With two or three perfectly functional rain jackets in the closet, we go out and buy the latest and great.

When the newest fly fish rod comes out, promising to improve your cast by 10 yards, and your accuracy by 10 percent, we go buy it.

If a new stove promises to be 0.3 ounces lighter than our current stove while cutting our boil time by 30 seconds, we gotta have it.

With resources becoming ever more scarce, and our economy on the rocks, rampant consumerism is a problem. We buy too damned much stuff we don’t need and don’t use the stuff we have for its complete lifespan. I’m sorry to say that, at least in the outdoor market, I’m a big part of the problem. For the last 20 years, I’ve reviewed the latest and greatest outdoor products and through a variety of publications, encouraged you to buy them all.

I do believe I offer a valuable service in providing honest reviews based on substantial field testing. But I also have come to accept the fact I need to be talking about durability and longevity of products, too. A Polartec softshell jacket can last for years – decades even, depending on the type of use – and the gear maker’s should be touting that fact. Same with Gore-Tex, Schoeller and Primaloft products. But even more importantly, I should be touting that fact – and so should all my colleagues.

I know I’m not alone in this belief. Earlier this year I enjoy an evening out with Todd and Shannon Walton and this topic was one of many we discussed. They’ve both been leaders in the PR side of the Outdoor Industry and they both expressed strong interest in encouraging “durability marketing.”

I’ve also discussed this with folks from other PR agencies, from manufacturers and from retailers. While these businesses need new retail sales to stay afloat, they all realize there is an environmental and moral imperative to reducing the “throw-away” culture we currently have in place.

With all this percolating through my mind for the past several months, I was pleasantly shocked to see a unique ad in New York Times on Black Friday – the most rampant day of consumerism in America. Patagonia ran a prominent ad in the NYT today, telling consumers, “Don’t Buy this Jacket.”

Patagonia's NY Times ad

Their ad content speaks for itself:

“Black Friday, and the culture of consumption it reflects, puts the economy of natural systems that support all life firmly in the red. We’re now using the resources of one-and-a-half planets on our one and only planet.

Because Patagonia wants to be in business for a good long time – and leave a world inhabitable for our kids – we want to do the opposite of every other business today. We ask you to buy less and to reflect before you spend a dime on this jacket or anything else.”

For most businesses, running an ad of this kind would result in immediate firings within the ad department. For Patagonia, it’s just a continuation of an on-going program of reducing waste and overconsumption.

The Patagonia Common Threads Initiative encourages Patagonia customers to repair, re-use and eventually recycle their products before buying something new. They offer incentives, aid, and lots of educational material to make this happen. See details here.

Other companies are doing similar things on a smaller scale, and I want to step up and promise to do my part, too. So while I will continue to review and recommend new products, I will also offer information on how to make your existing products last longer. I’ll present stories on restoring old gear to like-new condition. I’ll provide information on where you can recycle – rather than just throw away –truly worn out gear. And I’ll try to focus my recommendations of new gear on products that will last for years, decades or even generations.

Adventures NW

The recent news that the Seattle Times has slashed its outdoor section budget and eliminated my column initially came as a blow to me. But now I see it as an opportunity. I’ve allowed my blog to be stagnant. No more.

Adventures Northwest will be a voice for responsible consumerism. We will follow Patagonia’s lead and encourage careful choices for outdoors enthusiasts. I will review gear that works, but will also – when appropriate – pull no punches when describing gear that fails to meet our standards.

We all have too much shit. It’s time glean the wheat from the chafe. It’s time to get rid of the shit and stick with only the quality gear that will keep us warm, dry, safe and happy.

But black bears deserve our full attention. These beautiful beasts inhabit every bit of our state, including many of our most urban neighborhoods.

Geographically, Washington is the smallest of the contiguous states west of the Mississippi, yet we have the largest population. Not of people­—with luck, we’ll leave that dubious honor to California—but of black bears. With an estimated 30,000 to 35,000 black bears, Washington has more bruins than such wilderness-rich states as Idaho (20,000 to 25,000 black bears), Montana (15,000 to 25,000) and Oregon (20,000 to 25,000). In fact, according to The Great Bear Almanac by Gary Brown,  of all 50 states, only Alaska has more black bears than Washington, with more than 100,000 of the bruins roaming that state, mostly in the coastal forests of the southern parts of the state.

