Baker Beach and Alder Dunes

Several years ago, I was looking for a new trail out on the Oregon coast, somewhere I'd never been. Such places are a rare find for me because it seems like I've hiked on every trail in southern Oregon that there is to be hiked on. While not necessarily true, my desperate search for a path which had never felt the glorious stomp of an O'Neill boot led me to a late night Google Earth perusal. Whoops, there it was! In the Alder Lake area, was a faint path bisecting a grouping of small dunes collectively known as Alder Dunes. Of course, the sketchy path disappeared from the prying and spying satellite eyes in outer space when it entered dark patches of forest. Maybe I was overly optimistic but it did not escape my attention that what presumably was the same path also exited the forest. 

Berry Creek reaches the end

Later, my friends were dragged onto my new trail and apparently Lane liked that hike (and what's not to like?) and so he penciled a repeat Alder Dunes adventure onto the Friends of the Umpqua's schedule. It was like a Richard Hike without any of the awesome responsibility of well, being responsible, so I went along for the sheer joy of hiking on sketchy trails. Because of the faint trails and network of braiding game paths, Lane insisted everybody hike together instead of our usual laissez-faire approach of everybody hiking at their own speed. Doing that in these conditions greatly increased the likelihood of finishing with the same amount of hikers we started out with, although the head count was complicated by one hiker joining us mid-hike and one other having to leave us due to a flat tire discovered at the trailhead.

Hiking is fun!

Beginning at Dune Lake, which has no dunes nearby, we grabbed the faint path into Alder Dunes, which has no alder growing nearby either. But if we only named places after nearby natural features, then we'd be starting from Lake Lake and hiking through Dunes Dunes, wouldn't we? The smallish expanse of Alder Dunes was bordered by a thick forest and our path immediately faded into the heavy vegetative undergrowth. Even though some hikers were just a few feet in front of me, they too were swallowed up from sight by the dense greenery. At times the way was discerned only by picking out the spot where the scratchy brush was marginally not as thick, like a trail had once been there several decades ago.

Mushrooms surprisingly thrive in the sandy dunes

After a few quick walk-by perusals of some seasonal ponds and lakes, the loose network of horse trails, game tracks, and social paths spit us out onto Baker Beach Dunes. Wide and expansive, just like me, these are real dunes and we enjoyed hiking along the edge thereof in the morning sunlight. It's actually a pretty cool hike to follow the edge of the dunes but we had a different task today, chiefly to hike over to Lilly Lake.  

Berry Creek, with the end in sight

Lilly Lake is a prominent landmark in the Baker Beach area but you can barely see the small lake, for it's well hid by a thick cover of cattails and reeds. Much cooler, vista-wise, is the Berry Creek Loop and after visiting Lilly Lake, we hiked around puddles of water standing on the trail overlooking the wild hinterlands of marshes, swamps, dunes and wide Berry Creek itself. I've stepped over shallow Berry Creek when hiking on nearby Cape Mountain and it's hard to reconcile that diminutive trickle with the near-river arrogantly sashaying through the marshes just before ending its journey on the beach.

Lane demonstrates the proper climbing technique

Back when I took the club on this hike wilder than most, we returned by bushwhacking through the marshes. A hidden sinkhole claimed Edwin and I as victims and the swim killed my camera. In keeping with the adventuresome aspect of this trek, Lane took us up the dunes flanking Berry Creek, but prudently avoided the marshes (and at least one sinkhole!) lurking behind the dunes. The creek had cut the dunes like a giant knife halving sandwiches (dunes...sand...sandwiches, get it?), and it was actually quite the challenge to climb up a sheer cliff made out of soft shifting sand. 

Sadly and truly, this really is the trail

From there it was a short walk atop the dunes crest on small ad hoc paths weaving between hummocks of beachgrass swaying in a light breeze. And after that mild adventure, it was a return, all of us together in one group, through the faint trails in the forest and dunes. It sort of reminded me of kindergarten where we had "If lost..." name tags enumerating our vitals such as school, parents, and our parent's phone numbers. Maybe next time I lead a hike, I'll insist on everybody wearing such tags, but then Mrs. O'Neill might have to claim me.

They say on dark stormy nights you can hear
her mournful cry "Where is the #$%@ trail!"

