ocr: Ican imagine the cheers from the tiny cafe counter at Fields Station, where they keep count on the wall of the annual number of burgers and milk shakes sold: "Yes!" they hoot. "Tell about the time you got lost at dusk in that sagebrush flat, and how fear crept up your spine, and how it took forever for Polaris to rise and set you straight." ATHIRD DAY. I'm 60 miles east of Poker Jim Ridge and following the loop road up the gentle slant of the broad back of Steens Mountain, aroute so softly inclined that eight-year-olds compete in the annual ten- kilometer footrace over the north leg of the cou ...