Given that high number of black bears, coupled with Washington’s small size and large human population (second largest human population in those 11 western states—coming in behind California), I find it remarkable that there hasn’t been much discussion of a ‘bear problem’ in Washington. More than that, I find it somewhat frightening. I have witnessed too many instances of people under-reacting to bear sightings (as opposed to the typical overreaction to cougar sightings). The problem is one of perception. Maybe its fostered by having grown up with Teddy Bears filling our childhoods, but many folks look at black bears and see them cute, somewhat clumsy critters that are lovable and harmless. I’ve seen hikers walk tossing sandwiches and granola bars at bears in an attempt to draw them into camera range. I’ve seen folks stop their cars and roll down their windows to get a look at bears standing in the road. I’ve heard accounts of people walking up and posing in front of bears—sometimes even taking their children with them!—so that their spouse could snap a picture of them.

Stupid. Eventually the numbers catch up to us and we see a report in the newspaper about some hiker getting mauled, or about bears wandering into a town and dining on garbage cans, pet food, and sometimes on the pets themselves.

I’ve encountered more than three dozen black bears during the 40 years I’ve lived in this state. My first introduction to bears was on that warm August day I described earlier in the introduction section of this book. That encounter in the huckleberry patch between the 12-year-old me and the young black bear remain my most vivid recollection of a bear encounter. But others have also left their mark on my memory.

Nothing gets the heart thumping like the realization that you’re standing between a female bear and her young. Fortunately, when I found myself in this situation in the central Cascades early one September, the youngsters in question were yearling cubs and momma bear—who was undoubtedly ready to toss the juvenile bruins out on their own at any moment—wasn’t too concerned about my presence.

Donna and I were out for a short dayhike along the Pacific Crest Trail north of Chinook Pass. I was researching the route for another guide book, and Donna was along to enjoy the scenery and to keep me company. We chose this section of trail because I knew the huckleberries should be ripe along the way, and I’m a glutton for berries!

We started up the trail early on a Saturday morning, hoping to stay ahead of the hordes of hikers that would surely arrive at the trailhead later that morning. Still, despite our early start, we shared the trailhead with a half dozen other folks out for quiet mountain stroll.  Two gong-ho hikers hit the trail at a near-trot before we caught our packs on, but we were soon on the trail behind them. That first pair was moving fast, and we soon found ourselves hiking along without another person in sight. That’s when we heard it. We weren’t more than a mile and a half up the trail when we heard a crash in the brush below us. We were traversing a 30-degree slope that was covered in huckleberry brambles with just a few trees scattered about. The ruckus was coming from a trio of trees grew close together about 20 yards downslope from the trail. I was a step or two in front of Donna, and when I turned at the noise, I saw nothing. I muttered something about a pair of squirrels fighting over pinecones, but Donna saw something bigger than a squirrel.

“Maybe a raccoon,” I said, antsy to keep moving so we could stay well ahead of the other hikers. Donna wasn’t ready to buy that argument, though, and kept looking at the trees. That’s when the first two hikers came back down the trail at run.

“There’s a bear up there!” they gasped as they screeched to a halt in front of me. About then, Donna picked out the form of a bear cub in the tree branches and caled out, “There’s one down here, too.”

The fast-paced backpackers weren’t as far ahead of us as we had supposed, and had in fact encountered a large black bear just around the corner from were we stood. Knowing that it was undoubtedly the mother of the youngster in the tree below —and slightly behind—us, I knew we should clear out of there as soon as possible. The problem was I didn’t want to flee the trail, leaving the bears as a hazard for other, unsuspecting hikers. As I thought about the situation, two more hikers—an elderly couple with a small dachshund on a leash—came up behind us, making us a group of six. That, I thought, presented odds that not even a mother black bear would readily challenge, so I told the other five to stick close behind me, then I started slowly up the trail toward where the first two hikers had seen the big bear. Not 20 yards up the trail, I saw a black rump retreating from the trail, heading straight up the hill. I stopped, and watched. The sow slowly climbed about 15 yards above the trail, then turned into a rich patch of huckleberries and began to eat. Right beside it, I saw, was another, smaller bear. The sow munched a few berries, then slowly ambled away, heading back toward the direction we had come, but angling uphill away from the trail. We watched the mother. The cub—a big, strapping yearling—watched us for moment, then grabbed a mouthful of berries, too, before taking off after momma. Suddenly, we heard crashing below the trail once more, and watched as the first cub dropped out of its hiding spot in the tree and raced up the slope to rejoin its sibling and mother.

