Beauty Behind Beacon Rock

Only spunky and resolute cragswomen tackle trails in the rain. The adventures of the Pacific Northwest fail to wait for sunshine and dry weather. While some of our group headed south to boulder in Arizona for the spring, others of us donned rain gear and layered tops and headed for a warmup hike in the Columbia River Gorge. Selecting Beacon Rock as the primary focus with Hardy and Rodney Falls across the way we gathered at the base of the big Rock only to discover that the rain was rolling up the Gorge more quickly than we had anticipated and the winds were picking up to an alarming level. 

Henry J. Biddle bought Beacon Rock for $1 in 1915 and spent the next three years designing and constructing a dizzying structure to the 848 foot summit. The 17 bridges and 54 switchbacks carry hikers to the top for views east and west along the Gorge, the distances being determined by the weather. River traffic glides below and the busy Interstate 84 of Oregon can be seen across the river. The route up the Rock is not for the faint of heart. Metal poles form the basis for see-through railings all the way up. The path does not circumvent the Rock; rather it zigzags back and forth over the southwestern face, leaving quite a view all the way down to the trailhead. Add the element of drenching rains with high winds and the journey becomes a debatable danger. 

Being reasonable hikers we agreed to postpone an assault on the Rock and turned uphill, across Washington's Highway 14, to the trail toward Hamilton Mountain. This proved a good decision as Beacon Rock has suffered extensive winter damage and has been closed until repairs can be made. The suggested opening for "select areas" is about July 2016.

Warmup hikes are just that. They warm us up on short and less demanding trails in preparation for longer and more challenging hikes in the summer and fall.  Hamilton Mountain's looped 7.5 mile trail and 2000 foot elevation gain offer impressive views on a clear day for the demanding climb, but early on the trail are three splashy waterfalls worth seeing at this time of year. The 2.5 mile round trip was just what we needed even though we had planned the additional two mile Rock climb. 

Melting snow and rainwater hitting the tops of the mass of basalt rock that forms the canyon of the Columbia River Gorge slowly begin a seeping descent through tiny fractures in the columns, relinquishing their journey to gravity and random crevices. As single droplets join others they enlarge their volume and speed toward the basin. Periods of freezing and thawing labor to further open tiny fissures and even detach pieces of rock that go tumbling and bouncing downward until they find a resting place. Legions of these small water flows continue to find direction through larger and larger passageways until collectively they reach a ledge and cascade dramatically through thin air down a hundred feet or more onto another ledge. Here the powerful waterfall works to carve smoothly rounded pools which toss the splashing waters upward and outward in even more mist. Succeedingly lower and wider rock channels take the water to its next fall and perhaps another until a torrential gathering of rushing water reaches the Columbia River itself where it surges toward the largest body of water possible - the Pacific Ocean.

As water intermittently drizzled from the sky we began our hike from the State Park and kept steadily climbing along the trail. We found ourselves embarrassingly out of shape, having to stop more often than we had remembered necessary to catch our breath. This is the stuff of warmups. Keep at it. Step by step we gradually made some elevation gain and took in the greening beauty of a forest waking up after a snowy winter season. 

The first to arise is the moss, spongy and tufted on its surface, housing the bulbs of colored wildflowers just beginning to emerge. Tiny pink twinflower-like bells silently chime in the soft breeze, just barely hovering over their damp footing. Bright yellow violets look like dots of midday sunshine while the infrequent white trillium is like a fading patch of winter's snow. Bleeding heart foliage bursts above the decaying mass of last year's beauty, readying a flush of dangling pink hearts on a line. The white umbels of cow parsnip are forming above delicately unfurling maple-like leaves, growing fast like a teenage boy. Oregon grape leaves, pointed in holly look-alike, are shiny with rain but not yet budding here as they are elsewhere further west. Tiarella or foam flower form puddles of lovely leaf clusters in preparation for their tall spikes of white flower wands. The ubiquitous sword ferns, still staunch with last year's growth, are a higher carpet layer providing darker shades of green against the various colors and textures of tree bark. They hide this year's tightly curled fronds which will replace them soon, pushing the older fronds to the ground to become fodder for another generation of ferns. 

