Coho Photography

If you want pictures from the last few days, click HERE.

A brief update-

We spent the last few days with author Sharman Apt Russel at the Lichty Center near Cliff NM. The Lichty Center is part of the Nature Conservancy’s Gila River Farm, 160 acres of what was a farm and ranch, but is now primarily working towards habitat restoration and other conservation objectives. From the Lichty Center we drove about 4 hours to the El Coronado Ranch in Chiricahua Mountains of southeastern AZ. In the next 3 days at the Ranch we will be working on stream surveys, trying to evaluate rock gabian structures built to slow down flash flooding and increase sediment deposition.

For some writing (unattached to much of anything that we’re doing now)- continue reading below. Otherwise, look at pictures and enjoy!

Where Will Our Freshwater Go?

The orange blade of my paddle grates against cold grimy cement, scarred by years of use and abuse. A push, and leaning forward, my yellow pea-pod of a whitewater kayak gains momentum. Seconds of sliding, cold water rushing up my chest, cascades off of my chin, up my nose, dripping from underneath my helmet, down onto my temples, an early morning slap in the face.
Stillness smoothes my smarting face as my boats settles into the eddy. I take my hand off of the paddle and reach down into the crystal water, running along the rough yellow plastic, imagining my fingers able to reach down to the bottom. The bottom, 10 feet below, jagged blocks of cement contrasted through newly deposited silt, sands, pebbles. Pulverized only a month ago by big yellow machines, the work of diesel, heavy leather boots, air-conditioned truck cabs, union work.
I am paddling through history here, between the demolished walls of Marmot Dam, what was the only fish barrier on the Sandy River. I am running a section of the Sandy that has been underwater for triple my lifetime; the dam was built when my parents were children. The walls, crumbling into running water, stare down at me with fascination, what the hell is this kid in a plastic boat doing in my river, what on earth has happened here.
The road I put in from was the access road to the Marmot Dam, a diversion stricture that took water from the Sandy, through an enormous tube, to a reservoir. From the reservoir, a penstock, essentially a steeply sloping pipe, dropped the water down into the Bull Run Power Plant, and ancient cement structure, surrounded by an imposing cyclone fence, not a single window. The kind of place where you find condom wrappers in the parking lot, next to the white company pickup truck. The falling water spun blades in the turbines, making electricity for the cities of Gresham and Portland.
Pulling out of the eddy, following a friend, a lime green and red clad form, bundled in a drysuit against the spring chill, I wonder about the future of what I see here. In 50 years what will we do about electricity, dams, freshwater.
Only .3% of global freshwater is contained in streams, lakes, or rivers.* The rest is split between 68.9% in glaciers or permafrost, and 30.8% in groundwater. So in 50 years, as our climate and cultures change, where will our freshwater be, how will we use it, will we consider it with respect, or will we continue to take it for granted, build cities where there is no water, try to make the grass green without using spray-paint?
As the first wave of the rapid, created by the fallen dam, piles over my head, I take a strong stoke, lean forwards, and close my eyes. The stroke propels me through the frothing mass, and as if by magic, I surface upright on the downstream side. Downstream of where the dam used to be construction evidence scatters over the banks, greenery is a luxury not afforded by this conservation effort. Wet, humid, rainy fertility will take care of the rest, quickly cover the scars of our actions, of any place in the earth where human development is eaten by plants, the Pacific Northwest might rank at the top of that list.
Only shortly downstream the banks cover again with the usual thick vegetation, a dark green layer of ecological comfort. I almost expect salmon to leap with joy out of the now free water, bouncing with surprise into me, delightful smiles on their fishy faces. Their passage upstream is clear, they can swim all the way to Mount Hood.
As my imaginary salmon swims upstream, I continue downwards, but despite these uplifting surrounding, I still worry. Samplings show that 30,000 of Oregon’s 115,000 stream miles “fail to fully support aquatic life”*. In 50 years we are projected to have lost over ½ of the pacific northwest snow pack, salt water intrusion will destroy groundwater in fertile coastal areas, erratic weather patterns will increase already rampant erosion. Are things really getting better fast enough? Can we pull ourselves out of this dangerous dive? These questions run through my head as I navigate through a river restored by a mix of conservation activists, and the lack of economic motivation to re-license the dam site.
As I strap my kayak to the roof of my car at the takeout, I have no idea of what to do. Maybe I shouldn’t have driven today to paddle and photograph a newly free-flowing Sandy River, maybe I shouldn’t even have been born, judging from world population trends, I definitely should not have children, something that luckily isn’t really on my mind this drizzly spring day.
As I drive home my car rattles along the bank of the Columbia River, the gray sheen of windswept water stretching like a plate of steel the half mile to the far bank. Cars rush past me on the freeway, busily flying from one place to the next. Windshield wipers distractedly twitch back and forth and I can only hope that our caffeine accelerated culture notices what we’re doing to water, and what is going to happen to water, before its too late.