Miscellaneous Writings |
||
Wagonwheel, Population 2
|
||
|
|
Outside the town of Wagonwheel, Oregon, population 2, the sign read
"Next Gas 60 Miles." The road rose and fell through open sage-covered prairie.
The only mountains were at a great distance, impossible to guess, to the southeast. A cold
front had roared through the previous night, dumping monsoon quantities of rain on the
region (¼ inch), and leaving in its wake crystaline air. The cold air behind the front was now rushing into the region, making the car shudder. We stopped on a bridge over a long flat lake, where there was no topography to slow the gale. We played with how far forward we could lean into the air. Birding was nigh useless in these conditions, so was the plan to head south and camp, so we now headed towards the highway that eventually ended in Reno. We passed a dry playa, where the wind swept tall clouds of white alkaline powder scudding along the lakebed. Progressing southward we came upon a great lake, many miles long, and many times saltier than any ocean. The resident brine shrimp population supports vast rafts of birds on the water—mats of Shoveler and Pintail, and hundreds of Black-necked Stilts, handsome in their striking black and white plumage. Eared Grebes dove and popped like corks along shore. They were in dark breeding plumage, with a spray of cream feathers radiating behind their eyes. The rim of the enormous fault block rose to our left thousands of feet in sheer cliffs. Snow clung to the upper rim. The 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 former, a devoted quest for wild, remote beauty. |
|
| Next Entry |