Just the Little Things and a Very Big Mountain

Yesterday morning, I shared Mount St. Helens with some of its small residents and not much else.

I first noticed the lack of human activity when I didn't see another eastbound car on Highway 504. Considering that the highway leads to the popular Johnston Ridge Observatory, I found its emptiness quite a surprise. My amazement grew when I saw only one car in the parking lot at Coldwater Lake and then no cars at the lot for the Hummocks Trailhead. I might as well have been the only human in the entire Mount St. Helens National Volcanic Monument. That's such an exhilarating feeling.

A warbling vireo along the
Hummocks Trail at Mount St. Helens.

Once on the Hummocks Trail though, I was anything but alone. Birds, including a large group of warbling vireos that kept me company to the base of Johnston Ridge, sang all around, and seemingly, every boulder had a chipmunk atop it. One of these rodents was the smallest of its species that I have ever seen. Its tail could not have been longer than two inches.

Part way up Johnston Ridge, I stopped to photograph Mount St. Helens and the surrounding area. Eventually, another hiker, the only one I would see in five hours on the trail, came along. We talked about the mountain for a little while, and when he left, I sat and watched clouds move around the crater. In the meantime, a western meadowlark started singing nearby--a retiring bird with a big voice providing the soundtrack for one of the most powerful places on Earth. It was a timeless moment, and with the other hiker well up the hill, it belonged to me alone. All I had to do was enjoy it, and that's just what I did.

That other hiker most certainly also missed the toad I saw on my way back down the ridge. I only happened to catch a glimpse of it before it retreated into its hole along the trail, but I couldn't believe my luck in the discovery. The toad had been warming itself in the morning sun, looking out on the mountain at the same time I had been. Mountain watching with a toad--how cool! A bit farther down the trail, I saw a lizard scurrying on the rocks. Overall, in the absence of people, the landscape teamed with activity for me to observe.

By the time I returned to my car, at least 10 other vehicles occupied the lot, and more sat in the lot at Coldwater Lake. However, even when I recorded my very first sighting of a Vaux's swift over the lake, I don't think anyone else noticed. That little bird flitted and swooped overhead, but like so many other events around the mountain yesterday, the sighting was all mine.

To me, yesterday will always be the day I experienced Mount St. Helens with just the little things.

Sandhills and Mountains

I saw four volcanoes yesterday, and they weren't even the biggest sightings of the day.

One of the sandhill cranes that flew over as I walked the
Kiwa Trail at the Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge.

The drive to and from the Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge had views of Mount Rainier, Mount St. Helens, Mount Adams, and Mount Hood. That, by itself, is enough to make a day remarkable. At the refuge, however, I logged my very first sighting of sandhill cranes, turning remarkable into breathtaking.

Yesterday's spectacular views began to take shape several weeks ago when I visited the Web site of the Black Hills Audubon Society. They had planned a trip to the refuge at Ridgefield with the hope of seeing some sandhill cranes. Previously unaware that the cranes visited the refuge, I became interested in making my own trip there. With birders reporting sightings of the cranes at Ridgefield over the weekend and with sunny weather coming this week, I made up my mind to go. I'm so happy I did.

Mount St. Helens watching over the
Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge.

On the drive to Ridgefield, a haze shrouded the Cascade Mountains, hiding Mount Rainier, but the three volcanoes to its south proudly made their appearances as my mom and I neared our destination. The towering giants served as an exciting prelude to what the refuge had in store for us. We heard the sandhill cranes before we saw them, and then, after photographing a green heron and some cedar waxwings at the beginning of the Kiwa Trail, we sighted our first group of cranes about a third of the way down the trail. Never having seen a sandhill crane in person before, I felt like I had just discovered some priceless artifact. As we continued down the trail, another group of cranes flew over head, we saw a great egret, and Mount St. Helens peeked over the hill. We had amazing sights all around, and at the center of it, I found those cranes and the sense that they had given me an experience everyone should have at some point in life. Something special exists in those birds, a charisma and a power that compels us to take notice.

Before leaving the refuge, we also saw a pied-billed grebe. After lunch in Ridgefield, we began our return trip. Mount St. Helens, Mount Adams, and Mount Hood remained out for viewing, and Mount Rainier finally presented itself.

