Day 33 | October 13th, 2023

We had a late start, leaving the hotel at 11:30 am with heavy packs containing six days' worth of food. Our clothes, still damp from the sink wash, added unnecessary weight.

The uphill climb out of town was particularly challenging with a heavy load, but the stunning views of canyons and surrounding mountains made the effort worthwhile. In the distance, Steens stood out with its new snowy cap, and I felt relieved to be walking away from it.

As we traversed a tranquil landscape bordered by tall sagebrush, the warmth of the day quickly gave way to a creeping cold. Our two-track path became rockier and more degraded as it led us into the rugged beauty of Louse Canyon.

During the night, I struggled with a runny nose and sneezing, despite feeling otherwise perfectly fine.

Day 34 | October 14th, 2023

We were in the right place at the right time for the 2023 annular solar eclipse. Rumors had it that tourists were flocking to eastern Oregon, filling up hotels in the small trail towns nearby, all for a chance to witness the event. Living out in the desert, far removed from buildings and crowds, provided us with what was arguably the best (and most economical) vantage point available. However, despite our advantageous location, that morning's eclipse revealed itself to us only in brief, obscured glimpses through clouds and a smoky haze that lingered on the horizon.

The day was spent hiking through the West Little Owyhee Wilderness Study Area, traversing the Owyhee Plateau and following the West Little Owyhee drainage to Anderson Crossing. Our path was a mix of two-track roads and cross-country stretches, navigating across uneven terrain, a mix of bumpy bunchgrass, dried mud mounds, and rocky, uneven ground.

By mid afternoon the sky cleared and the smell of smoke dissipated.

We crested a hill and looked out at a corrugated landscape labyrinth of trenches and canyons. Our excitement about exploring this area had been building since we first started planning our hike. The Owyhee Canyonlands encompass 2.5 million acres of wild lands and Wild and Scenic Rivers, making it the largest expanse of intact, unprotected, natural land in the American West. Contemplating the Owyhee Canyonlands as the largest expanse of intact, unprotected natural wilderness in the lower 48 states is a profound realization. The thought that such vast expanses of wild nature are at risk is disheartening. In our fast-paced, expanding world, these precious areas are becoming increasingly rare yet ever more critical to the health and survival of plants, animals, and humans alike. The unprotected status of the area is complicated. On one hand, it escapes the busy commotion typical of national parks, but on the flip side, the lack of federal protections leaves it vulnerable to large businesses looking to exploit its resources or ranchers aiming to graze their livestock.

At Three Week Spring, while refilling our water, we took a moment to discuss the next leg of our journey. Ahead of us was Anderson Crossing, the gateway to Section 21 of the ODT— a 44.5-mile stretch described in the guidebook as 'perhaps the most adventurous and remote part of the ODT.'

This segment would take us deep into the Little West Owyhee Canyon, a place devoid of cell service and limited bailout options, demanding a high level of commitment. We would need to be ready for large boulder hopping, crossing thick stands of willows, dense bushwhacking, and deep river crossings, some of which may require swimming. Moreover, the area is described as being home to “abundant rattlesnakes”.

The guidebook also quickly lays out an alternate route which traverses overland, above the canyon, and uses easy to follow dirt road paths lined with the familiar sagebrush expanse. The alternate seemed to be favored by many; both Lucky Man and Zebra, the two westbound hikers we met, opted for it. Shaggy also planned to take this route, and Showers, having researched this section, felt the alternate was the best option.

Possibly driven by a masochistic streak, the allure of the canyon's vibrant and intriguing depths captivated me, especially after enduring extensive stretches of monotonous terrain. And I hated the thought of skipping something without trying it. As a compromise, the three of us decided to hike down and assess the canyon conditions firsthand, foregoing any immediate alternative routes, but turning back if it was too rough.

Leading up to the river, our path intersected with a car camping site occupied by two bearded men engrossed in conversation and enveloped in the unmistakable earthy scent of weed. Rosie, a large, stocky pitbull, barked loudly when we approached. Her intimidating demeanor was softened when she came forward, revealing her giant pearl necklace collar. Despite her formidable bark, Rosie's demeanor, much like that of her owners, was unexpectedly gentle and welcoming.