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

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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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Cathedral Hills

Cathedral Hills is another one of those places that I'd never been to because of a preconceived notion the hikes are too short to justify the drive from Roseburg. However, a friend recently made mention of the Cathedral Hills trail system and with the idea of hiking there now placed irrevocably onto the part of my cerebral cortex that warehouses possible hiking destinations, the distinct possibility of hiking there had to be considered. Besides which, any place with the word "Hills" in it will always stand a chance.

It was a bit chilly at the outset

It turned out that stepson Carl and family had just moved into a place literally just down the hill from the Sky Crest Trailhead so I made a surprise swoop to see the new digs and to temporarily free grandson Liam from the stultifying constricts of parental dictatorship via the escape route of hiking with Grandpa. Didn't need to ask him twice!

Madrone trees were very much a thing on this hike

There are several trailheads with which to access Cathedral Hills but we chose Sky Crest Trailhead solely because it was just up the hill from Liam's house. There were only a few cars in the trailhead parking lot when we arrived and in this age of Covid, that's a good thing. 

A frozen web, ready to snare frozen flies

It was downright chilly at the start and the surrounding vegetation was lightly frosted like an old dude's unshaven chin. But hey, trails heading uphill are made for warming up cold hikers and the heat generated by the exercise kept some of the chill at bay. Thick woods comprised of scrawny madrones and dense patches of manzanita bushes flanked the track as it gained elevation. Periodically, the vegetation and forest cover opened up, affording views of nothing but gray, for the low cloud cover hid from sight any vistas that otherwise would have been enjoyed by the two of us.

A burl mars an otherwise perfectly smooth madrone trunk

A good map is essential because this relatively small park presents a myriad of trail options that intersect each other with great rapidity when hiking. The BLM website has a downloadable pdf map which was an invaluable asset in negotiating the trail system so as to arrive back at the car. Don't you just hate it when you can't find your car at the end of a hike? Hasn't happened to me yet, but then again I usually carry a map when I hike and strongly urge all hikers to do likewise.

Frosted pine trees were the only view we had today

Our route was a loop hike on the Skycrest Trail, Outback Loop, Hogback Trail, Cloverlawn Loop, Backside Loop, Outback Loop (again!), Ponderosa Pine Trail, Outback Loop (redux), Bowl Trail, Upper Hogback Trail, Outback Loop (a repeat customer!), and finally, the Skycrest Trail (Round 2). Now you see why a map is essential and even though we had one, we still got "misplaced" for a bit. I'd blame the navigator but that would mean taking personal responsibility for my own actions, so I'll just falsely accuse Liam instead.

Lichen finds a purchase on a smooth manzanita trunk

The route crested at the intersection of the Skycrest Trail and Outback Loop and from there it was a steady descent toward the general direction of busy Espy Road Trailhead. Most of the hike was spent in easy companionship chit-chatting about life in general and I was grateful for the quality time spent with Liam today. Virtually all of the descent was also spent surrounded by madrone, oak, and manzanita. Not to mention, there were also some poison oak bushes flanking the paths, even though I just mentioned it.

Easiest!

Most difficult!

The lower part of our route was a combination of the Outback Loop and Backside Loop that basically hugged the southwestern corner of the park. Several trails branched off to the right, each one of those trails being belligerent tests of manhood that charged madly up wooded ridges with nary a pretense of switchback or any other modern invention designed to ease the grade. Naturally, we namby-pambies stayed to the left at all junctions. For a little more mileage we grabbed the Ponderosa Pine Trail after being asked for directions by a random hiker, like we would know anything about this park on our first visit! But we were reading our map at the time, and that made us more knowledgeable than the hapless mapless fellow asking us for directions.

Setting for the "Witches of Cathedral Hills" movie

Somewhere on the Ponderosa Pine Trail, I missed an intersection on the map (but not on the ground) while monitoring our progress. So, while we were actually on track the whole way, I, the trail, and the map were now all out of sync with each other. Navigationally, it was obvious we were heading in the correct direction so we continued walking in the expectation that we'd soon figure it all out soon enough. In essence, we were following the return leg of the Outback Loop which consisted of a picturesque trail on a ridge crest wooded with usual suspects madrone, manzanita, and leafless oak.  

Liam patiently waits while Grandpa checks the map YET AGAIN!

This part of the hike was the only real sustained uphill stretch of trail but no complaining allowed for the trail was quite photogenic as it wandered through the manzanita and other hardwood trees. The vegetation was sparser here than in the lower woodlands, so we got to see cloud cover hiding the vistas from sight all over again. I imagine that on a sunny day, there'd be some views to partake of. Both of us enjoyed our first Cathedral Hills experience, it's a good early season hiking option and I'll have to drag my friends here at some point in the near future. Stay tuned!

