Columbia River Quotes

Fireflies out on a warm summer's night, seeing the urgent, flashing, yellow-white phosphorescence below them, go crazy with desire; moths cast to the winds an enchantment potion that draws the opposite sex, wings beating hurriedly, from kilometers away; peacocks display a devastating corona of blue and green and the peahens are all aflutter; competing pollen grains extrude tiny tubes that race each other down the female flower's orifice to the waiting egg below; luminescent squid present rhapsodic light shows, altering the pattern, brightness and color radiated from their heads, tentacles, and eyeballs; a tapeworm diligently lays a hundred thousand fertilized eggs in a single day; a great whale rumbles through the ocean depths uttering plaintive cries that are understood hundreds of thousands of kilometers away, where another lonely behemoth is attentively listening; bacteria sidle up to one another and merge; cicadas chorus in a collective serenade of love; honeybee couples soar on matrimonial flights from which only one partner returns; male fish spray their spunk over a slimy clutch of eggs laid by God-knows-who; dogs, out cruising, sniff each other's nether parts, seeking erotic stimuli; flowers exude sultry perfumes and decorate their petals with garish ultraviolet advertisements for passing insects, birds, and bats; and men and women sing, dance, dress, adorn, paint, posture, self-mutilate, demand, coerce, dissemble, plead, succumb, and risk their lives. To say that love makes the world go around is to go too far. The Earth spins because it did so as it was formed and there has been nothing to stop it since. But the nearly maniacal devotion to sex and love by most of the plants, animals, and microbes with which we are familiar is a pervasive and striking aspect of life on Earth. It cries out for explanation. What is all this in aid of? What is the torrent of passion and obsession about? Why will organisms go without sleep, without food, gladly put themselves in mortal danger for sex? ... For more than half the history of life on Earth organisms seem to have done perfectly well without it. What good is sex?... Through 4 billion years of natural selection, instructions have been honed and fine-tuned...sequences of As, Cs, Gs, and Ts, manuals written out in the alphabet of life in competition with other similar manuals published by other firms. The organisms become the means through which the instructions flow and copy themselves, by which new instructions are tried out, on which selection operates. 'The hen,' said Samuel Butler, 'is the egg's way of making another egg.' It is on this level that we must understand what sex is for. ... The sockeye salmon exhaust themselves swimming up the mighty Columbia River to spawn, heroically hurdling cataracts, in a single-minded effort that works to propagate their DNA sequences into future generation. The moment their work is done, they fall to pieces. Scales flake off, fins drop, and soon--often within hours of spawning--they are dead and becoming distinctly aromatic. They've served their purpose. Nature is unsentimental. Death is built in.

Memory is inherently unreliable. With time, it degrades. With trauma, it fragments. In isolation, it festers.

The Columbia River Bar has swallowed more ships, about 2,100 at last count, than any other location on the Pacific north of Mexico.

I made a boy's mistake, common enough, of thinking that real life was knowing many things and many people, living dangerously in faraway places, crossing the sea, or starting a power company on the Columbia River, a steamship line in Bolivia.

...for most of the ride through British Columbia we were treated to stunning scenery ranging from majestic peaks shrouded in mist to more barren vistas reminiscent of the Old West ... to churning rivers fed by waterfalls twisting down mountains like the woven tassels on the white summer Chanel bag I'd left back home. Do waterfalls ever feel unfashionable after Labor Day

I slept on my tarp, not wanting to shelter myself on that last night, and woke before dawn to watch the sun rise over Mount Hood. It was really over, I thought. There was no way to go back, to make it stay. There was never that. I sat for a long while, letting the light fill the sky, letting it expand and reach down into the trees. I closed my eyes and listened hard to Eagle Creek. It was running to the Columbia River, like me.

Sometimes it seemed that the Pacific Crest Trail was one long mountain I was ascending. That at my journey’s end at the Columbia River, I’d reach the trail’s summit, rather than its lowest point. This feeling of ascension wasn’t only metaphorical. It literally felt as if I were almost always, impossibly, going up. At times I almost wept with the relentlessness of it, my muscles and lungs searing with the effort. It was only when I thought I couldn’t go up any longer that the trail would level off and descend.

The harder the dick the funner the sex

The point I’m making is that hate never dies,” Ava continued. “It can go dormant and seem to disappear when it’s actually hiding and evolving, passed from generation to generation.

no river in North America except the Mississippi is more powerful than the Columbia; it carries a quarter-million cubic feet of water per second to the ocean, ten times the flow of the Colorado, twice the discharge of the Nile into the Mediterranean.

The people of a city blessed with all the good things nature has can grow smug about who they are, can find complacency in livability polls, as if we did a lot to deserve it.

We can’t say racism doesn’t exist because it’s never personally touched us. It’s here and it can be deadly.

Every bit of water falling on all of France, channeled into one drainpipe—that’s similar to what goes into the Columbia, or at least a shallow part of it. The river’s source is a glacial drip 2,619 feet above sea level in the foothills of the Canadian Purcells; by its midway point in a high desert, the Columbia has a depth several hundred feet below the ocean plane.

