“Get washed up before we head into town.” my aunt prodded. I knew she was right. We’d been sliding down a hill made of dirt for three days. We built a stairway with the flagstones. Salmon berry bushes surrounded the creek and a small rocky waterfront let us bathe, quickly. My brain stopped for a moment when I finally wet my hair. The water was clean, but freezing in comparison to the dry heat of August.
We made a tiny jetty with some rocks to keep the berries cooled. They sat in gallon sized freezer bags there, after we’d picked out all of the sticks and leaves. Sometimes there were little spiders. Across the creek sat Rover. Rover was a log we’d pretended was a dog. We used the fallen timbers in the rainforest across the creek as a playground. The growing evergreens created a canopy and the undergrowth was sparse. Ghost plants (monotropa uniflora) grew and we decided they were brought from another planet. Ferns, charlie brown berry bushes lazily dipped into huge marshes left from the snow melt flooding. Moss carpeted the underbrush until it subsided into pine needles and rock.
The ride to town would be dusty, but the last five miles were paved. We’d get a soda from the store where we sold our berries. On the way back we stopped to swim. The lake was created by an ancient lava flow. Old tree trunks sprouted from the lake. They looked like silvery steel pillars pointed toward a bright blue sky.
Back at camp we sat around the fire pit until all of the stars filled the sky. We sacrificed a few of our dirt-surfing flagstones for the promise of s’mores. Our beds were placed atop piles of ferns and some of the adults used a heated rock wrapped in an old towel to keep them warm. The next day, grandma and grandpa would arrive.
We rode in the canopies of their old steel trucks to pick berries at the top of the hill, along the timberline. The smaller kids played along the creek bed in the cool alcoves between the boulders. We joined the adults. In dizzying heat, insects relentlessly buzzed our ears and bit our skin. We bought bracelets for the fair and proudly wore our new school clothes with bug bites, scratches and purple fingers.
A blackberry bramble grew freely on a dry mountain top. Its white buds were barely peeking out of their green encasements. The bramble had five years to become a monstrous hilltop home and refuge. As a midpoint, between caverns, a young bat used it to sleep safely during the day. He had carefully found his way to its heart and where the sun ceased to penetrate the leaves. The earth was cooled by a breeze that found its way past the hounds tongue and through the canes.
A crow became enamored with the plant and brought a cane to a small girl, warming herself on some rocks nearby. Her father had died last year but he’d taught her many things. This crow was peculiar, but the way the bramble grew was more peculiar. She used his gift to make a basket. After several days in the sun, the basket had dried. That month she made 20 baskets. The bramble was still plentiful, so she then picked all of the berries and brought them to her mother. The mother saved a third, and brought a third to a fisherman. The fisherman gave her smoked salmon in return. The last third was given to her grandparents and those less fortunate and in need. The girl and her mother sat in the sun and weaved many more baskets after the last berries were picked. In return they were brought gifts of honey, carrots, eel, fish and potatoes.
I was born the year before the Dalles Dam covered the Celilo Falls. When I was three, my dad applied for money to relocate and begin a new profession. He was denied. We tried to move out to the coast, so he could fish and dig clams. I looked out of a big window to the icy ocean for the first time while eating a bowl of smoked salmon and potato chowder. The almost frozen rain made divots in the sand. Rent was raised for the tourism season.
He missed the spring salmon run. We made it back to the mountains in the Summer, in time for berries to ripen. My oldest sister stayed in Oregon City on the way back, to work at a paper mill. My oldest brothers were dropped off in The Dalles, to pick cherries. I was five, so I picked two buckets of huckleberries a day. Dad picked six. Mom picked three, nursing a baby and tethered to another. Dad walked into the forest with an army satchel flung over his shoulder and a coffee can tied to his waist. He’d be back for a second six pack at noon. An older brother followed him with the extra coffee cans. When I was twelve, Dad died. He had five sons. Now there are only two. I live on a mountain that I rarely see. My brother lives near the beach and rarely sees me.
I started writing these for a class and continued because I enjoy the format. The assignment was to mimic a book we had to read by N. Scott Momaday called The Way to Rainy Mountain. If you can’t tell, the first part is a personal recollection, the second is like a legend, and the third is written in the perception of my father. There are usually parallels in Momaday’s writing that link these three together. In this story set I’ve written about death and survival as well as exchanges of currency and the care or destructions of meaningful places.
Some blackberry species are native to the Pacific NorthWest but rubus armeniacus is invasive. It can grow very large and choke out other species. Making baskets from these plants felt parallel to the origins of fry bread.
Intergenerational experiences with seasonal work also served as inspiration. The paper mill was one of the last mills in a series of industrial changes on the Willamette River from 1842-1867. It was built on an Indigenous fishing village. It’s important for everyone to learn about the historical economies of Indigenous tribes. It’s always seemed possible that there could be enough for everyone, but having enough for everyone is only sustainable when everyone has an understanding of how these economies work.