An Afternoon on the Willamette

One of my all-time favorite books is “Siddhartha” by Herman Hesse, written in the early 20th century but so timeless that the message, find one’s self, still applies today. For those of you not familiar, Hesse was a German author (“Steppenwolf” is his other most famous novel) who had a preoccupation with the Far East, India especially. “Siddhartha” then is set in ancient India, and the main character in the vein of Buddhism gives up all wealth, much to the dismay of his father, and goes on the become a monk of sorts.
Of course he falters from this path, enters the world of business, starts up a brief relationship with a prostitute, has a son, and then returns to his purpose. For being only 100 pages long, roughly, “Siddhartha” like Orwell’s “Animal Farm” or Steinbeck’s “The Pearl” is one of those short stories that amazingly says a lot about life in general. That may be incredibly vague, but trust me, it’s true.
For all his experiences, the person who has the greatest influence on our main character is a ferryman. All he does is ferry people across a great river. Nothing more, nothing less. He’s been doing that for decades. I’m not going to ruin the book for those of you who haven’t read this great piece of literature, but what I will say is that a river ends up being the greatest teacher of all.
I couldn’t help but think about “Siddhartha” yesterday. Along with nearly 30 or 40 other people, I was on the Willamette River Friday, a hand-made paddle in my hands, and intermittent rain pelting my bare scalp. Most of the Tribal members on this journey were under the age of 18, and we were making a very brief trip from Independence, a town just west of Salem, to Wallace Marine Park on the waterfront of our state’s capitol. The trip was brief, for canoes anyway, taking us a little less than four hours, though we admittedly went slow as there was a reception scheduled for us at our destination, and we wanted to arrive on time, neither early nor late.
I haven’t had the luck to do a full-day of paddling on the annual Canoe Journey that takes place up in Washington State. But based on what I experienced today, my conclusion is that you have to be in pretty good physical shape to spend eight hours at sea constantly paddling. I can’t help but admire those who partake in the entire journey, and my admiration is even greater for the ancestors of ours who might have done this on a regular basis.
I’ve been told by different sources that Grand Ronde Indians weren’t really canoe people. Conversely, I’ve also been told they were. Both sides seem pretty sure of themselves, and who am I to say one way or the other? What I can say is that a lot of Tribal members get into this, young and old alike, and what was most enjoyable about yesterday and the subsequent ritual was that people were there because they wanted to be. There was no campaigning, and no door prizes. It felt a like a Tribal community, and despite the slight burn in my left shoulder and upper back, was more like a day off from the office drama. Physical stress, it seems, can be mentally quite liberating and relaxing.
I’m glad to see the scores of Tribal youth enthused by these canoe activities. If they elect to participate in the Canoe Journey instead of engaging in underage drinking or early drug-use, then I think we’ve found something valuable and worth continuing.
Above all, it was just fun to be on the river. I saw a young bald eagle, and an osprey, and birds with bright colors, and even a doe which darted from the shore as we cruised by. A patch of scotchbroom from a distance was mistaken for a white-tail. Riding the current, we probably had a fairly easy day of paddling. Anyone who used the word “boat” instead of “canoe” was threatened with being thrown overboard.
I couldn’t help but marvel at the Willamette River, which having grown up in Salem I saw everyday, but never appreciated until recently. The river really has a life and soul of its own. I wondered how many of my Kalapuyan ancestors might have wandered over the very spots we floated by today. How did they view this snake-shaped body of water that wriggled through their valley? Yes, in my previous post I wrote about how you can’t step into the same river twice. But Friday, it almost seemed like you could have, or at the very least you could have sensed the history of this river and many of our people.
I understand why Hesse put such an emphasis on the river in his book. Rivers get to see a lot in their long, long, long lives, carrying us, nurturing us, and cutting through the lands we fight over. I learned a lot from the river yesterday.