North Loop Silver Falls (hike 7 of 33)

4.10 miles RT

There is something quite gratifying about starting a hike out with a short jaunt to a waterfall with the prospect of finding others later on down the trail. So began this afternoon hike. Almost immediately the rush of the northern falls pounded down in front of me. Continuing on behind the waterfall, I emerged to a fine mist of rain.


I left home late and the sky, though grey, had not yet given way to rain. Despite the light rain near the beginning I was happy to continue with the perfume of autumn tickling me at each squeeching step through the mud.

I miss the yellow glow of early autumn. Nevertheless, I am not disappointed by the view. The barren branches open up the landscape revealing new perspectives otherwise hidden.


I could have looped back sooner, but I was nowhere near ready to head back. The promise of several more waterfalls packed together in the next mile made the detour inevitable, and worthwhile.



Winter Falls, the final waterfall of my hike, had more water cascading down it than I had ever seen in my previous trips around the southern loop. At times, it is a pathetic trickle hardly worth the steep switchbacks from the turnout at the canyon rim.

The only downside to this hike was that the last mile shadowed the road and the view from the rim trail did not feed my imagination with the richness of the canyon floor.

Sawmill Falls, Opal Creek, and Jawbone Flats (hike 6 of the 33)

It was supposed to be a 4 mile round trip hike. We were only going to Sawmill Falls. That was all I meant for us to do. I knew A was not keen on long or strenuous hikes and I wanted to respect that. Otherwise he might skip hiking with me altogether and that would be less fun. So we only meant go to the falls and come back. But somehow in scanning over the directions I missed a few key bits of information. In the end, our four mile hike became a 7.1 mile hike.



We parked at the gate near the end of the gravel road, put on an extra layer of clothing that the cooler weather now requires, and started down the wide dusty trail. I kept expecting it to branch off onto a smaller more typical forest trail, but not emerged. Steadily we climbed up. The incline was not so strenuous as to require us to stop for breaks, yet there were no real disruption from the calf burning slant to the road.

The remains of the old mill littered the side of the trail. We scouted them out and followed the sound of rushing water down to the waterfall. There was no sign, but we follow a small path through some bushes. A found his way out to a rocky outcropping and his dog eagerly followed him. I on the other hand, stayed away from the wet rocks enjoying the view from a safe distance. I've noticed a pattern here. He'll stand out on the edge, even hang from the side of a cliff to take in a view or capture a picture, while I take a step back for every inch I think he's gone too far. I've sometimes wondered if I'm not taking enough chances, if I'm missing something by being afraid of the edges. But then, I'm still getting out there, enjoying the view, finding new places to explore. Sure, I once missed the view of a waterfall for not hanging over the edge of a cliff, but if I had fallen off, it would have been my last.

Back to our hike. After a quite break for each of us to ponder the waterfall, nature, and anything else that flitted across our minds we decided to continue on. This is where I misread the directions. I thought that we could cross the foot bridge and loop back to the car. Well we did, but it didn't return back to the car. Rather it continued along the creek further up into the canyon. We enjoyed the ferns by the trail side and the more trail-like path to walk upon, so we didn't comment on how the trail never veered back in the other direction.


We took a break to enjoyed some sunshine on rocks in the creek. I wiggled my toes in my new hiking boots, thankful to have them on. A stretched out on a smoothed exposed rock in the middle of the creek while I sat on a large rock near the edge. It was starting to sink in that the trail was not doubling back, that either we would have to turn back or continue on for the entire loop. The warmth of the sun and the rush of the creek relaxed us and the concern flowed away.

Back on the trail, the sun was fading behind the trees and the canyon slopes. The air felt crisp. We passed several cleared spaces for back packers and I thought it would be nice to stop and camp for the evening. But the idea of packing in all of our gear made me glad to just be passing through. Soon my hip right hip began to ache. I was shivering. A started looking down at the creek for a place where we might safely cross to the other side and regain the wide road. We saw a building on the other side and figured it must be part of the village of Jawbone Flats. It meant that the bridge must be close, but I still had no idea how much further. A wanted to continue and I to turn back. He figured that we would make much better time on the other side with the wider road. So we pressed on.

