Places
A Memoir by Nicholas M. Berger
2001 by Nicholas M. Berger
Majestiq, AGV, 2001
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and relevant system, except as may be expressly permitted by the 1976 Copyright Act or in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission should be addressed to Nicholas Berger at nberger@factor-8.net.
Cover design and photographs by Nicholas M. Berger
“These pages contain what I…saw, felt, smelled, tasted, and heard in the mountains of the Pacific Northwest.”
–William O. Douglas
To My Family:
Rick, Molly, and Stephanie, who
share many of the same memories
contained in this book.
Note To the Reader
Here are just a few pointers about reading this little “book” of mine. First, there are sentence fragments scattered throughout. This is the way I wanted it. I want it to feel like I am in front of you telling the story. Sometimes we tend to talk in fragments, and while perfectly coherent in speech, they look out of place in writings. So just imagine as if I were telling you the story orally.
Second, you can find pictures of these places on my website at http://www.factor-8.net/. There will be two links that will have things regarding Mount Rainier National Park and Lake Chelan. The first is under my personal page and then under “Places” on the destination menu. The other is under “The Great Project.” I highly recommend looking at these pictures and maps before or as you read my book. They will more than likely enhance your reading experience.
Next, you’ll find that the part of this book on Lake Chelan is in poetry form and that the part on Mount Rainier National Park is in more of a story form. The reason is because when I tried to write poetry about Mount Rainier National Park, I found that the poems were more like stories, so that’s what I made them.
Foreword
…Or as close as I can come with words. The places I have been are, quite literally, breathtaking. They leave me at a loss for words, which is why I have trouble accurately describing them. It is like trying to describe GOD. The best attempt you can make is to say that GOD is the greatest thing that is, ever was, and ever will be. It is no wonder that when I am at these places I am spiritually at peace with GOD, with myself, with the world.
This collection contains writings about two places. The first is a lake that nestles its way between the mountains and the hills, from the Columbia River to the peaks of the Cascades. It is fifty-five miles long and fifteen hundred feet deep. The water of the glacier fed lake is crystal clear, cold, and pure. The lake is Lake Chelan. Both my parents’ families spent many summers on the shores and in the waters of Lake Chelan. They have a history there. Now my parents take my sister and me, now we have a history. Most people see Chelan for a commercial vacation spot. I see Chelan for what it was meant, I see the true Chelan.
The second place is “The Mountain” and areas surrounding it. Mount Rainier is amazing, simply stunning. The wild flowers and grass dance in the breeze in the alpine meadows. The endless forest stretches for miles, like a coat of fur of the Earth’s surface. The snow capped peaks feed the clear, cold, soothing rivers, streams, and lakes. I don’t have quite the history with “The Mountain” as I do with Chelan, but I am getting there. Being that I will not stop going to these places, this book will not be complete until I pass from this world to the next.
I hope you enjoy my writings. At the very least, let them relax you, let them take you mentally to the “places” described. At the very most, I hope I inspire you to visit these “places,” or, better yet, find your own “places.”
Nicholas M. Berger
December 17, 2001
The moonlight laughs across the
water,
Dancing on the waves.
The water laps up under the
dock.
A cool breeze carries the soothing scent of pine from the
forest.
I slowly sip my soda,
Take a breath of the cool night
air,
And form a mental image,
That will be a calming point,
like a favorite song,
For the next year.
And as I get up and
walk down the dock,
I think, that in the morning,
The lake will
be a sheet of glass...
Crystal clear.
This is what I see,
As I walk to
and from my cabin each day.
My log type cabin is buried in the
hillside,
A hillside plush with sprouting and aging trees.
I
walk down the beaten path through the foliage.
Then I come to the highway,
Which
separates the upper and lower cabins
Of Kelly's Resort on the
South Shore.
I continue to the main resort,
The sun beats down
hard and hot,
Making the cold, clear water look colder.
The
water in Lake Chelan is clear,
I can still see the bottom fifty
yards out.
I see my Dad.
He is standing on
the ancient wood dock,
Babying the relic we call our boat.
He
yells at me, "C'mon, the water is great!"
I look at the
crystal lake,
The sun dancing across the slightly rolling
waves.
The lake has a mind of its own.
At times it is rough,
It wants to be left alone.
