Fawn Lake

I really detest deer, I've had my hiking poles stolen one too many times and have suffered through about 40 too many camp raids at 2 A.M. to feel anything but hate in my heart for the cervine larcenists. My antipathy towards the antlered devils even triggers involuntary conniption fits whenever I hear the phrase "North Bank Deer Habitat", even though I hike there often. 

Gnome plant emerges 

"But fawns are cute" I am told. Well, you shouldn't have kittens if you don't like cats. As a person who regularly gets tormented by a singularly annoying cat that I can't hurt because it belongs to my wife, I don't have kittens. And following that same logic, I don't have fawns, either, because they are sure to grow up to be hiking-pole stealing adult deer. So deep is my loathing of all things deer, that I nearly didn't want to ever hike to Fawn Lake ever, just because of the name.

Wispy clouds foretold the arrival of a thunderstorm

But what's in a name, anyway? Not much, in the case of Fawn Lake. The lake is an absolute gem of a lake sparkling in the midst of all the scrawny lodgepole trees and dusty pumice soil so prevalent on the east side of the Cascades. I'd even go there again, in spite of its titular homage to baby deer.

Most of the hike was inside the wilderness

Starting at the Crescent Lake boat ramp parking lot, the trail went dusty at the outset as it wandered through sparse woods before crossing paved Forest Road 60. Once across the road, the trail entered the Diamond Peak Wilderness and became a real hike, with mosquitoes and everything. Deet was quickly slathered on to ward off the airborne school of six-legged piranhas.

Yup, my view for nearly 4 miles

Angling gently uphill for all of its 3.7 miles, the trail passed through viewless forest consisting of mostly spindly lodgepole pine trees. At just under the one mile mark, the Fawn Lake Trail intersected with the Pretty Lake Trail. My guidebook said the Pretty Lake Trail was unmaintained and sketchy but it looked like it's seen the love lately as it was wide, clear of fallen trees and brush, and with trail tread well tromped out by lots of hiker boots. I think I just found my return route back from Fawn Lake!

Lodgepole trees in all their scrawny glory

There wasn't a lot to see on the way up. It was hot and the forest was full of mosquitoes so mostly, I kept my head down and just trudged uphill. It was quite jarring when the trail, without warning or preamble, just bumped into Fawn Lake, where I plopped down to enjoy the view and eat lunch while slapping at mosquitoes brave enough to drill past the thick layer of Deet on my skin.

Time to ooh and aah at Fawn Lake

This lake really is a jewel. At the far end of the lake, rose the scenic and craggy twin peaks of aptly named Lakeview Mountain and generically named Peak 6892. To the left, was cliffy Redtop Mountain. A soft breeze blew and sunlight sparkled on the on the rippled surface. Dragonflies and butterflies flitted to and fro, alighting occasionally on the shoreline vegetation. The cold water was amazingly clear and a myriad of water boatmen (a small aquatic bug) paddled their oars just underneath the lake's surface. Unbelievable that such a pretty lake could actually be named after devil deer spawn.

Peak 6892 and Lakeview Mountain

Speaking of pretty lakes, after lunch I resumed hiking along Fawn Lake's southern shore with the intent of hiking to nearby Pretty Lake and then returning on the steep, but downhill, Pretty Lake Trail back to the Fawn Lake Trail. Hiking was slow along Fawn Lake because each new bend in the trail provided yet another different look at the lake and each time, I just had to bushwhack down to the lake for a look-see.

Clouds form as the storm arrives

The far end of Fawn Lake was particular scenic, providing a closer look at Lakeview Mountain. Fawn Lake was visible in its entirety, and puffy white clouds formed in a blue sky above the lake. Much photography ensued.

