February 17, 2013
Sunday
7:32 a.m.
Another morning awash with sunshine (really, a Sun Day), and the temperature gauge on the porch indicates 41 degrees. I’m not sure what we will do yet.
Yesterday, I didn’t want to take a camera out in the steady drizzle. So, Nora and I walked to Pioneer Park. We spent most of the time walking around the aviary, and I missed the camera.
A peacock posed on a large hollow log, with its shiny, colorful tail-feathers streaming like  the trail of a wedding gown across the log. I could have filled the frame of a lens with the image.
Darn.
Then two wood ducks -- a male and a female -- stood on top of a birdhouse atop a six-foot high post. They were about six feet away.
I don’t often take photos at the aviary. It’s too confining for the subjects, and there’s something contrived about the photos. I prefer images captured in natural surroundings.
That said, the aviary -- despite the closed space and the wire fencing I aim the lens through -- does allow interesting photos. I will include a few here. Others may be seen at www.tripper.smugmug.com .

Saddle Mountain

On a windy day last week Nora the Schnauzer battled one black balloon on Saddle Mountain and came within a few yards of tangling with two gleaming dark river otters three times her size along the Columbia River.
She had a big day, and she loved it.
First, we parked at the saddle on Saddle Mountain.
A steady cold wind from the south whipped up from the Columbia River to buffet the truck with an occasional solid gust.
My wife Darlene stepped from the truck, took a deep breath or two, shivered and said, “You two go ahead. I’ll guard the truck.”
So, Nora and I scrabbled down the rock-strewn path on one side of the steep saddle and up the faint trail on the other side.
Nora lagged a bit because she chased dopey flies that fluttered from the dust. She ate the ones she caught.
Curtains of rain draped from distant blue-black clouds to the north and east.
To the south and west intermittent sunlight turned portions of the winding Columbia River into shining lakes.
I took photos of the panoramas in many directions, as well as shots of yellow arrowleaf balsam root, white cushion phlox (with a white butterfly) and purple locoweed.
Nora, of course, skittered about in every direction, yet she paused often to check my presence.
When I whistled, she raced to me, which turned out to be a good thing later along the Columbia River.
Nora doesn’t drink much, but I carried a leak-proof container with her water in my pocket.
She’s like a horse, though. You can put water in front of her, but you can’t make her drink it.
Anyway, after a couple of hours, we loaded into the truck and started back down the mountain.
That’s when I saw the black cantaloupe-sized balloon bobbing up and down in the wind about 50 yards down the north-side slope.
“It’s probably just a party or advertising balloon,” I said.
Curious, however, Nora and I went to check. When she saw the balloon dodging and swooping, she stopped and barked, a high-pitched little-dog bark.
My jaw dropped. She had not done that before. When I recovered and approached the balloon, so did she.
Then she attacked it.
She leaped at it and missed. She gnawed at the string tangled in the sage.
Finally, using the string, she reached the balloon, clutched it with her front legs, fell on it and bit it.
It popped. She grabbed the rubber to take for a trophy. Stopped by the string in the sage, she tugged a few times and strolled away.
Back at the truck, I said, “Well, it was just a balloon. But Nora slew it.”
Nora, sighing, curled onto Darlene’s lap for a nap.
From there we drove east for a couple of miles on State Route 24 and turned right into another section of the Wahluke Wildlife Area.
We drove to the boat launch near the white bluffs, where a ferry once crossed the Columbia River. We stood before the tiny log structure that was a busy way station in the 1890s
As we headed back to SR 24, I decided to walk half a mile across a meadow to photograph the bluffs.
As Nora ran ahead on a faint path that climbed toward a view above the river, a dark critter loped through the sage way off to my left.
Dark, shiny and streamlined.
“An otter,” finally registered in my head. “A big one.” I snapped off a couple of quick photos.
It disappeared at the edge of the bluff, and I ran ahead for a closer view.
Then a second otter appeared among the sage.
I stopped and aimed the camera as it swerved toward the river.
Then the first otter emerged from the riverside shrubs below and entered the water.
Nora, who stood beside me, spotted it and dashed headlong down the side of the steep 60-foot cliff.
I recovered as she reached the halfway mark and whistled sharply. She skidded to a stop and watched the otter cavort in the water.
I whistled again, and she tore back up the slope.
Then, as I snapped photos of the otter in the water, I ignored Nora.
When I looked around, two dark figures raced off across the meadow behind me. One, the otter, glistened in the sun.
The other, Nora with her ears blown straight up by the wind, closed the distance to the otter.
Not a good thing. I whistled as loud as I could.
Both figures disappeared among the sage, and I whistled again and ran down the hill.
Then, to my relief, Nora burst from the sage, her feet hardly touching the ground as she galloped toward me.
When she reached me, I picked her up. She apparently had NOT caught the otter.
By then the otter in the water had disappeared, and we took a path down to the sandy river bank and checked the otter’s prints, which were three times as big as Nora’s.
I snapped a few shots of the white bluffs from there. Then a white egret flew by and landed near a sqawking blue heron about 200 yards away.
I spent five seconds pondering a sneak closer for photos. Forget it.
“C’mon,” I said to Nora. “Let’s go back.”
Darlene, watching from the truck, probably wondered why we had run up and own the hillside like nuts.
Well, I could explain it easy enough: Just out walking the dog.


