Journey to the Sea: Part 1

 After being delayed a day by a surprise 10 inches of snow, I headed west to visit friends in Portland and Port Townsend. I dropped Jasper off with Mike and Lora and got lunch with Garik in Troutdale on the way west.

In Portland I visited Mandy and her new dog Azora, a strange low and wolfy beast, with the pale eyes and straight ears of a husky. She's still near Ladd's Addition, in the same apartment for a few years now. I had a delicious Turkish egg breakfast, which was a couple poached eggs nestled in a bowl lined with greek yogurt and seasoned with dill, at the cafe outside her place. She's walking dogs for a contracting agency, and still pursuing her interests in primitive skills. She is feeling less stressed with the hope that her student loans will be forgiven in 10 years or so.

I spent a full day on Sauvie Island, biking around, watching the fishing boats drift down the river in the morning, and hiking to Warrior Point at the northernmost tip of the island. I also visited Cistus Nursery, which specializes in Mediterranean-climate plants of an immense variety. Walking through their greenhouses was incredibly overwhelming, but I got 2x each of Quercus kellogii and Quercus lobata, echinoides tanoak, Western redbuds (for my Dad), and Baker's cypress.

Before leaving the city, I went on Mission: Pants to a Goodwill, finding 4 or 5 out of 6 pairs of pants despite there being no changing room due to a combination of Covid and shoplifting. I tried them on in a cold wet park restroom instead.

The next day I traveled north along the 101 through an at-times heavy rain. Crossing the bridge from Astoria over the Columbia was literally breathtaking. I stopped for a bowl of clam chowder in Raymond, where I ended up talking about tethered logging and Instagram with a logger from Kamloops who was also on a road trip. I thought of Nicole going by Willapa Bay. That evening I got McDonald's and a room at the Shiny Motel outside Aberdeen, where the new owners told me they had moved there from Iowa six months before. I showered and tuned into a landowner meeting for work that evening.

I continued north along the Western side of the Olympic Peninsula. I had breakfast at an emmpty diner in Quinault, where the owner/server told me that she was waiting for her ex-husband to die so she could share their shared house and move back to Olympia. It's just to rural for her taste in Quinault. I headed into the National Park to wander around a couple small loop hikes, wondering at the mossy, ferny greenness of it all and at the giant trees. A herd of Roosevelt elk were the only beings around, and we gazed at each other curiously.

The 101 curved west to the coast and I stopped driving again to run on the beach. There, Velella velella shone iridescent blue on the sand, the springs spewed out of the eroding cliffside then fanned out along the beach, the driftwood piled up at the base of the cliff, and the big ocean waves crashed on the shore. A German couple took selfies jumping off a log, on the count of Eins! Zwei! Drei!

North again, to the Bogachiel. The Mazda made it up the steep and potholed road to the Forest Service trailhead, where I arrived at the same time another couple was setting out for a hike. I enjoyed a quiet and magical hike along the wetland loop and river trails, dipping in passed the National Park boundary, where I sat in a pocket of sun and had a snack, marveling at the lush beauty of it all. On the walk back, I noticed a couple camp-able spots on the edge of the terrace above the alder-filled floodplain of the dynamic river. 

I headed into Forks and got some enchiladas, refried beans, and rice at the local Mexican restaurant, which was having a family event in the back. The little children laughed and played on the swingset outside in the grass. I grabbed some granola and milk at the grocery store, and head back to the Bogachiel to camp in an old homestead site, where nothing remained that I could see except the rhizomatous grasses. I dropped down to the floodplain, weaving my way through the riparian maze. Numerous elk tracks were set deep in the wet sand of the slough. I found my way to the river and leaned on a driftwood log, digging my toes into the river sand, soaking up the last fading gold light of the evening. Lewis and Clark started up the Missouri in my bedtime reading.

