Category Archives: Outdoors

The Waimea Canyon, Kauai

On Sunday, the 10th, her ninth birthday, we twisted the crepe paper we’d crammed into our carry-ons to help celebrate and stuck it to the ceiling. While she brushed her teeth, we snickered in the dark at how surprised she might be when she walked back in on a bunch of streamers.

Only streamers turned into stream-er when we realized we’d brought the tape dispenser that held two pieces of tape and both of them reluctant to leave the roll.

So we sang. A little louder than we might have. And we watched the single streamer buck up and do the job for ten.

Her birthday was also the day we’d chosen to visit the Waimea Canyon and hike one of its trails. Which–if you’re nine–might not rank as high as bruising up your knees wobbling on rollerskates for two hours with your friends.

But then it might.

And so for 1 1/2 hours we snaked and wound up the road that led to the canyon, slowing to the speed of a slug when we thought we had a barfer. And speeding up to as much as 25 mph when we got the ‘thumbs up’ from the back seat.

A teensy bit past the 10 mile marker we staggered out to the first major lookout and beheld this.

The Waimea Canyon.

More than ten miles long. A mile wide. And 3600′ deep.

At 10 a.m., the clouds were just beginning to burn off and the peaks beginning to come into focus.

And at 59 degrees, most of the crowd is wondering why they’ve left the house in shorts.

But no one’s complaining about the view.

We’re just marveling that the goats are still upright.

Because this lookout wasn’t our destination, we piled back in and coaxed the car along another 3 1/2 more miles until we were half way between the 13 and 14 mile marker and could pull over at the Puu Hina Hina Lookout.

At the end of the parking lot was where the Canyon Trails hike began. The one that–taking the guide book on faith– would lead us to a waterfall, if we made it that far.

And so we headed down.

A lot down.

And then down some more. Until in the middle of wondering how painful it would be to hike back, the trail turned and began to climb.

I don’t know what these pink things are, but they stood out amongst the green.

About 2 miles in, the canyon emerged.

The canyon with a sheer cliff ten feet behind us and zero guard rail.

The canyon that makes me want to velcro a kid to each leg and ooch down the trail one inch at a time.

Because when they flick a rock with their tennis shoes…

And cling close to the edge with their daddy, my heart can’t take much more.

We had only to look up in another direction to see these rock formations. Like an abandoned castle. Carved by wind and storm.

And the hand of God.

From the ledge, the trail wound down. Those coming up from that direction said the waterfall was merely a trickle.

And they were right.

Except it was beautiful.

When gushing, the falls drops over several embankments. And when trickling, pools like these are left behind.

Pools with crawdads.

Also growing on the edges of the waterfall and between the rocks is wild ginger.

Not as tidy looking as the stuff in the bin at Fred Meyer. But the real deal.

With sunburns to put all previous sunburns to shame, we headed back up the trail…

For a final glimpse of Kauai’s Waimea Canyon…

God’s canvas.

Kari Morris, DrTroy Munson, Shelene Talbott Edwards liked this post

A Piece of Kauai

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We’re back from vacation.

Which…in every sense, feels as though I need a vacation…like a six hour nap followed by an early bed time.

Because it’s work. This vacation thing. And it’s fun. And it’s every level of exhaustion in between…which is why, “how was your vacation?’ cannot be answered in a single word. Or five.

The thing was, we loved it. We loved Kauai. Loved its limitless beauty. We loved its rogue roosters and its people–both completely unruffled. And friendly. And we loved that their friendliness rubbed off on the rest of us, such that in our leaving, even, we are kinder than we came. I’m sure of it.

Here’s our son on the plane in Seattle. We haven’t moved an inch. But he’s honed in on the ‘special’ bag and has told me all he knows about it. “Food goes in there,” he says.

And I nod. Because it’s okay for him to be halfway right this time.

The welcome sign was probably over the top, as we felt welcome the moment we saw the sun.

And let’s just say it’s not so difficult to discern between those leaving the island and those just arriving from their winter cave.

Hello pasty white.

