Day 14 | September 24th, 2023

Intense winds persisted throughout the night, which, coupled with the buzz from soda, beer, and Gatorade, did not lead to a restful sleep.

The town dogs came back to join us in the park. They were full of energy, running around, wrestling, trampling our gear and occasionally trampling us (in a playful way).

Tank, a hefty black Labrador, tore a massive branch off a tree, almost as thick as a small tree trunk. He kept shoving it at us, eager for a game of fetch. But the branch's size and weight made it impossible to throw far. His enthusiasm was so overpowering that every time he handed it over, we nearly toppled under its heft. This resulted in chaos, with Tank bumping into our chests and clumsily knocking into our gear as we packed up.

We headed back to the Hart Mountain Store for a warm cup of coffee on our way out. There, we discovered the source of the loud noises from the night: a goat tethered to a milking stand, not being milked. Its owners, a mom and her daughter, were in the middle of a big argument. The daughter was busy snapping pictures of the goat, who looked like it just wanted to be untied, while it was hard to tell what the mom was trying to do.

Though the goat didn't appear to be in pain, its continuous, human-like cries for "help!" were unsettling. Cosmo was on the store's front porch, trying to use the Wi-Fi to complete the permit forms we’d need for the next section. Showers and I tried to drink our coffee, but the goat's distressing screams made it impossible to relax.

We checked the weather forecast and learned that another cold front, bringing rain, was expected in the next day or two. With the Hart Mountain Hot Springs just 20 miles away, our priority shifted to reaching there before the weather took a turn for the worse.

Under cloudy skies and amid the goat's unceasing cries, we prepared to leave Plush. Tank, the Labrador, tagged along, zigzagging from one side of the road to the other. He occasionally veered off to explore and sniff around someone’s yard, then would dash back excitedly to walk by our side.

We enjoyed Tank's company, but our concern grew when, a mile out of town at our road junction, he showed no signs of turning back. Showers and I speculated that Tank might know what he was doing, but Cosmo was concerned that Tank would follow us too far and become lost. Despite our efforts to encourage him to return home, Tank persisted in following us. Eventually, with no other choice, Cosmo put down his pack and jogged back to the Hart Mountain Store, with Tank faithfully trotting beside him, to ensure the dog's safe return.

After a two-mile round trip, Cosmo rejoined Showers and me on the paved Hart Mountain Road.

We met a friendly bike packer from Ashland who stopped to chat with us. It was refreshing to connect with someone genuinely interested in our adventure. He understood our earlier insecurities and, upon learning where we were from, suggested with a laugh that we claim to be from Redding or Seiad Valley instead of Los Angeles while in Eastern Oregon.

We stopped at the Warner Wetlands roadside information area, a key spot for migrating birds. As I was reading the infographics near the bathrooms, my reading was accompanied by the invasive scent of cigarette smoke.

Leaving the pavement, we ventured south on a two-track road, with Hart Lake on one side and Hart Mountain on the other, both framed by barbed wire fences.

We filled our water bottles at a spring near an old homestead, nestled within a grove of cottonwood trees. The wind started to pick up, and the two-track grew increasingly overgrown.

Wading through tall grasses and sagebrush taller than myself felt surreal, especially at dusk. Hidden within the tall growth, we pushed through a marshy area, as the sun was setting and the haunting yowls of coyotes began echoing around us.

Eventually, we crossed through a barbed wire gate and set up camp at the base of Hart Mountain.

Day 15 | September 25th, 2023

We walked together along a wide dirt road winding up Fisher Canyon and leaving Crump Lake scenically in the distance.

I received a text message from Shaggy, who had taken a zero day at Hart Mountain Hot Springs because he was not feeling well. He informed us that we might cross paths with a westbound hiker named Lucky Man. The prospect of catching up with Shaggy and encountering our first fellow thru-hiker on the ODT was exciting.

We passed Wool Lake and crossed a barbed wire fence to enter the Hart Mountain National Antelope Refuge, a sanctuary for one of Oregon's most intact Greater Sage-Grouse habitats. As I traversed this critical region, I learned about the challenges it faces, including overgrazing, the spread of invasive cheatgrass, and high desert development, all of which threaten the preservation of these expansive sage-grouse habitats.