The day went dark in about 15 minutes 

Boom! A loud clap of thunder got my immediate attention. Seems those puffy white clouds were the precursors to thunderheads that were blowing in from behind me while I had been distracted by Fawn Lake. It took like only 10 minutes for the day to switch from hot and sunny, to hot and stormy. The rumbling of thunder was now a constant and it was like hiking in the bowling alley of the gods. I'm not sure who Prudence is but prudence dictated I seek lower elevation immediately. Since Pretty Lake was higher in elevation than Fawn Lake, rather than loop it back on the Pretty Lake Trail, it was back the way I came on the Fawn Lake Trail. There's no real upside, that I can think of, to getting pretty electrocuted at Pretty Lake.

Trail, through the lodgepole forest

Lodgepole forest is not particularly scenic. Lodgepole trees tend to grow in poor soils where no other tree will grow, so a lodgepole forest will invariably consist of trees that are thin, scrawny, and spindly. Because of the poor soil, there generally is not a lot of undergrowth. I didn't take a lot of pictures of the forest because there really isn't much to take pictures of in a lodgepole forest. Plus. coming up the trail I had mostly focused on trudging uphill while sweat, sunscreen, and Deet dripped onto my stinging eyes as I cursed mosquitoes. But on the easier hike downhill, I discovered there really was a lot to see.

A healthy clump of pinesap

The heterotrophic plant community was having a heyday, emerging from the pumice soils in abundance. Pinesap was everywhere, sprouting in dense clumps while less common pinedrops were scattered here and there in comparatively more stately and elegant stalks. Much rarer were the seldom-seen gnome plant and I was fortunate to find a couple of clumps flowering pretty much upon emergence from below. In all my years of hiking, I had never seen gnome plants and now this was the second summer in a row I've run into these little oddities.

Help meeeeee.....!

"What is a heterotroph?" you ask? Well, maybe you didn't ask, but I'll tell you anyway. Heterotrophs are plants that lack chlorophyll and hence, are unable to make food from sunlight. Therefore, they must obtain nutrients by parasitizing upon nearby tree roots, probably lodgepole trees in this case. Anyway, I spent a lot of time at ground level, taking pictures of pinesap, pinedrops, gnome plants, and candystick. On one candystick, a crab spider had ambushed a bee and I got a cool picture of the insectile murder. The bee didn't think it was all that cool, though.

Mammatus clouds

Boom! Dang thunder interrupted my photo shoot! The rumbling was getting louder and louder so I walked pretty fast down through the forest. Fairly often, I'd stop to take a photo of something and the electricity gods let me know their displeasure by startling me with a loud clap of thunder. But at least they weren't hurling thunderbolts...yet. At the parking lot, the cloud formations were truly spectacular.

The lighting and clouds were on the eery side

Mammatus clouds are, according to Wikipedia, "sagging pouch structures" on a cloud. Basically, mammatus clouds are the soft dark sagging underbelly pouch-structure of a thunderhead cloud. My thought, on seeing these clouds, were that they were less sagging pouch structures (I have a few of those too, by the way) and more like celestial bubble wrap. That would explain how thunder gets made, too: Thunder is merely the sound of gods popping bubble wrap.

A stalk of pinedrops gets ready to flower

At any rate, this was a nice little hike in spite of the deer-based name. For more pictures of this hike, please visit the Flickr album.

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Olallie Mountain

Olallie Mountain had been on my list for quite some time and I finally made it. Unfortunately, though, several weeks after this hike, the Rebel Fire set up camp below Olallie Mountain so I'm not likely to return there in the near future. At the time of this writing, I'm not sure whether there will be any shady forest left on the Olallie Trail after the fire, either. It would really be a shame if the fire overran the Olallie Trail, because the lush vegetation and deep shade were some of the main attractions on this green hike. But at least I made it before fire season began in earnest in Oregon.

Beargrass was common in the meadows

Accompanied by trusty canine friend Luna, I set out upon the Olallie Trail and entered the Three Sisters Wilderness almost immediately upon leaving the trailhead. The Olallie Trail pokes into a corner of the wilderness on the western border, so the Three Sisters were fairly far away despite our hiking in the namesake wilderness. As a result, the Three Sisters would be pretty much a non-factor on the lower (and forested) section of this hike.

