I copied this quote into my journal on May 4th, at the Deschutes River, from a tiny book that my friend Emily had given me in Portland.

“When you trust in those messages, the reflections of the phenomenal world, the world begins to seem like a bank or reservoir, of richness. You feel that you are living in a rich world, one that never runs out of messages. A problem arises only if you try to manipulate the situation to your advantage or ignore it. Then you are violating your relationship of trust with the phenomenal world, so then the reservoir might dry up. But usually you will get a message first. If you are being too arrogant, you will find yourself being pushed down by heaven, and if you are being too timid, you will find yourself being raised up by earth.”

-Chögyam Trungpa, Sacred Path of the Warrior

Early in the day I saw something awesome that I couldn’t help taking as some kind of omen: I had stopped walking for a moment and was staring across a green field between me and the creek. Suddenly I heard a truly terrified scream, then a loud rush of air immediately followed by another. From behind me, just feet above my head, a blackbird was being chased by a falcon. The blackbird dove by my head toward the ground then jagged up and to the right, barely evading the falcon’s strike. As it jagged to the left, the falcon recovered, and with 3 or 4 powerful beats of its wings, struck again with success. With the blackbird in its talons, the falcon dropped to the field below with a thud, wings spread to hide its kill. After a long moment, it carried the meal to the cover of a hedge at the field’s edge.

May 3, Fairbanks Gap ~ 12PM.

Sunny in the last 1/2 hour and getting hot. Still no water and at least 6 miles to go to the state park at Deschuttes River.

~~~
A few hours ago I finally made it to the state park campground at the mouth of the Deschutes River exhausted and thirsty. I laid down in a camp spot for about an hour before a lady ranger with one crooked eye came by and woke me. “Excuse me. You have to register a half hour after arriving.” I said OK and tried to explain that I needed rest — I had just walked from the Dalles, I mumbled. I didn’t get up for another hour; she must’ve understood me, or at least decided to let me be. I knew I was in bad shape, but I didn’t really begin to worry about it until I tried packing my bag to move and realizes that my thought processes weren’t working right. I felt pretty helpless, but forced myself up, packed, and managed to find the simple tent sights the ranger had told me about. I felt lost and not quite sure I had found the right section until I went to pay, about 90 minutes later. In that time, I mostly sat at my sight’s picnic table, staring around and feeling like I could cry. I was and am starting to think this trip was a bad idea and/or I got myself in over my head. I did what I do when I get nervous and started looking through my maps, but this time felt more serious than any other time before: I had just learned a big lesson about water, and am coming into one of the driest, least-populated sections of my trip. I’m feeling really unprepared. My pack is too heavy and I can’t walk as far as I’d like or feel like I need to. Some of my concepts about equipment and food have to change. I seriously need to go lighter, but am still attached to what I have — water filter, stove, etc. — and would feel insecure giving up my major things as I enter unknown/unfamiliar territory. Everything until now has been relatively familiar, particularly water availability and population density. Now I could be going 50-60 miles without even a small store, and the creeks coming off down from fields and pastures are increasingly turbid and foul-looking.

Looking at mileage past Deschutes crossing –
about 15 miles from Deschutes to Wasco
15 miles from Wasco to Mc D. Ford
23 miles to Cecil (no services) and Willow Cr. Campground.

This starts from my arrival in Twin Falls, Idaho, on a Greyhound bus, after a short break in Boise.

Friday, June 19, 8:40 PM

It turned out to be a good week to rest: it rained much of the week and should get nicer from now on.

Camped outside of Twin Falls, across the Snake River canyon and a few miles to the east, on public land. Was tired after only a couple of hours, and the rain gave me an excuse to camp. But it turned out happy: the rain kept me in the tent, and now at sunset it’s dry, and the view standing before the tent over the canyon to the lights of Twin Falls is nearly mirracuous.

The canyon, like the Columbia Gorge, is said to have been cut by floods from the ancient Lake Boneville. And like the gorge (though smaller), the walls are cut vertically and little tributaries make tall cascades to the rocks below. I’m guessing the canyon to be almost 1000 feet deep, yet the top of of both sides is so level, when looking across at certain angles the canyon disappears and all seems like tamed farmland.

