Oregon Trail Mix

Back in 1841, a Jesuit priest named Father de Smet traveled the great Oregon Trail. Upon seeing his first tornado he remarked, "Once as the storm was raging near us, we witnessed a sublime sight. A spiral abyss seemed to be suddenly formed in the air ...

"... The winds came down in a perpendicular direction, and in the twinkling of an eye the trees were torn and uprooted, and their boughs scattered in every direction. But what is violent does not last. After a few minutes the storm dissolved almost as quickly as it had been formed. Soon after, the sun re-appeared: all as calm and we pursued our journey."

What was true then is true today. The blizzard that stopped us cold in southern Montana blew itself out. The power lines were righted. The roads were cleared. And, after a little coaxing, we fired up our good old bus and continued our trek westward.

Once the clouds cleared off, the blue sky of Montana revealed itself to us. If infinity has a color it must be this shade of blue. It is a color that defies measurement and challenges rational thought. Infinity just is. Powder blue just is. Like contemplating your own mortality, it's a feeling that's difficult to describe with words.

While the Montana skies seemed infinite above us, as it turned out mortality was just around every corner. By this I mean ghost towns! Good old fashioned deader-n-a-doornail gold rush gone bust ghost towns. The very best kind!

Though, I hasten to add, no where else but a Montana ghost town will you find citizens frozen mid-shave...

... and forever On Hold.

It's a strange place. But it's also proof positive that the 1800s were, indeed, slower times. Not slow like a '71 microbus, of course. Because soon enough we were shooting the line, going for broke, in a single screaming bus...

... and once again our little one-horse convoy jumped into the worn ruts of the old Oregon Trail. Or at least the ruts of Goodale's Cutoff, which skirts the craters of the moon...

... Craters of the Moon National Monument & Preserve, that is.

It's the sort of place that makes you feel as though you're on top of the world. Or is that the Moon?

Regardless, once we got back to earth we paused to catch our breath in Ketchum, ID. It's a nifty little ski town, famous for its famous seasonal visitors and what remains of its most famous permanent resident. He was easy enough to track down.

Six feet under, Papa Hemingway has said all he's ever going to say on the subjects of life, death, and traveling. So allow me. We bid a farewell to Hemingway and north we went, through Sawtooth National Forest. It's a place of rare and brooding beauty.

Then we again turned west, through Boise (a great big little town), and joined a wagon train bound for Oregon.

We may not have been driving the biggest wagon, but by no means were we driving the slowest.

To be fair, we saw the exact same sights our pioneer forerunners saw about 150 years ago. Farewell Bend of the Snake river...

... Mt. Hood, as seen from the Columbia George....

... and the Spruce Goose!

Okay. The pioneers of the Oregon Trail never saw the Spruce Goose. But the pioneers of aviation sure did. And you can, too. Just go to the Evergreen Aviation Museum in McMinnville, Oregon.

Speaking of Oregon... Did I say Oregon? I did. Beautiful Oregon! ....


Wonderful Oregon! ...

And if we're in Oregon it also means we are home. But this doesn't mean we've stopped traveling. This doesn't mean this road trip is over. Far from it. We have many wonders yet to see. We have many miles yet to drive. We have many people yet to visit. And we can't wait.