Category Archives: rural

FURTHER AFIELD: The Columbia Gorge, part II

Saturday dawned cool and crisp with misty, partly cloudy skies. The gently gleaming light was easy on the eyes and less challenging for photography than bright sunlight. Our primary destination was a preserve on the Oregon side of the Gorge that Sharon, our native plant specialist friend, told us about (thank you!). Named the Tom McCall Preserve, the property honors a governor of Oregon who was active in conservation work. Overlooking the Columbia River from a high plateau, the preserve sits ecologically somewhere between the wet forests of the coastal region and the high desert grasslands of eastern Oregon. Because of this ecological niche-straddling, we saw plants that are impossible to find where we live growing alongside plants we can see right outside our own windows. Rare plants thrive there, too, and the preserve is carefully managed to protect them, with no visitors allowed in winter and dogs and drones prohibited. But since it was a pleasant spring weekend, many people unfamiliar with the regulations were there, calmly walking their dogs right past the big sign that says “No Dogs.” At least they were leashed!

Hiking in the Gorge is popular in spring so the busy parking lot didn’t surprise us – but an open space near the trailhead felt like a lucky break. Setting off up a gradual incline, we admired swaths of wildflowers spreading out in all directions. The mix of colors and textures made me want to linger on the trail’s edge to see how many different flowers I could find. Climbing the scenic trail as it crossed a plateau and began to wind along a ridge, we made frequent stops to admire distant views and close-up curiosities, like the many strange, brown apple-shaped growths on the oak trees. The trail tops out at a promontory with outstanding views but we decided to turn back well short of the summit. For me, it’s not about reaching a goal that exists somewhere ahead of me in time and space. It’s more about enjoying what’s right in front of me. And there was plenty to enjoy!

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1. The road to Tom McCall Preserve winds up from the river bank to a plateau with expansive views.

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2. Cheerful bunches of yellow Balsamroot tumbled down the hill. Far below us, Interstate 84 and the ever-present railroad tracks hugged the Columbia River and curved out of sight.

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Wildflower highlights included Balsamroot, Barestem biscuitroot, Columbia desert parsley, Ballhead Waterleaf, Silky lupine, Popcorn flowers, Nutall’s Larkspur, Harsh Paintbrush, and a few lingering Glacier lilies still in bloom. Here’s a slideshow:

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But it’s not all about wildflowers. The trees impressed us just as much, particularly the Oregon white oaks, also called Garry oaks (Quercus garryana). Their rough bark and zigzag branches contrasted beautifully with the soft, gray-green mounds of what must have been my favorite flower of the day: Columbia desert parsley (Lomatium columbianum).

The slideshow below shows the oaks and Columbia desert parsley plants that often grow near them. You’ll also see the round, brown galls made by Oregon white oak wasps. They look like rotten apples but are actually amazing homes for an assortment of creatures, all thanks to an insect called the California gall wasp (Andricus quercuscalifornicus). Females of the species lay eggs on small branches in the fall and the eggs hatch into little larvae in the spring. All the larvae are female; this species reproduces without males. If that’s not strange enough, now it gets more interesting – a growth, or gall, quickly forms around the larvae. This gall provides nutrition and shelter for the larvae but also hosts many other insects like tiny parasitoids and inquilines, small insects that live in the gall and may even look like the gall wasps but do not harm them. Ultimately, an entire community of transient organisms is formed, thanks to the wasp larvae’s requirement for shelter and food. Because of the complex communities that lives in these galls, the California gall wasp is considered a keystone species. Other insects form galls on Oregon white oaks, too, and none of the galls cause significant damage to the trees. The California gall wasp’s constructions and the communities they house are just one more example of the incredibly complex interweaving of species on our planet.

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Have you ever looked closely at the flowers of maple trees? In the Pacific Northwest, Bigleaf maple trees (Acer macrophyllum) are a sight to behold when in full flower. This one was flowering beside the trail.

3. Bigleaf maple flowers and leaves.

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4. A view from the preserve, showing Douglas firs, Bigleaf maples, and a precipitous basalt cliff.

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5. The road from the river to the preserve is a curvy one!

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We left the preserve just as it was beginning to get crowded. We’d eaten lunch and now it was time for coffee…yes, always coffee. On a gentle bend in the river, the small town of Mosier, Oregon (population about 500), has a gem of a coffee shop. Randonee Coffee Company is a no-frills operation with a roaster on one side, a counter and a few tables on the other side, and a pleasant seating area outdoors. A man in a plaid shirt was training a boy who appeared to be in his late teens on the espresso machine. Another boy, about 8 years old (probably the owner’s son) took drink orders and rang up sales on the register. The espresso was excellent and the friendly, unpretentious vibe delightful, even if the restroom was not quite immaculate. The best part of all was the big black Lab with the unlikely name of “Poco” who lounged on the floor near fat sacks of coffee beans.

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6. Poco, the coffee shop guardian.

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We wanted to explore back roads but we didn’t know where to go, other than away from the river, which was obvious. I had the bright idea to ask the shop owner for advice because he was clearly local. He suggested we take the road up to Dufur, a small farming town that sits 1340 feet up in the hills under Mount Hood. With a population of about 600, the town is surrounded by fields of wheat and orchards that stripe the gently rounded hills.

It was a beautiful drive with surprises at the end – a handful of handsome, old brick buildings on Main Street, a spectacular view of looming Mt. Hood beyond someone’s back yard, and a “Living History Museum”. The museum wasn’t open that day but buildings’ facades can be seen from the street and we found lots to investigate in the back. Wandering behind a log cabin, we saw a quirky assortment of broken farm machinery, old cars, and a few barns that housed well-preserved, vintage farm equipment. A one-room schoolhouse stood proudly by an abandoned old school bus. Vehicles in various states of disrepair were scattered about and Joe even raised the hood of an old Chevy jalopy to see how many cylinders the engine had. (He thinks it was four).

