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

Book Club: 2018 Review

2018 was an amazing year for the book club. We read 11 books, 3079 pages, and hiked over 50 miles! We flew falcons, toured ancient pictographs, popped rocks with WTA, climbed a trail with marmots in the alpenglow of a Mt Rainier sunset, backpacked in the smoky summer sun, and swam in an alpine lake. We explored abandoned railroad tunnels, hiked in the clouds with Maria Mudd Ruth, and went mushroom hunting with Langdon Cook. We shared books, our stories, the trails, cups of tea, sweet treats, our muddy cars, and so so many hugs.

Alpine Trails Book Club 2018

Jan – The Little Book of Hygge // Snowshoe to Laura’s Cabin

Feb – H is for Hawk // Falconry with John the Falconer

Mar – Reclaimers // Hike along the reclaimed Middle Fork Snoqualmie River

Apr – Braiding Sweetgrass // Camping at Columbia Hills with Petroglyph tour and hike

May – Animal Dialogues // Hike to Icicle Ridge in Leavenworth

Jun – Dirt Work // Trail work with Washington Trails Association on the Snoqualmie Lake trail

Jul – A Year in Paradise // Camping and hiking weekend at Mount Rainier National Park

Aug – Almost Somewhere // Backpacking trip to Yellow Aster Butte

Sep – A Sideways Look at Clouds // Mount Baker hike in the clouds with author Maria Mudd Ruth

Oct – The White Cascade // Hike on the Iron Goat Trail to location of 1912 avalanche disaster

Nov – The Mushroom Hunters // Mushroom hunting with author Langdon Cook

In December we took a break from reading, but snuck in one last outing with the “regulars”- this time to one of our very favorite places, the bookstore! We couldn’t let the day go by without a walk and good food, so we paired our trip to Third Place Books with a walk around Seward Park and brunch and lattes at Raconteur. We each brought a wrapped book to exchange, white elephant style, each showing a side of ourselves not previously revealed. One brought a book that changed her life in school (the actual copy!), another brought a book she read in her tent while backpacking, while others (including myself) simply chose a book off the shelves that we could bear to part with or had an extra copy of.

It was a joy to reflect on the year, and it was hard to believe that many of us didn’t even know each other a year ago! I can’t imagine my life without these amazing women. We’ve gone on many great adventures which I talk about a lot, but what I don’t talk about as much is how AMAZING the women in this group are. Each member brings their own unique energy to the group and I always find myself rejuvenated after spending time with them.

Our group includes beginner hikers and backpackers to seasoned ultra-marathon runners and everything in between. We have women in their fifties who discovered hiking later in life and are just crushing the trails. We have one woman who conquered her fears of backpacking with us on a trail that was not particularly beginner friendly. She is the same member that has been working out every day and lost 30 pounds(!) since joining our group this year. We have young women just out of school, mothers, teachers, writers, artists. These women wake up in the middle of the night to make the long drive to our outings. We even have a member who occasionally comes all the way from Bend, Oregon just to hang out with us!

I started this group on a whim as a way to make new friends and build a community here in Seattle. I wanted to share the outdoor books that inspired me, but little did I know that it would be this group of women who inspired me even more. I can’t wait to see what 2019 will bring!

Belong by Radha Agrawal

In her thirties, Radha realized that her life was missing something: community. There are tons of scientific studies that show how community enriches our lives and makes us happier and healthier. Radha has made it her life’s goal to help others find their people. But before you can grow your community, you need to make sure that you are doing your part by being a good community member. She then gives you tools to nuture your own group, whether it be an early morning dance party club (like Radha’s) or an outdoor book adventure club of your own.

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

 

Book Club

Reading the Clouds

September is the best month for clouds. Little puffs of white invade the cotton candy blue skies of the hot, dry Pacific Northwest summer. Fish bones of ice striate the upper reaches of the atmosphere. Mid-level altostratus greet us at sunrise and bid us good day at sunset as they stretch into the horizon gathering reds, pinks, and oranges. And, most wonderfully, the good ole plain stratus returns. Yes, I do mean that non-descript marine layer that blocks out the sun and covers the earth in what some people may describe as smothering and depressing and what I call a nice, cozy autumn blanket. It’s even better when it extends itself all the way to the ground and becomes my favorite of all, fog. This is when I’m no longer just admiring the clouds, but am literally in the cloud. How does everyone not think this is the coolest thing ever?

