Paddling Tilton Canyon

Day 324: With yesterday being September Morn, I wanted to do something special, and although I'd determined that I wanted it to involve the kayak, when I went to bed Thursday night, I was still undecided as to where to go. Lake St. Clair was out because I'd just gone there recently, and none of our other local lakes is particularly appealing. I kept coming back to one location: Tilton Canyon, but thrifty Scot that I am (read "cheapskate"), the $10 access fee to Ike Kinswa State Park raised my hackles. In the end, the lure of the Tilton won. I mean, it's September Morn, right? That would be my gift-to-self. That said, I was not willing to pay an additional $7 to put in at the boat launch, so I put the 'yak on the cart and dragged it 100 yards through the day-use area.

The beautiful portion of Tilton Canyon is rather short, depending on where you start measuring. The true neck is only about a quarter mile in length, but in that quarter mile, the walls rise straight up and are covered with maidenhair ferns. The canyon is overhung with rich greenery (Big-Leaf Maple, mostly), and it's dark and cool and utterly enchanting. A few small trickles descend from unknown lands above, chuckling unseen in their concealed beds. At one spot, the thin veil of a scattered streamlet drops from the rocks in a hundred tiny rivulets, dashing the river's surface with the force of a torrential rainstorm a foot wide and six feet long. By mid-day, reflected sunlight casts coruscating shadows on the canyon's walls, augmented by the trembling of the maple-leaf canopy. Travelling beyond the upper end of the canyon, the river flattens out so much that navigation is tricky even in a kayak. Eventually, the explorer reaches a point where portage is mandatory. I stop here, not wanting to carry 'yak and gear over 300' of round river rocks to get to the next stretch of flat water.

Because it was September Morn and I felt I needed to serve Ma Nature in some regard, I conducted an invasive plant survey. I was pleased to see that the Japanese Knotweed and Spotted Knapweed noted two years ago has diminished and appears to be under treatment by some unknown agency. Much of the remaining Knotweed had been bent, and much of the Knapweed had been cut to remove the flowering heads. Likewise, I noted far less Buddleia, just a few small plants and one large parent bush. However, a new invader is running rampant: Jewelweed. I did not see it here two years ago; now it covers acres (literally acres!) of riparian land.

Before the day was done, I had paddled nine miles on the Tilton and Cowlitz arms, the two rivers which join to form the greater Cowlitz at Mayfield Lake. I'd found a massive beaver dam, circled several islands and put into port on two (neither much bigger than the floorplan of a modest home). I'd shared the Canyon with a beaver, several ospreys, several herons and a tolerable number of recreational boaters (one of whom bottomed out when he tried to go too far up-river). It's not easy to get away from it all on Labor Day weekend, but I think I managed pretty well.

Valley Hues

Day 336: I've had out-of-state friends tell me that all the green in Washington makes them feel claustrophobic. Claustrophobic? Really? I can't imagine what it must be like to live in a place which is not green, and especially one where man-made colours leap at you at every turn. Green is meditative, placid. It soothes and restores even while it beckons the eye to pick out individual shades. One can never grow tired of greens. There are too many to ever be boring, from the rich, deep forest-green of shadowed ferns and mosses to the light spring-greens of new alder leaves, from the grey-greens of lichens to the blue-greens of river water flowing through a wooded canyon. I look out my window and see hundreds of greens along the margin where pasture meets forest, no two exactly alike. How can that inspire claustrophobia? It makes me want to go exploring to see how many more greens I can discover in my lifetime.

Formerly Known As...

Day 249: You'll find it happens a lot. One field guide lists a plant under one name, and a different field guide will call it something else. It can be very confusing, particularly to beginners who don't understand that taxonomy is a highly plastic discipline. Many times, plants will be reclassified as science discovers they are genetically linked to a different family than previously thought. Other times, a name change is functional, rendered in a new form to be more descriptive of the species. Common names...well, it's best we don't even go down that road. Plants entirely unrelated to one another may bear the same common name.

Case in point for fluctuating Latin: Silene latifolia alba, formerly known as Lychnis alba. Genus Lychnis is closely related to Genus Silene, the points of differentiation being the number of styles (the structure which bears the stigma) and the shape of the seed capsule. If you think the Latin is confusing, try the common names: White Campion, Cockle, Catchfly, Evening Lychnis (a reference to its prior and now outdated taxonomy). Who would think a little white flower could be so problematical? If you will forgive me the cross-referenced wordplay (she said with a wink), it would seem that this non-native species must not have been properly introduced.

Camofraug

Day 248: I couldn't resist the title, even though I believe this is a Western Toad (Bufo/Anaxyrus boreas), and he upstaged every other candidate for this blog from an eight-hour, 8.5-mile kayaking trip on the Cowlitz River. I have wildflowers, beautiful scenery, even an Osprey perched on a branch with half a fish in its talons, but the Marvelous Mister Toad takes the prize.

I'd put in at the spot I call Elk Landing, a nice sandy shingle which has been heavily marked with hoofprints whenever I've stopped there. It's a lovely spot for a lunch, or as was the case today, a place to take a breather from fighting wind and waves. I like to paddle up-river when I'm fresh and let the current give me an assist on the way back down, however today I was struggling for every inch of forward motion against a hard wind from the south. Whenever the river trended from roughly northeast to southwest, there were long-period rollers, cresting occasionally as whitecaps and breaking over the bow. It was the first time I've wished for a spray skirt on the 'yak. That said, I went farther upstream than I've gone before, but plans to make a park-to-park trip from Lake Scanewa to Cowlitz Falls were cut short when I was approximately a mile and a half from the campground. The wind was just too much, although I never felt I was in danger.

Adams' Island Adventure

Day 241: I let myself get psyched out by a log from another geocacher for a hide on Adams' Island, or I would have been out here in my kayak last fall. He'd mentioned taking an "accidental swim," so I assumed that getting in and out of the boat was tricky. Someone else had mentioned "ledge jumping," and that was enough to put me off the cache. Nevertheless, Mayfield Lake presented a kayaking opportunity even if I couldn't attain the island. In other words, I decided I had to see it for myself.

Now it has to be said that I am not the world's best example when it comes to filing a flight plan with anybody. I've hiked alone all my life, and seldom told anyone where I was going. Chances were good I'd deviate from the agenda anyway...one thing leads to another when you're an adventuresome sort...so telling someone I'd be up the Blah-blah Trail and would return at 4 PM seemed entirely pointless when I'd more likely head off with map and compass to try to find some bathtub-sized tarn and might not get back until almost bedtime. However, with concerns about dumping myself in the Cowlitz River, I took exception to the standard disregard for protocol and told three friends where I was headed. It was a classic GAR model...Global Assessment of Risk...Green-Amber-Red. For me, this one lit up the caution light.

Well, I got all anxious for nothing. There were several spots to bring the 'yak in on tiny Adams' Island, and while I didn't pick the easiest one, at no time was I in danger of tipping myself into the lake. I was more at risk when I went further up-river and got into whirlpool eddies just past the bridge. It was the closest I've come to being seasick in the kayak, and I prudently retreated before it could become an issue despite the fact that I really wanted to see what was around that next bend. Knowing when to call it quits has kept me going this long, even though my friends might tell you I sometimes push the envelope; I think I've struck a workable balance between "old" and "bold."