Mountains, Flowers, Friends, Taxis, and Bears

     I spent a few days last week camping with my son, Ela, and a group of friends at a tiny log cabin 

                                                                photo by Ela Lamblin

deep in the north Cascades, overlooking dense forests and distant snowy peaks.

    What a great group of people! We spent hours in intelligent, probing, delightful conversation, morning and evening.

Breakfast long over, we are still enjoying each other's company.   
                                                                                    Photo by Diana Coogle

We went on hikes, drank sweet water from hidden springs, looked for the lady slipper orchids, which were disappointingly not quite in bloom. The first night I lay in the hot tub, on a platform overlooking the densely forested hills, watching the stars twinkle into view one by one.  We cooked over a campfire every night,

                                                            photo by Ela Lamblin

sharing whatever each of us had brought. Ela grilled some delicious lamb chops one night; another night he and I passed around caprese hors d'oeuvres while a salmon filet cooked on the fire.
    The second day, while some guests took long mountain-bike rides, Lisa took me on a strenuous hike up and over the mountain, 

                                                            Photo by Lisa Brody

where yellow balsam root, red Indian paintbrush, and purple lupine decorated the woods, with great views of Cascade peaks. The trail was mostly a motorcycle trail; Lisa, who hadn't been on it for several years, called it "70% unhikable" because it was so steep and dust-slippery, but I thoroughly enjoyed it.   

    The last day of our visit we went back to the orchids and this time were treated to their astonishing blooms. 

Lady slipper orchids in the north Cascades. Photo by Diana Coogle

    I had a wonderful time, but I did not have a smooth trip home. The taxi I booked to get me to the train station in Tacoma never showed up. I finally took a bus, but I missed my train, had to buy another train ticket, and arrived in Eugene too late to drive home so I also missed a meeting and a booked massage on the next day. On the other hand, I found a really good little restaurant for dinner in Eugene, and the train ride from Tacoma to Eugene had been beautiful. 

Mt. Rainier through the train window. Photo by Diana Coogle

    When I got home, I discovered mysterious smears on several windows.

In spite of the reflections, you can clearly see
the bear paw prints on a downstairs window.

They had to have come from a bear, investigating the house while I was gone. One of the windows on which he left a paw print was, disconcertingly, in my upstairs bedroom. The bear had climbed a tree to get on the roof to peer in. I used to leave that window wide open every night. Not any more.

Hike by Car

     My sister Laura had so loved her visit with me last year (see post on May 29, 2024) she wanted her husband to experience this beautiful place, too. But I had taken her on one hike after another! What could I do for Jack, who suffers from severe vertigo and can no longer hike as he once did?

    What I wanted was a drive way into the mountains, a hike by car. Route 20 would be perfect, but still has too much snow. A friend suggested a route up Griffin Creek Road, which I explored with another friend. It looked pretty good. I made some adjustments and crossed my fingers that it would work.

    The day of Laura and Jack's visit, I drove them through the Applegate Valley, beautiful in itself, then up the steep Armstrong Gulch Road. At the first view of the snow-topped Siskiyou Crest, they wanted to get out and gaze, but I was disturbed by a huge clearcut in the foreground and knew what was coming, so after a quick look, I hustled them back into the car and continued up the now very rough, pot-hole-filled road, to the top of the drive, at the Anderson Ridge trailhead. I stopped the car, and we all got out to look.

    The view of the Siskiyou Crest  was stupendous. I was bubbling over with excitement. "If you walk just a tiny bit down the trail," I said encouragingly, "you'll get the scene without a road at your back." Jack grabbed his hiking poles, and we started down the trail. 

    The landscape is so incredibly beautiful! Walking was slow because we stopped again and again to look and look and look at those mountains rising all snowy and beautiful above long green slopes and, below the slopes, forested hills and, on the horizon, scallops of snowy mountains. Laura remarked on how unusual it is to have such open vistas (especially compared to the Appalachians, where she comes from, I think, but, yes, these views of the Siskiyous are pretty unique). Jack walked slowly and carefully, but Laura and I were slow, too, darting down the hillside to look at a scarlet fritillary, then stopping to gawk at the view, then stopping to smell a juniper or exclaim over a western giant puffball or figure out the name of a flower or take in the aroma of buckbrush. The three of us walked, enthralled, for half an hour before turning back.

