Eagle Creek Falls Trail

The Eagle Creek Falls trail hike is one I've done before, but certain trails quickly become old friends that you want to revisit each year. The trail head is about half a mile from the parking lot, but this year my curiosity got the better of me. There is a mysterious staircase that appears near the exit ramp that leads to the parking lot. The staircase connects what used to be the original Columbia River Highway with the highway-turned-bike path that runs along Interstate 84. I decided that this year I was going to explore the stairs before starting on the hike. In my research with Google maps, it appeared I could take the stairs to the old highway and would eventually find a trail that would take me the back way to a footbridge that crosses the creek. That would then spit me out near the trail head and both satisfy my curiosity about the bridge and give me a different way to the trail head. I went up the stairs and continued following the old highway until I passed a sign for a trail that seemed to be going in the right direction, so seeing a fork in the road, I took it. After a bit, the trail came to another junction, but I continued on the original trail. That's where I made my mistake because after another five minutes I started to get the feeling of déjà vu all over again and before long I was back on the old highway. I realized later that I should have turned onto the other trail at the junction and that would have taken me to the bridge. Well, there's always next time.

Eagle Creek trail is fairly level, which is one of the reasons I like it, and for the first two miles is made up of mostly packed dirt with a loose rock here and there. Eagle Creek is actually a tributary of the Columbia River and hosts a number of waterfalls along the way as the trail runs parallel with the rushing water. I think the word creek is rather misleading because it has all the sound and speed of a serious river. The first waterfall on the way is Punchbowl Falls. The trail to Punchbowl intersects with the mail trail, but the junction is easy to miss, even with the great signage at about a foot above eye-level. From the riverbed, the falls is around a corner and to the left. Depending on the time of year, it's very easy to walk out on the rocky "beach" to get a look at the falls. However, a week after one of the rainiest Mays on record is not the time of year to do that. Let's just say I spent some time dumping water from my shoes and wringing out my socks, but it was worth it.

I often wondered why it was called Punchbowl Falls because, frankly, I've never seen a punch bowl in the shape of a waterfall. However, this time I did a little exploring after finding a non-official trail that led down to a ledge overlooking the top of the falls. From there, it was easy to see the perfectly round bowl that the water flowed into and then the name made sense. The picture below and to the right looks through the gap and into the area where the picture of the actual falls was taken. The sound of the water was so loud but at the same time relaxing. There are several campsites along the river and going to sleep while listening to the churning water is my idea of a perfect vacation.

Punchbowl Falls is only about two miles in, and my next goal wasn't until mile six. Meanwhile, the trail went from broad and smooth to narrow and rocky (this rather reminded me of the part in Pilgrim's Progress where Christian would much rather walk on the smooth trail that appeared to parallel the rocky trail he had been told to stay on). At times, there are thick steel cables firmly fastened into the rock to give anyone who might have a touch of dizziness or slippery footedness a way to reestablish their balance. But it's also at these places that the view is the best. 

Tunnel Falls is right in the middle of such a section of trail. The water thunders over the cliff and down 130 feet with a force that is absolutely amazing. It's called Tunnel Falls because the narrow trail leads through a tunnel that was carved into the rock behind the falls. In the picture on the left there can be seen, with a bit of imagination, a little "Hobbit hole" to the left of the falls and about half way down. It's reassuring to have the cable here because this is often a somewhat crowded section of the trail as everyone lines up to take pictures and becomes totally oblivious to everything else.

The next "favorite" has at least two names: Crisscross Falls, Twister Falls, and probably others I don't know about. Either one will do. It's actually higher than Tunnel Falls by about 10 feet but because the trail is above it, it doesn't seem that the water is falling so far. It's quite easy to stand right at the top of the falls without any fear of falling in and snap away with the camera. At least, that's what someone told me. The rainbow dancing on the edge of the water immediately caught my eye, and I was quite thankful that the camera could sense it. I've never been to Hawaii, but I always picture rainbows in the water there and I'm glad I didn't have to go so far to see them. I hovered around this spot for a while, just taking in the wonderful noise of the water and feeling the warmth of the sun before starting the seven-mile trip back. I admit to complaining about the rain every now and then in the Northwest (okay, I complain a lot about the rain in the Northwest) but being able to stand on the edge of a waterfall and only be 45 minutes from civilization makes up for all those gloomy wintery days.