Waves so rough, tossing boats
around,
Like someone shaking out a blanket.
Other times so
smooth, so inviting,
A new sheet of glass.
A fresh ice
rink,
Waiting for the skater to make a mark,
A disturbance that
could cause the shaking of the blanket.
I step into the boat,
My Dad tells
me to take the helm.
I clutch the steering wheel in my left
hand,
The throttle in my right.
I bump the power up a
little,
Perhaps two hairs faster than a turtle.
I clear the no
wake zone and punch the throttle to full.
The wind is whipping
through our hair like sidewinder snakes.
We see the Lady of the
Lake with her enormous wake.
We set a course across the lake to
the North Shore,
A place of desolate sagebrush,
And jump the
Lady's wake.
The mist from the lake refreshes our sun scorched
faces.
We then head east toward the State
Park,
Which will be the start of the modernized Chelan,
The
commercial Chelan, the false Chelan.
As we approach it, we cross
back to the South Shore,
A place of lush forested mountains.
We then turn west and pass numerous
cabins.
Each one different, all types, all architectural
marvels.
We pass the prestigious Yacht Club and the Cove.
And
on past Kelly's Resort, past Field's Point Landing,
And on up to
Twenty-Five Mile Creek.
Here is the true Chelan.
The road
ends,
Nothing but forest exists from here to Stehekan,
Where
the South Shore wraps to touch the North.
The rest of the lake is
still innocent, the rest is still pure.
Cold, clear water.
The warm
morning sun.
The sound of the waves,
Slapping against the
dock,
And washing ashore.
The distant hum of an
engine,
Propelling a boat across the sheet of glass.
I sit on
the deck of Kelly's Resort,
On the South Shore of Lake Chelan.
My
Grandmother joins me.
And together we sit and enjoy the beauty of
Lake Chelan.
Because here, nothing matters.
All worries
disappear.
My eyes open slowly.
I am engulfed
in a darkness.
Metallica fades from my headphones,
Further and
further into the background,
Giving way to the sound of silence.
The cabin is empty.
I remove the
headphones,
And walk out onto the deck.
The last light of the
day is falling behind the mountains,
Giving way to a creeping
blanket of darkness.
I look up.
The Milky Way Galaxy
rises from the mountains to the North,
Stretches across the sky
above,
And tucks behind the mountains to the South.
Stephanie, my sister, runs into the
cabin,
Barbara a short distance behind.
They drag me out of the
cabin and towards the lodge.
The night air is crisp.
A slight
breeze ruffles through the forest.
We proceed down the beaten dirt
path.
We come to and cross the highway.
I
can see the dim glow of a distant neon light.
As we near the lodge,
The glow
brightens.
We run around to the front of the
lodge.
We find my family and our friends.
Each enjoying the
wonderful, mystical night air in their own way.
I sit down,
with Barbara and my sister at my side,
And peer out over the vast,
rippling blackness of the lake.
Everyone's voices fade,
Leaving
only the sounds of night.
I hear the crickets in the
background.
A gentle breeze lifts my hair.
I hear the
water,
Sloshing ever so calmly against the dock,
And rolling up
on shore.
I look over at Barbara and my
sister,
And back at my family and friends,
And I couldn't
possibly be more content.
Thank you, God,
For creating, at
this very moment,
Heaven on Earth.
Crystal,
Blue,
Green,
Clear,
Cloudy,
Calm,
Contaminated,
Soothing,
Wild,
Pure,
Murky,
Standing,
Refreshing,
Cool,
Continuous,
Effervescent,
Warm,
Flowing,
Clean,
Dirty,
Still,
Rippling,
Quenching,
Satisfying,
Entertaining,
Sustaining,
Necessary,
32oz
a day,
Life,
Amazing.
Three
characters,
H,
2,
0,
A.K.A.
Water.
Anticipation
It is a warm, bright summer’s day. I am free of work, free of any obligation. I turn the key and am admitted to the car. I start the engine of my 1993 Honda Accord, and I am off. Off to another place, off to another world. The RPM’s climb as I fly through the gears, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and, finally, 5th. The tires of my car hit the pavement of Highway 12. I ease the car to sixty-five miles per hour, then decide to bump it up to sixty-seven. Fast enough to get me there quicker, slow enough to avoid confrontation with the law.
