Crawdads and Comets

Daisies grow on the shore of a surprisingly clear

 Timothy Lake in Summer, 2022. Mt. Hood can

 be seen over the ridge of trees across the lake.         

    It’s been said that you can never go home: your memory of a place will never be what you find when you return. The truth of these words rang especially true during the Covid Pandemic, as the whole world held its breath, and this mutual tension permeated every aspect of life. But to be “home” so to speak, everything need not be the same: so long as it remains familiar. My family treasures the outdoors, and with campgrounds still open, in July 2020 we decided to return to one of our favorite getaways: Timothy Lake, a large reservoir in the Cascades maintained by Portland General Electric as water storage for their hydro-electric projects. Its shores are lined by campgrounds, huckleberry bushes and gravel beaches for swimming. Massive stumps, ghosts of the forest that once stood in the lake bed, still stand under the surface, intact after nearly half a century. From the right angle, you can see stunning views of Mt. Hood. The Drive up 26 that summer was no less magical, climbing out of the canyon carved by Camp Creek, towards the summit. Mt. Hood slid in and out of view as the road curves around hills, becoming larger and larger each time. 

    That July afternoon, the lake appeared the same, but things definitely felt different. Signs warned people not to gather too close, and advised masks. The sense of concealed hysteria

was fainter here, but not fully extinguished. Timothy Lake, while somewhat remote, is close enough to Portland to have cell service, and with it, news updates, and the emotional whiplash from conflicting reports sharing both optimism and pessimism about the situation. Yet there is a certain peace in a place like Timothy Lake, regardless of what’s going on outside. Families still gathered on the lakeshore and chatted amongst themselves. Boats meandered across the sparkling water and children swam in the various lagoons and bays. As dusk fell, a ukulele began to play, smoke from cooking fires filled the air, and children returned to the lake to stalk crawdads.

    I took note of this last bit, and on the second night I grabbed a flashlight and went down to try my own luck. Sure enough, there were dozens of crawdads, using the cover of night to evade predators and hunt prey of their own. I wandered down the lake shore almost as far as the dam, only stopping when I came to a family gathered around a campfire. As I approached, someone got up from the fire and began wandering my way: perhaps I had gotten a bit too close. I turned around and headed back along the beach trail towards camp. After a minute or so, I looked back, assuming that the pursuer had turned around, but the flashlight was still following me. I decided to quit running. If this guy needed to talk to me, so be it. 

Comet Neowise, seen from the suburbs of
Portland, Summer, 2020

    I greeted my supposed pursuer, with a “Good evening.” He replied in kind, then added “Hey, did you see the comet?” I looked where he was pointing. Amid the stars was a faint dusty object. During the day I would have thought it to be a distant contrail, but it was night, and the object wasn’t moving. My heart leapt. I thanked him and like a child, sprinted all the way back to camp, where I breathlessly stormed the trailer--waking my family in the process--and said something about a comet. They were none too happy to be disturbed, but they went back with me, and together we took in this rare sight. They were glad to see it, and even after they returned to camp, I stayed by the lake, and watched it set behind the hills. When I returned home, I made two trips into the countryside where the sky was darker to photograph the comet: once alone, and once with a friend.

    A couple of years have gone by, and things have changed, some for better and some for worse. This year we returned to the lake. There were fewer people--though it was later this time, and the place still wasn’t lonely. Children were still playing in the lagoons, and boats still slide across the sparkling waves. Each return trip feels different, but at the same time it feels familiar. The night sky was as beautiful as ever, though there was no comet. It has long since turned around and headed back from whence it came, going about its existence. Some day, it will return. The world it sees then will be different, but some things will no doubt still be the same. 

____________________________

Kramer Paper Online - Vol. LXXVII

45º06'50"N 121º48'00"W

Swift Watching at Chapman School

Enter the Swifts

 Living here for over twenty years now, I can attest that I live in a very unique city. I admit, there are many things about this city that are downright weird, or even slightly off-putting. That being said, other things that make Portland stand out are not peculiar at all, just unique: experiences that are rarely seen elsewhere. Case in point, the Voux's Swifts of Chapman School.

