If Wandering speaks to your spirit of the moment, I offer a few more bits. (See Wandering and the Gift of Time if you missed it.)

As experienced hikers know, early June in Oregon‘s high country means lots of snow, raging creeks and rivers, and mosquitoes in the lower meadows and forests. Russ and I know all this: our big backpack adventures with our kids nearly always happened in August. Also true this time of year is the joy of spotting nature’s earliest wildflowers, imagining how within weeks meadows will sport pockets of reds and pinks and yellows and purples. Shared below are most of these first flowers we spotted. I feel a bit like I’m back in Dr. Miller’s botany class, so feel free to let me know if you have an identification correction!

Although I grew up occasionally seeing aspen trees, it wasn’t until I was enrolled in the University of Montana Wilderness and Civilization Program‘s fall two week hike across the Bob Marshall Wilderness did I notice thir full autumn sparkling glory. Aspen extensive underground root systems allow them to form clonal groves. And although it makes me think of Willamette Valley’s trillium, which also grow by root systems, the latter grow from rhizomes rather than suckers.

Like many, I have become more cautious as I age, although I was never reckless even in my youth. As a kid in our early backpacking adventures, I loved navigating creeks and lakes. Our trip this week was challenged at several creek crossings. This time of year, be prepared for bridges to be washed out – in some cases, we wondered how many years they’ve been gone? Those crossings difficult when the spring flow is running, different than August’s trickle. Oh, and note to self: as we found with Big Sheep Creek, the water volume can increase substantially within just a few hours as snow melts. During our hike in I felt we were pushing it as the water hit the bottom of my shorts. Hiking out a mere five hours later, it neared my waist. Thank goodness for good lower body strength, poles, and a helping hand from Russ. I was smart enough to keep my boots on for that final crossing.

Oh, and about those mosquitoes? I refuse to let them damper my trip. Clothing, rarely bug juice, and when really dire and you want to read but don’t want to get into the tent, protect all skin and add your own manual ventilation system.

About fires…while our very old guide book mentioned one more than twenty years ago, the burns we passed indicated one to roar through recently. Upon our return, I confirmed a Sheep Creek Fire just this past October. And while I understand the importance of fire to the normal health of our forests, I too fear the climate change (and civilization) induced fire impacts of our current time.

Snce a blog from me isn’t complete without some reference to the synchronicity of connection, think we might have found anything in common with the only two folks we saw in our three days at Indian Crossing Campground? Ed Wolff and his dog Lucille were visiting the Wallowas for the first time from Stevensville Montana. He is an artist and has published several books. Imagine that! Cyclist Dave came from Colorado and of course, Russ was happy to compare map notes. Oh, and he commented on being in the almost-choosing-retirement-stage, recognizing how projects that once interested him now have less appeal. Hmm, think we had anything to talk about?

Oh, those Wallowas! We adored having our hidden campground and trails to ourselves for a few days on the less popular southern side. As we neared Joseph and Wallowa Lake, even if the crowds are not nearly what we might find in other tourist areas, we still felt the swarm of people. And yes, the views from the NE end are outrageous but we weren’t yet ready for a crowded brewery, views from the gondola or motorized vehicles. We took in a few views and slowly took our leave. Another trip.

I was grateful to have left a bit of Mom at many of the most beautiful spots during our week in the Wallowas. Our final night camping, I wrapped myself in her favorite fleece blanket, tucked within my own sleeping bag, while during the day I carried her daypack. It is no surprise that I dreamed of her that night: in my dream I spied her in a restaurant. I laughed, cried and held her tight. It is no surprise that she is one I feel in these beautiful places.

As we drove home through the Grande Ronde Valley, memories returned from my barely teen self from so long ago.

For the first time since those long ago days of living in LaGrande, we drove up the driveway to that house I did learn to adore after being pried away from the Willamette River, the only house then built below Rooster Peak. It took me a bit to find our old and fully remodeled home amid a development of ten or so others. And yet, I still remembered those long ago days, with the reminder that we can’t ever fully return to our homes of our past.

Although I read Ann Patchett’s The Dutch House when it first came out, I am now listening to the Tom Hanks narrated audiobook. While the Dutch House storyline is more compelling than my own; my teenage self still feels the trauma – devastated to move from the wildness of the Grande Ronde to the busy-ness of Southwest Portland. Enough years have passed now, that I am filled with a lovely sentimentality of all that I have been gifted.

In case you missed it:

My Books
Wandering and the Gift of Time
Teach our Children Well: A Story About Trillium