I had been out to the Hart Mountain Antelope Refuge and Steens Mountain in Eastern Oregon before. But never on this bike, a 2006 Suzuki DL650 VStrom. It’s a capable and versatile bike, and though I was going to travel on some dirt roads I had never ridden before, it was tested, and I was confident that it wouldn’t let me down.
Some of my camping gear was untested though, a few last-minute replacements for equipment I had lost in a yard sale on Mt. Shasta a while back, when a gust of wind picked up my tent—with me in it—and scattered the contents (including pieces of my scalp) on a rocky slope. And I didn’t give myself a lot of time to plan, this trip being sort of a spur-of-the-moment thing. So I just tossed a bunch of stuff into my side bags, did a quick check of the fancy new stove I picked up the day before, grabbed a few things from the local Safeway, and headed east.
Crossing the Klamath River—with Mt. McLoughlin through the smoke
My favorite route out of Ashland is highway 66, the Greensprings highway, with its 61 miles of twisty, tree-lined, two-lane blacktop. From where it ends in Klamath Falls I headed further east on highway 140 past Beatty, Bly and into Lakeview. There I gassed up for the great void beyond.
Highway 140 climbs steeply once past Lakeview, over the Warner mountains. Storm clouds loomed to the south.
Near Plush, Oregon, I ran out of pavement. So I pulled over to lower the pressure in my tires to gain some traction on the gravel roads that took me up and over Hart Mountain to the east.
Stopping along the climb, I snapped this panorama of Campbell and Flagstaff lakes to the west near sunset.
Once over the ridge, I motored past the ranger station and swung south toward the campground near some hot springs. I was hoping to get a nice soak before turning in for the night. But the thunderclouds were looking ominous, and suddenly I wasn’t sure if camping out in the open was such a good idea. Little did I know that the weather was going to be the least of my worries.
Looking south toward the hot springs
The campground was already pretty crowded by the time I rolled in. Normally, I don’t consider it camping if I can see other humans. But I was tired, and hungry, so I grabbed the first fairly isolated site I came across, and pitched my tent among some aspen trees, next to a rushing creek.
That’s when the mosquitos attacked. Swarms of them. As bad as anything I had ever encountered in Alaska. I had a tube of some great, natural repellent that I had used to good effect in Viet Nam, but I couldn’t reach parts of my back and scalp with the lotion, so that’s where the blood-sucking bastiges landed, and began to suck me dry. I hurried through a quick dinner and dove into my tent, just about a minute before the heavens let loose. Massive bolts of lightning strafed the surrounding ridgetops, and deafening thunder rolled through the shallow valley. Rain came down by the bucket, and the winds tore through the campground and threatened to give my tent wings again. But about an hour later it ended just as suddenly as it began, so I unzipped the front door of the tent to see if the mosquitos had all been swept away, and if I might risk that soak in the hot springs after all. No such luck.
I must have been really tired, because I slept well—something that doesn’t happen to me very often that first night out on a thin sleeping pad. But the gentle murmuring of the creek must have helped, and the cooing of mourning doves was a sublimely pleasant sound to wake up to. Even though I did have vivid dreams about Seventh Day Adventists. Don’t ask. I have no clue.
The next morning a stiff breeze blew most of the skeeters away, but they still swarmed in the lee of the tent, and very quickly discovered that the downwind side of me was a good place to shelter too. So I was forced to gulp down my oatmeal and tea with my back to the wind, while keeping one hand free to squash any mosquitos that landed on my front.
Not wanting to linger in that mosqapalooza, I packed up and rolled east across the Hart Mountain Antelope Refuge. Saw some real antelope there too.
The 70-mile road across the preserve is well-graded and arrow straight. And I managed to keep up a pretty good pace across the sage lands.
It was so smooth that I even risked a little sight-seeing, something that I usually can’t manage on these dirt roads, as I like to keep all of my attention on the terrain ahead.
Once across the preserve, I briefly swung south on highway 292, and then headed back onto gravel on the southern half of the Steens Mountain Loop. I had never tried this side of the loop before. The northern side is the popular route up the mountain, and there’s a sign at the top end of the south loop that says in bureaucratese: “You gotta be crazy to try this road!”
But I had always wanted to try it, and I figured going uphill on a motorcycle was easier than going down. So I decided to give it a shot. It was smoother than I expected, and as I ascended through the juniper-studded rangeland, the only hazard I came across were of the bovine variety.
Soon the flatland gave way, and the road started climbing up to the 9670 ft. peak.
The road got rougher as it followed the ridge line above the Little Blitzen Gorge. But the scenery got even better.
But then, what the...? Closed? Still? But there’s almost no snow! See?!!!
Hell, twenty miles up and twenty miles back down. And I’m short of gas.
Fortunately, unlike the last time I rode through Frenchglen, the tiny hamlet at the foot of Steens Mountain, the gas station next to the hotel did have some gas for sale. And when I asked the lady behind the counter when they expected to open the road up the mountain she told me that it WAS open. Huh? But I just rode up there, I said, there was a locked gate about twenty miles up! Well, she replied, you can’t get all the way to the top yet. Clearly, she and I don’t share the same definition of the word “open.” I briefly considered opening my fly to test the theory. But I reconsidered.
So I rode south past open range and abandoned miner’s shacks to Fields Station, where I stopped for the world’s largest bacon cheeseburger and highest calorie chocolate shake.
Seriously, they don’t even give you a straw. Just a spoon. Nobody sucks that much.
Then, home again through northern Nevada and the southern part of the Oregon Outback. A great ride. And a great part of a great planet. Great, great, great.
But you see what them skeeters did to me? Not so great. The little fuckers!