Pinnacle Peak Hike: Mt. Rainier

Mt. Rainier from Reflection Lakes

We got an early start, reaching the Pinnacle Peak trailhead across from Reflection Lakes by 8:30 a.m. (on September 9, 2022) It was sunny, but cool and breezy. Little reflection on Reflection Lakes, due to the wind. The trail was all uphill—gentle uphill the first mile and then a steeper climb, often through loose gravel or rocks. We took it slow and easy, enjoying the quiet of the woods and the frequent views of Mt. Rainier.

I was glad I brought my hiking poles. They were useful both on the uphill and on the pleasant downhill return trip, giving me added confidence as I walked on the slant.

Not too far up, in a rocky area, two marmots popped up to look us over. We saw at least three more on the hike, and they weren’t too skittish—although we made no attempt to approach closely. We only saw one cute little pika, but he actually ran across the trail right in front of me. We read that pikas don’t hibernate, but collect plants in their dens to last them through the winter. That explained a couple of places where we saw piles of plants on the rocks, probably waiting to be carried underground.

I kept stopping to take photographs of Mt. Rainier. The views just kept getting better and better as we climbed higher. We could see Paradise Lodge and the cars parked there—which made us glad we chose the Pinnacle Peak trail instead of Paradise. We saw only a handful of people the entire time on this hike, unlike the crowded parking lots and trails of Paradise we had drive past the afternoon before.

Mt. Rainier with some smoky haze and Gary, my husband and faithful hiking partner

We reached the saddle between Pinnacle Peak and Plummer Peak. Looking back, we had an amazing view of Mt. Rainier. The other direction was supposed to be a view of Mt. Adams, but smoke from forest fires hid it from view. There were still nice views of the hills and of Pinnacle, Plummer, and Castle Peaks.

Pinnacle Peak from the backside

The Pinnacle Peak hike rates as one of our best-ever hikes. Only 3.5 miles round trip, peaceful and uncrowded, and with gorgeous views. It would have been even better in August—although likely more crowded—when the meadows were covered with wildflowers in bloom. Only a few scattered flowers remained in early September.

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Sutton Creek Trail, a lovely coastal hike near Florence, Oregon

View from Holman Vista

For a serene hike through beach pines, shrubs, and the occasional dune, check out the Sutton Creek Trail just north of Florence, Oregon. Florence is known for its sand dunes, and part of this trail hits the edge of some dunes, but most of it remains in the woods, a woods that might do Middle-earth proud.

We camped at Sutton campground four miles north of Florence. It is a quiet campground set amid fir and alder trees along Sutton Creek. Ferns, salal, huckleberry, and what looked to be salmonberry surround the campsites and give a good degree of privacy. And Sutton Creek Trail, a loop (or rather, figure 8) trail begins right in the campground.

The part of the loop closest to the creek meandered through beach pines filled in with salal, huckleberry bushes, and tall rhododendrons (not blooming in August). At times the brush and trees became so dense it was like walking through green and gray tunnels. Moss hung from some of the trees and sprinkled across the ground with occasional lichens and a few large—and odd-looking—mushrooms. It seemed like a landscape suited to elves and hobbits.

We heard an occasional jay or crow and, towards the end, the high-pitched shriek of an osprey high above. The only birds I actually saw were crows trying to maneuver the blustery winds, a single robin, and four nondescript wrentits flitting through the bushes.

We enjoyed the view from Holman Vista, looking over Sutton Creek to the wooded dunes beyond. The ocean roared from beyond the dunes, but it wasn’t visible. We tried what used to be the Beach Trail, but found no reliable way to cross Sutton Creek to the dunes. Apparently there was once a bridge there, but now there were only random logs for those more intrepid than I.

We turned onto the Northern Sutton Creek Trail. While the first half of the loop was a hard dirt trail through the woods, much of the second half of the trail became sandier with brushy dunes rising up to the left. Parts of the trail went along the edge of the dunes, and we found slogging uphill through the sand slower going. The area was more open with nice views of the sandy hills. We saw a couple of garter snakes slither off the path as we approached.

The first half of the trail has occasional benches where we enjoyed taking a short break. There were fewer on the return half of the loop. We ate our lunch sitting on a log beside the trail. At the dune near the end of our return—less than half a mile from Sutton Campground—two rope swings hung from a large tree over the sand. My husband tried one out just for fun.

The total hike is about six miles. Some ups and downs, but nothing at all extreme. Weather was nice—high 60s to maybe 70. A cool hike through the woods with a little added warmth in the more open areas made it a lovely coastal hike.

And if you visit the area, be sure to take a short trip to the Darlingtonia Wayside, less than a mile north on Highway 101. Carnivorous plants in abundance.

