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The Last Climb: A Missoula Flood Short Story (True Disaster Fiction)
The Last Climb: A Missoula Flood Short Story (True Disaster Fiction)
The Last Climb: A Missoula Flood Short Story (True Disaster Fiction)
Ebook29 pages17 minutes

The Last Climb: A Missoula Flood Short Story (True Disaster Fiction)

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Ice Age Oregon, Columbia River Gorge.

The earth vibrates and a distant roar filters through the forest. Parents call for their children, warriors gather in tight knots, throwing frightened glances at the sky, the trees, the ground.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherGreeklands Press
Release dateNov 8, 2024
ISBN9798218541699
The Last Climb: A Missoula Flood Short Story (True Disaster Fiction)

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    Book preview

    The Last Climb - Shannon Skaer

    The Last Climb

    A Missoula Flood Short Story

    Shannon Skaer

    Second edition.

    Copyright © 2024 by Shannon Skaer

    All rights reserved.

    No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

    Contents

    Preface

    The Last Climb

    What was the Missoula Flood?

    Hit or Miss

    Join My Newsletter

    About The Author

    Acknowledgements

    Preface

    At the close of the Ice Age, the Pacific Northwest was hit by a catastrophe we call the Missoula Flood. Moving faster than 60mph and over 800 ft deep in places, the flood scoured more than 50 cubic miles of matter from Washington State, a quarter of which was deposited in the Willamette Valley, Oregon, and adjacent areas. The rest washed out to sea. We don’t know if there were people in the area at the time, but if there were, this is what they might have seen. 

    Any resemblance between the customs and persons in this story and those of any extant tribe or nation is purely coincidental. 

    The Last Climb

    Columbia River Gorge, Ice Age Oregon.

    The earth began to vibrate as we neared the village. Bleached grass rustled, flattened against the sloping valley walls by last winter’s snows. The surface of the wide brown river sparkled in the afternoon sunlight with strange little ripples. The movement went on and on, as gentle, as deadly, as the panic that rose in my chest.

    Three months ago, I’d have been

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