Crawdads and Comets

Daisies grow on the shore of a surprisingly clear

 Timothy Lake in Summer, 2022. Mt. Hood can

 be seen over the ridge of trees across the lake.         

    It’s been said that you can never go home: your memory of a place will never be what you find when you return. The truth of these words rang especially true during the Covid Pandemic, as the whole world held its breath, and this mutual tension permeated every aspect of life. But to be “home” so to speak, everything need not be the same: so long as it remains familiar. My family treasures the outdoors, and with campgrounds still open, in July 2020 we decided to return to one of our favorite getaways: Timothy Lake, a large reservoir in the Cascades maintained by Portland General Electric as water storage for their hydro-electric projects. Its shores are lined by campgrounds, huckleberry bushes and gravel beaches for swimming. Massive stumps, ghosts of the forest that once stood in the lake bed, still stand under the surface, intact after nearly half a century. From the right angle, you can see stunning views of Mt. Hood. The Drive up 26 that summer was no less magical, climbing out of the canyon carved by Camp Creek, towards the summit. Mt. Hood slid in and out of view as the road curves around hills, becoming larger and larger each time. 

    That July afternoon, the lake appeared the same, but things definitely felt different. Signs warned people not to gather too close, and advised masks. The sense of concealed hysteria

was fainter here, but not fully extinguished. Timothy Lake, while somewhat remote, is close enough to Portland to have cell service, and with it, news updates, and the emotional whiplash from conflicting reports sharing both optimism and pessimism about the situation. Yet there is a certain peace in a place like Timothy Lake, regardless of what’s going on outside. Families still gathered on the lakeshore and chatted amongst themselves. Boats meandered across the sparkling water and children swam in the various lagoons and bays. As dusk fell, a ukulele began to play, smoke from cooking fires filled the air, and children returned to the lake to stalk crawdads.

    I took note of this last bit, and on the second night I grabbed a flashlight and went down to try my own luck. Sure enough, there were dozens of crawdads, using the cover of night to evade predators and hunt prey of their own. I wandered down the lake shore almost as far as the dam, only stopping when I came to a family gathered around a campfire. As I approached, someone got up from the fire and began wandering my way: perhaps I had gotten a bit too close. I turned around and headed back along the beach trail towards camp. After a minute or so, I looked back, assuming that the pursuer had turned around, but the flashlight was still following me. I decided to quit running. If this guy needed to talk to me, so be it. 

Comet Neowise, seen from the suburbs of
Portland, Summer, 2020

    I greeted my supposed pursuer, with a “Good evening.” He replied in kind, then added “Hey, did you see the comet?” I looked where he was pointing. Amid the stars was a faint dusty object. During the day I would have thought it to be a distant contrail, but it was night, and the object wasn’t moving. My heart leapt. I thanked him and like a child, sprinted all the way back to camp, where I breathlessly stormed the trailer--waking my family in the process--and said something about a comet. They were none too happy to be disturbed, but they went back with me, and together we took in this rare sight. They were glad to see it, and even after they returned to camp, I stayed by the lake, and watched it set behind the hills. When I returned home, I made two trips into the countryside where the sky was darker to photograph the comet: once alone, and once with a friend.

    A couple of years have gone by, and things have changed, some for better and some for worse. This year we returned to the lake. There were fewer people--though it was later this time, and the place still wasn’t lonely. Children were still playing in the lagoons, and boats still slide across the sparkling waves. Each return trip feels different, but at the same time it feels familiar. The night sky was as beautiful as ever, though there was no comet. It has long since turned around and headed back from whence it came, going about its existence. Some day, it will return. The world it sees then will be different, but some things will no doubt still be the same. 

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Kramer Paper Online - Vol. LXXVII

45º06'50"N 121º48'00"W