From tiny rivulets in Oregon, in Idaho and Montana, in British Columbia, Alberta, and Wyoming — even as far south as Nevada and Utah — she merges to form the the force of nature who forged her path from the Rockies to the sea with the reckless abandon of an angry toddler — tumbling car-sized boulders, smashing glaciers, carving waterfalls — the remains of her tantrum are a scar across the landscape, the tumbling falls long since dry. She is smaller now, but still the largest of her kind, and by her servitude, millions survive.

You’ve heard of her, surely, in songs and in writing — N’Chiwana (the Big River), Columbia, Lifeblood of the Pacific Northwest.

But do you know her?

Have you watched her sparkle and swirl? Heard her sing? Do you see her sinuous form curve through once-desolate landscapes? Have you touched her? Immersed yourself in her body? Have you held a perfectly round, polished stone in the palm of your hand and marvelled at the patterns of it? How many colors there are? How many shapes?

We call her ‘Lifeblood’ but do not stop to question what it means to extract it from her. She is dammed, again and again — a prisoner, a servant to our voracious need. Her thundering power transfers electricity to nine million homes. Her blood flows from our faucets, waters our crops — more than 600,000 acres sap from her, growing more than three billion dollars in food.

She gives us life.

But we have forgotten how to care for her.

Despite all that she gives, those responsible for her care place more value on her work than her health. How do we remind them that she cannot just keep giving forever? Mere survival is not enough — N’Chiwana must live if we are to thrive.

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As a resident of Richland, Washington for more than half my life, the 70% water in my body is from her body. When I moved here, I lived on her banks, spending hours sitting at her side or immersing myself in her. I have spoken on her behalf many times — I was involved in establishing the Tapteal Greenway and the Hanford Reach National Monument. But as I grew older and got busy, I lost touch with the River.

I forgot that we are one. I stopped visiting her.

I felt the absence of her in my soul, and knew I must do something about it. It was time to bond with N’Chiwana again by paddling the Hanford Reach in replica voyager canoes!

From the beginning of the trip, it was clear that there was no shortage of expertise on the crew, and I was excited at the prospect of learning from people who share the same passion for the river as I do.

One of the canoe captains, trip organizer Evan Leacox, is pursuing a Ph.D. in  Anthropology and is a fellow in the Rivers, Watersheds, and Communities program at Washington State University (WSU). He is exploring the Ethics of Community Engagement in the Columbia River Watershed. His work focuses on relationships before research, and fosters equitable collaborations between diverse researchers, local communities, and non-academic organizations.

The second captain, Bobby Fossek, has ancestral ties to the Walla Walla and Yakama tribes. He co-leads Naknuwiłama Tiiča̓mna - Caretakers of the Land in the Grande Ronde Valley, Oregon. They host classes and habitat restoration activities that “steward and strengthen the habitats and regenerative life ways of the Blue Mountain bio region.”

The third and final canoe was captained by Indigenous couple Ione (Palouse) and Jessup (Eastern Shoshone) Jones. Theirs was a new cedar dugout canoe they carved together with help from their children and Leacox. Ione founded the nonprofit organization Khimstonik, which is working to “decolonize the places we live by bringing in the voices of our ancestors and elders, our own relationships, and knowledge of the land’s history.” 

The entire canoeing team was made up of a wonderful mix of people from many backgrounds. The oldest, a lifelong Washington resident with Hawaiian heritage, shared how he loves paddleboards and canoes, but not outriggers (much to his mother’s disappointment). The youngest, the Jones’ 13-year-old daughter, captained their canoe with a wisdom and grace far beyond her years.

The rest of us on the voyage were: a bunch of old white folks (I’m in this group), all with long careers teaching water resource science or working on river policy and communications; a faculty member specialising in ecosystem ecology and river systems at WSU; and a whole heap of students pursuing diverse research topics.

It was a good reminder of how the River connects us, no matter where we come from.

Paddling canoes down the river. / Photo by Ginger Wireman.

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On the morning of August 8, just as the sun was peeking above the horizon, we launched above Vernita Bridge, the captains steering at the stern and the bowmen setting the stroke pace. It took only a few minutes on the water for each canoe crew to find their synchronicity — any break in the timing caused the canoe to rock awkwardly, and reminded us to breathe and work together. 