Managing encounters

This encounter could have unfolded in several different ways, and we were lucky to have had it play out as it did. If the elderly couple with the small dog had been the first to round the corner and come face to face with the matronly bruin, the dog might have upset the bear and prompted it to act more aggressively. If the cubs had been that year’s cubs instead of yearling cubs, the mother would have been more protective and those first two hikers would have been attacked when they turned and ran. But as easy as it is to speculate about what could have happened, my experience has been that more often than not, bears are even less interested than you in getting into a tussle.

Those three bears were the fifth, sixth and seventh Donna and I had seen that year. In July, Donna and I crossed paths with a solitary bear along the Carbon River Road in Mount Rainier National Park while on a biking and hiking outing. And in late August, we spotted a large male browsing through the berry patches on Mother Mountain near Spray Park on the northwest side of Mount Rainier. And late in the spring, while visit my folks at their home in the Blue Mountains of southeast Washington, we sat on the deck and watched a couple bears amble through their backyard, within feet of the house.

Seven bears in a single hiking season. A remarkable number considering the fact that in the previous 20 years, I had seen roughly 15 black bears in the wild—less than one per year on average.

I was thrilled to see so many wild predators but also a bit concerned, not so much for myself as for my fellow backpackers—and for the bears (when bears and humans encounter each other, the bears are typically the losers in the end).

Bears are classified as omnivores, which technically means they eat both plants and animal matter. But in realistic terms, it means they are opportunistic feeders—they’ll eat whatever is easy to get at, be it plant, animal or Powerbar. Generally, vegetation makes up the bulk of a black bear’s diet, since plants are the easiest, and most common, source of food in a bear’s range. But when the opportunity presents itself, bears will eat small animals, bugs, and even large ungulates. And when dried turkey tetrazini and M&M-rich trail mix are available, they’ll gorge themselves on these, too.

So, what hikers need to do is keep their food out of reach of bears. Simple as that. Unfortunately, too many backpackers fail to take in account the bear’s incredible resourcefulness. Still others fail to take into account the bears at all. I’ve seen hikers eating in the tents, dirty pots left lying in the middle of camp all night, and food bags hung a mere foot or two off the ground—essentially at mouth level for a roving bear—right next to tents.

That’s not the end of it, though. The problem doesn’t go away after a bear ransacks a poorly protected camp. Bears aren’t dumb—indeed, they are generally quick-witted, remarkably resourceful, and have long memories. Once a bear learns that hikers carry tasty treats, they begin to associate all our colorful packs and nylon stuff sacks with food. The bear will be watching future hikers in that area, looking for ways to getting an easy meal from the portable pantries we call backpacks.

Fortunately, humans can minimize the problems be simply being aware of the bears and understanding how and why they behave as they do. By taking the time to safely bag and hang all your food and scented items—safely meaning at least 10 to 12 feet off the ground, and 10 to 12 feet from the nearest tree truck—you’ll cut your chances of an encounter to next to nothing. If you also do your cooking at least 100 feet from your tent, and keep all food and scents (like perfume, deodorant, soaps, etc.) out of the tent, and off your clothing and your skin, the odds of an encounter drop even more.

So plan well and a bear sighting can be a thing to cherish and enjoy. Plan poorly and you’ll be sorry you ever left the security of your backyard.

My work as a Communications Expert (?) with the Olympic Region Clean Air Agency provided the perfect opportunity for me to escape south into the sunshine this month. The annual National Air Quality Conference (NAQC) – hosted by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) and National Association of Clean Air Agencies (NACAA) – was held in San Diego last week. For the 6th straight year, I was invited to present at the conference, this time instructing my communications colleagues on the importance of utilizing Social Media / New Media tools such as Twitter, Facebook, YouTube and agency blogging platforms in their outreach plans.

Despite my having to endure several days in hotel conference rooms, I did enjoy the four day event and I think I persuade some of my national colleagues to join me in the online world of communications.