What's in a Name

With the promise of decent, and possibly even sunny, weather this Saturday, it seemed only fitting to be outside to enjoy as much of it as possible. My first thought was to drive up north to Table Mountain near Bonneville Dam, but after a bit of hemming and hawing (I'm not sure exactly what that looks like, but it fits) I decided instead to do a day-long city/trail hike in parts of various southwest and southeast Portland suburbs that I have only driven through while on the way to somewhere else.

The trek started in George Roger's Park in Lake Oswego. Back in the day (which is a good way to say a long time ago without really knowing how long ago) this was where the iron that was mined nearby was smelted. The smelter has been restored and is now a local landmark in one of the more popular parks in town. There's a trail that runs through the park and at various times of the year has its own mini-waterfall, as well as views of the river.

After about a third of a mile, the trail comes out on Old River Road, which runs parallel to the Willamette River before dead ending into Pacific Highway. This part was the noisier part of the walk since the traffic is so heavy. I'm sure more than one person wondered what the crazy lady with the camera was doing taking pictures of shrubs, but they'll never see me again and if they do, they certainly won't recognize me without my disguise of capris pants and wild hair, oh wait, the hair is always wild. I liked the way the sun hit the droplets in this, whatever it is, rust-colored foliage. After crossing Pacific Highway, I headed for West Linn High School. According to Google maps (always a reliable source) there was a trail from the track leading up to the backside of Camassia Natural Area. I'd never been there, but a friend had told me about the abundant wild lilies that bloom every spring. I was too late for the lilies, but it was still a great place to explore. There is a wild solitude about it that is hard to describe, so I won't even try. I met a volunteer who showed me what she termed a quarry and as she was describing it, used a term associated with glaciers. Instead of appearing ignorant, I pretended to know what she was talking about, so now I'm still ignorant about what she was telling me. Oh well.   

From there, I found my way back to civilization and crossed over the bridge to Oregon City. My only association with Oregon City has to do with jury duty, but if I can keep myself from connecting it with long, boring waits in the jury room, it actually is a charming place to visit.
Off to one side is the Willamette Falls Dam and, to correspond with that, Willamette Falls. The roar of the water was quite distinct over the sound of traffic, even though they are some distance from the bridge.  While the falls aren't huge, there was still something impressive about them. From here, I turned left onto McLoughlin Boulevard and continued to walk parallel with the river.


My next goal was Meldrum Bar Park. About a month ago when I was walking on the west side of the Willamette, I had seen this spit of land jutting out into the river and wondered what it was. Once I discovered it's name, it went down on the list of places to explore. There were also plenty of fisherman out trying their luck. And they weren't the only ones enjoying the sun. I broke into a clearing just as this hawk circled lazily overhead. He seemed to just enjoy riding the warm air currents and expending as little energy as possible. Speaking of circling objects, I've seen rings around the sun but never in the colors of the rainbow. I managed not to stand there, rooted to the spot and pointing at the sky, but it took a bit of willpower. By this time I'd found another trail not on the GPS but which seemed to be heading in the right direction and did the logical thing by ignoring the GPS's warning that the world would end if I didn't go the right way and stayed with the trail.

At first, it seemed fairly well maintained and easy to follow, but soon that changed as it narrowed and became increasingly overgrown with blackberry bushes. My legs took quite a thrashing from the thorns, but rest assured, the blackberry bushes came through unscathed. I finally broke out into a cleared area behind some homes. As I went around a corner, I startled a heron that had been perched on a dilapidated deck. I'm not sure who was more startled, probably me because I wasn't quick enough to get the camera out. Instead I had to console myself with a picture of the empty deck.

After climbing up a small hill, I was back on paved roads and heading for the next spot, which was Elk Rock Island. Unfortunately that was about six miles away. So, I turned up the music on the ol' iPod and started to move. I'll have to come back to Elk Rock later in the summer when the river is lower and it's possible to get to it without wading through the river. Instead, I had to admire it from a distance and wonder what I was missing. Even so, from where I was it was still lovely. From here, I followed the road until it ran into yet another trail/park and then back to SE McLoughlin and into the Sellwood area. Sellwood is hard to describe. It's part hippy, part early 1900's, and all Portland. I enjoy this area because there's always something new to see. By now though, all I wanted to see was the other side of the bridge where my ride was picking me up to take me back to my car. So, what's in a name? In this case, it's Lake Oswego, West Linn, Oregon City, Gladstone, Milwaukie, and Portland. All in all, quite a mouthful.