Dufur holds a Threshing Bee every August that draws people from all over the county and beyond. Antique farm implements are paraded and demonstrated, a tractor pull competition is held, and a big barbeque ends the day’s festivities. I imagine some of the wagons and machines behind the museum are used for the festival and lots of homemade pies are consumed. It sounds like an entertaining day in the countryside.

Here’s a slideshow of Dufur sights:

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As we left Dufur I gazed longingly across far-flung fields and wondered what treasures the side roads held. We had passed a cemetery on the way up to Dufur and decided to stop there – old cemeteries have stories to tell. The Dufur Community Cemetery provided a fascinating, if piecemeal, glimpse into rural Oregon life. The gravestone of Alvis Quinn, who was born on New Year’s Day, 1857, and died 64 years later, bore the epithet: “Here rests a woodman of the world.” I found a copy of his obituary online and learned that his parents took advantage of the Donation Land Act of 1850, which “granted 320 acres (1.3 km2) of designated areas free of charge to every unmarried white male citizen eighteen or older and 640 acres (2.6 km2) to every married couple arriving in the Oregon Territory before 1 December 1850.” These land grants were one way the American West was settled. The Quinn’s had not been homesteading long before Alvis was born. Was there a one-room schoolhouse for him then? I don’t know, but after he grew up, he married and settled down on 430 acres of timberland, which, if his tombstone is right, must have provided the family with a good living.

The cemetery held the usual sad, tiny stones commemorating babies – one was born and died on the same day in 1954. Even as late as 1954, I doubt medical help was easy to come by in that region. A double gravestone bore the news that Merritt, aged seven and Edna, aged eight, died within three weeks of each other in 1882. Perhaps a flu outbreak took both children. Their father was A.J. DuFour, who emigrated with his brother from France in 1872. As you might guess, the town was named after their family.

One newer grave sat just at the edge of the cemetery, where a serene view extended for miles to the horizon. In the distance, the snow-covered pyramid of Mt. Hood was just visible against ranks of lowering storm clouds. A shared headstone told the story of Everett and Betty Marie Marvel. Everett, who was 95 years old when he died in 2017, served in the Marines in WW II and earned a Bronze Star. Betty Marie seems to have had an interest in tribal culture. On her side of the stone there were pictures of feather regalia and a cawing crow. At the foot of the grave, a life-size stone statue of a dog rested with its head raised expectantly. Off to the side was a neat bunch of dried leaves and sticks and a piece of paper held down by a rock. The bundle was encircled by a deer antler. A quiet but eloquent offering to the departed couple.

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7. Almost invisible against a cloud-filled sky, Mt. Hood sits 30 miles away as the crow flies.

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The day had one more treasure to offer. Turning back onto the road between Dufur and The Dalles, we had only gone a few miles when I noticed an enticing side road…and a last-minute turn brought a few choice words from Joe. But it turned out to be worth it. A short distance down the hill and round a bend, a tall, wooden structure imposed its dignified silhouette on the landscape. We pulled over and got out for a closer look. A fence prevented access and trespassing was prohibited so we viewed the structure as best we could from the road. We could see that it was a grain elevator and later, when I looked closely at a photograph, I could make out the words, “Boyd Union Elevator No. 112.”

In the 1860s, gold was discovered two hundred miles away in eastern Oregon. The little town of Boyd was a waystation for daily stagecoaches between The Dalles on the Columbia River and gold country to the south. Boyd was first known as 11 mile house because it was 11 miles from The Dalles – that tells you something about what was important back then and how people traveled. One of Boyd’s postmasters was Arthur Marvel, who must have been related to Everett Marvel, whose grave is described above. In 1904 the Great Southern Railway was built through the town, boosting its growth. I imagine the old grain elevator was busy back then, with a constant stream of horses pulling up with wagonloads of wheat. But the death knell for the town was sounded when a highway was built to the west, stretching all the way from the Columbia River to California. That highway bypassed Boyd and a little later the Depression hit and wheat prices plummeted. The church, store, and school saw little life as the town gradually faded. Happily, the grain elevator was never torn down. It stands tall as a poignant reminder of the boom-and-bust nature of civilization. Now considered a ghost town, Boyd’s post office was officially closed back in 1952.

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8. The Boyd Grain Elevator.
9. If wood could tell stories…
10. Eroded columnar basalt rock lines the creek bed and fruit trees still bloom every Spring in the ghost town of Boyd.

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11. Fifteen Mile Creek runs beside the grain elevator. A Red-tailed hawk’s nest is high in the tree to the left of the grain elevator. The female stayed on the nest but the male flew back toward the conifers after he spotted us.

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It had been a long day. Back in The Dalles, we had dinner and turned in early – the next morning we would head home. We agreed that we could probably spend a week exploring the back roads of north-central Oregon. In 2017 we spent several days on the back roads of Oregon’s “Big Empty” a few hundred miles south of Dufur and The Dalles. Maybe we’ll connect all of these places with another road trip someday…

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12. A peaceful view from Oregon’s Rt. 197.

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A Joyful Relation to What Is

A few weeks ago Sigrun Hodne, who writes at the blog Sub Rosa, posted a brief video about the photographer Jeff Wall. You may or may not find Wall’s photography appealing, but maybe you’ll be intrigued by what he says, as I was.

Towards the end of the clip Wall talks about art.

“I think all art is always an expression of the affection for there being a world…

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“…that there’s something to see… that anything even exists.”

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“It’s already a kind of joyful relation to what is. And then everything else becomes a detail…”

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“I think all artists are pretty sympathetic people. They’re sympathetic to being.

And I think that’s why people like art.”

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The photographs were made on two afternoons in May, during a trip to the Methow Valley, in north central Washington. Creeks originating from glaciers on some of Washington’s highest peaks drain into the Methow River, which weaves and wends its way through spare, sage green highlands before emptying into the Columbia River, and thence to the Pacific Ocean. The valley is dotted with small towns, and one called Winthrop emphasizes an American West atmosphere enough to resemble a movie set. Along with opportunities to camp, fish, ski, ride horses, and raft the river, the classic western look of Winthrop brings tourists to the area.