Just as our weary legs threaten to give out we hear the distant pounding of a waterfall - Hardy Falls to be exact. Encouraged by this sound we hurry along the curving trail to see, through the trunks of Douglas fir, Alder and Hemlock, a frothing spring waterfall, sluicing energetically over its boulder-strewn channel. Early spring runoff empowers these streams to a dramatic show of force and noise. The path to its base is deep with mud and steep enough to discourage visiting. Not far away is Rodney Falls, another impressive cascade. At the top of our trail is the famed Pool of Winds, a multi-level waterfall forced through a narrow wall of basalt to explode in windy arrival into a scoured rock pool and bounce against the channel walls in disregard for direction. But gravity wins as it pulls the flood over trees long ago dragged into its path but lodged between large rocks in the stream bed. A metal tubing rail restrains the overly curious from being washed downstream in a foolish and suicidal attempt to enter the pool. 

Misty Hamilton Mountain

Turning back to face our downhill return we slip and slide on the muddy path, greeting oncoming hikers and dogs bent on conquering Hamilton Mountain, now shrouded in a veil of mist and fog. We'll save that trip for another day when the view will be worth the effort. Reaching the trailhead we scamper into a covered picnic area for a cold lunch and a chance to wring out our wet gear. Tales of April trips abroad to sunnier climes by some of the group provide mental warmth to our chilly extremities. We all agree that today's short but sweet hike was worth the wet conditioning. We'll look for you on the trails next time!





*** Links to Gorge history and formation

Yellow violets

Trillium

Trail bridge

Falls through the trees 

Trail blocker

Trail danger!

Hardy Falls

Checking  out Pool of Winds

Feel the wind?

Top of falls

Safety railing 

Tree caught downstream

Rodney Falls

Pools of roof water

Talus behind shelter

Death and new life

Shelter stove

Picnic set on mossy boulders

Hot Stuff

Belt and suspenders: redundant safety procedures in place to eliminate all risk. That tactic, for the risk-averse or the tired warrior in the habitat of wild things, could prove to be useful. See previous posts for the initial stories at http://journalistbynature.blogspot.com/2016/01/feeding-frenzy-foiled.html and http://journalistbynature.blogspot.com/2016/02/two-sides-of-persistence.html.

Although my pitched battle with squirrels and raccoons seemed at a pause (no pun intended, maybe), when a friend suggested I employ the use of cayenne powder as the ultimate repellent I reflected on that as a possibility, having heard stories of its success elsewhere. When she offered a free and unopened giant shaker of the product, who was I to say no? What could I possibly lose? Famous last thoughts.

Refilling the bird feeders with fresh and tantalizing morsels I sprinkled a bit of cayenne powder around the feeding stations and on the ground. On second thought, just to be sure, I dumped piles of it in an enlarged circle and along the fence top trail, smug in my assurance of this safety perimeter. Returning to my post at the kitchen window, I waited for my prey to arrive.

Soon the little flyers, sensing a banquet, returned to beak-crack single sunflower seeds and flit among the leafless shrubbery branches, chirping and quarreling, dropping shells below while keeping an eye out for pesky fluffy-tailed rodents. They appeared to be unaffected by the red powder coating their snack. Avian activity must signal an available food supply because the squirrels made haste for the feeders. As usual, Mr. Nutkin first perused the ground for easy pickings of overlooked seeds. But very soon he reared back on his chubby haunches, little paws furiously rubbing his mouth, cheeks and eyes. Ah ha! Cayenne powder in action!  He scooted off in a flash, sneezing along the fence top trail in an effort to get safely home. Nary a rodent returned that day. Word was out. I swelled with triumphant pride.

The following morning, anxious to see how the raccoons had fared, I opened the mini-blinds above the kitchen sink for a peek at success. My success. Some of the stones at the base of the feeder stand had been moved, again. The shepherd's crook holding the feeders seemed to be listing at an increased angle, perhaps from the weight of the filled feeder, perhaps from climbing attempts. Hard to say. But the cayenne powder dumped amongst the base weights seemed to convey deterrence. However, an unusual amount of bird seed was missing, or consumed.

