Falling up the Mountain

The higher they are, the harder they fall.

In the lowlands of western Washington, the signs of autumn (the smells, the cooler temperatures, the September rains, the greening grass, the mist on the spider webs, the coloring leaves) started appearing a few weeks ago. They have gradually built momentum in the temperate climate, and I have enjoyed watching their development. At the same time, I have kept an eye on the webcams at Mount Rainier, waiting for the chance to see the intense colors of the mountain's fall foliage in person. Those colors really began to pop this week, so my mom and I headed up for a hike on Thursday.

We received a few autumnal previews on the drive to the mountain. The morning fog sure suggested fall, and near the Ohop Valley, we started seeing trees dressed in golden leaves.

Inside Mount Rainier National Park, I could feel excitement welling up inside me. Pine scent hovered heavily at Longmire. The cliffs above the Nisqually River Valley revealed hints of the sights to come at the higher elevations. Bright reds and yellows flared on the gray rocks, and it soon became clear that we had timed the fall transformation of the mountain just about perfectly.

Fall painting a stunning scene at Mount Rainier.

We started the hike at the Reflection Lakes with the scenery above at Paradise our destination. On the trail, we saw increasing evidence of fall. The leaves of Cascade blueberries appeared in purples and reds, the nuthatches chattered joyously while spilling the contents of tree cones down around us, and the pine scent intensified. Near the halfway point, the meadows started to open up with patches of bright colors and views of the mountain. Each spot built on the beauty of the last. The fall grew more forceful the higher we went. Then came the radiant blast at Paradise. Fueled by the midday sun, the full reds, oranges, and yellows lit up the area around the Henry M. Jackson Visitor Center and the Paradise Inn and blazed across the slopes to the east.

Having gone up there in pursuit of this concentrated burst of fall, I felt almost staggered by happiness. Two of my most cherished things, the fall and Mount Rainier, came together in stunning perfection; and as those autumn colors washed over the side of that mountain, they took a hold on my heart so tight that I suspect they'll never relinquish it.

Going up is a pretty good way to fall.

A Whole New Light

Now, you don't see it; now, you do.

Our physical environment heavily influences what things we see and how we see them. My experiences at the Billy Frank Jr. Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge demonstrate this fact well.

The most recent of my trips to the refuge possessed a much different character than the previous two (the second of which I blogged about two years ago). Back on my first trip in 1994, rain dominated experience, and in 2015, a thick fog enclosed the refuge. As a result, my family and I had limited visibility both times, drawing our focus to things close at hand. When my mom and I returned four days ago, clear skies, sun, and miles of scenery treated us to many new sights and experiences.

Out in the open, in the context of the Nisqually Valley and the extended Puget Sound, the refuge and the recent work to restore it took on even greater significance. It truly represented the meeting place of mountain and marine ecosystems--the destination of the Nisqually River, which begins at Mount Rainier. In that light, the work to remove the dykes that had dominated and reshaped the estuary for a century meant so much more. Seeing the sun shine on the larger natural processes working freely once again at the refuge proved quite satisfying.

Besides highlighting the larger importance of the refuge, the clear day revealed sights and things I've never seen before. For the first time, I saw the Tacoma Narrows Bridge from that vantage point. I also documented my first sighting of a peregrine falcon--a bird I was drawn to as a child and waited years to see in the wild.

American wigeon at the Billy Frank Jr.
Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge.

The final revelation offered by the sunny day at the refuge involved ducks. As an amateur bird-watcher, I have experienced difficulty committing ducks to memory. For some reason, other than mallards and wood ducks, they all seem to slip into one general image in my mind. I think one reason for this difficulty is that unlike songbirds, I am not around ducks all the time. However, because of the open scenery and the many ducks at the refuge last week, I was able to identify and become familiar with four species, including the American wigeon, the green-winged teal, the common goldeneye, and the bufflehead. I can say that they are more than just ducks to me now. I can see them for the individual species they are.

When the light changes, even familiar places give us more to see.