THE MAGIC ACT THAT IS THE COLUMBIA RIVER GORGE
So many observations about driving along the Columbia River Gorge, beginning in Vancouver, Washington, taking it all the way to the Tri-Cities, and beyond.
There are two roads which mirror the river along this stretch. On the Oregon side, you have Interstate 84, the one everyone talks about, the majestic waterfalls, seen while driving on a four-lane silver sliver at interstate speeds.
Cross the bridge to the Washington side and you will take Washington Highway 14, the Lewis & Clark Highway, a two-lane road not nearly as developed, not nearly as modernized, hugging rock walls, slowing into small towns, traveling through a number of narrow tunnels. It’s as though the Oregon side is the 21st Century, the Washington side the 20th.
I have taken both routes and I much prefer the Washington side, lover of history that I am, lover of small towns that I am, lover of slower speeds that I am, and it was that route I took yesterday and today, and I am beyond thankful that I did.
This is Lewis & Clark country. This, too, is Oregon Trail country, and the land almost vibrates from the lives which came before, their footsteps and wagon turns almost audible today for those willing to listen.
I lap this stuff up like a thirsty hound dog laps water after a hunt.
The route starts innocently enough as it takes us through the towns of Camas and Washougal, offering very little in the way of clues of what is to come. After Washougal, the hills rise steeply, the small town of Skamania in view, then North Bonneville, and finally the Bridge of the Gods. Now things start getting serious, the sights more dramatic, the geography more demanding, the drive slower for safety’s sake but also, simply because the eye cannot capture so many wonders at fifty mph. Looking at the Columbia from several hundred feet in elevation, one understands the scope of its greatness and why so much of our history is intertwined with it. Your mind harkens back two-hundred-and-twenty years, large canoes floating down, navigating rapids, Lewis journaling while Clark captains, rough men hoping to survive the last hundred miles to the Pacific. Or your mind envisions families, covered wagons, barges carrying the collective dreams of a nation, the final leg to the Willamette Valley and the Promised Land.
The ecological and botanical magic begin, oddly, at the town of White Salmon. There is no forewarning, no foreshadowing, it’s a now you see it, now you don’t trick, the mind not quite comprehending what the eye has just relayed to it. Literally, and I mean this in all seriousness, within a five-mile span, the lush evergreen forests of Western Washington give way to the brown and gold scrub lands of Eastern Washington, like the rains necessary to sustain lushness suddenly cease at the town of White Salmon.
I literally had to pull over and confirm to myself what I had just seen.
This phenomenon is seen throughout the Cascade Mountains, the west side green, the east side brown, something known as the Rain Shadow Effect, but crossing over mountain passes, one sees the change happening gradually. Never in my long life have I seen the change happen so quickly, so dramatically, like a magician changing a rabbit into a dove with the wave of a wand.
After White Salmon the road snakes its way through ranchlands, the sharp hills become rolling in nature, like retracing history in reverse, west to east; one can exhale, look upon the beautiful river, sun now glinting off the surface, and breathe deeply as the first sunshine in two days washes over Puddle Walker and a smile breaks out, transforming my face. From rain to sun, from green to brown, from abundant energy to harnessing the power of the wind, all there for the noticing if you have a hankerin’ to do some noticing as you rush from Point A to Point B.
Me, there will be no rushing. I’m more than willing to gear it down, take the whoosh out of my traveling, and smell the proverbial roses, or sagebrush, whichever is available on this latest journey of mine.
The Gorge flattens out at that point, say Plymouth to Hanford, and then the walls of earth steepen once again, the river shrinks in size, narrows in size, speeds up with the shrinking, and continues north to the Grand Coulee Dam, Roosevelt’s pride and joy from Depression days, and then on to Canada.
It’s my favorite river, of all that I’ve seen, and I’ve seen a fair amount. It is not roguish like The Rogue, not grand like The Mississippi, not precipitous like The Snake, not mysterious like The Missouri, and not raped and pillaged like The Colorado. She is The Columbia, roll on, roll on!
A WORD ABOUT SUNSETS
Maggie and I are currently in Boardman, Oregon, along the banks of my river and directly across the river from Paterson, Washington, at a place called The Boardman Marine Park, and if you ever get a chance to stop here, do so, for it is a gem of a place.
Just before I left on this trip, someone wrote to me on Facebook saying that the sunsets have been spectacular of late on the Columbia, and Good Golly Miss Molly, that lady was not fabricating one iota. The last two nights have been spectacular.
The thing about sunsets, and I’m not sure how many of you have noticed this, but they change dramatically every single minute. If you want the full effect, do some time-lapse photography of a sunset some glorious night. Reminds me of the old Paul Simon song Kodachrome, they give us those nice, bright colors. You will be truly amazed by how much the scene shifts and dazzles and restlessly morphs constantly, the angle of the sun, the power of the warmth, mixing with the molecules of chemicals in the air, shifting in seconds, a whirling dervish of atmospheric conditions, but as frenzied as those changes are, to the eye the change seems gradual, like look, turn your head, ask Mom what’s for dinner, turn your head back and the hues have changed, now toss the ball for the pooch, look again, and . . .
It’s the subject of many a poet waxing, the inspiration of many an artist creating, and a reminder, for the religious out there, that there is a Higher Power and they are not alone.
Ma Nature is flexing her muscles, pointing out for all who can hear, and see, and feel, that she always was, and always will be, the final voice in matters regarding climate.
It might be well for us to listen to her. She’s speaking now.
READING THE LOCAL NEWSPAPER
I know, some of you are thinking this guy is a real bore, spending his “vacation” reading about people, and matters, which don’t affect him at all.
If you think that, you haven’t been paying attention.
While we stayed at the Boardman, Oregon Marine Park, I picked up the local county newspaper, the name of which escapes me at this time, but I was doing laundry, saw it sitting there, and decided why not?
It turns out there are some dirty political games being played by mayoral candidates for the upcoming Boardman elections. It turns out the local football teams lost their opener but then blasted their next two opponents. The hardware store has a special on snow shovels, the VFW will be giving out free coffee at a church bazaar this Sunday, five people died in the last month, average age sixty-seven, a rising musical star, from Boardman, will be making her Portland debut next week, and the Boardman Arts Scene is bustling with activity, from poets reading to singers singing to artists drawing from their latest inspirations.
And, lest I forget, there were two babies born last week, and the watermelon festival in Hermiston was a huge success.
Just a slice of Americana, my friends, played out over and over and over again, spanning our country, north to south, east to west, and I’m willing to bet you all can relate to at least some of those stories from Boardman.
