True, Personal Stories
about the Willamette River

Read personal, true tellings from the community about our local waterway. Have you been in or on the river? How'd you learn its name? Have you had memorable times near it? Or, with streams that run to the Willamette?

Read Stories from past Festivals

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• Brietenbush - Margaret Kirschner, formerly of Corvallis, now of Portland
• Riding By, Cleaning Up - Joe Landry, now of Portland
• Spring Kayaking on the Marys River - Laura Brophy
• Eyes and Soul - Boyd Wilcox, Corvallis
• A Peeping, Two-Footed Booby - Dianne Roth, Corvallis
• Buried Treasure - Ed Curtin, Corvallis
• I Was Tossed In - Wendy Baltzell, Corvallis
• The River Cats - Jody Harmon, Albany
• Traditions - Robert Gerding, Philomath
• Saved by Strangers - Hank LaVigne
• The Scary Ferry Across - Richard Doolin
• Quite A Bit of My Young Life - Sandra Hunt, Corvallis
• Oh Christmas Tree - Lynn Royce
• Robinson-Crusoe-esque - Cyd Smith, now of Williams, Oregon
• DamIt - Mary Foley Philips, Corvallis
• Higher Ground - Maxine Bown
• They Made Their Raft - Caroline Waterman
• An Old Friend - Dianne Roth, Corvallis
• Wising Up On Water - Sharon Wood Wortman, Portland
• All for a Pair of Shoes - Dick Thies, Corvallis
• McKenzie sweat lodge - Cindy McCain
• Finding Out the Hard Way - Donna Stevenson, Corvallis
• Not Worried When You’re a Kid - Vickie Watkins, Corvallis
• Good for Your Legs - Clem LaCava, Corvallis
• Our Own Paths - Julie Cope, Albany
• A Find - D. Sather - Corvallis
• The S’mores and Hotdog Thing - John Sperling, Corvallis
• What Did You See? - Mary Samuel, Corvallis
  
  

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Brietenbush - Margaret Kirschner, formerly of Corvallis, now of Portland

Our cabin, purchased in l963 sits on the confluence of the North and South Forks of the Brietenbush River. At that time the two forks paralleled each other to merge gracefully downstream from our lot.

The runoff from Mt. Jefferson glaciers makes up the cold, swift running waters of the Brietenbush.The intervening years with upstream clearcut logging, spring floods with log jams and damned up waters have taken their toll.

It is a river that has taken many lives over the years. It is none-too-friendly toward the cabins. Six of them above our lot have been flooded out--along with the land upon which they sat. Below us, the whole Villa Maria complex, bunk house, kitchen/dining room, living quarters, outdoor chapel, has been ravaged by the river.

One year we had to use a different route to enter the cabin area. When we looked downstream to the old bridge we used to take, we could see the bridge standing high and dry in its usual place, but the river was running disdainfully alongside it.
Every spring after the floods, we hurry up for the first weekend to watch how much of our lot had been removed. The year we found no trace of our massive picnic table and cemented brick outdoor fireplace, we worried about how we could save our cabin.

The next winter brought a major snowfall and an unexpected piece of luck. We found a master cat operator. With his genius, we used the trunks of two felled cedar trees, which he pulled under our jacked-up cabin, which he could use as sled runners when we lowered the cabin onto them. Artfully, he drew the cabin through the trees to as far back on the lot as the Forest Service allowed.

The ground where our cabin stood is now gone. Each spring, we still come up to see how much of our lot has been eaten by that voracious river. The North Fork now ominously aims itself directly toward our lot, perpendicular to the South Fork.
it seems that the future of our cabin will be to remember our good times of the past.

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Riding By, Cleaning Up - Joe Landry, now of Portland

When I lived in Corvallis, I rode my bike by the river all the time. I loved it there. And I used to go and clean up at the homeless camps under the bridges– I’d pick up garbage, junk food wrappers, all kinds of stuff. I’d do it in the late mornings or afternoons - the people wouldn’t be there during the day, they’d come back to sleep at night. It was a mess, and I didn’t want it to be ruining the river front – children and everyone would come by, and there were condoms and all kinds of disgusting things. So I’d just go with bags and clean up. The river was very important to me.

Now I live in Portland and I bike by the Willamette here – there are wonderful paths, and a really beautiful place is Oak Bottoms. I go in there on a hot summer’s night, and it is totally dark, all you see are the lights of other bikes – and no one knows who or what might be there, so everyone rides really fast – so you just see a light coming at you and then whrrrr!, a bike zooms by. It’s a wonderful place.

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Spring Kayaking on the Mary's River - Laura Brophy

It was spring – crocuses and a warm breeze full of moisture. I decided to take my new daffodil-yellow inflatable kayak down to the Mary’s River in Philomath. I’m a flat-water boater from North Dakota, and I don’t know much about currents. My kayak, lacking a keel, is like a leaf on the water. The Marys was roiling, thick and gray like the clouds above, and I thought, “I’ll need to be on my toes in that current.”

