Day 7: Tygh Valley to Deschutes River

Though still dealing with the habañero jello shots I mentioned in an earlier post, I made it back from Tygh Valley to Dufur, stopped in the same coffee shop, bought the wrap that I should have gotten last time, and made a poor excuse for a post on this blog. I then got a grand idea - why go all the way back to The Dalles and the planned route, when I could just find some country roads to meet up with the route further on, around Biggs? Google Maps plotted me a course, so I wrote its instructions on a notecard and headed out. Besides a headwind and some hills, all went great until I hit Company Hollow Rd, which lacked something that I was kind of relying on: pavement. I'm riding 1.5" tires, though, so I figured I could handle a little gravel. I rode Company Hollow for two very scenic miles, all gently downhill, and thanked Google when I saw pavement on the next turn. Unfortunately, the turn after that was on Old Moody Rd, which was also gravel - for eight very hilly miles. I stopped a passing truck to confirm that, yes, I really had to deal with that if I wanted to make Biggs that day, and then set off up the road.

I was encouraged about tackling Old Moody when I saw another bike track through the gravel - possibly even two bikes, both with tires as skinny or skinnier than mine, and they looked slick - a weird choice for dirt, but who am I to question the locals? It must be fine. A couple miles in, I noticed that the bike tracks looked strangely similar to my own track. A little too similar, really, and the tracks were definitely fresh. But there was no way I had already been that way... right? It was all new scenery, I thought. Maybe I just hadn't been very observant? I started questioning my sanity, but I continued on to cross some cattleguards, disturb some cows (I politely excused myself), and keep trucking on. Cows really have no manners when it comes to staring.

Eventually, I burnt my brakes up making it down a steep descent to a highway that paralleled 84. This highway took me to where the Deschutes river meets the Columbia, where a man named Joel hosts a very pleasant campground. I checked in with him, gently prodded about free options for bike bums, and he pointed me toward a railbed trail that followed the east bank of the Deschutes -- as long as I was 2 miles from his campground, he said, I could camp anywhere I wanted. He let me use the showers, and I headed up the railbed trail.

I didn't know it, but I was about to stumble upon the best campsite I believe I will ever find. I had a perch on a cliff overlooking a huge bend in the Deschutes, with a stone arch for an entryway and a flat-topped mesa to climb on and get an uninterrupted view of the sky. I watched osprey from above as they hunted fish below; followed an egret pair as they floated around lazily, landing in patches of green along the river that stood out against the dead desert grass; avoided some giant beetles, about as big as my thumb from palm to tip; and even confronted a squirrel that was ferrying its baby to or from a nest. I saw the squirrel approaching me, cautiously, out of the corner of my eye. I made eye contact with it, and we both paused for a moment before it squeaked in surprise, as if it had just figured out what was going on, before disappearing into the rocks. A few minutes later, it popped back up without the baby and started chittering at me. Obligingly, I moved further along the cliff before stopping to eat my third peanut butter and honey sandwich of the day.

I'm not sure that I've ever experienced a more beautiful natural scene than the view from this campsite. I had neither the equipment nor the skill to do it justice, but here are some pictures. It even inspired a selfie! Personally, I think the cut under my eye adds some adventurer cred. I have no idea where it came from.