Packin' It In

Day 132: When I left home this morning, I had no clear plan other than to go for a hike after picking up some screws for Max at the hardware store. Several options presented themselves: Bud Blancher Trail, Nisqually-Mashel State Park, Pack Forest, or any of the lesser-known trails in the area. As I drove past the trailhead at Bud Blancher, I said, "Nah, boring...boring and mostly flat. That's not what I want. I think I'll go to Pack." Shopping for screws was a five-minute job requiring focus on the task at hand, so I had still not made a determination as to which trail I'd take until I was again on the road. It's only a few miles to the entrance of Pack, and by the time I'd got to the gate, I'd decided on a loop which would take me over a section I haven't hiked in several years, i.e., up the 1000 Rd to the 1400, up 1400 and thence down the Hugo Peak trail to the gate, and back up the paved road to parking for a grand total in the neighbourhood of three miles. At least that was the Plan when I shouldered my pack, but as Kevin would tell you, I'm not one for sticking to a Plan. I was feeling quite perky and invigorated when I reached the 1400, and what was left ahead of me seemed too short for my energy level. Standing there at the junction with the 1400, I said, "Screw it, I'm going up Hugo." From there, I came down the regular trail, did the short section back to the gate (which I seldom cover), and then back up the paved road to parking. Five miles and a thousand feet elevation gain spent in almost total silence but for a Pacific Wren or two, the occasional airplane overhead and one insistent mosquito in my ear satisfied a longing to be out and about which has been plaguing me all winter. Bits of botanical and natural history interest will surface over the next few days. These photos are just to give you an overview of what it's like to pack Pack.

A Good Sign

Day 70: In observation of the Solstice and a rare day of decent weather, I went for a little hike yesterday. Six weeks ago, my plans for a walk on this old road were foiled by a sign reading, "Trail closed for road repair." I said to myself, "Bet that clay bank slipped." As it turned out, I was half right. It hadn't slipped, but it had subsided to such a point that they laid a new gravel road bed over a a stretch roughly 500' long. I was in for another surprise when I reached the bottom: much of the river bank was taped off and marked with signs indicating that revegetation work was in progress. I was pleased to see it, even though it cut me off from my goal by a hundred yards, particularly since the signs had obviously been put up by Washington State Parks. The area is one of very few along the river which is not protected by the Nisqually Land Trust or the tribe, both of which have been engaged in restoring the shoreline for years. Seeing that State Parks has finally joined the effort to protect the river was the perfect topping on the Solstice "cake."

The Most Peaceful Day

Day 333: On this date, you often hear the question, "Where were you on 9/11?" I was here, on the 7131-foot summit of Old Desolate in Mount Rainier National Park. I'd been camped down below in Elysian Fields for a week or so on my annual September pilgrimage, waked to a lightly frosted morning and decided it was time to visit Old D. I was on the move before the sun had crested the ridge dividing the Fields from Vernal Park, following the same songline I had trod dozens of times over the years. I said hi to the Anomalous Boulder as I passed, wound my way through a belt of trees to attain the Grasshopper Track which in turn took me to the Birdbath below the Black Thing. I poured a little water in the basin because it was empty (not surprisingly), passed through Marmot Skull Gap's barrier of heather, slipped and slid through the sandy slopes until I reached the Monitor (a prominent rock), and after hugging my old friend as was my custom, I began the plod up Old D's shoulder. A tiny patch of snow lingered in the shaded cirque on the north side. By the time I reached the summit, it was nearing elevenses, so I settled in with the ladybugs and little black wasps to take my lunch of crackers and cold coffee. Usually, I'd have stayed an hour, maybe an hour and a half, but on this occasion, there was something different which compelled me to stay until mid-afternoon. It was so quiet, so blissful, so serene that I could not bring myself to leave until I knew it would be dinnertime before I got back to camp. I don't think I said a word while I was there, not wanting to intrude upon the near-absolute silence.

