A Moody Rainier

Conservationist John Muir wrote, "Of all the alpine gardens I ever beheld in all my mountaintop wanderings," Mount Rainier displayed "the most beautiful alpine gardens I have seen anywhere in the world." He must have been describing October before the first snowfall in Mount Rainier National Park. Meadows surrounding the peak blended expanses of red, orange, gold, rust and beige in an artist's palette of earthy colors. The deep greens and browns of Douglas firs and cedars edged the craggy gray of the snow-capped peak, and every turn of the road opened a view more breath-taking than the last. With almost all the facilities of the national park closed, we opted for the overlooks and a couple short trails: Box Canyon with views of Silver Falls, Narada Falls and Paradise Gardens.
In four short hours, the mountain changed her moods.
"She seems melancholy," I noticed early this morning, watching billows of white fog swirl at the summit as we drove inland from Seattle.
"It could change," said Andy. "That's warmer air hitting the snow."
He pointed to patches of blue sky peeking through at mid-morning. "I can't get over how warm it still feels or how many people there are at Paradise."
"I have on lighter clothes today than yesterday, and I 'm a lot more comfortable. I was freezing in Seattle. It's definitely warmer here at 5,400 feet," I told him.
"I never planned to come to Rainier," he said. "Most years the mountain is snowed in by late September. At least that's when the lodges and trails close down. And this? Not a bit of snow anywhere except on the peak itself. This is unbelievable."
By noon Rainer's mood shifted to one of sheer joy. Occasional feathery clouds moved over the summit and surfed down the glaciers. Soon all trace of the fog dissipated, exposing a robin's egg sky. The white peak glistened in the sun. "It almost looks like the mountain is smiling," I told Andy.
"Did you get to see the top?" asked niece Kari later in the evening as we chatted during dinner in Olympia. "We had one glimpse after it rained all day during a field trip a couple weeks ago." She had accompanied a graduate class from Evergreen State College to the mountain in her elective study of sustainable forests. "Late in the afternoon of our field trip we yelled, 'Stop the van,' because we had not seen the top all day in the rain. The peak was totally hidden, but we caught one sad glimpse."
"I think that's just the moods of the mountain," I told Andy later.

Coffee And...

From what I understand, October in Seattle is already the rainy season... or at least the beginning of it. So either we are very lucky or someone upstairs wished us well. As we drove from SEA-TAC airport area toward downtown, the frosty dew on the windshield melted and the fog lifted. Dressed in sweatshirts and jeans, we walked the city:

1. Pike Place Public Market, as the fish and flower stalls opened, and again around 11 a.m. as tourists collected to browse through city blocks of jewelry stalls and pastry stands, and again around 2 p.m. when the locals sampled jerky and fresh fruits and vegetables.

2. Klondike Gold Rush Museum National Park about ten blocks south, with a film and history displays about the old Cadillac Hotel, the starting place for thousands who sought their fortunes in the Klondike of the 1890's.

3. The first Starbucks just across from the marketplace for coffee and some Pike Market goodies.

4. The Olympic Sculpture Park about seven blocks north, with its intermingling of art and live plants.

5. The waterfront from Pier 50 to Pier 66 and its teeming throngs of ferry passengers along the Alaskan Way.

"Do you think we walked five miles?" I asked Andy.

"I'll say easily seven," he answered, "and I'm amazed at the crowds. Remember, years ago one of your relatives told us Seattle people take advantage of good weather when it comes? That's why I think we are seeing so many people out on the streets."

We drove 25 miles north to Woodenville and the Chateau Michelle Winery before the 5 p.m. closing. Here too, groups of friends gathered outdoors around small tables, appreciating the sunny skies. All the travel brochures advertised the mansion and manicured grounds as the oldest winery in Washington state with free tastings of quality vintages. Beautiful it was, but not free. A relaxing and elegant stop, we roamed the grounds and browsed through the wine shop before tackling the going-home crowds on the freeways.

Forests and Falls

"Pretty hard to believe that this was a forest," I told Andy as we climbed the hillside at Ginkgo Petrified Forest in Washington. Huge petrified stumps of elm, maple, spruce, ginkgo and walnut trees were encased in metal gratings below ground next to the trail. Otherwise, scrub sagebrush covered the hillside. A class of university-age students gathered around one specimen. A mustached man explained and pointed. "Probably a college geology class," I guessed.

"Maybe from one of the local schools," he said.

"Yup, because high school kids wouldn't come on a Saturday."

"They would for extra credit," he offered.

"Nope. Not that big a group. They even look interested."
"Oh," said Andy later, suddenly jolting the steering wheel right so quickly that I looked up from the pages of McCann's Let the Great World Spin; the momentary burst of adrenalin jerked me to attention. "Just look at that!" he added, tilting his head as he drove. We pulled into the rest stop. There ahead of us the gigantic peak of Mount Rainier, totally white with snow, stood high above the horizon. In front of us the Wild Horse Wind Facility provided a rest stop for travelers, but the windmills stood silent, every single one of them. "This is expensive electric," Andy explained. "The company only uses the wind power when they don't have enough cheaper hydro power."
Cruising through the Cascades, we marveled at the colors, but the leaves on many aspen trees were still green. "This is the last place we could have hit snow," said Andy, "and look at it." A brilliant sun lit up the south face of the peaks, with the deeper valleys in shadow as the road dipped. Everything was deep rich green. Here and there craggy rock peaks broke the surface. "Lots of fog, drizzle and rain here at times," said Andy. "Not a fun place to be in bad weather, but predictions for the next five days are for clear skies." Several times we stepped out of Little Red to snap pictures. The cool air felt crisp and fresh.