Moss slowly and inevitably claims a tree

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

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Cape Arago

It was a King Tide day and at Sunset Bay State Park, Big Creek was unnaturally full of water being forced upstream by the incoming tide. In between waves, I stood next to the creek and took several photographs of the bay, keeping a wary eye on an incoming wave that just kept coming and coming without any inclination of slowing down any time soon. Bye, gotta go! I took off running and all was well until I dropped my hiking pole. Dammit, that wasn't in my carefully crafted plan for escape! I reached down and picked it up, fumbled the pole pick up, then fumbled it again. Finally, got a firm grasp on the sucker and then I really had to move as the surge roared up Big Creek, covering up where I had been standing just seconds before with about 3 to 4 feet of fast moving water. A King Tide is nothing to mess with, dudes and dudettes.

Before

After

King Tide is a non-scientific term for an abnormally high tide. Oregon gets them several times a year and Shore Acres State Park is the perfect locale for experiencing the huge waves that sometimes result. The caveat is that a high surf is also required, because it is entirely possible for a King Tide to fail to generate huge waves and it's also possible for huge waves to manifest without benefit of a King Tide. But on this day, it was the perfect storm in that the King Tide was occurring in conjunction with a heavy surf generated by stormy weather. That was all I needed to wake up before dawn and arrive at Sunset Bay bright and early, trusty camera at the ready.    

A wave really would like to smite some hikers

I was more than happy to hike up on the forested bluffs overlooking the wild ocean after my near escape at Sunset Bay. But I shouldn't have felt that secure, for the waves, after surging into the unyielding cliffs, exploded into white-watered mayhem that often rose twenty feet or so higher than the trail, which was already twenty feet or so higher than the ocean. As I hiked through the woods, I could hear the booming surf cannonading in loud blasts up and down the coast, sounding like the most prolific thunderstorm ever.

A seagull rethinks its flight plan

As the route rounded the rocky cove of Norton Gulch, exposed rocky shoals came into view and the waves breaking over them were an awesome sight. A seagull was patrolling the shoreline and was probably questioning its life choices when one large wave enveloped the bird into its watery embrace, somewhat to my amusement. The constant mist from the waves refracted sunlight which is a non-romantic and very scientific way to say there were lots of rainbows.

Fountain in the Shore Acres garden 

As stated before, Shore Acres is the place to be when the big waves put on a show, what with the strategically sited viewpoint and observation area with easy access. Accordingly, throngs of photographers and videographers were gathered there to get their own personal iconic photos and/or videos of the booming waves. Rather than brandish my sharp elbows to rudely jostle for a place in the photography queue, I figured I'd hike to the secluded bluffs south of Simpson Beach and take some photos from there. However, the trail to the beach was gated shut with a dour-faced park ranger standing by, sternly enforcing the trail-closed edict. Seems that last year during a King Tide event, somebody went down to the beach and got themselves into trouble so now the park simply closes the beach trail whenever a King Tide event occurs.

Some of that Shore Acres action

Well, that screwed up my plans and since I wasn't ready to quit hiking yet, I backtracked through the Shore Acres gardens and made my way onto the trail heading up to the World War II bunker, since I'd never been to that landmark. Built as a watch station for Japanese submarines, the ruins of the bunker have long since been swallowed up by the forest and you currently would not be able to see the ocean from the bunker, much less a submarine unless it snuck up from behind, tapped you on the shoulder, and said "Boo, I'm a submarine!"

From defending the country to this

At the bunker ruins, vandals (or graffiti artists, depending on your point of view) had redecorated the old place. To be honest, all the color on the walls in a forested setting was visually interesting and kind of on the cool side. What was not cool were the spray paint cans left behind, along with several painted trees. I think the lack of respect bothers me more than the actual artwork. At any rate, the side trip to the bunker nominally served its purpose in extending the hike's mileage to a reasonable distance.

Large waves boomed up and down the coast

It was just about high tide and the waves would be as large as they were going to get today, so I hiked up the Cape Arago Highway until a resumption of the (open) coast trail presented itself. Wave-generated sonic booms permeated the forest and grassy bluffs, and I made my way to land's end like a concertgoer drawn to the front of the mosh pit. As I was happily doing my camera thing, one wave huger than most gave me a good soaking. It was quite the show and I stayed there for a fair amount of time until it became obvious the tide was receding and the waves were shrinking. While that was disappointing, at least the hike back to Sunset Bay was less eventful than my morning visit there.

