In the rain on Sunday we went hiking down east of Culp Creek, a ways back in the big woods, in the Umpqua National Forest. There is a small primitive campground nestled between Layng Creek and a big hill, and the trail starts in the campground, winds up the hill along the creek (which has some lovely deep pools and cascades, and then drops down on an old logging road that leads to the campground.
Big thick woods and ferns, vine maples, big leaf maples, alder, ash, cedar, hemlock and always the giant firs. Silent stand the sentinel firs. The air was damp and warm, tropical and close, dark woodsy fresh clean air with just a hint of fall approaching. Breezes like cold stream water and droplets of rain falling from leaves kept us cool in our shirt-sleeves hiking through the warm damp woods.
We lived in the woods for two years in a pump house on my uncle's land and sometimes I wish I could return to that cabin on the hill, nothing to see for miles but the hills and forest. We would go for days without seeing any other people. We got a bit wilder. During our walk, I could see some of the ash trees near the top of the ridge have turned to yellow, but it's still a full month away from the spectacular autumn colors that make your toes curl.
We saw two newts along the trail, creeping like sleepwalkers with their three fingers and four toes. They blend perfectly with the forest duff; sort of burnt orange and brown, easily mistaken for a rain-slick leaf or a small soggy stick. We also saw wood snails in their red and black disk shells. We heard the myriad of forest birds, and some small furry mammals hid from us, although the four of us were quiet and hardly talked except to discuss plants and rocks and the creeks.
We listened to the water and the wind in the branches and the rain.
And then L couldn't resist and threw a rock KER-PLUNK into the large black pool of deep water down below the trail.
After two tries he successfully hit a tree branch sticking up at an awkward angle, and S supplied him with two more nice throwing rocks but did not partake in the boy-ness.
S likes mostly to skip stones, not knock the creek dry, and we teased L but he laughed.
We stopped on our way home by Wildwood Falls, a county park along Lower Brice Creek Rd, designated by the locals a Corona bottle and cigarette-butts kind of swimming hole. I would not swim there but then I don't like Corona or cigarettes. I don't know why people seem incapable of picking up their trash. Lazy asses. It is a shame. Even with the litter it is a beautiful place.
A massive hunk of basalt has been eroded into a highly polished river channel, over which a waterfall churns and drops spectacularly into a huge cauldron. The water is low now, but it is still too deep and black to see the bottom.
We all rode quietly home. There is little difference between the high canopy of the forest and the deep bottom of a mountain plunge pool.
Big thick woods and ferns, vine maples, big leaf maples, alder, ash, cedar, hemlock and always the giant firs. Silent stand the sentinel firs. The air was damp and warm, tropical and close, dark woodsy fresh clean air with just a hint of fall approaching. Breezes like cold stream water and droplets of rain falling from leaves kept us cool in our shirt-sleeves hiking through the warm damp woods.
We lived in the woods for two years in a pump house on my uncle's land and sometimes I wish I could return to that cabin on the hill, nothing to see for miles but the hills and forest. We would go for days without seeing any other people. We got a bit wilder. During our walk, I could see some of the ash trees near the top of the ridge have turned to yellow, but it's still a full month away from the spectacular autumn colors that make your toes curl.
We saw two newts along the trail, creeping like sleepwalkers with their three fingers and four toes. They blend perfectly with the forest duff; sort of burnt orange and brown, easily mistaken for a rain-slick leaf or a small soggy stick. We also saw wood snails in their red and black disk shells. We heard the myriad of forest birds, and some small furry mammals hid from us, although the four of us were quiet and hardly talked except to discuss plants and rocks and the creeks.
We listened to the water and the wind in the branches and the rain.
And then L couldn't resist and threw a rock KER-PLUNK into the large black pool of deep water down below the trail.
After two tries he successfully hit a tree branch sticking up at an awkward angle, and S supplied him with two more nice throwing rocks but did not partake in the boy-ness.
S likes mostly to skip stones, not knock the creek dry, and we teased L but he laughed.
We stopped on our way home by Wildwood Falls, a county park along Lower Brice Creek Rd, designated by the locals a Corona bottle and cigarette-butts kind of swimming hole. I would not swim there but then I don't like Corona or cigarettes. I don't know why people seem incapable of picking up their trash. Lazy asses. It is a shame. Even with the litter it is a beautiful place.
A massive hunk of basalt has been eroded into a highly polished river channel, over which a waterfall churns and drops spectacularly into a huge cauldron. The water is low now, but it is still too deep and black to see the bottom.
We all rode quietly home. There is little difference between the high canopy of the forest and the deep bottom of a mountain plunge pool.
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