In the Pacific Northwest, January 26th is a significant date. On that day in 1700, the massive Cascadia earthquake changed the landscape. It has been 325 years since the Juan de Fuca Plate slid underneath the North American Plate, a 600-mile subduction zone, causing a 9.0 magnitude ordeal, the largest ever to strike the area. 

This event was accompanied by intense ground shaking and a tremendous tsunami that reached present-day Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia. It changed many aspects of the land in that area and was only recorded in the oral history of the local Indigenous people who lived there at the time.

One of the significant changes that have remained from that event is the Neskowin Ghost Forest in Oregon. A few years back, I wrote a historical fiction version of what it might have been like for some of the tribal members there. Enjoy!

The Storyteller

He was always drawn to the stories of his people. At a very young age, he would sit and listen to the Elders tell of the events that brought his people into being and shaped their lives dramatically. The pull of these stories, along with the encouragement of his grandmother, led him to become the Storyteller of his village. As a young child, he practiced the tribal stories with the Elders each time the sliver moon shone. The Storyteller was a member of the Staguash tribe of the Tillamook people, and his village was along the Nestucca and Neskowin Rivers. In his language, Neskowin meant “plenty of fish,” the primary food source keeping them well-fed. In the Salish language, his people were called Nestaguash, a combination of the tribe’s name and the place they lived.

The Storyteller didn’t receive any special treatment. He still helped gather salmon and prepare it for winter. He used baskets his sister had woven during the rainy, cold months to pick berries that grew in the area. These were dried and used to flavor cornbread and hazelnut bread in winter. 

One of his favorite food-gathering tasks was sailing for bird eggs and young birds. These made delicious meals that satisfied the Storyteller’s stomach. To get this type of food, at least two dozen men from the village got into six canoes and sailed out past the rock in the great waters, which they called Schlock (today’s Proposal Rock). Even though they left when the tide was low on the shore, maneuvering through the great waves still took great skill. Once they’d passed the tallest rocks, they sailed south for several miles to the landmark they called Chief Kiawanda Rock (today’s Haystack Rock at Pacific City, Oregon). This rock was covered with birds and nests filled with eggs in the spring. The hunters could load the baskets in their canoes and bring the birds and eggs back to their village. Since the Storyteller was one of the youngest, he was often one of several to dive from the canoe into the Great Waters and swim towards the large rock. Once he reached it, he held tightly to the rugged sides and placed his feet carefully on the sharp rocks as he made his way up and around the side of the rock.

During his fifth season voyaging to the big rock for more birds and eggs, tragedy struck. The son of the Chief, who was only a few years older than the Storyteller, was also on the voyage to gather food. He was a skilled climber and often reached for the highest nests. But this time, the Great Waters combined with the wind, so the waves went higher and higher onto the rock until their power pulled the Chief’s son from his foothold, and he fell against the bottom edge of the mountain of rock. The men in canoes quickly paddled to him and lifted his injured body into the boat. The rest of the hunters gathered in the canoes, ending sooner than planned to get the Chief’s son back to the village. 

The young man stayed alive long enough to bid farewell to his father and mother before his spirit went to the next world. Because of his bravery and his respected place in the village, he received an honorable final ceremony, and the Storyteller was invited to be there. He followed the Chief and three other village men as they carried the body of this brave man in a cedar canoe, silently followed by the Shaman and the Storyteller. Then behind him were the women, raising mournful voices to those already in the land of the dead, pleading for them to welcome this son to be among them. The Chief and the three men lifted the canoe above their head between two towering Sitka Spruce while some of the taller men in the village stood beneath the canoe and attached it between the two trees. Next, they sang a song to the soft beat of a drum, and then the Chief swung the canoe between the trees gently. Then he nodded to the Storyteller, who stood in his ceremonial clothing and shared the stories carved into the corners of his mind. These stories reminded the people where this brave young man would go and that the Great Spirit had watched over them as a village.

The Storyteller often wondered about the events of the past. They seemed grand and full of purpose, but as he looked at life in his village now, there didn’t seem to be many new events to add, and he wondered if the Great Spirit was still looking after his village as he had in the past. The Storyteller didn’t share this doubt with others because he always tried to keep fear far from him because of his role in the tribe. When doubts attempted to strangle the stories from his mind, he spent time alone walking among the tall trees near his village. These trees rose nearly 200 feet towards the sky and were filled with wisdom. They had observed more than two millennia of life pass before them as they silently stood by. Each time he walked through this ancient grove, the Storyteller felt his doubts blow away through the branches of these sentinels. 