Salmonberry, not quite ready for eating

The tree cover was as thick and lush as a young man's mane, and the shade dark as a teenager's mood, but a whole lot more pleasant to be around. Spring was definitely going on, and I spent a lot of time low to the ground, sometimes lying on it (while a dog licked my ear) taking pictures of bunchberry, wild ginger, coneflower, penstemon, Columbia windflower, and goat's beard. And speaking of goat's beard, I probably should shave soon.

"To sit in the shade on a fine day and look upon
verdure is the most perfect replacement" - Jane Austen

The trail angled steadily uphill through the forest before crossing a small creek in just under a mile. Intrepid bushwhackers can follow this stream to its source at Wolverine Lake. However, I was expecting a clearer route; the hillside was covered with thick vegetation and fallen trees and while Luna was not averse to a good bushwhack, I wasn't in the mood, so we kept hiking on the Olallie Trail.

Humid meadow on Olallie Mountain

And now a word about the weather. On the drive up, there was a chill in the morning air and geese were flying south in their traditional "V" formation. In sunny exposed areas along the roadway, vine maples were showing their first autumn blush. Winter is coming. But not so fast, Richard, by mid-afternoon, the oppressive heat had taken care of all that winter chill. While the forest was shady, it was fairly warm despite the shade. Meadows were worse, where the sun baked both dog and hiker noggins. The stultifying heat had us both panting to keep cool, while the humidity had us all sopping wet in short order. Note to self: don't wear a black shirt when it's hot and humid like that.

Looking down the French Pete Creek valley

From the junction with the Olallie Trail and the Olallie Mountain Trail, it was all meadow and it was all uphill, too. I bonked, and it was a slow trudge for the remaining mile or so to the Olallie Mountain summit. Gone were all the shade loving flowers but on the plus side, I got to take pictures of sun-loving beargrass, Washington lily, lupine, and Indian paintbrush.

The Three Sisters, from Olallie Mountain

One last steep push delivered us to the Olallie summit where an old lookout and prodigious views were our reward for all the hard work. And best of all, the rustic and dilapidated lookout provided shade on one side, so we plopped down and enjoyed the expansive panorama before us. The Three Sisters were directly to the east and easily dominated the view. North of the volcanic sisterhood was Mount Washington, Three-Fingered Jack, and snowy Mount Jefferson. In the haze to the south, Mount Thielsen was barely visible. On the west side of Olallie Mountain, the valleys and canyons of Rebel Creek and French Pete Creek dropped off into the South Fork McKenzie River, all winding up in the prominent McKenzie River valley. In the distance, were the faint blue ridges of the Coast Range. Pretty awesome view,  if I do say so myself.

South Sister, on the way down

After a lengthy lunch, view-soak, and photo-shoot combo, we reluctantly left the summit and headed back down the trail. On the way down, we ran into another hiker who had one of Luna's kind with him, much to the enjoyment of both our dogs. He had just done a PCT section hike and was looking to hike the trail around the mountain. Unfortunately he had to give that idea up, stating the Olallie Trail, just past the junction, was pretty much lost to the vegetation. Of course, the following week, the Willamette National Forest posted an announcement that they had finished brushing out the Olallie Trail. And of course, a week later, the Rebel Fire set up camp for the remainder of the summer. I guess my timing was both good and bad for this hike, but at least my very lengthy list became one hike smaller.

The seldom seen fringed pinesap

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

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McKenzie River Trail

Ah, what a relaxing trail (unless you lose your dog!) this little section of the McKenzie River Trail is. Miles and miles of vine maples providing ample shade, tall Douglas fir trees reaching to the sky, a rushing river just off trail, and rustic bridges crossing merrily burbling creeks. If that doesn't ease your stress, nothing will. Of course, some of that stress release was negated by the worry caused by a missing dog, but more on that little episode later.

Twinkling green stars overhead

Luna (the aforementioned bad doggy) and I set out from Belknap Hot Springs Resort and were immediately rewarded with a lush and cool forest. The day was hot everywhere else in southern Oregon but the river moisture in the air; the shade from the trees; and a mild breeze, kept hikers and bikers cool. If word ever gets out about this, there'll be hundreds of thousands of people sitting under the trees, sighing contentedly in blessed relief from the heat wave currently cooking the Pacific Northwest. 

