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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Cottonwood Canyon: The Pinnacles Trail

Lone Tree Campground in Cottonwood Canyon State Park

We camped two nights at Lone Tree Campground in Cottonwood Canyon State Park, a quiet little campground along the John Day River in central Oregon. This is a fairly recent addition to the state parks, which includes 21 nice flat campsites with fire pits and with windbreaks and/or sun-sheltered picnic tables, but no hookups or dump station for RVs. There are also four cabins and a number of walk-in tent sites. They are all located in a pretty valley surrounded by picturesque hills. At one end, an old barn remains from the cattle ranch that used to be here.

Valley of Cottonwood Canyon State Park–with old barn

There are several hikes in the area, short ones around the campground and a longer trail on each side of the river. The Pinnacles Trail heads out from the end of the campground, while the Lost Corral Trail requires a short drive across a bridge to the trailhead parking lot. We took the easy way, walking from our campsite. At the Pinnacles trailhead we noted cautions about ticks, rattlesnakes, and cougars, all possible dangers here. Fortunately, we saw none of them during our visit. A reminder to pack plenty of water was also posted, definitely an important suggestion in this dry and warm area.

The weather forecast was for sunshine and a high of 75 (F). I wore a jacket to begin with, as the cliffs along the first part of the hike provided morning shade. The John Day River flowed along at full strength, with occasional ducks and Canada geese along its edges, red-winged blackbirds calling from the bushes, and swallows dipping and gliding above. We saw one cliff swallow carrying straw to build a nest on the edge of the towering cliff.

John Day River

The trail itself was pretty wide and smooth, mostly level and easy. After we passed the cliffs, the views opened up and the sun warmed us—time to remove jackets and roll up sleeves. (And wish I had remembered to pack a hat!) The scenery was gorgeous in a barren kind of way. I kept looking for mountain goats, but never saw any. But we did see plenty of butterflies and lizards. Some even held still long enough for me to get pictures.

According to my app, these are a common side-blotched lizard and anise swallowtails

After about three miles, the trail was blocked by a sign restricting access to protect the nesting areas of golden eagles. We saw one eagle soaring above the hills. Soon a couple of crows went after it, attacking it in flight until it left the area. We rested a bit on a bench nearby, then hiked slowly back, as the sun beating down on us was beginning to take a toll. We took plenty of water breaks and ate peanut butter and jam sandwiches in the shade of a large walnut tree on the appropriately-named Lower Walnut Trail, a short loop off the main trail. After a nice rest break, we headed on back to camp. The Pinnacles trail was our longest hike so far this year—and definitely worth the effort. We plan to return to Cottonwood Canyon State Park, a lovely desert oasis.

along the Pinnacles hike

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Broken Sand Dollars

Seaside, Oregon

A sunny day at the beach. What a blessing for our anniversary! And our first hotel stay since last anniversary. So nice to get away, even briefly, during these days of Covid. Even though the wind whipped against us, it felt good to be out walking by the ocean. Hearing the waves break on the beach, seeing the gulls soaring across the sky, smelling the salty ocean air.

As always, I looked for sand dollars as we walked. But all the ones I saw were broken—not many would be more than a fifty-cent-piece, as we used to joke. Perfect sand dollars are hard to find. Isn’t that how it goes in life, as well? In marriage, child-rearing, life itself—most days are only half-perfect, a mixture of good and bad. And sometimes disaster strikes—this year in the form a pandemic that destroyed the whole idea of normal. Like a sand dollar smashed by a careless boot. Brokenness becomes the life we live.

The next morning dawned bright and still. As we strolled along the beach, I saw more broken shells. But then, wait, a whole one! I snapped a photo to remember it. A few more steps and there was another…and another. Suddenly it seemed like perfect sand dollars were everywhere. Like the broken world was coming whole again with each round shell. I took more pictures and left the sand dollars for others to find, imagining their excitement when they spotted the first complete one. And we walked on, enjoying this oh-so-perfect morning. Like a brief glimpse of heaven.