Here’s the Tunnel of Trees on the south end of the island as we headed to Poi Pu. Breathtaking the first time. And never boring after that.

We stayed here…at the Lawai Beach Resort, clear on the southern end of the island…

Which looked like this on the inside… (Never mind the three on the lanai who’ve dropped their bags and their drawers and ripped into their swimsuits in a new island record. Four seconds).

And like this on the outside. This is looking left from our lanai.

This is looking right.

And this is looking straight out.

That’s the ocean. Um. Right there. Across the street.

We ditched our shoes at the door. Just like everyone else.

And then went and checked that ocean out.

The water temperature did not matter.

To some.

It was enough to simply be here. In the sand.

This is Poi Pu Beach–just down the road. And without announcement this turtle emerged from the ocean and drug itself with the strength of an ox several yards through the sand before closing its eyes to rest. Nobody blamed him.

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And then the sun set.

Not a lot of people were itching to play mini golf first thing in the morning.

Just those who rose at 5:30 a.m. and had eaten twice before the thing opened.

And weirdly…it was fun…

By week’s end, we didn’t even notice these guys. But for the first few days they seemed out of place.

Or we did.

Because they’re everywhere–like in the Walmart parking lot–and nobody flinches.

They’re at the beach.

By the car.

And under foot.

But…chickens aside.

This is Lydgate Beach. A place we spent a bunch of time. And mostly because of those rocks in the back of the picture. They cut off the waves and formed a giant swimming pool, which made it easier for kids to fiddle in the water without getting swept away.

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While he dug…

She clomped away to see a fish.

As first timers, we emptied a tank of gas trying to absorb as much of the island as we could.

This is a beach on the eastern shore.

And it had the same effect on them.

It had to be touched. And smelled. And flopped in.

Also…each day had a farmer’s market scheduled somewhere on the island in some parking lot.

Here’s her first coconut.

And his.

And here’s the rest of the bounty.

Fresh bread. A bundle of beets. A grape fruit. Apple-bananas. Longans–the things in the white bowl. Corn on the cob. Jicama. And a mango, a papaya, two mountain apples and two star fruit all in the center bowl.

These are the longans. They grow on trees in people’s yards…not wild.

What you do is bite into it to break the skin. Pull one side of the skin off and then suck the jelly center out.

It’s got a hard seed in the middle of it that you don’t want to eat, but the fruit comes off easily with your teeth

It tastes like…like honeydew.

These are rambutans. And once you break open the Truffula tree-like outer shell, their centers look just like the inside of a longan.

Only they’re sweeter. And they taste…exotic?

We miss these already.

This is another farmer’s market a few sunburns later.

And this is the lei he could not part with.

That’s a lemon.

And this is what most of the markets look like–people selling fruit and vegetables right out of the backs of their cars.

Produce goes quickly. And no one barters the price.

The is the Secret Beach on the northern shore.

Probably one of the prettiest…

And most dangerous this time of year.

The waves didn’t just cuddle up to the rocks. No. They smacked the daylights out of them.

And so with greater care, we out ran the waves.

And we tried to get air between them

Until with great reverence for the power of the ocean, we hiked back up that ‘hill’ a half hour to the car.

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Hanalei valley.

Avocado.

Kid tryin’ to shake a coconut from a palm tree.

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Where I could spend every day.

Jennifer Starns, Chrystale Carmen Files, Holli McIntyre Peachey, Sarah Richardson, Kari Morris, John Kathy Koester liked this post

Re-Visiting Eden

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At the end of June 2012, we got pumped full of inspiration watching the film Back to Eden.

After which we trekked to Sequim, WA, to visit Paul Gautschi for ourselves and learn more about this gardening with wood chips stuff. If you’d like to catch up on that visit, you can read about it here.

This last Sunday, though, the 4th of November, we went back.

To Eden.

To see Paul Gautschi again.

And to remember why we were so inspired in the first place.

This is Paul Gautschi.

And unless you catch Paul when he’s finished a sentence, it’s likely every picture will have his mouth moving.

And his hands instructing.