Indian pipe

The McKenzie River Trail (hereafter referred to as the MRT because it's too long to type out over and over again) is a National Recreation Trail, because it contributes to "...health, conservation, and recreation goals in the United States." To which I ponder "But don't they all?" but that's just me talking. At any rate, the MRT is close to Eugene, easily accessible from the McKenzie Highway, and proffers up  some pretty cool scenery and a classic river flowing just off trail. Mountain bikers love the trail and hikers have to get used to stepping aside for the bikes but in my experience, both hikers and bikers are polite and get along just fine. The main drawback to the MRT, in my humble opinion, is that the trail lacks that wilderness feel.

The McKenzie River Trail soothes on a warm day

For the first section from Belknap Hot Springs, the trail parallels the nearby McKenzie Highway. The sound of whooshing cars is clearly audible but if you plug your ears and/or ignore the sounds, the forest is simply beautiful. Small little side creeks rush into the McKenzie River and rustic one-railed log bridges span the creeks. I crossed the creeks on the bridges while Luna joyfully splashed across, as is her wont. And speaking of rushing into the the McKenzie River, Luna did plenty of that too.

Hey you! I'm taking a picture of you!

We stopped for a brief view-soak on a rocky bar next to the river. The McKenzie River gets its inception at the remarkable Great Spring at Clear Lake; the spring being noteworthy for the striking blue color and crystalline clarity of the water. As the Great Spring's love child, the McKenzie River sports both these traits. Rafters came through the rapids above the bar, intensely focused on navigating the roiling river and on keeping their crafts right side up. That's probably why they didn't wave at us or smile for the camera.

Bridge crossing at Scott Creek

After a couple of miles, the trail crossed both Scott and Boulder Creeks and then spit us out of the forest and onto the shoulder of the McKenzie Highway. Like I said, not really your basic wilderness hike. But not to worry, after about 20 yards, the route crossed over to the other side of the river on paved Forest Road 2560. Now that there was a noisy river between us and the equally noisy highway, we enjoyed that "real hike" ambience that can only be found on a forest path. We still had to step aside for a steady stream of mountain bikers, though.

The McKenzie River was always next to the trail

Mostly this hike was all about the forest as the river was only occasionally and partially visible through the dense stands of vine maple. There was no particular destination to hike to, although Deer Creek would have made a logical turnaround at 6 miles out. However, we turned around where the McKenzie divided around a rocky island at the 4 mile mark.

Bad doggy!

Luna had been such a good dog, too. She had stayed within eyesight and dutifully obeyed my commands to stay close. But she has no filters for right and wrong, and is as impulsive as a late-night tweeter. Just like that, she was no longer visible ahead of me and I really wasn't sure when or where she had disappeared from sight. I assumed, because she walks a lot faster than I do, she had gotten far out in front of me so I picked up my pace trying to catch up to her.  After a mile or so, it was obvious she was clearly lost from me.

Vine maples doing the vine maple thing

Worried at this point, I even turned back and walked the mile back but still no Luna. Sick at heart at the thought of her having to be all alone in the forest, my next plan was to walk to the car and wait to see if she'd show up or not. If that proved fruitless, I had no plan for what to do afterwards. 

Cold and clear, just like me!

The MRT is a busy place with all the hikers and bikers but of course, I walked for miles and miles without seeing a soul. Finally, after I crossed over to highway side of the river, a family came walking up the trail. Unfortunately, they hadn't seen a stupid black dog walking by herself. They were really quite sympathetic to my plight and as they commiserated, their son interrupted "Mister, is that your dog?" and here comes Luna trotting down the trail, relief palpable in her body posture.