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A Quote for Summer

Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.

—John Lubbock

Tiger swallowtail on a tiger lily

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Summer Hiking Surprise along the Breitenbush River

With Covid still in full swing, my husband and I have searched for out-of-the-way places to camp and hike. While we carry our masks with us, it’s much nicer if we can keep them in our pockets and enjoy a solitary hike. There are other benefits to hiking lesser known trails. We love the quiet of the deep woods, the soothing sounds of a clear stream rushing over stones, bird calls that echo through the stillness. These are all more fully enjoyed without other voices breaking the quiet.

We recently camped two nights in a forest camp along the Breitenbush River in the Oregon Cascades. The first full day we drove some distance to a hike that climbed to a nice viewpoint, where we rested and ate lunch. We only saw two other people the whole time. On the day we were leaving, we decided to take a short hike from the campground. The trail began above the river, partially visible through the trees and brush. Nothing special, but we would at least get our steps in, we thought. But then things changed.

The trail turned away from the river, entering some woods. Suddenly we felt like we had entered the Hoh Rainforest. The ground was green with moss and thick strands hung from the trees. Ferns grew amidst the salal, Oregon grape, and huckleberry plants. Sunlight slanted through maple and fir trees, adding to the beauty. And all of this just steps from a dusty trail above a river.

We hadn’t expected much of the trail—just a pleasant stroll before breaking camp. What we received was a special gift from God, beauty to carry with us as we returned to our home. What if we hadn’t gone for a morning walk? We would never have known what we missed. How often does that happen in my life? How many times do I stick to what I know, rather than trying out something new? Maybe I need to try new things more often—cook a new recipe, read a book outside my usual genres, develop a new skill, make a new friend. What beauty might be waiting for me just around the bend?

 

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Covid Hiking: from Panther Creek Campground, Washington

beginning of the hike

Only about an hour’s hike to a viewpoint, the camp host told my husband and me. It was uphill, but not steep, he said. So we headed out from Panther Creek Campground to the Pacific Coast Trail—and immediately the path sloped uphill through tall trees. Not steep? Well, it probably depends on one’s definition. We hit our first switch back and continued to the next. And the next. And the next.

After an hour, we were still going. Every so often we saw bright areas ahead, like the top of the hill. Not long now, we thought. But then the next switchback revealed the trail continuing onward and upward, with no top in sight. Two hours and still no viewpoint. Did I mention I am a lousy uphill hiker?

phantom orchid

Another switchback, another long uphill stretch. Was that the top of the hill to the side or just another illusion? I plowed forward without my usual rest breaks, up the last two switchbacks. I strode into the sunlight and gazed at dark green hills below. A few steps more, and Mt. Adams came into view. Finally, we made it. We rested a bit, enjoying our achievement—and the scenery—before heading back down to camp (a hike which, for some odd reason, took half the time of the hike up).

tall trees on the way

That hike is a bit like our current situation with COVID-19. We bought our masks, tried ordering groceries online, holed up in our safe, little home, expecting normal life to be just around the next switchback. My husband and I discussed taking a May trip to Japan to see our son and daughter-in-law. So glad we never made reservations. Then we thought summer might bring a reprieve. We might at least get out to Pittsburgh to see our other son and his family. Nope, still struggling up the hill. And now, who knows when it will end? My legs are getting tired and my heart is pounding as we work our way up this hill—or perhaps this mountain.

tapertip onion

But our hike was a success. We kept going and made it to the viewpoint. Our reward was a lovely sight and a feeling of accomplishment. So hang in there, friends. We can ask God for extra strength when ours is running out. Better yet, we can rely on His strength, rather than our own. It may not be easy. We may get tired well before we reach the end. But with God’s help, we will eventually make it to the viewpoint and be very glad we didn’t give up.

Mt. Adams

 

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Too Much Zucchini: When Will I Ever Learn?

About this time every year, I always wonder why I planted so many zucchini plants. Stacks of the shiny green vegetable—along with the yellow variety I also planted—pile up on the kitchen counter. The menu is filled with similar-sounding dinners: zucchini spaghetti, zucchini fajitas, zucchini rice casserole, zucchini crescent pie—and that’s just for starters. Why, oh why, did I plant so much?

 

Apparently over the winter my memories fade. By the time planting season rolls in I have forgotten just how many vegetables those few hills produced. Three hills of zucchini and two of yellow summer squash. It doesn’t seem like that much. Of course, it might be better if I actually thinned the hills down to one or two plants, but I hate to pull out perfectly healthy seedlings. And so yet again I have too much zucchini. Will I ever learn my lesson?

