A Blue Feather
I hiked up the river in the Wallowa (Wuh-LOW-wuh) mountains courtesy of tıwi·teqıs - Old Chief Joseph. He is interred atop a hillock at the foot of the mountains at the east end of stupendous blue Wallowa Lake. Old Joseph was a Nez Perce chief who refused to sell his homeland or sign a treaty. Before he died in 1871, he told his son to defend his native country and people saying, "My son, never forget my dying words, this country holds your father's body. Never sell the bones of your father and mother." His son is the famous Chief Joseph.
I was in Nez Perce country to attend the annual Fishtrap Writers Conference near Joseph, Oregon. I drove out from Anacortes, across tinder dry Washington, over the mighty Columbia, topped the Blue Mountains. I motored around the corner in Enterprise, Oregon - about a dozen miles from the lake - and was staggered by lofty purple mountains ahead. To the East - on my left - low rolling dung colored hills and plains extended to Canada. To the West - on my right - purple mountain majesty. Above the town of Joseph, over a small moraine, huge Wallowa Lake reflected in the afternoon sun.
The conference was held in an old timber lodge at the far end of the lake. There, writers were writing on writing…..talking too, lots of talking.
In our daily morning workshop, Louis told us the valley was magic and to make sure and leave Old Joseph a gift before you leave. He’d appreciate it. I left a black fan of downy eagle feathers cupped and shaped like a clam shell. I gathered them from under a big maple tree where eagles sit below the levee on Padilla Bay in Samish Indian country. I thanked the old chief and looked across the big blue lake to the hovering mountains beyond. Put the feathers under a small stone on the pedestal of his rock obelisk and returned to the writers’ confab.
Every morning, I would roll out of my half-dome tent, brew some java, and go for a stroll around the chaotic campground. I am always astounded how little I need to survive on the road. Sleeping pad and bag, tent, cook stove, water jug and I’m set. Mid-morning I would head over to Louis’s cottage for our morning workshop. Louis is a famous best-selling author - you may have heard of him, Louis Alberto Urrea - and a remarkable storyteller. There were about a dozen of us fawning at his knee - some students like me, others groupies on their third or fourth Louis workshop. Funny thing is, Louis is a regular guy just like you or me. He’s amazed to make a living writing and believes in magic and synchronicity - is part shaman. Writing - he says - is wizardry.
We did some writing of our own, sitting in the sun by the river on the lawn behind his cabin. This I wrote from one of Louis’s prompts - “Things my hands remember” - took about 15 minutes.
Each of my hands remembers something different. And they don’t like each other. That’s why I have to keep them apart.
My left hand remembers when my right hand hit it with a hammer. My left hand bides its time plotting revenge. My right hand is jealous my left hand wears the ring. My right hand remembers how to shake hands just so. Not too firm, not too soft. It is competent, bourgeoise. My left hand is a French socialist, thinks shaking hands is aggressive and imperialist. Both hands remember how to type. Both hands remember how to flex to milk a cow and spray a kitten with warm milk. Both hands remember holding baby daughters and grandbabies for the first time. My right hand remembers how to wield tools, write, start fires, feed me, and is strong. My left hand is secondary, along for the ride, knows enough to hold the phone when scrolling, holds the nail, is weak, subversive. My left-hand loves the ring.
Each day, after the workshop and a quick lunch, I would go for a hike in the backcountry. It was necessary solitary balance to the mornings’ social activity. I didn't need to behave, be polite or perform out there.
I trekked along the river, hooked up to the right at the fork, and switchbacked up the mountainside. Huge grey granite spires soared upriver, snow fields melting in the bright sunshine. Too hot by far. The river danced and bounced foamy and green over boulders, gravel, downed trees, and washed-out bridges. Just before the lake, it roared through a narrow forty-foot-deep cleft, bubbled across a steep gravel dropoff, and entered the lake chaste as a new bride.
Switchbacks ended and the trail leveled along a high rock ledge overgrown with scrub brush. Soon it opened onto a small rocky flat with views of the valley and lake far below. Against the hillside was a shallow depression scooped out of the thin earth covered with a brush arbor. It was wide and deep enough for two, but there was no sign of recent habitation. A quarter mile further, the sound of falling water - BC Creek - and around a corner I stumbled on an exuberant waterfall crashing and foaming below a sketchy log bridge. Crossed the bridge with my cojones in my throat and took some fine pics with the digital.
On the way down, moving smooth and fast, thinking deep. Stolen Nez Perce land is now US Government wilderness. At least it is held as wilderness and not open for extraction or development. The quiet under the river swoosh was profound. This is bear country too - one frequented the campground daily - the trail was overgrown with wild raspberry and huckleberry. I kept an eye and ear open for Ol’ Ephraim.
Thoughts run to Old Joseph. This is his land, his bones lie here. One step after another, river to my left, sun touches the crest of the hillside, puffy white clouds parade across the blue, big firs tremble in the canyon breeze, maples shiver, everything moves - is alive.
I have a feeling - strange - the entire watershed from the high peaks to the river just here and the trail under my feet moves with me. Like it’s attached at my belt, I pull and we all move forward in the same direction at the same time. The entire tableau is moving with me. I am enmeshed in the trees, dirt, river, and mountains in a way I never experienced before. I don’t get it at first, am confused. I run through an inventory of my condition - heat stroke? No. Too much sun? Maybe. Dehydrated? I take a slurp from my water bottle. Nope. More steps, more strides downhill, the watershed still comes with me like a love-struck puppy. I hear a voice in my head - “Take it with you.” Hunh? Again “Take it with you.” Well, appears to be coming with me whether I want it to or not!
It’s Joseph, sure as shit. I stop, scan the forested hills, the grey peaks, the snowfields, listen to the river, hear the birdsong, and am blown away by the gift. I look forward and down and see - a bright blue feather. I pick it up, knowing it is a reciprocal gift from the old chief. He has given me a striking blue feather in response to my eagle feather gift. I am comfortable now with the moving landscape and the “take it with you” admonishment. I smile. Thank you tıwi·teqıs. Then, another surprise - the voice in my head changes - now, there is laughter, a deep old man chuckling. And I hear - “They were crow feathers. You gave me crow feathers. Sooyáapoo.” Chuckling turns to outright laughter, tears. “Crow feathers!”
I stick the feather in the headliner of my truck where it meets the cabin lights. All my collected feathers are there - barred owl from Georgia, osprey from James Island, hawk from New Mexico, raven from Cap Sante, snow goose from the Skagit. These are the blessings in my headliner.
Listen now - there is a quiet valley high above the dry plains in North East Oregon, almost Idaho, haunted by the ghosts of the Nez Perce. When you visit, make sure you give thanks to Old Chief Joseph. He will repay you. But gift him something other than eagle-spat crow feathers.