Huckleberry, not quite ready for eating

Mind you, we had been separated for at least two miles. She had to navigate past two trailheads, cross one forest road, follow a paved road across the river, and safely walk next to the highway before she caught up with me. Quite a testament to her innate navigational ability. Or, if she followed me by sense of smell, quite a testament to my man-funk! Either way, our reunion was joyous and she remained leashed for the remainder of the hike. She'll probably remain leashed for all future hikes, too.

Sun dappling

No longer toting that cold orb of dread in the pit of my stomach, the remainder of the hike was much more relaxed as we returned to Belknap Hot Springs. I did notice though, that when Luna found me, she was soaking wet. She couldn't have been all that worried if she still could indulge in another dip in the river. The stress was all mine, apparently.

The McKenzie River

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

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Fivemile Point

Man, things are really heating up in the Umpqua Valley. It's been hotter than a Chuck Prophet guitar solo at Sam Bond's Garage on a Saturday night. Hotter than my Green Death salsa slathered on homemade tamales. Hotter than me in tight jeans. OK, that last one might be subjective, and not necessarily an opinion held by many. The point is, in early July, summer was beginning to make its oppressive and stultifying presence felt. In hindsight, though, the really hot weather had not arrived, that would be an August experience. Also in hindsight, I probably should not use the word "hindsight" after that remark about my tight jeans.

Not so easy to do what Grandpa does

Anyway, since the valley was heating up, Issiah and I decided to head for the coast in search of cooler environs in which to hike in. And since Luna observed us loading up the Jeep with our hiking boots and backpacks, she whimpered and begged, her beseeching, doggie eyes entreating us to take her along. Powerless to resist her heart-rendering pleas, we opened up the rear deck and she joyfully hopped in.

Issiah wades across Twomile Creek

Well, sometimes you get what you ask for, and then some. At Seven Devils Wayside, near Bandon, a brisk and chilly wind sweeping up the coast had us shivering in no time. Our puny little sweatshirts were no match for the breeze cutting right through the useless fabric, so we walked fast to generate some internal heat.

Whee!

Luna, of course, had no such problem and everybody should hike like Luna. Letting out canine yips of joy, she was running and cavorting on the wide stretch of beach, the wind blowing her ears back as she sprinted to and fro. Twomile Creek fanned out across the beach and since Luna could not decide between splashing in the shallow creek or the roaring surf, she did both. Plus, there was a steady supply of seagulls to chase and scatter into the sky. All life should be like her enjoyment of the beach.

Look Grandpa, I'm floating!

We humans, of course, were somewhat more restrained and decorous, leaning into the wind as we trudged steadily south along Merchant's Beach. A large tree was partially buried in the sand, the dead leaves on its branches testifying to the tree's very recent demise. Dog and boy both enjoyed scrambling in the twiggy limbs and branches.

View south, from Fivemile Point

Like a weightlifting bouncer at a posh nightclub, Fivemile Point blocked the way south to Whiskey Run Beach . At high tide, it is impossible to walk around the point and we were just on the receding side of high tide. No problem for a half-monkey half-boy feral grandson to scramble over the rocky point with the agility and balance of the young. Some problem, but still doable, for an incredibly handsome grandfather using the wisdom and prudence learned from all the bruises, scrapes, and injuries accrued in a lifetime of overestimating the agility and balance of the young. Ah, but for an eager and frisky dog: rock climbing was not in her skill set. Issiah and I guided her gently, placing her feet on the rocks and pushing and pulling her upward. Uncharacteristically, Luna was accepting and restrained during this process, even her little dog brain recognized the danger in doing otherwise.

Where Fivemile Point starts

We didn't go all the way over the point, settling instead for the crest. From a barnacle-encrusted rocky perch, we enjoyed the view south, which consisted of Whiskey Run Beach curving all the way to the Coquille River. To the north was Merchant's Beach with Sacchi Beach beyond. Waves crashed on rocky islands while resting seagulls "painted" them white. Cape Arago and Arago Peak loomed at the end of Sacchi Beach and it looked like the morning overcast was clearing. It still was windy and cold, though.

