The Narrative Image

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 protracte...

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 ...

Almost six weeks ago, fire danced across 513 acres of the eastern end of Miller Island . If you compose a picture carefully enough, you can make it look like a surreal image of destruction. But mostly, the biggest difference on the island is that there are more ashes blowing around and it smells like your clothes after you sit in front of a campfire for a weekend. East end of Miller Island as it appeared in May of 2009 East end of Miller Island as it appeared 08-24-13 The fire's path of destruction seems kind of random at first, but then you begin to notice geography and elevation and the gorge's trademark gusting winds, and some things begin to make sense... patterns become recognizable. It isn't always clear why some things are spared. Deer retrace their trails into the singed earth. The sound of brittle grass crunching heralds the approach of bounding deer long before they become visible. The bark on tree t...