Shrinking Corvallis, one step at a time

                Three years ago, Mark and I walked across England. For 17 days we walked, about 200 miles total(not counting wrong paths and hunts for dinner places), and was one of the coolest things we have ever done. To prepare for the walk, we decided to walk 12 to 14 mile loops from our front door, throughout town and into the hills. Because it was springtime, we could not head for the mountains; the trails there are still covered in snow. So, every Saturday, I used google maps to lay out the walk, and then we hit the sidewalk on Sunday mornings, rain or shine.

 The first one was easy; we followed the route of the Corvallis Half Marathon which took us through neighborhoods we rarely visit. 13.5 miles. We discovered a new park and play structure, some nice bike trails through the suburbs, and came home through Ranchland.  The next was also easy—we walked the ridgeline north of town through the McDonald forest, which helped me understand the relationship between the hills, saddles, and valley floor. 11 miles. Now, when I am driving the countryside, I can line myself up with the hills and know where I am. For the third walk, we rounded the university, visited the urban horticulture center with its beehive museum, walked through Avery Park and the old community garden, then strode along the Willamette river to the south edge of town. We came home through downtown and stopped for iced tea. 14 miles. I traced routes through town for two months; on our final walk, we headed to Dimple Hill from our house, fourteen miles with considerable elevation change. We came home triumphant.

                The hikes prepped us for our long walk, but they had a more profound impact as well. They shrank and expanded our understanding of our town and local geography. Corvallis was smaller because we had walked all through it, and how big can a place be when you can reach all of its corners on foot?  We never hesitated to bike anywhere within city limits, but walking felt more difficult. Now it does not.  Walks that felt distant now feel close. We can do that—no problem. Our town is compact (thank you,  Tom McCall and land use planning laws!) and we know it’s dimensions.  We can be walking up a forested hill in less than an hour, admiring the view from the top in an hour and a half.

                Corvallis also grew when we began to walk disances. We noticed small details, changing house designs, interesting landscapes, bee museums….everything that you can see while walking that you miss on a bike or in a car. We talked with people as we passed. We’ve found benches and views, hidden staircases and paths, and old developments where the houses were all built with the same pattern, but have all been altered with time to reflect their owners.  We learned where the rolling ridges and valleys of the old landscape are. We have studied the sidewalk markers. We know our neighborhoods. Kids started commenting “I saw you…” on Monday morning—usually far from my home.

                We love these long walks now. There is something about knowing that you can step out your own front door and head off down the street, wend your way through the neighborhoods, find soft paths in the woods, and come home, sore-footed and ready for dinner, without ever stepping into a car. Shrinking Corvallis, one step at a time.

Hike-u

 Saturday

Downpours and road lakes.

Good day for the library.

I love my rain boots.

Sunday

Merganzers spread wings.

Great Blue Heron stands silent.

Fruitcake and hot tea.

Monday

Veiws of Soap Creek.

Secret breeding ground of the newts.

Rain. Sun. Rain. Sun. Rain.

Tuesday

Calloway Creek trail:

Witches butter on a log.

Happy dogs in lake.

Wednesday

Wrong Boots. Wet, wet feet.

Great Blue Heron; fungi.

Mario’s Christmas lights.

Thursday

Water everywhere.

Moss grows fat in Winter sun.

Quiet Christmas walk.

Friday

Gus runs in circles.

Snapped tree tops—incredible.

Sun glows on fir branches.

English Muffins and a walk

            One of the best things about Yule—better known as Winter Break—is hot tea, without interruption or rushing.  A large yellow mug of Ceylon Silver Striped tea from the Tao of Tea in Portland can take all morning, and that’s ok. I was considering this fact this morning, while Mark wandered around, considering his layers for the Assault on McCulloch Peak (a 2000 foot rise in the OSU research forest). We had climbed the hill a few years ago—also in January, and seen nothing but some scruffy snow, a lot of clouds, and logged over patches at the top. He had high hopes this morning, even though clouds had clearly moved in last night—low clouds.

