Mud on Cascade Head Trail

This morning after I dropped Sue off for her painting course, I decided on a whim to climb the Cascade Head Trail. I am not a climber. I am not a hiker. What on earth possessed me to embark on a four-mile hike that involves 1200 feet of elevation? I didn’t have proper shoes. I didn’t have poles. I didn’t take water or a snack. I thought I could just turn around if it seemed too taxing, and with that in mind, I set out. Every time I stopped to get my breath (which was frequently) I thought, “I’ve made it this far, I’m sure the meadow is just around the next bend.” And so I slogged on. You may recall it rained yesterday. The trail was three to five inches deep in mud, muck, and squishy clay, uphill all the way. Occasionally there were stairs (see second extra) but mostly it was slick, slippery, shoe-grabbing mud. I took my time. The climb took me two and a half hours; the descent an hour and a half. I could show you a glorious postcard landscape taken from the top, including a herd of elk, but instead I’d rather show you what I spent all but ten minutes of the long expedition looking at: the mud.

The first extra is primeval horsetail rush. It grows all over the wet coastal lowlands, and it’s as old as the dinosaurs. Most of the coal we mine in the USA is the remains of horsetail rush. Native people used it for scouring their cooking vessels, and so it’s also sometimes called “scouring rush.” I think it’s gorgeous.