Actually, it may be my 19th. I moved here twenty years ago this month, but I don’t remember if I went up there that year. I know I’ve gone up there twice in a summer at least twice, so does that count?
I love both Paradise and Hurricane Ridge, and I’ve been to a lot of other wonderful wildflower hunting places (including Yellowstone, which doesn’t seem like a likely place to find a lot of wildflowers but most certainly is, and an incredible little state park in Indiana called Clifty Falls, which is absolutely amazing in April), but my favorite wildflower hunting grounds of all time are at Sunrise at Mt. Rainier National Park.
This year I was slightly late getting up there — my beloved alpine phlox was all but over except in a few favored places — but I still managed to rack up 36 different kinds of flowers. That’s my best total this summer!
One of the really neat things that the rangers do up at Sunrise (and at Hurricane Ridge) is put little signs near clumps of blooming plants that tell you what they are. I also have a couple of ID books, and I take photos of everything I see, so I can examine them better when I get home.
Here’s a sampling of what I saw today:
And here’s the list, pretty much in the order I saw them:
Monkeyflowers (Mimulus), pink and yellow
Broad-leaved and dwarf lupines
Paintbrush, scarlet and magenta
Polemonium (Jacob’s ladder)
One lonely Columbian tiger lily
Oh, and I saw a bear! In all the times I’ve gone hiking up at Sunrise, this is the first time I’ve seen a bear. It was at the Sunrise Camp, which is an ex-auto camp that’s been turned into a backpacker’s camp about a mile and a half behind Sunrise visitor center. There were about twenty of us watching it browse from a safe distance when I was there. It obviously knew we were there, and it equally obviously couldn’t have cared less. It was a bit closer to the trail than I was comfortable with, so instead of making my usual loop, I went back the way I came, along by Shadow Lake.
And I saw this bird. It’s got some blue on its back and rust on its front, and it’s about 6-8″ long, maybe?
No, this entry isn’t at all what you think it’s going to be.
The Heritage League of Pierce County, Washington, holds an annual outing for its members every summer, in which we (I’m a member of the board) showcase one or more of our members’ museums or other facilities. In this case, three closely-related organizations.
At one end of Fort Steilacoom (STILL-a-come) Park in the city of Lakewood, which used to be part of the grounds of what was once called the Washington State Insane Asylum, now Western State Hospital and one of the largest facilities of its kind in the U.S., is a cemetery, where the remains of over 3000 early inmates and some staff members of one of the oldest facilities for the mentally ill west of the Mississippi are buried. For many, many years, these graves were only marked with a number, and the records of who was buried where were kept private because of the stigma of mental illness. In 2000, concerned citizens formed Grave Concerns, a group which eventually got state law changed so that these graves could have proper headstones with the proper information on them, and started raising the money to replace the old numbered gravestones. They’ve made a lot of progress, and we spent an hour or so being taken by Laurel Lemke, the current president of Grave Concerns, on a tour of the cemetery, in a beautiful spot sprinkled with trees, between rolling hills.
After a picnic lunch in Fort Steilacoom Park, we crossed Steilacoom Blvd. to the current hospital grounds, where we met with Kathleen Benoun, who runs the Western State Hospital Museum, in the basement of the main building. Because of its location, the museum is open only by appointment, but it’s well worth the trouble to call and make one. The history of mental illness and its treatment is, in equal parts, scary and fascinating. Some of the equipment, housed in the museum, for these so-called treatments is enough to give a person nightmares. But seeing how the treatment of the mentally ill has changed over the last almost 150 years is heartening, too.
The hospital has a long history for this part of the world. It opened its doors in 1871, the same year that our first national park, Yellowstone, was created. It’s had a few famous patients over the years. The most famous, or infamous, was Frances Farmer, the actress whose story was immortalized in the movie Frances, starring Jessica Lange. The museum devotes a whole room (albeit a small one) to her.
The museum itself is housed in a few of the old treatment rooms, which definitely gives an air of authenticity to the whole place, especially with the echoing tile walls.
