My Tenuous Connection to Water

In the summer I seek out shade.

In the winter, I get in touch with my inner flower.

If the winter sun should happen to poke a finger through Portland's perpetual cloud ceiling, and if the wind is not blowing at gale-like velocities, I'll throw the kayak on the truck - well O.K. - I'll strenuously leverage it onto the ladder rack (all the while making old man sounds) and head for a nearby river or lake. 

This is how Smith & Bybee Lakes looked two weeks ago. The fickle sun had stopped diddling the clouds by the time I got to the lake, but I had been taking steps to make friends with the rain, even if my camera had not...

...and so I launched my kayak anyway and enjoyed the spectacle of cat-like clouds stalking the Willamette valley, looking for some dry place to lie down.

Sunday, the Sun wasn't teasing anymore. It grabbed the cloud ceiling firmly in two hands and yanked (like a housekeeper yanking the sheets off a hotel mattress) to uncover a radiant blue sky that went all the way up.

But this time, Metro's canoe launch at the East end of Smith Lake didn't come anywhere near to reaching the water, so I drove on to Kelly Point Park and launched into the Columbia Slough from their dirt and gravel boat ramp.

A man in a canoe exiting the slough reported that the tide influenced water had stopped retreating. Anticipating minimum resistance from the Willamette, I chose to head up-river.

The surface of the water started out smooth like a mirror and doubled the number of suns, the lower one flickering and blinking like a strobe light. No matter how I folded the edge of my stocking cap or how low I pulled it over my eyebrows, I was unable to devise a satisfactory brim. While in the gaze of the sun, one could almost believe it was spring. I squinted back into the blinding light, my right eye all closed like a pirate, salty forehead sweat following creases to the corners of my eyes...

...until, sun-tears leaking down my cheek, the river relented and turned a bit and the sun stepped a few more degrees off towards the horizon, and a tiny breeze shattered the river-mirror into amorphous infinite pyramids that scattered the sun's binary stare. I regained my vision.

Once the sun set behind the West Hills, the wind - the real wind - escaped from wherever it had been confined for the day and raced down river to tease me about not wearing my dry suit. The wind's henchmen, the rolling waves, pushed me around to see if they could get me to cry.

Compared to my old Tsunami, I felt vulnerable perched atop the sit-on-top. Wind spawned waves rose out of the long fetch stretching from distant Swan Island. These amplified waves with their impressive running starts would eventually collide with equally impressive bow wakes of loaded barges being pummeled upriver by  tugs . Those waves, in turn, were reflected off various concrete retaining walls resulting in a dynamic chaos which is fun in the summer but less so as dusk falls over very cold water. Since my confidence in my ability to stay upright in a kayak has been pretty much shattered since last summer's John Day trip (when I toured significant portions of the river upside-down), I hugged the shoreline to hide from the wind and made sure I could swim to shore if necessary. When I could recognize them, I steered into the biggest waves, but mostly I just kept on paddling because feeling the water's resistance against the blades of my paddle connected me to the river.

Presumably, this architectural feature was implemented on purpose.

Dark shadows cast from the West Hills chased the last of the day's light up these towers and scared it back into space.

Empty piers with their piling teeth collaborated with tugboat wakes to hamper my progress. I appreciated the wind's inclination not to chase me into darkness.

Without cloud cover, the last of the day's heat radiates out into space inspiring me to apply a wind-proof layer to my ill chosen Spring ensemble. Keeping a wary eye out for tugboats (one is visible to the left of the pilings on its way upriver), I also utilize this brief pause to rig my boat with its running light.

Lights blink on against the fading pastel colored sky. The scene seemed  vaguely Hopperesque to me and I expected to see Dean, Monroe, Bogart or Presley leaning on the railing.

From these outposts, we launch our grains and goods across the Pacific. The scale of our man-made creations is overwhelming when inched up to in a 14 foot plastic boat, but standing mutely beyond the Washington shore, the blasted rim of Mt. St. Helens is a blunt reminder of geologic time scales - how an Earthly burp and shrug can make our efforts moot.

The Portland taking on grain at the Port of Portland in Portland.

If the dust that was blowing over the side of this ship wasn't some kind of wholesome grain...then I'm probably going to get cancer.

Editor's Note: Alert viewer Bernadette gleaned the following information from Kenny Macdonald, Marine Media Relations Manager.

"Thanks for your interest in the Port of Portland. What a lucky day for Scott to see the bulk carrier "Portland" at the Port of Portland! You can track its progress here:

http://www.marinetraffic.com/en/ais/details/ships/shipid:712692/mmsi:538003411/imo:9497854/vessel:PORTLAND

What we are looking at is the 57,000 ton ship at the Port of Portland’s Terminal 5, berth 501 loading at Columbia Grain Inc. for export. At the end of November, year to date totals for Columbia Grain was 2.26 million metric tons of product; mostly wheat, but also barley, corn or soybeans.