But more importantly, at least in terms of my mental health, I was able to escape the confines of the city at the conclusion of the conference and spend some quality time exploring the deserts to the east. Specifically, the Anza Borrego Desert State Park. Donna joined me for the adventures, and thanks to the rains that plagued me in San Diego early in the week, the desert was awash in wildlflower blooms by the time we arrived there on Friday.

Below you’ll see some of the wonderful country we found in the canyons west of Borrego Springs and southeast of Earthquake Valley.

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Enjoy the pictures here:

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Venus has been the star of our cosmic show to date. Prominent in the morning sky, Venus shines bright even as the sun starts to rise.  This week, look for it in the morning, pre-dawn (though as late as 7 or 7:30 a.m.) in the SE sky, above the moon. Right now the moon is a growing crescent but as it gets fuller and brighter, Venus will dim a little though will still be a bright morning “star.”

The cosmic climax this month will come on December 20^th. That night – Solstice Eve – will be a lunar highlight. Beginning at about 10 p.m. (Pacific Standard Time), you’ll see a lunar eclipse. At 11:40 p.m., the eclipse will enter totality (Moon completely in the Earth’s umbra – primary shadow) and that will last until almost 1 a.m. While in totality, the moon stays visible, but is painted a deep red, like a mountain in deep alpenglow.

If you can, get away from the city lights to view this — during totality, even the dimmest stars around the moon get brighter and more vibrant. It’s a pretty cool experience that kids especially will LOVE.

More information here

While hiking on the Pacific Crest Trail near Government meadows on a sunny November morning, I discovered the unmistakable tracks of a snowshoe hare in the 10 inches of fresh snow  that blanketed the forest floor. The tracks are unique in that the hare’s back feet swing out and front the front legs, so the back prints are actually found in front of the prints from the front feet. So what I saw in the snow around me was a set of print with two deep, angular imprints placed a few inches in front of two smaller, circular prints. The snowshoe hare had ambled through forest, under the brush and over the trail for quite a while. A few dozen yards up the trail, though, I noticed that the tracks suddenly lengthened. The space between the tracks grew, and the imprinted deepened, until finally there was four or five feet of smooth snow between the heavily smeared imprints of the big ‘snowshoe’ prints.

Then I noticed the reason. Coming out of the trees on my left was a set of more subtle tracks. I backed up a few paces and moved off the trail toward these tracks. It looks as though this animal had been moving slowly and stealthily through the forest for some time. The tracks stayed close to tree trunks, and flowed smoothly around obstacles. Following these new tracks toward the trail, and the tracks of the hare, I found a spot where the new tracks seemed to stop. Four perfect imprints in the snow should where the cat had paused and—because the snow was streaked as if it has been swept by a brush, or by the long fur of a bobcat’s belly—crouched down to wait.

I stood next to the small rectangle delineated by the four paw prints and studied the scene before me. Less than five yards ahead of me was the Pacific Crest Trail on which I had been hiking, and in the snow on the other side of the trail were the prints of the snowshoe hare. At this point, though prints were still closely placed—suggesting the hare was still unaware of its watcher. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what happened.

The hare was out in the twilight hours just before dawn to gather in its morning meal. It was browsing through the brush nibbling the last bits of greenery that wasn’t buried by this first, heavy snowfall.  Meanwhile, a bobcat was complete it’s night prowl of the forest, looking for one last chance at a meal before curling up in a sheltered lair to doze away the day. The car appears to have sensed the hare from at least 50 yards away—perhaps it heard it crunching through the wet snow, perhaps it smelled its musk scent. Regardless, it became aware of the hare and instantly shifted into stealth mode, creeping cautiously up on the unsuspecting hare.

When the cat reached the point where I now stood, it undoubtedly could see the hare, but it didn’t attack immediately. This was a savvy hunter. There was no cover between the two animals, so if the bobcat attacked too quickly, the hare might have time to get away. So the cat, paused and dropped down onto its belly in the snow. I have no idea how long the wait was—the story told by the tracks doesn’t include that kind of detail (at least, not in a way that I, with my meager skills, could read) but at some point, the cat attacked. Perhaps it was just waiting until the hare turned its back, or until it was busy chewing on a twig. Whatever it was, something eventually prompted the cat to launch its attack.