If you go
The road up to the saddle mountain is between mile post 60 and 61 on State Route 24. You can reach the turnoff by traveling west on SR 24 from Othello or by travelling east on SR 24 from Vernita Bridge.
The turnoff south of SR 24 to boat ramp on the Columbia River is between mile posts 63 and 64.
Both areas are in the Wahluke Slope National Wildlife Refuge.

Oregon Coast

Nora the Schnauzer cried when I left her alone in the truck at Newport’s Oregon State Aquarium a few days ago.
I had dropped my wife Darlene off near the entrance, with my grandson Danny Herman, and parked several hundred yards away beneath some shaded trees.
I had cracked the windows about three inches each and left a cup of water surrounded by a towel on the floor, so that it wouldn’t tip over easily.
And, as I walked away, Nora’s soft whimpers sliced me to the core.
Yet, I told myself, “She’s spoiled rotten, and there will be times when she has to be left alone.”
It didn’t help much, however, and I looked back to see her standing on the seat and staring after me with her nose and front paws pressed against the window.
I sighed and trudged on toward Darlene and Danny.
Danny had driven a couple of hours from Eugene and met us for lunch at the original Mo’s along Newport’s old waterfront.
He had arrived early and discovered a pod of sea lions lounging at one of the docks. When we went to see, he held Nora on her leash as we stood at a rail 15 feet from the lounging animals and I took photos.
After lunch, we drove across the bridge to take in the Oregon Coast Aquarium before he headed back to Eugene.
So, I left Nora in the truck. And, inside the aquarium facility, we had to wait only 12 minutes before feeding time for the sea otters.
Since we were there on a weekday, we stood with a small group of people within touching distance of the acrylic wall at the otters’ pool that holds 65,000 gallons of seawater.
That’s close enough to hear them smacking their lips and chewing as they ripped into their meal.
A guide who stood among us noted that the two feeders never turned their backs on the otters, which may become “quite aggressive.”
It takes about $16,000 a year to feed each one of the otters, he said, and each one has an individual diet, ranging from rockfish to lobster.
And the guide pointed out that otters, which have no layer of insulating blubber, have about a million hairs per square inch on their bodies (more one square inch than on the whole human head) for insulation.
The reason they roll and occasionally blow on their fur — and spend hours grooming it — is to keep in good shape.
As I watched the otters dine and roll happily in the water, my mind wandered to an image of Nora alone in the truck.
But I shook it off.
From the otter tank we trolled a few yards to watch the sea lions (six) and harbor seals (five) in their 90,000-gallon main pool. You can stand before below water level viewing windows and the animals will often touch your hand against the acrylic. They’re amazing to watch as they swim past within inches.
Then, we visited the aviary, a favorite of mine because the birds are so close and so photogenic.
I especially enjoy the tufted puffins, with their golden beaks, vivid red cheeks and red-rimmed, blue-green eyes.
The aviary also has rhinoceros auklets, pigeon guillomots, common murres and black oyster catchers. It just seems like the puffin photos always turn out the best.
The aviary has two pools, where birds to swim and dive, and a rocky cliff with ledges and walkways for grooming and nesting.
Visitors stand within a few yards of these activities.
Once again, the image of Nora whimpering with her feet on the window jabbed at me. It wasn’t like leaving Sadie the Dalmatian alone.
If a person came near the truck, Sadie discouraged him with an impressive growl.
Nora, on the other hand, would lick his face and go away with him.
So, by the time we reached the acrylic fish tank (after passing the octopus exhibit with live octopi), I had built up a significant level of worry.
Yet, this is no ordinary fish tank, and it distracted me for awhile. It’s called Passages of the Deep.
Aquarium officials describe it this way:
In an underwater adventure, visitors are immersed in Keiko’s former home through acrylic tunnels surrounded by several feet of sea water. Passages of the Deep has proven to be an unique attraction. As though they were taking a walk into the open ocean, visitors are able to come face to face with large sharks, rockfish and bat rays swimming above and below. Waves surging against the tunnel gives visitors the impression they are beneath the ocean. And the Oregon shipwreck resting on the bottom increases the feeling of being early undersea explorers.
Well, we strolled along the tunnel with fish roaming the water around and above us.
A ghostly white eastern shovelnose ray swam overhead, with what appeared to be a strange human face fit for a horror movie on its underside.
After a brief time watching the rockfish, some of which resembled people, I felt compelled to hurry back and check on Nora.
When I did, I found her lying on the driver’s seat, on her back, feet in the air, neck stretched out and sawing logs like a lumberjack.
I sneaked the door open, touched her under the chin and said “Boo!”.
She bounced straight up and morphed into one big wiggle of welcome.
So, I snapped her leash onto her collar, and she pulled me back to the entrance to wait for Darlene and Danny.
And when Nora saw them, she strained against the leash to reach them so she wiggle all over them.