Four volcanoes, three birds added to my 2018 list, which now stands at 124 species, and, to top it all off, my first sighting of sandhill cranes: a day to remember for sure.

Old is New

For my previous post, I discussed how the new things I've purchased in the last few years have improved my hiking, but I also had help on this year's hikes from an old friend with a new look.

In 1996, I purchased a pair of Bollé sunglasses for $40. They came with attachments that fit around their arms to keep out more rays. I've worn them for the last 21 years, but I never used the attachments until this summer's hiking season.

During my Mount St. Helens hike last year, I found myself wishing my sunglasses let in a little less light on sunny days in the mountains. Then, I remember the arm attachments, which I had kept despite never using, and decided to try them out on the next bright hiking day. However, cloudy weather delayed my chance to use them until this summer.

The Mount Adams hike in July provided the perfect test for my sunglasses to, after all these years, show their full potential. On a bright, cloudless day with snow reflecting the light back up at me, the sunglasses joined with my newer UV-protective clothing to shade me from the sun and make the hike more enjoyable.

I love my sunglasses like an old friend, and I appreciate that they're still helping me out in new ways.

Stumbling Toward Ecstasy

Those first steps in that 1,000-mile journey might lead to stumbles, but if we learn and accumulate the tools we need along the way, we'll arrive at somewhere special.

People like to quote Lao-Tzu and tell us that, "The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step." Inspiring words to be sure. The quote leaves out the fact that we tend to wobble, stagger, and even fall in our first steps, but that's okay because we can recover and find what we need to walk steadily toward our destination.

My first real hiking trip two years ago brought a few setbacks. In 2015, I decided to take up hiking. I'd spent a lot of time outdoors before that, fishing and exploring nature, but I hadn't formally committed to hiking. That July, I hiked the Skyline Loop Trail at Mount Rainier National Park. The mountain held a special place in my heart because I grew up with it in the distance, so it made sense to take my first hiking steps there. For the most part, the experience met my expectations, but crossing a snowy section on the trail activated my fear of heights, and I left with a sunburn on a spot I'd missed with sunscreen.

Even though the snowy heights and the sunburn didn't ruin the hike, they stuck with me as challenges to overcome. To address the latter, I bought a UV-protective pullover from Patagonia to go along with the UV-protective Patagonia shorts I already had. I also purchased a pair of Merrell Capra Sport hiking shoes to replace the jogging shoes I'd worn to Mount Rainier, a pair of REI hiking socks, and a Patagonia backpack, the latter of which I blogged about last year. It was time to get serious about the steps I wanted to take, but I still didn't know how to deal with the issue of heights. After all, having a fear of heights and a desire to hike in the mountains presents a substantial dilemma.

Some of the gear that has improved my hiking.

Last year, my phobia triggered another stumble. On a hike at Mount St. Helens, I had to turn back because walking the side of Johnston Ridge bothered me too much. The trail was far from treacherous, and the heights I encountered should not have overwhelmed me. Upset at myself for having to end the hike for no good reason, I resolved to fix the problem. One of my cousins suggested the idea of using trekking polls, so this spring, I bought a pair of Black Diamond Distance Carbon Z trekking polls from REI. The REI purchase also included a second pair of hiking socks (this one from Darn Tough) because I like to double up on socks and a pair of UV-protective gloves from Outdoor Research.

Following the spring shopping, I felt ready to take my next steps in the hiking adventure. Those steps brought the kind of exhilaration and satisfaction I had hope for from the beginning. First, I hiked in the Mount Adams Wilderness, an experience I blogged about last month. As I wrote at the time, the trekking polls helped make the hike a nearly perfect outing. They gave me extra stability and allowed me to focus on the simple task of taking the next step instead of imagining unlikely pitfalls. Even on snowy terrain similar to that at Mount Rainier in 2015, I felt relaxed and in control. Meanwhile, the light, UV-protective clothes and gloves kept me cool and protected from the bright sun, and the gloves held up to the challenge of gripping the trekking polls. Ecstatic about the hike, especially with the performance of the trekking polls, I knew my new tools had already paid for themselves, and for the first time, I felt completely at home in hiking.