The third museum of the day was historic Fort Steilacoom itself, first built and manned as a defense against Indians in the 1850s. It was decommissioned in 1868, and the land and buildings given over to what is now Western State Hospital, but several of the fort’s original buildings still survive on the grounds. It’s open on weekends in the summer, staffed by volunteer re-enactor docents, and is also well worth a visit all on its own. The main building houses exhibits as well as an enormous diorama depicting the fort in its heyday, and several of the smaller buildings are furnished as they would have been originally.
And that was my day at the state psychiatric hospital (to use the modern and more appropriate term). I highly recommend a visit there for anyone. Just be sure to make that appointment to see the hospital’s museum ahead of time.
Hurricane Ridge is in Olympic National Park. I don’t get up there every year — it’s a bit farther than it is to Mt. Rainier — but I did combine a trip up there with a stop at the annual quilt show in Sequim, Washington, which in turn is associated with Sequim’s annual lavender festival. All in all it makes for a terrific, but very long day.
I’m going to concentrate on the wildflowers I saw, like I did with my last post about Paradise. The lavender festival was a bit earlier than usual this year. It’s usually the last weekend in July, but this year it was the 19th through the 21st. This meant that the flowers I saw were a bit different than those I normally see on this trip, because summer progresses so quickly in the mountains.
Most of the flowers I actually saw this time were on the Hurricane Hill trail, the first mile or so of which is along a south-facing slope. The meadows above the visitor center at Hurricane Ridge itself were mostly not quite in bloom yet, especially the lupine, which can turn whole sections of the meadows blue.
Anyway, here’s a sampling of photos of what I saw, with the full list after.
And here’s the list:
Paintbrush, magenta and scarlet
Saxifrage — not sure what variety exactly, sometimes it’s hard to tell
25 in total. Not quite as many as I saw at Paradise, but a credible day. I wonder how many I’ll see at Sunrise next week?
Can be quite the process on Mt. Rainier this time of year [g]. I spent the day up at Paradise (including a short jaunt down to Stevens Canyon) today, and counted 28 wildflower species that I could identify, and at least one that wasn’t in my book. Not bad when you consider that there were still two and three-foot snowdrifts around and about at Paradise. Instead of showing you the usual tourist pictures of the mountain for this trip, I thought I’d pull a Katrina (a birder friend who posts lists with accompanying photos) and show you some of what I saw.
I love summer, and mountain wildflowers are a big part of the reason why.
Oh, and here’s the list of everything I saw today that I could identify:
Avalanche lilies (white)
Glacier lilies (yellow)
Columbia red columbines
Jeffrey’s shooting stars
Two kinds of penstemon, Davidson’s and one not in my book
Two kinds of paintbrush (magenta and scarlet)
Columbia tiger lily
Oh, and one more thing, or, rather, two. I saw a dipper at Myrtle Falls (at least I think it was a dipper — it was too far away for a formal ID, but it was acting very much like a dipper, which is pretty distinctive, at least I’ve never seen any other kind of bird that dives into pools just above waterfalls). And a pika skittered across the trail in front of me on my way back from Myrtle Falls. He was too fast to get a photo. But you can hear the pikas everywhere up there this time of year. They sound very odd.
That’s it. I think [g]. It was a gorgeous day in Paradise, what can I say?
My last day on the road, alas. I got up and out early, and drove north from Seaside to Astoria, where I had an appointment with the curator (the librarian was on vacation) of the Columbia River Maritime Museum.
But that wasn’t until later in the morning, and in the meantime I wanted to visit the Astoria Column. I’d seen it in the distance any number of times on trips through Astoria, perched up there on its hilltop, but I hadn’t ever actually gone up there. So Kestrel (my car) and I crept up the steep, narrow streets — Astoria is much smaller than San Francisco in every aspect but its hilliness — to the top of the highest – peak may be an overstatement, but you can certainly see forever from up there.
