Kayaking through the bay

As far as I know, there are two types of kayaking. There’s the extreme, paddle over 100-foot waterfalls, slip and slide through class four and five rapids version, or there’s the calm, head out on glassy water and enjoy the scenery type.
One of these is more my style than the other. And luckily, it’s available right here in our back yard.
About noon last Wednesday, I called Steve Gibons at Scappoose Bay Kayaking. He had me set up to go on a two-hour wetland tour starting at 1 p.m.
How’s that for efficient? It makes sense, as I’m just one in a line of 48,000 who have been in one of their kayaks in the 10 years they’ve been in business.
I pulled into the parking lot, doused myself in spray-on sunscreen and went inside. Once the rest of the crew showed up – six people spanning three generations of family, including 83-year-old grandma and 84-year-old grandpa – our guide Dave Anderson gave us a brief paddling lesson.
Arms so far apart, be able to read the paddle, put as much of the blade in the water as possible. Done deal.
Onto the docks, into the 12-feet, 7-inch long, 28-inch wide Emotion Advant-Edge recreational kayak.
The wide bottom meant it wasn’t very tippy. That was good. But it also made me realize I should’ve brought an actual camera instead of the disposable one I brought in case I went for a swim.
As we paddled away from the docks, Dave pointed to a bald eagle resting on a piece of wood fewer than 100 yards in front of us.
“Let’s head out there. Paddle to the right of him, not straight at him,” he said. We moved in, stealthily. But we weren’t enough like ninjas, and it spooked and flew off.
As it turned out, not a big deal. We’d see two more on the trip.
(Steve says there are six resident eagles close to the marina).
With the eagle out of the equation, we moved back onto our route, around the houseboats behind the marina, past the shipwrecked boat and toward the origins of Scappoose Creek.
The other folks – with paddling experience, I might add – mostly went in a straight line. I went left, then right, then left, then right into their boats. No one sank, no boats were damaged.
I zig-zagged some more, right past the giant geese with little goslings and toward the cows grazing near the river.
The steady sounds of the water dripping from the paddle back into the bay made soaking up the sun’s rays all the more relaxing.
Soon enough we were at a fork. We went left, into an area Grandpa said reminded him of his trip to the Amazon a year or two ago. Tall green grass grew shore side and lush trees created a corridor leading us into a single-file line on our way up Scappoose Creek.
Smaller birds chirped across the creek, which was lined with beaver trails working their way back into the trees.
Once we turned around, we were greeted with an osprey plunging 40 feet straight down into the bay looking for an afternoon snack. It came up empty-beaked.
The closer we got to the marina, the more Great Blue Heron we saw. By now, I had learned how to take my boat in a straight line.
By the time the two hours were up, we’d gone about two-and-a-half miles, spotted dozens and dozens of birds and only tapped into the vast wetlands surrounding Scappoose Bay.
Next time I’ll have to check out the wildlife in Cunningham Slough. Or try the monthly moonlight tour. Or get a kayak and go out on my own. The options are endless.
And the fun is for the whole family. The couple in their 80s were out of their boats at the end of the tour not looking any more tired than they had been two hours earlier.
Call Steve, his wife Bonnie or any of the other great staff at Scappoose Bay Kayaking to organize your trip.

Hiking to the light

Up and down the Oregon coastline there are historic lighthouses: Cape Meares, Heceta Head, Yaquina Head and so on.
But travel inland a couple hours, and Sauvie Island has its own unique lighthouse: Warrior Rock Light. (At least that’s its official name).
This is Oregon’s smallest lighthouse at 28 feet.
Most coastal lighthouses have parking lots pretty close to them or are just a sandy stroll away. Not Warrior Rock.
You can get to it either by a short boat ride from downtown St. Helens or drive out to Sauvie Island and head down Reeder Road until it ends, then hike three miles.
We opted for the latter.
Along the drive out, it rained cotton-looking puffs from Poplar trees as we passed the clothing-optional Collins Beach. The road finally ended, and without much signage instructing us how to get to the lighthouse, we ambled on down the beach.
It was about 5:35 once we stepped foot in the gray sand that lines the mighty Columbia and headed north. We soon learned this is the wrong time of day to make the trip.
Within the first few minutes we spotted a friendly, two-foot long garter snake relaxing on a piece of driftwood.


