The Narrative Image

  Mt. Adams as seen from the Cooper Spur shelter ( Mt. Hood ) on 09-22-12 Mt. Hood ’s lengthening shadow, straining for the eastern horizon  Smoke from the fire doing a pretty fair impersonation of clouds   The timberline trail spirals on around the mountain  Toyed with the idea of composing a shot here, but Lola the dog was feeling territorial  Mt. Adams beyond the shelter  Mt. St. Helens   As night falls, the source of the smoke becomes evident  The scale of the fire is slowly revealed as the sky gets darker  An inferno about the size of a mountain  Swirling winter clouds ride autumn’s cool night air into the valley, like circling predators patiently waiting for a flickering campfire to go out.  Detailed information about the fire can be found here:  http://inciweb.org/incident/3249/

  A soloist improvises… accompanied by the ultimate rhythm section.  It’s Matt’s birthday, and he’s arranged a gathering at the Seaside Hostel, and I’m under the impression that he doesn’t want to draw a lot of attention to the fact that it’s his birthday, but when I arrive (with a bachelor’s token chips, store-bought layered bean-dip and case-O-beer for the pot-luck) a flaming birthday cake is being presented and his musical friends are breaking into birthday song. Later almost everyone participates in (what I believe they call) a ‘Jam’.  I look on enviously, as if watching a favorite T.V. series… but on Spanish T.V. and I’m therefore regulated to reading facial expressions - of concentration, pleasure, and happiness – which all goes to point out how foreign and out of place I am, unable to speak the language. Savoring the hope and necessities of social interaction, I miss the sunset. Later, self exiled to a vast tsunami-plain, I turn to other sources of illumination. Late

Chill evening air assaults patio clientele and bullies those who had forgotten about coats back towards shelter. Body building birds preen and flex. Prescient trees cover the woods in cotton blankets. Fruit hangs heavy. The calligraphy of clouds reveals their inherent schizophrenia. In a kayak, warm… cold beer in hand and not much wind… anyone might briefly humor anthropic principles. Here and there, waterfalls carve out cathedrals… …while a captive river patiently, but unceasingly, seeks escape from temporary prisons. Legions of trees march into the extended twilight. Trees and water…missionaries sent into the wilderness to domesticate ancient, once sterile basalt formations. Grass, in its own way, inscribes a record of the wind onto a transient notebook. And finally, optimistic flowers bloom joyously in a desert…because they can.

Sang the catfish: When I was just a fry in school, I asked my teacher, "What will I be? Should I paint pictures" Should I sing songs?" Here’s what she said to me: "Que sera, sera, Whatever will be, will be; The future's not ours to see. Que sera, sera, What will be, will be." It’s a hard song to sing with a hook in your lip. Scott setting out from the Service Creek Launch Point Photo copyright 2012 by Fred Lee Rivers… …are often perceived as a metaphor for Life. Except in the case of this particular river, we’ve had to acquire a permit to float on it and we’ve exhaustively studied its map ahead of time. Between Kip and Uncle Rico and me, we have GPS locations for where we’d like to end up each day, and we’re pretty sure we know when the trip is going to end. So it’s going to be a very loose metaphor – a three day vacation over a predetermined path. Also unlike ‘Life’, it turns out you’re not