    The drive down the other side of the mountain provided the same stunning landscapes before entering the forest, which had its own beauty—the tall Douglas firs, the madrones and buckbrush in superbloom. The road got smaller and smaller and more rutted until suddenly we came to a wide gravel road that took us back to the paved road and the rural beauty of the valley, then to the Applegate Lake, full to capacity and topped by a view of the snowy peaks of the Red Buttes. Gazing at that view, we picnicked on the asparagus sandwiches and orange-and-mascarpone tarts I had brought.

    It was a marvelously successful excursion. Jack, like Laura last year, was amazed at the beauty of the Siskiyous. They both, now, understand why I love where I live so much. And I know, now, how to impress visitors who can't hike by foot. I'll just take them on a hike by car.

Trump's Scariest Move

       Trump's greedy and bumbling fingers are reaching into so many areas of our lives that, were I to dwell on them, I would live in a puddle of paralysis. Trump scares me in so many ways:

    That there will be no help from public health agencies when the next pandemic sweeps the country.

    That climate change will charge right ahead without any efforts on our part to mitigate its damage, including storms and fires, and then that FEMA won't be there to help in the aftermath.

    That something will come of the ridiculous and bullying boasts to take over Greenland and the Panama Canal and to change the name of the Gulf of Mexico to the Gulf of America, of all the embarrassing ideas.

    That he compiles lists of words banned in government documents and websites. Words that can't be used?! "Woman," "diverse," "social justice," 'bipoc"—PEN America lists more than 250 words no longer considered acceptable by the Trump administration. 

    That cozying up to Russia and thumbing our nose at our allies will have disastrous international effects.

    That extraction will dominate in our national forests.

    That our precious National Parks, the pride of our country, will lose their sanctity and their carefully controlled use. (Already I have heard of interlopers misusing the land [poaching? defacing?] and, when confronted, answering with a shrug, "What are you going to do about it?")

    That science will be ignored.

    That the arts will languish.

    That dissenting voices are being squelched.

    That our children will miss out on the education they deserve and need.

    That the imposed tariffs will play havoc with the economy and shut down many small businesses of good people who are the very people I thought Trump meant to appeal to, and aren't they changing their minds now?

   It is scary to think of all this, but the scariest thing is what he has done to one person: Abrego Garcia. 

    If Trump can pluck a person out of his altogether normal American life and throw him out of the country, then laugh in the face of the law—it stabs fear into my heart.

    

"Hands Off" March in Grants Pass

    I have been in despair over the future of this country, but on April 5 a strong flame of hope tore through the despair. Hundreds of people stood on 6th street in Grants Pass, Oregon, a small, rural town in Josephine County, strong Trump land, waving their defiant signs and calling for "hands off."  

    Old people, young people, children, people in wheelchairs, retired people, working people, a flock of teenagers in fishnet stockings and one figure wearing an American flag sewn to a rainbow flag

—people of all sorts gathered in front of the county courthouse with their signs protesting Trump, Musk, DOGE, etc. 

    Someone estimated 300-400 people—nowhere close to the thousands in other cities, but people everywhere on the street were marveling at the size of the crowd, the largest anyone had seen at a protest in Grants Pass.

Pretty darn good for Grants Pass.
(Note the women in red cloaks)

    Across the street, at the Josephine County Republican Headquarters, a handful of glum counter-protesters stood with their left-over, enormous Trump/Vance campaign signs. A number of people, including three or four women in the red cloaks of The Handmaid's Tale, crossed the street to surround them with their anti-Trump signs (then rejoined our group, as you see in the photo above).

    No one got angry. No one yelled. There was no violence. Many drivers passing the crowd honked their horns in support of the demonstrators and gave encouraging signs. There were, admittedly, a few motorcyclists who revved their engines with disapproval and some drivers and passengers who made unpleasant gestures, but there were a lot more thumbs up than fingers up. Basically, civility ruled.

    Many signs followed the "hands off" theme: hands off science and education and social security and our parks and our forests, and hands off agencies and people and institutions. "Hands off democracy." "Hands off Greenland, Panama, Canada." 

    Lots of signs spoke in support of immigrants, trans people, federal workers, scientists, and others. I liked the "Deport Musk" signs, and I liked the double-sided poster, one side with a picture of Trump, labeled "puppet," the other side with a picture of Putin, labeled "puppeteer." I loved the "Make good trouble signs," referencing, of course, both Cory Booker and John Lewis. I liked the young man standing staunchly with an American flag as big as any you see flying from the back of a pickup truck, saying, in effect, the flag belongs to us all.

     One of my favorite signs said, "No, no, no; Donnie's gotta go," and the similar "Bad Doge!"

