Dellenback Dunes (Hall Lake Route)

At December's commencement, I was well poised to reach my yearly goal of 500 miles but unfortunately, sort of ran out of gas due to weather, sore knees, and life stuff. Still, I wound up with 469 miles hiked in 2020 and that's respectable. But here we are in a brand new year and this was the first hike of the year. Brand new year but still some travails, apparently. On this particular hike at Dellenback Dunes, I felt a sharp pain somewhere "down there" that left me feeling teste, pun intended. After a post-hike round of tests and stuff, turns out I am the proud father-to-be of a brand new baby hernia which would explain the burning pain in my groin. And just to clarify, this particular burning in the groin is the kind you get when you are sixty-four years old and not the cool burning in your groin you get at say, age twenty-four. Anyway, I dispiritedly erased my 2021 goal of 500 miles off of the message board hanging in the kitchen. Hernia surgery and the requisite period of post-surgery recuperation will do that to a mileage goal.

Across the dunes we go!

Dellenback Dunes is one of those places I seem to hit pretty regularly and since I've been hiking eons, I've visited the sandy expanse an eon's worth of times. To keep from getting bored, I try to find a different route to keep the dunes interesting and while I had done the version that connects the John Dellenback Dunes Trailhead with Hall Lake several times, most of the attendees on this Friends of the Umpqua hike had not, allowing me to experience the freshness of the hike by listening to their complaints about the endless mountains of sand we were hiking up and down.

This hike provided lots of quality "Whee!" time

There are basically like five mountain ranges of sand running between trailhead and lake and the first slope is one of the steeper ones. The day was overcast, but we were all soon quite warm from the exertion of hiking up steep slopes of soft sand. On the plus side, the steep drop-off on the other side of the crest was fun to watch as hikers ran down the slopes in ebullient glee like first-graders exiting the classroom for recess. Although, nobody could match the exuberance and joy of canine friend Gus, who ran back up the slope solely for the delirious pleasure of running back down again. Me, I just calmly walked down the sandy slopes because like the day, I too am gray and chill.

Spirits of forests past

Our second "little" hill was through a ghost forest, a highlight of the hike. It's hard to imagine a forest growing in what seems to an entire Arabian peninsula of sand in Oregon. Yet, there they are, the bones of several dozen dead trees half buried in an arborescent graveyard, with the top half of the trees serving as grave marker and headstone. This arboreal necropolis is a reverential place and we stopped to mourn the trees' loss of life and generally just ponder the meaning of it all. I'm not sure how a mini-forest of evergreen trees ever managed to grow tall in the middle of all that sand but you can't argue with the spirits of the dead manifested on the crown of this sandy crest.

Our lunchtime view of Hall Lake

After several more ups and downs on several more tall alps of sand, we arrived at the slope overlooking Hall Lake and stopped to admire the vista for a bit. Hall Lake sits on the dividing line between coastal forest and stark dune and accordingly, the east side of the lake was heavily forested while on the west side, the tall dune we were eating lunch on sloped directly down to the dark waters.     

Not looking at any dang yardangs!

The Hall Lake overlook was the culmination of the 4th climb up a steep slope of sand so several of our party opted to hike return by way of that dune crest while the rest of us tackled Dune Number 5, which was the meanest one out of the whole bunch. But Dune 5 is the coolest, scenery-wise, for the combination of rain and wind had carved the damp sands on the dune crest into all sorts of sculptures (known as yardangs) resembling random pyramids and temples. Those with cameras explored the yardangs while those without lowered their heads and toiled up the steep sandy inclines, oblivious to the splendors of the sandy ramparts and revetments sited just below.

Linda leads the mad charge across the dunes

After the dune descent, we were happy to be hiking along the edge of the behind-the-beach marshes until the main body of our group grabbed the trail to the beach. Linda, Don, and I opted to return directly to the trailhead at this point. Don and I have each recently lost a close family member, so naturally in the middle of this celebration of nature and life, the main subject of our conversation was death and dying. But it was therapeutic and helped mute the increasing pain in my lower side. Stupid hernia, anyway.

A veritable Mount Rainier of sand looms on the horizon

For more photos of this hike, please visit the Flickr album.

