The Chehalis River Valley connects a series of rural communities in southwestern Washington primarily located along the aforementioned waters. Adna in particular is a peculiar region within the greater faction in the sense that its positioning between the progressive urban centers of Portland, Oregon and Seattle, it continues to remain sequestered along the coastal foothills west of development as it seems to always have been. Chehalis(Łəw̓ál̕məš), or otherwise known in the Tsamosan-Coast Salish language as shifting sands defines perfectly the experience residing along its banks. Like the constant flooding, meandering, destruction, and recreation of the land yearly, so too are the memories and histories of those who have settled here. This equilibrium is not a new phenomena to the area but rather has been a process of accretion and reciprocity for generations. This ethnography however, moves upstream through the past and acts more like bioturbation than a linear passage. Moreover, what attempts to be accomplished are the transgressions on time and space this community has encountered and how the experiences and actions of individuals through traumatic or pivotal events on the landscape has reinforced that perception.

Adna’s story is not the beginning but serves more as a continuation of diffusion that has existed in the region for countless centuries. Prior to the era of contact and later the homestead act in the mid 19th century the region served as a vital transportation hub for the indigenous communities throughout the northwest. Conveniently located through a relatively flat passageway to the south towards the Columbia connecting both land and waterway to the west, and safely through a series of trail systems through the Cascades controlled primarily by the Yakima peoples (through a balanced reciprocity system) linked together a crossroads of trade networks affixing the area with cultures’ commodities as far reaching as Mexico. This expansive trail system was observed firstly by Russian, French, and Spanish fur trappers and tradesmen as early as the 18th century and later the encroaching pioneers and cattle drivers who used the very same networks. By the mid 19th century the establishment of Claquato (now abandoned) and others to the north such as Tumwater, Alki, etc established the foundations for the present industry and roadways such as highway 30, Interstate-5, and others. As Pacific Union brought track lines to communities along the Chehalis the demand for officializing towns with railway structures gave Adna its name inspired by Edna Browning, an important early figure in the Euro-American settlers.

Predominantly agriculturalists and timber specialists were attracted to the area’s natural abundance of prairie lands, wildlife, and old growth and remains to be the majority of occupations held throughout Lewis county today. People mentioned throughout the pages to follow continue this legacy and are vital to the function of this community’s prosperity. The significance of traditions practiced in Adna by people such as Tom Paulin; a retired Yugoslavian-descended lumberjack as well as Mike and Liz Powell; German independent tree farmers are becoming more idiosyncratic to Adna and other surrounding unincorporated communities as the encroachment of land management companies such as home development firms and major players like Weyerhauser along with rising real-estate and other advances of modernity continue to permeate the countryside, the collective nature of core-values is changing while simultaneously shrinking the isolation and pastimes of the region.

Spring time in Adna is full of energy as the break in the dreary, wet winters experienced dissipate into fresh wind. Riding in the back wagon of Tom’s 1940’s Red International tractor leftover from his father the air is crisp and full of budding smells of wild grass, conifer, and flowers which traverse through the tips of your senses and passes by with the diesel fuming out the pipe. Heading into the grassy alfalfa pasture the sun hits the wall of evergreens in front of us like diamonds as the the fresh beads of rainwater shimmer and dance among the needles. Four hundred yards out leans a barn next to the creek which overflows into a large pond after storms. Brown and grey from weathering, yearning for a purpose again. “ My dad built this one right around ‘45 and was used for mostly grain storage in those days instead of all my nicknacks in here – watch yourself on the nails coming up” says Tom as we step over some scrap wood beams entering the dusty, dank, structure looking for spare parts to reinforce our chicken coops after the last storm damaged the rigged together frames.
“see originally this whole field including where Mikes’ and my trees are now used to be open for Cattle grazing until about the ‘70s when we sold ‘em off but now I just keep my lumber scraps in here until this place tips over for good, but that’s okay, I always got the other one down back at the house.” While continuing to determine which roofing tiles and spare beams would hold up the best I became intrigued with the scenery no longer in front of me and began to ponder about how the relationship with the land has changed throughout a lifetime, and how it has provided for the well being of the community.
“ Just about everyone in the area up to Galvin over there by Centralia opened up to Cattle back then but that all started to change with the protections of state forest lands so the incentives for timber rose up again and we all replanted, and that’s where I found my calling was working outside in the woods. I tell ya, I tried college for a little while, I was actually studying engineering but just one day hit a wall and couldn’t hack it so I dropped out and got work in a saw mill – and it paid pretty well too. It was tough work but by’golly I loved it. Even the winter jobs up in the Cascades where one time it snowed on us all night and by morning we were cuttin’ through logs with snow up to here (signalling with his hand to his chest) but that’s alright, it makes a good story anyways.”
Like many Pacific Northwest dwellers, the importance of trees and forests are personal and imperative to our understanding of the world, and most importantly the landscapes of our memories like Lou Paulin: Uncle to Tom and an original family settler to the property we all live on today who also greets us back at the more structurally sound barn next to the road strung up with white lights and painted with Cadillac Ranch along its side. Sitting at the cinderblock fire pit next to the original once white-now cream colored 1920’s bungalow home Lou waves to us and explains seeing us cross out into the field made him curious as to our adventure. Instantly after beginning to tell him about the transition to the lumber industry he chimes in; “oh you bet, I remember when we planted this one right here (pointing to the windy, curving Gravenstein apple tree) along with all them trees out there (pointing out into the field of 70 year old douglas fir and hemlocks). Of course there was more of these apple trees here then, we had an orchard here when we first moved to this place before the depression, and that’s what really fed us and our neighbors, this here is the only one left, the flood took out the other two still standing and one fell over from rot – what was it, 3 years ago now? anywho, I miss those times. It was the best time to be alive. People shared and worked together to get things done, and you could trust em too. We all knew each other. Not like it is today with how crazy everything is, I watch too much news ‘cause now I have nothing better to do and everywhere seems like they’ve lost their minds. You couldn’t pay me to go to Seattle now, you just couldn’t.”
After hearing what Lou told me it made all the more sense about his character as being my neighbor who looks out in the field of grass all day for no reason at all, his purpose became clear. He wasn’t seeing the land before my eyes, none of them were, but rather the ghosts of old workers, the faint sounds of field songs, and rumbling of old early century machinery.