I think Maria Mudd Ruth, the author of A Sideways Look at Clouds, would agree with me. In my favorite part of the book, she describes swimming in a lake early one September morning. Fog covered the lake and she bravely swam into it, attaching a string to the shore so she could follow it back. Just thinking of this scene makes me feel still and peaceful. I don’t think we are only ones with a heart for the foggy. Maria goes on to point out that there are a myriad of descriptors of fog (she writes about them in a blog post, 51 Names for Fog) proving to me that if people say they don’t outright enjoy the fog and its many forms, they at least respect it and maybe, on some deep down level, they enjoy it just a tiny bit.

On still, cool nights I sense that our tired, end-of-summer earth is sighing. In the morning there is the beautiful blanket of fog it has exhaled.

This mutual love for fog and clouds is what found me and the Alpine Trails Book Club sitting fireside in a historic forest service building listening to Maria read an excerpt from her book. I watched a tree sway in the rain-spotted window as the wind howled and the warmth of the fire brought feeling back to my fingers. Maria graciously agreed to come out and hike with us on what would have ideally been a gorgeous day of cumulus cloud spotting and admiring Mount Baker and the surrounding peaks. Instead, our group circled up at the trailhead (we were the only ones there) bouncing and swishing in our rainbow colored rain jackets and rain pants to keep warm. We hugged each other and introduced ourselves to our first ever guest author. Maria later told me she was convinced that she and I would be the only ones who showed up that day. I explained to her how hardcore and amazing our group is. Their wonderful smiling faces didn’t even flinch at that nimbostratus.

So we marched straight into the clouds surrounding Bagley Lakes. Maria fed us interesting bits of cloud knowledge as we fed ourselves with the surrounding ripe blueberries (of course). I corralled everyone onto a little stone bridge and did a little happy dance as I took the best photo of our group. I remembered that there was a ranger station near the trail and wondered if we could get to it to seek some shelter from the cold wind and rain. We climbed up stone steps attached to a smooth ancient lava rock to the old building and sure enough, there was a little covered porch area overlooking the lakes. We shed our wet coats and got out our mugs and even some china. Laura brought some hot chai to go with the pumpkin-flavored cloud-shaped cookies I made to share. Maria topped off our little tea party with some donut holes she used to demonstrate the origin of the word “cloud” derived from the word “clod” meaning “rock” or “lump”.

As we chatted on the porch with Maria about how her cloud book came to be, we smelled smoke. It lured us inside the building where we were greeted with what I can only describe as book club magic. Benches surrounded a raging hot fire and the place was empty save a few lovely lady volunteers. They explained to us that one of them had just cleaned out the old fireplace and thought this was the perfect day to try it out with a fire. I asked if they minded if we stayed and hung out for awhile in this bit of serendipitous perfection. They agreed, happy for the distraction on what would normally be a long, lonely day. Maria appropriately read a passage from her book about how rain forms and we peppered her with questions as we thawed our fingers and toes. Then she anointed as all pluviophiles, lovers of clouds.

I could have stayed there in that cozy room forever, but alas, we mustered up the courage to return to the outside and continue on the loop trail. The rain had slowed but the stratus clung to the mountains even more than it had earlier. But once in a while it would clear ahead of us just enough to give us the tiniest bit of a view of the surrounding mountains. It once even cleared enough for us to spot fresh snow on nearby Mount Shuksan.

I need to look where I was going, but I also need to stop and look up to appreciate the miracles of the sky, to experience the joy of the clouds, and to learn something new about them every day.

Maria’s book makes the science of the clouds interesting and approachable. She has such enthusiasm that exudes from every word on the page, it is contagious! After reading this book I vowed to pay more attention to the clouds. I have a new-found appreciation for these ethereal things of everyday life. I’ve started taking more pictures of clouds and I picked up some of the books Maria mentions in her book like The Cloudspotter’s Guide and The Met Office Pocket Cloud Book to learn even more. I find that this brings me immense joy and is just another way to enjoy and appreciate nature.

 

Although there was a mile or so of atmosphere between us, I felt a special kinship with these clouds at the lake. There was so little difference between us. Here we were, fluid bodies floating. Here were the clouds, aloft, reflected. Here I was, afloat, reflecting. I had found my way in.

You can learn more about Maria on her website. She is working on a new book (that can’t come soon enough!) and she wrote a lovely blog post about our outing, Book Club in the Clouds.

 

 

A Sideways Look At Clouds by Maria Mudd Ruth

Book Ends

Book Club

Yellow Aster Beauties

This month the book club went on our first backpacking adventure together. I chose a fun and quick read about a group of girlfriends who hiked the John Muir Trail back in the 1990’s. They just graduated from college and were taking a break before diving into real life. They spent 28 days hiking the 215 mile trail from Mount Whitney to Yosemite. When her friend Erika asked her to hike the JMT, the author Suzanne immediately agreed. She was not an experienced backpacker, but she had read a lot of John Muir, so she thought she knew what she was getting into. She climbed nine mountain passes, encountered snow, storms, and bears and dealt with food shortages, but mostly she had to learn to work together with two other women.

