Painted Hills Revisited
June 23rd 2019: The Painted Hills Unit of John Day Fossil Beds National Monument is almost too magnificent for words. The colors, the composition, the quiet—I was blown away.
These are the Painted Hills—one of Oregon's seven natural wonders and the best of the three units that make up John Day Fossil Beds National Monument. The scenery here is unparalleled, golden hour here was breathtaking, and the people—well, one person, in particular, colored my experience here something wonderful. I've told this story before in many words, but it's worth retelling briefly because I love reliving it every time a Painted Hills memory pops into my mind.
A woman named Skeeter owns the Oregon Hotel in the tiny town of Mitchell, Oregon. On June 23, 2019, she came to my rescue and refused to accept any kind of cash thanks I begged her to take. It started as a standard solo roadtrippin' day in the Pacific Northwest with no cell service or GPS signal. But just a few days into my journey, I had gotten pretty good at following the blue dot that was me to wherever I was heading on my iPhone's Maps app. When roads are few and far between, it's kind of easy to watch your digital bit travel along a long stretch of highway until one reaches another, and you can see which way you'd have to turn to get closer to the other digital bit you're after. Somehow this mapping system is advanced and primitive—just depends whether you're evaluating from 1970s or 2023 standards.
But on the day I was headed for the Hills, that handy no-service luxury I'd been relying on vanished when my iPhone mysteriously reverted to its fresh-outta-the-box factory reset mode where the screen just says "Hello" in a hundred languages, and when you try to unlock it, an "Activation required" memo pops up and tells you to connect to WiFi to proceed.
At this point in the day's journey, I was a solid 60+ miles from the Painted Hills and 111 miles from my destination for the night, and my phone was about as useless as a rodent carcass. The word f*cked came to mind, but I carried on even though I felt like I was driving blind. I stopped at the Thomas Condon Paleontology Center, certain they'd have WiFi, but alas, they did not. They tried radioing over to someone at the Painted Hills unit but had no luck. The ranger was kind enough to map out directions to the town I'd be staying in, but of course, finding my hotel's location would be another challenge once I'd gotten there. On a whim, the ranger mentioned that I might stop in Mitchell, Oregon—home of the Oregon Hotel and Tiger Town Brewing Company, which would serve me some of the best chips and Thai chili sauce I've ever had. "Someone there might be able to get you hooked up to WiFi," the ranger said with cautious optimism in his voice.
I was a little over 30 miles away, and the directions I was given were perfect. It really was simple, just a turn and then another turn, but if I had blinked, I could've missed the pullout for little Mitchell all together. I parked in a dusty lot a couple hundred feet up the block from the first signs of civilization I'd seen since the visitor center. There stood the Oregon Hotel. For some reason, I was nervous to ask for help. I was also fully prepared to pay for help if need be. Something drew me to the Oregon—there were other options down the road aways, but the Oregon felt homey, so I gave their door a knock. Dogs behind the door went wild. For a minute, I worried I'd gone barking up the wrong tree, but before too long, Skeeter came out with a smile and saved my day.
I told her my whole long story, and as I was yapping, she got to tapping for her WiFi deets. Within seconds, I was all hooked up, and my phone was fully restored—even had full service too! I had tears in my eyes—I could've kissed her! And to her, it was so not a big deal—she was genuinely just happy she could help me. I promised to write about her and tell everyone about their home sweet hotel. Skeeter was insistent—she would not accept any monetary thanks. I didn't dare tell her my plan to book a room someday just to pay for it, or maybe pay for someone else's stay, just to give a bigger thanks. Although spending a night there myself might be just as special.
The moral of the story that I take with me every place I go is that there is a whole lot of good in this world. I seem to find it wherever I go. It's not to say I haven't come across some less-than-reputable individuals on the road, but I'll never let a couple of soggy grapes taint the rest of the sweet bunch. Just like I'll never let my country's flaws disrupt the deep, unconditional love I have for this land.