Colorado and Wyoming are America’s highest states, averaging 6,800 feet and 6,700 feet above sea level. Utah comes in third at 6,100 feet, New Mexico, Nevada, and Idaho each break 5,000 feet, and the rest of the field is hardly worth mentioning. At 3,400 feet, Montana is only half as high as Colorado, and Alaska, despite having the highest peaks, is even further down the list at 1,900 feet. Colorado has more fourteeners than all the other U.S. states combined, and more than all of Canada too. Colorado’s lowest point (3,315 feet along the Kansas border) is higher than the highest point in twenty other states. Rivers begin here and flow away to all the points of the compass. Colorado receives no rivers from another state (unless you count the Green River’s’ brief in and out from Utah).Wyoming’s Wind River Range is the only mountain in North America that supplies water to all three master streams of the American West: Missouri, Colorado, and Columbia rivers.

Lewis Mumford was not a planner, but he wrote eloquently of planning. It was a difficult task. Planning is an exercise of power, and in a modern state much real power is suffused with boredom. The agents of planning are usually boring; the planning process is boring; the implementation of plans is always boring. In a democracy boredom works for bureaucracies and corporations as smell works for skunk. It keeps danger away. Power does not have to be exercised behind the scenes. It can be open. The audience is asleep. The modern world is forged amidst our inattention.

Throughout its history, the conservation movement had been little more than a minor nuisance to the water-development interests in the American West. They had, after all, twice managed to invade National Parks with dams; they had decimated the greatest salmon fishery in the world, in the Columbia River; they had taken the Serengeti of North America—the virgin Central Valley of California, with its thousands of grizzly bears and immense clouds of migratory waterfowl and its million and a half antelope and tule elk—and transformed it into a banal palatinate of industrial agriculture.

There are five species of Pacific salmon in North America: the chum, the coho, the sockeye, the pink, and the Chinook. Each has its own diminutive: the chum is the dog, or the keta, the coho the silver, the sockeye the red, the pink the humpy, and the Chinook is the king. The original Chinook are people of the Pacific Northwest, and their language formed the core of Chinook Jargon, a pidgin trading language that stretched from Alaska to the Columbia River, along what now forms the border of Washington and Oregon, and incorporated the words of many tribes, as well as French and English. Any Canadian will still say Chinook for king, the best and biggest of the fish that the Chinook people traded.

I gazed at my bare and battered feet, with their smattering of remaining toenails. They were ghostly pale to the line a few inches above my ankles, where the wool socks I usually wore ended. My calves above them were muscled and golden and hairy, dusted with dirt and a constellation of bruises and scratches. I’d started walking in the Mojave Desert and I didn’t plan to stop until I touched my hand to a bridge that crosses the Columbia River at the Oregon-Washington border with the grandiose name the Bridge of the Gods. I looked north, in its direction—the very thought of that bridge a beacon to me. I looked south, to where I’d been, to the wild land that had schooled and scorched me, and considered my options. There was only one, I knew. There was always only one. To keep walking.

The school was located on its own private island in the Pacific Northwest not far from the small community of Gold River, British Columbia, Canada. Through natural means it could only be reached by boat or float plane.  However, many students reached the school by means that were far from natural. There were portals in various parts of the world that brought students to Fairhaven the moment one stepped through them.

In scale and audacity, the dam was astonishing; engineers were going to anchor a mile-long wall of concrete in bedrock at the bottom of a steep canyon in the Columbia. They would excavate 45 million cubic yards of dirt and rock, and pour 24 million tons of concrete. Among the few dams in the Northwest not built by the Corps of Engineers, the Grand Coulee was the work of the Bureau of Reclamation. When completed, it was a mile across at the top, forty-six stories high, and heralded as the biggest thing ever built by man. The dam backed up the river for 151 miles, creating a lake with 600 miles of shoreline. At the dam’s dedication in 1941, Roosevelt said Grand Coulee would open the world to people who had been beat up by the elements, abused by the rich and plagued by poor luck. But a few months after it opened, Grand Coulee became the instrument of war. Suddenly, the country needed to build sixty thousand planes a year, made of aluminum, smelted by power from Columbia River water, and it needed to build ships—big ones—from the same power source. Near the end of the war, America needed to build an atomic bomb, whose plutonium was manufactured on the banks of the Columbia. Power from the Grand Coulee was used to break uranium into radioactive subelements to produce that plutonium. By war’s end, only a handful of farms were drawing water from the Columbia’s greatest dam. True, toasters in desert homes were warming bread with Grand Coulee juice, and Washington had the cheapest electrical rates of any state in the country, but most of that power for the people was being used by Reynolds Aluminum in Longview and Alcoa in Vancouver and Kaiser Aluminum in Spokane and Tacoma.

