"Forever" Beaches

Any day is a good day to head for the beach, but an unseasonable spate of hot, summer-like weather in April drew weekend crowds to the shores like bees to clover. Grabbing a cooler stocked with picnic supplies, we headed out early to make a day of it south of Cannon Beach, along the Oregon Coast Trail , a 382-mile trek generally following the 363-mile coastline of Oregon, crossing in and out of the State Parks along its route. Making for Arcadia State Park, a small wayside park and beach access point, we discovered not only a crowded parking lot of like-minded day trippers but a relatively new geological event: a landslide had pulled a generous portion of the hillside down onto the sand. 

Peering downhill and ignoring the "Danger: No Access Beyond This Point" sign, we determined we could struggle to the beach along the badly damaged trail. After all, so many others had preceded us. What could possible happen? Famous last question. Wide gaps in the previously smooth slope gaped before us. Rocks and roots angled unnaturally having been rent from the main landscape. Tall fir trees angled sideways as if attempting to keep their balance while sliding downhill. Steps carved in the damp sandy soil provided huge treads on the lower grade with an upturned milk carton box serving as the final connection to the beach. Looking back up the trail we wondered whatever possessed us to make this descent!

Surviving that danger we strolled south along the coastal trail of wide beige sand uncluttered by ocean debris. On a previous hike the beaches here were coated with blue jellyfish that had been blown ashore. But today it was just people, dogs and surfers enjoying the warm onshore breezes. Hard packed sand divided by the occasional runoff stream served to make the miles go by quickly. Ahead was Hug Point, an outcrop of rock that once served as part of the coastal transportation route prior to the development of Highway 101. Pick axes and dynamite carved out a rough one-way path for horse carts and later the first automobiles to travel between small coastal towns in the 1800's. If you time it right with the tide table you can still walk along this section and see the wheel and tire ruts, now barnacle encrusted, and traverse the rocky point to arrive at Hug Point beach and another State Park. 

Here the beach dips into natural caves, dark, chilly and clogged with great logs floated in by extremely high tides that firmly lodged them behind interior rocks. Water drips through the layers of interesting rock structures. Read about them here. Hikers can explore these shallow caverns but do keep an eye on the incoming tides. They fill the caves quickly at times and can pose a danger to those caught unawares. Farther south there is a waterfall that cascades over the boulders restraining a part of the hillside. 

Technically you can hike the fourteen miles from Cannon Beach south to Manzanita, hooking up with the Oregon Coast Trail at Arch Cape, rounding the point at Cape Falcon and Short Sands Beach, formerly Smugglers' Cove and then finishing at Manzanita. That's a long day! Best to have a car waiting at the end. If that little jaunt is a no-go then pick a portion of the trail and enjoy the sample.

Wondering if we should exit the beach at Hug Point State Park and walk the narrow, winding highway back to Arcadia State Park, a glimpse of the whizzing cars made that an easy decision. We decided to take our chances with the tide and the landslide. Crossing the little streams that widen as they join the breakers we timed our arrival at Hug Point just as the tide turned to flow in. Watching the wave action as it splashed at the base of the rocks we waited until there was one of those pauses when the sand is visible and jumped up to the first shelf of barnacles and seaweed-covered rock. Turning back for a moment to view the seascape prompted a plea to another hiker to snap our human portrait against the vast ocean shoreline. As the waves crashed higher and higher against the western border we followed those aged wheel ruts around the Point and carefully avoided the slippery, wet seaweed waiting in the shadows for breakers to flood it once again. 

Touching down on solid sand we ambled along the high water line, noting various sights and enjoying the clear and windless afternoon. Searching for an alternate route to the parking area we found nothing suitable so scrambled from milk carton box to sandy steps, now beginning to crumble under frequent foot traffic, jumping over crevices and uprooted trees and arrived, against descending beach goers, to the safety of the level park. I guess warning signs are for naught if so many of us ignored them. We were lucky today. Perhaps not so much another time. But as the Bard wrote "all's well that ends well". So we live to hike another day!