Probably 200 cars lined up and battled for parking at Snoqualmie Falls, a spectacular scene of falling water in between the bobbing heads. "What did I say yesterday about being alone at places?" asked Andy. He quickly added, "But I'm not complaining. We couldn't expect much less near the big city, and I love the way they have preserved the huge trees... everywhere." Seattle, our destination for the day, was within sight. Gigantic old trees reached for the sky on every residential street, with Puget Sound reflecting the sunset just beyond.

Repeat Performance

A fifty-mile circle took us south of Spokane through rich farmlands of winter wheat, with a stop at Steptoe Battlefield, one of the last clashes in the Indian wars, all the way to Steptoe Butte State Park, a national geologic landmark. On foot we followed the road from the lower parking lot to the top of Steptoe Butte. At 3,620 feet, the world was at our feet. Freezing winds whipped our ears, but we could see at least 30 miles in every direction.

"You know what I like best?" asked Andy. "We've been to some incredible places and often there is no one there."

Alone at the top, we watched swallows dip and climb and dive. A falcon shot up from a wheat field and disappeared from view behind a rock outcropping. Everywhere patchwork shapes of tans and browns and greens and grays blanketed the panorama. Casting shadows in the morning sun, the nearby hillocks darkened surrounding terrain. Andy read the sign. He explained, "This is rich because windblown soil has been carried here for thousands of years." The butte is a remnant of a volcanic age 15 million years ago. Then glaciers scraped the land. Now the dips and mounds of rich silt are as much as 200 feet deep. "Just look at how black it is," he said. We drove down Steptoe Butte Road, a one-lane asphalt path from the sky.

Closer to Coeur d'Alene, smoke billowed from burning fields. No sirens. No whistles. No bells. Apparently the Indians on the Coeur d'Alene Reservation burn the cut fields to plow the ash back into the soil.

The circle drive put us back in Coeur d'Alene by noon. This time we found a city park two-mile peninsula trail around the point. The path skirted the edge of the rock and ducked back in among the trees with spectacular views of the lake.

"Oh, are you coming out here?" called Andy from one of the side trails that led to a rock island just off shore.

"I'm coming down," I called back, "but probably not out. You know my track record. I'd fall in."

He hopped around the rocks as I picked my way, camera in hand, down the edge of the cliff to the water. "Be careful you don't slip," I called out as he started back across the water. No sooner had I said it, than the rock he stepped to shifted. Andy ended up with one foot in Coeur d'Alene Lake. "At least you can say you went in the water!" I teased.

Back in Spokane, the last arc of our circle tour, we stopped at two wineries: Latah Creek Winery and Gift Shop and Arbor Crest Wine Cellars. "He won't let me shop," I told the owner at Latah Creek, after the three of us had visited for half an hour. "There isn't room in the Saturn for packages." But the wine we purchased from her after our samplings will make a special evening treat. We even acknowledged John Steinbeck when she mentioned she had had a poodle named Charley.

Like last night, we spent the pre-dusk hours walking the streets of downtown Spokane with its shopping mall, creative statues, exhibition areas, extensive city park and breathtaking waterfalls... a repeat performance that would never be tiresome.

Sunny Days, Smooth Sailing

"Coming out of Helena into the mountains yesterday was absolutely beautiful," said Andy as we drove toward Idaho, "and now this morning from Missoula is equally spectacular. How did we ever schedule such gorgeous weather?"

Douglas fir trees blanketed slope after slope as we snaked along the Regis River through the Bitterroot Range. "I don't see very many dead pine trees here either," I told him.

"That's because these aren't lodgepole pine. They aren't affected by the beetle. We've gone more than 5,000 miles, and this is the most trees we have seen in one place since we left West Virginia," he added.

Accented with golden aspen along the river, the deep green mountainsides piled layer on layer at every bend in the road. We turned off the GPS and left I-90 at White Pine Scenic Byway, following the Coeur d'Alene River. Logging trucks zipped past at 50 m.p.h. near Cave Lake, leaning right and left around the curves. Then Coeur d'Alene Lake came into view between the pines. Every turn offered glimpses of sparkling blue waters.

"Some of the houses are huge," I said to Andy as we drove the entire lake road. "I'm only disappointed that so much of it is private. It would be nice to stroll along the lake."

Coeur d'Alene City Park provided the opportunity for a walk along the shore. There, a couple from LA took pictures for us with the bronze statue of Mudgy the Moose and Millie the Mouse. We strolled along the floating boardwalk, climbed the bridge, walked through the hotel gardens and watched the few boats still out on the lake. Later Lynn, a volunteer at the visitor center, told us about her return to this beautiful resort Mecca from Florida and North Carolina.