At dusk, the swifts begin to
descend into the chimney
 en mass, forming a living
 funnel-like cloud.

Voux's swifts are a migratory bird, similar to swallows. While in the forest, they nest in hollowed out dead trees, but any hollow object will do. And as Portland expanded in their migration pattern, they seemed to take a fondness to the chimney of an elementary school in Northwest Portland. The school went out of its way to accommodate the birds, even going so far as to leave the furnace off  until the birds left again. 

 When the furnace was converted to gas, the chimney was retained and is now used exclusively for this purpose. When you arrive for the swift watching, you can see their efforts: plates and cables of steel acting as guy-wires to prevent the chimney from collapsing.

The show begins...

Swift watching at Chapman School is a multi-facetted tradition. It is a community picnic, birdwatching, and a theatre performance somehow rolled into one. It’s unlike normal bird watching in a number of ways. It's not solitary, or quiet. No one needs to remain still lest they scare the birds, and while they help, binoculars aren't needed. Come to think of it, it's little different from an evening at the theatre. Not a show to see human's act out a well written fictional storyline, but a real story, unfolding before everyone's eyes. It's a live nature documentary, and a spectacle that is rarely seen outside of the deep old growth forests of British Columbia, far from anyone who could record the experience.

Upon arriving, the show hasn't begun yet. Swifts dart around overhead, like an orchestra warming up prior to a concert. The Audubon society has a booth set up with an exhibit depicting swifts and bats (for size comparison) as well as information about the birds, and a deeper ornithological explanation of the evening's events for those who are interested. A scope is set up aimed at the chimney where the swifts will spend the night, and people periodically approach it to get a quick look at the birds that have begun fluttering around the chimney. Some people bring lawn chairs, others sit on blankets. Many bring their dinner to eat, and those with children bring slabs of cardboard which become makeshift sleds to slide down the bare grass slopes.

Heroes and Villains...

The Audubon Society has a scope
on site to view the birds. Viewing
through the scope gets one up close
and personal with these birds.

As the sky darkens the birds sense this, and begin diving for the chimney. Small flocks approach the chimney in a swooping motion. A handful will go in, while the remainder circle around again to let those in front of them get settled. On some evenings, a hawk will fly into the school yard, seeing these small birds as a quick evening snack. People truly want to see the swifts succeed, and as a spectator, you get invested in the experience.  As if watching a drama in the outdoor theaters of old, the attendees boo the hawk as it arrives, and gasp in awe and horror as it goes in for the kill. The swifts become the heroes in this tale of survival that no doubt repeats itself day in and day out as the swifts migrate south to Mexico. The difference being that here, this daily battle is on display for hundreds of curious Portlanders. There was no hawk this evening, but the show itself never disappoints.

As the sky gets darker and darker, the birds spiral into the chimney, like seeds being poured down a funnel. Rarely do we stay until the last one is in, but by this point, it's too dark to see. As the birds huddle up inside the chimney for the night, the spectators do as well, heading for their cars with the blankets, chairs and children they brought along. But like the swifts, many will return year after year, to witness this beautiful spectacle, boo the hawk, and cheer the tiny aerobats as they travel south as their ancestors have done for generations. -KP

The Road to Spirit Lake

The story of Mt. St. Helens is one that has been told many times over: in books, articles, and films. It should be told: volcanic eruptions in the Lower 48 are rare, and St. Helens offers the opportunity to see the recovery process of the surrounding landscape. A visit to Mt. St. Helens National Volcanic Monument is a must, for any one of these reasons. But on a recent trip to the mountain, I found myself with my journal open, scribbling notes shortly after leaving Interstate 5.

Silver Lake, seen from SR 504,

one of many lakes was partially

formed by volcanic debris. Mt. St. 

Helens can barely be seen left of 

center.                -S. Kramer, Photo

Fairly early in the trip, I began to consider writing a piece about the drive along Washington's State Route 504, the Spirit Lake Highway. The highway itself, at first glance, is nothing special, but driving this highway is an unavoidable part of any trip, and if a traveller pays attention, the story of Mt. St. Helens begins while it is still a distant peak on the horizon.