There have been other lessons I was slow to learn. Like taking chances. I could have gone to Europe while I was in high school, but I chickened out. I wouldn’t know anyone on the trip, and that was just too scary—even though it would have been nice to actually use the German I was studying. I did the same thing in college. The result: I didn’t make it to Europe until I was 66 years old. I gave in to fear other times, as well—giving up a volunteer position that would have taken me to a distant state after college. Now I regret that decision, thinking of the experiences I might have had.

I notice I’m not the only person who doesn’t seem to learn quickly. How many people get one speeding ticket and obey the law from that day forward? How many get drunk once and learn their lesson from the morning after? How many are quick to find new friends when their old ones lead them astray? Sadly, humans do not always learn from experience.

Fortunately, too much zucchini lends itself to an easy solution. I have friends who are unable to grow gardens and gladly accept my excess produce. If only other mistakes were so easily corrected! However, there is hope. I married a man who likes adventure, and he helped me to move beyond my comfort zone. Raising our boys was an adventure that involved many new experiences, ones I would never have dared on my own.

Those with more serious issues can also learn and leave their mistakes behind.  Faithful friends can support and admonish you as you try to change. Support groups abound for every kind of bad habit or addiction. Pastors and counselors can give advice and help. God is watching and listening, there to provide strength when needed. Mistakes do not need to be repeated in an endless cycle. If you reach out for help, the future can be different.

As for me, perhaps next year instead of five hills of zucchini, I will plant four—if my memory doesn’t fail me again. And—with God’s help—instead of holding back in fear, I will try to eagerly accept the adventures He has for me.

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Canyon Creek Meadows, Oregon

Posing at Upper Meadow

Written July 11, 2016

Picturesque lakes, mountain meadows, views of jagged peaks, a forest being reborn after a disastrous fire—all elements of the beautiful Canyon Creek Meadows hike from Jack Lake, not far from Camp Sherman, Oregon.

Getting to the trailhead from our campsite at Smiling River campground on the Metolius River was a bit challenging. Finding the forest road signs to make sure we took the right roads and bouncing along miles of washboard gravel were the main issues. They were quickly forgotten once we hit the trail.

The morning chill didn’t stop a group of school-aged children from splashing in Jack Lake while their teacher/caretaker watched from the shore. It made me shiver—don’t kids feel the cold?

Ghost trees

We hiked through open pine woods—including several areas of bare “ghost trees” left from a 2003 fire. Small pine and hemlock were growing back, an encouraging sight. Farther along the forest got thicker as we entered unburned regions.

Lower Meadow was a green oasis of merging streams and flower-filled fields, although most of the flowers were yet to bloom. Apparently late July-early August is peak season for blossoms. Still we did see lupine, Indian paintbrush, cat’s ears, and other flowers scattered about.

lunchtime

Crossing a couple of small creeks, we ascended higher (and a bit more steeply) to Upper Meadow, which provided a spectacular view of Three Fingered Jack, still spotted with snow. As we hiked the even steeper trail past Upper Meadow, we had to cross a couple of large patches of snow before reaching the open rock area that led up to a viewpoint. The view was already amazing, and I was hungry and tired, so I wimped out and found a big rock to sit on while we ate lunch. My husband hiked a bit higher to a notch in the rock, but decided that was far enough. While a tricky scramble up a rocky hill will supposedly give views of the other Central Oregon mountains, we never made it there.

The hike down was lovely and we took the loop trail from Lower Meadow, which seemed empty of hikers but teeming with mosquitoes. (Could there be a correlation between the two?) Canyon Creek tumbled along next to the first section of the loop, milky with glacier water. More ghost trees stood sentinel around us, poking like needles into the deep blue sky. When we returned to Jack Lake, the group of children was gone, and a serene stillness filled the air.

Jack Lake in the afternoon

We returned to the Metolius, which was beautiful and remarkably mosquito-free.

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September Feelings

September.

As we edge toward autumn, change is in the air. The heat of summer slowly dies away, replaced by crisp, foggy mornings and cool breezes. Clouds roll in, sometimes huge, fluffy white mountains, other times layers of gray filled with rain.

Leaves begin to turn color. We harvest the garden—plucking the last few ears of corn, a few fat cucumbers hiding under the leaves, red and golden cherry tomatoes, and, of course, zucchini, which is not yet ready to call it quits. Apples redden on the tree. The pantry shelves hold jars of beans, the freezer bags of corn. Blackberry jam and jelly await winter breakfasts. Our garden has done well.

A hush settles over the street, as children head off to school. I drink in the quiet and let it settle into my soul. September. Even the sound of it is soft and flowing, like the afternoon breeze as it rustles through the treetops. Like a treasure you hold, not in your hands, but in your heart.

And in the evening we stroll down the street as darkness falls earlier and the sun sets in a bright sky.

