Pitfalls of Seismic Proportions on the Oregon Trail

We’ve only just begun our trek backwards to Colorado, having already succumbed to the pitfalls of the Oregon Trail... 

Determined to see the last of the ‘7 Wonders of Oregon’ on our move east to Colorado, we found ourselves in the Painted Hills yesterday. The red, orange and black colors smudged in the landscape appeared like a sand painting awash on the hills of central Oregon. A paleontological feat, some 35 million years in the making, the history lesson fell on deaf ears thanks to milkshakes and greasy cheeseburgers at the #1 thing to do in Condon, OR. 

We hit ‘The Drive In’ in Condon Oregon (insert 13-year-old’s condom joke here 😜) around one o’clock, famished from the Holiday Inn Express breakfast described as ‘mid’ by my four teenagers, because what it lacked in Fruit Loops it made up for in rubbery cheese omelets. A few greasy burgers and milkshakes later, we were well on our way towards John Day National Monument. Let’s just say, we were ill prepared for the awe-inspiring Painted Hills when we arrived without a bathroom in sight. 

“Is anyone even reading the signs about how the rocks came to get their colors?” I shouted ahead at my four teenagers making a beeline to the top of the Painted Cove Trail. “It’s igneous rock, and related to climate changes and volcanic eruptions…” I seemingly continued to myself, my trusty canine companion at my side. Traversing a boardwalk path known for Instagram-worthy posts, I assumed my daughter had spotted the perfect spot for a ‘glow up’ shot with her brothers. It was then that I spied my son ‘painting the hills’ himself with golden light, his siblings lost in potty humor. I could hardly blame him for seizing the moment amidst the glory of God’s creation. Thankfully the boardwalk area was sparse to onlookers and park rangers. 

The Painted Hills Overlook Trail was our next stop. I figured a couple of quarter mile trails would be easily endured by the discerning crowd of teens, given our tight timeframe to hit the Thomas Condon Paleontology Center before 5pm closing. 

“I need a bathroom MOM!” barked my other teen, jogging around in uncomfortable circles. “There’s an obvious reason we never would’ve survived the Oregon Trail,” I laughed. Little did I know this was reason #2 as he jogged to the nearest high desert pine to relieve matters. Ill prepared for the urgency of the situation, the five of us watched for tourists on the trail, as if our counter surveillance would save him. The volcanic eruptions of the land were no joke, and I empathized with the look of ‘Shock and Awe’ on his face upon return.

The ‘Reiber Runs’ are no tall tail. A curse of seismic eruptions in my birth family and suffered by 50% of the population in our household (yet another thing the kids blame mom for!), they are politely described as IBS when embarrassing details are unnecessary.

“*IT happens to everyone”, my daughter and I laughed, sharing stories of epic proportions to ease his mind and embarrassment, though I sensed we were not out of the woods yet, as the sheer look of terror on his face suggested the rumblings were still a force to be reckoned with. 

As an experienced mom, I thought I had seen it all, though despite the sweltering 95 degree temps, I knew this was no mirage. This was uncharted territory and based on personal experience, I knew I could gain trust and calm his precious nerves by changing the conversation.

I wish I could say we emerged unscathed from the Forced Family Fun experience in the Painted Hills. Wiser perhaps, knowing that milkshakes and burgers would only lead to further family suffering on the Oregon Trail. 

We arrived with 5 minutes to spare at the Thomas Condon Paleontology Center and everyone was smiling. 

By then things were back to normal, as judging by the push up contest.

I’m sure its clean bathrooms and prehistoric fossils will prove memorable as we round out our geological trek veering on and off the Oregon Trail, much like the path our lives have taken thus far. 

As we prepare to depart Oregon tomorrow, there’s no denying we’ve left our mark. Onward Wallowa Lake, I’ve taken a backseat in this Conestoga wagon!