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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Tahkenitch Dunes Loop

I pretty much hike alone these days. There's a pandemic going on of course, so being in a crowd of people is more dangerous than juggling running chainsaws while wearing oven mitts. But besides the virus avoidance reasons, I also use the quiet trail time to converse with myself which kind of keeps me grounded mentally, because there's certainly been enough of life's adversities this year on top of the pandemic. Plus, if I talk to myself in the forest and there is no cat and dog to hear me (like they do at home), I don't have to pet or feed them to assuage their fuzzy-headed fears that their Lord and Master's rubber toy no longer squeaks, metaphorically speaking. But even though hiking alone has its benefits in terms of physical and mental health, you can only spend so much "me time" before you begin to desperately crave human company. That's why, even though I hiked at Tahkenitch Dunes just over a month ago, I accepted an invite to reprise this beautiful coastal hike with Penny, John, Jennifer, and Cleve, because every incredibly handsome lone wolf has to howl with the pack every now and then.

Sublimity on the coast

You couldn't pick a better day for hiking, it was absolutely gorgeous. Nothing but mostly blue sky above with bright sun casting a warm glow over the Oregon coast and into the hearts of hikers. There were some clouds scudding overhead like so many floating fluffy pillows, aesthetically pleasing to both human eye and camera, and blotting out just enough sun to keep temperatures cool and perfect for hiking in. All life should be like such a day on the beach, forest, and dunes!

Don't tread on me!

Before we could get to that sunny beach paradise though, we had to hike up and over a deeply shaded ridge crest. We ran into many other hikers, mostly in the form of rough-skinned newts crawling on the forest floor, each enjoying their own quiet trail time until we picked them up. Their brown coloring made them hard to see on the earthen trail so we stepped carefully and hand-carried amphibian captives off the trail for their own safety. We didn't lick or eat any (their skin is highly toxic), making both hikers and newts grateful. At any rate, I'm glad to report that I did not see any squished newts, which is always a disappointing sight. 

A salmonberry leaf basks in the morning sunlight

    

As stated, the first part of the hike was on a ridge covered by a forest lush and green. Sunbeams fought through a thick skein of tree branches to reach the forest floor. Where they beamed onto salmonberry and rhododendron bushes, the leaves glowed green, further adding to the emerald-colored ambience of the forest. Moss covered the forest floor and the whole vibe was so pleasant I barely noticed the steep climb up and over the forested ridge between the campground and coast. 

Do not stare directly without putting on dark eyewear first

It's not unusual to see fungus in a coastal forest, given all the decaying biomass on the ground, but what was unusual this day was a veritable Great Barrier Reef of coral fungus populating the forest floor. Most were of the usual coloration, ranging from light beige to a darker brown-orange. However, a significant percentage were colored a bright Chernobyl red, like something you would find in the core of a nuclear reactor in full meltdown. Much photography abounded and no radiation burns were suffered by any of the hikers in our group.

Some of that dense vegetation flanking the trail

The walk to a backpack campsite near Threemile Lake was pleasant, if only for the fact that most of it was downhill once the ridge was crested. At the lake, the forest transitioned to sandy dunes and encroaching deflation plain forest, which is a younger and smaller-treed version of the woods we had just hiked through. I left my little group behind to execute to a side-trip to Threemile Lake's worthy overlook while my companions hied it for the beach for rest and repast. After a look-see at the lake, I rejoined my peeps eating lunch on a large log on the beach.

The charge of the Barefoot Brigade

After a lunch and laze spent eating and watching white clouds birthing into and dying out of existence over a roaring surf, we divided into two groups. Jennifer, John, Penny, and Cleve all formed an impromptu Barefoot Brigade by removing shoes and walking in the cold surf. The rest of us, consisting of just me in lone wolf mode, kept boots on and made faster progress along the beach as a result, despite being slowed up somewhat by the camera.

Jellyfish on a "sand" wich!

After a mile or so of walking at the ocean's edge, kicking up seafoam before a brisk sea breeze carried it away, further progress north was blocked by Tahkenitch Creek running across the beach strand. The creek wasn't all that full, so I could have waded across but instead decided to rejoin the anti-shoers sitting on yet another large log putting on their boots. As a proud pro-booter, I waited patiently for them to shoe themselves. In return, they would soon leave me behind, eating their sandy trail dust.

Mother and child

After crossing tidal flats carved into abstract patterns by the retreating tide at Tahkenitch Creek's mouth, we grabbed the trail back toward the dunes. The deflation plain forest was carpeted with pine needles, the decomposition of which supported a contingent of flapjack sized and shaped mushrooms. The older forest at the end of the trail also supported a healthy population of fungi, moss, and lichen and before long, Penny and I assumed our customary place well at the end of the hiking queue. But hey, we did acquire what seemed like thousands more fungi photos for our respective collections. All in all, it was another fun hike at the coast with good friends. I'll be good for another round of solo hikes now.

