Columbia River
New Year’s Eve, 2016
Ahead of the powerboat the river was a trembling plane pierced by starlight reflections, and behind it the river was furrowed like a field to be planted. The broad shouldered mountains rose up, canceling the sky with their absoluteness, while the fragile constellation of the Bridge of the Gods crossed the water from Washington to Oregon. Madison was wedged between A.B. and his father, Ivan, who was at the helm.
“Cut the engine here,” said A.B.
“We’re still too close to the bridge,” said Ivan.
“Then at least let me drive,” said A.B.
“It’s too dark,” said Ivan.
A.B. leaned over Madison’s lap so that his shoulder brushed her chest and tried to wrestle the steering wheel from Ivan.
“Forget it,” said Ivan. He pushed his son gently, but A.B. dodged his outstretched
hand. “I bet you’d let Madison drive,” he said.
“She’s a lot smarter than you,” said Ivan. He looked at Madison then, and said, “you want to?”
The steering wheel hummed. Driving the boat on the river at night was like careening through space: the red and green lights of the buoys were planets; the cars passing on I-84 were comets. Ivan asked her to stand so he could open the cooler beneath her seat, and while he procured a Bud Light she was a princess, a queen, with her hair blown back. From a compartment A.B. retrieved his school backpack and cradled it in his lap when he returned to his seat beside Madison. He draped an arm around her, and shook her a little. “Captain Madison,” he said, and laughed, and turned to Ivan and said, “how ’bout a Bud Light, old man,” and Ivan said “no,” for a while, and then finally he said “yes,” and meanwhile, Madison felt she understood for the first time where she ended and the rest began, because A.B. was surrounding her, and she knew he was the world.
Ivan took the steering wheel from Madison and cut the engine when they reached a wide stretch of river. A.B. handed Madison his beer and pulled out his phone. “Fifteen minutes till midnight,” he said. Then he unzipped his backpack, and removed the first firework.
“How loud will they be?” asked Madison.
“They might be the loudest thing you’ve ever heard,” said A.B.
“How do you know all the things I’ve heard?” said Madison.
A.B. watched her for a moment. “I don’t have to light them,” he said.
“I want you to,” said Madison.
A faint wind had risen. The river pestered the hull of the boat while on shore the fir boughs brushed one another urgently. Although she wore her warmest coat Madison could not stop her teeth from chattering, unlike A.B., who wore only a hooded sweatshirt covered by a canvas jacket. Since they were kids he had seemed incapable of cold, and she remembered how in winters passed, when they were younger, he would wear basketball shorts and a t-shirt while he threw snowballs at recess. She remembered standing frozen beside the metal slide, watching him wind up as if to throw one at her, then letting his arm fall to his side. He studied her for a strange, lasting moment, before hurling the snowball at some kids playing four-square.
Ivan popped the tab on a third Bud Light. Observing this, A.B. finished his in a long swig, crushed it into a disk, and threw it into the river. Ivan did not comment. Madison wondered if the disk would sink or float, and if it floated, for how long, while A.B. berated his dad for a second one. “I’ll only drink half,” he said. “I’ll give the rest to Madison.”
The beer tasted stale, though it had been freshly opened– just for her and A.B. She went with Ivan to the stern of the boat. He had not bothered to lower the anchor, and in the breeze the boat turned and turned and spiraled. A.B. darted to the bow, lit the first firework, and darted back to the stern. “If it falls over and points toward us, we jump into the water,” he said. He grasped Madison by the shoulders and amidst all that glimmering night his face was a sun. “We’ll be safe underwater,” he said. Then Madison heard a rupture in the cold, and was warm for an instant, and understood how it felt to gather snow in her bare hands as though it were cotton, or the fur of a kindly creature.
She watched A.B light countless rounds of fireworks as the old year passed away, and none of the casings fell over so that she and her friend had to leap into the winter’s river. Great golden lilies exploded into infinite petals and faded to dust. Roman candles fluttered away like birds. Madison listened every time the night shattered, and came together, and shattered again, while the lightning-faced trees watched without judgment, waving their branches, hissing, yes, yes, yes.
Eagle Creek Trailhead
September 2, 2017
3 pm
Dane wore flip-flops at every opportunity– even when he took his dog Chico hiking. Today he wore his favorite pair, which had bottle openers on the soles, with a pair of shorts that revealed a badly rendered tattoo of a feather he had gotten on his calf on his eighteenth birthday. Whenever he stood in front of a full-length mirror and turned to the side he saw the tattoo, and was reminded of decisions he had once made: how he and his friends had driven drunk down orchard rows and jumped off pylons into unknown waters, hoping nothing sharp lay beneath the surface.