It was eight in the morning, clear as a bell, and the shadows were dramatic. I’d had it in my mind that I was going to climb to the top of the tower, but I should have known better. I always forget about my fear of manmade heights. I don’t mind natural heights. I’ve stood at Glacier Point in Yosemite, 3200 feet above Yosemite Valley, a direct drop below, without a hint of trepidation. But when I visited Chicago I took one look at the then-Sears Tower and said, no way. Absolutely no way.
Then there’s the whole claustrophobia thing, which I do not forget about. I am very uncomfortable inside a plane if I’m not in a window seat, because I need to be able to see out, for instance, and I really do prefer my elevators to be glass, although I can manage regular ones if I have to. But caves don’t bother me, so I guess it’s the manmade thing again. Odd. At any rate, the inside diameter of the Astoria Column is about eight feet across. No windows. 164 steps to the top. I took about ten steps up and could just feel it closing in about me.
So I came back down and decided I would a) be satisfied with the views from the hilltop, which really were spectacular, and b) take my pictures of the column from the outside, which was much more interesting, anyway, with its mural about exploration.
And here’s the photographic evidence.
By the time I was done at the column, it was almost time for my appointment. The Columbia River Maritime Museum is on the waterfront, appropriately enough. It’s a fabulous museum, and I highly recommend it to anyone with even the faintest interest in western or maritime history or boats or lifesaving, or… But today I was there to do research, so I headed back to the library, where I met with the curator.
He was a very nice man, and it was a very nice library, but the library was not his area of expertise. He was persistent, though, and finally produced the main item I was there to see, a thesis written by a student of American Studies at, of all places, the University of Utah, on lighthouses and their keepers on the Oregon coast. She’d done a lot of field work on the coast, and research, and interviews, and one of the three lighthouses she focused on just happened to be Heceta Head. Gold mine. Even though the museum’s copy turned out to be missing its bibliography.
The curator also found me a number of other interesting items, and I had a very productive morning.
But after a beer-battered scallops and chips lunch at the Wet Dog Café, a place I’d eaten at before and loved (and which, unlike Mo’s, more than lived up to my memories of it), it was time to head home.
It was only a three and a half hour drive. But it started with being stopped near the very top of the Astoria-Megler Bridge by bridge repairs. I did mention my fear of manmade heights, right? Well, I managed to distract myself during the wait by taking photos from the car. I bet I’ll never get any from this vantage point ever again.
When I arrived home, it was to find that the condo hadn’t burned down and that the cats were just fine, and that was the end of this year’s “long” trip. While I had a good, and productive, time, here’s hoping next year’s holds more new territory and lasts longer. Sigh.
Two weeks ago today I drove from Lincoln City to Seaside, plus side trips. The first one was down the Nestucca River National Backcountry Byway, as the brochure I picked up at the Yaquina Head Visitor Center the day before titled it.
This was the only real stretch of road on this trip that I hadn’t ever been on before, and I only drove sixteen miles of it. But what I did see was lovely. It started out very bucolic, with farms and cattle and crops. Mostly dairy cattle — I wasn’t all that far from Tillamook and its famous cheese factory, after all. Then it narrowed down to something of a real canyon, with twists and turns and a rapidly running river. I came around one bend to find a deer at the side of the road staring at me about as avidly as I was staring at it.
I only went as far as the first campground, and I was happy to see that it, at least, had not been leased and/or ‘improved’ into an imitation private campground. Tucking that away in my mental notes for the next time I came down here, I headed back to Hwy. 101. Why is it that going in on a road like that always takes twice as long as coming back out?
My next stop was entirely serendipitous. I saw a sign, out in the middle of nowhere along Hwy. 101, saying Quilt Shop. Well, how could I not check that out? I turned down a narrow little dirt road, and about half a mile in, came to the end at a house with a quilt shop underneath it (in a daylight basement). I went in, and was amazed at what I saw out there in the middle of nowhere — lots and lots of fabric and notions, and samples pinned up wherever there was space. I spent a little time in there prowling around, and came out with several fat quarters from a sale bin. I suspect I’m going to regret that I didn’t get yardage of one of them — it was a really nifty tone-on-tone world map.