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Falls Creek Falls Trail, Washington

Last month my husband and I stayed at Paradise Creek Campground along the Wind River in SW Washington–a gorgeous place to stay and enjoy nature. I wrote this review of a hike we took, and I am now finally posting it. Better late than never!

The Falls Creek Falls Trail began quietly, through woods filled with ferns and mossy trees. Not as many flowers as the Observation Peak hike, but plenty of twin flowers, salal, and Oregon grape–the last no longer in bloom. We climbed gradually, following the splashing creek and working our way to the falls. The last third of a mile to the falls climbed more steeply before dropping a bit to a wonderful viewpoint. A refreshing breeze hit my sweaty face as we approached, and I was ready to drop onto one of many rock “chairs” to enjoy the view and rest in Creation’s beauty.

The falls itself consisted of three cascades, but only two could be seen from the viewpoint. The upper of the two spread out with many fingers of water tumbling down the rock face. The fingers joined together into one long cascade as the lower falls crashed into a shaded, rocky pool surrounded by green moss. We ate our lunch here, joined by a cheeky chipmunk looking for handouts. We gave him a couple of nuts and a blueberry, figuring those were natural foods for a chipmunk. He ignored the berry, but stuffed the nuts into his cheek and scrambled off to eat.

After a rest we headed up–and I do mean up–to the Upper Falls Trail. The connecting trail was steep, but just a warm-up for the trip to the top of the falls. What a relief when we made it to the top. A nice view, but nothing comparing to Observation Peak. Still the trails around it were nice–level paths through open woods with sunlight and lots of green plants. A pleasant change from the grueling uphill to get there.

As we headed back down the steep, narrow trail, the squeal of brakes warned me that a mountain biker was behind us. How he made it safely down that treacherous trail I don’t know. but tracks we noticed on the way up indicated he wasn’t the only one.

The upper loop back was far from the cool stream, and the heat of the day increased until I felt my body could easily replace a room radiator, and sweat dripped off my hair. When we reached the trailhead, I collapsed into the truck and flipped on the air conditioner. Okay, I’m spoiled, I know. But it certainly felt good!

Falls Creek Falls Trail is a beautiful hike, but my recommendation for all but those working on stamina training: stop at the falls. It’s the highlight of the trip, and the Upper Falls Trail adds little to it. Is there a metaphor for life here? Not sure. Maybe just that effort and reward are not always equal.

 

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Flowers and Mountain Views: Observation Peak Hike

 

Queen-cup lily

Trapper Creek Wilderness

Gifford Pinchot National Forest, Washington

Hubby patiently waits for me.

We set out bright and early, bumped along rutty gravel roads, and reached the trailhead for the Observation Peak hike shortly after 8 a.m. Morning coolness still hung in the air, as we donned our packs and headed up the trail. Tall cedar and fir surrounded us, and wildflowers brightened the sides of the path–Indian paintbrush, bunchberry, anemone, queen-cup lily, vanilla leaf, and coralroot, among others. No sounds of civilization met our ears, not even an airplane. The deep silence was broken occasionally by a bird singing from some hidden branch high above us–and by the incessant buzz of flies and annoying whine of mosquitoes, who left their marks on our tender skin. Even after we applied repellent, they danced around our faces and ears, looking for spots we missed. Still, not the worst insects we’d met hiking; they were bearable.

View of Mt. Hood

My husband forged ahead on the trail, eager to reach the promised viewpoints. I plodded slowly up the hill, making frequent stops to enjoy the scenery and take photographs–oh, yes, and to rest. Uphill hiking and I have our differences. The tall trees and abundant flowers gave me something to admire as I rested. Beauty can sometimes be as refreshing as a good sports drink.

After some ups and down of the trail, we climbed the last 0.6 miles of steady uphill. What a relief when the trees gave way to rocks and new types of flowers–bear grass, Mariposa lilies (I think), two stately tiger lilies, and a bright purple flower that I have yet to identify. We topped the rocky ridge and the world spread out before us, the views as spectacular as the guide book suggested. Dark green, rolling hills below us and majestic mountains whichever way we looked. Rainier, St. Helens, Adams in Washington state, and Hood, Jefferson, and the tiniest glimpse of the Three Sisters in Oregon. Absolutely gorgeous!

Mt. Adams

That purple flower with Mt. Adams behind it

We munched on PBJ sandwiches and enjoyed the cooling breeze as we took in the scenery. One thing about hiking around mountains; most trails go uphill. It can be hard work to reach the top–very hard work for some of us–but once I make it, I’m always glad I kept going. The wonderful view–and the feeling of accomplishment–makes it all worthwhile. A metaphor for life, no doubt. But I’d still love to discover a way to reach the top without working so hard!

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