When I was young, probably about six years old, my mother and I walked along a road whose banks were covered with moss and ferns. I was searching for fairies and was quite excited when I thought I saw one—certainly something with large diaphanous wings. In hindsight I think it was probably some kind of crane-fly.

What do you know about crane- flies? Many people associate them with fat grubs that turn their lawns brown. I knew nothing about this aspect of these long-legged insects until I moved into the suburbs where a type of crane-fly lays eggs in the lawns and the larvae kill the grass. Many homeowners poison them and the grubs come to the surface. Yuck. These are the invasive European species. The native crane-flies do very little damage, also feeding on decomposing vegetation in the ground, but not focusing on well-tended lawns.

Among the letters of my mother’s that I have been reading and sorting are several from Dr. Charles Alexander and his wife Mabel. They came into our lives at Castle Crags State Park located in Shasta County in Northern California. Over the ten years that we lived at this park our parents came to know many of the regulars, the people who came back each year to spend their vacation fishing or hiking in the park, or using it as a base camp for exploring other nearby areas. And the Alexanders (no relation) were regulars. Charles was an entomologist at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst whose specialty was crane-flies. Every summer they traveled the United States searching for these insects. As I discovered from the attached website, Mabel did all the driving on his field trips and also assisted him with his collections. http://www.jstor.org/stable/25009159?seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents
He published his first natural history paper in the American Ornithology at the age of 13: “A Young Woodcock.”

Our mother took the Alexanders to some of her favorite spots in the park to help with their search. During the time we lived at the park she had made a comprehensive list of the plants growing there and the couple appreciated her botanical knowledge as well as her familiarity with some of the park’s special places. It was at Castle Crags that Dr. Alexander discovered a new crane-fly, perhaps in one of the pitcher plant bogs. In one of their letters to my parents, this one dated September, 1959 (after my dad had been transferred to Jedediah Smith State Park) he writes:

“Among our piled up mail on our return was the lot of reprints from the July issue of ‘Pan-Pacific Entomologist’ wherein the new crane-fly Tipula Twightae was described. I am enclosing five copies of this, one for you and Ben and the others for the youngsters who will appreciate the honor of having a new species named for their mother. It gave me the very greatest pleasure to so dedicate a very wonderful crane-fly to you as an expression of my gratitude for much help in the past and a further expression of your abilities as a botanist. In case you want some few further copies of this, they will be available.” They found that crane-fly in 1953.

In a previous letter he said they were contemplating retirement – that he would be 70 in September, 1959 and that they had built a research laboratory, attached to their house, “which with its one thousand feet of shelving should provide housing for my great collection of the crane-flies of the world. There are thousands of boxes of all sorts, all devoted to this single family of insects. This collection includes more than 10,000 species, which makes it so large and requiring so much space. We will be very glad when I am able to retire and can travel to various parts of our country at times earlier than June 1 or later than September 1, as has been our limitation during the many years of teaching.”

From a letter written in 1957 after learning we were moving: “Somehow Castle Crags means the Twights to us, and must to many others. Please let us know when and where, as we do not want to lose touch with you.”

What to do? I didn’t want to just toss these letters so I looked up the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and found the W.E.B. Du Bois Library, the main library on campus, has a depository for important documents and archives. I sent them a note and got a quick response back, arriving today.

How interesting the way that your parents intersect with Charles Alexander! We’d love to be able to add more personal letters to the Alexander collection we currently have. We’d also love to preserve the original letter naming the crane fly after your mom and we have very high-end scanners here and could send you a quality digital version for you to print or send to other relatives. Let me know if you have any other questions about the process of donating them.

It’s just amazing where interest and technology can lead!

Who knows why we save something for years? I wonder whether my children will also hold something up, bemused, and wonder what on earth made Mom save this?

In the wooden box I’ve been going through of letters that my mother saved, many written to her good friend Gert and then returned to her, I came across two programs to a theater in Southern California called the Padua Hills Theatre. The dates on the programs are April 1 to May 16, 1936 and July 15 to August 29, 1936. The first play is called Ysidro and the second Que Bonito Mexico! Admission was 75 cents.

