By Madeline Lau
I’m driving down I-84 with a Corgy, a Poodle, and two new friends who are spry in their 70s. Together, we are in the midst of a true expedition through Oregon’s backcountry, traversing the unknown roads in the name of collecting animal pelts and buffalo skulls, spotting geological wonders. This is my life, round two, as a park ranger.
As a fitting sequel to “Life in John Day with Ranger Madeline” comes the even more magnificent “Madeline moves to Joseph, Heart of Oregon’s Mountain/Cowboy Country.” I am living my dreams in Wallowa county where the horses seem to outnumber people, men still wear Stetson hats that are actually dirty, and wolves, buffalo and wolverine run free. Yes, it is as wacky as it sounds, but it is also breathtaking, full of heart and entirely reminiscent of Oregon in 1859, filled with pioneers breaking dirt and working hard.
Here are some of the things I do here:
Wake up in the home of a complete stranger whom I decided to live with before meeting, praying things would go well, then becoming completely ecstatic when I found out she is the nicest lady in town.
Go to the coffee shop where what looks like at least 15 extras from Lonesome Dove eat breakfast every morning talking about irrigation pipe, breaking horses, and making fun of a senior who is rambunctious and rude and forgets my name every time I change my hairstyle.
Load into the truck of some of my Wallowa county native friends and go explore the wonders of Imnaha Store/Tavern/ Restaurant, the Troy canyon, Grande Ronde River, and elk sighting on Zumwalt Prairie.
Ride my bike into sheer oblivion, watching the sun dip dangerously into the Seven Devils Mountains that lie adjacent to the magnificent Wallowas, panting and peddling until the sight of a massive golden eagle on a fencepost just paces away prompts me into silence while I take in his beauty.
Check on a friend’s new colts that are learning to walk with knobby knees, hiding behind their mothers and lying full-bellied in the sun for long baby horse naps.
Walk through town and wave at everyone, whether I know them or not. You’re a true native when you can’t walk through town at all because everyone flags you down and talks at you out the window of their truck. This happens to my friend the deputy who is, as you may imagine, pretty well-known.
Stare at the mountains as if they might reveal some kind of magnificent epiphany, because it has happened in the past.
Make fake mooing sounds at yearling steers in pasture as I zip by on my beach cruiser, causing them to chase me thinking I’m some kind of hybrid dominant cow on wheels.
Count my blessings and actually miss home slightly less while I’m reminded of the glory surrounding me and the kindness of a community that has been beyond welcoming, despite my coming from the West side. I try to get a little street cred saying I’m from Stayton, and more often than not people gaze at me appraisingly before saying “Oh! There’s good people there.”
