Even before I arrived in Spokane in 2013, there were two places I vowed to visit. One of them – the Route of the Hiawatha in Idaho, a spectacular 15-mile-long bike trail through old train tunnels and trestles – remains on hold as I envision, with dread, those 200-foot-high trestles. The other place – Lake Chelan – my husband and I went to in 2016.

My plunge pool, Lake Chelan

Birth of a beanpole lake:

Located in northcentral Washington, long and narrow Lake Chelan slices through 51 miles of low-lying arid hills to the south and well-watered mountains to the north. Like much of the region, it was carved by glacial ice some 17,000 years ago. Two separate glaciers – the longer and deeper upper Lucerne Basin and the lower Wapato Basin – formed the lake. Today they are connected by a relatively shallow, constricted stretch of water known as The Narrows. The Lucerne portion is deep, one of the deepest lake gorges in the world: its water here drops more than a thousand feet to almost 400 feet below sea level.

A deep notch:

Early indigenous groups undoubtedly looked at the sloping terrain and estimated the lake’s great depths: the name ‘Chelan’ comes from a Salish dialect word meaning ‘deep water’ or ‘deep notch.’ Small communities of semi-nomadic tribes had resided around the southern banks of the lake for thousands of years, fishing, hunting, gathering foods, and trading with other inland and coastal tribes. One of their trading paths led from an upper corner of the lake into the North Cascades. They named the place Stehekin, which means ‘the way through.’

The drowning of a hotel:

In the late 1800s miners trickled into the region, particularly along the upper portion of the lake, in search of precious metals. Several mines showed promise. Early settlers established hotels and rooming houses at the lower edge of the lake, today’s town of Chelan, and the upper edge around Stehekin. In the late 1920s a dam was built across the Chelan River, which connects the lake to the Columbia. This raised the water level 21 feet. One of the submerged casualties of the dam was the Field Hotel in Stehekin, an elegant resort known far and wide for its world-class decor.

What we didn’t see:

On our visit to the lake, we went directly to Stehekin. No roads reach the village, and travelers arrive by Lady of the Lake boats. For us, that meant four hours up on the regular boat and two and three-quarter hours back on the express. Spectacular views and interesting conversations with fellow travelers made the rides seem shorter.  Other stops along the lake we saved for another visit — recreational beaches at Chelan, where the water is warmer; local golf courses; renowned apple orchards; dozens of lovely vineyards; Manson, an artsy village on the bay northwest of Chelan, home to several artisan wineries; and Holden Village, halfway up the lake to the west, a former copper mine, now a Lutheran retreat and a near-casualty of the 2015 Wolverine Creek Fire.

North to Stehekin:

Near the lodge, Stehekin

At a point where it seems the lake will never end and mountains soar in jagged majesty, the boat turned into the village of Stehekin. A couple of docks; narrow strips of coastline; shops and stores around the North Cascades Lodge; and assorted other homes and buildings are scattered on wooded grounds sloping up from the lake. Some 85 residents live in or near the village year-round. We stayed overnight at the lodge in a comfortably rustic room with a partial water view.

The old school, Stehekin Valley

Stehekin is not upscale, but it does offer a lot to the outdoor enthusiast.  A visitor center provides talks and information. There are bicycles, kayaks, and horses for rent; bus tours to various places of interest; and hikes along the lakes and into the mountains, including two that take you along the Pacific Crest Trail System.

We spent an afternoon walking along a road through Stehekin Valley, stopping at the popular Stehekin Pastry Company, an old one-room schoolhouse, and the 312-foot Rainbow Falls. In the morning I put on a swimsuit, grabbed a towel, and found my own little plunge pool, where I braved the lake’s 50-plus-degree water and took a (very) short swim.

Next time, we will stay longer.

In my last blog, I voted the Great Northern Clock Tower as Spokane’s most iconic structure. Among the runners-up was the Episcopal Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist, without doubt one of the city’s great landmarks. The church doesn’t merely sit on a bluff overlooking downtown Spokane. It soars over 150 feet above the city, a Gothic creation of tower, spires, stained glass windows, and gable roofs pointing the way to the heavens. I’ve visited the church several times, for concerts, bazaars, and services. There’s definitely a spiritual grandeur here. Recently, I decided to take a closer look, though the cathedral website, brochures, and a personal tour.