Marc called tonight. He wants to meet me somewhere along the way. I suggested Wyoming. Maybe we can travel together through the land of Joe Elliot and to the KC Ranch.

In Stegner there is mention of the “almost mystical” 98th meridian that seems to demarcate the boundary of the West. I am intrigued.

Saturday, June 20, 1:20 PM

I’m in the area of public land still, north of the river across from Twin Falls. Ranied until mid morning. Now cloudy. Flocks of pelicans often fly over in Vs in every direction. About 30 minutes ago, I found several Oregon Trail signs marked “North Side Trail.” Very nice swales in some places; in many spots, you can see where large rocks were cleared to the side. The trail weaves through the many outcroppings of sold lava rock. A laborious road indeed. If I keep walking, I’ll soon be out of public land. It would be good to camp again soon I guess, maybe close to Twin Falls creek where I can clean up a bit and get fresh water.

Saturday, 6:30 PM

I crossed the freeway and came toward, but didn’t reach, the small lake — the northernmost of 3, and the only one on Fish and Game land — about 3-4 miles NNE of Eden. Am camped in a meadow within an oval of lava rock walls about 70-90 yards in diameter. A dirt road curves around it on the west and south sides. And this circle is merely the largest of a few other such circles. Someone has spraypainted “CAVE” on a rock by the road to the north of here, with an arrow pointing to this spot, 2-300 yards away. Quite a beautiful spot at first look. Then walking around was impressed by some mysterious qualities. For one thing, it’s very clean, with very little of the broken glass, shotgun shells (spent), and the usual litter. And it’s not that there aren’t signs of life. There are 2 fire pits rimmed by good-sized pieces of lava rock. One is on a flat rock on the south end of the circle — the stage to a small amphitheater. Its back curtain is a concave wall of basalt pillars rising 9 feet. The other fire pit is 3/4 of the way across the circle, near the north in the flattest part of the inner meadow. This circle is large enough for a bon fire, but there is little evidence of recent use — only a few old coals show through the grassy soil.

I walked most of the day over meadows — which were much more solid than the muddy road. The roads in the north-of-the-freeway public land were too numerous to keep track of; I went instead from high point to high point with map and compass in hand, using for landmarks the road to the east, the freeway exit to Eden with the gas station, and some distant houses I passed a few hours ago where I crossed over the interstate. When I finally crossed a road near this cave I was used to traveling cross country, and didn’t mind going to search for the promised cave.

Which, by the way, is located in a smaller circle SE of this one, under its east wall. I could have climbed at least 20 feet inside it in two places, but judging by the paths of crushed tumbleweed that carpeted the entrances, I would be intruding on a least one household.

The entrance smelled mostly of birds, but the signs of furry four-leggeds was incontrovertible.

I have seen 2 cottontail rabbits, two lizards, and may have heard a snake move through the grass under my heel. And a night hasn’t gone by without coyote song.

The debate of course was whether to camp; and being some distance from the lake — my goal for mileage’s sake — the only issue is water. That was easily solved by scouting the basalt rocks to look for pools. What I found were many water-filled holes, only one with much more than a quart in it, but the water in them was crystal clear for the most part. Or it looked clear until I filtered it — the water came out rust colored, with a pleasantly smoky flavor. Here’s hoping there’s no arsenic or some other toxin!

8:37PM

Someone is doing some rapid fire target practice, and seems to be moving around. They were just maybe a few hundred yards away, then a little north, and then farther SW. I decided a better way to describe this area is “crater.” The top of the rim is closer to the height of the surrounding land, and this meadow is in a depression. I’m glad for it now — it’s probably the safest place to be.

I’ve been seeing nighthawks since about Shoshone, maybe first around Star Lake, which is very much part of this same desert.

—–

Counties I’ve crossed in Idaho: Canyon, Ada, Elmore, Gooding, Lincoln, and part of Jerome.

—–

Sunday, June 21, 12:30 PM

Rained out after only a couple of miles — much of the time climbing the lava rock formations just south of RR tracks and west of HW 25. It may have stopped — and may stop for a while — but I dread walking again through the wet grass in my shoes, which I’ve just cleaned. Aye! A loosing battle.

