Leaving the Oregon Coast behind us at Florence, Oregon, husband John, brother George and his wife Rose from Canberra and I had many days of travel in an easterly direction before reaching our next major objective: Yellowstone National Park. Each day saw us driving through new and diverse countryside, while each night put us in a different motel. Fortunately, (unfortunately?) food, accommodation, and gas were all considerably cheaper than the equivalent in Canada.
We crossed over the same mountain ranges that travellers in B.C. encounter on an east/west trip further north. Distant mountains were snow-capped; wild flowers by the road posed for photos. Waterfalls drew us into parks while rivers grew or waned as they accompanied us up and down. Flat farming areas with huge irrigation circles gradually developed hills, adding trees whose identity John introduced to George. Pronghorn, eye-catching with their brown and white colouring and striped necks and faces, did their best to mow alfalfa fields. The words: “where the deer and the antelope play echoed around the car”. Once, going in a different direction from the others, I was slow returning so they, thinking I had walked on ahead, left without me. I figured they would eventually miss me. They did….
A sign in central Oregon about John Day Fossil Beds side-tracked us into a well set-up Palaeontology Museum, with multi-coloured, multi-layered petrified tree remains outside. As a bonus we ogled amazing Painted Hills: complete hills of mustard yellow rose beside others that might be pinkish, or striped with reddish-brown, beige and white sloping layers. John the geologist was in his element seeing this and evidence of earth’s upheavals over the millennia.
Another sign at an overlook provided this perfect description of our memorable drive near John Day River: “In the surrounding landscape you can view the aftermath of uplift forces, down-cutting erosion, air-fall deposits, lava flows, tidal waves of pyroclastic debris and the earth stretching, bending, and breaking under pressure.”
Small towns each had some claim to fame, like Sisters, OR, its shops themed around its annual rodeo (and quilt shop for Rose); the murals of Vale on the border of Idaho in the centre of “Onion Country”; and then there’s tiny Fairfield, ID where I had the most superb milkshake – pineapple – that I’ve ever eaten with a spoon! In between those two places in Idaho we travelled through country so dry that “even the sage brush is stunted,” observed John.
As we approached the lava fields of Craters of the Moon, the sky blackened. Soon hailstones by the zillions pounded car and road, slowing traffic and filling crevices until it looked as if there had been a snowstorm.
However, the most unbelievable part occurred within the Visitors’ Centre.
“I’m from Scottsdale (Arizona),” a man yelled stridently at the staff, “and we never have anything like this – in summertime, no less!”
It was mid-May… All were relieved when he retreated to his camper and we enjoyed the display of birds and could identify raptors we’d seen, as the downpour eased.
Craters of the Moon is aptly named. We drove the road, walked trails carefully positioned for both safety and to preserve jagged lava spouted 2,000 or more years ago – and felt like aliens on a far-off planet. Even some of the plants were strange.
“If we push ourselves,” we decided that night in the nearby village of Arco, “we can have two nights in Jackson Hole, Wyoming.” Yea! Pj’s under the pillow…”
That drive is one to go back and traverse slowly, but top-notch, so to speak, was our arrival at the crest of the pass. With Jackson in sight far below, a snowball fight broke out….