Coming in spring, we expected quiet and weren’t disappointed. We stayed outside the town of Twisp at a small farm whose owners work in retail and real estate while caring for a handful of horses and chickens and running an airbnb side business. A patchwork economy works best in the valley, as in so many rural areas. From the riverside we drove high up into the lonely, sere hills, where fires have their way with dry forest land and the views leap across space, and free the soul. The cheerful golden Balsamroot flowers that sprinkle the hillsides with color every spring were fading but no matter – my affection for the world was still an unhesitatingly joyful relation to what is, right there, in that particular place, at that particular time.

The photos:

  • 1. Fire-ravaged juniper tree, Thompson Road, Methow Valley
  • 2. Fallen trees and Arrowleaf Balsamroot (Balsamorhiza sagittata) leaves, Gun Ranch Road, Methow Valley
  • 3. Shriveled Balsamroot flower, Thomson Ridge, Methow Valley
  • 4. Lichen on rock, Thompson Ridge, Methow Valley
  • 5. Single boulder in an Aspen grove, Thompson Ridge, Methow Valley
  • 6. Fire-ravaged junipers and dry grasses, Thompson Ridge, Methow Valley
  • 7. Lichen-splotched boulder, Thompson Ridge, Methow Valley
  • 8. Insect on fading Balsamroot flower, Thompson Ridge, Methow Valley

A few more photos from the Methow Valley are here.

Fresh Looks

What do these images have in common? They were all made in the last month or two, in the same part of the world, and there are obvious connections between some of them, but you might say it’s a motley crew overall. Some are in color, some are monochrome, some were taken with a phone, some with a camera. What I hope they do have in common is a sense of seeing the world with fresh curiosity and genuine appreciation.

 

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The Photos:

  1. This is Boot (BOOTIE! to me), an American pit bull terrier, a breed that strikes so much fear into the hearts of some people that it has been banned in entire cities. Boot is a sweetie, believe me. Here, I caught his rear end with my phone camera, as he relaxed on the grass at an Ultimate Frisbee Tournament where his master was playing. Boot has his own Instagram page if you want to see his front end.
  2. A rock formation at Larrabee State Park which is on the Salish Sea about 15 miles south of the US – Canada border. The softly eroded, curvy rock is sandstone that was deposited here around 50 million years ago. This type of weathering is called honeycomb weathering, and the round perforations often seen in honeycombed rocks are sometimes called tafoni. The original photo was in sharper focus. I chose to slightly blur it to bring out the graceful, curving form. More photos of Larrabee’s intricate geology are shown in previous posts here and here.
  3. Branches trailing in the water or hanging just above it draw complex, meandering reflections at Whistle Lake, on Fidalgo Island. By the time I took this photograph it was after 5pm and rather dark at the lake’s edge, so I boosted the brightness in Lightroom several different ways: by increasing the whites (basic panel), applying a slight “S” tone curve, and increasing the luminance of individual colors. Small increases in contrast, clarity, saturation and vibrancy also helped brighten and define the image.
  4. A piece of detritus on a pier in Anacortes. The photo was taken with my phone on the evening of an art opening at the historic Port of Anacortes transit shed, a huge 85-year-old wooden building once used to store goods in transit into and out of the region. It was possible on this evening to walk through a big show of quality painting, photography and sculpture, and then wander outside directly onto a pier, where we had an interesting conversation with the first mate of a tugboat tied up at port while waiting for orders. For solid working culture and the arts to share space like that – well, to me, it was heaven.
  5. More detritus, this time on a beach at Bowman Bay on Fidalgo Island. The shell may be a Bent-nosed clam, a small, edible clam. The seaweed is probably Eelgrass (Zostera marina), an important plant that provides nourishment and habitat for waterfowl, crabs, shrimp, fish, shellfish and probably more creatures I’m not aware of. Eelgrass is declining in some places in Puget Sound; the causes are complex.
  6. A friendly reminder seen on an old warehouse in Anacortes. The photo was processed in Color Efex pro and Lightroom.
  7. This appears to be an unfinished roof. It’s attached to a small building at the site of a weekly Farmer’s Market in Edison, Washington (population 133 in 2010). As I pulled over to photograph the dramatic sky through the beams, two black cats scurried down a dirt road, probably in pursuit of sparrows, and somewhere overhead, an eagle cried that distinctive, high-pitched whinny.
  8. I saw a sign advertising an art show one summer afternoon while driving through the Skagit Valley countryside. I drove over to the Samish Island Arts Festival to investigate. The art was almost all crafts – jewelry, hand knit clothes, etc. –  and it didn’t appeal to me. But there was an interesting group of ramshackle wooden buildings there, across from a small oyster business. There was no fence, not even a “Keep Out” sign, so I spent some time photographing abandoned odds and ends. It was clearly a place where work went on, but it was hard to tell what exactly happened there. Rope, wood, rust and tarps were plentiful. I told myself I’d come back to “work the scene” again.
  9. Barbed wire fence keeps the rabble away from three unmarked silos in Anacortes. The town has enough intriguing industrial sites to keep me busy for a while. This photo was taken with my phone.
  10. This photo was taken on a bluff overlooking the Salish Sea during a prolonged dry spell. We hadn’t had any rain for many weeks; the grass was bone dry. I used a vintage Super Takumar 50mm lens and made a few adjustments in Lightroom.
  11. My teapot is getting old and if you ask me, it’s more and more likeable. We found it years ago at a Catholic church bazaar on Staten Island, NYC, and paid 50 cents, if I remember correctly. I make strong Irish tea in it each morning. Over time, cracks in the pot have grown and darkened, and eventually it will leak, and we won’t be able to use it. For now though, it’s a perfect example of wabi-sabi, that wonderful Japanese aesthetic that encapsulates acceptance of imperfection as well as the impermanence of all things. The photo was taken with another vintage Super Takumar lens – a 28mm f3.5.
  12. Do you see that this is a corn stalk? It’s growing at the WSU Discovery Garden, a demonstration garden put together by the Washington State University Master Gardeners, who are trained volunteers. Lucky for me, the garden is just 15 minutes away, so if I ever tire of wild flora (unlikely!) I can go have my fill of cultivated plants. The original photo is in color and it was converted to black and white in Silver Efex Pro and finished in Lightroom.
  13. Why are these buildings just inches apart? I suppose it has to do with the lot sizes or building codes. Ever since I first visited Edison back in 2012, I’ve been intrigued by this little slice of strangeness a few doors down from my favorite bakery. There are always ferns growing in that dark little space! The photo was taken with my phone and processed in Lightroom.
  14. This photo was taken the same day as #3, at Whistle Lake, part of the Anacortes Community Forest Lands. A rocky, rooty trail along the lake swings down level with the water in places, allowing you close views of sinuous tree reflections in the placid waters. Photographing reflections in water always depends on a variety of conditions, and sometimes they come together perfectly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What There Is

