looking at mono-colored surroundings. I agreed but felt the pull of the nearby hills and gullies. I remembered the North Dakota rolling prairies in which I created my personal western movie as a child. I know how this feels.

I like Burns. With its distinctively western flavor, its nearness to Steens Mountain and the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge and its millions of migrating birds, it is a destination for birders of all sorts, bicyclists, wanderers, and, probably, the lost. The recent Malheur “occupation” by Bundy-inspired (no, not Al  and Peggy) anti-government reactionary anarchists sort of adds to its charm. We stopped for lunch (I don’t remember anything about it) and continued on Highway 20 to the east for the junction with US 395.

We turned north onto a road we had never traveled before and of which we knew nothing. By look and feel, it was another lonely road.

Seneca, a town of about 200, lies in the Silvies River at an elevation of about 4690 feet, Ir holds the record for the coldest temperature recorded in Oregon at -54F in 1933.

Headquartered in Bend, the 140,000 acres of the Silvies Valley Ranch are spread on both sides of US 395. According to their website, the historic cattle ranch is developing a multi-directional future including beef production, a guest ranch and homesites, golf, land restoration, etc.  Identifiable by their uniform green roofs, we saw scatterings of buildings, herds of cattle, and signs of  development mile after mile.

Further up the highway, we stopped briefly at Canyon City, the county seat of Grant County. The city sits at about 3200 feet and is only a few miles from John Day, Oregon.  St. Thomas Episcopal Church had caught my eye. A wooden structure built in 1875, St. Thomas sits tightly between Washington Street and a hillside. Its architecture reminded us a little of the stave churches in Norway. Gold was discovered nearby in Canyon Creek in 1862. From there it is the oft told story of a rush of as many as 10,000 miners, a hastily constructed town and several fires that burned much of it. Built after the first fire (1870), St. Thomas survived the second and a later fire in the 1930s. 

I wanted to see the interior of the church, but the front door was locked and we didn’t take the time to hunt someone with a key. The church web site showed only the usual photographs of Christians eating.

Earlier, the Strawberry Mountains showed beautifully around mountain curves. Pat drove and I worked the camera. Of all the photos I took of that marvelous , one photo of the Strawberries turned out.

Remember when we used to have to spend the money for developing pictures and buying more film before we found out we got a great shot of a utility pole? Another benefit of digital!

We dropped out of the hills into Pendleton, looked at each other and said, “Let’s keep going.” We rolled right onto Highway 11 and drove on. At one point, we were magically transported from 11 to Washington 125 and there was Walla Walla. Again, we glanced at each other and said, “Let’s keep going.”

In 1968 in Pierre, South Dakota, we were contemplating moving somewhere else. We had a friend who briefly had lived at Walla Walla and we enjoyed the name so much. Our joy and determination to come to Washington increased when we found on the same map the town of Hamma Hamma.

We have always enjoyed our visits at Walla Walla, especially as it developed its wine mecca personality. But this time we just rolled on by, knowing we could make Dayton before dark. “Let’s keep going!”