Lane County Audubon Society has published my poem, Bitterns, in the November issue of their newsletter, The Quail. Bitterns won a 3rd place honorable mention in the Oregon Poetry Association fall contest this year.

Bitterns

Bitterns look as if they could have flown

in the days of dinosaurs,

flown with pterodactyls, and

now just pop forward to our time

for a brief visit now and then.

They are an elusive bird of the marshes,

more likely to stand still

as a statue, when discovered, than to fly.

Immobile, bill raised toward the sky,

their stocky, brown-striped figure blends into the grasses.

Flying, with short legs stretched out behind

and head stretched forward,

their throat pouch seems too large for their size.

Hunters of amphibians, insects, and fish,

bitterns have a call that sounds

somewhat like a water pump–

whoosh, bloop, whoosh.

I’d like to learn their secret of blending

into their surroundings when stressed

instead of instantly reacting;

to learn how to hold very still and

stretch one’s neck toward the sky.
“I’m not here,” my body would say,

“Go away.”

3rd Honorable Mention in New Poets Category

Bitterns

Bitterns look as if they could have flown
in the days of dinosaurs,
flown with pterodactyls, and
now just pop forward to our time
for a brief visit now and then.
They are an elusive bird of the marshes,
more likely to stand still
as a statue, when discovered, than to fly.
Immobile, bill raised toward the sky,
their stocky, brown-striped figure blends into the grasses.
Flying, with short legs stretched out behind
and head stretched forward,
their throat pouch seems too large for their size.
Hunters of amphibians, insects, and fish,
bitterns have a call that sounds
somewhat like a water pump–
whoosh, bloop, whoosh.

I’d like to learn their secret of blending
into their surroundings when stressed
instead of instantly reacting;
to learn how to hold very still and
stretch one’s neck toward the sky.
“I’m not here,” my body would say,
“Go away.”

1st Honorable Mention, Traditional Verse Category

SUV’s On Our Street

Snuggled together,

Driveways hold two each—shiny,

Wheeled piglets nursing.

Wisps of smoke curled up from the
blackened remains of a campfire,
one piece of wood, unburned at the far end,
still hot and smoldering above warm charcoal.
Not 15 feet away the McKenzie River flowed,
icy cold and easily accessible.
I used a zip-lock plastic bag from my daypack
to carry water, going down the slope and
placing the bottom of the bag on the gravel streambed,
filling it just a little to provide weight,
then letting the current do the rest.
My foot slipped on an algae-covered rock,
wetting sock and pant cuff.
It was satisfying to hear the hiss and
see the steam as water met hot wood.
Tom placed rocks on the coals to help
keep the wind from carrying sparks.
We scraped more duff aside with our boots,
and, finally satisfied, continued our hike.

The McKenzie,
formed from melting snows in the Cascades,
runs into the Willamette,
which runs into the Columbia,
which empties into the ocean.
Scientists are saying that
ocean waters are 30 percent more acidic
than they were 200 years ago.
Oysters dying along the northern Oregon Coast
were one of the first warnings.
Jellyfish are filling the nets of salmon fishermen.
Sometimes crab pots contain only dead crabs.
The concentration of calcium carbonate,
needed for shells and skeletons,
is lessening as carbon dioxide, absorbed by the oceans,
is turning the seas acidic.
Each creature provides food
for the next creature up the food chain
and all sea life is threatened.

This is not something that can be solved
with bags or even truckloads of water from the river;
not something that can be solved by covering with rocks;
not something that can be solved by scraping duff aside
with hiking boots.
Would that it were so easy.

The River

Like a strong wind blowing leaves of deciduous trees
The sound of the river fills the space between
My heart and soul.
And right here near shore
Water swirls around a mossy boulder,
Cups it
The way a lover’s hands cup the beloved face,
Snowmelt that left
The higher mountains
Not that long ago.
Perfection is in each translucent palm,
Perfection in the flow of stream
Curling back,
Carrying bubbles
Like dreams
that form and float
And disappear.
At night moonlight slips quietly
Down the far side,
Embracing the alders,
Softly tracing the white foam of rapids.
If you listen carefully, standing as calmly
As the silent Douglas firs along the banks,
You may learn what the river knows.