In the spirit of working with what’s available, here is a group of photos I’ve tossed together from the road trip through Oregon and northern California that we took a few months ago. After days of being immersed in the randomness of my possessions – open a drawer, dig into a closet, unleash the chaos – my mind may be incapable of knitting together a coherent story or explanation for these images. Most were taken in small towns, and a few are from what used to be a small town. Perhaps there is a thread of nostalgia that connects them. Perhaps not. I’m OK either way. After all, like everything else, these images are part of the vast, beautiful, spacious world we live in where every thing is a world in itself, even as it plays a part in the greater mystery.

 

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These photos were made at four locations in northern California: the picturesque agricultural town of Ferndale, the historic mountain mining town of Weaverville, the remote coastal hamlet of Shelter Cove, and a ghost town called Helena, near Weaverville. I made liberal use of effects when processing most of these images, primarily with Color Efex Pro.

Shelter Cove: #1

Helena: #2, #3, #14

Ferndale: #4, #5, #6, #7, #8, #9, #11, #12, #13, #15, #18, #19, #20

Weaverville: #10, #16, #17

 

 

 

 

WALK WITH ME

Through fields, down old railroad tracks and along the edges, where June makes and keeps a million promises.

 

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Bees, wasps, ladybugs – insects are busy everywhere.

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Grasses are laden with flowers that few people see, but look closely – there’s another world there. Above us, the Cottonwood trees have gone to seed, launching a heavenly mist of cottonwood snow that collects in everywhere nook and cranny.

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The late afternoon sun shines on foxglove flower spikes, and makes shadow play from the stamens and pistils inside each flower – amazing!  Horsetails have grown as tall as we are and these primitive plants are radiant in the bright light of a late spring day.

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On days like this, it seems the weather changes as often as the road curves.

 

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Animal life is everywhere – rabbits bound into the bushes, mother ducks herd their ducklings (fewer every day, as the eagles take their share), young, curious deer wander about, turtles bask in the sun, and look, there’s even a river otter – or is it a beaver? –  munching on marsh plants.  Speaking of beavers, that lodge is getting bigger again.

 

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Wildflowers are blooming and going to seed faster than we can track. Sheer heaven it is, sheer heaven!

 

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The Photos:

  1. Moth mullein (Verbascum blattaria) flowers grow tall and straight along the railroad tracks in Woodinville, Washington.
  2. This close-up may be a little out of focus, but it captures the spirit as a fat bumblebee heads towards another drink at the foxglove (Digitalis purpurea) fountain.
  3. a.) A wasp (?) on a daisy   b.) Two Pacific forktail (Ischnura cervula) damselflies on Himalayan blackberry.. The Pacific forktail is a common, widespread species here, found from early March through November. The Himalayan blackberry was brought here for fruit years ago and isn’t from the Himalaya, it’s from Armenia and northern Iran – and now it’s a ubiquitous, difficult to control weed in the Pacific northwest.  c.) Here’s some “foam” from Spittlebugs, probably the Meadow spittlebug, which overwinters as eggs that hatch into nymphs the spring. Nymphs exude the foam to protect them from predators while they feed. In most cases, not too much damage is done to the plants.  d.) Nothing like a ladybug to brighten the day! This one’s an Asian multicolored ladybeetle (Harmonia axyridis), yet another introduction, brought over to control aphids. So far these little guys have not become invasive, as far as I know.
  4. An unidentified grass in full flower. If you get a chance to peer closely at a blooming grass, do it and you may be amazed!
  5. a.) Cottonwood seeds have fallen onto a fern frond. Female Cottonwood trees bear the seed catkins. An individual seed, little more than a ball of fluff with a tiny dark center, can travel for miles. I’ve watched young ducklings nibble them off the water’s surface, too.  b.) Cottonwood fluff collects in the grass on a city street.
  6. Foxglove (Digitalis purpurea) is another common plant here that isn’t native. The beautiful flowers are from Europe. but have naturalized here and are often seen along roadsides and railroad tracks.
  7. Field horsetails (Equisetum arvense) can be noxious weeds, but their radial symmetry is quite beautiful, and en masse they make pleasing patterns for the photographer – not the gardener though! They are found all over the Northern Hemisphere and have been put to many uses, from polishing tool to medicine and food.
  8. On the road in the Snoqualmie Valley, an agricultural area just east of Seattle.
  9. Look up!
  10. A well-tended horse farm – excuse me, private dressage facility – in the Snoqualmie Valley.  Called River Run Ranch, it was on the market for $9.9 million a few years ago. The view here includes snow-capped peaks and rounded blue foothills of the Central Cascade Range, and it’s only about 20 miles from Seattle.
  11. a.) Two young deer, a doe and a buck, are curious about me, but at the last minute they decide to circle around, leaving about twelve feet between us.  b.) River otter or beaver – I’m not sure which. Both live in Lake Washington, where this poor photo was taken by an over-exited person – me.  c.) A prosperous looking beaver lodge in the Sammamish River at Marymoor Park.
  12. There she is, sweet thing, keeping a wary eye out. Heading towards the winery.
  13. A Great Blue heron watches for morsels at a shallow bay of Lake Washington.
  14. Nymphaea odorata, the American pond lily, will soon send up flower stems, but I think the leaves are beautiful too. What a striking composition they make with the tall, slender stems of cattails.
  15. The pretty little Herb-Robert (Geranium robertianum) is a common sight around here. Apparently this flower is native to Europe AND North America, at least eastern North America. Taken with the Takumar 50mm lens (see #20).
  16. This fun plant is called Manroot (Marah oreganus). It’s a sprawling, fast-growing, large-leaved wild vine that often bears delicate white flowers and these “cucumbers” (which are not edible) at the same time. A native plant, it has been pout to many medicinal uses.
  17. The California poppy (Eschscholzia californica) needs no introduction to west coast gardeners. The California state flower, this drought-tolerant poppy isn’t what you would expect to see in the rain-soaked Pacific northwest, but we are dry all summer, so the poppy manages pretty well.  Taken using an Olympus 60mm f2.8 macro lens.
  18. This lovely wild shrub rose, the Nootka rose (Rosa nutkana ) grows throughout the west. Bees, butterflies, birds, mammals – many wild beings depend on it as a food and shelter source. For me, the beauty is enough.
  19. Again, look up! Unless it’s pouring rain, it’s almost always a good thing to do.
  20. Another native plant, this is probably the Meadow lupine, Lupinus polyphyllus. There are many lupines in the American west, and they’re hard to tell apart, but they’re all wonderful to see in flower. The photo was taken with a vintage lens, the Pentax Super Takumar 50mm f1.4, which requires an adapter to fit my camera. The inexpensive lens has a soft, warm and sometimes ethereal look. A nice way to end a delightful June day of wandering through the unkempt edges of the county, here in the Pacific northwest.

