By Steven Blair Wheeler
I drove all day across central and eastern Oregon to explore the amazing Owyhee River canyon lands and camp at the Birch Creek Ranch. It was a heart-palpitating route down the canyon to the former sheep operation that’s now owned by the US Bureau of Land Management. You can rent one of the farmhouses, but I slept in my trusty RAV4 that I called the Magic Carpet. Since I was the only human there the next morning, I had breakfast and decided to have a bucket bath.
I’d set up a table on the front deck of the newer house and heated water to take the sting out of a bucket from the creek. So there I was in my altogether when from just beyond some old poplars I heard what sounded like a horse blowing. There’d been no clack of hooves. I couldn’t even be sure it was a horse, but whatever it was, it was big.
The MC was 20 feet away and my keys were in my jeans crumpled on the deck. I didn’t think the car was locked. Could I reach it before I got caught? Were there bears in the canyon?
I was about to snatch my jeans and run when I heard a clatter. Up the way trotted two mulie does. I imagined they were laughing as I breathed a relieved sigh.
The Birch Creek Ranch is magical for its peaceful remoteness and exotic scenery, but getting there is not for the faint-hearted. The first thing to know is that you’d better not travel there if it has rained recently, or is about to. The dirt roads become slick and often axle-deep in mud and you’d be stuck until they dry out. And when navigating a wicked slope, a slick surface is the last thing you want to face, or likely ever will.
Two Idahoans named Stubner and Lisk wrote The Owyhee Canyonlands Outdoor Adventure Guide, and they know what they’re talking about. You can rely on their distances and estimates of road and trail difficulty. And when they say you need an real 4-wheel drive to negotiate a road, they mean it. And heed their advice to top up the gas tank when you get the chance. Another great tip is to go in late spring or early fall when the days aren’t blistering hot.
They said that a 4-wheel truck wasn’t needed for the road down to the Birch Creek Ranch. An all-wheel drive vehicle with decent ground clearance would do, but they didn’t mention that you’d need a steady nerve.
I filled up at Jordan Valley, which is a town so close to Idaho that you could toss an apple core into the next state, before driving across 25 miles of open rangeland. I saw lots of black angus and just one other vehicle. It was a big white 4-wheel pickup with a BLM shield on the door and a uniformed lady driver with another BLMer riding shotgun. We waved in passing.
Eventually, I arrived at a fork where a sign pointed to a craggy black volcanic feature called the Coffee Pot Crater at the top edge of a 27 square-mile lava field that can be seen from orbit. I detoured to check the six-story slag heap and hiked up a cinder path to peer into the 3,200 year-old crater which could easily accommodate a basketball arena. It was an eerie, ugly wound in the earth blasted by a violent explosion that vomited super-heated molten rock the consistency of pudding to roll downhill and smother everything in its path.
I snapped pictures, returned to the fork and soon approached the rim of the Owyhee canyon. I rolled through an open heavy steel gate and at first it was just more gravel and dirt track barely going downhill. I could admire the vistas under white clouds sailing in the sky. It was pleasantly warm descending into a terrain bearing rock spires called ‘hoodoos’ rising from rounded slopes that often bore patches and streaks of “paint” which varies from a dirty cream color to reddish rusty hues and pastel greens often with a blueish tone. The paint is Bentonite claystone deposits from ancient volcanic eruptions that you could mold when wet. No vegetation grows on it and it sometimes weathers into a crumbly texture.
But soon the sights claimed little of my attention as the track took on an alarming pitch. I swear there were several long sections – often ending in a hair-pin turn – that had to be 40 degrees!
You can walk a roof confidently on anything up to a 27 degree slope, but as it gets steeper you want to rope up. Even in a vehicle in second gear with all four wheels under power you descend a 40 degree slope with your heart in your throat. All-wheel drive helps you climb, but isn’t much help for stopping. I used low gear to govern speed and not ride the brakes. It’d be pretty dumb to heat them up so that they’d be less efficient in the next hairpin turn.
The most treacherous stretches had my full attention. A winged unicorn might’ve been standing by the track and have gotten the briefest glance as I navigated those gut-wrenching parts of purgatory!
And then there were numerous stream crossings. Thankfully, they were on pretty level ground and usually weren’t that deep. The Magic Carpet had enough ground clearance to nobly brave the fords and negotiate evil washboards and cruel ruts, rocks and boulders.
The last really steep section came as we neared trees and made me wonder how in creation horses and wagon ever got down or up that thing?!
We gained level ground to cross the deepest ford yet and came upon a sign announcing the entrance to Birch Creek Historic Ranch. Beyond it rose the crown of a conical painted hill. To the left a flat-topped mesa glowed rust red and beige in the evening sun.
I was entering an enchanted realm.
In The Fellowship of the Ring, Frodo comes upon Rivendell unexpectedly. The warm glow of lighted windows and elven song welcomed him after a harrowing journey. Past the brush-lined creek was a one-story farm house brown-stained with coral pink trim and a wide porch. The balustrade bore an old wooden wagon wheel at odds with a satellite dish mounted on the near wall. Another dish stood on a pole in the side yard where a long propane tank lay on supports near a stone shed. The house and lawn were bounded by a three-rail fence all shaded by tall cottonwood trees.