After that, I drove on to Tillamook, where I ate lunch and went to the cheese factory. You can’t go to Tillamook without going to the cheese factory and getting ice cream. Well, you can get cheese, too, but you have to get ice cream. Tillamook Mudslide, by preference. Chocolate ice cream with fudge ripple and chocolate chunks. Yum. They used to carry a really delicious lemon pudding ice cream, too, but apparently they’ve quit making it. Their other flavors are lovely, but I adore the Mudslide.
The afternoon was spent tooling up the coast to Seaside, via Garibaldi, a little town on Tillamook Bay, where I visited their historical museum, which was mostly about Robert Gray and his ship Columbia. He was the one who discovered and named the Columbia River.
And via Cannon Beach, where I went to theirhistorical museum. It was like Lincoln City’s museum in some ways. Cannon Beach (named after a ship’s cannon found not far from there) is an upscale tourist town, and has been one for most of its life.
I spent most of the rest of the afternoon walking the beach at Cannon Beach. I started at Tolovana Beach State Wayside, on the south end of town and walked all the way to Haystack Rock and back. Haystack Rock is another cool place to see tidepools, and here’s the evidence.
You can also see Tillamook Rock Lighthouse from here, just barely.
Tillamook Rock Lighthouse, or Terrible Tilly as it was called, is one of the most remote, desolate lighthouses in the U.S., if not the world. You can read about it at the link, but suffice to say it must have been one of the most dreaded postings in the lighthouse service. It is awfully picturesque, though. And then, at last, I drove up to Seaside and checked in at the Seaside Hostel. I’ve stayed here before on several occasions. It’s in an old motel, backing up to the river that flows through Seaside. Comfortable, convenient, and relatively cheap, and that was all I really needed for my last night on the road.
I got a kind of late start this morning two weeks ago, and I woke up to overcast skies and a fair amount of wind. In my experience, the Oregon coast is a very windy place, and I’d just been lucky the day before.
I stopped in Waldport at a visitor center commemorating the bridge over the Alsea River, which was interesting, especially since the bridge they were commemorating (built in the 1930s) had been replaced by a more modern one just a few years ago.
Then I stopped at an ocean view pullout and wrote for a while since I hadn’t the night before, before driving on to Newport, where I arrived about lunchtime, by design. I’d been looking forward to going to Mo’s, which is sort of an institution on the Oregon coast, famous for, among other things, its clam chowder. I’d eaten there before and enjoyed it, but not this time. As I wrote in my journal, it was “an absolutely wretched lunch. A crab melt, which was watery and flavorless, and, oh, the bread was burned, and a small cup of chowder, which tasted pretty much like Campbells out of a can. I don’t know what’s happened to Mo’s, but I won’t ever be going there again.”
I then went to the Yaquina Bay Lighthouse (Yaquina is pronounced ya quinn’ a). I’d been there before, but I thought it might be interesting again, and it was. The rooms are all decorated in period, and the lighthouse itself is in a state park. I wish Heceta Head’s lighthouse and keepers’ quarters were the same building, because I suspect it would facilitate the plot, but I’ll manage. Also, Yaquina Bay Light, which was only actually lit for three years (see the website for that story) is supposed to have a ghost, too.
After that I drove the short distance up the coast to the Yaquina Head Outstanding Natural Area. I thought I was going to get blown away, but other than that it was a terrific stop. They have a very nice visitor center with lots of interesting historical exhibits and a short movie about the lighthouse, and then there’s the lighthouse itself, which is the tallest one in Oregon (not in the northwest, that would be the Gray’s Harbor Light, which is in Westport, one of my favorite day trips from home). Once I was done in the visitor center, I drove on up to the headland, parked my car, and hung onto my hat (literally — my hair is thin on top of my head, and I always wear a hat outdoors to keep my scalp from getting sunburned). The views were spectacular again, but the tidepools were terrific. They were seven stories worth of stairs to reach from the lighthouse parking lot, but the basalt beach cobbles and the sea stars and crabs and sea anemones and other interesting critters were well worth the climb back up.
