Cape Blanco (via Sullivan Gulch)

This seemed like such a simple undertaking. Hike about 2.5 level miles to the beach, follow a ridge to the Cape Blanco Lighthouse, make a beach walk to the Elk River, and then back on a flat trail to the trailhead. So easy, what could ever go wrong? Well, the weather, for starters. An eight-foot foot high tide, too. And a mile of mud puddles, let's not forget those, either. Nice to know I still have the Richard Hike touch.

Twenty-nine hikers took the green flag

The weather forecast called for 100% probability of rain but you'd never know that when the Friends of the Umpqua gathered at the meeting place in Roseburg. My theory about only three morons show up for a hike in poor weather was put to lie by eight hikers who piled into cars under a remarkably clear blue sky. While the weather was somewhat cloudy and foggy by the time we arrived at Cape Blanco, the air was nonetheless happily dry and there were twenty-one more hikers waiting for us, courtesy of our sister club the South Coast Striders. Wow, twenty-nine hikers to keep track of and I immediately felt sorry for the hike leader, which was me.

Wetlands, accent on the wet

From a large parking lot on the Cape Blanco park road, we executed a short walk on the road to a gate, opened said gate, and then commenced hiking in earnest. The first part of the hike was on a grassy path that looked like it had been a jeep or farm road in in its prior incarnation. The path basically followed the edge of Sullivan Gulch, a large marsh in a broad valley. The waterlogged gulch was full of overgrown ponds, canals, and other amorphous wetlands that faded into the fog. Didn't see any waterfowl though, they had either sought shelter from the impending storm or had fled the arrival of twenty-nine hikers. Smart birds, either way.

Scraggly alder trees

Besides sideswiping Sullivan Gulch, the trail provided plenty of quality coastal forest time over the several miles to the beach. Leafless alder, their branches stark against the gray sky, contrasted nicely with the evergreen conifers flanking the path. In a taste of things to come, large muddy puddles lay across the trail, forcing dainty hikers to tiptoe around them to keep feet clean and dry.

Nice view for a few minutes

After a pleasant walk to the dunes overlooking the beach between Cape Blanco and the Elk River, the first little downer reared its salty water head. I knew it was going to be high tide (check your tide tables before you go beach hiking, boys and girls) but since the beach here is fairly wide, I was hoping there'd be some way to hike to the Elk River. The decision to hike to the Elk was postponed until we could visually assess the situation and one look at the eight-foot tide covering ALL the beach sent me figuratively scrambling for Plan B.

The storm arrives

Plan B was a hike up the spectacular coastal bluffs where we'd eat lunch on the high point thereof, followed by a short amble to the cape itself. After a brief uphill ridge walk, we all sat down upon arrival at the high point, munching our various lunches and snacks, and admiring the awesome view as we ate. While slightly overcast, the sunlight made it past the clouds here and there, casting spotlights that flitted and fluttered upon the silver ocean surface. Further to the south, the sky was ominously black and the rugged Oregon coast simply disappeared into the heavy dark mist. The storm was coming and mere minutes later, it was pretty much arriving, about as welcome as a visit from the mother-in-law, as we cut our lunch short to skedaddle.

Remnant of a steam donkey

From our lunchtime coastal overlook, the trail ducked into a heavily wooded forest with traces of mist sifting through a skein of tree branches. Some of us stopped to gawk at the ruins of a steam donkey, the mossy and massive timbers a nostalgic reminder of logging operations of yore.

Here is where the rain caught us

We grabbed the Oregon Coast Trail at the campground and the trail spit us out onto the windblown and barren grassy bluffs just south of the lighthouse. Naturally, since we were out in the open, it figured that would be where the storm would catch us, all unprotected and exposed like that. By the time we reached the lighthouse parking lot, there was unanimous and silent wordless agreement that this was as close to the lighthouse as we needed to be. The wind was gusty, but not as yet as powerful as was forecast. The rain did pick up in intensity, putting all our rain gear to the test. It was at this point I ruefully removed the battery from my camera and stowed the camera in its case, to be safely inoperative for the rest of the day. From prior experience, it's kind of an awkward conversation between me and Mrs. O'Neill when the conversation begins with "I have to buy a new camera!", no sense repeating that dismal experience for the fourth time.

