Bridge of the Gods

WPA-sculpted guardrails,

tunnels built of dustbowl sweat,

a road designed to “not mar

what God had put there.”

Is it revisionist memory that purports

my family told more stories on that road?

My favorite was the origin story of

the Bridge of the Gods:

Two male mountains fought for the attention

of a beautiful female mountain. Their conflict

erupted into hurled rocks, creating a bridge

of stones that crossed the mighty river.

Mt. St. Helens joined the winner, Mt. Adams,

on the North side of the river, leaving Mt. Hood

defeated and alone.

To lend more credence to this poem,

I availed myself of the poet’s modern tool:

Googled old Route 30 and Columbia Gorge.

It turns out my recollection fails: the story

either mis-remembered now or mistold then.

St. Helens was no victor’s spoils, but a spirit

rewarded for her loyalty, turned into

the most beautiful of all the mountains.

In my childhood’s version, the mountains

held European names, not

Wy’east

Klickitat

Multnomah.

Names familiar to me,

but as my mother’s high school

or the amazing waterfall

in whose mist I bathed,

my six-year-old self believing

it existed only for me.

Daughter, granddaughter, great granddaughter

of victors who wrote the History, I wonder

what else is lost,

given another name,

remembered through erasure?

What other six year olds will lay claim

to what does not belong solely to them?

(cc) Karen G. Johnston