We opted for a much shorter hike than the JMT, Yellow Aster Butte, in the North Cascades. After a week of smoky skies in western Washington, it looked like the weekend was going to be a nice one with the smoke blowing off. When we reached the trailhead in a thick haze, though, I had a feeling that was not going to be the case. We decided to go on anyway, vowing to take our time and drink lots of water. We switchbacked up and up as we caught up with each other and what’s been going on since we’ve seen each other last. We didn’t have any new members come out with us this time and as much as I LOVE meeting new book-lovers out on the trails, it was kind of nice to spend extra time with some “regulars” and get to know these ladies better.

We chatted about our favorite parts of the book and we imagined which characters we would be. We even made plans to reenact our favorite parts later at the campsite. I imagined myself as Erika, of course, the leader and planner. I had to admit I was afraid that I scared everyone off a few weeks prior when I sent out a spreadsheet including an offer to pack the food. In the book Erika was ruthless with the food rations and the group regularly received meager tablespoons of oatmeal and often ate Powerbars for lunch. Nobody took me up on my offer. I laughed hysterically when I put two and two together, although the group promised they didn’t think I was an Erika.

Once we rounded the butte we found the trail that leads down to a huge open area filled to the brim with tarns. Kirstin spotted a campsite from above and it looked like the perfect spot perched on its own little island. We hustled down to stake our claim and have some lunch. Afterwards we felt like lounging among the sculpted rocks like marmots and reading and chatting. There was a tarn just below us, calm as could be, so we went down to lounge next to it. In the book, the girls have a “spa day” toward the end of their trip where they filed each others nails and braided each others hair. We thought that sounded lovely and decided to make our own “spa day.” We slipped into the water, one of us quite literally, and one of us quite purposely, and like Erika in the book, quite naked. I lingered on the edge with my feet in, squirming my toes into the thick oozy mud. I really wanted to get in, but I never swam in an alpine tarn like this. A small chunk of snow still clung to the far end. Then I just went for it. The alpine water washed away the trail dirt and smoke ash.  It felt like it washed away the stress and tension built up in my body over months or even years. I felt refreshed and renewed, better than any spa.

I didn’t want to leave our magical tarn, but when we spotted some strange bugs creeping along the bottom in the impossibly clear water, I high-tailed it out of there. I’m not usually afraid of bugs, but these were strange and we were pretty sure, just a few minutes before, that the tarn was devoid of any life whatsoever. They seemed to emerge from the mud. Yuck. So we headed back to camp and setup our three tents on our little island and just lounged some more. We had the perfect vantage point for people and marmot watching, both equally entertaining. The tarn basin tended to amplify the voices of the hikers coming down the switchbacks. We would hear voices and then get quiet to see if we could make out what they were saying. The basin amplified the whistles of the marmots as well and we watched groups of them play and roll on the steep slopes.

We discussed trail names like the women in the book had, and thought what ours might be. We gave other groups names too, there were the “dog people” who were yelling at their dogs the whole time they hiked down while the unleashed beasts terrorized the poor marmots. There were also the “rock people” who sat on a smooth rock across the way in a perfect circle, seeming like they’ve always been there and always will be. The next morning I discovered that the dog people were the same as the rock people and my head exploded. It made sense. The smoke had kept many people away and a normally very busy place was quite quiet on this weekend.

After we had enough lounging we moved onto dinner. We fired up our tiny stoves with a loud whhhhhrrrr, and I boiled my ramen noodles (I know you are thinking wow, those other ladies really missed out on a gourmet dinner. I know, right?) and we talked some more about the book. I first read this book about a decade ago and I remember totally relating to the author, Suzanne, who was obsessed with John Muir. I loved how she included a John Muir quote at the beginning of every chapter. Reading it again for this trip, I related more to her discovery that John Muir doesn’t have all the answers and its actually hard to relate to his stories, as fantastic as they are, because, well, turns out he’s not a woman. Suzanne discovered that her journey and story was not going to be the same as his. This self-discovery really stood out to me. I’ve realized how much I’ve been growing away from the “old, dead white guy” stories of nature and adventure that we are accustomed to, and have come to very much prefer stories from women’s perspectives. Simply because I am a woman and I can relate to them.

