I'd been along this road before, many years ago, also in the middle of winter. It was dark then, and I was heading the other direction. Now it was blue sky. The Three Sisters bid me farewell in my rearview mirror, just like Mount Hood did. Looking backward, the highway seemed to go right in between North and Middle Sister, like passing through some kind of snowy Tolkeinesque gate to another world.
Driving through areas like this tends to evoke a primeval fear in me. What if my car breaks down out here? But perhaps that fear is exactly why I come to such places. It's my own private moon shot. I'm far off the grid. No cell phone coverage. Triple-A response would be tricky.
The road descends downwards into the Harney Basin, the most northward extension of the Great Basin. The lake in the basin was literally named "uphappiness" by the old French trappers.
It's not what people usually think of, when they mention Oregon, but this quarter of the state, stretching down into northern Nevada, is probably the most isolated section of the continental United States.
Every thirty miles is a roadside gas station. Each such place feels like an isolated planet, it's own little unique world. I like to stop and go inside, an excuse just to explore. I wind up drinking many small cups of coffee that way. Nearby these places are ominous historical markers, mostly about the about the Meek Cutoff, and the people who died foolishly coming this way as a shortcut on the Oregon Trail.
The hours go by in silence, with no radio or music, just the thoughts in my head. There are few cars in front or back of me. I drive a hundred miles without having to pass anyone, or having anyone pass me. It's what I call having good road. In conditions like that, I'm loathe to stop, since when I get back on the highway, often I find myself smack behind the only huge truck within twenty miles. Why tempt it? Just keep going.
Finally after several hours I reach Burns, a small town that is practically the metropolis of the region (and the one after which this fictional character is supposedly named). Lack of cell phone coverage, and the fact that this is the middle of the week, means that I have to stop at the McDonald's on the edge of town to use their wi-fi. I trade a couple emails with people in New York and California while eating a fish sandwich.
Then I pilot the Bimmer into downtown, looking for an excuse to stop and explore the main street. A used bookstore catches my eye---practically a must-see in a town like this. I always like to explore their foreign language section for hidden gems, old useful grammar books that have found their way into such places.
Inside the store is a simple mess of shelves and boxes, as if someone is moving everything around. I wonder how long it has been this way. A white-bearded man calls out to me from the back, a welcome.
"Just looking around," I say.
He gives me a brief layout of the place.
I decide on a few paperbacks, including a well-worn copy of Sometimes a Great Notion. I figure I'll put it on my Oregon reading list, even though it's about the coast, not about this part of the state.
The proprietor motions me to the back, where his crowded desk serves as the counter. He's playing solitaire on his old Windows PC.
He inspects my books, and punches codes into an old system.
"Classics," he says, looking at my selections.
"I once met Ken Kesey," he said. "That was when I lived in Eugene. His family owned a creamery in Springfield."
Of course he's not talking about this place. Or maybe he is.
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