A Few Thoughts in a Basket

Late in 2012 I remember an online discussion about being thankful for, and taking pleasure in, daily occurrences. Some of us decided to track these events by jotting them down and putting the notes in a jar. I thought about this and decided a jar was not the appropriate container for me. And a paper bag wouldn’t do. It had to be something that was pleasant to look at.

I chose a really nice basket that sits on a shelf in one of our bookcases. The basket is round, about 11 inches across, and has a rim about 1/2 inch wide. It’s tightly woven in two different designs with flattened reeds. The rim is of thicker material and held together by a single reed to which the other rim reeds are tied. Now that I look at it closely I have no idea how all this is put together but it is truly a work of art.

And what of my notes? Well, I started out grandly on January 1st, noting that it was my youngest grandson’s birthday and that I was there for the event although missing his sister’s birthday the next day. (I’d ridden up I-5 on the bus and came home with my husband who had driven up that day for the event. I remember a lot of noise, quite a number of 4-year olds and their siblings, and a room full of balloons.)

January 3: I received a compliment from a woman, about my daughter’s age, saying I had been the first feminist in her life and had, at that time, a bumper sticker on my car (a 1971 Volkswagen van) that she really liked. “A woman’s place is in the House and in the Senate”.

January 4: Took a walk in the fields beyond the subdivision in the afternoon. It was very muddy but I saw many wood ducks in the farthest pond. A warm, sunny day.

January 8: Went on a Wetland Wander (a casual stroll through the West Eugene Wetlands led by someone who works there). I learned three new things and saw a pair of hooded mergansers (a kind of duck). (Any day that I learn something new is a good day. Wow! Three things! Wonder what they were?)

January 9: Started a class in Tai Chi again—fun. (Am still taking this class and have moved up to the more advanced one where I’m usually a step behind but enjoying the challenge).

January 9: Talked, via email, to someone my younger brother’s age, who teaches at Washington State, about growing up in the Castella area and about some of the history there. (This conversation was one in which I learned at least one new thing that I remember.)

January 11: Lovely sunrise, salmon/peach sky backlighting bare, deciduous trees and the dark shapes of two crows.

January 24: Went to a League of Women Voters lunch program and met a woman from Cottage Grove who is 85 and can still do backflips! (I was really impressed, and probably jealous.)

January 26: Saw grandson, Nick, play his trombone at a performance at the UO where he played with the middle school combo. At 8 a.m.!

January 30: Tai chi today. Started typing my story (a kind of autobiography that I originally typed with Dos. I have the hard copy and am putting it on my current computer.) Played my accordion!! (Hadn’t played for a number of months due to an injury that prevented me from lifting heavy objects. Hence the exclamation marks.)

So January went pretty well but from here on things went downhill so far as remembering to jot notes and toss them into the basket are concerned.

February 5: Beautiful rainbow to the east. On my way to the mailbox I stopped to point it out to grandchildren and their friend who were busy playing. (My theory is that we all need to pay attention to our natural surroundings and one of my jobs as a grandparent is to poke them once in awhile.

February 14: A great day. A dozen yellow roses from my husband (I much prefer them to red). Sunny and almost warm. Went to a League of Women Voters event at the library. Took my exercise walk around the neighborhood. Played my accordion.

And that was all for February. I know it was a short month, but not that short. This doesn’t bode well for March.

March 22: Walked from the garage to Ruth’s. It felt wonderful! (I had some work done on my car at a garage in S. Eugene so walked from there a couple of miles, including about a mile uphill, to our former neighbor’s house and visited. Then walked back to get my car.)

March 23: Saw the moon through a skylight tonight.