Rather than relying upon the language of men, a language that doesn’t take into account all the ways I felt about being in the mountains, I needed a language of my own to describe the landscape in all its complexity…

I love how Suzanne addresses gender in the outdoors quite frankly and unapologetically. She didn’t shy away from her 20-year-oldish boy crazy thoughts and daydreams, and also from her feelings of being uncomfortable and vulnerable around men she didn’t know on the trail. She doesn’t have an agenda, she’s simply telling her story from her female perspective. I adore these honest memoirs and it’s books like these that inspired me to go searching for more of them. I even made a list of my favorites that I’ve read and loved and will be adding to. There are so many great stories and it makes me so happy!

With the smoke it was hard to tell when the sun was setting, it just got darker and then all of the sudden we saw the moon. It was huge and full, like we could just reach out and touch it. And the smoke gave it a crazy deep orange glow. We retreated to our tents, and in true sleepover style, we stayed up late talking about anything and everything. I felt so comforted and safe with those ladies in their sleeping bags just feet from me. I am so grateful for the wonderful friendships I have with them. This trip, like Suzanne’s trip on the John Muir Trail, was not about the destination, heck we couldn’t see a thing! But it was much more about the journey and the connections we strengthened between each other.

We found our connection to each other, our place within wildness. The John Muir Trail was more than a completed goal. We didn’t conquer the mountains; instead, we learned to feel safe walking among them, to feel more at home in nature. And with each step we came closer to knowing ourselves.

 

Almost Somewhere by Suzanne Roberts

 

Book Ends

Book Club

A Weekend in Paradise

The waterfall took my breath away. I was perched on a steep slope as close as I could get to Comet Falls. The air was full of spray, my face instantly soaked, and it was hard to breath. I leaned in, yelled AHHHH and then signaled for the others to come see. They leaned in too and I pointed and yelled, RAINBOW! When we stood in just the right spot a brilliant rainbow appeared at the bottom of the waterfall. We put our arms around each other’s shoulders and closed the circle.

This month our book club group took a weekend trip to Paradise, quite literally. We drove up the long road from Ashford to Paradise Inn in Mount Rainier National Park, following in the footsteps (or rather, snowshoe steps) of Floyd Schmoe and his wife Ruth. Floyd and Ruth spent a winter on their own in the inn back in the 1920’s. Floyd then became a guide and naturalist and the couple spent many summers in Paradise and even took their 3-year-old son around the Wonderland trail on horseback. Floyd wrote a memoir about his time at Paradise, our book of the month, A Year in Paradise.

No place on earth except in a few similar alpine settings can you find such gorgeous wild flower gardens as along the streams of Paradise Valley: white water singing songs, gray water ouzels building nests, and massed flowers nodding approval – a combination of sounds, sights, and odors that lacks only an Adam and an Eve to make of it a little Garden of Eden within the larger Paradise.

 

Our adventure weekend started at Comet Falls and Van Trump Park. We spotted a few avalanche lilies about halfway up the trail and swooned. We spent several minutes snapping photos and getting the best angles, only to find out later that the avalanche lilies were in full bloom all along the trail. I’ve never seen so many of the delicate white flowers on a single trail. They blanketed the forest floor, giving the trail a magical feel.

We climbed up and up in the heat of the day until we topped out and finally got a glimpse of Mt Rainier herself. We could see icicles hanging of the glaciers that must have been massive. As we ate lunch we heard the crash of avalanches and rocks in the distance. We reluctantly tore ourselves away from the view and headed back down to set up our campsite at Cougar Rock and meet up with some others in our group.

After settling in and making introductions over delicious snacks, we geared up for a sunset hike to Pinnacle Saddle. Floyd mentions climbing the peak in the book and how from its vantage point on the Tatoosh Range, you can see a perfect view of Paradise Valley. We climbed up, wondering how far we would get before hitting snow. The views of Mt Rainier are non-stop from the beginning and only get better with each foot of elevation. We crossed just a few spots of snow and were thrilled to make it all the way to Pinnacle Saddle.

 

In the evening when the sunset glow climbed quickly up the ice dome of the mountain and was reflected across Paradise Valley, the pearly gates stood wide-open and all our streets were really paved with gold.

 

We cheered each other on as we reached the flat saddle in the golden glow of sunset. In front of us were sweeping views of Mt Adams, Mt St Helens, and even Mt Hood. We snapped photos and turned around to see The Mountain herself, in full glow. The timing was perfect and we relished every second, even though we were getting swarmed by mosquitoes. When we’d had enough we tiptoed back down the scree, quickly realizing just how much we had climbed. Above us, Pinnacle Peak blazed a fiery red. By the time we reached the trailhead, it was dark.