Stormy afternoon at Cape Blanco

Too bad the camera was temporarily retired because it might have been fun to photograph hikers navigating deep and wide mud puddles for a mile or so before the trail plunged rapidly down to Sullivan Gulch. First there was one small puddle and hikers could step over and around with no problem. Next puddle was larger and the dense coastal huckleberry bushes flanking the trail effectively deterred hikers from bushwhacking round. Then the puddles were tens of yard long and ankle deep and the only thing to do at that point was just splash through, dry feet be damned. My feet were fairly dry because my high-ankle boots are waterproof but most hikers had trail-runners or some facsimile thereof, and the sound of water squishing inside shoes could clearly be heard, along with mutinous mutterings about a certain gleeful hike leader who was obviously enjoying the whole splashy experience.

Misty forest

The precipitous descent down to Sullivan Gulch was safely executed, and I witnessed no pratfalls, be they mine or anybody else's. Most hikers were fairly philosophical about the hike, noting that we were hiking at the coast in January and the inclement weather is to be expected. But they didn't thank me, either.

Rain clouds deliver

Because of the heavy rain, I didn't take my usual quota of pictures, but what few I did take are in the Flickr album.

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Fall Creek Falls

Oh, what an effete snob I am! "This hike is too small" and "this hike is too large" and I'm not sure I've ever found a hike that is just right. Because the walk (I deign to call it a hike) to Fall Creek Falls lands in the too-short category, that would be why I've only hiked there just once, and that was back when I was a single parent and the kids were small. But the opportunity to get out with friends I hadn't seen in a while cropped up, so I decided to be more tolerant and accepting, and take the namby-pamby "hike" to the falls. And hey, I can always take a small walk and turn it into a big photo shoot in the hiking equivalent of making mountains out of molehills.

Slow shot of a fast creek

So, inclining my head towards the horizon so as not to snootily look down my nose at this tiny stroll, I joined Jennifer, John, Dianne, and Connie for the amble to the falls. Right at the start, it was obvious this would be all about the creek. It had been raining off and on during the week, filling up the North Umpqua River and all its tributary streams (of which, Fall Creek is one) with water. That would explain why the creek was so noisy and vociferous as it bounded from pool to pool below the trail. I don't think there was any other color to the water besides white. 

Green and white all day long

The hike was bichromatic as colorwise, there was only the white of the creek and the green of literally everything else. The falls and creek fill up the narrow canyon with moisture, providing watery sustenance to all the thriving ferns, moss, trees, lichen, and other assorted vegetation. Since this was a short walk-cum-photo shoot, I set out to photographically document everything I saw growing and flowing around the trail. Didn't take long, naturally, for me to find myself walking solo, lagging well behind my camera-free comrades.

Trail shot 

A point of interest on this trail, besides the waterfall, is a large house-sized rock squatting on the trail like an oversized mossy river troll. It probably fell eons ago from the slopes above and when it did fall, it cracked in two like a geologic Humpty-Dumpty. Nowadays, the split between the two halves of what used to be one whole is the actual trail. The narrow cleft is not a place for those who dislike confined spaces and reminded me I really should start my diet soon. Back in the day, my children thought it was the coolest thing ever to run back and forth through the rocky confine.

Fall Creek Falls

After a green mile with the whitewatered creek churning next to the trail, a larger roar began to permeate through the forest. Yup, it was Fall Creek Falls, in all its thundering glory. Using the shoot-and-wipe technique, which consists of hurriedly snapping a photograph and then wiping off the ample moisture from the falls that managed to accumulate on the lens' surface (on my glasses too, I might add) in the 1/100th of a second that it took for the camera shutter to trip. Not really done hiking (it had been just over a mile, I think) at this point, I continued on the trail as it headed up to a trailhead above the falls, but not before stopping at a viewpoint with a bench to admire the falls some more. 