No Issiah, you can't do what I'm thinking you want to do

So we climbed back down off of Fivemile Point, the two of us helping our less agile canine friend descramble back down to the beach, where she re-engaged in the more familiar and mindless activity of running around just to be running around. On Merchant's Beach, a large needle shaped rock pointed up to the sky and I had to use all my grandfatherly skills to cajole, persuade, and ultimately threaten Issiah not to climb up to the top. 

View north, to Cape Arago

Our plan was to continue north all the way to the terminus of Sacchi Beach but Issiah looked at me and said "my heart's not in it today". Now, Issiah is a hiker's hiker, he's no shirker when it comes to mileage and challenging trails, so when he says he's not into it, that must be honored. To do otherwise, would make hiking a chore instead of a recreational activity. So no problem, we hopped in the car and headed back to Roseburg, where the weather was as warm as a Texas Burrito at the Coquille Valley Produce and Deli.

Rocks, speeding across the sands

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

Brice Creek

I had pretty much just started my hike on the Brice Creek Trail when I heard a noise behind me, like the world's biggest elk rampaging through the thick brush. Startled, I whirled around just in time to see a tall tree topple and hit the ground. It was an awesome sight to behold but yikes, I was hiking in a forest full of tall trees and now I couldn't trust a single one to remain upright. You hike enough, you tend to see it all, or so it seems, and this was the second time I've seen a tree fall. Oh well, I'll just have to keep trusting they won't fall on me.

Into the forest

The rest of the hike was uneventful by comparison: it was a very warm day and it seemed like the cool creek vibe and moist ambience was just the ticket for warding off the heat. Didn't really work, it was still warm and humid in the forest but Brice Creek is beautiful anyway, even on a hot and sweaty hike. And while the forest was well shaded, perhaps it was warmer than it should have been because it was now missing one tree.

Hello, Brice Creek!

Ferns sprouted everywhere in the deep shade, and maples (big leaf and vine varieties, both) provided some small relief and succor from the burning ball of fire in the blue sky. It didn't take long for Brice Creek to make an appearance through brief openings in the forest. 

What cold water?

The trail undulated gently, and sometimes not so gently, up and down; alternating from deep forest to open trail either next to the creek or on rocky cliffs that pleased my inner mountain goat. Brice Creek is a popular place and it was easy to see why. Deep pools of blue-green water just invited a swim, although the couple dipping their feet in the water said the water was painfully cold. The temperature didn't deter dogs and young children, though, that particular demographic is seemingly impervious to to the deleterious effects of immersion in freezing cold water.

So inviting

After about 4.5 miles of soothing forest and creek scenery, I turned around and headed back, only to find the peaceful ambience to be somewhat fleeting and ephemeral. Cedar Creek Campground bisects the Brice River Trail and a footbridge from the campground makes Brice Creek (in)conveniently accessible for late sleepers not interested in enjoying Brice Creek via the rewarding medium of hiking. Accordingly, a nearby swimming hole was ringed with hordes of noisy sunbathers and not so many actual swimmers, that water must really have been ice cold.

On a hot day, shade is not overrated

The good news was that about a quarter-mile up the trail from the swimming hole, the population dropped from 323 to 1, and I was back in my element hiking all alone in the woods. By now the day had warmed up and the shade was much appreciated. So much so, that I spent an inordinate amount of time photographing maple leaves lit up by the sun.

Dog Creek, dogs it into Brice Creek

Periodically, I bushwhacked down to the scenic little creek and enjoyed deep blue pools; shallow shoals running underneath the arcing maples; and boisterous cascades as the creek stair-stepped its way down the canyon. Across the way, Dog Creek tumbled into Brice Creek in a photogenic waterfall. And always, a sun-dappled trail wending its way through a shady forest.

A white hyacinth hosts a yellow

velvet long-horned beetle

At the return to the dry grassy slope just a quarter mile from the trailhead, I was momentarily delayed by all the wildflowers, butterflies, and beetles attracting the camera. All in all, a nice hike on a hot day, and I'm glad to report that apart from that one tree, all the other trees in the forest remained standing for the duration of my hike.

Brice Creek, 'nuff said!

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

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