Thimbleberry leaf: I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. O'Neill

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

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North Umpqua Trail (Marsters Segment)

About a month prior to this hike, I had hiked the Marsters Segment of the North Umpqua Trail. And it had been like five years since the last Marsters hike before that one. In between those two prior hikes, fire had come to play and frolic upon the Marsters, much to the chagrin of the resident flora and fauna. So, much of the most recent hike was spent making horrified comparisons to the pre-fire and post-fire versions of the Marsters. However, on this mid-December day, the element of fire-damage surprise was gone so there was more of a general appreciation for the hiking aspects of this particular segment of the 78 mile long North Umpqua Trail (NUT). Well, make that the 40 mile long North Umpqua Trail, for half of the NUT is currently off limits due to fire damage from last summer's Archie Creek Fire. 

Views were hard to come by on this day

At the start, the morning was as chilly as an ex-spouse's glare, and river fog misted up the canyon and surrounding forest. Higher up, it looked like it might be a sunny day but not for us, that would require sun reaching the bottom of the canyon. And what do the North Umpqua River and an unempathetic jogging philosopher have in common? Why, they both run cold and deep! The river was obviously in winter mode with the strong current flowing dark and black like it typically does in cold weather. It's also that time of year where sunlight does not reach river-level and we'd (the Friends of the Umpqua Hiking Club) best be planning to hike in the frosty shade all day. 

River fog ruled

While cold, it wasn't quite freezing so on the plus side, icicles did not form off of the tips of our runny noses as we hiked. Even though this was the second time within a couple of months that I had set my handsome feet on the Marsters, the devastation from the fire was still stunning. Maybe, the burned forest seemed even starker if only for the reason it was set against the murky background of the dark canyon and cold forbidding river, with thick river fog occluding much of the surrounding topography and what little sunlight there was.

Where landslide meets river

Several miles into the hike, the trail crossed a landslide that didn't really seem like it was yet done with its earth-moving business. A small stream of running water trickled down the face of the slide, which is always a bad sign. The trail was narrow and the path shifted and moved beneath our boots as we carefully made our way across. Shortly after this hike, the Marsters was closed because a large landslide had covered the road to the trailhead and I couldn't help but wonder if this landslide was the culprit (It wasn't).

Supernatural creatures inhabit the woods

So there we are, hiking in the mysteriously foggy woods, the kind of setting that makes it easy to believe in supernatural and spectral creatures, so don't blame me if I thought I saw a Sasquatch. We were hiking through a fire-blackened acreage of dead trees when suddenly on the ridge crest above, the sounds of a large creature stampeding across the landscape could clearly be heard. I whipped my head around toward the sound just in time to see the silhouette of a large apelike creature disappear into the thin sunlight illuminating the higher reaches. Actually, it was just a large tree falling, but just for a moment there, I believed. Besides which, falling trees when one is hiking is a spooky enough event, anyway.

Just another drippy day in paradise

Just like the hike from a month ago, the turnaround point was the trailhead at Calf Creek. While everybody else ate, I tried to take some photographs of ferns, mushrooms, and virtually anything else, but the increased moisture in the air was clouding up the camera lens within seconds of uncapping the lens. Sheesh, it was cold and now I can't take pictures either? What am I supposed to do? Just hike? The questions are rhetorical, no need replying to your sniveling whiny blogster, but I did make do by frequently wiping the lens (and my glasses, too) clean of condensation, darn early dew point anyway.

Fire does not age-discriminate

Near the Calf Creek Trailhead, a large pile of fallen fire-blackened trees covered the trail, and the climb over them was fairly tedious. Penny decided she would rather walk around them instead of clambering over like the rest of us mere mortals. The tree pile pushed her route away from the trail and onto an increasingly sheer slope, so she had to abashedly make her way back to the pile and scramble over like the rest of us lesser beings, much to our amusement. Life lesson: If you are going to do something like that, first make sure no one is watching!

It's not every hike where you can observe
mountain goats in their native habitat

I'm assuming everybody enjoyed the hike or if they didn't, they were kind enough not to complain within earshot, which was easy to do since I was leading from the rear anyway as per my usual customary wont. Despite the chilly weather and all the other harbingers of winter, it had been an enjoyable hike on our old friend, the North Umpqua Trail.

