To The Ocean

In my previous post, I said I wanted to live in the mountains. That statement brought back memories of my childhood.

I grew up about 30 travel miles southeast of Seattle, Washington in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains. Probably 50 miles as the crow flies west of Mount Rainier. In the morning, we watched the sunrise over the Cascades and in the evening, we watched it set on the Olympic Mountain peaks.

Our small farm lay on a pie shaped wedge of hills high above the convergence of two valleys and the little town of Auburn.

The Green and White Rivers that stream out of the Cascades once met at Auburn, uniting to form a larger river rushing on its way to Puget Sound. That changed at the turn of the 20th century.

In the late 1800s, the valley farmers battled the annual flooding and dynamite was one of their weapons. Unfortunately, a planned explosion in 1899 redirected much of the White river into Stuck Creek which carried it into the Puyallup River. A massive flood in 1906 sealed the deal when it sent the entire White River surging southward.

Flood control came in 1948 with the completion of Mud Mountain Dam on the White River. This was before my birth, but I heard first hand stories from my father, who was a laborer on the project. By the time I came on the scene, man diverted the White River yet again. It rests a spell in The Lake Tapps reservoir before exiting to its ultimate destination, Commencement Bay near Tacoma.I have reason to believe that my dad is the man on the lower right in this picture entitled Mud Mountain Dam from my mom's photo album .

When I was “the kid,” the White River and its hidden wilderness lay just over a tree-filled crest from our modest farm home. There were primitive paths that climbed the ridge and then dropped sharply to the sand and rocks. The water was full of “glacier flour” which provided its milky appearance and name. Sometimes the safest descent was to squat and slide on my worn sneakers. My friends joined me, with swimsuits under our peddle pushers, to splash in our secret swimming hole. (It was probably a spring fed pool.) We retraced our steps by pulling ourselves up the steep parts using exposed roots and other woody plants

The other valley hosts the 65-mile long Green river, fed by many mountain streams. We would sometimes take a Saturday afternoon drive to Black Diamond, about 16 miles away, to enjoy the “Green River Gorge.” The “Gorge” carved about 12 miles and up to 300 feet deep through the rocky cliffs. We descended the switchback trail through the hanging moss and ferns into a narrow echo chamber of laughing water. We were often the only ones there. Now I hear it is a popular white water attraction.
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Downstream, the valley widens to a half mile – and the farms were lush with berries, cucumbers, beans, and cabbage. A few summers down there picking strawberries are vivid in my memories. Like the time I popped a berry in my mouth and got stung under the tongue by an angry bee. I spit him out, of course.

A short distance further, Green River reaches Auburn and turns north, in opposition to the White Rivers turn south. It joins a few other rivers before it empties into Elliott Bay in Seattle.

The area around Seattle grew with haste the past thirty years. I grieve for the farmland that now grows houses. I resent the tall windows reflecting the sun off the cliffs.

However, I look at how fast my grandchildren are growing and realize that change is inevitable and I must accept it.

Well, one thing does remain the same. The rivers keep flowing to the sea.