After a couple hundred yards, we ran out of beach to walk along. We ran into a couple heading back our way and they told us they’d made it a little past the lighthouse.
Our confidence grew.
Onto the grassy trail… and with the trail, mosquitoes. Lots and lots of mosquitoes. A later bite count revealed upwards of 40.
With the mosquitoes, though, you get to see plenty of birds. There were bright yellows, burnt oranges, woodpeckers and hummingbirds. Unfortunately, they move far too quickly for my slow camerahands.


We also came across a plethora of fauna varieties. I wouldn’t have noticed, personally, but I was with a pair of plant-junkies. Erin has a master’s degree in a plant-related field and Sam works for a nursery. They were on a mission to describe all the varieties we encountered.
They pointed out the native Oregon blackberries, identifiable by their bluish stems. My friends were both amazed by the enormous snowberries, or symphoricarpos albus, stretching eight to 10 feet in the air. Their leaves didn’t bear any berries, which is good, because they’re poisonous to humans.
About an hour or so after we started, we’d circled around the lighthouse and came up on the backside of it.
Just as we were making our break for Warrior Rock Light, a guy down the bank was reeling in a good-sized salmon. Apparently not good enough, though, as he had to let it go.
Sadly the lighthouse didn’t have a ladder to the top and there was no way to get in. But we stopped to soak in the surrounding boats, bald eagles and beauty from our perches on a piece of driftwood.


We scared off most of the birds on the way back, when our conversation loudly drifted to He-Man and Thundercats and our walk turned into a run to escape the wrath of the mosquitoes.
It didn’t work. I gave them a ginger Thanksgiving.
We tore down some of the ribcage-high grass to turn into mosquito swatters. This provided a bit of relief.


A cutaway to the water offered a chance to see another bald eagle nesting atop a tower in the water.
Once the path led back to the beach, we were treated to the quintessential American sight, just in time for Independence Day. A bald eagle dove into the water, grabbed a salmon, flew around a bit with the fish dangling in its talons and then swooped into the trees for a fresh-caught feast.


Sam and I had a brief javelin contest, putting driftwood back into the river, and then it was back to the car.
All told, we made the gorgeous seven-mile hike in about two-and-a-half hours. But we each lost about a pint of blood.
So when you go, make sure to bring plenty of bug spray. Or go earlier in the day.
For those who are more strapped for time or energy, there’s a half-scale replica of the original lighthouse in Columbia View Park. And if you walk up the courthouse steps, you can see the fog bell that was installed at Warrior Rock in 1889. It was cast in Philadelphia in 1855.
The bell was removed from the tower after a barge struck the lighthouse in 1969, disabling the light and bell.
The current concrete tower replaced the original wooden house in 1930.

I was Kung Fu fighting

Kung Fu. Never has a two-word title for a class conjured up as much mystique. David Carradine’s probably to blame for that.
Though lacking the name recognition of Carradine, St. Helens’ own Shaun Kennedy taught me the reality beyond the mythical creations of Hollywood.
Namely, Kung Fu is an applied art that requires great attention to detail and a huge amount of mental recall.
Kennedy is the head instructor at St. Helens Shaolin Kung Fu Club, where he teaches a few different classes to a wide range of students, from white belts to a black belt.
My class? Basics.
Nothing like explaining to a grade-schooler that she knows a lot more about a sport than you.
Then again, all I knew about martial arts I learned from Bruce Lee and Ralph Macchio.
On my first day of class, Jacob Woodruff, a purple belt, took fellow beginner Shawn Kelley and myself aside to teach us the eight basic Kung Fu stances and their eight related movements. This mostly involves punching and kicking to different specific areas.
The younger, more advanced students were working on stringing together these moves and others. Once Jacob taught me to do the walking cat stance across our red and blue mat, the main objective was avoiding the flying fists and feet flittering about the classroom.
I got in on one competition: a knife fight. I took on Eisen White, a yellow belt. He quickly grabbed the “knife” (a piece of chalk) from the center of the mat and proceeded to stall, taking it easy on me. My goal was to get the knife from him or take him off the mat without getting stabbed.
I should have tackled him.
I tried putting to use the stances and moves I’d learned just minutes earlier. It didn’t work. My recall wasn’t so sharp. He easily stabbed me right in the stomach.
After a Q&A session taught me you have to be at least as smart as you are physical to earn your belt in Kung Fu, the day drew to a close. After a day off, it was time for weapons class.
I paired up again with Jacob, and we each drew a wooden sword. The movements were basic: hit, hit, hit, hit. As it turns out, weapons class was a lot of fun and games.
The class was outside with our swords and nunchuks for a game of capture the flag. Kelley and I were the flags. The kids were fast, stabbing each other with their soft swords and trying to stab the generals and the flags.
I was stabbed more often than Kelley was.

