WALLULA GAP: Bottleneck of the Ice Age Floods

When you first hear about how 15,000 years ago, glacial Lake Missoula broke free of its ice dam and raced across the Mid-Columbia Basin – some 500 cubic miles of water traveling at speeds of up to 80 miles an hour – you’re tempted to say bullshit.

That’s what most scientists thought when J. Harlen Bretz first proposed his theory of a great “Spokane Flood” in the early 1920s. But 30 years later, after he and others collected more evidence, and after the advent of aerial photography made it possible to recognize giant “current ripples” in suspect landscapes, scientific opinion began its necessary shift.

On a recent trip to the tri-cities, I spent time in the Horse Heaven Hills, south of Kennewick in order to see some of the evidence for ancient cataclysmic floods as laid out in Bruce Bjornstad’s guidebook, On the Trail of the Ice Age Floods.

Evidently, the Horse Heaven Hills form the defining southern rim of the Mid Columbia ‘Basin’ and when the floods came, the only way through this barrier was the relatively tiny, two mile wide, Wallula Gap.

Driving up the Columbia Gorge in early April was almost a metaphorical journey from darkness to light. Portland lay under its omnipresent gray overcast sky, an ambiguous ceiling that extended almost all the way to The Dalles. But eventually my weary truck broke out into the open, under painfully bright, blue skies where freshly weaned clouds floated peacefully in vast herds, grazing on invisible water vapor.

Pivot irrigation lends credence to the idea that spring has decided to hang out in Kennewick this year.

An idea that is easily dispelled around the next corner

I keep trying to decide if these are pretty or not…and I’m leaning towards pretty.

The trailhead to the Wallula Gap overlook lies on private property. The owners are very accommodating to hunters and hikers and have posted friendly signs that say (provided the bullet spray is light), “Hey, come on in and hunt if you want…just don’t stay overnight.” 

It’s just an extraordinarily bad place to wear an antler hat.

With no clear sense of direction and no compass, my first attempt to find the overlook trail failed.

…and those innocent clouds that had been feeding all day had been transmogrified into something somewhat more threatening.

A mini deluge ensued as the moon fought to ascend over the gap.

Moonrise over Wallula Gap

These long straight valleys are thought to be the result of floods that, “etched out the weaker basalt along one of many tectonic fractures that run through this area.”

On track and steadily gaining elevation (the city of Pasco receding in the distance).

Approaching the overlook.

Bjornstad writes that this cliff would still have been 80 feet under water at the height of one of the Ice Age Flood events.

The distinctive double pillars (Twin Sisters) and the surrounding tortured landscape are thought to be the result of backed up flood waters (from temporary Lake Lewis) squirting through the only available pathway to the sea.

This erratic granite boulder sits atop a plateau of black basalt that comprises the Wallula Gap.

An improbable journey.  A stowaway from a Montana Iceberg.

Muddy water from the Snake River mixes with the Columbia.

Temporary Lake Lewis would have buried the Tri-cities under 800-900 feet of water for almost a week before it would have drained out via the Wallula Gap. The arrival of Homo sapiens on the North American Continent is thought to have been made possible by a land bridge in the vicinity of Russia and Alaska. The land bridge appeared as more and more water got tied up in the continental glaciers of the Ice Age and sea levels receded. Evidence suggests this human migration happened 25,000 years ago – maybe 50,000.

It makes me wonder if there were witnesses to these floods – if early settlers – perhaps whole cultures - were swept away before they learned to read the stories recorded in this area's geology.

Notes:
See also Washington Road Trip - Only two CDs: http://thenarrativeimage.blogspot.com/2009/08/washington-roadtrip-only-two-cds.html for pictures of more Ice Age Flood artifacts including, Palouse Falls and way at the end, Frenchman Coulee, Agatha Tower, and The Fingers 

Most of the data regarding the Ice Age Floods is from Bruce Bjornstad's book, On the Trail of the Ice Age Floods: http://www.keokeebooks.com/IceAgeFloods.html

An excellent source for information regarding Ice Age Floods is Huge Floods.com: http://hugefloods.com/LakeLewis.html  I've linked to the page that describes Lake Lewis, but don't stop there. Huge Floods.com also features the paintings of Stev H. Ominski who tries to imagine what the Floods looked like.

Here is a link to the Ice Age Floods Institute. http://www.iafi.org/

For an impressive visualization of an Ice Age flood at Washington's Dry Falls, see: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OqUyAFZFyVo

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.