ODT Part 3: Paisley to Plush
Day 10 | September 20th, 2023
Throughout the night, the neighbors kept us awake with a cacophony of strange, intermittent noises that resembled the starting and stopping of engines, without any discernible purpose.
As dawn broke, we were greeted by yet another blood-red sunrise. Its eerie hue was caused by the nearby wildfire, which had been named the Morgan Fire. Condensation covered the grassy ground where we camped. The boys laid out their clothes to dry while I snuck off to Michael and Kris' claw-foot tub to enjoy my first shower in 10 days.
The Morgan Fire continued to grow, and we learned that it was still burning dangerously close to the ODT. After a brief discussion, we decided to skip around the fire so as not to die.
Michael offered to drop us off at the Mill Trailhead, west of Lakeview, Oregon. This would effectively eliminate Section 7: Paisley to Abert Rim South, a 50.1-mile stretch but it was a straightforward decision and seemed to be the best plan. We bid farewell to Kris and set off with Michael.
On our drive to the trailhead, Michael shared his knowledge of the area. We learned more about his life and his bike touring company, Paisley Adventures. Connecting with locals like Michael is one of the most rewarding aspects of thru-hiking.
I sat shotgun, my gaze fixed on the passing scenery through the passenger window, while simultaneously trying to stave off sensations of car sickness.
After a 30-minute drive, we turned off Highway 395. Michael dropped us off with hugs at Mill Trailhead, where the desert suddenly transformed into a forest. Here, we were confronted with a new dilemma: a forecasted storm with freezing rain, snow, and temperatures dipping into the teens.
We had to come up with a plan that took into account this new weather update. No one wanted to skip more sections of the trail, and turning around, especially without Michael’s help, made it difficult to consider going back to town to wait out the storm – something none of us wanted to do. We wanted to hike! Skipping Section 7 had been a letdown, and we were looking forward to being on the Fremont National Recreation Trail. Finally, we would be walking some miles on a well-maintained singletrack through a lush forest, with less worry about water.
We sat under a tall pine tree in the middle of an empty dirt lot at the trailhead and talked about what to do.
Cosmo said he wanted to continue hiking, but he would support whatever the group wanted. Showers said he could go either way but would be happy with whatever the group decided, and I said I didn't know what to do.
This decision weighed heavily on me. It was the eve of my 40th birthday, and I had excitedly anticipated a 40-mile hike to mark the occasion. However, amidst my eagerness, a nagging uncertainty crept in, fueled by my deep-seated aversion towards trudging through wet and freezing conditions. The roots of which can be traced back to an old trauma involving the PCT in 2017, my birthday, freezing temperatures, snow, and the wet forests of Oregon.
For the moment, the sky was clear, and the sun was shining. The air felt crisp, yet not overly cold. It was the epitome of perfect hiking weather, making it difficult to anticipate what the approaching storm might unleash.
Cosmo started edging toward the trail, and we followed.
We had made it a mile and then stopped when we noticed we had some cell service. I grabbed my phone, pulled up a map, and discovered that in several miles, the ODT would be relatively close to Drake Peak Lookout — a small, semi-furnished, rentable shelter that can accommodate up to four people. Excitedly, I called the number listed for the Lakeview District Forest Ranger. My excitement was short-lived when I learned that the lookout was fully booked for the night.
To make matters worse, the ranger wasted our time by putting us on hold to look up the same weather information we already had. When he returned to the call, he merely confirmed the incoming storm, mentioning that the cold front was expected to hit that night, but offered no helpful advice.
We scuffed at the sand and stared blankly at one another, paralyzed again by indecision.
"Okay," Showers said, "We have two options. Option 1: we find a way to get off trail and hitchhike to Lakeview, where we can have a birthday celebration at Hunter's Hot Springs. We can soak in warm pools, drink beer, and eat town food while we wait out the storm. Alternatively, Option 2: we continue hiking, despite the risks of facing freezing conditions, trekking through rain or snow, and potentially spending a day holed up in our shelters if the weather worsens."
Hearing the choices laid out like that, one would have expected the decision to be easy. However, somehow, we still struggled to make the obvious call. Everyone liked the idea of taking an extra day off, but nobody was willing to decisively push for it. We were torn between the allure of relaxation and the challenge of the journey, all while considering the significant complications of hitching and taking days off from the trail.
We were tired of thinking about it and tired of talking, so once again, we slowly just started walking.
We walked alongside Crooked Creek, and despite some obstacles created by downed trees, the path was relatively easy to follow, thanks to trail markers and occasional cairns.