Purple belt Cody Woodruff lands a kick on head instructor Shaun Kennedy during our Kung Fu class June 11.

After the game, students sparred for a bit. Cody Woodruff, Jacob’s son, laid plenty of kicks on Kennedy, and black belt Randy Rhoads showed his quick feet and high hops.
Jacob proved that it wasn’t just the youngsters who were full of energy by landing several blows on his instructor.
I returned to more familiar ground – taking pictures of the action.

Golfing with Lions

When people golf for the first time, they usually make a fool of themselves.

Not because they're not good, per se, but because they end up bouncing the ball off the windmill. Or the dang clown's mouth closes down on your ball.

But, that first trip out to the miniature golf course sets you up for success in the long run by doing one thing: teaching you how to putt.

A pair of St. Helens sophomores - Colin Chiddick and Kyle Jones - did a heck of a job putting on a putting clinic for outgoing SHHS athletic director Ken Bailey and myself on May 27.

We were playing in the first annual Lion Cup: a two-man scramble pitting Lion golfers against teachers. There were more golfers than teachers, so I was summoned for duty.

The format was best-ball match play: Whoever wins the most holes wins the match.

Two matches had been played the day before. The teachers won one, the student golfers the other. My foursome was the first of five groups on this day.

The sophomores teed off first, with Jones smashing a drive down the center of the fairway. My tee shot trickled down to the women's tee box, but luckily Bailey outdrove Jones by about 10 yards. We're in business.

We looked to have the edge by parring the hole, with them needing to sink a long putt for par. Sure enough, Chiddick nailed it. He didn't tell us at this point that he'd be doing this a lot.

On the par-three second hole, we played my tee shot ...which had found its way onto the green. (This was not common. I think we played just one more of my drives all day.)

After two-putting for a par, we took a 1-0 lead and felt pretty good, and pretty dry from the ankles up.

It turned out Chiddick and Jones didn't like being behind. Jones nailed a 170-yard approach on the next hole. Chiddick curved a 10-foot putt in, and they won the third hole.

After we both parred the fourth hole, Chiddick's 85-yard approach shot landed five feet from the pin, and Jones sunk the putt. Youngsters 2, us 1.

This was the beginning of a trend: Bailey and I looked great for the first half of a hole; Chiddick and Jones looked better on the more important half of the hole.

Chiddick sunk an 18-foot putt on the next hole with our ball lying quite a ways away. Bailey put his within a couple of inches, leaving the pressure squarely on my shoulders.

I tried making up for the wet, not-so-fast greens by powering up a bit. I should have laid off the turbo.

Now it was do-or-die time. We were down two holes with three to play.

Then Jones, for all intents and purposes, ended the match. He drilled his drive 250 yards on No. 7, leaving his ball about 10 feet from the hole.

Knowing we had to get close, we took advantage of the "toss" rule implemented by SHHS golf coach Dave Lawrence. After Bailey's chip didn't get closer than Jones' drive, I put my horseshoe skills to the test by tossing my shot underhand toward the hole.

It wasn't a ringer.

In hindsight, I should've been wise to the toss rule and tossed Jones' ball out of bounds.

Jones ended up just missing his eagle putt, leaving them with a birdie and the match.

We played even on the final two holes, but that was largely irrelevant. The ninth fairway was difficult when the surrounding cow pastures seemed to ripen up a smidge.

After the next group finished, the Lion golf team had taken a 3-1 lead, with its top players Spencer Gordon and Chris Semling yet to finish.

Teachers Jared Phillips and Keith Meeuwsen topped Gordon's team, thanks largely to a 30-foot putt from Meeuwsen on No. 7 that sent a roar throughout the course.

Dave Lawrence and Jay Groom picked up another win for the teachers, tying things at 3-3 with one match left.

