Drink It Up
Whether you're seeking solace, sport or sex, the desert is an oasis.

BY CHRISTINA MELANDER

I put in a half-dozen 15-hour days of solid driving to get out of New Jersey and into Oregon, and I never tired of the view from the dusty windshield. Nebraska's rolling North Platte River banks and topaz sunsets surprised me. I gaped at Utah's red rock and alpenglowing peaks and coolly took in Idaho's mountain-studded, empty landscape, but I wasn't prepared for Oregon's schizophrenic scenery.

After cresting a cold and snowy mountain pass, the car spiraled down a miles-long steep grade and deposited me in a considerably warmer, dry expanse awash in deserty colors of beige, pink and celadon. The air and land felt pleasantly, and surprisingly, dry. We were in the Pacific Northwest, after all, the place where my parents warned me it rained all the time. I'd imagined my new home would be lush, green and dense with trees, coffeehouses, bookshops and bands--not flat and sparsely fleshed out by cattle, alkali lakes and rodeo grounds. I did find the culture and ferns I'd expected in Portland, but in the desert I discovered a different paradise, one devoid of distraction.

I realize that paradise is a strange word to describe a stretch of land characterized by scant precipitation, stroke-inducing heat and dehydrated dromedaries. Some deserts, such as the infamous Death Valley, reach daytime highs of an otherworldly 150 degrees. Most people prefer the beach, crowding seascapes year-round--even in Oregon, where the frigid ocean water is all but unswimmable. Besides casinos, safaris and bomb testing, there's not much going on in the desert. "Deserted," after all, has a negative connotation, and lonesome is exactly how we tend to feel in a scrubby, sprawling landscape inhabited primarily by scratchy plants and animals that come out at night.

Unlike the southern Mojave, the Oregon desert doesn't stay warm throughout the year. Winter is cold, with plenty of frost and snow. But the rippling heat of summer brings melting sunsets and a feeling of bone-warming contentedness worth a few mirages. The distant operatic coyotes, the mellow scent of sage, the eye-level golden eagles soaring over plunging canyons and the startling sense of vulnerability that accompanies such vastness all convey an escapist feeling you can't find near the Willamette River.

 Oregon's geology involves two types of arid land: a nook in the southeast that is part of the Great Basin Desert, which blankets Nevada and parts of Utah, California, Wyoming and Colorado; and a region commonly called the high desert in central Oregon.

The latter, a closer and less desolate destination, spans from Bend to Burns and is properly referred to as the high lava plains. The plains don't have the majestic Joshua trees, towering saguaro cacti or eerily white sand dunes common in other North American deserts, but there are no valley-fever epidemics, either. Instead, the lava-carved desert supports therapeutic sagebrush, sunshine yellow balsamroot, playful lizards--and eroticism galore.

In her book Hiking Oregon's Geology, Ellen Morris Bishop writes, "once spewed from its warm, magmatic womb, the lava cooled and crystallized quickly." Thus were formed vesicles, pillows, cleavage, cones, cavities, crevices, buttes and dikes. Fodder for a Seinfeld reunion? Maybe, but it's no wonder these geologic terms sound like an anatomy lesson. Within such sexy features lies the tumultuous story of Oregon's landscape.

Dikes form when magma juts through the earth's surface and settle into vertical statues. A particularly phallic example is Stein's Pillar, a dramatic remnant of the first volcanoes in Oregon 40 million to 50 million years ago. A short hike to this ashy tower rewards trekkers with panoramic views of the Cascades.

 Don't dismiss geology as boring until you realize what it can do for you. Pyroclastic debris, for example, is what makes Smith Rock such a coveted climbers' haven. Magma-paved trails are made for mountain biking. The dichotomy of buttes and canyons provides hearty hiking routes.

One romantic and appropriate way to explore the desert is in the saddle. You don't have to be horsey to enjoy it; trail riding is like hiking with four legs. No previous experience is necessary, but without it, count on some bow-legged soreness. Many ranches decorate the central Cascades, and Crooked River Ranch has one of the best deals going. Just outside of Redmond, across from Smith Rock, perched on Crooked River Canyon and at the convergence of the Deschutes, Metolius and Crooked rivers, the ranch takes advantage of its divine location.

 An eight-horse stable boasts animals (horses and dogs) that are as friendly and smart as the trail staff. Tame one-hour rides ($15) cover moderate terrain, including a superb stretch along the canyon where riders can watch falls thundering into the gorge. Charming breakfast and sunset jaunts ($45) last up to four hours, accounting for a meal break, and take saddle-straddlers down a rough scrabble path into the canyon. Crooked River is a curious ranch/resort community that has all the usual services--motel, restaurant, saloon, golf course, tennis courts and pool--plus some unique qualities, including its own breed of wild sheep, a church and the Cut and Curl barber shop.

If you can stand the heat, there's little to complain about in the desert. There's no humidity, which means no dew, negating the need for a tent. Sleeping under the stars sounds like a romantic cliché, but you'll never get a night like this in Portland. As for water, drink plenty of it, and if you're desperate for immersion, visit the giant spring-fed pool at Kah-Nee-Ta. It has a killer slide.

Crooked River Ranch operates through October: (541) 923-8543. Kah-Nee-Ta is open year-round: (800) 831-0100.