5/21/16
Before sunset James and I took a stroll down the hieroglyphs
and petroglyphs. The ancient road signs
by which modern people are so fascinated.
“The glyphs functioned as road signs to indicate everything from danger,
water, and food resources.” Read one of the signs posted, about the ancient
signs. I wondered if thousands of years
from now, after all of the planets resources had run out or a meteor had struck
and the human population became scarcer, if people would be marveling at the
yield signs on the side of the road. “No.”
I thought, these are a synthesis of art and communication. I wondered how the people that made them
would have felt. Here I was thousands of
years later. Their ideas and emotions
still as fresh and communicative as the day they had carved them, and me
sitting here wondering over them. It is
a unique ability, I thought, that humans have to communicate with their future. Most animals do not have it.
09:00 we started our morning where we ended our day
yesterday. The Horse Thief Lake are of
Columbia Hills State park. The RV Park
was poorly planned out. The fire rings
were very close to the parking spaces.
My neighbor, thank goodness, did not decide to have a fire at
night. This would have been problematic,
but only if I had not wanted my driver’s side front tire to be melted. The park was loud due to the closeness of the
spaces. The custom of Christmas lights
on RV’s seems to have caught on, and the couple in the trailer next to me had
theirs on full blast all night. They are
pretty, and I like Christmas lights, but just not right outside my bedroom window. The couple had two large pit bulls, and they
were vocal all night. Fortunately the
husband spent the better part of the night attempting to calm them down by
yelling at them loudly to “shut up!”
Much to my surprise James did not even make a peep!
In the morning my neighbor and her husband had an
argument at about 0730. I was already
awake, my compulsion to check my stock prices seems to never turn off. Even though it is the week end, and the
market is not open. He wanted to go
hike, but she wanted to stay there. “It’s
too fucking windy to hike….” She said. I
phased out and read some of my Tich Naht Han book, and a page of the
constitutional law book my grams gave me.
Soon the husband was loading one of their two dogs loudly in to the
truck, and away he went. Good for him, I
thought. Seemed like he needed some
alone time.
John, the overly exuberant camp hose, who it turned
out was from the same town as me, let me know that he had an opening. When I arrived in the evening he told me that
there would only be room for1 night. I
think he half expected me to be angry.
The look on his face when I said I was just happy to have someone to
stop was that of relief. I did not envy
that part of his job, though I often find myself imagining what owning and
operating an RV park would be like. The
night was $35 with full hook ups. Too
rich for my blood, I thought, as I politely declined a second night. I did a quick recon run with the jeep, and
found a nice place to hike up the road at the main entrance of Columbia Hills
State Park. We went back to the bus,
hitched up, and away we rambled.
The pea gravel crunched under my feet as I hiked up
the steep grade. To the south horse thief
butte was quite a prominent land mark. I
had climbed it before with a friend, but from the top it was hard to appreciate
its full size. The sheer walls plunged
downward, the top capped with tall grasses rippling in the gentle breeze. The hike upwards to the top of the hill was
interesting. The ecology had undergone
serious changes since the last big wild fire.
The sage brush had all but been scoured out of the valleys and off of
the hill sides. The grasses and wild
flowers had reclaimed the area and had opened up to put on quite the elegant
show. A phantasmagoria of reds, yellows,
whites, blues and greens were a welcome sight.
I have been to the high desert many times, but rarely have I visited it
in the spring, or in the early summer before the sun has baked the moisture
from the soil and the life from the plants.
Nature is so skilled at being. The grass, and the flowers rise from the pot
ash, even in the austere conditions rendered in the high desert, and on the
rocky mesa tops. The oaks, some badly charred
but still standing by the creek, had already re grown their burnt foliage. I wondered at what the fire must have been
like. I had been to many fires. I remembered my first initial attack work detail
on the Wild land fire crews. Nostalgia
can be such a sweet seasoning for the memory.
That was another life. A distant
memory of smoke, flames, and a high desert mesa top. I dug fire line in the clear starry night sky
of august, after a lightning storm had passed dropping no water.
