[Paddlewise] True story. . .

        Jackie says this is "conservation" and relevant. . .         

        The Deschutes River Canyon is so popular for whitewater rafting and
kayaking in the summer that the State of Oregon finds it necessary to issue
permits and limit access. The Deschutes offers mostly Class I rapids with a
couple serious Class IV runs in a high desert environment with sage brush,
geological splendor, and blazing 100 degree plus sunshine. To top it all,
Teddy Roosevelt thought that the Deschutes may be the finest trout fishing
river in the world. The history is really colorful too. . .

        In 1855, U.S. Army Topographic Engineers declared that building a
railroad along the narrow, basaltic cliffs of the Deschutes River gorge
would be impossible. The economic incentive for such a railroad would be the
billions of board-feet of Ponderosa pine in Bend. By the turn of the
century, technology had advanced to the point where two railroad magnates,
"The Empire Builder" James J. Hill of the Northern Pacific, and Union
Pacific's Edward H. Harriman decided to run tracks from The Dalles on the
Columbia River to "Farewell Bend" --now simply called Bend. Hill also
expected that a line from The Dalles to Bend would eventually extend to
California. (The Union Pacific teamed with the Southern Pacific to run a
line down the Willamette Valley to Califonia.)  

        Building railroads was no penny-ante proposition, and the the race
to build railroads along the Deschutes involved large historical figures.
John F. Stevens was appointed by Teddy Roosevelt to build the Panama Canal
as Engineer, and it was Stevens who was hired as Chief Engineer by James
Hill and the "Oregon Trunk Railroad" to direct construction along the
Deschutes. Stevens was an avid fisherman and in 1906, began appearing at
various stock ranches along the river disguised as a wealthy and eccentric
sportsman interested in buying land for fishing lodges and hunting. 
                
        Stevens spent several months moving up and down the river,
accumulating purchase options on land. Finally dropping his disguise, it
became apparent that Stevens had purchased strategic sites along the river
to allow The Oregon Trunk Railroad valuable right-of-way access for
construction. 

        In the meantime, Harriman of the Union Pacific formed a subsidiary
called the Des Chutes Railroad. Hill maneuvered to purchase the Central
Oregon Railroad for the Oregon Trunk Line thus controlling vital crossing
sites for the Crooked River Canyon and blocking Harriman's attempts to build
a line to Bend. 

        The last of the great "railroad wars" began in earnest in 1908. All
work was done by hand, by pick-ax, shovel, black powder, and wheelbarrow.
This was one of the last construction projects in the U.S. to use black
powder before its being replaced by the more advanced explosive dynamite. 

        Competition was fierce with rival companies  timing blasting to roll
rocks into the path of the competition. Powder stores were located and
exploded in sabotage night raids. In addition to the name-calling and rock
throwing, shots were often exchanged. Coyote holes, shallow surface holes in
the rock for black powder charges, often threw rock and debris across the
river, endangering the competing crew. While clearing rock for coyote holes,
the crew from Harriman's Des Chutes line discovered a large ball of rattle
snakes huddled together to conserve body heat. The crew then spent several
days sneaking burlap bags full of rattle snakes into the Oregon Trunk
Railroad camp. Many of the Italian immigrants working for the Trunk Railroad
under the supervision of contractor Harry E. Carlton packed and left the job.

        At one point in the construction both companies posted riflemen on
the ridges to cover the activities of their crews. One of these riflemen
noticed sputtering sparks in the midst of sleeping workers. Closer
inspection revealed a lighted fuse leading to a keg of black powder. 

        Working south from The Dalles, a major incident occurred at mile 75
where the Oregon Trunk Railroad had no right of way across the Warm Springs
Indian Reservation. Hill built a grade across the survey line of Harriman's
Des Chutes Railroad. At the same time Harriman took title to a homestead at
North Junction which blocked Hill's progress. Congress enforced the Canyon
Act, providing that both rail lines share common trackage from North
Junction some 12 miles south to South Junction. 

        In 1909 Harriman died. Hill's public reaction to Harriman's death
was that the man had simply undertaken more problems than he could manage.
Hill completed a line to Bend in 1911.  Although two lines were eventually
completed to Bend, it soon became apparent that economics would not support
two railroads. The Union Pacific eventually consolidated with The Oregon
Trunk Railroad, using the better constructed west side right-of-way. The
eastern track bed has become an "access road" for cars with the 12 or 14
miles from North Junction to the "Locked Gate" closed to all but private
vehicles and hikers/anglers. 

