I stand in a hole created by a giant’s footstep.  The crater 50 feet wide and 30 feet deep. It smells of dry grass. It feels of damp stone. The walls rise, cracked in near perfect hexagonal prisms, reminiscent of Easter Island, faces facing me with some unknowable wisdom in their eyes. Stone eyes. Nonexistent eyes. It evokes an awe, a godly air. Damp stone columns become temple pillars. Red Indian paintbrush becomes stained glass. This crater is not alone in the landscape, clusters dot it in the distance, witness to water’s power.

It is hard to imagine that a gigantic flood carved this place. Several great lakes worth of water rolled over this land, creating vortexes of compressed water, huge tornados with enough force to rip through rock. Where they touched down, however briefly, stone was flung aside and these craters were left behind, massive monuments to its force. How fast did the water rush over the landscape?  What obelisks did the flood crash into, creating the vortexes that drilled out the earth?  It is hard to imagine, yet somehow I can almost sense what I have in fact been told.  I see water rushing in, smashing and splashing angrily at the land.  This giant’s footprint still contains the force that created it. Somehow here, in damp stone and dry grass a tornado still coils.

You are in the hole.  Looking up at the cliffs rather than looking down from upon them. Gaze limited by stone walls, cracked, and segmented in squares and pentagons. Broken off rock piled halfway to the top at times, sagebrush craning for the sky while reaching for dampness with its roots. My attention is drawn here and then out again. The sky informed by a lens, the kind only a limiting enclosure of stone can create. Is it that it is a circle that evokes such sacredness from this place? It is sacred. A temple built like an Anasazi Kiva, a place to connect with the earth, and perhaps the tornado that still coils within.

This is a pothole, oddly named, found in Dry Falls National Park where I am. Why a pothole?  This hole is considerably larger than any pot I’ve seen. It is too large to be a pothole, too large to be anything save sacred in my eyes. This is a giant’s footprint. Here I am insignificant. Standing in the wake of a giant, awed by its vastness.

In the hole I am in awe.Around me I see rock that was carved out in an instant by a twister of bubbles, burrowing into solid stone. As I feel the rock with my hand I imagine the bubbles bursting – creating enough force to carve out the stone. Within the pothole, there is life flowing everywhere. There are grasses on the ground – lichen and moss, growing up the side of the walls.Trees sprout from the ground trying to reach the sky. I feel like I am in a giant planter pot and I am a bug looking up at the plants above

Smell: On the surface is the smell of dry grass, yet beneath is a dampness. There is a sour damp smell when on the left side of the pothole or on the floor. I associate the smell with that of a swamp. This place is an interplay of hot and cold, dry and damp. The smell reflects that. Dry grass is most pogent yet beneath it lies damp moss, and the shadows beneath dark rocks.

Sight: In our area there are three potholes – The walls of the largest are jagged, but with an unmistakable pattern. Directly in front of me is a hexagonal cliff face where, if you look from above, you can see the way the rocks cracked, creating jutting angles of rock from below. In many areas the rock has crumbled creating slopes by which we can descend. Plants and trees come alive here, vibrant from the surrounding landscape in their greens yellows and reds.

Taste: The rock reminds me of Mayan temples, how I imagine they would taste against my tongue. Deep, dark, cold stone, like dark bitter gravy without the salt. The grass tastes like – well – grass, threads pressed lengthwise like dry straw.

Sound: Yesterday it was quiet, here resides silence. No sound permeates to the bottom of this pothole, and I find myself tapping just to make noise. My ears instinctively make their own sound, a high whine that might not be my own ears but rather the little bugs – gnats I think –  common to this place. As we move in we bring our own sound. The clicking of cameras, voices calling across the circle, the shuffle of feet, a cough, a clap. At one point we heard a frog croaking from the marshes nearby.

Stiff Sage, Thistle Trees, Cheap Grass, Bear Grass, Reeds (only by water)

I imagine its harder for life to grow on top of this rock, its in much more direct sunlight, further away from water, and the wind is much more strong on top of the plateau.

Rocks:

 Basalt is the most common rock, that is what the entire plateau is made of. The basalt is in two major colors on top of the plateau, the dark red and back. There are some other lighter stones as well, most likely pumice, or other minerals left by the receding waters of the last flood. The longitudinal grooves in the rock are present but much harder to spot in person, than in Google Earth.

Animals:

Golden Eagle, Sparrows, Spiders, Cows, Hornets, Bees,

Small bones of dead rodents were visible from animal scat, from a hawk or an owl.

General Notes: 

The fact that there is less water here than in the park means more of a desert landscape, and that was true. The sage grows everywhere, as if it was an invasive species, the smell is present in every breath. Other plants are very scarce, unless its grass, or smaller more colorful plants growing right in the edge of the plateau. Cow patties fertilize the whole land, some were fresh so cows must be close, if rock was something tat could be fertilized. Little dry basins, where water was once held are scattered throughout the plateau with reeds growing in a ring around the basin. There are small mounds of dirt every 20 ft or so, with black basalt surrounding them, and then branching off to surround other mounds. They look like little roads from above.

• Deep Lake’s water is clear with algae in shallow areas along the shore
• areas around deep lake look like seasonal flood plains.  These areas are characterized by fine sediment, extremely arid sediment, and a lack of vegetation.

• Water lines are visible on parts of the shore and on nearby rocks indicating that deep lakes depth has varied over time.

Pothole

• The structure of the pothole is circular
• The Basalt walls of the pothole are heavily fractured.  One is able to remove pieces of basalt with bare hands.
• The pothole floor is littered with lichen covered rocks, with some moss present in the persistently shaded areas.
• Various trees and shrubs inhabit the pothole floor

We walk along a seemingly endless road, with smiles on hand until we come upon Deep Lake. The lake is the ultimate symbolism of life itself; a green tint shows thriving algae and the reflection of Autumn’s deciduous trees are crystal clear in the water. As I walk to the end of the dock, I spot a cave about a half-mile away in the side of cliff and decide to pursue. The walk there is a bitch; wet sand crawls into my socks and a spider web tickles me every other step – I fucking hate spiders. Upon reaching the cave, we realize we were mistaken. What we thought was a cave is actually a tunnel that slips all the way through to the other side of this massive rock. For whatever reason, no one immediately checks what lies ahead, and everyone sits down, free-writing simultaneously. I notice this group of classmates barely knows one another, yet has an ability to silently communicate. Silence – a perfect time to convey thoughts, especially when the only pretty flower for miles sits next to you and is rooted inside a god damn rock of all places.  With rumps sore from writing on jagged rocks, we move on, into this mysterious tunnel. On the other side lays a pothole, no water, but plant life flourishes here. The place I thought this would be was a place I didn’t want to visit – another boring stretch of eastern, WA terrain. Yet, to all of our dismay, a roughly 75ft diameter pothole rests, the only green tree for quite a wander sleeps here, small caves probably sheltering slithering serpents are scattered throughout. Climbing the pothole to the peak, an absolutely vivid photo is branded into our heads – Deep Lake at its best. The reflection is even sharper than before, so perfect that we almost believe a cliff and trees are lying underwater. As if things couldn’t get better, the sun begins to seep through the atmospheric sheets and I feel comfortable in every sense of the word, and the instant I feel too warm, a light drizzle kisses me. Inside my notebook, words flow like the very breeze that grasps me.  Now, meditation, without proclamation. A place so unfamiliar to me, making me feel so wanted. The breeze, the sun, the rain, birds chirping… This place… It gives me permission to leave my body, permission to become one with it… This place… This place is my place.

I can fly…