I asked the "pioneer" if the clearly defined dirt tracks running alongside the far ridge was the wagon tracks, but he told me they were jeep tracks instead and that I couldn't see the wagon tracks from where we were because they were at the bottom of the treacherous gulley. I then asked why the pioneers didn't just follow the route on top of the ridge, just like the jeeps, since it appeared to be far less treacherous. The buckskin clad man, obviously very proud of his pioneer heritage and the way he was spending his retirement, began telling me stories of the toughness of the early pioneers, their adventuresome spirit and their tenacity to overcome struggles. He never did explain to me why the pioneers didn't just take the easy way down the hill.

After touring the interpretive center, I headed towards Hell's Canyon along the 34 miles of road without one tree. Fortunately, the road is mostly downhill, but when it's 105 degrees, it was still a pretty hot ride. About halfway between Hell's Canyon and Baker City, down a long and windy hill, halfway around the bend leading to a slight uphill, there is an old ranch house with trees, a front porch and a big sign on top of the house reading "Cold Pop." Sitting on the front porch is a picnic table, a soda machine and a garbage can.

When the temperature is 105 degrees and the thermometer on my handlebar bag reads 120 degrees, there is very little chance of keeping the water in my water bottles even slightly cool. While I haven't tried, I'm quite certain that if I put a gold fish in one of my water bottles, it would die within seconds of its submersion. If I filled a pool with the water from my bottles, you'd have to post a sign warning people with heart conditions from entering. Anyway, needless to say, the idea of a cold "pop" sounded like a good idea.

The soda machine was at least 20 years old, offered several varieties of cold refreshment, and had a dollar changer, which was outstanding, since I took the opportunity of getting rid of all my change when I paid the entrance fee at the Oregon Trail Museum. In retrospect, that was a bad idea. The machine wouldn't take my dollars. I tried eight different bills and everytime the machine would spit it back. Above the dollar changer was a metal plaque that read "Warning: shaking this machine could cause it to tip and cause severe bodily harm or death." I remember reading somewhere that an average of 3 Americans die a year from vending machine related accidents. I scanned the front yard, surely expecting to find one of those roadside memorials with the cross and the plastic flowers commorating some weary, thirst starved traveller, but surprisingly, there were none to be found.

Frustrated, but not defeated, I walked around the corner of the porch to the rancher's door. The door had a wood carved sign signifying that the Martins lived in the ranch, as well as another sign that read "private." Throwing caution to the wind, I knocked anyway, hoping that someone was home besides the beagle that had barked incessently since I arrived. After five attempts, no one answered the door. I decided to sit on the picnic bench anyway to drink my hot water and eat my peanut butter crackers. The Martin ranch may have been some kind of cruel oasis joke played on me by the demons of Hell's Canyon, but I was going to at least take comfort in the shade. Fifteen minutes later, I got back on my bike and headed toward the depths of the canyon.

Hours later, I arrived in Oxbow, a small town next to the Snake River at the bottom of Hell's Canyon. Or at least I think Oxbow is a town. It said it was a town on the map, but I didn't see any buildings except a power plant and a campground. According to the map, Oxbow is in Oregon, but the power plant is run by the state of Idaho which is on the other side of the river. Oxbow is also, as far as I could tell, the only town in Oregon in the Mountain Time Zone. Beginning to feel that Hell's Canyon was enacting another cruel twist of irony on me, I decided to camp there anyway.

Hell's Canyon is the deepest canyon in North America, reaching a depth of 8,000 feet, and is a renouned playground for boaters and fisherman. The campgrounds in the canyon are therefore a mecca for the RV traveller. Wanting a shower more than an RV-free campsite, I pulled in and searched the site for a suitable place to set up my tent. While looking at the map of the campground near the bathroom and shower facility, a voice called me from behind, asking which direction I was headed. I turned around and saw a man standing by my bike with long hair and a 3-month long beard. "You headed east or west?" He was wearing a yellow biking jersey, mountain bike shorts and had the familiar biking glove tan lines.