Prineville Reservoir
State Park
Off U.S. Highway
26, 16 miles southeast of Prineville.
Approximately
three hours from Portland. Cabin rates vary from $35-$45
per night. Call Reservations Northwest at (800) 452-5687
or reserve online at www.prd.state.or.us.
John Day National
Monument--Painted Hills Unit
Off U.S. Highway
26, 45 miles east of Prineville.
(541) 987-2333
or www.nps.gov/joda
for more information
Miles from any sign of civilization, the car's tires started
picking up damp clay like a paint roller sucks up paint.
Deep in Central Oregon's high desert, the dirt road to Antelope
had turned to clay. A light rain had turned the clay into
a tacky mess. By the time my girlfriend and I realized we'd
gone too far, it was too late. The wheel wells were packed
solid with clay and rocks.
It took an hour to claw out the concrete-like mixture.
Even using a tent spike, we shredded our fingertips. We
then managed to turn the car around without going over the
edge of a conveniently located cliff, but 50 yards later
the tires clogged up again and we slid to within a few feet
of a hundred-foot drop. We started hiking down the road,
into gathering gloam.
We'd decided to leave the Portland rain and check out Prineville
Reservoir State Park, see what it had to offer. Not much,
we found out. The drizzle followed us; the cabins we'd hoped
to bunk in were, of course, long reserved. We set up our
tent Saturday night amidst a herd of deer. In the morning,
every square inch of the park was covered in deer shit,
and the reservoir had been drained considerably. We wished
we'd stayed home, and I'd suggest you do just that unless
you manage to snag a cabin reservation and/or want to go
fishing, about the only activity of interest I saw going
on.
Then we had a trip-saving idea. The John Day National Monument
Painted Hills Unit was just an hour's drive away. Yeah!
We drove east on Highway 26 through the gorgeous, towering
ponderosa pines of the Ochoco National Forest. Soon enough,
the sun started shining.
I'd been to the Painted Hills once before, in sweltering
summer heat and a steady stream of sight-seers. But on this
day we were the only humans in sight, and the air was crisp,
clean and brilliantly clear. The cracked clays of the hills
were a dazzling, otherworldly palette of yellows and greens
and scarlets and peaches.
Little did we know that this clay would be our doom within
a matter of hours. And all because we thought we'd take
the Honda Civic down a back road to see quaint Antelope.
Hallelujah for the cattle herders and hay farmers of Central
Oregon--namely, one Clyde Williams. We stumbled upon Clyde's
ranch after two hours of hiking in the dark, and he left
his wife at the supper table to lend us a hand.
Although we barely kept from sliding over the cliff even
in his 4x4, we managed to chain-drag the car back to a clay-free
part of the road. We were saved. Stopping at the Williams'
homestead on the way out, we asked for his address and offered
to send him a little something for his troubles, but all
he wanted was "Oh, just a kind word every now and then."
So, thanks, Clyde. You saved two dumb city-slickers from
a world of hurt and a staggering towing fee. You're our
hero.
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Escaping the Clay of Doom! 
