For some reason I am completely drawn to the area. Especially in the moderate seasons of spring and fall, when the sun is softly lavishing its nourishing rays on the landscape.
Fort Simcoe is always the first place I think of in March to see if the wildflowers are blooming on the rocky terrain behind the old blockhouse on the hill. (Usually I jump the gun and am too early.) It's especially magical during the cool of the midsummer evenings -- when the crops of the Lower Valley such as mint, hops, corn and grapes are at their peak. I think of the water-sculpture displays of the giant rolling line sprinklers, their jets of water streaming through the air, backlit by the end-of-the-work-day sun, giving life and beauty to the acre upon acre of rolling, green fields.
With windows rolled down, perfect music enhancing the scenery, my daughter Carly and I often enjoy the excursion. Our journey begins once we pass through "Paho que hu ti" (Sahaptin for "where two mountain heads meet") -- the natural divide between Ahtanum and Rattlesnake ridges carved by the Yakima River.
With the passage of time, it hardly seems real anymore, more like a long-ago dream. However, the familiar smells of sage, irrigated crops, and the distinctive blue mustard weed, help ignite the familiarity that seems now to be part of our very blood.
Turning onto the winding, orchard-lined roads, we head west (trying to ignore the pervasive graffiti tags). After a few miles we break out onto the open vista we've been waiting for: miles upon miles of open land. Even the undeveloped fields of weeds and sagebrush exude a natural beauty against the backdrop of the soft amber, undulating foothills.
We are soon in the open terrain of hawk country. They are always present here, soaring in pairs (accompanying our music beautifully) or ominously perched on utility poles, awaiting the opportune moment when a slight quiver in the brush sets them off hunting. I remember when we temporarily lived way out here (after we'd sold our home in West Wapato and our house in Yakima was being built), we had a group of white barn owls living in an evergreen tree in the yard of our rented farmhouse. At night, their white, ghostly images silently glided past our windows. Under that large evergreen tree, the pellets from their nocturnal hunting became a familiar sight.
The further we go, the more we are treated to the abundance of crops thriving in this rich volcanic soil. Past the trellised hop fields and the newly planted wine grapes, we come upon our favorite: mint. Especially during harvest, the air is saturated with the pungency of sweet-smelling spearmint.
With windows completely rolled down, sunroof open, and the dog's nose blissfully stuck out the back window, we all deeply breathe in this pleasurable summer aroma. The very air feels heavy with the scented humidity of all the irrigated fields.
Páhto, or Mount Adams, lords over the nourished fields as the ultimate giver of life-water to the desert. The Native Americans have long revered the snowy mountain peak as a sacred, essential part of their existence. (Although the closer we get to our destination, the lower the mountain sinks into the horizon.)
The further west we go, the more I am overwhelmed with the deep sensation of the Native American heritage seeming to emanate from the very landscape itself. Before the U.S. Army ever established a fort, Simcoe (probably from SimKwee, meaning Saddle in the Hills) was a gathering place, a crossroads, in fact, for numerous Indian trail ways. The bubbling springs known as "mool mool" provided a natural respite to the harsh summer desert. It is easy to imagine the thatched reed shelters underneath the gnarly scrub oak that abut the forested hills.
Close by, in White Swan and Toppenish, the powwow is still a mainstay of the Yakama's traditional culture, performed several times a year. I have attended several of these when non-natives are welcome. Especially at night, I find the heart-pounding drums, singing and supremely colorful regalia to be fantastic.
On numerous occasions, we have turned into the park, equipped with Frisbees, kites and horseshoes, intent on playing lively games, only to be overwhelmed with the spiritual ambiance of this peaceful setting. Our plans suddenly seem completely inappropriate; we decide to walk quietly over the grounds instead.
Of special beauty, on the north side of the lawn, is a designated source of "mool mool" or bubbling springs. I remember once a young Indian girl telling me that her people believe the sound of the stream is talking to them. This thought has stuck with me as I listen to the gentle burbling of the water. Behind the springs is a thick mass of brush, especially lovely in the spring with the new growth of wild yellow-flowered bushes interspersed with dark-red reeds and all intensities of sage-green foliage. Here, I always wish I had the skill to paint, in watercolor, the soft hues and subtle beauty in front of me. On this visit, the crescent moon graced the site as well, simply adding to the overall mystique.
The pathway directly behind the colonial buildings is entrancing in its beauty: Beneath a canopy of trees, streams of sunlight filter through the branches and fall on the rich, red-toned earth. A spell is cast full of long-ago spirits: First, the indigenous people who once treaded upon this very soil, and then the myriad lives brought with the 1800s settlement of the Army at Fort Simcoe. It's easy to imagine the officers and wives taking their evening stroll here. (It always seems like the perfect spot for quiet meditation.)
Back in the picnic area, the landscape in every direction is palpably thriving with wildlife, especially from birds and noisy insects. The area is well-known for the ubiquitous Lewis woodpecker (named after explorer Meriwether Lewis), thumping away in the oak trees. There is the constant trill of red-winged blackbirds, especially in mating season. Squirrels are scrambling above and below for food (acorns abound) and there's ample evidence underfoot of the herds of elk that frequent the grounds. (Once in the spring I raised my binoculars to the small brown dots on the distant hillside to find that they were, in fact, large herds of roaming elk.) Often we hear the wild howl of coyotes, sending a chill with their eerie, blood-lust sound.
From this vantage point, a Native American park ranger once kindly pointed out to us the horse trail that can still be discerned (with some difficulty) as a switchback traversing across the surface of the far hillside (known as the Asum or Eel Trail). It's an old Indian pathway over the mountains to The Dalles, Ore.
When the sun threatens to disappear over the horizon, it's time to go. I take one long last look at the stunning beauty, and we get back into the car. We still have our drive and music for some 30 miles ahead before reaching home, and the last vestiges of the setting sun highlighting the warm countryside along the way.
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