Not but ten minutes further up the path the Opal Creek bridge appeared and we slowly started on back through the remnants of the old mining town. We stopped at a shelter to rest a bit, but the cool air and an eagerness to keep moving encouraged me to persuade A to get going again. It all seemed deserted. There was even a row of useless rusting cars. But then we walked into a clearing of cabins and a few people. I no longer felt like I'd survived the apocalypse. The trip back down to the car passed quickly, though my leg muscles began to ache with the steady downhill trudge.


Reflecting back the hike wasn't bad, but we did start out too late to hike it comfortably. I'd like to do it again on a warm summer day and take time to relish splashing around in the beautiful clear water.

Peavy Arboretum - Loop 36/Powder House (hike 5 of the 33)

I woke up to a dreary day off work with grey sky as far as I could see. No clouds outline, just a smooth infinite grey. The urge to stay curled up in bed was strong, but the desire to take advantage of a day off finally took over. My plan was to head southwest where I hoped the skies were clearer.

Nearly there, the clouds appeared to clear in the west but still strangled the sky above me. I pulled into the parking lot and the clouds showed the promise of parting.

After checking out the signboards at the trailhead, I turned back to look at my old car. It sat there turquoise and beaten and I hoped it would still have the wherewithal to carry me home at the end of my hike.

The map I picked up at the signboard looked confusing and I wasn't too sure about the intersecting trails. The first bit was up a wide gravel forest road. My first wrong turn came about as soon as one could be taken. A good twenty yards up suspecting a mistake I turned back and continued up the first road. At a small cabin I found the beginning of the footpath.

Most of the first 3 miles continued slowly, steadily uphill. The sun burned through the clouds but the forest provided a shady cover. I stopped for a packed lunch on a bench. It was difficult to determine how far I had traveled in relation to the map. Much further than I had anticipated, the path dove downward and I broke into a trot, my backpack thumping on my back. Mostly I hoped that I was not lost and that the hike would not be too much longer than I had expected. It seemed doubtful that the trail was as short as my book claimed. A few crossings of the forest road on the back side of the hill and a clearing appeared.

The foundations of an old powder house sat near the beginning of the clearing. However, after so much time under the heavy boughs of the forest I was eager to jump back out into the sunshine and capture the view with my camera. A few sparse trees stretched upward fencing off the farmland in the valley below and the distant peaks of the Coast Range. When I had my fill of warming rays, I headed further on the trail and back into the woods. The trail weaved down more steeply into a lush gully and I imagined how vibrant and varied the colors would be in autumn.

Only when I reached Lake Cronemiller did I feel certain that the hike was nearly over. Fifteen minutes later I had passed the locked cabin and shuffled down the forest road to my waiting car. Despite leaving it unlocked it was still there to carry me home. The route home ,though less than thirty miles, saw the reemergence of the clouds. A grey blanket greeted me in town hiding all evidence of the blue skies that shone all afternoon over the McDonald-Dunn forest.


Distance: 4.98 (from the parking area)

I found this hike in William L. Sullivan's 100 Hikes/Travel Guide Oregon Coast & Coast Range.

Olallie Lake (4th hike of 33)

A actually wanted to go with me, so my plan to go up something became a plan to go around something. We drove up miles of gravel roads to a beautiful mountain lake. Along the way we passed a dozen or so people taking advantage of the opportunity to haul their own firewood out of the forest. A few chainsaws buzzed as the the 1pm shutoff deadline neared. When the long gravel roads finally dumped us off in the crest trail parking lot, we parked and rushed across the road for our first look at the lake. The deep blue of Olallie Lake in front of Mt. Jefferson towering in a cloudless blue sky made me let out a sigh of joy. Pictures cannot justly capture the excitement of catching that first glimpse warm sun shining on a beautiful clear lake in the foreground of a shining snow-capped mountain standing tall in a blue sky.

The trail was harder to find than it seemed it would be. It meandered through a campground sometimes fading between campsites. After twenty minutes or so, we finally cleared the tents and followed a trail right along the edge of the lake. A identified huckleberries growing along the side of the trail, mostly well picked over, but enough still on the bushes to pick snacks along the way. We determined to pick some on the way back in order to sweeten our pancake mix.

