i

all the old canneries in the harbor now distillery brew pubs—walked down the riverwalk trail looking out at the huge Columbia flowing into the Pacific—seagulls + sealions hanging out in abandoned wood docks—Washington hazy mostly tho sun comes out in patches for a bit until evening when maybe marine layer just settles in tho no rain except a sprinkle on the drive in—it/ll come tho I/m sure—tourism the big industry now tho still some international maritime business down at the western top of town—fishing industry still active if not thriving—cruise ships come by sometimes on the way up to Alaska but downtown still zoned for local businesses only—chi-chi restaurants to cheap eats—tattoos trinkets—but people out walking—that counts for a lot w/me—the question always of course (for me)(anywhere) if I could live here—going to see a free show by the Columbia River Symphony—their brochure says they/re looking for doublebass players so I could have a purpose if unpaid + if my bass didnt crack from humidity (tho Salem downstate is too)—but hilly—lots of old wellbuilt houses—well most are maybe—Astoria first town/city/outpost in the NW at least if not on the whole west coast—I/m not an expert just reading the bestseller Astoria by Peter Stark—hard to root for a rich guy tho at least John Astor was a selfmade rich guy but the Symphony all scrunched up on the Liberty Theatre stage gathered to make music for us

ii

sunday morning coming down in Astoria at the co-op café which seems to be the local favorite but also for us intrepid tourists—overcast of course but nice walk downtown looking up the side streets at the old houses—some not as maintained as thought—paint stripped off the side—huge buildings some of  them + I wonder if thats where I/d end up renting a room—town goes right up the hill—other tall buildings set in the earth all facing out to the water + the far shore which doesnt seem like a bad view to have here from anywhere in town tho I suppose you get used to it? 

there is an arts scene here tho—next weekend the Raymond Carver Writing Festival and the Pacifica Quartet—I came on the wrong weekend! but it was the only weekend—also a couple small theaters doing plays—big band jazz concert this afternoon—some other concerts I missed last night plus film festivals—seems to be another orchestra in town—maybe the ‘real’ one (versus the lesser community orchestra)(I can say that playing in a lesser community orchestra myself) but cafes + a couple bookstores + place to make music—thats all I need really—walkable downtown w/free parking if needed plus Columbia bigger river than measly Willamette—walking back to the motel thru the back streets + yep a lot of theses big houses have either the AirB&B locks on the doors or some just divided up into apartments—up a hill looking down onto houses—whole yards really—just built into the side of the hill w/old stone stairs grassed over now—not sure my pickup could even get up some of the streets—would have to sidehill switchback but initial impression is people living here want to make it work + the benefit of being away from Willamette Valley I-5 mess of politics of all kinds—not that I/m talking to anyone here so who really knows + there are outer pockets—other towns even further west  b/c looking at a map again reminded Astoria is still in the river where ships can actually come in + be protected from ocean currents + weather—towns like Hammond + Warrenton which wont survive the tsunami—cardamon roll w/jasmine tea was good tho

iii

but must get outside so across the Astoria-Megler Bridge heading to Cape Disappointment State Park in Washington part of the larger Long Island rec area which I wont have time to explore thoroughly when I wasnt sure I/d have enough outside experiences here but thru Chinook the town greeted by the sign NOW ENTERING UNCEDED CHINOOK LAND which defiance I love if not really realistic tho still if/when the Merican Empire collapses the Rezes will have natural built-in stable communities—probably wont allow us white folks in out of the chaos unless they keep some of us as sex slaves but anyways down a path to the ocean—roar of waves comes before down into a sort of marsh out onto a coastal pine barrens out onto beach cold windy grey where locals have driven their pickups up (or down?) along the firmer wet part to fish—wading in up to their thighs casting out fifty feet—I dont see anybody catch anything but I do see a whale carcass—baby by the (still huge) size of it covered in pecking seagulls—basically looks dissolved—head + flippers still there tongue lolling out—tail ripped open by something (orca?) but mainly the belly where the guts have oozed which the gulls seem to leave alone—not a cetacean expert but I wonder if this is/was a newborn taken at birth—The Dead Whale Blues here at the greyblue edge of the world where the wind just drives in yr face