Indeed, many of the barges you see going up and down the river are loaded with grain bound for one of seven, deep-water grain terminals on the Columbia or Willamette rivers, including this one at the Port of Portland. The export of agricultural goods, especially wheat, are a big part of our state’s economy. Check out this page about T-5 and our recently-released wheat video!

http://www2.portofportland.com/(X(1)S(tvtdfeu2d2mnxox1g0l0rzvk))/Marine/Terminal5"

I finally reached the kayak launch at Kelly Point park and staved off the presentation of my Darwin Award for yet another day.

My "Personal Relationship" with Smith & Bybee Lakes

Paint a man’s house and he’ll have a nice painted house for about four years.

But teach a man to paint and he’ll be able to make his canoe look like a fish.

-Old Chinese Proverb-

“So…” devil’s-advocate-Scott leads off, “…how do you have a personal relationship with a wetland area?”

“Well…” I reply, “…it isn’t quite as complicated as having an imaginary dialogue with yourself, or believing in an invisible living God who was executed (briefly) in a political dispute with first century Romans…but…I guess what I’m really describing is a certain familiarity with a physical area developed over time.”

“I see,” says devil’s-advocate-Scott (hereafter simply Rational Scott or R.S.), “you’re simply anthropomorphizing the wetland area.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be so dismissive.” I say, sensitive to the smug tones accenting Rational Scott’s immediate conclusion. I continue, “This metaphorical framework for relating to an ‘area’ as an organism may not be entirely unfounded – that is, it may lead to knowledge and understanding – I mean, it’s not out of the question…entirely?” The certitude with which I began my speech slowly dwindled away under Rational Scott’s scrutiny, his eyes laughing beneath comically furrowed brows. Sadly, what I hoped would be a statement finishes as a confidence-less question.

At this point, a wise man would probably just drop it…but it’s me after all, so I keep on talking.

Chris preparing to perform a magic trick – he’s going to make that beer disappear.

I guess you could say it all started when Chris stood up in his canoe to take a piss and tipped over into the water. This made him considerably less enamored with the canoe, and he ended up trading it for my Atari Jaguar, Sega Genesis, and 80 dollars cash. Those particular game consoles date the transaction to approximately 1995.

That’s about how long I’ve known Smith and Bybee Lakes.

That’s a pretty long relationship for me.

Metro’s kayak launch path – almost wholly underwater.

Over the years, I’ve become familiar with their many moods…and come to understand how they are affected by the seasons. For instance, right now, they’re burning the candle at both ends during these longest days of the year, and putting up with a serious water retention issue.

There’s a nature trail that loops around a short peninsula that juts in-between Smith Lake and Bybee Lake. This observation structure on the east (Smith) side of the peninsula is up to its handrail in water.

…and the path leading to it is also submerged.

When the region's winter supply of water is still tied up in the mountain snowpack, the trail looks more like this.

But this spring, melting snow and endless rain have resulted in a path that looks like this.

The bird-blind on the west (Bybee) side of the peninsula is also standing in water.

Comparison shot

Invasive species continually vie for dominance in an eco-system beset by the challenges of being in proximity to vast numbers of people. Despite weeks of flooding, purple loosestrife manages to keep its head above water.

Last year, some channels were completely clogged with it.

And other plant species worked at converting all the water to biomass.

As the importance of wetlands has become understood – its capacity for filtering and cleaning water, its contributions toward flood control and its ability to support diverse wildlife – Metro has made enlightened efforts to impose the seasonal variation of water levels on the area through the installation of a water control structure. While not a perfect science, they do their best to mimic the natural rhythms of seasonal wetlands.

This piece of ‘designed’ wood brings me the message that the water control structure is currently not exercising much control.

The water control structure is completely submerged on my 06-25-11 visit.

Water was already rushing into the lake from the Columbia slough as early as

04-02-11

In August of 2009, water levels were considerably lower.

One of the characters I met at Bybee Lake.

He used to tell better stories in his younger days, when he still had limbs for gesticulating.

Another invasive species – the yellow flag Iris.

These things may look delicate and fragile but are every bit as resilient as those broomsticks in The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.

The Force is strong with this one.

I think this is beautiful.

But I don’t know why I think it’s beautiful.

I used to wonder if maybe preferences for landscapes (lakescapes?) were written into our genetic code somehow – perhaps some instinct that leads us to environments rich with life. I tried to research it a little, but the general consensus is that, given our origins, we’d likely be attracted to landscapes that resemble Africa’s savannahs.

But then again, we have the capacity to supplement our ‘instincts’ with the memory of our experiences (plus those memories available to us from our cultures) and we can play the ‘what if’ game, like, what if I had a fishing pole, or what if there are deer trapped on that peninsula or …remember that last time I caught a big catfish…wasn’t it on blue water as smooth as this where startled carp slapped the bottom of the boat, just like they’re doing now?

The sun presses against the back of my neck with almost tangible fingers, intent on tanning my hide – that is, intent on converting it to leather. I paddle in-between the wading trees and float in the cool air beneath the forest canopy. Here where the trees respire, I feel as if I partake in the breath of life.

Volumes of air move purposefully across temperature and pressure gradients as the sun withdraws its face.