There’s so much to say.

And so much to give God credit for.

These are Paul’s apple trees.

Trees which have literally inverted their branches over the years from the weight of their fruit.

Maybe it’s more noticeable here.

That’s an apple tree.

Whose branches bend to the ground.

The trickiest thing about picking an apple here is making sure four don’t fall with it.

Little boys like this accessibility.

A lot.

But why the apple trees hang laden with fruit and why Paul’s garden still produces like this in November is because of his years of gardening with wood chips.

Wood chips.

What the wood chips do is feed the soil.

When placed on top of the ground, they decompose and put minerals back into the dirt. And they do this continuously. As the chips break down, the soil is replenished. The earth–even the rockiest ground– is softened and becomes porous like a forest floor.

Placing wood chips on top of the soil goes against this ingrained idea of tilling the soil or turning it over. We’ve thought for generations that tilling the ground is the best thing for our crops. Or is the only thing.

But when we recognize that the ground is the earth’s covering, much like our own skin for our bodies, tilling or tearing the ground isn’t the way to keep it healthy. Rather exposing the ground by tilling, now makes it vulnerable. Any wayward seed can blow in and grow.

And weeds know this the best.

So as that protective covering, wood chips don’t allow weeds in. Because nothing grows in, or rather, nothing grows on top of wood chips.

When Paul plants his seeds, he scrapes the ground back with a rake until the dirt is exposed. He puts his seeds in the soil and covers them lightly with dirt. When the tiny plants have erupted through the soil, he pushes the wood chips back around his plants to protect them.

What wood chips also do is hold water. And they regulate it. The chips absorb water whether through rain fall or moisture in the air, and they retain it. So, say the lettuce plant needs water; water is available to its roots. But say, sage doesn’t. Well, then the roots of the sage need not pull water from the ground.

If you’ve ever scuffed the top layer of the forest floor away with your shoe, or brushed away the pine needles below a tree, maybe you’ve noticed–even in August– the ground is damp.

That’s what’s happening here. The wood chips, like those pine needles or fallen leaves, are protecting the ground and keeping it moist.

And whether we believe this or not, it has been true for Paul. He’s not watered his garden for 34 years.

What we’re looking at here is Paul’s fall garden.

All these rows of produce started as teensy seeds placed in the ground on August 1st.

Something remarkable in the gardening world, as most fall gardens are planted as late as June.

But even though the size of the stuff coming out of the ground is impressive…

Like these beets…

Those carrots…

And that cabbage…

What’s most impressive is the pure and distinct taste of everything.

Such sweetness.

Such incomparability to anything we’ve ever bought in a store. Or even a farmer’s market.

Anywhere else I’d pass on the raw kale leaf.

But not here.

Food tastes like it’s supposed to. Full of minerals. Full of life.

Completely satisfying. Even kale.

The sudden problem becomes ‘what to eat first.’

‘

What.

To eat first?

Will it be a piece of Swiss chard?

A stalk of celery?

A fourth apple?

Or maybe it’s chard now and celery stashed for later.

It doesn’t matter what it is.

Cabbage.

Celery.

Carrots.

Beets.

You just don’t get tired of food that feeds your body.

As well…

Our kids love it here.

There is an unspoken sense of freedom on Paul’s property.

Here, they learn from corporate conversation.

They wrestle their own food from the ground.

They follow the growl of their stomach.

And they secretly sneak in the direction of the fennel leaves.

When we leave, it is with the sense of being abundantly blessed.

Again.

Thank you, Paul.

Jennifer Starns, DrTroy Munson, Kari Morris liked this post

When Salmon Spawn

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Sometimes it’s just wiser to push the books aside.

And realize the only way to learn some stuff is with our eyes and hands.

Which is how we ended up at Voights Creek Hatchery at 8 a.m. Monday morning. The salmon were spawning.

Or rather the salmon were going to be spawned. Hatchery style.

This is our friend Mr. Lunden who lives and works at the hatchery. He did a lot of patient explaining.

Here’s an old framed poster of what we hoped to see today. Mostly the guys on the left, though. The coho.