Thus ended my project of recording the good things that happen in my life. I must say that the January jottings are probably a good representation of most months though. Reading back over them I thought, “Oh, I remember that.” Not a bad way to be grateful for life’s offerings. Often we are so busy living our lives that we forget to step back and savor the moments.

It was one of those end-of-summer days that hint strongly of early fall– clear and warm, with a few scattered clouds. The air seemed soft.  Nothing could really go wrong on an afternoon like this

We drove to Cottage Grove, bikes hanging from the back of the car, and arrived at the Mosby Creek trailhead around 12:30. Being a three-day weekend the parking lot was nearly full, but we expected that. There were many families using the trail, which was good to see. Over the years we’ve seen in-line skaters, bicycles, horses, hikers, runners and even a small horse and buggy on this National Recreation Trail.

I left first while my husband adjusted to the peculiarities of his new bicycle. Now and then I stopped to snap a picture, figuring this time would also give him more time to catch up once he got started. The trail actually starts in the historic district of Cottage Grove but we usually come to this parking lot, three miles further along. Usually the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) has a host at this site but perhaps the contract goes only until Labor Day weekend. Restrooms are located every few miles along the trail and there is a drinking fountain at this parking area as well.

From the parking lot you can see part of one of the many covered bridges in Lane County and from the first trail bridge you can look upstream to where Mosby Creek Bridge crosses Mosby Creek. Lane County, with over 20 covered bridges, has more covered bridges than any other county west of the Appalachians. The Mosby Creek Bridge was built in 1920 and is the oldest remaining covered bridge in the county. Other covered bridges in the area include Currie Creek Bridge (1925) and Dorena Bridge (1949).

At Harms Park, near Rat Creek Road, there is a refurbished railroad tressle. This “was one of several locations immortalized on the silver screen. Movies filmed along the railway included ‘Stand By Me’ with River Phoenix, ‘Emperor of the North’ with Ernest Borgnine, and in 1926, ‘The General’, with Buster Keaton.

The first half mile goes through an area shaded by oaks and maples, crosses the highway, and then crosses a stretch of farm land with old apple trees, a pear tree or two and several choke cherry trees, holding clusters of deep red berries. Just before the next road crossing a bridge spans Row River and another covered bridge, this one red, is visible in the distance.

The “Row” in Row River is pronounced like “cow”. In the early 1850s two men were battling over cattle and sheep grazing rights and, during the battle, one man lost his life. Seems like more than a row to me but that’s the story of how it got its name.

From this road crossing to the next is a long gradual climb. Although it does go uphill the grade of the trail is never more than 5%. The climb levels off about half a mile after this third crossing, near the dam that backs up the water forming Dorina Reservoir. The former town of Dorena lies underwater, somewhere near the middle of this 4-mile long lake, which is used for flood control, irrigation and recreation. It was named, in 1899, after two women who lived there, Dora and Rena. I was glad to see  bright green bicycle signs have been placed at all three highway crossings since we were last out here over a year ago. Someone was killed last year at this third crossing.

The Row River Trail is a Rails-to-Trails pathway. In the early 1900s the Row River was used for floating logs to over 20 mills along its banks. With the establishment of the Oregon Pacific & Eastern (OP & E) railroad the logs were then carried by train. The railroad was “owned and operated by the Bohemia Mining Company and used to haul ore, logs, supplies and passengers between Disston and Cottage Grove.” The trail doesn’t go as far as Disston but ends just past the town of Culp Creek, a little village with a school and a grocery store among scattered houses along the river. Disston was a logging/sawmill town near where Bryce Creek and Laying Creek join to form the Row River and was a supply point for miners going into the Bohemia Mining District. The Disston post office closed in 1974. The town was named after the Disston Chain Saws.  Disston Saw Works, located in Philadelphia, was the first manufacturer of handsaws in the United States.