If you go
You find the Oregon Coast Aquarium on the southside of Yaquina Bay.
The facility has all kinds of family friendly wildlife exhibits that may be viewed up close. It also has three lookout spots over Yaquina Bay. It features a cafe, an outdoor dining area, three restroom and two gift shops.

Hundreds of elk dozed in the Sunday afternoon sunshine at the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife’s Oak Creek feeding station last week.
Most stood on straight, stiff legs. Some lay on the thin blanket of snow, and a few, mainly cows with youngsters, moved about restlessly.
The eyelids of almost all, large and small, drooped in the sun-warmed somnolence that preceded feeding time.
Cars and pickups already filled the close-up parking spaces, a few feet from the feed-lot fence adjacent to the visitor center. Plenty of parking space remained, however, even on a Sunday when the snowpack oozed and puddled up in the sunshine.
Shortly after noon, I’d parked a few yards from the visitor center to await a 1:30 p.m. daily feeding at the station. Already dozens of people leaned on the fence, many with cameras, and watched the elk doze.
While my wife Darlene took her pal, Nora the Schnauzer, for a walk, I stood with cameras and watched the elk doze.
A bald eagle stood tall in a tree near the feed barn, apparently reticent to move far from an elk-carcass smorgasbord, darkly visible on the hillside.
As I strolled east toward an old barn, two large bulls approached one another, gingerly, it seemed, like veterans of many battles willing to let bygones be bygones.
They touched antlers _ large enough to earn them “prime bull” status _ and slipped them into a tangle. Yet, they didn’t push, so their neck and shoulder muscles remained relaxed. They seemed more asleep than awake.
I watched for awhile then went to the visitor center to register for a truck tour among the animals. I passed the car as Darlene lifted Nora back inside. A sign prohibited dogs, Darlene said, and she didn’t want a problem.
At the visitor center, I signed up for a tour with volunteer tour guide Jim Andrews. He retired as the Police Chief of Toppenish, where he worked for 30 years.
Fifteen minutes or so later, Andrews picked me up from along the fence, and I joined a group in the back of an old military truck for the tour.
I sat up close to the cab, but on the wrong side. The upright diesel exhaust belched fumes in my face.
The truck moved slowly among the elk, so that details not seen from beyond the fence became clearly visible, such as: one large bull limped dramatically with a misshapen hoof; a cow moved agonizingly with a rolling gate caused by a broken right-front leg; and three spotted calves, dangerously young for mid-January, clung close to their mothers.
Andrews said the injured elk must fend for themselves, as a matter of policy, and that a number of injured animals come back every year. When they’re dangerously stressed, he said, it’s evident in their drooping heads and their gaunt physical conditions.
“They’re very strong animals, and they have a real a strong will to live. I bet you, she’ll be fine,” Andrews said about the injured cow.
Andrews said biologists have no definite explanation for the spotted calves. They may have been conceived during winter feeding last year, with a young bull finding a cow to mate.
“They’re half the size of a regular calf, and their chance of survival is fair to poor and depends on the weather,” he said.
Perhaps 1,250 elk waited in the feed lot, Andrews said, with some qualifying as “prime herd bulls.” He called some of the bulls “rag-horn bulls,” or animals about three years old. The prime herd bulls have larger racks and weigh more, in the 900-pound range.
