We left Walla Walla and headed toward Portland. Soon after we crossed the Oregon border we hit the south bank of the Columbia River, wide and green and edged by sloping brown cliffs. The wind was chopping up white caps all the way across it. As we drove parallel to the river, Shelby suddenly and matter-of-factly said,
“I want to put my feet in there.”
We found a spot we thought was suitable to pull over, but the rocks leading down to the water were too loose to feel safe climbing down. We gave up the idea and moved on. About a half mile up the road there was another car pulled over and more of a beach-type area, which renewed our interest. A little further and we found a pull off proper that lay beside a steep dune of black sand. We followed a path down to the beach where there were the remnants of a bonfire. We were alone, but it was obvious that quite a few people had been there within a few nights of us. In the aftermath of the bonfire were the ashes of folding chairs, a burnt out gas grill, various plastic bottles and cups, Coors light cans, and, grotesquely, the feathered wing of a bird attached to part of its skeleton. This along with the washed up tractor tire convinced us not to put any parts of our bodies, feet included, into this part of the river.
Instead we thought it would be funny to make a mockumentary short film about Lewis and Clark (This is part of their historic route.) and what they would think if they had found the river in this state when they first explored it. We filmed all of the trash and mused that the burnt out grill beneath the gnarled mulberry tree would have looked to them like some kind of altar and that there would likely have been sacrifices made there. I am as big a fan of morbid irony as anyone, but really only in fiction or when it happens to someone else. But to be fair the morbid irony was not the first thing I thought of when Shelby pointed out the makeshift grave.
But there it was. Beneath the Mulberry tree. A cross of sticks lashed together with vines, adorned with a clear plastic rosary, and a thornless “wicker” crown. Not twenty feet from the water, the sand the grave seemed recently disturbed. A fresh grave? I’m not qualified to say, but my imagination filled in where my credentials were lacking. A homeless person whose buddies buried him and paid tribute with fire and a six pack. Hopefully just a beloved pet, a devoutly catholic pet. But perhaps an illegal immigrant whose compatriots did not want to arouse the attention of the authorities. Shelby’s imagination jumped right to infant. Or more specifically back-alley aborted dead baby.
It didn’t take us long to leave. I was slightly afraid that were not alone and the friends of the buried were near by. But mostly I was just creeped out. We high tailed it out of there, got back in the car and debated whether to report it. We knew we probably should, but aside from the obvious legalities involved we were torn. I am generally opposed to disturbing people’s graves, and think that if it were that persons last wishes to be buried in that manner, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. A little too close to a potential source of drinking water, probably, but then again, that water was already polluted.
I couldn’t help think of my Uncle Ed. His last wishes were to be buried in a burlap sack underneath a nut-bearing tree near a body of water at a depth suitable so as not to be exhumed by wild animals. A party was to follow. Ed, never conventional, was himself the best kind of nut. We all agreed the request was reasonable and appropriate for the generous life he led, insuring that his body would give back what it had used. The state of Georgia disagreed and instead he was cremated. In the end everything about his last wishes, except perhaps the burlap sack, were carried out. His wife and sons spread his ashes beneath a newly planted nut-bearing tree and we had a great party celebrating his life.
If this were that type of grave, but under the radar, I would hate for the authorities to disturb it. What finally did it for us was the thought that it might be a person whose family is looking for them. A teenage drifter or an illegal seasonal farm worker whose whereabouts were unknown to a worrying mother or wife. A mile or so down the road was a state park. We found, not a ranger, but a store attendant who provided us with the number for Ranger Justin. We called him up and let him and the Army Corp of Engineers take over. The area we found the grave, was according to Ranger Justin, in their jurisdiction. He said he’d have to let them know and would work with them to get it checked out.
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