We drive for several hours west.  Here, the Steens Mountains rise from the desert floor a vertical mile; there are few mountain faces so dramatic.

We cast flies into Mann Lake for a while.  Because of the late afternoon wind, Hans ties a heavy black fly on my line, so it cuts through the wind.  I have been practicing flycasting for years.  But most of it has been out on the street in my neighborhood in LA.  This is my first time actually fishing for trout.

There isn’t much of a chance for a bite; but wading out into the frigid water with a backdrop of snow-capped peaks is refreshing.  The fly-line in the air is rhythmic.  Why do people like to fish so much?  At one moment, the act of tying little pieces of feathers and hide together to imitate an insect, all for the sake of catching a smallish fish in an inconvenient way, seems inefficient.

The same could be said for those bass fishermen in the Owyhee, with their boat loans and tackle boxes.  But then, the same could be said for gardening, too?  What it is about so many people, making such an effort to collect their own food?  Do people have some internal mechanism that makes them say to themselves– ‘I can still collect my own food’?

Without a catch, Hans and I speed off into the scrub flats; BLM roads cut through it all, winding around grazing cattle. The Alvord Basin is a long, flat stretch of cracked mud, sagebrush and alkali lakes.  Thermal vents of scorching water steam in the afternoon sun.  In pursuit of one such hot spring, the Mickey Hot Springs, we see a collection of miniature islands of sage and scrub, holding ground against the alkali water that covers much of this desert.

We walk out on the cracked mud, following the chain of islands that wrap around oddly geometric mud shapes.  Hans notes a coyote hole on one of the islands, and says, ‘see, there is life even out here.’  But still, most life dies here.  A cow lays dead in the mud, and no flies come to visit her.

Some hippies we met at the Slocum Creek campground mentioned an old BLM campsite that was hidden between the Steens Mountains and the Alvord desert, and so tucked away it was almost always nearly deserted.  We find the advice to be worthwhile; the site is next to a river, and with shade.

We unload the truck and make a fire of twigs and sticks.  A  simple meal – bagels – and two bottles of red wine.  As our eyes adjust, we see the expansive Alvord Desert, much of it covered with a thin cover of water.  The Alvord Desert is a playa formed by the rain shadow of the Steens Mountains, which loom above us at ten thousand feet.  The playa below, which is flat enough to land an airplane, is nearly lifeless, but it shimmers a pale blue in the moonlight.

It is my custom to keep a small library in my truck; mostly guidebooks and maps, but history books too.  I am lucky enough to have two books on Oregon’s Native Americans.  Hans and I exchange passages from each book, trying to figure out more about the Indians whose hunting site we uncovered a day before.

Later, Hans would come back to the idea of trying to duplicate the Indian flour that might have been created in that mortar.  He also mentions that it is good that we photographed the lichen on one of the stone tools, because, with the help of a lichen expert, we might be able to date the age of the stone tool.

But in the pale light of the Alvord Desert, with a few sticks and twigs turning to embers, I announce my better idea.  I remind Hans that he’ll be leaving Oregon for a year – it is up to me to unravel the Owyhee puzzle.  I am going to spend a year recreating old Oregon Indian customs, I explain, I am going to learn about the world that that stone tool came from, by adopting that world.

He reminds me that I can’t do a hack job.  If I am going to recreate that Indian flour, if I am going to eat, forage, fish and hunt like Oregon’s Native Americans, I’ll have to seek out experts: clam diggers, ethnobotanists, bow-hunters, mushroom collectors, tribal councils, salmon smokers.

We talk about Ontario, with its Walmarts.  And Jordan Valley, with its rich culture.  Out here, what happens when small towns shed their culture, and replace it with big Walmarts and 7 hours of television?  Do old ideas matter?  Should Oregonians be conscious of the old Native American ways, the ways that ruled these mountains for 13,000 years?

A few weeks later, Hans and I are back in Portland.   I tell him that the idea to learn about the Native Americans of Oregon by adopting their every habit was just technically impossible.  I was, after all, a modern hack, and a subject of Old World habits.  I remind him about our conversation in the truck.  About American fundamentalists, and their quest to improve their lives, or society, by taking a literal interpretation of their religious texts.  These fundamentalists didn’t dress in robes and sandals, but they applied old words to their lives, in their own way.

I explain that I am going to take the old rules of the Old Testament of the Bible, and lay it over the geography of Oregon.  So that, for example, if the Bible describes how to make bread, as in Ezekiel, or offers detailed instruction on what food I can or cannot eat, I have to interpret the food and collection methods of Oregon from the same age.

Tomorrow, on July 25, 2006, I am to begin my Oregon Testament.   For one year, I will adopt the Old Testament to Oregon.  Because all fundamentalism is a modern interpretation of old laws and passages, I will also interpret the Old Testament to the geography of Oregon.  Not only could I never literally live like an Oregon Indian, I can use the guidelines to America’s new customs to help me learn the old ones.

I explain that our friends at Tryon Farm, who since last year raised 1.6 million dollars to turn six acres of proposed condominium developments into an organic and sustainable community center, have already helped teach me the first steps. 

A layer of Old Testament fundamentalism also shields me from the notion that I have to shed my modern habits; you know, throw out the toothpaste, give away the truck, wear sandals sewn of grass.  Biblical literalism allows us, ironically, the chance to pursue something ancient, in a modern context. Explaining the idea of going Native American for a year, my friend Michelle wrote me and warned me not to drive my wife nuts, by taking out a pair of stone implements at dinner every night. 

Not at all, I explained.  Jane will love it when I cook her up a fresh Oregon meal, a slice of kosher Oregon.

The intent, I explain to Hans, is not religious, nor in any way anti-religious.  It is, rather, a way to combine science and religion and archaeology to learn about the state's deep history, and its Native American legacy, while implementing a strict code on my own life to enforce my focus.  America’s habits are more influenced by the Old World’s old documents than by the 12,000 year human legacy of our own land.  What a way to examine both; by using our own cultural tool to learn about the culture we lost. It’s not that I’m going to turn into a crackpot or a nut, I explain.  Becoming an Oregon fundamentalist, will, after all, be a hell of a lot of fun.