Winter Green

January in the Pacific northwest was wet, with over 8″ of rain; the average January precipitation is closer to 5 1/2″. That has made outdoor photography difficult, but I’ve been darting out between showers to a nearby park, hoping the rain doesn’t begin again before I reach my destination.

O.O. Denny Park isn’t far from home but it feels almost like another planet – a very green one, especially now. Local residents favor the park’s pleasant waterfront picnic and recreation area on Lake Washington, but across the street there is a deep, wet ravine dotted with tall, moss-covered trees and luxuriant undergrowth. The gurgling sound of  water from the park’s fast-moving creek stays within earshot as you walk a loop trail up the creek, across it, and back. There is a magical feeling here, a sense of stepping back into a place defined by trees, not cars.

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This month I’ve been inspired by the otherworldly quality of a landscape drenched in mist, mist that sometimes turned to rain as I walked, tempting me to run back to the car. If the rain is gentle the trees provide enough cover to wait it out; experiencing the changes adds to the pleasure. This week I was caught by a hailstorm. Ducking under an old cedar tree, I listened to the surprising clatter of tiny ice balls bouncing all about me. I emerged feeling frigid, with numb fingers and toes, but I’d been given a weather gift, and I was thankful.

Water is happy in the ravine; it stays and makes a home, decorating its domain with all manner of lichens, mosses and mushrooms, funneling its way up tree trunks and down them, too. Water speeds the rot and decomposition that smells so rich here, it makes tinkling stream music, it forces you to step carefully on slippery surfaces, it gives the Yellow Skunk cabbage all the oozy muck it wants, and sometimes – no, often –  it throws a hazy curtain of rain or hail over the lot, prompting you to squint, or maybe just close your eyes and breathe.

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When I first walked the paths at O.O. Denny Park, the landscape was so different from what I was used to seeing that I couldn’t take it in. I just gaped. As I walk the loop trail repeatedly, I see more.  I slowly prise the details apart and begin to see the patterns. The Big Leaf Maple thrusts moss-laden branches high into the sky for light, and each fall the maples drop a mother-lode of leaves. Because the leaves are huge and the forest is crowded with growth, many leaves are caught on the way down. There’s a pattern: caught leaves, decomposing in place.

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One day this week I tried to grab a window of time without rain, and made my way up the O.O. Denny ravine path, camera in hand. The clouds parted to reveal a rare glimpse of blue sky but it was a changeable day, and soon a cold drizzle began to fall. I paused and heard a ping, ping, ping. Soon tiny ice balls began bouncing all around me. I was transfixed. Bundled up in a down jacket and wool scarf but without gloves or a hat, I put my hood up and stepped backwards, taking shelter under a large cedar. The hail came clattering down. It coated the path in front of me white, it collected in furrows of leaves on the ground and in mossy crevices on trees, and it turned the ravine into a magical fantasy land.

Holding my camera under my scarf, I awkwardly reached for my phone in an inside pocket. With frozen fingers I composed a few pictures. Finally, the hail stopped and I set back out for my car, avoiding the muddy, icy puddles as well as I could. I was very cold and desperately wanted to feel that heater!

 

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More photos from O.O. Denny Park are here (Fall), here (Spring), and here (Spring).

