The man looked puzzled when he saw me emerge from a break in the forest.

Puzzled but not quite shocked, as though he had just seen a Sasquatch, albeit a diminutive specimen of that supposed species.

And one with relatively little hair.

He was standing beside a pair of side-by-sides.

My wife, Lisa, and I, and our son, Max, had heard the machines, burbling along with the distinctive timbre of a small four-stroke engine, a few minutes before we saw them.

As we walked closer, two women climbed from one of the machines and joined the man.

Smiling broadly, he asked if everything was OK.

The question was neither uncommon nor unexpected, given the location.

We were hiking in a remote section near the western edge of the Wallowa-Whitman National Forest. Our route was a road that follows the spine of a ridge between the north forks of two major rivers — the Burnt to the south, the John Day to the north.

The ridge also serves as the border between Baker and Grant counties, and according to my GPS receiver, we had made boot tracks in both counties over the preceding mile or so.

There are no major attractions nearby, no lakes or major streams, no campgrounds or picnic areas.

But it’s a fine place to take a walk.

There is a multitude of roads, and the ridgeline was both shady and graced at times by a breeze that was most welcome on the hot late morning of July 9.

I rarely see other hikers in such places, so I wasn’t surprised that the man thought at first that we had either lost our way or that our rig had broken down and left us stranded.

I told him we were just out for a walk.

Having dispensed with that topic, we settled into the sort of conversation that people often have when they meet in the backcountry.

The man, who was accompanied by his sister and their mother, told us they were from the Boise area. They own a cabin in the area and were exploring the woods.

We were doing the same, the only difference our modes of transportation.

Well, not the only difference.

The group told us that as they roll along, they keep keen eyes out for roadside trash. When they find something they toss it in the back of their rigs.

They showed us a sampling of the refuse they had collected that weekend. In addition to the inevitable beer cans and bottles, they talked about finding a plastic gas can fetched up against a boulder in a stream, apparently washed there during a spring freshet.

Then the man held up what I suspected was his true prize — a roughly 2-foot section of the tip of a downhill ski.

We all chuckled at the incongruity.

The nearest ski area is Anthony Lakes, more than a dozen miles to the northeast. Certainly no wayward skier could have gotten this far off track. I suppose an aversion to buying lift tickets could have led someone to carve turns in this vicinity, but it seemed improbable. Perhaps the ski belonged to a snowmobile rider who strapped the skis to the back of the sled and then misjudged the height of a trailside pine.

It was a pleasant place to chat, there among the trees, and with nary a mosquito to mar our meeting.

We thanked them for helping keep the woods tidy and they continued on the ridge road.

I had plotted a loop hike — I detest backtracking nearly as much as I do mosquitoes — but with the questionable aid of a map.

Maps can convey a great deal of information, to be sure. Topographic maps, which depict the lay of the land by way of contour lines, paint an especially vivid picture.

But maps are mostly ignorant of certain matters — important matters that can determine whether a hike is a casual stroll, or an ordeal that includes bloody wounds and enough profanity to populate a modest thesaurus.

Maps can’t tell you whether a road is clear or whether it has been overtaken over the past few decades by a budding forest of lodgepole pines whose branches form a gantlet of obstacles at the perfect height to slash your cheeks.

I was, then, worried about the second of the three legs of our route.

The map designated it as Road 155.

I inspected it on Google Earth, but even that technological marvel lacked the resolution to satisfy my curiosity.

We found the start of the road easily. There’s even one of those brown forest road signs, the number 155 clearly depicted in white numerals.

The beginning was not promising. The grass was thigh-high and the lodgepoles, those coniferous cockroaches, had infested the road bed.

I was overcome, as I often am, by ambivalence.

I didn’t want to subject Lisa and Max to a mile or more of trying to swat aside pine limbs, an exercise all but sure to leave our hands sticky with sap.

But as I mentioned, I abhor retracing my steps.

My unease never dissipated completely.

But once we had clambered into and out of a couple of tank traps — a sure sign that we were on the right track — there were no points beyond where the road, overgrown though it is, wasn’t obvious.

We reached the road’s other end, where it intersects with the comparatively wide, and lodgepole-free, Road 7382.

(In the national forests, four-digit roads typically are more heavily traveled than those with three digits. Although, as befits an operation run by the federal government, this numbering system eschews the obvious, sensible pattern. Two-digit roads, rather than being goat paths, as the previous sequence would suggest, are in fact the real thoroughfares. Some are even paved.)

Although I was relieved to be back on a road that I knew wouldn’t peter out, we soon missed the shade cast by the pines that grew in profusion along Road 155.

It was something of a slog, the 2 miles back to where we parked at the start of the loop.

But it was the epitome of a summer day in the mountains, the air redolent of sun-warmed pines and firs, the clouds benign and the ground not yet dusty.

I particularly enjoyed the first leg, along Road 010. Ridge roads are among my favorites, particularly those which, like this one, mainly follow the terrain rather than dominating it, meandering from one knoll to the next.

The forest was thick enough to block any true panoramas, but we did get glimpses of Strawberry Mountain and Table Rock and the swath of Whitney Valley, still green even two weeks past the solstice.

We had also made new acquaintances.

Like as not we won’t encounter that trio again, but no matter.

It is nice to remember our brief encounter, fellow travelers of the wildlands.

And a litter patrol no less.

Drive Highway 7 to Sumpter, then continue on the paved highway, Forest Road 73, toward Granite. About half a mile west of Blue Springs Summit (which is also the boundary between Baker and Grant counties), at a sweeping turn to the right, continue straight onto gravel Road 7380.

Follow Road 7380 for 1.4 mile to a three-way junction near a cattle guard. Road 7380 heads off to the left, and Road 7382 bears right. Just beyond the cattle guard on Road 7382, take a dirt road on the left side. This is Road 010, and it’s marked by a brown sign.

Road 010 climbs steeply at times toward the crest of the ridge that divides the Burnt and John Day river systems, as well as Baker and Grant counties. The road is primarily in Baker County (the left, or south, side of the ridge). Continue on Road 010 for about 1.65 miles. Road 155 starts on the right. Although the junction is not distinct, there is another brown sign marking Road 155. This road heads due north, crosses two tank traps, then veers to the east before returning to its northerly course. The road runs for about 1.1 miles to Road 7382. Head to the right and hike Road 7382 for about 2.2 miles to the start of the loop.