Sadly, hundreds of For Sale signs marked houses and lots on both sides of the road as it wound in and out of the trees around the lake. "With the market down and real estate worth less, people can't afford second homes," said Andy.

Nowhere has this been more apparent in our travels than here at Coeur d'Alene Lake.

Traffic mounted as we approached Spokane mid-afternoon. Temperatures in the high 70's at dinnertime gave us a chance to walk downtown in shirtsleeves to see the waterfalls. It was a sunny day on the water from Montana to Washington.

Ghosts of Bannack and Big Hole

One month and 4,975 miles ago, we climbed into Little Red and left home. Early this morning, bundled in sweatshirts and jackets, we left Dillon, Montana, and clambered out of the Saturn in Bannack, Montana's first territorial capital, a gold mining boom town from 1862, that has been preserved rather than restored and protected rather than exploited. I had never heard of it, or I just didn't remember my American history very well.

Andy looked at it as potential job retraining, classroom style, when he posed at a desk in the classroom.
Alone for nearly three hours, we walked the deserted hard-packed streets and let ourselves into frame buildings, as stately as the two-story Hotel Meade and as dingy and tumbledown as the bachelor miner's one-room cabin. We could almost hear the shots ring out as claimants vied for fortune or the screams as Vigilantes of 1863 hanged elected sheriff Henry Plummer or the cries of babies quarantined in the Bessette House during the early 1900's outbreak of scarlet fever.

"I'll bet this ghost town is inhabited by ghosts from the past," I told Andy.

Fascinated, we read every entry, a history not covered in many classrooms.

Equally as moving in a very different way, Big Hole National Battlefield, about 70 miles west of Bannack, shows the ruthless treatment by white men of the Nez Perce. Here, in a tragic turning point of what came to be called the Nez Perce War of 1877, about 90 American Indians, mostly women and children, were shot indiscriminately by U.S. Army troops under Col. John Gibbon. After an inadvertent shot by a civilian, Gibbon's men attacked the sleeping tribe before dawn when Katalekin went out to check his horses. The battle that followed prompted Chief Joseph's flight toward Canada with his tribe and his eventual surrender, a sad and inhumane chapter in American history.

All This Way in That

"We're heading south and it's getting colder," I pointed out as we left Helena this morning.

"Makes illogical sense," said Andy. "We're going up in elevation."

A sign on I-15 read, "Watch for Wildlife" and then in small letters "next 28 miles." The road snaked along Boulder River, curling between 6,000-foot hills. Here and there slides of loose rock marked the existence of old mines, and ten miles out of Helena the valley opened up with a ranch or two nestled far back from the road. Lonely country.

"Butte looks a lot better than it did when we were here years ago," I told Andy.

"Disaster," he said. "Ecological disaster... the mine and the town."
The Berkeley Pit Visitor Center was closed for the season, but tourists were allowed free access to the observation deck.

"It used to be Anaconda," explained Andy. "Anaconda went bankrupt. I don't know who owns it now." The East Pit reopened in 2003, because the price of copper went way up.

"I remember that pit having a little water in and around it in all colors, from greenish to deep red and rusty orange," I said. "I thought then it looked like death."

Now the pit is a huge lake, and a water treatment plant pumps away on the opposite shore. Designed to operate in some form for eternity, it cleans water draining into the pit. By 2018 the water in the pit, with a current pH of 2.5 like vinegar, will reach the ground water in Butte, potentially contaminating it. In addition, there are natural metals that have leeched into the water that make it toxic. One of those is arsenic.

"Anaconda operated pumps that kept the pit water-free when they were mining the copper," explained Andy. "When Anaconda went bankrupt, there was no money to keep the pumps operating and no reason to keep the water out of the hole. No one really thought about the ramifications until it was too late."

"Big business," I thought.

"The old part of town is depressing," said Andy, "but there are lots of new houses and the mine is operating. Butte is not dying apparently."

As we turned onto Route 287 toward Virginia City, Andy said, "You know, it's really pretty here." The valley stretched golden and rich between black hills silhouetted on each side. "And they don't have any casinos," he added.

We strolled the main street of the old gold mining town, peeking in windows and snapping pictures of the tourist attraction, now closed down for the season. Virginia City, largest of nine boom towns, attracted the get-rich-quick miners of the 1800's.

A few miles farther down the road, Nevada City attracted one or two other carloads of travelers. During the tourist season, the old gold mining town draws the curious. Charles Sue Bovey began collecting old buildings in the 1940's and placed his first structure in the dying town in 1959, four years after the last residents moved out. Since then Nevada City has become a haven for endangered structures, collected from all over Montana.
Beaverhead Rock, a geological landmark for ancient people, marked the course for Lewis and Clark, as well. And, as the light faded and the wind picked up, Clark's Lookout, now a Montana State Park, offered us a quick overview of the surroundings, just as it provided a lookout for William Clark so many years ago.

When we pulled into the motel this evening, the host glanced outside at Little Red and commented, "You came all this way in that?"

"Sure enough," said Andy. "Sure enough."