Further along, as we neared the river, we met two young researchers setting up their camp by the water. They were there doing research and collecting data for their university and generously shared some beta about upcoming weather and the added challenges we might face in the river posed by the presence of large beaver dams.

We reached the end of the dirt road and looked down into the canyon, our view limited and the path ahead uncertain. The water level didn't seem too high, but staying dry through this section was likely impossible.

I led the way with Cosmo behind me, and Showers behind him, waiting for us to give the "all clear". Their steps, hesitant yet accommodating, seemed to echo the sentiment that they were just down there to humor me perhaps.

I could feel Cosmo's unease as he hiked behind me. There was a part of him eager to forge ahead, drawn by the allure of the challenge. Yet, history weighed on us. Cosmo and I have navigated treacherous paths together before, where hindsight left us questioning our choices (Death Valley’s Happy Canyon comes quickly to mind). It’s easier to take those risks when the responsibility is ours alone. Now, the prospect of leading Showers into uncomfortable, potentially dangerous terrain loomed large in Cosmo's mind, guiding his reluctance.

The canyon quickly narrowed, and the faint path we were on dissolved into a maze of thick willows and deep, unavoidable waters. Searching for an alternate route through the underbrush proved futile; there was no easy way and we hadn't even covered half a mile.

Deep down, I sensed we were bound for the alternate route; the decision felt inevitable given our circumstances and the growing concern for our collective comfort and safety.

Ultimately we turned around.

As we made our way back along the dirt roads, the endless sea of sagebrush around us, a complex mix of feelings washed over me. The decision to turn back, away from the canyon's unknown challenges, left me wrestling with a subtle sense of loss. Even without full confidence in the canyon route's advantages, choosing the easy path stirred a quiet regret in me, reflecting on the mysteries and potential discoveries left unexplored in the canyon's depths.

Day 35 | October 15th, 2023

As the sun began to peek over the horizon, I started to feel a familiar clenching in my stomach. As much as I would have preferred to stay in the warmth of my sleeping bag for a little while longer, my body, attuned to the natural rhythms of the day, reminded me of its needs with predictable urgency.

I looked around for somewhere to poop but the flat fields of sage provided no cover, no secluded nook or cranny to afford a moment of peaceful isolation. Even several hundred feet away, I was as exposed as if I had stayed right beside my tent.

I called out to the boys, asking them not to turn around as they packed up, and then squatted over my cathole. Despite the physical separation, their visible presence was a source of momentary frustration for me.

Normally, this situation wouldn't bother me. However, after more than a month on the ODT, the constant closeness to Cosmo and Showers, typically a source of comfort, had begun to chafe. Thru-hiking as a group, despite its freedom and fun, also demands relentless togetherness and constant proximity that can eventually wear down even the most communal spirits.

Throughout the day, my gaze kept drifting towards the canyon, and I couldn't shake off the disappointment of taking the alternate route. It felt like we had given up too soon, and the path we chose instead just didn't excite me — it was boring.

By midday, perched at the canyon's edge and poring over the map, I spotted what looked like a viable route down into the canyon that would put us back on our original trail. I managed to persuade the guys to join me for a closer inspection. From this vantage point, we had a broader view of the canyon below. It appeared more navigable than we had initially thought.

Though we couldn't visually account for the entire 44.5-mile stretch from our position, I felt a surge of optimism about our ability to traverse it successfully.

As we contemplated the descent, the familiar wave of worry washed over us. Discussing the risks below — dense underbrush, unknown waters, treacherous boulders, snakes, and not enough food — rekindled our anxieties. I knew that without a shared commitment, the path ahead would only bring stress. Our fears, once again, turned the canyon from an enticing adventure into a daunting hazard. The Garlic Brothers' usual indecision surfaced, and after a lengthy debate, we chose safety and turned back to the alternate route.

While taking a short break at a water trough off the dirt road, a figure started to appear, a hiker briskly walking towards us. Shaggy! We all shouted before pouncing on him with hugs. His return to the trail and unexpected appearance lifted our spirits.

Leaving the trough, the boys and I settled into a quiet march, with me in the lead. The evening was pleasant, and the silence of our hike offered a semblance of the solitude I had been craving, subtly replenishing my need for personal space. Despite this momentary solace, my gaze often wandered towards the canyon, tinged with regret and the nagging fear that we might be bypassing the very heart of our adventure.

