Road-trip to Cove Palisades and Beyond

Clouds, like insubstantial whales, drift almost inquisitively over the high desert plateau. Perhaps they taste the frosty tips of a sorority of mountains, or,  rising on ephemeral flippers to test the bounds of the stratosphere, they glimpse the face of a goddess.

And I, perched on the edge of a reservoir, feel the chill sneak out from the shadows of the vast scar below me, chasing the sun's residual heat out of massive basalt rim-rock back into space.

You'd think the gentle breeze could be the faintest evidence of the turmoil of a planet's atmosphere spinning, on average, hundreds of miles per hour against the vacuum of space, but only because your dilettantish comprehension of vacuums is based mostly on an object named Hoover. Regardless, you imagine it really is the sound of the world turning, and try to feel the ground trembling as it turns away from the light.

Given imperfect knowledge, given mathematical ineptitude, given mistaken assumptions, I still grasp at a sound byte or two that I picked up from Cosmos, and feel a moment of gratitude, maybe even joy, that there is something instead of nothing, even if that something means there will still be work again on Tuesday.

Here at the confluence of three rivers, I explore the canyon carved by the incoming finger of the Deschutes...

...marvel at texts written by lava...

...consider our ingenuity at making reservoirs both with admiration and misgiving...

...am surprised by the color red...

...am confounded by the sheer scale of this body of water, and big though it may be, am chagrined that all the surrounding camp sites are full (according to a ranger).

There's frugal.  And then there's idiotic.

I take idiotic naps along the night highway, furtively hiding on tree sheltered extended shoulders...in fear of the intentions of other night travelers who do not carry screaming orange kayaks on top of their vehicles...waking to the peculiar wail of tires approaching from miles away...a slow-motion crescendo that ultimately drowns out the sound of blood pulsing through veins, the lifelong subliminal background soundtrack I usually only ever hear at 4 a.m.

The sun sneaks up on me from the other side of the world and finds me in a land where deep time is written on hills of colored kitty litter.

It says right on the pamphlet, "Sunset is the best time to photograph the painted hills."

Once again I take a page from the J.J. Abrams book of lens-flare videography.

I try to see the mountains dissolve over the eons...imagine the layers of ash laid down...the animals covered, the rivers of molten basalt...but I can't quite piece it all together, or explain this irregular pocket of color.

Sometimes it's all too clear that in our passing, we leave marks upon the earth ( I hope this isn't the trail of some of those effing photographers).

As the sun leaps above the hills on the horizon, the formerly mysterious and moody landscape takes on a loud and gaudy aspect.

Transitory footsteps on hills of deep time.

Life persistently checking for footholds.

I'm the Decider, and I Decide What's Best.

Out from under the compressed expectations of a short work week, I launch my kayak from Heritage Landing. The fast flowing Deschutes ejects me into the Columbia River Gorge.  I paddle into a stiff wind, the captain of my own fate...for a change.

Moments before, a man with a new jet-ski tied to the shore told me the water was too 'crispy'.

"You mean 'choppy?'", I asked.

"Crispy." he nodded.

But eventually I settle for the adjective 'spooky'.

What looks to me like serpentine standing waves, the massive undulations of a barely submerged plesiosaur, are camouflaged by the spray of wind whipped whitecaps. 

I ride the bucking cryptid as it sweeps me off course.

"Captain of my own fate my ass." I mutter.

Swept, eventually, into the wind shadow of Miller Island, I regain my bearings and make landfall at the first smooth sandy beach I find, which, because the water is higher than usual, means a protracted search.

The wind curves through basalt lined valleys, pushing the heads of the tall grass downward. They bob up and down like blinking fireflies, in dramatic contrast to the tortured skeletons of burnt shrubs.

The island valleys parallel the flow of the river, and hint perhaps their current appearance owes much to ice age flood waters...

...with only the strongest basalt outcroppings surviving the deluge.

Now windswept dunes migrate the length of the island's interior...

...mostly appearing to labor eastward.