The Eugene District of BLM acquired a number of miles of the abandoned railway in 1993 for settlement of a debt from a timber sale default. In 1998 the trail from Mosby Creek to Culp Creek was completed. In 1994 the City of Cottage Grove acquired the remaining three miles. Adjacent lands belong to private landowners, Weyerhaeuser Timber Company, and the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, which is responsible for Dorena Lake. BLM and the City of Cottage Grove solicit volunteers for labor and materials in the upkeep of the trail.

We noticed this year that the trail has deteriorated quite a bit since our last visit. There are several places where big bumps have pushed up under the blacktop and a few places where the trail has open splits in it. These have been circled with yellow paint though and there are big warning arrows preceding them. It did make me slow down on my return trip when I usually like to go as fast as possible on that long, downhill grade!

The trail meanders along Dorena Lake for several miles, sometimes under the shade of fir trees, sometimes going through open meadow areas that are scattered with old apple trees and, in the warmth of the afternoon sun, the air was rich with the scent of fermenting apples. We stopped at the fourth highway crossing and ate our lunch before turning back. On previous trips we have gone as far as the end of the trail, past Culp Creek and have stopped to munch blackberries along the way. Sometimes we’ve stopped to get an ice cream bar at the little store in Culp Creek, hoping our slight purchase would help keep the local economy going. Once when I was riding ahead I discovered a cow in the path and gave her the right-of-way and once we listened to a coyote calling from up on an open ridge.

Dorena Reservoir is used for boating of all kinds, motorized and sailboats. Harms Park has a boat ramp. Once we rowed our kayaks here, easy going one way, a head wind coming back. Right now there is a green algae warning against exposure to the water. These warnings are posted in several lakes in the area depending on the time of year. And because the creeks and rivers draining into at least two of the reservoirs come from areas that were mined in the past, there are warnings against eating too many of the fish due to possible mercury contamination. On this day there were a couple of motorized boats and one sailboat, a couple of jet skis, and one boat towing someone on an inner tube. Perhaps those with the inner tube didn’t see the signs. It is a pretty reservoir though, surrounded by forests and grasslands and backed by mountains.

I’ll close with one of my favorite discoveries made when looking into the history of the Row River Trail. “In the early years of the railway a trolley traveled between rail stations along the Row River. A street car appearing vehicle known as the Galloping Goose Trolley was built as an economical means to ferry people and supplies to stations such as Hawley Butte; a nickel from station to station or a dollar to go to the end of the line for a day in the forest.”

Quotations are from BLM websites or the website for the City of Cottage Grove.

It takes four generations of Monarch Butterflies to complete one yearly cycle. The eggs hatch, the caterpillars eat, caterpillars make a chrysalis and a butterfly emerges. Butterflies mate, lay eggs and the process is repeated. After a 2-6 week life, the butterfly dies (if not first eaten by a predator). But with the 4th generation the butterflies do not die. The caterpillar hatches in September or October and after going through the chrysalis process and becoming a butterfly this generation migrates to California or Mexico. It’s hard to imagine these delicate appearing creatures being able to migrate over 3,000 miles but they do. There they will live for six to eight months and then start the whole process over again. They are the only butterflies that make this journey.

There is some concern about habitat to support the migrations though because the butterflies are usually found resting in particular forested areas of California and Mexico. An organization called Monarch Watch has, since 1992, been tracking Monarch populations at the Monarch Biosphere Reserve, in central Mexico that is a winter resting place for millions of migrating butterflies. Even though it is a protected area, illegal logging has been increasing and millions of butterflies are estimated to have died from cold and wind due to lack of shelter. In the United States, Monarch Watch says that “use of ‘Roundup Ready’ soybeans and corn has reduced monarch habitat by at least 100 million acres since 1996”.

Monarchs are poisonous and their bright colors help to warn predators away. There is even another butterfly that mimics the monarch’s colors and pattern as a means of protection for its species.