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

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North Umpqua Trail (Jessie Wright Segment)

That little in-between season residing twixt autumn and winter is that special time of year spent trying to frantically squeeze in just one more hike on the North Umpqua Trail (NUT) before the winter snows arrive. I offer into evidence recent hikes on the Marsters, Dread and Terror, and Hot Springs segments of the venerable NUT. Of course, this year it's been substantially difficult to even hike on the NUT, what with nearly half of it rendered unusable by last summer's devastating Archie Creek Fire. But who's counting and what's one more hike on the NUT before winter's onset arrives?

Fire-scarred forest surrounded the trail

The day was ostensibly sunny but here on the cold bottom of the North Umpqua River canyon, a thin film of mist occluded the views and I kept rubbing my eyes just in case I was developing filmy vision or something like that. Even the river looked colder than normal, the water running as dark and black as a tyrant's soul as it rumbled underneath Marsters Bridge. In a telling sign that winter is indeed nigh, I wore a jacket for the entire hike.

A goblet of water for the wee folk

Several years ago, fire rolled through this section of the NUT and nowadays, the forest floor is littered with dead trees and limbs to go along with all the normal customary forest detritus. All that decaying lumber on the forest floor just begs for mushrooms and fungi to come dine and they so obliged. There were so many different ilk, color, and specie of mushrooms, ranging from tall parasols large enough to shelter me and other rodents in a rainstorm to tiny fungal caps small enough to shelter just a few individual atoms in that very same rainstorm. Not to mention, there were fungi of the non-mushroom variety ranging from tough and woody tinder fungus to bright yellow dollops of witch's butter. Toss in a healthy population of lichen and moss clinging to tree trunks and you could almost hear the communal munching of dead wood echoing throughout the forest.

The North Umpqua River, all hike long

At roughly halfway between Marsters Bridge and Deer Creek, the river widens considerably where it makes a graceful bend as only a river can. My own personal bends are pretty much limited to beginner's yoga and are nowhere near as graceful. The thick forest cover, which had been doing a pretty good job of hiding the river from view, thinned out and allowed your merry blogster to stop and contemplate the fantastic riverine vista. The water flowing past and over a series of small cascades was perhaps enhanced by the steep terrain rising away from the river, culminating in the rocky spire of Old Man Rock (unseen, from the river's edge), which was not named after me no matter what the grandchildren say.

Snag Rock, living up to its name

The former wooden footbridge crossing Eagle Creek had been vaporized in the wildfire from several years ago and its replacement is wisely made out of metal this time.  After crossing the aforementioned creek and bridge, the trail commenced another stretch of fine river scenery. Here, the river bounds in a series of energetic cascades and rapids that might challenge a river rafter or kayaker. In the middle of all the watery turmoil and roil squats a troll-like boulder aptly named Snag Rock. The huge rock lives up to its name, for it had snagged several snags (another word for dead trees) that had attempted a doomed river float. 

I crawled like the lowly worm I am, and I liked it!

A recent storm had knocked down a bunch of trees onto the trail right near Boulder Creek and I used my well-honed crawling skills to slither past them. Another large, albeit wooden, footbridge spanned Boulder Creek and that was my turnaround point. The creek was running low as it exited its namesake Boulder Creek Wilderness, the water collecting in languid greenish-blue pools. As I ate my lunch by the creek, some large winged insect crawled by, which was strange for it did have those wing things for added mobility. I doubt the wings were just for show, maybe the bug just needed the exercise.

Some of that amazing light and mist on the hike back

The hike back to the trailhead at Marsters Bridge was uneventful but I did get to enjoy the awesome river, forest, and fungal scenery all over again. However, the river fog had thickened considerably, rendering the woods as mysterious and inscrutable as the calculus of complex numbers. As the day waned, the sun finally made it down to the canyon floor, illuminating the mist with ethereal sunbeams that awed this hiker who thankfully, had a camera with which to commemorate the show.   

Fog? What river fog?

At the trailhead, the fog lifted just long enough to put Rattlesnake Rock (which was not named after me, no matter what my wife says) on display against a rare blue sky. If this run of conducive weather continues, maybe I can get in a few more North Umpqua Trail hikes before winter arrives for good.

Vestigial remnant of autumn glory

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

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