Book Club

Eating Dirt

It’s become a book club tradition to spend a day working with Washington Trails Association to give back and lend a hand to our beloved trails. This year we helped build a new trail at Little Mountain. We gathered at the trailhead, greeted by the knocks of woodpeckers and the smiles of our crew. Barbara, our crew leader for the day, gave us a safety briefing and explained what we would be working on.

The trail was aptly named the Upquick Trail. Barbara took us down the lovely new switchbacks to try out the old trail on the way back up. We got up quick alright. The trail went straight up the steep hillside. They started working on the new trail in October and now it just needed some final touches like some rock walls to help retain soil and prevent erosion. I’ve wondered how they make those nice neat rock walls on the trails, now we were about to find out.

The key to the rock wall is the zip line. A pulley system allowed us to move massive rocks down the steep trail most efficiently. I was super stoked to hear we were working a zip line, and this wasn’t just a simple zip line like I’ve done before, but a legit zip line that went straight down the mountain side. This was a task that required great care and coordination.

We paired our work party with Eating Dirt, a memoir of a tree planter. Like most jobs in the outdoors, tree planting is not a glamorous one. They spend entire days hunched over digging holes and planting little seedlings as fast as possible. They were getting paid by the tree and it was grueling work. The way that Gill describes her experience, though, is right on and exactly how I feel after a work party. It’s hard work, but it can be addictive in a strange way that makes you keep coming back for more.

During our lunch break, we discussed some of the hardest jobs we’ve had. Jamie has spent a lot of time working in the outdoors studying fish and really related to the last part of the book when the tree planters live on a boat off Vancouver Island. Rebecca told us how she spent a summer in Alaska working in a cannery for college money. She said it was incredibly humbling. We all decided that it’s good to have those types of work experiences when you are young: humbling hard work.

By the end of the day we had transported a large pile of boulders down the mountain. It was more fun and exciting than hard and humbling, but it certainly gave us perspective on how much work, effort, and love goes into maintaining our Washington trails. While we celebrated our accomplishments for the day, we found out that one of the “orange hats” that was with us, Pete, had recently logged over 2000 work hours with WTA in his lifetime! He even self-published a guide to building trails that many of us happily bought and got signed by him. Then we headed to Skagit River Brewery for a celebratory meal to finish off our day of working in the woods.

There was something alluring, addictive even, about the job. I liked the feel of loam between my fingers, loved the look of a freshly planted tree bristling up from tamped soil. Planting trees was a whole, complete task. You could finish what you started in just a few seconds. You could sow a field in a day. It meant being outside, unprotected from the elements, but at least weather affected everyone equally. Best of all, in a cut block you could erase your old self. You could disappear almost completely.

Charlotte Gill, Eating Dirt
Eating Dirt by Charlotte Gill

Book Ends

Book Club Archive

Outdoor Life

Return to Twin Falls

There was the time before my dad got sick and the time after he got sick. My dad was in the hospital two thousand miles away while I drove Evie and myself down I-5 through downtown Seattle. The sky was clear and blue, but something felt wrong. I panicked a little. I searched the skyline for something that was missing. Did the city always look so small and brown? It seemed that everything was dull and diminished, like someone turned the saturation down and zoomed out on my world.

A few days earlier I got word that my dad was in the ICU on a breathing machine. It wasn’t the first time. Three months earlier he had collapsed from a heart attack and lack of oxygen on Christmas Eve. He was sent home with a portable oxygen tank and some medications and seemed to be doing better in the new year. My sisters and I planned a big family trip to Cape May in March. Dad said it would be too cold to go to the beach, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to wait any longer to see him. I felt terribly guilty for not being there on Christmas and the miles between us were palpable. It felt like there was a rubber band between us, stretched as far as it could go.

So I drove on to an old favorite trail in the foothills outside of Seattle, the one I took Evie on for her first hike ever. With all that was going on with my dad, I needed to be on the trails. I was also hoping that maybe Evie could walk it herself this time. We started at the icy trailhead and Evie immediately wanted me to carry her. So much for my plans. With a two year old I am getting very accustomed to a change in plans. I shrugged it off and happily carried her up to the falls.

Once we were at the upper falls, she was ready to walk. She put on her backpack and marched right up the icy stairs. Brave girl. When I managed to get her to stop and turn around, she hesitated, perhaps realizing just how far up she was on the slick ice. I recognized this reaction. The ‘oh crap’ feeling when you realize how steep the terrain is after turning around and looking down. I scooped her up and brought her back down, steady on the ice with my yaktrax.

After that taste of danger, she wanted more. She insisted on walking down the trail, forcing me to do a half hunch while holding both of her hands as she walked, and slid, down the trail. My back wouldn’t be the same for a week. We detoured down to the lower falls viewpoint and she got down all the stairs on her own while holding onto the lower wooden railing proclaiming, “it’s my size!” As she climbed back up we counted the stairs – 104! I was a proud mama.