The Photos:

  1. A section of the loop trail. Late one afternoon I noticed a tell-tale splotch of white on the path here. It was still wet so I looked up and sure enough, there was a Barred owl, staring me down from a perch just overhead. Not wanting to disturb the owl, I left the camera at my side, and enjoyed the opportunity for a brief, eye-to-eye connection across species lines.
  2. Bigleaf maples (Acer macrophyllum) form a tangle of green, enriched by abundant rain. The biggest maple in North America, Bigleaf has an affinity for mosses, ferns and lichens. Their lush growth on Bigleaf trunks and branches produces “canopy soil” full of nutrients. The trees can actually produce tiny canopy roots, taking advantage of the rich biomass, high above the forest floor.
  3. Flanking this Bigleaf maple are the gracefully swaying branches of Western Red cedar (Thuja plicata), a common northwestern evergreen. Given the right circumstances, these trees can live over 1,000 years and grow 230′ tall.
  4. The moss-covered tree is probably a young Bigleaf Maple; the orange leaves are Bigleaf Maple leaves.
  5. Somehow, a maple leaf was speared by this branch. It will probably hang here until it fully decomposes.
  6. Another maple leaf caught on a branch.
  7. And another – so precarious!
  8. A pause in the rain.
  9. A single Bigleaf maple can support several tons of “epiphytic material” – the mosses, lichens, ferns and associated bacterial and fungal species that live in the trees.
  10. Licorice ferns (Polypodium glycyrrhiza) take root in the moss on this branch. The trees in the background to the right are Western hemlock (Tsuga heterophylla).
  11. The Sword fern (Polystichum munitum) is a large, tough evergreen fern found throughout our area, up into Alaska, and down along the coast to southern California.
  12. Licorice fern has a similar distribution, and favors the trunks and branches of Bigleaf maples but will grow elsewhere.  A nibble of the rootlet yields a sweet, faintly licorice taste; the plant is used medicinally and for food. “Polypodium” refers to its habit of having many feet – growing from different points along a creeping rhizome.
  13. I believe this pretty lichen is Oakmoss, or Evernia prunastri. It grows across the Northern hemisphere and is used in the perfume industry in Europe.
  14. This fragment is typical of broken branches seen on the forest floor. It’s covered with a complex mix of lichens and moss, and I can’t identify a single one!
  15. Elegant Western Red cedars and sturdy Douglas firs create a cathedral-like atmosphere on one of my favorite sections of trail.
  16. These little bright gold mushrooms are probably Hygrocybe flavescens. They grow across North America; Europe has a very similar species.
  17. The Indian plum, or Osoberry (Oemleria cerasiformis) is already budding! Soon their tiny, white dangling bells will punctuate the forest. They’re the first native shrubs to flower here, offering nectar to early foraging bees. Song sparrows and Pacific wrens are singing…it won’t be long.
  18. The hailstorm.
  19. Local forests shine bright green in January because of an abundance of evergreen trees, ferns, understory plants, and mosses.
  20. Hail pellets are gathered in a cup of maple leaves on the forest floor.
  21. The hail won’t damage these ground covers that are green all year.
  22. Along the path, the little ice pellets begin to melt and soak into the ground. In an hour there will be no trace of the hail, except for mud, puddles, and more water in the creek that makes its way down to Lake Washington, through the complex of bays, canals and waterways that divide Seattle in half, into Puget Sound, through the Straight of Juan de Fuca, and finally, into the Pacific Ocean.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The West is East of Here

 

Here are images from my recent trip east, where I roamed around the West.

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Confused? Well… Washington is geographically in the western United States, but only parts of the state look like our idea of the “West.”  The Cascade Mountain Range divides the state in two: western/coastal Washington and central/eastern Washington. The western side of the mountains, where I live, has a wet, temperate climate. Industry and technology drive the economy, especially in and around Seattle. On the eastern side the weather is much drier, the population more sparse, and agriculture takes precedence over technology or industry.  That’s where I expect to find remnants of America’s “Wild West”  – but I have to travel east to get there.

 

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The Govan Schoolhouse. Photo taken with a film camera and processed in Silver Efex.

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The shingles are loose, the floor is rotten, and birds scatter and cry foul if you get too close.

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The schoolhouse roof has seen better days.

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More old buildings in Govan that seem to embody a life of hard work and practical values.

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A deserted home welcomes plants more than people these days. Photo taken with a film camera, processed in Silver Efex.

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The town of Curlew still has a false-fronted saloon and a general store, but miners no longer come looking for moonshine.  Around the corner…

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An old Seagrave fire truck from about 1949 gathers dust and dirt. 

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The Curlew bridge. It hasn’t been altered since it was built in 1908, and still features a wooden roadbed. Center your wheels!

 

 

Sadly, Riverside’s Detro’s Western Store is going out of business after 71 years. Western boots are on sale, along with saddles, hats, and rodeo equipment.

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Down the street from Detro’s Western store, a weathered building has an aura of neglect.

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Another anonymous building in Riverside.

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The stretch of small town shadows and summer afternoons is mighty long.

 

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A bike in front of the store has been left out a little too long, but it sure adds to the charm.

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A cigar store  Indian stands guard at the grocery store in Riverside.

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A life-size, sculpted Indian on horseback gazes into the distance. He’s part of an extensive Wild West collection at the Black Bear Motel in Davenport.

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In Metaline Falls, architectural details recall a more prosperous past.

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There’s plenty of room to spread out, here among the rolling hills.

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It seems that everywhere I look, whether at an old storefront in town or a grassy field outside of town, colors are subtly weathered, from the harshness of the elements.

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An unidentified wildflower, past bloom but still beautiful, graces a vacant lot.

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A barbed wire fence, a bullet-ridden old can, and utter quiet in Lincoln County.

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This pretty Mariposa lily hosts an insect convention.

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One lone tree stands vigil amid grasses and wildflowers.

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Glacial erratics are scattered over the earth in Douglas County. A National Natural Landmark, the area was on the edge of an ice sheet several million years ago; these giants were left behind.

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The empty road reminds me of all the people who have come west, looking for freedom and a new life.

