“We’ll ride this road like a thought…33 more miles”

It’s the sort of thing that I dread like a root canal. Well to be honest, I’ve never had a root canal. But I think my brother Todd had one when Spencer broke his front teeth with a boomerang and he said it hurts. Of course he didn’t elaborate on its comfort level comparative to an aboriginal hunting tool hucked at the face from 5 feet away. At any rate, what I hate is the defining moment of a relationship. Most relationships occur and develop naturally. With great regularity it’s a non-issue. You start hanging out a lot; you talk on the phone a lot; you throw yourselves at each other in a wild hurricane of lips, arms, legs and...hair. But there is the chance occurrence of a complication. It seems to necessitate what some call “a talk” or a “define the relationship” moment, they really can go either way but at the time they are tense and nerve racking. At times like these, I like to think it’s like a sort of road-trip gone wrong. Like a road trip to Medford.

You set off with all the hope and excitement that comes with any good road trip. A 44 oz soda, bag of munchies, a couple CDs and a few hours of road lay ahead of you. All the components of a successful trip are there and according to the directions you got from Mapquest.com, it’s just a matter of time. And so you start to drive. Salt Lake, Wendover, (begin the loss of cell phone signal), Elko, Winnemucca, dirt road, dirt road. Hmm what happened to Denio? An Elk jumps in front of the car, swerve and miss. Gas light comes on, terror sets in. Ok, time to stop and evaluate what is happening on this road-trip and what should be done.

From what can be gathered you’ve got an eighth of a tank of gas, and the closest town is on the other side of those mountains (its dark and I have no concept of distance). Well the obvious solution is to actually get some good information, wait for morning (it being 1 am now), fill up with gas and go from there. The more macho and stubborn solution is to drive at 55 miles an hour (for some reason that seemed to be what I thought would provide the best gas mileage) on a dirt road through the Hart Mountain National Antelope Refuge, which presumably will connect back to Lakeview. After hitting a few dozen jack-rabbits, dodging another elk, and some divine intervention, the car sputters to a stop out of gas close to the refuge main lodge. Ok, time to stop and evaluate what is happening on this road-trip and what should be done.

A grumpy refuge ranger (thanks Mike), a hidden refueling tank, and a pleasant, though sleepy Pakistani Motel keeper later, a restful night was had. And at around noon the next day the road-trip actually ends up where it was headed (end the loss of cell phone signal). A little off schedule, a little dazed and jittery, and little confused as to why it was such a difficult and arduous task to get there. But maybe such a treacherous sojourn makes the arrival all that much more triumphant.

But when you are sitting there faced with that uncertainty and indecision, you tell yourself Ok, time to stop and evaluate what is happening on this road-trip and what should be done. It doesn’t seem that triumphant, you sort of feel lost at sea...

No, more like you’re cold and out of gas in a southeastern Oregon Antelope Refuge.