28th day (Baker City - Hermiston)

The breakfast at my great motel lives up to the attention to detail that I noticed the day before. There is toasted fresh bagel (not packaged), blueberries, and yogurt. I have an amusing conversation with Nita, whose mother is a Hualapai Indian. She scolds Donald Trump like a shrew. It would not occur to me to start a political discussion here, let alone express my opinion about the American president, but Nita has nothing good to say about him. And this despite her saying she is a Republican. Racist, chauvinist, crazy, little child - these are just a selection of the words she uses to describe him. I laugh out loud. The wiry woman with fire in her eyes would give him a good thrashing. She says goodbye, hoping that I will come back someday. And I would love to. Baker City is one of those small towns that I only associate with good experiences.

I enter 'avoid freeways' in my Satnav and experience pure road trip once again. The first few kilometers on Highway 30 take me past lush meadows where hundreds of cattle graze peacefully. Then it's back to the more barren prairie on the 237, 203, and 82, before I turn onto the 204 in Elgin and my journey takes me steeply up to 5000 feet in the Blue Mountains. I pass a ski resort that is deserted in the summer, with only signs indicating that it is busy in the winter.

When I reach the summit, I have a magnificent view over the endless forests of Oregon that stretch out to the horizon. Suddenly, Langdon Lake appears emerald green on the left side, and surprisingly few people are on the water. I don't see any swimmers. As I drive back down the mountain, the landscape opens up and changes its appearance in a way I have rarely experienced. Where there were endless forests before, there are now endless fields of corn that bathe the entire landscape in warm yellow. I briefly turn onto the 11 and then continue on the 334 through a small town called Athena, which is exactly what you would imagine a tiny place in the American wilderness to be like. Unfortunately, a coffee shop is closed on Sundays - I would have liked to stay here a little longer.

I continue past endless wheat fields, and I take a detour down the 335 to get back onto the 11, and that's where Pendleton is. The town has two peculiarities that catch my attention, besides a certain charm. A huge rodeo stadium that attracts 50,000 visitors every year during the so-called Round-Up. And a prison (the American Correctional Institution) with 1600 inmates, one of 14 state prisons in Oregon.

After Pendleton, I take the 395, and it is the narrowest road I have driven on in the USA. Due to steep cliffs on the right side and a riverbed on the left, the entire road is as wide as a single lane on the interstate in some places. The Americans seem to be wary of this, as I only encounter one car on the 30 km drive.

Hermiston is not worth mentioning and in my opinion has no special appeal. I chose it as the last point of my journey for three reasons. Firstly, it is a 3-hour drive from Portland Airport, and that is exactly the distance I still wanted to drive. Secondly, the accommodation at my Motel 6, which is pretty terrible (the room is okay, but the corridors - awful), is very cheap, which makes saying goodbye a little easier. And thirdly, within walking distance is the Shiki Steakhouse and Sushi & Bar, where I have my last meal. A combination of sushi and sashimi and a squid salad before that. And the pictures are deceiving - it tasted even better. Damnit. So much for an easier farewell.