So right now, there’s a grate in the river stopping the salmon from swimming any further upstream. And against that grate are a few dead fish that need scooping out.

They smell like you’d expect…

Not so fresh.

Then as a few folks from other hatcheries arrive, they drag a lead-line net through the water to corral the fish…

And they anchor the net to a post on each side of the river.

Then within that netted area, another smaller net is looped to each end of the dock to condense the swimming quarters even further. Lots of fish. Tiny space.

Here’s the set up before people or nets or squirmy salmon. When all is calm.

In a bit, the fish will be sorted by gender.

Gents on the left.

Ladies on the right.

And here it begins.

With the long-handled nets, the fish are swooped from the water…

Reluctantly.

Then it goes fast.

Each fish is picked up and given a pat down. If it’s a female, her underside is felt for sagginess. And if she’s saggy, that means her eggs are ready. And she’s bopped on the head and tossed into the right side.

If she’s not saggy enough, she’s thrown back over the nets to another week of freedom.

Now the guy with the bat has two jobs.

He’s the one who clonks the fish on the head. The anesthesiologist.

And he’s the counter. He keeps track of the number of male and female fish. They’re after an equal amount of each.

So here he is. Bat in his left hand.

Counter in his right.

Clonk.

Post clonk.

Now there’s another guy standing there with a syringe. From sixty females, he’s collecting a half a cc of ovarian juice–the stuff squirting into the cup–which will be sent to a lab to determine disease of any kind in the salmon population swimming up this river.

Then with these orange cutters, the females are opened and their eggs harvested…

With bare fingers…ech…

Into a bucket.

When the bucket’s half full, it’s handed to these two who shoot the sperm from the fellows on top of the eggs.

Like so.

Then, a little girl in a pink coat gets to bring the bucket of fertilized eggs over to Mr. Lunden…

Who dumps them into a five-gallon bucket…

And keeps dumping them in…until the bucket’s nearly full.

Here are the boys.

All spermed out.

And the girls.

Eggless.

From the females now, sixty are picked out from the bunch…

And a piece of their kidney and spleen is sent away for further study.

Appetizer, anyone?

This. Is caviar.

The kind of fish eggs that are stuck in a clump.

For spawning, though, these eggs are “green”; they needed another week to be ready.

Now with that bucket of fertilized eggs, five hundred eggs are gathered and weighed.

This spatula holds one hundred at a time.

One hundred.

Five hundred.

Then the eggs are poured into trays where they’ll stay for months as they slowly develop in creek water. The colder the creek water, the longer they take to develop.

Here Mr. Lunden is pouring a half cup of iodine in with each tray of eggs. This works as a disinfectant. An hour later, creek water flushes the iodine away.

We don’t stay for the fish sorting.

But that blue machine detects metal and beeps if a fish passes with a hatchery tag somewhere in it’s head.

Then it’s more paperwork to keep track of fish with tags and fish without.

Enough to make your head swim, I suppose.

As we left, I was wholly certain I could be happy never harvesting fish eggs.

My daughter walked out wanting to work there.

And my son …

my son just asked for a tuna fish sandwich when we got home.

Back in the Saddle

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I’ll admit, it doesn’t look like much. From this angle.

Crusty hills with a few power lines.

But this is Saddle Rock…one of the jewels of Wenatchee.

And since last summer when we stood in this same spot, things have changed.

Like this sign. And the two beside it.

Which say that Saddle Rock, an area once belonging to the state (Department of Natural Resources) now belongs to the city of Wenatchee, an effort that started in 1909 and got put on the back burner until 2010.

What’s a 101 years?

Now why does it matter who owns the land?

Well…it’s all about the future. The state may change its agenda one day. But the City of Wenatchee wants this place to be enjoyed as a park forever. By anyone.

Which may mean some significant changes. More than signage.

But for last Sunday, Saddle Rock was still the rugged place it’s always been.

Still steep from the very first step.

Which means that if you’re wearing a long sleeve, you tear that thing off and tie it around your waist before you go any further.

