I found it on the map. A little squiggly line heading south from where I was staying, in the shadow of Mount Rainier. The road would dump me out on the Columbia River, from where I could continue my homeward journey. A dirt road through the forest sounded way better than driving a couple hours west to the wide pavement and trucks of I-5. So I turned left, and off I went.
The narrow, paved road ran past overgrown farm- and ranchland that soon gave way to thick forest on both sides. As I rounded a bend I spied an old snowplow parked among the trees. I hopped out to take a look, chuckling at the life-size Sasquatch propped against the blade. I wandered around for a bit, searching for compositions and enjoying the crisp morning air. It’s good to warm up, creatively and physically. As I worked, I soaked up the silence of the forest, broken only by the occasional car rushing by, curious eyes capturing a quick glimpse of the aged snowplow and photographer by the side of the road.
The road snaked on through the forest, shortly coming to a split where National Forest Road 23 plunged off to the right, down amongst the trees. I got a flutter in my chest. The journey had begun. As I drove deeper into the forest, the asphalt began to give way to dirt. Deep potholes appeared, surrounded by spray paint that gave drivers a few seconds to avoid bottoming out as they navigated the tight curves. I stopped along the Cispus River to take a look. The sun was higher, taking the morning chill out of the air. Dappled light danced on the moss-covered rocks lining the old riverbed. But the water was mostly gone. Just a few quiet pools and a slow ribbon of water to connect them.
Forest Silence, Lilypads, Magic
The road is all dirt now. Washboard ridges rattling the cabin. A small car comes slowly down the road towards me, the first I have seen in over an hour. I breathe a small sigh of relief as I continue heading up the road, into the silence. An unsettling feeling arises as I plunge deeper into the dark forest, the only car on this isolated rutted road. Twenty minutes seems like an hour. The feeling dissipates as I burst back into the sunlight along a bright green wetland. Lilypads float gently on the water. Two deer look up and bound away as I exit the car. The air is vibrant. Forest silence fills the air.
Forest silence is not a silence that signifies an absence of sound. It is the silence that signifies the absence of humans. The quiet of leaves rustling in the gentle breeze, of dew evaporating off grasses stretching for the sun, of birds chirping in the distance. The silence that fills the air whether we are here to witness it or not. The silence that cares not a whit for us. I try to soak it in but it is ephemeral, bouncing away as soon as my mind wanders. The silence is not for us to keep.
Alone, I bounce nervously up the road, over Babyshoe Pass, wondering how much longer there is to go. I come to a high bridge over a deep gorge, its asphalt surface a mirage that gives way again to rutted dirt on the other side. I clatter on. Another 20 minutes seems like another hour until I reach the pavement again and exhale. Faster now, down the asphalt mountain curves, music blaring. Mount Adams, an old volcano topped by a shrinking glacier, rears up on the left, stark against the bright blue sky. And then I am down. I merge onto Hwy. 141. A flat straight road, wide ranchlands on either side. Disappearing towns dot crossroads along the way.
Rafters navigating Husum Falls
In Husum, I linger on a bridge over its eponymously-named river, watching rafters navigate the pretty falls. Now and again groups of life jacket-clad rafters, paddles in hand, walk single-file over the bridge, stopping to watch with me as their more experienced companions tackle the rapids. Their bravado belies their fear. But who am I to judge, standing there beside them? I am entranced by the flow of the water. It captivates and carries me away, even as it carries the slow parade of rafters downstream.
Soon I reach the mighty Columbia River, and cross into Oregon. The Bonneville Dam is nearby, so I stop to take a look at the massive monument to concrete and steel, constructed as America clawed its way out of the Depression and another world war. I recall visiting the dam as a child, and it feels like I’ve entered a time warp. The dam is both ominous and elegant, sitting there amid the torrent of water draining the continent, rushing to taste the sea. Abstract patterns of water swirl before me.
Midday at Shepperd’s Dell, all by myself
I continue my journey south, jumping off the interstate again to traverse the Historic Columbia River Highway as it passes by a series of scenic waterfalls: Horsetail, where families swim in a shallow pool beneath the fall; Multnomah, where a Disney-like crush fills the parking lots and trails; Wahkeena, where a magnificent creek cascades steeply through a narrow rocky channel; Shepperd’s Dell, a little-visited site missing from the official maps that I have all to myself for a while; and Latourell, a steep trail with views across a chasm to a carpet of brilliant moss covering a cliff of slick dark rock.
But the day is getting long. I leave the gorge and make my way overland, bouncing from one local road to another, feeling my way towards the Interstate. I pass farmhouses and subdivisions, quiet forests and busy commercial strips. There are photographs to be made along the way, but I snap them only in my mind. My creative energy is nearly gone. I make one final stop in Oregon City. A ramshackle parking lot tucked along a busy two-lane highway. I stop for a while to watch the reflections of Oregon City’s industrial past dance in the Willamette River. The sound of the highway fades as I lean into the silence below.
I am mesmerized again, and float away for a bit before I leave.
On the Road #1: August 2, 2023. Packwood, WA to Eugene, OR, via WA Forest Road 23, Columbia River Parkway and Oregon City. 280 miles, 8 hours.
Wahkeena Creek, Oregon
Industrial Abstract, Oregon City
Bonneville Dam Spillway
Moss and Black Rock, Latourell Falls, Oregon