When I was a child I often raised Monarch Butterflies. The eggs are laid on milkweed plants, which the larvae (caterpillars) eat. I would take a mason jar, put a couple of inches of dirt in it and cut a twig with leaves from the milkweed plant. Waxed paper held by a rubber band made the top of the “cage” and  it was important to punch small holes in the paper for air circulation. I’d try to have only a few caterpillars because they grow quickly and eat a lot. I’d make sure there were always fresh leaves in the jar and sometimes would put fresh dirt in if the droppings from the caterpillars began to accumulate too much.

Just before it was time to make a chrysalis the caterpillars would stop eating and start dashing about searching for the perfect place to attach the chrysalis. Finally a place would be satisfactory, perhaps a tree twig I’d put in the jar or else the inner edge of the jar, just below the top. The caterpillar would make a silk button, attach itself by the back of its body and hang upside down in a J shape. After some time had passed the skin would split and the body move around until the skin had shrunken and was gathered at the top of the now greenish J. As more time passed the chrysalis turned a beautiful jade-green color and had a row of yellow and black dots across near the top. In about 10 days the exterior of the chrysalis appeared black and then you could see through its actual translucence to observe the orange and black of the wings. This outer covering splits and the butterfly slowly emerges to crawl with crumpled, damp wings up toward the light where it remains until the wings are filled with body fluid, extended, and dry out. There was always a moment of excitement when the butterfly took its first wing strokes and became airborne.

In some parts of the United States there is concern about the survival of this magical creature because of habitat loss. All that the Monarch caterpillars will eat is milkweed and many of the plants have disappeared due to urbanization or farmers and others eliminating them from their fields. I was able to get several milkweed plants at an event a couple of years ago. I gave one away and planted the others and this year my milkweed plants were four feet tall and bore many blossoms. So far I’ve not seen any Monarch Butterflies near where I live but am hopeful. This spring I made a 25-cent donation and now have some milkweed plant seeds that I will plant beyond the subdivision near the peripheral stream that runs through the area, being careful to put them out of reach of plows and mowers.

When we visited Weaverville, California over the 4th of July I was pleased to notice narrow-leafed milkweed along one of the streets where there were no houses and sailing gracefully among them were several Monarch Butterflies. When we visited my brother in the Etna, California area I noticed that he had several plants of the broad-leafed milkweed but didn’t see any butterflies nor were there any caterpillars on his plants. Still, just the fact that the plants were there was a good sign.

So as Mary Oliver says, “Pay Attention. Be astonished.” And plant some milkweed.

After celebrating the 4th of July in Trinity County style we paused at the top of Scott Mountain, on Hwy 3, on our way home. I wanted to look at the meadow below the U.S. Forest Service campground there. This is considered a primitive campground with no running water but sees quite a bit of use.  A small stream runs through this wet meadow for at least part of the summer. I’d seen azaleas blooming along the winding highway and there were probably some blooming at the lower end of the meadow but I had come to see the pitcher plants.

Pitcher Plants (Darlingtonia californica) grow in several small bogs at Castle Crags State Park, which is where I first got to know them. Some call them cobra plants or cobra lilies because of the hooded shape of their specialized leaves. The flower stands at the end of an erect stalk, separated from the leaves, and could easily be mistaken for some other plant entirely. There are five green sepals and within those five purple petals. After blooming there is a blunt-ended, green seedpod, surrounded by the sepals and petals. To date it is not known how the pitcher plant flowers are pollinated.

It is those specialized leaves though that make the plant so fascinating. The leaf is tubular, hollow and upright, a bright green with translucent tiny windows, which allow light to penetrate the interior. The top of the leaf is rather bulbous, like a walrus head, complete with green mustache. Insects are attracted to the leaf by a nectar secreted from the “hood”, crawl up inside and drop down into acidic digestive liquid. Microorganisms in the fluid hasten their decomposition and the nutrients are absorbed by the plant. Insects can’t crawl out again because the interior of the leaf is lined with hairs that point downward, preventing upward motion. The moisture inside the leaf comes from pumping action by the roots.