Largest of the caves - it goes way back

Wheel ruts in the rocks

Slippery, green seaweed awaiting the tide

Trees lean to balance on the slipping slope

Sandy, crumbling steps

Sliding slope

Jump!

The Other Side

Mt. Hood from Coyote Wall

What difference does three miles of water make? This is the width of the Columbia River near Hood River, Oregon and White Salmon, Washington. Having roamed the Tom McCall Preserve on the Oregon side of the river last week  (http://journalistbynature.blogspot.com) we decided to examine the south-facing hillside of Coyote Wall and the Labyrinth Loop on the Washington side this time. Bathed in unseasonably scorching 85 degrees, this piece of topography is another wildflower extravaganza, but of a different selection. 

The shift in air currents down The Gorge brought sirocco-like winds from the warmer central part of the state. Even in the early morning hours, hair scattering as if blown by a super hairdryer, we were quite comfortable in shorts and sleeveless tops, backpacks holding our super supply of hydration liquids and sunscreen slathered on extra thick. Closing car doors with an extra tug against the steady blast we sped to our destination 60 miles away. 

The lucent azure sky rolled endlessly on and provided a stunning backdrop for the rugged black-toned basalt cliffs studded with clumps of colonizing neon-yellow Desert parsley. Leafless trees stood silhouetted against this wash of colors, preparing to burst into a puff of spring green foliage. The old highway which in earlier times hugged the vertical cliffs high above the river now endures a random shower of boulders tumbling away from the cracking wall of rock. The roadway was closed for safety years ago and traffic routed along the newer Washington Highway 14 below. Hoofing it to the trailhead .7 mile east we followed the lambent Desert parsley-outlined road, or what was left uncovered by debris and passed through an ancient barbed wire fence gate, pausing to take in the expansive view upriver toward The Dalles. The calmly flowing waters were touched with whitecaps on this day, absent the often seen wind surfers who were missing a rad play day.

Coyote Wall is the perpendicular basalt structure that remains after its western half folded. Here is a short technical article worth reading that explains the geological movements. For hiking purposes, this area is visually rounded and soft with a delicate ocean of waving grasses but with a rocky surface holding a very thin layer of soil in which wildflowers take root. The trail heads generally north but soon branches off to multiple trails that scratch the face of the hillside like battle scars. Mountain bikers frequent this place and wear deep trenches in the trails so we move to the side a bit to find level footing as well as avoid the bikers' rapid descents. Because of the thin soil layer it is recommended that hikers stay on or as close to the trail as possible to avoid damaging the fragile plant life. Some side paths are closed for a period of plant rejuvenation.

Taking the westerly trail we meandered up a sinuous path near the edge of The Wall. Large splotches of Desert parsley dot the landscape and clamor for attention. It's hard to overlook them! But a closer examination reveals scattered tidbits of color, perhaps best described as tiny fairy bouquets. Minuscule deep purple-blue lupine blossoms, a mere millimeter or two across, grow side by side with larger white death camas, diminutive popcorn flowers, wild onions, golden bugloss fiddleneck, and a host of other unidentified but colorful mini-blooms. Although filled with flowers, this side of the river is not as dramatic as the balsamroot, grass widows or satin satin flower as it is sometimes called, yellow bells and purple desert parsley that carpet the Oregon side. Pushing to reach what I thought was the top of the hill I came upon a spread of balsamroot that replaced most of the yellow Desert parsley but also stretched for another two hilltops and unknown territory. Having achieved my goal for this hike I sat and drank in the top-of-the-world view of the mighty Columbia River but seeing only a tiny portion of its 1200 mile route.

