After the Storm

When I last wrote I was bound for New York City to run the marathon, packing running shoes and a lot of misgiving. An hour after I arrived in Brooklyn, they made the announcement that the race had been cancelled. It was the right and obvious call to focus the City’s resources on the suffering multitudes and not on a run. Finish line ponchos went to people freezing without power, New York Road Runners collected and donated millions of dollars, and runners staged a donation-based marathon around Central Park. I got to help a tiny bit with CityMeals, delivering some meals to elderly New Yorkers. And without the subway to zip around visiting various friends and places of interest like I normally would, I stayed much more local. (I ran across town to visit a friend and my favorite donut shop.) One night I wandered down to the water and found a haunting Lower Manhattan still without power. Even the Statue of Liberty was in darkness. I walked along the river, up to and across the Brooklyn Bridge.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the River Trail, Part II of IV

It’s a given that going anywhere in this town, and by town I mean Portland proper, its minor burghs, its places of river front industry, and its great area of green-banked river channels, you’re going to be bombarded by birds of the best caliber. We’re lousy with bald eagles, osprey, and herons. And then of course you have a jambalaya of other players, all sorts of bush tits and flickers and warblers and prancers and dashers. Ask Crash, he’s a bird nerd, he’ll tell you.

So it was with an eye on the skies that we set out paddling. What we didn’t expect was to find this little guy washed up on the beach!

He was a painted box turtle, and he was supposed to be in the mellow backwaters of the island we were on. Somehow he’d gotten himself into maelstrom of Columbia. We gave him a little rest and warmth and set him back on the beach.

He charged back in to get hopelessly thrown about.

I fished him out, asked if he was sure, and set him down again.

And again he skittered into the thrash. If you want I’ll tell you that he was probably washed into some calmer waters and is happily sunning himself on a log right now.

Crash has a way with winged creatures besides birds it seems.

Speaking of birds.

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How exquisite to possess a form based entirely on the principle of flight. And flair. Where you are a signifier of grace as others observe you, and an active perceiver of the miraculous yourself.

Next time On the River Trail: Flotsam and Jetsam

On the River Trail, Part I of IV

It’s high summer in the Pacific Northwest. Tomatoes hang heavy, rivers run low, and the heat is a golden delectable light. But the sun is well on its way south, leading the geese; the shadows steal warmth, and getting out into the shortening days has a sense of urgency.

Heeding the call, my buddy Crash MacClanahan and I took to the Lewis River for a bit of paddling, a bit of sipping beers on the water’s face in defiance of the coming cold, a bit of marveling at this great cerulean wilderness. Our course would takes us under a railroad bridge, down the Lewis River, across the mighty Columbia to the lighthouse beach at Sauvie Island, back across the Columbia and up Lake River, and at last back down and then up the ol’ Lewis.

This was our noble craft, belonging to Crash and his wife J Motzingham.

 

 

The paddle down the Lewis was tranquil as the day was warm, the river bottom at times a mere couple feet below us. After a mile or so we met the Columbia, where the lazy flow of our Lewis collided with the vast heave of history surging for the sea. We dipped into the chop and hauled ourselves across to Sauvie Island. There we landed on empty beach, our seamans legs unused to solid ground. But we managed to  hike sandwiches and beers to investigate the light house point. Ahoy Crash, what do you see?

 

 

 

 

The Columbia is a major shipping channel. Especially exhilarating are the giant box tankers that charge up and down the river, delivering shiny new cars to massive port lots. I was hoping to see one approaching, and challenge it to a race. Unfortunately they were too cowardly, but Crash did spy a barge and its accompanying tug approaching from downriver. Life jackets on, stow the Newman O’s, back into the drink!

 

 

 

 

The race was on! We paddled pell mell, laughing uproariously into the spray, visions of being keel-hauled dancing in our heads. Just when I thought it was going to be a razor’s edge finish, the bastard angled for deeper water and allowed us to escape disappointingly death-defiant free. Crash remains vigilant.

 

 

Mainly for birds, but also for danger!

 

Coming up in Part II: Fellow mariners we salute you.