 

 

We returned to the campsite, excited by the sunset hike. We fueled up on Laura’s amazing homemade chocolate chip cookies and chatted about our day. I was exhausted from the heat and all the hiking we did that day, but also energized. I leaned back and counted the stars. When I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore I snuggled up in the tent, sleeping for the first time in a long time, without the rain fly.

 

 

The first patch of bare ground had appeared on the south slope of Alta Vista, and the first creamy-white avalanche lilies were nodding a welcome to us and the warm spring sunshine.

 

The next morning we lazily prepared our breakfasts and slowly sipped tea. Most of us weren’t finished with the book so we took advantage of the morning to sit and read while we ate. Some people might think it’s rude to sit at the table with others and read a book, but here, it was perfectly acceptable.

After breakfast we headed back up to Paradise for the last of our hikes. The Skyline Trail was lined with avalanche lilies, pasque flowers, and heather. Marmots popped up and bid us good day, even sometimes showing off by posing majestically on rocks. We found a perfect spot for lunch with a view of Mt Rainier, of course, and the valley below. It was the perfect spot to chat about the book. I couldn’t help but wonder what Floyd would think of a group of women reading his book and hiking in his footsteps almost 100 years later. From his book he seems like a very forward thinking man for his time and I like to think that he would have got a kick out of it. Later we learned that Floyd lived until 2001 when he died at the ripe old age of 105(!). I like to think that his time on the mountain had something to do with that.

Before leaving Paradise, we had to go visit Paradise Inn, where Floyd and Ruth spent the winter of 1919. The historic inn is much as it was back in their day, and as we approached, we heard piano music coming from inside. It was easy to close your eyes and imagine Ruth playing it. One of our sweet group members treated us to cold water and ice cream. It was the perfect ending to our weekend in Paradise.

 

… we were both acutely aware of the healing calm of the wilderness around us, of the forests below and the skies above, and of the great silent mountain which stood over us.

 

A Year in Paradise by Floyd Schmoe

Book Ends

 

             

Book Club

Dirt Work

There is nothing like getting your boots and gloves dirty on the trail. This month we did just that by volunteering with the Washington Trails Association and reading Dirt Work. The book is a memoir by a self-described “traildog” who has worked trails in several National Parks. From the beginning Christine encounters sexism. In order to prove herself, she has to quickly learn how to use a saw and to endure long days of difficult physical labor. It’s a long road, but she finds that she thrives as a traildog, despite the wear and tear on her body.

Our dirt work day was quite different than Christine’s typical day on the trail. Our group was enthusiastically greeted by the WTA crew and they wanted to know all about the book we read. We stood in a circle and introduced ourselves and the crew leader asked us, in the spirit of the book club, to share our favorite genre of book. This made me very happy and it was something that I assume would never happen in one of Christine’s trail briefing.

Our major goal for the day was to brush out the Snoqualmie Lake trail. The salmonberry bushes were encroaching the trail making for low visibility and wet clothes for hikers in the rain. We were sure to snack on the ripe berries before we “lopped” them to oblivion, sometimes digging them out completely. We unceremoniously slung the poor victims into the depths of the forest to turn to dirt. It seems callous and wrong, but man, it is satisfying. We did a heck of a job.

Some members of our team worked on tougher tasks like digging drainage and moving large builders to support them. We were also tasked with “popping rocks” which is the glamorous job of digging up rocks in the middle of the trail that may be a tripping hazard. Have you seen a trail in the Cascades? Someone could literally spend a lifetime popping rocks on the trails here. Not nearly as satisfying as brushing, but it’s fun to say.

The thing about the book that stood out to me the most was how Christine really appreciated the female companions and teachers she had on the trail. It is nice to feel supported on the trail and like you belong there. WTA does a fantastic job of making you feel at home (no matter the gender) and they really take the time to make sure you are taken care of. This day was made even more special with the support of our fabulous book club crew and from my sister who was in town visiting and was brave enough to join us for the day.

Trailwork is not fetish, hiatus, or a meander off a truer path. Through two decades of changes, years of both drudgery and stimulation, trailwork has been an unexpected constant, the magnetic pull that swings my inner needle true, the thing that has taught me, in a way, how to live.

