By Phillip Brown

Here at Oregon Wild, we love to share and talk about all things wild. One way we do this is by providing reviews for some of the hikes our members and staff take in various parts of the state.

This past weekend I took a trip to northeast Oregon, so I happily agreed to write a review of the North Fork Umatilla River trail, which I planned to hike. As you’ll see, things didn’t go according to that plan, and I didn’t get to write that review. Looking back, though, I’m not sure I would trade the experience I had for the one I had in mind.

It all started when I borrowed a copy of “100 Hikes / Travel Guide: Eastern Oregon” by William Sullivan. I leafed through the pages, looking for a hike that would be close to my campsite, would be on the easy side of things (the first year of law school in New York City had not been kind to my figure), and would preferably be long enough for a full day of exploring. I eventually settled on the North Fork Umatilla River trail, located in the heart of the North Fork Umatilla Wilderness.

I wasn’t exactly sure how to get to the trailhead, but I knew its general location and figured I could just drive around the area until I saw a sign pointing me in the right direction. Traveling down Highway 204, I saw what I thought to be just such a sign.

The Travel Guide had indicated that the trail started right from the highway, so when I turned onto a surprisingly well-kept dirt road, I was a little confused. I reasoned that the trail must break out from the road, just a little bit further. A little bit further became further and further until I was sure I had missed the trail. But, whenever the road forked, I saw signs urging my car and I onward, offering a guiding arrow and the simple yet tantalizing “N. Fork Umatilla Trail” (notice, as I do now, that the word “River” is conspicuously absent).

After what must have been miles, the road opened into a large circle, surrounded on all sides by forest. I was finally here. The beginning of my first hike was about to commence. I turned off my car, hopped out, and eagerly walked up to the weathered Forest Service bulletin board, hoping to get directions to the start of the trail.

Uh oh.

As I read the sun-bleached board, I realized that it didn’t point the way to any trailhead. It signaled the end of the line, and cautioned against going into the “wilderness” ahead unprepared. Without even realizing it, I thought I had just driven the full length of what was to be my hike for the day. 

Hesitation has never been my strong suit, however, so I jumped back in my car, drove those same miles back to Highway 204, found a place to park, and before I could convince myself otherwise, began walking down that wide, well-kept dirt road.

When at long last I came to the familiar, sun-bleached bulletin board, two things came to mind.

First, driving uphill is a whole lot easier than walking it.

Second, I had just walked down a path I had already been on – nothing too exciting there, but now I had come as far as I had ever been. The forest beyond that circle of dirt road presented a whole new adventure.

I was still somewhat bitter from having hiked down a road – a road I had already driven, no less – but all of that was about to change.

As I started on a barely-visible path into the trees, I looked up for the first time that day. Walking on the road, there were blue skies above me; nothing to sneeze at, but common nonetheless. Here, when I tilted my head back I finally saw what I had been craving since my first thin slice of New York pizza: tall, tall trees on all sides. 

Swaying branches, sun-mottled greens and grays, chittering squirrels and the quick, blurred movements of small birds. I breathed deep and didn’t want to let go of that lungful of pine-fresh air. I realize now that the dirt road I had so unhappily trudged along was only a few dozen feet behind me. At the time, though, it was already miles away.

My pace quickened. I was moving through the trees faster than I had moved on flat dirt, and just as quickly as I had forgotten about that open road, I came into another kind of opening.

Several small meadows with somewhat steep (although not unsafe) drop-offs line the edges of Coyote Ridge, offering wonderful views across a valley to the south. The remnants of a horse walker – a device used to exercise or cool down horses – dot one of these meadows, but it doesn’t feel like simple trash. It’s a reminder that once we’re gone, the world keeps on going, tossing and turning the things we leave behind until they are slowly but surely returned to the fold.

It would be days before I learned that the road I drove, then walked, wasn’t the North Fork Umatilla River trail at all. The bulletin board I read really did mark the end of the trail, but from the other side. The destination I found really was Coyote Ridge, the planned end of my hike, even if my path wasn’t what I thought it would be. When I first learned this, I had a fleeting sense of defeat, that I had somehow failed my first attempt at hiking in Oregon.

I choose to believe that I didn’t fail, though, because the feelings those trees evoked were still real, and the view from Coyote Ridge still left me awestruck. It just goes to show that sometimes, it’s the destination that counts, not the journey.