Learned to identify the yellow-headed blackbird, which I’ve been mistaking for tanagers.

—-
Stegner, from The Gathering of Zion:
The handcart pioneer idea was one that “common sense undazzled by prophesy might have annulled.”

—–

Monday, June 22, 3 PM, just below Milner Dam.

Left Wilson Lake this morning and was in Hazelton for breakfast of biscuits and gravy at the pizza place opposite the post office. To add to the joint’s identity crises, it was full of Alaska kitch — moose antlers, bear knickknacks, even a piece of whale baleen hung on the wall — in the middle of southern Idaho?! Anyway, I found it all charming and perfect, mostly because of the friendly reception. A guy from the seed factory was there having coffee and doughnuts with another man, and he greeted me within a second of entering by asking, “How far you going?” Then he helpfully gave me advice on getting from here to the Milner sight, which was exactly as I had planned — kudos to my navigation skills! Then talked to the proprietress about the AK/ID connection (lots of Idahoans in AK); the weather; St Maries, ID; and the rain ruining the hay but the farmers having insurance.

I walked on, stopping at the gas station by the freeway for an ice cream bar, and made more friendly conversation with the woman there. I was in and out another 2 times after eating my ice cream on a bench in the empty RV lot next door. First I got a coffee, next the bathroom. Another 1 1/2 — 2 hours took me through farm fields to here by the Snake River. A couple of hours by the shore has me caught up on my laundry. I rinsed and dried my dusty tarps, and dried my tent. Now letting my socks and underwear dry on the hot rocks — more black basalt. I have an area picked out to camp just east of here beyond the dam. Tomorrow: Burly.

Before I forget: had a nice stop at the tiny store in Eden yesterday before camping at Wilson Lake. I made it through and did my shopping between between T-storms. Two young women, the clerk and her friend, hung out outside and talked to me about my walk, and then nothing in particular. We were all in good cheer. As I was leaving a boy of about 8 or 9 rode up, being curious, I suppose. The girls told him I was walking across the country. He had to ask me twice before he seemed to get it. Then he said, “You better have like 500 grand!”

“Just a couple,” I said. He said it was hard for him to walk to the park (“exhausting!”). Said his school does a walking challenge that gets them walking up to 2 miles at a time.

It started to rain again just as I left Eden, and the sky was darkening fast. “If you’ve got thumbs, I’d start usin’ ‘em!” the boy said as he rode for shelter.

I have seen so many pelicans, mostly in large flocks. Now a group of over 30 are circling as they go higher. I saw them go from about 1200-1500′ to over 2000′. They looked for a moment like they were catching an air current and would V up, but then they went on circling. I cannot see individual birds anymore, just the barely visible flashing of bodies in the sunlight back and forth from their darker undersides, where the black wing patches are, to their white tops. Now they are so high they are just dots, and are forming a graceful V and heading west. They are marvelous birds to watch, near or far.

—–
Above the Milner Dam:

Milner Historic Recreation Area: A placard mentions former missionary Jason Lee touring Eastern states promoting Oregon. Mentions British interest and the U.S.’s idea that an “influx of settlers… would cement their claim to it.” Also, there is an 1841 wagon train mentioned that I had never heard of, that was unsuccessful — only about 30 out of 500 reached Oregon. 20,000 dead of the 300,000 who traveled between ’41 and ’69 — nearly one in ten!!! Says about a dozen west-bound trails cross this area, like the “north side” trail I saw outside Twin Falls. It also cites the depression and unemployment of the 1830s and 1840s as causes of the migration.

Campsite at Milner Rec Area

I am having the pleasantest damn time. The weather is a perfect, breezy 70 degrees, only clouds far off in the SE. I followed a couple miles of OT ruts to get to this sight, where there’s a picnic table and an open view to the east to a small island where a group of six white pelicans are lounging.

Tuesday, June 23, 9 AM.

I sit at a civilized table with a hot cup of coffee just off of the fire. Ah! Big warm mouthfuls of black coffee. Easy to forget it’s instant.