In the refuge, I remained on the lookout for antelope, but all I encountered was scat, including what looked like a large mound of berry-filled bear poop.

In this region, the landscape is marked by towering grasses and thick juniper trees, some abundantly covered in berries that make the trees appear blue instead of their typical green. We made a short, steep climb over a rocky, windy ridge. The quality of our two-track road was deteriorating, becoming more overgrown and less discernible. We followed the western edge of Big Flat, moving northeast towards an old homestead. By the time we reached it, the primitive path had all but disappeared, and we found ourselves navigating cross-country through tall grass.

After passing the homestead, the ODT continued northeast, crossing Warner Creek and leading towards Guano Creek, which would accompany us for the next several miles.

Eventually, we emerged onto a well-traveled dirt road and passed through Post Meadow Campground, nestled on the east side of Warner Peak, the tallest point on the Hart Mountain massif.

On my way out of the campground, I paused to read the information signs. It was surprising to learn that the "refuge" spans 422 square miles, yet most of this area is open to hunting, with only a three-mile radius designated as a safe haven for animals to roam freely. This information led me to question: what really constitutes a refuge?

As we hiked up Guano Creek drainage, we passed through yellow and gold aspen groves showing off their fall foliage.

Rounding a bend, I came upon a man lying on his side in the dirt with his head lifted, striking a pose reminiscent of the hookah-smoking caterpillar from "Alice in Wonderland," minus the air of deep philosophical contemplation.

Given his peculiar posture, my first thought was that he might be injured. However, as I got closer, I saw Cosmo and Showers just casually chatting with him, not engaged in a rescue mission (which was a relief). It turned out to be Lucky Man, the WeBo (Westbound hiker) we had been anticipating. Contrary to my concerns, he was neither injured nor in distress; he was simply tired, hungry, and feeling very talkative.

Lucky Man, a solo backpacker in his late 50s or early 60s, was a veteran thru-hiker who eagerly shared – without prompting – a list of all the trails he had conquered just that year, which no doubt was impressive. He was approaching the end of his ODT journey and as he spoke, his wide-eyes reflected the unique intensity that comes from extended solitude in the wilderness. Furthermore, his unwavering enthusiasm for conversation suggested that he hadn't encountered many other hikers or people in general since starting his trek.

He informed us that he had met Shaggy at the hot springs. To our disappointment, though not to our surprise, Shaggy had chosen to push on despite his fatigue and illness, hoping to reach Frenchglen within the next day or two.

I enjoyed hearing about his experiences on the route, but as the conversation continued endlessly, I became restless. My goal was to reach the hot springs before dark, and I was eagerly looking forward to achieving that goal. However, glancing at my watch, I realized that the opportunity was slipping away.

As Lucky Man delved deeper into his tales, my mind began to wander. I felt trapped. My gaze shifted to the path ahead, tracing a trail of longing in my eyes. I fidgeted, shifting my weight from one foot to another and adjusting my backpack. My subtle glances down the road became more frequent, a silent plea to resume our trek.

It worked.

Cosmo, highly attuned to my emotions, picked up on these subtle signals. Whenever our eyes locked, I felt as if I could hear his internal concern whispering, "Oh no, Larry's getting upset now." Each glance he threw my way echoed my own restlessness, as if my anxiety was contagious. He didn't just read my feelings; he seemed to inherit them, like catching an involuntary yawn. As a response to this unspoken conversation, and perhaps as a way to conclude our encounter, we offered some of our extra food to Lucky Man. He accepted without hesitation and wasted no time in devouring the snacks, crumbs scattering with each enthusiastic bite, his conversation uninterrupted even as he ate.

Eventually, Lucky Man stood up, and we subtly began to inch away, even as he tried to ignite new topics of conversation.

We reached a high point and wove through vibrant aspen groves, adding beautiful color to our path as the road curved and descended toward Rock Creek and the Hot Springs Campground. Anticipation quickened my steps, and I found myself overtaking Cosmo and Showers, a rare occurrence, eager to reach our destination. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, I couldn’t help but feel a nagging sense of urgency, partly due to the time spent with Lucky Man. The dropping temperature only amplified this feeling, making the prospect of relaxation seem more urgent.