I look for the ribbon that marks my route through the trees to the shore.

My Favorite Season at Smith and Bybee Lakes: All of Them

Those animals that could, followed the sun south. Those that couldn't burrowed into the ground and went to sleep. Immobile trees jettisoned their canopies and learned to bend before the savage winds of winter. And all the while, the Earth continued its NASCAR-like journey around the sun, completing yet another lap and speeding on to the next. 

Standing at the east end of Smith lake, I prepare to launch from the 'new' kayak and canoe ramp that Metro put into place several years ago in deference to the wishes of the rare painted turtles who preferred to keep their slough private. It is cold and dark and calm. The clouds have granted a temporary reprieve and opened the sky to the stars. All night, whatever heat was collected from the previous day has been radiating out into space - no water vapor blankets to insulate the earth.

There is a feeling, perhaps a noise - an announcement that the sun will be rising before it actually rises. Perhaps the air beyond the horizon is heated and warmed and pushed before the sun like a messenger, an exhalation - a breath that stirs the cold still water. And then... a kiss from a star.

The sun lights the world on fire.

The shoreline on a different day is rimmed in ice. The iris from last year, their ‘seed pods’ brittle, continue to cast their progeny into the world like time-release drug capsules. The single seed in the photo, unexpectedly cold for the moment, will later sink into the rich mud with countless others and germinate later at the end of march.

Some of the channels sheltered from the wind are still enough to allow the formation of ice. I paddle through - my canoe a mini ice-breaker - and listen to the novel sounds of ice cracking, and odd hydraulic/ice vibrations…and of tiny ice ‘pucks’ skittering across the surface as my paddles crunch in and out of the water.

I’ve seen sticks lined up like pool cues inside an active beaver lodge. I think that’s just one way they keep snacks on hand to help make it through the winter. When the sun comes out in January, I think even beavers take steps to sit in the warmth, remember the bounty from their last harvest and long for the spring.

In the winter months, our region’s susceptibility to rain results in high (or very high) water levels in the lakes. It’s good to have some kind of a boat to explore the area in the winter.

By March, the plants are beginning to stir. The trees at the waters edge turn from gray to red. The cottonwoods have a hint of green about them; probably both of these color shifts are due to the emergence of buds.

When the water recedes after winter and the ground firms up a little, it is often fruitful to explore the area on foot since the heavy underbrush is gone and the most prolific burr generators have released all their burrs. It is possible to cover a lot of ground fairly quickly and the only troublesome plant you’re likely to encounter will be patches of blackberry thorns.

On any warm day, beavers are likely to take advantage of the situation and resume their tree felling operations. Once a tree is down, they will return night after night and disassemble it into transportable size pieces which they carry away by water, as if they were little tugboats.

By the end of March, it always feels like plants are ready to explode into existence.

The invasive species, the yellow flag iris, is a particularly apt exploder.

May is a prime time to explore the lakes by water. The levels are still high, and nature enters its season of growth. The brush is becoming thick and it will be harder to get around by foot.

This finger of the lake leads to an old beaver dam. By now it is almost a part of the landscape, so overgrown with vegetation and grass, that it is sometimes difficult to recognize its mud and stick core.

The dam looks like a earthen embankment at middle right in the picture above.

Looking back the other way, you can already see how the water level is dropping and how soon, there will only be a beaver dredged channel to reach back to the main portion of the lake.

Some birds build their nests on the ground. This nest was floating when I found it, but I’m not sure if that was intentional or not. It may have been on high ground but was set afloat after an influx of water. There were lots of these nests, all in a similar state. The birds I saw at the time were blue footed ducks, but I have no idea if they belonged to the nests or not.

Above the water…

…on the water…

…and under water

The onslaught of life is universal and all the more impressive for being in this throw-away section of land at the foot of the old St. Johns Landfill.

This sudden teeming life, after the frozen winter when all was gray and still, seems to me to be the basis for all our ideas about life after death and resurrection.

June carries on the nurturing of life with frequent, but warm rain.

Here and there you can see Fall’s contribution to the cycle of new life.

Things grow…ripe.

Towards the end of summer, the exuberance for growth begins to fade as water grows scarce and the sun begins to retreat to the south.

I hadn’t ever seen this much of the water control structure exposed before. It allowed me to paddle my kayak into Bybee lake from the slough that stretches to Kelly Point Park. Ordinarily, you have to portage over the structure. There were only a few navigable channels into the lake, and it was obviously draining, exposed to the tide through an unbroken link to the ocean.

These are the time release capsules manufactured by the yellow flag Iris…waiting to fulfill their function.

As Darwin pointed out, more offspring are produced than can reasonably hope to survive.

The tree's fall display of colors often seems retarded next to the water…like maybe it doesn’t get cold enough to oxidize the sugars or whatever it is that happens so dramatically in other environments. Each species seems to pick out a separate time to change, and within each species, some individuals are ahead of the curve and others obviously procrastinate.

The shadows grow and different life forms appear.

Only skeletons…

…to remind us of the spring.