The Hills are Alive (and all that jazz)

A few weeks ago I decided that taking a Friday off from work to do some hiking was in order. After all, it isn't going to be sunny forever this spring and as much as I love wildflowers, photographing them in the rain is not nearly as much fun as when it's sunny. Dog Mountain was first on the list because of its reputation for transforming into a haze of yellow balsamroot, with some red and purple somethings thrown in for good measure. I left the house a little after 6:00 a.m. and was on the trail by 7:20 (after a making a quick u-turn when I missed the parking lot. Driving into the sun somewhat impedes the vision). There are two options when going up Dog Mountain, steep and steeper. I usually choose steep on the way up and and then come down the other route because it's more scenic and I figure it's easier to enjoy it coming down because you can actually focus on more than just screaming calf muscles. Both routes are beautiful, but it's once you pop out on the trail overlooking the gorge that you realize this is why you came.
 It's hard to describe the feeling of sheer joy, happiness, and contentment that comes from being in the middle of this beautiful creation. The hard work of the climbing is forgotten and all you can focus on is the beauty around you and the faint smell of the flowers and the wind rushing past. From the top there are views of Mt. St. Helens way off in the distance, as well as the gorge and endless yellow stretching beneath your feet. As I said to another spellbound hiker on the way down, every step is a picture and you just can't seem to get enough. Three hours and 20 minutes, and sevenish miles later, I was back in the car and headed for the next destination. The original plan had been to hike up Hamilton Mountain next, but then I remembered how irked I was last year to have to pay $10 for the privilege of sweating for another seven miles. Plus I've done it the past two years, so there was a quick change in the flight plan.

Most Fridays I'm lucky enough to go to a Scottish dance class in Stevenson, Washington, just a hop, skip, and a jump from Dog Mountain, and every week there are trails and markers that I wish we could stop and explore.

So, that's what I decided to do. There's a steel truss bridge over the Columbia River that is part of the Pacific Crest Trail and is open to pedestrians. Never mind that there is no sidewalk over the metal grid that makes up the road part of the bridge, but then again, cars can only go 15 mph on it. I've driven across the bridge numerous times and always wanted to take pictures from the side, which is not recommended while driving, so I parked the car at a handy spot on the road and set off across the bridge. An eagle swooped past at one point, but of course, I was on the wrong side to do anything about it but gape and try not to point in the air as it soared by. From there it was on to the St. Cloud recreation area. It's really just a large picnic area situated in what appears to be an orchard, but it's along the river and is quite pleasant. Then it was on to Cape Horn. This has been on the radar for some time and I was glad to finally get to explore it. The trail head begins on the south side of a park and ride lot so there's no parking passes required before setting off into what turned out to be a blue haze of flowers. My grandmother had a painting of Texas (in the shape of Texas, no less)

of a road making its way through a field of blue bonnets. I always liked the painting, although I thought the blue bonnets were a bit overdone, but I've changed my mind on that. Walking this trail was like being in that painting, and there is no way these pictures do it justice. After a bit of a climb to the first look out, it was a short jaunt to the next one.

I was looking at the map wondering which point I was at and if Fallen Tree lookout was anywhere in the vicinity, when I came around the corner and saw that, yes indeed, this was Fallen Tree lookout. The views of the gorge were spectacular from here and there's a real "out on the edge" feel. Not that I was on the edge or anything, but that's what I've heard. After a few more miles, I turned around and headed back. At one point, I was aware of a shadow overhead and looked up just in time to see another eagle, or possibly the same one that was near the bridge, buzz overhead. There was no way to get a picture since he disappeared into the trees, and I didn't see him again until I was in the car driving. Maybe next time. I drove back to Vancouver and had plenty of time to take another walk. The irises are out in full force now, as well as the poppies. This vacant lot was filled with orange flowers and it struck me that you don't have to travel far to find beauty; you just have to be looking for it.