Squirrels develop wire cutter teeth 

Puzzling over the quickly disappearing seed in the feeders, I began to ponder the possible reasons. Squirrels sneezing and dashing away. Check. Raccoons investigating and lumbering off to easier and less bothersome food sources. Check. Uh oh. The birds. So many birds. Such a great charm of finches, a host of sparrows, a party of jays, a general dissimulation of birds. At least there was no murmuration of starlings, those rapacious invasive creatures from England!

Another bag of seed bites the dust

In order to keep my feathered friends happily returning, for my
amusement and their nourishment, I am now required to buy more and more bird seed. It would appear as if the cayenne powder has been an accelerant to the birds' appetites. That tip to the shepherd's crook? Perhaps is was due to the now increasingly portly winged creatures perched in repose after a heavy meal. Cayenne powder, the hot stuff: their gain, my bank account loss.

A Perfectly Gorge-ous Day at Catherine Creek

Springing from winter's hibernation our happy hiking group gathered, quivering with pent up energy to make the first excursion of the new year into the woods. Catherine Creek, part of the Columbia River Gorge Scenic Area, lies between Bingen and Lyle on the Washington side of the river and offers a first glimpse of the wildflower frenzy about to burst throughout the territory. It also allows warmer and drier hiking due to its eastern location.

Invigorated by the early morning spring-like weather, we piled into cars and chatted our way east, catching up on each other's winter activities and travels. Crossing the Columbia River at Hood River, we turned east along Highway 14 to reach Old Highway 8 where the trailhead begins. Expansive skies, laden with layers of light gray cirrostratus clouds caused a halo effect around the sun rising in its southern arc. Absent was the customary Gorge breeze and thus a mirror-like surface lay over the entire river. No wind surfing today.

A lower, paved trail winds in two three-quarter mile loops over the river-hugging cliffs, a popular nesting ground for peregrine falcons later in the spring. With only the occasional wind-blown Ponderosa pine to frame a view, the upper reaches of the Columbia River are seen as a wide, serpentine trail of water slowly making its way to the Pacific Ocean. The scene evokes tales of various local Indian tribes meeting nearby and the Lewis and Clark exploration party trading with them for supplies and information. Hushed by these thoughts I stood silently, letting the cool air swirl softly around me and the view transport me to a different time and place.

Desert biscuits

Stream crossing

The Arch at top

Stepping around rivulets of seeping water we entered the upper trail to begin our climb to The Arch and an old homestead. Basalt cliffs stand as tall overseers of vast fields of glacial till, remnants of receding glaciers. Water percolates through this porous structure to travel downhill in tiny streams, gathering in small ravines which channel it into singing waterfalls on its way to the mighty Columbia.

The trail is a gentle climb, branching east and west halfway up the hill. Taking the eastern route we made our way to the first summit where a carpet of purple, white, yellow and silver wildflowers grew as if strewn by by an unseen hand. Desert Widow, Columbia as well as Smooth Desert Parsley, the tiny Columbia Gorge daisy, newly leafing lupine and several varieties of saxifrages tint the greening rocky hillside with their colors.

Traversing the hilltop we stopped to view the top of The Arch, a natural bridge structure formed when part of the ridge rim fell away, leaving a gap in the basalt cliff. From the early part of the trail below it appears as a cave above an avalanche of talus. Considering the piles of rocks that have fallen away from the cliff we step back and stroll along a pole fence line to stop for lunch and take in the view upriver towards The Dalles. Puffy stratocumulus clouds begin to dot the bluing sky and sunbeams make their way to the pasture to warm us. Cattle once roamed this rocky area, subsisting on the scrawny grasses. Relics of past ranching are losing the battle with time and decay as nature reclaims its territory.

Desert Widow

Joining the watery runoff we hop-scotch down the trail, avoiding the more swampy areas by stepping on the flatter stones that clutter the path. More swaths of wildflowers color the landscape and we stop to examine them up close for their dainty details. Across the river at Memaloose Hills the wildflower display tends toward acres of brilliant yellow arrow-leaf balsamroot and deep purple lupine in mixed bouquet arrangements.