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Eel Lake

Eel Lake is a reliable go-to hike during Oregon's wet winter and does provide a healthy dose of lakeside scenery while tracing a route along the lake's forested shoreline. And so it was that on a damp and dreary December day, about eight of us set out on the trail to partake of the lake, rain, and all the mushrooms you could ever want to look at. Didn't see any eels though, not that we necessarily would have in any case.

Eel Lake on a gray day

This was mid-December, right on winter's cold and watery cusp, and naturally our venture turned out to be your basic quintessential winter hike. The sky was gray, full of pregnant clouds seemingly just about to deliver the baby, and we hiked underneath them while waiting for the water to break, colloquially speaking. There was nary a ripple on the placid surface of the lake which was as glassy as the eyes of a losing boxer. The recent rains had rendered the trail a muddy mess and the sound of boots slipping and sliding in the ooze could be heard as we hiked. Vegetation was wet and the sounds of complaining hikers with soaked pant legs could also be heard as we hiked. Winter is mushroom and fungus season and the forest was full of all kinds of them, slowing down a certain hiker with a compulsion to photograph each and every one.

A clump of ginormous mushrooms

As the civilized environs of William Tugman State Park receded behind us, we pretty much had the trail to ourselves. The basic rhythm of the hike was a walk through dark and damp woods to a viewpoint of the still and quiet lake on a gray day, then rinse and repeat for about six miles. The path also went up and down along the lake so we were able to keep internally warm from the exertion of hiking. Most of the alder trees flanking the path were bare but maples still sported a yellow leaf or two in a vestigial remnant of the recent fall season. 

The lake had more arms than a mutant octopus

Eel Lake at its widest point is only about a third of a mile wide, but the lake consists of two long arms making the body of water look like perhaps a U-shaped eel when seen from above. Each of the two arms have lots of little coves and bays serrating the eel-arm shoreline. The ins and outs add to the mileage of the hike but the trail only manages to conquer about 3.5 miles or so of lake shore. Frustrating, because there are several dozen more miles of shore to follow. I'd love to see a trail go all the way around.

Some of that swampy mess on the "trail"

    
After passing an idyllic little backpack campsite, the damp footpath rounded the entrance to a small cove and plunged down to lake level. The trail was slippery with mud and we sort of mud-skiied down to the bottom. I say "lake-level" but to call that swampy and fetid water part of the lake is an insult to lakes the world over. Basically, this was where forest met lake and if we thought it was muddy before, this was a whole other level of boot sucking. There was a sign that said "End of Trail" but you know us, we shouldered our way past and continued on to see what we could see.

On a winter's day

And what did we see, boys and girls? Muddy water, muddy boots, and muddy mud! We also saw an impenetrable wall of brush and a trail that faded into all of that tangle. It really was the end of the trail, so we turned around and headed back the way we had come. As we hiked back to the trailhead, the day became noticeably much more beclouded and quiet. The lake was like a slab of polished onyx and the whole lakeside atmosphere had that air of wet expectancy about it.

On a rainy December afternoon

Sure enough, the rain arrived as we were about a mile and a half away from the trailhead. Fortunately, raincoats and rain hats in combination with heavy forest cover aided in keeping us mostly dry. The smooth polished surface though, was now ruffled by thousands of overlapping concentric ripples caused by thousands of rain drops simultaneously striking the surface of the lake. The day was gloomy to start with but had darkened considerably, annoying those hikers toting cameras and trying to take pictures of everything.

It's now official: It's raining!

So, the hike finished with somewhat of a wet splash but you know what? It would have been a lot worse up high in the mountains. Besides which, we were all pretty much in unanimous agreement that a wet December hike was more fun than mowing the lawn in the sun. 

Dainty mushrooms thrive in a bed of moss

For more photos of this hike, please visit the Flickr album.

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Dellenback Dunes

Dellenback Dunes is one of my favorite places to hike at. Even though I've hiked here like a million times, somehow there is always something different about each and every outing. For instance, I've seen the dunes in rainy weather that had me questioning why I was out there in the first place. But then, I've hiked the sands when wind-driven sand particles pained my poor exposed face and legs. I've been on the dunes on a fogbound day, which always makes navigation interesting, to say the least. I've also sweltered there under a blazing sun, the hot and sandy expanse making me feel like I was in the Sahara desert instead of the Oregon coast. And I've been there when the dunes were covered in ice on a day cold enough to make a penguin shiver. And yes, I've enjoyed many a hike in ordinarily good weather where nothing bad happened, as was the case on this early June hike.