After hiking seven miles, the idea of reaching town that night started to seem more attractive. Now we could relax, having made some progress, rather than experiencing a day with no forward movement. Lost in thought, I envisioned the perfect scenario: a limo waiting at Forest Road 3615, offering rides to and from Lakeview to wait out the storm, and handing out bowls of warm pasta for everyone.
Harsh reality greeted me at the deserted dirt road. Cosmo and Showers stood there waiting, and panic replaced hope as I noticed dark clouds gathering around us.
The boys appreciated my imagination but were taken aback when they realized that I genuinely believed that someone might actually show up.
Seeing the tension on my face, Cosmo asked, "What do you want to do?"
“I don’t know.” I replied.
“You want to wait for a car?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, turning to Showers. “What do you think we should do?”
“Whatever you want,” he said.
We didn't have time to linger. With just a few hours until sunset, we stood at the base of a three-mile climb that would circumnavigate the slopes of three prominent peaks en route to the highest point of the section. Nobody wanted to get stuck up there, where the weather would almost certainly be at its worst.
“Want to camp here?” Cosmo asked.
“I don’t know,”I replied while taking off my backpack and grabbing my extra layers.
Camping there at the road junction felt premature. However, continuing meant that we had approximately three hours to ascend, then descend to a safe camping elevation before dark or the storm arrived.
Cosmo was optimistic and wanted to push forward but supported any decision. Showers was fine with whatever decision the group made. And as the birthday girl, all eyes turned to me for the final say.
Showers walked over to the nearby vault toilet while Cosmo observed me rearranging my gear and awaited my response.
Quietly, I put on my warmest clothes and adjusted my backpack, clinging to the hope that a passing car might spare me from deciding. But seeing no cars, I hoisted my backpack over my shoulders and muttered, “Let's go.” Cosmo smiled and led the way.
As we ascended, the dark clouds remained distant, allowing the mostly blue skies to persist. Our decision to move forward felt justified. The trail meandered through lush forests and open meadows, tracing the slopes of Twelvemile, McDowell, and Crook Peaks.
From the ridgelines, the panoramic views extended eastward to Hart Lake and Hart Mountain, where we would be in a few days.
The vistas were breathtaking, complemented by a stunning sunset.
We safely descended to Swale Trailhead at an elevation of 6,500 feet, remaining dry and unscathed.
We set up camp near the trailhead, enjoyed dinner, and settled in for the night. As darkness fell, the first few gentle flakes of snow drifted down around us.
Day 11 | September 21st, 2023
Birthday morning arrived — cold and snowy, setting the stage for what had the potential to mirror another "Blue Balloon" type of celebration (see:Bridge of the Gods).
But unlike the Blue Balloon Birthday, everyone was in a good mood this time, despite the weather. We spent our morning listening to music, sipping hot coffee, and leisurely preparing for the day. Showers surprised me with a birthday cake-flavored cookie, and both he and Cosmo serenaded me with a soulful rendition of "Happy Birthday."
It was an uphill battle to get me to leave the comforting warmth of my sleeping bag. Reluctantly, I started packing up, but not too long after, the snowfall intensified and we hurried back into our shelters.
We didn't start hiking until around 10:00 am, and as we trekked through the wet snow, it became impossible to keep my feet warm.
We traversed through a recently burned area, where low shrubs encroached upon the trail, creating an experience akin to walking through a car wash. The shrubs dampened my pants, sending an uncomfortable chill down my legs.
Descending toward Honey Creek, we entered a canyon carved by magnificent lava walls.
We then climbed steeply from the creek, where the trail leveled out, and traversed through a pine forest along an old roadbed. This path led us into a somber and marshy region where a blend of freezing rain and snow intensified, leaving us thoroughly soaked and shivering.
Struggling through the relentless downpour while navigating around Vee Lake, we finally reached the Vee Lake Campground.
Relieved to find a fully enclosed pit toilet, the three of us quickly rushed inside, surprised to discover that it was both clean and warm. Even though it was only noon, no one wanted to keep hiking. We unanimously decided to stop for the day and wait out the storm. We left some clothes in the bathroom in hopes that they'd dry overnight, and then we hurriedly set up our shelters, trying to avoid getting more gear wet.
Inside the tent, I changed into my dry clothes, which instantly warmed me up. I inflated my air mattress, slipped into my sleeping bag, and then called out to Showers,
"Sh-ou, Sh-ou!"
"Yo!" he responded.
"Are you doing alright?" I asked. "Are you warm enough?"
"Oh yeah!" he replied.
Showers was the most ultralight among us and didn't have many extra items, let alone a spare pair of dry clothes. He assured me that his clothes weren't too wet, but I worried anyway — even though he never complains or gives any reason to be concerned.
We had anticipated the incoming storm, and both Cosmo and I were ready for a near-zero day on the trail. Between us, we had three physical books, several audiobooks, and multiple shows and movies downloaded on our phones.