Valley Fog/Mountain Sun

Driving around the lake in the still gray light

Stifling ice cloud blankets this world with cold

Pulls wraiths of mist from a steely mirror

Ahead a faint haze of gold, a glimpse of opening

Snow white black rock ridge against blue sky

And the growing glow of dawn

There we ascend the steepest path

A steady pace slows the freezing sweat

Breathe in the clarion air, free in the flow

Perch a moment in the mountain sun

Then sink back below the valley fog

Wild Canyon Bushwhack

Finding myself with four days without work or social obligations (the latter rather unusual for early winter in Wallowa County!), I made plans for a backpack in an area I hadn't been before - Cook Creek and Cherry Creek drainages on either side of Dead Horse Ridge.

A topographic map showing access roads and trails available in the area of my backpack.

Dead Horse Ridge (in the far northeastern corner of Wallowa County, not the one in the Divide country east of Joseph) is sandwiched between Cemetery Ridge to the east and Cold Springs Ridge to the west. I've been on a few trails off of those two ridges - down to Eureka Bar at the confluence of the Imnaha and Snake Rivers and a loop past Frog Pond on Dry Creek and up the road along Downey Gulch, respectively. However, I had never explored the trails along Cook Creek and the high trail over to Cherry Creek. Also intriguing - the Forest Service map of this area showed a hot spring located just downstream of Downey Gulch along Cook Creek.

Looking east towards the Snake and Salmon River country from Deadhorse Ridge.

I brought my dog Jasper and a friend's dog Noodle along on this adventure. On our drive out, we saw lots of second-season elk hunters sitting in their rigs or at their big wall tent encampments. Once on the trail, we didn't see a single person. And there was good reason for that.

Descending into the Doug-fir dominated headwaters of Cook Creek.

The switchbacks down to Cook Creek from Dead Horse Ridge were a fairly well maintained, obvious trail, but along the creek it was a different story. Shrubs grew in thickly along much of the rocky floodplain, and the trail appeared and faded and interwove with various game trails. The dogs did okay in their space a couple feet from the ground, but I spent a lot of time with my arms in front of my face pushing my way through branches, sometimes feeling like I was being birthed out of a copse of shrubs when I was finally able to push through. Very occasionally I'd see evidence of other human visitors - a few cut stobs, a strand of blue baling twine, a screwdriver lost along the way. But overall it felt very wild and remote.

Beautiful old alder and ponderosa trees growing along the creek.

It was cool and shady in mid-November, with the sun barely reaching over the ridgelines when the trail hopped up on the hillsides through a few sections. We passed swampy pools of cattails, an abundance of thimbleberry stems, and a beautiful stretch of mature, even old-growth alder gallery. There were also prickly roses and as I got further downstream, occasional blackberries vines and thorny young hackberry trees. Two fires had burned through parts of this drainages in the past 25 years, and burned hot enough to kill large trees through some sections.

Jasper and Noodle enjoying the cool late afternoon shade.

Eventually the sunlight faded from the ridgelines above us, and we found a reasonably flat spot to camp up above the creek near the outlet of Wild Canyon. With rain on the way, I set up the tent quickly and unloaded my gear. But where was my sleeping pad? With a shock, I realized it had been ripped off the side of my pack somewhere along our ~5 miles bushwhack! I took my headlamp and water bottles to fill and we backtracked for a little bit, hoping I had lost it recently, but not finding it. I crouched by the creek in the dark filtering and collecting water for cooking my dinner, accepting that I would have a hard bed for the night. Luckily I had two dogs to keep me warm.

Camp at the mouth of Wild Canyon.

I resolved to push on to try to get to the hot spring the next morning, which according to the map was only a couple miles further down the creek. But I also felt that I should abandon my plans to continue on the loop up towards Cherry Creek, and instead pack up camp and head back the way I had came after that to try to find my sleeping pad. The morning was cool and foggy after the rain, and the sun failed to lift the clouds. We made slow and soaking progress through the wet brush downstream and I decided to turn back a little while after crossing the creek past the mouth of Dry Creek, where pieces of the old trail junction sign still hung on. I gazed longingly up at the faint traces of the high trail heading up over the ridge to Cherry Creek.

Evocative evidence of past and present land use - great basin wild rye amidst a sea of sulphur cinquefoil.

Time was running out to get back to the truck before dark, but I did poke around Wild Canyon a little bit, curious whether I'd find traces of any other visitors. And there were - I found a makeshift fleshing beam propped up on a burnt log and braced with a few large stones, a pile of elk fur slowly mouldering beneath it. A little ways away, the skull of a cow elk. Wild Canyon, indeed.