About a mile in we entered the remnants of a forest fire. I imagined we had entered a science fiction story set in an apocalyptic future. A few steps and it was a whole new world. Tin-like towers glistened where trees once stood. The sun shone brighter, and yet a chill ran up my spine. Tall skeletons littered the southern shore freeing up the view of Mt. Jefferson. A was surprised at how slowly the forest was returning. There were a few wildflowers and a occasional tree no higher than my hip. But nearly 10 years after the fire, new growth was not rushing in to replenish the landscape. Maybe we just didn't grasp time the way nature does.

We had originally sought to take an even longer hike with a detour around Monon Lake south of Olallie, but could not identify the trail offshoot once we reached the southern end. Perhaps we were still too much in awe of the bleached steely spikes rising above us to look for the fork. Having reached the furthest point on the lake, we started searching for a shady spot outside the burn area for our picnic lunch. At this point, A voted for the shortest route to return to the car. His dog even conked out for a nap while we took in the view a little longer. After relaxing for a bit we located a great clump of huckleberry bushes on the edge of the southern campground and pilfered their sweet plump berries.

Along the way back A threatened to hitch a ride back to the car. He insisted we follow the main gravel road since it would be faster than retracing our steps on the narrow trail. The lake was more frequently hidden behind the trees and the angle of the sunlight over the mountains left us mostly in the shade. I secretly wished we had gone back the way we had come. By the time we reached the car I was ready to jump in the smaller lake near it to cool off. However my toes tested the water and convinced me that I didn't really want to take that plunge.

The huckleberries made some of the best pancakes I've had in a long time.

Distance: 4 miles

I found this hike in William L. Sullivan's 100 hikes in Northwest Oregon and Southwest Washington.

McDowell Creek Falls

This hike was quite probably too short to count toward my goal of 33 hikes within the next 13 months (only 1.7 miles according to the book). Nevertheless, I found it quite enjoyable to wander through the woods and along a stream searching for these three waterfalls. My goal was actually quite far removed from hiking, it was just a bonus. I wanted some good material to play around with using Microsoft ICE program for photo stitching. Last weekend when I hiked Coffin Mountain I took single shot panoramic photos. As I reviewed them at home, it occurred to me that by now someone must have created a program to take those lovely, but limited, shots and create a giant panorama. Unfortunately, I hadn't done any research on the matter and so I was limited in what I could piece together. This time I went out to get some more hands on experience. Waterfalls, especially tall ones, are difficult to do justice with my tiny Cannon Power Shot, so it all fit together nicely.


Lower McDowell Creek Falls...


Royal Terrace Falls...

Because of the lighting the straight on series of pictures came out looking obviously fake when put together. This side shot looks a bit better.



















Majestic Falls...

And finally, one of the trail. I missed part of the upper sequence so I had to crop it narrowly.

All of these photos were stitched together using Microsoft ICE.

I found directions and information for this hike in William L. Sullivan's 100 Hikes in the Central Oregon Cascades (3rd ed.)

Ankeny National Wildlife Refuge (3rd hike of 33)

I still feel the need to get out and go. Even after a hike up Coffin Mountain. But there's time and distance that make it tiring for me and trying for my car. So I found some place nearby. After driving south and fumbling around the refuge the long way I came upon the egret boardwalk. There was little water to form a marshy much under the elevated walkway. The weather's been too dry. At the end the trail dumped me out into a shelter for bird watching. I looked out into the marshes. One egret in the distance ignored me. I stared at him until I was bored with the lack of interaction.



At my second stop I followed the trail along a string of blackberry bushes. I picked one and it exploded tartly in my mouth. A butterfly fluttered back and forth in front of me, landing on a leaf and looking at me expectantly. So what could I do but grant the beautiful insect his photo shoot?



The trail transformed into raised boardwalk, but the ground beneath it that should have been mucky or swampy was cracked and dry. There were no turtles. There were no ducks. There weren't even birds in the trees as far as I could see. I hurried on to find a vantage point where I might catch sight of something with wings. And right there around a turn on the boardwalk was a tall blue heron standing on the railing 100 feet ahead of me. As soon as he caught sight of me he took off to hide in the marshy field. I scanned the pond for him and his head poked out slightly from the grasses. At the end of the boardwalk I walked north on the mowed path to gain a better view of the heron. He moved slightly but never took flight. Impatient, I continued the walking to the end of the path and then turned to take the trail around the south end of the refuge. The wintering grounds were also very dry. The duck ponds were shrunken, more reeds than actual water.