While I was still disappointed to have a birthday that was the complete opposite of an overly active and endurance-filled one, I could think of worse ways to spend my time than in cozy, forced relaxation.
We offered Showers some entertainment options, but he declined, opting for a more meditative approach.
We effectively spent the entire day in bed, sleet battering the tent walls. Cosmo and I indulged in our books and episodes, while Showers nestled under his tarp, alternating between listening to music and drifting in and out of sleep.
In the late afternoon, the sun made a brief appearance, and we eagerly stuck our heads out of the tent, savoring the warmth on our skin. Showers decided to take an afternoon stroll around the lake, but I preferred to remain cocooned within the confines of my sleeping bag.
In the evening the heavy rain had stopped but condensation continued to drip around our campsite.
We anticipated the temperature to drop to the low 20’s that night. Cosmo and I had 20-degree sleeping bags and could benefit from our combined body heat. In contrast, Showers, equipped with a 30-degree bag and a tarp tent without enclosed walls, braved the night alone.
In every sense, this was a quintessential birthday experience in the Pacific Northwest.
Day 12 | September 22nd, 2023
The rain had stopped, yet the morning remained cloudy and cold. Apart from a noisy squirrel outside, everything was quiet. We lingered, waiting for the sun to come out and dry our gear, which it did, thankfully. We all agreed that it didn’t feel like it got below freezing overnight; staying at Vee Lake was a good idea.
Finally, we hit the trail around 11:20 am.
The forest looked lush and vibrant, and the plants appeared refreshed. Their colors were intensified by the moisture, and their leaves glistened with a post-rain sparkle.
We hiked a combination of two-track roads and cross-country sections from Vee Lake Campground to Abert Rim and Colvin Timbers.
The landscape gradually transformed, and it wasn't long before we encountered patches of snow covering the ground. If we had continued hiking further the previous day, we might have ended up in an exposed area with much heavier snow and colder conditions than those we encountered at Vee Lake.
We left the dense conifer forest and entered an open expanse of sagebrush and juniper.
After dropping our packs to crawl under a barbed wire fence, I took a picture of the fence, unknowingly capturing the hiking pole I had left behind. Cosmo later ran back several miles to retrieve it.
We kept an eye out for cairns and followed faint animal trails within the Abert Rim Wilderness Study Area. Navigating across rocky, muddy, and uneven terrain, our progress was slow.
Patches of snow made my feet cold and wet as I simultaneously tried to watch my steps, admire the views, and make sure I didn't lose sight of both Cosmo and Showers, who appeared as tiny specks in the distance.
The ODT follows the very edge of Abert Rim, a basalt-topped black wall that rises 2,500 feet above the valley below.
Excellent views of Abert Lake, the largest saline lake in the Pacific Northwest and an important landmark for migrating birds, can be observed from here.
Admittedly, the scenic panorama was marred by the unnatural appearance of green crop circles and ranchlands scattered throughout the valley below. The bright colors within perfectly shaped circles stood out against the surrounding wild grasses and rugged terrain. Michael had told us that much of this hay was being shipped to Japan.
I caught my first glimpse of a pronghorn darting swiftly with a bounding hop rather than a gallop. It was an exhilarating wildlife encounter and a refreshing change from the usual sight of cattle. As we ventured into the secluded pine forest of Colvin Timbers, the snowy peaks we had circumnavigated the day before loomed behind us. The remnants of the previous day's storm painted them white. Standing safely on low ground, the peaks appeared even more stunning as they caught the light of the setting sun.
We stopped at a nearby lake, edged with cow prints and poop, to collect water. As expected, the gathered water had a yellowish tinge, which prompted us to filter and treat it twice for safety.
We camped on a hill beneath a large juniper tree, overlooking Webb Lake, a small body of water fenced off within a parcel of private land. We were surrounded by a large herd of scattered cattle, whose "moos" indicated their distrust and disapproval of our presence.
While setting up camp, I encountered an issue with my tent pole; the pieces weren't snapping together as they should have.
Despite the difficulty, we managed to make it work for the night, although it left lingering stress. The ODT is not an ideal place for faulty gear, and I hoped the tent would hold up because I knew there would be no REI stores in the trail towns of Eastern Oregon.
Day 13 | September 23rd, 2023
Still groggy-eyed, I woke up early to catch the first light of sunrise. The horizon was brushed with orange and red hues, standing out against the still dim sky. There's something magical about waking up with the sunrise, no jarring alarm needed. It's a peaceful, still moment that feels like a pause in time.
I'd often wait for the sun to touch my tent before getting packed, even though the boys were always ready long before me. Regardless of my pace, we consistently started at 8:30 am.