From the deep imprints in the fur-brushed snow at my feet, the cat leaped further than I could reach in one long stride (based on later measurements of my longest stride, I’d guess the cat’s leap from a crouched position was about four feet). In just two or three bounds it was on the PCT—again, about five yards from where it launched the attack—and the hare, finally realize it was being hunted, kicked up its own powerful ‘thrusters’ and began to bound away.

The chase was a mere 10 yards long, ending in a yard-wide crater in the snow where the two had merged, and the hare had been overpowered by the sharp teeth and claws of the cat.  Aside from the kicked up snow, there was a bit of grayish-white fur caught in the nearby brush, a small blot of crimson in the snow, and a thin line of red dots in the single departing track. It seems the bobcat, having caught its breakfast, preferred to dine away from the openness of the trail corridor. I considered following the hunter’s track into the woods, but through better of it. Not that I feared a confrontation with the cat—bobcats know better than to tangle with humans, or with any beast that is six or eight times its size. No, I chose not to continue along the tracks because I already had read the story of the tracks, and I didn’t want to disturb the cat, which by now was probably done eating and already curled up and napping.

For me, seeing the tracks of the bobcat and the hare was more enjoyable than seeing the cat itself would have been. The tracks presented me with a story that I could read and enjoy without disturbing the animal. In fact, its unlikely that many of us will ever experience a bobcat or a lynx in any other way. The small cats of our northern woods are elusive beasts which prefer to hunt at night, or during the quiet twilight periods.

Bobcats and Lynx: A comparison

Bobcats and Canada lynx are closely related cats. Both are in the Lynx family (Bobcats are Lynx rufus and Canada lynx are Lynx canadensis) and they share a similar body appearance. Both have tufted ears, a flaring ruff of fur around the face, and a bobbed tail. But the cats, for all their common physical and biological traits, are very different.

Your average lynx or bobcat is about twice the size of domesticated tabby cat. The bobcats weigh an average of 15 pounds (females) to 22 pounds (males) while lynx run about 18 pounds (female) to 24 pounds (male). Both species average about 30 inches in body length, with short (four to five inch) tails. But the lynx stands three or four inches taller than bobcats, on average, due to their longer legs. The lynx is a winter-specialist and the longer legs, extra large feet—up to 4 inches in diameter (twice the size of a bobcats)—and thick paw fur give it an advantage in navigating deep snow. Those broad paws serve as natural snowshoes to keep the cat afloat on, or near, the surface of the snow.

Bobcats are fairly common in Washington state. They live in nearly every county in the state and occupy a broad range of ecosystem types, from old growth forests of western Washington to the desert county of the mid-Columbia River Basin. Bobcats are still legally hunted and trapped in Washington as varmints. That is, there is no set season, and no limit on kill. Their cousins, the lynx, though are far more rare.

Lynx once roamed most of Eastern Washington, from the Cascade Crest to—and over—the Idaho border. But the cats were trapped extensively through the first half of the 20th century. By the 1960s, the lynx population was somewhat suppressed by the trapping efforts, but the lynx population was still big enough to be a viable, stable population. Then came 1970s and the rapid, near-total demise of the lynx in Washington.

Ironically, the lynx eradication was a direct result of international efforts to protect big cats. An international agreement known as CITES (Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species) was approved by most nations in 1972. This agreement was designed to stop all trade in the rare cats with spotted pelts, namely cheetahs, ocelots, leopards, and snow leopards. But Madison Avenue needed pelts to turn into coats for the jet-setting fashion crowd, so to fill the coat making market after CITES, trappers turned to cats that offered attractive (if not spotted) pelts of thick, lustrous fur. In other words, Canada lynx. Suddenly, after the 1972 international moratorium on spotted cat pelts, lynx pelts jumped in price. Trappers who used to just scrap by were offered more than $500 per lynx pelt. As a result, their as a ‘fur rush’ not unlike the gold rushes of the 19th century. Trappers took to the hills and laid out long lines of traps through the lynx-producing states.

According state wildlife records, two trappers in Washington’s Kettle Range took 70 lynx in just two winters  in the mid-1970s, effectively wiping out that small, isolated population. In Montana, more than 700 lynx were trapped and killed each winter in the early ‘70s. By 1978, though, the number of lynx caught declined rapidly to zero taken each year. The reason? The lynx were no longer there. The population had been decimated simply to provide coats for wealthy fashion mavens.