It was easy for a couple of bends, using my paddle as a rudder. But on the outside of the next bend, a tall cut bank – like a cliff to my eye – loomed. A big tree had fallen from the eroded bank across half the channel; its branches shook in the current. Naturally, the cliff, the tree and most of the flow were on the outside of the bend – right where me and my not-very-steerable boat were going shortly.

I imagined being pinned on that sharp-branched tree and was inspired to dig deep with my paddle. I powered across the current to the easy inside shoal, pulled my boat out, breathed hard for a minute, then carried that boat out of the fringing woods to the road. I’d come only half a mile. I walked back to my car, loaded the boat, drove home, and got some gardening in.

Later a white-water kayaker friend said “Oh yeah, we call those strainers. People die in strainers.” The map showed that cliff is where the river runs hard up against Grange Hall Road. When rivers get hemmed in, they flex their muscles -- I guess that’s why that cliff was eroding and the tree fell. For me, it was a painless lesson on the flat-water power that formed this valley I love.

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Eyes and Soul - M. Boyd Wilcox

Stroll down to the confluence of the Marys and Willamette Rivers to experience a transformation.

You have to shut out the constant background noise of traffic on the bypass, and look beyond the Evanite structures immediately to the SE, but beyond this extends a mostly unobstructed view towards the Cascade foothills. I come here often, to imagine living in a smaller place, where the dominance of human activity is much reduced, and where Nature assumes her proper balance in the scheme of things. I also come here to continue a regimen of therapy for my eyes.

Several years ago my vision was becoming more fuzzy, especially in efforts to look long distance. It began to bother me, and I noticed myself squinting more and more to the visual blurring, which was an added strain on various eye muscles. Then I had the occasion to take a trip to some favorite places in eastern Oregon. Being on the road for several days and driving many hours under conditions where my eyes were consistently viewing a more distant horizon brought forth a revelation---my vision was improving; visual acuity was being restored. This was one of those moments where, as I continue to age and slowly experience some of the inevitable changes associated, I found myself thinking, well...some of these changes are reversible or amenable to treatment.

I had previously enjoyed excellent eyesight. With this memory as background, it was now a jubilant feeling to be getting back some semblance of prior visual acumen. Part of the reason for this improvement is an almost-daily sojourn to the confluence, where for 5-10 minutes I stare off into the distance, which gives my eyes a chance to recalibrate from all the close-up visual focus of the day.

So if it suits you, let our local rivers, and the long-distance 3D views they offer, be nurturing to your eyes and soul. I suspect this discovery was made by earlier humans who lived here long before current residents of Corvallis claimed ownership. Let the tradition continue.

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A Peeping, Two-Footed Booby - Dianne Roth, Corvallis

Being an aging, hippie, pacifist means there are moments in my past that have stayed… well, quietly obscured. Here is one such moment.

A friend and her daughters were staying with me and my sons. She had been to Sauvie Island and lamented that on such a hot day, it was too bad there was not a nude beach in Corvallis. The presence of a just such a place on the banks of the Willamette had entered the corner of my ear and I even had acquired a rudimentary knowledge of where it was, though the temptation to visit was never very strong. We decided, on the spot, to go on an adventure.

Our children had known each other since diaperhood; camping, canoeing, and swimming “au naturale” since they were babies. We hiked them along the banks of the river until we found a bit of beach for the children and a stand of reeds that would act as a screen for our sunbathing. While we threw down blankets and snacks, the children took to the water and we, …um…, took to the sun.

It was lovely. Warm sun, peaceful river, our babies splashing and squealing in cool water on a hot summer day. What could be better?

Then, we began to hear sounds in the reeds. We guessed it was a large, clumsy, big-footed animal thrashing about. And, sure enough, as soon as our swim suits were back in place, a peeping, two-footed booby came plodding down the river with his binoculars.

We packed up and went home to the backyard wading pool.

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Buried Treasure - Ed Curtin, Corvallis

Clearly the river’s edge was the best place to hide our treasure. Plus – just think! – we can come back later, in the spring, and find it! So we dug and dug and dug, and into the damp hole my brother carefully placed three of his little green-plastic soldiers. I nestled five of my best and shiniest marbles around them. Carefully we trickled sand through our fingers, refilling the cavern, patting extra on top, and scoured the shoreline for two perfect sticks to mark our buried treasure with a fearsome “X”.

Only one task remained: make note of that “X” and where it lies on the Earth’s surface. Let’s see: west bank, just north of that bridge, right across from that tree on the opposite bank. Up the bank we scampered, stumbling over blackberry vines and each other’s words to be the first to tell Dad of our secret and would he promise to bring us back here in the spring, to this exact same spot? Huh, Dad, please?

End-of-summer excursions to the river ended as blackberries shriveled. Autumn weekends raking leaves turned to winter holidays beneath gray Willamette Valley clouds. Rain fell and fell until June when a sudden splash of sunlight loosened a memory and good ol’ Dad didn’t forget his promise.

Peering from the family station wagon we wondered: “Was it here?” “Is this the spot?” “Yeah!” “No, wait, a little further.” “There’s the tree!” “Stopstop- stop!”