get to a lighthouse parking lot but sidetracked by a woman coming up from a trail + since I cant seem to make sense of any park maps I ask her if its worth the walk + she says yes so of course this is what I live for walking thru woods even tho the trail heads down down probably to the ocean again which means I/ll have to come up but nevertheless its wonderful since most people dont go on trails so I/m mostly alone w/huge douglas firs—in Astoria theres a ginormous preserved section of one near the courthouse—redwood or sequoia-sized—these are not that big but still big—old— just finally peaceful—distant roar of the ocean of course + breeze thru trees—trickling creek in a drainage—that marine layer covering up the sky—high fog or mist tho I can feel the sun above it—anywhere else farthur inland is probably sunny but no rain—trail dry which I bet is a mudbog most days—I dont even know where I/m going to—just down into a more marsh then back up on rocky prominence of trees—finally get to a road which is the worst for a hiker—like I couldve driven but turns out to be a place where Clark w/small party camped—used to be ocean shore but w/o the rock jetties + harbors river sediment has created a lot more land

back across the bridge w/sun breaking out— marine layer backing off out to the ocean despite light west wind—I dont know how it works—huge cargo ships in the harbor anchored offshore to eastish of town waiting to head upriver to collect grain—patches of rain back up on the WA side standing on the Riverwalk Trail listening to waves lap—any sounds of moving water soothing—four days I spent backpacking at Olympia National Park on the coast section—that roar—felt like it permanently changed my brain after escaping Michigan again—escaping teaching or the beauracracy of college administration and/or the general mean small minds of people from Michigan but there are mean small minds everywhere—when they appear I tend to leave so my whole life a series of leavings

iv

hot bath + nap back at my motel room reading more of Astoria about the madness of how this place got ‘settled’ by white men to become third corner of Merica—I am able to walk again + go slowly downtown in blessed sun—say hi to sea lions lazing in rows under wooden docks where homeless people seem to also be living—quiet late afternoon sitting in a riverfront bar at a window table sipping or gulping gintonics watching gulls + cargo ships wondering if the crews come into town + if so how or what goes on on them while they float anchored offshore—scattered rain over in Washington gathers heads acrossriver—wondering if it/ll really pore but when I walk outside its just a strong mist as if people on roofs were spraying me w/(hopefully) waterbottles—then gone—coconut curry phở for dinner—I have yet to eat fish—no good movies playing—no regular indie theater so that goes in the nay column for living here so back to the motel—actually late by now anyways looking forward to a second hot bath but strolling by a bar I spot a woman in pink yoga pants maybe indian or asian tight pink top too—too young but brings lust back after its been gone for a few days—I know I/m a bad person for staring at her ass but damn I even have thoughts of going over there asking her if I could buy her a drink which I never do + I dont—just have these thoughts take care of myself back in my room but one for the yea column—sexy women in Astoria (whom I would never talk to because I never talk to women anywhere just stare longingly inappropriately + if women do talk to me its because I/m ‘safe’ when really I lust in my heart when really I actually like beautiful interesting women—the kind who are interesting to talk to and/or have interesting lives tho who knows maybe she does—I’ll never know

v

speaking of beautiful women four deer does whom I saw wandering in town yesterday come out under the abandoned docks to an open sandy area to the rivers edge tho not to drink or the water still too salty even at low tide? mostly seem just curious + wandering—low stratus cloud layer (not marine layer) with the Washington hills teeming w/water dogs + I/m weary from my long hike yesterday so maybe stick close to town + wander up the hill to see how the rich folk live—everything really is kind of bluegrey—clouds water air—

vi

To The Column—a tower Astoria constructed on the highest point of the penninsula—I loves me a tower—I walk up from town then walk up the spiral staircase inside 125 feet out onto a catwalk to see everything—the Columbia Washington Pacific whole nother ecosystem to the south down in the flats of the Natul River where I was two days ago + various + sundry distant Oregon mountains I dont know the names of fifty miles—tide still out (or again) w/sandbars at the river mouth take a trail down thru the city park which is evergreen + lovely out to the Cathedral Tree w/huge roots—Neruda, this tree does not hide the splendor of its roots—which puts  me 1.5 miles east so walk back into town sweating for another cloud + mist tea for this cloud + mist town where Important People need to talk on their phones in public but enjoying this bluegrey morning at a café w/a ginger scone + jasmine tea scribbling for nothing

It’s been 12,183 days. My little boat lifts and drops with the swell of water. Occasionally, I patch a hole or  mend the sail. I built it and I can repair it.  

