What a Difference a Season Makes Part I.

One of the things I love about the northwest is there are four seasons. Now, some would say there are two or three depending on how you look at things: either rain and more rain or less rain, rain, and more rain. But I digress. When I moved here I was surprised to find that the fall is spectacular and I would daresay rivals the northeast in its range of color.

Last year I discovered the joys of hiking in the Columbia River Gorge. I was able to capture a number of beautiful shots in the summer and wanted to do the same in the fall. After several weeks of watching the weather, I decided my target would be Dog Mountain. It's located in Washington about 12 miles east of the town of Stevenson. When I left that Saturday morning there was a promise of sunshine and no ready appearance of rain. The gorge is a beautiful place to drive through at any time of year. Even though there wasn't the variety of color I was hoping for, it was still lovely with the mix of golds amidst the evergreens. As I pulled into the parking lot I could see that the promise of sun was nothing more than that and it was going to be another cloudy day in the gorge. But as I started hiking and the highway noises fell away it didn't matter that the sky overhead wasn't the clear blue of summer.

After making my way uphill for about an hour the trail broke out and I was again looking over the Columbia. It was about this time that I noticed a suspicious white substance rolling in, and it wasn't long before the fog had covered every bit of the view. However, the fog actually turned out to be a blessing because the trees were shrouded in the mist and what was otherwise a gray morning suddenly had a new atmosphere.


The fog dampened any sounds from the road far below and yet brought with it its own sort of voice, a whistling in the trees as it moved through the branches. There were only a few other hikers out that morning, they probably saw something that looked like a shadow and thought "sun!" much as I had done. It was rather chilly so I didn't linger at the top but snapped a few shots (mostly fog filled) and followed the trail down into the trees. Having never done this hike there was a momentary panic that I was lost because all of a sudden it felt as if I'd stepped into Sleepy Hollow and I was in the role of Ichabod (maybe Ichabodette?) and was almost listening for the sound of hooves coming up behind me. The fog was particularly heavy on this part of the trail and I was soon quite damp and chilled. I started running, not only to warm up but also to get to the end of this section of the trail, but of course the photographer in me won out and I had to pause and capture the trees in their blankets of wispy white.


After maybe a quarter of a mile, the trail broke out again into the open vista of the gorge and wound its way down. Since I was no longer focused on the uphill trudge, it was much easier to appreciate the beauty around me, even if it wasn't exactly what I had hoped for. A quick seven miles later, I was back at my car and eager to go home and see what magic images had been captured by the little black box in my hand. I was also biding my time until spring, which is when Dog Mountain really comes alive. But for that story, you have to go to Part II.