An Excellent Adventure Part 2

My Little Friends and The Milky Way
US Highway 12 meanders 2,483 miles across ten states of the upper Midwest from downtown Detroit to Aberdeen, Washington. Some of it is now Interstate 94 and other modern sections but in the western states it is still a two-lane, twisted ribbon of Americana. It enters Washington State at Lewiston, Idaho unraveling after the hundreds of kinks and turns it follows down the Clearwater and Lochsa rivers from Lolo Pass high up in the Bitterroot Range. This is Indian country and little changed since Lewis and Clark passed by in 1805. From Lewiston the highway travels through Walla Walla, crosses the Columbia River and hugs the Yakima River all the way up through the fertile farms and vineyards of the Yakima Valley to the City of Yakima itself. At the north end of town the highway veers left and follows a tributary, the Naches-Tieton (Tie-it-ton; not to be confused with Teton of Wyoming fame) to the crest of the Cascade Mountains.

I jump on at 40th Avenue. Pippi has done her usual best with my 16 oz Hazelnut non-fat, single-decaf latte. I hand her three dollars. She hands me a quarter. I toss it into the tip cup. I am running late. Fresh powder awaits and I step on it. Sixteen miles to the west and safely through the last stop light in the little town of Naches (pronounced Naacheese) the highway comes to a Y. US 12 turns left up the Tieton River, to the right State Route 410 follows the Naches River to Chinook Pass, closed for the winter. I am in a different world. To my left the river is broad and flat, tumbling over smooth gray rock. The water is pale mocha with the spring snowmelt. The Cottonwoods are barely starting to bud and the Scrub Oak is dark and winter-bare. Beyond the river sheer basalt cliffs rise to the sky. It’s either too early or too cold for the rock climbers. To my right Cleman Mountain rises to 5100 feet in an abrupt undulation of sagebrush, sedge grass and scab rock. The top is dusted in fresh snow. The ridges and canyons of Clemans (as we call it) give the impression of the pumped-up muscles of a body builder on stage. I don’t see any of my little friends so I take the turn at the Y and press on.

The Mariner’s pitcher Joel Pineiro loads the bases after a 12-pitch at-bat by Josh Bard. No outs! I’m only a few miles from complete radio silence—Yakima County’s own version of the dark side of the moon—and I wonder whether I’ll have a signal long enough to hear the rest of the inning.

There they are! My little friends! I am never disappointed. Even after so many trips, the sight of them never gets old.


In the crotch of the Y, between the two highways, is the 95,000 acre Oak Creek Wildlife Area. It was established in 1939 to provide winter habitat for the Yakima elk herd. Now numbering three to five thousand this herd was reestablished in the area in 1913 by a group of landowners, sportsmen and Yakima County officials. The project was intended to restore the native herd, which had dwindled. They hauled them here in railcars from Yellowstone National Park. It must have been quite a ride. The elk thrived and when they migrated into orchards to feed during the winter, the Washington State Game Department established the feeding station at Oak Creek to keep them contained. About 1200 can be seen at any given time at the feeding station itself and on the surrounding hills along the highway. As the snow recedes at the higher elevations the elk move away from the feeding station and the sightings get infrequent. I like to think they wait for me and turn their buff-colored rump patches towards me as a salute. For animals that can weigh up to 900 pounds, “Little friends,” is obviously a term of endearment. My son and I made it up after some up-close-and-personal encounters with them during another time of the year.

The hissing interference on the radio is getting louder. I turn up the volume. Pineiro freezes Alex Gonzales with a fastball on the inside corner. One out!

The canyon starts to narrow as I turn through the first of hundreds of twisting corners, the road matching every bend in the river. The river on my left, I glance at the long steep, grassy hillside to my right. No more little friends. I usually always see them up on the southern exposures. Maybe they have started their migration back to the higher elevations.

Ssssssssssss. “Here’s the 0-2 pitch. He struck him out!” Ssssssssssss. Pineiro fans Adam Stern on three straight curveballs. Two outs. I can’t hear them over the static but I imagine the faithful at Fenway are not happy.

I pass the entrance to the Feeding Station. There are a few stragglers but I can’t take my eyes off the road. The increasing number of pines lets me know I'm changing elevation. I approach the bridge near the Windy Point turn-off. Just past Windy Point there are two bridges not more than a quarter of a mile apart. It is the only section of highway from Painted Rocks to the Pass where the river is on the right. I see something in the road ahead. I instinctively let off on the accelerator.

Alex Cora steps to the plate. “Joel starts his sssssssssss it’s a ground ball hit to the sssssssssss and the throw to first! He’s got him! The Mariners dodge a sssssssssss and the Sox strand three! What an inning for Joel Pin sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.