At the furthest end of the park I spotted a second blue heron wading in a pond. After waiting a few minutes to find out whatever it is that blue herons do my attention waned and my march continued. Grasshoppers now bolted at lightening speed from in front of my path. Cut grass slipped down into my shoes. Occasionally it felt like grasshoppers were jumping down my socks. Shaking my feet occasionally as I continued on I eventually emerged near the blackberry bushes and the grasshoppers returned to hooping through the grass.


distance: 3.35 (with detours)

Again this hike was found thanks to William Sullivan's book 100 Hikes in the Central Oregon Cascades.

Coffin Mountain (2nd hike of the 33)

The day started much later than I had planned. Therefore, my trip did not end where I had hoped. Coffin Mountain was a backup destination. Over 70 miles from home, my car got good marks for effort while climbing up into the local mountains. In the final stretch, as it chugged up National Forest Road 11 I did have to pull over twice to turn off the car for a few minutes. Perhaps this precaution was unnecessary, but I got nervous as the engine temperature slowly rose past 200 degrees, inching closer and closer to the red zone. The road was deserted. I freely drove at a speed within my comfort zone. After turning onto the appropriate gravel forest road and continuing up and up, I began to doubt myself. Hiking alone is dangerous, even more so for a woman. My cell phone had no reception. The road twisted along the edge of a cliff. Two cars could barely pass and there was no guardrail. Panic grabbed hold of me. For a short distance I intentionally drove on the wrong side of the road. Several times I contemplated turning back, trying to convince myself that I misunderstood the directions. The view was breathtaking, but the location was so isolated that I felt the earth could swallow me up and I would never be found.

Rounding the last cliff I made a pact with myself to drive two more miles. If the trailhead could not deign to appear, well I could turn back. There were other, safer places I could go. But just past that bend appeared a road to the left. As my car pulled in to the parking area I took a deep breath. Was I relieved or disappointed? I no longer remember. At the signboard I took a few deep breaths, pleased with the wonderfully intoxicating smell of mountain air. The sky, hazy in the distance, displayed a bright blue overhead. Puffy clouds drifted at a higher altitude, clinging to nearby Mt. Jefferson. The plants along the trail were wet with the remnants of a morning rain shower. The air was cool enough to encourage me to keep my sweatshirt on.

As many trails do, this one climbed up. Near the bottom third grew abundant blue lupine and what I thought were wild blueberries. I tried smelling the berries, but could not definitively identify them, and therefore chose to pass on the trailside snacks. The mountainside and the trees obscured some of the view. Instead, I focused on the wildflowers around me and the insects. If I remember anything auditory about this hike, it will be the constant buzzing of bees. Wherever they may have disappeared from, they seemed to be doing well up the mountain, and hard at work pollinating the wildflowers. Had been allergic, I might have thought about turning back simply on that account. Thankfully they left me alone. Another pervading sound was the clattering of grasshoppers. In all my years of city life, it never came to my attention that grasshoppers make noise. Yet, as they flew away from the danger of me stomping them to a pulp, they produced sharp, distinctive, clopping and clattering noises. Butterflies also filled the air, silently dancing through the flowers on wings of orange, yellow, and shimmery purple.

This trail had quite a few lessons to teach me. I was certain that it would not. Once someone told me that the hike up to Manoa Falls on Oahu was an enlightening, almost magical, experience. For me it was not, period. And on top of that, I left with a bloody gash in my leg. Nevertheless, many other hikes have helped me to think through problems and make hard decisions. This morning was a drive morning. An attempted escape. A don't-think-about-anything kind of morning. Once on that mountain I was faced with all of the things I was scared of. Despite an easy trail, my body was tired. I blamed the elevation, but it was deeper than that. Each time I stopped for water, I considered turning back. I tried to generate excuses. My car. Being alone. The time. No cell reception. Being female. My backpack was too heavy. I've been scared of grasshoppers since fourth grade. I dug in deep to find excuses, but something else pushed me up the mountain.