Then I headed north to Lincoln City, where I visited the North Lincoln County Historical Museum. They’ve done a very good job there, telling the story of that part of the Oregon coast. Lincoln City is basically five small beach tourist towns that banded together to provide basic services to their citizens. Lincoln City today is basically miles and miles of motels and strip malls and beach houses, but the history of the place — I was especially enchanted with the exhibit that told about the gathering of redheaded people that happened there every year, apparently for decades — was much more than that.
Sorry, yesterday got a bit out of hand. I’ll do today later on today.
I woke up early this morning two weeks ago today. I always do that when I’m camping. In the summertime this far north the sun rises pretty darned early. The day didn’t start out all that excitingly. I needed to do laundry. So I got up and out and headed back to Florence to a laundromat I’d noticed the day before, which opened early, fortunately.
With clean clothes neatly packed back in my suitcase, I headed back to the public library, where I finished going through their local history section and attempted to look at some microfilm of the local newspaper for a couple of particular dates, but was utterly stymied, first, by the fact that the young woman who responded when I asked for help did not know, and made it clear she did not want to know, how to run the microfilm machine. The machine in question made me realize how long it had been since I last worked as a librarian, too, because it was a fancy, newfangled variety attached to a computer, and it took me some time to figure out how it worked. Once I did, however, I discovered that the roll I wanted to look at had been wound onto the spindle so that it viewed upside down and mirror-imaged. Totally useless. It could be fixed, but not on that machine, not by me. So I made note of the name of the paper, and resolved to interlibrary loan the microfilm when I got home, so I could use it at my local library, where the librarians are much more helpful.
By that time it was lunchtime, so I found some lunch, then headed north, where my day improved drastically.
I was headed for Heceta (he cee’ ta) Head Lighthouse, my favorite place on the Oregon coast, and the setting for the new book, which is going to be a complete rewrite of a story I wrote a number of years ago — it won’t be recognizeable as the same book by the time I’m done with it, I suspect.
Heceta Head is named after a Spanish explorer, Bruno de Heceta, whose real claim to fame was that he was looking for the great river of the West way back when, and totally missed the mouth of the Columbia. But he did leave his name behind on the headland, and when the lighthouse was built there it, too, took his name.
That lighthouse and I go way back. My association with it started when I lived in Eugene in the 1980s and went through my first divorce. The lighthouse was only a little over an hour from where I lived, and was my favorite escape hatch when things were getting too messy at home. The keepers’ quarters, which are in the Victorian cottage near the lighthouse, are supposed to be haunted, too. I didn’t know this when I saw something in one of the windows of the then-unoccupied house on one of my many trips there. As it turns out, what I saw might have been the result of a prank. But then again it might not have been. I’ll never know.
But that’s the basis for the story I’m going to write.
I spent most of the afternoon at Heceta Head, touring the keepers’ quarters, which are now a very expensive bed and breakfast, and visiting the lighthouse. I was too early for the re-opening of the lighthouse itself to tours, after a two-year renovation, by a week, alas, but I did get to see what I needed to see. And I also got to see lots of shorebirds on the seastack nearby, through a telescope set up by volunteers at the foot of the lighthouse.
And I spoke with the man who runs the bed and breakfast, who gave me some photocopies of some research he’d collected, and spent the better part of an hour with me, talking about his experiences there and the history he’d learned. Which was extremely helpful.
After taking far too many photos (research, I tell you!), I walked back down to the beach, where I noticed that there are caves at the base of the headland. Thinking they might end up in the book, I went and checked them out, too. You never know…
It was getting on late in the afternoon by the time I left Heceta Head, but I had one more place I wanted to visit before I stopped for the night, Cape Perpetua (pronounced like perpetual without the L). It’s one of the highest points on the Oregon coast, and there’s a winding, narrow road leading to a viewpoint at the top. The view is one of those curvature of the earth things, where you’d swear that you were seeing more than 180 degrees from horizon to horizon. I’d somehow managed never to go up there before, but I’m glad I did this time.