There is no more colorful time to visit the profuse wildflower displays frosting the hillsides of the Gorge. Start in the drier, eastern end around Mosier, The Dalles and Arlington and work  your way west and into the Coastal Range to Saddle Mountain. You won't be disappointed unless you forget your camera. Happy hiking in 2016!

Rocky soil supports profuse wildflowers

Steel, our trail dog

Colorful carpet

Watery trail

Lunch spot

Lupine just leafing out

Moss

Looking down over The Arch to bridge

Desert Widow and Gold star daisy

The Gorge looking east

Desert parsley

Ancient fencing returning to the earth

Saxifrages soaking in mossy rocks

Rivulets of runoff

Yellow desert parsley

Partial list of wildflowers by month

In Memoriam

The torrential rains drenching the northern coastal city stopped at midnight. By early morning the frogs populating the nearby waterway sat silent. A slate grey sky began to crack open to reveal whiter clouds and patches of blue. Scattered xanthous daffodils stood tall in a silent salute. A gentle breeze ruffled the flags flying at half mast. As we gathered along Highway 101 near Seaside, waiting for the motorcade to arrive from Camp Rilea, locals began to drift in. TV cameramen aimed and focused their equipment up the road in prepared expectation. A respectful silence weighed heavily on the scene.

At the precise time a motorcycle policeman in full uniform and gear, with
lights flashing, rode slowly along the route. He was immediately followed by a team of riders in formation fronting the main vehicle, a hearse carrying the remains of the slain Seaside policeman, Sgt. Jason Goodding. Thus began a solemn and silent hour-long procession of motorcycles, cars, vans, ambulances and fire trucks all carrying public safety personnel and often their wives, perhaps some wondering if they would be in a similar circumstance one day to honor their spouses. We nodded in acknowledgement and shared grief. The personnel represented municipalities from Seattle to Grants Pass, Seaside to Baker City. The womp, womp, womp of the Coast Guard helicopter's blades, the ones you want to hear when you are floundering at sea, slowly followed the caravan 200 feet above it.

In tight military formation and conduct the officials and representatives made their way through Seaside to the Convention Center and gathered inside. Due to the extremely large number of visitors the ceremony was streamed live to several other locations along the coast where locals could gather to be part of this memorial to one of their own. Following the protocol for law enforcement funerals, the flag-draped casket was wheeled down the center isle, flanked by the pallbearers. A color guard presented the flags as people stood in respect for them. Bagpipes played. Emotional speeches were made. A slide show reflected on Sgt. Goodding's life and community involvement.

At the end of the two and a half hour service his coffin's flag was slowly and meticulously folded by the pallbearers and graciously presented to Mrs. Goodding by a senior officer on bended knee. He spoke a few private words to her. The emotion of the moment rippled through the crowd as muffled sobs could be heard throughout the auditorium and Mrs. Goodding clutched the flag to her breast, weeping softly. Each daughter, in turn, received her honorary flag and a whispered comment by the presenter. The girls were young; eight and thirteen years respectively. So young to lose a father.

A lone bagpiper played Amazing Grace.

In the closing moments of the service a dispatcher was heard making the last call:

"10-600 to 604. Status check?"  

A long pause.  Breath-holding silence.

"10-600 to 604. Status check?"

A long pause.  Deafening silence.

"10-600 to 604. Status check?"

"End of contact with 604. All units. 604, Sgt. Jason Goodding is out of service. End of watch February 5, 2016. Gone but never forgotten."

The final picture on the large overhead screen read "You stand relieved; we have the watch."

And so another law enforcement officer's life has been taken in defense of the public's safety. Sgt. Jason Goodding lived out the law enforcement and safety service brotherhood's motto: To Protect and Serve. He served to his last breath.

Service video coverage here.

Two Sides of Persistence

full for the moment.......