Shortly, I passed the only other hikers on their way down, a young girl, a man I presumed to be her father, and perhaps his father. Very friendly. They thought perhaps I was with the Forest Service as the usual person posted at the lookout point was absent. I reviewed myself mentally wondering what about me might tag me with Forest Service, and came up blank. The thought did intrigue me though, spending long periods of time alone out in the wilderness. It might be a good job for me, I considered. Once at the top, I realized it might also drive me mad. How does one come back down and reintegrate into society?

A while later I found a good place to sit and lunch. I had before me quite possibly the boldest panoramic ever at a mealtime (horribly squashed in my panoramic photo stitching). I felt a largess in sitting eye-to-eye among giants and also, infinitely small, lost like a pebble on the mountainside. Initial joy turned to heavy-heartedness. It too helped push me up that mountain. The trail switch-backed through meadows of wildflowers. Coming and going I caught glimpses of Mt. Jefferson to the northeast slowly emerging the clouds, like a reluctant sleeper from behind his blanket. As the path climbed up further only scattered trees dotted the hillside, some weather-beaten and decaying.

Before I was ready for the zig-zagging to end, the ground leveled out, trees reappeared and a sign reminded me that I was not welcome to spend the night. The trail cut through the trees carefully to a point on the cliff where a lookout tower, windows facing all directions sat closed off and unoccupied. I scurried about ever respectful of the drop off. I spied a wooden platform I suspected might serve as a helipad and scanned the horizon briefly for any movement. But there was none. I was alone. The sun warmed me as my thoughts sent shivers crawling across my skin. I checked out the northern vista, hidden on the trek up, and turned to scamper back down the mountain.

As with the last hike, I found directions and information for this hike in William L. Sullivan's 100 Hikes in the Central Oregon Cascades (3rd ed.)

Shellburg Falls (1st hike of the 33)

This adventure began with a wrong turn. Those who know me, know that I have a tendency to get lost. However, just as I lose my way I learn to find it again, though not always by turning back. That's how this morning began. I turned early off the highway onto the road I knew I was to take. My old car chugged up the hill groaning a bit at the incline. Well past the 1.3 mile spot where the trailhead should have been the country side was covered with golden grasses, isolated country homes and aging barns. Not a trickle or stream in sight. Without them a waterfall seemed unlikely. I contemplated my wrong turn and considered doubling back. The road had risen up the ridge and the vista with hills glowing in the morning sun seemed more appropriate than the raging tunnel of the highway. I rightly assumed that the road I had taken must wind back down to the spot where I should have turned.

Tucked into the rolling Santiam foothills off Highway 22 on the way up into the Cascades is Shellburg Falls. From the five car parking lot on Fern Ridge Rd. with a bent day-use recreation sign I headed up the gravel road. At 9:30am it was already warm and humid. The sky wasn't quite blue, but streaked with a bright cottony haze. The road passed through overgrown fields lined with tall and overgrown Christmas tress. I had been hoping for a myriad of wildflowers dotting the roadside, instead a few blackberry brambles, some Queen Anne's lace, an occasional thistle and a bright yellow flower shaped like miniature daisies were all that noticed. Despite it being the first weekend in August, the blackberries, with the exception of those right close to the trailhead, had not yet ripened. Gravel crunched under my feet and beads of sweat began rolling down my temples less than half a mile up the way. The smell of drying grass hung in the air. Occasional cattle grids in the road caused me to step more carefully.

Soon I passed a grove of five to six foot Christmas trees all lined up perfectly. It seemed a great place to play hide and seek, if I were younger. After that point trees and forest more closely lined the road, offering more shade, but little relief from the humidity. My GPS indicated that the official trail had not yet been reached and I fought the urge to wander off on the paths leading off into the woods. When I first caught glimpse of the forest boundary sign, I let out a little whoop eager to escape the crushing sound of gravel under foot, but it was few tenths of a mile too soon. Just about where William Sullivan's guide book said it would be, there appeared a trail marker and signboard. Unfortunately, some vandalous hiker had removed all of the signs from the board. I gave myself a pat on the back for having grabbed a copy of the trail map at the trailhead.