I turn down the volume and concentrate. I reach for my camera and hit the On button. It’s an animal but smaller than an elk. I roll to a stop. There in front of me is a Bighorn ewe standing on the shoulder licking salt residue off the asphalt. Just behind her I see her lamb eyeing me cautiously through the branches of an oak thicket. I look in my rearview mirror—no cars—I punch my 4-way flashers and open the door. She snaps her head erect and faces me. She has two short, rear-curving horns. I snap a picture. She turns and in a blink she is down off the shoulder, through the thicket and up the hillside sixty feet above me. She gives me a final look and I notice an approaching minivan. I jump back in and accelerate away. I knew this was going to be a great day!


Rocky Mountain Bighorn Sheep were planted on Clemans in the ‘50s. This is the first year I have seen them over on the Tieton River side. I make a mental note to call a game biologist I know when I have time. I have definitely enlarged my circle of little friends.

Soon I am in the bustling village of Rimrock Retreat, formerly known as Trout Lodge. The change was someone’s idea of marketing, I guess. A gas station, a sporting goods store, a restaurant and a small motel are the only establishments. The river canyon is very narrow here and the ten to fifteen houses are nestled among towering fir trees. The river directly behind the motel runs swift and deep. This is the place where my father nearly lost all his sons in one beautiful, sunny summer afternoon. Maybe I’ll tell that story in another installment. Billboards would be unseemly here so the owners of the restaurant stuffed a plaid shirt, a pair of blue jeans and a couple of bear skins and arranged them high on a Douglas Fir tree out front. It looks like the bears are after a fisherman who is clinging precariously, clutching tree and catch. In another five hundred yards I am back up to 60. Around the bend I spy the smiling face of a one hundred thousand pound cow. I am on the Milky Way.

One can cross the pass 365 days of the year, day or night, no matter the weather and see the smiling cows of the Milky Way, Lynden Transport. In a race to keep up with the constant flow of milk from 60 Eastern Washington dairies, Milky Way transports millions of pounds a year across the pass, 70,000 pounds at a time. Always professional and always courteous, the driver pulls to the shoulder and lets me pass. I honk and wave as I go by. Maybe I'll call his dispatcher and offer compliments. I know some motorists don’t like the big rigs on scenic highways but I take comfort in their presence. If ever in trouble, accident or weather, a pro with a radio is handy to have around.


As I round the turn at Wildcat Creek and pass the Rimrock Grocery Store I turn up the CD volume.

“Gone, I don’t believe in you now
I’ve seen too much
I don’t believe in you now
My Goddess”

The Exies belt-out one of my favorite songs. It gets my energy level to a fever pitch. On the way back I will ponder whether skiing and aggression is such a good mix.

Up the hill to the top of the dam. Through the tunnel and into the bright sunlight and the panorama of Rimrock Lake and the rock cliffs of Divide Ridge beyond. The fresh snow renders the scene indescribably spectacular. The trees and rock ledges of the ridge are covered in snow, broken by layers of sheer black rock like a huge slice of wedding cake. In the foreground is the ice-covered lake surrounded by deep green forest. The master artist has outdone himself.

The road winds along the north side of the lake though large stands of fir playing peek-a-boo with views of the lake. In five and a half miles I come to Silver Beach—a not so successful resort—and the end of the lake. I pass the chain-up area and the dude ranch at Indian Creek. The temperature is 38 degrees and dropping rapidly. Ten miles to go to the summit. Caution compels me to suppress my sense of urgency and anticipation. I have to get though the slide area. I pass the sanding truck starting his run back to the top. I am thankful for the DOT crews and their constant vigilance. I look in my rearview mirror and see him lower the big blade catching an errant rock on the shoulder and throwing it clear. I enter the slide zone; two miles of roadway hung on the south face of the mountain. With the regular snowfalls and the temperature yo-yoing between day and night, the mountain wants to slide down on the road surface and often gets its way. Signs caution, “No Stopping At Any Time.” The battered condition of the rock cribs protecting the roadway speaks to the truthfulness of the warning. I take the final turn into “Our Corner” which lets me know I am through the slide area. We named it when on a family skiing trip we slid sideways in a tangle with another car and the snow bank. I don’t remember much about it but I’m told our 1960 Oldsmobile Station wagon had nary a scratch. I’m not sure about the other car. On the other side of the snow bank is a precipitous drop into the Clear Creek canyon the site of the famous duel-to-the-death encounter between my Grandfather and a charging bull elk. Perhaps another time…

It starts to snow. I pass Dog Lake. No ice fishermen. Everything is a white wonderland. The snow banks on either side of the road are a somewhat diminished eight feet but still cast a feeling of driving in a tunnel or in a luge course. Past a few more corners and I approach the summit. Its 31 degrees! A glance to the west shows broken clouds. There is plenty of close-in parking—another advantage of spring skiing. I get out and stretch and lift my eyes to the mountain across the highway. The early birds are tracking the fresh powder. No matter. There will be plenty left for me.

Next: Contemplating Execution