Several days later, I hiked out from my camp. Once I'd reached trail, I passed a few scattered people, but the only one who acknowledged me remarked on the pine needles caught in my hair. "Yeah, I've been out for a while," I told him. My fishing buddy was waiting to pick me up when I got back to Ipsut. We had driven twenty miles or so before he said to me, "You don't know what happened, do you?" And then he told me about the 9/11 attack.

In hindsight, I realized that the silence on Old D's summit was because all planes had been grounded. The usual background noise of jets was absent from the deep backcountry, and indeed from everywhere else in the United States. But that one thing, that absence of intrusive noise, made for me the most peaceful and idyllic day of my life. I feel a little guilty admitting that it was September 11, 2001.

Well, Dam!

Day 196: Well, dam! I went out for a little hike yesterday, hoping to find Corallorhiza trifida in any of the three locations where I know it to occur. Last year, my botany partners and I failed to locate any, although we admit that we might have come too late upon the scene. Based on my phenological records, it springs up at some point in late April through late May, so I thought to get an early start, knowing full well that I might come home disappointed. As I feared, I was too early, so I set a different goal: visit Secret Falls in its niche just off the Westside Road. However, I experienced another disappointment there. The falls was nearly dry, with just a trickle coming down the cleft in the rock, although the plunge pool (with hardly the volume of a standard bathtub) was full. That said, with plenty of snow feeding its source and record-breaking high temperatures in the forecast for the next two days, it will undoubtedly be flowing more vigorously soon. The only real success story of the day (not counting removal of illegally-planted "memorial" flowers in a site I've been monitoring for several years) was a visit to the old dam above Sunshine Point campground. There are bits of history tucked away in our Park if you know where to look! And because in all, I had a nice walk of roughly five miles, the day wasn't a total bust.

At The End Of The Trail

Day 166: Yesterday was a beautiful day for a hike, albeit rather chilly in the shaded woods on the north side of a ridge. For the first half mile or so, I was wishing I'd grabbed my mittens, but switching my trekking pole from one hand to the other occasionally while keeping the free hand in a pocket solved the problem. I hadn't really intended to walk the entire South Swofford Trail, but as usual, once I start, I find it hard to quit. The stillness and solitude of this little "nature walk" is unlike any other I've found locally, owing in part to the regulation which prohibits combustion motors on the reservoir pond. Small farms and homes dot the north shore sparsely, and only the occasional dog's bark or voice carries across the water. It is a good place to listen to waterfowl gabbling, to woodpeckers drilling, to Pacific Wren singing his complex, lilting aria or even to hear the splash of a trout's rise for an insect on the surface of the lake. The end of the trail is reached in 1.25 miles when it debouches into a grassland which remains deceptively boggy until the driest part of the year. A step or two beyond this point in the current season would overtop a boot with water, preventing access to a patch of Skunk Cabbage at the west edge. I found no early wildflowers blooming in the woods; no Cardamine or Oxalis buds, only small leaves, but I had come for Skunk Cabbage and quietness, and found both in plenty.

First Day Of Skunk Cabbage, Officially

Day 165: I do hereby officially declare today as the First Day of Skunk Cabbage. I say "officially" because I spotted a single spathe during my hike a week ago, but couldn't get close enough to take a photo. This image comes from my favourite bog on the South Swofford Trail, and I am happy to say that it was much boggier than it's been in several years, so much so that even if I had had my muck boots with me, I would not have ventured any closer for fear of being permanently mired. That said, the official First Day of Skunk Cabbage is a bit late this year, not only for me, but for Lysichiton americanus as well. The flowers are still young and small, and the leaves are barely beginning to show. After visiting the bog, I continued on the trail to its western end, a delightful if somewhat chilly walk in complete solitude with very few sounds penetrating the stillness. That in itself is worth celebrating.