Every building was just gone, and every soul as well. Across the Potomac River, the Pentagon shuddered violently from the blast wave and then began to partially collapse. What remained standing was utterly ablaze, as was every structure not flattened for as far as the eye could see. Howling, scorching winds soon began sweeping lethal radioactivity through the city’s northeast quadrant and into Maryland, surging through Prince George’s County and Anne Arundel County, as if they were following 295 to the north and Routes 50 and 214 to the east, through Capitol Heights and Lanham and Bowie toward Crofton and Annapolis. Soon more than five thousand square miles of Virginia, Maryland, and the District of Columbia were contaminated with deadly levels of radioactivity. And the nightmare had only just begun. Moments after the first missile hit D.C., a second missile struck the CIA building at Langley directly, its superheated fireball and cataclysmic blast wave obliterating the nation’s premier intelligence headquarters in the tree-lined suburbs of northern Virginia and vaporizing every home and office building, every church and mall for mile after mile

WASHINGTON had not paid his taxes for two years when he went as a delegate to attend the convention that made the Constitution of the United States. 1 Ford's edition of "The Federalist" says the " Father of his Country " was temporarily embarrassed, not by the failure of his crops, but by his inability to sell what he had raised. Whatever the reason, Washington had a great deal of property upon which to pay taxes. In the one sense that he was the richest man in America, he was the Rockefeller of his day. The schedule of property attached to his will footed up $530,-ooo. In Virginia alone he owned " more than 35,000 acres,'* valued at $200,000; "in Maryland, 1,119 acres, at $9,828; in Pennsylvania, 234 acres, at $1,404; in New York, about 1,000 acres, at $6,000; in the Northwest Territory, 3,051 acres, at $15,255; in Kentucky, 5,000 acres, at $10,000; property in Washington at $19,-132; in Alexandria, at $4,000; in Winchester, at $400; at Bath, $800; in government securities, $6,246; shares in the Potomac Company, $10,666; shares in the James River Company, $500; stock in the Bank of Columbia, $6,800; stock in the Bank of Alexandria, $1,000;

damage

All nations have rivers, lakes and streams, but the continental United States has been blessed with an abundance of fresh water lakes (such as the Great Lakes which are themselves 20% of the world’s fresh water lakes, the Great Salt Lake and the lakes created by the Corps of Engineers), wide rivers (the Mississippi, the Ohio, the Missouri, the Colorado, the Hudson, the Potomac, the Rio Grande, the Columbia, etc.) and is surrounded by both the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, a location shared only by Canada and a handful of Central American nations.

chocolate brown eyes. And attitude—tons of it.

Snagging her sou'wester off the hook by the

particularly acrimonious, so

Look at this view, Papa.” Samantha gently lifted his head so he could see the splendor outside. “You made it to the Columbia River.” He rested against her. “The Columbia,” he said slowly. “We did it.” “Yes, we did.” She lay Papa back down to rest, but moments later he sat up again, his voice more urgent this time. “I haven’t been a good father to you.” “Yes, you have.” He shook his head. “Forgive me?” She had nothing to forgive him for, but she kissed his forehead anyway. “Of course.” “You take care of Micah, good care of him.” She looked over at her brother, asleep under the blanket. “We’ll both take care of him.” Papa shook her arm with surprising strength, like he had to make Samantha understand. “You need to care for him.” She choked out, “I will, Papa. Don’t worry.

Over a three-year period the Chinook population declined to one-tenth its former size, and riverbanks were strewn with the unburied dead. “The depopulation here has been truly fearful,” observed the physician John Kirk Townsend in his eyewitness account of the lower Columbia River in 1834. “A

An even more important intertribal gathering took place at the Grand Dalles of the Columbia River, the home territory of the Wishrams, Wascos, and other peoples. It was the most important point of contact between Coast and Plateau cultures. Here was the cosmopolitan center of Northwest Indian life, site of great month-long trade fairs analogous to those held in medieval Europe, a time for trading, dancing, ceremonial displays, games, gambling, and even marriages. The

Daddy!” Racing footsteps sounded on the sidewalk. Both men turned to see two young dark-haired girls sprinting toward the gate. A woman holding another girl’s hand wasn’t far behind. She waved at Alan

At the start of the war, Japanese submarines patrolled the waters off the coast and attacked three ships in late 1941 and 1942 and shelled Fort Stevens on the Columbia River but failed to cause significant damage. National Forests in Southwestern Oregon came under attack in September when Japanese pilot Nobuo Fujita took to the skies in a sub-based seaplane and dropped incendiary bombs.

The family was jolted when, at age fifty-three, Huff Cornbright perished on an autumn steelhead trip to British Columbia. Swept downstream while wading the Dean River, he foolishly clung to his twelve-hundred-dollar fly rod rather than reach for a low-hanging branch and haul himself to safety.

She wanted to check her phone even though she knew he hadn’t called. Mason wouldn’t. He had a protocol to follow, and notifying his fiancée that her name had turned up at a murder scene wasn’t part of it

Some of those young deputies are as sharp as a mashed potato sandwich,

Just because you’ve never experienced it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,

