CLINTON ST. "Mama, don't let your children grow up to be cowboys." __ Willie Nelson When we were kids, all of us p layed “ cowboys and Indians.” Choosing one side or another, with cap guns or bow-narrows. That’s part of America, and Northwest history. Which side won? On Saturday, Sept. 13, I got in my ’66 green Rambler with the soggy valves, spewing quarts of oil, and drove up the Columbia River Gorge to find out. Even though it was raining, and I was alone, I was heading to the 69th Pendleton Round-Up, the last day of Rodeo Finals, to see how the cowboys were doing. The trip itself is beautiful, a journey through time. On the freeway, you cross the Sandy River near Troutdale, and the gorge begins. The first 50 miles is some of the most magnificent landscape in the world. Fir trees and waterfalls, monumental rock formations. The Royal Chinook Inn, Rooster Rock. (Irreverently called Cock Rock by the pioneers. With nude gay beach, the name is more appropriate than ever!) The buttressed breast of Crown Point with nipple of a gift shop points to heaven. Author of Roll On, Columbia and This Land is Your Land Woody Guthrie rode the old highway and saw Shepperd’s Dell and the vaginal cleft of Oeonta Gorge. Multnomah Falls, a graceful ribbon of water, is the second highest in the U.S. Despite railroad tracks, parking lot and inn, it’s impressive from the freeway. I passed Beacon Rock, on to Cascade Locks, the Bridge of the Gods, and Bonneville Dam. Indian legend has it there was a rock bridge here which the two brothers, Mt. Hood and Mt. Adams, used in a jealous struggle for the affections o f Loo-wit: Mt. St. Helens. Tahmahnawis, the supernatural power, knocked it down. Interestingly enough, pioneers found a sunken forest, in the river. Possibly a landslide once blocked the river, or there was a lava tunnel. On the west side of Hood River is the Columbia River Gorge Hotel, a California mission-style inn. Hood River is orchard country. The Diamond Cannery and Packing Co. buildings plus railroad tracks dominate the town. A few hobos with packs are hitching, during applepicking season. To The Dalles, 25 miles away, the vegetation changes into scrub oak and pine. The geology layers out into flat basalt. I will pass Memaloose Island, the isle of the dead. The midColumbian Indians placed their dead here in grave huts. On the Washington side, you can see Lyle and the mouth of the Klickitat River. Finally, The Dalles itself. French trappers called it “ the trough” of the Columbia, a six-mile rapids below Celilo Falls. Beyond Celilo, the hills are rounded and yellow. Few trees. The freeway goes up on the plateau toward Boardman, and the Umatilla Army Depot, where all that nerve gas is stored. Desert country which will become wheat country. It’s boring for another 100 miles to Pendleton. I picked up a hitchhiker, from Skid Road. He knew the Burnside scene like I did. We’ve seen the Indians killing themselves on wine. The Oregon Journal mentioned today 600 Klamaths got the final settlement, for the sale of their land, of 81 million dollars. “ I once* saw an Indian woman and her white boyfriend spend 5,000 dollars on cocaine. In a week’s period, she was broke! Snorting aspirin,” he recounted. This is white wheat country. Yellow stubble and brown plowed squares. Grain elevators. Irrigation pipes. The smell of alfalfa. Pendleton is 207 miles from Portland. On the radio I hear the voice of Paul Harvey. He talks about Billy Graham. He praises a bumper sticker: PRAYER IS THE NEXT BEST THING TO BEING THERE. “ Good day!” continued next page E aw u l bj Eric Edwards 35
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