Finally, at the campground, my singular focus was to find a soothing pool for a soak and a nearby campsite for the night. Meanwhile, Cosmo and Showers, obviously more laid-back than I, were on the hunt for some trail magic from the surrounding car campers. Their efforts paid off when they returned with a homegrown cucumber, freshly salted.

After an extensive walk around the campground, it became clear that camping next to the springs wasn't permitted. This forced us to set up our site a bit farther away. By the time we finished, darkness had fallen, and the cold evening air sapped my motivation to do anything else. My desire to soak was now overpowered by dreading the cold I'd face with wet skin afterwards. However, undeterred by my dwindling enthusiasm, Cosmo wasn’t willing to let this moment pass us by. He literally carried me over to the nearest warm pool. Despite the initial disappointment of not camping beside the springs, his insistence led us to a memorable soak under the starlit sky, making the most of our night.

The warmth of the water gradually melted away my earlier frustrations. We laughed uninhibitedly, amused by the bubbles we created in the water and the peculiar odors that accompanied them. Gazing upward, we were captivated by the dark sky's vast canvas, sprinkled with twinkling stars and the Milky Way’s luminous trail.

Heading back to our campsite, a curious sight caught my eye – a line of stars drifting across the sky as if strung together, then vanishing one by one.

“Did you guys see that?!” I exclaimed.

Fortunately, they had. We were all baffled by this mysterious sight in the sky. It wasn’t until later that we learned our ‘UFO’ was actually a Starlink satellite – a rather mundane, yet technologically advanced, presence in the wilderness sky, far removed from the celestial wonders we were expecting.

After settling back into our shelters, the first drops of rain began to patter against the fabric, initiating yet another night filled with rain and howling winds. It was a fitting, if somewhat turbulent, end to a day of unexpected encounters and emotional journeys.

DAY 16 | September 26th, 2023

The rainy and windy conditions of last night gave way to a chilly morning. Showers, who was quick to pack, headed out first. Our day began with a road walk to Hart Mountain Headquarters, and as it progressed, the weather turned surprisingly clear, crisp, and mostly sunny.

In the distance, Steens Mountain loomed, igniting a blend of excitement and apprehension. It’s arguably the crux of the ODT, known for its erratic weather, including early fall snow.

At the visitor center, we sprawled our gear on the lawn, drying it between rain showers. Inside, we took turns reveling in the luxury of civilized bathroom facilities. Spotting a bottle of Febreze on the windowsill, I couldn’t resist giving my stinky clothes a much-needed spritz. Before leaving, we filled our water bottles from a nearby spigot—a simple yet significant treat that spared us from the usual task of filtering or treating the water. Each of us loaded up with 7 liters of water for the next 40-mile stretch, adding over 14 pounds to our packs.

Planning ahead, we booked a room at the Frenchglen Hotel in anticipation of this waterless stretch and the relaxing break that would follow.

It had been a long time since I had carried such a heavy pack, and as soon as we started walking, I immediately felt the added weight bearing down on my shoulders and back. Our route led us from the gravel road at Hart Headquarters to the turnoff for Poker Jim Springs, entering the Poker Jim Proposed Wilderness Area.

The trail transitioned from a pleasant dirt road to an overgrown two-track, sometimes requiring cross-country travel through small canyons extending out from the east slope of Poker Jim Ridge. The landscape was dominated by the pyramidal peak of Beatys Butte to the south and the Steens visible to the east, towering over the Catlow Valley.

Hiking through the sunset was mesmerizing as the sun bathed the vast fields of golden grass in light, creating expansive, peaceful views free of any man-made structures. We crossed Snyder Canyon and contoured along the west side of Rock Creek.

Eventually, the tranquility of our hike was disrupted by waist-high prickly plants, the Russian Thistle. As we pushed through, our spirits ebbed and flowed with each step. The sharp stinging tested our resilience, yet we found pockets of peace and beauty amidst the challenging terrain. Just when we thought we couldn't go on, the landscape would open up to breathtaking vistas, reminding us that the ups and downs of hiking are part of the journey.