I pass through the town of Naches, past the Lariat and Slim’s Market, and on past the Drifter Restaurant. I approach a fork in the road. One path leads to White Pass, the other to Chinook. I choose Highway 410, the path to Chinook, the road less traveled. I see the sign “Chinook Pass 51” and my heart skips a beat, for it knows what lies at Chinook Pass.
I glance out my window at what lies ahead: blue sky that stretches on and on, finally tucking behind the mountains for which I am destined. It is the perfect day to spend among GOD’s creations. Wonderful.
My car races along the turbulent Naches River, passing through Cliffdell and on by Whistling Jack’s Lodge. I enter the William O. Douglas Wilderness in the Wenatchee National Forest, a man that would later become inspiration for my hikes and stories.
I pass through the Nile River Valley and on past Goose Prairie and Bumping Lake. I pass over the American River once, twice, three, and four times.
I start up a steep grade. “Chinook Pass 12.” Again my heart skips a beat. I emerge from the forest. I am driving along the Mather Memorial Parkway, an All-American Road. To my right is a wall of rocks, a complete vertical cliff stretching into the sky. To my left, a cliff with a coat of trees dropping into a deep valley where the Rainier Fork of the American River has made its home.
I see the Naches Peak reaching for Heaven, then the Yakima Peak copycatting. I glance back. Only an endless, bottomless ravine as far as the eye can see.
I continue in my pursuit. My car takes me around a corner and I see a sign, “Chinook Pass Elevation 5430 Feet.” I then pass under an ancient, giant gateway, “Welcome to Mount Rainier National Park.”
Return to Ohanapecosh - May 19, 2001
It has been several years since I have been to Ohanapecosh. It is a wonderful little campground located in the southeast corner of Mount Rainier National Park. My family used to come up here to camp, hike, or just to picnic for the day.
I walk down the road that winds into the campground. It is still wet from the morning dew, a dew that still hangs from the leaves of the plants and the needles of the trees. The road bends and brings me to the Visitor Center.
The building is old, very old. The outside is being overrun by trees and plants, making the building look like a natural part of the park. The inside of the building is quite different. It is warm and clean. Displays line the wall. An enormous three-dimensional map of Mount Rainier National Park is in the middle of the floor. And back to the left in the corner is a little room. This little room houses a diorama of the trees and wildlife in the park and has a little audio presentation to go with it. My sister, Stephanie, and I used to sit in here, repeatedly pushing the button, again, again, and again.
I look on, over the bridge and into the rest of the campground. Douglas Firs, western red cedars, and western hemlocks all provide partial cover for the campground’s guests. Memories start to come back. Some are vivid, some are like trying to remember a faint dream. I can see images of the past. Images of a campground full of families, images of my family. A feeling of peace comes over me.
Something draws me closer to the bridge, a link to the past maybe. As I walk closer, the rushing sound of the river grows louder and louder and louder. I walk out onto the bridge and peer over the edge, looking down on the Ohanapecosh River. As I look at the water trying to dodge the boulders, memories flood back. Memories of my parents watching Steph and I delicately toss pine needles over one side, then race to other to try and see them emerge. The memory brings a smile to my face as I continue into the rest of the campground.
Already past A, B, and C Loops, I now come to the D Loop. To my right is a small paved path leading back into the woods. It leads to an outdoor amphitheater. During the summer months, the park rangers put on a little show for children of all ages. I remember walking with my family from our campsite, a flashlight guiding the way. We would sit down and watch the little show in amazement. It was like live cartoons. The flashlight would then show us the path back to our site, and we would make smores.
And now on past E and F Loops. I finally arrive at my loop, the loop with the history, H Loop. I glance up at the bathrooms, the only proof of civilization. Outside is the “watering hole” where we gathered fresh water for boiling or drinking. I walk on. H-1, H-2, H-3, H-4, and finally H-5. Seeing the little tag “H-5” brings back many memories. Memories of setting up camp. Memories of campfires. Memories of little lawn chairs for little people. Memories of pine cone wars with my Dad and Steph. The memories are so thick I have to brush them away from my face. I could stay here forever, but it is growing later.
I walk further into the H Loop until I get to H-12, our back up in case H-5 was taken. This happened only once. H-12 is on the backside of the campground, nothing but wilderness behind it. I can remember venturing into that wilderness with Steph. But we never let the campsite out of our sight, our safety net. Being that this site was our escape only once, the memories are not as overpowering as they were at H-5.
