Waughop Lake is part of Fort Steilacoom Park in Lakewood, Washington. It used to be a farm for the mental hospital across the road, where the patients doing farm work was considered therapy back in the old days. Nowadays it’s a city park, with soccer fields and a bark park (as my sister calls off-leash areas) and trails. And an old cemetery managed by a wonderful group called Grave Concerns.
Waughop Lake is not a Native American name, even though it sounds like it ought to be, at least to me. It’s named after a former superintendent of the mental hospital.
Anyway, it was a lovely spring day, and my new camera lets me take much better photos than my old one. So here’s some of what I saw.
Yes, I woke up to more rain two weeks ago today. I drove back into the park, anyway, of course (it’s about thirty miles from West Yellowstone to Old Faithful), and parked Kestrel (my car) near the lodge. Still feeling optimistic about the weather at this point, I packed up my daypack with all the necessities for a day out in the geyser basin, including, but not limited to, my Kindle, my journal, and my cross-stitch (some geysers must be waited for, sometimes for up to three or four hours).
Fortunately, my daypack is waterproof and I have a good raincoat. My first stop was in the visitor center, to check the eruption predictions. Old Faithful itself goes off often enough that one can often catch it in passing while headed somewhere else, but Riverside only goes off every six hours or so, Castle every nine to eleven hours, and the Grand, that pinnacle of predictible geysers, erupts about every seven to eight hours, so if I wanted to see them, I needed to know when to go sit and wait for them.
Eruption predictions are never on the minute. Grand, for instance, has a three-hour window, which means that it’s most likely to go off up to an hour and a half on either side of the prediction time. Riverside and Castle were predicted to have morning eruptions, and the Grand wasn’t due to go off till late afternoon.
Anyway. About the time I left the visitor center, the sky opened up. Not quite raining in sheets, but in the five minutes it took me to walk from the visitor center to the Old Faithful Inn, I was fairly drenched where my raincoat didn’t cover me, and the visor of my hood was dripping.
Still, as I peered through the murk over towards Old Faithful, I did see Lion Geyser erupting in the distance. But I really didn’t want to get any wetter, so I used the zoom on my camera to get this shot.
And instead of sitting out in the rain waiting for things to erupt, I went into the Inn and found myself a cozy spot and caught my journal up after several days of ignoring it. Not exactly what I’d had in mind, but there are much worse places to be stranded.
An hour or so later the rain let up and I finally went out into the geyser basin. I walked out as far as Castle Geyser, which had apparently gone off during the rainstorm but was still bellowing (and I mean bellowing — the sound is pretty impressive) steam.
I turned right and headed across the bridge towards Sawmill, which was churning away as usual. I know the “real” geyser gazers don’t think much of Sawmill because it robs energy and water from other, rarer geysers like Tardy and Penta, but I like Sawmill, for its chugging sound (hence the name) and simply because it looks like it’s thoroughly enjoying itself.
Most geysers do. I can’t help anthropomorphizing them that way. I just can’t. I’ve never met a more cheerful geologic phenomenon than a geyser, and that’s just the way it is.
I strolled around Geyser Hill, past Giantess (one of the biggest geysers in the world — and also one that I’ll probably never get to see because it erupts so seldom) and Beehive, which is not an officially-predicted geyser, but can be caught occasionally because it’s got what’s called an indicator, which is a small geyser off to its side that often starts erupting just before Beehive itself does. I’d missed it this morning, but here’s what it looks like from 2008, in much better weather, when I didn’t miss it.
Then it started raining again, and it was past lunchtime, so I went to what’s affectionately known as the Lower Ham (Hamilton, although it’s no longer owned by the family) store, and ate lunch at the counter there. That lunch counter/soda fountain has been there a long time, by local standards. The store itself was first built in 1897, and Charley, who was still Chuck at that point, ate his last meal in 1959 there before he inadvertently time-traveled back to 1877 in Repeating History. It’s also where James first went looking for his son just after Chuck disappeared and met Jo in Finding Home. An important place, the Lower Ham store.
Then again, so is the whole Upper Geyser Basin, so far as I’m concerned. My short story “Homesick” takes place here, too, and one geyser in particular is very significant in both Repeating Historyand “Homesick.”
It took the rain a while to let back up again, alas, although I did catch what turned out to be my only view of Old Faithful from where I’d walked back to the Lodge (as opposed to the Inn), and by the time it did, it was getting close to four in the afternoon, Grand’s predicted time. Of course, given the window, it could have already gone off, but I didn’t have anything to lose except the time and a little shoe leather, so I headed back out one more time. Except for the rain, this was a pretty normal geyser basin day for me. Out and back and out and back, watch this geyser and that, have a thoroughly good time.
Anyway, when I got back out to the Grand, there were still a fair number of people sitting and waiting. My spirits rose. And, lo and behold, less than ten minutes after I sat down, guess what happened?! Grand’s pool, which had already been overflowing, started generating little waves, Turban (a kinda sorta indicator) went off, and away Grand went! I think that’s the shortest amount of time I’ve ever waited for the Grand.