I looked up Padua Hills Theatre and discovered 2,000 acres of land were purchased with the idea of starting the theater, and as people came and enjoyed, they might also want to purchase land to build home. It was originally built for the Claremont Players and later a Pasadena Playhouse company but they left during the depression. Following the depression, the Mexican Players took over. All of the plays were in Spanish and included music and dancing. The audience was expected to be mostly English speaking but it was thought they could understand what was happening on stage, in spite of that. A restaurant was also built there. Indeed, homes had been built and the area was thriving as an a rat colony. In 1974 the theater was closed and the site began to be used for weddings and other events. In 2003 the theater nearly burned in a raging forest fire. http://www.beardshampoo.com/loscalifornios/zPadua/Vera.html

After some more searching I found a site for a non-profit trying to preserve the history. (http://www.beardshampoo.com/Loscalifornios/zPadua/carommance.html (It’s a project of Los californios, a non-profit belonging to San Diego Friends of Old-Time Music, Inc.) They are trying to identify the different actors in the plays and have many photos of the players as well as of the programs. I saw one program for 1932 but none for 1936 so have sent an email asking whether or not they’d like my copies.

Still wondering why my mother kept these. She was the mother of two by 1936, so it wasn’t romance. Perhaps she went to a play there with my dad—which could have been romance? Or, more likely, with a woman friend? There is no one left to ask.

Conclusion: 

Sunday evening: I just got a response back from the San Diego Friends of Old-Time Music.

“Thanks for your gracious offer.

We would love to have the programs, and to add them to the Padua Hills Theatre site.

Please mail them to us at:

San Diego Friends of Old Time Music

If you would like to dedicate the contribution to your mother, we would be happy to do that as well.

Thank you so much!!”

July 20, 1979

Well, I made it up Mt. Shasta and back. We left a week ago Thursday, seven of us gathering ourselves and gear together down by the Congregational Church. There was Linda, the editor of the paper and her son David, about 15 or 16; another boy about the same age, named Paul, who came over from Hyampom; Kent, who works for the Forest Service; Gary, the Congregational minister; Ken, the Recreational Director (who, because of having polio as a child, has the use of only one arm), and myself. We took our VW bus….which made things very slow going uphill.

Ate lunch at the Crags. As driver, I called for a very necessary rest stop, and since it was lunch time that seemed a good place. Turns out that Ken went to Chico State with the Ammirati’s youngest son. (My brothers and I went to elementary and high school with the Ammirati children whose parents owned a grocery store in Castella)
When we got to Mt. Shasta we registered at the Sheriff’s office and then rented crampons and ice axes. Drove on up to Bunny Flat and hiked. Stopped at the Sierra Club Hut for cold water and to fill our water bottles since we would have to carry all our water. Too many people use the mountain I guess to chance getting drinking water from melting snow. The Sierra Club Hut was a little different than I had expected. Made of rock of course, handmade chairs inside by the fireplace, bunks at one end. Water gushes out of a big pipe outside into a galvanized tub. Someone in years past built a causeway, a rock path out of big rocks, leading from the hut up the trail. Very hard to walk on because of the varying widths and coming down almost impossible with sore toes and knees. Most people seem to walk alongside it. We left the hut about 4:00 and hiked on up to Lake Helen, getting there about 7:30 p.m. Steep going up and some loose rock and soft shale to work our way over. There was no lake there but just the bottom of the snow field. People have built rock forts two to four feet high there and we realized immediately why. The wind was just howling down off the snow bank…probably 70 miles an hour. We put on all the extra clothes we had and huddled down in the biggest fort. Gary had brought two stoves and soon had hot water going. We had soup and lasagna–gulping it down even though it was still pretty crunchy. Then tea laced with bourbon.

I let myself get too cold there. I think everyone else had down jackets. I had a lot of layers on but still got cold. Once in my sleeping bag though I began to warm up. The glacial dust was blowing all over and, while we were eating, our cups and food would get coated and eyes full. The wind died down about 11 and then the moon came up. I don’t think I slept all night but at least rested. Was warm but I seldom sleep the first night out.

After breakfast we put some food in our daypacks and were ready to go. Lake Helen was at 10,000 feet and four miles from the road (7,000 feet). I had sat up that night and peered over the wall down at the lights of the towns in the valleys, clear to Redding, and up to the Red Banks above us…lovely. A little mouse scurried about among the rocks of our fort in the moonlight.

Linda

We strapped our crampons on and started off. Unfortunately I had trouble with mine almost immediately. They kept coming off, not exactly a secure feeling. They hadn’t fitted them correctly at the rental place. I got one to stay on but Gary and Ken had to re-rig the straps on the other to compensate for the fact that it was too long and too wide. The ice axes have a spike at the end of the handle and using this plus the crampons worked fine on the hard-packed snow. The snow was pocked with sun-melt holes so that one tended to either walk on the edges between the holes or step into the holes. I couldn’t believe that I was really going up that slope (about 35 degrees) feeling the way I do about heights. The slope was in the shade most of the way up. The snow was covered with glacial type dust on the surface but not as much in the holes. Oh, and when the sun was coming up we had been able to see the shadow of the mountain out in front of us, which was interesting. (It extended clear over to the Trinity Alps.) As we went up, of course, we could look down on a lot. Our view out from Lake Helen had been down upon the Crags and the Trinity Alps. Eventually even Mt. Lassen was below our elevation. One of the striking things about Mt. Shasta I think is the variety of color. The Red Banks are very red—a red-orange actually and other parts of the mountain are almost maroon.