But Bradley Timmons and Sam Lawrence came up clutch for the golfers, giving the Lions team its own cup in the inaugural event.

Chiddick and Jones should be forewarned, though: I got in a couple practice rounds over the long weekend.

Conquering an active volcano

(This is the revised, published version of the previous post. Interested to see if any of you prefer one or the other. Leave comments saying which one you prefer and why.)

Thirty years ago Mount St. Helens went on the offensive, showing the region all it could do.
Recently I went on the offensive against the volcano. I wanted to show it all I could do.
In the battle of man vs. mountain, nature vs. nurture, good vs. evil …evil prevailed.
My friend Sam and I set out to conquer Mount St. Helens on April 24, less than a month from the 30th anniversary of its devastating eruption.
When we set foot on the trail, around 10 a.m., we were ready to make it to the top. The reports we’d read suggested we’d make it to the crater’s rim and back in anywhere from six to nine hours: We had plenty of time.
Little did we know, we also had plenty of snow. And as it turned out, we certainly did not have plenty of gear.
In the parking lot we saw about a half-dozen other folks preparing to trek up the crag, all of them outfitted in snowshoes or skis. Sam was wearing his Gortex-lined, vibram-soled Asolo hiking boots — and I my synthetic fiber running shoes.
Luckily he had an extra pair of Gators (what look like leg warmers but really keep snow out of your shoes). That helped.
“We’re minimalists,” he said. Or fools... who really knows?
Soon into the trip up the mountain’s south side, I realized the workout was going to be extreme. My training included a long walk and a round of disc golf — not exactly heavy duty. Also, neither of my two warm-ups included snow.
We found ourselves occasionally sinking to mid-shin in the snow, which really hampers a climb.
On our ascent through the timberline, we didn’t see or hear many woodland creatures. While many of the mountain’s creatures were wiped out 30 years ago, several species of birds, amphibians and mammals have returned. They were keeping warm on this day — smart idea.
“Now we’re going to start going up the mountain,” Sam (a much more experienced mountaineer than myself) said an hour or two in. The thing about that was, I thought we already had. And, we were nearly up to our knees in snow.
So far, views of what lay below and behind us left us wanting more. Thanks, gray skies.
However, the snow swirling around us did create a magical ambiance amid the silver fir trees. Jimmy Stewart’s snow globe wouldn’t compare.
But after we got out of those fir trees and above the timberline, the mountain became steep. Very steep. Steep enough that we stopped to eat.
Even the raisins in the trail mix tasted good on this day.

This Eugenian was smart enough to bring the proper equipment on his trip up the mountain. The left side of the picture shows the remnants of a lava slide down the south side of Mount St. Helens.


From here we had a great vantage point of a pumice-filled valley created from a lava flow.
After our mini-lunch break, it was time to head up the ridge, aiming for the top.
We scaled one tall ridge amid the clouds and moved on to the next one. But while tackling this one, my joints were acting up, my legs were heavy, and it was becoming very difficult to see.
We found a pair of rocks to give us something of a landmark, but they were just a pair of pepper grains inside a salt shaker at this point.
Just then we saw a snow-shoer heading down the mountain. A 30-time climber of the mountain, he said these were the worst conditions he’d ever seen. He was turning back. It was then we decided we weren’t going to make it to the top today.
At this point, my hands started thinking they didn’t want my brain to know they were there. I wiggled my fingers more than St. Helens High School students do while Zach Sweeney’s shooting free throws.
The two of them – brain and hands – made contact again.
Somewhat defeated – though not entirely, as this was the first mountain for either of us – we slipped and slid back down St. Helens. Much of the trip down came in the sitting position. We enviously watched the skiers glide past.
About 3 p.m. we reached the parking lot, changed into dryer clothes and headed to the clam chowder store for refreshing drinks and warm food. There, we learned we’d climbed about 2,000 feet and made it basically half way to the caldera.
In pretty deep snow.
So, Mount St. Helens, you may have won this time, but it’s not over. We’ll be back. And this time we’re coming when your layer of defense has disappeared, leaving nothing but rock and trails for slipping and sliding.