Here I paused to snap a few pictures out to the south, a landscape of seemingly infinite mountains. With the light and the haze, only at certain angles did the photographs appear to have any depth to them. I pondered how many climbable peaks there may be out there, and what treasures they might hide. Then I drank down a good portion of water and ascended the shored up stairs behind the trail marker. Not but a few steps down the path the sensation of sticky spiderwebs clinging to my limbs sent me into a semi frenzied dance. I'd free myself only to take a few more steps and begin the dance again. I couldn't help but wonder when the last person had trekked up that trail.

Almost too quickly a sign post for the lower falls came into view. I scrambled down to the lookout point through more spiderwebs. The thought had occurred to me that I might arrive to find a dry waterfall. after all, the last rains were already erased from my memory. Record temperatures had oppressed us for nearly a week. The trickling of water gave me hope, that I had not come to see an imaginary cascade, but that in fact there might be something tangible there. Water was indeed falling, but it was falling like from a shower head with weak pressure. More impressive than the water, was the giant rock formation over which it tumbled.



After a short scramble down to the puddle beneath the falls I decided to continue on my trek. I had forgotten that the trail description had mentioned how the path cut under the boulder behind the waterfall. The view was beautiful with the sunlight catching on the water so it fell like shards of crystal. However, soon the realization that tons of rock were balanced above my head and a decent earthquake might change the shape of the local scenery, squashing me in the process, sent me scurrying out from under the outcropping.

Once above the falls I walked happily, briefly imagining that everyone else in the world had disappeared. There was no work to return to, no stores to shop at, no farmers, no restaurants, civilization was suddenly gone. And for a few moments, it didn't disturb me. For that brief period of time, I was willing to eke out a livelihood there in the forest. As soon as the path ended at the upper trailhead I sighed, not relieved, but accepting.

Once again I was dumped on a gravel road to trek back down to my vehicle. Had I paid a bit more attention to the legend on the trail map, I might have taken a more picturesque, perhaps even longer, trail part way back. Instead, I crunched on down the gravel road, the upper portion dotted with slowly withering purple foxglove.

Trail distance R/T: 4.3 miles according to my GPS, but it cut out for a little bit around the waterfall. Sullivan lists it as a 4.8 mile loop.

I found this trail thanks to William L. Sullivan's 100 Hikes in the Central Oregon Cascades (3rd ed.)

Milestones - beginning the 33 hikes

In a few short weeks my 33rd birthday will be upon me. At this point, I feel the need for milestones. However, my life has not gone down the most traditional path either careerwise or familywise. I have accomplished a myriad of other things in my life, far less socially quantifiable, better saved for conversational anecdotes than measuring sticks. Yet, I want something that I can actively do and to point to and say this is something I accomplished for me. Family and work depend on other people. And there's just no knowing when those stars will align.

Recently I've felt myself racing down a highway blindfolded knowing that there's a crash comming on. Maybe this is my midlife crisis, or one-third life crisis. Others might buy a car I could never afford, travel to far off places, destructively hurt those around them, or train for a first time marathon. Most of that does not intrests me, and the travel I cannot afford. The thought of running through a city in throng of humanity has no appeal. If I choose to do something, it should be uniquely me.

I most enjoy the fragrance of the countryside, the combined smells of grasses and trees; and the solitude of being away from the crowd, though not necessarily alone. I love hiking, being outdoors, watching butterflies flutter about and rabbits scope me out, photographing landscapes and wildflowers, and getting a little bit of dirt on me. It only makes sense to incorporate this more into my life.

So this is it. Over the next 13 months, to celebrate 33 years of life I will attempt to go on 33 hikes, at a minimum of 3 miles round trip, before my 34th birthday. To avoid hiking the same route 33 times the they must be different trails, or significantly different portions of connecting and intersecting trails. Furthermore, trails I have already hiked are off limits, unless again there is a significantly new portion involved. My camera and GPS will travel with me to document the route. Friends are always welcome to join me, though I realize that I may well end up doing this mostly by myself.

Keep an eye out for 33 new adventures.

Drift Creek Falls

The temperature in the valley is beginning to reflect the summer season. The mercury is climbing upward, so A, his dog and I gladly clambered into his car and migrated to the coast for a few hours. The heat was already pushing 80 as we raced out 22. As the elevation climbed we threw glaces at the in cabin thermometer. It dropped a few degrees as the miles passed.

