Monday Sept 25, 2017
I must write this while it is raw.
When I read that the firefighters where striving
to save the bridge over Oregon’s Multnomah Falls my heart ached. The bridge! A
fire decimating the forest around Multnoma Falls? It can’t be.
When I was eight years old I saw the falls for
the first time, and our love affair was instant. I thought it was the most
beautiful thing I had ever seen. And over the years we often hiked to the
bridge and looked over its cement railing to the tumultuous water spurting out
beneath us. When I was a kid we drove up the Columbia River Gorge, past the
falls, to Portland. Now we live on the west side of the gorge and last Sunday my
husband and I drove down the always exquisite gorge to our little home town of The Dalles.
Mulnomah Lodge, a stone structure with a cedar
roof, sits at the base of the falls.
When flames ripped across the ridge at the top
of the falls, they swept down the hillside, and raced toward the Lodge and all
those cedar shakes.
The
firefighters had their marching orders: “Protect the lodge.”
It was an
exhausting overnight firefight. They brought in sprinkling trucks and drew
water from the creek. The one that made the falls, and flows steadily toward
the Columbia?
See the falls was instrumental in saving its Lodge.
“Multnomah Lodge is the icon of Oregon,” said
Lance Lighty, a Eugene-Springfield Fire battalion chief called in to help
manage the blaze. “We didn’t want Oregon
to lose that. And we weren’t going to let the fire win on this one.”
I couldn’t believe it when I heard that the Gorge
was on fire.
Yesterday when husband dear and I drove to The
Dalles, and passed Multnomah Falls we could see that the bridge and the lodge
was still there. And looking to the bluffs we could see that the burn had been
chased by the wind into a serpentine pattern.
Strange, seeing the scars that were once green
trees, and seeing that portions burned, yet next to it giant green Douglas fir trees
stood healthy.
I heard that the fire jumped the Columbia
River—a mile wide strip of water one would think would be the best fire berm in
the world, but winds being what they are, and cinders floating on currents, a
spark can travel a long way. Thus an area on the Washington side of the river
burned as well.
I was happy to see that the area around the
gorge still had green trees and was still gorgeous, but the fire is still
burning, out of sight of the highway, and about 50% contained. Sunday, however,
the air was clear.
Looking on the bright side, perhaps this fire
will rejuvenate the forest, fertilize the soil, clear the underbrush, and open some
pine cones that only reproduce when fire has melted the wax that binds them
shut.
We must drive by in a year or so to see the
recovery. Some trees will survive. Some
will be gone. Some will grow up from the roots. We’ll see.
My mother and I moved to Oregon when I was seven
years old. We moved from the flatlands of Illinois to mountainous Oregon-- eye-candy
to a flatlander.
The soldier-boy my mother married had enticed
her with images of his home town of The Dalles. It is nestled beside the
Columbia River east of the Cascade Mountain range with its resultant rain
shadow. This leaves The Dalles’ topography close to a barren prairie. In spring,
though, the hills emerge triumphant. The area is known for its fruit, and in
the spring the enormous orchards burst into color, and little wildflowers
sprang up and spring shoots transform the area. The rest of the year, set me up
with eyes that love green.
And as they say, you can’t go home again. You
can, but it hurts.
What was once home isn’t home anymore, guess
that’s the reason they say you can’t go home again. The Dalles feels worn
compared to its life when I was a child, relishing horseback rides, camping
trips, and excursions to the creek to fish.
The Dalles Dam desimated Celilo Falls that narrow
strip of river that was a Native American fishing ground. (A treaty said the
Native Americans could fish there forever.) Once, so it has been said, salmon were so
thick you could walk across the river on their backs.
We have a lot to apologize for.
My husband’s brother said that they used sonar
to determine if the rugged basalt flow that made Celilo Falls still existed
under the lake behind the dam. Some proposed that the rock formation, now
buried under so many tons of water, had been blasted away removing any possibility
of future litigation, for it is a sore point with many people. But the rocks are still there, neither are they silted in as some had surmised. Future generations
may have them back. Someday we will probably have no use for dams. But we will
always have use for a river.
Imagine this: You know how prospectors pan for
gold in creeks? Perhaps those rocks have collected gold dust over the years, the rushing water upstream washing it down to the now buried Celilo Falls.
Does it then belong to the Native Americans?
Ha!
I’m dreaming.
While in The Dalles, we drove past my parents
old property on Cherry Heights, and I didn’t even recognize the spot. It was as
though straw covered.
The house—gone. The terraced lawn my mother kept
so beautiful—gone. The crabapple tree that blossomed, a bouquet in the front
yard, pink flowers along with green leaves that was so gorgeous drivers stopped
to take pictures of it—gone. The cherry orchard, peach orchard, and apricot
orchard—all gone, as were the apple trees that grew abundantly around the
house. And that peach tree in the front yard with its peaches so juicy you could
hardly eat one without choking? Gone.
Don’t go home again. It isn’t there.
The museum where my brother-in-law and wife
volunteer, rather bothered me, not because it wasn’t an excellent museum, and I
do believe in preserving history, but except for the nostalgia I just talked about
regarding my childhood home, and the memory of good times, it is best to look
ahead.
Looking back works if we learn from it, but it
does not provide uplifting thoughts.
I believe in a better world, a forward thinking
world, not holding onto the old ways. But remember how resourceful those people
were, the ingenuity of the men with their farm equipment, the arrowheads of the
Native Americans, the creativity of the women, beading, quilts, some artwork
made from their own hair. These people used whatever resources they had on
hand.
“Gone are the swarms of snapshot-seeking
tourists at the foot of Multnomah Falls. The hordes of hikers are nowhere to be
seen. There are no diners in the lodge. No fight for parking.
“But the
falls don’t need an audience. They continue to roar.”