The motion of paddles dipping and pulling together was nearly silent as we slipped over N’Chiwana’s skin. She played with us as we went; her surface sometimes smooth, sometimes wrinkly, occasionally a little bit feisty — in cahoots with the wind. We paddled several miles, then rafted the canoes and floated for a while — chatting, laughing, sharing snacks, refilling water bottles, reapplying sunscreen, and swimming. 

And, oh, the swimming! The water was so clear that you could see 18 feet down! All of us took advantage of N’Chiwana’s cool embrace; she buoyed us and gave respite from the unrelenting desert sun. 

As we drifted along her banks, the creatures she cares for presented themselves to our eager eyes: coyote, white-tailed deer, porcupine, beaver, egret, great blue heron, pelican — the list goes on!

While waiting for shuttles at White Bluffs, I had the opportunity to spend time in the Jones’ cedar canoe. She was fresh and lively, more responsive than the large voyagers. Jessup said she still needs work — wall scraping and shaping for symmetry. The scent and feel of her sun-warmed cedar boards evokes the cozy feeling of being in a dry sauna. 

The Khimstonik dugout. / Photo by Ginger Wireman.

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For three days and three nights, we paddled, and shared our love for the River — our dreams for her future. Each day, we pulled ashore for lunch, setting up an awning and making sandwiches. We learned about each other; we laughed over “What even is pepperoncini?”; we battled cheese slices that refused to leave their packages intact; and we shared music. At night, after a hard day’s paddling, we ate hearty meals cooked on site by Captain Evan ‘Chef’ Leacox, stuffing ourselves to bursting. And then, in the dark, with no fires allowed, we told stories of the paranormal and scary dreams.

Our group size grew and shrank over the days, like the river does from season to season. Voyages work this way; people taking part as they can. No apologies for coming or going. 

We are all so different: a young Latina mom, commuting from Yakima to Tri-Cities to study the role of beavers in the ecosystem; a former aerospace engineer and wildland firefighter excited to learn about fire ecology; an elder, frustrated with the disparate regulatory enforcement in the region; a group of young women of Diné and Blackfoot heritage, reclaiming their connections to the water and land through ancestral traditions and science.

N’Chiwana connects us with each other, and we each connect with her, in turn.

Captain Bobby opened and closed our days with a bell, sang in his native Sahaptin dialect, and prayed for the river, the canoes, community, and family. His quiet contemplations invited all of us to be present. I don’t consider myself a spiritual person, but I miss waking up to Bobby’s serenade now that I am home.

Captain Bobby Fossek. / Photo by Ginger Wireman.

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As we prepared to launch the final day, Captain Evan asked us to hold this canoe journey in our hearts. He reminded us to keep the connections we have made here, to hold safe the memory of N’Chiwana’s embrace, and to draw on our collective experience to protect us during challenging times. 

When we pulled onto Carbody Beach in Pasco for our final lunch together, we found ourselves surrounded by flag-waving, country music-playing boaters. I was surprised by how few of them entered the crystal-clear water while we were there. As for our team of intrepid explorers, we swam a few more times, kept trying for whole slices of cheese (without success), finished the pepperoncini, and devoured a perfect watermelon that Evan had secreted aboard in a wooden chest.

As I was leaving, I saw Bobby standing hip-deep, his palms on N’Chiwana’s skin, his eyes closed as though deep in thought or prayer. I realized I needed to do the same before I went — I had to center myself, and touch the water one last time. I bent and laid a hand on her, feeling her move under my fingers. I was reminded of my white, colonizer heritage. I thought about how we have separated ourselves from the environment, and how that separation has harmed us all.

I resolved in that moment to touch N’Chiwana more often.

I will let N’Chiwana heal and strengthen me, so I can keep fighting for her future, her salmon, her Native folk, and the beautiful young adults I met on this voyage. With her as my guide, I’ll work from a place of abundance and love — both at my job and in our community.

Relationships built on reciprocity make us all better.

I will honor and protect N’Chiwana — the Big River, Columbia, the Lifeblood of the Pacific Northwest — as I would a beloved relative. Because that is what she is.

I invite you to do the same. 

Ginger Wireman is a woke Tri-Citizen fighting for a functional future, trying to be a good ally.

Instagram: @‌ginger_sage_sky Email: ebwireman@gmail.com


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