Across many North American indigenous cultures, the thunderbird carries many of the same characteristics. It is described as a large bird, capable of creating storms and thundering while it flies. Clouds are pulled together by its wingbeats, the sound of thunder made by its wings clapping, sheet lightning the light flashing from its eyes when it blinks, and individual lightning bolts made by the glowing snakes that it carries around with it. In masks, it is depicted as multi-colored, with two curling horns, and, often, teeth within its beak.
This Thunderbird petroglyph rests at Horsetheif Lake in the east end of the Columbia River Gorge, in Washington.
Depending on the people telling the story, the thunderbird is either a singular entity or a species. In both cases, it is intelligent, powerful, and wrathful. All agree one should go out of one’s way to keep from getting thunderbirds angry.
The salt of time has worn the edges a little thin as the image wains in it’s slow compost. The timeless ghost of the unidentified figure suspended in haunted air. This bridge between the past and now, triggers my own memories, sneaking across forbidden entries, to break to the other side, and bathe in the glory of the Springs. The constant murmur of white waters washing across old stones and the sulphured air, and many generations baptized. I have come to believe that this is where the Gods live.
Two swinging bridges across Wind River. An unidentified person stands on one bridge. Written on the back of photo- “Swinging bridge Shipherd’s Hot Springs.”
“No one must look at the rocks of the bridge. People knew that some day it would fall. They must not anger the Spirit Chief by looking at it, their wise men told them.
‘Bridge of the Gods’ ca. 1929, photographer unknown.
The Klickitat Indians had a different law. Only a few men necessary to paddle the canoes would pass under the bridge. All the others would land when they approached the Bridge of the Gods, walk around to the opposite side of it, and there reenter the canoes. The oarsmen always bade their friends good-bye, fearing that the bridge would fall while they were passing under it. After many snows, no one knows how many, the prophecy of the wise men came true. The Bridge of the Gods fell. The rocks that had once been the body of Thunderbird formed the rapids in the river that were long known as Cascades of the Columbia.”
I woke up a bit before the Morning Star and could hear the silence of subfuscus mists hovering upon the hills and valleys. I laid awake, and reminisced about early mornings at Oceti Sakowin Camp in 2016, “Wake up, this is not a vacation!”.. I awaken to broken silence, echoing off old canyons, where trees fold time in the roots of soggy soil, I ponder my dreams.
Taowhywee, Morning Star
Today, I am off to say goodbye to an Elder, Grandma Aggie. I never met this holy Elder in the flesh, but her calling and life, resonated hard in my bones. When she talked about the sacred water, I could hear Wyam (Celilo Falls) pumping from my heart, and the sacred River flowing through my veins. Grandma Aggie felt so familier to me. The smell of Salmon and cedar smoke over open fires waifs from her voice. Grandma Aggie could be my own Grandmother, which, is not a new feeling for us Indians. It is an intrinsic part of our DNA, an intrinsic part of our Story.
My partner awakes to make some coffee and prepare herself for the journey. She knew Grandma Aggie personally, and looked up to her as a fellow Grandmother herself, learning to walk into Elder-hood. I watch her braid her hair with stories of Grandma, and what she meant to her. About her regrets of not staying in touch more, but holding the sacred memory close, she releases a single tear. I prepare the car for our journey to the Siletz Reservation, where we will lay Grandmother’s bones along side her relatives. As I am walking to the car, I hear my own Grandmothers voice in my head, and look up to greet the horizon. The young morning star obscured in fog seems so enchanted and calm. A deep breath overtakes me as I greet the day. I pray, remembering.
{Listen to my Grandmother, Shirley Amos, talking about finding our place in the sun.}
Our drive meanders through the Oregon Coast Range. The mists ebb and flow like the Ocean waves crashing against the shores of broken trees.
My partner tells me the story of how Grandma Aggie’s People were relocated to this wet fortress from the dry tinder Rouge Valley of Southern Oregon, which was known as “Oregons own trail of tears”. A story all Indigenous people share. A story of displacement from place and belonging. A story that is passed from one hand to the next, drenched in tears and whiskey. It is hard for us Indians to trust our strengths, and as I sit and listen to the Stories Grandma Aggie’s family tell, I know I am not alone.