Manke Mt. Morning

Day 33: It is rare that I hike with a companion other than when botanizing, so when my friend Yonit suggested a local non-Park hike, I almost told her I'd pass, more out of reflex than for any other reason. After a few minutes' consideration, I accepted her offer and we began discussing possibilities. Pack Forest was her initial suggestion, but they have done so much logging as part of their experimental forestry program that scenic hiking opportunities have dwindled so far as to be almost nonexistent. I suggested Nisqually State Park, and since Yonit had never been there, she left the selection of the route to me. I laid out a five-mile loop with a side trip up Manke Mt. The frost was still firmly on the pumpkin when we met at the parking area and geared up in our winter woollies, and by the time we'd gone two miles, we were both ready to shed a few layers before starting the uphill climb to this very minor summit. At 908' (276 meters), Manke hardly merits a dot on the map, but some years ago, someone nailed a carved sign to a tree to mark what they believed was the high point. Maps might disagree with that assessment by a few feet, but for us, the unofficial summit of Manke (as indicated by the sign) and halfway point of our adventure suggested a lunch of cookies before descending on a trail littered with maple leaves still frost-covered and crunching beneath our boots.

A Good Excuse

Day 343: WARNING: this is not a happy essay. Read at your own risk.

I cannot recall the last time I turned back before reaching a hiking goal. Today I did it not once, but twice. In all honesty, it was probably unreasonable to expect success in reaching my first choice of destination. It involved cross-country travel in steep terrain, and I was only about a third of the way there when I decided I was asking too much from an injured shoulder. By the time I got to my car, I was already considering whether or not to head home to the ice pack which has been a nearly constant companion for the last two months. My stubborn streak chose that moment to exert itself, so I hooked my thumb in the waistbelt of my pack to take the weight off the arm and headed up the closed road on foot. In a mile or so, I came to an obscure, disused trailhead and this sign which, under normal circumstances would not have deterred me in the least, but I was already too hot and in too much pain to continue on more than a quarter mile. The sign suggested an excuse, so not even reaching the ginger patch I'd hoped to visit, let alone the suspension bridge another two miles in, I turned around and came out.

As I have mentioned to Kevin and others, this getting-old thing sucks. Between the pandemic, gas prices and people swarming into the backcountry like ants, I have not taken much exercise this summer, and my legs remind me of the fact every time I ask them to carry me anywhere. But it goes beyond that. The Queen's passing hit me hard. I watched her coronation. I watched her funeral. I am left with the overwhelming feeling that my era is near its close. I've seen a lot of "hazardous conditions" in my time, and I've grown weary of struggling to surmount them. I'm not sure I have the strength to keep putting one foot in front of the other much longer.

Pacific Wren, Troglodytes Pacificus

Day 168: These dear little birds are difficult to spot, elusive and extraordinarily hard to photograph and, arguably, are one of the most vociferous species to be found in our local forests. Pacific Wren has only recently been given status as separate from Winter Wren (Troglodytes pacificus and T. troglodytes respectively). Smaller than a sparrow or junco, they have a rounder outline (a "birb," if you will). They love to hide in brush piles and thickets and, as this individual will attest, they often nest behind a curtain of moss overhanging a shady rock face. It is their vocalization which gives their presence away, or as I often say, "How can that little tiny bird hold so much song?" It goes on forever, rising and falling like the final grand aria in an opera. The singer's secret is held in its breathing apparatus, the syrinx. This double-chambered organ allows birds to sound notes while inhaling or exhaling, similar to the circular breathing practiced by players of the didgeridoo. While this isn't a particularly good photo of Wrenny, it is one of very few I have been allowed to take of a species which holds a very special place in my heart.