According to Wikipedia, the pitcher plant was discovered in 1841 by Scottish nurseryman and botanist William D. Brackenridge at Mt. Shasta. The plants are found in wet meadows and seeps from the Sierras of California to western Oregon. They are the only species found west of the Rockies. I have always associated pitcher plants with the mountains (Castle Crags and the Trinity Alps, for instance) and was surprised to learn that some grow along the Oregon coast (there is a bog north of Florence, Oregon, along Highway 101). They thrive in serpentine soils, although not exclusively, but do well in heavy metal soils.

David Rains Wallace, in The Klamath Knot, points out that they grow in the red-rock areas of the Trinity Alps whose serpentine soils support manzanita shrubs as well as the Jeffrey pine variation of ponderosa pines. These wet meadows are nitrogen and calcium deficient. The pitcher plants make up for the nitrogen deficiency by using the nutrients from the perished insects. Wallace states “A tiny gnat lays its eggs only in the fluid at the bottom of cobra plants, its larvae feeding on the rotting insects there.” Talk about specialized!

My pleasure comes in having these plants be familiar and, in some ways, relating to a part of my life that has been important to me. Hiking in the mountains. At Castle Crags I remember visiting a small wet meadow area with my mother where we watched a hummingbird climbing into the sky and diving down in a big arc to impress its mate-to-be. The air was warm and soft and fragrant with the smell of azaleas. And pitcher plants grew there. In the Trinity Alps I once camped at the head of a bog area filled with pitcher plants and it was here that I saw a mountain beaver (Aplodontia) carrying grasses and ferns into its den. Good memories.

This morning I spent a couple of hours volunteering with the McKenzie River Trust on Green Island, over 1,000 acres located at the confluence of the McKenzie and Willamette Rivers. During high water it is an island. During lower water it is accessible by foot or car although only for restoration work or for special occasions such as today’s celebration of 10 years of volunteer efforts in returning the island from farm use to something more similar to its original habitat.

My very first visit was last Thursday when I met a friend there who helped me become acquainted with this special area. Two other volunteers were there for the same reason and they were going to spend some time today telling people about the plants to be found on the island. After the others had left, I took one more walk along a short trail that today had an official sign: Nature Trail Loop. Rather than completing the loop I had turned back to retrace my steps and suddenly became aware of some black and white fur about 15 feet away. Several very small, young, spotted skunks! As I watched they nosed about a bit and then completely disappeared. I walked over to where I’d seen them and discovered a hole in the ground—with a view of the river. The trail had been mown through grass under the shade of maple trees and was lined on both sides with shrubs. I’m sure today’s foot traffic past their den kept them confined to quarters.

My time today was spent assisting with a bird walk by listing the birds that were being identified by two expert birders. Our 8 a.m. walk brought us many sights and sounds of the birds of the area including, among others: osprey over the Willamette river; a red-tailed hawk soaring above the prairie grasses (grasses being planted and encouraged as part of the rehabilitation plan); numerous tree swallows, some nesting in the many bird houses that were built and posted around the fields; two turkey vultures hunched upon a metal power pole structure; kingfishers and wood ducks, as well as a merganser, flying over the river; and brightly colored orioles that captured our attention for some time.

Along with bird identification we also learned that both rivers are constantly changing courses over the years. Where once there had been no river now there are rapids. Where once there had been a rushing river now there is an oxbow, an elongated “C” shape containing placid water where turtles can bask on logs in the sun. In some places dikes that were built by farmers have been removed so that the river can once again flood and replenish some of the land during high water.

After our walk, which lasted almost two hours, we returned to the starting point. I wandered about for a while to see what else the event offered and ended up in a meadow area that had been mowed for the occasion. Around the meadow were various booths belonging to different organizations that are involved in the Green Island project or were sponsors of the celebration. There was even a tree-climbing event with mostly youngsters being hoisted up into a couple of large cedar trees.  Another opportunity was being able to try a little bit of kayaking in a calm stretch of water. At the far end of the field was a small platform for musicians entitled Pedal Power. Two bicycles could be pumped to provide electricity for the instruments although I think, because of the warmth of the day, it was more likely that the power would come from the solar panel the musicians had set up.

