indian paintbrush flutters in the wind and i think i hear the White River but it could be the deafening sound of the endless forest below

The wildflowers were really pretty yesterday.  Another highlight from Crystal Peak was a stunning, raw display of mother nature’s fury.  It was a steep, open draw where the trail was finally showing signs of getting out of the woods and up into the lower meadows of the mountain. I was traversing through a patch of dwarfish firs and thickety meadows when I noticed: Hundreds of young firs were snapped off a quarter of the way up their trunks, the result of a powerful avalanche in the not-too-distant-past. Other trees were gnarled and twisted into various shapes of the alphabet. I wish I’d taken a few pictures to document what kind of force winter is capable of unleashing, but I was busy not collapsing from exhaustion and couldn’t be bothered with anything that didn’t involve willing my feet forward. I alluded to this in my post yesterday, my legs felt like cement barrels for this hike. For some reason I felt so slow. Happy but sluggish.

Adam and I were at the house all day, today. We mostly read books and sat on the porch. We’re heading down to Cannon Beach, tomorrow morning.

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