If the weather worsens in February, the number of animals at the station will increase, including many older prime herd bulls, to as many as 2,000 or more.
“When the winter is really bad, we can get as many as 3,000 animals in here,” he said. “And that’s only about one-third of the number of elk that’s in this area. If it gets worse, February is a good time to come in and see the prime herd bulls because they do drift in here.”
Andrews said the WDFW aims “to regulate the Yakima herd and keep it down to about 9,500 animals.
“We have a spike-only hunt in this area,” he said. “That’s because we’re trying to keep the herd’s genetics up. We’re giving the prime bulls a better chance to live. The bigger the bull, the nicer the calf that comes out, and the calf has a better chance of living.”
While the five-year Yakima Elk Herd Plan (published in Dec. 2002, and found at wdfw.wa.gov./w1m/game/elk/yakima.htm) lists a number of goals and objectives, a prime goal for the Oak Creek winter feeding program (started in 1945) is to keep elk off of private land, especially orchards.
“Why we feed here is to keep these animals out of the orchards,” Andrews said. “We don’t feed them to keep them alive. If we were trying to bulk them up, we would give them twice as much hay as we’re giving them now, (which is) just enough to carry them through the winter.”
Elk damage, he added, could run into millions of dollars.
After the tour, I spoke about the program’s funding (75 percent from the 1939 Pitman-Robinson Act funds) with WDFW bologist and Wildlife Area Manager John McGowan. He oversees the Oak Creek and six other operations.
And, as usual, funding grows more and more scarce.
“Cost of hay and the cost of transport has gone up considerably,” McGowan said. “Over all the sites (the seven that he administers) we’re feeding over 4,600 elk daily. So, you take 4,600 times 10 pounds. That’s 46,000 pounds of hay, and that’s 23 tons of hay every day. That’s almost a semi load of hay every day in just a normal winter (mid-December to early March).
“So it’s very expensive,” he continued. “The per-ton cost we estimate is $175, and it may be closer to $200 this year. Twenty-three times $200, and that’s the daily cost.
“The cost of fuel has driven up the trucking and the cost of getting it in here. And it’s driven up the cost of the haying operation, the cost to raise hay,” McGowan said. “And all of those fuel costs, the water costs and the electricity, everything has gone up. So, that is driving the cost of commodities up.”
Has the operating buget has also increased?
“No, the budget hasn’t gone up at all,” McGowan said. “I’ve had the same budget for the past six bienniums, about 12 years. It hasn’t changed a bit.”
When necessary during those years, however, the legislature made additional funding for feeding available.
“And we just lost the funding for Americorps (which allowed for volunteers from around the country to help with the feeding programs and other on-site projects),” he said. “This is the first year in about eight years that I haven’t had the Americacorps, and that’s a big loss.”
A bit later, when McGowan drove one of the two hay-laden trucks among the hungry elk, visitors pressed shoulder-to-shoulder along the fence.
Darlene and I watched for awhile, and she stuffed our donation into one of the boxes, to help pay for the truck tour.
Then I carried the 4-pound Nora under my arm to the far side to the parking area _ didn’t want her to start a stampede _ so she could potty and sniff snow before we headed home.

