Holy ground

"...And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees, takes off his shoes,..."

- Elizabeth Barrett Browning

IN DARKNESS, at the east edge of Smith Lake, I pushed the canoe off the ice rimmed shoreline into the cold dark water and headed west. An icy whisper of wind stirred up a train of wavelets that gently splashed against the bow and retarded my progress, but the paddling kept me warm. In those moments of transition, as the sky lightened, and the trees began to murmur, I recalled the words from the creation myth that my particular culture endorses.

"The earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the Spirit of God was moving over the face of the waters. And God said, "Let there be light".

I turned the canoe around and stopped paddling. I floated in the middle of the lake and watched the sunrise. I thought I could hear the earth turning.

The wind scribbles patterns in the lake as if it were a finger-painting. In the space of minutes, the water's character goes from spastic to languid. I wonder if the author of the creation myth ever had a canoe.

Turning back around, I see the sun has painted the barren trees with fire. As I draw closer, I am reminded of yet another mythic story.

"And the angel of the LORD appeared to him in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush; and he looked, and lo, the bush was burning, yet it was not consumed."

I know about myths and metaphors. I marvel at the complexity of life as accomplished by the cumulative effects of natural selection. I am sensitive to the beauty of patterns elicited by speeding photons striking the back of my eyes. I even convince myself that I recognize the difference between fiction and truth, that I know the difference between narrative stories and news. Yet some stubborn superstitious, story-telling part of me wants to tell you that in the magic hours of a Saturday morning, I saw a bush that burned without being consumed.

Text and Images copyright scott dietz 2013

Infuriatingly Meaningless Cliches: A John Day River Meditation

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 supposed to leave any poop at the campsites on the John Day River so you have to bring along a special poop bucket (15 bucks and therefore a communal poop bucket) to take it all out with you. The yoke for my canoe, the specially shaped crossbeam with a neck shaped notch in it (that allows me to carry the canoe as well as serve as my seat when I pilot the canoe solo) finally yields to the ever increasing mass of my ass and snaps – an accusatory ‘crack’ echoes back and forth across the valley walls. Fortunately, the poop bucket makes a handy alternative captain’s chair. There’s gotta be a sermon in there somewhere – piloting my canoe down the river of life from the vantage point of my poop bucket – but I don’t see it yet.

Kip in his trusty Marauder, taking a veritable bounty from ‘Life’

Uncle Rico in his beer ladened Aqua-pod, displaying his fishing form. Since beer is not naturally found on this section of the river and comes from ‘beyond’, then metaphorically speaking, the freezing cold cans symbolize blessings or answers to prayer.

We coated small-mouth bass filets in Louisiana fish-fry powder/breading and pan fried them. It was maybe the third time in my life that I was able to make a meaningful contribution to a community meal by using my fishing ‘skills’.

Capturing, killing, cooking, sharing and eating fish…is probably the original idea Jesus had when he came up with communion.

After eating fish in this fashion, I’d like to punch Ronald MacDonald once in the face for each filet-O-fish sandwich I ever bought and shout, “liar!” 

It was hot out, and even after the sun dipped down below the hills and the frogs began broadcasting their incessant demands for sex up and down the river, there was no appreciable change in the temperature. So I decided to follow Uncle Rico’s example and sleep out under the stars sans tent. Even then, the sleeping bag proved to be too warm and so I unzipped it completely and used it like a blanket…and there under moonbeams so harsh they cast shadows, I learned that I was by no means at the top of the food chain.


The whine of tiny insect wings, the gentle tickling of a spider’s legs, and the unidentified scuttling noise that made scorpions live in my imagination left me feeling like a defenseless piece of meat, a few pounds lighter in the morning due to blood loss.

Set amidst barren, sometimes painted hills, it soon becomes evident that rivers aren’t metaphors for life….they are life. We are like red blood corpuscles that must continually interface with the Earth’s circulatory system.

Kip casting in the cool of dawn before the sun finds us in the shade of the valley.

Kip and Uncle Rico standing on the shore of camp number one, monitoring the cat fish lines.

The catfish eyes the pliers and tries to puzzle out their purpose. While not as sharp as a hook, the pliers do have a jaw-like aspect to them and the catfish feels a growing sense of unease. He tries to whistle a happy tune, but his lips are too dry. Instead, the catfish whispers agonizingly:

It is what it is.

Sometimes, I just don’t have words.

Towards afternoon of the second day, towering anvil shaped clouds stood here and there on the horizon, bobbing and weaving, looking for a way into the valley. 

The shade provided by a passing cumulonimbus cloud was welcome.

We paused to enjoy the warm rain…

…listened to the thunder tumble down the hills…

...watched impossibly large raindrops splash into the river.