Just as our stories are heartbreaking and traumatic, they are also laced in resilience and joy. There is a deep belonging to Place that fuels an inner fire no colonial power can kill, and no god can enslave. Yet, the scars are deep and seeping, and our Mother is in danger. We must find our place in the Sun, and rise above for the future generations. Thank you Grandma Aggie for the reminders, and the Stories.
The smells mingled in a frenzy of excitement, swaying with the brisk winds, carrying laughter and conversations into the chilly August night.
1954 Skamania County Fair: unknown photographer.
The whole county would seem to come alive and vibrate with a new frequency, communing over corned cob and Volunteer Fire Dept. hamburgers. It was our time to shine.
This photo really sums up in an image what this project is about to me. I can imagine what it would feel like to be Great Grandmother, watching the old ways die underneath the feet of something new. The very landscape has been rearranged and so has our Story. This photo is of the Cascades and Cascade Locks, Oregon prior to bonneville dams construction in the early 30′s.
A photo taken just before the Cascades were silenced. 193?, photo author unknown.
Read more about Bonneville Dam’s impact on my ancestors here
Celilo – Wyam 2005 Salmon Feast
Loss of Wyam caused pervasive sadness, even in celebratory events. The old Longhouse is gone. The Wyam, or Celilo Falls, are gone. Still courage, wisdom, strength and belief bring us together each season to speak to all directions the ancient words. There is no physical Celilo, but we have our mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and our children bound together for all possible life in the future. We are salmon (Waykanash). We are deer (Winat). We are roots (Xnit). We are berries (Tmanit). We are water (Chuush). We are the animation of the Creator’s wisdom in Worship song (Waashat Walptaikash).
Unknown fishermen, unknown year, unknown photographer.. any information would be appreciated.
The spirit of the “Place of Echoing Water upon Rocks” is not silent. We care for the river and the life of traditional unity, the humble dignity, and purity in intention— wholeness. Ultimately, we restore life with our attention and devotion. Each hears the echoing water within.
The leader speaks in the ancient language’s manner. He speaks to all in Ichiskiin. He says, “We are following our ancestors. We respect the same Creator and the same religion, each in turn of their generation, and conduct the same service and dance to honor our relatives, the roots, and the salmon. The Creator at the beginning of time gave us instruction and the wisdom to live the best life. The Creator made man and woman with independent minds. We must choose to live by the law, as all the others, salmon, trees, water, air, all live by it. We must use all the power of our minds and hearts to bring the salmon back. Our earth needs our commitment. That is our teachings. We are each powerful and necessary.”
Exposed skeletons of Earth, chilled and mangled, stand citadel, and observe in quiet, the awaking of Thunderbird. A rain drenched Phoenix, ascending to the arms of a cloud clothed sky.
An Edward S. Curtis photo from 1909 of my Ancestors old village site near Skamania, Washington. Lewis and Clark called us the ‘Shahala Nation’, when they came
through the Gorge in 1805. We lived in three subdivisions: the Yhehuhs, who were above The Cascades of the Columbia River, the Chahclellahs, who lived below The Cascades, and the Wahclellahs, who lived near Beacon Rock. We had six villages on both sides of the river until the 1830′s, when what was called the ‘Cole Sic and Warm Sic’ (Malaria) epidemic came through and decimated our numbers to near extinction. Some number perspectives: in 1780, we numbered 3,200, in 1805, Lewis & Clark’s count was 2,800, 1,400 in 1812, and about roughly 80-100 after the epidemic of the 1830′s. The survivors then created the single village that became the Wat-la-la.
A grand spectacle! The sheer magnitude of these living waters, pummeling in their forever song of change.
Post Card, Near The Dalles, 1917
The stories are spoken in the songs heard in between the spaces – when we close our eyes and listen. For millennia, this teller of tales has inspired and washed us in awe. Taken back, we are asked to remember its tales. Whether we like it, or not, it is up to us to write the new stories, and to pass them on… and time is speeding up in its forever song of change.