Mountain biker 

After lunching by boulders at the edge of The Wall we headed downhill to transverse the slope toward The Labyrinth and two creek-fed waterfalls. Again dodging downhill mountain bikers we stopped to enjoy the cool sounds of a bubbling brook rushing along over small rocks on its way to the river far below. Drawn by the moist conditions, moss and lush plants crowded close for their share of the water. An old gray skeleton of a tree stood watch over the spot as we stepped carefully over the stream on rocks well-placed by previous travelers. Continuing farther east we reached the edge of The Labyrinth, "the common name for the general area between Coyote Wall and Catherine Creek. It gets its name from the maze-like characteristic of the narrow canyons between the rocky cliffs." (Oregon Hikers.com) Peering over the steep precipice we view more basalt columns across a deep canyon but make no attempt to reach them on this journey.

Looping around to reach the lower part of the hill we enjoy mutual picture taking with other hikers at another short waterfall before heading back to the road leading to our parked cars. Water still seeps from within the rocky basalt incline to drip deliciously down the face of the cliffs. We are on our last ounces of water and the temperature is rising as heat is reflected from the hill. Thankfully the winds have kept us air conditioned but they are beginning to slack off by mid-afternoon. This is a hike that must be taken by the end of April else the baking sun will exhaust all hikers and dry the wildflowers to a seedpod crisp. Catch it while you can!

Coyote Wall from below

Desert parsley and boulders

Fallen boulders on old highway

Trailhead

Coastal cucumber

Typical terrain

Popcorn flowers

Poison oak bush by the trail

Synclines and Anticlines

The Wall from up top

Mini-lupine

River barge traffic

Bygone era fencing

Basalt bluff

Lunch on the edge

Old oak with yellow desert parsley

Small stream

Death camas 

Desert parsley lines old highway

Remainder of old highway

  

Awakenings

Eschewing the basalt bed of needles on the Eagle Creek trail that my hiking group took I made my way farther east in search of those early springtime treats: wildflowers. The seasons gradually work their way west down the Columbia River Gorge as the inland heat meanders across the dry, grassy hills of pine and into the more moist and rugged Douglas fir and deciduous populated Willamette Valley. When the winter blues strike it's time to head for points upriver from Hood River to get an early dose of spring blooms.

Freeway driving, especially when on cruise control, frees up the mind just a bit to rifle through a sample of life's petty puzzlements. Mental analysis mixed with vista viewing make the journey pass quickly and then suddenly I'm there. The Tom McCall Preserve, five miles west of The Dalles and high on the basalt bluffs between Mosier and Rowena.

A clear blue sky lets all of the rising sun's rays fall on the greening landscape. The layers of lava flow from ages gone by, looking like a vertically ribbed chocolate wedding cake, pile one on another and are topped by a green frosting of velvet-looking spring grass. This verdant covering will quickly dry to a boring beige once the hot winds and low moisture of summer arrive, but for now it gives a soft fuzzy look to the terrain. Carving a wide, azure path between towering sides of this coulee, the Columbia quietly surges to the sea, deepened by the 14 dams on it in Canada, Washington and Oregon. Tiny barges and boats cut slick watery trails as they carry their wares up and down the river. Birds slowly spiral in the thermals near the cliffs, spying out tasty critters far below. 

The Preserve is perched along the Old Columbia River Highway, a narrow serpentine cement pathway between Troutdale and The Dalles, a 75 mile stretch of curves and views and branded as the scenic route. It cuts through orchards just budding out, through minuscule towns and past aged dwellings that house the migrant workers of this place. Below it races the Interstate traffic intent on making fast times to various destinations. The scenic course is comparatively slow, but that allows for a stop to watch workers on tall ladders prune apple and pear trees, and a pull-out to contemplate a striking view of the Gorge. 

Arriving at the Preserve, I see a few hikers already ascending the trail with backpacks in order and cameras and tripods clutched in eager search of this season's wildflower display. Other visitors are merely peering over the arched railing into the deep ravine below, listening to the report of target shooting echoing between the two great walls of rock. They who drive and dash miss the exquisite beauty of this place. They take a selfie or two with a vague background of the majestic scenery and quickly move on to the next point of interest. Three female deer slowly snack their way across the far field, oblivious to the view but keeping a wary eye on the humans who have spotted them. 