He stepped out of his pickup and onto the gravel lot. Insects danced. The Douglas-firs shone in the heat of a late Pacific Northwestern summer. He let Chico out of the back seat, and without hesitation the dog wagged across the lot toward a group of teenagers standing beside a tired silver minivan near the trailhead. A skinny kid with a buzzcut carried a six-pack of Bud Light precariously with one finger so that it seemed it might fall at any moment. He gestured with the six-pack, grinning at his friend, and when Chico tried to sniff it he said, “get out of here!” But then he began to leap side to side, baiting and switching with the Bud Lights while Chico chased them gleefully.
“Chico!” Dane called, though even as he said his dog’s name he knew he would not come.
The heat of the lot made Dane feel he was watching a bright, electric movie that had already been fated, and would appear the same way no matter what he did. Chico approached one of the girls in the group, who wore flip flops like Dane, denim cutoffs, and a small red leather backpack. She bent to pet Chico behind his ears, and he lunged to lick her face. “Sorry,” called Dane. He reached her just in time to snatch his dog by the collar before he jumped up a second time. “Down,” he said. Then he added “No!” for good measure, but the word landed too late, and Chico only grinned up at him.
The girl had a very real face. She swept her bangs behind her ears and smiled shyly. “He’s just a puppy, isn’t he?” she said.
“Yep. He’s still got to grow into those paws.”
“I want one so bad– I keep telling my parents.”
“They’re too much work,” said Dane.
The kid looked over at Dane while swinging his six-pack absentmindedly and skudging gravel with the toe of his sneaker. With his blond buzzcut and white T-shirt he seemed to glow as though some light within him was straining to escape. “I’m getting Madison a dog for her birthday,” he said.
“You’re not,” said Madison.
“Yes I am. From the reservation.”
“Oh stop,” laughed Madison. She tried to call Chico over to her, but he was fascinated by the scents of the trailhead, and would not raise his head.
“I got him off Craigslist,” said Dane. “That’s why he doesn’t listen so well.”
Dane left the kids behind and followed Chico up the trail. He had forgotten to bring a leash, and carried only a plastic water bottle. When he stopped to drink from it he noticed Chico’s frantic panting, and poured some water into his hand, but most of it spilled into the soil. “We’ll make it down to the creek soon,” he said. “I promise.” The Douglas-firs shivered with heat. The week prior, there had been a stretch of rain that suggested the onset of fall, which now felt like a distant memory.
Chico slowed. He panted in double-time. “I’m sorry,” said Dane. “I should have brought you a water bowl.”
The trail had been carved into the cliffside. Dane clung to the wire that ran along the wall of stone. Far below, the mirror-shard of Eagle Creek cut through the dusted forest, wetting the boughs and darkening the soil. He heard a rushing white growing louder, then at last he saw the deep pool he had been dreaming of, and the waterfall that fed it. Chico surged down the trail and into the creek, lapping, and Dane followed him. For a moment he watched his dog from the creek’s rocky edge before he knelt and brought handfuls of water to his mouth, still thirsty, still thirsty. When the sun emerged from behind a cloud he took off his shirt and lay beside the water, but a moment later Chico charged out of the creek dragging a gnarled branch, so he sat up again. He threw the branch once, twice, three times, but the dog was impossible to satisfy.
“Leave it,” said Dane. “Let me relax.”
Chico dropped the branch at Dane’s feet. When Dane ignored it he picked it up and dropped it in Dane’s lap. Dane shoved the dog away and he yelped and stumbled across the rocks. “Fuck,” said Dane. “Come back here.”
The dog came to him and Dane held him and buried his face in the dripping, golden hide. “You’re a good dog,” he said. “You’re good.”
There were voices. He looked behind him to see the kid with the six-pack and the girl called Madison coming down the trail followed by two other teenagers. He looked away. He had not yet had the chance to swim, and now he worried they would swim first, and make the water theirs. But he could not bear to show his full height and step into the frigid pool while the teenagers looked on.
The group sat nearby, all except for the kid with the Bud Lights, who cracked one open and took a long drink, then began climbing the rocks along the water using the smaller trees and shrubs for support. Moments later, Chico bounded after him.
“Be careful– the dog!” called Madison.
But the kid and the dog continued together along the rim of the creek, which rose higher and higher from the water, and every moment it seemed Chico would knock the kid into the water, he caught himself, waving his Bud Light in the air for balance, grinning at his friends.
“Your dog really likes him,” said Madison.
Dane looked over his shoulder at the girl. “I don’t know why,” he said.
“I don’t either. Your dog is Chico?”
“Yeah,” said Dane. “You’re Madison?”