If you go
The Oak Creek elk feeding station is about 150 miles from Walla Walla, off of US Highway 12 about 20 miles west of Yakima.
The viewing is free, but a number of visible donation boxes highlight the program’s need for funding. About 75 percent of its funds come from the Pitman-Robinson Act, passed in 1939.
A winter feeding program was started on the Oak Creek Unit in 1945. A large parking and viewing area with an interpretive center allows more than 100,000 visitors to observe the elk each winter.
Information about the programs may be found at www.nachesvalleychamber.com/info/elkfeeding.html and at wdfw.wa.gov/lands/r3oakcrk.htm or by using Google to search for Oak Creek Elk Feeding.

Costs of soldiers' gear

It cost $170 to outfit each soldier for combat in World War II. Today it costs nearly $15,000 to outfit each soldier in Iraq.
Experts estimate that the cost will be $28,000 to $60,000 in the middle of the next decade.
Unfortunately, with the way the Iraq war persists, the United States may be outfitting troops for that war beyond the middle the next century.
Yes, instead of gearing down the number of soldiers needed by somehow reducing the volume of conflicts there, we presently see evidence to the contrary.
Both Democrats and Republicans appear committed to remaining in the area with a significant number of troops for a long, long time. This surely seems the case for Iraq and, just as likely, in Afganistan.
And the Bush administration seems to be gearing up for some military action against Iran, although it appears to have moved away from the prospect of strikes against Iranian nuclear facilities in favor of strikes against specific Iranian military units.
The cost inflation for outfitting American soldiers certainly doesn't cover the costs of such military involvements in that part of the world. In fact, the US taxpayers may be paying as much for private or mercenary soldiers in the area (considering the amount of money paid to such companies as Blackwater, and some experts estimate that nearly as many private contractors work in Iraq as do members of the military).
The point is, with so many elements of the military-industrial complex feeding at the money trough filled and refilled constantly with tax-payer dollars, it is folly to expect an end to American involvement in Arab or Muslim (oil-rich) countries any time soon.
Surely not before it costs $60,000 to outfit a soldier to go there (and even more to send a mercenary).

Francis Lake

All day I've faced a barren waste
Without the taste of water,
cool water
....
Dan, can ya see that big,
green tree?
Where the water's runnin' free
And it's waitin' there for me and you?
Cool, clear, water
Cool, clear, water
A song sung by Marty Robbins


