Hail, freezing rain, and sunshine now hit us like a weather sampler platter within the same brutal hour as Lucy—my chocolate Lab sidekick—and I tackled the wilds of Beacon Rock and the Cape Horn Trail along Highway 14 on the Washington side of the Columbia River.
Mother Nature couldn’t make up her mind, swinging between a full-blown storm and a quieter, almost tender lull all in the same hour.
I woke up itching today like I’d lost a bet with a flea circus, thanks to Lucy’s generous hospitality. Don’t know where she picked up the critters though but, maybe three flea bombs later—envision me fumbling with cans like a discount exterminator—the boat’s probably safe, and I’m calling it a win against the tiny little bloodsuckers.
Beacon Rock, our first stop for a hike, isn’t just some random boulder—it’s the core of an old volcano, named by Lewis and Clark in 1805 as they paddled by, likely nodding at its sheer size.
Geologists say the Missoula floods reshaped this whole region eons ago, leaving Oregon with a waterfall jackpot and the Washington side with this hulking monolith, supposedly the second-largest of its kind globally.
A rich oddball named Henry J. Biddle bought the rock in 1915, then built a trail to the summit—nine-tenths of a mile of switchbacks with handrails and bridges, because why not turn a giant stone into a StairMaster?
Too bad it was closed today thanks to a rockfall—nature’s got a sense of humor. Cape Horn Trail was also off-limits, locked down for six months while some falcons play family life up top.
The Columbia River Gorge still delivered, though—views so sharp they cut through the lousy weather. History nerds might appreciate that the Army Corps of Engineers once eyed Beacon Rock for jetty gravel, but Biddle saved it, handing it over to Washington before the TNT could light up.
Now it’s a park, spared from the blast zone. Down the road, the Bonneville Dam churns away, and the Bridge of the Gods charges a buck to cross—cheap until you realize it’s just a bridge.
The Bridge of the Gods is a steel cantilever bridge spanning the Columbia River between Washington and Oregon near Cascade Locks.
Built in 1926, it’s 1,858 feet long, 140 feet high, and 23 feet wide, with no pedestrian path. Named after a Native American legend of a lost natural bridge, it sits in the dramatic Columbia River Gorge, connecting rugged cliffs and small towns.
Tolls are $1 for cars, managed by the Port of Cascade Locks since 1961. It’s a practical link, tied to the Pacific Crest Trail and local life, with a no-frills design that fits its wild surroundings.
I also saw a hot springs sign for later—mental note filed. Next up is Dog Mountain, a 2,920-foot beast that’ll shred your legs if you’re not ready. I’d bet Lucy’s ancestors named it.
After setting off flea bombs like a hazmat pro—Home Depot specials, $9.98 a pop—I also forgot my camera.
We rerouted to Fort Cascades, deserted except for us, probably because sane people don’t hike in this mess. At the Warren Fish Wheel No. 3—a relic from 1894 that looks like a steampunk fish trap—Lucy mistook a submerged rock for a stick and dove into the Columbia.
I pictured her getting snagged like a prize catch, but fish wheels got banned here in 1934, and she’s smarter than that. Still, it’s a funny thought.
Fort Cascades has its own saga: abandoned by the Army in 1861 for the Civil War, it was picked apart by civilians—railroad workers and lumberjacks mostly—until the 1894 flood wiped it out.
Lucy and I dodged hail on the 1.5-mile ruin loop, then grabbed Chinese food in Washougal—killer egg rolls—and hit Pendleton Wool Mills, where I almost swapped my wet socks for a blanket.
Now we’re holed up, rain hammering the roof like a bad drummer, Lucy snoring off her swim, and me hoping the fleas don’t rally for round two.
This all went down in March 2013, when I thought fleece was cool and Lucy still chased every rock in sight. Tomorrow’s another shot at the Gorge—and maybe a drier day.
(Note: This wild tale was scribbled down by me in March 2013, back on our trawler boat the Western Flyer, when I still thought fleece jackets were fashion clothes and Lucy hadn’t yet learned that not every rock should be climbed.)
I guess I really did love that farm dog after all.
Ralph
3/2025
Trawlercat Chronicles 