The climbing was a matter of putting one foot in front of the other, often three steps and rest, etc. Alongside the way we were going was a groove in the snow, like a bobsled run. Gary told us we would be sliding down that on our return. “No way”, I said, anticipating hurling down the ice and off into space or rocks or Lemurians or something. We got past the Red Banks and started up Misery Hill, which had no snow on it but was just loose volcanic material. Finally the top…well, almost the top, a big snowfield which Linda and I decided was top enough.We could look down on Shastina and the only part left was a snow slope topped by some craggy rocks. She and I staggered over to the base of the rocks and lay down.

The others started up the rocks a little way and then Gary convinced them to continue. Seeking Ken going up made me figure I had to also. And Linda joined me. My crampon had fallen off for the second time so I went with just one on, mostly over rocks but some ice. So we got up to where the little book is to sign. A man came up then and he took pictures of us with each of our cameras, group shots.

 Paul left then to go back to camp because he wasn’t feeling at all well from the altitude. I had been going a few steps and getting a headache and having to stop for a minute about the last half mile but was otherwise OK. We went down to the bottom of the snowfield and ate a little lunch. Not much hunger on a trip like this. We had lemon drops, water, tang, etc. Gary had brought apricot leather, which tasted delicious, and we had devoured a loaf of fruit bread the day before but it was energy we needed, not bulky food.

Then began the fun part. Glissading. Kent and I were hesitant but it turned out that the snow had softened a great deal and you could slide at whatever speed you desired and could slow yourself by using the ice ax. It was such fun! We slid about 2500 feet from the top of the Red Banks almost to camp. Part of the joy was thinking about the hours it had taken us to climb up that stretch. We slid down in about 20 minutes, or less.

At camp we packed up and started down the hill. Rested at the Sierra Club Hut and then headed for the car. We ate dinner at the Piemont in Mt. Shasta,,,spicy Italian food really tasted good,.,and (we) kept the waitress busy filling our water glasses. Got back to Weaverville at midnight with the gas gauge resting on empty. Probably the most dangerous part of the whole trip was my driving home! Linda had ridden in front with me going up but she had two glasses of wine with dinner so decided to ride in back. I had had one. Kent had none but had about six cups of coffee so he rode in front and talked to keep me awake.

For two days I could hardly walk. Not so much from going uphill (sore calves) but from going down (sore thighs). Was going down steps sideways. Had a very sunburned and swollen nose and mouth. Also a great feeling of accomplishment. I guess people climb it all the time but for me it was something I never thought I’d do.

This business of writing and of saving letters written seems to be in the DNA of the female members of my family. My mother died in 1998 and I still have not sorted all of her belongings. It’s not that they are so numerous but they are complicated—bits of lace, a baby’s embroidered bonnet, high-topped white shoes with laces, a couple of beautiful parasols, embroidered items and letters.

A few years ago I started reading letters she had written, that her mother had saved. Toward the end of the Depression my parents lived next door to her parents in Riverside, California where my two older brothers were born. Then they moved further north to Healdsburg and lived in the same house with her in-laws before finally being able to rent a house of their own. She began to write letters to her parents—almost daily. Both she and my father were very close to her parents and missed them greatly, as did the two little boys.

Such a treasure, such a chronicle of the life of a young mother and wife during years when they had so little money and so many hopes. Included in these letters are a few that my father wrote to his in-laws thanking them for money they had sent to help the family and promising to repay them just as soon as his job became permanent. At the time he often worked 14-hour days on a project begun by his father but often there was little or no pay. I started to type them as her handwriting is difficult to read but soon realized it would take the rest of my life so scanned them and have sent the scans to a niece, a nephew and some to one of my children. I’ve not been able to make the documents small enough to send altogether. Eventually I’ll figure something out but in the meantime I felt good that I had at least copied them to my computer. I was finished.

Well, I was finished until last week when, sorting some more of her things, I found a wooden box filled with more letters. This discovery pretty much ended my need to sort and make space for a while. I couldn’t resist. These are letters she wrote to a close friend and I’m guessing she may have told her friend things that she didn’t tell her parents. But also included with her own letters (that her friend had saved and given back to her) are letters from my siblings and me and even some from grandchildren. I decided to read the non-friend letters first and it is such a treat!

