When we camped at Peter’s place up above Lyle, I found some pretty, red rocks that fractured with a sharp edge and threw good sparks when struck against steel. They were granular, not glassy where they were broken, so the edge didn’t stay sharp very long.

 

 

 

 

            This chance discovery renewed my interest in locating actual flint or chert nearby. I began an internet search. The search did not yield the results I had hoped for, but there was mention of jasper at Biggs Junction. Then I got distracted by stories about Glass Buttes in central Oregon, where you can camp for free and collect obsidian in all the colors of the rainbow. Useless for fire-starting, but intriguing nonetheless.

            One thing led to another, as these things will, and before I knew it, Robert was helping me pack the truck and we were off to the Oregon High Desert to see what we could find.

 

 

 

            It’s about three and one-half hours drive from Hood River to Little Glass Butte. We stopped in Warm Springs to give Walter Dawg a rest and again in Prineville to top off our fuel and fill a couple of extra gas cans. There is almost nothing available closer to the buttes. Gas at Hampton Station, about forty miles from there, was five dollars a gallon, but they were closed when we went by.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

 

 

 

 

 

There was a surprising amount of traffic for the middle of nowhere, speeding along at eighty miles-per-hour, cutting straight through the desert on a highway that seemed to go on forever. We slowed and turned right onto a dirt road, just past milepost 77. The ruts glistened with shards of obsidian. This was the place.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

         We drove several more miles, following an arroyo up to Musser Lake. Just before we reached the reservoir, we found a flat spot between the road and a dry creek bed, in between some junipers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        It was getting on in the afternoon. According to the maps, there were good spots for collecting obsidian in every direction. In fact, there were brilliant flakes and pebbles littering our campsite. Robert and I were like little kids at the beach, wandering around and filling our pockets with pretty rocks. Walter was more interested in the abundance of cow manure to be had. This was also open range land.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        We set up the lodge, took a look around, had a whiskey and made dinner. The BLM had imposed fire restrictions just that week, so we sat around a propane campfire and cooked beans and hotdogs on the gas camp stove. The wind blew all night long, but we were snug inside the tipi.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

      

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           At dawn, Walter and I took a little walk. There are no facilities at Glass Buttes; no drinking water, no outhouses, no nothing, so I scrambled up the hill to scratch out a cat-hole latrine.  When I was finished, I burned the toilet paper in the hole, and covered it with dirt and rocks. Afterwards we walked up to the reservoir to watch the morning unfold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Robert was up when Walter and I got back to camp. We discussed our plans for the day while we caffeinated ourselves and had breakfast. Rob put together some sandwiches for lunch and we hopped in the truck, heading south in search of pretty rocks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

 

 

 

         The road forks just past the reservoir. We kept right, gradually climbing up behind Little Glass Butte. There we found places where people had been digging, and several well used but unofficial campsites. The camps had piles of colored obsidian shards, discards from collectors and chips from knapping.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

 

 

          At one point the road was cut through the sagebrush, the grade two feet below the surrounding land. The berm on either side of the road had softball-sized nodules of black glass poking out every couple of feet, interspersed with obsidian pebbles of various sizes. We didn’t see much point in digging when you could pry out such nice specimens from the side of the road.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            We filled a bucket of rocks then retraced our steps, stopping when the notion took us and checking places our map indicated the more exotic rainbow and midnight blue obsidian might be found. We never found any of that, and all weekend long, people stopped to ask us where the rainbow obsidian was. We still don’t know.

 

 

 

 

 

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

       Back at the reservoir we took the other fork, following our map toward the elusive rainbow diggings up on the butte. The road got progressively worse. It was graveled with broken pieces of obsidian; worried about my tires, I tried hard not to spin the tires on the steep sections. We finally aborted the attempt, turning down a steep, deeply rutted road we hoped would take us back to camp.

 

 

 

 

      Part way down the slope we stopped to relieve ourselves and found several pits with pieces of banded obsidian, black with stripes of mahogany-red. Behind a stand of junipers someone had dug a mine into the side of the hill, with a shaft that went deep underground, supported by some very sketchy looking trusses. We didn’t trust it enough to explore the mine-shaft, but were able to collect some large pieces of mahogany obsidian from the rubble at the entrance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        We took as much as we could carry back to the truck and resumed picking our way down the hill, eventually finding our way back to camp in time for mojitos.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            The weather had started out hot, but a wind came up in the afternoon, bringing clouds with it.  By dinnertime it had begun to rain, which quickly turned to sleet and hail. It was Summer Solstice in the Oregon High Desert and we were being pelted by ice! This soon tapered off to rain, which faded away with the last light of day. Then the stars came out, more than I have ever seen in my life. Gusts of wind buffeted the canvas tipi as I drifted off to sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            The truck was encased in ice when I let Walter out Saturday morning.  Everything was wet but dig down a couple of inches and the dirt was dry as dust (don’t ask me how I know that.) Walter and I walked up to the reservoir again. I had a signal there so I brought a chair and sat by the water, texting my wife and surfing the internet. The lake was a flat mirror, but the wind was beginning to stir.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        Back at camp we pulled our chairs out and ate breakfast in the sun. I made some oatmeal topped with fresh strawberries, which we followed with a rhubarb pie Robert had brought. Pie for breakfast – I love camping!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            After allowing a suitable span of time for digestion, we hopped in the truck and headed west to Hampton Butte in search of petrified wood. When we arrived, we found the Prineville Rockhound Pow Wow was happening this weekend and they were conducting a field trip. It looked like they had at least sixty people out there moving dirt around. It’s a big area, so we just drove up the hill above them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        Not finding anything lying on the ground, we resigned ourselves to digging. People have been collecting here for decades. To find the good stuff you need to get below what’s already been picked through, sifting dirt from pits that have been filled back in. It was hot and we are old. The handle broke off my pick axe. We shoveled out a small pit and decided as much as we like pretty rocks, we did not like them enough to work that hard. We backfilled our pit and drove back down to where the club was excavating.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

         The first group we came to consisted of about six people being assisted by a couple of club members. They were working a pit about four feet deep and around the size of a school bus. I asked if they had found anything interesting and they enthusiastically responded in the affirmative, producing a chunk as big as a small cabbage. It was a beautiful, deep green with white stripes and you could clearly see the fossilized wood grain.  As envious as we were, it seemed like an awful lot of work. Eight people, digging three hours for one rock.

      When we got back to Glass Buttes we explored some hills in the north, just off the highway. We passed a couple more claims, marked by posts and heaps of tailings, and ended up on a windswept juniper flat dotted with obsidian cobbles. We collected a few of the nicer ones before going back to camp.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

         I picked a handful of juniper berries to add to our gin and tonics and we sat in the sun, sipping our drinks and admiring our rock collection. Before long, a squall blew in bringing more ice pellets. It lasted just long enough to drive us inside the lodge. It was dinnertime anyway, so we turned our attention to food, followed by more gin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

       Robert worked out some old ballads on the harmonica and we talked and drank until gravity overtook us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

       

 

 

         Sunday morning, we feasted on bacon, eggs, and re-fried oatcakes smothered with berries and syrup. Robert’s coffee boiled over twice and I drank tea until I was fairly swimming.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        Eventually we packed up and headed home. My eyes were bothering me, so I pulled over at the rest stop in Brothers and Rob drove the rest of the way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

         We got to Hood River around five; Robert still had a three-hour drive to get home. We had a wheelbarrow full of shiny obsidian and various other pretty rocks, which we divvied up before Rob left. Amy asked what we needed with all that. I don’t know, but look at them! Aren’t they shiny?