The grass had been cut recently and the place looked homey and cared-for. It seemed like the rancher was somewhere about the place. Would his wife step out onto the porch with a friendly welcome? Would they look elven?
Behind the house, a three-quarter moon sailed above the mesa and several other buildings. One was a larger house six decades newer. Another was an old red tool shed with a cedar shake roof and white trim. Past that was a low stone pump house. Nearby stood pallets of building materials that seemed too big for a pickup load.
The bigger house was fronted by a wide gravel area. The road went right along the blue and rippling Owyhee flowing beneath heights often bearing hoodoos of various sizes and twisted shapes. Ahead was a weathered grey barn, and to the left a gravel driveway went between the front deck and another big propane tank. I rolled up it expecting to see someone’s vehicle, but all I found was a wide lawn that swept toward the tree and brush-obscured river and bordered the barn and corral. A rickety faded red picnic table stood in tall grass.
I parked beneath two big trees and got out enjoying a welcome breeze ruffling the branches. Otherwise all was quiet. Hanging on the side of the toolshed were rusty rakes and shovels with sun-bleached handles oddly bent and curved. The three shrink-wrapped pallets held shingles and shakes. A trodden path went toward the original house.
Rising beyond the brush-obscured river was a boldly painted hill. It had a dark conical top, then uneven blotches of light gray, then an irregular band of dark gray, then alternating bands of light greenish-gray and sand with the wide base generally pale rust red. A path toward the river beckoned, but I wanted to verify that I was alone.
An air conditioner was mounted in a rear window of the house and all of the window shades were drawn. I went around to the big front deck whose crisscrossed balustrade was made of 2x4s painted red. The deck planking was mostly sound, but there were rotted boards to watch out for. I peeked into a kitchen apprehensive that someone might look back at me indignantly, but that didn’t happen.
The deck near the driveway was solid, so I set up to cook dinner. While stew warmed, I peered through cracks to see inside the 100-year-old barn. It had room for a couple of horses and a wagon. Around back, some hardy weeds sprouted in the hard-packed corral.
With an hour’s daylight left, I ate, had a beer, and read while the mauves and tans of the heights shone in the declining sun. All was quiet until I inflated an air mattress for the back of the MC. Night was drawing in, but it was warm yet so I laid on the covers and read by flashlight until my eyelids began to droop.
When I woke later there was no moon and I resolved to check the sky. By starlight I looked for any signs of critters, neither saw nor heard any, and stepped out barefoot to admire the heavens. Framed by the trees and hills, the Milky Way blazed in glory. I laid on the MC’s roof for a while hoping for a shooting star.
Since the place’d been a sheep operation, I figured the rancher and his dog and had been intimately familiar with the area. It was peaceful and lovely, but I didn’t envy him hauling a load of wool out of there.
How often would he have gotten into town? Once a quarter? It had to take a couple of days in a wagon. And if you had a wheel come loose or a busted trace, even longer. Imagine propping the wheels with rocks to give the horses a rest while you mended something. Then you’d have to face the road down again with nothing but your team and rudimentary brakes! That was one brave individual.
I clambered down from the roof glad I had the MC to carry me up to the rim, but I wasn’t exactly looking forward to it.
In the morning I struggled into pants and shoes and pulled on an fleece to admire the morning sun lighting the painted hill and the red-streaked spires on the heights. The beautiful surroundings must’ve been a constant source of delight for the ranch family.
There were no tracks in the dewy grass, and none in the dirt around the MC. No cougar had prowled through, no rabbits, no deer, just some busy ants.
I boiled water appreciating the broadening day. A robin song soared above the burbling creek and I read a little completely at ease in my camp chair. It was a treat to have the deck railing to set my mug on. Eventually, I fixed oatmeal, ate an apple and dropped the core over the rail for the ants.
I planned to explore all that day as I cleaned up and that’s when I decided to bathe and got surprised by the deer.
Seconds after getting my pants on I heard a vehicle in the distance! I donned a T-shirt as a pickup truck came up the river road. If I could see them, they could see me. I was glad I was clad.
It was a man and woman in a silver pickup and I prepared to receive company, but they passed by without even a civil wave. Some city folks are like that.
Was anyone else down at the Palisades Ranch? I put things away and checked the time: nearly 8:30. The sun was angling off the heights and hoodoos, and it seemed a fine day ahead as I heard another truck coming upstream. This was a red 4×4 crew cab with another couple who parked and got out to pass the time of day. The man said that they’d driven in Wednesday evening and that it had drizzled a little which made the descent sort of exciting at times. I said I bet it did! The lady said that they’d gotten radio reception and the weather forecast said rain that evening about 6. We chatted a while and I also learned that they and the other couple were the only people who’d been at the further ranch. They said there were some BLM vehicles down there, but there wasn’t anyone around.