            There is nothing happening in the yard. Nothing growing. Nothing to be harvested or seeded out. No eggs being laid.  Even the mud is under control, thanks to the new hog fuel pathway.   We could prune a bit out of the hazelnut tree, or cut back the laurel hedge, but that can wait. There are seed catalogs to peruse, deep questions about growing winter squash to answer—is it really worth the space and effort, or should I just shift the patch over to more edamane? How should the beds be rotated this year? In a few weeks, a snowdrop or two will poke out of the beds around the rabbit hutch or under the fig tree, the cole crops seeded out and under lights in my classroom, the first cold frame set up over the early spring bed to dry out the soil a bit before planting, the bees poking their noses out to consider the pollen from the hazelnut trees hanging above their hive. Right now, all is still, balanced on the turn of the year. It’s a good day for a long walk.

            Corvallis is surrounded by hills, mostly covered in second growth forest, managed by the university. There are miles on miles of logging roads, winding through the woods, following the ridges. The trailheads start a mile or so out of town, within biking distance if you are feeling energetic. In the winter, we hike them all in rotation—gravel roads are not covered in mud and, sometimes, high up, the sun comes out. That was our hope today as we began the steady climb out of Oak Creek valley, through the clouds (literally). Thirty eight degrees and damp. Weather only a furry dog could love.  Half way up, we reconsidered the map. “We’re not going to see anything,” Mark observed. “Nope.” “We could try this loop instead,” he pointed out, studying how another logging road curved around and headed back down the other side of the valley. “It’s still a good walk and we’ve never been there.” “Looks good.”  We shifted direction, headed down the hill. “Hot tea,” I thought, “And, maybe, some English Muffins.”

English Muffins:

Proof 1 T of yeast in 1 cup of warm milk—I used dried milk—with 1 t of honey.

Add 1 t of salt and a T of oil or melted better, ix

Add 2.5 cups of flour—mixed what and white and knead for five minutes.

Set aside to rise for two hours.

Roll out about a half inch thick, cut in circles, place on a cornmeal covered tray, and let rise again.

Cook lightly in a cast iron frying pan. 2-3 minutes per side.

Toast when ready to eat.

Lucia Day

Lucia Buns

It's quite grim out there today-- high of 40 degrees and rain blowing against the house. But we went out for the Annual Lucia Day walk at 8 AM this morning; we are Hardy Folk. And, as always, once out, it is lovely. Grey morning, damp air, cocoa and buns in the shelter of an old barn, then the walk up the hill, white tailed dog leading the way....

Happy dog.

Up the hill...

It's snowing at the top!

Garden settled in for the winter

Wintertime

Lucia Buns:

Sponge: 

2T yeast, dissolved in 1.5 cups of warm water, with a teaspoon of sugar

Stir in 

1c. ww flour

1c wt flour

Let sit for 45 minutes

Bread:

Mix in

2c for pureed squash

.25 cup of oil

3T molasses

2 c of wt flour

2c of ww flour

2t salt

1t cinnamon

.5 t cloves

Turn out to knead, adding flour as needed for a soft and happy dough.

Let rise for 1-2 hours, then shape rolls. Place raisins for eyes...

Rise again.

Bake in 350 oven about 35 minutes. Brush with milk while still hot for a soft crust.

Winter Walk

I went hiking by myself today. It felt kind of weird, driving over to the arboretum with no one in the passenger seat. I used to climb mountains alone fairly regularly, but what with gas guilt and always knowing someone who also wants to walk, it has been about fifteen years since I have been in the woods alone. Let me say—it was lovely (no offence to my usual trail partners!).


