Smoke Signals
Tribal Council Members Follow The Trail To Our Past
Leaders, staff visit Obsidian Cliffs in Willamette National Forest.
10 OCTOBER 1, 2005
By Chris Mercier,
Tribal Council member
Again this year, Tribal Council
members and Natural Resources
staffers joined a group from the
McKenzie Ranger District of the
Willamette National Forest to re
discover pathways of our past.
This year, the group headed to
the Obsidian Cliffs where Natives
from across the area came for this
incredible material from which
tools and weapons were made.
I imagine our ancestors in leather or
hide moccasins making this exact
same hike, at probably twice the speed
too and with half the food and water.
True endurance, I am reminded, is
working through more than my sore
heels on a moderate hike.
If you've never been to Obsidian
Cliffs, stuffed deeply away near the
Three Sisters Wilderness, I highly rec
ommend penciling in a visit sometime.
The State only issues thirty permits
per day to visit the area, which raises
some conflicting issues. Shouldn't
something this gorgeous be free for all
to enjoy? But then again, shouldn't the
use of something this breathtaking be
curbed to prevent overcrowding, litter,
erosion and the general side effects that
humans tend to inflict on natural ar
eas.' l can see Dotn
points of view.
Even though the
McKenzie River Dis
trict is located within
the forest, and a good
share of wildlife
abound, the whole area
feels like a neighbor
hood. Driving down the
highway, there are few
breaks in the civiliza
tion. I don't blame
people though. Serene,
clean, sparsely popu
lated, with the
Willamette National
Forest in your back
yard, what is not to
like? This is heaven for
a forest lover. If there
is single television in
my lodge, I don't see it.
Nor hear it.
I awaken the next
morning to the
McKenzie's graceful
churning. Mist floats
over Eagle Rock. I
head off to the
McKenzie Ranger Dis
trict, where we, meaning fellow coun
cil member Jack Giffen, Jr., Natural
Resources Division Manager Pete
Wakeland, and Tribal firefighter Alex
Drake, will ditch our vehicles for one
large green suburban. That in turn
will take us to the trailhead that leads
finally to the Obsidian Cliffs.
Other members of our crew include
Eric Bergland, an archaeologist (not of
the Indiana Jones variety, no whip),
Sandra Ratliff the District Recreation
Assistant, Monty Ramp the vintage
mountain man a.k.a. Animal Packer,
and Mary Allison, a real forest ranger,
McKenzie River District. There is also
Betty Applebaker, who will ditch us
the next day with her beasts of burden,
three horses. Lastly, there is Baby,
Mac, and about five other mules whose
names I forget.
We are doing this trip as part of a
growing relationship the Tribe has
with Willamette National Forest. Of
ficials informed us of Obsidian Cliffs
significance to Oregon's first people,
and extended an invitation to take
council directly to the area for a tour.
After a few miles in the forest, we
reach some of the lava rock fields that
many commonly affiliate with these
parts. Of course this lava is long dead,
having done its share of tree massa
cring probably before the advent of civi
lization around here. But the trees
have waged a successful revival, dot
ting the lava fields everywhere, life
amidst former desolation. I see an at
tractive contrast between the two of
them, the rocks and the trees. The
Middle Sister looks down on all of us,
her head patched with some formidable
snow that refuses to flee from summer.
Just at the edge of the lava fields,
when we are really starting to tread on
obsidian country, a clearing opens up
before us, and an inviting freshwater
stream gurgles across the path. I sur
vey the area, note the fiat, even ground,
the availability of water, and ask
Bergland if some of our ancestors might
have found this place suitable to settle
for a while. While not possessing any
information offhand, he tells me, it's
very possible. Cool, I think to myself.
Only a mile or so past that clearing,
the purpose of our visitation here be
gins to be realized. Parts of the ground
glitter, as if a treasure trove of jewelry
TTTl
A A 'li
i tJ ' " ' ' '". ' ' '
si" TP"' t , ' . .. f
? - I
v V ' , z. -e
- a.