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Why do we take photographs when we travel? To remember. In the emotional rush that is the excitement of new places, there often isn’t much consideration given to the best angle, the best settings, or how to compose a picture that tells the story – we aren’t even sure what the story is sometimes. We just want to record, and sometimes that means less than optimal images. But each time we travel we get a little better at remembering to work the image, to make it more than a snapshot. There’s another factor that motivates me – I’m looking for patterns. Not just patterns within a particular frame, but patterns across time that are connections to other images from other places.

This post is presented as a visual narrative of a particular trip, but also carries forward ideas I have about beauty and loss, the intrigue of form and shadow, and maybe, an expression of the fullness of spirit that sometimes finds me, in the best moments of forgetting.

 

 

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Other Roads

Our trip to the Kootenay region of British Columbia hit a snag, and roads led us

elsewhere.

I found the four elements arranged themselves nicely,

anyway.

Fire, earth, air, water – we felt them all, sometimes

painfully.

The heat was oppressive and we had a bad meal or two. But smile-inducing surprises

found us.

And visual delights?

I found them.

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Pastels soothe the eyes and in the distance, power giants loom, but delicately.

We were there, and

Yes, you’re here.

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Here is an arrangement of images, reflecting various arrangements of the four elements, as seen on my trip through central and eastern Washington State.

 

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First Photo:  A rural road in Douglas County, central Washington State. There were 849 farms in the county at last US Dept. of Agriculture census in 2012. The average age of the farms’ principle operators was 59, and farms produced $327,190,000 in wheat. (Earth)

Second: Trail marker at Ohme Gardens, Wenatchee.

Third: Rushing water at Deception Falls, Cascade Mountains, near Skykomish. (Water)

Fourth: Detail of the Tumwater Pipeline Bridge. In the 1890’s the bridge supported a wooden pipe carrying water to power the Great Northern Railroad as it climbed Stevens Pass. Now it is repurposed as part of the Tumwater Pipeline trail. (Earth)

Fifth: A field of Yarrow behind barbed wire outside the ghost town of Govan, Lincoln County. (Earth)

Sixth: “Amber waves of grain” – and green, Lincoln County. (Earth)

Seventh: More wheat fields outside Govan. (Earth)

Eighth: An old windmill in a wheat field, at 60 mph. (Air)

Ninth: Shingle siding on the old Govan Schoolhouse, built in 1905. The small town has slowly faded over the years and is now marked by a grain elevator and shipping terminal.  The steeple came down two years ago; there are many photos of the two room schoolhouse online, with the steeple intact.  (Earth)

Tenth: Plants press against an old window at a general store, Riverside. (Earth)

Eleventh: Lungwort lichen (Lobaria pulmonaria) on a tree at Sweet Creek Falls, between the old mining towns of Ione and Metalline, in Washington’s northeast corner. (Earth)

Twelfth: The Tye River eases over rock at Deception Falls, about 13 miles west of Stevens Pass. Nearby, on January 6, 1893 the last rail spike was set to connect Seattle to St. Paul, Minnesota, and through to the east coast.  Echoes of revolvers and the shouts of men on a winter night marked the achievement of over 1800 miles of track laid down across the West. Twenty-four years earlier the first transcontinental railroad had been completed in Utah; the privately financed GN was now the northernmost rail line in the states. Nearby Stevens Pass is named for its discoverer, John Frank Stevens, who engineered the Great Northern Railroad and later was chief engineer of the Panama Canal. (Water)

Thirteenth: Water roars through a narrow passage at Deception Falls. (Water)

Fourteenth: An old tree root, probably Western redcedar, at Ohme Gardens in Wenatchee. (Earth)

Fifteenth: Forest fire damage in the Colville National Forest, seen from Boulder Creek Road at 60 mph. The Stickpin Fire of 2015 originated with a lightning strike on August 11th. By early September the National Guard, helicopters, and crews from distant locations were on the scene working to contain the fire. It was just 36% contained on September 8th, almost a month after it began, The fire was one of many across the region that year. Three firefighters lost their lives on August 19th when fire enveloped their vehicle in a separate fire east of here. By that time, 600 square miles were burning across Washington. The road this photo was taken from was closed, people miles away wore face masks outdoors, and evacuation orders were issued for some areas.

–  From the Barreca Vineyard blog: “The valleys filled with smoke, the ghosts of dead forests from the mountains around us. We wore breathing masks outside. Ash rained down on buildings, cars, the garden… Fire camps sprung up in Colville and Kettle Falls. You would see helicopters and planes flying here and there to fight the fires.”

By the end of October the 73,392 acre conflagration was 82% contained.  The Incident Commander planned ongoing patrols and mop-up repair work. Today, fireweed blooms among blackened pine trees.  (Fire)

Sixteenth: The Tumwater Pipeline strut work casts shadows that would make an engineer happy, though now they fall on a flat trail bed instead of a rounded wooden pipeline. (Earth)

Seventeenth: Another view of forest fire damage in the Colville National Forest.  (Fire)

Eighteenth: An unidentified wildflower in a vacant lot by an auto parts store, Omak. If you have any idea what it is, let me know!  (Earth)

Nineteenth: Hay bales ready for pick up outside Curlew. (Earth)

Twentieth: Looking up into a wheat field planted hard by the road in Lincoln County. (Earth)

Twenty-first: Summertime on the road, eastern Washington. (Air)

** There is an admitted arbitrariness to these elemental assignments. And let’s not forget spirit, an element that may weave through it all.

 

 

 

 

 

Summer Songs

Green-edged road

broken robin’s egg

left in the grass.

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Below are four groups of photographs, all taken in the last month, some near home and some a day’s trip away.

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The photos above were taken along Umtanum Road, a rural two lane winding through the hilly grasslands of Kittitas County, on the dry side of the Cascade Range.  We’d taken a quick overnight trip on a whim – I was hoping to see wildflowers. Our route climbed east over the Cascade Mountains, then south, with a stop near a mountain pass for a lovely walk through the forest (photos below).