Travel Bucket List 1. Have a torrid affair with a foreigner. Country: TBD. 2. Stay for a night in Le Grotte della Civita. Matera, Italy. 3. Go scuba diving in the Great Barrier Reef. Queensland, Australia. 4. Watch a burlesque show. Paris, France. 5. Toss a coin and make an epic wish at the Trevi Fountain. Rome, Italy. 6. Get a selfie with a guard at Buckingham Palace. London, England. 7. Go horseback riding in the mountains. Banff, Alberta, Canada. 8. Spend a day in the Grand Bazaar. Istanbul, Turkey. 9. Kiss the Blarney Stone. Cork, Ireland. 10. Tour vineyards on a bicycle. Bordeaux, France. 11. Sleep on a beach. Phuket, Thailand. 12. Take a picture of a Laundromat. Country: All. 13. Stare into Medusa’s eyes in the Basilica Cistern. Istanbul, Turkey. 14. Do NOT get eaten by a lion. The Serengeti, Tanzania. 15. Take a train through the Canadian Rockies. British Columbia, Canada. 16. Dress like a Bond Girl and play a round of poker at a casino. Montreal, Quebec, Canada. 17. Make a wish on a floating lantern. Thailand. 18. Cuddle a koala at Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary. Queensland, Australia. 19. Float through the grottos. Capri, Italy. 20. Pose with a stranger in front of the Eiffel Tower. Paris, France. 21. Buy Alex a bracelet. Country: All. 22. Pick sprigs of lavender from a lavender field. Provence, France. 23. Have afternoon tea in the real Downton Abbey. Newberry, England. 24. Spend a day on a nude beach. Athens, Greece. 25. Go to the opera. Prague, Czech Republic. 26. Skinny dip in the Rhine River. Cologne, Germany. 27. Take a selfie with sheep. Cotswolds, England. 28. Take a selfie in the Bone Church. Sedlec, Czech Republic. 29. Have a pint of beer in Dublin’s oldest bar. Dublin, Ireland. 30. Take a picture from the tallest building. Country: All. 31. Climb Mount Fuji. Japan. 32. Listen to an Irish storyteller. Ireland. 33. Hike through the Bohemian Paradise. Czech Republic. 34. Take a selfie with the snow monkeys. Yamanouchi, Japan. 35. Find the penis. Pompeii, Italy. 36. Walk through the war tunnels. Ho Chi Minh, Vietnam. 37. Sail around Ha long Bay on a junk boat. Vietnam. 38. Stay overnight in a trulli. Alberobello, Italy. 39. Take a Tai Chi lesson at Hoan Kiem Lake. Hanoi, Vietnam. 40. Zip line over Eagle Canyon. Thunderbay, Ontario, Canada.

From Alan Thein Duening: Picture North America from space. Look at the upper left and start an imaginary line on the rugged coast of southern Alaska. Climb the ridges that encircle Prince William Sound. Cross the snowy teeth of the Chugach Mountains and descend through kettle-pond country to the feet of the towering Alaska Range. Rise again to the bitter heights and turning southeast along the crest, clip the corner of the Yukon Territory. Enter British Columbia and veer east through its folding north. Turn your line south when you reach the Continental Divide in the Rocky Mountains. Follow the divide down the thousand-mile spine of British Columbia, across Montana, along the buttressed ridges of the Idaho border and into Wyoming as far as Jackson Hole. There, leave the divide and turn westward toward the coast. Following the swells and benches that limit the Columbia Basin, dip southward into Utah and Nevada, then northward again around the high desert of central Oregon. When you approach the Cascade Mountains, veer southwest through the tangled topography of northern California to the crest of the Coast Range. Just north of San Francisco Bay, descend to the shores of the Pacific. The line you have drawn is an unfamiliar one. You won’t find it on maps. But it shows a geographical unit more real, in ecological sense, than any of the lines governments draw. You have drawn a biological region, a bioregion. Specifically, you have outlines the watersheds of rivers flowing into the Pacific Ocean through North America’s temperate rain forest zone with a fifteen-hundred-mile belt of rain forests along the coast. The unity of this diverse bioregion is the movement of its water; every ounce of moisture that the ocean throws into the sky and the sky hurls down on the land inside this region’s borders tumbles toward the rain forest coast. If it does not evaporate or get trapped in underground aquifers along the way, water will reach that dripping shoreline through one of several hundred swift, cold rivers. Most likely, it will travel through the Columbia or the Fraser rivers, home to the Earth’s greatest population of migrating salmon. This place, defined by water running to woodlands, has no perfect name. You can call it Rain Forest Province, the North Pacific Slope, or Cascadia… Natural units of place such as this have always mattered more to people than has humanity in general or the planet in its entirety. Indeed, history is unequivocal; people will sacrifice for villages, homelands, or nations, even giving their lives. But humans seem unwilling to sacrifice for their planet, despite the fact that it is now suffering proportionately greater losses from social decay and environmental destruction than most countries at war.

I have no idea why one person can be handed a tragic past and become healthy and selfless while another amplifies their pain into the lives of others. Almost without exception the most beautiful, selfless people I’ve met are ones who’ve experienced personal tragedy. They remind me of the trees I occasionally stumble across in the Columbia River Gorge, the ones that got started under boulders and wound slowly around the rock face to find an alternative route to the sun. What’s harder for me to admit, though, is there are also people who’ve become the very rocks that hindered them. And perhaps there is redemption for these people and perhaps there is hope, but this doesn’t change the fact they are not safe. I only say this because a positive evolution happened in my life when I realized healthy relationships happen best between healthy people. I’m not just talking about romance either. I’m talking about friendships, neighbors, and people we agree to do business with. One of the things I admire most about John is his ability to hold compassion in one hand and justice in the other. He offers both liberally and yet they don’t cancel each other out. I remember talking to my friend Ben once about a person who had once lied to me. We’d been working on a project together, and this person lied about some of the finances. Ben is a decade older than me, a cinematographer with a gentle heart, a guy you’d think could easily be taken advantage of. But when I told him about my friend, Ben said, “Don, I’ve learned there are givers and takers in this life. I’ve slowly let the takers go and I’ve had it for the better.” He continued, “God bless them, when they learn to play by the rules they are welcomed back, but my heart is worth protecting.

