I am not a wise man. It is known.
Conventional wisdom would dictate that an inexperienced, unaccompanied, overlander not take an unproven rig — without recovery points — out onto unknown terrain
All of that might later be proven to be true, but..
I’d be remiss not to point out that, it was caution, that got me mired
The first half of my eastern Oregon adventure (more to come) had been enthralling.
Exploring old western towns, camping in national forests, reveling in three units of the Painted Hills, accidentally avoiding the tire punctures and patch necessitating obsidian bearing Glass Buttes, passing the sites of mysterious cattle deaths on 395 headed down from John Day to Burns, etc.
The route had taken me into the Malheur Wildlife Refuge, where I witnessed unrelenting firefighting efforts as skilled helo pilots (predominantly Hueys) scooped and bombarded water on patches of lightning sparked, flame-licked, skies.
I’d circled every publicly accessible bit of the Steens Mountain loop in fog so heavy you couldn’t see more than three or four feet, until reaching the summit and subsequently descending and almost cooking my brakes. Say what one must about manual transmissions, but engine braking is something those of us on the older, automatic, side of things yearn for.
A mystical, if somewhat uncertainty inducing experience that substantially leveled-up my driving skills considerably. Spotted and followed herds of wild mustangs, a long-held goal, and… learned first-hand what a rattle snake’s rattle sounds like.
But, it was the Alvord Desert, that drew me here and wherein I’d soon be ever so stuck.
Though not as daunting as Botswana’s Makgadikgadi, which I hope to traverse one day, it too is a salt flat, playa, and proving ground enough for those of us new to it.
After gorging myself on a, justifiably, famous milkshake in Fields Station and making sure every oz/ml of my fuel tank and jerry cans were equally sated, I headed out.
With both the Steens and Sheephead Mountain ranges as navigational references, I roamed about, at first… wary enough to dodge a few rusty remnants of cattle rancher’s fence lines and revel in the landscape.
Soon, the vast expanse opened up as, coincidentally, did my throttle.
With all the aerodynamic elegance of a brick, Artemis is still an XJ, and enjoys the absurd power-to-weight ratio of a high-output 4.0 inline-six in a compact frame.
That’s not what got me stuck.
Momentum has a way of keeping one going and, in isolation, I’d had my fun and, vain-gloriously, expected it to continue. Day one in the desert was coming to an end, there would be more…
Hearing numerous accounts of how windy the Alvord could get and having felt it too whilst driving, I jettisoned my plans to either camp in the heart of the desert or along the more isolated Sheepshead side.
On my way in, headed north on the playa from my Frog Spring entrance point, I recalled a few clusters of vegetation including what looked like two bits of brush with a dune-sheltered depression between them, so I took a circle at speed and headed thereabout, cutting diagonally, then cutting southwest again and headed towards the area at speed.
Throughout my first few hours in the desert, I’d encountered different colors, crunchiness (or… lack thereof,) and patterns in the surface.
In my eagerness to spot the exact bit of vegetation first-encountered, I focused overmuch on the horizon and not the changing hue, tire-feel, and light-reflecting properties of the terrain I was soon to be waist-deep, complete with clay encrusted ears by the end, in.
By the time I noticed that every rotation of my wheels meant an ever-so-slight drop in vehicle elevation in contrast to the horizon, it was too late. At least for someone with my lack of experience, intentionally navigating this sort of terrain.
I made a rookie mistake, one of several I’d later realize, and despite having heard better from the mouths of seasoned sorts hesitated and eased up on the throttle for a few seconds.
Without a lift, lacking both caution and experience, and not having aired down my tires to the fullest extent feasible, I would have surely been mired, but I might not have had 22 feet of muck to traverse ahead of me or 15 behind by the time I was well and truly bogged.
It turns out, funnily enough, that if an area has a hot spring or water source, it can run underneath a desert.
And, though… I knew but hadn’t internalized it, vegetation might be a good indicator that there’s moisture about.
With two hours of daylight left, I wasn’t terribly concerned yet, I had biltong, cheese and Spanish red wine enough for at least three days, and probably wasn’t expected back for another four days.
Plus, I also had shovels, an over-pronounced Dutch work-ethic, and what could now, undeniably, be described as a clear purpose. .
Equally off-road as internally, it’s when we’re unsure of our objectives, have no sense of immediate urgency, or fail to navigate intentionally that we get too easily mired or spin our wheels, unnecessarily mired.
Do wish I’d remembered that I had gloves affixed to my rucksack before earning bloody, blistered, and bandaged hands?
Sure, but… regardless, in every subsequent photo for a week plus after getting out, I sported a devil of a smile too.
Be it building a new path, unearthing some great treasure, or extricating from a blunder, a shovel is a tool and symbol worth revisiting. An anecdote for when we’ve found ourselves earthbound by failing to soar.
How I got out, what Herculean cleanup efforts ensued, and just how magical the Alvord Hot Springs were at night, are a matter for another day.
Having to hold my tent up from collapse (for a few hours on night three) were additional reminders that conventional wisdom still has value, even if we look to set our courses to alternate, sometimes stickier, courses.
Don’t be afraid to make mistakes or, without being over cautious, learn from the mistakes of others.
But if you want to get unstuck or head in a given direction worth aiming for, be prepared to grab a shovel and get your slog on.
Addendum.
Upon return, I received a mostly aghast but, unsurprising and slightly bemused, reception from almost everyone I know, as a result, something interesting occurred observation wise.
Few, saw it as an enjoyable, or otherwise enriching, experience. I’d like to learn to better spot those who see these sorts of mis-treads as something worthwhile, if not always, ideal.