A bit of history:

In addition to its function as the seat of the Episcopal Diocese of eastern Washington and northern Idaho, the cathedral figures prominently in the storied history of Spokane. In the 1920s Spokane was the wealthy urban hub of the Inland Northwest. The Episcopal bishop at the time wanted an equally prominent church: three congregations united, and construction on the cathedral began. By 1929 the part of the church closest to Grand Avenue, the nave, was completed, but  the Depression and World War II put a stop on further construction. A wall closed off the unfinished portion of the building, and for almost two decades parishioners worshipped in that small space. On my personal tour of the cathedral, I learned an interesting fact: During the war, city officials, fearing the sparkling stained glass windows might attract enemy planes to Spokane, directed the windows to be blacked out. To this day, those windows remain darker than others installed after the war. In 1948, work began again, and by 1961 the cathedral as we know it was completed.

Who is St. John the Evangelist?

St. John the Evangelist, also referred to as John the Apostle, is considered one of the disciples closest to Jesus. An important figure in the Jerusalem church after Jesus died, he is thought to be the only apostle to live to old age. Most Christian churches believe he wrote the Gospel of John, the Epistles of John, and the Book of Revelation. To me, his verses about the word becoming flesh and the light coming into the world in the first chapter of the Gospel of John are among the most hauntingly beautiful in the Bible.

Architecture:

St. John’s is one of few classic Gothic cathedrals found in the U.S. When viewed from above, the building forms the shape of a Latin cross, with a central nave, a sanctuary, and two transepts, all of which come together in a central space, called the crossing, under the main tower. It is of solid masonry – stone from Washington, sandstone from Idaho, and limestone from Indiana. Intricate carvings in both wood and stone celebrate various aspects of Christianity – the pulpit carvings highlight five great preachers, including John the Baptist; and the lectern features Martin Luther and three other biblical scholars.

Stained glass windows:

Perhaps most spiritually dazzling are the stained glass windows. Beautiful works of art in their own right, they also visually represent important events in the life of Christ as well as major figures of the Old and New Testaments, the history of the Christian Church, and even religious events in the Inland Northwest. The breathtaking Gothic West Rose Window above the main entrance is named for its round shape and stone tracery that suggests petals. The theme for each window was decided at the time the cathedral was designed. There remain several windows filled with simple glass colors that await generous donors to fund their completion.

Music:

The massive cathedral organ consists of an elaborate console and over 4,000 pipes. Combined with the cathedral’s fine acoustics, it is one of the premier places to hear organ music in the Inland Northwest.

In addition, a carillon was installed in the cathedral tower in 1969. For those who don’t know, a carillon is a set of fixed chromatically tuned bells sounded by hammers controlled by a keyboard. The one at St. John’s has 49 cast bells, weighing from 17 to 5,000 pounds, with a four-octave range. The bells are played before worship services and on special occasions.

There’s more:

The cathedral building sprawls beyond the main house of worship, with three smaller chapels, rooms where parishioners gather, and a columbarium, a structure for storing funeral urns. Located outside, it is shaped to resemble a simple chapel and is surrounded by a meditation garden with a view across the city to mountains in the distance.

At the end of my tour and my research, St. John’s reminds me that humans, able to commit their share of harmful acts, can also create works of great majesty, hope and optimism.

When my husband and I arrived in Washington State from Puerto Rico, I took up finishing a long-abandoned novel, The Irony of Tree Ferns. Most of the novel takes place in Puerto Rico during World War II, but part of it needed a contemporary U.S. setting. Why not the Inland Northwest? I eventually decided to locate the contemporary part in Coeur d’Alene. Those who knew I was writing the book asked why I didn’t locate it in Spokane, where I live.  The answer has to do with the Christmas lights at the Coeur d’Alene Resort.

A mini adventure:

My first Christmas in Spokane, one of my daughters and I decided to drive to Coeur d’Alene to see the advertised million and a half lights at the Coeur d’Alene Resort. We’re both suckers for the magic of Christmas lights. Though there was no snow at the time, it nevertheless seemed a rather scary undertaking – driving through bitter cold and darkness to navigate a city I didn’t know. We exited at Northwest Boulevard and drove past darkened buildings and shopping centers, many of them etched in holiday lights. One final curve in the road, and we looked out on a black Lake Coeur d’Alene and the resort’s trees and buildings lit up in fairy tale splendor.