        Property along this stretch of the river alternates between BLM and
private ownership, and the road is maintained by the property owners along
the route. Just about mid-way between South Junction and North Junction lies
Whitehorse Rapids (I can't decide if "Whitehorse" refers to a white horse or
if it's the British term for whitecaps on the water.) At any rate, the
Deschutes slices through an unstable area in the Mutton Mountains on this
stretch, exposing numerous fossils from the days before the rise of the
Cascades and their hundreds of feet of covering basaltic lava flows when the
desert was an enormous inland sea. 

        The Deshutes along this stretch is also reputed to be the best trout
fishing on the river, owing in large part to its inaccessibility and the
relative lack of fishing pressure. Much of the fishing pressure on the river
these days has lessened as the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife has
enacted "fly fishing only" status on most of the river. Additionally, catch
limits are two per day between (I believe) 10 and 14 inches. Most of the
fish in the river these days are larger than 14 inches, and the dominant
ethos provides a strong peer pressure to "catch and release." The ecosystem
is very "buggy" with numerous insect hatches most of the year. Roosevelt was
right. This may be the best trout stream in the world. 

        So having fished Whitehorse Rapids about 25 years ago, accessing
from South Junction, I was curious to hike to North Junction--about three or
four miles above the rapids--and to piece the fragments of my stream
experience into a continuous whole. The hike from South Junction to
Whitehorse Rapids is about seven miles along track-bed and railroad ties.
>From the "Locked Gate" south of Maupin, North Junction is perhaps 12 to 14
miles along hard-packed road-bed surfaced with sharp gravel and fist-sized
rocks. 

        I packed the truck the night before, a new Kelty Tioga backpack,
Kelty Creekside II tent, new Vasque hiking boots, and a whole lot of loose
energy. Tuesday morning had me up and on the road by 5:45 AM, driving along
I-205 in a pre-dawn intent to get out of town before the morning commuter
rush. By the time I'd reached the Gladstone exit and connections to Hwy. 26
over the pass at Government Camp,  I decided that mid-March and several days
without precipitation would likely mean clear roads across the passes. So I
opted to take 26 over the mountain rather than drive up the Columbia Gorge
to The Dalles  and then Hwy. 197 to Maupin. 

	At 7:30 in the morning, the pass was frosty but sanded and not too
hazardous. Once past the mid-week skiers headed to the mountain, the traffic
soon thinned to a few semi’s heading to Madras and Bend. Once on the cutoff
to Maupin the snow gradually diminished and almost symbolically disappeared
completely at the boundary of the Mt. Hood National Forest. The first
seasonal run across the prairie to Maupin is always a bit nostalgic, and I
found the 6 or 8 miles of  gravel "access road" along the river to be much
shorter than I remembered it. There were several anglers at the "Locked
Gate" getting ready to head out for some fishing. I sorted out my equipment,
leaving all but the most essential items behind. I wanted to keep the pack
as light as possible but still have enough clothing for the night-time
plunge in temperature to the mid-teens. The pack seemed like about 30
pounds, and I was on the road by 10:00 AM.

	The river was several feet higher than when I usually fish it in June/July.
An angler along the bank was fishing in one of my favorite holes and I was
able to show him the "cut bank" that was now submerged in the high water. He
drifted a nymph along this bank, and hooked up even before I got around the
corner and out of sight. The first hour walking was all familiar. I’d fished
this stretch of river a lot. About three miles up the road from the gate is
Dant, a stop on the old railroad where there used to be a perlite mine on
the other side of the river. Now there’s a farm and a cyclone fence with a
gate across the road. The gate is always open, but seeing as how you’re
hiking on private land, the owners want you and everybody else to sign-in at
he house. The owner was working out in one of the equipment sheds, and we
stopped to talk a bit. He told me what to watch for to find the old Lady
Frances perlite mine. He also showed me the "public drinking water" faucet
out by the fence. This faucet is fed from a deep well and very good water.
The other faucets on the ranch are connected to irrigation pumps from the
river and contaminated. This ranch is pretty much the southern range of most
anglers. The summer heat and the gravel road makes it difficult to hike too
much farther up the river in waders. Most anglers rely on the faucet here
for water, and that limits their range up river too. I’d never been too much
beyond the ranch. One fishing hole in this area is pretty much just as
splendid as the next, and there’s no need to head upstream. 