Tulipmania

A number of years ago my dad gave me a book called Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds. From a title like that, you can tell it's light reading. Written in the mid-1800's by Charles Mackay, it chronicles fads, or manias as they used to be called, that have affected great numbers of people. Mackay chronicles everything from the witch hunts (Salem, Massachusetts had nothing on the Europeans when it came to hunting "witches") to dueling, alchemy, and popular sayings. But the one fad that really stood out to me the first time I read through this book was what became known as Tulipomania. In the 1600's, tulips first arrived in England and they soon became all the rage throughout Europe, and especially Holland. Certain varieties were so sought after that people were willing to trade almost their entire fortune to obtain one bulb, and soon tulips had their own niche in the stock market. One anecdote tells of a speculator so anxious to buy one of only two bulbs of a certain rare variety that he was willing to offer twelve acres of prime real estate, and another potential buyer offered 4,600 florins, a new carriage, two horses (gray), and threw in the harness as a bonus.

Some of the more humorous stories, at least in hindsight they're humorous, involved people who had no idea of the tulip rage that had engulfed Holland. One unfortunate sailor, upon delivering cargo to a Dutch merchant, spied what he thought was an onion lying on the counter and took it to eat with the red herring the merchant had given him as a tip for the delivery. Later on, when it was discovered the rare bulb was missing, the sailor was hunted down and discovered just as he was finishing off the last of the "onion." The poor chap ended up in jail for several months on a felony charge.

People from all walks of life converted their property into cash and bought tulips. The general belief was that all poverty would be stricken from Holland, so rich would everyone be from their tulip profits.
But, like all good manias, it couldn't last forever. For whatever reason, the more prudent in the population began to sell their bounty, and as more and more tulips were sold, a panic ensued so that those who had agreed to buy tulips once worth a hefty sum were now faced with paying thousands of florins for what was now worth only hundreds. The Dutch government decreed that any contracts made before November 1636, when the fad was at its height, were to be declared null and void and any contracts made after that time could be broken if the buyer paid the seller 10% of the previous value. There was of course, quite an economic shock wave across Holland, from which it took some time to recover. There was some evidence of the tulip fad in England, France, and Scotland, but it never had the same impact  as it did in Holland. Now whenever I see a tulip bulb, I think of onions (with red herring of course).
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Desert Blooms and Northwest Raindrops

Recently I took a trip back home to New Mexico. As an explanation, whenever I'm in Oregon, home is New Mexico and vice versa. It's been very dry in New Mexico these past few years, with the average precipitation falling well below the average. Whenever I lived there, the sand dunes would absolutely shimmer with wild purple verbena throughout the month of May and the verse from Isaiah 35 about the desert blossoming like the rose would always come to mind. This year I was afraid there wouldn't be any kind of blossoms, be they roses or dandelions. But, I was pleasantly surprised.


The beauty of the desert is much subtler than in the Northwest where everything is green (even the sidewalks in some places). I had to do a bit of searching and listen to friends ask me where on Earth I was going to find anything pretty to photograph. It's really not that hard, you just have to look for beauty. Maybe it's just part of being an optimist.

Last Thursday afternoon, I went on a walk with a good friend of mine. We decided to go along the edge of the irrigation ditch that runs by her office. I asked her which direction was the most scenic and after she looked at me like I was crazy she said neither direction was particularly scenic so it didn't really matter. In the big scheme of things, she was right. It was so dry and the dirt was like cement under our feet, but every now and then a surprise was hiding behind a rock (and it wasn't the kind with rattles either). The only problem with taking pictures when you're with someone is they don't always know when you disappear behind a shrub or fall to the ground to get the right angle for a flower shot. It's rather amusing to see them abruptly stop talking and look around for you.

Back in Oregon there is no shortage of rain and the flowers are anything but subtle or hidden. On my lunch hour walks they all seem to be saying "pick me, pick me!" One of my favorite challenges is finding blooms with raindrops on them. That may not sound hard, but if they have raindrops on them then that means it's either still raining or threatening to. In either case, carrying a camera around is a bit chancey and often involves me wearing it under my raincoat, which is such an attractive look from the side. I'm not exactly fashion conscious but adding what looks like 20 pounds to my form is something I usually try to avoid. The sacrifices we make for art! This past week the rain was nice enough to wait until after 2:00 to start so there was ample opportunity to capture the last of the magnolia blossoms before they fell to the ground. Friends tell me they are the messiest trees to have because of all the petals that litter the street and, because of their leathery texture, they are rather difficult to sweep up. One of the joys of apartment living is being able to enjoy things like this without the work. But don't tell anyone, it's a secret.

Oregon is prime tulip country and at the local tulips farms it resembles a miniature Holland. I have yet to go to those particular areas, and for now I'm perfectly content with the blooms that dot the local neighborhoods. If you close one eye and squint with the other one, you can almost imagine you are in the middle of a vast field of tulips, and maybe even hear a windmill or two in the distance.