The phone was ringing as she entered the house through the kitchen door. She jogged into the living room to answer it, only to have whoever was on the other end hang up on her. Just what she didn't need right now—some oblivious idiot calling the wrong number, over and over. Her tolerance for idiocy was at an all-time low, starting with her own.

I used to have to punch a time clock at Columbia ... Every day of my life. That's what it was like. I was under exclusive contract, like they owned me ... I think he had my dressing room bugged ... He was very possessive of me as a person, he didn't want me to go out with anybody, have any friends. No one can live that way. So I fought him ... You want to know what I think of Harry Cohn? He was a monster.

Ten years ago, I attended a community meeting for an oil pipeline proposal PE was ramming through the environmental impact process in eastern Washington. I sat in the front row as you defended PE’s plan to destroy an important Traditional Cultural Property to build a pipeline that would bisect the state from the Canadian border to the Columbia River. You had no respect for the sovereignty of tribes over the land. Your plan lacked even basic environmental protection for air and water, but you defended it because you didn’t give a fuck about air Indians breathe or water Indians drink.

It is a southern river town with some pretensions of being a city... And like every southern river town it has its canker.... The capital has its own orneriness, as pervading as the others, but it isn't the same sort. It never was a fun town. It is not a robust sin town. Its fleshpots have no real juice in them. Its vices are effete and heterodox, and its moral rot is a dry one. Though its people have come from all parts, yet they are not all sorts of people. They are very much of one sort. The ethic climate here nurtures an ancient, evil, shriveled thing. It is of the inhabitants of this city that the prophet spoke: Of those who do not have the faith And will not have the fun.

His GPS directed him uphill. Bartonville was built on a slope, and many of the homes had an amazing view of where the Pacific Ocean met the wide Columbia River, which separated Oregon and Washington. The town’s businesses were at the bottom of the hills where the land was flat, adjacent to the docks and beaches. The streets led up and across the hills in a basic grid on which homes with steep peaked roofs and roomy porches sat on close lots. Most of the homes needed attention. Missing paint, crumbling stairs, bare lawns

Some days she knew Madison’s name; other days Alice called her a name from some shadow of her past.

Chills locked Zander’s limbs at the ugly words. Harlan Trapp was pure hate. The medical examiner’s description of the huge number of stab wounds in both bodies echoed in his head. Zander had suspected a high level of anger was involved

Her mouth twitched as she studied Emily. How long would it take them to realize it was mutual? Madison wasn’t jealous; Agent Wells was attractive but not her type; he kept himself restrained behind his cool exterior

She noticed Zander’s gaze lingering on Isaac. She understood. Isaac didn’t present the best first impression. His stringy hair was always in his eyes. He slouched. And his jeans always looked a half second away from falling to the ground. But he was a good kid. Emily trusted him

I write these last lines on Sauvie's Island - the Wappatto of the Indians - sitting upon the bank of the river, beneath the gnarled and ancient cottonwood that still marks the spot where the old Columbia trail led up from the water to the interior of the island. Stately and beautiful are the far snow-peaks and the sweeping forest. The woods are rich in the colors of an Oregon autumn. The white wappatto blooms along the marshes, its roots ungathered, the dusky hands that once reaped the harvest long crumbled into dust. Blue and majestic in the sunlight flows the Columbia, river of many names -- the Wauna and the Wemath of the Indians, the St. Roque of the Spaniards, the Oregon of poetry -- always vast and grand, always flowing placidly to the sea. Steamboats of the present; batteaux of the fur traders; ships, Grey's and Vancouver's, of discovery; Indian canoes of the old unknown time -- the stately river has seen them all come and go, and yet holds its way past forest and promontory, still beautiful and unchanging. Generation after generation, daring hunter, ardent discoverer, silent Indian -- all the shadowy peoples of the past have sailed its waters as we sail them, have lived perplexed and haunted by mystery as we live, have gone out into the Great Darkness with hearts full of wistful doubt and questioning, as we go; and still the river holds its course, bright, beautiful, inscrutable. It stays; we go. It there anything beyond the darkness into which generation follows generation and race follows race? Surely there is an after-life, where light and peace shall come to all who, however defeated, have tried to be true and loyal; where the burden shall be lifted and the heartache shall cease; where all the love and hope that slipped away from us here shall be given back to us again, and given back forever Via crucis, via lucis.

Parenting wasn’t for cowards.

She dropped to her knees, peering into the darkness. The lava-tube opening was about a dozen feet wide, and the person lay at the bottom of the deep, dark hole, almost hidden, but visible enough for Mercy to sense that something was very wrong.

