This Oregon Trail: Part Three

Lakeview, Ore., April 16, 2008 – Arrived in Lakeview somewhere around nine at night. Now, just a short three-hour trip to Ashland, the final destination (for now).

Driving on U.S. 140 from northern Nevada into southeast Oregon, the scenery is high desert: dusty brush, wind whistling, a brown mountain in the distance. I stopped somewhere at a rest stop, consisting of black top parking lot, hole-in-ground toilet facilities with signage begging you not to throw trash into the toilet, and a couple benches under a couple shelters, and walked out into the surrounding countryside. I’ve seen two cars in an hour. Earlier on the cell phone, my friend Nathaniel said, “You’re in no-man’s land.” Seems quite true, except for cell phone reception. The wind rattles the scrub bush at my feet. I look out at the open space, the mountain, millions of scrub bushes. How many people are within fifty miles of me right now, I think. Not many. Population density of one. Me. It’s an anxious delight that overcomes me, looking at the handsome desolation of northern Nevada. I’m alone and I love it and I don’t. I get back in Alberta, head on to civilization.

First stop: Denio, Nevada, right on the Oregon border. Population: a handful. Half of that hand drinking beer at the wooden-beamed and stuffed deerhead roadhouse where I stop. Nice enough people to the outsider. I order the largest hamburger I’ve eaten in years and a cup of joe, eat as fast as I can, piss, and hit the road again, back through the high desert for a few more hours, driving around and down tight, winding mountain roads with steep grades that slightly frighten Alberta. It’s all right, baby, I say. We’ll just downshift and I’ll ride the brake. Take it easy and keep your lights on the road.

In Lakeview, I pull up to the first hotel I come to. Best Western. And the Song of the Trip has been decided: Richard Shindell’s “The Next Best Western.” The Lord has delivered me to the next Best Western, as lyrics in the song hope for, but the fucker costs me eighty-three bucks a night. Get my money’s worth. TV going. Jump on the bed naked. Run around the room. It’s a helluva big hotel room so I tire quickly. Walk to the grocery for a six-pack. Leave the four I don’t drink in the fridge in the morning when I’m off to Ashland. Curse when I realize what I've done, but I'm too far gone now to return. Maybe there'll be a drunk maid somewhere by the time I hit Ashland.