The channeled scablands

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By 1920, earth scientists had come to embrace a theory of Uniformitarianism, a world shaped by slow, inexorable forces observable in the present day.

Uniformitarianism fit the evidence of the time and served to separate Geology from Bible scholarship. Glaciers and plate tectonics not God’s miraculous, scourging hand.

The channeled scablands in Eastern Washington State are hard-rock canyons cut by non-existent rivers, alkaline lakes, and house sized boulders scattered on flat plains.

Based on evidence gathered from this terrain, Geologist J. Harlen Bretz came to believe the channeled scablands were, in fact, formed by a catastrophic flood.

The scientific establishment refused Bretz’s claim. Still, over decades, he continued to teach. He continued to champion his work.

Within his lifetime, Bretz’s theory gained wide support based on corroborating evidence of a 2,000 foot deep prehistoric lake over what is now Missoula, Montana and research into ice dams and hydrodynamics.

The channeled scablands were carved out by massive, rapid floods. 500 cubic miles of water traveling 30 to 50 miles an hour draining a lake half the size of Lake Michigan in days.

Recent evidence bridges uniformitarian and catastrophist world views. The scabland floods cycled over thousands of years. Glacial movement would re-establish the ice dam, a new lake would form, water would reach critical height, the dam would shatter.

The origin story of a landscape I’ve loved since childhood from father-son fishing trips, solitary hikes, college road trips and vacations with my wife and daughter, is awe inspiring.

The path to understanding that origin story is both hopeful and cautionary. Science lived up to its ideals though it took the passing of a generation of scientists to get there.

Once an idea hardens into a belief, a belief that supports a deeply held world view, even people dedicated to reasoned debate have trouble hearing evidence to the contrary.

Natural and human events prove unsettlingly complicated. In response, we humans can turn even our most enlightening ideas into weapons of ignorance.

Meet the Parents

The Yellow KidI met my wife, Kathie, eleven years ago. I was stage managing The Yellow Kid by Brian Faker and Bliss Kolb at Annex Theatre. Kathie was in the cast.

The Yellow Kid had 27 actors, 200 slide projections, film, rolling scenery, a cat, two dogs, and a goat named Julia. The second act was so tightly choreographed that I couldn’t call cues from the script but had to mark them off elapsed time in the music. Twenty second light fades timed to images, sound, scene changes and stage action. Moments as beautiful as any I’ve ever seen. All this on a production budget of $1100 for a non-profit fringe theater with a $100K annual budget. Big cheap theater.

Sometime later, Kathie’s sister was visiting. We decided to drive the twelve hours and three mountain passes to their parent’s home in Montana.

HandsetMy wife’s career evokes the phrase “odd jobs”: deck hand, national park employee, clown in a Japanese, Dutch theme park, congressional staffer and temp. Two days before we left, Kathie had a telemarketing injury. I don’t know if she was gesturing with the handset or so bored she was trying to escape through the mic holes. In any case, the receiver slipped and hit her eye so hard it bruised.

I was about to meet my future wife’s parents for the first time and it looked like I’d punched her in the face.

Snoqualmie Pass

© 2004. Mountains to Sound Greenway Trust.

We headed off towards Snoqualmie Pass. Kathie’s car was a ten year old hatchback that had made the trip from Seattle to Montana many times. At the top of the pass (3022 ft) the car just stopped. I don’t know what an electronic control module is but when it fails a car turns into statue.

It was a spring afternoon and the weather was mild. I had a cell phone (a bit of a luxury in 1996 for a fringe theater dude with a day job) and a AAA membership. I called for help. I hear at this point my future sister-in-law decided I was a keeper. AAA warned me that the tow truck was only allowed to carry two passengers. I was polite, rule obeying, and conflict avoiding so I called my dad for a pickup.

The tow truck arrived. Of course the driver said he could squeeze me in but I’d already called my father. Seattle is 52 miles from the summit. Assuming I’d see my own ride within the hour, I sent my future wife, my future sister in-law, the dead car and my potential rescuer on their way.

I didn’t know it but I had interrupted my father while he was painting his porch. Afraid that stopping would wreck the paint job, he had decided to finish and clean up before heading up for me. As the tow truck pulled away, he was probably still on a ladder doing edge work.

So there I was. I waited. I waited some more. After a while I began to feel a little vulnerable. Sure, some crazy could pull over and use me for fixin’s. What really began to grind me was that I looked so stupid standing there that people would start pulling over out of pity. I looked like one of those people who just wander off. Like I’d gotten so fed up with my desk job that I’d just stood up and started walking East to – I don’t know – Walla Walla.

Embarrassment became the better part of valor. I noticed that if I crouched down at the side of the road I could see the cars with less chance that they’d see me. A great way for a thirty year old man to pass the time — hiding from traffic in a ditch at 3000 feet above sea level.

I waited there for over two hours before finally seeing my father’s car.

I rode back to Seattle relieved. Relieved Kathie and her sister were safe, relieved my father had finally picked me up and most of all relieved that the trip was canceled and I didn’t have to explain to my future in-laws why their daughter had a black eye.