Down the riverbank we tumbled, two brothers with a shovel and visions of buried loot. We dug . . . and dug . . . and dug some more. No clank of metal on a dead man’s chest. No sparkles of rounded glass in the upturned sand. No army-green plastic taking cover in the bushes. What did we know of river flows and erosion, of silt deposits and spring runoffs? No, all we understood that day was disappointment: our treasure gone, lost forever. Only later, years later, did we realize our valuable treasure was right there in front of us – flowing swiftly toward the sea – the river.

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I Was Tossed In - Wendy Baltzell, Corvallis

I have lived in Oregon all of my 48 years. Most of my homes have been close to the Willamette River. Currently I reside 8 blocks away, here in Corvallis. When I was 3 we lived on the Willamette River, in a houseboat in Portland. For a while I lived in Lacomb where I was closer to the Santiam River, but my attachment will always be to the Willamette.

I learned to swim when we moved to the houseboat. They tried holding me in the water to practice kicking first but I struggled and fussed. Finally, with an adult in the water waiting for me, I was tossed in and promptly swam away from the outstretched arms. They had a hard time getting me out of the water ever after, even though it wasn’t very clean at the time. The results of Tom McCall’s hard work came after we moved.

During the two years we lived there, a houseboat under construction burned down, a baby drowned, a flood occurred, and I rode my brand new trike off the walkway. The tricycle was a birthday present that I adored. There is not a lot of room to ride at a houseboat moorage. I made one reckless move, ended up in the river, and held on to a float log while watching my shiny red trike sink to the bottom. After hauling me out, they tried to retrieve my wheels with the long pole with hooked end that was kept around for such purposes. Being November, the river was too deep. They tried again in the spring but their success did not impress me. When I saw the tricycle in it’s slimy, dull condition I burst into tears.

I feel a strong connection to the Willamette River.

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The River Cats - Jody Harmon, Albany

There are things that happen along a river the respectable people might not know about. Like the wildlife that live along the banks and that includes the homeless people. I knew a lot of them. I wasn’t considered a respectable member of society. I sought refuge along the river. The flow of water, the stars shining, and the river cats; these were all I had.

The river cats were feral, descendants of caste off unwanted house cats. Captain Courageous was the Angel of the River. When I was down and out, in dire need of a friend, she’d magically appear to comfort me. She’s dead now. But her granddaughter, Vision, is with me still, old as the hills and tough as nails.

I was only homeless a couple of times, but the homeless knew me and called me the cat lady. An old man fed the river cats. Old Ray. Every day he took his dip in the river, jumping in off the flat rock, down from Mater Engineering. He’d strip naked for his dips. Ray wasn’t homeless at all, but he’s a character all right. I wasn’t happy Old Ray never got the cats he fed fixed, so I got that done, one by one. I remember, once the river project made it all fancy down there, Ray riding up on his bike. We watched a group of dandies strolling the pedestrian path. Ray says, “Hell, there goes the neighborhood!”

The river cats saved me. I became determined to help the strays and boy do I ever now. I took in over 1000 to be fixed just last year! I think Captain Courageous would be good with that. I’m pretty sure the Angel of the River is still watching out for me.

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Traditions - Robert Gerding, Philomath

The little red bobber started to dance. Ripples in the emerald water encircled the commotion when the bobber disappeared. That was all Shannon could take. With big blue eyes gleaming, she horsed back hard on the ultralight rod reeling frantically. The bluegill went berserk and darted for weedy cover. Shannon knew about that old trick and expertly skipped the little four ounce monster up the muddy bank. He flopped and she was on him. This trophy wasn’t getting away! Smiling from ear to ear with curls spilling out from under her lucky fishin’ hat, she hoisted up her prize.

“Daddy, this is the biggest one, I think I’ll call him “Fred”.

Dutifully I unhook “Fred” and put him in the bucket with the rest of the “family“, all dashing around in their new cylindrical home.

Years melt away as my mind drifts back. I see a boy about Shannon’s age standing by his dad on the same muddy shore. He has been catching sunfish too. His handed-down equipment isn’t fancy, in fact his tackle box is just a couple hooks in a worm can. But the boy isn’t concerned, he’s fishin’ with his dad.

Now I see the same exuberance in my daughter’s face as I had on that lake years ago. This ancient river bottom has been a traditional gathering place for families for untold generations. Knowing just where to look, you can find the old fire rings and obsidian flakes left by those early people. And as I show Shannon the perfect primitive stone point, we wonder if is it possible its maker was here for the same reason as us? Just as my father brought me to this place and I bring Shannon, this old Willamette slough has bridged generations of people reliant on its resources for survival.

I watch Shannon carefully remove each fish from the bucket. She studies each one, marveling at the orange and green irridescence in the sunlight. Then as she releases her catch back into the water, she names them off like a seven year old ichthyology major.

“Good-bye Mr. Chub, good-bye Mr. Bass, good-bye Mr. Perch, good-bye Mr. Bluegill, good-bye Fred”.

Hopefully this tradition will continue to be passed down through our family for many more years. It truly has given me a glimpse at a picture of complete happiness. In that picture there’s a little girl with blonde curly hair and she’s fishin’ an old slough with her dad.