On the way back down the trail we stopped for a closer look at the South Fork Snoqualmie. We played Evie’s favorite game of picking up rocks and throwing them into the water. I picked up the biggest rock I could handle and underhanded it with two hands between my legs as high as I could. We giggled and I taught her the word “kerplunk!”

On the drive home I called my dad and reported the impressive number of stairs that Evie climbed on her own. I called him everyday while he was in the hospital, usually during my commute home from work. He was always upbeat while we talked and after a few days he sounded much improved. But then suddenly he started getting worse. It was beginning to look like I would have another change in plans. Instead of a family vacation at the beach, we would all be heading back home to the hospital.

Book Club

The Light Between Oceans

I’ve been wanting to visit a lighthouse with the book club for a while now, so in April we finally did it. We didn’t go to just any lighthouse, but particularly one on an island. Our book pick was The Light Between Oceans about a young couple who lives in a lighthouse on an island all to themselves. We ferried our way north to San Juan Island for a weekend of exploring, camping, and lighthouse visiting.

I brought my husband and daughter this time and Evie relished in the cold, salty wind of the Salish Sea on the deck of the ferry boat. She ran circles around the inside passenger area and made some new pint-sized friends. I was happy to greet some of the book club members and we got caught up as we soaked up the views.

Upon landing in Friday Harbor, we decided to head directly to the charming little Griffin Bay Bookstore. We could have spent all day in there browsing the books, but we tore ourselves away to visit the Farmers Market and get some grub. We packed up our food and books and headed out to English Camp for a picnic. It was a perfectly comfortable spring day and after our lunch we all unceremoniously lined up and laid down in the grass.

We lounged and chatted for a long while and then decided to head to the campground to get set up for the night. While we drove, we found an adorable alpaca farm and just had to stop. Evie loved the alpacas and we touched everything in the gift store with an “ahhh.” We met the rest of our group at the San Juan County Campground and lingered on the shoreline nearby after setting up camp. We made sweet potato tacos from the Feast by Firelight camp cookbook. They were SO GOOD. They were also super easy and this is definitely my new go-to camp recipe.

Rebecca brought her daughter who is seven years old. She shared her fuzzy slippers with Evie rendering the two girls inseparable. After dinner, we headed back down towards the shore for sunset. Evie painted watercolors with her new BFF and I brought out a special dessert surprise. It was an applesauce cake, an old favorite family recipe of mine, glazed and lit up with candles for my BFF, Laura’s, birthday. We sang to her and indulged in the cake while sipping wine and watching the gorgeous sunset.

Soon the darkness brought a chill to the air and we snuggled up with blankets around the campfire for our book chat. In the book, the lightkeeper and his wife find a washed up boat with a man and a baby inside. They discovered the man was dead, but the baby was still alive. After a recent miscarriage that was preceded by many before, the young woman decides to keep the baby as their own without telling anyone. Her husband, a law-abiding man, was deeply conflicted with the decision his wife made.

As you can imagine, there is little room for this story to end well. While the plot is heartbreaking, I really enjoyed the sense of living on a secluded island as a lightkeeper. San Juan Island is tiny, but it still holds the largest town of all the San Juans with enough to easily fill up our day with activities. It was hard to imagine being in their shoes, the only people for miles and miles.

For the first time he took in the scale of the view. Hundreds of feet above sea level, he was mesmerized by the drop to the ocean crashing against the cliffs directly below. The water sloshed like white paint, milky-thick, the foam occasionally scraped off long enough to reveal a deep blue undercoat. At the other end of the island, a row of immense boulders created a break against the surf and left the water inside it as calm as a bath. He had the impression he was hanging from the sky, not rising from the earth. Very slowly, he turned a full circle, taking in the nothingness of it all. It seemed his lungs could never be large enough to breathe in this much air, his eyes could never see this much space, nor could he hear the full extent of the rolling, roaring ocean. For the briefest moment, he had no edges.

M.L. Stedman, The Light Between Oceans

The next day we headed to Lime Kiln State Park to visit its lighthouse which dates back to 1919. A short loop trail takes you up to several old and deteriorating lime kilns from the 1920’s. This must have been a busy place back in the day. Evie picked up the green rocks and inspected them as we explored the kilns.

Evie walked all by herself most of the way with her new friend. When she tired and wanted me to hold her, fellow book club member Mala carefully chose a stick and gave it to her to use as a walking stick. Evie’s face lit up and she charged down the trail with her new stick. Mala’s wise motherly gesture was greatly appreciated. Evie even acquired a second stick that transformed her into a little hiking machine.

