Saturday, October 31, 2009
Weekend in Bandon and the South Coast
In mid October we spent a weekend in Bandon at the Table Rock motel. The same friendly owner greeted us who was there 17 or 18 years ago. We drove down to the Redwoods and back. It weather was pleasant--cool and foggy in the mornings and very little wind. There are no crowds to contend with this time of year either.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Triangulation Peak area
These photos were actually taken a couple weeks ago after the first good Autumn rain. Oregon is temperate, the 45th parallel runs through the state capital to prove it, but, at least in the western half of the state, there are really only two seasons, the dry season and the rainy season.
When the first rain comes in the fall, it can be after two or three months without any significant rain. The grass is yellow and brittle. Sadly, the slugs never disappear completely, but at the height of the August heat, they look miserable.
Then something happens; the world shifts. The meteorologist says something about the jet stream and occluded fronts in movement. The anchorwoman is sad and makes a wry comment about the end of summer.
Away from the TV, in the world, you see it first off the coast. If you’re on the beach in Seaside or Coos Bay, looking out over the ocean, where in the dry season you would see crisp line demarking the eternal division between ocean and sky, you instead will see the new season building, coalescing and looming. At its most dramatic it looks like an immense wall of cloud, stratified in gray and white layers slowly churning, preparing for the onslaught, like puffed up Napoleonic soldiers sitting tall on their steeds decked out in shining breastplate and topped with delicate plumage, not moving but at attention, pristine and beautiful, just before the charge into the tempest of battle.
Likewise, the wall of cloud appears to hang over the ocean unmoving. It looks harmless so motionless and so far away while the sky above is blue and peaceful. But, if you are patient and you watch very carefully, you will see that the wall is in motion. Ever so gradually, it approaches the shore, too slow at first for anyone but the keenest to notice, but as it approaches, the momentum builds and soon it is unmistakable. The storm is heralded first by the advance guard of feral shifting winds harassing away the last calm of summer.
When the churning wall overcomes the shore, the season turns. Blue becomes gray. The rain begins—not the whimsical storms of other places that arrive violently and expend their energies quickly, but the persevering tireless rains of the Pacific Northwest.
Over the Coast Range, the seasonal change in the Willamette Valley is a little less dramatic. The wall of cloud has broken up after crossing the hills and above the valley it becomes a ceiling of gray, undefined and without pretense, but it is perfectly efficient at what it does best, veiling every last glimpse of blue. The summer sky will be only a memory for next six months.
Further east, in the Cascades, there is more drama. There, the clouds break like waves against the jagged uplands. Some clouds get trapped in the mountain valleys, others rise up angrily and fly swiftly over, dropping their rain to lighten their load and speed them on their way.
Triangulation peak is midway up the western slopes of the Cascade range in the Willamette National Forest. We went there hoping to hike in as far as Boca Cave. Unfortunately, we had to stop and turn around about a mile short of the trailhead because of snow. Our little Kia just isn't adequate for a snowed in logging road. But, at least, I was able to snap a few photos from the road.
When the first rain comes in the fall, it can be after two or three months without any significant rain. The grass is yellow and brittle. Sadly, the slugs never disappear completely, but at the height of the August heat, they look miserable.
Then something happens; the world shifts. The meteorologist says something about the jet stream and occluded fronts in movement. The anchorwoman is sad and makes a wry comment about the end of summer.
Away from the TV, in the world, you see it first off the coast. If you’re on the beach in Seaside or Coos Bay, looking out over the ocean, where in the dry season you would see crisp line demarking the eternal division between ocean and sky, you instead will see the new season building, coalescing and looming. At its most dramatic it looks like an immense wall of cloud, stratified in gray and white layers slowly churning, preparing for the onslaught, like puffed up Napoleonic soldiers sitting tall on their steeds decked out in shining breastplate and topped with delicate plumage, not moving but at attention, pristine and beautiful, just before the charge into the tempest of battle.
