My river was the John Day: friend and confidante.
That Eastern Oregon waterway was unrelated to McMinnville's beloved Cloud Man. It was named for the early-day explorer John Day, who in 1811, as a hunter, joined the Wilson Price Hunt expedition headed west. He became gravely ill. He and a companion were forced to drop back and were robbed and left naked. He eventually was found, but later became violently insane. The John Day River in Clatsop County also bears his name.
Image via WikipediaI was sorry for the misfortunes of the discoverer of my river, but oh, how glad I was that he found it.With the start of summer vacation, I spent every afternoon with my friend at the swimming hole in Monument. Some years the river was too high and swift when school was first out and Mother made me wait. As soon as it became friendly, each day after noon dishes were done, I grabbed my swimsuit and hiked to town. All the kids - towners and out-of-towners - gathered there.
We gals changed clothes in an old shed nearby. The boys undressed on a ledge in the high rock, upriver.
Early on, the John Day was cold - almost hostile. Sissies stuck in a toe to test the temperature, squealed and waded in gradually, gasping as icy water hit midsection. Macho kids plunged in, flailing arms and legs, dog paddling like a windmill to get blood flowing.
In early summer, we hesitated a bit before trying to swim across the river. Much of that crossing was over our head. Each year, because of winter's high water, we had a different river. Before we undertook the swim, we explored the sandy bottom with our feet to see how far out we could touch. Once confident we could handle the current and the distance, we swam to the large sandy beach across the river. There we baked in the sun, turning occasionally for even tanning and to avoid a burn after this first exposure of our winter-tender bodies to the sun. Sunscreen we had never heard of. Sun damage we did not know. When the sun became so deliciously hot we could no longer stand it, we headed back to the water. Some days we tested ourselves to see how many times we could swim back and forth.
We were self-taught swimmers and knew not the Australian crawl or the butterfly. We used an unorthodox overhand stroke, the side stroke, dog paddled, or floated on our backs squinting at the bright blue amphitheater. We had no diving boards. No water slides. We dried in the sun, without help of towels - and the sand then mostly brushed off.
No lifeguards, or even adult "tenderers" were on hand, but we kids understood and respected the river's strength. To my knowledge, no kid ever drowned at that summer swimming spot at Monument. The John Day taught us well and watched over us.
My river was infinitely more than just a swimming pool. During late summer, when oppressive heat hung on and the sticky flies were impossible to shoo away, the John Day offered "air conditioning." After we acquired folding lawn chairs, we learned to take them into the shallow rapids in front of the house where flies would not seek us out, and sitting there with feet dangling in the water, the John Day provided relief.
If summer tenaciously hung on, Wall Creek and Board Creek dried up, leaving the river for watering cattle. Every afternoon, the laconic Herefords wandered down to the river, usually in single file, to drink, and the John Day patiently awaited them.
Although summer and swimming were what I liked most about the John Day, mine was a year-round love affair. The river provided me with my favorite hike. I followed the dirt road that wound beside it, scuffing in the dust without fear of needle grass in socks. And hiking the road required little watch for rattlesnakes so I could look for wildlife: river otter, marten, porcupine, deer, bald eagle. My river hike provided also National Geographic-style scenery: majestic ponderosas plus the sentinels - Neal Butte, and Johnnycake Mountain with its crown of rimrocks. Below the rims, deer played hide and seek in the mahogany thickets. Sloping on down to the river, the ochre and liver-brown colored flats, scree covered, and devoid of growth, reminded me of the giant liver of some mammoth creature.
If, when I hiked, I was worried about something, I sat for a time on a rock beside the river and listened to the suggestions it offered.
With winter, when the river froze sufficiently to drive a team of horses across, we kids ice skated, building bonfires on the banks to huddle around. The ranchers then harvested the year's supply of ice with crosscut saws that sliced the ice into giant cubes to haul to the ranch house and bury in sawdust in the ice house that almost every ranch had.
True, our river had its churlish side. When the ice "went out," the John Day might take along fences, erode entire fields, float away buildings, drown cattle. Often, if snow melted too quickly in the high mountains, the river overflowed and spring runoff washed away all in its path. Several times the river took out the bridge at Monument. But for us kids the river could do no wrong. The loss of the bridge brought new people to town to build the replacement, and provided us high school girls, we hoped, with new dance partners at the community dances, and possibly dates.
But it is different now when I go back to the old swimming hole at Monument. Everything has changed. In the cemetery, at the edge of town, are the graves of my mother, stepfather, one sister, brother-in-law and an uncle. Families that I knew have moved away or are buried here in the cemetery. I go to Boyer's Cash Store - the old gathering place - and although it is still operated by the same family, I see no one that I knew.
We leave Boyer's Cash Store and drive up the river along the dirt road that follows the John Day. We rumble over cattleguards, pass Board Creek where we had picnics, and at the mouth of Wall Creek, in sight of the deserted old ranch house, we park. I get out and walk to the edge of the river. It laps at my feet and welcomes me. And suddenly everything is the same again. Here is my friend, my companion, my confidante. My beloved John Day is unchanged. My river goes on and on.
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