The trail traversed a spectacular forest with massive old growth madrona trees, the largest I’ve ever seen. The girls climbed on them and posed for pictures, happy as little clams. Soon we were at the end of the loop trail and near the lighthouse. It wasn’t open that day (tours run from mid-May to mid-September) but we poked around a bit.

We wandered along the shore and found a nice spot to share lunch. We lingered lazily and spotted a sea otter and a seal. Rebecca and I picked our way down the rocks to some tide pools with our girls. They loved bending over and getting their faces down close to the water. The longer we looked, the more life we found: anemones, urchins, hermit crabs, gooseneck mussels.

After much exploration we headed back to Friday Harbor to get our spots for the ferry boats. We met one last time for coffee (or tea), a bite, and one last little pop-in to the bookstore before making the long journey home.

The Light Between Oceans by M.L. Stedman

Book Ends

Book Club Archive

Book Club

Shell Games

It was hard not to wonder what was out there, or even who was out there. The book club met on a cool February morning at Bowman Bay, a wide, protected and inviting bay, a place that seemed to beg for underwater exploration. We watched some folks out in a boat and couldn’t help but be a little suspicious. What exactly were they up to?

Our sudden skepticism stemmed from reading our February book club pick, Shell Games. The author, Craig Welch, is a journalist who took a deep dive into the underworld of the seafood industry of the Puget Sound. For two years, he followed the local wildlife police as they pursued poachers of a funny little (or maybe I should say not so little) mollusk, the geoduck.

When I announced Shell Games as our February pick, I asked in our Facebook group if anyone had ever eaten geoduck. I learned that most of the locals in the group never had it. Some said they never would, most said they would try it if they had the chance. I also learned that Speedy the geoduck is the Evergreen State College mascot which has got to be up there with the strangest school mascots.

The sheltered marine waters of the Pacific Northwest are the only place on earth where wild geoducks grow in great size and quantity. And the mollusk was riding a tidal wave of globalization. The geoduck’s escalating popularity abroad tracked the rise of a new wildlife underground- and an evolution in mankind’s ability to exploit nature. In the booming international market for fresh seafood the geoduck had become a path to quick profits. And smart smugglers always followed the money.

Craig Welch, Shell Games

The group skirted the bay on the way to Rosario Head. The trail was lined in mossy green and madrona trees until we reached the headlands. There, the way opened up with views of the Puget Sound all around. We paused at the gorgeous wooden carving of “The Maiden of Deception Pass” and read her story.

The Samish people once lived where we stood. They gathered shellfish on the water’s edge, fished from their wooden boats, and pulled camas bulbs for eating. One day, the maiden and her sister were gathering chitons. She was startled and dropped a chiton in the water. When she went to reach for it, a hand grabbed her and she heard a man’s voice telling her about his house in the water filled with food and about life with the sea people.

This happened again and again until the maiden pulled her hand away and asked to see the man. He emerged from the water and joined her for dinner with her father (like ya do). He told her father that his daughter was beautiful and he wanted to take her back to live with him. He was hesitant about the stranger and was sure the maiden would not survive in the sea. He challenged the sea man and refused to let his daughter go.

The sea man finally relented, but not without warning. He said his people have always been kind to them, but if he went home alone, the tide would no longer go out, they will find nothing on the beach, and the springs will run dry. Eventually, after a long, hard, and fruitless time, she goes to him. Once the sacrifice is made, the sea people continue to provide for the Samish people. The maiden returns bearing gifts of shellfish of all kinds. Each time her hair gets a little longer and resembles seaweed.

This story of mutual respect between the Samish and the sea reflects how we should be living: not taking more than we need, always giving back and taking care of our home waters. The stories told in Shell Games reflect a different culture, one of cheating the land and taking as much as possible. Reading this book was a great reminder that we should be more like the Samish.

We ate our lunch and then wandered the shoreline investigating the life on the rocks. We even found a chiton thanks to Jamie, our very own marine biologist. They completely blended into the surroundings. I wondered how they tasted…

Photo courtesy of Mala Giri

Shell Games by Craig Welch

Book Ends

Book Club Archive

Book Club

A Winter Russian Fairy Tale

It’s become a favorite tradition to start off the new year with an Alpine Trails Book Club snowshoe to Laura’s cabin. My husband and I packed up Evie and doggie Nali for a cozy weekend. You have to snowshoe to the cabin in the winter, so our things were packed up in a sled with Evie, including a ten-layered cake topped with a large soup pot for protection (more about that later). Evie was skeptical about the snow but we showed her how to build a snowman and she was content enough to allow us to pull her to the cabin in the sled like a princess.