The boardwalk:

Illuminated holiday figures — from Santa and his sleigh to nutcrackers as well as whimsical dragons and other creatures — line the resort boardwalk. The wood walkway wraps around the resort marina, and, at almost three quarters of a mile, is dubbed the longest floating boardwalk in the world. At one point a sixty-foot-long bridge arches above the lake where boats enter and exit the marina. The boardwalk is open to the public free of charge year-round. In the summer, visitors think of getting in the water; at Christmastime, they content themselves with oohing and aahing at the colorful displays that brighten the surrounding darkness.

The epiphany:

As my daughter and I observed the lake and the lights, I realized that, if I squinted my eyes and ignored the fifty-degree difference in temperatures, I could imagine I was back in Puerto Rico, looking out over the ocean and the equally festive lights of San Juan at Christmastime.  That is what decided me to set the contemporary part of the novel in Coeur d’Alene.

The passage:

Here is an excerpt from the as-yet-unpublished novel:

However, my favorite time on the balcony [of a home in Coeur d’Alene] occurs in early winter, when cold air bites at the skin and snow hasn’t yet whitened the landscape. Settled into a deck chair, dressed in boots, jacket, mittens and hat, wrapped in a blanket, I take in the lake’s shadows. The water, silent and black as the inside of a cave, stretches far beyond my vision. Hills and evergreens fuse into a uniform charcoal gray, and stars form frozen specks in a pitch-colored sky. Tiny lights pinpoint homes and add festive cheer to a lakeside resort.

             If I look long enough into the darkness, the shadows transform. The lake no longer looks like a lake, but like a bay facing a vast ocean. The pines become palm trees and seagrapes, silhouetted against a graphite sky. Even the Arctic blasts lessen to velvety breezes.

            I’m back in the Caribbean, searching for answers about Laura Morrison.

Have a wonderful holiday season.

Several months ago, Out There Outdoors published a call for short prose pieces for an outdoor/environmental writing contest hosted by Get Lit, Out There, and The Spokesman-Review.  For a week or so I thought about what I would write if I were to write a piece for the contest, then decided to write it—researching facts, cramming them into a 750-word limit, polishing, and submitting the finished product. Several weeks later, Get Lit informed me I’d won the contest, and on August 11 the piece appeared in the Sunday Spokesman-Review. Titled “The Vanishing Lake,” it can be read through the following link: S-R outdoor writing contest winner. Here’s how the piece came about:

Pacific Lake

A necklace of lakes

Coffeepot Lake

In 2016, friends told me about a nice kayaking lake in the channeled scablands west of Spokane. The name – Coffeepot – intrigued me, and my husband and I drove out there in late spring. Found off Highway 2, the lake is one of numerous mirage-like bodies of water, remnants of Ice Age floods, that have settled in the curves of basalt cliffs in arid east-central Washington. Coffeepot itself forms part of a necklace of small lakes, northeast of the town of Odessa, that are fed by a creek which is in turn fed by winter run-off. The Coffeepot recreational area has a boat ramp, vault toilet, and picnic tables, and my husband and I enjoyed a warm sunny day of kayaking. A year later we opted to try Twin Lakes, northeastern neighbor of Coffeepot and set in the same dry canyon. Back-to-back shallow slivers of water give these two lakes their name.

One door closes

Coffeepot Lake

As we drove down a rough road to the lakes’ recreational area on a sunny day in May, a number of people were setting up for what looked like a large picnic gathering.  A man approached us and explained that within a couple of hours the area would be buzzing with people from several Native American tribes participating in a ceremonial gathering of biscuitroot, followed by a barbecue lunch. We were welcome to stay, the man told us, but perhaps it would not be the quiet day we’d envisioned …

What is biscuitroot?