A makeshift fleshing beam and pile of elk hair near where I camped for the night.

About three miles back up the trail I found my sleeping pad! Ironically, it was lying on top of some of the few branches that had been cut out of the trail by some frustrated hiker who came before me.

The wayward sleeping pad was found!

Tired of the shady creek bottom and wet bushwhacking, I bailed up the next ridge. The sun suffused the mist with golden light and after carefully picking our way up over 2000 feet, we made it to the ridgetop. Cherry Creek and the elusive hot spring - I'll see you next time.

My gallant companions and bed warmers.

A look back at Cook Creek, still shrouded in fog in the late afternoon.

Floating Ruby-Horsethief

 In October, Shane and I drove to Colorado for his cousin's wedding outside of Boulder, and we were able to squeeze in two flatwater float trips on the way there and back. The second trip was floating the Ruby-Horsethief section of the Colorado River. Old friends Janyne and Andrew had applied for a last minute permit so they could get their cataraft out on a river before the warm season came to a close.

We met up at a huge BLM campground north of Fruita well after sunset. Janyne and Andrew were joined by two friends from their hometown of Susanville, one of whom had a 4 lb toy poodle in tow because they were in the middle of moving to southern Colorado. So we had a "dog" along for the float. We all caught up or made introductions over a couple beers then crashed in our tents for the night.

The next morning we drove to the Loma Boat Launch, the put-in for our 35-mile, 5-day float. From the put in, the river meanders through sandstone canyons, with the Black Ridge Canyon to the south and I-80 cutting a broad arc a mile or so north of the river on the plateau. 

Map of the Ruby-Horsethief section of the Colorado River.

This section of the Colorado is a very accessible float in terms of technical difficulty and remoteness, and thus very popular as far as these types of trips go. I think every other group that was launching the same day as us was already at the boat ramp when we got there, and with our rigs and gear there too, the ramp was pretty much full. We rigged our array of watercrafts - the cataraft, two inflatable kayaks, and a canoe - and shuttled the vehicle to the takeout, then we launched in the mid-afternoon sun.

The scene at the Loma Boat Launch.

This was my first trip where we had reserved, designated campsites where we would be stopping each night. Each site had limits on the number of people (including dogs) that could stay there, and every site we stayed at was nice, often including some large cottonwoods or at least large native shrubs as visual screens between each of our tents and our neighbors.

Our tent spot on day two in the Mee Canyon campsite section.

On our third day, our next campsite was less than a quarter mile downstream on the same large floodplain bar that we had stayed on the previous night, so all we had to do was lug our gear down a well-used trail and float our boats for less than five minutes. This gave us lots of time for an exploratory hike up Mee Canyon. High cirrus clouds signaled a change in weather, and that evening brought blustery winds and heavy rain, but we weathered the storm in the good spirits under Andrew's Walmart tarp shelter.

The classic hoodoo-forming Wingate sandstone of Mee Canyon.

The fourth day brought us to the only class 2 rapid of the trip, as we entered the Black Rock section where the Precambrian metamorphic basement rocks outcropped in the river and created slightly more exciting channel features for us to navigate around. But it was a small wave train a few miles before that section where our situation got interesting. The canoe starting rocking, and then swamping, in the waves and Amy, Vickie, and the tiny poodle ended up going for a swim. We managed to get them and all the gear in the canoe to shore with no injuries or losses, and fortunately the weather was sunny and breezy with temperatures in the low 70s.

Unloading gear among the Precambrian gneiss at our Black Rock campsite.

The last day canyon walls dropped lower and receded back from the river channel, lowering the drama and preparing us to return to civilization. Shane and I scurried off once we made in to the takeout at Westgate, making tracks back to Wallowa County so I could show up for work in the shop in Joseph on Sunday.

Canyon walls aglow at sunset.

Out and Back on the Wagon Road from Salt Creek Summit

Jasper and I closed out the year with a beautiful and busy ski along the Wagon Road from Salt Creek Summit. Despite spending many, many hours skiing around the snow park area, it was a route I was unaware of until Garik mentioned taking it a month or so ago. Like many paths in this country, it did not disappoint. 