At Devil's Lake near Lincoln City we checked out prices for renting kayaks. The sun shimmered on the water's surface, but we didn't stay. We wanted to save that adventure for another day.

A few miles further at the coast fog nestled up to the shore. We stopped to introduce A's dog to the Pacific. They'd never met before and she wasn't too sure she liked its cold salty waves.


After a stop for lunch we sought out the road to Drift Creek Falls. Our directions were one step short of accurate, but after a few tries we found the way. Blue skies and sunshine welcomed us. It was a long trek up gravel forest roads lined with foxglove before we reached the trailhead.


The trail was easy though a bit crowded. Near the end was the 200 foot suspension bridge that crossed the creek. A few minutes further down the trail and we reached the creek just below the waterfall. Bugs attacked me on arrival. As I moved closer to the waterfall their pestering lessened. We splashed around in the water while A's dog watched the small fish swimming between the rocks.

The hike back, though not strenuous seemed much longer. The drive back to the coast was much shorter. And the coast was still shrouded in fog. We stopped for dinner to watch the sunset, but the fog was too thick and the wind was cold. Once back in the valley where we live, the heat hugged the earth hours after sunset. We wished we could have smuggled back some of the cooler weather like the bags of taffy we brought back from the coast.

Summer a la Provence

Experience gets under your skin. Memories bubble there. The smallest scent, sight, or sound can trigger one and it scratches its way to the surface. Some rise, burst and dissipate before they fully register in the mind; the hint of familiarity vaporizes in contact with the present. Others, oppressive and dense, suffocate us, like a like woolen blanked in a summer heat wave. But then there are those, sweet and mild, that you must tip-toe after like a beautiful butterfly. If you pounce upon them, they startle and flee. However, if you move softly, slow your breathing, then - like the butterfly - the memory will allow you to approach and savor it like a crisp apple plucked fresh from the tree, more splendid in its simplicity.

It is this butterfly and apple kind of memory that has played hide and seek with me these last few weeks. In fact, it frequently visits me in the late spring and early summer. While I have never visited Provence in full bloom, I crave its fragrance and flavors as if it were a cherished family recipe. Though my three months there were draped in autumn foliage and the signature lavender fields merely added another hue of brown to the landscape, I remember it in the vibrant hues of coffee table picture books and tourist postcards: thirsty greens, deep purples and earthy browns. My palate also longs for zucchinis, tomatoes, leeks, aubergines, onions and garlic simmered in the herbs of the hillsides, a loaf of fresh bread and a few sips of summer wine.

With no means to transport myself to France on a whim, as if indulgence could ever cure the longing, I seek out substitutions. I intermingle lavender into the potted flowers on my balcony. A collection of herbs grows in my kitchen. My Provence cookbook is flagged with a dozen sticky notes and the shopping list calls for produce in a rainbow of colors. The bottle of ranch salad dressing in the refrigerator goes unused as I make my own vinaigrette from memory. On occasion, ingredients are forgotten, but a few random sprinkles of this and that, and a little extra garlic can always remedy it. Sometimes, I'll even go so far as to rent Jean de Florette and Manon des Sources and spend a few hours in the countryside with a mad thief and murderer. I contemplate brushing up on my French by reading the other works of Marcel Pagnol, but never quite go that far.

After so much travel, I've found that there is no curing homesickness. Returning to the place one pines for, the traveler finds the landscape changed. The friends left behind have new chapters to their lives; and the traveler himself is stamped by his voyages having journaled new adventures without them. Few will follow him down his photographic rabbit holes, and fewer still will understand how the smell of thyme and spearmint growing wild on a sunny hillside one afternoon could have woven new tiny threads into his fabric that somehow alter him. We must savor the present wherever we may find ourselves, but know that it is the past that has seasoned us. These moments will soon enough infuse our brains with new snapshots to pull out in the future like souvenir postcards. No matter how many times we may visit a specific place or what herbs and flowers we may grow in the garden to attract it, we cannot capture the butterfly in our memory. We can, however, enjoy more moments by climbing out of the ruts of the road, taking in other vistas and letting them flavor us.