There are letters from one of my brothers when he was at college, trying to decide on a career; letters from another brother about people he met at college who were in the environmental field and postcards from him when he went to Europe years later on sabbatical; there are a couple of poems my daughter wrote for her grandmother when she was eight or ten years old; and a list of how many words each of the four of us spoke at age two (I was far more verbal than my brothers apparently) and, for two of us, a list of the words; letters from my father’s mother to the family; and there are letters I wrote to her many years ago. I’m sending these letters on to their authors after I read them.

I rarely write letters anymore except on the computer and I doubt that any of the recipients save them. I do keep a sporadic journal, and have for years, but nothing that matches my mother’s vivid descriptions and thoughts. Mine are more of a way of keeping track of my life—one does lose track now and then! When I fill a journal, I put it in an antique trunk that I painted red (with paint that used to be used in the 70s to make wood look old). Her letters are family history in a box. In this age of texting, Facebook, Tweeting and I-phones these kinds of stories will be lost. That personal connection that runs from heart to brain to hand to paper has evaporated. Some day my children will have to decide whether or not to discard these yellowed envelopes with their three-cent stamps. I’m not sure I can do it.

Yesterday I went over to the Mt. Pisgah Arboretum (a part of Mt. Pisgah Regional County Park) Pisgah Regional County Park) to patrol parking lots for two hours. It was nice day, somewhat overcast, after all our days of rain. Since Monday was a holiday I was sure there would be many people and many cars. My guess is that every-other-person also had a dog. So I sat on a bench for a while, wearing my volunteer’s cap and vest, answered a few questions, said good morning, walked around. The fee at this parking lot is $4 and can be paid for at the yellow box with a credit card or cash. Yesterday it wasn’t accepting cash and I had one complaint about that. No one in the office because it was a holiday. Some were creative—one woman said that someone with a credit card paid for hers and she gave him the cash. People of all ages were out to enjoy the day, from toddlers to seniors. I keep my cell phone turned on in case of emergencies (not known for having it on otherwise). And I always take my binoculars and small camera.

After an hour I drove to the north parking lot. Much quieter there—only eight to ten cars. This lot was very muddy, full of potholes filled with water. I ate half an apple and then walked around—up the road past a yellow gate, then back to the parking area and up the path to the kiosk. Using a plastic sack I picked up some socks lying in the mud, an old cd, and an empty cigarette package to take back to the garbage can at the office. Some come  here to spin out the dirt (deep mud right now) part of the parking lot and it was a mess. I’ve never seen them in action but another park watcher did last year and reported the license number. Often people park here to take a trail down to the river to fish or,  in the  summer, do some wading.

This second hour completed, I started back to the main parking lot, but stopped next to a car that was nose first into the ditch. As I turned on my blinkers and looked for the driver, another car pulled up alongside and the driver put his window down. We chatted about

what to do—with no one on duty that day—he knew a park person he could call at home; I’d try to contact the Arboretum supervisor. A woman suddenly appeared between our two cars and said it was her car, she’d called AAA, and help was on the way. She’d been trying to turn around on the muddy area and had gone over the edge with one tire.

Back at the main lot I put vest and clipboard back in the lock box, traded my official cap for one of mown, put on my boots and went for a short hike in the arboretum. The trail skirts the edge of the river and the air was filled with the sweet scent of Indian plum (oso berry). The white blossoms hang like lanterns
from the tips of slender branches of this early flowerer. I took the Garden Trail that winds past small ponds surrounded by spirea, creek dogwood, alder and ash. A new blind structure has recently been completed on a side trail and the viewing platform is covered with willow weaving. Along the walls are small box structures with sliding doors. On the front is a description. Slide one door and get the photo of the bird or amphibian that goes with it. Slide another door and look through to the pond and shrubs. A tunnel of bent willow branches extends from the blind about 15 feet up the trail as an entry.

Returning to the main trail I crossed the bridge over the pond (too early in the year for western pond turtles) and then hiked up the hill for about another half mile going from mixed forest to an open meadow and oak area. I stopped to sit a few minutes on a favorite bench—a favorite because of the quote on its memorial plaque as well as its pleasant view. The woman to whom the bench is dedicated died at age 54. The quote chosen for her is one of Mary Oliver’s: “Pay Attention. Be Astonished.”

Cold and clear this morning. Very cold! And a slight breeze which made it colder still. But I needed to get out and away from the sound of football games. I’ll watch an occasional game but with all the “Bowls” this year it seems to never end. The sound blurs into wave after wave of crowds and announcers, a bit like having a
blender on most of the day and into the evening. I’d much rather listen to Steller’s Jays.