Attacking a volcano

Thirty years ago Mount St. Helens went on the offensive, showing the region all it could do.
Recently I went on the offensive, against the volcano. I wanted to show it all I could do.
In the battle of man vs. mountain, nature vs. nurture, good vs. evil - evil prevailed.
My good friend Sam Jones and I set out to conquer Mount St. Helens on April 24, less than a month away from the 30-year anniversary of its devastating eruption.
Our ascent to the top was delayed by our lack of planning and lack of attention to detail, specifically my ignoring of the check-in guy's directions on how to get to the base, thus leading us on a 30-minute scenic, waterside detour. He gave us these directions when we bought our $22 permits at 9 a.m. while some guy behind him was wolfing down an early morning bowl of clam chowder.
When we finally set foot on the trail, at 10:08 a.m., we were ready to make it to the top. After all, the reports we'd read suggested we'd make it to the caldera in anywhere from 6-9 hours: We had plenty of time.
Little did we know, we had plenty of snow as well. And as it turned out, we certainly did not have plenty of gear.
In the parking lot we saw about a half dozen other folks preparing to trek up the crag, all of them outfitted in snowshoes or skis. Sam was wearing his gortex-lined, vibram-soled, brown Asolo hiking boots and I my black and silver, synthetic fiber running shoes.
Luckily he had an extra pair of Gators - what looks like a leg warmer but really keeps snow out of your shoes. That helped.
"We're minimalists," he said. Or fools... who really knows?
Soon into the trip, I realized the workout was going to be extreme. My training included a walk from Pittsburg Road to St. Helens High School and a round of disc golf at Pier Park in Portland. Not exactly heavy duty. Also, neither of my two warm-ups included snow.
Mount St. Helens this time of year likes having snow. Before long we found ourselves sinking to mid-shin every so often, which really hampers a climb.
The wildlife decided it best to be tame on this particular day. On our ascent through the timberline, we didn't see or hear many woodland creatures. That could have been a result of the people ahead of us, our constant chatter, or Sam's squeaky knee brace. Whatever the cause, we missed that part of the adventure.
"Now we're going to start going up the mountain," Sam - a much more experienced mountaineer than myself - said an hour or two in. The thing about that was, I thought we already had. Instead, we were just getting into the steep part.
And we were still nearly up to our knees in snow at some points. I had the fortune of following in his footsteps, quite literally, most of the way. This kept me on top of the snow after he had the fun of packing it in.
To this point, our turnaround views of what lay beneath us left us wanting more. Thanks, gray skies.
The snow swirling around us did, however, create a magical ambiance amid the silver fir trees. Jimmy Stewart's snow globe wouldn't compare.
But after we got out of those fir trees and above the timberline, the mountain became steep. Very steep. Steep enough we stopped to eat some trail mix and a half a sandwich each.
Even the raisins in the trail mix tasted good on this day.
After our mini-lunch break, it was time to head up the ridge, aiming for the top.
We scaled one tall ridge amid the clouds and moved on to the next one. But while heading to the top of this one, my joints were acting up, my legs were heavy, and, worst of all, it was becoming very difficult to see.
We found a pair of rocks to give us somewhat of a landmark, but they were just a pair of pepper grains inside a salt shaker at this point.

Just then we saw a snow-shoer heading down the mountain and talked with him a bit. As it turned out, a 30-time climber of the mountain said this was the worst conditions he'd ever seen, and he was turning back. It was then we decided we weren't going to make it to the top on this day.
It was just then that my hands started thinking they didn't want my brain to know they were there. I wiggled my fingers more than St. Helens High School students do theirs while Zach Sweeney's shooting free throws.
The two of them - brain and hands - made contact again.
Somewhat defeated - though not entirely, as this was both of our first mountain - we slipped and slid back down the mountain. A lot of the trip down came in the sitting position. I'm not as good at sliding on my butt as Sam is on his, but it was still a good way to end the day. Not quite as good as the skiers we enviously watched glide past, but good nonetheless.

About 3 p.m. we reached the parking lot, changed into dryer clothes and headed back to the clam chowder store for refreshing drinks and warm food. There, we learned we'd climbed about 2,000 feet and made it basically half way to the caldera.
In pretty deep snow.
So, Mount St. Helens, you may have won this time, but it's not over. We'll be back. And this time we're coming when your layer of defense has disappeared, leaving nothing but rock and trails for us to slip and slide on.