Rhododendron was putting on a floral show

By the time we actually started hiking, the sun was already out, but there still was a trace of morning fog above the beach Nine hikers and one dog set out on the trail which in short order, crossed Eel Creek and entered a lush coastal forest. Under the trees, the rhododendrons were putting on a show with their extravagant pink floral display. Less than a mile into the hike, the forest thinned out and sand made an appearance shortly before the trail spit us onto the dunes proper. A chill wind blowing across the dunes maintained all hikers at a comfortable temperature and would do so throughout the day.

Hiking uphill in soft sand is so much fun!

The first order of business upon entering Dellenback Dunes was a requisite slog up to the top of the "Great Dune", a large whaleback dune that does double duty as hiking route because it's so easy to follow across the trailless dunes. In the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area, Dellenback Dunes is the largest swath of sand set aside for hiking and because of its superior height relative to all the other dune features, the "Great Dune" offers up a fantastic view of the Dellenback Dunes sandbox. To the west was the ocean, east was the coastal forest and equally coastal mountain range, while north and south was nothing but light and bright whitish sand under a clear blue sky. Hovering above the beaches was a rapidly dissipating bank of gray fog well engaged in evaporation from the morning burn-off.

Missy follows our hike leader

Despite the lack of actual trails in the dunes, there are several routes we regularly use without being limited to any one standard route in particular. The choice of route depends on the whim and imagination of the hike leader. Having said that though, we unimaginatively took the one route we do most of the time. Today's hiking choice was to walk straight over the dunes and take the forested trail to the beach, walk south on the beach for a couple of miles to Tenmile Creek, bushwhack (one of my favorite words) through the dense forest growing behind the beach foredunes, skirt the edge of Tenmile Creek for a bit, and then close the triangular loop by way an overland hike across the dunes. Dunes, forest, beach, large creek, marsh, beachgrass, large creek (again), and even more dunes...we would be partaking of all the toppings (including anchovies) on the menu for this Dellenback Dunes pizza.

The trail tunneled through the deepest and darkest jungle

The trail through the deflation plain forest tunneled through the densely tangled trees in the young forest but at least the trail was dry, something that does not always occur in the swampy environs behind the beach foredunes. Once on the beach, it was a two mile hike to the south until we ran into impassable (without swimming across) Tenmile Creek. On the plus side, the brisk breeze was at our backs, sparing us toil and skin pain caused by wind-driven sand striking handsome faces like so many miniscule paint gun pellets. There is a certain ambiance about hiking next to the roaring surf and some hikers walked barefoot while others searched the beach strand for sand dollars, present company included on the latter count.

Behold the Mighty Tenmile!

At its mouth, Tenmile Creek appears more like a mighty river and not much at all like a creek. Over time, the creek has carved out a sandy flood plain on the beach and when the creek is tame, like on this day, it loops back and forth like a snake in search of prey. Arlie, our canine companion, was only too happy to go for a quick swim in Tenmile Creek, serpent analogy notwithstanding.

The flock follows the alpha sheep

After a creekside lunch on some large driftwood logs, we regrouped and cut across a large marsh that again, was fairly dry. Boots were most appreciative of the fact that there was no standing water in the marsh, the lack of swampy boot-filling liquid being a a dry clue that it must be early summer or something like that. On the far side of the marsh was a stunted forest comprised of beachgrass and small scratchy trees that we had to find a way to get through. Because there is no prescribed trail or route through this area, we just followed John in single-file formation like the mindless sheep we are. At least we weren't following like suicidal lemmings.

Tenmile Creek flows through the dunes

We rejoined with Tenmile Creek after crossing the forest, the creek visually at odds with the sere and austere looking dunescape on the north side of the creek. The terrain was rather hummocky and covered with beachgrass. Beachgrass can best be described as "plants with sword points" and since I was walking in shorts, I was very much aware of the pointy ends of the grass blades counting coup on my calves as we hiked through the hummocks, still in our single-file sheep formation. 