End Of The Trail

Day 162: At last I can say that I have been to the very end of the South Swofford Trail, to the point where Cowlitz Wildlife management ends and private property begins. As many times as I've hiked this little-known path, I hadn't been willing to sacrifice skin to salmonberries and other brush in order to gain the last tenth of a mile or so. As with most trails which see limited maintenance, spring is the best time to attempt thicket penetration, and as it turned out, it was more open than I'd expected. I passed through without even realizing I'd done so, and when the trail debouched into open grassland, it took me entirely by surprise. I did attempt to go a bit further on a couple of game trails, but since I did not want to trespass on private land, I turned around after a hundred feet or so. The "meadow" was quite soggy despite its angle, so I did not go all the way out to the lake, but I did visit a second lovely Skunk Cabbage bog at great risk of filling my boots with water. Combustion boat motors are not allowed on Swofford Pond, so the quietness of this location was restorative. I heard to flocks of ducks lifting from the water, the occasional distant bark of a dog or fisherman's voice carrying from the far shore, and was not troubled by human contact until halfway back to the car when I met a group of three women hikers. Once they determined the purpose of my presence, they held me captive for ten minutes, asking me to identify this plant and that, and then graciously thanked me for sharing my knowledge before they went on. Although I'd have preferred to have the trail to myself, I came away feeling that this one brief encounter was a fair price to pay for the time I'd had in much-needed solitude.

Scenic View

Day 27: The last ten days or so have been rainy and blowy, so when the Weather Gods cut us a break yesterday, I decided it was time for an autumn hike through an area managed by Cowlitz Wildlife and Tacoma Power near Mossyrock Dam. The trees here are largely deciduous: alders, big-leaf maple, cottonwood, the occasional cascara and an abundance of smaller, shrubbier species. The hardwoods often provide me with excitement in the form of fungi and lichens I don't find elsewhere, and indeed I found a few gems during my walk. At some point in its history, this was agricultural land. A barn stood on this hill, as can be discerned from a base of concrete which was never removed. The pastureland below was previously obscured by mounds of blackberries, but was mowed this last summer in an attempt at weed control. Now it affords a beautiful view of the area, and one which took me entirely by surprise as I looped my way back to my car. It wasn't a long hike...a mere four mile circuit...nor one with any substantial elevation gain, but after weeks of sitting, it was just the perfect length for a few rather breezy hours outdoors.

Tranquil Ohop Creek

Day 348: Ohop Creek declines gently through pasture and land conservancy, chuckles at a bed of over-ambitious rocks which seek to impede its flow through a state park, whispers its life-filled song amid native plants and invasives alike, healthier now thanks to the intervention of a handful of humans who care for much of its reach. It remembers its origins, mindful of its history as salmon habitat, is grateful for the return of a few wild fish to its bed. And yet it does not know where it is going, does not know what lies around its next and last bend. There, it will be caught up in the dynamics of the ebullient Nisqually to be swept away and borne out to sea like a press-ganged sailor, thence to mingle with the sea until its freshness is lost and unrecognizable in the greater waters. Its destiny is written and unchangeable, and yet it is oblivious to it and its imminence as here, in this place and moment, it reflects on its past.

Ramalina Sp.

Day 347: I needed to get Out yesterday. September has disappeared all too quickly, and since the weather is slated to turn wet and ugly, it was a "now or never" situation. I chose to walk down to the river through Nisqually-Mashel State Park, hoping to find solitude. In that, I succeeded, although sounds of humanity were audible until the rush of water drowned them out. It seems there is no escape from banging, clanking, rumbling noises these days, at least not for someone who can no longer reach the deep backcountry. Even there, the sound of planes overhead is a reminder of Man's industry. In any event, I managed to avoid any strong evidence of humanity for several hours. During my walk, I noted that the recent wind and heavy rain had hit cottonwoods harder than other tree species in this particular area, and of course that gave me the opportunity to examine downed branches for lichens. I would be going out on a limb (ha-ha) to infer that this is Ramalina farinacea because I did not bring a sample of it home, but that is the Ramalina species I have encountered here previously.

