
Joe wouldn’t recognize his butte anymore, although it wasn’t named for him until decades later when a teenager read his story in a turn-of-the-century newspaper and started a petition to name the butte Jump Off Joe. I bet Joe never dreamed there’d be wind turbines perched at the top of the butte to wean us off oil, a vineyard on the southern slope making fancy wine for export, or SUV’s lined up in a parking lot at the bottom while day trippers hike and take pictures of what used to be Joe’s beloved nothingness stretching from the cliffs to the Horse Heaven Hills in the distance. But the birds are still there, generations removed from the pheasant and grouse who watched Joe with dark, darting eyes, chuckling in their throats as Joe did what everyone knew Joe would eventually do given the proper motivation. He hiked to the top of the butte to watch the sun rise, and to quiet his mind which tended to bounce around in his skull like a fly trapped on the wrong side of a closed window until he swore he’d do anything to make it stop; deals with God or deals with the Devil never worked…so he jumped. He jumped because it gave him hope. Hope soared in his chest as he ran through the brush and leaped off the edge, ran away from worry and fear and pain, and left the earth behind while the wind whipped his hair and birds scattered and flushed with alarmed squawks at his passage, flying with Joe to freedom.
Psst...go ahead and google it...
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