Balsomroot

Shouldering my backpack I head for the upper trail, a 3.5 mile round trip mounting two rocky summits to the south. In an effort to head off invasive plant species there are shoe brushes to remove any incoming or outgoing "hitchhikers" so I take a moment to shuffle through the bristles. It has been a hot, dry week of weather so the trail is relatively dry with only the occasional puddle to skirt. Yellow patches of balsomroot with their mounds of arrow-shaped leaves dot the pasture ahead. These are not shy pastel shades of the color but full on neon yellow screaming "look at me!" Even though the buds are newly opening with many more to come, they fill the scene with spring life. As if in a color competition great brushstrokes of yellow buttercups swirl around the balsomroot mounds, mingling with tiny pink centenary, white blossoms of candy flower and the occasional deep purple of grass widows with their stiff, grass-like foliage. 

Turning to catch the view, I spy the top of Mt. Adams peeking above the northern hills on the Washington side like a snowman's hat. More of the river can be seen now as it curves east toward The Dalles dam and rounds the bend west toward Bonneville dam. A slight breeze transports cooling air to the back of my neck as the exertion of climbing brings on a coat of perspiration. Scrub oak, still in the lock of dormancy, splay their bare branches against the cloudless sky, offering only the shade from their trunks today. 

Varieties of desert parsley in magenta and bright yellow begin to appear, clumping among the rocks and rooting in the barest of soil, tenacious in their return every year. Their gray-green fringy leafage gives background to the tall spikes of umbel flower heads. Columbia desert parsley, Lomatium columbianum, is uncommon elsewhere but seen in proliferation here. On the lookout for the itchy, oily leaves of poison oak I notice the early red leafing of a tiny lone branch. Peering more closely I see it is all around me, reaching out with those attractively colored bunches of three leaves, so innocent in its youth. Soon it will be raging bushes of maroon madness, luring the unschooled into its clutches. Step cautiously dear hikers!

Fawn lilies 

A few purple-blue larkspur make a lovely primary color show, especially when they are next to the brilliant yellows. Bright red Indian paintbrush appeared in a few spots but most were not ready to show their color yet. More yellow, this time in dainty Fawn lilies, coated the upper hillsides, their little recurved bells waving in the slight breeze, stamens dangling below. Yellow bells, clothed in orange jackets before they mature, droop shyly among the boulders and oaks. Insects of all kinds are busy with their instinctively assigned tasks of pollination and large black beetles scurry across the trail in dutiful callings. Silence reigns supreme at I near the summit and inhale the fresh spring air. Mt. Adams is more fully visible now and from the very top of the last summit Mt. Hood rewards the steadfast hiker. 

 Thoughts of pioneers and explorers fill my head and I wonder at their tough commitment to reach a dreamed of destination. My grandmother and her parents came from The Dalles in a covered wagon. What did they think when they saw this grand canyon of the Pacific Northwest, its rich valleys awaiting orchards and farms, its waters pure and mountain fresh. How did they survive in those first years, waiting for crops to mature, scrapping for a livelihood and living off the land. Only their diaries and letters ever told the tale; only their tumbling down homesteads give a hint at their perseverance. Perhaps the gift of wildflowers gave them bouquets of enjoyment as they planted their apple and pear saplings. It is the wildflowers that are free to anyone taking the trip to the Preserve. Hurry as they wait for no one. Now is the time catch the blooms!

Pruning time!

Apple trees in early bloom

Deer at the Preserve

Desert parsley in yellow

Up river

View to the summit

Clean those boots!

Small pond on the plateau

Larkspur

Lupine readying for bloom

Widow grass

Fawn lily

Wild onion

Shooting star

Columbia desert parsley

Field of balsomroot

Poison oak beginning to show

Wild geranium type

Keep climbing!

Yellow bell

Yellow bell before opening

Indian paintbrush

Old Columbia River Highway

Mt. Adams

Scrub oak watches over the valley

Desert parsley takes root wherever it can