The Columbia Gorge

  Portland, Oregon, United States
Tuesday, October 31, 2006

When the Corps of Discovery under the command of Lewis and Clark paddled down the Columbia River in the late summer of 1804, they found a river of salmon-rich waters, aboriginal fishermen and impassable rapids. During the twentieth-century the U.S. Army Engineering Corps constructed a series of dams and locks, thus opening the river to shipping.

Today the Columbia is a long chain of man-made lakes; salmon is an endangered species; and the native peoples who used to depend on the fish have long-since been moved elsewhere. Though barges still ply the river, most produce is transported downstream on the railroads that run along its banks. Forty percent of U.S. wheat exports pass through the port of Portland, Oregon, on the lower reaches of the Columbia.

I spent my first night by the Columbia camped out, beneath a star-filled sky, at a beach on its southern shore, ten miles east of Umatilla, Oregon (pop. 4,978). The sweet sound of water lapping gently on sand lulled me to sleep.

By contrast, the crackle of gunfire roused me from my slumber the following morning. A man, who was camped nearby with his dog, explained that there was a firing range just beyond a nearby ridge. The firing went on as the man told me his story, which had all the makings of a bad Country and Western song. Since his wife had kicked him out, two years previously, he'd been camping out across Oregon, moving on, in accordance with state campground regulations, every fortnight or so. All he had in the world was a Golden Labrador, a beat-up old car, a tent and a few simple possessions - I couldn't blame him for seeming so deadbeat.

After a chilly bathe down at the river's edge I said goodbye to my erstwhile neighbour and pedalled west in search of breakfast. To my dismay a headwind of considerable force was blowing up the valley. By the time I arrived on the outskirts of Umatilla an hour or so later I felt absolutely ravenous.

After taking on some carbohydrates at a gas-station breakfast-counter, I crossed a bridge to the opposite shore of the river and turned west onto Washington 14. Dark clouds closed in as the wind gathered strength. I hadn't gone far when a carload of whooping rednecks sped by and a bottle sailed through the air towards me before exploding into a myriad of glass-shards. I was still taking stock of this aggression when a farmer pulled over to offer me as many apples as I could take from the back of his pick-up. I stuffed half a dozen into a pannier-bag and pedalled on, feeling nonplussed. Then the heavens opened and cold rain poured down. I kept my head down and continued pushing the pedals, seeking out the next milepost. A steady stream of trucks hurtled by, each one spraying me with freezing water and reducing me almost to standstill with its back draught. I put away my wet useless glasses and followed the blurry white line along the shoulder, the dirt in the spray stinging my eyes. After fourteen miles of discomfort a truck stop appeared and I went in to enjoy a brief respite.

The waitress who brought me a cup of hot coffee was incredibly rude but I soon realised that she treated all of her customers exactly the same. I finished my coffee and wished her a nice day. Outside, I laughed along with a truck-driver who'd experienced her contempt as well. For a brief moment I harboured hopes that he might offer me a lift but the moment passed and his truck disappeared along the highway.

I struggled on, into wind and rain, periodically molested by passing trucks. The highway wound its way back and forth across a bleak grassy moor for a further fourteen miles. Finally, late in the day, an islet topped by a steep grassy knoll came into view. I limped across a causeway and into the lonely campground at Crow Butte feeling as if I'd been shat on from a great height. That night I prayed for better times ahead.

The Columbia River near Roosevelt WA

My supplication went unheeded, for the next day dawned to reveal a dark threatening sky. On leaving the shelter of the wooded campground, I was exposed to the full vigour of a brutal headwind that was blowing up the valley from the west. I gritted my teeth and dug in, my head low to reduce resistance. After much effort I reached the first milepost of the day - just as the first spots of rain began to fall.

As on the day previous, truck traffic was steady - one after another they rumbled past. The theme of a well-known road-movie, starring country singer Kris Kristofferson, came to mind:

'Cause we got a little convoy
Rockin' through the night.
Yeah, we got a little convoy
Ain't she a beautiful sight?
Come on and join our convoy
Ain't nothin' gonna get in our way.
We gonna roll this truckin' convoy
'Cross the U-S-A.