Besides providing the desired control, the trekking polls yielded another major benefit. As with my backpack last year, the polls helped better distribute the strain of hiking. Rather than having my legs do all the work, I used the polls to climb and cushion against the impact of sloping terrain. Consequently, I could enjoy the whole trip more and feel better about it in the end. After noticing the difference on the Mount Adams hike, I appreciated it even more a week later when I returned to Mount Rainier for a 12-mile hike from Longmire to the Reflection Lakes. Despite the distance, my legs felt better than they had following the 2015 Mount Rainier hike.

We can complete our journey a step at a time, but if that journey also includes growth and some accumulation of equipment for living (as Kenneth Burke would say), the destination will elate us.

Finding a Friendly Place

When an old friend and I began talking about taking a hike together, I didn't realize it would lead to making a new friend of a strangely familiar place, but that's what happened on my trip to the Mount Adams Wilderness last week.

Looking up at Mount Adams from the Killen Creek Trail.

For some years, a friend I have known since elementary school and I have discussed plans for a hike. We grew up in the same area, playing sports and musical instruments and occasionally fishing together, and we thought a hike might make another good adventure to share. Eventually, we settled on Killen Creek Trail #113 near Mount Adams, an area I didn't know well but that provided a nice central meeting point.

Growing up in western Washington, I considered Mount Adams more of an acquaintance than a friend. Its placement in the eastern half of the Cascade Mountains meant I could see it occasionally (though partially obscured) from high points near my home. On the other hand, I felt a much deeper connection with Mount Rainier and Mount St. Helens, the former in particular. I saw them regularly and built a kinship with them. When I see Mount Rainier, I instantly think of home.

Without much knowledge of the Mount Adams Wilderness, I went into the hike a little nervous. After all, my friend and I had to coordinate family schedules, bring all the right equipment, and find our way to a fairly remote trailhead. The trepidation proved unjustified, and I found myself looking over a new setting with which my heart felt a deep connection.

From the moment we turned off Highway 12 onto Forest Road 21, I began to like the area. Though dusty, the road enjoyed a canopy of trees that offered a warm embrace. I grew up surrounded by trees, so I love having them overhead, and although the ones leading to Mount Adams grew smaller as we moved closer to the mountain, they kept us company for the entire drive and hike. On the road and the trail, they provided shade against a sunny, warm day. In the clear air of the mountain meadows we crossed during the hike, they glowed green. Then, as I looked out from our stopping point just northwest of Mount Adams, I heard myself say with a smile, "Look at all the trees." They stretched out in a sea of varying green shades all the way to Mount Rainier, which glistened in the sun 50 miles north of our position, and I realized how much they made me feel at home in the shadow of a volcano I'd previously known only in passing.

Coming prepared for the hike added to the connection I felt to my novel surroundings. In May, I purchased a pair of trekking poles for added stability on hikes. They paid for themselves in just that one day on the Killen Creek Trail. Along with giving me extra points of control and taking strain off my legs while ascending and descending, the poles made the snow we encountered a source of joy rather than stress. The control they provided on an otherwise slippery surface allowed me to embrace the snow for its refreshing coolness. Even when I stepped through a weak spot up to my knee, I kind of liked it. Instead of resenting the snow as an obstacle, I reflected on how good it was to still have snow this late in the year after two years of hot, dry springs and summers in the Pacific Northwest. I prefer the cooler months of the year anyway, so I felt glad that I had the chance to walk up and meet a bit of winter in July.

Finally, hiking the trail with my mom and my friend and his family brought the new and the familiar of the experience together in perfect symmetry. Gazing over the landscape from our stopping point, I realized and appreciated how far into the wilderness I had gone, but I didn't feel disconnected from anything or out of place. I could have stayed there for hours more. Even the aggressive mosquitoes we fought during the hike, while breaking through the insect repellent, never broke through the feeling that I belonged there.

In the process of reconnecting with an old friend, I found another I never knew I had, and for years to come, I'll think of that distant mountain as a friendly place.

For $30 More

My new backpack with its valuable front straps.

A little extra money can go a long way, especially on a hike.

Earlier this year, I broke down and decided to buy a new backpack. I loved my old one, but its zippers were stripping, and the padding was crumbling away. Since I use my backpack nearly every day (either for my walk to work, a trip, or a hike), I definitely needed a good replacement that had versatility.

To make the purchase as environmentally friendly as an act of consumerism can be, my first instinct was to turn to Patagonia, the California-based maker of outdoor apparel that emphasizes environmental stewardship. Sure enough, I found a selection of backpacks made from recycled pop bottles. That made me feel better about making the purchase, but it wasn't the last good feeling I received from buying the backpack.