I emerge from the H Loop with the G Loop to my right. On the road back to the G Loop is a little bridge that crosses a small stream. I gaze into the woods, following the little body of water upstream. In my mind, I can see the waterfall at the head of the little makeshift path. I can see the spot where my parents took a picture of me lifting up a large rock with a fake surprised look on my face. I can see where I fell into the stream.
With these memories, I turn and head back to the campground entrance. I will be back, you can bet on that, and it will be soon.
Silver Falls – June 29, 2001
I make the turn from SR 123 into Ohanapecosh Campground. I pass the Visitor Center. Just before I get to the bridge, I pull into the day parking. Steph and I climb out of my car, my camera hanging from my neck, my backpack from my back. We walk towards the B Loop, this is where the Silver Falls trail starts.
The path starts into the woods, winding back and forth, up, down, and between hills. The plant life covers everything making everything look alive with its green glow.
The path winds into a meadow. On the right side is a field of wild flowers. A historical marker tells us that the meadow was once home to a small resort, otherwise, one would think man had never touched it. On the left side is a small rock face, sweating from the hot springs in the warm summer sun.
We follow the path a little further until we come to another path. This path guides us above the small rock face to the hot springs. Steph and I kneel down next to the springs. We can see the bubbles coming up where the warm gas escapes the prison of the earth and warms the water. We put our hands in the water. It feels like a warm bath on a cold winter’s night.
We get back on the main path and continue our journey to Silver Falls. The path approaches Laughingwater Creek. The water jumps and dances around the boulders in its path, seeming to laugh all the way. We cross the bridge over Laughingwater Creek and then climb down off the main path to the creek itself. We can see downstream, maybe a quarter-mile, to where Laughingwater Creek meets the Ohanapecosh River.
We climb back to the main path. As we are walking, we hear a distant sound, ever so slight. It sounds like an autumn breeze ruffling leaves on a tree. We continue along the path, the sound grows to a dull roar. As we approach its source it grows and grows until it becomes a roaring rush. As the path turns one final corner, the roaring rush becomes a thunderous rush and is accompanied by a cool, steady breeze and a soothing mist. I look on to see the Ohanapecosh River tumbling over Silver Falls and then rushing through a narrow canyon below the bridge we stand on. It reminds me of a confused crowd running scared. It is an extraordinary sight. The sun gleams off the water, nearly blinding my sister and I. We stand there for what seems like an eternity, yet could never be long enough.
Finally, we start up the path on the other side. A fork gives us the choice of continuing or going to a look out point over the falls. Without hesitation we go to the look out point. The falls are so close we can almost reach out and touch them. The soothing mist is now more like a steady rain, but still soothing in the scorching sun. Our feet sink a couple of inches in the mud created by this rain. Again, we peer at the falls, snapping picture after picture.
Finally, we pull ourselves away and continue up the path. We get to another fork. We can either had back to Ohanapecosh or in the general direction of Box Canyon and the Grove of the Patriarchs. We decide on the latter, but just hike this path for a little while.
We see a spot where, although we are not supposed to, we can get down to the Ohanapecosh River, just above Silver Falls. Steph and I climb down this rather steep hillside and find ourselves on a huge boulder, fifteen feet in diameter. It is partially in the river. From it, we choose to jump to another boulder, equal, if not a little bigger, in size. We are now standing in the middle of Ohanapecosh River, on a peninsula formed from boulders. I look upstream. The river rushes towards us, then at the last minute pulls back a tries to dodge the boulder. It tumbles over a small cliff, creating a waterfall, although a mere shadow of Silver Falls.
I peer over the edge of the boulder where the water falling meets the water that has fallen. It looks like a mad panic, a rush, a fury all wrapped up and imploding on itself, utter chaos. I turn and look downstream. The river breaks left, then right, trying to dodge its adversaries, the giant boulders. Finally, as it meets with Silver Falls, the river disappears, drops off, and gives way to a cloud of mist.
Stephanie and I sit and enjoy a picnic lunch. We enjoy the plant life. We enjoy the deep blue sky, stretching in all directions. We enjoy the river. We sit and take in anything and everything that stands to remind us of the beauty and power of nature.
