I walked along perhaps the most unusual river in Oregon, unfortunately named for an Indian massacre, and I am thinking of giving it a new name, not for the maps, but for the mind.
A gigantic Christian cross erected on a hill loomed over the river. Doubtless, an unwitting penance for the massacre.
Driftwood abounded, some of it ancient and bleached beaverwood sticking upright from the sand, buried deep. It appeared as if the beaverwood was a hand or claw emerging from a graveyard upturned by an earthquake. I tried to free many a piece, but they wouldn’t budge.
This river forks at times, sometimes becomes trapped behind sand dunes, and turns into two or three mini-lakes. It is a marvel to behold when this happens: a trapped river that can’t find the ocean and the metaphors abound almost more than the driftwood.
I have pleasant memories of my dogs here, years and years ago. I need a need a new dog to make new memories.
The beach was fortless. I rectified that.
Rain began to fall as I made my way to the mouth of the river. It is not a fixed place. It moves all the time. No jetties and dredges to contain and channel the mouth. In fact, the mouth will change positions right before your very eyes as you stand inches away from it. That is startling to behold. I like the metaphor in that, too.
I scored a dozen choice cuts of beaverwood and bundled them up for the two-mile walk back to the car. When I returned, the river would be altogether different.