	Heading out toward the bend in the river and new territory, I made use of
the cleared path across the pasture. The grassy ground was much softer than
the roadway, and it was a nice break for the feet even after only about an
hour of walking. At the other end of the pasture was a loafing shed and an
abandoned ten by ten shack of bleached lumber with corrugated tin partially
covering the dilapidated shingle roof. The door was open, and I could see an
old armchair, bleached and neglected, sitting in one corner. Another mile or
so, and I came to the Lady Frances Mine. 

	The mine was developed in 1945 after the discovery of perlite formations on
both sides of the river by a man named Axelford. Originally this stop on the
railroad was called Freida after the wife of one of he railroad executives,
but as the mine operations were developed by Dant and Russel, and the
perlite shipped by rail to The Dalles and then Portland for use in wallboard
and acoustical tile, the stop came to be called Dant. The mining operation
built several houses on the west bank and purchased a surplus life boat
which was rigged to a cable for use as a ferry across the river. The
lifeboat ferry is still there, and the houses are now fishing cabins.
Several hundred yards up the side of the west bank is the entrance to the
Lady Frances Mine. Several timbered structures at the mine are visible
through binoculars, and a road leads from the river up to the entrance, a
large gash in the hillside with tailings extending nearly to the water.  On
the road there is another gate, called the "Iron Curtain" by locals because
it used to have the reputation for being locked. This is the southern
boundary of the "Dant Ranch." 

	Moving down the road, I’m discovering that fishing cabins dot the banks at
about every mile. These cabins are an admixture of architectural styles from
the fairly primitive old shack to fairly modern "lodges" with large windows,
custom stone chimneys and neat, corral style fences. Every single cabin has
a sign out front with the name displayed: "Chateau Rimrock," "Hernando’s
Hideaway," "Lofer’s Lair," or sometimes simply "Snow" or "Battaglia". . .  

        After a few more miles I come to Des Chutes Railroad tunnel number
5. All the tunnels along the route were dug by hand with pick-ax,
wheel-barrow, and black powder. This tunnel is tall and narrow to
accommodate the stacks of old steam locomotives. The interior is bare, hewn
rock, supported every few feet by large timbers and looks very much like an
old mine shaft with shoring. The roof of the tunnel appears to be concrete
with a wood-grain texture from the forms. It might simply be wood. It’s
difficult to tell, being some 30 feet tall in the dark. Cliff swallows have
nests in the rocks just inside the entrance. At the far end of the tunnel
water drips from the ceiling. 

        From tunnel 5 to tunnel 6 seems like five or six miles. It’s heading
toward noon and the early spring sun is beginning to warm up everything. The
mountains form huge bends upstream, and I can see one folding into the next
many miles away. I stop in a green riparian area along the river for lunch.
A bald eagle soars along the railroad tracks on the other side of the river
and then glides up a ravine. Canada geese are wintering over in the canyon
and seem to be everywhere. There are mallards and common mergansers bobbing
down the river, and in the scrubby trees along the roadside are flocks of
red-winged blackbirds. These birds are nostalgic too, probably the first
birds I encountered as a kid camping along the lake near my house. Now I
associate their call with camping generally, but with fishing on the banks
of the Deschutes in particular. 

	My map is not very good, a photocopy from the Oregon Atlas & Gazetteer. The
scale is for automobiles, not hikers, and the detail of the mountains and
creeks along the Deschutes is poor. I’m looking for a peak in the Mutton
Mountains to the west and the place where Little Cove Creek crosses the
road. These details should put me within a mile of North Junction and the
railroad bridge across the river. By now I’ve been hiking four and a half
hours. The gravel and hard rock of the road-bed is beginning to make my feet
sore, and I pause from time to time to wiggle my toes to get some
circulation going. I want to keep going until I see the railroad bridge, but
finally I pick a grassy spot on the side of the road to rest and check my feet. 

	Taking off my boots I find that my socks are damp. There’s a blister
working up on the ball of my left foot, and I drain and cover it with
several layers of adhesive tape. Fortunately, extra socks are not something
I decided to leave behind. Even with bandages on the "hot spots" and fresh
socks, my feet are tender, and the first fifty yards of walking after this
break take some warming up. The knees and hips are a bit stiff; the feet are
a little tender. Once I start moving, however, I settle back into a
purposeful if not altogether comfortable stride. Now the river canyon is
beginning to narrow, and I expect that I’m getting close to the North
Junction bridge. 

