We crossed into Oregon and everything changed. Or at least the landscape changed. Dramatically. The flat brown and feedlots of Idaho disappeared, and Interstate 84 wound its way around steep mountainsides studded with conifers. Nothing but conifers. Just like that, we had entered the great Pacific Northwest.
It was late afternoon, a great time to view this breathtaking scenery. The landscape was just as empty of human habitation as the great spread of Idaho had been, but here instead of livestock, you could see the occasional remains of an earlier mining industry, railroad tracks that led into tunnels in the mountains; small pieces of rusted-over equipment. And mainly, mountains in all directions around us. We wove through them as the dying afternoon slowly turned the light deeper and pinker.
The road, meantime, was getting steeper, both up and down, as we crossed over the hills we weren’t circling around. Up the inclines we climbed, the trailer slowing us down. Down the other sides Bill gripped the wheel as big trucks blew by. We were no longer nearly shoved off the road as we had before we got the load levelers in Indiana. But the blowback from these trucks was still enough to push as around. Though we didn’t realize it at the time, we were on the Oregon Trail, the history route covered wagons had once used as the pioneers settled the West. We learned this later when at rest stops where the name and a bit of its history were commemorated on plaques. For now, all we knew was that this was a pretty steep and curvy road for an Interstate.
And then we saw the first warning. We knew it was the first warning because it said so: “FIRST WARNING 6 MILES 6% DOWNGRADE AHEAD.” I wondered whether that meant a 6% grade for the next 6 miles, or in 6 miles? We were certainly going downhill though I couldn’t say at what percentage. Another mile or two and there was the second warning. And then, impressively: “LAST WARNING 6 MILES 6% DOWNGRADE AHEAD.” It was one of those moments that was so scary it was funny. “This is your last-last-last-last-last warning-warning-warning-warning-warning,” we joked in that echoing announcer’s voice reserved for really momentous sales or horror movie ads. What were we in for?
Well, there certainly wasn’t anything I could do, sitting there in the passenger’s seat, which I was striving not to think of as the “death seat.” Except trust that my husband could handle it…which I did. He said later that, because the road wasn’t built to bank with the turns, he kept expecting the trailer to just topple over. Tandem trucks whizzing by shook our stability further but at least there weren’t any truckers crazy enough to bring a triple trailer onto this road. We’d seen, and been rattled by, enough of those in Idaho to last us a while.
There’s a certain amount of scared that doesn’t make sense if you’re in a position where you can’t do anything about it, so I more or less relaxed. And looked at the scenery, which was astounding. Mountains rose around us and the setting sun had turned the sky into thousands of shades of purple and pink. Eventually the highway leveled out, and after many miles of scenery and nothing else, what looked like a large, well-appointed-looking rest stop came into view. We pulled over gratefully if only so we could walk around for a bit and decompress. On closer examination it was a casino, truly in the middle of nowhere, because we were on the Umatilla reservation.
We didn’t go anywhere near the gambling but did wander the touristy gift shop/rest stop. There were lots of Umatilla crafts and doodads, and everyone working there looked Native American. We wandered around for quite a while, considered buying blanket or a t-shirt, actually bought a few snacks and got back on the road.
That night we slept in Baker City, Oregon. We’d been heading for an RV Parky suggested site when Bill noticed that a motel we were driving past had a sign welcoming RVs. It looked inviting, so we pulled in and got a spot beneath a giant tree.
The people who owned the place, a fun young couple with a rambunctious and lovable dog, directed us to a diner for dinner which turned out to be one of the nicest diners we’d ever encountered. We went back there again for breakfast. It was a pretty little town, with a classic downtown, old-fashioned banks and little shops. Kind of a town where you might want to live I thought idly. But we were still too far from our friends, and from Seattle, and from the temperature-moderating effect of the warm ocean waters. These places would get real snow come winter. Besides, Bill told me what the motel owner had told him–that almost everyone in town “carried.”
Firearms, that is.
Yup. We were in the West.
Image: Jeremy Riel, Creative Commons