In the Pacific Northwest, some of us hang on through months of clouds for those perfect summer days. Friday was one of those. While much of the rest of the country sweltered in, and fretted about, the severe heat, we enjoyed perfect blue skies and flirted with 80 degrees.
I drove East through the Columbia River Gorge National Scenic Area. The rocky cliffs, foliage and water never looks the same. The water is higher or lower, white-capped or smoooth. The colors change, as do the shadows and quality of light. Although the Osprey family always seems to be at their nest, past the great waterfall, on the left.
North across the Hood River Bridge, we see the climatological edge, with few trees on the eastern slopes. To the west,fir-covered ridges framed the wild riot of colors and movement from the kite-surfers and wave runners.
At the mouth of the White Salmon River, fishing men bobbed in boats hoping for a good tug. Driving north, I see white-water rafters & kayakers enjoying the same same river at Husum and BZ Corners.
Finally, in Trout Lake, Washington, the sky is a deeper, purer, prettier blue, which sets off the brilliantly white Mt. Adams. The mountain is the constant. It's the "ahhh" at the end of the road. It is the source of so much the water I just drove past. The Mountain feels like a great, calming father.
People set tables and prepared food at the Grange hall for a gathering. Other people milled about up the street at the 100+ year-old First Presbyterian Church, discussing the sad turn. Then, inside, we wept over the passing of Tate Taylor, the sweet, talented young man who brought us all together on this, otherwise, splendid day in the Pacific Northwest.