It was cool and cloudy at the parking lot. As I set off up the logging road to Cronemuller Lake heading for the Powerhouse trail, I snugged into my old red anorak and wooly hat. The road is fairly wide and I pondered the inevitable bag of dog poop by the side of the path. I understand not wanting to carry it around with you, but why even bag it up? Why not kick it into the blackberry bushes, where it will break down, rather than leaving a neat package to forget on the return trip? Maybe I need to make a sign—“”Hey! Remember your POOP!” – and put it on the gate.

At the lake—actually a small manmade pond used by the OSU logging club for Logging Olympics—I turned off the road and began to climb. Forests in Oregon never really stop; all winter, the mosses and lichens swell, mushrooms and coral lichen sprout, ferns grow, small birds rustle in the underbrush, and, by late January, the Oregon plum is blooming. An occasional slug or newt crosses the trail. I paused to admire the drilling patterns of woodpeckers in an ancient Doug Fir, removing my mittens and unzipping the underarms of my jacket to cool down. Over two bridges, up a steep bit, and I arrived at the old Powerhouse. There used to be a sign here explaining how the loggers kept the powder away from the rest of their equipment and that was why the building had such a solid foundation. It’s gone now. But, it is still an excellent pausing place. It was so quiet, that, when a dog bounded out of the woods across from me, we both yelped, startled.

As I was climbing, the clouds thinned. A bit of blue sky shone above—sun hit my face as I reached the clearcut hilltop. I paused, again, sitting on a stump, enjoying the warmth, watching the clouds break over the hills in the distance. There, then gone, then back again—the mist rolled over the forests. Down below was a small golden field and the first settlement in this part of the Willamette Valley. A few tall firs reached for the sky; small alder bushes with tiny winter catkins lined the path; dead grasses and brambles caught at my feet. The last time I was here, the purple brodiaea was blooming. Mist moved in and I stood up, shivering. One more climb…

I crossed several old logging roads and a couple of cross country runners and headed for the last peak. When we first moved here, 15 years ago, the peak had a bench and a view out over the valley. It was a good place to stop for a snack. Now, the view is gone, lost to the fir trees. I climbed into the clouds once more. Cold, damp air pressed against me. I pulled on hat, mittens, zipped up my coat…moisture condensed on the needles and branches and then dripped down my neck. For a moment, I was back in the Redwoods, where the giant trees created showers for morning hikers.

The trail headed downward, dropping into a forest tunnel. Dark branches met overhead and blocked all of the light. Coral lichen and mushrooms sprout here, bits of brightness against the dark soil, dark needles. This is the cold side of the hill and the fog rolled in. I moved quickly downward to get out from under the clouds. Down, down, down. Past the test patches of Ponderosa pines from Carson, New Mexico, Harney, South Dakota, Eldorado, California, all planted in 1928. Past the thinned area from 2007. Past a new trail, heading down.

I’ve hit my famous stride now, walking from my hips, moving right along, thinking about—lunch. There’s always that point on the walk where you have left the forest and moved towards the dinner table; conversation inevitably moves from philosophy to food. I remembered the homemade English Muffins sitting on the kitchen table, the ripe long-keeper tomatoes in the basement, the Ceylon silver striped tea on the shelf, and picked up the pace.

Secret Breeding Ground of the Newts

The Secret Breeding ground of the Newts was peaceful—classic Oregon. We were heading out to help our friend Mark Meyer move an old, free, plastic, one piece greenhouse about a quarter of a mile down the road to his new house when I realized that the newts would be congregating in the old quarry just up the road from his place, so after the move and lunch, we turned the Ark uphill. As we climbed, the mist became a drizzle and the fir covered hills disappeared into the clouds. We are native enough now that a drizzle, even without raincoats, doesn’t deter us, but we were grateful for our wooly hats.

The quarry itself is about a quarter of a mile down an old logging road, used now by dog and child walkers, cross country runners, and mountain bikers—it’s a pretty popular entrance to miles of trails and roads, partly because it is not muddy in the winter. There’s a pile of logs, some cut into fireplace length, on the way. One day, when it was slushing out, someone had lit a fire there and others, walking by, tended it. Today, nothing.