When the drinking tube
leading deep into the pack
went gurgle-gurgle like a
straw in an empty milkshake
glass, my spirits crumbled.
I blew into tube. Silence. All
100 ounces of water gone.
Well, darn.
I lifted the Brunton Wind
device from the camera bag
and checked the time: 3:47
p.m.
Alas, hours to go before I
could rest at Francis Lake.
And I'd already trudged six
hours from the trail head at
the Lostine River.
``No going back,'' I
mumbled and lumbered
along, up a dusty switchback,
step after endless step.
The bulging Dana Design
Longbed (1999) backpack,
with a ponderous camera bag
at my chest suspended by
straps ingeniously attached to
the pack's frame, grew
heavier by the step.
A wizened Humphrey
Bogart bone bag, with sunken
eyes and cracked lips,
stumbling across the desert
sands came to mind.
I licked my lips.
Shucks. I had expected 100
ounces of water to suffice.
Never mind the load, the
nearly 90-degree temperature
and the endless trail.
Besides there was a stream
at five miles.
Of course.
Well, nary a trickle
dampened the rocky
stream bed. So there.
Bearing a two-ton pack, I
usually hit a brisk mile-an-
hour uphill pace, with pauses
for photos and to gawk.
At my last sip, I'd walked
six hours (9:24 a.m. to 3:47
p.m.), or six miles.
So, three miles left, and
three hours, unless I
succumbed to dehydration.
Some fun, right.
I walked slow and paused
often. I snapped a few photos
of the massive 8,921-foot
Marble Point that loomed
over the trail.
At the pass, I turned onto a
faint path and the cool, clear
water of Francis Lake
glistened far below.
The path lead across the
rim and down the canyon
wall. I took it and soon inched
across treacherous scree with
fearful drop offs and worried
that, befuddled, I'd made a
bad decision.
I regrouped, however, and
took careful steps, assisted by
my bamboo walking stick.
I merged with the main trail
halfway down the wall and
reached a flat grassy spot 400
yards from the lake at 6:34
p.m., just shy of three hours
from my last drink and nine
hours from the trail head.
Licking dry lips I shed the
cameras and pack for the first
time in nine hours.
I slipped the limp water bag
from the pack and, at a
freshet bubbling toward the
lake, I pumped water into it
with the Sweetwater purifying
pump .
I tried not to drink too fast,
and I failed.
Although I sipped water
and nibbled trail mix with
raisins, peanuts, almonds,
cashews and M&Ms, my tail
dragged as I pitched the tent.
Reluctantly, I cooked
mashed potatoes, toasted an
English muffin in olive oil and
sipped hot chocolate.
I finished the hot chocolate
and the muffin, but not the
potatoes. I dumped them into
a plastic bag to pack out.
A darkness fell, I sat in the
tent's door and pulled up my
knees to remove my boots.
Ouch. Both thighs throbbed
with cramps. Biting back
several epithets, I struggled to
my feet.
The cramps subsided, but
they had my attention. I lay
with my legs straight until I
fell asleep (in 20 seconds).
Then cramps woke me twice,
and I rubbed them out.
I dressed at dawn to
photograph the scorched
9,673-foot Twin Peaks to the
north and the lake
surrounded by granite walls
to the east.
I ate granola and drank hot
chocolate. I felt tired, but my
legs felt OK. So, I set off to
explore around the lake at
6:17 a.m.
I saw four guys leave and
found myself alone _ except
a Western toad _ at the lake.
Feeling flat, I returned to
camp. I pulled my clothes-bag
pillow from the tent and
stretched out in the shade of a
whitebark pine.
I awoke swathed in sunlight
at 10:42 p.m. and felt better. I
ate hash browns O'Brien and
two muffins fried in olive oil.
I toured the lake again, and
the ponds below it.
As evening approached and
fish-feeding circles marred
the ponds, I unpacked the
four-piece fly rod. I caught
and released four small trout
in an hour.
I ate a Mountain House
Grilled Chicken Breast and
Mashed Potatoes dinner for
two and two English muffins
fried in Olive Oil.
I zonked until 4:32 a.m.
I ate granola again, filled
the water bag to the brim,
packed up and headed up the
trail at 5:48 a.m.
I paused several times to
take in singular views and
crossed the pass at 7:08 a.m.
I counted 22 switchbacks
down the mountain to the
trail head.
I also counted five
hummingbirds that hovered
at the red bandanna keeping
my hat from blowing away.
I picked out Chimney Lake
across the Lostine, watched
one small black ant lug a
winged bug five times its size
along the trail, watched two
large ants tug at opposites
ends of a green inch-worm
and watched a peregrine
falcon battle the wind for a
perch on a snag.
I reached the trail head at
1:09 p.m with an empty
water bag.
But I can learn. Next time I
visit Francis Lake in July
maybe I'll carry two bags of
water. Maybe.