Our January book club selection was The Bear and the Nightingale, a retelling of an old fairytale set in the medieval Russian wilderness. The book revolves around a young girl named Vasya and starts off with her family telling ancient stories of the evil Frost King while safely cozied up around the fire and eating honey cakes. Soon you find out that there is more to these stories as it is revealed that Vasya can see fairies and demons. and the lines between good and evil quickly become blurred. Vasya gives offerings to the docile demons who protect her home and bring warmth, a tradition that was passed down from her mother.

The winter half of the house boasted huge ovens and small, high windows. A perpetual smoke trickled from its chimneys, and at the first hard freeze, [Vasya’s father] fitted its window-frames with slabs of ice, to block the cold but let in the light. Now firelight from his wife’s room threw a flickering bar of gold on the snow.

– The Bear and the Nightingale

The warmth of the cabin and the wood-burning stove greeted us as though Laura and her family have been giving offerings to the cheryti, or house demons, all winter. We got settled in and drank warm beverages and caught up before heading out again for some snowshoeing and exploring. A few other members came up early to spend the night with us and we filled the cabin with delicious food, games, and laughter.

The next morning we bundled up and headed to the trailhead to meet the rest of the book club. We had our largest group yet and many were eager to snowshoe for the first time. Unfortunately, there was not much fresh snow on the trail and you could easily go without snowshoes, but a few tried it out anyway. We hiked the short trail to Gold Creek Pond and took a loop trail around to get a better vantage of the reflections of the mountains in the calm water. A low wintry fog clung to the mountains and just a frosting of snow outlined the trees.

From the pond we took the trail to Laura’s cabin where we warmed up on coffee, tea, and lots and lots of food. Rebecca brought some lovely Russian tea cakes, white as snowballs, and Kirstin brought some delicious hearty scones. Laura made her usual Finnish Pulla bread (a book club favorite) and I made some mushroom soup, meatballs, and my favorite golden chai lattes. We feasted for a while, discussed the book, and Amelia even made a sweet little painting of the cabin while we chatted. Cindy graciously gifted some snowdrop bulbs to me. These flowers play an important role in the book and I will cherish them as a harbinger of spring.

In the forest. Snowdrops. The old oak before dawn.

– The Bear and the Nightingale

One of my favorite parts of the book is that the author came up with her own interpretation of Russian words and names to include in the book. In the back of the book is a glossary with the names and words and where they come from. We played a game where I wrote down the words and held them up to hear how the group pronounced them. We tried out batyushka (priest), dvorovoi (yard demon or protector), Lesnaya Zemlya (Vasya’s hometown), and podsnezhnik (snowdrop), just to name a few.

Before leaving the cabin we had one last thing to do. It was Lainey’s birthday and we celebrated with a massive Russian Honey Cake. After reading about the honey cakes in the beginning of the book, I thought it would be fun to make them. I imagined a simple recipe of flour and honey shaped into rounds. However, when I started doing some research, I found that the Russian Honey Cake is actually a more modern cake that is popular in Russia and eastern Europe. It is also quite the opposite of simple. It is a delectable ten layer cake with a dulce de leche based cream between each layer. And while this complicated cake was certainly not made by people in Vasya’s time, it seemed like a cake worthy of celebrating the book club and most importantly, our good friend Lainey. I challenged my husband to make it for us (he’s never one to refuse a baking challenge) and after a week of prepping and baking each layer and burning honey to perfection, we had a Russian Honey Cake! The hard work paid off and it was quite delicious.

The Bear and the Nightingale by Katherine Arden

Book Ends

Book Club

Mushroom Hunting

Langdon slowed down on the bumpy forest road to take a closer look to our left. He asked me if we should stop and take a look here. Umm, are you serious? Absolutely, I said. Moss carpeted the forest floor and the sun shined through the trees with a soft, yellow, ethereal glow. I spotted a faint foot path and couldn’t fathom a more inviting place to hunt mushrooms. This wasn’t the plan, but it felt like this is where we were meant to be.

Months earlier I sent an email to Langdon Cook, a local author and forager, asking if he would be interested in taking our book club group out for a day of mushroom hunting to go along with reading his book, The Mushroom Hunters. He said he doesn’t normally take groups out mushroom hunting, but for us he would make an exception. I was thrilled and couldn’t wait to share our plans with the group. Not only was Langdon taking us mushroom hunting, but he was taking us to one of his secret patches! He warned me that we would be going off trail into some rugged territory. I told him the group would be up for it.

We met at a park and ride and drove caravan-style down the freeway and up a forest service road. It was a gorgeous bluebird day, but my heart sank a little when I noticed the fresh snow on the mountain tops. Was the secret patch going to be snowed in? We hit snow a ways up the road and Langdon voiced his concern. We decided to hike a ways up to check out the conditions. The snow only got deepened as we climbed, but we enjoyed each other’s company and the views. Langdon went ahead of us to scout out the off-trail portion of the hike and came back disappointed. He said the way was rough and there was more snow in the woods than he expected. We agreed to head back to lower ground to see what we could find.

