The wind blew and, when morning came, it was white. This was a night we had considered camping. But our motel had HBO and we got to see The Sopranos and Six Feet Under, and discuss again whether we ought to get cable.

Robin had an appointment with a local chiropractor. Her neck and shoulder have been in excruciating pain from some bad mattresses and an uncomfortable car seat. Volvo: the safest cars on the planet, but the world’s worst headrests. The chiropractor was also the caretaker of Hunter’s Hot Spring’s Resort (Oregon’s only geyser!), and he had set up shop in a converted motel room. He crunched Robin’s back in every conceivable fashion and told stories. My favorite was about the local ranch woman who was feeding her stock from the back of the pickup. You typically put the truck in low, then hop in the bed. The truck drives itself across the prairie. She fell off, got her foot caught in a rope, and was being dragged through the sagebrush at 2 miles an hour, and her only thought was, damn, I just filled the tank, I’m going to get dragged forever until it runs out of gas.

The gravel road threaded through a break in the mountain wall. We rose above the valley floor as if in a small plane. Lakes spread out across the landscape. Soon we were on a high plateau, bleak and white. The sky was a low, unbroken grey, and snow showers swept across the prairie. The prairie was covered with a blanket of fresh snow. Flocks of birds foraged on the road, the only bare ground available. Finally, I had luxurious looks. White outer tail feathers, eye ring, ah, Vesper Sparrows. Mourning Doves joined them. Two black birds, I initially disregarded them as female Brewers Blackbirds. Then I took another look, and these weren’t icterid bills. They were finch bills. Overall deep, dark gray, one seemed to have a darker face patch around the bill. I hadn’t a clue. They were foraging 30 feet from the car, and not going anywhere. There was no excuse for being unable to ID these birds, but I couldn’t. By eliminating every other possibility, I was left with Black Rosy Finch, a great find.

The Lonely Planet guidebook describes the area disparagingly as thus: "It takes a kind of devotion, or else extreme carelessness, to end up out here." I vote for the latter, a devoted quest for wild, remote beauty.