Considering Patagonia's sizable selection of backpacks, I had some choices to make. The choice I ultimately made taught be a good lesson. After narrowing the selection down to two possibilities, both of which provided great versatility, the final issue I had to resolve was one of price. One of the backpacks seemed like a great bargain at $89, and it came with everything I had been looking for. However, it lacked the straps that fasten in the front to secure the pack around the body. The other option, Patagonia's Jalama 28L, featured those straps but cost $30 more than its counterpart. After some deliberation, I decided the extra money might be worth it.

The first time I put my money to the test, I knew I'd made the right choice. I immediately threw my new backpack into action for a nine-mile hike at Mount St. Helens, and it exceeded all my expectations. With the straps taking pressure off my neck, shoulders, and back by securing the pack to my torso, I felt lighter and kept my legs fresh. With my old pack, which lacked the straps, I would end long hikes with heavy legs, so I was surprised by the feeling of having fresh legs after the Mount St. Helens hike. Subsequent hikes produced the same happy results, and I thanked myself for the extra $30 I had spent.

I may have paid a bit more for my new backpack, but the changes it has brought to my hiking are priceless.

Plan Beach

The waves roll in on a perfect day at Twin Harbors State Park.

My last big outdoor trip of the summer went to the dogs, and they went to the beach.

Several of my adventures this summer have not gone according to plan. In some cases, the people changed; in others, the destinations changed. The overall goal had been to visit Mount Rainier, Mount St. Helens, Mount Hood, and Mount Adams. I was able to accomplish the first three-fourths of that objective in various ways. Mount Adams proved more elusive. I could see it on clear days, but the hike I had planned near it fell through when the United States Forest Service had to close the access road for repairs.

If nothing else, however, the summer was about going with the flow. As in the case of the Mount Hood trip, the obstacle at Mount Adams led to another path, and happily, my family's dogs could go on this one. My mom and I loaded them up on the day we'd originally scheduled for Mount Adams and took them to Twin Harbors State Park in Grayland, Washington. The park encompasses a beach as well as a pine forest that lies behind the dunes.

Despite being the second option for the day, the trip to the beach came together like we'd planned it all along. We had perfect weather, and the dogs enjoyed their stroll in the sand. Everyone found plenty of things to enjoy. Our older dog didn't know what to investigate first--the surf, the driftwood, or the dunes. The younger dog enjoyed the attention he received from the other people at the beach. I found the pine forest with its evergreen huckleberry bushes very cute, and as always, my mom enjoyed the smell of the ocean. I hadn't been to that beach since a field trip in seventh grade. Yet I am glad that my scrambled plans gave me the chance to go back finally.

My summer wasn't without its challenges, but it ended up being a day at the beach.

Partly to Perfectly Cloudy

A misty morning on Rampart Ridge.

I've seen a lot more of clouds than of mountains this summer, and I couldn't be happier about it.

The Pacific Northwest is known for its clouds. Even the summers, which are normally pretty dry, typically see their fair share of cloudy days. Last summer, that wasn't the case though. The stifling heat that baked the region also burned off the clouds, making for a seemingly endless string of bright, sunny days and clear views of the mountains. Although those views were nice, the unusual weather grew old. That's why I have no complaints about my cloudy experiences with the mountains this year.

The clouds have defined my hikes at, near, and on Mount St. Helens, Mount Hood, and Mount Rainier in 2016. In fact, I'd go so far as to say they have made those experiences perfect. The most recent hike was on the Rampart Ridge Trail near Longmire at Mount Rainier. We had heavy cloud cover for the whole hike, but the trail and the conditions could not have been better suited for each other.

Rampart Ridge (the Ramparts for short) formed from a lava flow off the mountain, but it is below the tree line, so unlike some other hikes on Mount Rainier, it is covered by forest, including some massive old-growth trees at the lower levels. Even on clear days, the trail along the ridge has only a few clear views of the mountain. That's okay because the forest is the real show. Our cloudy day made sure we remembered that.

