Sulphur Creek Falls, Broad View

Day 79: It is not an easy hike. The "trail" (if you could call it that) is nothing more than a track made through brush by elk and a handful of locals who know about Sulphur Creek Falls. Unless you have an eidetic memory capable of recognizing specific configurations of stumps and branches, you will probably not be able to duplicate your route two times in a row (either in or out). The slope on many sections is intimidating, the footholds narrow and unstable. Where the vegetation is thinner, the ground is covered with loose, sharp rocks in sizes from grapefruit to watermelon. At this time of year, the forest floor is deeply covered in decaying leaf litter, making the way even more difficult to follow, but oh, the reward when you arrive at the head of the canyon! Sulphur Creek Falls tumbles down 186' in two steps, forms a small plunge pool (which, incidentally, I have never felt confident to try to access) and then flows on down to fill Swofford Pond. The streambed is choked with devil's-club. Don't even think about going that way!

I like to finish out the year with a commemorative event. Sometimes, weather permitting, this manifests as a hike or snowshoe walk. Other times, the year's end is marked only by a rare restaurant meal. Today, I'd planned to do both, but when I arrived at my favourite Chinese place, still covered in mud from having fallen and slid more times than I care to count, there was a sign on the door saying "Now closed Mondays. Sorry for the inconvenience." Plan B was put into effect and, although it took me thirty miles out of my way, a satisfactory alternate was found. Say g'night, 2018. I can't say I'll miss you much.

Towels In The Raw

Day 78: Nothing inspires me to work more than a new project waiting in the wings. I've mentioned before that I set a rule for myself years ago that I could have only one of any particular type of project going at one time. There is some latitude in that; for example, I can have a piece of weaving on the floor loom and one on the rigid heddle because the physical process of weaving affects different portions of my anatomy...rigid heddle weaving is hard on my deteriorating shoulder and I can't work at it for any significant length of time. A few days ago, I decided that I wanted to make some wider scarves than the rigid heddle loom would allow, but in order to start, I first needed to finish up the cotton towels on the floor loom. I had three done and a fourth barely started, and just enough of the bouclé to finish up #4. The shortage of material was what had slowed me down; I batted ideas for #5 around in my head without coming to a satisfactory conclusion. Now feeling the push, I chose to go with the natural cotton (#5 is visible in the upper right). I set a goal of six inches per session at the loom, putting in up to three sessions a day. Bingo! In short order, the weaving was done. Now I'll warp for the new project and while I'm taking breaks from it, I'll twist the fringe on the towel ends.

Mill Pond Hand-Tint

Day 77: My maternal grandfather was a photographer in the days of glass plates and hand-tints, and sometimes I find a scene which begs to be treated in the same way. Eatonville's Mill Pond is one of those locations, although I would have liked to include the old sawdust burner which once stood just north of the pond. It blew over in a windstorm a decade or so ago, and while most of the newer residents of the area thought of it as an eyesore and bade good riddance to it, there were a few of us who mourned it as the passing of an old friend. I can recall when, as a child travelling with my parents from the east side of the mountains, its deliciously scary bulk would dominate the night, glowing red with internal fire and spitting sparks through its mesh canopy. It was one of three we passed on our way from Yakima, and if I was asleep, my father would wake me to see each one. Unfortunately, I lost the opportunity to photograph it before it collapsed. The best I can do now is imagine how my grandfather might have portrayed it in a hand-tint.

Affective

Day 76: More pungent than the scent of fresh-baked bread, heavier than the lap-weighted soul-comfort of a purring cat, more attention-demanding than any puzzle or project, a seasonally-affective day in the Pacific Northwest clings to shrub and window with all the persistence of a stubborn tick and just as welcome. I know my cheery chickadees are out there because I can hear them when the heat pump stops roaring in its hyper-heat voice and the muttering rills of rain subside. Every now and then, a flash of white catches my eye, but I can't tell if it's a 'dee or a junco's tailfeathers. Steller's Jays are crayon smears on the feeders, Towhees indistinct black gobs on the ground below. They might as well be molehills, but for the fact that they move, occasionally casting themselves into the abstractionist blur of the filbert. I suppose I should be glad to be indoors and warm, unlike my feathered friends, but somewhere along the line I was plagued with the ability to recognize that things could be better. I do not readily accept my lot; they do. I wish I was a bird.

Two Tatters' Tatting

Day 75: Having learned most of my needlearts from my grandmother, I went to work as an art-needlework consultant not long after my 18th birthday. I made it clear to my employer that whatever other skills I might have, I did not know how to tat. I'd tried to teach myself to no avail (and since have learned that I was making the mistake most beginners make of getting the knot in the wrong thread). I was fortunate in that another of the employees was an expert tatter and even more to her credit, she was a patient teacher. She took my hands in hers and stepped me through the motions, explaining how the knot was transferred from one thread to the other so that the ring could be tightened when the sequence of double-stitches was complete. The tatting mystery was solved.

There weren't many patterns available in those days, but my husband's grandmother had a stash from the 1930s-1940s. She and I got along famously because of our shared interest in needlework. When she moved into an elder-care facility, she gave me her books. When she passed away, her incomplete projects came into my hands and were tucked away for safekeeping as heirlooms. Two of the edgings above are hers: the off-white piece and the aqua/yellow. The brown and orange are mine, including the hemstitching on the handkerchief. Can you tell? I thought not. Tatting is a timeless art.

Christmas Portraits

Day 74: I try to capture my kids' portraits a couple of times a year, but neither of them is particularly fond of the camera, nor are they amused at my antics when I try to get them to look up and open their eyes. My success yesterday was thanks to a Christmas gift, a cute shelf-sitter costumed crow which provided the photographer with a genuine "Watch the birdie!" prop. Waving it around wasn't sufficient; it had to peck Tip in his pudgy ribs to keep him from going back to sleep. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise. Photographing cats is second in difficult only to herding them. For those of you who haven't made their acquaintance yet, Skunk is my "old lady." She's 16. Tippy (aka Tip, short for Tipperary) is 10.

Old Snow

Day 73: Another relic from my childhood, these snowflakes aren't quite as old as I am. They were produced in a time when products made of plastic weren't yet common in households, and the few items which were tended to be rather too breakable for everyday use. Most plastic stuff was ornamental, meant to be used until it broke and then tossed out, a convenience which set us to paving a slippery path with disposables. I think the original set contained a dozen, at least half of which were clear like this one, but there were colours as well. The red was transparent; pastel green, blue and pink were semi-opaque, and if there were duplicates of those, I do not recall them. I still have a total of nine: the four colours and five clear, at least one of which has been mended. I handle and pack them away with great care. Christmas memories are precious, and I wish many happy ones for you and yours!