Likewise, the wall of cloud appears to hang over the ocean unmoving. It looks harmless so motionless and so far away while the sky above is blue and peaceful. But, if you are patient and you watch very carefully, you will see that the wall is in motion. Ever so gradually, it approaches the shore, too slow at first for anyone but the keenest to notice, but as it approaches, the momentum builds and soon it is unmistakable. The storm is heralded first by the advance guard of feral shifting winds harassing away the last calm of summer.
When the churning wall overcomes the shore, the season turns. Blue becomes gray. The rain begins—not the whimsical storms of other places that arrive violently and expend their energies quickly, but the persevering tireless rains of the Pacific Northwest.
Over the Coast Range, the seasonal change in the Willamette Valley is a little less dramatic. The wall of cloud has broken up after crossing the hills and above the valley it becomes a ceiling of gray, undefined and without pretense, but it is perfectly efficient at what it does best, veiling every last glimpse of blue. The summer sky will be only a memory for next six months.
Further east, in the Cascades, there is more drama. There, the clouds break like waves against the jagged uplands. Some clouds get trapped in the mountain valleys, others rise up angrily and fly swiftly over, dropping their rain to lighten their load and speed them on their way.
Triangulation peak is midway up the western slopes of the Cascade range in the Willamette National Forest. We went there hoping to hike in as far as Boca Cave. Unfortunately, we had to stop and turn around about a mile short of the trailhead because of snow. Our little Kia just isn't adequate for a snowed in logging road. But, at least, I was able to snap a few photos from the road.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Coyote Creek
Coyote Creek near Fern Ridge Reservoir and Veneta, Oregon. A short pleasant walk. It's a secluded and quiet trail with some wildlife around including osprey, blue heron and meskitos. We saw a huge heron but it flew off before I could bring my camera to bear.
An Osprey family.
This one's waiting for prey.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Alcea Falls
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Wheaten and Wiry
Wheaten and wiry, is his windblown hair.
Proudly he patrols this plot of a yard.
Seeking, he scavenges the remains of our supper.
Running and leaping, he lands on his feet.
No bird is allowed; he barks and bounds after.
Vermin are forbidden; he evicts them abruptly.
He is pet, he is friend, he guards us intently,
and at the day's end he curls on us meekly.
Inside and outside he is decidedly different.
In his yard, he yaps and yields to no one.
In the house he is humble where humans watch over.
Cats there contrive to conceitedly stalk him.
Sneakily he searches and scraps are his plunder.
Shame enshrouds him, shrinking when caught.
His foes are feline, a feud hard-fought.
He defers to us supine, this he accepts, his lot.
Rags (AKA Strummer)
Proudly he patrols this plot of a yard.
Seeking, he scavenges the remains of our supper.
Running and leaping, he lands on his feet.
No bird is allowed; he barks and bounds after.
Vermin are forbidden; he evicts them abruptly.
He is pet, he is friend, he guards us intently,
and at the day's end he curls on us meekly.
Inside and outside he is decidedly different.
In his yard, he yaps and yields to no one.
In the house he is humble where humans watch over.
Cats there contrive to conceitedly stalk him.
Sneakily he searches and scraps are his plunder.
Shame enshrouds him, shrinking when caught.
His foes are feline, a feud hard-fought.
He defers to us supine, this he accepts, his lot.
Rags (AKA Strummer)Monday, June 22, 2009
Hell Hole
Northeast of Oakridge, Oregon, the Forest Service has tried to keep Hell Hole a secret, but we found it. It was Fathers Day, Summer Solstice, 2009. It was raining. We had kids and a little dog with us, but we braved the mud and the cliffs and climbed down into it. The climb back out again was treacherous and exhausting, but we survived the ordeal.
Deer Butte
Pics from our hike on Deer Butte Trail on Saturday, June 20. Mt. Washington wilderness area.
Oregon June weather, the last day of Spring.
I don't know what did this, maybe a bear?
A close-up of the claw (or tooth?) marks. It was a little creepy up there, very high up in the Cascades--there was no sound at all, no cars, very few birds.
Oregon June weather, the last day of Spring.
I don't know what did this, maybe a bear?
A close-up of the claw (or tooth?) marks. It was a little creepy up there, very high up in the Cascades--there was no sound at all, no cars, very few birds.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)