Field Journal: A Lesson in Rain

Ed Jahn, Producer

Wednesday, May 07, 2008 — Goretex does nothing to protect me. My skin has the consistency of wet white rice. My face is spongy, numb. It is the wettest day of the year, 45 degrees, and we are in the Columbia Gorge. It was my idea to be here. My idea to enlist our OFG crew to knock out another ‘adventure’ story. I take the blame. Cameraman Todd's expression says “I will not complain because it would not make a difference, but be it known that I want to kill the producer.” The river is up over its banks by an unhealthy margin. The three guys I’ve recruited to be on camera for our canyoneering story smile and say politely,‘ya know, there’s NO WAY we’re going in the water today, don’t you?” I smile back. I figure there might be at least some chance they’ll change their minds. We’re all outdoors types, reasonably tough, reasonably out of our minds. The cameras are rollin', let's have fun. We march on, up the trail, every sopping bootstep eliciting a chuckle of collective madness.

I didn’t grow up with rains like this. I’m an East Coast boy. New Jersey’s rain is enjoyed in humid moderation on a hot summer day. In all my years in Colorado the total accumulation of rain wouldn’t equal the firehosing we got today. The ceaseless rain upon rain, this November-December right of passage, still seems impossible. Unearthly. When a sponge is wrung out, eventually there’s no more water left, right?

We shot some pretty pictures, but my story of intrepid “canyoneers” rapelling into mystery wonderlands and down hidden creeks would have to wait until summer. We turned around. Headed back to the car, story unfinished.

We recovered our wits over hot, hot clam chowder and hot, hot black tea in the warm, warmth of Multnomah Falls Lodge. I took full responsibility. I picked up the tab and made amends with my soggy crew. Then the punishment came.

I return home. There's a bubbling spring in my yard. A small pond surrounds it. A creek flows from it. These were not there when i left earlier in the day. I follow the new river across the moss and grass and into my crawl space. Underneath the house I see my heating ducts, submerged. The crawl-space lake has risen to within inches of my floorboards. I spend that evening in my mud-suit, digging trenches, funneling this new yard-river to other channels. I kept imagining that someday...someday, the rain will stop.