Eastern Oregon hides its charms behind a gritty facade

But we discover them anyway

Photo by Eric Muhr on Unsplash

Don’t forget to hit the ❤️ at the top of the post to let me (and Substack) know you’re reading. Thanks so much for joining our journey; it means the world to us!

A glorious couple of days on Little Redfish Lake in Idaho restored our spirits as we played on the lake and ate our fill of fresh steelhead (the salmon, though plentiful, were too far gone for consumption.)

Perhaps contrast was why our departure from the scenic Sawtooth Mountains and forested slopes of Idaho into the high desert of eastern Oregon was so unpleasant.

Eastern Oregon is not a hospitable place.

The only thing to see for many miles were beige hills carved into corrugated terraces by years of cattle grazing and erosion, peppered with windmills and powerlines.

We had planned to stay at a state park on the Snake River; we turned off Highway 84, the main artery through the area, and drove out to the campground. By then we were both grumpy from a long day spent battling big rigs and wind gusts.

“Yikes,” I said as we pulled up at the deserted park and looked for our assigned campsite in the stark, empty landscape. The nearby Snake River’s water had been reduced by drought to a trickle between cracked, wide, gray mud banks. Flies buzzed loud as chainsaws in the hot air as buzzards circled overhead. There wasn’t a scrap of shade to be found anywhere.

 “No. Just no. Let’s keep going,” I said, refusing to get out of the vehicle.

“You find a spot then,” Mike grumbled. “There’s nothing out here, and I’m too tired to keep driving forever.”

“There’s got to be something.” Using my phone, I found a nearby RV park listed. We navigated over to it, and were disappointed to find out it was a row of rusting rigs propped up permanently on blocks in the shade of a row of tattered trees. 

I felt bad for the people who had to call that place home; it was only slightly less terrible than the desolate state park.

After a frustrated squabble to discharge frustration (picture a pair of sparring bluejays or mynah birds) we decided to drive on until we found somewhere more appealing to spend the night.

This turned out to be a couple more hours down the road in the tiny town of La Grand, Oregon. La Grand’s main attraction consisted of a geothermal hot springs—but that was enough for us! By then we didn’t much care as long as we could park and be done for the day, but the promise of a hot springs was galvanizing. 

We hurriedly turned into a private RV campground that boasted its own natural hot springs-fed swimming pool on a billboard. Wind had picked up and clouds were chasing us as we pulled in.

“Yay! This day is going to end well after all,” I told Mike, returning to the rig with our completed paperwork. “Let’s park and go swimming, ASAP.”

 We found our assigned slot in a large grassy area, just in time for a major storm featuring towering purple thunderheads to sweep in.

Mike and I were undeterred. We changed quickly and headed for the pool area with our towels, determined to get the relaxing soak we’d been promised; but just as we arrived, the management closed the pool due to possible lightning and locked us out. 

As we stood there trying to talk the guy into letting us in, the heavens opened up. Rain dumped on us in biblical proportions.