From Tower Hill

Day 250: You don't get many scenic views in Pack Forest. Managed by the University of Washington's forestry college, its full name is "Charles L. Pack Experimental Forest." In other words, it's all about trees: types of tree, growing methods, thinning methods, designing better ways to produce the quantity of lumber-on-the-hoof humans demand. Yes, there are a few spots where they've clear-cut, scalped a hillside right down to the soil, creating an environment where the first colonizers will be foxglove, tansy and other nasty weeds. Overlooking one of those and its incumbent stump field, you may have a small and unappealing window on Eatonville, but more likely, you'll be looking out across more forest...second growth, third growth...because forest products are what Washington grows best. Rarely, as you round a bend on one of Pack's roads, you'll get a glimpse of mountains in the distance (the Olympics, most likely), and even more rarely, a shoulder of the Mountain...you know, the one we talk about with a capital letter. I only know one spot (and believe me, I have hiked all of Pack's trails and roads) where you have a clear line of sight to Mount Rainier, and it's not from the very peak of the cell-phone tower hill, no. You have to slope off down its east shoulder a tenth of a mile or so in order to have an unobstructed view. No one goes down here. No one comes up either, even though a rudimentary horse trail attains the ridge from the north side, thick with brush which is nearly impenetrable. This was my goal on Wednesday: a nice spot to enjoy a handful of chocolate-chip cookies before plodding back to my car, but as it turned out, this finger ridge was the only place where I was pestered by flies during the nine-mile hike. I snapped the picture hastily and beat a retreat to a cooler, shadier spot to enjoy my little lunch.

Secret Falls

Day 213: A few days ago, I took a walk up to Secret Falls. That's my name for it, anyway. USGS doesn't feel it merits a designation. Why "Secret?" Even though it's less than 50 yards from Westside Road, its 20-foot cascade almost entirely hidden from view by virtue of being around a corner of rock, and anyone who hears it as they walk by raises their eyes to a more visible upper tier which they assume is its voice. The stream which feeds it originates in the Lake Allen basin, although not the lake itself which, incidentally, is only accessible by those committed to serious cross-country navigation. I have been to the lake once, and having found a fresh cougar-killed deer (the carcase still steaming), I decided once was sufficient. However, my sense of adventure is strong enough to sometimes make me forget my age, and Wednesday's excursion found me climbing a steep, mossy slope in an attempt to reach the upper tier of the falls. About halfway there, I had a "mortality moment" (rare for me) and as I looked back down that which I had climbed, the Common Sense Demon on my left shoulder advised, "You're getting yourself in over your head for not having told anyone you might be up here." I cast one last longing glance in the direction of the upper falls (no longer visible from my vantage point) and carefully inched my way back down the slope, trying to remember where I'd seen bare, slick rock showing through thin places in the moss. Perhaps another day and a different route will take me there, when I've filed a flight plan with a friend.

Of Ghosts And Graffiti

Day 187: With both of us fully vaccinated, I accepted Kevin's proposal to go for a hike to the ghost town of Melmont yesterday, my first real social contact in over a year, discounting brief out-in-the-yard visits with friends on half a dozen occasions. The Washington Trails Association website described the hike as being a six-mile round trip, but gave three different starting points which, as we drove by them, we discovered were up to a mile and a half from WTA's recommended starting point. That should have given us a clue to the reliability of the description, but we assumed (as would any other reasonable person) that the length of the hike would be measured from the primary trailhead to the destination. Therefore, we were a little surprised when we came to the first evidence of human occupation (above) less than half a mile from the car. A little further on, we came to a four-walled and heavily graffiti-ed structure roughly 15' on a side, the old dynamite storage facility beyond which we expected to find a "mud pit" and a Y junction in the trail per the WTA instructions. The mud pit never materialized, and the left arm of the Y took us to a similiar stone construction which, after some consideration, we determined to be the schoolhouse basement. It too was graffiti-ed within an inch of its life, and I could find no angle for a photo from which I could block out the scrawls with trees and ferns. Here, the question arose as to whether we had found Melmont or not. The WTA description implied that the schoolhouse was set apart from the rest of the town, but it was the only other remnant of a building we were able to locate. We were only a little over a mile in. Maybe we should keep going? So we did.