    But the sign I thought had the best message was made by a girl of about ten or eleven: "Don't be a bully, Mr. President." 

    It kind of just comes down to that, doesn't it?

    I am so glad I was there that day, adding my presence and my voice to the crowd.

This was my sign, to which I could have added
education, science, and hatcheted items

Other signs. Not bad, for this conservative town.

    

    

Skiing at Donner Pass: Mushrooms on the Mountain

     One day, skiing ahead of our excursion, two of our group, Jennifer and Kate, met a couple of young skiers on the trail. Jennifer told them about our Sierra Club group, all over 50 years old and the oldest 80. When they met again at the top of the pass, the two young people were taking some mushrooms for a little psychedelic boost to their ski adventure. They said, "Oh, here are some mushrooms for Diana!" to honor my elder position among the skiers.

    That evening, sitting around the stove with me and others, Jennifer told about meeting the skiers and, with a flourish, presented me with the mushrooms. She had overheard me talking about psychedelics with Maricel and Beverly the evening before, so she was pleased to be giving me such a suitable gift.

                                    photo by Debra Gibson

    But Jennifer had missed the main drift of that conversation, which was the part psychedelics had played in my two-year bout with what was diagnosed as schizophrenia. Explaining that reference to Jennifer led to a rendition of the whole story, from so long ago, to everyone sitting around the stove. 

   Afterward, when people expressed gratitude that I would talk so openly about that experience, I told them that when the two-year episode had come to an end, I had thought, "If we are ever going to overcome the stigma of mental illness, we have to talk about it," and so I have never hidden that part of my life. And it's true that today we talk more openly about mental illness than we did in the '70s. 

    And the reason I was talking about psychedelics with Maricel and Beverly, a psychotherapist, in the first place was as part of a discussion about the therapeutic use of psychedelics. As always in discussions of that topic, I raised a cautionary voice: If, as it seems by my experience, some individuals are particularly sensitive to such substances, we should be particularly careful in advocating their use. 

    "So what will you do with the mushrooms?" someone asked, puzzled why I would want them.

    Well, I did offer them to anyone who wanted to actually eat them, but when no one reached for them, I said I would put them in a little jar on a shelf in my house. Then, I said, when someone picked up the jar and said, "What's this?" I could tell a story about skiing on Donner Pass, Jennifer's chance meeting with the young skiers, and all the fascinating, intelligent, broad-minded, and community-oriented fellow lovers of snow I had met.

Sierra Club Trip on Donner Pass: The Lodge and the Lodgers

    One of the best things about Sierra Club trips is the many interesting people you meet. They are passionate about the environment, and, in my experience (on three Sierra Club trips), they are cheerful contributors to a communal experience. 

    On the Donner Pass trip, we stayed at the delightful, rustic, 100-year-old Hutchinson Lodge.

                                                        photo by Debra Gibson

It is unstaffed, but everything ran smoothly because there was always someone to do what was needed—help our cooks, who were also snowshoe and ski co-leaders, with meals (the food was terrific!),

Nora and Jane, two of our cooks 
photo by Jeannette Sivertsen, the third cook

keep the fires going in the two wood-burning stoves, 

Mike, keeping the stove going.
                        photo by Jeannette Sivertsen

pull a sled loaded with supplies (or firewood!) up the snowy hill to the lodge,

and anything else that was needed. With only one water heater, our leaders suggested three-minute showers. I didn't hear that anyone ran out of hot water during a shower. 

    Besides being considerate and helpful, Sierra Club outings people are so interesting! Five of the twenty-one of us were originally from different countries—Argentina, Iran, Israel, the Czech Republic, and Hong Kong. Careers ranged widely—a psychiatrist, a personal development consultant, a doctor, tech people, and other interesting occupations. Discussions ranged from books to personal backgrounds to tales of outdoor adventures. 

Mark Chang leading a discussion about protecting winer wildlands

    Leaders of Sierra Club outings always tell participants about environmental issues pertinent to the area. Mark told us about grassroots organizations and alliances dedicated to protection of winter wildlands "for quality human-powered winter recreation"—i.e., no over-snow vehicles (OSVs). In fact, our snowshoers ran into some snowmobilers on a frozen lake they had snowshoed to. Although there are places in the Donner Pass area open to OSV use, this lake, Mark thought, was not one and the snowmobilers probably recreating illegally.