As we hiked the hills, I thought about the great
floods that had swept the gorge thousands of years ago when the glacial dam had
in Montana had failed. The Clark Fork
section of the Columbia had been blocked then, creating a vast inland lake in
what is now Helena Montana. Time after
time the glacial ice dammed the river, and time after time it failed. Flood after flood scoured the Columbia River
gorge. Carving the rocky cliffs and mesa
tops that make up the gorge today.
Before that the Fissure basalt flow had opened in eastern Oregon and
Washington and burned the land all the way to the ocean. The columnar basalt, and the igneous basalt
had found the low spot then, which was still the river bed. All life must have been destroyed. Scorched to a cinder. The water flowed, and carved its way through
the stone. Life started again. The ice age came. The glacial dam burst, life was again scoured
from the river, and for hundreds of miles around. Life started again. Here I was several millennia later,
contemplating a ‘disaster’ which was already rebuilding its self.
James strained at the leash, as a turkey ran across
the path. We walked slowly ahead, and
the bird flew over us its wings spread wide in the sunlight. I can see why Ben Franklin had wanted the
Turkey to be the national bird for the US.
It was quite majestic perched on a high branch, chirping as it looked
down on us as we passed by.
The hike came to an end at a hill top at about
1,000ft. We looked down upon Horse Thief
Butte, it was a sight to behold. We began our descent as a hiking group,
chattered happily on their way up the trail.
Several prairie dogs scattered as they passed borough nestled amongst
the hillside.
I made a lunch of PBJ, and pears. James snubbed his
dog food, and went to put in his bed. He
only likes hot dog food with bacon. We
headed up the road to Stone Henge.
13:00 “Do you have a pair of jumper cables?” the
hunched man with a lazy eye and scruffy facial hair, who looked and sounded a
bit like Festus off of the old T.V. show Gunsmoke
asked me as he approached my drivers side window. It took me a while to place his accent, and
then I saw his license plate, Idaho. The
parking lot was almost impossible to turn around in. Apparently the people visiting the Marry Hill
museum today were not literate, or just did not give a shit and lick about
parking in places they were not supposed to.
The lanes designated for RV’s and tour busses were full of parked
cars. I was grateful to be able to turn
around, since I could not back up with the jeep on the bus without bending the
tow hitch. I threaded the needle and was
heading out when Festus approached me. I
had taken a wrong turn. Trying to get to
the Stone Henge monument.
I try to “never
do the right thing, but not do the wrong thing either.” It’s a moto I have. It comes from the children’s story ‘If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.’ In the story if you give a mouse a cookie, it
asks for a glass of milk, then if you give it a glass of milk, it asks for a
blanket, if you give it a blanket it asks for a bed….and so on and so forth. I am a cynic. I try not to be, but it’s easy, and I
suppose maybe I enjoy it.
I went against my instincts and said “No, but I can do
you one better. I have a jumper
box. That’s way easier than cables.” Festus was relieved. Despite the parking lot being packed, and
maybe because of his gruff appearance, no one had helped him. I parked the bus in the middle of the exit
lane, maybe I could help people learn patience.
After viewing art on a rainy Saturday afternoon, it would be a good
exercise in mindfulness for them. I got
out, and got the jumper box out of the basement compartment. In no time at all we had the car started. To say the cables were corroded would be an understatement. The copper of the terminal had changed from
shiny gold to dingy green, and an afro of corrosion was growing from what was
left of the battery post. “Man, you need
a wire brush, or a cable cleaner.” I said. “Yeah.” Festus said, in his strange Idahoan
accent. “Where in Idaho are you from?” I
asked, “The people in northern Idaho are nice, not at all like the people
around here. People around here can be
real assholes.” I said. Festus smiled,
“I noticed that when I tried to get people to help jump start my car.” His wife and children were looking out the
windows at us jawing away. “Were from Boise. We brought my mom here because she wanted to
see the museum.” “Well.” I said, “Not
everyone around here is an asshole. I don’t have a battery terminal cleaner,
but I have a copper brush.” I said, as I opened my basement door and pulled a
brush from my tool cabinet. “Oh, no
thanks.” He said “I’ll go to an auto parts store. That terminal needs replaced” As he opened
his door his wife shoved a $20 bill at him.