A few years ago, the current drifted to an island. It fed me, its waterfalls slaked my thirst, and the  trees kept me dry. For a short time, I rested in the sand while the sun warmed my body.  But the food diminished and the water became undrinkable. I took what remained from under my  trees and set sail again.  

Now, I hide my face from the sun flashing off the infinite waves. I never know which direction I  am drifting.  

Tonight, I lie on my back and count the stars that crash to the ocean’s floor. Other than the moon,  it’s as much light as I get. There’s a faint flash, rhythmically returning. I sit up. That’s no shooting star.  The water seems to lure me toward it, so I reach for my oar, dip into the salty sea, and push. Left,  right. Left, right. It looks like a lighthouse so far away that I’m not sure I can find it. I keep rowing.  In the morning, thick fog surrounds the horizon. There’s no evidence of a lighthouse anymore. I  spend the daylight squinting into the distance, questioning whether I’d seen it after all.  When the sky finally darkens to the water’s edge, I scan the horizon. There it is, a little brighter 

now. I pick up the pace.  

Weeks pass. I can now see the dark outline of its land against the moonlight. Its tower is a shadow  stretching toward me.  

The sun breaches the ocean waves. A drumbeat pulses in my ribcage. There, a morning’s row  away, is an island holding a lighthouse.  

It’s smaller than I imagined.  

The nearer it comes, the duller the ache in my shoulders from fighting the chopping water. My  boat seems to glide twice as far with each stroke.  

The rising sun reveals walls entirely embedded with starfish and sea-glass. 

I’m surrounded now by mirrors.  

My eyes scale its height and stop near the top at a window. There’s a figure there, maybe a 

woman, moving her hands. I imagine her waving me ashore.  

The land’s edge finds my boat, and I leap from inside its safety. Warm water swirls around my  ankles as I wade to shore, each step dragging through sand.  

This place feels hushed and for the first time I’m not sure that I should disturb that. But her  insistence draws me forward. I run.  

Almost immediately, I smack into something hard. Stunned by resistance, I look down the shore  each way. In the half-light, a reflection of the sand and water curves around the land in both directions.  My hands run across the vertical glass surface for half a mile before I collapse into my boat and paddle  around the island perimeter.  

I look to the woman in the window. Her hands still move side to side. But now that I’m closer, I  see her head doing the same. I realize that she may not be beckoning me at all.  

That can’t be right. But I’ve circled this island and found no way in.  

 Her hands never stop.  

I drop my oar. My body hurts. My boat and I bob in the water. It’s all right there, just on the other  side. The current begins to carry my oar beyond the island.  

 I reach for it.

It was a relaxing Sunday morning, a fall day, the sunlight was peaking in through the slight crack between our bedroom curtains, and for the first time in about a month I was able to sleep in.  It was sheer bliss.  Suddenly it was interrupted by the obnoxious sound of our doorbell ringing.  Most of my neighbors had no clue that I was a veterinarian.  I was just some person that got up went to work at all hours day or night, usually came home late, often covered in mud, funny smelling liquids, or blood.  Just a normal working guy.

“Who could that be this early in the morning?” I asked my wife.

“See if they ring the doorbell again, could be some kids,” she replied as she turned over trying to get back to sleep.

No, they didn’t ring again, but now I was curious.  I went into the living room and looked out the front window.  There was no one I could see at the front door.  We were renting a two bedroom duplex on a side street about a mile from West Eugene Animal Hospital in which I was employed.  When you have two dogs and two cats, you rent a house not an apartment, besides I didn’t really like apartment living.  We had just acquired a second dog, a Collie mix with her one remaining puppy still with her.   She had literally came to our door and scratched on it wanting in.  She adopted us.  I guess the word had got out around the neighborhood in the animal community that this was the place to go if help was needed.  We found a home for the puppy within days.  We weren’t sure about keeping the mother however as rehoming her was more difficult.  We named her Roxie because she was such a good looking dog, as in “Foxy Roxie.”

