The Rivers Run Through It
On the holiest of Jewish holidays, Yom Kippur, I always look for a river. It is a tradition to take bread, rip a piece off for each sin or transgression committed throughout the previous year, and send the bread down the river. This symbolism has always spoken nicely to my view of things.
When Yom Kippur rolled around this year, I didn’t look for the biggest river I cold find; although, when I was younger that mattered to me. The smaller streams were often full of ducks that would eat my sins before they could wash out of my sight. Sometimes I left with a heavier heart than when I arrived. I was not sure of the significance of having my sins eaten by another animal rather than washed away. Now I surely think it speaks to the relationship between humans and the natural environment, but at the time those thoughts were very far from my mind. I chose the Deschutes and Columbia rivers this year for the symbolic rite mostly because there are no ducks in it as far as I’ve seen, and for the first time in my life I wanted to see my sins float away -- out of my hand, out of sight, and out of mind.
On Yom Kippur I drove out to the Deschutes River and stopped at the point where it spilled into the Columbia – Deschutes State Park. I decided that if I was going to attempt to wash away my sins I wanted the entire bang for the buck that I could get. And surely, having your sins washed away in two rivers must be better than only one. As the bread left my hand, left my sight, left my mind, I decided to explore what lay in front of me.
With my bike I set off on the trail toward the old Harris Ranch ten miles into a deep canyon cut by the Deschutes River. There was something about following the Deschutes upstream that spoke to my other religious inclination: fly-fishing and overall river meditation. From my vantage point I could see pools and ripples near perfect to cast into. I had such a clear picture from my view that I couldn’t have had a better sense of how to fish that river than if I had been told beforehand by an experienced angler.
From where I was there was no way down to the river without a long fall, so I kept biking and watching the river. There is an amazing moment in Oregon where the high desert gives way to the lush mountains of the Cascade Range. It is a moment that I have concentrated to see on more than one occasion and have somehow I have always missed the essence of it. Biking along the high desert landscape, the sagebrush and cliffs looked straight out of the middle of Wyoming.
The other side of the canyon carved by the Deschutes is entirely rich and different geologically. It is made of red mesas and gray lava cliffs that speak of some other inspiration entirely different from its across the river neighbor. The mesas were full of such intricate rock patterns that each piece looked individually placed and I could almost make out a pattern of a bird emerging from the rock.
The geologically rich landscape exists along an equally rich human one. Along the trail lies old farm equipment rusted and sun bleached. But my favorite artifact along the trail was and an old claw foot bathtub placed so randomly that it could almost be some sort of art installation.
Upon reaching the old Harris Ranch homestead I stopped. I do not think I really could have had any other reaction upon seeing the old homestead. The house remained very intact with the old fashioned stove still inside, although it was badly busted. The animal holding pens remained open in such a way that I imagined someone herding them back from the pasture on the gentle slopes above.
The way in which the ranch was abandoned made it feel like the family had only gone for vacation and in their absence someone had burglarized the house explaining why there wasn’t any furniture. As much as I have tried to find out more about the Harris Ranch, I have not been able to aside from the single fact it was built at the turn of the twentieth century. I suppose with the family went the story.
I stood still listening, mesmerized by the wind. It was too quiet and too loud in the way that only prairie wind can sound. It is geologic history, it is human history, it is my own history ending in the river. Holy or sinful it all washes away.
When Yom Kippur rolled around this year, I didn’t look for the biggest river I cold find; although, when I was younger that mattered to me. The smaller streams were often full of ducks that would eat my sins before they could wash out of my sight. Sometimes I left with a heavier heart than when I arrived. I was not sure of the significance of having my sins eaten by another animal rather than washed away. Now I surely think it speaks to the relationship between humans and the natural environment, but at the time those thoughts were very far from my mind. I chose the Deschutes and Columbia rivers this year for the symbolic rite mostly because there are no ducks in it as far as I’ve seen, and for the first time in my life I wanted to see my sins float away -- out of my hand, out of sight, and out of mind.
On Yom Kippur I drove out to the Deschutes River and stopped at the point where it spilled into the Columbia – Deschutes State Park. I decided that if I was going to attempt to wash away my sins I wanted the entire bang for the buck that I could get. And surely, having your sins washed away in two rivers must be better than only one. As the bread left my hand, left my sight, left my mind, I decided to explore what lay in front of me.
With my bike I set off on the trail toward the old Harris Ranch ten miles into a deep canyon cut by the Deschutes River. There was something about following the Deschutes upstream that spoke to my other religious inclination: fly-fishing and overall river meditation. From my vantage point I could see pools and ripples near perfect to cast into. I had such a clear picture from my view that I couldn’t have had a better sense of how to fish that river than if I had been told beforehand by an experienced angler.
From where I was there was no way down to the river without a long fall, so I kept biking and watching the river. There is an amazing moment in Oregon where the high desert gives way to the lush mountains of the Cascade Range. It is a moment that I have concentrated to see on more than one occasion and have somehow I have always missed the essence of it. Biking along the high desert landscape, the sagebrush and cliffs looked straight out of the middle of Wyoming.
The other side of the canyon carved by the Deschutes is entirely rich and different geologically. It is made of red mesas and gray lava cliffs that speak of some other inspiration entirely different from its across the river neighbor. The mesas were full of such intricate rock patterns that each piece looked individually placed and I could almost make out a pattern of a bird emerging from the rock.
The geologically rich landscape exists along an equally rich human one. Along the trail lies old farm equipment rusted and sun bleached. But my favorite artifact along the trail was and an old claw foot bathtub placed so randomly that it could almost be some sort of art installation.
Upon reaching the old Harris Ranch homestead I stopped. I do not think I really could have had any other reaction upon seeing the old homestead. The house remained very intact with the old fashioned stove still inside, although it was badly busted. The animal holding pens remained open in such a way that I imagined someone herding them back from the pasture on the gentle slopes above.
The way in which the ranch was abandoned made it feel like the family had only gone for vacation and in their absence someone had burglarized the house explaining why there wasn’t any furniture. As much as I have tried to find out more about the Harris Ranch, I have not been able to aside from the single fact it was built at the turn of the twentieth century. I suppose with the family went the story.
I stood still listening, mesmerized by the wind. It was too quiet and too loud in the way that only prairie wind can sound. It is geologic history, it is human history, it is my own history ending in the river. Holy or sinful it all washes away.
posted by Debasaurus Wex at 7:13 PM
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