A few weeks ago I found myself in the Oregon Badlands Wilderness. High desert country. My hiking legs tend to gravitate towards bodies of water, but I was eager to break out of winter hibernation and trudging through feet of snow in the Cascades wasn’t an option. We drove east optimistically, excited to explore new territory on a sun-kissed weekend.
Shortly into the hike we came to understand why the area received its designated name. Sagebrush and juniper trees for miles, eery stillness except for the occasional airplane passing overhead, dry sand as far as the eye could see. Land not fit for lush growth.
Climbing a giant rock outcrop near our campsite we could see the sun cast its final glow on the Three Sisters. The evening was spent writing and reading via the beam of our headlights. I fell asleep reading Mary Oliver’s Winter Hours, falling in love with her words all over again.
It was a weekend of quiet hiking, story telling and pushing our limits. And left us hobbling out of Bend’s Deschutes Brewery dust covered and sore to the bone. Mission accomplished.