Though the average traveler is unlikely to know it, the first sign of the mountain's violent past can be seen at Silver Lake, shortly after the start of SR 504. The lake is nothing but a marshy body of water with lakeside cabins and boat docks, but it was formed by volcanic debris. This story is retold as the highway climbs the Cascades: Castle Lake, Coldwater Lake, Spirit Lake: all were formed in part or in full but Mt. St. Helens. 

At the time though, I wasn't even aware of its origins. In a place with this much history, both seen and unseen, and with a population as easily distracted as we are, it's difficult to just stop and look out the window. It's the information age, and we have gotten used to looking up details, and learning new facts about what we see, using the encyclopedia at our fingertips. But on SR 504, there's no cell service. Even if you want to use your phone to try to gain context on what happened here, you can't. You have no choice but to put the phone away, and admire the scenery present in the moment. It also forces patience, and creativity. You don't need answers now: you can either wait, or form hypotheses of your own.

The scenery on the way is typical for the Pacific Northwest, but remarkable nonetheless. Tall forests remain here, firs and cedars, roadside cabins, and the occasional view of the Toutle River, the same river that turned into a mud flow in May of 1980. The highway follows the Toutle River for several miles. In the 70s, it followed the river all the way to its source at Spirit Lake.  For the first few miles, while the highway follows the river, with trees and cabins flying by out the windows, it's not hard to imagine yourself driving along the old highway in a loaded station wagon headed to a long weekend at Spirit Lake. While the name was retained, the Spirit Lake highway of today doesn’t go to Spirit Lake anymore.

 The Toutle River Valley seen from

 the lookout from the private visitor

 center along the highway. The damage

 from the eruption is evident, even in

 this picture.           -S. Kramer, Photo

Continuing the climb, the highway enters what was once the scorched forest, trees that were damaged, but not knocked over by the blast. West of the mountain, the damage visible today is minimal--private land has been restored in the decades since. One of the lumber companies that owns land in this area, has set up a private visitor center along the way. It offers a number of fascinating exhibits. You can sit in a helicopter over a model of the eruption, or sit in a dark room with a TV playing a compilation of graphic news footage of the eruption. As the movie progresses, the lights brighten to show the recreated moonscape for the day of the eruption decorating the room around you. They may be cashing in on their experiences on that May morning, but they certainly don't attempt to sugarcoat it at all.

On a lookout above the center, is an unobstructed view of the Toutle River Valley. Even forty years later though, scars still remain. The Toutle River's bed is wide, a floodplain of silt, sand, and boulders. The river itself is a small trickle of water, white with sediment. 

You can see Mt. Adams as well, visible over the ridge. I wonder if these ancient sisters keep in touch, talking over the ridge like neighbors over a fence. The Toutle River forms a wide valley surrounded by forested hills with bald, clear-cut patches. 

 After the visitor center, SR 504 keeps climbing, leaving its former route once and for all, safe from future mudflows if the mountain wakes up again. As the road swings around to face the crater, we enter the blast zone. The land opens up, but the moonscape from the famous pictures has long since healed. It's a meadow now: acres of grasses, flowers and ferns, golden green and peppered with alder trees. Spring is still in full swing at high elevations even late in July--daisies, foxglove and paintbrushes.

The alders join up and form a thick homogenous forest near Coldwater Lake, blanketing the valley floor and hillsides. Then, as you approach your destination, it opens up once more, but this time, the meadow is a bit thinner, the damage heavier. Then, in an almost anti-climatic way, the road ends in a parking lot. This is the start of the journey for most of the park's visitors.

Here signs of the eruption are impossible to ignore, and it is at this visitor's center that the story will really take shape for many. The crater is directly in front, hikes take you to a viewpoint near where the ridge's namesake was killed in the eruption. Perhaps for some, seeing this mountain is what they came for, and so this is where their journey begins. I can respect this, but the story they came to hear doesn’t start at the mountain. It’s like starting a history book at chapter four: it will still be fascinating, but inevitably you will loose some context. The entire journey from milepost zero, is all part of the same story.

Sources:

Map of Mt. St. Helens disturbance zones:

https://www.fs.usda.gov/pnw/galleries/mount-st-helens-disturbance-zones-map