Paper cracks rock.

Fire burns paper.

Rock ignores Fire

Click on image to view larger version

08-24-2013    -   07-04-2014

The sun sinks behind hills on the Washington shore. The wind is strong enough to knock me off balance as I step from stone to stone, which isn't ideal from this high perspective.

Using my dumb phone, I call friends with smarter communication devices and inquire about wind forecasts. The lowest wind speeds are expected to occur at sunrise.

You'd think those things would look like frenzied pinwheels.

At about two in the morning, without proper camping gear, it occurs to me that I should also have inquired about the expected night-time temperature.

I also begin to reflect upon the psychological importance of blankets. When I was little, and in fear of monsters, there was no greater comfort than being able to pull my blankets up over my head for safety.

For adults in the wilderness, it works exactly the same... if by monsters you mean the noisy black beetles I discovered with my flashlight...or any number of imagined ticks, spiders, ants, snakes, scorpions, tarantulas and foul tempered beavers.

Click on image to view larger version.

The valley floor at five in the morning.

Because it gets light at four.

Note to self: Remember where you parked.

(Especially if by 'park', you mean  'hide your kayak in tall grass to protect it from pirates'.)

On this particular morning, the clouds take a crack at tessellating, after catching a glimpse of an M.C. Escher book abandoned at a picnic, its pages slowly flipping in the breeze - waving at the sky.

(Editiors Note: See comment number two)

Miller Island Expedition: Columbia River Ghost Cult

My brother Fred sent me a checklist of things he didn’t want to forget for our second attempt at a Miller Island Expedition.

Foil pans
Steak
Beer or whiskey/tequila
Bacon
Shovel
TP
Bug spray
Homebrew
Ghost repellents

Scouting Miller Island from the Lewis and Clark Highway (Washington side of river)

“Ghost repellents?” I asked.

Well, it turns out that Fred had been doing some research and found an old article from American Anthropologist by Wm. Duncan Strong called The Occurrence and Wider Implications of a “Ghost Cult” on the Columbia River Suggested by Carvings in Wood, Bone and Stone. The article, written in 1945, revealed that bone carvings depicting figures with prominent rib cages, a symbol of death, were found in old cremation pits on Miller’s Island.

Excerpts from the article:

“It can be shown that among these peoples there was an old belief in the impending destruction and renewal of the world, when the dead would return…”

“One of the most striking features of Northwest Coast mythology is the occurrence of numerous tales concerning visits of the living with the dead. Many of these narrate purely mythical adventures but quite as frequently they are couched as historical happenings.”

The article goes on to link the exposed-rib style of art with the “…tragic manner and speed with which the native population of the lower Columbia valley disappeared…”

Hell’s Gate channel from the Lewis and Clark Highway (Washington side of river)

I shared Fred’s checklist with my other brother Troy who pulled out his own checklist suddenly as if he had forgotten something. He went down the list, “Sunglasses, goofy kayak hat, suntan lotion and…” he paused with a wicked grin, “…ghost costume.”

Looking up the Columbia to the East. (Miller Island is on the left.)

Together, Fred, Troy and I launched kayaks from the confluence of the Deschutes and Columbia rivers. We steered our expedition-fitted little fleet of recreational craft a quarter mile into the Columbia’s South Channel and into a tricky crossfire of 15-20 mile per hour easterly winds futilely blowing a superficial surface layer of the mighty westward running river back upstream.

Up in front, Troy took on the challenge like a crazed energizer bunny, his paddle dipping to the left and right with the regularity of a metronome on crack. Tall waves infrequently coaxed little girly screams from me - catching me by surprise. Through a stoic grin, Troy expressed the sentiment that if there weren’t any ghosts left on Miller Island, there soon might be.

Then the reels on the cosmic slot machine slowed and stopped with no winning combination on the payline.

Fred capsized.

