Somewhere around mile 125 I started riding by faith alone.

On a good day, if the wind is right, on a downhill grade, I might make 165 miles on a tank of gas. I switched over to reserve somewhere around the last thing that passed as a tree.

I guess they're Pinion Pines or Juniper trees according to the identification chart I have in my tank bag. They're more like overgrown shrubs than trees, and there were a lot of them stretching out across the landscape on both sides of the road there for awhile.

That's when the main tank went dry and the bike sputtered and went ghostly silent.

Right now I'm coasting down hill next to a dry lake bed with a sheer drop off on one side. It's been a long time since I stopped seeing those trees. In fact, the only thing growing out here are rocks. The same sharp, broken, black volcanic rocks that covered the entire southern portion of Idaho-- except where they were growing potatoes.

Eastern Oregon is a far cry from the verdant images of rain-soaked forests that most people think of when they think of Oregon.

No, eastern Oregon is covered in bleak, barren, rocky desert. The kind of desert that stretches on as far as the eye can see in every direction-- devoid of life, civilization, and most importantly at the moment, gas stations.

It's also getting late. I still have an hour till sunset, but in the middle of summer, sunset is around 9 pm up here. A long time after most people call their work day quits, especially in the middle of the week when this particular stretch of road is even less likely than usual to see traffic.

This whole Oregon-won't-let-me-pump-my-own-gas thing is really cramping my style.

It's not like it was a big surprise going into the trip, I've driven through Oregon plenty of times before but that was on the west side, the side people think of when they think of Oregon. Cities, hipsters, fast food chains, and 24 hour gas stations.

This?

I turn my head and take stock of my surroundings.

This is different.

Everyone warned me about highway 50 across Nevada. How far it was between gas stations and how the 50 is supposed to be the "loneliest" highway in America.

Whoever said that has obviously never traveled down this deserted stretch of concrete through eastern Oregon.

If I'd known how far it was going to be till the next sign of civilization, I wouldn't have skipped the last gas station I passed.

There aren't even houses out here. There's just...nothing. I haven't even seen another vehicle on this stretch.

Normally, I'd be loving it. Singing at the top of my lungs in my helmet. Stopping whenever I want to snap a photo. Enjoying the solitude and the scenery. But right now I'm concerned with the fact that I have about 15 miles left before the engine soaks up the very last drop of gas in the tank.

I knew riding through Oregon meant I wasn't going to be seeing any pay at the pump, self service gas stations. It didn't occur to me till I stopped just south of the Washington border at a dinky little mom and pop place just before they closed for the evening yesterday that not being able to pump my own gas meant I wouldn't be seeing any pumps that were available after hours.

That put a whole new perspective on things.

Out here where the next gas station might be 50 or more miles in any given direction, pulling into a closed gas station means I'm camping at the pump till they open the next morning.

The engine sputters and the bike pulls back under me. Then silence. Eerie, lonely silence in the waning sunlight of the eastern Oregon landscape.

I kick it into neutral and let the bike coast down the gentle slope the road has taken for as long as I possible can.

As I come around a curve in the road, I see lights up ahead. At first I think it's just a house. I'm still excited. Houses have people and maybe those people will have a spare gallon of gas that'll get me to the next station.

The road levels out and the bike rolls to a pace slow enough to force me off of it before I get to the two story structure lit by a single sodium vapor flood light that's been my sole focus for the last half mile.

The house is still a ways ahead of me but I'm pretty sure I can walk the bike that far before darkness settles over this valley completely. Not that I see how I have much choice.

As I get closer, my heart leaps in my chest. The 2 story structure that I thought was a house at first is actually a gas station!

Rolling the bike up to the pump, I look around for signs of life. I'm not at all surprised that no one answers the bell that I hear sound inside the darkened convenience store that makes up the lower story of the building.

It's just before 9 PM on a week night. This place is closed up for the night.

The upper floor of the building looks like it's home for whoever owns this place. I can't help but hold out hope that I can get someone's attention and maybe they'll take pity on me and come down here and let me fill up the tank.

Not that my 2 and half gallon gas tank on this little bike is a major sale or anything, but sometimes being a woman traveling alone on a motorcycle has its advantages.

Plus, it would keep me from having to pitch the tent here in their parking lot and camp out till they open in the morning.

I'm not really enthusiastic about riding after dark on another stretch of deserted road. The possibility of hitting a coyote or an elk gets very real this time of night and both those things would pretty much put an end to my ride-- and probably to me-- but a hotel room with a real bed and a hot shower in a town where I might even be able to find a pizza or a greasy cheeseburger sure would be nice after weeks of camping and eating ramen.

Of course, as is my luck these days, there's no sign of life upstairs either. Maybe the proprietor of this establishment is a bona fide early bird and 9 PM is the middle of the night for them? Or maybe no one's home?

Either way, there's nothing I can do but wait till the place opens in the morning so I unpack the tail bag on the back of the motorcycle that has all my camping gear in it and set up my tent-- right in front of pump number 2.