For several hours, we struggled to evade the Russian Thistle, which covered the landscape and hillsides for miles. I was getting tired as the setting sun brought colder temperatures. We had a difficult time finding a suitable spot to camp, just needing a smooth surface big enough for our bodies and absence of plants capable of puncturing our air mattresses. Finally, the ODT reached a two-track road near Rock Creek's west bank, providing a welcome break from the relentless thistle-whack. Despite the prickly landscape, we discovered two picturesque spots to camp. The expansive sky created a stunning yet melancholic backdrop, as it marked the anniversary of my mother's death and what would have been Norman's 19th birthday (Norman was my beloved cat). I took a moment to reflect on the cherished memories, their absence weighing heavily on my heart.

Day 17 | September 27th, 2023

I love early morning sunrises, but I hate the freezing cold dawn that comes with them in Oregon in the fall. Particularly, I despise feeling cold in the morning when I’m camping, knowing I must pack up and start hiking. It feels unpleasant, and it slows me down. The cold swiftly invades my hands, numbing my fingers, rendering them almost unusable. Each touch brings a sharp sting to my skin, a sensation intensified when moisture mingles with the cold, like on this drizzly morning. The only thing that rivals the discomfort of the cold is the misery of being cold and wet simultaneously. The moisture seems to conspire with the chill, mixing with the air and seeping into every fiber of my being, deepening the bone-chilling sensation.

The boys, quick to pack, waited for me. Around us, meadowlarks sang and flew low, back and forth over the bushes surrounding us, their sweet melodies diffusing any hint of impatience—much to my advantage.

We hiked away from the rain and toward blue skies, bestrewn with billowing white clouds.

The unmistakable signs of cow dung marked our departure from the Hart Mountain Refuge. We were back in the ranchlands of the Wild Wild West.

Approaching Orejana Canyon, the landscape gradually transformed, becoming more textured and intriguing. Tenuous tears in the earth marked deep crevices of subtle canyons, while colorful rock cliff bands broke the monotony of rolling sage. In the distance, the Steens Mountain fault block jutted up, its presence enticing us forward.

We passed more piles of cow dung and several big blocks of salt, likely left as treats for our bovine counterparts.

We were a small herd walking with the others, heading from spot to spot in search of the next water source. As we moved forward, a small group of pronghorn caught our attention, gracefully leaping over a hill.

As we neared Augustine Canyon, the spectacle grew more captivating. Upon reaching a fence marking the boundary of a small plot of private land, we paused and watched another herd of pronghorn on the other side of the fence hopping down a dirt road. They were being chased by wild horses in a burst of raw freedom.

The pronghorns disappeared around a corner, but the wild horses stopped. Their gaze turned towards us, a curious and cautious recognition of our presence. Their inquisitive stares met ours across the divide of the fence, symbolizing the fragile line between human and wildlife interactions.

Intrigued by our presence, the horses began to gather together, a collective of muscle and mane, and then, in short bursts of energy, they galloped closer to the fence. Each time they stopped, they stood still, their large eyes intently fixed on us, as if trying to decipher our intentions.

We continued to stare from our respective sides of the fence, each of us curious about the other. I wondered what they were thinking. Were they yearning for the wide-open fields beyond their enclosure, or did they find a sense of contentment within their familiar confines? Similarly, I thought about my own metaphorical fences – the invisible barriers that sometimes hemmed me in. Was I, too, subtly seeking a path to greater freedom? Our eyes held a silent conversation about the nature of boundaries and the universal desire to venture beyond them. Perhaps we were both contemplating which side of the fence truly was the cage, and wondering which side held the key to liberation. Despite the barbed wire that separated us, Cosmo's unease about the horses' proximity contrasted with my fascination, thanks to an intimidating encounter he had with wild burros in Death Valley not long ago.

"Let's go," Cosmo urged, breaking my contemplative spell and gesturing for me to follow.

Our gazes unlocked, and I quickly descended the hill to catch up with Showers and Cosmo. Perhaps the horses' interest was more straightforward, driven by simple curiosity about who we were, what we were doing there, and whether we had a carrot or some other treat for them.

