In The Valley of The Volcano

My walk in the woods last weekend took me to the beautiful Toutle River valley. The day started with off and on rain showers that created a dense cloud cover, thoroughly hiding the majestic Mount St. Helens on the horizon.

Mount St. Helens on a clear day.

At times it is hard to believe that this area was so terribly effected by the volcanic eruption in 1980. The scars to the landscape are visible near a little gift shop situated beside the shell of an old A-frame cabin.

At first glance, it looks like a small, single story building, but is only the second story above ground. The volcano's mudflow had almost completely buried the tall building, making the ground level yards higher.

On the way to the trailhead, my friend and I saw a dead coyote along the road. It looked so much like a dog, we pulled over to see if it had a collar.

I was relieved that it was not someone's pet, but saddened over it's violent end of life, and the fact that someone had removed it's tail before we stopped.

Even in death, it's eyes were still so hauntingly fierce and lovely. I took a moment before going on my way to mourn it's short life and tragic end, hoping I would not be the only passerby to do so.

Once on the trail, I was encouraged by the wildness of the woods. The leaves were gone from most of the trees and made birdwatching easier.

The colors of autumn were cheerfully spread across the forest floor, beckoning me to wander farther and admire their fleeting beauty.

Moss and mushrooms seem to stand out with the extra sunlight and lack of surrounding greenery in fall. There is an entirely different world on the forest floor.

If I were not so afraid of mountain lions, I would find it difficult for me not to crawl on the ground taking in all the tiny wonders that so often go unnoticed beneath our feet.

The last of the blackberries along the path are finally gone after the cold that set in, although they were still blossoming two weeks ago. 

The expansive patch of shrubs was being guarded by an angry, little wren who didn't appreciate my search for any stray berries among the brambles.

As he bobbed up and down on a tall stump, wildly scolding me, all I could do was laugh at how ferocious he was trying to look.

I dubbed him "The Sentry", praised his valor, and conceded to his victory. One day, I hope to be as brave and unyielding as that small bird.

A golden-crowned kinglet briefly landed close beside me as I was taking pictures. So close, that I was tempted to reach out and touch him before he joined the rest of his flock in the tops of the firs.

Not much bigger than a cotton ball, his golden crest and shiny black eyes were the flashiest part of his gray and light olive body.

That brief moment exchanging a curious glance with that 1/4 oz. puff ball was the highlight of my day, and a moment I will always cherish.