I opened the front door, looked around, and then down.  There was a brown paper bag sitting on the step below the door.  At least it wasn’t on fire and filled with dog poop.  The thought crossed my mind in case someone was playing a prank on us.  Slowly I picked up the bag, carefully opening it…peeking into the bag.  Inside there were three baby kittens, maybe a day or two old.  I brought the kittens in and showed my wife.

“Oh my God,” she exclaimed.  “They’re so cute!”  Two were black and white, and the third was all black.  They were squirming around, crawling all over each other, looking for mama and something to drink.  Unfortunately mama was nowhere to be found!  There wasn’t any way of knowing where or what happened to her.  They had been dropped off intentionally on my doorstep because someone knew I was a veterinarian and was kind-hearted enough to want to see them survive.

After a moment’s thought, I said to my wife:  “You know I give advice to people on how to take care of orphaned kittens and puppies, but I have never done it myself.  I guess it is time that I practice what I preach and find out exactly what it’s like to raise a set of orphaned kittens.”  

My wife didn’t say anything, she just looked at me, then down at the kittens, and nodded her head.

“I need to go down to the hospital and get what we need.”  I got dressed and drove down to pick up KMR (Kitten Milk Replacer), a few syringes, a small red rubber feeding tube, a small kitten bottle with a rubber nipple for them to suck on, and a handful of cotton-tipped sticks.   For the first week or so neonatal kittens need to be tube fed milk multiple time a day because their mouths are not yet large enough to go around the rubber nipple, and their ability to suck milk out of a bottle is not yet developed.   I also went to a store and purchased a small food scale so I could get an accurate weight on each kitten.  

When I got home I warmed up the milk to body temperature.   Based on their weight I determined that they needed about one and a half tablespoons or 22.5 ml of milk daily.  I divided this amount to be given in 4 feedings or 5.6 ml per feeding.  On their first feeding though I only gave 3 ml as I didn’t want to stretch out their stomachs too much.  I measured the catheter from the last rib to the mouth and marked a black line with a permanent felt-tipped pen.  If I could insert it to that line meant I was in the stomach and not the lungs.  The thing I remembered and stuck in my mind was that our nutrition professor telling us was that they should look more like small footballs after feeding, definitely not like little basketballs.

The other thing was that for the first 3 weeks kittens needed to be stimulated to urinate and defecate after each feeding.  That is where the cotton swabs are used.  They are wetted with water and rolled across the genital area to stimulate them to pee and poo.  This is not always easy to do, and must be done gently so as not to irritate their genital area but firmly enough to cause stimulation.

We showed them to Roxy and having just finished taking care of her own puppies she took right to the kittens just like they were her own.  She laid down on her side and the kittens curled right up next to her.  She immediately started licking them and my job of stimulating them was replaced by an experienced mother.  We absolutely marveled at the timing of Roxie’s arrival relative to the kittens being dropped off on our doorstep.  It was providence that brought both together almost simultaneously.  That was the first miracle!

The all-black kitten we named Cinder.  She was the only long-haired kitten of the three, and was the most voracious eater.  When you feed kittens with a bottle, the hole in the nipple must be big enough to permit flow, but not drip out if the bottle is held upside down.  The person feeding the kitten must simulate the position they would be in if they were feeding off their mother.  That is on their belly with the bottle held at about a 45 degree angle.  Care must be taken not to squeeze the bottle to make the milk come out too fast.  If milk gets into their mouth faster than they can swallow, it could get down into their lungs and cause an aspiration pneumonia.

Cinder always tried to drink faster than she should and some milk must have gotten in her lungs because she developed pneumonia.  My wife was so concerned about her she even went home from a college football game at half-time to medicate and feed her.  Cinder survived mostly because of my wife’s perfect nursing care and she was the kitten we kept.  We found homes for the other two and eventually Roxie found her forever family to be with also.