Surprised by Spring

Finally, spring! I know, it's not quite spring yet, but we're closer to it than we are to the first day of winter. Spring surprises come in many shapes. For instance, hearing a mechanical voice outside the bedroom door at 10:30 at night telling you the smoke alarm battery is low is definitely a surprise. I had no idea my heart could beat that hard and still be inaudible. But that's not exactly what I had in mind.

Spring creeps up on you in many ways in the Northwest. Growing up in New Mexico, the month of March would blow in and by the time the dust settled, it was warm and things were blooming. That's not exactly what I would call subtle. But here there are small changes every day, and before you know it the bare tree outside the window is covered in blooms. Or the dark gray sunrises of winter change to a brilliant palette of color smeared across the sky, rather like a three-year old's finger painting without the mess.

Animals are another fun part of spring. During the winter about the only wildlife you see is the neighbor's dog out for a walk. Granted, a squirrel isn't exactly exotic, but coming around the corner and seeing one perched in a tree posing for a picture is unexpected. He performed quite a nice gymnastics routine on the highbars too before going on his merry way. Then there was the rare black hummingbird. Not really, it's more like the silhouette of a hummingbird. My one complaint (okay, I have many, but for now) is the light this time of year. There is just enough to backlight but not really illuminate. At least hummingbirds are quite distinct, which makes this a more satisfying capture than the ubiquitous blackbirds that dot the landscape. And finally, there's the rain. Yes, it rains in Oregon (surprise!), but after the rain is a great time to be outside. I love finding raindrops on roses (sorry, daffodils) and capturing them before they fall to the ground. Yes, spring in the Northwest is both frustrating and satisfying. One minute the sun is out and the next it's pouring rain. But even with its temperamental nature, spring brings a different feel in the air that is instantly recognizable after a long gray winter.

The Many Faces of January

As Januaries go, this one hasn't been too bad. Granted there has been plenty of gray weather, but when you consider how January tends to treat much of the rest of the country, those of us in the Northwest have gotten off pretty lightly. For some reason, the random fact that January is named for the Roman god Janus popped into my head today. I was correct in remembering that he had two faces and it struck me that, considering how suddenly the weather can change in January, two-faced is a very apt description. Just because it looks like a cloud has taken up habitation in one area, does not mean it looks like that just up the hill. From certain vantage points, a sea of fog with just the tallest trees peeping out into the morning sky can be seen. Down the hill to the office is only a few miles, just enough time for the fog to leave its mark on anything stationary before drifting on its merry way. The fog also let the moon break out on occasion. Every time I see a full moon on a foggy evening, I can't help but think of the poem "The Highwayman." The opening lines "the moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas" always pops into my head.

Not content to let too much sunshine filter through, in case people start complaining about global warming or something, there were plenty of days that left me desperate enough to photograph the raindrops on the moss. Yes, that desperate. I was focused on one particular droplet when I felt a bump against my legs and saw a rather enthusiastic black dog of some variety pleading with someone, anyone, to pay attention to him. His owner came up a few seconds later and asked, in a rather

concerned-but-trying-not-to-sound-like-it voice if I was photographing the neighborhood. No, I replied, just the droplets on the moss. Moss? she inquired. I for all the world wanted to say, "yes, you know that green stuff that is draped over every single tree in Oregon, north side not withstanding" but considering she was gathering up her dog and backing slowly away, I decided to just continue on and not make any sudden movements (okay, she wasn't really, but that's what it felt like she wanted to do). No sense scaring the locals if it's not necessary. And it would have taken too long to explain that if you zoom in on the droplet, the house on the other side of the street is perfectly reflected, albeit upside down.

One of my favorite places to go for views and to pretend I'm in an English garden, instead of a few miles from downtown Portland, is the Bishop's Close. The property was once owned by a Portland businessman in the early 1900's, and after his death was donated to the Episcopal Diocese of Oregon. There are river and mountain views as well as several winding trails that take you up the side of a small embankment looking down on a large open area. January isn't usually a good time to explore the gardens, but this particular day fell into the sunny half of the month and since it is Oregon the lawns are always green. I had to time this so as to avoid getting the riding lawnmower in the shot. Somehow, a modern-day piece of equipment just didn't go with the atmosphere.