It also means you tackle the really steep stuff however you can.

Hunched over or with small steps creeping backwards…

Or…head down, holding hands…

Or…by counting grasshoppers.

Whatever works.

And it means that when you finally look up again, half the saddle isn’t that far away.

Sometimes you land on a rare branch of shade.

But mostly it’s wide open dirt trails with dead grass for traction.

Here’s where we’ve been.

And there’s where we want to be.

On top.

Smiling down.

Or sideways.

On top.

With the city spread out like a map.

Or the rock against our backs.

On top.

With nervous feet in the cracks…

Until it is enough to stare from there…

To here.

Simply enough.

Kari Morris liked this post

Silver Falls 2012

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Probably more accurate than the yellow pencil-marked wall in our kitchen is the Silver Falls sign thirty miles up the Entiat River Road we stand in front of each summer and mark for growth.

Subconsciously, of course.

Here’s for this year.

And here’s from last.

Where they look so…

tiny.

What we like about this place is that it’s pretty.

Twenty yards in, there’s the falls.

And on multiple switchbacks, there’s also the falls.

But what makes this place a favorite is that even though the hike climbs quickly, it isn’t long.

The trail here is dry. Crumbly dry.

And thanks to this guy bursting ahead every few trees, it’s filled with dirt clouds.

It’s also wide enough for two.

Which is fitting.

Because for now…

she still wants to hold his hand…

And squeeze close for pictures.

He wants to poke at stuff with sticks…

bust twigs…

and boast the biggest stash of pine needles.

We just want to take in the falls…

for a minute or two.

To breathe in. And out.

And do it again.

Before the legs of this one lead us home.

John Kathy Koester, DrTroy Munson liked this post

Pinnacle Peak Trail…with children

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Two weeks ago we’d put one foot in front of the other up Pinnacle Peak Trail and then had gaped at Mount Rainier from Plummer’s Peak.

It’d been spectacular. The sunshine. The side ache. The mountain against the blue of the sky.

All of it.

Which was when my husband started planning a trip back. Only with our kids.

Last Friday was that day.

And so at 53 degrees with a sky full of sunshine, we did the same thing..

followed the trail to the top….one foot at a time.

Sometimes it made sense to flop in the leaves for a breath.

And sometimes a gallop through the rocks seemed best.

But mostly it was a mix of fondling furry flowers…

And glancing up from our feet at this.

A few more rocky hair pins brought us to the saddle…

And the end of the maintained trail…

Where it was all the glory of Mount Rainier one way.

And the shadow of Mt. Adams the other.

Below the saddle we could see the snow piles.

Which wasn’t enough.

We had to touch them. And shriek through them. And act like we’d never seen snow.

Until there wasn’t a dry glove or shoe between these two.

When we re-reached the saddle, we pointed ourselves toward Pinnacle Peak, the scratchy crags there, and started walking.

Behind us the squashed dome of Mount St. Helen’s made a bump in the horizon.

And ahead of us…rocks.

Everywhere.

Rocks for resting.

Rocks as back drops.

Rocks for blazing a trail.

Rocks and flowers.

Flowers and rocks.

Because the path wasn’t always clear, we sometimes waited on a rock.

Or in a pile of rocks…

Until we heard my husband shout, “I found it. Come on this way!”

And we did.

We coaxed our legs to the top…

Where the rocks were pointy and sharp.

And the footing somewhat unsure.

But our reward was this:

A lake of ice trickling down the other side.

And a glimpse of Reflection Lake.

We didn’t linger here–it wasn’t that kind of place.

Instead, on the level, we took inventory of tiny toes…

and pressed on past flowers…

until we could skip our way down…

together…

or alone.

DrTroy Munson, Jennifer Singh liked this post

Bench Lake

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That it was 92 degrees at Mount Rainier last Friday wasn’t the problem.

It was the two wilting kids in the back of the van who’d already hiked that morning and who might have given anything to suck on ice cubes for the next half hour.

Which was when we set our sights sort of low and aimed for Bench Lake three-quarters of a mile away.