Because Meghan’s desire for the book was making him cautious. She’d appeared more interested in the notebook than in her brother’s death.

Parenting wasn’t for cowards. When the safety and well-being of another person depended on you, it changed the way you looked at everything.

Everyone has a story to tell,” he’d said to Mason once. “If you ask the right questions, it will open your eyes to the struggles and joys of lives outside your own. It’s fascinating.

How did I find this man? He understood every fiber of her. Her needs, her insecurities, and her fears. And easily balanced them with love and patience.

Memory is inherently unreliable. With time, it degrades. With trauma, it fragments. In isolation, it festers. —Ellen Kirschman, PhD

TV had taught the public that forensics could solve a crime in an hour, but more often it took months.

Evan.

Did you know that Oregon was the only state that began as whites only?” Agent McLane’s voice was low but clear and carried through the room. “The original state constitution excluded all nonwhites from living here.

The point I’m making is that hate never dies,” Ava continued. “It can go dormant and seem to disappear when it’s actually hiding and evolving, passed from generation to generation. Did you know the KKK was very active in Portland as recently as the 1980s? Someone even called Portland the skinhead capital of the US back then. We can’t say racism doesn’t exist because it’s never personally touched us. It’s here and it can be deadly.

A child’s view is much different from an adult’s.

People always seek out others like themselves.

was released. There were no rises to be seen any longer, though fish rose fairly well to our own flies, until we had six. Then the whole factory shut down and nothing would persuade a trout to rise again. While it had lasted, all of British Columbia that existed had been the few square inches around my dry-fly. With the rise over, the world began to reappear: trees, lake, river, village, wet clothes. It is this sort of possession you look for when angling. To watch the river flowing, the insects landing and hatching, the places where trout hold, and to insinuate the supple, binding movement of tapered line until, when the combination is right, the line becomes rigid and many of its motions are conceived at the other end.

Non Silba Sed Anthar. “Not for oneself, but for others,” she read aloud. That sounds selfless and kind. She scrolled further, scanning the results. This can’t be right. Her heart in her throat, she opened web page after web page, finding multiple confirmations. The lovely-sounding phrase was a common slogan of the KKK.

as sharp as a mashed potato sandwich,

The great breakthrough of Einstein’s work is his assertion that gravitational attraction comes not as an external law imposed on the universe but from the objects themselves. Though the mathematical equations are complex, the interpretation is straightforward. Space is imagined as malleable, and matter is pictured as having the power to bend, dent, and curve space. A two-dimensional analogy would be a vast plain made of a rubbery material upon which various objects like stars and galaxies rested. A single star would make a dent in the rubber surface, a single galaxy would make a deeper dent, and a cluster of galaxies would make an even deeper dent in this imagined surface. In this way each of these objects was a creator of gravity. Einstein’s theory asserts that objects move along geodesic pathways that are determined by the curvature of this rubbery surface. If a rolling marble happens upon a dent in the surface, it will roll downhill toward whatever is causing the dent. If the marble happens to be moving quickly, it will slide toward the bottom of the dent but will have enough speed to carry it up and out of the indentation. Applied to my situation there at the lip of the Fraser River in British Columbia, my rock was sliding down to Earth because of the dent Earth made in the rubbery fabric of four-dimensional space-time. This cosmological dynamic received a succinct summary by John Archibald Wheeler, one of the main developers of Einstein’s theory, who said, “Matter tells space-time how to curve and curved space-time tells matter how to move.” The precision of prediction is astonishing. By plugging into Einstein’s field equations the values for the mass of my rock and of Earth, one can predict with highest accuracy the pathway the rock travels when released. Einstein’s work holds not only for the movements of rocks dropped on Earth, but for planets revolving around the Sun, for the Sun revolving around the Milky Way galaxy, for the Milky Way pinwheeling about Andromeda, and for the Virgo supercluster of galaxies soaring through

They were full of vague references and twisty language, not clear-cut references. It was like reading a stoned college student’s attempt at poetry.

We moved to Eugene, Oregon, a small college town in the Pacific Northwest. The city sits near the source of the Willamette River, which stretches 150 miles north, from the Calapooya Mountains outside of town to its mouth on the Columbia. Carving its way between mountains, the Cascade Range to the east and the Oregon Coast Range to the west, the river defines a fertile valley where tens of thousands of years ago a series of ice age floods surged southwest from Lake Missoula, traveling over eastern Washington and bringing with their floodwaters rich soil and volcanic rock that now shore up the layers of its earth, alluvial plains fit for a vast variety of agriculture. The town itself is coated in green, hugging the banks of the river and spreading out up into the rugged hills and pine forests of central Oregon. The seasons are mild, drizzly, and gray for most of the year but give way to a lush, unspoiled summer. It rains incessantly and yet I never knew an Oregonian to carry an umbrella. Eugenians are proud of the regional bounty and were passionate about incorporating local, seasonal, and organic ingredients well before it was back in vogue. Anglers are kept busy in fresh waters, fishing for wild chinook salmon in the spring and steelhead in the summer, and sweet Dungeness crab is abundant in the estuaries year-round. Local farmers gather every Saturday downtown to sell homegrown organic produce and honey, foraged mushrooms, and wild berries. The general demographic is of hippies who protest Whole Foods in favor of local co-ops, wear Birkenstocks, weave hair wraps to sell at outdoor markets, and make their own nut butter. They are men with birth names like Herb and River and women called Forest and Aurora.

learned why those canyons and channels cutting across the flat surface of the ocean floor looked so much like a big river and its tributaries meandering across the prairies. It’s because that’s exactly what they are. This spidery web of channels is basically an extension of the Columbia River system across the sea floor—through the mud on top of the Juan de Fuca plate.