After the death of the Chief’s son, the Storyteller’s mind began to fill with doubt and fear once again, and he knew he needed to revisit his tall, ancient friends. He spent the morning picking berries, then helped gather reeds to make winter baskets. After this work, the Storyteller headed to the grove of trees. Once he arrived, he sat on the ground and looked up through their branches, remembering his people’s stories and his grandmother’s wisdom. The stories rested calmly in his thoughts as he sat surrounded by these mighty trees. When he left the grove, the Storyteller felt that the Great Spirit was watching his people and that they would have events to add to their long story.

Winter had come, so everyone in the village used an unusual sun-filled day, continuing preparations for the winter. Before the sun slid beneath the Great Waters, more salmon were laid out on the wooden platforms to dry for a few more days if the weather allowed. It had been a full day, and everyone was glad for the evening to rest. The Storyteller retired to his cedar home that night with his wife and two young sons; they all fell asleep quickly on their reed mats.

The sky was still black when it all began. The violent shaking of the ground awakened the Storyteller. His wife and children clung to him for comfort. They could hear screams from the other villagers and were hit by pieces of their house falling on them. The Storyteller gathered his family, and they stumbled outside to see what was happening. The crescent moon added a little light to the few lit torches that dotted the darkness, but it was difficult to understand what was happening. The four of them stayed together when suddenly the earth shook violently again, throwing them all to the ground. Next, a low rumble was heard that caught everyone’s attention. It quickly changed to a roar, and then the sound of crushing and breaking could be heard in the direction of the Great Waters. The sounds built on each other and ended with one loud crash followed by an eerie sound of water, unlike any the Storyteller had ever heard. The sounds were not of flowing streams but gushing, heaving, devouring terrifying water.

After that, the sound of waves grew louder and more persistent than usual. The villagers huddled together in the darkness, not knowing what would come next. Besides the frightening waves, the only sounds were the villagers’ wailing. They stayed together, weeping until the first morning light reached their eyes. Even then, many didn’t dare move for fear of what the Great Waters might do to them.

The Chief and some grandmothers gathered food and water for the people once the sun was in the sky. The Storyteller ensured his family was safe, then went to see if he could discover what had happened. He walked towards the Great Waters, where he’d heard the crashing the night before. He paused as he approached the large Schlock mountain, not believing what he saw. The entire side of the mountain, where the grove of Sitka Spruce stood, the ones that were his friends and spoke peace to him, were gone. Not just the trees but the entire mountain had disappeared, exposing only the inside. With confusion, he looked down below the missing mountain to the edge of the Great Waters. There, he saw limbs and trunks floating randomly in the waves. As he looked closer, he observed the trees that had stood for thousands of years were now in the water, some poking up through the waves, all of their tops broken off and floating beside them. Their great heights were stricken to the size of two men. The Storyteller’s forest of peace was destroyed, but it still stood, just in a different place. It was no longer among the bushes but sunken beside the fishes of the Great Waters. He stood for a long time before returning to his village to think about what he would say about this new part of the story for his village.  

It took two moons to rebuild the village enough to survive the rest of the winter. Still, many villagers passed to the next world because of the lack of shelter and food, both of which had been destroyed by the great shaking of the ground. As the Storyteller finished cutting some cedar planks with his rock tool one day, the village Chief approached him. He told the Storyteller it would be up to him to write the story of the shaking of the earth and then add it to the other tales of their people. 

The sun shone over the low tide that afternoon, but the wind was still cold. The Storyteller told his wife of the task he had been given and let her know he would be gone to seek the help of the Great Spirit. He walked to Schlock’s base and carefully climbed the trail to the top, where he could view the Great Waters and the trees that had fallen into the waves. As he gazed down on them, he felt their comfort and power, just as he had when he sat beneath their branches. He watched them until the sun was almost down, and he could hardly see them anymore. Then he turned and looked out over the Great Waters where the sun rested, and he had a vision of the terrifying event he and his village had endured. In his mind, he saw a great whale, one larger than he had ever beheld and it was swimming in the Great Waters. In his mind’s eye, he watched as the whale came up out of the Great Waters and flapped its tail over and over again while it jumped about. It kept up this movement until the waves it made caused the land to shake so violently that the people of the village couldn’t stand on it. The Storyteller had learned that the Great Spirit had sent the whale to change the village’s land to give them the challenge to reshape their lives and find peace in different ways than they had in the past. The Storyteller stayed on Schlock the entire night to allow the new story to weave itself and its meaning alongside the other stories he already knew.

The following day, when he came down from the rock, the Storyteller went directly to the Chief and told him he was ready to tell the new story. So that evening, everyone gathered to sing, dance, and hear the Storyteller. As he entered the circle where the villagers had all gathered, the singing stopped, and everyone watched as he walked to the center in his finest ceremonial clothing. Everyone was silent as the Storyteller solemnly began the new story: The whale flapped its tail and jumped over and over again, violently shaking the mountain so that it was impossible to stand upon it. . .