In Washington’s North Cascades, though, the lynx was dealt one phenomenally lucky hand. When pelt prices blasted up $500 each, the remote lynx habitat in the North Cascades, from the Cascade Crest east to the Loomis State Forest was still mostly roadless and access was extremely limited. In other words, trappers had a hard time getting close enough to the lynx habitat to effectively set their traps. That, combined with the fact that there were still lynx in other regions (such as the soon-to-be-decimated population in the Kettle Range) helped protect the North Cascade lynx. Then, during the 1980’s when prices briefly jumped to $500 or better for each lynx skin, the North Cascade lynx was protected, not by their remoteness, but by the fortuitous timing of a federally-funded study of their population. As part of the study, several lynx in the area were fitted with radio collars, so the entire North Cascade lynx range was closed to trapping.

The result of these two unrelated circumstances, is that the east slope of the North Cascades harbors the strongest, most viable natural population of lynx in the Lower 48. But it needs to be remembered that ‘strongest’ is a relative term. The population is far from strong—it is just stronger than any of the other threatened populations left in the country. Washington’s lynx population numbers just 30 or so individuals, but  the population—though small—seems to be a good reproducing one. Several on-the-ground surveys have turned up pregnant or nursing females among this population, which shows that there is a strong chance that the lynx can survive here with a little help.

The future of the lynx remains clouded. The greatest unknown is whether the few remaining populations of lynx will survive until the political bickering and bureaucratic positioning finally  fades enough for the scientists to do what they know to be right: proactively rebuild populations of this majestic wild cat.

One story stands out in my memory. I don’t remember the exact words—they don’t matter—but the story sticks with me:

Long before European settlers touched foot in the Pacific Northwest, back during the earliest days of human on in these lands, the animals helped create the world as it exists today. Coyote was one of the most prominent and wisest of the animals.

One day, during his travels, Coyote heard whispers that the new people of his land were being killed by a great monster in the Columbia River. This monster hid in a deep pool at Wishram (above the present-day sight of The Dalles), where the waters ran swiftly through rock-lined channels. The monster would lurk in its pool and pull down the two-legged people as the paddled their canoes through narrow channels. The people were afraid of the monster and soon began to avoid the river, though this meant they could not catch the salmon that fed their children. More people died as they went hungry because of their fear.

The Coyote had been waiting for these two, two-legged people to come into his land. When he heard the stories of the monster, he was angry and wanted to do something to help the people, but did not know how to defeat a monster that lived in a deep pool in the river. So Coyote went to the mountains and asked his friend, the Raven, how to help the people. Together, Coyote and Raven came up with a plan.

Coyote would gather up a bundle of dry wood, with some pitch-wood  mixed in, so he could make a fire. He put five sharp bone knives into his bundle. Coyote then headed down to the river to meet the monster.

Coyote stood on the bank of the deep pole where the monster lived and taunted the beast. At first, the monster wouldn’t eat Coyote because it knew Coyote was a trickster and it was afraid. But Coyote continued to taunt and laugh at the monster, mock it until the beast rose up in anger and swallowed Coyote.

Once inside the monster, Coyote lit his fire and found many people huddle there. All were cold, wet and near death. Coyote threw more wood on his fire to warm the people, and then used the first knife to carve meat from the monster’s heart. This he roasted and fed to the people, making them strong once more.

As the people ate, Coyote used his knife to cut at the cords that held the monster’s heart in place. Soon, Coyote’s knife broke. But Raven had known that the monster’s sinew would be tough and had made Coyote carry five knives. Coyote retrieved his second knife and continued cutting the cords. When it, too, broke, he took up his third, and then his fourth, knife.

Finally with this fifth knife, Coyote had the cords nearly cut through, and the heart ready drop out, killing the monster. Suddenly, the monster coughed and all the people, and coyote were flung onto the river bank.

Coyote gave names to the people he had saved and send them in all directions to occupy the lands. To the north of the river, he sent the Yakamas and the Klickitats, to the south, he sent the Clackamas and Clatsops. The Nez Perce and  Cayuse went east, preferring to live among the hills and raise ponies.  They also thanked Coyote for his help, praising his intelligence and cleverness in defeating the monster.

