Moro, Sherman County
The area is so remote that not even the first pioneers chose to settle here. Early wagon trains opted instead to traverse the Cascade Mountains, continuing westward into Willamette Valley or Oregon City. You can see why. Here the Martian landscape unfurls in a series of canyons and valleys through desert scrub and imposing rock faces. Settler diaries understate the arduous trek across this part of Eastern Oregon as “rather hilly.”
Even now there are forgotten highways—shortcuts between cities—on which you may not see another car for miles. The ribbon of Scott Canyon Road (which I couldn’t find just now without zooming waaaay in on Google Maps) takes you on a series of roller coaster summits and drop-offs until dumping you, safely, at the limits of the next little hamlet. Strangely, though, the roads are well-maintained. A recent paving project sent us crunching through sections of newly laid blacktop. Progress.
I’ve made the drive north from Southern California into Eastern Washington several times over the years, most recently with my husband. The northeastern corner of Oregon where it bumps against the Washington border feels alien, otherworldly. Especially if you happen to be passing through it at night, as we did last year, and find yourself amid fields of blinking red lights. Had we taken that wrong turn at “Albuquoique” into Area 51?? Turns out, the blinking red lights denoted a series of windmills churning steadily, monotonously in the breezes sweeping in off the Columbia River and across the open plateaus. This is where the conservative tendency to defy progress meets a certain pragmatism. Why not use what the climate and topography provide?
The main highway through this region, State Route 97, is a two-lane adventure through a series of ghost towns that often serve as speed traps. (Observe the lowered speed limits, or you might find yourself smiling through your teeth at a local constable.) On past trips, we ignored these dying towns in favor of pushing on to Biggs Junction, where highway meets interstate and travel centers offer respite from the dusty road. This time, though, we obeyed an instinct to explore.
On our way into Washington, we stopped in Moro. Through the windshield, it looked like nothing more than a collection of abandoned buildings, but we were desperate for a pee break. The only business open was a corner market stocked to the rafters with your standard staples. And alcohol. Plenty of alcohol. We asked if there was a public restroom. The clerk directed us to the park across the street. “Those are the only public restrooms.”
Park. Huh. We leashed up our dog, Ruby, and waited for the eighteen-wheelers to pass us, rolling heavy along the highway, obeying the 25 MPH speed limit, before we followed the crosswalk into the park. We discovered a surprising green oasis with a kids’ play area and, what’s this? A covered footbridge? We crossed it into the Sherman County Historical Museum, where we were greeted by two friendly docents who were happy to chat and share their knowledge. We happily paid the admission fee of $5. They told us that Moro, the county seat, once thrived with 4,000 residents. Later settlers had discovered the area’s rich, fertile soil—ideal for growing several varieties of wheat. Over the years, though, as farmlands expanded, families shrunk. The town’s population now stands at roughly 1,700.
The exhibits invite you to walk through Sherman County history, from its pioneer times, through the numerous wars in which many of Moro’s residents fought (including the French and Indian War and the Civil War), through its agricultural practices, and its embrace of new technologies such as the telephone, the typewriter, and the lead type printing press. It also honors the Tenino Indian tribe, whose artifacts are preserved in one of the exhibits. The recipient of several awards, the museum serves as a unique and specific window into the Oregon Trail and the settling of the American West. We highly recommend taking the time to stop and explore if you happen to be traveling through.
The Dirty Cowgirl Saloon (Wasco)
We had seen the sign on our past road trips. Along with the frontier brick facade, it begged us to imagine what it must be like inside. Dive-y pool hall? Biker bar? Bar fights? Obnoxious male patrons slapping waitresses on the ass?
Luckily, the docents at the Sherman County Historical Museum disabused us of our fevered fantasies. “Go,” they told us. “It’s the only real restaurant around here, and it’s good.”
We took their advice and stopped in for lunch on our way back to Bend. As we stepped through the front doors, we arrived in an alternate universe of ranching and rodeos, a photo gallery highlighting the special bond between horse and female rider. At the table closest to us, several men sat hunched over their meals like wolves. Only one glanced up from beneath his brow and muttered a perfunctory “hello.” Uh-oh. Were we in unfriendly territory? Had someone spotted our California plates?
The waitress breezed out from the kitchen and greeted us with a smile. She sat us at a table toward the back and informed us it was Taco Tuesday. I opted for the taco salad while my husband indulged in a peanut butter bacon burger with a side of tater tots. Healthy portions, solid pub food. The tots were a playful twist on the usual. Dale had beer while I decided to take advantage of the full bar, imbibing a shot of Glenlivet. We were officially in love.
I downshifted into “Dork Mode” and started taking pictures. At the bar, local utility workers glanced up from their smartphones long enough to shoot me some side-eye but said nothing. A few minutes later, a pair of bikers came in. They were on a road trip of their own and had heard about the place from a friend of theirs. The one in leathers was also taking pictures with his smartphone. It became clear that The Dirty Cowgirl was an essential watering hole, where utility and rail workers and weary travelers could all take respite. I felt decidedly less dorky.
When I asked to buy a t-shirt, the waitress obliged me by spending several minutes searching through their stock for my size. She even thought to bring out another size, just in case. The women’s shirts ran small.
If you find yourself in the area, dust off your chaps and make time for The Dirty Cowgirl.
Restaurant also includes an outdoor seating area.
This from the website: “The bar is open 11am until the bartender stops making tips or 2am whatever comes first.”