And it was. Grand, that is. Just one burst, but it was a good long one, and that was enough to make my day. Make my trip, actually.
Especially since I always think of the Grand as Charley’s geyser. It was a crucial half (the other half being an earthquake I’ll tell you about tomorrow) of the phenomenon that sent Chuck back in time to become Charley in Repeating History, and it also caused Charley’s son Will and — okay, this may get confusing — Will’s five-year-old grandson Chuck (yes, that Chuck) to witness something in “Homesick” that changed their lives forever.
The rain didn’t start back up yet again until I was back in my car and headed back to West Yellowstone an hour or so later, either, and that was a good thing, too.
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?
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?
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.
And now we start having photographs. Lots and lots of photographs.
I left the hostel fairly early in the morning, and drove up into the west hills of Portland to the Pittock Mansion, where I wandered around the gardens, then sat in the car and read for a while before the house itself opened up for the day. The Pittock Mansion was built around the turn of the last century by the owner of the Oregonian, Portland’s newspaper which is still published today, who apparently had more money than he knew what to do with. It’s perched on a site with views that reach clear to Mount Hood in good weather (which did not happen while I was there, alas, although I could still see almost all of Portland from up there), surrounded by beautiful gardens, and the house itself is incredibly elegant. So he had taste as well as money.
Here are some photos, although I have to say the website does a much better job of it than I do.
After I left the mansion I drove back down into town looking for an on-ramp to I-5 or I-405 southbound, and could not find one for love or money. I ended up on U.S. 99E, down through Milwaukie and Clackamas County. Which didn’t turn out to be such a bad thing, since I found lunch along the way. I had originally intended to get on I-205 from there, but I discovered that staying on 99E was actually going to take me where I wanted to go, anyway.
That was the Aurora Colony, which I’d read about in the book Aurora: An American Experience in Quilt, Community, and Craft by Jane Kirkpatrick, who I met online through a writers’ organization I used to belong to. I have to say I was disappointed in the Aurora Colony itself, which was mostly a bunch of antiques stores strewn along the highway. Somehow, in spite of their website, that wasn’t what I was expecting.
So on I went. Someone on the Hardy Plants email list had told me about a place called Heirloom Roses. This place did live up to what I was expecting. In spades. Acres and acres of roses in full bloom, mostly heirloom and species and shrub and climbing roses, although they did have some floribundas and hybrid teas. The whole place smelled like sweet tea tastes, which is the only time I like the way sweet tea tastes (despite having been born in the South, I prefer my tea with lemon and no sugar, thanks). By this point the weather had cleared up again, too. A perfect place to spend a perfect afternoon.
Anyway, here’s the pictorial proof of how gorgeous this place was.
And, on top of that, I heard a hawk crying over my head, and saw a California quail in the greenhouse, of all places.
After that, I stopped at Champoeg (pronounced sham poo’ ee) State Park, the site of some of Oregon’s earliest political efforts and a pretty riverside park. I’d been thinking about camping there, but decided against it, so I drove on to Salem and ended up in a motel. Which was fine, too.
About three miles from my house is a place called Bradley Lake Park. It’s not a big place — the lake itself takes up most of the acreage, and the trail around it is less than a mile long (.8 of a mile, according to the little sign where the path from the parking lot Ts into the lake trail itself). And it’s directly behind a Walmart.
But you’d never know that to look at it. Or to walk through it. I’ve seen a bald eagle catch a fish out of Bradley Lake. I’ve seen rabbits and squirrels there, and of course the resident populations of coots, ducks, and Canada geese. In the summertime it’s green and lush, and there are more wildflowers than you’d expect — ranging from skunk cabbage, which is much prettier than its name — it looks like bright yellow candles rising from the ground, Siberian miner’s lettuce with pinkish white flowers that look like something a kid would draw, wild geraniums (as opposed to pelargoniums), hawkweed, bleeding hearts, and even the occasional tiger lily.
But not in the wintertime. Of course, here in western Washington state, winter isn’t what it is in other parts of the country, and if you didn’t know any better, some of the photos in the slideshow below look like they could have been taken in summer — especially those showcasing an unusually blue sky (no, it doesn’t rain all winter here) and bright green grass. Our grass doesn’t go brown in the winter. Unless it’s watered, it goes brown in the summer.
Winter is more subtle here, and it has more subtle beauties. And this is what my little park behind the Walmart looks like in early February:
You’d think after almost twenty years of exploring around and about my part of western Washington, I would have found every good walking trail in a fifty-mile radius, but Clark’s Creek Park (named, I assume, like everything else in the Pacific Northwest with that moniker, after the co-captain of the Corps of Discovery), less than four miles from my house, somehow managed to escape my attention until this week.
I was checking out the back way to the Puyallup Fairgrounds. We’ll be driving there for the fair this September, because the local busses won’t be running fair specials for the first time this year due to budget cuts. Which didn’t need to happen, but I won’t get into local politics here.
Anyway, while checking the map (paper maps rule, in my not so humble opinion, and this sort of thing is one reason why — had I just plunked locations into a GPS I’d have missed this park altogether) I happened to notice a green sort-of rectangle that hadn’t come to my attention before, so I decided to check it out. It turned out to be a very good idea.