Once all the people had been sent to their new homes, Coyote looked the monster in the eye, and said, “You must not eat the people anymore. If you do not swear to let the people use the river and catch the Salmon that feeds them, I will jump into your throat and cut your heart loose.”

The monster promised to let the people pass, but feared that he would die without anything to eat, so Coyote send to him: “You may shake the canoes in the rapid water and eat any of the people who lack the skill to paddle through them. In this way, the people know there is danger, and only those who are careless will feed you.”

The monster agreed and that is why some people still disappear in the rapids at Wishram. So goes the story, though today the rapids are now deep under the reservoir behind the Bonneville Dam. But the monster remains, eating foolish boaters throughout the rivers of the west.

The nature of the wily coyote

I first heard this story from a professor, or maybe it was just a graduate student, in one of my Native American history courses at Washington State University. Later, I heard the same basic story—told in different words and with slightly different context, but with the same general premise—while attending a Native American Pow-Wow at the Puyallup Tribal Grounds near Tacoma. Since then, I’ve seen the story in print in several forms, all slightly different, but each sharing the same basic tenets.

What makes it memorable for me is the fact that Coyote uses his quick-wit and intelligence to help the people of the world. The local tribes revere him for this. Today, though, coyote is reviled for his intelligence and ability to adapt to new situations. The coyote of the 20th century has been stamped as a vile, cowardly beast, and as such, it has been hunted mercilessly for the last hundred years and more throughout the west.

But which is the true nature of the Coyote? Neither, I think.

I believe that the coyote is a species that has never been fully understood by humans, largely because it is malleable and changeable. The coyote will do what is required to adept to any situation it faces. It will change its diet, change its hunting style, and even change its mating practices. The coyote’s most consistence feature is its able to change and adapt.

The trickster. The Wise One. The Monster-fighter. Moon-dog. Ghost dogs. Little Wolf. Sheep-eater. Vermin. Canis lantrans (Latin for ‘barking dog’). The coyote has been label all these and more by the people who know the animal best.

I prefer the Native American labels—the first three being my favorites and, I believe, the most appropriate. Coyotes have been part of the native mythology and oral legends since people first moved onto the continent. Coyotes are native to North America and, though they do seem closely resemble species in other parts of the world—most notably the golden jackal of Africa—they are native only to the western United States and far southern parts of western Canada. Therefore, the American Indians tribes of the American West are the people who best know the crafty canine.

Coyotes—pronounced Ki-Yo-Tees by some, Ki-Oats by others (particularly folks living in rural parts of the west)—are perhaps the most adaptable, versatile predator in North America. They have learned to out-smart hunters and trappers, to avoid poisoned bait, and to take advantage of any opportunity to expand their territory. Coyotes still reside in all their native range—but have also moved into the rainforests of Western Washington. They have spread north to Alaska and south to Panama. They live in the Appalachian and Adirondack Mountains. And, most impressive, they have found good hunting in the urban wildernesses of out major cities. Coyotes roam the streets of Los Angeles, and by the late 1990s coyotes caused a stir in downtown Manhattan—apparently they moved in to hunt the local population of stray dogs, cats and rats (the small, four-legged variety, not the two-legged types in business suits which are more common in that megalopolis).

In Washington state, coyotes are native to the drylands and deserts of the Columbia Basin, and the pine forests and sage brush hills of the Umatilla, Colville,  Okanogan and Wenatchee National Forests. They were less common, though not unknown, in the wet forests of western Washington. Today, however, the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife (WDFW) categorizes every square inch of Washington state at ‘core habitat’ for coyotes. That is, while other predator species declined in population , or outright disappeared, this small canine pushed its range, expanding out into areas previously dominated by wolves, cougars and bears. The coyote now thrives in every county, and in many cities, of Washington, as well as coast to coast, in every state except Hawaii.

Trickster indeed.

