At the base of Spokane Falls, the river cuts deeply into the ancient bedrock, where the wrath of the old coyote spirit once gouged the valley floor in a fit of selfish rage. Molten rock flowed from his anger and then froze into a solid mass of basalt. This afternoon I look down from the Monroe Street Bridge and see the basalt under a different kind of ice. Beneath the spell of today's freezing temperature, the rocks look like an alien world, but still cold and alone.
Spokane is built on a foundation of basalt.