So I put on my warmest jacket, zipped it up so the collar hit my chin, took my binoculars and little camera and headed the short distance through the subdivision and up to the field. Frost was heavy last night and at around 10 a.m. was just beginning to melt. The unofficial path (many walk their dogs up here) was still firm but I knew coming back I’d need to walk on the grass to keep from collecting mud on my boots.

The silence was a blanket of comfort with the sound of a train whistle in the distance forming stitches along the edges. I was surprised there was no ice on the sluggish stream that flows at this time of year but with all the rain there must be enough current to keep it from freezing. Patches of bare earth were covered with uplifted ice crystals and, in the shade where sunlight had yet to strike this morning, oak leaves wore decorative covers of frost—sugar on cornflakes.

At the top of the 2nd field, just before reaching a filbert orchard, are several large Douglas firs and a smaller oak. A shallow ponded area, dry in the summer, lies along the eastern edge of the orchard and has an assortment of ash, oak and fir trees along its banks. Blackberry vines grow in their shade and, sometimes in the spring, I can find trilliums here. On this last day of the year though, I was focusing on frost and frost patterns, not thinking of spring.

Robins were hopping through the leaves under the filberts, occasionally flying up into the branches when I approached. Filbert catkins draped the trees that had more exposure to the sun, pale green waterfalls in the morning light. The ice on this shallow pond had strange geometric shapes on the surface. A second orchard lies just beyond and I skirted around it to try to see whether there were ducks in the next pond, which is there year ‘round. This pond has houses along its far side and I envy the residents their back deck views of the pond and its inhabitants. This morning I was fortunate to get a glimpse of a few Wood Ducks, my favorite. Mallards are common and noisy here but it’s hard to beat seeing the brightly colored male Wood Duck. They are much shyer than the Mallards
and tend to swim along the edge of the ponds where shrubs bending over the water give more protection.

As the sun began to filter into this area more birds appeared including a pair of Steller’s jays that ignored me rather than scolding as they usually do. Black-cap Chickadees flitted from tree to tree and I saw one Varied Thrush as it silently flew from ground to tree in a more dense patch of vegetation. Juncos seemed as common there as they are at our backyard feeder. Suddenly I realized that something was sniffing at my pant leg—a black lab with tail wagging, which was soon joined by another. I glanced up and saw someone hiking along, a fellow wearing a hooded jacket and using a walking stick. He waved, calling the dogs, and continued on his way. The only reason I could stand still to look at birds was because of my down jacket, knit hat and long underwear. My hands were freezing but I didn’t want to put gloves on and try to use binoculars or camera. That would have to wait until I headed for home, which I soon did.

 Oregon’s largest state park, bordered on the west by the Pacific Ocean and on the north and east by the Columbia River, contains 4,300 acres of forests (red alder, Sitka spruce, western hemlock and shore pine) and beaches. It has nine miles of paved bike trails and six miles of hiking trails.

Last weekend we were there for a gathering of people who own Casita trailers (made in Texas) and Escape trailers (made in Canada) with a scattering of other types of small travel trailers. This was our first participation in this group, which meets twice a year. My husband, who has never met a trailer he can’t improve upon, was thrilled.

We were in Campsite O46 of this very large campground. Sites in loop O and loop N had been reserved for our group, which turned out to have 21 Casitas and 19 Escapes. We got there Thursday night. Our site was among shore pines that had been planted by the CCCs in the 1930s and was quite pleasant. Behind our site was an area that, during wet weather, is probably a wetland and was filled with red alders, an occasional spruce, and undergrowth predominantly of salal, sword ferns and huckleberries. I munched on a few huckleberries, a very small but tasty fruit, and was reminded of those we picked when we lived on the Mendocino coast when I was a child. Our mother made the most delicious huckleberry pies! The sites were far enough apart to give a relative feeling of privacy but close enough to go chat if desired. A pathway behind the shrubs led to the restrooms if one wanted to avoid walking on the road.

Friday morning we hiked the two miles around Coffenbury Lake, a long, shallow body of water. The lake was named after former land-owners here who donated property to the state parks. We could tell that the lake level was lower than earlier in the year because of the water lilies lying flat along the shore. Foliage was dense but there were many opportunities to see the lake as we walked along. Some of the bracken was nearly eight feet tall. Near the trailhead two men sat on folding chairs, fishing poles in hand, on the small dock.

Along one stretch of trail we came across numerous wooly bear caterpillars and some had been stepped on just due to the fact that there were so many. We found elk tracks in the muddy areas and I saw raccoon tracks at the edge of the lake by the dock. There weren’t a lot of birds but there were mallard ducks and we saw a small flock of juncos splashing in the shallows and a kingfisher perched on the upright limb of a fallen log. A Douglas squirrel scolded us from the branches of a spruce.

