CHAPTER XVI
Columbia River to Indian Heaven

If our trip could be thought of as a game where little plastic horsemen advance from square to square by a spin of the wheel of fortune, just before Washington, advance to Cascade Crest Trail there is a bright colored block on the board that reads Columbia River: Truck horses across Bridge of the Gods, loose 50 points.

It wasn't that horses were not allowed on the bridge. I had written ahead for permission to ride across. This was granted. And, because no one could agree on what to charge—gross weight, number of hooves, or by the passengers—the toll was waived.

However, the bridge manager went on, no horse had ever negotiated the span before. He wasn't sure it was possible. Others held this same opinion. A Forest Service Ranger and the Chief of Police of Stevenson drove across in order to give us a "Washington Welcome." They kindly offered to arrange for a stock truck to haul our herd across.

We had come too far on our own 40 feet, to hitchhike this quarter of a mile. I resisted this offer, and was just about "arrested." Chief Miles Farris argued awhile, then opened the door of his police cruiser and beckoned for me to get in. He took me to the middle of the narrow, two lane, span, and flipped on his flashing lights, which stopped traffic both ways, while I climbed out onto the honeycombed steel that made up the deck. Looking straight down through the holes, I could see whitecaps on the river, over 150 feet below.

I must admit, for a moment I was scared. The total scene was overpowering. The Columbia River Gorge, which I feel rivals the Grand Canyon in depth, and surpasses it in beauty, is the only natural break, or near sea level pass, in the mountain cordillera from Cabazon Pass in Southern California, clear up into British Columbia. Consequently, the east/west winds that whistle through this shortcut through the mountains are noted for their ferocity. A "light breeze" was blowing this day, strong enough to flap the loose cloth of my shirt.

Then there was a very visible river below. By length the Columbia is the fifth ranked river in the United States. It is third in volume. I could read the power of the current in the form of pressure boils and back eddies.

From this viewpoint I also could look upward to thousands of feet of cliff face, carved by nature, and time. Wind and water: sculptures of beauty.