This was originally written while camping in the gorge this past May.
With a spark smelling of sulfur, the fuse caught fire
quickly sizzling closer to explosion. A soft lob an the firecracker turned end
over end through the air - arcing slowly down the hillside landing in brown
grass dried by the summer’s heat; followed by a cracking pop. Laughter filtered
down from above. Another sulfur spark, another lob, another cracking pop in
brown grass. The laughter fades into the distance as a tendril of smoke snaked
upward from the grass.
By day’s end, the trail above was closed and a long night
awaited 150 day hikers trapped by the growing flame. Forty-eight hours later
the Eagle Creek fire engulfed the canyon and joined the Indian Creek fire
already burning threatening homes and businesses, popular recreation areas, and
historic structures. It took nearly 3 months to fully contain and, in that
time, jumped the Columbia River to burn acreage in Washington. In the end, 50,000
acres burned, 8 trails were severely damaged, 1 woman lost her home, and the
historic highway is closed until further notice.
It was a gut punch the first time I saw the barren cliffs
and blackened trees as I drove along I-84. Where I expected to see green &
yellow lichens decorating the basalt walls, the was only grey. Blackened
skeletal remains of vine maple haunted the forest floor. The young man who
threw the firecrackers to entertain his friends, the firecrackers that started
the fire had been ordered earlier in the week to pay 36.6 million in restitution
as well as 1920 hours of community service and to write letters of apology to
everyone immediately affected by his actions – including the woman who lost her
home.
Would the citizenry ever see payment for the destruction of
a beloved wilderness are? Time will tell and it’s not a question I want to
ponder right now. The damage is done and no amount of desire for vengeance will
repair the damage. I am here to camp and share time with friends – something I have
done for the past 9 years since leaving my husband. It has become an annual pilgrimage
of renewal, to breathe in the forest air and listen to the sounds of crashing
water falling from high cliffs.
It was here in the little park named Ainsworth where I spoke
long into the night with a man and his sons and remembered that life was still
an option. It was here where I stood high above the river that I realized beauty
will always find a way into my vision. It was here when I began my walk into my
future.
Memories were created here, memorialized on camera. There
were nights sleeping under the stars & mornings sitting in flowered meadows
watching the sun rise. Birthdays and friendships celebrated with burgers, beer
and ice cream. All my memories twirled in my head as I drove the highway to my
weekend campsite in Ainsworth, including that long talk into the night.
The physical pain I felt as the blackened trees and barren
ground passed by my car windows grew until I pulled into Ainsworth State Park.
The little park of my hope remained flush with green. Just beyond its borders crept
the specter of fire but within the park ferns unfurled, flowers bloomed, and
trees flourished. I could look out my tent door to see the hope of possibility
that this treasured land would choose life.