At a point just short of three miles from the car, the wide dirt rail-trail abruptly devolved into the customary boot-track of a true trail. At 3.5 miles in, we said to each other over lunch, "That must have been Melmont," and decided to turn around. Back at the Y, we dropped down onto the flat which we assumed held the townsite, found the footings of the old bridge and some scattered red bricks among the ATV-carved ruts, concluding, "Yep, we've seen Melmont, all right."

While the hike was enjoyable, it was not what we had been led to expect from the WTA description. For one thing, the total trail length had apparently been measured from the most distant possible starting point to the site, and what ruins there were had apparently become so overgrown with vegetation since the web page had been written that they had entirely "ghosted" from view. The abundance of graffiti detracted from any sense of history I might have felt in viewing the old structures and on the return, there were way too many people on the trail for me to be comfortable since most of them didn't bother to mask up as we passed. But that said, in the early hours when we had the trail to ourselves, we heard the call of the thrush, the piping of frogs, the rush of Carbon River, and we had the companionship of one another, friends on the proverbial "busman's holiday" in a different corner of the forests we both love.

Out And About - Nisqually-Ohop Confluence

Day 175: The internal debate was on. I'd aired up my bicycle tires thinking I might take a local ride, but I really wanted to be out in the woods, not pedalling along to the sound of traffic whishing past. That being the case, maybe I could just ride a short ways, stow the bike in the woods and hike closer to home. I can't get the bike in/on the car, so that was out of the question. So if I was going to take a hike, where did I want to go that I could be fairly certain I wouldn't run into any people? Pack Forest was out. It's become a zoo since covid moved in, likewise the obvious trails in Nisqually-Mashel State Park. Still, if I left early enough, I might be able to make it down to the river and back before the hordes showed up, so that went on the list as Plan A. I had a couple of Plan Bs in the back of my mind for "just in case," but when I arrived at the river-walk trailhead, there were no other cars in sight. About half a mile in, I spotted a bunny-trail I hadn't explored before, more obvious now because the brush hasn't leafed out, so I followed it to a dead end at a landing about half a mile in. I found some interesting little wetlands and heard frogs, although I didn't see them. I returned to the main trail and went another half mile to an old road which has tempted me every time I've hiked down to the river, so again, I took a half-mile detour to yet another landing and a dead end at the bluff. With those two side-trips behind me, I then decided it was time to head to the actual goal: the confluence of the grand Nisqually River with quiet little Ohop Creek. I thought I might get lucky and spot some Kinglets, but although their companion chickadees followed me along as if they knew that I am a friend to their kind, I neither saw nor heard a single Golden-Crowned or Ruby-Crowned all day. Kinglets aside, I was not disappointed by the lack of anything particularly noteworthy on my walk. It was enough to be out and about, Plan A accomplished.

Crow At Sulphur Creek Falls

Day 151: I first visited Sulphur Creek Falls in 2005. I learned of its existence through geocaching. It took me two tries to get there, the first failing when I tried to follow the instructions provided on the cache page and wound up in a tangle of devil's-club, but the second successful after a friend counselled me to "use your woods sense" to pick my own route. You see, there is...or was...no trail to this magical place at the end of a box canyon. Elk and deer trails criss-crossed a steep hillside, but as animal trails have a wont to do, they often disappeared without warning. Natural hazards abound here: mud, thickets of devil's-club and salmonberry, fallen trees and so on. But once I had attained my goal and found the cache, I kept going back every year. Very few other people even made an attempt to reach the cache. The cache owner disappeared from the GC website and finally, after several years of maintaining the cache myself, I petitioned to adopt it. It was a long process, but eventually GC turned it over to me.

That said, every subsequent year brought new obstacles. There were landslips, more fallen trees. And there was evidence of human activity which I did not like: litter, and ropes put in place to make the descent to the base of the falls easier. Every time I went in, I cleared it out. If a little old lady didn't need a rope to get there, the young bucks (human) who were partying at the site and leaving their beer bottles behind could certainly make it without assistance. Then a flood came and changed the landscape even more. I had to relocate the cache about 150' from its original location. However, even that site was not secure. Last year, a large cedar tree slid down the hillside, its massive root ball coming to rest when it hit the two trees my revised cache was between. The cache was still accessible, but barely.