Saturday night a hotdog roast was scheduled at the leader’s campsite so we drove into town and purchased hotdogs, buns and more beer since a beer exchange was planned. It’s been years since I’ve roasted a hotdog at an open fire and people were generous about loaning their metal skewers to those lacking one.

This was the first time I’ve been in a campsite with a brazen raven. We had to really guard the food on our table. One day my husband ate half of his sandwich and then went to discuss our trailer with another trailer owner. Both were inside. I left the table momentarily to rinse something at the faucet and as I turned back saw the raven fly off with half of his half-sandwich! They are such smart birds.

Sunday we drove to the historic military sites that are a large part of the park and spent a couple of hours wandering about looking at relics and reproductions of weapons that date back to the Civil War when President Lincoln was worried about attacks coming from Confederates going up the Columbia River. I had no idea!

Fort Stevens was named for Territorial Governor General Isaac Ingalls Stevens, who was killed at Chantilly, Virginia, in 1862 and was constructed during the Civil War, remaining active until shortly after World War II. A thriving Clatsop Indian village (Neahkeluk) once stood here along the banks of the Columbia River and was used seasonally for fishing and trading.

From the top of the concrete gun batteries the view is toward the Columbia River and Trestle Bridge, across a large wetland. The trestle is left from when a train was used to haul materials to build the South Jetty. We found a sign stating that hunting waterfowl is allowed in the park in a designated area but hunters must shoot toward the water, not toward the land. A ranger was tromping through the wetlands in his rubber boots putting up signs, probably to mark the boundary of the hunting area.

One unexpected discovery for us at this site was the heavy elk usage. It smelled like cattle there and droppings were frequent. We found hoof prints on the top and the ranger told Tom that there were several herds. During the days of the military usage there were probably no trees around the fort but today forests have grown up and there is a mixture of shelter and open meadows, as well as a freshwater creek, that elk would find appealing.

Sunday afternoon included a quick trip to the beach. Sunday night was potluck night. We took some leftovers and a nice loaf of bread but the tables were so heavily loaded our contribution probably wasn’t needed. We did get raves for the bread though. At this gathering the group voted on the site for next year’s rendezvous, Cape Lookout State Park

Like to ride a bicycle? LIke to ride with no vehicle traffic and a fantastic view? Saturday September 19th many bicyclists were doing just that on the Rim Drive at Crater Lake National Park. And my husband and I were there to help Friends of Crater Lake at one of the aid stations, rising at 6 a.m. and driving from Mazama Campground to Park Headquarters to check in before taking the winding road to the Rim.

The skies were clear and the temperature in the 30s when we donned our green and orange vests and joined other volunteers to help make the day enjoyable for over 500 participants. We were at Station 1 where the highway divides with the Rim Drive toward Cleetwood Cove (where a one-mile trail goes down to the lake) to the left and the road to Rim Village and Park Headquarters to the right. We were sheltered by a couple of open tent structures. Our table contained two large containers of water so people could refill their water bottles, Clif bars, Clif jells, a few apples and bananas. To our left a couple of representatives from Discover Klamath took care of registrations and handing out brochures that described the ride, distances between stations, etc. Two other people from Friends of Crater Lake were also assigned to this post. The next stop was 4.5 miles ahead at Cleetwood Cove. Five stations offered snacks, water, and limited tools for bike repair as well as friendly faces and information. This was a cooperative event with participation by Friends of Crater Lake, Crater Lake National Park staff and Discover Klamath.

We were very busy, especially the first three hours and then in spurts the rest of the day. The road was open from the South Entrance to the North Entrance but the Rim Drive was closed to cars. There were people of all ages, from youngsters on small bikes to many who appeared to be 50 and up. Bicycle types included very expensive, light-weight ones to average; tandem bikes to bikes that can come apart and be carried in a suitcase. One woman had a small dog in her bike basket. One man pulled a trailer containing his larger dog. People were asked to not bring pets but in these cases there were no problems. One woman had a toddler, about two years old, riding on a seat behind her. I don’t know when I’ve seen so many smiling faces. This wasn’t a race, although a few treated it as such, but a family-oriented experience. There was no registration fee.

Some went the full 33-mile circumference, which included riding about 10 miles with traffic on the road from Park Headquarters to our site, mostly uphill; some went part way and then turned around. Others picked up a ride at Park Headquarters on one of the green trolleys that went back and forth from there to our station, thus eliminating a long, winding hill and competing with motor vehicles. A vehicle pulling a trailer loaded with bicycles was usually right behind the trolley.