 

Dirt Work by Christine Byl

 

Book Ends

 

Book Club

Animal Dialogues

My worn paperback copy of The Animal Dialogues lives on the “dad” shelf of my living room bookshelves. Most of the spines happen to be black, brown, or gold (dad colors, right?) and have either been given to me from my dad or remind me of him. Some I picked up on our road trip through Alaska ten years ago, others are his old bird identification books, their covers tattered from use. Most are about wildlife, adventure, or nature in some way, books I’ve read and loved and sent him for his birthday or Fathers Day so he could read them too. A simply framed box, given to me on my 28th birthday, holds four sharply cut arrowheads found by my dad or my grandfather and rests on a pile of books in the center of the shelf. A carefully detailed account of when and where each was found tucked behind the casing. Other little items that my dad has passed onto me through the years are carefully placed between the books like one of his high school report cards (his best grade was in Biology) and an old engineer’s handbooks from the 1940’s. My grandfather was a train engineer and I love flipping through the delicate blueprints of steam locomotive systems that fold out of the books. One could learn much about my dad and his interests from this shelf, and consequently, much about myself and the traits I get from him and my grandfather.

So needless to say,  I was thrilled when mountain guide and adventure writer, Charlotte Austin, recommended reading this book and collaborating with her online book club, Adventure Grapes. I first read this book about a decade ago and I could immediately and vividly recall the Raven and Mountain Lion chapters. I was excited to revisit it and since Craig grew up in Arizona and many of his stories are set there, it would pair nicely with an upcoming road trip to his home state. We planned our May book club outing to Icicle Ridge, a nice early season hike near Leavenworth. Laura invited us to camp at her family’s nearby cabin so I brought the whole family- my husband, Evie, and doggie Nali. It’s been awhile since we’ve all been out on an adventure together.

We were greeted at the cabin with hugs and bug spray. I was secretly hoping that we would have some epic wildlife encounters over the weekend and I was encouraged when I spotted a coyote trotting down the railroad tracks next to highway 2 on our drive to the cabin. BUT, as the saying goes, be careful what you wish for. We did have an epic encounter with an animal highlighted in the book. Unfortunately, it was with a less desirable species: the mosquito. I played it cool for awhile and nonchalantly swatted the bugs while I listened intently to my friends, concentrating on making eye contact and nodding in agreement, uh-huh (slap, slap). This lasted a little while until I couldn’t take it anymore. I  jumped up and really sprayed myself with bug spray this time, hovering the bottle for a long time over my limbs and head. I felt like Craig’s friend who had gone crazy from the mosquitoes in Alaska. We had been at the cabin for approximately 30 minutes. Ugh.

Laura and I and some others who had arrived decided to take refuge in the car and head over to Lake Wenatchee for a short hike while the sun was beginning to set. We lingered along the shoreline, basking in the fresh and bug-free air until we got too hungry and headed back to the cabin for dinner. As we drove, it started unexpectedly raining. Then it rained harder. Our husbands had stayed behind to keep a fire going and we found them huddled on the porch out of the rain. The fire still burned and they found round pieces of bark to place on the fire grate that made perfect little houses to cook our sausages. The rain dispersed the bugs, the porch kept us dry, and we ate via lantern light as we told our own scary wildlife encounters. This was after hearing the news that someone had been killed by a mountain lion that morning in an area where we all regularly hike. It was the first fatal attack by a mountain lion in Washington in nearly 100 years. Sadly, the victim had done everything they were supposed to do. It was a sobering reminder that we too have a place in nature’s food chain.

The next morning we headed to Leavenworth to fuel up on caffeine at the adorable Argonaut Espresso Bar. We met the rest of our group at the Icicle Ridge trailhead and headed up the trail through a thick stand of green maples. The lushness soon gave way to the typical dusty trail lined by ponderosa pine, lupine, and balsamroot (that magical combination again!). It was warm and getting hotter by the minute on the exposed trail. But the views of the Icicle Valley and the Wenatchee River below were getting better and better. I slogged up the switchbacks, happy to have time to clear my mind. That’s the thing about hiking, you don’t have to make many decisions. You just follow the trail. I thought of the part in the book when Craig yearns to be an animal with no plans, no quarrels, just sticks and stones.

It is the wish to be an animal again, to have the eyes that I have lost. No presuppositions. Just sticks and stones. I want something that is gone, something unacceptable, irrational. Where it is known when to sleep, where to seek food, which direction to turn. Where it is understood, without quarrel or reason. I want to lose my fingers and plans and I want to fly.

We gathered at the top of the ridge in the shade and lingered a while. We marveled at our new view of the Wenatchee River raging through Tumwater Canyon, a stark contrast to the lazy version flowing through town. Waterfalls blazed white on the far reaches of the ridge and carved their way down to the river in impressive ribbons. We all agreed that it seemed early for the amount of snow melt happening already this year. We walked along the ridge through balsamroot to the overlook, Leavenworth spread out below, and asked someone to take our picture. We had sunglasses and hats on, full of mosquito bites and sweat. Ah, it felt like summer.