Fall Creek was always reliably photogenic

The trail ended at a gravel road and I knew that Jennifer and John had continued hiking on the road for extra mileage but in which direction? Not sure and not wanting to confuse my people as to my whereabouts, I dallied where the roadway crossed Fall Creek. The creek was particularly photo-friendly here where it streamed in a series of attractive stair-step cascades and pools. After a bit, Diane popped out from the trailhead and pointed me in the right direction and the two of us continued hiking along the gravel road.

It's starting to rain

The air had that liquidity that hovered somewhere between drizzle and rain. Clothing got soaked in no time at all despite the lack of direct inclemency. Liquid weather must occur a lot up here, for the surrounding forest was covered in thick layers of fern and ever-present moss. The forest understory greenery was just that: eminently green everywhere, broken up only by occasional mossless tree trunks. Puddles reflected the surrounding branches and dark clouds, and before long, concentric ripples on the puddles told us it was starting to sprinkle, as if the pitter-patter sound on hat brims were not clue enough.

Raindrop on a cedar frond

So back toward the trail was the direction in which we went, and I fitted an extension tube (used for taking macro photos) onto my camera and figured I'd just take photos of small things. It's what you do on a short hike. Accordingly, I now have lots of photos of lichen, moss, mushrooms, water drops, and witch's butter (a yellow-orange fungus that resembles a dollop of butter). As Diane and I snacked in the wet atmosphere above the falls, Jennifer and John appeared and the four of us headed back down the muddy trail. Since this was more photo-shoot than walk, I soon found myself in my customary spot all alone, way behind everybody else. But to be honest, I re-enjoyed the trail all over again since my last visit here several decades ago. So much so, I might even quit looking down my nose at all the other little unworthy trails but then again, probably not.

Fall Creek emerges from its lair

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

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North Umpqua Trail (Swiftwater Segment)

Three weeks into the new year and I finally get in my first hike of 2020. Wow, that puts me on pace for a whopping 130 miles for the year! If I want more miles than that, and I do, I guess I really need to hike more often.

It didn't rain, looks can be deceiving

Weather, concerts, and just a wee bit of laziness had all conspired to keep me from my perennial New Year resolution of hiking more. However, enough is enough and it was time to confront my inner slothfulness and whatever weather was lying in wait for me on the trail. There was a high likelihood of precipitation as it had been raining all week but as it turned out, the only weather issue was that it was cold, getting close to but not quite freezing. But thankfully, no water fell from the sky during my short visit to the North Umpqua Trail. There was plenty of water on the ground though, and all the little creeks along the North Umpqua Trail were running as full and noisy as a constipated goat. Boots did get wet, but, that's a lot more preferable than atmospheric rivers waterfalling from the sky, drenching me from above.

White staghorn fungus was plentiful next to the trail

The Swiftwater Segment was chosen as the destination du jour simply because a friend of mine had posted a photo of the view from Bob Butte and what Tim can do, so can I. Setting out from the Susan Creek Day Use Area, I grabbed the Emerald Trail which is a short connector trail to Tioga Bridge. Emerald was the key color of the forest, as anything not moving fast enough was cloaked and covered with copious layers of moss. I spent a few minutes crawling through the forest cover in search of snow queen, one of the first wildflowers to bloom. While I found many budding out, none were displaying the small lavender flowers that I wanted to photograph. At least my hands and knees got dirty.

Lichen on a tree trunk

It was kind of a slow walk on the Emerald Trail, for there were so many standing trees with small (tiny, even) mushrooms, lichen, and moss thriving on the trunks: much photography ensued. Below the trail, the turquoise'ish waters of the North Umpqua River coursed by, swollen with rain runoff this time of year. Leafless maple trees provided some color what with their mossy branches and trunks contrasting against the dark gray of the sky.

The Tioga Bridge is like the 12th Wonder of the World

The Tioga Bridge was constructed in 2012 and it amazes me that you can still smell the creosote on the stout timbers. The arched bridge is not only stout, but scenic as well and a few minutes were spent taking pictures of the span and the river flowing underneath. On the other side of the river, a T-intersection with the North Umpqua Trail heralded the beginning of the real hike, but not before I stopped to photograph a creek cascading right next to the trail junction. Whew, with so many things to appreciate and look at, it sure was hard to commence hiking in earnest.