Beside the Columbia River in Washington State, construction had commenced on reactors that used two hundred tons of uranium moderated by twelve hundred tons of graphite. Working with their Canadian ally, the Americans were building a massive heavy water plant at a hydropower station in Trail, British Columbia. At the Los Alamos Ranch School in New Mexico, a small city of physicists was working to build a functioning fission bomb.

In the hills of Tennessee, monumental plants were being built to separate the rare isotope U-235 from U-238 using two different methods. Beside the Columbia River in Washington State, construction had commenced on reactors that used two hundred tons of uranium moderated by twelve hundred tons of graphite. Working with their Canadian ally, the Americans were building a massive heavy water plant at a hydropower station in Trail, British Columbia. At the Los Alamos Ranch School in New Mexico, a small city of physicists was working to build a functioning fission bomb.

Rockaway Beach has a number of eateries, including the original Pronto Pup corn dog stand.

tried not to stare at Madison’s long, pink tulle skirt and black T-shirt as her sister waited tables. Old Converse tennis shoes and a small tiara rounded out the outfit. The clothes would be understandable on a thirteen-year-old. Or a six-year-old. But her sister was thirty-one.

had lived. If you were

When the sun started to set, and when our car was the only one left in the parking lot, we did not leave the Vista House. Stephanie and I sat on the roof of the car, let out lovestruck sighs, and in turn swallowed our breaths to savor the feeling. However many times you stared from edge to edge at the Columbia River, it was impossible to see the same view twice. "Sorairo wa kokoro moyou," I murmered in Japanese. "What?" "The color of the sky is the shape of the heart. It means no view ever looks the same. And that's a good thing because that means your heart is never the same.

They were assembling a rocket there. It was a big rocket. It all more or less made sense. There was no cargo too big to be barged up the Columbia River and then trucked the last few miles to Moses Lake. There was no airplane that couldn’t be accommodated by that runway. There was no object that the aerospace machine shops of the Seattle area couldn’t build. And from this latitude, the same as Baikonur, a well-worn and understood flight plan could take payloads to Izzy. A mere four days later, Doob stood in the bed of a rusty pickup truck with a random assortment of space rednecks, hoisting a longnecked beer bottle into the sky in emulation of the rocket lifting off from the pad. They all hooted and screamed as they watched it arc gracefully downrange and take off in the general direction of Boise. And the next morning, when they had all sobered up, they got busy building another rocket.

My husband and I have lived in Oregon for 55 years in Eugene, Portland, Neskowin and Hood River. We have explored much of Oregon and are avid readers of travel and history. We are familiar with Oregon’s bigoted history and Oregon’s positive and negative politics. From Bettie Denny’s fiction book I could picture places, people and events. The book begins and ends in the Lone Fir Cemetery founded in 1866 in southeast Portland. Murphy Gardener, a new Oregonian reporter, is assigned to cover the Halloween cemetery tales at the cemetery, meeting a black cat, and a new friend, Anji. Murphy and Anji soon meet for breakfast at the Zell Café and embark on a historical quest. Untangling a chain of events and people through maps, letters, photos and directories they sort though the detritus of lives. A photo and a dubious translation, ending at the Lone Fir Cemetery, give some probable answers to their quest. I love mysteries and Denny does an exquisite job of linking the present to the past. She visits The Oregon State Hospital Museum, Oregon Historical Society, Chinatown, Phil Knight Library, Columbia Gorge Discovery Center and Edgefield. She reads about suffrage, about the “incorrigible’” Abigail Scott Dunaway and her infamous brother Harvey Scott, publisher of the Oregonian. She uncovers past issues of sex slaves and current issues sex trafficking. She also showplaces current establishments such as the Bipartisan Café in Montavilla, The Sunshine Mills in The Dalles where she gathers with those who are aiding her in her historical quest. For those of you Oregonians who want a good mystery taking place in your own backyard, I recommend this book highly.

The rider’s aim was no less than to shut down the operations of one specific federal official.” Another defunded the Fish Passage Center (FPC), the scientific agency that provides fish population data used in environmental lawsuits challenging the Columbia River hydropower system. Without funding for the FPC, the flow of data would dry up; without the data, the lawsuits would lose their key factual thrust against the hydropower industry. Idaho’s former senator Larry Craig crafted the rider. A longtime recipient of campaign contributions from the electric utility industry, Craig drew the title of “legislator of the year” by the National Hydropower Association in 2002.