As we moved away, the horses trailed alongside the fence for a distance. However, their journey ended abruptly when the fenceline turned, seemingly scooping them back into their designated space, while we continued forward without the same physical barriers.

Our path then led us to an expansive landscape where herds of cows converged from all corners, heading towards Mud Springs. The sight resembled a gathering of warrior bands, each group distinct yet united in their direction. The land, so open and unobstructed, allowed us to see these herds clearly, even from afar. Their slow but steady approach felt almost ceremonial, like ancient tribes traversing the plains in a timeless ritual.

With a little cell service, we received an updated weather report and caught wind of an impending storm. The forecast of a looming cold front prompted a strategic discussion about traversing the Steens Mountains in changing weather. This update, with its promise of colder conditions, brought a familiar thought to mind: I really hate the cold.

As we approached Mud Springs, our arrival caused the cows to scatter. Their departure unveiled a scene marred by their presence: sandy shores now littered with cow pies, strewn across the area, far beyond the muddy pond. In this disarray, a lone duck floated in peaceful contrast, seemingly relishing the quiet after the cows’ exit.

The scene struck me as repulsive, yet oddly amusing, reminiscent of the aftermath of a wild rural festival. I playfully dubbed it "Cowchella," imagining selfish, four-legged giants partying without restraint and leaving behind a mess indicative of their indulgent revelry. These once noble bands of warriors had now transformed in my imagination into basic groups of bovine buddies who gathered in the desert to dance, stomp, and, quite evidently, poop with carefree abandon. This was the kind of party where the pursuit of a good time far outweighed any respect for the environment—a satirical nod to human excess and a pointed commentary on the impact of our unrestrained actions on the natural world. Despite the underlying critique, you have to admit, the images attached to "Cowchella" are pretty funny.

We chose to bypass Mud Springs and avoid the risk of giardia. The path to Miller's Ranch was bordered by tall, aromatic sagebrush, filling the air with a heady, earthy scent—a pure and natural fragrance one might expect to find at a music festival. As dusk approached, we scouted for a camping spot and found an ideal location perched on a hill, not far from the ranch. With our water supply sufficient to last the night, we decided to hold off on refilling and made plans to visit the trough in the morning.

DAY 18 |SEPTEMBER 28TH, 2023

The day welcomed us with a stunning sunrise, accompanied by the familiar flute-like melodies of the Western Meadowlark.

Our first task was a stop at Miller’s Ranch to refill water. As we did, we discussed the upcoming weather, which showed no signs of improvement. A phone call with Shaggy revealed he was still in Frenchglen, stirring our excitement to meet him. We hatched a plan for all four of us to stay at the small town's hotel, figuring that more people would lower the cost and perhaps convince Shaggy to wait and hang out with us.

Our hike led us along remote two-track roads, meandering through an arid landscape that stretched endlessly. This section, known for its brutal summer conditions due to scarce water and minimal shade, is more forgiving now. The daytime temperatures are mild, though frost kisses the ground and our gear each morning.

The scenery became more interesting as subtle canyons cracked through the land like cuts in the skin, adding texture and color to the landscape and punctuating the otherwise uninterrupted sprawl of the sage-covered terrain.

A highlight of the day was spotting a solitary pronghorn, the closest encounter we'd had so far.

Our route combined gentle cross-country and smooth dirt road hiking, gradually drawing us closer to the mountains ahead.

As we crested a high point, the timing couldn't have been more perfect. The sun was just beginning to set, casting its warm, golden glow across the expansive fields in front of us. The light, rich and honeyed, seemed to set the fields ablaze with color, accentuating their natural golden hues and casting a serene, picturesque glow along the foothills of the Steens. As the day transitioned to night, the landscape transformed, its beauty highlighted by the soft, dancing shadows.

The tranquility was occasionally broken by the distant sound of cattle, their "mooing" becoming a familiar call leading us into many of the small towns in Eastern Oregon.

Eventually, the ODT joined a paved road, guiding us all the way down to Frenchglen.

That night, we set up camp on a hill just outside the town limits, staying within the boundaries of public land where we could freely camp, close yet respectfully distanced from Frenchglen.