    Before we went out on the first day, Mark talked to us about backcountry ski equipment and safety. The best way to avoid avalanche danger, he said, was to stay out of avalanche territory at dangerous times. The best way not to get lost, he said, was to use a GPS. "Don't depend on following your tracks to get home," he told us. "There are tracks everywhere." In the Cascades of southern Oregon, where I usually ski, I am always confident I can follow my tracks back to the trailhead, but Donner Pass is a very popular area for skiing and snowshoeing ("It's a zoo on the weekends," Mark said), and, yes, there were tracks everywhere. I was glad enough to follow Mark and his GPS every day back to the Hutchinson Lodge, where I was glad, too, for good cooks, a warm fire, good companionship, and a comfortable bunk bed to tumble into for a well-earned, long night's sleep.

Next week: Mushrooms on the Mountain

Backcountry Skiing on Donner Pass: The Skiing

    Four days of backcountry skiing with Mark Chang, I thought last week as I was skiing with him on Donner Pass, was about comparable to hiking 800 miles for my 80th birthday. It was that challenging.

    And so much fun! 

    I had signed up for this Sierra Club trip—Tahoe Ski and Snowshoe Backcountry Adventure, led by Mark Chang—after extensive conversation with him in December about my experience and equipment. It sounded like I could do it. 

    It was not namby-pamby. It was not on groomed trails with set tracks. It was up steep icy hills, with herring-bone steps that tested the strength of my thighs. It was a lot of downhill challenges.

I'm in front. It's steeper than it looks. Photo by Mark Chang

Four to six miles a day. Tight turns on narrow trails through the woods. Creek crossings on snow-bridges. Swift glides over snow-frozen lakes. I fell plenty of times, but Jane, Mark's skiing co-leader, told me I hadn't fallen any more than anyone else. Everyone fell.

Jane and me                     Photo by Mark Chang

    And those gorgeous views of Sierra peaks, snow as far as you could see.

                                                                                Photo by Mark Chang

           The second day we skied up to and over a pass on our way to Peter Grubb hut. Besides the steep climbs, we had one long, steep, dangerous, icy traverse. At the end of it, we stopped for lunch and discussed plans. Mark suggested that instead of going to the hut, we turn uphill to a flat below Castle Peak, then return to the lodge on the Pacific Crest Trail. One of the skiers protested. "It's only ten minutes to the hut," she said, pleadingly. 

    "Ten minutes for you," Mark said. "An hour for Diana."

The second day's skiers, below Castle Peak.     Photo by Mark Chang

    What made it all so glorious? The whoop-de-whoop ups and downs on the Pacific Crest Trail and its serene glides through the forest? Doing better and better herring-bone steps? The views of high Sierra peaks beyond us or of dark blue, white-trimmed Donner Lake below us? Swooping down wide hills, making graceful (or not so graceful) turns?

                                Photo by Mark Chang

Just simply being outdoors in the snow and the incomparable beauties of deep winter on the mountain? Meeting every challenge, one way or another, and coming home exhilarated every afternoon? Just being able to ski in the backcountry? 

    All of it.

    One by one, skiers dropped out to join the snowshoers. On the fourth and last day, Mark said the skiing group would be himself, Jane, and three others—Jennifer and Kate, the two best skiers in the group—and me. I was aghast. What was I thinking to be skiing with those four? But Mark and Jane had skied with me for three days. If they thought I could do it, I wasn't going to take myself out. 

Jennifer, Kate, Mark, me, Jane             photo by Jennifer Halter Baceda

    What a glorious day! I kept up (well enough), and the skiing was magnificent, challenging and beautiful. We stopped, amazed, in front of wind sculptures.

Jennifer, me, Kate, Jane                             Photo by Mark Chang

We stopped next to a group of trees to listen to the tapping rhythms of a woodpecker. We followed bear paw prints, Mama Bear's and Baby Bear's.

                                    photo by Jennifer Halter Baceda

We skied over the smooth surfaces of lakes, down wide hills, up hills and down, on snow bridges across creeks, and, finally, we took off our skis to walk through dank echoing tunnels under the freeway.

          Photo by Jennifer Halter Baceda

    Every afternoon I came back to the lodge more exhilarated than tired. Every morning I clipped my boots into my skis, ready to go again. I came home with blisters on my heels, a bruise on my hip, chapped lips, and a heart full of gratitude—to Mark Chang for leading this trip and to all the companions with whom I shared his backcountry adventure on Donner Pass. 

(from left) Mark, me, and the other skiers.    Photo by Jane Uptegrove

    

Next week: Backcountry Skiing on Donner Pass: The Lodge and the Lodgers