	I pass a very rustic cabin, little more than an eccentric tarpaper shack
with very tiny, square windows. There’s a corral style gate, high posts on
either side and a cross beam above with an inverted horseshoe nailed in the
center. Under the shoe is a plank with the name "Snow." I assume this cabin
is somehow tied to Berkley Snow and "History of the Deschutes Club." The
club was apparently formed sometime in the 30’s and using the area near the
Lady Frances mine as "The Clubhouse Flat." My sources don’t explain the
relation of the club to the later development of the mine about 1945. 

	But just beyond Snow’s, I finally cross Little Cove Creek, not much more
than a dip in the road across a dry gravel gully. It’s obvious that this is
the creek, and that it’s full of water in the winter. Now the road narrows
considerably and changes from hard rock and gravel to mostly packed dirt.
The canyon comes right down to the roadside, and ahead I see a signpost
showing the boundary of BLM land. This boundary is marked on my map, along
with the creek. North Junction should be just around the corner. 

	Indeed, as I move down to the BLM boundary the river canyon takes a sharp
bend to the west and just around the edge of the cliffs on the other bank  I
catch the bright silver end of the North Junction  railroad bridge.
Spreading out on the east bank just below the bridge is a grove of
cottonwood  in a large grassy clearing. There’s even a BLM outhouse. The
cottonwoods are gnawed around the base by beaver, and the BLM has put "pig
wire" fences around the trunks to keep the trees from being killed. I leaned
my backpack against one of the trees, took off my hiking boots and dug my
sandals out of my pack. 

	Now the fatigue from five hours of steady hiking started to set in. The
straps on the back-pack had restricted circulation in the arms and  my
fingers had swollen a bit. I was pretty dehydrated and needed to get some
water. Pulling my water purifier out of the pack, I hobbled down to the
water and waded in ankle deep. The icy water felt good on he feet, but I
started to get a bit dizzy and had to lie down for a second. I managed a
quart of water and moved back up to my pack where I broke open the Fig
Newtons and worked on getting the blood surgar level back within normal
limits. A bagel with pastrami helped bring things under control too. 

	Next I reset the fire circle. Some rafters had decided that fire circles
are for burying aluminum beer cans under a pile of rocks and ash. This area
is not short on choice rocks, so I spent some time hauling 20 pounders to
set in a yard wide circle because I like my dry masonry to endure. Then I
gathered up the sticks from the cottonwoods. These trees seem to drop the
last foot of their branches all over the ground. Working in an area far from
the fire circle, I cleared the ground for my tent, then built up a large
pile of twigs from  the fire perimeter. The camp was about 20 feet above the
river on a sharp bank, with a nice view of  the river and the bridge.  Then
I set up the tent about 50 yards away. It’s brand new, and I don’t want to
burn holes in it from flying cinders. 

	Once I move around a bit without a pack, I began to feel relaxed and
recovered. I decided to walk across the bridge just because I’d never been
on the other side of the river. Most access to the Deschutes is from the
eastern bank. The large basalt rocks along the footing of the bridge made
for some gingerly stepping in sandals, but finally I got up to the bridge.
The signal light to the south was red, indicating a train in the signal
block. I checked to ensure there was plenty of clearance between the rails
and the catwalk across the bridge and then headed across. There hadn’t been
a train on the tracks all day, and I really didn’t expect one while I was
crossing the river. 

	Of course as soon as I was on the other bank, investigating new railroad
ties and fresh cans of spikes dropped off by maintenance crews, a big
electric diesel rounded the bend several hundred yards behind me. The train
seemed to go on forever. From where I was standing I could only see the next
car as it came around the bend at the bridge. One more car kept appearing
behind the next, and then another. I noticed too that the "click-click,
click-click, of the wheels was absent. The brakes groaned a bit, and the
wheels rumbled but no clicking as they rolled over the joints in the track.
Then I realized that the track sections were all welded into one continuous
piece. Finally the last car passed. No caboose these days, that’s an
aesthetic mistake just like getting rid of the steam locomotives! I picked
up a brand new blue-grey steel spike for a souvenir, then considered its
weight multiplied by the 12 or 14 mile hike out and decided that I had
enough railroad spikes already.  	 