 

Mushrooms are colorful, beguiling, hideous, and transformative.

 

I have to admit that I was a little disappointed too, but as we found the sun rays guiding us into the lower elevation forest, I had a good feeling. We immediately found mushrooms growing on the mossy forest floor. We held them up to Langdon. What’s this, is it edible? Nope, he would say, and we continued to lurk, feeling strange to be off the trail. Suddenly I heard a collective Yay! from the group and we all huddled together to see what was found. It was a yellowfoot chanterelle, or as some call it, winter chanterelles. Langdon explained the features to us and what to look for. Sure enough, the bottom of the mushroom had a bright yellow color, a yellow foot, if you will.

Once we knew what we were looking for, we found them everywhere. We spread out into the trees and I’d hear a little squeal whenever someone found more. After a while Langdon yelled and said he found something for me. We all gathered again. It was an admirable bolete. The top was a deep velvety red and the underside looked like a sponge. We passed it around a squished the spongey side. He told me to chop it up and saute it in some butter and put it on a baguette. Keep it simple. I could do that. Later I found our mother and daughter team in the group holding something large and white, like the size of my head! Langdon had mentioned that he loved cauliflower mushrooms, and sure enough, they had found one. He couldn’t believe it as this was not the ideal place for them. It was definitely the find of the day!

After our foray, Langdon signed our books with full buckets to ya! the mushroom hunters way of saying good luck. We all went home with a basket of mushrooms and an enormous sense of pride. Langdon recommended a recipe for Scallop and Wild Mushroom Marsala and the next night I made dinner for once. My husband also came home from Napa Valley with a few nice bottles of wine. That night we celebrated and had the best meal I’ve had in a long time. I asked my husband, is it just me because I foraged these mushrooms or is this meal better than any restaurant meal? He agreed, if not to only humor me, but Evie doesn’t lie. She ate every bite!

I had come to Boyne City because I have always been drawn to nature’s secrets more than to, say, Hollywood’s secrets or the secrets of Wall Street hedge-fund managers. Nature is real. It exists beyond our ability to create it or even mediate it.

 

The Mushroom Hunters by Langdon Cook

 

Book Ends
Book Club

In the Tracks of an Avalanche

We drove through the fog to get there. Our biggest book club group yet (!) met at the trailhead of the Iron Goat Trail near Stevens Pass. It was a chilly October morning and we were bundled in our wooly hats and puffy coats. Before we hit the trail I pointed out that we were standing at the location of the old town of Scenic. There was once a hotel there in the early 1900’s and a hot spring. And it was a crucial location for the recovery effort of the terribly tragedy that happened on the Great Northern Railway, just three miles from where we stood.

In February 1910, a formidable blizzard tore through Stevens Pass and ravaged the railway. Slides blocked the tracks in several places along the steep-walled corridor that had been exposed in a recent wildfire. Two trains, one full of passengers and the other full of mail and crew, were trapped on both sides by slides. The trains were moved next to each other on opposing tracks near the Wellington station. With the whole area prone to slides, the train’s location was considered the safest place for them. The snowplow crews tirelessly worked to clear the tracks as the snow continued to pile up and every time they cleared a slide, another would occur.

The passengers and crew, concerned about their safety and health, were trapped on the trains for five days. A few of them decided to walk out to the town of Scenic and subsequently wired a message to report their horrific walk through the blizzard conditions and recommended that the rest of the group stay put and wait for help. But help didn’t come, and as conditions seemed to mildly improve, they made a decision to evacuate as many as they could the following day. That night, the snow turned to rain and the lightning flashed in the sky. There was a deafening CRACK and a slab of snow released from the heights of Windy Mountain tumbled down onto the trains. The train cars toppled down the steep slope, some disintegrating on impact and others perfectly intact. The unharmed survivors pulled others from the snow and rushed them down to Scenic. Many were rescued but still nearly 100 died in the accident in what is still the deadliest avalanche in American history.

All that remained in the ravine afterward, strewn among rocks and ravaged trees, were a few twisted metal pipes, a ruptured firebox door, a woman’s torn, high-buttoned shoe.

From the trailhead at Scenic, our group climbed 700 feet up steep switchbacks to get to the now defunct railway. I reminded the group that the survivors and rescuers had to get down this steep embankment and in the snow, a seemingly impossible and terrifying task. We reached the railroad grade and explored the ghosts of the railway’s era. We first discovered a large, dark tunnel. A trail led inside to an interpretive sign and a warning of “extreme danger” if one was to continue through the tunnel. We returned the way we came and continued on the trail as it skirted the outside of the tunnel.