Cous biscuitroot, courtesy Paul Slichter

Biscuitroot is a plant native to the hardscrabble dry land of western North America. Perfectly adapted to harsh conditions, it grows primarily in the relatively wet spring months, then seeds and dries up, lying dormant until water returns the following spring. There are numerous species of biscuitroot, many of which are difficult to differentiate: the most common in the area of Twin Lakes is Canby’s biscuitroot (Lomatium canbyi) with small ball-shaped roots. Also known as cous, the roots have been gathered by Native Americans for centuries and prepared as a bread-like staple in their diet. The nineteenth-century explorers Lewis and Clark acquired a taste for the cous flat cakes they called chapellel. The explorers did not gather the roots themselves because another local plant with a similar appearance is highly poisonous; instead, they depended on the superior skills of tribal women foragers. These and other interesting facts about biscuitroot can be found in the chapter “A Taste for Roots” in Jack Nisbet’s book, Ancient Places.

Another door opens

The vanishing lake: back again

We talked with the man at Twin Lakes for a bit, and he asked if we’d heard about Pacific Lake. Responding to our blank faces, he told us of a lake to the southwest, another jewel in the local necklace, just north of Odessa. For some fifteen years it had been a dry bed of cracked earth, weeds, and occasional crops, but after the heavy snows of the previous winter, the basalt amphitheater had refilled. A lake that had died had come back to life. A true renascence.

We thanked the man for the news and took off to see for ourselves this miracle of nature.

I enjoy swimming, and my ears pick up at the mere mention of water. Shortly after arriving in Spokane, I heard snippets of conversation about a place called Natatorium Park. ‘Natatorium,’ with its Latin origins, is a fancy word for a swimming pool, usually indoors. I asked around and learned it was in fact a park with an indoor pool that had closed long ago. For some reason, it seemed important to know exactly where it had been. East or west of the Spokane River? North or south of the city? Close or far away? In my search to find the location, I found quite a bit more. And, thanks to the Internet, one afternoon I stepped back in time and enjoyed the marvelous Natatorium Park.

Shoot the Chutes, courtesy PdxHistory.com

In the beginning:

Two articles, one from The Spokesman-Review and the other from Go to Spokane Magazine, present interesting overviews of the park and its history. It all began in 1887 with the simple creation of a family park for picnics on a loop of land on the banks of the Spokane River across from today’s Spokane Falls Community College [aha: east of the river and north of the city]. Two years later, a street car line crossed the river at Monroe and headed west on Boone, ending at the picnic area. The area became known as Twickenham Park and soon included a baseball diamond with grandstands and a hotel/casino. It was one of many trolley parks in vogue at the time, parks created at the end of a line to encourage trolley riders.

Though I now knew how to get to the former park, I kept researching.

In 1892, the owners of the park and trolley, now the Washington Water Power Company, built an indoor swimming pool, its water heated to a nippy 75 degrees F. The name Natatorium Park—reduced to Nat Park over the years—stuck.

A Coney Island of the Inland Northwest:

Looff Carousel

In order to keep riders coming back on the trolley, improvements were constantly made. Nat Park became a Coney Island of the Inland Northwest. There were natural attractions: landscaped gardens, a lily pond, picnic areas, an ornate fountain. And wonderful, surprisingly innovative amusement rides: the Jack Rabbit wooden rollercoaster, said to be the fastest in existence at the time; Ye Old Mill, a boat ride through a tunnel featuring such scenes as a Japanese flower garden, Eskimos in the frozen north, and a small live orchestra; Shoot the Chutes, a boat that was pulled up a 100-foot-high ramp and let go into a pool of water; and the Looff Carousel. It was built by Charles Looff, who also built the carousel at Coney Island. He presented it as a wedding gift to his daughter, Emma, and her husband, Louis Vogel, who worked at and eventually owned Natatorium Park. There were also performers: Jerry Lee Lewis, Fats Domino, Babe Ruth, The Grand Old Oprey, and of course, Bing Crosby, among many others.

Decline and demise:

After World War II, with the decline of trolleys and other forms of public transportation and the rise of automobiles, people had wider choices of entertainment. The earlier throngs of visitors dwindled, maintenance suffered, and rides closed. In 1962 Vogel sold the park to the Shriners, who tried, unsuccessfully, to keep it going. In 1968, the park was permanently closed. All attractions except for the Looff Carousel were burned or carted away into obscurity. Eventually the site became a trailer park which went by another fancy name—San Souci, French for ‘carefree.’

