How a Jog and a Jump in the Willamette River Became a Summer Ritual

The first time I jumped into the Willamette River, I thought I was breaking the rules. It was August 2016, and a friend from LA and I were halfway through a five-mile run and feeling barbecued by sunlight. As we passed the massive, cetaceous hump of OMSI’s Blueback submarine, my friend turned to me and said, “What if we just went for a swim?”

Such a simple question, and yet an authentic head-spinner. No one I knew swam in the downtown Willamette. For as long as I’d lived in Portland, I’d thought of the river—if I thought of it at all—as a long, cold, wet thing dividing one side of the city from the other.

But I wanted to be a good host, and so, faking confidence (and fully intending to tell any authorities that I, too, was from out of town), I led the way down to the dock. We took off our footwear; I ginned up my nerves. Then we counted to three and flung ourselves into the water, passing from hot, bright dryness into its perfect opposite in a mere instant. We came up spluttering, whooping, thrilled.

I really thought we’d get a ticket when we got out. An epidermal reaction to the somewhat murky water didn’t seem impossible, either. But I was wrong about both of these things, and I do not exaggerate when I say that realizing this changed my life.

A dip in the river, with a three-and-a-half-mile jog on other side of it, has been one of my favorite summer rituals for nine years now. In the afternoon, when the sun’s high and hot, I run west over the Tilikum Crossing and turn north. I pass Poet’s Beach and the green bowl of Gov. Tom McCall Waterfront Park. At the Hawthorne Bridge, I cross the river again and take the ramp down to the dock at Fire and Rescue Station 21. There I make a neat pile of my things—shoes, socks, hat, phone, and shirt—and then, ignoring the signs about shock danger due to underwater electric currents, I dive right in.

It’s almost indescribably splendid, every single time. The sun glitters on the water and the glass faces of downtown office buildings; mallards paddle past; the current tugs me gently north toward the far-off sea. Later, when I run sopping wet toward the Springwater, the fennel makes fireworks of yellow and the flowers of the Queen Anne’s lace are as big as doilies. Traffic rumbles overhead on the decks of the Marquam Bridge, the breeze carries car exhaust and the hot, sweet smell of blackberries, and I’m so happy that I don’t even care that home’s all uphill from here.

Are there nicer places to swim? Sure. The Sandy, the Washougal, the Lewis, the Clackamas: Each is far more beautiful than the Willamette, especially the stretch that runs right alongside I-5. But I can’t jog to those lovelier places. The opaque, turtle-green Willamette, by virtue of its proximity, is my river, and I love it like I love a friend. It’s a gift to all of us—from the earth, the City of Portland, the Human Access Project, and countless others—and I hope more people appreciate it. But not too many of you, because the firehouse dock just isn’t that big.