We leave California and move to the bucolic world of Northeastern Oregon

Posting #8 by Robert LaRue, b. 1937

The Wallowa Mountains dominate the landscape of the northeast corner of Oregon. The Nez Perce Indians called this country The Land Of Winding Waters. With the coming of the European settlers, these craggy mountains and picturesque valleys became known as the American Alps. To the east of the mountains the Snake River slices through North America’s deepest river gorge, Hells Canyon. Nestled in one of the valleys above the canyon’s rim, the little town of Halfway is our destination.

Before Halfway however, we make a stop at Nampa, Idaho. An old friend and fellow worker from McMullan’s Dairy had established a farming operation there. Dad wants to visit with his friend and check out the area.

Our host saddles a horse for me ride. It is my first experience riding a real working saddle horse, and I am hooked. I spend every waking hour riding around the ranch until we leave.

The road leading from Nampa to Halfway follows along the old Oregon Trail to Baker Oregon. Pioneers in covered wagons followed the same route starting in the 1840s. The route runs along the Snake River to a place called Farewell Bend. At Farewell Bend the Snake turns north into Hells Canyon. The Oregon Trail forks off through the Burnt River canyon up to Baker Valley. We pioneers of the 1940s follow this historic route in our 1937 pickup truck.

From Baker we turn east for the next 60 miles to our destination, Pine Valley. We cross the still visible wheel ruts of the Oregon Trail running through a dry sage-covered plain. The landscape changes to a stretch of lush green irrigated pastures and farmed fields. The paved road turns to loose gravel. Passengers in occasional oncoming vehicles wave a friendly greeting as we pass. We seem to travel through time to an earlier era. Cowboys and ranchers still tend their cattle on horseback. Farm implements are still drawn by stout draft horses. The twentieth century has largely eluded the countryside.

The road unexpectedly changes back to pavement. The landscape changes to a narrow canyon. We follow the Powder River through deep cuts and winding turns to Eagle Valley. Eagle Valley reveals another landscape of green pastures and farmed fields. We pass through the small cluster of homes and businesses called Richland. The valley closes back to a narrow canyon as we approach the Powder’s terminus with the Snake.

A lettered road sign points left to Halfway. We follow the sign and climb a steep grade with sharp switchbacks. Our loaded pickup grinds along in low gear. We top the hill and travel down through a wide swale. Cattle graze on the dry yellow grass below farmsteads set back against the hills. Yellow turns to green and Pine Valley opens up before us.

We turn left at an intersection near a sawmill and follow the valley’s only paved road to Halfway. Halfway boasts a bank, two grocery stores, two bars, several churches, three gas stations, a combined drug and liquor store, and other related businesses. The Gray Gables Hotel houses one of the bars and offers rooms to rent. Three housekeeping cabins behind a white picket fence and a manicured green lawn flank one side of the hotel. We rent one of the cabins and set up housekeeping. It is a welcome relief to get off of the road and out of the confines of the cramped pickup cab.

My eight-year-old mind does not grasp the significance of our travels. At eight, you do not question your parent’s actions. You simply accept whatever they do as the norm. Even so, I could sense that this small world was a complete change from the world I had experienced in California. My dad’s motivations will always remain a mystery. Perhaps he was a throwback to his grandparent’s generation. Perhaps he was a precursor to the counterculture of the 1960s. Maybe he just wanted to escape the controls that a wartime culture had placed on society. The cold hard facts were that we had arrived in the strangely named little town of Halfway, Oregon and there I would remain for the next ten years until I graduated from high school.

My Post-War Home Front had just begun.

Photo Credit: Anna Brisk, Halfway Oregon, and thanks to Cindy and Anna. Bob LaRue, Pine Valley Union High School class of 1955.