The Narrative Image

I set out for The Dalles last Saturday to track down some more examples of native American rock art (I'd been given a few leads - thanks Mr. Colman), but driving east on I-84, I didn't fail to notice that the Columbia River was as smooth as glass all the way from Portland to Biggs Junction and probably beyond. This phenomenon was not entirely unexpected (witness the kayak strapped to my vehicle). The miraculous conditions persisted as I sped up the gorge. By the time I passed Celilo Village , my plans to correlate GPS coordinates with actual physical locations were mostly forgotten. The brilliant blue water was calling to me like early morning flat water calls to water-skiers.  Note to literalists: When I say the water was calling to me, I'm employing a metaphorical device and by no means am I suggesting that water can actually talk. Even my brother Fred would have a hard time managing to capsize in this. Some months ago, wildfire danced impulsively