Ancestral Meaning A peice of obsidian, probably an arrow head, found
in the area of the Obsidian Cliffs in the Willamette National Forest.
natives, who knew the value of the enig
matic black stone. Not only would they
make summer treks up here to gather
obsidian, the area was a trading point
for numerous tribes, on both sides of the
mountain. In winter the obsidian fields
were inaccessible, so time spent here
was spent economically.
Much of the flakes we walk over are
their handiwork. Bergland shows us
an example. Holding up a large
it 4
tim. St
Picture Perfect With the Middle Sister Mountain in the background, here is a wide angle
look where obsidian has been found for centuries. Only 30 permits a day are issued to visit the area.
had been blown up, and gemstones and
silver and gold are scattered every
where. Obsidian. Raw, unpolished,
chipped, flaked, sharp, glistening ob
sidian. If it were worth even one cent
a pound, this place would be like the
Yukon.
Fortunately, the law prevents people
from scooping up armloads of the stone
to take home, and from what I can tell,
that is for the better. Bergland points
out to us that much of the material we
see has been incidentally scattered and
chipped, from forces of nature like ero
sion and rain, to people, specifically,
our Tribal forefathers. It takes a
trained eye to know the difference, an
eye like Bergland's.
The stone flakes and shards are
naturally sharp, like broken glass.
Bergland explains that the area
where we are doing all this frantic pe
rusing was frequented often by regional
chunk, he fingers some missing long
slivers. To illustrate, Bergland mim
ics the technique of striking a flaking
stone with another, just at the edge,
just at the right angle, and with the
right amount of pressure to not break
the sliver.
The deeper we hike in, the more the
ground glistens with obsidian.
At one point the ground is dominated
by the obsidian, so much so that the
glint becomes distracting to the eyes. If
you've been on a boat during that time
of the day the sun is brightest, and with
every ripple appears a glitter, then you
know what I'm talking about. One field
is simply a sea of obsidian.
We wind down the first day right af
ter our path crosses that of the world
famous Pacific Crest Trail. Hard to be
lieve that path goes all the way to
Mexico.
After a quick breakfast, we are off on
another long day of hiking, though
this one more of a leisurely stroll. At
least that's what we're told by Eric
Bergland, who by the end of the trip
has members of the crew making wise
cracks about his underestimating dis
tances. We head back to the trail intersec
tion, and veer eastward, this time to
wards Obsidian Falls. The falls are
not even a mile up the trail, and not
the spectacular variety either. But
there is still something attractive,
maybe even tantalizing, about the 20
something foot cascade.
As we begin our ascent to the upper
Obsidian Cliffs plateau, Mary Allison
directs us to a spring. No point in
busting out the filter, she says. This
is pure spring water in every sense of
the word, clear, cool, and when your
thirsty, like nectar.
The ascent goes slowly, intentionally
because unlike yesterday we aren't
racing against time, and because only
a few hundred feet up the trail a huge
black deposit looms out of one of the cliff
faces. At first glance it appears the
stone is wet, but further inspection re
veals a titanic chunk of obsidian, with
smaller offshoots everywhere. This
must be one of the mother lodes, I
think, but without even any basic un
derstanding of geology. Yet it feels like
a mother lode, at the very least like a
pleasant discovery, an entire hillside
of beautiful, shiny obsidian.
Atop the plateau we rest at Arrow
head Lake (more like pond), and take
lunch on one of the cliffs. I attend to
my blisters. From this viewpoint one
can see the entire forest, with Three
Finger Jack further up north, and an
other one of the Sisters. The hike
down, as is often the case, is infinitely
easier than the way up. Glacier Creek
provides us with more of that spring
water that somewhere some people
probably pay money for.
Alex Drake and I both conclude that
something came through our camp
last night, as we both heard it. Other
than that, the night went off without
incident, just some loud snoring. Leav
ing, a3 usual is a little bit anticlimac
tic, but also a bit of a relief. I vow to
return, but with better shoes and a
better sleeping bag. Jack Giffen, Jr.
and I discuss the possibility of making
this trek an annual event. Maybe we
could even bring Tribal youth. What
ever the decision, we would like more
Tribal members to see this area that
was once so important to some of our
ancestors.