A few days ago, I made a decision to archive the cache due to two factors: increasing erosion (both natural and human-caused), and my age. You don't see very many tiny women at the three-quarter century mark prowling around in trailless and somewhat dangerous terrain. But I had one last mission which took me to Sulphur Creek Falls again yesterday: remove the cache container. After a year of voluntary lockdown, I hoped I still had the steam for the trip. "Slow and easy," I told myself time again as I struggled up the slopes using roots and branches and the occasional clump of ferns to leverage myself up one more step, mindful that the muddy ground was likely to give way and send me 50-100' down to creek level if all three of my anchor points failed. "Bush-belays" are not my favourite climbing tools, but I'll use them if nothing else is available. I went nose-to-mud twice before I reached the base of our local version of the Devil's Tower, but the challenge didn't end there. Once up to safe ground, I had the descent to cache level ahead of me, perhaps the most dangerous part of the trek. In fact, I had to find an alternate route from my usual, owing to yet another landslide. I retrieved the cache container and then made my way from this point (photo) to the base of the falls, up and around that pile of lumber behind me, and then back down again. One more "up" took me back to the base of Devil's Tower, from which I descended without incident (not counting a muddy bum) to the nice, flat South Swofford Trail, continuing there on a leisurely walk for a mile and half almost to its end, glad that my multiple missions were all complete. It is unlikely that I will return to Sulphur Creek Falls again.

'Shroom-Sicle

Day 122: Had it not been for a little ray of sunshine, I might have missed this. In fact, I did miss it on the first pass, although the fact that I chose to walk around the right side of the tree instead of the left when the trail gave me both options might have been responsible for the oversight. On my way back from Big Bridge, a fine needle of sunlight angled through the quilted overstory of hemlock and Douglas-fir to center like a searchlight's beam directly on this ice-encrusted specimen of Pseudohydnum gelatinosum (commonly known as Cat's-tongue). My camera battery was almost dead and I knew I had less than a minute to capture its frosty beauty before the fragment of sunlight disappeared, so I dropped to my knees in the mud even as I was changing settings. How I had managed to be in the forest with both camera batteries in terminal condition is another matter: a banana peel on the path of my attention to small details like recharging, and the unavoidability of Murphy's Law. In any event, I got half a dozen snaps before losing the light, and figured wet, dirty pantlegs were worth the sacrifice if even one of the shots turned out. As I stepped around the tree in the middle of the trail, I found another older, browner specimen also encased in ice, and a question rose in the back of my mind when I noticed that the shelf fungus adjacent to it was not icy, nor was the moss or any of the other vegetation in the area. What conditions prevailed that only Pseudohydnum gelatinosum turned into a popsicle? Why?

Out At Last

Day 353: I got out! It wasn't much of a hike and it almost didn't happen, but since I allowed myself to be convinced that I really should get a flu shot even though I'm having no social contact, I decided I'd check on my Shaggymane patch to see if dinner had sprouted yet. I pulled up at the little-visited trailhead, got out of the car and was just shouldering my pack when someone else pulled in and parked 25' away. In all the years I've hiked this particular trail, I have never seen another car at the pullout. Why this day? Thoroughly peeved, I took off my pack, got back in the car and drove to a different spot. I know the area. There's more than one way to get where you're going if you're familiar with the network of bunny trails and interconnections, and there are multiple options for making loops so you don't need to backtrack. Some are brushier than others, but that's never stopped the Crow. Plan A was quickly revised into Plan B, and incorporated a side trip up "Manke Mt.," unofficially named and not a summit of any significance despite its hand-carved waypost. A little over four miles later, I was back at the car without retracing any of my steps, but with no mushrooms in the bag. Then it was into Eatonville to get my vaccination, and when I told the pharmacist I'd just come in from hiking, he had one pressing question: "Did you see any mushrooms yet?" Yep, competition is strong in these woods!