And these were just the main-stem dams. As they were going up, the Columbia tributaries were also being chinked full of dams. Libby Dam on the Kootenai River. Albeni Falls and Boundary dams on the Pend Oreille. Cabinet Gorge and Noxon Rapids dams on the Clark Fork. Kerr and Hungry Horse on the Flathead. Chandler and Roza dams on the Yakima. Ice Harbor Dam, Lower Monumental Dam, Little Goose Dam, Lower Granite Dam, Oxbow Dam, Hells Canyon Dam, Brownlee Dam, and Palisades Dam on the Snake. Dworshak Dam on the North Fork of the Clearwater. Anderson Ranch Dam on the South Fork of the Boise. Pelton and Round Butte dams on the Deschutes. Big Cliff, Foster, Green Peter, and Detroit dams on the three forks of the Santiam River. Cougar Dam on the South Fork of the McKenzie. Dexter, Lookout Point, and Hills Creek dams on the Willamette. Merwin Dam, Yale Dam, and Swift Dam on the Lewis River. Layfield and Mossyrock dams on the Cowlitz. Thirty-six great dams on one river and its tributaries—a dam a year. The Age of Dams.

History is a delicate matter in a diverse country. Shortly after the fall of the Alamo—likewise in 1836—Mexican troops defeated the Texans at the Battle of Coleto Creek near Goliad, Texas. The Texans surrendered, believing they would be treated as prisoners of war. Instead, the Mexicans marched the 300 or so survivors to Goliad and shot them in what became known as the Goliad Massacre. Mexicans resent the term “massacre.” With the city of Goliad now half Hispanic, they insist on “execution.” Many Anglos, said Benny Martinez of the Goliad chapter of the League of United Latin American Citizens (LULAC), “still hate Mexicans and using ‘massacre’ is a subtle way for them to express it.” Watertown, Massachusetts, had a different disagreement about history. In 2007, the town’s more than 8,000 Armenian-Americans were so angry at the Anti-Defamation League’s refusal to recognize the World War I Turkish massacres of Armenians as genocide that they persuaded the city council to cut ties with the ADL’s “No Place For Hate” program designed to fight discrimination. Other towns with a strong Armenian presence—Newton, Belmont, Somerville, and Arlington—were considering breaking with the ADL. Filmmaker Ken Burns has learned that diversity complicates history. When he made a documentary on the Second World War, Latino groups complained it did not include enough Hispanics—even though none had seen it. Mr. Burns bristled at the idea of changing his film, but Hispanics put enough pressure on the Public Broadcasting Service to force him to. Even prehistory is divisive. In 1996, two men walking along the Columbia River in Washington State discovered a skeleton that was found to be 9,200 years old. “Kennewick Man,” as the bones came to be called, was one of the oldest nearly complete human skeletons ever uncovered in North America and was of great interest to scientists because his features were more Caucasian than American Indian. Local Indians claimed he was an ancestor and insisted on reburying him. It took more than eight years of legal battles before scientists got full access to the remains.

I figured too much is better than not enough when it comes to caffeine.

Their primary goal was a new government that would rise from the ashes of the old. The logic was twisted. It was based in racism, violence, and chaos.

Accelerationists were a small segment of domestic terrorists. They believed the federal government was irreparably corrupt and tried to accelerate its demise by creating chaos and political tension. The idea behind harming the federal substations was to show that the government was incapable of protecting itself and the public. Sometimes they used the blackouts they’d created to commit burglaries or arson, further proving the government couldn’t keep its people safe and driving the public to rebel against it.

Mercy had no tolerance for domestic terrorist groups that used destruction to make their point. The damage to the substation could be fixed, but the surrounding small communities would pay the price by having their lives turned upside down.

My heart continues to pound, and I take deep breaths. Anxiety races through my nerves. Always anxious. Always. It never stops. I have many prescriptions to fight it, but it’s never fully gone. It’s always under my skin, ready to jump out.

The Klan had taken root in both the rural side east of the Cascade Mountains and the metropolitan areas in the west, up and down the Willamette Valley. The first American town founded west of the Rocky Mountains, Astoria, at the mouth of the Columbia River, elected a Klan mayor in 1922, and hosted a convention of the order two years later. Ten thousand people attended. Reuben Sawyer, a Portland pastor and a student of Henry Ford’s tracts against Jews, filled churches in the Beaver State with anti-Semitic rants. “In some parts of America,” he warned one crowd, “the kikes are so thick that a white man can hardly find room to walk.” Speaking to 6,000 in Portland, he said Jews were trying to establish “a government within the government.” In the same city, another top Klansman told an audience that “the only way to cure a Catholic is to kill him.

It never got easier. Mason had seen dozens of deaths in his decades of law enforcement, and many had imprinted on his brain and cropped up in the middle of the night, ruining his sleep until he banished the images. He’d learned to compartmentalize his work. This was a job, and he was damned good at it. He was there to help and had to set aside his horror and disgust at what one human would do to another.

Mercy inwardly groaned. Sovereign citizens believed they were exempt from the laws of the United States. Mercy couldn’t quite understand how they came to that conclusion, but it involved the end of the gold standard, admiralty laws, and secret Treasury accounts issued at birth. Most sovereign citizens were harmless; they fought the government with paperwork, tying up the courts with hundreds of pages of pseudolegal nonsense.