Nights are long when sleep evades, especially during wintery January. The darkness narrows visual stimulation and the mind runs wild with thoughts, scenic reruns and looped tapes. Tiring of this routine with its constant tossing and turning, sighing and gazing about the shadowy bedroom, one that occurs more often than not, I decided a kitchen raid for a little snack might quell the sleeplessness. With stomach grumbling, for it was around 2 a.m., I carefully made my way down the darkened stairway, eschewing lights to keep the melatonin level high and gripping the handrail to ensure safe steps. In familiar surroundings it was easy to navigate in the dark and I felt the edges of the walls and countertops as I moved toward the kitchen sink, having picked up an orange along the way. Standing in the faint illumination of a tiny nightlight I peeled my fruit and wondered what the view from the kitchen window was at this hour.

Racky and Maude were lumbering along their midnight route through the neighborhood, following the scent of past nights through the rain-soaked grassy yards, across paved streets with puddles reflecting the yellowish glow of the streetlight and mounting the long run of fencing that bordered many of the human habitats. This elevated roadway gave them quick access to one of their favorite new snacking spots, the ever-full bird feeders of the lady's side yard. What a treasure she was, always making sure the feeders were full and yet fun enough to require a fresh assault on each visit. Those new fangled gizmos that attached the feeders to the poles were a little too complicated to undo and batting at them didn't cause their release to the ground as before, so a new plan was hatched. This would take teamwork and strength but the reward of black oil sunflowers seeds would be worth it.

Carefully wiping the sticky, sweet orange juice from my hands I pulled the cord to raise the blind. Shades of dark obscured the near view while a nearby industrial complex light source provided a cloud-reflected lighter layer in the distance. As I peered more closely into the night I thought I saw the bird feeders swaying in the wind. The great arc of their swinging seemed a bit much in the absence of the anticipated accompaniment of whispering wind in the fir trees so I looked even more closely and seemed to see a more defined shadow on the fence. Curiosity beckoned me to locate a flashlight. Feeling my way through a drawer I located the kitchen torch and clicked it on for a better look. Any possibility of sleepiness fled with the increased light level.

Four highway sign brilliance of reflecting circles met my beam of light as the shadowy mounds of a certain shade of dark froze mid-reach. Racky, in the supporting role, was counterbalancing Maude's bulk as she leaned precariously out over the empty garden space, front arm extended in a sweeping motion to skillfully snag a clawnail on the maximum security prison wire barrier that had truly, as advertised, been keeping the pesky squirrels at bay. With Racky holding what I imagined was her tail or rump, Maude slowly stretched her other tiny paw with its opposing thumb through the wires and into the feeder, retracting it with a fist full of seeds, all the while keeping an eye on the beam of light streaming from the kitchen window.

As my astonishment bled into irritation and then morphed into action I slid the window open hoping the sound would cause the rascals to leave yet not awaken the granddog sleeping nearby. They were obviously seasoned thieves as they barely flinched and continued stuffing their little cheeks with MY bird seed. Stepping up the skirmish I tapped on the window as Maude once again reached into the feeder. This sound only served to give her momentary pause and she continued her reach as if to say "did you hear something Racky?"

Being at a distinct disadvantage inside, clad in pajamas and bare feet and not really wanting to make direct contact with the enemy, I thought to turn on the faucet full blast and extend the sprayer up to the window screen for a water shot that would surely send the beasts scrambling. Firehose power it was not as the spray fell woefully short of the fence and its occupants. Was that a raccoonish snicker I heard? Embarrassment only served to fuel the irritation of failure. Momentarily reconsidering a dash outside I again rejected the idea as comical and useless, not to mentioned stirring the neighborhood dogs as well as awakened humans thinking criminals were afoot.

Summoning all my nocturnal willpower I jiggled the flashlight beam all around them, willing them to give up and leave. They, in turn, willed me to burn up my batteries or come outside and duke it out in person. Racky, either wise or chicken, was the first to turn and disappear on the other side of the fence leaving Maude to stare me down. Slowly, as if trying to save face, she side-stepped along the fence, alternately glancing at the seed supply in the feeder and then back at the human in the kitchen window as she made her way into the overhanging branches of the weeping purple fountain beech tree.