Within sight of Walla Walla

A stay-at-home outdoors
Walla Walla weekend proves
that you don't have to drive
half a day to find scenic
beauty and wildlife.
A drive of less than 40 miles
over two days does the trick.
And you get to sleep in your
own bed.
So, I slept in on the first day
off before I rode my bike
along Mill Creek and around
Bennington Lake. I swooped
over the unpaved trails and
roller-coaster hills, sharp
turns and exciting ruts, or
ditches, a foot wide and a foot
deep.
``Exciting,'' if you hit one,
that is, you could crush a rim
and catapult over the handle
bars to land on your punkin'. I
hit a top speed of 24 mph and
covered 14.6 miles in one-
hour, 39 minutes.
On the way home along
Mill Creek, I saw two families
of Canada geese, one with
two adults and three goslings
and one with two adults and
at least a dozen goslings.
And I saw dozens of stay-at-
home folks enjoying shaded,
colorful Pioneer Park.
So I stowed the bike and,
without showering or chang
ing clothes, took my wife
Darlene, Sadie the Dalmatian
and the camera for a ride.
We drove 1.5 miles to see
the geese. We walked along
the stream for 100 yards and
watched adult geese and a
stream of little ones swim up
stream in single file. Almost.
When they came to a weir,
the adults hopped to the top.
The goslings, with mere
stubs for wings, hesitated
then swam back and forth
unwilling to face the chal
lenge.
I watched until my camera
arm ached.
Sadie grumbled. She
waddled to the truck and
back. She stood grumbling
behind me. She made a sec
ond trip to the truck and back.
All the time, the goslings
swam back and forth before
the weir, and the adults
walked along the top, keeping
pace with them. They made
three trips from one side of
the stream to the other, three
times coming within 10 feet of
me before turning back.
Once an adult slipped down
the weir to join the goslings.
The adult swam slowly up to
the weir again and, as to dem
onstrate how its done,
climbed to the top. No little
one followed.
After an hour, the squad of
goslings _ I counted 15 of
them _ swam again to my
side of the stream. Nearly at
my feet, three of them left the
water and stumbled across
the stones to a low, dry sec
tion of the weir.
As hovering parents
watched, they scrambled onto
the weir. Alas, the other 12
turned back.
And I gave up. Surely, they
would all eventually find a
way up the weir. Surely?
We drove another mile-plus
to the Mill Creek Project
Office, and a rooster pheasant
paraded past us on the grass.
On the way home, we
stopped at Pioneer Park, with
it colorful dogwood and laurel
blossoms, and watched famil
ies picnic and kids play on the
covered wagon. We watched a
peacock in the aviary.
So, that was the first day of
an Outdoors in Walla Walla
Weekend. And I drove fewer
than four miles.
Early (7:30 a.m.) on the sec
ond day, we drove into the
Blue Mountain foothills on
Government Mountain Road.
It circles around to connect
with Kendall Skyline Road,
according to my map.
From there we could return
to Walla Walla on Tiger Can
yon and Mill Creek roads.
So I figured.
Well, Government Moun
tain Road climbs steadily.
Within minutes, two
scraggly does clattered into
the road, up the bank and
stood in the field above us.
We counted nine deer within
five minutes.
In another few minutes, we
could see across the valley.
Haze obscured details to
some degree, but we could
see from the airport to Milton-
Freewater, and to the wind
turbines on the distant hill
sides.
Despite the frequent ``No
Trespassing'' signs, we
stopped several times to take
in the view and to let Sadie
sniff around the balsamroot.
Eventually, about 20 miles
from home, we came to a
100-yard snowdrift with two-
foot-deep ruts. I stopped.
``We shouldn't have any
trouble,'' I said, keeping to
myself that I'd taken the
shovel out of the truck two
days earlier.
``Maybe,'' Darlene said.
``You do n't have a shovel,
right?''
She's been here before, I
thought, and grunted.
I slipped the 4-wheel drive
lever into low-low and we
putted through drift and past
a pond alive with frog croaks.
Then after another deep-
rutted drift, a deadfall
blocked the road.
We'd driven 22 miles. I
made half-a-dozen moves for
ward and back to turn on the
two-track road. after passing
the first drift again, I stopped.
``Let's walk back to the
pond and look for frogs,'' I
said.
We spent half an hour at
the pond with hundreds of
apparently invisible frogs
harmonizing for us.
Finally, I saw two frogs, one
with a little one on its back,
suspended in the clear water.
Then, with the valley below,
we drove directly into the
wide panorama on Saddle
Mountain Road to Pikes Peak
Road.
Not a bad way to brush
with the great outdoors and
put fewer than 40 miles on the
truck. Not bad at all.