the feather of the turkey vulture
beacon rock
columbia river gorge, washington
I head out on Memorial Day, no destination in mind, thoughts of my friend George in my head, his gruff voice still speaking to me even though he passed the other day, especially his gripe about how people have forgotten the meaning behind Memorial Day, the real reason they get the day off. It’s not for planning a Memorial Day mattress sale or a picnic at the beach.
Not everyone appreciated George and his ways. I thought he was the best, one of the greatest humans I’ve ever met.
The rain today seems part of George’s presence, like a message to those who never heard his words. If someone planned for a day in the sunshine, they should’ve planned otherwise.
I head out Highway 84, stop at the pub in Cascade Locks. When a place is filled with Lotto machines and an empty dining room, you can’t expect much, but the walls are filled with charts of the Columbia, and the coffee is warm.
I study the charts and eat my breakfast, watch the downpour splash the sidewalk, rippling down the window. It’s showing no sign of stopping.
I need to lose the state, pay the dollar and cross the bridge into Washington, head west. When I pull over, the rain suddenly stops.
This was the location of Fort Rains, named not for the weather but rather for Gabriel J. Rains, the inventor of the land mine. The fort was build in 1855, and was one of the few structures in this area to survive the “Cascade Massacre” of 1856, when members of the Yakama, Klickitat, and Cascades nations attacked settlers along this area. From the native’s perspective, the two-day siege was the most successful attacks of the Indian Wars of 1855-1956.
While Fort Rains survived the attack, it was abandoned a few years later. Soon after, the military focused on the Civil War.
After that, trains came to this area, the first railroad along the Columbia, initially powered by mules, later by steam engines.
I scissors my legs through the barbed wire, step over the tracks to the banks of the Columbia.
By the river, I come upon a rare site, three turkey vultures perched on the treetops. These scavengers are perhaps the smartest of all birds, know to stay away from humans–likely because humans do stupid things. Even when biologists and filmmakers bait the ground with dead animals, the turkey vulture will usually soar on elsewhere to avoid humans.
Of course, there’s a reason to stay today. Even a human can sense the methane in the air, the presence of carrion nearby.
While these vultures are hated, this stench (and diseases to go with it) would be common without the clean up crews of this scavenger–the only vulture native to this area. And while up close, this bird might not have the best-looking mug, they’re quite the cool sight when rising on the warm air currents, or perched on trees.
The crows taunt the vultures, dive-bombing at the larger birds, but the vultures hold their ground, spread their wings to show their size.
Soon, the hills on the Oregon side of the river fade under storm clouds, the sky darkens and the birds depart. I follow the cue.
By the time I reach my car, the downpour returns. I drive on to Beacon Rock, grab my poncho and hike toward the top.
This rock is the inner core of a volcano that blow its stack 57,000 years ago. The mountain likely lasted until the Ice Age. During that time, massive flood roared down the Columbia, carving out the V-shaped gorge to its present shape, and this same flood washed away the volcano, left behind this rock. When these floods filled the gorge, only the top of this rock stood above water, an island in the river.
The natives called this rock Che-che-op-tin. William Clark first coined it Beaten Rock, but changed it to Beacon Rock when Lewis and Clark passed by it again on their return trip. Early settlers called it Castle Rock, but of course Clark’s title became the official name in 1916. Around that time, Henry Biddle bought the rock for a dollar and built the path to the top.
As I wind around the massive rock, my thoughts return to George. I sense that he’s with me, and I think he’d be okay with how I’m spending the day, but the rain seems like a reminder. He wasn’t a complete hard-ass with his views about Memorial Day, just wished people would at least recognize the meaning behind it, and not complain when it rains on their picnic.
When I step up to the summit, the rain stops. The sun appears, and through the only clearing, a rainbow stretches across the mighty river.
Oregon Roadtrips 