My virtual afternoon at the park:

Virtual Jack Rabbit

Way led onto way in my Internet Natatorium search, and I stumbled on two more excellent sites that offered me a chance to spend time in the park. First stop: PdxHistory.com. Here, beautiful colorized postcards of the different attractions, enjoyed by visitors dressed in their Sunday best, are interspersed with detailed descriptions and historical notes. Second stop: Nat Park website. A great place for Nat park aficionados, it has photos as well as curious data and reminiscences by nostalgic visitors. And that’s not all … Never rode the Jack Rabbit? No problem: you can take a virtual ride on the rollercoaster in a simulation that’s almost scary. Or you can visit the park through an hour-long documentary produced by KSPS TV and offered free on the website. Titled Remember When: Nat Park, it recreates the park years through pictures, home videos, news footage, and interviews. It showed me Natatorium Park, up close and personal.

The site today:

A recent afternoon found me heading to the present-day site of the old park. With modest but mounting excitement, I drove  west on Boone Avenue as it curved to the right, ever closer to the river, when—screech!—my car came to a halt in front of impossible-to-miss stop/private property/no trespassing signs. The former Natatorium Park, once an entertainment magnet for up to 50,000 people a day, was now a private senior-citizen mobile home community. Ah well.

The Sacred Heart Mission – its church the oldest building still standing in Idaho — is more commonly known as the Cataldo Mission, apparently for its proximity to the small town of Cataldo, population under 1,000, in Northern Idaho. For years I’ve had a strong interest in visiting the site. Unfortunately, I live in Spokane and it lies on the far side of Fourth of July Pass. With sinewy ascents and descents, this stretch of I-90 can be treacherous in winter months, limiting my window of opportunity to seasons of warmer weather when many other activities also tempt me. A couple of months ago, when the weather was better, I had an opportunity to stop by – never mind that it was late in the day and drizzling – and I seized it.

A bit of history:

In the early 1800s French explorers and fur traders pushed into the Inland Northwest. They eventually reached a beautiful region where a river entered a large lake. This was the territory of a native tribe: its members came to be recognized as sharp traders, and the tribe was given the French name Coeur d’Alene, ‘heart of an awl,’ an awl being a small pointed tool. As explorers kept coming and diseases reduced the Coeur d’Alene population, the tribal chief welcomed the black-robed Jesuits led by Pierre-Jean De Smet (more of him in a future post) in the hope that the new powerful religion could help the tribe. Construction of Sacred Heart Church was completed in 1853.

The site:

You can see the mission as you travel along I-90 just east of Fourth of July Pass. There is ample parking at the base of the hill where the mission is located. The church itself takes center stage and is surrounded by a parish house, cemeteries, nature paths, mission bell, grist millstone, all in a parklike setting, with wonderful views of the bordering mountains. Lower down the hill, a modern visitor center houses a gift shop, theater room with documentary, and an excellent exhibition about the mission, the tribe, and the missionaries.

The church:

Designed by an Italian priest, Father Ravalli, the church was modeled after European cathedrals. Working together on a limited budget, priests and tribal members used local materials in ingenious ways – tin-can chandeliers, wall hangings from Hudson’s Bay Company fabrics, handpainted recycled newspapers, huckleberry-stained wood, and faux marblework. Inside, several dark-wood pews rest on creaky wooden floors.  An elaborate altar nestles in a half-dome recess, and there are paintings, statues, and detailed decorative work throughout. A tape plays indigenous songs and prayers. The church is listed in the National Register of Historic Places.

The parish house:

Residence for the priests, the parish house burned down and was rebuilt in 1887. Today, it has been refurbished as a small museum recreating the priests’ daily lives in the 1800s, complete with kitchen, living room, and an altar.

Nearby attractions:

Not only is Old Mission State Park a site of great historical and spiritual interest, it is also near a put-in along the Coeur d’Alene River for boating enthusiasts and, for bicyclists, the popular Trail of the Coeur d’Alenes.

History is a funny thing. Though it seems it should be as set in stone as a mathematical equation, it actually quivers in a thousand interpretations. Take something as personal as family history: two siblings can have vastly different memories of life in the same household. Or, as recent controversies have shown, the history of our own country, in which historical figures can be revered by some, reviled by others. Such ambiguities are certainly apparent at the Manhattan Project National Historical Park.

