My blog week assignment came with good timing because I just finished my position in Lakeview, OR last week. I was only there for a little short of three months because I’m headed off to other adventures (grad school), but even in such a relatively brief time I came away with valuable new skills and experience.
Lakeview sits in Oregon’s high desert, at the northwest extent of the Great Basin. I quickly discovered it does not have a lake view. At least not from the streets of the town. I had to hike to the top of Black Cap, a high point in the surrounding hills that houses radio and cell towers, to see Goose Lake a few miles to the south. I guess they can keep the name.
During my time in Lakeview my supervisor was Joe Wagner, a fire ecologist who has been with the BLM for almost 40 years, most of which is experience with fire and range management in the Great Basin. My main function in working with Joe was setting up and monitoring fire effects plots. Our work was concerned with vegetation on the sites: frequency of forbs and grasses, cover and density of shrubs and juniper. I learned the joys of driving two and a half hours to a field site, then laying out transect lines through a tangle of juniper limbs and 8 foot high bitterbrush in 95 degree heat (okay, that’s worst case scenario). Fire is a widely used land management tool in the Great Basin but its effects on specific sites are not always well understood since there is so much variability in the plant communities, soil type, slope, etc. That’s where local case studies like ours come in. I felt like I was doing something that matters, which made the work very satisfying.
Especially for the first few weeks, but to some smaller degree for almost the entire duration of my internship, I missed the climate and scenery of home in the Seattle area. There were no blue, snow-flecked mountains, lush forests or great expanses of deep inviting water. There were miles and miles of open country covered with sage, rabbitbrush, bitterbrush, greasewood and juniper, flanked by rolling mountain ridges, buttes, and rims. Almost all the water was in alkali lakes and reservoirs for livestock. The soils were painted more in sandy grays and reds than dark, loamy brown. I thought it somewhat barren and monotonous, but that’s because I wasn’t familiar with it yet. Then I started to learn the identity of vegetation in the landscape by texture and color, make out interesting fire scar mosaics in the hillsides, and realize that at night the low horizon exposed more stars than I had ever seen before. All the arid Great Basin species became part of my widening view as I learned their names. Even in late summer when all the grasses and forbs dry up beyond recognition (which makes it really fun to ID them for transect work) their golden color is a beautiful contrast with the crisp blue of a clear sky.
Things live here, thrive even, but many remain hidden. Some of the most interesting plants are the smallest and easiest to miss, or vary wildly depending on seasonal precipitation. Many animals seek refuge during the heat of the day. But the more time I spent in the field and the closer I looked, the more variation I noticed, the more surprises I found. It grew on me.
I will miss the largely untouched openness of the Oregon outback. The smell of sage. Pronghorn antelope kicking up a trail of dust as they raced across our path and out of sight over a crest. The friendly waves from complete strangers as your vehicles pass on a remote and bumpy dirt road. Tiny Mimulus and Cryptantha dotting the ground like fragile confetti. Towns small and remote enough that an annual “Mosquito Festival” is the most exciting thing going on within about 100 miles. All these things and more, in an utterly new and unfamiliar place that I thought I could never call home but is now an inextricable part of my life.
-Robbie Lee, Lakeview District BLM, Oregon




















Life is good here in the desert. The town of Cedarville, where I sleep in a bed once a week, with a population of 800, now feels busy. The rest of the week we’re out in the Black Rock desert, in the Jackson range, hunting around for rare and invasive plant species. We have a favorite place to camp that is by a little creek, a rare natural feature in the desert. In the creek we have built up rocks downstream from an existing pool and now have a cool, wonderful, bubbly bath. The swallows fly down the canyon and miss our heads by inches as we soak off the days work and they deftly pluck insects out of the dry air. Bats and nighthawks arrive in shifts at dusk. Lightning flashes in the distance. The silences are so loud they hurt your ears and the blood pulsing through your body is the only sound, perhaps mixing with the wind. There are times when no one speaks and the silence is not nervous. We read out loud to each other, eat big complicated dinners, and sleep to the sound of the creek, thunder, crickets, and the patter of rain on our tents. I often dream in rich metaphor, of friends, and loved ones both alive and dead. We take up our little space, separated by discrete distances, much like the desert flora. Each object highlighted by rock and sand like an art exhibit. I realize now why people fall in love with the desert. It is raw and terribly beautiful. During the day we walk through canyons past old wooden wagon wheel axles, abandoned mines, and small creeks struggling to stay above the rock. We crush sage, coyote mint, and yarrow. The aromatic phytochemicals assault the senses. -e-
Panoche/Tumey Hills
Hadrosaur excavation (fossil vertebrae shown)
Clear Creek Management Area (serpentine soil outcrop = the bluish stuff)
Layia discoidea (serpentine endemic species)