Enveloped in a cloud of spray, pummelled by a forceful back draught, I ground to a halt again. As the back of a truck receded into the distance I envisaged a bearded Kristofferson behind the wheel with Ali McGraw, dark and smiling, at his side. My patience had expired: 'F**k you and your convoy!' I screamed into the gale.

And so I continued, mile after tedious mile, through wind and rain until, at last, the sun peeped out from behind clouds and began to dry my sodden clothes. White horses pranced across blue water; yellow flowers speckled barren hillsides; and I imagined that I was by some sea-inlet on the west coast of Ireland, enduring a warm wet wind that blew in from the Atlantic. I longed for a bowl of stew, a pint of stout and a turf fire.

A dozen or so wooden houses clustered behind a line of poplar trees at Roosevelt (pop. 79). It was a tiny, God-forsaken place with a rail-depot and a bar that served burnt pizza. The waitress informed me: firstly that, according to the forecast, the wind was forecast to gust at up to fifty miles an hour for the rest of the day; and secondly that there would be no services along the highway for a further thirty-two miles. Chewing on a blackened crust, I consulted map and watch. It had just taken me three hours to cover eighteen miles. I felt utterly exhausted.

I stood by the side of the highway with my thumb out. I was hoping for a pick-up truck but, for once, these were few and far between. Nobody would stop for a stranded cyclist it seemed. Heavy trucks snaked down a winding road to the railhead where they deposited their containers before setting off up the hillside again. I watched this process repeat itself dozens of times before I gave up and erected my tent in the lee of an embankment that carried a road-bridge over a dried-up creek. Then, after a brief entreaty to the powers-that-be with regard to the prevention of flash flooding, I crawled inside and slept for a couple of hours. Darkness had fallen by the time I retraced my steps to the Black Pizza Inn where I spent a solitary evening over a dismal plate of lasagne and a few bottles of beer.

View of Mount Hood from near The Dalles

My mission the next day was clear-cut - to get as far away and as fast away from Roosevelt as was humanly possible by bicycle before nightfall. To my delight, the wind had dissipated and the sun was high in a bright blue sky - escape was feasible. From the crest of a rise a couple of miles beyond Roosevelt, the snow-capped tip Mount Hood appeared, faint but perfectly conical, eighty-odd miles to the west. Highway 14 dived down to the Columbia as it flowed into a gorge, great bluffs of black basalt rising on either side of calm blue waters. Rocks to the right, railroad adjoining the river to the left, I kept the bike in high gear, maintaining a steady momentum. The valley swept broadly around from northwest to west, and the grey wall of John Day Dam came into view. Breaking out to the north, the highway twisted up across the face of the gorge via a series of switchbacks to emerge at a pass beneath a rocky outcrop that overlooked the dam. As I ate lunch, perched high on a sunny ledge, I checked my progress on the map and felt contented. A few minutes later, as I coasted down past ranch houses and cattle pastures, I reflected on how good it was to be home on the range.

Looking Up the Columbia below John Day Dam WA

Beyond the turn off for Biggs Junction the highway climbed across a steep hillside that was bare but for a sage-grass cloak before swooping down towards the water's edge through fruit orchards and long rows of vines. It was late in the day and the river spread out before me like a sheet of mirrored glass, the reflection of Mount Hood's hazy pyramid inverted on its smooth shiny surface. I glided on through the golden light, weaving a course between pine copses and rock tors and then, just as the sun dipped beyond the long blue ridge of the Cascades, a dam appeared and a little beyond it, a bridge. I rolled across to the Oregon shore, feeling tired but happy.

The Columbia River near The Dalles

The city of The Dalles (pop. 12,596) sits on the south bank of the Columbia River at the point where it enters the Cascade Ranges, from which it has carved a deep gorge, some eighty miles long. In times past, this section of the river was characterised by a series of treacherous rapids, of which The Dalles - which has long since disappeared beneath the waters - was one of the most perilous.

I spent an afternoon wandering around The Dalles, wondering where its population could have gone. Murals featuring Lewis and Clark befriending the natives and pioneers coming west on The Oregon Trail adorned gable ends along Main Street. The quest for a Laundromat brought me to a retail park on the edge of town and lo - the mystery of the missing folks was solved.