A massive concrete wall, probably 30 feet high, follows the trail. Rusty rebar pokes out in places, water spills over the edges, and roots meander their way through the structure, buckling and crumbling, as nature reclaims its rightful place. Towering yellow alders sprouted from the top of the wall and shined brightly against the blue sky in protest of the man-made feat of engineering. We passed the remnants of a wooden snowshed that once protected the tracks. The decaying wood was flattened into waves as it followed the curvature of the embankment that reclaimed it.

Finally, as we neared the old townsite of Wellington (renamed Tye after the disaster), we entered the main attraction of the trail, a towering concrete snowshed built in response to the avalanche disaster of 1910. The structure is mostly intact with the exception of one end that is falling down. Concrete clings to falling rebar in what we all decided could be an art installation displayed in any modern art museum. We followed a short boardwalk to interpretive signs explaining what happened here over 100 years ago. We ate lunch there and discussed our thoughts about the month’s book choice, The White Cascade, a historical recount of the events leading up to the avalanche and the aftermath.

Many in our group grew up in Washington and I was surprised to learn that they had never heard of the deadly avalanche at Wellington before we read the book. Without the efforts of many volunteers over the years who worked hard to conserve this historical area and its trails, we may have lost this story all together. Stories like this bring us closer to understanding what our ancestors and predecessors endured in the harsh land of the west. It also reminds us that nature is a formidable force and that sometimes it is better to just leave it wild.

 

For no matter what the railway propagandists might say to the contrary, there were indeed places in the country too wild to be tamed by the technology of the railroad – and Stevens Pass might be one of them.

 

The White Cascade by Gary Krist

 

Book Ends

 

Outdoor Life

Larch March to Blue Lake

I am worse than my nearly two-year-old. She smiles right to me as she climbs up the stove and I pull her down and say no for the millionth time. She’ll make perfect eye contact and touch something she’s not supposed to touch, putting just one finger on an item and then looking to me for approval. I give her my disapproving mom look for the trillionth time. Like her, I push and push at boundaries compulsively without seeming to learn a lesson. I find the limits of myself and my daughter and then I inch up against them, just just to make sure we can’t squeeze out a tiny bit more. This is how I once again found myself alone in the middle of the trail with a screaming toddler wondering why I keep doing this to myself. And then I did something I’ve never done before.

The forecast called for blue skies. When this happens on an October weekend day, it simply must be taken advantage of. I’ve been itching to see some larch and I knew this weekend would be my best, if not last, opportunity before the fall rain comes. I decided to take Evie up to the North Cascades, a good 3 hour drive from our house, to a short trail filled with brilliant larch. I had the genius idea to wake Evie up before dawn and slip her into the car seat where she would go back to sleep while I drove. She didn’t go back to sleep. So I gave her snacks and entertained her as much as I could on the long drive. She did really well until the last 20 minutes or so when she finally had enough. She cried until I pulled into the trailhead and looked back to tell her we’ve arrived. She was fast asleep.

I woke her up and gave her more snacks with the promise of adventure and golden trees. She seemed up for it and padded down the trail pointing at rocks and trees. Though the sun was out, there was frost on the ground and I showed her how the iced-over puddles crackle when you step on them. She was doing great and I had high hopes that she would walk far on her own. She didn’t. She walked a little ways and then asked me to pick her up. I asked if she wanted to get in the backpack and she said yeah. With her in the pack I hustled along to cover some ground until she changed her mind and wanted down. I let her down but then she wanted up, but not in the backpack. I held her in my arms and walked a little but told her that I couldn’t carry her like that the whole way. Then she had a full on meltdown while I cycled between putting her in the pack, carrying her in my arms, and letting her walk. Then I gave up and just sat with her for a while, trying to console her and making sure she was warm in the cold shade of the trees.

This seemed to work and we walked a little ways more. Then she started crying again just as we passed someone who said we were close to an open area with sun. I picked her up and walked to the sun, promising a break and a snack. Sure enough, we found the sun and some lovely views and even a log to sit on. I gave Evie her lunch and we watched people and dogs pass us by. We were not even a mile up the trail. I coaxed her along offering her more peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the way. Then she would hunker down and sit to eat her sandwich at a snail’s pace. Each time I took a deep breath, summoning patience. It’s the journey, not the destination. It’s the journey, not the destination. I repeated this mantra, pushing out the counter thought: did I drive us all the way up here for nothing?