I wanted to share the discussion questions I came up with for Adventure Grapes, you can see them here. I would love to hear your thoughts on the book. It is one of my favorites and brings up so may fascinating questions about our relationship with wild animals. We can’t possibly know what goes on in an animal’s mind, but I know that we are not the first animals to think, remember, love, and see beauty and we should treat them accordingly. As Robin Wall Kimmerer says in her book, Braiding Sweetgrass, we have so much to learn from these species who have been on the earth much longer than us.

The life of an animal lies outside of conjecture. It is far beyond the scientific papers and the campfire stories. It is as true as breath. It is important as the words of children.

 

The Animal Dialogues by Craig Childs

 

Book Ends
Book Club

Skywoman Falling

She fell like a maple seed, pirouetting on an autumn breeze.

I put my hand on my heart, my shoulders relaxed, and took a deep breath. This simple opening sentence to Braiding Sweetgrass invited me in like an old friend or favorite relative. Robin Wall Kimmerer unfolds the origin story like a warm blanket. The woman falls from the sky until she is caught on the wings of geese. They carried her downward until they could no longer hold her above the water that encompassed the earth. Other animals rose to help her: otters, beavers, fish, and a great turtle offered its back to rest on. The others, understanding that she needed land to live on, dove to the bottom of the sea to find land for her. Many tried and failed until a little muskrat gave it a go and after a long while returned with a small handful of mud. The mud grew and grew as the woman gave her thanks for what the animals had done for her. Together they formed what was called Turtle Island.

I can’t help but wonder how the world would be different if we all were told this origin story.

Our book club camping weekend started out much less gracefully. The pirouetting skywoman would have been rudely blown off course if she was heading for the Columbia Gorge on this day. Laura and I stepped into the wind tunnel that would be our home for the next two nights with literally the highest sustaining wind speeds I think I’ve ever felt. We worked together to pitch the tent next to the fence-like structure that may otherwise seem out of place on a non-windy day and made perfect sense on a day like this. It helped. I told Laura the wind would surely die down. It did not. We took refuge in the tent as a few others arrived and even some rain came to keep us on our toes. We were in good company though, and talked books in the tent for awhile.

I wanted to see the shimmering threads that hold it all together. And I wanted to know why we love the world, why the most ordinary scrap of meadow can rock us back on our heels in awe.

The next morning I woke early in the morning. Now that I have a 1-year-old I have apparently (and very reluctantly) become a “morning person” and wake promptly at 5:55am and cannot go back to sleep for the life of me. So I got up and went for a drive up the Dalles Mountain Ranch road to see how the flowers were doing. I found fields of goldenrod and aster. Well, actually it was lupine and balsamroot, but it was the same gold and purple pair that Robin describes with an entire chapter in the book. Science makes these colors attractive to us, and more importantly to bees, so that they will more likely pollinate the flowers. I waded through the tall grass and sat on a rock. I noticed that next to me was a small indentation in the vegetation where the tall grass was laid flat, where another animal took refuge. I contemplated, like Robin, the purpose of beauty and I gave myself space and time. To be grateful. To ponder. To listen to the plants to hear what they had to say.

Beginning with where our feet first touch the earth, we send greetings and thanks to all members of the natural world.

After returning to the group, we headed to the Columbia Hills State Park’s pictograph tour. The wind had calmed down a little bit (thankfully!) and we met more members of our group near some petroglyphs on display. The petroglyphs were carved into the rock by an ancient people about a mile from where we stood in a cave that had been flooded when the Dalles Dam was constructed in 1957. One of many dams of the Columbia River, this is the one that also flooded the famous Celilo Falls, a series of fast-moving cascades through this area of the river. A guide led us to see pictographs, which in contrast to the petroglyphs, are painted onto the rock surface using pigments and dyes created from nearby natural materials. The pictographs vary in age from 300 to 1000 years old and have been preserved in their original locations. These were created by a different group than those that carved the petroglyphs. Our guide told us that the pictographs were most likely painted by young men who went off from the village (located near the river that is also now flooded) up into the hills on vision quests. They would sit in a spot on the rocks for days until they had a vision. They would then draw pictures of their visions which most often came to them as an animal. The animal that appeared to them would give them clues to their strengths. If they saw a skunk, they will be a good parent, if they saw an owl, they would be a good hunter.  We saw owls and bear-like faces, sometimes with zigzags emanating from the animal face. The zigs above the animal connected them to the spirit world, and the zags below grounded them to Mother Earth.