Looking towards the Seven Devils, but unable to see them through the clouds.

Jasper found his last carcass of the year - a spike bull elk.

A few inches of fresh snow fell the day before and blanketed the landscape and clung heavily to the needles and boughs of the lodgepole pines. I was delighted to find a cleanly packed ski track veering south from the junction with the Wing Ridge Trail, and quickly overtook an older couple adjusting their layers. Fortunately another group of four had set the track before them. They had turned around near the end of the trail, where it switch-backed down to canal and Big Sheep Creek near the Tenderfoot Trailhead. There, the sun was peeking out from behind the clouds, and I plopped down at their turnaround to enjoy lunch and a new view while Jasper scrumped out a large patch in the snow. The slope was steep and the snow was thin enough that I decided to simply head back the way we came and do the full loop back along the canal road another time.

Overlooking Big Sheep Creek and the Wallowa Valley Improvement Canal.

Returning to Salt Creek Summit.

It may be the end of the year 2020, but the winter of water year 2021 has just begun! I am immensely grateful for my mobility, my access, my time, and the place I call home.

EFG: Eating, Finding, and Growing

Last night I made a stir fry out of the things I encountered during the course of my day: turnip greens from our CSA harvest, garlic scapes from the backyard garden, and a shaggy parasol mushroom that popped up near the fire pit in my own backyard. It's brethren were harvested by some other animal residents, but I felt lucky to try this guy for the first time. Very meaty flavor!

The star of the show: a very meaty shaggy parasol mushroom. I plucked this guy before the parasol opened so that I could enjoy him instead of the deer in the backyard.

Supporting characters: turnip greens harvested and ready for sharing.

Hard-neck garlic developing it's scape. This is the start of the flowering head and needs to be removed if the bulb is to develop the way we like for cooking and eating. The scape also has a nice garlicky flavor and stir fries up nicely!

We're hitting our stride on the farm. Tomatoes were planted in Big Bob (the large greenhouse) and the hoophouses last week, and today our first flowers and summer squashes were planted out in the field. We harvested and shared our second CSA shares yesterday and Saturday will be our fourth market. The little greenhouse on my property is emptying out of BYG plants as they are either sold to lucky new parents or planted at the farm. Shane and I are excited to reclaim the space and put in tomatoes, eggplants, peppers, and other miscellaneous ground plantlings for personal consumption.

Big Bob on the second week of June. Tomatoes are staked out in the center, carrots have the little puddles of drip irrigation under them in the center right, radishes and turnips hide from aphids under the row cover on the left, and peas grow up both walls.

The little greenhouse looking sparse with the remaining peppers, basil, and eggplants for market and planting. Big changes to come soon as the "permanent residents" move in next week!

Con-census

The motto of the Wallowa Land Trust is "Keep it rural," and this phrase perfectly encapsulates the sentiments of Joseph residents that I've encountered towards the place they live. While everyone I've met is warm and welcoming, there is common pride and value for the beautiful place we share, and with it, a fear that a population boom is lurking just beyond the horizon. Soon, Joseph will be "discovered" and the influx of urbanites and their contrasting sensibilities will transform the town and county in execrable ways. I've been wanting to put some numbers on this fear, and the census data is striking: in the last 120 years, the population of the state of Oregon has grown more than an order of magnitude, with the urban center of Portland recently keeping a similar trend.* In contrast, Joseph experienced tremendous growth early in the 20th century associated with the logging industry, and then that went bust and there has been slow but steady growth since the 1930s.**

Change in population through time normalized to the population in 1890. I.e., a multiplier of 2 means that the population is double that of 1890. All data courtesy census.gov as made easy to find on Wikipedia.

Will the surge in growth that current residents fear happen? If so, what changes will it bring? Can there be smart growth that shares and maintains the unique cultural and ecological values of this region? Only time will tell.

*I would hypothesize that before the boom in Portland, most of the population growth was in logging towns and suburban areas, but have not yet investigated the drivers of early population growth in the state.

**I would also like to compare trends in tourism over the years, but haven't pursued this yet and am not sure if adequate data is available.