The Wallowa’s
As a crow flies, it is only 41 miles from La Grande to Wallowa Lake, however having enjoyed our time at Jaxdog so much, we missed our “caw-caw 76 flight” via the black crow and had to drive 75 miles instead. Basically there’s a giant sleeping in between La Grande and The Wallowas, whose wrapped itself in a blanket of trees, rocks, and earth to stay warm and making whoever wants to go to and from go around its feet, making a nice parabolic curve of a route for all you math nerds out there.
We landed a sick spot right on the shores of Lake Wallowa, granting us a sneak peak view of our next day’s backpacking adventure. Naturally, just as the rice started cooking, we ran out of propane for the coleman stove and had the pleasure of instead holding the pot just above the Jetboil.
The trailhead was nestled deep into the crotch of a valley, where it was invitingly moist and full of bacteria. The road leading there was littered with “swiss chalet” vacation rentals and disneyland-like amusements such as go karts, ice cream stands and horseback rides. As we were making our final backpack preparations and tweaks, a clattering procession of bachelorette-party-esque, looking women on horseback approached. The type of females overzealous with chocolate chip cookies, oversized sunglasses and TJ Max house decor, the kind that hung on their walls stating quotes like “home”, “thankful” and “grateful” written in that wispy font. Their prematurely exhausted guide pulled the group to a halt right before the trail began and took inventory, asked if anybody had any last words or had to make a pee pee.
The horses mane’s were already gleaming in sweat, glistening with various shades of mahogany and leather beneath the scorching sun. The big boned crew riding the horses were sweating also, arguably more that the horses themselves, exhibiting darker shades of fabric in wide lines down the back of their shirts and huge half circles under their armpits. They had flushed cheeks, plush and rosy, ready to pop like a blister, huffing and puffing from the effort it took to stay upright on a horse. Squealing and oinking with laughter like little piggies. As they began the ascent up the sharp slope, a loud squeal pierced the air as one of them tipped backwards and rolled off the horses back, bouncing off the ground like a flat basketball, squawking in distress.
We followed a trail that hugged the side of a sharp sided valley around 100 feet above the West Fork Wallowa River, a roaring blur of snowmelt crashing over boulders like a frigid, pulsing artery of the Wallowas. The river’s voice was always with us, threading through the trees like a low, relentless rumble.
Eventually the trail leveled out and brought us to a wide, green meadow, an unexpected feature chilling in the middle of the forest. The grass was thick and lush, day dreaming about when it would grow long enough to dance in the breeze. An army of trees stood stoically, guarding along its edges, watching over this little patch of green as if it was their baby. We paused there for lunch and sunbathed on a boulder set deep in the ground like an iceberg, surrounded by a quiet hush of wind and leaves that doesn’t ask for anything. After a quick cat nap, the trail crossed Adams creek, a deceivingly fast-moving tributary that felt like stabbing needles stabbing on our legs as we crossed.
Then began the steady climb toward Ice Lake, the alpine lake we planned to circumnavigate before continuing higher. Being so early in the season, ice lake was true to its name, ICE. We tried to continue but were confronted with enough snow that every step was a piss-poor gamble between a knee high post hole or shin deep post hole.
Eventually, logic (and bloody shins) won out and we decided to call it, making camp next to the lake. It was a windless evening, giving the stage to an eerie, ear ringing silence, where the beat of your heart sounds like a giant piercing drum.
Stiff and half frozen, we woke up with frozen water bottles and a strong urge to get a move on. The sun had already begun to warm the side of the valley we were descending and water from the melting snow ran in rivulets that snaked across the trail. Near the meadow, we found one of the bachelorettes from yesterdays brigade laying on the ground with her pants around her ankles and hairy poontang getting some much needed fresh air. I prodded her with my foot and then prodded her again, this time with some gumption, causing her body to giggle.
With the quick jerking motion of someone waking up to a loud noise, she rolled over, leaned on her elbow and stared at us with wide, feral eyes. Her hair a tingle of tangles and pine needles, and her jelly belly, exposed beneath a torn shirt, protruded from her torso. She scratched it absentmindedly like a fat redneck drinking a PBR.
“I was with the girls last night” she said dryly “when i smelled it. I cant even describe it, but it took me away from myself. It hijacked my actions and I followed it into the woods and there he was, Big Foot”
We waited.
“fermented fur, goat musk and wet bark, cold and molting leaves. Sweaty gooch, rank, divine, overripe prunes. It was like smelling mother earths cooter after being creampied by Jupiter, Mars and Pluto. I went to my knees and rubbed my face along his schlong, bare against my cheek. He looked at me, and told me to grab it without saying anything. Off we went, he led the way, i held his meat as if it were a leash and I an obedient dog. We climbed the side of the mountain without taking a step, he led me into a cave. There was another man there, half man half goat. He introduced himself as Pan. his cock hung limp from between his legs, swinging like the pendulum of eternity, hypnotizing me, drawing me closer. He embraced me in his hairy arms and i felt big foot and Pan’s big penis against my backside at they embraced me from both slides. in between the bellies of the beasts, their heart beats thumped like ancient drums.” she finished, staring off vacantly, her eyes filled of remorse yet also reminiscent.
She sat upright and crawled toward us, stopping just close enough for us to smell the distant tang of cedar, fire smoke, and gut rot.
She looked off into the woods, smiling faintly, as if reliving a fond memory.
And then, without warning, she let out a guttural grunt, scratched her stomach one last time, and scampered off loudly into the thicket, crashing through the branches with the force of a wild boar. The forest swallowed her whole, leaving only silence and once last whiff before the breeze wafted it away.
We didn’t say much as we walked through the valley, each of us listening to our own inner chatter accompanied by the hush of the roaring river down below. Back at the car we unpacked, draped the dew-soaked tent over some low-hanging branches to dry in the sun and strategically repacked Ravie.
After just a few days on the road, organisation began to from naturally, what items earned an easy access and what things could take a back seat. While the wet things dried, we took time to bring thoughts into form with some ink and try our hand at the local frisbee golf course.