The creeks were in full torrent on this day

This portion of the North Umpqua Trail is on a gravel road bed and the grade was gentle as it angled uphill away from the river. Cedar fronds waved over the trail, and mushrooms along with  the ever ubiquitous moss consumed dead trees both standing and fallen. The forest ground cover was a dense and sodden green knee-high carpet of fern, salal, and Oregon grape. Periodically, rustic footbridges spanned the frequent creeks running across the trail. Hikers who like to photograph really appreciate the rustic bridges because the rails allow one to take those exquisite slow creek shots without having to pack a tripod.  

The "real" trail enters the forest

After several miles of this, the trail departed the road bed and became a real trail with rough tread. Unfortunately, this led to the only un-scenic portion of the hike when the path ran underneath some power lines for a brief bit. Much photography did not ensue. Once past the buzzing power lines, the trail entered the forest and I was back in business with the camera.

Bob Creek flows below the footbridge

The path was dropping rapidly in the forest and Bob Creek came into view with plenty of white water shining through the trees. I might not have been able to see the creek much, but I sure could hear it. Running full, the stream was loud as it rambunctiously tumbled over boulders in the bottom of its canyon. At yet another stout footbridge over the boisterous torrent, more photography ensued. I've hiked here before, but nearby Bob Butte had always been hidden up in the clouds which conveniently provided me the cover (pun intended) to avoid the hike up. But today, the dark clouds were high enough to allow views so I cinched up my internal fortitude and continued hiking past Bob Creek.

Let the uphill begin!

Oof! That was kind of steep for the first hike of the year and my winter-atrophied leg muscles were soon complaining. But hey, I like hot food, so I'm used to ignoring the burn and I did that very thing as I trudged up the switchbacking trail through the forest. Just as the trail broke out into the open, I met up with the only other hikers I'd see all day. These two ladies were on the first leg of their goal of hiking the entire 78 miles of the North Umpqua Trail by dayhike. Cool, and so nice to see ambition on the trail.

View of the North Umpqua River canyon from Bob Butte

There is an open area on the side of Bob Butte, consisting of low growing grass and a bunch of rocks. Water seeps out of the ground here and all the rocks were accordingly covered with moss. Oak trees, seemingly out of place among all the conifer and maple, dotted the green slope. And of course, the open greensward provided an impressive view of the North Umpqua River canyon upstream. Small nearby peaks were covered with snow, and I probably was just several hundred feet below snow level.

A rock feels true love's mossy embrace

After a brief stay where I couldn't really sit down because of all the water seeping out of the ground, it was back the way I came, where I could enjoy the creeks and forest all over again. But at least it was all downhill, excepting the climb away from Bob Creek, and leg muscles were appreciative of that. So, the first hike of the year came in a little under seven miles, and my poor flaccid body felt every bit of it. But that was to be expected since it had been about a month since I last had hiked. I really should do this more often. 

Moss rules all on the North Umpqua Trail

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

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Mount Pisgah

2019

In essence, Mount Pisgah is an urban hike even though it's out in the rural McKenzie Valley farmlands surrounding the small towns of Pleasant Hill and Goshen. The combination of Pisgah's scenery with its proximity to the large city of Eugene predestines it to be in heavy use by the thundering hordes. However, if you go on a dark and dreary day, then you can actually enjoy some quiet moments here and there.

Lichen thrives on an oak twig

The route from the Main Trailhead to the Mount Pisgah summit is a smallish 3.5 mile round-trip hike which in part, explains Pisgah's popularity. But since it's a two hour drive from Roseburg, I needed to make it worth the long drive by figuring out a way to make the route longer. With the help of some online maps, I cobbled together a route involving Trail 17, Trail 7, Trail 3, Trail 4, Trail 1, Trail 6, Trail 56, Trail 3, Zig Zag Trail, Upper Plateau Trail, Jette Trail, Incense Cedar Trail, Quarry Road Trail, Pond Lily Trail, and finally the Tom McCall Riverbank Trail. There'll be a pop quiz in the morning, kids. Needless to say, a good map is essential to precisely navigate the dizzying array of trail junctions. 