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Saved by Strangers - Hank LaVigne

I remember thinking these two men meant to retrieve a dredge barge that was grounded upstream just below the town’s water intake. The truck had a big winch on the back from which the driver had pulled yards of thick steel cable. The cable’s hooked end was attached to the stern corner of an aluminum work skiff with another man aboard. He wasn’t wearing a life jacket.

As we prepared our boat for launch, events unfolded quickly. The work skiff coughed to life and started moving upstream. The current grabbed a hold of the cable as it sagged under the water’s surface creating a big loop downstream of the vessel. I watched in horror as the boat’s stern corner began to dip with the weight of the cable. The skiff flipped trapping the man beneath.

Our training kicked in. We grabbed our rescue throw bags and ran down the river bank. As I ran, I kept my eyes on the capsized skiff as it moved downstream toward a shallow bar. I prayed the man would get himself from under the boat. I saw him climb onto the overturned craft.

The man seemed without fear as the skiff approached the dangerous bar. I yelled for him to get off the boat and swim toward me. He looked downstream for an instant before jumping from the doomed vessel. He swam and soon stood before me soaking wet with a smile. The smile of a man refreshed from a swim on a hot summer’s day. Not the smile of a man that had just escaped serious injury or death.

We didn’t exchange names and he didn’t offer thanks. He was uninjured and went to be with his companion. Did he ever realize his life had been saved by strangers?

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The Scary Ferry Across - Richard Doolin

During the summer season mom and I would go green bean picking, not all that unusual those days when I was growing up. Getting to the bean field was not ordinary. We lived on Peoria Road off Highway 34, about four miles from the Van Buren Street bridge dad always said. The Eagy bean field was located approximately three to four miles further south on Peoria Road, next to the Willamette River and they had a passenger ferry to take us across to the bean field. I never liked riding that ferry because it was fairly small and
had no sides so I always breathed a sigh of relief when we got across the
river, especially since I couldn't swim and mom probably couldn't either.

The mornings I liked the best for bean picking since it was cooler then and
the beans had some moisture on them, making them weigh more. The vines also provided some shade from the sun. We picked beans in metal or plastic
buckets and emptied them into cloth bags to take to the weigh station. We
took our lunches in a metal lunch pail and water in a thermos. The older
Eagy girls and some other older girls would sing a lot of songs popular at
that time, Chattanooga Choo Choo, Put Your Arms Around Me, Honey, and
others, which helped to pass the time. I never did make that much money
picking beans. We also picked beans at a farm on White Oak Drive but I liked the Eagy bean field the best even though we had to ride the scary ferry
across the Willamette River to the bean field. I never will forget the
Willamette River!

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Quite A Bit of My Young Life - Sandra Hunt, Corvallis

As a very young child, my dad taught us how to swim in the Willamette near Irish Bend, where we lived, next to the old covered bridge that has long since been removed. We could see very large tadpoles sunning themselves on the rocks with their tails still attached. This was quite a sight to see. Dad and I would also fish the Willamette from his little boat. Later as a teenager, my friends and I would go inner tubing on the river in the Summer. That was such a blast. We would be exhausted afterwards!

I also remember taking a dare from a friend to jump off of the train trestles under the Harrisburg bridge into the river. I was so scared but I did it. What a rush! Very fun!

So, whether it was learning to swim, fishing, jumping into or inner tubing from Irish Bend to God knows where, I guess you could say I spent a quite a bit of my young life by and on the Willamette river. And I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

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Oh Christmas Tree - Lynn Royce

It is hot out, a late summer morning and I am checking honey bee colonies in anticipation of harvesting honey. It is early but the bees are already flying. I need to get done before the temperature hits 90 degrees.

Suddenly, I stop and look at the entrance of the next colony. There and on the ground in front are many dead and dying bees. The ones not yet dead are trying to get back inside home. Most of these bees have their tongues extended, a symptom of pesticide poisoning! My heart sinks. A large loss of bees now means the colony will have a difficult time preparing for winter.

Then I hear the Thud, Thud, Thud of an approaching helicopter; soon it passes overhead and disappears behind some large Douglas Firs. It is getting too hot to work now, and I do a quick check to see how many colonies have dead bees at the entrance. I find only a few more, but expect this is only the beginning of a larger event.

Finished with my work and discouraged, I start home. I cross the small bridge over Beaver Creek that runs along Decker Road and across this farm. Beaver Creek runs into Muddy Creek and eventually into the Mary’s River.

About 1⁄2 mile from the bee yard, I look south along Beaver Creek Road and see the dark body of the helicopter; spray booms are now extended. It hangs just above the small Christmas trees as the booms begin to emit an expanding fog above the land. To me it is like an evil symbol of death, its fog spreading towards the creek and rising invisibly in the warm thermals of this summer day. I lament that the creek will carry the poison to the Willamette.