Feeling victorious yet somehow outsmarted, I doused the torch and bumbled off to bed in the dark, certain that I had saved some of the bird seed for the morning round of birds that would come for breakfast. I would have to rethink the feeder situation during daylight hours.

Racky and Maude gathered in the damp grass and dark of the neighboring yard and began planning another stealth attack.

Morning came right on schedule and I, short on sleep, groggily stared out my kitchen window, steaming coffee cup in hand, and saw not one single bird seed left.

Although the receipt called to me (see the previous post), I stubbornly refused to wave the white flag. Acquiescing to the squirrels was one thing but voracious nocturnal bandits were to be conquered. Donning my new flower-print yard boots for their maiden foray into the mud and grass, I determined to relocate the feeder stand so that it was not within leaning, reaching or climbing distance from any structure yet near enough to be viewed, surrounded by fluttering finches, from my kitchen window. That was, after all, the whole point of bird feeders. Armed with duct tape, bricks and copper tubing I examined my yard for an appropriate location.

duct tape and weights

Grabbing the heavy patio umbrella stand that served to keep the feeder pole upright, I dragged it to a spot that seemed most likely to deter Racky and Maude. Packing the space around the pole with the copper tubing and miscellaneous wood stakes I tightly duct taped the whole package together to keep the pole as immoveable as possible. After weighting the base with bricks and boulders I refilled the feeders and hung them once again by the trusty carabiners. At least they worked. Now to wait for darkness to fall.

Once again, sleepless and restless, I felt my way through the dark house to my kitchen window and raised the blind, orange in one hand, flashlight at the ready. One of the heavy stones at the base of the feeder pole had been rolled away in an obvious climbing adventure but all the others remained in place. All's quiet on the northern front.......for now.

Feeding Frenzy Foiled.....For Now

January deluge. Rain pouring, day after day, from slate gray skies whose edges run to the horizon. Those blistering days of last summer’s 100+ degrees are long forgotten now. The back yard is a swamp, the plants are all slimy after the freeze of December caught up with the delayed yard work and I’m under siege by the local raccoon family, as if the squirrels were not enough trouble.

rooftop raccoon

Over the years raccoons have followed a trail through the neighborhood, along fences, across the street, lumbering behind the arborvitae with their cubs playfully in tow.  Their midnight capers of scampering and exploring can be amusing, especially when a flashlight from the upstairs window catches their reflective eyes in the dark. First one huge set of unblinking eyes appear, then a smaller set on the left followed rapidly by a tiny set to the right and finally a pair of shiny circles on top of the huge ones. A family outing! One year they took up residence under my deck, scheduling playtime to coincide with my attempted sleep time. Their late night antics included toppling newly planted patio pots and dragging their contents around the yard. What fun. When the grapes begin to ripen, they add a loop to their route to include an excursion through my tiny vineyard, cooing and chirping to one another when they precede me to some ripe fruit. In the ultimate nocturnal foray, they scale the arbor to mount the second story roof and peer into my bedroom window as if to measure the risk of their intended escapades against my midnight watchfulness.

They’ve taken a recent liking to my birdseed, perhaps in a stomach-growling search for winter sustenance, and go to great lengths to acquire their midnight snacks. As I raised my kitchen blinds one dreary morning, anticipating a happy view of birds flocking about the feeders I was astonished by what I saw. The scene of theft and destruction could not have been accomplished by the lightweight Mr. Nutkins. Broken lilac branches trailing downward in unnatural bends and vanished feeders were my first shock. The bulky raccoons had clutched at the remaining bare yet bending branches and swatted the feeders until they fell to the ground from their “s” hooks and then somehow figured out how to get the tops UNSCREWED! They dragged the feeders along the ground, leaving the two lids buried in a pile of leaves and a faint trail of birdseed for the little finches and juncos to scrounge through. That was some feast: two pounds of black oil sunflower seed gone in a night. This surpassed even the greedy squirrels that at least leave half a feeder of seeds hanging for a second round the next day.