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Seeing in Color

Neuschwanstein Castle

When I was in grade school, back in the Dark Ages, we would sometimes watch filmstrips about other countries. (Sorry to the younger people, who have never heard of a filmstrip. It is, basically, yesterday’s version of a Powerpoint presentation.) These filmstrips were in black and white. So were most of the pictures in our text books. Perhaps that is why, when I would think of another country, the pictures in my mind would be black and white. The only images I had of faraway places were those I saw in school or on television. (And television was black and white back then, too.)

Alpsee

In May my husband and I traveled to Europe for the first time—specifically Germany and Austria. It was a wonderful time of seeing new places, as well as some very old places. Castles, palaces, even some Roman ruins. We tried different foods, walked on cobblestone streets, went on a boat on the Romantic Rhine, and had fun practicing our very basic German. And we met so many people of many different nationalities. Not all of them were the stereotypical blond-haired, blue-eyed Germanic people. There were people from all corners of the globe. We soaked in the experience as much as we could.

Woman singing in Heidelberg

Those old black and white pictures in my head transformed themselves into living color. The blue of mountain lakes, bright green leaves trembling in the breeze, pale pink wild roses, multi-colored stained-glass windows of the cathedrals, gold-lined murals in the castles, a whole rainbow of colors. And a rainbow of skin tones that I found quite delightful.

Oberwesel on the Rhine

I will never see Europe in the same way, because it has become real to me. I wish everyone had the ability to travel to other countries. Perhaps if they did, they would see the world with new eyes. Perhaps we would see that we are all amazing people—each unique with special gifts to offer the world. And all of us brothers and sisters under the skin.

Hellbrunn Palace, Salzburg

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New Morning

Our plane sat on the runway awaiting permission to take off. The eastern sky turned pale orange above the distant hills. Mt. Hood highlighted the skyline, silhouetted against the predawn glow. Slowly the sky grew lighter. A sliver of bright gold glinted above the hills for a moment, and then the burning sun rose, illuminating the scene, sending streams of light across the ground. A new day had dawned.

As the plane soared high across the land, one new sight after another appeared below. Mountains icy with snow. Lakes sparkling in the sunlight. Scenes of such beauty that it compelled me to pull out my phone and snap photos. I felt like an eagle high above the earth seeing the hills and valleys in a new light—almost like I was looking through God’s eyes. So often I concentrate on the ugliness and hate in this land. From here all of that disappeared; all was fresh and new to my eyes, clean and pure.

This is a new year, awaiting our decisions, our actions, our emotions. And each day springs new from the hand of God. Will we grab it selfishly and use it for our own purposes, casting aside any who look or act different, ignoring our neighbors? Or will we accept it as a precious gift and treat it with gentleness and love? Will we take the hand of someone unfamiliar and try to see through their eyes? Perhaps we might catch a glimpse of a beauty we’ve never seen before. The choice is ours.

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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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Camping at Kalaloch, A Mother’s Day Gift

Our first camping trip of the year—and extra-special because our son who lives in Japan would be coming. In fact, it was planned especially for him. We had done a lot of camping and hiking when he was young, taking two-week camping trips every September (one of the advantages of homeschooling) to places like British Columbia, the California redwoods, Yellowstone Park, and a wide range of sites in Oregon and Washington. He had also camped a lot in Boy Scouts. But now, with trips home mainly taking place around Christmas, he missed spending time in the great outdoors.

We did a lot of planning, trying to find a place that would be dry in May, a bit of a challenge in the Pacific Northwest. However, as the time drew near, forecasts were mostly positive, so we set our sights on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington. Kalaloch Campground—right on the Pacific Ocean—sounded good for our first stop, once we learned how to pronounce it (Kah-lay-lock). And it turned out to be a good choice.

We pulled into the campground mid-afternoon Saturday, relieved to find many campsites still open (First come, first served can be scary at a popular campground.). The beachside places were all filled, but we found a lovely, large site with plenty of room for the trailer and a tent for our son and a local friend who had come along. Lots of privacy and a Middle Earth feel to it. Surely elves lurked nearby. Sunshine filtered through twisting, mossy branches onto ferns and wildflowers as we set up our camp. A fresh sea breeze blew enticingly, and a feeling of peace settled into my soul.

Soon we were down on the beach, drawn by the surf’s roar. The wind blew us along the rock-strewn, sandy beach, causing us to zip up sweatshirts and pull up hoods, despite the sunshine. We walked and we talked and we enjoyed being out in nature, away from computers and work and all those other things that crowd our lives. Just the four of us and the mighty ocean. We admired agates, watched gulls glide by overhead, noted the scraggly pines above the beach, all bent in the same direction.