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Robinson-Crusoe-esque - Cyd Smith, now of Williams, Oregon

When I lived here, near Willamette Park, and had my dog Rattler, we would walk down to the river all the time and swim across to an island – I don’t know if it’s still there, a sandbar in the river. It was very Robinson-Crusoe-esque, very idyllic. He just loved swimming, even though he was a Belgian Sheepdog, and I’d throw stick after stick, forever, and he’d swim into that strong, strong current. I just remember it being me and my dog.

I was in that river a lot – but sometimes creeks and ponds, at parties...

Once a well-known folksinger came and we did a concert with her, and afterwards, late at night, we all went skinny-dipping in the river – we were in our 20s, so it was different than it would be now!

One time when we floated the river in inner tubes, it was a perfect, relaxing, beautiful day – but I came home with a really bad sunburn... suffered from that for awhile...

I used to always bike along the river to get into town – the “path” was pretty primitive then.

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DamIt - Mary Foley Philips, Corvallis

When I first moved here, they told me how to say Willamette - rhymes with DamIt.

I lived in Eugene, and went inner-tubing on the river. We put in upstream and got out in Eugene. We had beer, or course, and I kept wishing I had a stopper for the can - water gets in it, and then of course it's not worth drinking.

There was a park by the river where you could stop for convivial refreshments - we'd sit outside, and watch people running and biking by.

My son hasn't had experiences with the river, but he could tell you stories about it - they'd include giants and Benny Beaver and sludgy green slimey things!

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Higher Ground - Maxine Bown

Remember the flood in the 60s? I looked it up: it was 1961.

The kids were little. We lived on Seavy Road. Al’s father was dying, in Eugene, and his brother called and said, “Al, you’ve got to get here Right Away!” Al said, “I can’t” – We couldn’t get out.

Our house was up high, so it was okay, but we could hear the noise of the river. All the dogs in the neighborhood were barking.

We walked down to look at Highway 20. It was rushing just like the river. Somebody came by in a boat. The boys wanted to go with them, but, No, No! Mama wouldn’t let them!

The people on Garden Road had the real problem. I don’t know about the others, but friends of ours got eight feet of mud in their basement. They had built their house after talking to an engineer, who said there had never been a problem with the river there! After that flood, they moved their house to higher ground – and didn’t put a basement in!

It was just a few days – the river went out just like it came up. Al got down to Eugene – soon after, his father died.

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They Made Their Raft - Caroline Waterman

When our son Merle was in middle school at Cheldelin, he and a neighbor boy, Mike, wanted to make a raft and raft down the river from Corvallis to Albany. I was afraid it would be too dangerous, but a youth leader at church said he had floated the river to Albany and it was so safe it was"boring" so we gave permission and they made their raft.

They put it in the river just below the bridges and we drove to the park in Albany by the river to retrieve them, and tied the raft and a canoe to the top of the car. Across the parking lot in the Albany park, I spied Mike's parents, apparently checking on the safe arrival of the boys.

They recounted their exciting trip: they found the large canoe part of the way there that had been nosed hard into the bank and abandoned. It had enough ID on it that they located the owner and returned it to him.

In gratitude he let the boys take another trip to Albany in his canoe.
Mike said at the end of trip, "I'll remember this day for the rest of my life!"

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An Old Friend – Dianne Roth, Corvallis

My old, orange, Coleman canoe is a thing of beauty and a loyal friend. It stayed with me through a divorce, has been stolen, borrowed indefinitely, and gone on solo adventures when the river was inviting and no one was looking.

Over the years it provided loving care to my two sons. At four and five years old, they paddled the canoe with its prow beached on the bank, its stern providing buoyancy and thrills.

A year or so later, that wasn't as much fun. With life jackets buckled, they asked if the whole canoe could be in the water. And a year later, if they could have a longer rope... and then longer... and longer. And, one day, they wanted the rope untied!

Our old friend took care of us in another way as well. On afternoon paddles with people who wanted to be a part of our lives, it would expose anger and dominance or gentleness, cooperation, and a love of nature. On one rather unpleasant afternoon, it dumped an arrogant paddler right into the water!

My canoe now lives along the banks of the Luckiamute River. It is joyfully watching over my grandchildren, giving them the thrills, letting them stretch, and helping them learn the wiles of our friend, the river. Above all, it is quietly showing them things about themselves that only a canoe can know.

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Wising Up On Water - Sharon Wood Wortman, Portland

I grew up in the Lents Neighborhood, which might as well have been New Jersey for the way we never crossed the Willamette into downtown Portland, ten miles west of our gravelly driveway.

My mother suffered with agoraphobia--fear of going out, and my grandmother, gephyrophobia--fear of bridges, though I didn’t know how to name either. These and my father's and grandfather's fears of “the bulls”—slang for police whether or not either of them were driving sober, coalesced to eliminate visits to OMSI, the zoo, or the Oregon Coast.

After my parents permanently diverged, my mother dated men who fished the Clackamas. In the 1960s, Johnson Creek flooded our home up to the kitchen cabinets. I married at seventeen and my husband and I moved to North Dakota, as far away as you can get from the Rose City in terms of shade and water.