Within the trees, we found a lively, colorful ecosystem. The undergrowth, glowing green with moss and vine maple, housed Douglas squirrels and birds. We heard the haunting calls of varied thrushes and saw cute wildflowers and fungi. Then, there were the clouds. We hiked high enough to meet them and were fortunate to walk through their mist. At one of the open areas, we looked across Kautz Creek to see Pyramid Peak shrouded in fog. We also received a visit from a gray jay. As we moved through the old growth sentries near the end of the hike, we came upon a barred owl.

The clouds never let us see Mount Rainier. Instead, they helped us focus on the best of what the Ramparts had to offer, enclosing a magnificent world all its own.

All in all, it's been perfectly wonderful to have the clouds back in the Pacific Northwest this summer.

Taking the Next Step

A view of Mount St. Helens from the hummocks.

My hike near Mount St. Helens 11 days ago began last summer, and it's not over yet.

On a Father's Day trip to the mountain in 2015, my dad and I found some information about the trails in the area. After last year's successful hikes at Mount Rainier, Olympic National Park, and the Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge, I spent part of the winter planning excursions in the Pacific Northwest for this summer. The details about the Mount St. Helens trails provided a number of great options.

The hike from the hummocks northwest of the mountain to Johnston Ridge seemed particularly interesting, and I quickly settled on it. By Christmas, my mom and my cousin were on board for the hike.

As it moved from the Toutle River Valley up Johnston Ridge, the Boundary-Hummocks Trail displayed a surprising range of features and ecosystem types. The hummocks, formed by deposits left from the massive lahars (mudflows) triggered by the volcano's 1980 eruption, contained lush ponds shaded by alder. The ponds provided homes for beavers and birds and fed thriving thickets of ferns, cattails, and horsetails. Below the hummocks, the Toutle River continued its task of cutting through the sediment deposits.

Johnston Ridge, which received much of the 1980 blast, featured different terrain. A few trees had returned, but much of the land was open, giving us a great view to watch the day's clouds shuffle around the mountain. The clouds became the stars of the hike. They began to clear at about 9:30 a.m. Around noon, they re-formed near the mountain's middle like a Hula-Hoop. By the late afternoon, they covered the summit. Rather than taking away from the view though, the clouds seemed to enhance it with various personalities. Last year, during the hot, dry summer, we saw no clouds around the mountain. The clear view was fantastic, but this year's clouds made for many unique perspectives not possible without them.

When the hiked ended, I felt like I knew Mount St. Helens more intimately. I'd walked in two very different environments in the span of just a few miles, and they had revealed a lot about what has been happening around the mountain in the last 36 years.

In truth, this one trail represents just the tip of the iceberg with regard to the network of paths around the mountain, so an adventure that began in 2015 and continued this year has plenty of next steps.

There and Back Again

The beautiful blue of the Quinault River.

Outdoor adventures can have unintended destinations, and going places can take us back.

For Father's Day 2015, my dad, my grandma, and I drove to Mount St. Helens. The trip went so well that we decided to replicate the experience with a new destination this year. We considered a drive to Mount Rainier, but my dad settled on Donkey Creek in the Olympic Peninsula. This wasn't a random decision. He'd spent time there with his parents on hunting trips when he was younger, and he wanted to see the area again. Going there would be a new experience for me, so his suggestion sounded good.

Instead of taking the trip on Father's Day, we made the drive on June 4, which allowed us to take advantage of the peninsula's cooler temperatures on a hot day; and rather than taking Highway 101 up the peninsula, we cut through the Wynoochee River Valley for a more leisurely and scenic route. Dad had plenty of time to observe and discuss how the area had changed over the years. The day was clear, and we caught glimpses of the Olympic Mountains.

Turning onto the Donkey Creek road brought together different points in time. I'd never seen the area, so it all should have been new. However, the time Dad and Grandma had spent there in the past came back as they talked about places they'd camped and hunted, so I felt a surprising familiarity with these fresh surroundings. While they noted the changes to the area, I began to think about how we were there both in the present and back in an earlier time simultaneously. The two periods meshed for a powerful experience.

Emerging at the Newberry Creek entrance, we realized how close we were to Lake Quinault and made the quick decision to take the loop around the lake. Coincidently, on June 4, 2015, my mom and I had hiked the Willaby Creek Trail on the lake's south side, so the return exactly one year later made for a nice bookend journey. On the drive around the lake, we found great views of the Olympics and the cool, blue Quinault River. We also saw a cow elk and her calf and stopped to take in the sight and sound of a waterfall.