It might have been the water bottle dumped down their backs, but the moment we put our feet to the trail, these two trotted off with their second wind…

through meadows…

and past ponds…

until we could see it…

Bench Lake.

Which ended up being the kind of place you can look down to the bottom and count your toes.

And which, instead of turning our bodies to popsicles and our breathing to painful gasps…felt like bath water just before you let the drain out.

Um.

Seriously.

Swimsuits…heh.

Not so much.

Which didn’t matter to these two.

And eventually didn’t matter to my daughter and me, as we scrapped the mid-thigh wade and flopped ourselves into the water, too.

With…

No regrets.

By the time our son finished his little mosaic

It was time to claw our soggy selves back up the hill…

And do a little loitering on the trail for home.

Shelly Verbeck Alexander liked this post

Grove of the Patriarchs

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There is something about gaping at a tree that’s been living for a millenium. That hasn’t quit breathing.

Or reaching.

Or adding to its girth.

Something majestic.

Something that makes us want to wrap our arms around any size tree to put into perspective how puny we really are.

We’re at The Grove of the Patriarchs in Mount Rainier National Park. A place right off the Stevens Canyon entrance in the south-east corner of the park.

A place that offers a glimpse of extraordinary beauty and endurance. In trees.

A place that stretches our mouths to say, “WOW” over and over again.

It doesn’t take much to impress one of us.

Or for that same someone to feel ho-hum crouching inside the base of a tree.

And maybe that’s because the big stuff really begins…

At the suspension bridge

Where it’s like leaving one world for another.

The moment we hop down from here…

We’re here.

In the land of the giants.

The patriarchs.

A place where it just makes sense to spread our arms out.

Though I don’t know why.

A place where we realize that the only thing tiny about these two…

Is us in the same picture.

So…do trees emanate love?

It sure feels that way.

They certainly stir a sense of joy.

Just being in their presence.

They make a group hug seem appropriate.

But eventually it’s time to say ‘So long, farewell…’

and push our feet back down the trail…

past these trees…

and this one.

It’s time to wrap our arms around each other.

And to let those who come after us embrace the trees in our stead.

DrTroy Munson liked this post

Pinnacle Peak Trail

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“I’ll tell you what…

When the sun beats down on Mount Rainier like it did yesterday, there ain’t a prettier place to be.

This. Is Paradise.

And minus the mosquito bites down my left arm, it feels that way too.

It’s just the two of us this time. Buzzing around in the van.

Burping peanut butter and jam sandwiches in the parking lot and strapping the back packs on for a little anniversary hike. Because…

Because TWELVE years deserves somethin’ special.

We’re headed up Pinnacle Peak Trail.

Which by mileage alone doesn’t impress.

However, my quivering legs have their own story.

The climb is steep.

But it’s worth every pant and huff it takes to get to the top.

Around a couple of corners, there’s water to cross.

And at our ankles, wildflowers sprinting to bloom.

And well, there’s this.

Which is beauty enough…but because the trail keeps going…

So do we.

About this time two gentlemen passed us. Both deep in hearing aids.

I was sucking a lung, so mostly nodded at their enthusiasm.

This was their favorite hike they said. They were beaming from the experience. “Be sure you head up Plummer’s Peak,” one said. We nodded some more. We weren’t sure what lay ahead. But we’d consider their advice. Then the same gentleman shouted, “if we can do it, you can do it.”

As we parted, the third guy in the group–maybe a grandson our age–whispered behind his hand. “He’s eighty-nine…and the other guy…eighty-six.”

Which was the kind of encouragement I needed.

If a couple of octogenarians can scramble up this thing, then so can I.

“He was 89,” I told myself.

EIGHTY-nine.

And then it came.

The end of the trail.

Which beheld this.

Mt. Adams one way.

And Mt. Rainier the other.

It’s the kind of sandwich I want to be in.

But now for Plummer’s Peak.

Which means leaving the sign at the saddle here and following the tracks of others who have grabbed at rocks, ducked under trees, and stamped across snow to gape at Rainier from 6,370′.