Back then I didn’t know the difference between a headwater and a headwaiter. I wrote The Portland Bridge Book in 1989; about the time I'd pulled my head out of the mud of my thirties. Counting and researching bridges, I began to locate myself--a single parent who wanted to be a writer. The bridges were my ticket to explore both banks of the Willamette.

Today I lead bridge and city tours. If we have a bus, and the right kind of teacher in our schedule, I get to ride to Kelley Point with third graders. If no bus, we skip along the downtown Greenway, where we’ve seen all sorts of things, including sea lions.

In my digging, I’ve discovered that our river almost died from pollution about the time I was born, in 1944, but we've both made it. No doubt getting better due to the awareness that comes with age.

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All for a Pair of Shoes - Dick Thies, Corvallis

Diane and I set out down the Willamette River from Corvallis in our dependable Grumman canoe with some friends in an expensive Sawyer racing canoe. Larry wanted us to have a chance to try his fast canoe, so we pulled over to switch canoes and then continued down the river. We soon came to our final take-out spot, a fairly steep gravel bank with some fast current going by. It seemed like other take-out spots we had done before in the tough old aluminum Grumman. So we came around headed up-current came in parellel to shore. I didn’t want to scratch his expensive canoe, so I put my foot out in the water to keep it off the gravel.

Then things went awry. The front of the canoe decided to head back out into the swift current; I decided to lift my foot since we were headed away from shore; the current which had been pushing against my foot was suddenly released and we rolled over enough to dump us both out. I guess racing canoes are not so good for stability. I felt the current pulling off my tennis shoes; I made a grab for them. Meanwile, Diane grabbed for the canoe and off she went down river - right towards a dangerous looking snag. Our friends already had the Grumman on the beach, and Larry saw his canoe (and Diane ) in danger. He leaped like Superman into the fast water and swam like a madman after the canoe. Meanwhile Diane had calmly swum the canoe (with paddles still inside!) around the snag to safety. All was well until Diane learned that I had saved my very ratty, full-of-holes tennis shoes rather than the canoe and HER.

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McKenzie sweat lodge - Cindy McCain

The McKenzie River comes from snow melt and springs. It runs cold all year.

When I first moved to Oregon about 35 years ago, I lived in a house near Vida. It was right on the banks of the McKenzie. When I think of those days, I smell this one sharp, grainy smell, the smell of hot river rocks in the sweat lodge.

We'd heat cobbles in a fire and pull them out, balanced on an old Forest Service fire fighting shovel. We'd huddle under the sheet plastic and blankets. Sprinkle on water. Steam. Steam and sweat. Until it was too much and we'd flee down to that cold, cold water. We'd jump in and scream. And the screams were true and wonderful.

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Finding Out the Hard Way - Donna Stevenson, Corvallis

I love the river. I used to canoe to Albany - and back. My son and I – when he was in his 20s. We both paddled. We never fell in. You see a lot of nutria and all kinds of stuff. We were mostly trying to survive getting back – it didn’t flow downstream back, we found out the hard way!
We also canoed down the Alsea, which was a kick because we kept bumping into the big rocks. No, we never fell in. But we are good swimmers.

And my gosh, how many times did we go to Michael’s Landing just to watch the people sculling?

I lived at the edge of Willamette Park, and we used to fish the thing. You know, all I ever got was a fish called squawfish – it was terrible. They are the only fish that have bounties on them! They’re the ones who eat trout and other things. Didn’t turn them in for money, I just killed and discarded them. I’m so lucky!

I just love the river. I’m a water person.

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Not Worried When You’re a Kid - Vickie Watkins, Corvallis

I don’t do much with the Willamette. When the kids were little we used to go to the park in south town – there’s a rocky area. The boys would jump in the river - I don’t think my daughter ever did. They were right close to the edge, and they’re good swimmers. We used to take them to the park in Albany –my Mom and I would be listening to the music and the kids would be playing around, next to but not necessarily in the water.

When I was a kid, a teen, I went inner-tubing with about 6 others, from someplace toward Monroe. We each had our own tube ad just floated. We splashed each other, but nothing more - I’m pretty sure if anyone would have dunked me I would remember, cause I would’ve thrown a fit – I kind of panic if my head goes underwater. We didn’t wear life jackets. I probably had on a swim suit top and just shorts.

I don’t go to the river that often – it’s kinda dirty. You’re not worried when you’re a kid – and my kids never did. With them, I probably worried more about the ickiness of the water than about the current.

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Good for Your Legs - Clem LaCava, Corvallis

I ‘m an ultra-marathon trail runner; one of the most beautiful trails I run is along the McKenzie River, which flows down from the Cascades near Clear Lake to the Willamette. There has been a 50KM race for 21 years along this trail. The race starts near Carmen Reservoir and runs upriver by Sahalie Falls . The trail circles Clear Lake thru some lava fields then back down river by Carmen and Trailbridge Reservoirs. Shortly thereafter, the river disappears underground for a few miles, surfacing again at the Blue Hole - a very cool place. The trail once again following the river runs thru another lava section.

