The Columbia River Gorge

June 16, 2017

Route 84. The Columbia River Gorge. Day is breaking here, pale sunrise streaks the sky. To the right, the Columbia River, massive and running full, its surface rippling under the wind.

On the very edge of the river, below us, railroad tracks, with miles of freight train sliding slowly eastward. The opposite bank holds a similar train, flat cars holding one and sometimes two shipping containers. Four engines in front of each train, and two behind, provide power. Lining the river, reaching deep and trailing their branches into its life giving flow, are green trees. Their color waves in stark contrast to the barren hills

To our left and right, higher up, much higher up – are they hills or are they mountains? Dry, empty, but for brown grass and small bushes. The surface of the ground is rippled, lumpy, as though a quilt was thrown over an unmade bed. In places, the road cuts through rock, its sheer face rising straight up on both sides, momentarily blocking the river’s view. Partway up the steep incline, an oval opening carved into the rock. What comes and goes through that opening? Lives inside the rock?

Atop the high hills, Indian scouts, long hair blowing in the wind, sit astride durable mustang ponies, alert to any small threat. No, instead, hundreds of massive windmills turn slowly in the wind, controlled revolutions carving unending circles in the wind currents.

This video is from a different trip and location, but same type of turbine.

 (The Trucker and I parked near a rig earlier this week, carrying one giant blade of these windmills. The blade alone is 148 feet long, weighing 23,000 pounds. At the height of its revolution, each blade reaches 400 feet into the air.)

Wind roars down the canyon and presses against the nose of the truck like an unseen hand. The truck sways and bucks, trying to cut away from the pressure. The Trucker sits upright in his seat, leaning forward, forearms resting on the wheel. He is relaxed, yet intensely aware of every sound and vibration; nothing beyond the windshield or underneath him escapes his notice.

High above, the sky that can be seen gradually lightens. Now the ripples on the river’s surface deepen and lift into waves. The railroad tracks curve away from the river, carrying their trains and cargo with them. The mountains lower into hills, showing geometrical patches of green where cultivation has been accomplished. A break in the hills provides a view of the full moon, gliding toward the western horizon, its yellow glow fading to white as it loses the competition against the burning sun.

With ever increasing strength, the wind slaps a mighty hand against the truck. Trees thrash and whitecaps form against the unrelenting force. The Trucker tenses, both hands tight on the wheel, holding it steady as we cross the river. This Passenger is all too aware that the road is just a narrow strip, alone and unprotected, between the waves. Curving back to land, Route 84 hugs the hills again. Rising majestically in the west, Mt. Hood can now be seen, jutting into the sky above a rolling mass of dark clouds, their edges rimmed by light from the east-rising sun.

The road now flows downward. The river widens, marshy areas join it to the bank. Boats dock at its edge. A white tugboat shoves a weighty barge upriver. The hills lower, and carry towns on their edges and ledges. Green and lush, trees are interspersed with the scar of civilization. Rising sharply away from the towns, dry hills reach toward the sky, which is now a brighter, deeper blue. Suddenly round a hill, the Trucker and I come face to face with the newly risen sun.