B Reactor, courtesy National Park Service

The park:

Established in 2015, the Manhattan Project forms one of the nation’s newest national historical parks. As its tourist brochure states, it preserves portions of World War II era sites where the U.S. developed the world’s first atomic weapons. The park encompasses three far-flung locales: Los Alamos, New Mexico; Oak Ridge, Tennessee; and Hanford, Washington. The Hanford site, which I visited, sprouted up on a large elongated triangle of sparsely inhabited desert along the Columbia River. Its mission was to make plutonium to fuel the atomic bomb.

The good and the bad:

Cooling water pipes

How to present the park? As an heroic struggle to develop a weapon in time to win the war against Nazi Germany? A showcase of science at its most brilliant? Or a catastrophic mistake that bulldozed open a pandora’s box of potential devastation? The park literature does its best to present all sides – the remarkable technical achievements, the monumental human will to achieve, and the ethical and moral questions that linger as a sort of continuing nuclear fallout.

The tours:

About a year after the park opened, my husband and I stayed overnight in Kennewick, WA in order to reach the Hanford visitor center bright and early the next day. We had made our reservations months in advance. The choices then were: a visit to the B Reactor National Historic Landmark, the world’s first full-scale plutonium production reactor, where the material for the Trinity test and Nagasaki bombs was produced; a tour of pre-Manhattan Project buildings from the tiny agricultural towns of Hanford and White Bluffs, which were evacuated almost overnight to make way for the top-secret project; and an inspection of the site’s waste cleanup operations. The third tour is no longer available to the public, I assume because of radioactive leaks found in underground storage tanks in recent years. We opted to explore the B Reactor.

Our tour:

The pile

At the visitor center, we listened to an introduction to the day’s outing, after which we all got into a bus for a 45-minute drive to the reactor.  No personal cars are allowed within the park, which is run in a partnership between the National Parks Service and Department of Energy. Our bus turned off the main road, and ahead loomed the reactor, a massive gray concrete structure that resembled building blocks, with a cooling stack on one side. As we entered the reactor building, we seemed to step back in time, into a huge room where at any moment we might see scientists in black-frame glasses and white coats, pencils behind their ears and slide-rules sticking out of pockets. A wall resembled a stage with a curtain consisting of thousands of metal tubes. The ‘curtain’ is called a pile, in which uranium-fueled slugs were fitted into the tubes and cooled by water to—voila!—produce plutonium-239. Inside the building we viewed large pipes that pumped cooling water from the Columbia River, the office of the famed scientist Enrico Fermi, and smaller rooms with posters, signage, and period memorabilia.

Enrico Fermi’s office

A bit lost regarding the mind-boggling science involved in the project, I was nevertheless astounded by some of the posted facts. For example, there were so many workers at the site that 250,000 pounds of meat were consumed in the eight mess halls in one week, and 1,785,000 sheets were washed daily. Sheesh! Most amazing of all, from the start of construction to the moment B Reactor began operation, a mere eleven months had passed. Eleven months! Today, that wouldn’t even be enough time to write a proposal …

More history:

The B Reactor was the centerpiece of some thirty buildings and twenty service facilities in operation during World War II. After the war, in 1946, the reactor was shut down, then restarted in 1948 at the onset of the Cold War. It was shut down permanently in 1968. The surrounding buildings were dismantled and removed. For many years it seemed the reactor would meet the same fate, but a variety of local organizations worked tirelessly—and successfully—to preserve it. For more information, read the B Reactor pdf.

That’s not all:

In 2000, the Hanford Reach National Monument was created out of buffer land bordering the nuclear site. Its almost 200,000 acres encompass a free-flowing stretch of the Columbia River and shrub-dotted desert. More about it in a future post.

I appreciate the existence of the Manhattan Project Park. It doesn’t erase history. Instead, it assumes we humans are intelligent enough to process the good, the bad, and the hazardous.

Summer is almost officially over, and we’re reaching the end of a gaudy carnival of flowers that started in early spring—yellow daffodils, lilac lilacs, red-velvet roses, orange marigolds, pink geraniums, and white lilies atop lake pads, to name a few. Of the many blossoms that bud, open, and die, my choice for the fairest of them all are the peonies.