I had a pump, but it proved to be ineffective in removing the water from Fred’s Pungo. The plastic kayak had no bulkheads – no means of floatation – so that it turned out to be impossible to keep the water from running back into the cockpit. I could see no alternative but to tow him and his kayak back to shore.

But the whole towing theory began to break down when it became obvious that I wasn’t making any progress after a half hour. Meanwhile, Troy was circling, taking care not to become another capsizing victim and collecting various items that were attempting to escape from Fred’s boat. From his perspective it seemed a change in direction was called for. It was difficult to determine what best to fight against, the wind or the current. Above water, the wind seemed to be the determining factor, but I hadn’t really allowed for Fred’s anchor like characteristics and the additional drag of the submerged Pungo. We decided to try going with the flow (probably painfully obvious to more seasoned paddlers).

Fred had been in the water for what seemed like almost an hour and while at last we were making visible progress toward shore, and though Fred maintained he wasn’t cold, I began to consider jettisoning the Pungo. At about the same time, Troy spotted a lone fisherman in a powerboat and headed off to see if perhaps he’d be willing to lend a hand.

Fortunately, the fisherman had just caught a 35 pound bass (Editor's note: The 35 pound bass portion of this account has come into dispute. If the figure '35 pounds' is correct, then the fish in question was likely not a bass since 35 pounds would be something of a record. The fact finder for the Narrative Image believes the fish in question may have really been a Chinook Salmon. In any case, let's just say the fisherman was pleased with his performance for the day, and Scott mangled the details) (Editor's note to previous editor's note: I received the following in an email from Troy. It goes, "[scott], I don't know [word meaning feces] about fish but that guy specifically said he caught a 35 pound bass."), and was therefore willing and able to take time off to also be a rescuing hero.

When Troy and I finally returned to the beach, Fred had taken an accounting of the weather and the state of his gear and his sense of well-being. Much of his clothing was wet and the usefulness of the charcoal briquettes was suspect.

Fred set up camp along the Deschutes. Some might think this decision was spurred by the three of us learning a lesson about being prepared and becoming appropriately cautious. But I think it really had more to do with the easy access to the cleanest outhouse I’ve ever seen with a six roll toilet paper holder, all fully loaded with premium toilet paper.

Miller Island blending into the Washington shore.

With kayaks released from the burden of camping gear, Troy and I headed back out on the water to see if they would handle easier. We soon succumbed to Miller Island’s beguiling siren song – the lure of the unknown – the draw of new horizons.


We made landfall at the site of an old corral and set out on foot to cross the island.

On top of the plateau, looking East to Biggs Junction (Wind turbines on the horizon)

From the North side of the island, looking Eastward toward Hell’s Gate (Maryhill Museum above)

Hell’s Gate Channel

Deer mattress on top of the plateau?

Sand dune interior of Miller Island

Detail of lower right portion of previous image

Deer becoming aware of intruders

Incongruous trees

I had more than my fair share of Fred’s homebrew.
(And I’d do it again.)

Darkness came quickly to the little canyon valley containing the Deschutes. Magnificent stars emerged from the deepening sky and began to outline the contours of our spiral galaxy. Coyotes set about vexing the tame dogs in camp, calling out taunts and carousing like delinquents. All night I imagined a deer was eating grass right outside the rip-stop nylon wall of my tent, inches from my ear. In the morning, no grass was gone.

The river was as smooth as glass (initially). All three of us set out to explore the island.

Another excerpt from the Wm. Duncan Strong article:

Old Wishram informants told us that the deep petroglyphs had been made by their own ancestors long ago and that they represented water animals who were the particular spirits of their ancestors. They said the numerous red pictographs and shallow petroglyphs on the rim rock in the general vicinity were made by a different, very ancient people, and no one knew how they were made.

Still life

Troy (in the red box), takes a divergent path and discovers what he calls a mini-valley of death.

Raptor poop?










We sail on through Hell’s gate…




…and return to the every-day world.

Special thanks to Keith and Bernadette who provided the use of two Pungos, an innumerable variety of healthy chips, and soy enhanced breasts.