By 2:00 the rains started. We had a good camp site, with solid protection from the wind. Around 4:30, we popped out of the tent to take advantage of the switch from rain to light showers. Thirty minutes of casting a small (#16 I think) Royal Coachman into Tucks Pot resulted in several nice little (8 to 10 inch) cutthroats. By 5 p.m. the winds started to pick up again, making casting off the brush-lined lakeshore very difficult. (Sophie loved swimming in the frigid wind-chopped lake — she has developed a love of ducking her head through big waves as she swims — though she also appreciated diving back into the tent 10 minutes later)

We had a modest break around 6 p.m. that allowed us to cook dinner without getting soaked, then it was back into the tent. By 7 p.m. had a powerful hail storm pummeling us, and by 9 p.m., we had snow flurries (the next morning we could see a heavy snow line about 250 feet above us — Robin Lakes got a couple inches of snow overnight). The snow didn’t last at Tuck, but the rain pounded us all night long.

The next morning the rain continued until about 9 a.m. We had a leisurely breakfast in the tent, then spent a couple hours enticing cutthroat out of both Tuck and Tucks Pot. By noon, it was apparent the weather was coming back in, so we packed up and hiked out. We did stop and fish along the upper Cle Elum on the drive down from the trail head back to Roslyn and found a couple great pools with 10″ rainbows. A late lunch/early dinner of burger (mushroom-swiss burger) and halibut-and-chips at The Brick Tavern in Roslyn was a perfect ending to the trip.

Saturday, we decided to take advantage of the last weekend of Cedar River fishing. Knowing the best action occurs toward evening, we spent the afternoon chasing smallish rainbows and cutts up on the South Fork Snoqualmie (both ends of Exit 38, as well as down along Exit 34). We each had several fish in the 6-9 inch range and one nice cutt over 10 inches.

About 5 p.m. we drifted south to the Landsburg Bridge and walked nearly a mile downstream along the Cedar River Trail. We dropped into several holes and found the action slow, until the sun dropped low. Around 6:30, we started to draw fish up to #16 elk hair caddis (olive green bodies). For the next 45 minutes we had modest success, with Donna and I each netting fish in the 10-12 inch range. By the time we exited the river, there was a brilliant red hew to the evening light and we enjoyed a marvelous sunset on the way home.

All in all, a very enjoyable, though tiring, weekend with fish caught in two high Alpine lakes and three rivers, during wind, rain, and glorious red-glow twilight. With our joyously active yellow lab, Sophie, at our sides, we experienced warm sunshine, rain, wind, hail and snow while catching feisty rainbows and cutthroat trout. Though not exactly what we planned, this was a perfect late summer weekend for us.

We are a conflicted population, complaining about paying relatively low prices for very scarce resources, but happily handing out buckets of cash for things readily available for mere pennies.

I just don’t get it. Do you? If so, please fill me in….

Via: Term Life Insurance

After years of long battle, Miner’s Ridge is now officially part of the Glacier Peak Wilderness Area. The ridge was the scenic of bitter fighting in the late 1960s, when then-owner Kennecott Copper Corporation proposed ripping open the ridge top and dredging up scarce copper in its core. That open-pit mine proposal was opposed by many locals and the growing environmental community of Washington. Wilderness advocated, led by no less than U.S. Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas, launched a protest hike up the Suiattle Trail in 1966 to bring attention to the mine plans.

Shortly after that, as public opposition to the mine grew, copper prices tanked and Kennecott conceded defeat in the face of costly legal battles and low resource values.

The land remained in the mine company’s hands, though, until the late 1980s when Chelan County PUD bought it from the mine company, with an eye toward using it as a planning tool. The PUD routinely flew helicopters to the ridge – which is surrounded by designated wilderness – to measure snow packs and estimate summer water flow rates into Lake Chelan. When the US Forest Service called a halt to those flights into wilderness, the PUD was stuck with a parcel that had now commercial or agency value — but a great deal of wilderness value. So began the long, slow process of exchanging that wilderness in-holding for another piece of USFS property that has more fiscal value and less recreational value.

That exchange recently took place – the PUD received a small parcel near other PUD property and an agreement that permits limited helicopter access into a remote snow-pack monitoring site nearby  – and the Forest Service quickly completed the paperwork to roll the ridge into the wilderness designation.

A bitter, hard-fought battle followed by a slow concession of practicalities yielded the long-sought objective of Washington’s favorite son, William O. Douglas: Miner’s Ridge will never be mined. Rather it will be enjoyed in its pristine condition by generations to come as part of one of Washington’s wildest Wilderness Areas.