View of the Columbia Gorge from Rowena Crest OR

On a Sunday morning resplendent with autumn sunshine I followed 'Historic Highway 30' - so-called because it has been superseded by freeway that runs nearby - west from The Dalles. Above me, stands of pine clambered across precipitous slopes - it was perfect ambush country. When the thunderous staccato of machine-gunfire shattered the calm of the forest, I felt suitably alarmed. Rounding a bend I came upon the source of the outrage: half a dozen men with long black guns in their arms were stood in a line across the entrance of a disused quarry. I watched, incredulous, as they took in turns to empty their weapons at a row of targets which had been propped up against the rock-face a score of metres away. Guns crackled, cartridges spewed onto the dirt and cardboard boxes tumbled, mortally wounded. I wanted to speak with the overweight gunmen, to find out if any among them would allow me to fire their weapon but, to a man, they were so engrossed in the process of firing and reloading that they didn't even notice me. Eventually my ears could take no more and I pedalled off up the empty highway into the woods. When the gunfire faded and the peace was restored, I half-wondered whether the surreal encounter had actually occurred. 'Yes' I told myself 'You are in the United States'.

A series of switchbacks, stacked one on top of another, led up to Rowena Crest, a promontory popular with picnickers on account of its superb views along the gorge in either direction. After pausing awhile to admire the scenery and watch as the breeze steered a model-airplane onto the rocks below, I swept down across slopes planted with orchards and vines to the waterside settlement of Mosier (pop. 410) from whence a paved track followed the course of the old highway up into a cool pine-forest and across a hillside that fell away sharply below. Parties of weekend excursionists - strollers, cyclists and dog-walkers - passed by in the other direction. The path continued across the slopes and through a pair of old tunnels before commencing a winding descent, down through the trees and into the town of Hood River (pop. 5,831), a popular windsurfing centre. My enquiries led me into the foothills, to a lonely forest park where I set up camp. It was a lovely spot with a rushing river and views of nearby Mount Hood.

Columbia River near Mosier OR

The Hood River Valley is a major fruit-producing area, to which Latino migrants flock to find work in orchards. It is on the southern outskirts of town that their impact is clearest: tabernacles preach rival interpretations of the gospel en español; bilingual billboards advertise televised football; and taco-joints cater to the homesick palate.

At the municipal library, where I spent a couple of afternoons dodging bad weather and catching up with my writing, an altar celebrating Día de Los Muertos, the Mexican equivalent of Halloween, was adorned with replica skulls and other macabre objects.

Columbia Gorge near Hood River OR

By midday on Wednesday it had ceased to rain, though the sky was still a little overcast. I set out to the west again along the shoulder of the freeway. After ten miles of relentless heavy traffic, I was relieved to be able to escape onto temporarily resurrected Highway 30. In the shadow of towering bluffs I followed the empty two-lane highway through dense pine forest where it began to climb steeply. But I didn't mind because it felt great to have the road to myself again - to be free - and, in any case, ascent soon turned to descent. Shortly thereafter I rolled out of the trees and into the Cascade Locks (pop. 1,135) where I paused for some refreshment.
A leaf-encrusted track led me out to Eagle Creek where a fish hatchery nestled in the woods by a minor tributary of the Columbia. Suspended in a pool beneath a bridge, having done their bit for the furtherance of the species, hundreds of salmon waited inertly for death. I watched awhile as the odd fish would leap from the water to protest against its fate. Then I remembered that I had a date with Portland and it was time to be gone.

Multnomah Falls OR

Jutting out from the valley floor on the opposite bank of the ever-broadening river, the great incisor of Beacon Rock signalled that I had at last arrived at the lower reaches of the Columbia Gorge. I followed Highway 30, now in its third avatar, along the base of a great escarpment from which, every few miles, a waterfall would plunge, entering the forest with a deep rumble. The highest of these cascades, Multnomah Falls, tumbles almost seven hundred feet and is a popular tourist attraction. I found several coaches drawn up in the parking lot of the restaurant at the foot of the falls. The flash of my own camera joined with those of others to light up the early evening gloom.

To my chagrin, the section of the old highway beyond Multnomah Falls was closed for maintenance so I was obliged to rejoin the shoulder of the freeway for the remainder of the day's ride. As twilight descended and heavy trucks rumbled by I consoled myself that it was only fifteen miles to the city limits. My exploration of urban America was about to begin.

ENDS