A sliver of impotent moon puttered so peripherally on a path near the southern horizon that normally shy stars blazed – emboldened - as they spun and twirled in their 14 billion year old cosmic dance - not even tired yet.
* * *
Like anecdotal stories of old time buffalo herds covering the plains, Winnebagos so numerous they can’t be counted inundate the Columbia Gorge – fleeing from smoke filled, sweaty cities. It is almost as if it were the last day to camp… ever. Overnight, a sanctuary for coyotes and ravens is transformed into a crowded metropolis where rangers (and later, cops) argue circularly and at great length with belligerent drunks. As a muted sun in a copper sky sinks behind canyon walls, the ignition of thousands of Coleman lanterns makes a collective sound like a windstorm. Even so, at dawn, I find an island of calm away from the sea of suggestibles – the restless crowd conforming to the dictates of twelve month calendars (of which I’m evidently a part, or would be if I used a calendar.)
* * *
A fierce defensive arsenal suggests that something precious is at stake -something worth protecting – something worth taking.
I struggle to my feet, take two more steps and fall again, harder than before, and slide into a patch of cactus. Like some enraged porcupine, they quill me. During the fall, when I tried to save myself – tried to balance… my right knee screamed and failed. So I lay there, quiet and still, postponing the pain-accounting, letting the hot sun soothe and console me…thinking maybe I’ll just wait until I get thirsty or hungry… or curious.
* * *
I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire--why, it appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors.
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet Prince of Denmark (Hamlet act II, ii)
When you realize how perfect everything is you will tilt your head back and laugh at the skly. ~Buddha
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The remnants of a plague of grasshoppers haunt patches of brittle golden grass atop barely stabilized dunes. They’d be all but invisible except for their tendency to jump in response to motion. They are very good jumpers, but not so good at planning. It never occurs to them to jump away from danger…they just jump. The result, as I limp along the slopes, is that I’m pelted with a fixed percentage of all the panicked grasshoppers reacting within an eight foot radius
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I compare the grasshopper’s survival strategy with my own:
It takes me more and more time to gain elevation, so when I see deer effortlessly bounce up the hillsides, I begin to suspect magic.
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An Army Corp of Engineers’ sonar scan of the area shows that the falls are still intact under the surface of the water.
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…but just three months ago, the flow rate of the Columbia on the verge of flooding revealed echoes of long hidden rapids in the form of massive standing waves at the threshold to hell.
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Mineral deposits and perhaps centuries of weather have contributed to the appearance of these paintings. Is the ray-arced figure entering into or emerging from light, or is that an accident of time – a spurious interpretation based on errant minerals. The ray-arced stick figure clearly has more head accouterments than the other figures in this grouping. Is it reasonable to deduce the ray-arc is a sign of status? Are they performing a jumping dance?
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A variation on a theme – a ray arc hat with nucleated rays. Note also the stylistically different animal with tree –like antlers.
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This area has a long history. Cattle grazed here. Evidently, wood fence posts were something of a luxury.
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These small birds use fractured columnar basalt like other birds use trees. They seemed overly suspicious of my intrusion and continuously monitored my activity. I could not always see them, but I could hear their wings flutter as they darted about, striving always to be stealthy.
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Exploring the shoreline, I discover a lone head of cabbage. I am certain it is not indigenous to this island so I try to account for its presence. My favorite theory is that, enroute from the cabbage farm to the sauerkraut factory, this head of cabbage managed a daring escape from the cabbage truck, perhaps timing a leap as the truck crossed a bridge, and somehow bouncing or rolling into the river where it swam to this bandit cave.
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Regularly spaced trees in single file suggest humans are repeatedly attracted to this area and can’t help but tinker.
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The Dalles
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But I suppose I would be shy too if the entire metropolitan population of Oregon (except for those folks camping east of the Dalles
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Cape Lookout sticks two miles out into the ocean…
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* * *
Desert still lifes
* * *
The remnants of a plague of grasshoppers haunt patches of brittle golden grass atop barely stabilized dunes. They’d be all but invisible except for their tendency to jump in response to motion. They are very good jumpers, but not so good at planning. It never occurs to them to jump away from danger…they just jump. The result, as I limp along the slopes, is that I’m pelted with a fixed percentage of all the panicked grasshoppers reacting within an eight foot radius
Stimulus Grasshopper Response Scott Response
Giants/Boss Jump/Run away Buy pizza/Eat pizza
* * *
It takes me more and more time to gain elevation, so when I see deer effortlessly bounce up the hillsides, I begin to suspect magic.
* * *
I’m looking for a particular rock painting. I’ve memorized a series of clues from an archeology book. I need to be able to see both Mt. Hood and Celilo Falls , but I can’t see Mt. Hood Dollar Lake
* * *
Today, Hell’s Gate looks like heaven (if you like desert-like landscapes)…
Hell’s Gate. Not just an arbitrary name.
* * *
I’m unable to find the artwork I was looking for. But I do revisit previously found galleries. I sit and look and take photographs. I leave and return when the light changes and the shadows shift and look all over again. These sites look as if they were established locations that invited repeated artistic contributions. Images are painted in red, white, black, and some are even pecked, carved or scratched into the rock. Some images overlap. Are the overlapping images added story elements? Revisions? Historical Records? Signs? Arguments? Consensus? Reiterations of a culture’s treasured myths? Is the common ray-arc symbol – that umbrella like feature over the heads of stick figures – supposed to remind us of the sun? Does it denote political or spiritual power? Is it a chief’s feathered head-dress? Does it suggest power? Is it good or bad?
The pecked stick figure with crowning ray-arc is more boldly represented in the rock than the spiral object at upper right. Which came first? Are the figures related? Is the spiral object really a spiral, or is it concentric circles? What are the rules for adding rays?
Just beautiful.
I challenge you not to look up.
* * *
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The river shows off its kaleidoscopic vision of the shore.
* * *
Upward pointing arrows...
...coincidence?
* * *
* * *
The Coast – Land of shrouded mystery and slugs
Typically photogenic, the ocean manifests privacy issues over the holiday.
…not that I ever really saw the ocean.
I finally found a hiking partner that I can keep up with.
Not the best day for whale watching.
Above the clouds, you can see all the way to the end of the world.
Beneath the clouds at Cape Kiwanda
Marine air sneaking inland through river valleys under cover of night.