Some of the Trail 7 ups and downs

The weather was wet and drizzly, but never quite morphed into out and out rain. Pisgah's summit was hidden in the low clouds so it stood to reason fog would be a large part of my hike, particularly as the route gained enough elevation to enter the mist blanketing the mountain summit. I grabbed Trail 17 not only because it's a prime number but mostly because it connected with Trail 7, also a prime number. The path charged up the hill and within several minutes of hiking, the views were already fantastic as the path overlooked the rural farms, wetlands, and woods situated between the Coast Fork Willamette River and the small town of Goshen.

Still life with leaf and water drop

As stated, the weather was wet and drizzly and I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to take the perfect photograph of water drops hanging on twigs, branches, and tendrils of moss and lichen. After a short uphill walk on Trail 17, I grabbed Trail 7 which went both up and down at a rather rigorous rate. The slopes here consisted of dried grass with leafless oaks etched stark against the gray sky. The valley bottom, dotted with wetland ponds glistening in the dreary air, was spread out like the largest picnic blanket ever. I couldn't really stare at the scenery and walk at the same time, for the trail was muddy and slippery as it undulated up and down on the grassy slopes.

Moss rules the forest

Trail 7 dropped down to the North Trailhead and then began a charge uphill to both meet Trail 3 and to get out of the open slopes and into the forest. Trail 3 was a muddy track that met Trail 4, which commenced the forested portion of this hike. This part of Pisgah probably sees a lot of drizzle moisture, judging by the thick layer of moss covering all that does not move. I made sure to stay in constant motion, so as to avoid becoming just one more indistinct green lump on the forest floor.

Silent woods but for the drip, drip, drip

Here, the woods were mysterious and misty, the trees resembling ghostly spirits from the netherworld. Thick seines of branches strained water from the mist and the resultant drip, drip, drip was a constant accompaniment to what little sound I was making as I labored around the mountain. This was probably my favorite part of the hike. I probably made a little more noise when the trail rounded the mountain and began a pretty good climb up to Pisgah's summit, causing me to breathe more heavily and to mutter invective with ever increasing feeling and frequency.

The clouds begin to lift over Goshen

From the summit, one can allegedly see all the way to the Cascades but on a cloudy day with the summit socked in by fog, not so much. However, neatly coinciding with my arrival at Pisgah's summit apogee, the clouds began to lift and thin out, offering me something to look at besides gray mist. I hung around on the summit for a bit, totally entranced by the ethereal and evocative dance of clouds vainly attempting to retain their misty grip on the lands below the mountain. Little by little, the surrounding farmlands, pastures, and wetlands began to make an appearance. Since I'm old enough to remember tube TVs, the simile is that the landscape gradually swam into focus like a television set warming up.

Mud run on Trail 6

Trail 6 dives off the south side of Pisgah and when it's wet and muddy, it is eminently slippery and on more than one occasion hands and hiking poles were put to use in order to maintain me in my customary upright and erect position. From there, a reunion with Trail 3 took a longer route across the grassy slopes on Pisgah's west side. The trail was rough, rocky, and at times kind of sketchy, and it felt like home.

Trail 3 was rough and rugged, and I liked it

After a couple miles of Trail 3's rugged love, it was time to enter the Mount Pisgah Arboretum trail system. Most of the trails are short little loops or connecting trails that wander about the oaken woods of the aboretum. I grabbed the Upper Plateau Trail only because it had the words "upper" and "plateau" in it. Can't say it was as mountainous as the name suggested but it was a pleasant walk through some oak savannas and a grassy meadow. 

Weathered wood on a rustic water tower

    
The network of arboretum paths gradually dropped down to a series of swamps, ponds, and the Coast Fork Willamette River before closing the loop near some working farm buildings at the trailhead. By using the combination of trails cited earlier, this hike wound up being a respectable 7 miles long and was well worth the drive from Roseburg.

Scene from the winter of our content

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

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Cape Arago night hike

Pop! Hissssss... Those are the sounds of a murder. In this case, the helpless and hapless victim was the right rear tire on my Jeep and the perp was a hollow metal tube that impaled itself at right angles to the tire wall, neatly allowing the air contained within to escape in a mere minute. At least I know the tire sensor and dashboard indicator work. At any rate, Coral Rae, Daweson, and I were temporarily stranded in Myrtle Point by the slain tire, wondering if we'd even be able to do our night hike at Cape Arago.