He tried to hand it to me. I
waved it off. “It’s not being nice if
you get paid for it.” I said. “Have a great rest of your trip sir.” I’m no good at being an asshole.
Eccentric? Maybe. After all, who would build a
complete full scale replica of stone henge, back when hard surfaced roads were
new technology? Samuel Hill was a cattle baron in the early 1900’s boasting
over 6,000 acres of land upon his death.
He served in WWI and returned home a changed man by the horrors of war. Building the monument, to honor his friends
who died in the war, in the hopes that the nightmares they had lived would not befall
future generations. He also built a
museum dedicated to his wife, full of priceless works of art, it still stands
open to the public. I over shot and
missed the turn. I went to the town of
Biggs Junction and re filled with diesel.
Returning to the monument and winding down a long two lane road out to
the point on which it stood I saw a tremendous gathering of motor cycles, both
filling the monument its self, as well as the parking lot.
The
Outsiders a bikers club from Tacoma Washington was having
lunch, and listening to loud music in the parking lot. There were about 75 of them in all. Each on their own bike, some with women on
the back. It was a tight fit, but I was
able to turn my bus around. I found a
place to park, and ate another pear. I
brewed a cup of tea and went for a walk, leaving James to put in his
kennel. I came back and we took a nap,
waiting for the huge crowd to vacate.
After they had gone, I took James out to see the monument. I read the quotes on the monument, one by Sam
Hill, and one by an anonymous person.
People had come so far, and yet here we were, still killing each other
for nothing. When I was young, I had
thought that the monument was ‘cool’.
Now I saw it differently, the act of a dying man hoping that history
would not repeat itself. It was nice
that fate spared him WWII and the rest of the wars since. Sam’s tomb lies just south of the monument,
in a small shrine. "After all of our civilization, the flower of humanity is still being sacrificed to the good of war on the fields of battle."
Samuel Hill
Samuel Hill
We Left the
monument, and headed towards the fishing pull out that we had seen on the way
to it. We wound down the hill side
switch backs, and towards the river bank.
There was plenty of space in the gravel parking lot, and we found a
lovely spot to park with a view of the Columbia. The army corps of engineers runs some great
free campgrounds on the Columbia River.
There were many Native Americans fishing for salmon on the bank, and I
realized that lots of them were living out of their cars. As I walked James and read the sign post by the
boat launch, I realized we were in a native fishing area. This was a native fishing village. They did not seem to care that we were
there. Most of them were smiling, and
talking about their fishing with each other over horse cock sized (24oz) Coors
light beers. We are truly fortunate, I
thought as James and I walked the river bank, watching the willows run their
limbs through the water with the breeze.
I remembered the old Chris Farley skit from Saturday Night Live. “IF YOU SCREW UP YOUR LIFE BY DOING DRUGS AND
NOT GOING TO SCHOOL!” His character proclaimed
to a class of wide eyed grade school kids, “You know where you’ll end up? LIVI’N
IN A VAN, DOWN BY THE RIVER!!!” The
children recoiled in fear. Hmmm, I thought
to myself. Life might not be too bad
living in a van, down by the river.
We had not been parked for more than an hour when
someone knocked on our door. I looked
out cautiously, as always. I opened the
latch and James barked viciously! He would be more intimidating if he had
regular dog legs, to match his regular dog body. My older brother told me that it’s because
they ran out of regular dog days on his manufacture date, so they just used
whatever they had. Hence, James has
short little legs on his regular body.
“You got any gas I can buy man?” came the voice of a scab faced 20ish
year old wearing a flat brimmed hat and basketball shorts. Standing to the left of my door h opened it a
crack, “no.” I said, “I had one that I used to use for my generator, but it’s
gone now.” It was not a lie, I had put the last gallon can of gasoline I had in
to dads riding lawn mower a few days ago.
“Sorry I can’t be of more help.” I said.
As he walked away I thought about siphoning some gasoline out of my
generator for him. He walked off to the
next camper. I settled in for some
reading, enjoying the luminescent silver shimmer of the moon on the river. The price of the camp site was the one I
liked, free.
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