On our trip, as we passed through the wilds of Eastern Oregon, we had just passed Baker City when Roger's gas light came on. We were a little worried because Ontario was still farther away than we wanted to try to press our luck, but fortunately, both GPS systems indicated that Huntington was within range, with both a Texaco and a Chevron, so we should be fine. First lesson - put not your faith in GPS systems.
We hit the turnoff for Huntington, and I started to get nervous - there were several suspiciously gas-station shaped buildings boarded up, and a general air of abandonment. Not to mention that there was low-lying fog, several mournful looking cows, trucks appearing from nowhere to pass us heading back to civilization... the only sign of habitation was a hand-lettered Truck Repair sign. Nevertheless, we followed the GPS coordinates - straight to a State Park. Not good.
We went back to the Truck Repair place and sent Daniel in to knock on the door - the red door. The only spot of color in an otherwise gray landscape. The perfectly nice man told us that we just needed to head on down the road a couple more miles - "It's right after the marijuana dispensary, you can't miss it", he said, going back to his odd-smelling barbeque (ok, I may be embellishing a little - but I swear, he looked like he owned a cleaver and knew what to do with it.)
So, we continued on, past barbed-wire fences, poles tilting toward the road as if something had escaped captivity, over the part of the road where it seemed to have been washed out, until suddenly...
The sun appeared, the weed store was on the left, there were white picket fences everywhere, and there was an honest-to-God Country Store, with one fuel pump and a lovely, helpful proprietress who bore an uncanny resemblance to Aunt May. We filled up the trucks, escaped with our lives and headed on down I-84... but I think I heard a deep chuckle behind us, as though we were allowed to leave as a warning to others.
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