Photo copyright 2012 by Fred Lee

Kip finally qualifies for his submarine commander license.

Horses greet us at campsite number two.

Uncle Rico and a Catfish – the catfish is on the right.

The sun kisses the mountains goodnight - leaving a brief warm, red-lipstick imprint.

Thank you Earth.

You were a wonderful host.

CHEMEKETAN CANOE-KAYAK EXCURSION @ SMITH & BYBEE LAKES

Sooner or later even my Dad recognized that, come spring, the yard needed some attention and the hedge some trimming. After the inexpert botanical butchering was complete and a chaos of slaughtered plants lie piled on the sidewalk, it would fall to me and my brother to load all the debris into the bed of the old orange and white Studebaker.

Then Dad would fire up the relatively newer Ford LTD station wagon (featuring less than convincing wood panel decals) and butt it against the front of the Studebaker so the jumper cables would reach. Somehow, between the three of us, all the buttons and pedals of both vehicles would finally be manipulated in concert to resuscitate the old pickup and bring it roaring to life amidst oily smoke and un-muffled mechanical despair. The fact that the gas gauge had always been broken only seemed to add a certain element of excitement to the adventure as Dad and his two little co-pilots would begin what could very well be a one way trip out to the old St. John’s Landfill where all the rest of Portland would come to dump their garbage for another decade.

Now that big pile of garbage still stands menacingly beside Smith and Bybee Lakes, its feet carelessly dangling in the water and its immense crown thinly disguised under an artificial looking veneer of real grass.

This location is where the canoe and kayak division of the Chemeketans arrived to explore what are now considered to be the largest seasonal wetlands within an American city. Chemeketa is an Indian way of saying ‘meeting place’ and was once used to describe that area of land now known as Salem. It probably isn’t a coincidence that the Chemeketans are an organization out of Salem that likes to gather together to partake in outdoor activities.

The Chemekatans I have met so far have been extremely friendly and were willing to let me tag along on what was billed as an easy and educational paddling experience. Their group is sprinkled liberally with various experts in scientific topics having to do with botany and uh…accounting, and other outdoorsy related studies. If they don’t happen to have a resident expert on the topic at hand, they often go to the trouble of befriending one.

One of the things I learned is that, as people alter a landscape, say by putting a giant landfill in it for instance or by adding little dams here and there, there are often unanticipated results. Smith and Bybee Lakes are the victims of many such tinkerings. I won’t go into all the details, but I will say that our attitude towards landscapes once considered to be mosquito ridden worthless swamps has evolved as we’ve come to understand the roles such wetlands play in purifying and straining waste from the environment and helping to mitigate flooding. Maybe think of wetlands as if they were a giant liver. Simply artificially altering the level of water in the lakes has given several invasive species of plants opportunities to proliferate.



Parrot Feather, evidently one of the invaders, originally hails from the Amazon River. If you try to kill this plant by hacking at it with a machete, all the little pieces can take root and grow, just like that broom Mickey Mouse tried to destroy in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice.




Several electricity transmission lines march through the middle of Bybee Lake.


The inter-lake trail includes two viewing platforms. This one, facing west on Bybee Lake seems best designed for bird-watching.


The water control device at the intersection of Smith and Bybee Lakes proved to be a frustrating obstacle to really large carp anxious to enter the lakes.




Due to sewer overflows and accumulating PCBs, carp are about the only things willing to swim in Smith and Bybee Lakes…

… oh, and Chemeketans.

Inflated water levels caused by floods or by well intended dams have had an impact on the livelihood of some trees. Over the years I’ve witnessed the gradual disintegration of this old fellow.



High waters subsequent to flooding in 1996 resulted in optimal conditions for a beaver population explosion. Now that Metro is endeavoring to maintain the Lakes as seasonal wetlands, there doesn’t seem to be as many beavers. Still, exploring the ‘fingers’ of the lakes reveals several beaver architectural artifacts, some of which show signs of continuing beaver activity.

Here is how a beaver dam looks today.

Here is how the same dam looked back in 2003.

This natural dam and its reservoir have turned out to be the staging ground for another very successful invader…the yellow flag Iris.





So much vegetable matter grows in the rich mud and sediments trapped by this dam, that it is hard to recognize that it is a dam and not some geographical feature. Water trickles over the dam at a low spot revealing its wooden stick core.

In 2003 it was much easier to tell that this was a beaver dam.

By the middle of summer, there will likely be no water here below the dam save for a beaver dredged canal system that will lead back to the main body of Bybee Lake.

Back out on Bybee Lake with Mt. Hood evident in the background.

We set out for the willow concealed passage to Smith Lake.

We didn’t see any turtles.

For more information about the Chemeketans, visit http://www.chemeketans.org/