Cresting the Ridge

Autumn Storm                                                                                                                                                       Catherine Al-Meten
Astoria, Oregon                                                                                                                                                                                2012

Years ago I recall sitting high atop a dusty ridge, surrounded by scrub oaks in the San Bernardino Mountains of Southern California. Many times I sat on this ridge, Ragger's Point at the YMCA's  Camp Oakes, looking out over range after range of mountains that lay before me in what seemed like an endless procession. Now, years later, I sit daily looking out across the Columbia River towards the Willapa Mountains in southwest Washington. My home is located 97 miles northwest of Portland, down the Columbia. I am located just at tidewater, where the strong Pacific sea tide meets the powerful surge of the Columbia. 
The tides, the winds, the ships and fishing vessels, the wildlife and those of us who make our homes on the river, create life on the river.  We live by the tides and changes in the weather. We watch the birds migrate north and south, then south to north. We catch sight of the whales as they migrate from the cold waters of Alaska down to the warm waters of Mexico. We await the return of the Eagles from their annual journey north, and we prepare for winter storms along with the animals who make this their home. 

Birds are active all up and down the river, as this is good fishing time. The salmon are heading out to sea, and according to local fishermen, the birds will take their fair share of the catch, leaving us with only what the fishermen bring home to market. Upriver on the Klickatat River, the tribal fishing has begun, and if this year is like other years, the cliff sides are stacked with fishing drying and lines waiting to be cast.  At Cascade Locks, and in Portland, fishers come to town to sell fresh salmon this time of year. The gillnetters go out at dawn and dusk to catch their limit on the tides. 

So spending time today struggling with technology, or spending too much time indoors right now working on some piece of writing or another, is very difficult, for what I am drawn to is the beauty and energy of this place I call home.  The wind fills me up with energy. The rain nourishes me. The changing of the seasons enlivens, and makes me melancholy as well. It is time once again, to learn to live in harmony. Time to not put too much focus on one thing to the exclusion of the other. My yoga practice and meditation, help me stay connected not only to my own physical and mental well being, but also to other people who bring laughter, energy, and joy into my life.  Living in a town where there seems to be "nothing much happening," has turned out to be like living on a volcano. This little town, sits atop thousands of years of history, and continues to be a point of creation, life, and death. Life here is full of activity, art, music, hard, back-breaking work, and community and communities.  Like all small towns, there are different groups, each creating with their friends and colleagues, insular and identity-driven connections. There are those whose families have been here for 4-5 generations who think that is a long time, and yet who have lived here only a small fraction of the time that the indigenous peoples have lived, worked, and sailed up and down the river, and fished and made their homes along the Pacific Coast. 

I came here to track down my grandmother, a member of one of the coastal tribes of Washington. At first, I tramped through graveyards, until I noticed that the cemeteries were filled with graves that only went back to the 1800s, and were not the place where the tribal people buried their dead.  I came to find her, to find out about her, and to learn more about part of my ancestry. What has happened, is I have fallen in love with life along the river, and though my search continues, I feel at home in the mud flats, near the open sea, and in the shadows of the mountains and pine forests of the Pacific Northwest. I don't need to know why I'm here, because I know it is home. Born in Portland after World War II, this has always been my heart's home.  Living her, now has given me the vision of the waters, skies, mountains, and life along the rivers, streams, and ocean  that brought my grandmother home to Gray's Harbor Washington, and led me here  to the lagoon along near the mouth of the Columbia River.  

What comes from my life in the way of art, poetry, writing, music, and photography, is in a major part, because of the identity that is forged in my blood and heritage, that seeks harmony in all forms of expression, and feels disconnected when not in harmony with those I love or with the earth where my feet walk. Writing is but a piece of who I am, though a large piece, like a quilted blanket applliqued with images of herons, hawks, eagles, geese, ducks, and brown pelicans. Sewn with the threads of memory, family, love, and grief. Hung over the doorways to hold in the heat and keep out the cold. Draped over the end of the bed, and kicked off in passion. 
Caught in the glimpse of an awakening dream, lost in a memory of times that have slipped away. 

Where we live, or at least where I live, truly helps define me and the work I do.  Not until I step away, however, can I see the overall impact and design a place has left as its mark on me and the work I do.  Not until I have moved beyond the past, do I see what is before me.  Rough roads, stormy nights, brilliant sunsets, and technicolor sunrises. Stars brilliant in the velvet black sky, and the moon and sun moving further and further south, soon to disappear over the north slope. Mountains behind me, mountains before me, and as I write, I find myself edging over yet one more ridge to see the next skyline, mountainscape, or sea to cross.