Golfing in the dark

Golfing in the dark — now that just sounds like trouble.
I can’t seem to make it through nine holes using the same ball in broad daylight, so how in the heck was I going to get through nine holes at dark?
With the help of a bright green glow stick, that’s how.
As soon as I heard about Wildwood Golf Course’s Glo Ball tournament Aug. 15, I knew I would be there. Regardless of the score, it seemed like a whole lot of fun. And I couldn’t quit wondering how such an event could be pulled off.
The golfing itself didn’t seem to be as difficult as rounding up a team. We had a foursome lined up, but then a few days before the tournament we learned that one guy couldn’t make it. Luckily, we were able to find a substitute.
Unluckily, a last-second scheduling conflict left us still one player short for the four-person scramble tournament. Oh well — winning wasn’t really on our minds anyway.
My friend A.J. and I met our third teammate, Steve, out at the course around 8:15 p.m. as the sun was slinking its way out of sight.
We signed in, grabbed 11 glow-in-the-dark balls, our pink and orange glowing necklaces, and then trotted out to hole No. 3, where we’d be starting the nine-hole tournament.
The mosquitoes followed us.
By the time we teed off at about 8:50, it was getting pretty dark, but we could still see the fairway and green.
Steve’s tee shot landed on the green about 20 feet from the pin on the 118-yard par three hole.
A.J. and I missed the green, but in a best-ball tournament, we were able to play Steve’s shot. We couldn’t sink the long putt and settled for a par. This would be the first of many missed putts.
As we got ready to tee off on hole No. 4, it was dark. We were past dusk and into the night, ready to see how we’d fare without seeing fairways. Once darkness set in, there was no need for practice swings; depth perception did not exist any more.
The first tee shot we hit into the night was amazing. Not that it was a great shot, but watching the glowing green orb that was our ball arcing through the air looked way cooler than any shot I’ve ever seen Tiger hit.
Throughout the night, we kept “oh-ing” and “aww-ing” over the glowing balls flying through the air all around us. When there are upwards of 150 people showering the course with glowing golf balls, it looks pretty cool.
Steve’s next tee shot, though, was very strange.
The glow balls have a hole through the middle where you place the glow stick. It’s recommended that you place the ball so the glow stick is perpendicular to the ground when teeing off.
Steve apparently missed that tip and managed to crush the end of the glow stick, sending the ball flying into the darkness with a stream of glowing liquid painting a trail away from the tee box.
This would be the first ball we lost. Many more followed.
As we played, a strange, sudden realization dawned on us: If you’re going to play golf in the dark, it’s probably advantageous to be on a course you’ve played before, especially if it’s one as challenging as Wildwood.
Steve had played the course once about six years ago. Neither A.J. nor I had played it at all, though I had seen some local high school athletes tee off at holes No. 1 and 10 this spring. That didn’t really acclimate me to the course much.
So we kept aiming at the group of four glowing necklaces in front of us, or we’d wait till we say one glowing item not moving: the flag. The flagpoles were adorned with glow sticks, which were also shoved into the hole, so you could see it when putting. Smart.
While Steve kept pounding his driver — and I continued slicing more than Emeril Lagasse — A.J. played smart and down the fairway. As it turned out, his driver never even left the bag, which served as a pretty nice insurance policy for our squad.
But no matter how many times we reached the greens in regulation, we couldn’t figure out a way to sink a birdie putt.
As we finished hole No. 9, we thought it wise to grab a couple more balls from the clubhouse for the last two holes because we were down to one ball apiece. The way things were going, that wouldn’t last two holes.
We were right.
I tried a new strategy on hole No. 10: swing as hard as physically possible. Past experience with this technique showed the ball would either be driven into the ground or sailing far away to a fairway on my right.
This time, somehow, I crushed a drive and it was — believe it or not — straight! Who’d have thought I’d hit my best-ever drive at 11:30 p.m. with a glow-in-the-dark ball? Not me.
But… I actually drove it too straight, and it left the fairway (had I sliced per usual, it would’ve been perfect).
Three hours after we started, we finished with a nine-hole round of 40, which was actually five strokes over par. We had five pars, three bogeys and one double-bogey.
And we also had one of the most fun, definitely the weirdest, rounds of golf I’ve ever played. I know I’ll be back next year, hopefully with a four-person team.