It was only two miles to the lake and three hours had gone by now. I kept thinking we had to be getting close. If I could just get Evie in the pack we would be up there in no time. I decided that I just needed to get her into the pack. I filled her up with even more food and changed her diaper and then told her how we could see the golden trees and the big mountains and the pretty lake if she got into the pack. She refused. I began to worry. We were a ways up the trail and it was getting late in the day. I was going to have to get her in the pack eventually to get back down the trail. That’s when I planted the pack right in the middle of the trail and decided she was going in no matter what. Of course there were hikers going by from both directions that got to witness the lovely sight of me forcing my screaming child into a pack. I waved them around us and they gave me sad looks. A couple with their young kid came along and gave me some words of encouragement and then I did the thing I never do. I asked how much further it was to the lake. They looked at each other with a gaze that I recognized. They said, “oh man, you’re getting there. You’re doing great!” This was hiker code for, “oh man, this lady doesn’t know what she’s gotten herself into, poor thing.”

I finally got Evie in the pack and decided that I’d hike five more minutes up the trail. If she was still crying and screaming, I’d turn around and go back to the trailhead. If she stopped, I’d keep going to the lake. I walked for about 2 minutes and she was quiet. I glanced back and her head was hanging down, fast asleep. I hiked just a few minutes more into the magic of the golden larch and spectacular views all around. The larch gods blessed me with this quiet time all to myself the short way to the lake. I relished in it. I didn’t linger long at the lake though, and as I started back down the trail I felt guilty for being so happy that Evie was asleep. She was missing out on the best part, all that I had promised her.

Just before we left the larch forest and views, though, she woke up. She exclaimed whoa! and wow! as I pointed to the golden trees and pretty mountains around us. I let her touch the soft needles of the larch and she mimicked my enthusiasm. Pretty mountains and trees! she said in her tiny little voice. All of the worry, hesitation, and impatience I felt earlier melted away completely. Then she said, sing, mama!  So I sang. The ants go marching through the larch, hurrah, hurrah.

Maybe one day I’ll learn my lesson and find our limits. But until then I’ll keep pushing. Just a tiny bit.

 

Outdoor Life

Hiking History: Lake Crescent

Legend has it Lake Crescent is haunted. In 1940, some fisherman found a mass floating in the water that ended up being a body. It was perfectly intact, preserved by the near freezing temps of this deep glacially carved lake. The woman’s dead flesh was described eerily as “Ivory Soap” caused by a chemical reaction between the minerals in the lake and the fats in her body.

The woman was identified as Hallie Latham Illingworth, a Kentucky native and waitress at the Lake Crescent Tavern. Three years earlier she had disappeared just before Christmas. She was married to a local man who was well known for his womanizing and who had regularly beat her. It is said that she showed up to work with black eyes and bruises on her neck and arms. Her husband was eventually arrested for her murder, which occurred after a particular fight got too violent and he ended up strangling her to death. Her body was weighed down by weights and thrown into the depths of the lake. She became known as The Lady of the Lake and is still said to haunt the lake that entombed her after her horrific death.

The reason this lake perfectly preserved Hallie’s body and has such frigid temperatures is because of its depth. It is the second deepest lake in Washington after Lake Chelan with a max measured depth of 624 feet, although some unofficial measurements boast depths of over 1000 feet. According to the local native people’s history, Mount Storm King, the mountain that looms over Lake Crescent, was formed because of a battle between two tribes, the Quileute and the Klallam. The Mountain Storm King became angry at the fighting and threw a big boulder at the men. The boulder blocked the river and formed Lake Crescent, killing all of the warriors. Geological history backs up this native story. There is evidence of a landslide occurring that would have been big enough to raise the level of an older smaller lake, into the lake it is today.

The Spruce Railroad Trail, ambling along the northern shore of the lake, is a great place to get to know this lake. The trail has its own history. It was built in 1918 to move highly sought after spruce trees to be used in airplane construction for World War I bi-planes. The war ended before the trees could be used for their intended purpose, but the line remained open for logging until it was abandoned in 1951.

The trail is flat with peek-a-boo views of the sapphire colored water of the lake. The highlights of the trail include a quaint wooden bridge over a crystal clear pool known as the punchbowl, a popular swimming and diving spot. There are also some remnants of former railroad tunnels and even one that has been restored that you can walk through. It is just long and curved enough to get very dark inside for a brief time. I walked through it alone without a headlamp and definitely felt out of my comfort zone in the pitch dark for a minute or two. But I held onto a handrail, scooted a little quicker, and survived to claim a small victory.

Another area to explore is the Storm King ranger station on the western side of the lake. The ranger station made a home of an old settler’s cabin that has been restored over the years. From here there is lake access and a dock, where on a crisp autumn morning, I sat alone for a long while watching fog form and cling to Mount Storm King and Pyramid Peak and disappear. Interestingly, Pyramid Peak once hosted a lookout built in 1942 that was used as a spotter station to spy any possible approaching Japanese aircraft during World War II.

 

There are a few trails that start from the rangers station, including one that heads south across the highway to Mount Storm King and Marymere Falls. The trail crosses Barnes Creek and Falls Creek in deep woods that makes you feel miles from the highway. I had a particularly magical moment watching a young deer on this section of trail that will stick with me for a long time.