The newts, however, were out in force. Newt watching is a trick, as their brown or grey skins blend into the rotting leaves and gravel on the bottoms of the local ponds and the reflection of the sky can make it difficult to see into the water. You have to look beyond the surface and watch for movement. Once your eyes adjust, though, there they are. Some hang in the water, tails down, noses breaking the surface. Some lurk under the pond grasses or logs. Others shift slightly and meander along. Then one moves—long tail sways from side to side, feet tuck close to the body, like a seal lion under water. It wiggles, dives—the feet reach out as brakes and he slows down. Another newt looks over. Several converge on one, like a dog pile. The orange undersides of their tails show, bright in the dark water. They meet, sniff, move away. It’s mesmerizing.

All around is quiet. The mist collects, drips off the rocks above, patters softly on my head. A breeze shakes the drops off of the Doug firs. A quarry stone is dislodged and drops into the pond. Far way, a barred owl calls. An excited dog barks on the trail above, maybe a bicycle brake squeals. Something plops in the pond further out. The newts move on, unaware.

Winter Solstice

I woke up just at dawn on the Solstice this year and lay in bed with Lucy The Purr, waiting for the house to grow light enough to see in the kitchen; we don’t turn on lights or the radio on Solstice Day, so there is no point in hopping out of bed. The sky was a pale grey green. The house was silent. When it was light, I climbed out of bed and made oatmeal with dried apples and honey—all from within ten miles of home. After breakfast, I cleaned out the chicken coop and rabbit hutch, then harvested the last of the fall salad greens from the cold frame. All that is left is some slug-munched lettuce and a lot of vigorous weeds. The garden beds are dormant—not covered in snow, but leaves. I suppose I could coax some more greens out of the earth, but my energy shifts inward—literally and figuratively—when school begins. Dormant is good.

After lunch, we headed for Finley Wildlife Refuge for our traditional walk along the Mill Hill trail, tied in with over The Woodpecker Loop—about five miles, total, over all of the diverse ecologies of the refuge. The sun was out—a rare sight in December, but there were some clouds backed up on the hills near the refuge. Some years, we have been drenched on this walk. I clearly remember taking off my old rainpants once because they were cold and clinging to my legs. “I’d rather be wet!” I yelled when Mark (in well-treated pants) asked what I was doing. That year, water was streaming down the trail and puddling several inches deep in the low spots. This year, it was a gentle trickle down the middle of the path. It grew dark quickly under the trees and we could hear drips all around us, but it did not rain. When we broke out of the woods to the upper oak savannah near the end of the walk, the sun was shining on the snow covered Cascade foothills across the valley and we could see the Three Sisters as darker grey mounds against the far clouds.

We came home just before dark. As the light dimmed and I could no longer read, I fell asleep, furry beast of a cat on my lap, purring. Mark startled us all awake half an hour later, when the outside lights came on. It was time for the Solstice Night rituals—a fire with a piece of last year’s tree, which we grandly call a Yule Log, even though it’s more like a Yule Stick. Dinner from nearby foods—pumpkin, tomato, and pinto bean soup this year—and an apple cranberry pie. Planting paper whites which will bloom around Twelfth Night. Listing the highlights of the year and establishing goals for the next. Reading a section of A Christmas Carol aloud. We do all of this by candle light, quietly. The night moves more slowly without the radio, without being able to plunge into a book for several hours.

Before we went to bed, I slipped out to check on the chickens and close them in for the night. The moon was out, slipping in and out of a thin cloud cover. The backyard was bright. The sky dark. The cats followed me and chased each other around, thrilled to have a person out with them at night. George, our elderly chicken, talked in her sleep as I swung the door down and I could here the other two shifting softly on the perch. Everyone was fine. For a moment I stood, watching the moon, surrounded by the dormant gardens. The Earth paused, shifted, and moved, once again, towards the light of summer.