The ocean is so big, its motion ever-changing yet ever the same. I feel connected to eternity by the ocean, a tiny part of something great and wonderful. To share that with a son I rarely get to see was the best Mother’s Day gift possible.

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Reflected Beauty: the Lightning Lakes Trail, British Columbia

A couple of weeks ago we spent some time hiking in British Columbia. We saw many beautiful places–from snow-topped mountains to rushing waterfalls to turquoise lakes. However, one of my favorite hikes was the Lightning Lake Trail in Manning Provincial Park. Although one of the longer hikes we took, it was a pleasant ramble through green forests along quiet, little lakes. And it contained very little elevation gain: a big plus for a wimp like me! When I called for a camera break, it was actually to take pictures, not as an excuse to plop down on a log and pant until I had the strength to continue.

Later on the Joffres Lakes Trail, we saw beautiful, turquoise lakes, their color coming from glacial silt that fed into them. At Lightning Lakes, on the other hand, the color of the lake itself was hard to determine. The lakes were so still and silent that they simply mirrored the world above: tall, green conifers, summer blue sky, white fluffy clouds. Rather than calling attention to themselves, they modestly drew one’s eyes to the beauty around them. Even the paddles of two early morning kayakers scarcely raised a ripple. They appeared to paddle through the treetops in their lake reflection.

If only I could be like Lightning Lake–so calm and peaceful that when people look at me, they see the love of God shining from my face. Lord, in all I do, let my life reflect your beauty!

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Rainy Days and Small Blessings

Our last day at Mt. Rainier was like so many fall days in the Pacific Northwest—wet and gray. Clouds moved in, muting the greens of moss and leaves, the reds and blues of berries, the gold of fall’s last blossoms. I hid my camera in my pack, bringing it out only briefly to capture some quick moment of beauty.

When the rain stopped for a bit, I ventured out again. Firs towered over me, grown tall in the moist soil. The river rushed by, energized by the added water. And all around me, pictures of nature’s magnificence in miniature beckoned. In the days past we had enjoyed the grand vistas—wide, blue lakes, majestic peaks, hills rising above the fog. Today I focused in on the little things.

Leaves speckled with raindrops. Oregon grape nestled against a tree trunk. Lacy leaf patterns in the vine maple. Miniscule forests of fungi. Amazing beauty that is so easy to miss in our hurried lives.

Gray days can be depressing. Clouds surround me and the rain beats upon me, forcing my eyes downward. However, if I keep my eyes open, I can still discover those small blessings that make each day special.

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Naches Peak Trail, Mt. Rainier

  “On a clear summer or crisp fall day, this might be the finest day hike in Washington,” the trail guide said. (Day Hike! Mount Rainier by Ron C Judd with Seabury Blair, Jr.) I would have to agree.

My husband and I set off on September 4, as the morning sunshine lit up the white fuzzy heads of Western anemones. Meadows all along the route held the remnants of what must have been a riot of color just two or three weeks before. Now a few asters, some lupine, and an occasional monkey flower by a stream remained to hint at summer’s beauty. Dwarf mountain ash held bright orange fruits, and huckleberry plants hid sweet, blue treasures under their leaves. We munched as we walked.

On a larger scale, the views were magnificent. Jagged rocky peaks surrounded us, a few with patches of snow still accenting their slopes. Blue mountain tarns reflected stately fir trees and white clouds. Peace descended upon us in the silence, broken only by the caws of a crow, the chipping of juncos in the trees, and the hushed murmur of a cool breeze.

An uphill climb brought us face to face with Mt. Rainier itself. Sadly, clouds veiled its peak, and we could only glimpse the white skirts of snow on the lower section. We stopped to rest on a rocky area, where a friendly chipmunk—or perhaps a ground squirrel—agreed to pose for me.

Then on back down, past Tipsoo Lake, an opal set in an emerald field. Over one more ridge, then down to the truck, with enough huckleberries in my pack for a lovely pancake breakfast.

“How can people see this beauty and say there is no God?” my husband wondered. I couldn’t answer.

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