Had such a long talk with a BLM ranger yesterday evening, I’d say we almost became friends. Tim Little. We each had a story for every topic that came up. Especially Tim. We talked a lot about the land. He was pointing out landmarks to show me how the California Trail cuts off of the Oregon Trail — in front of the mountain range to the SE, toward another distant range to the SSW. I smiled and said, “Finally, someone who speaks landscape!” Usually people talk in terms of this highway and that road.

On the difference between the East and West: Tim went to college near D.C. and after returning to Idaho, had his Maryland-born roommate come out for a visit. Took him on a motorbike up to some peak, then for a joke snuck away with the bike in neutral down to where he could hide and watch his friend’s reaction. First the friend started to yell Tim’s name, then scream it, then “squawk” it. Then he just broke down and cried, at which point Tim felt bad and showed himself. The friend, for the first time not surrounded by people, felt totally alone and helpless and quickly became convinced that he would die out there. To which Tim said, pointing, “See about 15 miles down there? That’s a farm house. And see that hill over there? In front of that runs the highway.” He wonders still if his friend would have died up there had he actually been left alone. The story reminded me of the gray fox I once saw get its head stuck in a fence. I went back 20 minutes later to see it still there, whining. I jumped the fence to scared it into backing out of the hole, which it did easily. I have often wondered if it would have died there if I had done nothing.

We kept hearing some big fishes splash as we talked. Tim guessed they were carp, and started in on a story about a particularly industrious person:

A guy got a permit to come to this part of the Snake River and net fish, saying he would only take the “garbage fish” — carp and white fish. He cast his nets and threw all of the carp and white fish into crates, which he had situated in the water so the fish could be kept alive. Finally, he brought in a refrigerated semi-truck with a conveyor belt. He brought the crates over to the shore and threw the fish onto the conveyor belt and into the truck. Every once in a while he would stop loading and pull the truck forward and slam on the breaks to force all the fish forward to make room for more, then back up and load more in.

It turned out he shipped them back east to the kosher food market.

One final Tim story:

Another BLM site is a lake by Mount Harrison. There was a man there with a friend when a car of “punks” shows up and puts their speakers on top of the car. The lake is at about 9000′, and noise travels very well. After 3 requests to turn down the music, the man threw their speakers in the lake.

Tim learned of this when the man called the BLM office to tell his side before the punks could file their complaint. Shortly, the punks arrived to press charges, to which Tim said “fine,” and that he even knew where the man lived and what his name was. Punks happy. Until Tim told them that if they press charges, the man will charge them with 3 counts of disturbing the peace, at $85 per charge. He then asked them to weigh that against their $200 speakers. The punks left in chagrin.

—–

I’ve been seeing small prickly pear cacti since before Eden — blooming here at Milner: Yellow, cream, peach, fushsia.

—–

At the far eastern end of the Milner area is a triangular area bordered on 2 sides by private land; the third side is river shore. It is accessible only by an overgrown track that used to be a road, which a swollen creek must have claimed seasons ago. Here by the river is an old campsite covered in willow shoots 2 feet high. An iron fire pit is practically invisible under the vegetation. There is yet a little shaded patch of rocks by the shore, abutting the line of willows that follow the little creek back to where it once ate the road. Here on the edge of the water, at the edge of the willows, is a sunny menagerie of flowers, bees, flies, and spiders, light catching the webs blowing in the willow branches. All of life says yes and throws in its bet.

Presently the wake of a passing boat disturbs the peace, and as if to mark the return of stillness a large butterfly flutters by. A carp lifts its brickish body a foot into the air. Aloft, a pelican adds its sharp contrasts to the scene, then another. I will soon be walking on HW 30 for another 7 or 8 miles to Burly. For now I linger.