My wife, Melody, and I had been trying to become parents for almost two years.  Tests had been run on both of us and there was no reason for it not to happen.  Cinder was doing much better, and I considered her completely cured.  She was happily prancing around in the plate of dry kitten food soaked in kitten milk replacer soiling her feet completely.  We had spent the last month working and stressing, feeding the kittens and nurturing Cinder back to health that we determined a weekend vacation was in order.  I had been working non-stop for a little over a year and needed a break desperately.  One of the pharmaceutic representatives had a summer house just off Youngs River Road, just south of Astoria, Oregon.  He offered it to us and I humbly accepted.  He stated he needed someone to check on it as he hadn’t been there for a couple months, but really he was just being nice.  We arrived on a Saturday afternoon and found the place to be absolutely charming.  It had a back porch with a stunning view of the Astoria Column rising high on top of the 600 foot Coxcomb Hill just southeast of the city.  Looking at it we knew this would be the first stop on our little excursion, and decided we needed to go there before it got dark.  The column was completed in 1926 as is wrapped with stained concrete, called sgraffito-style, detailing images Oregon’s history, a monument to expansion westward.  As I looked at it my interpretation was that it symbolized the growth of our State and the new people arriving.  I couldn’t shake the feeling that this is was exactly the same as what we were trying to accomplish within our budding family.   A month later Melody announced she was pregnant.  We were overjoyed, ecstatic even.  She shed tears of happiness as she told me that I was going to be a father.  I had prepared myself and in fact had a gut feeling that it was the right time and that it would happen soon.  But one doesn’t feel the full impact until possibility becomes reality.  Honestly I did not expect to feel this level of emotion.  This was the second miracle.  

Approximately nine months later our little boy entered the world.  We named him Justin after Justin Morgan, the originator of the Morgan horse breed.  Melody had promised herself that if she ever had a son he would be named Justin.  I had absolutely no say in the matter, although I did get to name his middle name.  My first two choices of “Time” and “Case” were immediately rejected.  Considering it was providence that helped bring him into the world, I thought “Justin Time” was the perfect name.  Of course I was joking and she knew that.  Instead I named him after myself; he became “Justin Phillip”, or “JP” for short.  He did not follow in my footsteps and had no desire to become a veterinarian, especially after seeing what I had to deal with over the years.  

Cinder took to Justin immediately, if he cried she was right there in his crib checking him out to see if he was okay.  They would snuggle together, especially at nap time.  As Justin got older Cinder was there following him around.  They developed a companionship the likes of which I have ever seen.  She was an affectionate and cuddly cat to Melody and me also.  Cinder lived to a ripe old age, in excess of 18 years.  Justin and her had grown up together.  This was the perfect example of the human-animal bond in action and illustrates just how early it can form in both humans and animals.  Perhaps I should count this as the third miracle.

Just before Justin was born I had made the decision to go out on my own.  I had considered going back to school and doing a residency in surgery, but that dream had been sidelined with my wife’s pregnancy.  Instead I decided that I wanted to be my own boss and have my own hospital.  He was born on my final day of work at West Eugene Animal Hospital, May 31, 1978.  It was time for a new beginning for me, my wife, and one brand new Oregonian.  In a few months’ time my clinic, The Ark Veterinary Clinic, would open its doors with me as the sole proprietor and veterinarian.  

There and about the Astoria Column 

Standing before the base of a history, that plinth which upholds our  varied narrative of past and culture, I revisit memories, envisioning times  passed and imagine times to come. A brisk bright December day below the  Astoria Column. Looking up at the coiled display of colonial provenance I  follow the massive artwork, evincing the triumph of spirit, the founding of  our nation. The weight of the column rests upon this opening line, a black  striation-like boundary, “Before the white man came.” I say the line to  myself again more seriously and once more as a question. I try and imagine  before. It’s like squinting your eyes to distort the details. I think of a second  hand story, the recollections of a logger who started the profession more  than a hundred years ago. He said he never imagined they’d cut it all down,  but they did. He wept, near the end of his life, unable to share how beautiful  the forests once were. I fail at envisioning it, but I’m sure the landscape  would be full of bigger trees. I see trees from everywhere across the  landscape like representatives of great migrations, choices, collaboration and  tradition. As well as the imposition of will upon other people, something  trees would not do. I contemplate between inhuman atrocities and  miraculous processions. I look at this pillar of history, which at best  acknowledges events but contains no plans of recourse. Can I be full of  hope and belief that this deeply fraught, disturbing and complex journey can  turn out better for everyone, that we might all partake in an unburdened  life.  

