The Cowlitz name for Mount St. Helens is Lawetlat’la, which roughly translates to “the smoker”, and on May 18th, 1980, I watched as she awoke and gave her smoke to the world. I was six years old, and have never been the same!
I was six years old and bewildered by what I saw and felt that day. I could hear so clearly the call of my Ancestors and the Call of the Land. This was God, this was the true power of God. On this day, I became an Animist.
Photo info: These photos were taken by photographer John V. Christiansen at 8:32 a.m. local time on May 18, 1980. They were later featured in a 1981 edition of National Geographic magazine.
The shots were taken from Pahto (Mount Adams), looking across to Lawetlat’la (Mt. St. Helens) just over 50 kilometers away.
The persistence of strength and hard work, just to live, and to function each day. When the flowers bloomed, and the rains subsided, you noticed.. and, you smiled.
Moore/Nelson Flume near Stevenson, WA., early 1900′s.
Work, and joy, were words that one spoke in the same sentence, or at least that is what this photo conveys to me. This photo brings a smile across my face, and when I close my eyes and breath in, I swear I can smell the fresh spring rains.
The constant sounds of falling water and rustling winds make up much of the landscape of the Gorge.
Dog Creek Falls, Washington
The warm Pacific ‘Chinook Winds’ dropping their rains against the cold easterly draft of the Plains. I love being in that cold nip of winter, everything is bright and chill. I get lost in the language of falling water, often watching the afternoons fade into the waining of dusk. There is a vortex here, that makes time stand still.
Myself, I’m one of the generations. My mother is one of the generations, wandering out there in alcoholism, and death, and murder, and domestic violence, and thinking there’s no way out. Well, there is a way out… Like I tell my children, my grandchildren, ‘You don’t have to walk that road of alcoholism and drug addiction. I walked that road. I took all those beatings for you guys. You don’t have to walk that road.’
- Verna Bartlett, Ph.D., Native American elder and sexual abuse survivor
My sweet Grandmother and myself in 2009.
My Grandmother Shirley Amos said pretty much the same things to us kids growing up… ‘you have a good life now..’ and we did, and we do.. but there is still healing to be done.
I recorded this from my Grandmother while she was waiting to go home for Hospice and pass on to her Creator.
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.
