We’ve been near, but not IN, the southeastern corner of Oregon. We’ve spent plenty of time in the western half, and explored things from Bandon (coastal) to Portland (urban) and Crater Lake (mountains). We even managed a brief passage down the east side of the Cascades, on our way home from Alaska, and got to sleep in a volcano for our troubles.

But the high, dry eastern half of the state has so far eluded us. It’s a lonely place (we like that), and has nothing in the way of “major” attractions like national parks that stand out in any way. Much of it is BLM land – – our favorite stomping grounds. Public land, low or no fees for admission or camping, low populations and few to no crowds of any kind. Bliss.

So that’s where we decided to go, with little planning of any sort other than to go up there and see what’s there.

Just before we left (like three days), a minor transmission repair on Ralph left him with no reverse gear. Not  the way to launch a trip for sure. We scrambled for a new part, crossed our fingers, installed it and – – – huzzah! Our stalwart 4×4 steed was once again on- and off- road-worthy.

[For anyone new to the blog, Ralph is our ‘96 Ranger 4×4, and Howie is our motorhome. See the About page if you’d like more details.]

Our outbound route was the (typical) long drudge out of the Bay Area and along now-monotonous highways leading through thronged population areas. Highways 880, 680, 80, 505, and the endless ribbon of I-5, all might have been worn smooth by our tires taking us away from the California masses. Unfortunately, “smooth” in actuality is quite inapropos, because those highways are in many places just sad. Rough, potholed, broken concrete and asphalt, poor patching and weathered-to-rocks. Sometimes for miles at a time. Going from San Jose toward Livermore on 680 is vision-blurring.

(begin rant) The Federal gas tax, which is used to maintain highways, hasn’t been increased since Ralph was a baby – – in this 21st century, American roads are disgustingly poorly maintained. Apparently, nobody knows how (or can afford) to build highways that can withstand the big 70,000-pound semi-tractor trucks, and the right-hand lanes are the most beat-up. Just nearly smashed to bits in some places. I mean, Dang, was it a surprise?? Did the highway builders watch the trucks smash their lanes to gravel and say “Hey, I thought there were only going to be Hondas here!” ?

Whatever – – – (end of rant). Howie bounced, jarred, and rattled his way along the busted-up trucking lanes until we got off the main drag and cut northeast on 299 toward Alturas.

Ah, relief. Smooth, even asphalt 299 winds up into the northern Sierras and we were quickly surrounded by the “ample forest” that John C. Fremont saw in his early explorations. As we worked our way toward Alturas, we started looking at the map for a campground not too far off the highway. We weren’t looking for our usual stay-and-explore venue – – rather just an easy place to stop for the night, and keep going (to Oregon) the next day.

After some deliberation, we chose a BLM camp with no more incentive than that it was near the highway along our route. Our experience with BLM campgrounds has been anywhere from bland to very-nice, and we’ve never encountered a real dud. So our expectations were not high – – and we were about to be pleasantly surprised.

Just past Burney, the Pit River BLM campground is easily achieved by a clean, paved access road that winds a mile or so down from the highway. The camp is right on the river, clean, quiet, peaceful, cheap ($8), and we even found a site where we could pull-through.

Although we were only there for an overnighter, we hiked the area for an hour or so, and found some very pleasant views of the river and surrounding areas.

Just above camp, several big chalk bluffs stand out from the hillside. The off-white stuff is light and — well, chalky. You can write on the rocks with a lump of it, and apparently a few too many campers have done so, as well as on other objects. There are signs at the bottoms of the cliffs, warning that chalk is not to be “used” in the campground. Peculiar wording, but it gets the message across I guess.

Opposite the chalk bluffs, the river made a gentle little wading/fishing pool just at the end of camp. A little riffle fed it from the main stream. Nice.

We hiked along a nearby road that seemed to exist for buried-power-line maintenance access. Several really pretty views of the river presented themselves, a lively contrast with the sullen thunderstorm-laden skies in the background.

In one place, the waters of the river peeked through the dense green canopy, and above the canopy could be seen the penstocks of the Pit River power-house. This was an interesting project (in a less eco-sensitive era), where the Pit River was diverted and punched through a mountain top. There, 454-foot penstocks brought the water down to the generators, bringing about 65MW of power to the Fall River Mills farming community.

Interesting area trivium (that’s singular for trivia, since I have only one fact to share): The Pit River was named for the local Indians’ practice of digging pits to live in, alongside the river bank. I don’t have any info on what the pits were roofed with, or why they didn’t fill up with water during the rainy season.

Often, when we start out on a trip, we spend our first night (or two) just traveling. Overnighting in parking lots or jammed-up RV parks is a common practice when we’re getting out of town. But this was different, a really welcoming, woodsy experience that made us feel instantly “on vacation”. What a great way to spend our first night out. One of our best “transitions” ever.