After a short distance, the 90 foot high Marymere Falls ribbons down through rock and forest and flows down to a placid creek, punctuated by yellow and orange leaves in the fall. The lovely name was bestowed to the falls by Charles Barnes, a homesteader and member of the Press Expedition through the Olympic Mountains, in honor of his sister Mary Alice Barnes.

 

     

Outdoor Life

A Lookout, Rocks, and Pumpkins

These are a few of my favorite things…

What is not my favorite thing? Being in the car with my almost two-year-old for any extended amount of time. But the crying, the screaming, the throwing things (mostly her, maybe a little bit me), was all worth it in the end. I was excited about this one. A super short little trail zigs up a for hot minute to Red Top Lookout and some spectacular Teanaway scenery. I had high hopes that Evie might even walk herself all the way to the top. She didn’t, but she walked about halfway up the steep trail and I was super proud when she said “backpack, backpack” for the first time, as in, “put me in the backpack and give me a snack now before I have a meltdown.” We put her in the pack, gave her a snack, and she was happy.

First built in 1952, Red Top lookout stands watch at roughly 5400 feet. It was restored in 1997 and is kept up by wonderful volunteers, making it one of the best kept lookouts I’ve been to. Some volunteers were there for the weekend and opened it up for us to peek inside. The two young men, swimming in their green Forest Service vests, described themselves as “lookout junkies.” A fuzzy blond dog was curled up on the cot as we swapped lookout stories.

After taking in the views of Mount Stuart, Rainier, and evens Adams, we continued on to go rock hunting. I thought this was the appropriate description until we reached the agate beds complete with a sign board listing rules and tips. It is actually called “rock hounding” according to the board. I was so excited, especially now that I knew what it actually called! I already felt like a pro. The instructions asked rock hounds to refill any digging holes and recommended using the “15 minute rule” to prevent harvesting too many rocks to carry back with you. It suggests holding the rock in your hand for 15 minutes and then looking at it again. If you love it, keep it. If you’re not sure carry it another 15 minutes. It then reads, “by this point, you should be pretty sure this is a rock you want to keep. If not, toss it back.” I love this rule.

Some folks passed us carrying shovels, grates, and hammers. “Going rock hunting?” I asked. Rookie mistake, surely true rock hounds don’t call it “rock hunting.” They entertained my question with a vague answer and I mentioned we were looking ourselves, we just don’t know what we’re looking for. My husband and I exchanged a glance with an awkward chuckle, hoping they would offer us a little advice. They didn’t. We made note of their gear to bring next time.

We picked around in the rocks looking for anything unusual or shiny. We were banking on beginners luck and Evie is really good at picking rocks. She picked them up and shoved them in my face saying, “ock, ock” until I looked at her and gave her my full attention, saying, “oh yes, that’s a nice rock.” Then she would point to more rocks and say, “nice ock.” Unfortunately, she didn’t find anything unusual or shiny.

We found a big hole that was already dug and decided that the mother load was once found there. We sat down and settled in, Evie between my legs babbling and picking away. We dug for awhile and were getting ready to move along when my husband found something interesting. I remembered reading something in the guide book about rare Ellensburg blue agate and thunder eggs being found here. We remembered that the sign board gave a hint: crystals are shiny and agates are translucent. This little nugget was blue and translucent. NO WAY! I yelled and then promptly dug in the same spot for more. We found a few more translucent white agates. They were tiny and mottled in muddy clay. I had to spit on them to see any color, but I was over the moon. We found something, maybe even some rare blue agate! We were officially rock hounds!

I could have stayed there looking all day and I think Evie could have too. But the blue skies had been slowly clouding up, the wind cooling with a fall crisp. We headed back to the car with our loot, just a pocket full or two of rocks. Later that night at home, I rinsed the rocks in the kitchen sink. The smell of earth released from the rocks overwhelmed my senses, I felt like I could taste it. Then in the shower, the same smell came from my hands. I breathed it in, the mountain colliding with my home, everything connected. I felt whole.

We took the long way home from Red Top. As Evie slept, we took a side road to explore the old ghost town of Liberty. We drove through the farm fields and small towns of the Cascade foothills. We found a pumpkin patch just after Evie woke from her nap.

We let Evie roam free in the pumpkin field as we each chose our favorites. My husband chose a large one, perfect for a classic moonshine face, I chose a smaller pastel orange one reminiscent of Cinderella’s carriage and we chose a little green one for Evie, one she pointed at a few times and we took as a the chosen one. However, we soon realized that she pointed at ALL of the pumpkins.

It wasn’t a perfect day. I’m fully convinced that any day with a toddler could never be bestowed with such a word. But it was a great day and an undeniably fall one. The very best kind: one full of my favorite things and my favorite people.

 

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