“Yeah,” said Madison.
“And him?” said Dane, pointing to the kid who was disappearing into the forest with Chico in tow.
“That’s A.B.”
A.B. and the dog were long gone. Dane found a joint in his pocket and lit it. He glanced at Madison, and she was like a ruby among the others. She looked up from her phone and smiled. “Chico!” called Dane. “Chico!”
For a while his voice had no effect. Then in the depth of the failing silence Chico charged from the underbrush. He visited the distant teenagers first, then licked Madison on the cheek, then crashed into the creek. In the water he raised his ears and looked into the forest like a pointer. A moment later A.B. appeared.
“What were you doing?” Madison called.
“Taking a leak,” said A.B. He no longer carried his can of Bud Light, but sat down beside Madison and opened a new one. “Have one,” he said.
“I’ll have some of yours,” said Madison.
“Have your own,” said A.B.
“Fine,” said Madison.
Four Bud Lights cracked to life.
“Hey!” said A.B.
Dane turned.
“You want the last one?”
“Nah,” said Dane. “I don’t support underage drinking.”
“We’re twenty one,” said A.B.
“You’re not,” said Dane.
Madison laughed.
“Don’t listen to her,” said A.B.
“I didn’t say anything,” said Madison.
Nobody swam except for Chico. Long minutes passed and the sun blazed through the boughs from different angles, and the creek smiled with light, and the teenagers talked in strange phrases that seemed unrelated to reality, but would become gaudy with meaning in the weeks that followed. “Wouldn’t it be better to do it here?” Madison said many, many times. “Not here,” said A.B. “But the water,” said Madison. “We should do it next to the water.” At this A.B. laughed. “My dad never cares about water when he does it. He just does it.”
As if forgetting, the sun softened its heat, and the teenagers stood to leave. Dane would not let himself turn, and when he did turn, he saw the mouth of the red backpack open. From inside A.B. removed another can of Bud Light, but no, the six-pack had already been consumed– the cans crushed. What he removed from Madison’s backpack was like a young rocket, a branch long submerged beneath the surface, a firework.
Dane sat still beside the creek while Madison and A.B. passed the firework back and forth. For a while no one spoke. Then Madison said, “It feels good just to hold it.”
A.B. laughed. “It feels like New Year’s Eve,” he said.
Then Madison laughed. “Let’s go,” she said.
The pool was Dane’s again, though still he did not swim. Is it enough just to hold it? he asked himself. There was no answer. Chico emerged from the water like a wild golden bear and stood beside Dane and looked down the path the teenagers had taken. Though Dane had no leash, the dog did not follow them.
Postscript
April 24, 2026
On September 2, 2017 I sat in the back seat of my friend Melissa’s car while she drove me and another friend Claire from our hometown of Hood River to Portland to see a concert. Though we would start our senior year of high school in just a few days, this would be my first concert, in part because Hood River had hardly any music venues.
From my distant seat I listened to my friends’ conversation and made the occasional statement such as, “damn, that’s crazy,” so that I might stay included. But the rush was loud as the car traveled west down Highway I-84, which snaked between the Columbia River and the mountainsides studded with Douglas-firs. Eventually, I just looked out the window, and let the conversation leave me behind. They were talking about Xanax.
“I think if I take just one as soon as we get to Edgefield I’ll be fine to drive us home,” said Melissa.
“It should just make you calm, right?” said Claire. “Calm is good for driving.”
“Exactly,” said Melissa. “And I won’t drink, since I’m driving.”
“I’ll have just a couple shots,” said Claire. “And a Xanax. Nothing crazy.”
No one spoke for a while. I considered these questions like they were interesting theoreticals, and nothing more. Claire began telling a story about a boy she had kissed at a party, one I had already heard, and I looked out the window some more, and saw my reflection distorted in the glass, and then I looked beyond myself at the surface of the Columbia River, and imagined the invisible current that flowed beneath. The air was flawless; the scene consisting of the river, the mountains cloaked in fir, the snaking highway, the osprey nests clinging to telephone poles, and the rhythmic train tracks was rendered in such impossible detail that I nearly forgot my sense of isolation as the only girl in the back seat.
“Jaden’s hot but there’s something kind of young about him,” Claire was saying. “You know what I mean?”
“I always think of when we were in third grade and he asked if I was part elf,” said Melissa. “Because of the shape of my ears.”
As the car rounded a point that jutted into the river, I looked out the window facing the mountainside and saw a shape in the sky. For a moment I could not recognize it, and then I understood that a column of smoke rose from the earth, unfurling as though it were the master of the firs, which seemed to quiver in its strange shadow, or worship it.
