Hell’s Canyon

The road to Hells Canyon twisted and turned like it had lost its mind, like if you looked at the word HELL on a head full of high power blotter acid and the letters were squirming around like worms on a hot skillet.  The road kept doubling back on itself, switchbacking it, as they say.  Second guessing itself at every bend, doubling back like it forgot where it was going.

There was no cell service and we came across but one other car on the pot-hole lined road.  No surprise, because not many are tough enough and not scared as much as Nicole and I, because the road we were on led to HELLS CANYON, yep you heard that right,

 HELL 

aych-E-double hockey sticks

We were two baddies up to no good with a cooler full of spaghetti ingredients and a hunger for Italian.  

We found a quiet spot nestled in patch of lumbering fir and cooked dinner to the sound of flying insects.  In the fading light, we walked to the Hell Canyon view point, learning that it is actually the deepest in North America, yep, even deeper than the Grand Canyon.   We watched the light crawl up the other side while listening to the wind whip through the trees, whistle in our ears and dance with the alpine flowers.