Drop-dead gorgeous

One of God’s stranger creations, peonies begin to shoot up before the last of the snow melts. The stems grow at a steady pace, as if they know exactly what needs to be done and want to do it quickly, efficiently. Before long shiny green leaves unfurl and tiny balls of color take shape. The balls expand, revealing the scalloped edges of newly formed petals. They expand and expand and one day burst open, exposing drop-dead-gorgeous pom-poms—fragrant waves of petals in shades of pinks and fuchsias and dazzling whites.

Easy peasy

Expanding

Having lived for many years in the tropics, where lush foliage is a given, I arrived in Spokane with limited ability as a gardener. So much of what I’ve planted here has shriveled up from lack, or excess, of water or has disappeared into the weeds and been inadvertently pulled out. Not the peonies. I planted one in a sunny raised bed next to the house, and the next year it miraculously shot up, bigger and hardier. So I planted more, and I now have a bountiful showing in late spring. The Farmer’s Almanac reports that peonies thrive on benign neglect, which they get from me in abundance. The flower, long-lasting when cut and put in a vase, symbolizes a happy life and a happy marriage, and the petals are edible. According to Wikipedia, the peony is native to our region (western North America) as well as to Asia and Europe.

However …

Toppling even with supports

My peonies seem to be of the bomb variety, broad petals encircling a dense cluster of shorter, narrower petals. When the flowers open, the stems resemble mini Atlases trying to hold up the heavens. When rain seeps into the flowers, adding more weight, the stems give up and topple over. An odd design on the part of the Creator, but perhaps it is more a result of man’s tinkering to produce an ever-more-spectacular blossom. To avoid having the lovely flowers sprawled on the ground, I bought flower supports, which must be positioned in the ground when the shoots are young. It seems the least I can do for my queen of flowers.

The first time I viewed the Maryhill Winery along the Columbia River Gorge, the last thing on my mind was wine.  It was a summer of record-breaking heat, and I was determined to get to the Oregon coast, where (it turned out) the temperatures would be more than thirty degrees cooler. Friends recommended I take the scenic route along the northern edge of the Columbia — south through the Tri-Cities, then west on Route 14 and eventually down into Oregon and up to Astoria.  “Don’t miss the museum and winery at Maryhill,” they told me. All went well, the scenery starkly spectacular, until Route 14 began to wind ever higher up the massive layered cliffs along the gorge. I was alone in the car, just me and my fear of heights. White knuckles on the steering wheel, I reached Maryhill, but the thought of drinking wine did not tempt me.

Maryhill along the Columbia:

In 2000, the Leuthold family, originally from Spokane, opened a winery on the Columbia Gorge near the small town of Goldendale. The site is truly spectacular, overlooking the Columbia River as it lumbers between multi-layered cliffs dating back to the Ice Age Floods , with a distant view of snow-topped Mount Hood. Owing to the region’s unique combination of hot summers, moderate winters, good soils, and ocean moisture — and the Leutholds’ experience in the industry — the local vineyards  have produced a wide variety of award-winning wines, and, in 2015, Maryhill was named the Pacific Northwest Winery of the Year.

A couple of years after my first view, I returned to the winery with my husband. With him driving, the major into-the-abyss curve didn’t seem nearly so scary. The entranceway angles into an ample paved parking area.  In front,  a field slopes down to an amphitheater, setting for popular concerts in summer months. The winery building is spacious, with racks of an impressive variety of wines and gift paraphernalia. An open balcony with chairs and tables faces the river and Mt. Hood, and an arbor-covered patio provides a shady respite from the sun.

Maryhill in Spokane:

In 2017, Maryhill opened its first satellite tasting room here in Spokane, meaning you can now enjoy their wines without making the four-hour drive to the Goldendale site. Located in Kendall Yards, it sits in a handsome metal and glass building next to the Spokane River. The spacious tasting room looks like an upscale warehouse, with chandeliers hanging next to exposed ducts. Four long counters in a rectangular grouping cater to the wine tasters. Numerous clusters of chairs and tables are scattered around the room, and a club room juts off one corner. Outside, a patio hugs two sides of the building, offering views down to the river and, in the background, the skyline of downtown Spokane. Live music on weekends features local performers.