Runners often stop for a scenic view, not just at the aid stations. Very competitive runners don’t need to stop, but most of us less talented runners will walk occasionally, having more time to take in the views. You’re always running under the canopy of very big trees surrounded by ferns and always hearing the river flowing by. In training runs along the McKenzie, we often cool off along the shore or by soaking our legs in the ice cold water - a great idea after a long run.

The trail crosses the river from one side to the other at different points. There are many wooden bridges crossing over the streams that flow into the McKenzie. It’s a pretty mellow trail –depending on which direction you’re running, it’s just about 1000 feet up or down. It is considered to be an easy ultra-marathon and a good one for first time ultramarathon runner . If you’re going to start doing this crazy sport, you might as well run somewhere beautiful.

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Our Own Paths - Julie Cope, Albany

When I was a kid, we used to ride horses along the river. Early on, my friend’s great grandparents owned most of the property from what is now Trysting Tree golf course to Colorado Lake. It was beautiful. We made our own paths, and had all kinds of forts in the forest. At that time there weren’t many fences. We simply asked permission of farmers in the area and they would let us ride on their land. It was really fun, especially in the summer when we would pack a lunch and ride and swim all day, returning home just before dark.

We used to canoe down the Willamete. And, in the winter when the creeks and lakes swelled, we would canoe in Owl Creek and on Colorado Lake where we would see many pond turtles, salamandars, and fish for cropie and bluegill.

In recent years, we like to float from Green’s bridge to the Jefferson bridge where there are egrets, blue herons, geese, ducks, osprey and fish, to name a few. On these floats, we often see a bald eagle perched above the small rapids where the North Santiam meets the South. It appears to be a good fishing spot since we’ve seen him there several times over the years.

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A Find - D. Sather, Corvallis

A few winters ago, it had been raining for days; all the rivers were up. Once the Willamette comes up, it pushes the Mary's back. A boating buddy and I await this moment to float the Mary's from Philomath to Corvallis, as this is a time for her to be high on the banks, if not over.

On this day, rain was pouring down as we entered the swirling eddy-filled water. We have done this float for 15 years and anticipate log jams plus finds, including messages in bottles.

This time, after climbing over log jams, we came across a submerged wooden boat! Only the tip of the bow was showing. Floating past, we poked it with our paddles. We turned back upstream and hovered around, and tried to turn it over to get a better look. This was no easy task from our kayaks; the river was fast, and she was stuck on the bottom. We managed to break her hold and roll her over. She disappeared and reappeared, still mostly submerged. We moved along with her as in a dance flowing with the river. After two hours, we had to move on without finding out who and what she really was.

A month later: we were on the river again - this time on a sunny day. Again, we anticipated hazards, and also wondered if we'd see the mysterious boat. After half distance we gave up looking for it. Then around a bend, there she was, in the middle of the river, barely snagged on a branch. The boat was upright, afloat, intact. We could not believe our eyes. I just touched the branch and she was loose and followed us; we pulled her the rest of the way home. She found a home as a yard sculpture.

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The S’mores and Hotdog Thing - John Sperling, Corvallis

I’ve rafted the Willamette a couple of times. Just floating, one time on a little inflatable that they say you can put three in, but you can barely fit one! We squeezed in two. It was a pretty good current, a couple of winters ago. You’d look down at the water and it was nasty - you’d see stuff floating by that you didn’t want to touch!

One time we parked above Avery Park at Greensburg bridge and launched, and floated past the Harrison bridge, probably got out at the Jefferson bridge close to El Presidente, so just an hour or two float. We got out and deflated, and it took us a lot longer to walk back!

I also floated the North Santiam, which feeds into the Willamette. We parked one car on the bottom, and then I parked my car at the top where we launched, at Jefferson. We got out, had sleeping bags and all, and camped on the island, did the s’mores and hotdog thing, and floated again the next morning.

When we got to my friend’s car, he had forgotten his keys. So we had to start walking, and hitchhiked. Some lady in her mid-80s picked us up – she was nice and sweet, and was so happy to have someone to talk to on her ride. Her stories were pretty entertaining. But I don’t remember any of them. My friend had left his keys and phone safe in a Nalgene container so they wouldn’t get wet – in my car!

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What Did You See? - Mary Samuel, Corvallis

I did an internship for Homelife - homes for developmentally disabled people. Once I invited four people to my house - we were familiar with each other. One woman had Downs Syndrome. We went to the park and walked by the river.

Afterwards someone asked her what she saw there. She wouldn't respond, so they kept asking . They said, "Did you see a dog?" Well, then she started telling about a dog we saw, what color it was, what kind of ball it was playing with - she knew every detail of everything she had seen. I realized that she had a photographic memory! A perfect picture!

I walk near the river at Willamette Park, but I'm a little scared that someone would push me in, because someone told me that there are drug addicts there. So I go there only during lunchtime, not in the evening. I see people walking, and dogs.

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Our Poems and Other Tattle-Tales

The banks of the river do not always contain the waters; our community’s stories can seep up through our soccer fields or geyser amidst our potlucks. Several avid Tcha-fans have declared that their Willamette River stories are best told as poems; others urge us to accept fictional tales. We can’t bottle it up – and so have included other genre in this year’s collection.

