(Formerly Highway 97)
The Highroad runs along the spine of the Cascades, a thin, wind-scoured path where the forest gives way to stone. It is the farthest eastern artery of the valley, parallel to the Main Vein but worlds apart in temperament. Before the Fall it was Highway 97, a corridor for trucks, freight, and travelers who wanted to outrun the traffic of the lowlands. Now it is lonelier and harder, a north-south ribbon of cracked pavement that threads the volcanic plains from the shadow of Klamath Ridge to the broken passes near The Dalles.
In the age of engines it was considered the high road only in altitude. Today, the name carries weight: the road sits above the valley, closer to the clouds, exposed to every kind of weather and thought.
The Highroad begins south of the valley, near the edge of Klamath Basin, where geothermal vents steam from open fissures and the air smells of sulfur. It climbs northward through the basalt flats, crossing the dry remains of reservoirs and the skeletal towns that once served the lumber trade. Near Bend and Redmond, the ruins of hangars and fuel depots mark where the old airfields stood—vast empty spaces now repurposed as caravan grounds.
Beyond Redmond the road turns toward the Cascades’ eastern shoulder, passing beneath the jagged silhouettes of the Three Sisters Peaks. From there it continues north past Madras and the canyons carved by the Deschutes River, then threads through abandoned military outposts and weather stations before ending in the scrublands east of The Dalles, where it meets the ghost of the Columbia.
The entire route runs nearly two hundred miles, most of it high desert. Where the Main Vein hums with motion and life, the Highroad whispers.
Few travel the Highroad by choice. Those who do are people of distance—Scavengers, Sellers, hermits, and exiles. Caravans from Sappho sometimes brave it when the Main Vein floods, but most who ride here belong to the mountain communes or to independent guilds that mine and trade volcanic stone, obsidian, and ore.
Travel is slow and deliberate. Water is scarce; shade rarer still. Elk caravans are fitted with mirrored hides or dyed cloth to reflect the relentless sun. The road’s surface holds heat by day and freezes by night, cracking under the tension until the asphalt resembles black ice. Travelers rest in the old truck stops converted to waystations, their windows boarded but their wells still functional.
Because of the wide sightlines, ambushes are rare, but storms can roll across the flats without warning. In winter the wind carries knives of ice; in summer, dust storms blot out the horizon. Those who master the Highroad gain the respect reserved for the quietly unstoppable.
No single group maintains the Highroad. Its remoteness prevents the kind of shared stewardship found along the Main Vein. Instead, each enclave tends its section out of necessity. The Hot Spring Settlements south of Bend keep the road near their pools clear, using heat from the vents to soften and reset the asphalt. The Stone Sisters Collective—a nomadic group of quarrywomen—repair bridges with mortared rock rather than metal, making the structures look grown rather than built.
To the north, the Windward Guild of scavenger-mechanics patrols the long stretch between Madras and The Dalles, using solar carts to scout for collapse or flood. Their painted sigil—a spiral within a compass rose—marks repaired culverts and safe camps. Beyond them, the road fades into wilderness, watched only by weather.
Despite the lack of central authority, the Highroad persists. Travelers say the road maintains itself: frost heaves smooth out each summer, sand fills potholes, and roots rarely break through. Whether by luck, magic, or some old property of asphalt, the Highroad endures as though unwilling to let go.
The Highroad’s landmarks are fewer but starker than those of the lower valley.
Klamath Ridge – Southern gateway where geothermal vents breathe steam through rusted metal pipes; a warm refuge in winter, a stifling furnace in summer.
Bend Basin – Once a sprawl of suburbs, now an open hub where caravans refit and gather water from deep wells.
The Glass Fields – Plains of fused sand created by wildfire and lightning strikes, glittering for miles under the sun.
The Three Sisters Overlook – A windswept cliff where travelers carve names and prayers into the guardrail.
Madras Gate – Northern fortification built from two collapsed overpasses, forming an arch of bone-white concrete.
The Dalles Edge – Terminus at the lip of the ancient river gorge, where the wind howls through the valley like a flute.
Each landmark offers evidence of the old world’s precision surviving amid chaos—geometry standing against erosion.
The Highroad’s primary enemies are exposure and emptiness. With little shelter, travelers must carry their own shade. Wind shear can overturn wagons; lightning can strike out of a clear sky. Water must be cached at known points—travelers mark their presence with stacked stones or ribbons tied to signposts, signals for those following behind.
Wildlife is sparse but fierce: cougars, hawks, and packs of feral dogs roam freely. At night, the open plateau reveals every movement; fires burn like beacons. Some claim to see reflections of phantom headlights sweeping across the flats, but they are more likely tricks of heat or memory.
When blizzards descend from the Cascades, the road disappears entirely beneath ice. During those months the Highroad belongs to silence alone.
To the valley people, the Highroad is both boundary and bridge. It marks the edge of habitable land—beyond it lies the Wasteland, where cold and hunger rule. Yet it also represents aspiration: the will to climb higher, to seek perspective. “Taking the Highroad” has entered speech as a phrase for choosing the harder, nobler path.
In Sappho’s taverns, travelers speak of it with awe. They describe its sunsets—burnt orange over black stone—and its nights lit only by stars. Poets compare it to a scar drawn by the gods to remind humankind of their smallness. Pilgrims sometimes walk it in solitude as penance, leaving offerings of obsidian or water where the asphalt breaks.
Because it runs above the Main Vein, messages carried along it arrive sooner than word sent through the valley below. The Highroad thus serves as both literal and symbolic messenger—a higher route for those who seek clarity before returning to the living world.
Today the Highroad functions as the eastern failsafe of the valley’s transport web. When floods cut the Main Vein or slides bury the Crosscurrent, caravans reroute east, accepting the hardship for the sake of continuity. It also serves as the link between mountain communes, quarry camps, and hot-spring settlements. Traders move obsidian blades, volcanic glassware, dried herbs, and mountain honey south toward Sappho, returning with cloth, metal, and wine.
Despite its isolation, the Highroad remains a symbol of endurance. Every few miles, travelers find remnants of the old signage—the green metal plates bleached silver by the sun. Most are illegible, but their arrows still point onward. It’s enough.
For those who live within Sappho’s sheltered abundance, the Highroad is legend. For those who walk it, it is truth—an endless horizon where the world feels clean again, if only for the length of a breath.