Day 36 | October 16, 2023

We woke up to a clear sky and a beautiful sunrise after spending the night cowboy camping under the stars, grateful for the absence of scorpions. As we lay on the ground, the distant sounds of cows mooing and a motor humming somewhere off in the distance filled the morning air.

Shaggy, who hadn’t been feeling well the night before, woke up in the same condition. Choosing to get an early start, he left with the hope of gaining some ground and possibly cutting a day off this section.

As we resumed our hike on the overland alternate route towards Five Bar, where the West Little Owyhee joins the Owyhee River, we followed a dirt path under a clear and blue sky, speckled with a few wispy clouds. Our peaceful morning was suddenly interrupted by an ATV barreling down the road towards us — the source of the earlier motor humming. He was a nearby rancher and stopped briefly to chat, curious about what we were doing out there.

The landscape stretched out in endless waves of golden grass, devoid of any significant vegetation, resembling more the plains of Kansas than Oregon's high desert. The ease of the navigation and the monotony of the terrain was wearing on me. I was bored. Weeks of moving through this uniform terrain had dulled the sense of adventure. I couldn't shake the thought of the West Little Owyhee Canyon, the section we'd skipped. I knew it would have been tough, maybe even regretful, but not knowing what was there made me long for it. It felt like we missed out on a crucial, adventurous part of our journey.

When we reached the Owyhee River, the scenery transformed. The canyon's towering cliffs and vibrant geology were a stark contrast to the endless grasslands, offering the adventure I had been missing.

We descended into the canyon and reached the water, where our dirt road disappeared into the wide, deep river.

“I think we have to swim across,” Cosmo concluded once we were done filtering.

I scrambled around, climbing up loose rock piles, searching for any semblance of a trail or a way to cross. It wasn’t that I was opposed to swimming; rather, I was relishing the challenge of seeking an alternate route. I was having fun.

After searching for a while without finding a suitable path around or over, I glanced up and noticed Cosmo and Showers were already nearly halfway to the other side. The water reached up to their waists, indicating it would be chest-deep for me.

After dropping his pack on the other side, Cosmo swam back towards me. He offered to take my pack across to dry land, allowing me to swim more freely. I was grateful for the help. As we moved through the water, there were sections so deep I couldn't feel the bottom beneath my feet.

The sound of a plane overhead reverberated powerfully through the canyon. Its engine's roar, magnified by the canyon's rock walls, filled the space with a thunderous noise. The sound surrounded us, coming from every direction, both disorienting and overwhelming. Feeling the plane's roar pulse through us made me think about the nearby wildlife. It saddened me to imagine how the animals, with their sharp senses and no concept of what a plane is, experienced this sound. For them, this was not just a loud noise, but most likely an intense, scary, and bewildering disturbance.

Eventually, we returned to our dirt road path, weaving through the sagebrush-covered plains. The brief journey through the canyon was exactly the rugged adventure I had been craving.

A few short miles later, we re-entered the canyon. According to our maps, a hot spring was a mile-off route and up the canyon. We were unanimous.

Approaching Three Forks Hot Springs, our path was abruptly blocked by a literal red tape. There was no sign and it didn’t look like a normal forest service closure.

We watched as a man approached us. It was he, just a regular person, who had set up the barrier, effectively converting a public trail into a makeshift private campsite for himself and his girlfriend. He outright claimed this piece of wilderness, telling us we couldn't continue. His justification? They had arrived first and didn’t want to be bothered.

I couldn't believe it. He said that if we still wanted to go to the springs, we would have to backtrack and approach from a different angle. This new route would require climbing steep, treacherous terrain and navigating wet, slippery rocks. I stood there, feeling dumbfounded and unsure of how to respond. The springs were practically within reach, visible just beyond him, on the other side of his monstrous, shiny Jeep and warehouse of camping paraphernalia. His suggestion seemed both absurd and dangerous. After making this statement, the man walked back to his campsite, leaving us speechless.

We stood there in a stunned silence. “What the fuck?!” I blurted out. The idea of someone attempting to privatize a piece of the outdoors was bewildering. “He can’t do that. This guy can’t prevent us from walking on a trail.”