Rainier - One Day With My Mom – September 8, 2001
The Electron-Blue SUV rounds a bend in the road. “Chinook Pass Elevation 5430 Feet” reads the sign. My Mom and I pass under an ancient, giant gateway, “Welcome to Mount Rainier National Park.” Suddenly the landscape opens to reveal a Tipsoo Lake with the Cowlitz Chimneys and Governor’s Ridge in the background. “The Mountain” rises above them, above all. My Mom points the car towards the parking lane. We get out. The day is perfect. Not a cloud in the sky. The only thing hindering us from seeing forever is the boundaries made by Mount Rainier and the Cascades. Below, the sun gleams off Tipsoo Lake.
We walk around for a little while and then climb back into our little SUV. We follow the road, which wraps around Tipsoo Lake. The road takes an immediate dive. Nestled in the side of mountain, it winds back and forth, dropping a couple thousand feet in a couple miles. We finally reach the bottom, or so we think. We leave Highway 410 for SR 123 at Cayuse Pass. Again, the road nestled against a mountainside, drops thousands of feet within a couple of miles. No wonder they close these passes in the winter.
We drive on, catching a glimpse of Mt. Rainier every now and then. My excitement grows. We turn into Steven’s Canyon Entrance, the gateway to Paradise, Heaven on Earth. We stop at the little toll booth. My Mom passes over the money, without even thinking twice, for it is money we have and peace we like.
We continue along the Steven’s Canyon Road, passing the Grove of the Patriarchs and rounding Backbone Ridge. We then pass over Olallie Creek, burrowing deep inside Box Canyon. We look to the south. The canyon acts as a scope, sighting Mount Adams some forty miles away.
The road is now hugging Steven’s Ridge. We have lost sight of “The Mountain”, but I keep looking, knowing that it will pop up soon. And it does. As we round a corner, Mt. Rainier is suddenly there. It is enormous. It consumes almost my entire field of vision. It is a glorious sight.
We round another corner and find the Reflection Lakes. We immediately stop our transport and get out. The scenery is unreal, like something you would see in a dream. We both take pictures, lots of them. And no matter how horrible you are at photography, they all turn out meant for those books about Washington.
We climb back in the car and proceed along our path. We reach the turnoff, one road leads to Longmire and the other leads to Paradise. We turn up to Paradise, “The Mountain” growing larger.
We drive by the Henry M. Jackson Memorial Visitor Center en route to the upper parking lot. The lot is packed, for we are not the only ones who realize the beauty and uniqueness of Mount Rainier.
We grab our cameras as we get out of the car. The Paradise Inn is rustic, yet beautiful. It fits in perfectly with its surroundings. I can remember coming up here once with my family, to Paradise. We have a picture of my Dad, sister, and me on one of the trails. I remember getting a root beer flavored candy cane stick and sucking on it all the way back to Ohanapecosh. Histories.
We wander around the Inn for a couple of minutes, but then head for what we came for, the trails. We wander up to Edith Creek. The water is gleaming with Mt. Rainier towering above it. It looks a scene from a PUR or Brita water filter commercial.
We follow Edith Creek over Myrtle Falls and watch in amazement as it becomes the Paradise River, flowing through a lush, green Paradise Valley.
We climb a little further up the path. We stop to take in everything. It is like Lester Burnham says:
“…it’s hard to stay mad when there is so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I am seeing it all at once, and it’s too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that is about to burst…and then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold onto it, and then it flows through me like rain, and I can’t feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my…life.”
We look to the east to see Steven’s and Mazama Ridge. To the south, Unicorn Peak and The Castle top the Tatoosh Range. And to the west we see Rampart Ridge extending from north to south.
To the north, well to the north is “The Mountain”, Mount Rainier. We can see most of the well known places, Little Tahoma, Gibraltar Rock, Camp Muir, just to name a few. As we look to the summit, we can see Point Success, and maybe even all the way to the peak, Columbia Crest.
We could spend weeks just sitting here taking in the view. But while we have escaped for a day, we must return. And so, with heavy hearts and a great reluctance, we climb in the car and drive down the one-way road that lines the Paradise Valley. We meet up with Steven’s Canyon Road, and head for home. This will be the last trip of the season. But next season holds new adventures, and with them, new stories…