Claire and Melissa fell silent and looked out the window as the car passed the column. It loomed overhead– unmarred by wind, overtaking more sky at every moment. I turned in my seat and watched it disappear out the rear windshield as we traveled farther west, and observed how its edges were without the faintest moment of blurring, as though it were solid.
Then the scene was all splendor again, and an osprey carrying a glinting fish flew along the highway and alighted in his nest atop a telephone pole, where he stood proudly for a moment. The mother osprey had been waiting for him, and she accepted his catch, and tore it to pieces for her chicks. My friends continued chatting about Jaden, but I interrupted them.
“I’ll drive us home,” I said. “And I won’t drink or take Xanax.”
***
This was years ago. Now I know the dangers of even a small amount of alcohol mixed with Xanax. My friends and I knew by the end of the concert that the smoke we had seen from the highway would change the nature of the Columbia Gorge for years to come. On our drive home the hills which should have been invisible in the darkness were articulated by consuming flame.
The Eagle Creek Fire burned 48,000 acres of the scenic Columbia River Gorge west of my home in Hood River. One-hundred-fifty-three hikers were trapped on the trail leading to Punchbowl Falls as the fire blockaded them from the parking lot. Many were dressed for a casual swim on a hot day, and had left most of their clothing and water bottles in their cars. Many wore flip-flops. When the hikers understood they could not return to the parking lot, they banded together and started toward Wahtum Lake some ten miles away, where rescuers awaited the following morning with buses. Among them were various teenagers. One had lied to her father about her whereabouts so that she could join her friends swimming. After dark they ascended a narrow trail by flashlight, clinging to the wire so as not to fall into the creek far below, passing behind Tunnel Falls like a procession of stars.
On February 16, 2018, a fifteen-year-old boy referred to by the courts as “A.B.,” was held accountable for throwing the firework that sparked the Eagle Creek Fire. According to Willamette Week, he “pleaded guilty to 12 misdemeanors and received 1,920 hours of community service and five years of probation.” Willamette Week also published the following apology read aloud by A.B. in the Hood River County Circuit Court:
I want to express how sorry I am for what I did. I know a lot of people suffered because of a bad decision that I made. I’m sorry to the first responders who risked their lives to put out the fires, I am sorry to the hikers that were trapped, I am sorry to the people who worried about their safety and their homes that day, and for weeks afterwards. I am truly sorry about the loss of nature that occurred because of my careless action.
Every day I think about this terrible decision and its awful consequences. Every time I hear people talk about the fire, I put myself down. I know I will have to live with my bad decision for the rest of my life, but I have learned from this experience and will work hard to help rebuild the community in any way that I can. I now realize how important it is to think before acting because my actions can have serious consequences. I, myself, love spending time in nature and I now realize how much work it takes to maintain the National Forest so people can enjoy it.
I sincerely apologize to everyone who had to deal with this fire, I cannot imagine how scary it must have been for you. I know I have to earn your forgiveness and I will work hard to do so and one day, I hope I will. Thank you for giving me a chance to speak. This has been a big learning experience for me and I take it very seriously. I apologize with all my heart to everyone in the Gorge.
This statement has been widely read by those who called A.B. a “schmuck,” a “moron,” and an “idiot,” cursing him for turning the Columbia Gorge from green to gray and hiding the sky for weeks.
Not many have read the letter Madison wrote to A.B after his trial. In fact, I’m the only one who’s ever read this letter, and now you.
May 9, 2018
Dear A.B.,
Sometimes I think you were showing off when you threw that firework into the ravine. I think you wanted to impress me. But you didn’t have to. A.B., I’ve always been impressed with you.
It’s strange how you took all the blame for this. We used to do everything together, but now I never see you. I wish you would talk to me at school. I wish sometimes that your dad never took us out on his boat on New Year’s Eve because that was the day I realized I loved fire, just like you. That was the day I knew we were the same.
If I had 36 million dollars in the bank I’d give it all to you so you could pay your fines. But I don’t. I don’t even have enough money for a dog. I hope you read this and remember that I carried that firework with me, and I handed you that match. One day, I hope you will.
Madison
Note
This story blends fictional scenes and documents with historical fact. A.B.’s statement is quoted from reporting by Rachel Ramirez published in Willamette Week on February 16, 2018. Madison, Dane, Ivan, Chico the dog, and Madison’s letter are fictional creations.
Grace Whitmore is a novelist whose work contends with animals, family dynamics, and existentialism in the American West. She splits her time between New York City, where she is a student at Barnard College as well as the literary editor of Parcel Magazine, and the Columbia River Gorge, where she teaches children to ride horses.