	Passing by the outhouse on the way back to camp, I grabbed a length of
toilet paper for tinder and picked up some paper cups and the case from a 12
pack of 7-Up left behind  by rafters. Only rafters haul this litter into the
area. Whitewater kayakers don’t have room in the yak for this stuff, and
people in cars don’t camp on the river. They have cabins. Backpackers don’t
pack soda and beer, not a dozen miles on gravel road. The tinder started
right up about the same time the sun was going down. I’d scouted the area
and there was plenty of blow-down for fuel once the fire got going.
Ironically, even though cottonwood is quite soft, its moisture keeps it from
burning rapidly, and it makes pretty fair firewood. Picked up off the
ground, the dead wood is easy to break with a quick step of the foot.
Gathering firewood, I’m always reminded of the difference between a
white-man’s campfire and an American-Indian campfire: American-Indians build
a small campfire, sit close, stay warm. White-men build large fires, keep
warm by fetching wood. 

	Once the dark descended it began to cool off considerably. The fire was
more than just customary, it was utilitarian. The sky was absolutely clear,
and the moon was not out. Unlike the hazy lighted sky of urban areas, stars
filled the sky from rimrock to rimrock. A screech-owl hooted somewhere in
the cottonwoods near my tent. I wanted to leave the rainfly off the tent so
could I lie in my sleeping bag and watch for shooting stars, but the night
promised to get very cold, and I wanted to keep ventilation in the tent to a
minimum. At about 8:00 PM I decided to turn in. I got out the poly-pro
long-Johns, the polar-fleece sweats, wool stocking cap, and a fresh pair of
socks. Under the 3 lb. bag was a Staytek 2" pad and a high density foam pad,
the tent floor, and finally a ground-cloth. Still, I expected to get cold. 

	Although there  weren’t a lot of trains during the day, there seemed to be
an endless stream of them at night. I’m told this is because there are crews
working on the tracks during the day, and the railroad schedules the freight
at night while the crews are off the tracks. Fortunately I enjoy listening
to the trains pass through at night. They’re very noisy, powerful sounding,
and light up the whole canyon with their rotating headlight. I could see
their lights even though I had the tent all zipped up. Also, light from the
campfire flickered against the sides of the tent. 

	It got cold, and is my wont when sleeping outdoors, I tossed a good deal.
Several times during the night I checked my watch. The downside of early
season camping is the too long nights. Once the dawn began to lighten the
sides of the tent, I was out of bed and ready to go. These days that comes
at about 5:30 AM. The moon was just sneaking over the edge of the rimrock,
and for a while I though perhaps it was the moonlight, not the dawn that was
lighting up the hills. The moon was shining between the walls of the canyon
and so catching the bridge without lighting the cliffs behind it. The silver
girders glowed almost surreally. 

        I pulled on my jacket and decided to hike up the tracks toward
Whitehorse Rapids with my binoculars. Even though the rapids were about
three miles upriver, I was interested in getting around the next bend to see
what might lie beyond this sharp twist in the canyon.  Getting back up on
the track-bed I noted that this time the block light in the other direction
was orange. Moving down the tracks I came to a tight bend where the
visibility around the corner was quite limited, so I decided to keep alert
for trains sneaking up on me. I moved off the tracks to the outside of the bend.

        As desolate as this area is, there are still several cabins at
Davidson. These are situated on both sides of the tracks, in some instances
nestled right against the track bed just out or reach of the river. I
scanned the other bank with my binoculars. This is Warm Springs Indian
Reservation, and a road winds across the hills for miles and comes right
down to the river. Around the bend, the river widens and flows around some
small islands. Looking along the road on the other bank with binoculars, I
could seen the rusted out hulk of a 1950’s era car. 

        All along the track I noticed in addition to the new ties and cans
of spikes there were numerous blue plastic bottles. At first I discounted
these as more litter, but then realized that this was bottled water for the
maintenance crews. The  railroad tracks continued around a long corner and
up ahead maybe 100 yards I saw a sign trackside but couldn’t read it without
binoculars. It said "Tunnel 300 yards." So I walked around the bend some
three or four hundred yards to the tunnel. About this time that train that
the signal light said was behind me slid around the curve just as silent as
could be. The engineer had slowed for the first bend and the bridge, and at
this point he was coasting, neither applying power nor braking. Just
rolling, he wasn’t making hardly a sound, no clicking of the wheels on the
joints in the track, just the rolling whisper of tons of freight. Damn, I
was glad I wasn’t in the tunnel.