The evening before I stood with my partner in front of Raymond  Carver’s memorial parsing memories around his work, scenes of his stories  forever in me. “Will you please be quiet, please?” his quote in marble. Who  has not been asked to separate the art from the artist, the doer from their  deed? Carver was better to his second wife, I tell my partner, she pushed  him to write poetry. I try to write poetry now too. Recollection can be  messy, but I’d always rather know. December’s mood and the tragicomic memories around Carver begged me to stay and find a dive bar. Carver  made me want to write. The loneliness of his worlds felt like waiting for a  parent in a cold foggy car convinced something bad had happened.  Revealing literature, hard times, hurt people, poor working class. He abused  his first wife. I didn’t know then. I’d always rather know, especially when it’s  hard to hear. 

We pressed on through the mountains, windshield wipers on high,  enjoying this shorter leg. I’d already brought up the few facts I’d known  about Astoria, namely it was once predicted to be the largest city in Oregon.  I imagined it, the vast tracts of wetlands consumed. For all my years  crossing Astor Place in Manhattan’s East Village I had never connected the  flat plain of concrete bisected into island by routes as the same namesake as  Astoria. John Jacob Astor, a German immigrant who began acquiring fur to  trade, becoming a real estate magnate and smuggler of opium into China for  desirable goods. He died the wealthiest man in America. On his deathbed  there was only one thing he regretted, he wished he owned more real estate.  I couldn’t feel further from understanding that perspective. My mind is  cluttered with homeless encampments, a housing crisis, overwhelmed with  inflation and scarcity. I feel lucky to be on vacation with little work to do. 

We come down into Astoria, all dark and glossed with rain, reflections  of lights and colors. Our motel, retro, regretted only the loss of its best days.  The fresh paint, new appliances and plastic wood floors could not revive its  best years, its aura now sustained by its physical endurance, memories  bootstrapped by nostalgia, the best of American media. Down the street  another of Astor’s grand buildings. The Gilded age to Atomic age, private  points of landscape worn in the public eye. Aesthetics now seem to have  become adrift, disillusioned into cheap, disposable and garish trends. Where  have all the well built things gone? Though I know some persist. What  would the cohesion of treating our resources preciously, valuing our social  inheritance, leaving behind spaces and places we’re proud of look like? I’ve  been to the land fill too much for one lifetime. 

To avoid the trappings of social affairs and unwanted noise we  shopped around for the right bar, succeeding on our fourth try. Resting our  nerves we played cards, our variation of Rummy. We returned the next  night, again met with short interlocution. The soft probing of time and  place relations that recalls common friends and chance histories. A space  soaked in the refrain, ‘what a small world’. A perfect dive bar. 

The next morning started soft. I’d splayed the curtains to watch the  cause of day evaporate the night’s rain. Ablution and preparation later we  sought better coffee. Saccharine breakfast substitutes savored with the  tender draw of weekend idleness. A feral rock dove sauntered in, an agitator  of the bakers. Accustomed to the winged vagrants they attempted to wish it  away. I felt like I could slip into a different life, one where we were already  regulars. 

We headed on seeing the signs, historical brown reminders of Lewis  and Clark pointing, it could have been that which reminded me why we  came. Way back, having analyzing our habits and mapped them — with  generous and reductive hubris — onto the greater population, we concluded  hiking and the general purpose of exploration is to either look at big rocks,  look down from big rocks, or observe large amounts of water, especially if  the water is falling. Some may parse this view and I can agree flora and  fauna should always be taxonomically listed and knowingly ogled. However  you see it, we were assuming the parody of the explorer and found the  object of the journey was to point. 

