From July 1990. – JDW
A Native American grandfather talking to his young grandson tells the boy he has two wolves inside of him struggling with each other.
The first is the wolf of peace, love and kindness. The other wolf is fear, greed and hatred.
Which wolf will win, grandfather? asks the young boy. Whichever one I feed, is the reply.
Several miles west of The Dalles – sitting in the middle of the river – there’s a burial ground for the mid-Columbia tribes. And on Memaloose Island, there’s a marble monument marking the grave of one of the area’s early settlers, Victor Trevitt, pioneer printer.
It seemed an unusual resting place for a white man, but it made perfect sense to Trevitt.
“In the Resurrection,” he said, “I’ll take my chances with the Indians.”
Bury my heart at Kah-nee-ta (1-541-553-1112).
I follow a thirty-one-foot (31) Winnebago Chieftain up the hill to the main lodge which jumps unexpectedly from a red clay bluff.
I am back with “The Family” on THE VACATION THAT CANNOT BE BELIEVED. THE SEQUEL.
(For those of you who might have missed last week’s column due to life-threatening surgery or maybe something better to read, the North Central Oregon Tourism Promotion Committee flew the six members of the Park’s household in from Independence, Missouri for an eleven-day (11), all-expense (ALL)-paid guided tour, featuring every single thing they could find that might be even remotely entertaining in Wasco, Wheeler, Gilliam, Sherman and Grant counties.)
They invited me along for the entire trip.
I explained I’d rather pluck the lawn than spend a morning on a tour of the solid waste disposal facility in Arlington.
We agreed – mutually – it might be best if I limited my participation to places with a lounge by the pool.
(Pool Rule Number 11. “Please refrain from becoming overly affectionate, we do have child guests.”)
It’s so hot, even the thermometer is in the shade, where it reads one-oh-one. (101) That’s hot.
Yet, at three in the afternoon, the four Parks kids take their parents for a trail ride. Outdoors. In the desert. In the summer. On slow horses. Without air conditioning. According to four-year-old Jennifer, whose judgement I had previously trusted, this was the best part of the trip.
What is it about little girls and ponies? She’s have said the same thing if she’d ridden that steed through the Beaverton Fred Meyer.
Dinner looks different here.
Tribal members skewered huge fillets of Pacific salmon on cedar sticks, then cooked the fish over glowing alderwood coals. The fry bread came with huckleberry jam. A taste of Native American history.
The broad-shouldered man was pounding a tom-tom, talking to another Indian who wore sweeping horns on his head.
“Sorry I was late.” Drum. Drum. Drum. “When I finally got done delivering the gas.” Drum. “I was so tired, I took a shower and a nap.” Drum. Drum.
The drummers, also known as the “rawhide orchestra,” wear baseball caps and Nike T-shirts, while the dancers are clad in traditional dress.
The ceremony opens with a sign language presentation of the Lord’s Prayer, while a cassette player provides the spoken word.
The tape keeps skipping.
Rudy Clements, majestic in a feathered headdress and a grandfatherly scowl, has placed near us “sacredness… cherished eagle feathers.”
To the Warm Springs, Wasco, and Paiute tribes, the eagle is a symbol of our creator.
“We try to pattern ourselves in this world after the eagle,” Mr. Clements notes, before adding that the big bird mates for life.
Clements comes across like a combination of Sitting bull and Lawrence Welk. Part symbol, part entertainer, he is a responsible leader, passing down traditions to the next generations. Sharing one culture with another.
“The drum beat symbolizes our heart,” says the man some call Uncle Buffalo. “As long as we can hear the drummers, we are still alive.”
The drums still beat at Kah-nee-ta. Located one-hundred-and-nineteen (119) miles from Portland, there a six-hundred-thousand-acre (600,000) reservation, complete with wild horses.
Bathed in sunshine more than three-hundred (300) days annually, it’s a resort with a difference.
Sure, it has the eighteen-hole golf course and the tennis courts and white water kayaking and the mineral baths and the twenty-one (21 teepee village, complete with laundromat.
But, more importantly, Kah-nee-ta offers a sense of place. Of a time past. Of a relationship with something greater than ourselves. Of a land that isn’t entirely paved over. Of a people who were here thousands of years before Lewis & Clark left the Midwest looking for a place to start a college.
Trust me. The next time you want to get away for a few days, go east, back to the real beginnings of Oregon.
Take your chances with the Indians.
Epilogue. Picture you this. I am laying on some fancy lounge chair, like a long, lean reptile in the afternoon sun. I hear a voice like an angel say, “Honey, would you like me to get you another beer?” Like a dream but I know it’s real. I say sure. Thanks. I am dating a stripper. Figure what the hell, I’ll bring her on this assignment. Some of these remote locations, hard to meet your temporary new best friend.
She’s five-foot-ten, size four, with humongous artificial breasts, tiny ass, slim hips, great posture, and she’s wearing one of those fluorescent glow-in-the-dark bikinis that seem to hypnotize in the bright light. Heels. Heels at the pool.
I watch her go, watch her head to the bar. Wonder how women can do that with their hips. Oh, my goodness. Where was I?
Oh, yeah, so I am watching her and you know how fathers get into the pool and their little girls, say, “Daddy, watch me. Daddy, I’m jumping. Daddy, catch me.” I swear I saw two dads not catch their kids ’cause they were watching somebody get me a beer.
Seemed funny at the time.