The main attraction here, though, is Tsagaglala, or She Who Watches. She was the chief of the nearby village when Coyote came. Coyote asked her what kind of chief she was and she replied that she taught her people to live well and build good houses. Coyote told her that change was coming to the village, some good and some bad. A new people would come and with them bring tools that you can’t even imagine. But they would also bring death and destruction and women would no longer be chiefs. The chief told Coyote that she wished she could watch over her people forever. Coyote, the trickster, then turned her to stone and said, “now you shall stay here forever, watching over your people and the river.” So surely she’s been watching.

Like Coyote predicted, she watched new people, the Europeans, come to the village and with them death and disease. Our guide told us that they don’t know much about the pictographs and petroglyphs simply because almost the entire tribe of people had been killed by disease. Tsagaglala has also watched the construction of the railroad and later the dams that would flood her beloved people’s homes and history. Our guide was there when the dam flattened the falls in 1957. He was just a boy, but he remembers standing next to the tribal elders as they watched and shed tears.

A major theme of the book is gratitude and I could not have been more grateful for the group we had at Columbia Hills. It was our biggest group outing yet and these women (and one brave and wonderful and kind man) made my heart melt with joy. Each and every person in the group was a badass in their own way and inspired the crap out of me. Some came all the way from Bend, Oregon, some woke in the wee hours of the morning to drive hours and hours to get there on time for the pictograph tour. Some are moms, some are not, some in their twenties, others in their fifties and anywhere in between. We came from many different backgrounds and we all got along so well. You could say we were each a unique strand of sweetgrass that weaved into the perfect basket.

While reading the chapter where Robin describes her youngest daughter leaving for college and her cousin leaving eighteen thoughtful gifts to help her transition to her new life without kids in the house, I cried. It was such a beautiful gesture and I could only hope to have such a thoughtful friend when that time comes for me. I know I have like 16 and 1/2 years to go, but when one of our members brought me a small beautifully woven basket she made and said it was for me, I couldn’t help but think of that story as tears welled in my eyes.

Today we have gathered and when we look upon the faces around us we see that the cycles of life continue. We have been given the duty to live in balance and harmony with each other and all living things. So now let us bring our minds together as one as we give greetings and thanks to each other as People. Now our minds are one.

On Saturday evening we wandered over to Horsethief Butte for a sunset hike. The short trail loops up onto the butte through balsamroot and boulders painted in lichen. Tall grass rustled in the wind at a comforting pitch. At the top, the way opens up into what I can only describe as a cathedral. Massive rocks surround a relatively flat area full of flowers. I immediately felt like I was in a very special place. As we investigated more, we found an area of fallen rocks blocked off with a sign. The sign said that these rocks were not to be disturbed. They must have been special in some way. Maybe they were part of an ancient pictograph? I stood in silence and felt the urge to speak only in whispers. Our group split up and half of us climbed up one side and the rest climbed to the other side as the sun spilled it’s glow on us. We waved to our friends on the other side, silhouetted in the last of the day’s sun rays.

The next morning we headed to the Dalles Mountain Ranch for the grand finale of the trip. Part of the Columbia Hills, the Dalles Mountain Ranch is a large swath of land up in the hills above the Columbia River. The ranch dates back to 1866 with several owners until it was sold to the DNR in 1993. The most interesting thing about the park is the number of deciduous trees despite the arid landscape. The trees were actually planted in response to the Timber Culture Act of 1873 which gave homesteaders an extra 160 acres of land if they planted at least 40 acres with trees. The idea was that trees would bring rain to the area. Of course, this didn’t really work and the idea was later abandoned.

The ranch is still home to lots of deciduous trees and countless numbers of wildflowers. Arrowhead balsamroot and lupine dominated the landscape but there was also phlox, prairie star, desert parsley and countless others. We hiked a loop through the park and ooo’d and aww’d at the views. Mt Hood never quite revealed her full self, but once in a while we’d get a little glimpse of her.

At the end of the hike we said our goodbyes and gave each other hugs. I was a little sad that this amazing weekend was coming to an end, but I was also incredibly happy. We were mostly strangers in the beginning of the weekend and now we left as friends. Robin talks a lot about reciprocity in the book, if you take care of the earth, it will take care of you. This weekend, I’ve learned that this also applies when it comes to friendships. When you are willing to get out of your comfort zone and open up to others, wonderful friendships will blossom.

We are showered every day with gifts, but they are not meant for us to keep. Their life is in their movement, the inhale and exhale of our shared breath. Our work and our joy is to pass along the gift and to trust that what we put into the universe will always come back.

Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer

 

Book Ends

 

         

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