We had dinner in Ellensburg that evening, and spent the night at a local airbnb, where our host regaled us with the inside scoop on the local agriculture business. She used to work for a hay exporter but was happy to leave the stressful job behind. We learned that the timothy hay grown in the area is a multi-million dollar business. Most of it is shipped to Japan and China – apparently Asian cows and racehorses are thriving on it.

The next day we explored Umtanum Road, seen above. The region was bursting with wildflowers, as temperatures were not yet in the 90’s, which is the summer norm for the area. The flowers took my breath away. I plan to post photos of them in the future. In addition to flowers, the occasional abandoned building and dozens of bluebird boxes, we noticed the piece of abandoned farm equipment pictured above – if anyone has an idea what it was used for, I’d love to know!

Below, photos from our walk along the Swauk Forest Discovery Trail, an easy two mile loop near Blewett Pass.  At about 4,000 feet we were high enough for nice views, though it was a cloudy day. Still, the quiet trail was inspiring. The forest ecosystem there is Ponderosa pine-Douglas fir, with widely spaced trees, various sages, grasses, and many flowers, including the beloved Tweedy’s lewisia, below.  We saw thick manes of wolf lichen on the trees, and learned first-hand the tantalizingly sweet, warm smell of Ponderosa pine bark.  A penstemon (P. fruticosus) decorates the path below:

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On another day I drove north to Skagit County, where life revolves around agriculture. Fields are planted with potatoes, berries, daffodils, tulips and more; dairy cows and other livestock complete the picture.  Restaurants in some of the small towns feature food made with locally grown ingredients and a rustic atmosphere, drawing people from far afield. Local residents seem to have a penchant for slightly eccentric, artistic touches and colorful gardens.

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Closer to home there’s a roadside spot I visit from time to time. Nothing elaborate, in fact, it’s the kind of space most people ignore, but I like places like that. My expectations are less defined than they are at established parks or trails, and I enjoy the thought that I have no idea what I’ll find.

There’s a retention pond to regulate water runoff, a grassy knoll, and a sliver of woods with a bit of wetland in a sink. The land has a rural feeling but it’s minutes away from the sprawling Redmond Microsoft corporate campus.  Birdsong is the high note, traffic is the low note.

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Summer pleasures! It’s been a good season for them. On Sunday we’re off for a week-long road trip, this time heading east and north, into a quiet corner of British Columbia where the Kootenay River joins the mighty Columbia. Maybe we’ll stop at Grand Coulee Dam on the way up. Lots of maybes! Time to pack!

 

 

 

 

 

BIG. EMPTY.

Before I traveled to central Oregon last month, a friend commented, “So you’re going to the Big Empty.”  I didn’t know much about the area – only that it included a geological wonder called the Painted Hills, many fossils and a scattering of very small towns – but that seemed about right.

Google “Big Empty” and much more comes up – a 1994 song titled “Big Empty” by the Stone Temple Pilots, a 2003 movie called “The Big Empty”  starring Jon Favreau, and a PBS TV special, “The Sagebrush Sea” about the huge sagebrush plateau between mountain ranges.

It’s a catchy phrase.

The Big Empty isn’t the Grand Canyon or Niagara Falls, and it’s certainly not thronged with people. It really IS pretty empty. Technically it’s the inter-mountain west. Specifically, I planned to travel around the Umatilla Plateau and the Blue Mountains’ John Day/Clarno Uplands.  A mouthful, these are U.S. Environmental Protection Agency ecoregion designations that delineate regions based on geography, solar radiation, and rainfall.

Here are two views of Blue Basin, part of the John Day/Clarno Uplands.

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The uplands include semi-arid foothills of sagebrush and gentle mountains dotted with ponderosa pine. Highways here are two lane and relatively quiet. Rugged cattle country, this area is famous for Painted Hills beef.

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Truly vast, open landscapes aren’t to everyone’s liking. The agorophobe takes no comfort in endless horizons. Landscapes dominated by mountains, waterfalls or other grand features usually appeal to people more than dry desert steppe.

In central and eastern Oregon’s sagebrush and pine country, the landscape is drawn down to its essence.

Below are roadside views of the Umatilla Plateau, a treeless grassland farmed for winter wheat. Seen from the car passenger window, the plain rolls out to a horizon that always seems to push past the last sight line.  Where the plains curve into gently folded hills, they too carry the eyes out into the “wild blue yonder.”

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This arid land will shrink plants to the bone. Even buildings are squeezed dry.

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The open landscape captivates me. Seventeen years ago I had seen very little of the West, in fact my teenage son knew it better than I did. In the summer of 2000, while at a program in southern Utah, he needed a minor operation.  I flew out from New York to be there.

Driving south out of Salt Lake City in my rented car, I gaped as the city gave way to countryside.  Stretching out on either side of the road, wider and wider with each mile, the Utah landscape was infinitely more grand than any I’d seen before.  The colors appealed to me. Soft tawny golds, dark rusts and pale gray-greens offered countless subtle shades to focus on.

It pleased me to be in a place where I could focus on simple shapes – the triangle of a treeless mountain top, the sphere of a boulder. I finally understood the draw of the great American West.

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This is the Sheep Rock Unit of John Day Fossil Beds National Monument, in Oregon.  Whether in Utah or Oregon, being dwarfed by the western landscape puts everything in its proper place, and I am comforted.

The quiet ease of small western towns is deeply refreshing, too. We stayed in Mitchell (pop. 130 in 2010), which nestles into the hills of Wheeler County, the least populated county in a state with only 1.27% of America’s people. Around Mitchell are scenes like this:

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The small, unpretentious towns that settle into the folds of the hills have a straightforward appeal. The mercantile should have what you need, as long as your needs are uncomplicated. Breakfast at the cafe comes with easy, friendly conversation, and maybe a little advice from a hand-lettered sign on the wall.

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Having fewer choices, going at a slower pace, and the simple pleasures of clean air and attractive vistas made this Big Empty experience full enough, for me at least.

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