It's great to know where you want to go, but leaving some room for the unexpected can take you just about anywhere in time and space.

Walking Unafraid in a Frightening Time

The saying holds that people who keep their heads while everyone else loses theirs don't understand the situation. My experiences this summer taught me that the people who don't lose their heads might just understand the situation as fully as possible.

I spent the summer amid the sound of First Aid Kit, a Swedish folk band with a flair for Americana, and the fury of a Pacific Northwest burning in the face of global warming. We typically overcome the kind of sadness and fear associated with watching a beloved place shrivel up and incinerate by turning away from the most terrifying details. As much as I might have liked to do that at the beginning of the summer, by the end, I realized that this time (and from now on), I would, as First Aid Kit's song says, "Walk unafraid."



I bought the song, which comes from the soundtrack of Wild, along with the band's Stay Gold album in early May before I returned home for summer vacation. The music became the soundtrack of a summer that contained equal parts devastation and empowerment. I listened to very little else, but the songs never faded. They played in my head through adventures that filled my heart and events that broke it.

I saw Mount Rainier, Mount St. Helens, and Olympic National Park with lyrics like those from My Silver Lining echoing in the vastness of the extraordinary scenery. I watched the overwhelming heat of July bring a usually vibrant ecosystem to its knees and August's wildfires and their accompanying smoke finish the job with merciless suffocation. By that time, Fleeting One, the eighth track on Stay Gold seemed all too appropriate.

Still, I never turned away or tuned out. I took it all in. I reached a point where I knew and could feel everything that was happening. I could tell how close the land and plants were to breaking. Several times, I just had to cry. Then, a strange thing happened: Out of the chaos came the confidence of clarity. I'd played Walk Unafraid so many times in those three months, but suddenly, I was doing what the song said. I understood the situation fully, and I met it head on.

Trees had already started dying on my parents' property by August 2 when I turned on the sprinkler for the first time. We haven't watered our yard for years, but we still have a good sprinkler and some long hoses. During the next two weeks, I used them to get water to the native trees and plants on the property. At first, I wasn't sure if I was having any positive effect or merely tilting at windmills. I didn't even know how to feel when I read that Olympic National Park was also using sprinklers on its forests. Suddenly and unexpectedly though, the weather shifted in the slightest of ways. A bit of rain fell, and the temperatures cooled a little. Combined with my efforts, these changes helped the local plants revive. I felt the satisfaction of knowing a situation, responding to it, and making a contribution.

Although the last images I saw of the Pacific Northwest as I drove east for the school year were shrouded in smoke, I looked upon them without flinching. Those scenes would have torn me apart before. This time, they hurt, but I also knew nothing could break my connection to that place or my commitment to helping it as we face global warming together.

It's the same effect that occurs when music puts people in sync, and it's only possible when everything (joy, sadness, fear) is fully experienced.

Farewell Tour

Recession of the Nisqually Glacier at Mount Rainier

When I came home to Washington state this summer, I said goodbye.

Early in the spring semester while working at the University of South Dakota, I started making plans for my summer in Washington. I wanted to go back to Olympic National Park and Mount St. Helens. Also, I wanted to visit Mount Rainier for the first time. That mountain had watched over so much of my life, but I had never been up to it.

Accompanied by my family, I was able to keep all my plans, and I had a great time doing it. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was losing old friends and the state where I grew up.

Global warming is tearing apart my home state this summer with drought and heat. Two weeks after I visited Olympic National Park, one of the wettest places in the world, a massive fire started there. Days before I visited Mount St. Helens, the state Department of Ecology declared that Washington's snowpack was at zero percent of normal levels. Sure enough, the only snow I saw on that trip was at the top of St. Helens and in the volcano's shaded crater. Then, days before I went to Mount Rainier, a news story ran about the mountain's disappearing Nisqually Glacier. I was sure to take pictures of the glacier and its recession on my trip because I wasn't sure how many more chances I'll get to see it.

I was glad about my choice to visit these icons of Washington this summer. Global warming is changing them, and I needed something of the way they were to keep as a last memory. That's what we must do when we say goodbye.

Rain, moderate temperatures, snow: The band has broken up in Washington, and in the words of singer Michelle Branch, "Goodbye to you. Goodbye to everything that I knew. You were the one I loved, the one thing I tried to hold onto."