This twelve-mile section of the Willamette curves around the northwest corner of French Prairie, a one-hundred-square-mile area of small towns and farmland that played a central role in Oregon’s history. It’s about half-an-hour north of Salem. It was my only paddle this week as Dave is just home from Silverton Hospital recuperating from his knee replacement and Jim is just leaving for a week of hiking in Glacier and Yellowstone Parks. It is my plan to use this hiatus to achieve a good many tasks here at 1880, but so far I can’t seem to put down the book I am reading (about which, more another time).
The guide books all call this river segment “St. Paul to Champoeg.” St. Paul is actually no where near the river and a drive through several miles of farmland and woods is required to reach the put-in at a little dirt parking lot and boat ramp called San Salvador (for some reason I have yet to discover but am sure Jim will research it when he returns). I have done this route once with each paddling buddy, and I’m sure neither will ever do it with me again. This has nothing to do with the beauty of the river but to do with the impossible take-out required at Champoeg, a lovely, large state park which shares a miles-long boundary with the river — but absolutely no river access except this:
Both the big wheels and the little wheels were employed to haul out our boats but it’s mostly about brute force.
Well worth it, I say. Spotted this abandoned farmer’s ferry along the way:
And the usual bald eagle and blue heron:
It may be “usual” to spot a bald eagle but it takes my breath away every time. I generally try to get this magnificent bird to take flight by loudly singing a verse of “God Bless America” to him. Jim and Dave tend to paddle on while I’m doing this.
I am thinking of upgrading my waterproof camera to one with a much greater zoom and a good video feature.
Last week I missed documenting an amazing episode of an osprey diving down to the river between Harrisburg and Peoria and coming out with a big fish. He then flew back and forth with it for a while before carrying it to the top of a large electrical pole, filleting it, and delivering the pieces to his family in a nearby nest. Actually, just watching it may have been the better option. Wow!
As for “Champoeg,” Jim found plenty to read which speculates on the origin of this name. I’m not buying much of it and plan to come up with my own story.
I must say after lugging the boats up that ramp and loading them on the CRV, I was “depleted.” It is a good thing that the 150-year-old Butteville store is nearby. Double scoops of Tillamook ice cream revived me.