Driving to the ship wreck of the Peter Iredale I felt outside time, aloud  to imagine this place as it is, ancient. A couple others were parked watching  the sight from the safety of their cars. A tall van had its sliding door open  exposing a home. Using the trunk of our station wagon for a windbreak we bundled up in the sand parking lot. Nip of whiskey to soothe our soon-to-be wind-tattered cheeks. The shipwreck was made in England. Headed to  Portland it ran ashore in thick fog and a northwest squall in 1906. Sold for  scrap, its steel skeleton bow remains. It’s a stretch but the English side of  my family could have labored on it. Ships were how all my family immigrated, even in the 1950’s when my grandparents left England for  Canada. Thinking there was no opportunity at home, they took a ship. I  think I’d like to try a ship someday. We pointed at the ship, documenting each other. Well-framed shots, our postures reflecting eras of great exploration. Veni, vidi, vici and all the rest.  

We headed north up the Clatsop Spit to Fort Stevens, named for Isaac  Stevens, a military man, first governor of Washington and head of Indian  Affairs. His dealings with Indigenous Americans were dubious, vengeful and  bloody, imposing martial law upon natives and anyone who supported their  rights. Elk grazed, lounging in the park, unbothered by anything. We  strolled the hollowed concrete of the battery ruins. Reshaped land, tactical,  fortified, once high tech, filled with munitions and soldiers. I contemplate  being on the precipice of war. My grandmother, like many, shared their  home with soldiers during the Second World War. She would always bring  money to the train station where on rare occasions a vending machine  would be restocked with chocolate. Once she woke to finding an  unexploded German bomb in the field next door, not uncommon. During  the air raids my grandfather would roam the streets throwing stones at  windows, to make sure all the lights were out. The war effort was the new  normal, a shared interest of sacrifice, to keep death and invaders away. 

We pointed at a cannon and walked over to a mound, Battery 245’s  two big guns pointed at the bay. I spotted pilings stretching out across the  water of Trestle Bay. Western expansion was shaped by trains. My family  who came from Norway and Germany would have seen the recruitment  campaigns to build the Great Northern Railway. The path of which I’ve  traveled many times, even dreamed along. A great reflection of our past and  the labor of invisible bodies from distant lands all but forgotten. Leaving I  went the wrong way and we drove towards more barracks and rail lines.  ‘They look active.’ I said. I like it how it is, a ruin, quaint and disarmed, a  historic setting I can try and leave somewhat abstracted but not forgotten. 

We strained, driving slowly up the steep streets, craning to take in the handsome old architecture. The street went on steeper and higher. We passed warning signs until we could not turn around. Publicly I’d like to think I present myself with stoic resignation, cautious, even suspicious of  happiness. Privately I’m a goofy sap. So upon our brief interaction with the  toll both operator I was bubbling, now aware we could climb the column and point to our hearts’ content.  

I tried to count the steps and forgot. The strength of wind caught me  off guard. I had to reassure myself it wasn’t going to be blown over. We  braced ourselves. I won’t dare try to describe the vastness of the land, its  bays and spit, the expansive Columbia merging with the ocean or the way  this tip of rich earth falls away soothing the mind. It’s like I’m watching  eternity. Atop that column I’m humbled by these rich lands and waters, an  expanse impossible to see all together. Look — thousands of lives going  about life, all somewhere hidden in my vision. I’m on height, authorial,  feeling irreal, an all-seeing eye. Squinting in the wind I imagine the past.  This greater area is home to the Chinook, once one of the largest  populations of natives in America. Their plank houses would have been  alive with a fire crackling in their hearth, alive with the chatter of rich lives  going about their days. 

I’ve come from a line of choices, ancient ones, ancestors of histories I  will never know, their bones buried in distant lands. Once tribes people,  then peasants performing labor, trades people and those fallen on hard  times, relegated to work houses. We immigrated recently and yet I see a  history that looks like me everywhere, but no one seems to be accountable  in rectifying the messes we’ve made. Standing upon this plinth, a column  which supports the building of perceptions and views, I try to look beyond  myself, to be open to diversities and listen to our varied histories. I’ve heard  the Chinook have always been here and imagine their bones are part of the  earth itself, growing and nurturing all that lives, a symbiosis. I can’t imagine  the pain of being forced to leave such a beautiful place. Unlike most Native  Americans the Chinook have stayed in their territory. I wonder why my ancestors decided to leave. Now all our lives are entangled, yet segregated. 