We said adios and I sat a while digesting the news. I sure wasn’t going to stick around into the evening and be trapped for who knew how long! I figured I’d look around until about two, and then motor to pavement well ahead of any possible rain.
So I packed up 24 hours ahead of schedule and set out for the Palisades Ranch. The pretty Owyhee is about fifty yards wide there and I saw a fish jump as I neared the lower Birch Creek ford.
Beyond it, the road squeezed between the river and a 100 foot tall rock tower whose bottom half looked like dark gray basalt tilted about 45 degrees. The upper half looked like a giant, rugged-topped molar in orange-red, rust-red, sand, and sage green. This formation marked the terminus of an out-flung finger of the ridge that rose hundreds of feet above the river.
I passed a junk yard of old tillers and things that dated from at least 80 years ago as a mile downstream appeared the Palisades Ranch named for a tall, jagged-topped escarpment that scraped the sky.
That ranch, also bordered by a three-rail fence, had hoodoo spires thrusting into the air singly and in bunches up the canyon slopes glowing yellow-brick and red-brick in the morning sun. By the open gate stood a stone building with a pair of windows on the side wall and a metal chimney sticking out of the cedar-shake roof. It looked like a bunkhouse.
The single-story brown-stained house also had a big propane cylinder and a full front porch. Middling-height trees shaded the house and a small barn. True to tradition, old wagon wheels adorned the fence in front of the house, though the hubs and spokes lay within rusted steel tires. How many times had they made the rugged journey in and out of the canyon?
Over the large barn door on rollers were nailed sun-bleached deer antlers. There was also a bighorn ram’s skull that lacked the face bones most of the horns. It took a while to recognize it.
Sage brush and tall grass carpeted the slope up around an old corral and a newer cabin that bore a BLM sign. Past that the road curved around some decrepit old trees.
The palisades are a wall about half a mile long with a 20 foot skirt of gray and reddish dirt and rock on which only a sprinkling of low plants eke a living. The wall is riven with deep fissures between spires of rust red, sand and light gray that might inspire a climber, though I had no notion of how stable the rock might be. Imagine a busted ankle with a four-hour tortuous drive to cell coverage!
A large field made a front lawn for the palisades. Was it used to grow hay? Down by the river were two big buildings and an enormous fuel cylinder. White trucks were parked under a copse of tall trees.
The BLM cabin faced the river and looked like it was about 30 years old. It also had a balustrade of crossed 2x4s along the front deck. Once you manage to get to the ranches, renting one of the houses would be a great place to kick back, weather permitting. The whole place was absolutely silent except for the gentle buzz of grasshoppers. In former days, there would have been the sound of someone working in a tool shop, or kids’ voices.
I left the MC by a park outhouse and reader board to look at the big equipment sheds and tree-shaded picnic tables by the riverbank. The gently flowing water invited a sojourner to take a dip. Sadly, time’s passing precluded that, but I did eat lunch there and left the remaining beers in the cooler to preserve my wits for the drive out.
Slopes across the river bore bands of paint, mostly sand and burnt orange with now and then a splotch of gray-green rising bare-headed to the cloud-dappled sky. I imagined the farm family relaxing in the back yard. Maybe someone would have a line in the river. But living there’d be a lot of work, and far for any society.
Two o’clock arrived too soon and I had to mosey. Even though the sky was placid, it was still spring in Oregon and it could change quickly. I checked how my gear was stowed, took a last admiring look at the palisades and the sparkling river beneath the painted heights, and mounted up. As I passed the corral, I really noticed the surprising array of hoodoos on the slope beyond the bunk house. One particular group rose up about twelve yards. Another bunch harbored a cave, but what really caught my eye was the tallest spire. Seen edge-on, it looked paper-thin! The base looked about eight feet wide and the spire tapered up to a bulged point, but in the middle the rock wasn’t even three feet thick. It reminded me of a letter opener. It was light gray at the base, then mostly sand and ochre and had some moss for a little green hat. It looked so delicate that if you hit it with a softball you’d break it in two.
As pretty as the Birch Creek ranch was, the Palisades had it beat. If I ever get back, I know where I’ll stay. But it was time to depart and I tooled up the Owyhee seeing another fish jump by the big molar hoodoo. From there, I could admire the big house and the end of the deck where the mulies caught me naked. I didn’t see any fresh vehicles, and that was the case all that long drive up the canyon. Thank God.
At least while going up gravity works for when slowing down. In the steepest stretches my hands gripped the wheel and I fervently hoped the tires would keep their grip on Mother Earth. It’s unnerving driving such that all you see ahead is steep, uneven, rock- and rut-strewn track that at places is barely wide enough for a vehicle with the sky filling the windshield.
I just crept on up and up anxious for the rain to hold off and hoping not to meet a vehicle coming. When we rolled through the BLM gate I pulled the MC over, took a deep breath to relax, got out, and went down on a knee to say a prayer of thanks, and that’s no foolin’!
I gave the Magic Carpet a grateful pat on the flank and drank water glad to be alive, and glad I’d been able to experience the charming ranches along the Owyhee.