        I got back to camp and started another fire to warm up while a fixed
breakfast. I don’t carry cooking gear when I backpack. Breakfast was a
couple bagels with turkey and cheese, a couple more Fig Newtons, and a
generous helping of granola based trail-mix. At this point I was trying to
lighten the pack by eating the food. The weight is better distributed in me
than on my back, besides it gets converted to heat and motion. Although the
sun had been up for a couple hours, it still wasn’t reaching along the east
bank of the river. The tent was still covered with dew, but when I got up
the dew was frost. The inside and outside of the tent was damp, as was the
outer cover on the sleeping bag. I didn’t really want to pack it up while it
was wet, but at the same time, I figured about six hours for the hike back
and wanted to get started. 

        At least on the hike out I knew how far I had to go. The sun warmed
things up to the perfect temperature for walking, and I decided to hike for
about an hour and then take a break for maybe fifteen minutes. This is
pretty much the system we followed in the Army. This allows the circulation
in the arms and shoulders so that fingers don’t swell up. It  gives you time
to rest and take care of blisters. . . which needed at this point to be
taken care of. In the Army the breaks were also for smoking, but that habit
will kill you better than warfare. 

	Along the way, before tunnel number 6 a bald eagle swept out from behind a
rock outcropping along the road and flew within 20 feet of me.  The hawks
and eagles always get first billing on my spotting lists. There’s something
archetypal about this genus. The Egyptians and American Indians understand
the imagery. Our national bird was very nearly the wild turkey. . . much
better as a whiskey than a national bird! Just before tunnel 5 I spotted a
bald eagle on the rock crest just above the entrance. He spotted me too, but
instead of flying off, he decided to circle lazily for several minutes
before gliding over the crest of the ridge. I just stood there and watched,
transfixed. 

	The walk back was a push. Some twenty or twenty-five miles in two days with
a pack on hard gravel was getting to be a stretch. I kept to my promise of
taking frequent breaks, and looked after the blisters on my feet. Now I was
getting "hot spots" between the toes too. A fresh pair of socks helped, but
didn’t completely solve the problem. Once back at the Lady Frances mine, I
felt like the major mileage was behind me. I stopped to eat lunch and to
have a really close look at the mines with my binoculars. Then hiking around
the bend, what I thought was going to be a mile stretched into a long
straight reach and maybe two miles. This extra mile was compensated by
coming around the bend and expecting another long stretch before the Dant
Ranch. I came on the ten by ten shack and the soft grassy trail along the
pasture. Then I made a bee-line for the water faucet, filled my empty water
bottle and sat back against the fence to look out over the rimrock before
the last leg of the trip. 

	Once at the Dant Ranch, I felt like I was home free even though it’s almost
another hour of hiking back to the Locked Gate and the truck. Still, this
was familiar ground. Just above the Locked Gate, on the other bank of the
river there’s a pushed up dome of basalt in the side of the cliff that
reminds me of a cross-section of a Mountain Bar, chocolate and nuts in a
mound on the outside, filling in the center. This is visible from maybe a
mile and a half, and the fishing holes start looking really familiar. Now I
was thinking about the litre of soda in the front seat and the last of the
Fig Newtons in the pack along with a bagel and TWO packages of pastrami. 

	When I got back to the truck I discovered a flat tire and TWO extremely low
tires. The gravel road had taken its toll on my marginally balding 4 plys. I
was glad I hadn’t decided to spend another night out and hike another eight
miles round-trip to Whitehorse rapids. I had the tools in the truck to
change the flat and limp into town on the low tires. If I hurried, I could
get air in Maupin and make Les Schwab’s in The Dalles before closing. I was
grateful that I hadn’t waited for the sun to dry out the tent and sleeping
bag. I was grateful that I was able to sit—off my feet and without a pack on
my  back while I changed tires. I was grateful for a full litre of soda, and
Bach on the stereo all the way back to  Maupin. I was grateful that the slow
leaks held up the 40 miles to The Dalles, the Les Schwab was right along the
highway coming in from Maupin and that I didn’t have to search around. I got
a swell deal on some 6 ply. heavy duty truck tires. 

	And all along the Columbia River, as I scouted potential sea kayak areas,
and all along the pressing, crowded, rude freeway traffic as I rolled back
into Portland, I was grateful for new tires, for Mozart on the stereo, for
the warmth of a very slight sunburn, pleasant tiredness all over, and
memories of my beloved Deschutes running through my head. 





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