Spotting a refill the following night the raccoons once again climbed through my lilacs, continuing to break 1” diameter branches off with their weight and again downed the feeders. I keep filling the feeders even though earlier this winter I conceded the battle, more or less, to the squirrels who poke their little rodent noses through the screen around the feeders to extend their sticky tongues just far enough in to capture seeds. Bingo! Half or totally empty feeders in the morning. At least the birds get some of the scraps. Now the raccoons were upping the ante! I had to find a new and better strategy against these pesky creatures.

Strolling through the local Fred Meyer store I noted a 40% off bird feeders sale and saw the biggest mother of ‘em all: a bright red-lidded container holding about five pounds of seed in a maximum security prison-fenced gravity feeder tube with interior feeding stations. The tag said it was squirrel-resistant and I wanted to believe it would work for raccoons as well. I then purchased some carabiners at the hardware store - honkin’ big and sturdy. They secured and locked the feeder high above the ground on to a slippery metal shepherd’s crook planter pole. This ought to be challenging for the night marauders and I viewed it as my Last Stand!

Watching from the kitchen window the next morning, I observed the squirrels scoping out the new feeder. They reconnoitered around it in their usual tail-twitching manner, mentally calculated the distance to the prize, and finally leapt with military precision from the fence top to the feeder, hanging on upside down by their little toenails. Aha! The feeder fencing was further away from the seed tube than usual and their snarky little tongues couldn’t reach it! They viciously chewed and clawed at the fencing in an attempt to break it but it was, as I said, maximum security prison fencing and impenetrable. Sweet victory!!!  The little birds tipped their wings to me in gratitude and smugly chirped at the vexatious rodents nearby. 

Apparently the carabiners discouraged the raccoons too as they haven’t made a grab for the feeder yet although it was twisting suspiciously in the wind this morning, so they may have tried under cover of darkness last night. Only time will tell. If I hear the rumble of a cherry picker moving through the garden at midnight I’ll know I’m doomed and will return the feeder for a full refund. I kept the receipt.

Gettin' Back

Following a long, lonely dry spell off the trails, I reunited with my treasured hiking friends at a 2016 kickoff walk through Happy Valley suburbia. Too early to break trail through the holiday snowpack we opted for a brisk January neighborhood stroll to a newly developed food cart plaza positioned along Sunnyside Road at S.E. 145th.

This is no downtown parking-lot-turned-dirty dining-destination accompanied by hand-made signs, questionable power and water linkups, and loitering street people. The food cart metamorphosis here resembles the one that happened to VooDoo Donuts some years back. Once a grungy hole-in-the-wall zany donut shop open only during the late night and early morning hours, it moved one half a block up town, cleaned up its ambiance and is now a very successful international chain of pink-boxed sugary absurdities.

Happy Valley Station is a well-designed, upscale transplanted version of the scattered hodgepodge of food carts found throughout Portland neighborhoods.  Anchored on a cement pad with a central eating area closed to the elements in winter and rolled open in summer, the carts are specifically and equally spaced around the perimeter, each cart individual in offerings but uniform in size and structure. Professionally installed electric and plumbing hook-ups sit at the edges of the cement pad. Ethnic specialties are hawked out of sliding glass windows by cheery independent business owners. They do a brisk business through lunchtime. Prices are similar to other cart establishments.

Drew at the bar

Inside the eating arena is a beer counter with micros listed on a white board, a gelato cart and a coffee cart. A colorful play area is provided for children and large screen TVs run the latest sports news. Long polished wood picnic-style tables and benches fill the center like ribs of corduroy. Community seating at its finest.

Wandering through the varied culinary offerings we each made an appealing selection and gathered at one of the long tables to share bites, tales and topics ranging from traveling adventures and recent medical issues to modern baby diapers. Playing musical chairs in order to connect with each other we swirled around the table to share pictures and examine a wine glass-fronted iPhone cover. You had to be there!

Exchanging ideas for more winter walks and gatherings we found synergistic energy to buoy our hopes for another wonderful year of adventures around town and into the woods. Welcome to 2016 and ladies afoot seeking new horizons!

Water and electricity

Gelato cart

Play area and coffee cart

Interior eating area