My hiking companions

Bad weather had raised havoc with my plans to formally lead a group on a night hike and eventually the whole project was given up on because there was no way to get a weekend hike in this close to Christmas. The whole point of the night hike was to see the Christmas lights at Shore Acres State Park which is why the hike needed to be done before Christmas. Anyway, the weather eased up briefly on the Monday before Santa's arrival and spurred on by some friends associated with the South Coast Striders, a hiking group based in Coos Bay, I decided to go and secured the attendance of grandchildren Coral Rae and Daweson.

We started out later than intended

However, the Striders were beginning a bit later than I wanted to, so the kids and I left early, fully intending to hike by ourselves, ahead of our Strider friends. But a strategically placed metal tube in a comparatively soft rubber tire put paid to that idea and the end result was that because of time lost by the tire repair, we wound up at the trailhead at the same exact time that buddy Tom and his Strider companions were beginning their hike. It was like it was meant to be!

And so it begins

Starting at the unusual time of 4:00 pm, a half-dozen hikers or so set foot on the trail beginning at Sunset Bay State Park. The afternoon already had that pre-sunset burnished glow about it and despite the sunlight, it was what could charitably be referred to as "chilly". And, after a mile or two of casual hiking, the sun and sky looked more like sunset than afternoon. By the time we arrived at Shore Acres State Park, the Oregon coast was definitely basking in the last hurrah of daylight. The golden glow was perfect for photography and we mingled with the hordes of sunset shutterbugs gathered at the whale watching station, most armed with cameras at the ready with which to capture the sunset.

Christmas lights, courtesy of Mother Nature

Hiking quickly, we dropped onto relatively quiet Simpson Beach, and then walked through some dark woods to reattain the coastal bluffs overlooking the restless ocean. Grabbing a faint path took us atop a secluded rocky point where we all plopped down on grass to ooh and aah at the coming sunset. The day's denouement was mere minutes away so we didn't have to wait very long before day slipped into night to the accompaniment of the roaring surf. The orange sun coloring sky and clouds was Mother Nature's own version of Christmas lights.

Even the lights have lights at Shore Acres

Once the sun was down, it was time for the true "night" portion of this night hike. We whipped out the headlamps and flashlights and backtracked down to Simpson Beach, the waves barely visible in the fading light. And from there, it was just a short walk to the bright lights of Shore Acres State Park, the glow in the inky black forest advertising the Christmas light display from afar like the neon lights of Las Vegas do as you approach on a lonely desert highway.

Shore Acres at its Christmas finest

Shore Acres State Park goes all out for Christmas and the formal gardens were flamboyantly adorned with all manner of lights, colors, and Christmas motifs. The grounds were a fairyland of glowing colors and a choir serenaded visitors from a brightly lit pavilion. Neon frogs jumped from lily pad to lily pad in the reflecting pond and heron statues eternally stalked but never caught a school of koi statues that never swam away. And, as is its wont, the reflecting pond contained a mirror world of light and color living their lives underneath the surface. As far as the kids were concerned though, the highlight of the Shore Acres gardens was free hot cider and a peek at Santa enjoying a bubble bath in the caretaker's cottage.

Excuse me, I'm taking a BATH here!
(How we got on the naughty list)

I've been night-hiking in the Cape Arago area for many years now and often felt like I was the only one adventurous enough to do such a thing. However, in recent years, it has been a more common occurrence to encounter hikers walking from Sunset Bay to Shore Acres, their presence announced in advance by headlights bobbing and weaving like drunk fireflies in the forest. There's a really good reason to night hike, beside the fact that night hiking in general is an awesome experience, and that is because the traffic into Shore Acres is horrendous, often backing up for several miles. But the train of cars were nice enough to us to let us make a left turn out of the parking lot and we felt grateful and maybe a little bit smug at having avoided the long line of vehicles moving slower than we could hike in the dark.

Season's greetings!

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

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