—–

I once saw one of these in mid-afternoon, but otherwise only in the evenings and at night. They make a strange sound sometimes that isn’t a normal “call,” and it wasn’t until my last night of camping that I got a firsthand demonstration of how they do it. As I was setting up my tent I heard the already-familiar sound just above my head. Then I got the first of many repeat performances: It flew high into the air, over 100 yards, and held a position face-first into the wind. It wobbled, almost vibrated, on its long, thin wings in drafts until the decisive moment when it brought its wings in close and dove, using the wind for downward accelleration until it reached a dizzying speed. Just before reaching the ground –once under six or seven feet — it pulled out of the dive, making a loud buzzing noise with its wings. After watching this stunt a few times, I saw that the wings were held in a downward bow while it pulled up from these dives — an impressive-looking feat of strength. I thought that it was another strictly territorial behavior until I saw another nighthawk sitting on a sandy patch of ground about 30 feet away, watching the other’s diving as attentively as I had been. The diver would occasionally land in the same sandy patch, where I once saw it give its mate an impressive display of fanned feathers. It appeared the two were courting, and I hoped that my presence, rather than a disturbance, had given the male an opportunity to show off how effective of a protector he could be. When I awoke at sunrise, six hours later, the diving was still going on above my tent.

Every day, I would invade some curlews’ territory and be follow by between one and four of them, enduring their shrill squawking as they flew cirles above my head. I got to see one of their chicks once, which had wandered out into the dirt track in front of me. It was reluctant to leave the path and wove back and forth in front of me as its manic parent squawked madly above my head.

Cousin of the sandpiper, killdeer, and curlew. This was the only pair I saw, and one of the few strange birds that my small pocket field guide was any help in identifying. They behaved like curlews but more aggressively, flying circles around me and repeating a raspy, penetrating warning call.

The antelope were thick along the foothills between Glenns Ferry and Boise. They often seemed curious about me and would come quite close, as if to get a better look. Once one of them came up behind a companion and actually nudged it closer to me with its horns. At the time, I had been reading Francis Parkman’s 1847 book, The Oregon Trail, where he had also observed their apparent curiousity. He later commented on an antelope wandering in among a herd of buffalo by saying, “It was like a pretty girl had walked into the room.”

So now that’s explained, here’s my latest journal entry:

The man selling tickets at the Greyhound station in Pocatello told me if I was willing to go by van to the Boise airport, rather than by bus to downtown Boise, I would save the almost miraculous sum of $60. This was very good news, since it would more than offset a cab ride to Mark’s place in Meridian, just outside of Boise.

Once at the airport, I had to walk about a hundred yards from where the van stopped to the line of taxis outside of the baggage claim. The next taxi driver in line saw me coming after my first few steps in that direction. As I approached, he regarded me with a relaxed smile as if he were a friend or a relative ready to greet me after my long trip.

He was well over 6 feet tall, youthful looking (I later guessed him in his mid-30s), and had very dark African skin. He inspired trust with his open friendliness, and the way he took my pack from me and put it in the trunk, slow and fluid, made me later think of a passage from the Wallace Stegner novel I’m reading (Angle of Repose) where the narrator describes a character’s movements as sure and comforting, like one who works with animals. This taxi driver would never spook the livestock.

I told him I was going to Meridian Road, about 3 miles from the freeway, and asked about what the fare would be. $20 — $30, he said. Great, I said quickly, feeling I had committed a faux pas by asking the fair once I was already seated in the back of the cab: a breech of the trust he had so quickly and naturally established.

Wondering where he might be from, I looked at his ID on the dashboard. Mohammed, the most common name in the world. That didn’t help.

He started driving and said, “Pretty hot out,” just a bit accented.

I agreed. I think it was over 90 degrees.

“Where did you fly from?”

“I took the bus. From Pocatello.”

“Oh, I been there once.”

“It was my first time. It was a lot cooler than here: mountain air.”

Initial polite chat out of the way, he turned his radio to some rap music that I didn’t recognize or particularly like. I wanted to keep talking, as is often the case when seeing people after a long stretch of walking, so I said, “I’m from Seattle. It almost never gets hot like this.”

He turned down the music. “Seattle! I been to Seattle. I have friends there. Kent.”

“Huh,” I said. “Where are you from, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Africa. From Sudan. You heard of it?”

“Sure.”

“I’m from Darfur. You heard of it?”

“Oh, wow.” I didn’t know what to say.

“There’s war there.”

“I’ve heard about it. It sounds pretty awful. Hard for me to imagine.”