"What should we do?" they asked, looking at me. I was at a loss myself but felt strongly that the situation was wrong. Before we could even consider our options, the man returned, perhaps realizing the absurdity of his initial claim. His demeanor had changed; he was now more conciliatory, allowing us passage with a simple request to minimize noise and avoid setting up camp in the vicinity.

Once the standoff eased, the couple's attitude took a surprising turn. They lounged back in their chairs, casually chatting with us as we dipped into the soothing warmth of the springs. In a gesture of goodwill, they even tossed us a couple of beers — good craft IPAs, no less!

Post-soak, we trekked to the nearby primitive campground, our peace punctuated once again by the roar of planes, the rumble of trucks, and the occasional gunshot—odd echoes of civilization in what's touted as one of the most "remote" areas on trail.

We set up camp with a view of the river and, fueled by our appetites, indulged in a hearty "double beans" dinner.

Day 37 | October 17th, 2023

The morning was clear and crisp as we slowly packed up our gear and made the steep climb out of the Owyhee River Canyon. The route headed cross country up a gentle ridge to the rim of the canyon. There was an instinctual temptation to stick close to the rim for stunning views of the Owyhee River below. However, the reality of having to detour around several side canyons meant we often had to leave the edge behind. The terrain on the rim was rocky and uneven in places. Attempting to find solid ground among the hardy bunchgrass and sprawling sagebrush turned our walk into a bit of a slog, disrupting any chance of getting into a steady pace, which made our progress both slow and frustrating.

Early in the day, the boys pointed out a nearby dirt road that seemed to parallel our route. Taking the road would mean adding more miles, but those miles would undoubtedly be easier walking than what we were currently doing. It was tempting to leave the cross-country stretch, but I struggled to give a definitive yes. I didn't want us to fall into the habit of opting for the easy route simply because it was available.

After some deliberation, we unanimously agreed to continue our cross-country trek. We spread out, each of us navigating the terrain at our own pace.

The views of the canyon were both breathtaking and serene.

Throughout the day, I immersed myself in podcasts, with one in particular resonating deeply with me. It delved into happiness and the practice of savoring the moment as a way to enhance our sense of joy, a notion that seemed incredibly pertinent to the core of thru-hiking. The episode served as a reminder that happiness isn't merely something that happens to you or something to passively await. Instead, it's a state to be actively cultivated and reinforced through practices of gratitude and mindfulness, especially amidst the fluctuating experiences — the transient instances of beauty and wonder, along with the challenging periods that define the essence of a long-distance hike.

We regrouped near sunset, taking a moment to enjoy a short walk along Three Forks Road before returning to the cross-country terrain as darkness gradually descended around us.

The rugged terrain was not ideal for camping; it was fully dark by the time we found a suitable flat spot to settle down for the night.

Day 38 | October 18th, 2023

At 3:00 am, I found myself awake, nestled quietly in my sleeping bag, enveloped in the stillness of the early morning.

Later in the morning, while Cosmo was waiting for me to finish packing up he shared an intriguing piece of history about the Owyhee River. He read to us that its name came from Peter Skene Ogden, an early Northwest explorer and trapper, debunking our mistaken belief that it had a Native American origin. Instead, the name was a botched attempt at saying "Hawaii," leading to "Owyhee." A surprising revelation, indeed, sourced from the Oregon Desert Trail Guidebook and Oregon Geographic Names.

The day's hike was a mix of cross-country terrain and stretches along dirt roads, offering easy miles with scenic views all the way to Rome, Oregon.

Entering Rome, the welcoming committee was a chorus of mooing cows.

Rome turned out to be pretty much like every other one-stop shop along the ODT. The main building served as the gas station, hotel check in, diner, and small grocery store. The main hub here doubled as a gas station, hotel check-in, diner, and mini grocery store. The guy in charge, sporting a huge knife on his hip, seemed to really enjoy telling everyone that the wifi password was "TrumpWins”— clearly enjoying the reactions he got from the mix of tourists passing along Highway 95.

The diner accommodated my dietary preferences, preparing a vegan salad accompanied by fries and onion rings — because why settle for one when you can enjoy both?

We treated ourselves to an inexpensive cabin, savoring our last evening in town before embarking on the final stretch of our trail adventure.

As night fell, a hint of wildfire smoke drifted up from the river. We’ve been lucky to dodge major fires so far. Fingers crossed our luck holds.