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Springs. I’m just here to pay my respects for the loss of the falls.”
    Townsend looked directly at Philip. “I’m truly sorry for your loss. Based on what we know today, we probably wouldn’t have built The Dalles Dam.”
    Philip lowered his fork and looked back, not quite knowing what to make of the man. “Yeah, well, it screwed up the best fishing hole in North America.” Townsend laughed at this, albeit a bit cautiously, and waited for Philip to continue.
    After a pause, I filled the vacuum. I was used to doing this for my laconic friend. “I wish I could have seen Celilo Falls with my own eyes. Imagine all the migrating salmon in the Columbia squeezed into one spot.”
    Townsend leaned in. “I wish I could have seen it, too. The pictures don’t do it justice. They say the roar of the falls shook the earth.” He looked at Philip again, but he didn’t respond. He’d spoken his piece. “Now we know the dams are killing off the salmon,” Townsend went on. “I think they need to go.”
    That rang a bell with me. Is this the guy who’s thinking about a run for the U.S. Senate, the guy who’s advocating dam removal? Wasn’t his name Townsend? I took another look at him. Could be. The other two are probably aides, I decided. The thin, well-dressed man across from Townsend, introduced earlier as David Hanson, said, “People in the Northwest don’t want to give up their cheap power, and they shouldn’t have to. We have so many new options now—solar, wind power, geothermal, wave. The dams can be phased out over time.”
    â€œThat’s right, David,” Townsend added, coming in as if on cue. “I think we can find less ecologically damaging sources of power in the Northwest. But it’s going to take new leadership.”
    I glanced at the other aide, Sam DeSilva, and caught him rolling his eyes at the comment. Sam was short and stoutly built with a closely shaved head that glistened in the sunlight. He obviously wasn’t a true believer.
    I looked back at Townsend. “Philip and I are fly-fishermen. We daydream about free-flowing rivers. Does this dam-removal idea stand a chance?”
    Townsend squared his shoulders and looked me in the eye. “I think it does. It won’t happen overnight, and we can’t remove all the dams, but big changes always start with a dream.”
    We continued the conversation in this quixotic vein while we ate our lunches. I had to admit it felt good to think about the possibility of the Columbia River flowing freely again, but I still didn’t give the idea a snowball’s chance in hell. By this time, I was sure who Townsend was. I said, “You’re thinking about a run for the Senate, aren’t you? I read about you a while back.” Philip shot me a surprised look that turned pained. He put white politicians right up there with people who fish with dynamite.
    Before Townsend could answer, a reporter butted in and asked him for an interview. Philip took the opportunity to jump up and grab me by the arm. As we turned to go, Townsend slipped me a business card and said hastily, “Sorry for this, Cal. Great meeting you. I am running for the Senate. And I’m serious about the dams. Call me if you want to help.”

Chapter Two
    As I caught up with Philip, he said, “Come on. I want you to meet my cousin.” He guided me through a crowd that had formed around a drumming circle to a booth fronted by a banner that read “Learn about Pacific Salmon.” There, a group of Native American kids listened to a woman wearing a fringed buckskin dress trimmed in turquoise and white beads. She was tall and willowy with her hair in traditional braids that hung past her shoulders. The kids seemed to hang on her every word, even the older boys standing at the back, although their interest probably had more to do with her figure than the subject