Nothing but blue sky (and clouds!) from now on

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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Oregon Dunes

On the face of it, one can presume mid-November to be a wet, cold, and blustery affair at the Oregon coast. More often than not, you'd be correct in your presumption. But then again, there are semi-sunny days like this one where I tempted fate by hiking at the Oregon Dunes in shorts, but thankfully was not taken to task for my karmic impertinence. 

A crisp and clear morning on the beach

The weather was a little on the chill side and most of the Friends of the Umpqua group began the hike with jackets and full pant legs on, present deranged company excepted. I've found from past experience that if you start your hike dressed for warmth, you'll become overly heated within a few minutes or so of exertion. Me, I just start out like a first date: cold at first but plenty warm before too long. And sure enough, after the first mile or so of hiking to the beach, a large contingent of perspiring and overheated hikers stopped to remove some of their nine layers of clothing. After a few more miles of hiking it'd be pretty much a given that by then all hikers would be desperately sawing off pant legs. 

It was a pleasant two mile beach walk to Tahkenitch Creek

After our perfunctory walk to the beach and clothes-removal stop (jackets and coats only, you perverts!), we turned to the south and headed toward unseen Tahkenitch Creek, yet several miles ahead of us. The sky was sort of unusual in that it was gray on top but gloriously blue to the rear, just like me. Obviously we were hiking under a cloud border of sorts but we had nothing to declare as we passed through customs. 

Lane horks up a jellyfish

The beach was littered with debris, deposited onto the beach strand courtesy of some recent storms. Logs and driftwood were strewn about and in one case, a fully branched tree in its entirety. Clam shells, sand dollars, and jellyfish were all found and examined by beachcombing hikers, the jellyfish resembling the largest and slimiest boogers ever. 

Moody clouds hovered over Tahkenitch Creek

We ate lunch at Tahkenitch Creek to the accompaniment of keening sea gulls doing the same thing. I think we had the better food though, but we were entertained watching the birds forage at the water's edge. Tahkenitch Creek looked to be more river than creek, being quite wide as it reached the end of its journey and the same thing can be said about most of us too, now that I think about it. As we lollygagged, ominous looking clouds scudded overhead and we wondered if we were going to get rained on or not. We didn't and the blue sky to the north remained although it became less and less a commodity as the increasingly cloudy day waned.

The world within Tahkenitch Creek

After a couple of more miles of beach walking, we left the beach via Exit 114, the bright neon yellow sign totally at odds with the foreboding gray sky above. The plan here was to make a loop hike through the Oregon Dunes, but first we had some forest walking to get through. A side trail in the woods led to a viewpoint of Tahkenitch Creek, its overly calm surface reflecting the weak sun fighting its way past the cloud cover. A resumption of the forest walk led us to another awesome overlook of Tahkenitch Creek.

Tahkenitch Creek takes the long way home

Here, the creek snakes to and fro in a series of exaggerated oxbow bends below the sandy dunes, resembling a large watery snake lazing or slithering in the sun. It's a spectacular sight and we stopped for a few minutes to admire the sinuous serpentine curves of the creek before resuming our journey across the sandy dunes.

Hi ho, hi ho, across the dunes we go

In the dunes, there is no formal path per se, but marker posts keep hikers on track and in theory prevent the map and compass-challenged set from getting lost. It was several miles of sandy dunes, beachgrass, small lakes, and ponds before the trailhead area appeared, inconveniently sited on top of a large hill made entirely out of sand. Just to do something different, Lane and I opted to hike up the sandy slope instead of grabbing the customary trail through the coastal woods.

Why we walk uphill in soft sand

Oof! That turned out to be quite the Sisyphean struggle because for every two steps up in the soft and shifting sands, we slid down one. Although at times, it felt like we backslid three steps for every two. But the fun part of this impromptu route came not from the awesome view of the dunes and distant ocean, even though that was pretty cool too, but by virtue of the fact that our people were expecting us to appear on the trail, and not from the rear. "Watch this!" said Lane, he of the evil grin. He pressed the panic button on his key chain and his vehicle, which everybody was leaning up against, exploded into honking and flashing chaotic cacophony. You know how it is when you touch a cat that is all coiled up, ready to pounce and the startled feline reflexively launches skyward, arms outspread in an involuntary four-limbed crucifix pose? Yeah, it was kind of like that, making a great hike even more enjoyable!

The day darkens as the hike ends

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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