No one came and woke me through the night. I packed up and trudged ever northward on my sad little road hoping it’d take me where I wanted to go. Within an hour it came upon a well groomed gravel road like what I was supposed to be on. It was heading west, and I figured it’s either the right road or it’ll take me to the right road because this was feeling evermore wrong.
Two hours later the road dipped down to a crossroads with a sign. Malheur Reservoir 4 miles south, Bridgeport 6 miles north. I don’t know what happened, how it came to be, what the road I was on was, or wasn’t, but 6 miles to Bridgeport was fine by me so I took that sucker all the way down the line. Up one huge mountain then down the other side straight into the little storeless town. When I hit pavement again at long last I dropped my pack and ate four packets of oatmeal under a shady tree and resolved that the last gravel road up the way by Milton-Freewater was going to be skipped. I’d had enough of unmarked territory.
Following breakfast I left town staring up at the windows of the nice ranch houses around dreaming of someone on a porch calling to me for eggs and pancakes. None such luck, so by the time I was toward the end of the road out of town I stopped in at a rancher’s place to fill my water up again. The first house claimed their pump didn’t work from behind a half closed door. The second nobody even answered. The third invited me to help myself to the spicket.
Where the Bridgeport road met up with county road 245, eight miles later, I plopped down again and broke out the stove. Completely full on water I treated myself to cheese noodles and some hot cocoa for an hour or so. I knew that as soon as I left and headed up 245 I’d be in for a hell of a hill. All the way I’d been told Dooley Mountain, which now lay before me, was 8 or 9 miles straight up then down again on the other side. Lunch broke, I donned the pack, and up I went.
Right off a guy spotted me from his truck and offered a ride asking if I knew what I was getting into. I replied I did; a nine mile hill of straight incline, no food or water supply until Baker City 25 miles away, with the sole perk of having shade at long last. He said once again, now sounding almost convinced, “so you want a ride?”
The nine miles of incline was not near as bad as the world made it out to be. Sure it was not pleasant, but it wasn’t steep enough to distract my mind to exhaustion once it was set in on autopilot. Autopilot is simply when I drift into song and dance in my head, what sort of home I’ll make for myself in Denver, and thoughts of what food lies down the road, back at home, or even coming out of pitying drivers bearing fruits or vegetables. Open corners and stark switchbacks were my only distractions where I’d take in the beauty of it all and maybe a picture before returning to the subconscious land of dreams. In three hours I was perched on the crest of the mountain looking over my next valley below eating a Clif. The last bit of dreaming I’d been doing was thinking of calling Denver City Grille and seeing if they could overnight a full muffaletta sandwich to me since I craved one so. I’m still thinking of trying it.
Down I went another seven miles as my toes barked against the interior of my cramped boots. At one point I saw my first wolf cross my path up the road. It paid me no mind, but I just thought it was neat, I’d never seen one wild before. By the bottom I was exhausted and my signs and maps were confusing me with their contradiction of three miles to Baker. I convinced myself it was the longer of the two options, 10 instead of 7 miles, and pitched my tent. I was hobbling as usual as I propped up my little home, then settled in unleashing the toes and got myself some oatmeal to sooth the belly. Reading some more of my book I made it halfway through the chapter then passed out.