• Psychic Paradise - Jody A. Harmon
• Rivers and Roads - Roger Weaver
• July Fourth - Marilyn Johnston, Salem
• Three Poems - L. Chisolm, New to Corvallis

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Psychic Paradise - Jody A. Harmon

I used to sit on my butt, dreaming away,
wasting the summer when I would rather play.
I’d be thinking about drifting on some azure sea,
swimming with the fishies and living tropically;
sipping rum from a coconut on a white sailboat
with not a worry in the world but to stay afloat.
But since I’m radically poor,
I couldn’t make that dream come true.
So, I came to the conclusion
a modified version would have to do.

They say, “That river’s dirty, full of radiation and goo!”
I say, “But it’s all in what you tell yourself
you’re floating through.”

So I bought myself an inner tube with my last five bucks.
I christened it “Psychic Paradise” and shoved off with Lady Luck.
Now I sail the Willamette on a natural high,
sipping rum from a Snapple bottle
in case the sheriff’s boat comes by.

I bought a waterproof disposable camera
because a Nikon’s out of reach,
and take snapshots of the scenery behind the nude beach.
The only natives I encounter
are riding jet skis.
The tropical foliage I run into
are grass fields and dead trees.
But it’s all in what you tell yourself you really see.


Like today, they say, “It’s January,
and that white stuff is snow!”
I say, “So turn your heat up if you’re so fricking cold.”
So I hauled my tube on down and took a nice lazy sail,
came out a healthy pinkish color while everyone else is pale.


I had a tropical dream.
I made that dream come true.
So what if the fish have three eyes and the water ain’t blue.

I say, “Don’t sit around complaining and just wasting away,
when with a little thoughtless planning
you can make your dream come true today.”

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Rivers and Roads - Roger Weaver

Floating to the surface
like images coming to mind,
objects in rivers index our history,
imagination, nostalgia, disgust--
flex memory: blue plastic
detergent bottles in the Willamette,
a nameless white object--
"It's a leg"-- four-year-old--
"no no it's something else"
I tell him, remembering the leg,
wooden leg, I saw in the River Arno
Florence, Italy, 1963, man pissing
against the blue stone wall urinal
one Sunday Morning, while I perch
on the balustrade writing
between pisser, passing traffic
and the river listening for music.
Camped beside the South Fork
of Boulder Creek, Colorado 1971,
catching bits of talk
from neighboring camps --
Joe Liuzza toothless grin wreathed
in curls, triumphantly announcing
in the morning air to anyone anywhere
"I could live on other people's garbage"
and he proved it--
"a big old cat bulldozer came up
the creek last night about sundown
and now the water doesn't flow."
Boys run to the tiny fish gasping,
I walk upstream to find what's stopping it,
can't get past the doll hanging
from a twig over the water,
its neck in a noose,
all limbs twisted and dangling,
the hair burned off,
eyes gouged, pink doll skin
burned black like flesh,
and suddenly I don't have a stomach
for rivers anymore, the way they
give ourselves back to us,
old lures and condoms, soap and shit.
I thought I came to rivers, not to men,
but they can't swallow our past down--
there aren't enough of them.

And I drive beside rivers,
sometimes stopping to pick up drifters--
"I only feel comfortable on the road," one said.
Going to Salem, another shows me
a battered Chinese textbook,
talk a jumble of places,
grin a little weary and slow.
I think "This is what I went to rivers for,"
and suddenly I'm in the riverwater's flow.

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July Fourth - Marilyn Johnston, Salem

He can’t let go of the image:
rocket and artillery rounds lighting up the sky
overhead, blasts reflecting off Thu Bon River;
the incessant rattling of earth, and at dawn,
the hunks of shrapnel that shredded his tent walls,
missing his body by inches.

He figured he’d survived this long,
and, Hell, wouldn’t it be downright cruel
to take him now, after nineteen months
in ‘Nam and just hours before
his discharge, a plane taking him
far away from Da Nang.

He says it didn’t take long to become
a fatalist—to believe the only thing separating
those who lived and those who died was luck—
particularly during days on jungle patrol
in 120-degree heat.
Sweat rolling down like hate.

But God knows, he still can’t shake it.

Each summer for the past thirty-two years,
he tells me that story as we sit on the grassy
Willamette River bank—then silently wait
for the first boom, the first blast,
the lights brightening up
the night sky.

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Three Poems - L. Chisolm, New to Corvallis

NEW TREE FRIENDS
Gnarled, moss encrusted,
necklaced in ivy.
Do you carry in your leaves,
down along the river path,
songs of birds gone by,
secrets told by lovers,
his fears—that homeless man’s?

OREGON FREEZE - Haiku

The Willamette, trapped
Under icy furls
Rumbles to break free.

THE WILLAMETTE

That view—

The one down under the via duct
By Second street
Out at the edge of the park
Where the bench faces
Where the yellow brick building
Juts out into the water
After the leaves fall.

That view of the Willamette
Sucks my soul far down the river
For as far as my eyes can see
And every time, takes my breath away.

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Stories from the 2008 Festival

Stories from the 2007 Festival

Stories from the 2006 Festival