The day began with a short cross-country section, where we left the dirt road to avoid private land. Navigating through a densely overgrown drainage, we skillfully maneuvered around fallen trees and thick vegetation. Following the instructions in the guidebook, we attempted to find "the path of least resistance." Descending steeply, branches clawed at our clothes and skin. Silently, I cursed the private landowners. Eventually, we emerged from the dense shrubbery, brushing off prickly plants, and rejoined the original dirt road.
A loud honking sound drew my attention upward, where I saw a flock of geese gracefully soaring overhead. Their perfectly synchronized flight created an awe-inspiring arrow-shaped formation against the vast sky. I wondered which of these cow-infested water sources the geese were relying on for their long-distance journey and whether there would even be any water left for them at all.
As we approached a high saddle, a few pronghorn caught our attention, gracefully leaping over the crest of a hill. I quickly took out my monocular for a better view, feeling grateful to witness this fleeting, wild moment.
Yellow rabbitbrush stood out in the landscape, adding a vibrant splash of color as we continued hiking across the open sage country and along two-track roads.
We entered the canyons of the Coyote Hills, which is an area classified as Lands With Wilderness Characteristics (LWC). This classification identifies areas acknowledged for their "wilderness" qualities per the 1964 Wilderness Act. However, despite this recognition, LWCs currently lack the same level of protections as official Wilderness or Wilderness Study Areas.
Twelvemile, McDowell, and Crook Peaks remained prominent on the southwest horizon, as we wound our way through the canyon.
We passed several unreliable water sources, frequently hidden behind barbed wire. At Mud Springs, I found myself wondering ,"Why are there so many goddamned barbed wire fences amidst all this wild beauty?" Their overwhelming prevalence seemed entirely incongruous with the surroundings.
Speaking of incongruity with nature, the tranquil atmosphere of our hike was suddenly shattered by a deep thumping sound and the intrusive noise of engines echoing through the air. I stood still and looked up just in time to see a group of ATVs approaching. They slowed briefly, acknowledging us with a wave but showed little interest in conversation. We moved over to let them pass and watched as they disappeared into the distance, inhaling their dust as they went by. This kind of intrusion wouldn't occur in a protected wilderness area.
Eventually, we arrived at a gravel road that extended towards Hart Mountain, which was now visible in front of us. We deviated from the official route and embarked on a one-mile road walk into Plush, a small town that would serve as our next resupply point.
Plush, with a population of 63, epitomizes the typical one-stop-shop community along the ODT. There is no cell service, and the town has few amenities.
On our way to the Hart Mountain Store (restaurant, bar, market, and post office), we passed modest ranch homes adorned with all-American decor, including a few "Trump 2020" flags flying proudly. This subtle display made us feel self-conscious about sharing that we resided in liberal Los Angeles.
Inside the store, locals sat together eating food, their eyes fixed on the large-screen television in front of them, engrossed in a football game. Our arrival went unnoticed.
The staff was friendly to us, and after collecting our resupply boxes, we sat outside on the porch, gulping down sodas.
Later, we relocated to the community park, which provided free camping, picnic tables, a small charging station, and pit toilets. The toilets emitted a repelling stench that reached my nose even before catching sight of the stalls. I felt thankful for having used the bathroom at the Hart Mountain Store earlier and hoped I could make it through the night without needing to go. Meanwhile, I looked up and noticed Showers emerging from one of the bathroom doors. He didn't waste any time, and as he walked out, his expression didn't reveal any disgust. He seemed rather unfazed — he always looked forward to a town toilet.
According to the town guide, we needed to beware of the sprinklers that could come on unexpectedly in the middle of the night. However, I was confused about how we were supposed to be strategic since it appeared that there was only one designated camping area in the park.
A group of local dogs joined us in the park, playfully running around as we drank beer, organized our food, and fended off relentless mosquitoes. There hadn't been any issues with bugs on the route, but suddenly, in town, they were everywhere. They swarmed around us throughout the night and into the morning, not disappearing after dusk as they were supposed to.
During dinner, intermittent sounds resembling screaming from one of the nearby houses caught our attention. We laughed awkwardly, assuming that it wasn't someone locked up somewhere yelling "help!" but instead just the sound of a goat "baaaaing."
After dinner, we settled in for what turned out to be one of the windiest nights of the trail. The wind kept waking me up, and I lay nervously, listening to the screeching noises coming from the tree under which we were camped. Meanwhile, Showers was dealing with an uninvited dog trying to cuddle, along with bursts of dirt and sand blowing all over his gear and sleeping pad, whipping his face.
The sprinklers never did come on; instead, we just got drenched in dust and debris from the wind.
Needless to say, no one slept well that night.