We met people from Eugene (one volunteer couple live not that far from us) and people from Salem, Portland, Davis (Calif.), Florida, Seattle, Colorado, Wisconsin, New Mexico, UK/Australia, Bend, KLamath Falls, Portola Valley  (Calif.), Redding and Alberta. One man and his nephew have been biking all over the state, camping wherever night catches them and eating only jerky, nuts, and trail mix, occasionally stopping for a real meal. Never build a fire. He’s an x-Marine. I talked to two seasonal rangers who reminded me of the group I worked with in 1961 and 1962. Were we really that young? I guess so. One is going into the Peace Corps.

The day couldn’t have been prettier. We were even able to watch a sturdy hawk flying over several times—goshawk maybe? I took some breaks to go up the slope behind us to take pictures of the lake; toward late afternoon it was particularly lovely. We were right next to Llao Rock and could see Wizard Island and, when the light was right, the Phantom Ship. We could even get a glimpse of Mt. Shasta way off to the south.

The trees here are mostly lodgepole pine with a scattering of whitebark pine. Some of the whitebark pines are dying from beetle infestations and whitepine blister rust, and they may someday be gone entirely, not a good thing for bears and Clark’s nutcrackers (which rely on their seeds as a food source).

On September 26th the Rim Drive will again be closed for a repeat of this event although we won’t be there. https://www.nps.gov/crla/planyourvisit/vehicle-free-days-on-east-rim-drive.htm

We had a great time, met a lot of nice people, and love Crater Lake. I want to go back and hike some of the trails that weren’t there when I worked at the park so many years ago.

How things change in 54 years! Friday, Tom and I took our little Casita trailer and traveled to Crater Lake via Highway 58 and 138. I had talked him into our participating as a member of Friends of Crater Lake in helping staff an aid station along the Rim Drive for a bicycling event on Saturday. We were going to stay at Mazama Campground on the south side but drove in through the north entrance.

Crater Lake National Park encompasses what used to be Mt. Mazama, a mountain believed to be at least 12,000 feet in elevation. A tremendous eruption, 7,700 years ago, resulted in the mountain collapsing, leaving the current caldera, which includes a little cone rising above the water, Wizard Island. The lake is 1,943 feet deep and is 4.5 to 6 miles across, the deepest lake in the United States. The annual snowfall is 43 feet although this year it was much less. In August there was a fire at the north entrance and for a time it was closed. We could smell smoke and see the burned trees, mostly lodgepole pine, although the fire was no longer burning.

I’ve been back to the park several times but it’s amazing how my mind zooms across over 54 years to what it was like to start working as a seasonal-ranger naturalist, the first time beginning in April of 1961 and ending in October. I was the only female uniformed staff person both that summer and in 1962. My uniform was similar to an airline stewardess—brown skirt, white blouse, jacket, perky little cap, nylons and wedge shoes. And in this outfit I gave evening campfire programs, led hikes, sat in the boat going around the lake (which included getting out on the Old Man of the Lake, a hemlock floating upright, that has been there for years) so that the boat could back off and tourists take my picture. I came earlier than most and had a small cabin all to myself until the other seasonals arrived and I moved into the ranger dormitory. We ate in a mess hall and were given large sack lunches each day.

Tom and I drove across the Pumice Desert, a barren stretch between the trees near the entrance and the start of the road going up the mountain. Pumice is a volcanic glass that is filled with pores and very light. If we’d stopped and put a small rock of this in a container of water it would float. I remember one of my fellow seasonals telling the rest of us about his being called to help when a car wrecked along the Pumice Desert, his first experience with death.

Rim Village is a development along the edge of the lake and includes Crater Lake Lodge and a coffee/gift shop run by the concessionaire. One addition, that I think is a great idea, is a bright green trolley. Tourists can be driven around Rim Drive in one of these and not have to deal with fear of narrow roads and high places. But I kept looking at the area trying to place what had changed. The entrance to the coffee shop has been moved to one end. It used to face directly toward the parking lot and the lake and in April, 1961 we walked through a huge galvanized culvert to gain access because of ten and more feet of snow. Today that parking lot is gone also, replaced by grass and rocks, and cars park behind the coffee shop, which now has a deck out in back.

Back on the road we drove down the hill and past the park headquarters, which I knew was changed from previous visits. The ranger dorm is now office space, for instance.