“It’s very bad. Killing people. Lot of people. Then burning. They burn the whole villages. Totally destroyed.”

I let that one sink in and looked out the window. “How long’ve you been in Boise?” I said.

“Six years.”

“You like it?”

“It’s OK.” He said. I think he said it was alright, “except for the people,” which made me grin. “Also jobs are hard,” he said.

“I know something funny about Sudan,” I said.

He looked at me in the mirror.

“In school,” I said, “when we were learning geography, there were little tricks for learning countries and their capitols. I’ll always remember Sudan’s capitol, because if your Sudan dies, you take it to the Khartoum.”

He laughed so hard I thought he would cry. Then he explained something about his school, but all I understood over the freeway noise was, “In school they give us candy.”

After a while of watching the ugly scenery along the freeway, I asked him if he had ever heard of the Oregon Trail. He hadn’t. I explained that it was a trail people used travel west on a hundred fifty years ago, before any of this was the United States. “The U.S. stopped at Missouri back then,” I said. Then I told him I had been walking that trail east for over two months.

This time he didn’t know what to say. Finally, he said, “Missouri. Is that clost to Kansas? I have friends in Kansas. From Sudan also.”

“Yeah. Kansas is just west of Missouri.” I said.

“Where you start?” he asked.

“Oregon. At the ocean. And I just stopped in Pocatello.”

“I been there,” he said.

“You’ve been a lot of places.”

“Ha! Too many!” he said.

I said, “I figured I’d walked enough. Almost nine hundred miles is enough.”

“You with someone, or by yourself?” he asked.

“Just me. Well, I had some people helping. They sent me things in the mail along the way. And shoes too. Somebody donated shoes. They would be really expensive; I need a pair about every month.”

“We hike a lot in Sudan,” he said and laughed. It’s great when people laugh that easily. “We all hike. You want to go somewhere, you walk three days!”

I laughed with him and said, “I know how you feel.” I found it very satisfying that I could say this to a guy from Sudan, Africa and mean it.

“So, do you miss Sudan?” I asked.

“Oh yes, very much.”

“What do you miss the most? Friends, girls, the cities?”

He thought for a moment. “I miss my mother very much. It’s been ten years since I seen her.” He continued, “For a long time I could not talk to her. Because of war she had to leave where she live. Then I call my uncle and he find her. I miss her very much. I try to get papers and maybe she come here, but it didn’t work.”

He pulled off of the freeway at Meridian and I said to go right. “It’s just past Ustick,” I said.

He looked in the mirror and said I should have said it earlier, he would have taken another way that’s faster. I looked down at the meter, which had just climbed to over $30.

“Oh well,” I said. “I didn’t know if you’d know Ustick, but I guess you probably would.”

“I know everywhere,” he said.

I was glad to have met him, and when he dropped me off I told him so.

“You too,” he said and shook my hand. “And good luck.”

“You too. I hope you get to see your mother.”

“Thank you,” he said.

I watched and waved from the driveway as he backed into the street. He waved too as he pulled away.

Here I am at Cauldron Linn on the Snake River. It was remarkable travelling over the tame farmland of the river plain and coming to this wild, deep ravine. The recent rains had swollen the river and the falls were raging. This is the site where the famous Hunt expedition of fur traders met with disaster in 1811, on their way to Astoria, Oregon. They went over the falls and lost one or two of their party in the infamous wirlpool. From there they opted to travel overland, following directions given to them by local Indians. The route they took to the Columbia River was very close to what became the Oregon Trail.

Travis Miller, one of the son’s at Miller’s Dairy Farm, drove me here on the afternoon I came into Eden and took this picture. One of Travis’ sisters was gone that week on an L.D.S. reinactment of the Mormon handcart emmigration. Talking to Travis’ dad about it inspired me to find a book on the “Mormon Trail” — The Gathering of Zion, by Wallace Stegner — a very detailed description not only of the dramatic history of the Mormon Trail, but the conditions for all of the westbound emmigrants from the 1840s through 1869, when the transcontinental railroad effectively replaced the pioneer trail.