Still I have hope. We are resilient and adaptable creatures. We like  marking time with celebration and reflection, just as honoring place and our  dead are ubiquitous and ancient traditions in all cultures. We must take the  time to contemplate these histories and listen to all voices and ruminate  upon the parts that may be hard to hear and slow to understand. For at  least then we might reckon with our perspective and consciously decide  why and how we chose to go forward on land that has given more than it’s  been gifted back.

The first time I saw the Astoria Column, I felt a little intimidated.  Towering high above the town, it seemed to watch over Astoria like  a giant from another era. As we drove toward it, I remember  listening to “The Goonies ‘R’ Good Enough” by Cyndi Lauper. My  date smiled and said, “We’re climbing that all the way to the top.”  

It was only our second date.  

When I stepped out of the car, the massive structure looked even  more impressive up close. I found myself studying the artwork  wrapped around the Column. The carvings and engravings were  incredibly detailed. I wondered how they had been made with such  precision and care. I had never seen a monument quite like it before,  and I stood there genuinely impressed before we ever began the  climb.  

She led the way.  

The entrance was smaller than I imagined, but soon we began  climbing the winding staircase that spiraled endlessly upward. As  we climbed, I joked to myself that I was waiting for Rapunzel to let  her hair down through the center of the tower.  

Step after step, we climbed like two firefighters racing toward a  rescue. We stopped frequently to catch our breath. She laughed as  she leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, her backpack filled  with water and snacks. Neither of us wanted to quit. We were  determined to conquer the Column together.  

As we neared the top, she suddenly stopped. 

“Wait,” she said. “Let me take a picture.”  

She stepped back and snapped a photo of me looking upward. The  light pouring down from above almost looked like the entrance to  heaven.  

Then we finally emerged at the top and were greeted by the cold  Oregon rain.  

The view was breathtaking.  

Ships sat motionless in the distance, as though a giant game of  Battleship was taking place on the Columbia River. Beyond them,  fog drifted across the water, hiding whatever lay farther out.  

From atop the Astoria Column, I imagined the landscape  transformed into a giant chessboard. The Column stood like a  towering queen overlooking the game, while ships emerged and  disappeared through the mist like pieces making their next move  across Oregon’s breathtaking coast.  

As I looked out over the river, I found myself thinking about the  countless vessels that had traveled these waters before. The  Columbia has long been a gateway to the Pacific, carrying  explorers, traders, fishermen, and immigrants toward new  opportunities. Beneath the surface, shipwrecks and forgotten  cargoes rest as quiet reminders of the region’s maritime past, their  stories preserved by the currents and time. 

For a moment, the river, the ships, the fog, the rain, and the Column  all seemed connected—each holding a story from the past, each  waiting for someone willing to look closely enough to see it.  

And there we were, two people on only our second date, standing  high above Astoria, sharing a view neither of us would ever forget.  

What I did not know then was that some moments are meant to be  climbed, experienced, and remembered, even if they are not meant  to last forever.  

Standing atop the Column that day, surrounded by fog, rain, and the  endless Columbia River below, none of the future mattered. There  was only the view, the climb, and the feeling that we had conquered  something together.  

Looking out over the river, I thought about the immigrants,  explorers, traders, fishermen, and travelers who had passed through  these waters before us. Their journeys were far greater than ours, yet  for a brief moment I felt connected to that same spirit of adventure,  determination, and discovery.  

The Astoria Column stands as more than a monument. Its murals tell  the story of those who came before us, while its view reminds us  how vast and connected our corner of the Pacific Northwest truly is.  

For one hundred years, the Column has stood above Astoria,  watching over ships, storms, celebrations, and generations of  visitors. I was fortunate to be one of them. 

And every time I think of the Astoria Column, I remember the  climb, the rain, the view, and the feeling of standing in a place  where history, landscape, and memory all meet.