By the time I got back down to Highway 101 it was getting late, and while I was only going as far as the tiny town of Yachats (ya’ hots, not yach’ ets as my father teased when we were here when I was a kid), it was time I got there and settled in. To a nice little mom and pop motel, where I spent a very comfortable night.
It’s very odd to go back to a place where you used to live thirty years before. Or maybe it isn’t for most folks, but it is for me. The three years I lived in Eugene, Oregon, were extremely tumultuous for me personally. Perhaps that’s why I always feel odd when I go back there.
At any rate, this time I wanted to go back to a particular place, Mt. Pisgah Arboretum, which is in the hills east of Eugene and south of its twin city on the other side of the freeway, Springfield (yes, That Springfield for you Simpsons fans, according to Groening himself).
But I digress. Mt. Pisgah isn’t an arboretum in the strictest sense of the term, or at least it’s not what I think of when I think of an arboretum, where lots of different kinds of trees and shrubs are planted and labeled. It’s more just a park. A really nice, wild park, with quite a few wildflowers in late spring.
I strolled the trails for a couple of miles, under the oak trees and through the meadows. I always forget how much this part of Oregon looks like parts of California. And what those big oak trees are like. I love them. I also saw a few critters, and even got photos of a couple of them.
Here’s what it looks like, and a sampling of the flowers.
After that, I went looking for some of my old stomping grounds in Eugene, mostly the apartment (since converted to condos) I lived in with my first husband, which was way up in the hills on the south end of town with a spectacular view down the valley. I didn’t take any pictures of it this time because I didn’t want anyone accosting me asking me what I was doing that for. I left my first husband in Eugene, and I met my second one there, too, probably way too soon for my own good. I also went looking for the apartment my second husband and I lived in for a brief time before we left the Northwest, which was one of the dumbest things I ever did (leaving the Northwest, that is), and found it, too.
Then, after a fast food lunch, filling the gas tank (I will never get used to not pumping my own gas, but they don’t let you do that in Oregon), and getting some cash, I headed west towards the coast.
It’s only an hour’s drive from Eugene to Florence, which is situated at the mouth of the Siuslaw (sigh’ oo slaw) River just about halfway down the Oregon coast. I visited the Old Town section, right on the harbor, then found the Siuslaw Pioneer Museum. After perusing their exhibits, I went to their library, which was staffed by a nice volunteer in her eighties who had recently taken the collection over from her predecessor who’d been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. She was still trying to deal with the results. But she helped me find some good things, and make copies, and it was several hours well spent.
I also spent some time in the local history section of the public library, and found more good stuff.
Then I went looking for a campground, and discovered something disgusting. I am normally a fan of forest service campgrounds. They’re usually cheaper, nice, and in quiet locations. Not this time. Most of the forest service campgrounds along the Oregon coast have been leased to private companies for management, and they might as well be privately owned for all their price and ambiance. I was appalled. $22 for a plain site (as opposed to one with hookups) is absolutely ridiculous. Camping in Yellowstone National Park costs less than that.
But I didn’t have a whole lot of choice. The three campgrounds I checked (one private, one state park, and the forest service one) were all the same price and the others were even worse for ambiance. So I paid my money, and I still may write my congresscritters about it. That was just Wrong.
There was a nice trail at the campground with a sign that said “to the beach” at the beginning of it, though. So I decided to walk it. I never did get to the beach — I checked the next morning, and it was several miles one way — but I did have a very nice walk. At one point, the trees arched overhead looking like that scene in The Fellowship of the Ring where the Black Riders are after Frodo. And flowers — mostly false lily of the valley and rhododendrons. Florence has a festival every spring celebrating the rhododendrons, which I’d just missed (which was fine).
After my walk, I fixed supper and settled in for the night. And that was my only night camping on this trip.