I left before noon and was glad I’d thought to put an ice chest and iced tea in my car this morning. Unfortunately the beer truck was just driving in when I was on my way out.

Where is a good spot to take a long hike on a warm summer day? June 7th, three other women and I hiked the length of Silver Creek that’s within in the state park and includes 10 magnificent waterfalls, several of which you can walk behind and five of which are over 100 feet tall. The day was warm but we were actually in shade a good portion of the hike. This early in the year the sound of the falls fills the canyon. This was an Obsidian trip meaning the person who volunteers to lead a trip picks  the hike and those of us who want to go sign up to accompany her/him. This was the first all female group I’d hiked with as an Obsidian hike.

I’d been to Silver Falls several times before but had never hiked the full length of the trail, about eight miles counting the route back along the edge of the canyon.

The park is about 20 miles east of Salem and approached through rolling farmland and scattered Christmas tree farms. The road winds through some low hills of the Cascade Range before suddenly entering forested landscape and the park. Silver Creek Falls is the largest state park in Oregon at 9,000 acres. Elevations range from 1,000 to 2,200 feet and the yearly rainfall is about 85 inches, keeping this remnant of temperate rainforest healthy. The park offers a variety of activities including camping, fishing, swimming and horseback riding and includes a number of historic buildings.

Geologically speaking, the entire area used to be covered by the ocean, as was most of Oregon, 26 million years ago during the Oligocene Period. Fifteen million years ago, basalt flows (Columbia River Basalt) covered the sandstone left after the ocean retreated. Over the years, Silver Creek has eroded the sandstone leaving the hard basalt over which the waterfalls plunge today. These are the areas also where crews were able to build trails behind the falls.

The park area was originally a small logging community known in 1888 as Silver Falls City. The area was heavily logged but in the 1900s but a photographer, June Drake, campaigned for park status for the area. I noticed one of the smaller falls along the creek was named after him, Drake Falls. In 1935 President Franklin Roosevelt turned the land into a Recreational Demonstration Area. More private land that had been logged was purchased. The Civilian Conservation Corps built many of the park’s facilities including the South Falls Lodge. Silver Falls State Park became a park in 1933. 

The atmosphere in the canyon was almost tropical as we descended and lush growth along both sides of the stream added to that effect. Walking behind the falls we were dampened by the spray and I’m sure invigorated by all those negative ions emanating from the falling water! At the north fall the underneath of the basalt lip extending over the trail was decorated with licorice ferns hanging upside down.

At the trailhead, just before we headed down to the South Fall I could hear black-headed grosbeaks singing from nearby trees. Along the stream we were most often serenaded by wrens calling from the shrubs. I did see several dippers (water ouzels) flying along the stream and, if I’d been by myself, would have spent some time searching along the edges of the falls for that bird’s moss nests. Some of the flowers that we observed included nine-bark (just beginning to flower), thimble berries, bleeding heart (mostly past), and vanilla leaf. As we walked we picked occasional salmonberries to munch upon as they were quite abundant along the trail. It was not only an experience in tasting berries but also a tactile experience, our fingers brushing the soft fronds of maidenhair ferns and the lacy, white flowers of  goatsbeard. Trees were mostly Douglas-fir but there were also western hemlocks and red alder as well as big-leaf maple and vine maple.

It seemed as if every school in the Salem area had decided to have an end of the year field trip on this day but the kids all seemed to be having a good time and enjoying being outdoors. One teenager saw us eating salmon berries and said he’d been waiting to find out whether they were edible before tasting.

I felt, as I often do when hiking in the Pacific Northwest (including the Klamath Mountains to the south of us in extreme northern California), that we are quite lucky to live in an area offering such beauty.