Hi ho, it's across the sands we go

All good and painful hikes through beachgrass come to an end though, and our legs and perseverance carried us out of the leg-poking hummocks and back into the much kinder and gentler sand dunes. There are no formal trails across the dunes but navigation is made simple by orientation to a prominent tree island. All you have to do is hike across the dunes, aiming for the west side of the tree island, and then tediously slog up to the crest of the "Great Dune" and voila, nobody gets lost that way. It's always a good thing to finish with the same amount of hikers (and dogs) that started the hike.

Look out for sandworms!

The landscape of this last leg of the triangular route was alien looking, like something out of a science fiction novel (Interesting factoid: Frank Herbert wrote "Dune" after being inspired by a visit to the Oregon Dunes). Apart from a few beachgrass clumps, low mats of lupine, and isolated patches of beach strawberry, pretty much nothing else grows out here. Nothing to see but a train of hikers walking on sand while surrounded by sandy alps rising above on all sides. We sort of looked like a thin army of ants mindlessly marching back to the colony. At least we were no longer in sheep or lemming formation!

Oasis in the dunes

The day had warmed up considerably yet that chill wind was still blowing across the sandy expanse, so it was kind of hard to make up our minds whether to keep light jackets on or hike in shirt sleeves. Depending on the choice, you either were baking hot or uncomfortably chill. Most of us opted for the shirt sleeve look because the heat was more taxing than the chill. 

Abstract art by Michealange-a-Blow

The wind had created what I euphemistically refer to as "sand art" which consists of abstract patterns of stripes, splotches, and striations all left by that famous artist Vincent van Wind. What, you wanted Leonardo di Breezy? It was easy to figure out how the stripes were painted upon the sand: they had been created by winds blowing in the same direction but at differing instances. Some round whorls in the middle of the stripes, kind of resembling Jupiter's red spot, were harder to deduce how they were created. Tornadoes, maybe? Coriolis effect? Witchcraft?

We leave but the beachgrass remains

The hike ended with the quick walk back through the blooming rhododendrons, and we were happy to have hiked here on a gorgeous summer day instead of through some of the travails enumerated at the start of this blog. Hiking in nice weather was markedly different from some of my other hikes here and like I said, it's never the same.

Sand dollar, not quite in mint condition

For more photos of this hike, please visit the Flickr album.

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Eel Lake

Eel Lake isn't very eely, that I can tell. I did do some cursory research into the small mystery as to how the lake came by its name but while bass, trout, crappie, steelhead, and Coho salmon inhabit the lake, there was nary a mention of a historical eel encounter, story, tale, or legend. After walking on the Eel Lake Trail, my theory is that from above, the lake has lots of arms that wriggle out from the main body like so many eels. I'm open to other theories, by the way.

Eel Lake, in all its eely glory

The lake is part and parcel of William Tugman State Park, with the western shore being the only civilized portion of the lake, what with campgrounds, park, boat ramps, docks, and kiddie swimming areas. The lake is not all that big but with all those eely arms, it would be a 40 to 50 mile hike if one were to hike the entire shoreline. However, that would be a venture with a high degree of difficulty as the Eel Lake Trail only follows the shore for about 4'ish miles; the remaining 35 to 45 miles would be by bushwhack through the densely forested slopes surrounding the lake. 

If Richard were a mushroom

When I started hiking, it was a crisp winter morning where the sun was out in full sunshiny glory that did no good at all, seeing as how it was 27 degrees. Naturally, the swimming area was devoid of any aquatic-inclined humans. The trail immediately crossed over Eel Creek and ducked into a well shaded forest that quickly had me rummaging through my daypack, searching for a few more layers of clothing. That was the only thing that was quick about this hike.

Orange eels emerge from the depths of the black earth

The mushrooms were out in full force on this chilly morn and I spent a lot of time lying on the ground, in search of the perfect photo of the perfect fungus. Not much hiking got done while engaged in this particular activity. Anyway, after photographically cataloging every fungal specimen sprouting from the ample decaying biomass flanking Eel Lake, I was grateful to continue hiking and warm myself up a little. By the way, there was a clump of orange eely fungi emerging from the earthen depths, maybe that's how Eel Lake got its name.