Clark’s Creek Park is a chunk of, well, probably not old-growth, but forest, at any rate, mostly big-leafed maples which are going to be spectacularly gold in a couple of months, plunked down on the western side of Puyallup. There’s a creek, obviously, that’s really more the size of a river flowing through as well. The park contains the usual amenities, a ballfield, lawns, tennis courts, two sets of play equipment (one at each end) and one of the most secluded and beautifully-set off-leash areas, or bark parks as my sister calls them, I’ve ever seen.
In between the two developed areas, trails run through the woods and along the creek. The woods this time of year, and because we haven’t had any rain here in forty days (we set the driest August on record this year, not a drop of rain at the airport), are at that stage where they’re just waiting for fall. Leaves are leathery, and the undergrowth looks parched. But wildflowers, jewelweed and clover and a pink finger-shaped cluster of tiny blossoms that wasn’t in any of my flower books, but turns out to be a noxious critter called knotweed, were still quite abundant, as were the roses planted along the street.
The weather has been darned near perfect here lately, sunny and low 70sF with very little humidity day after day, although the light and air are beginning to feel like autumn. So it was a wonderful day for exploration. The trails seem to total out to about a mile, and comprise two loops, one along the creek, across a bridge, and back up on what appears to be a small island, to a bridge at the other end where the trail started, and the other a rough loop running through the woods between the two developed parts of the park and past the tennis courts and bark park. Both are really lovely, and more secluded than I would have expected given how close the park is to downtown Puyallup.
No matter how long I live here in the Pacific Northwest, the area is still capable of surprising me with places I’ve somehow missed up till now. It’s one of my favorite things about living here. What’s your favorite thing about living where you are?
I believe I even had oil workers for neighbors in the campground last night. At least they had camping gear. One of them even had a trailer. They were as nice and polite as could be, though, and since we all cleared out at about the same time the next morning, they didn’t even wake me up trying to get to work on time.
Fort Buford and its campground were about an hour north of the north unit of Theodore Roosevelt National Park, just west of the town of Watford City, where I had tried to get a motel when I was going through my bout of reservation-making a couple of days before. When I actually drove through it, I was glad I hadn’t been able to.
Do you ever create mental pictures so strong of places that you haven’t been to that when you actually arrive you think you can’t actually be in that place, it has to be wrong? I did that with Watford City. Maybe because it’s a town on the edge of a national park, and in my experience towns on the edges of national parks are a bit more attractive than, say, a construction site. Watford City was one big noisy dusty construction site. I suppose it was understandable enough given the circumstances, but still.
But then I drove a few more miles south and the whole world changed. The edge of the land dropped off from undulating prairie to the bluffs and buttes of the North Dakota badlands, and when I turned off from the highway onto the main (and only) road into the park, I got that lovely feeling I always get in national parks, of being in a place where nature matters.
I stopped at the visitor center, where mine was the only non-NPS vehicle in the parking lot. TRNP’s north unit is one of the least-visited units of the national park system, and I can testify that it was pretty darned empty the day I was there — I think I saw two other cars the entire time I was in the park. I looked at their exhibits, then I headed further into the park on a leisurely tour.
I like badlands. I like the texture of them and the shape of them. I like the exposed layers and the unexpected look of the formations. There’s just something about them that jump-starts the imagination. Rocks shaped like cannonballs, ledges so flat and chiseled you could balance an egg on them, pyramidal rocks with more layers than an ice cream cake. Just wonderful stuff. The weather was nice, too, if a bit warm. The only disappointment was that the road was only open about halfway into the park. Apparently the land had slumped under the road, taking the pavement with it, and they hadn’t repaired it yet. Since slumping is a major method nature uses to create badlands, I couldn’t complain, and I didn’t. I got out and walked a small piece past the barricade, then decided that it was just a bit too lonely to walk far. What if I had a close encounter with a bison? They do live in the park, along with wild longhorn cattle and feral horses. As it turned out, though, the only critters I saw in the north unit that day were birds.
I walked a nature trail at the campground, down to the Little Missouri River, and I ate my lunch in the picnic area, well-shaded by more enormous cottonwoods. Wrote a while. Then I headed on south to I-94.
I have this book, called the Quilter’s Travel Companion, that lives in my car all year. It’s basically a national phone book for quilt shops in the U.S. (and Canada, too, come to think of it). Anyway, it had a listing for a quilt shop in the city of Dickinson, located on I-94 a few miles east of where I met up with it. It was still the middle of the afternoon, so I decided to go see if I could find some good North Dakota-themed fabric as a souvenir (fabric is a very useful souvenir, especially after it makes its way into a quilt where it reminds the quilter of the good time she had acquiring it). The shop was adorable. And I found some wonderful fabric, of course.
Then I headed back west, Dickinson having been the easternmost point on the entire trip, and found the motel room I had managed to snag in the small town of Belfield, which is apparently just out of commuting distance for the oil workers, and on my way to the south unit of Theodore Roosevelt National Park. But that was for the next day.