I like lakes, any kind of lake (to paraphrase an old childhood favorite, The Friendly Book)—big lakes, small lakes, deep lakes, shallow lakes, lakes surrounded by columnar cliffs, lakes encircled by forested mists—any kind of lake. On a trip, I tend to study a map and perk up at the sight of an approaching lake hugging whatever highway we are on. Recently, my husband and I drove to San Diego, taking the less traveled route along US 395. In south-central Oregon, we passed a couple of very strange lakes.

Lake Abert from Abert Rim, courtesy US Bureau of Land Management

Alkali, white lake of the dotted line

On the map, Alkali Lake appeared as a squat gray-blue triangle inside a much larger triangle of white bordered by a dotted line. Arriving within the dotted line, we crossed a causeway overlooking bone-colored sand, isolated tufts of hardy green shrubs, and, in the distance, brown mountains. In a surrealistic touch, two travelers had set up lounge chairs in the sand, as if waiting for an ocean. So: dotted lines around white on a map indicate lakes that have dried up, and there are a dozen of them in the high desert of southeastern Oregon.

Abert Lake

After Alkali, the highway climbed Hogback Summit, then descended and curved, opening onto a breathtaking view of silvery water and dark swoops of bluffs. Abert Rim, as the bluffs are known, is a thirty-mile-long escarpment that rises 2,500 feet above the lake of the same name. As we approached Abert Lake, its vastness—an elongated triangle some fifteen miles long and seven miles at the widest, approximately 57 square miles—became apparent. Yet it did not look ‘normal.’ The blue was pale and cloudy, and tended toward gray near shore. It seemed a ghost of a lake, without boats or paddle boards, becalmed in time.

Here are a few facts: Abert is a pluvial lake, meaning it is closed and receives new water primarily from rainfall. Its average depth is scarcely seven feet. Because it has no outlet, evaporating water leaves strong residues of carbonate salts, making the lake strongly alkaline and turning rocks and other objects white. Fish cannot survive in these conditions, but the lake is a mecca for brine shrimp and alkali flies, and for the shorebirds that eat them. In 1843 the explorer John Fremont, searching for a mythical river, led a party to the edge of the lake and the rim. Perhaps judiciously, he named the two sites for his boss, Colonel J.J. Abert.

Ancient Lake Chewaucan

Courtesy US Bureau of Land Management

Abert Lake was not always so ghostly. At the end of the Pleistocene Epoch, some 12,000 years ago, it formed part of the ancient Lake Chewaucan. Created by melting glaciers and unmovable escarpments such as Abert Rim, which itself began to form several million years earlier, Chewaucan covered 480 square miles and reached depths of 375 feet. Archaeologists have discovered remains of human habitation along the lake during that time. Over the millennia, the water dried up, until all that is left today are the shallow alkaline lakes of Abert and Summer, which are managed by the US Bureau of Land Management.

The mysterious shrinking of Lake Abert

In recent years, Lake Abert has been shrinking much faster than normal. By 2014, it had virtually dried up, dropping to an average depth of two feet. The salinity shot up to 25% (the ocean is 3.5%), too much even for the brine shrimp, used as food for industrial shrimp farming. No brine shrimp meant no shorebirds. Abert hadn’t been so dry since the catastrophic Dust Bowl droughts of the 1930s, yet there were no current droughts of that magnitude. So why was the lake shrinking? Two newspapers, The Oregonian of Portland and Ogden, Utah’s Standard-Examiner, investigated the mystery. Part of the problem, they deduced, lay with increasing water use by farmers, ranchers, and a fish restoration project. Fortunately, with the large snowpack of 2016, Abert Lake has recovered somewhat, but its future is far from certain. Though hidden away in Oregon’s outback, this is the largest saltwater lake in the Pacific Northwest. As Abert goes, so goes Utah’s Great Salt Lake, which is thirty times larger. Will these shallow alkaline lakes become dry lakes of the dotted lines in the future?

Coffeepot Lake

Big lakes, small lakes, deep lakes, shallow lakes, lakes that are salty and shrinking in size, lakes that are dry but geologically prized—I like lakes. But I do hope the wet ones remain wet!