Alder grove

The trail spent about 90% of its time in the well shaded woods but on occasion, brief glimpses of the lake were seen through a frame of cedar and rhododendron branches. About 2 miles in, the cedar and conifer gave way to leafless alder, their bony arms stretching to the heavens in supplication. You could almost hear their anguished cry "Hey, give us our leaves back! We're freezing down here!"

Ankle-breaker bridge

And now a word about the "bridges" and "boardwalks": Numerous creeks crossed the trail and the path also ran through some swampy patches; both of these situations required some kind of human invention to ensure hikers remained dry-footed. The fine folks at William Tugman Park have fashioned crude bridges and boardwalks by laying poles across the various wet spots, with the poles oriented parallel to the trail. The cracks between the poles were then chinked up with mud. Those things were slippery and there was a high likelihood of a an ankle slipping between two such poles if one was not careful. I safely negotiated the obstacle course by keeping with my feet perpindicular to the poles, but sheesh!

Eel Lake, from the trail

The shoreline was quite serrate and the route spent a lot of time weaving around small coves and bays, ducking in and out like a boxer looking to land a punch. Eventually the path rounded an arm of the lake and began heading north, there was much rejoicing at the sunlight slanting through the trees next to the lake. The temperature became relatively balmy and all those additional layers of clothing were soon stowed back in the pack. There were several viewpoints along the way with benches strategically sited for some lakeside contemplation and I partook thererof.  

Fungi was everywhere

The length of the trail is officially advertised as a 3'ish mile long trail. But really, it sort of depends on the mood and ambition of the trail maintainers. Prior to this hike, I had perused a couple of hiking blogs and the consensus was that the trail disappeared into the brush long before 3 miles. However, I shall sing the praises of the trail crews for at the 3-mile mark, I was still hiking on a well-maintained trail. At the 3.7 mile mark though, the trail was following an eely arm that soon became choked with brush and debris. It became downright swampy even, and the trail quickly degenerated into a muddy mire. My brand new boots were sinking into the goo with attendant sucking sounds as I extricated one foot while the other one sunk into the smelly black muck. Past the fetid swamp, the trail disappeared into the brush on a faint track that looked like it was used by deer more than hiker, and that was my cue to turn around and head back to the park.

A mushroom sprouts from a stump

On the return leg, the trail angled up a short but steep incline and I lowered my head and focused on the hard work of hiking uphill. Suddenly and without warning, a wolf entered the limited field of vision underneath my hat brim and I pretty much near voided my bowels. Turned out the "wolf" was a friendly German shepherd whose owner was laughing pretty hard at my discomfiture. He said I squ-eel-ed like a little girl but I also flopped and twitched like a landed eel. Maybe that's how Eel Lake got its name!

Eel Lake, at the end of the hike

For more pictures of this hike, please visit the Flickr album.

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Dellenback Dunes

The Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area is not one single area, but actually a patchwork collection of many sand-filled areas. Of all the dune areas set aside for hikers, John Dellenback Dunes is the largest of them all. I don't have any actual square acreage data to throw out, but based on my non-empirical impression, the Dellenback Dunes are huge. Recently, the Friends of the Umpqua were going to play, frolic, and generally caper about in Oregon's largest sandbox, so Daweson and I got up early to join the club on what promised to be a sunny day at the coast.

Perfect weather for hiking!

So much for the forecasted sunny day! It was overcast at the trailhead and would remain so for the entire day, but no complaining will be tolerated, for the temperature was cool and perfect for hiking. Even though there was cloud cover overhead, enough UV rays leaked through to cause mild sunburns on some of my more sun-challenged friends.

Uphill in sand, so much fun!

After a short walk from the trailhead on a sandy track through a coastal forest, we headed uphill in soft sand to attain the crest of the "Great Dune". Once atop the dune, the sand was firm and hard-packed (just like me!), making the hiking easy and enjoyable. Sand stretched out in all directions and wind had adorned the sands with patterned artwork.

