I used to tell my friends in California about the place I grew up. That it was a town, which during my youth, had a population of 3,000. That it used to have a drive-thru coffee stand with a pick-up window elevated to the height of a large truck that I couldn’t reach from the driver’s seat of my Eclipse. I told them that our biggest event each year was the Frolic and Rodeo. That my elementary school had two classrooms and a student body of 40.
I often wonder how those friends pictured the place I grew up. To them, I think they thought I was from the Wild West. And now that I’m back, I wonder if in some ways I am.
This month I experienced the Siletz River for the first time. Previous to the experience my only exposure to Siletz was attending a few powwows growing up. Although it had been over two decades since I was last there, I recognized the road to the tribal center as we passed it on the way to launch the boat. It brought back memory of the dancing and singing, the energy and excitement, the feathers and beadwork.
At the powwows, I was always amazed at the presentation of outfits and the use of bones, sticks, and grass in ways I had never seen them before. They were a beautiful experience I had enjoyed very much, and until that moment, I had forgotten. The impact a place has on a time continues to astonish me as I rediscover the patchwork of my past.
On the tail end of a particularly rainy week, the waters of the Siletz were high for our float. Foliage that would normally line the water’s edge held strong in the current, the tips of budding bushes and reeds reached from the depths to the surface for light.
On our journey the river moved with a powerful grace. The tranquility of the area made me feel present and free from distractions of the city. A needed break on a beautiful day.
Surrounded by lush landscape and under a clear blue sky, everything seemed bigger in such a wild place. Color spots bore hints of orange, yellow and red, and at times, I felt like we were in a painting.
It didn’t take long before the first of many waterfalls appeared on the slopes of the bank. They seemed to come from nowhere and then suddenly gushed to life, their roar loud enough to fade away all but their song. Some were tall, some were wide, but all cascaded down terraced rock shelves carved to perfection by their vitality.
Most trees were covered in moss that clung to their branches like something from a storybook. Some were pale green and others nearly neon. Some were long like the beard of Gandalf. Some had thickness like that of a chia pet’s fur. I couldn’t help but wonder what the area looked like when the native peoples were the only ones to have wandered it.
As we floated further from the roads that brought us there, I became more aware of the sounds of nature. The distinct call of the pileated woodpecker rang out over the water, loud and commanding, as to be expected from the largest woodpecker in North America. Waterfowl floated along with us creating slight ripples that tapped the sides of the boat. A pair of common mergansers fished nearby, dipping their heads in and out of the water searching for their next meal.
For miles the riparian was scattered with century-old trees standing regal and proud, probably older than the Confederated Tribes of the Siletz but certainly not as old as their history with the land. As we passed under a tree that had begun its bow towards the water, I realized in the years to come it will make its final descent switching its role from habitat for creatures out of the water to habitat for creatures within the water.
The sun at high-noon shone through leafless trees, their branches framing the sunspot like a photo on a wall. Something like a spiritual moment, I thought of how native tribes have celebrated the sun for centuries because of this very reason. Its reach touches everything and has certainly kissed this stretch of the Siletz, I thought.
Having spent so many years away, I had forgotten the beauty this place beholds. While in bigger cities I appreciated the artistry of cityscapes, nothing compares to landscapes in their raw form. Left to its own devices, nature is the most beautiful artist of all. I feel so lucky to have found my way back to this masterpiece.
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