Four miles further along we came to Mazama campground, also now run by the concessionaire. In the 1960s that’s what was there, just a campground. I remember giving a slide show/talk there one night and being interrupted by a man leaping to his feet, pointing to the sky and shouting, “There’s Sputnik!” It was tent camping only and there were a lot of mosquitoes. Now there is a store, cabins, a gas pump, a restaurant, a dormitory for employees, and numerous camp loops. In the summer I’m sure there are still numerous mosquitoes! Some accommodations have been made for RVs but only a few sites have electricity.

Our reserved site was nice, a small drive-through along the road right above Annie Creek Canyon. But they’d neglected my request for a water faucet and electric hookups. One of the employees found another site for us (shown in one person’s review as being one of the two worst sites because it was near the RV dump station) and we were fine with it. We wouldn’t be there most of the time. Plus the camp had lots of privacy, was surrounded on three sides by trees (lodgepole pine, white fir, mountain hemlock) and included a little table tucked back in the forest where we ate breakfast and dinner. Compared to an RV park it was wonderful! No enormous RVs with windows towering over you, no people sitting in their plastic chairs being entertained by watching their neighbors, no cement pads. And at night the stars seemed so close you could touch them.

Our first breakfast was rushed because we had to meet other volunteers at park headquarters but our last breakfast was delightful and sitting there on that chilly morning, moving folding chairs around the table to catch sunlight, hot coffee mugs in hand—perfect.

To be continued

We’ve been having so much hot weather this summer that when our local newspaper forecast “colder” as being 82 for today I decided to try a hike, which ended up being about 6.5 miles round trip.

A half hour’s drive brought me to the start of my hike in South Eugene and the first hour of hiking was a perfect temperature under an overcast sky. The trail starts out on the edge of a small subdivision and winds up the hill through maples, ash, vine maples, and Douglas fir. I noticed most of the little streams that gurgle down the hill are dry but two still had enough water to quench the thirst of a bird or, perhaps pooled where I couldn’t see it, a deer. I met a number of people on the trails, some with dogs, but not enough to feel it was crowded. I had plenty of time to myself.

When this path reached the Ridgeline Trail I turned left instead of crossing the road to go up toward Spencer Butte. The left turn gives an option of going on a hiking trail or taking the lower bike path. I decided hiking trail first and bike path on my return. Followed to the end this trail reaches Old Dillard Road. I wanted to get to Old Baldy, a small summit toward the north and ordinarily would have had to walk half a mile down Dillard to get to that trail. But this last year another trail was built that goes from the bike/hiking trail to Old Baldy trail and I wanted to see what it was like.

This was so much better than going along the road! And it was half a mile of new trail for me, paralleling the road but out of sight and hearing from it. It winds across several small gulches and, as with most of the trails I’d been hiking on this journey, was shaded, a welcome situation now that the clouds had disappeared. At one point there was an old-growth Douglas fir, leaning slightly away from the trail. This was unexpected here since everything else appears to be second or third growth. And I also saw two Ponderosa pines, not common in this area.

I thought the trail might climb steeply up a powerline which I knew went across right at the trailhead but instead it zigzags up along one edge, mostly in the shade. From there I crossed the road and headed up Old Baldy Trail, choosing to make the loop counterclockwise. Everything is so dry. This is a southeast facing slope and the tall grasses are brown and crisp. Blackberry leaves are showing a bit of color and many of the berries are dry and wizened. There’s not much shade on this slope so I stopped where the rare tree provided a break from the sun. We used to hike here before there were any houses but an area of large, expensive homes fills the lower slope. With the view to the east and the south somewhat hazy from forest fires I thought if I were a homeowner here I would be very concerned about fire. I did find one cigarette butt on the trail.

At the top of the ridge I turned left and walked until I came to where I knew there was a sturdy wooden bench and was thankful it was still in the shade of a giant fir. This was the spot to eat my granola bar and apple and drink some of the iced tea I’d brought although it wasn’t icy! The view from this spot is of the area of South Eugene near where we used to live and out to the ridges beyond. And there was a nice cool breeze, enough so that I actually felt a little chilly until my body cooled down, a perfect spot for a snack. This is a special memorial bench with a plaque dedicating it to Rechelle who lived only 37 years and died in 2007. I don’t know who Rechelle was but she was loved and the plaque names the site Rechelle’s Lookout. If this was one of her favorite places then I hope others who sit here will also be appreciative of her having lived, even for such a short time.

My trip back down the trails was uneventful, except for spotting a pleated woodpecker working its way up a snag, but when I was once again in my car and changing out of my boots I noticed a woman across the street replenishing a gallon jug of water in an ice chest. She lives in a small house, brightened by a long window box full of petunias, right across from the trailhead. For a number of years she has provided water and cups in the ice chest for hikers, and a bowl of water for dogs. This is the first time I’ve seen her. Lots to be thankful for on this day.