Beaach lupine

The large dune we were walking on pointed like an abrasive dagger aiming into the sandy heart of Dellenback Dunes, the dune terminating at a prominent tree island that keeps observant  hikers oriented in all the featureless sand. Just before the tree island, we dropped off the tall dune and  set off across a sandy plain, heading south toward Tenmile Creek.

Ponds dotted the dunescape

As of today (May 30th) the Forest Service still has a flood damage alert posted for the Oregon Dunes area. Apparently the ample rain this year has raised havoc with campgrounds, trails, and roads (we ran into some of the flood damage on our Tahkenitch Dunes hike earlier this year). Dellenback Dunes was apparently spared from the watery rampage but there were still a number of leftover ponds collecting in the dune dimples, like so many oases. It seemed like there were more ponds than usual and the usual ponds were fuller than they'd normally be. Of course, our two youngest hikers (Daweson, age 14; and Emma, age 6) just had to sink in the quicksand that typically forms at the edge of the ponds.

Tenmile Creek looks more like a river

Tenmile Creek was wide and deep and looked more like a river as it cut through the dunes. We bushwhacked along the snaking creek/river, eventually trading open sand for thin forest and beach grass. Since I was the only hiker clad in shorts, I quickly became more aware than most that the tips of beachgrass blades are sharp and pointy. When Tenmile Creek made a pronounced turn to the south, the vegetation became too thick to bushwhack comfortably through. In the interest of scratch-free hiking, we bid adieu to the creek and took a more direct route to the beach.

A marsh just begs to be waded across

Despite the forested aspect of our route, we were basically navigating across a series of marshes so  it figures there'd be at least one large marsh in the way. The water was probably knee deep or better and Daweson and I were just about ready to gleefully splash our way across. However, our allergic-to-wet-feet comrades found it fairly easy to walk along the edge to get around the marsh and sadly, our boots remained as sere as a desert as we followed the dry-footers.

It's a bird, a plane, no...it's Super Daweson

Just beyond the marsh was the delta area of Tenmile Creek. The creek obviously changes course with great regularity, frequently shifting its track through the sand, as evidenced by a stagnant bay that formed where the large creek had been particularly indecisive about its route to the sea. Daweson demonstrated his long-jumping prowess by leaping across a tributary creek.

Yes

No

Speaking of showing off skills, Daweson further entertained the crowd by performing some flips, sticking the landing each time. I'd claim that I taught him that but the difference between my flips and his, is that my flips are not done on purpose. Rachel averred that she too, had tumbling skills and began a "graceful" run into an awkward leap in the air that culminated with an emphatic thud in the sand, much to the amusement of all onlookers. She might have jumped as high as six inches but without a ruler, it was hard to tell.

We're so sorry, Mother Kildeer

After a short visit to the tidal flats (it was low tide) and beach, we turned around and headed back. As we skirted a marsh, a kildeer was shrieking in the brackish water, dragging an injured wing behind her. The wing was not really injured, though: kildeer engage in deception in order to protect their young when nesting. Kildeer eggs are speckled and very hard to see, and lie unprotected on the open ground. We did find the nest but not before a hiking boot had disturbed it. It was really quite sad to listen to her anguish as we hiked past, all we can do is say "we are so very sorry, please forgive us for our trespass."

This sums up the hike on the return leg

On the return leg, the two youngsters shed their shoes and slid, rolled, somersaulted, and leaped in the sandy dunes. Progress was slow but it was entertaining. All that energy expended resulted in sleeping passengers on the drive home but at least nobody asked me "Are we there yet?"

Gaoying is dwarfed by the sandy expamse

Because of all the rainfall, it's been prognosticated to be a bad year for ticks. Well, to be more concise, it is going to be a great year for ticks, and not so great a year for hikers. Continuing a recent trend, John kept plucking them off his pant legs on the hike and on the way home, he dispatched no less than eight of the bloodsucking parasites. One tick burrowed into Daweson's shoulder and judging by the excited Chinese emanating from the back seat, Gaoying also found a few crawling on her and Emma. Also continuing a recent trend, not one tick was found on your merry blogster. Not sure why that is, but I'm going to keep eating those habanero chiles. 

Whee!

For more pictures of this hike, please visit the Flickr album.

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