In the past 150 years, the Willapa Entrance has changed dramatically. The earliest charts of this area in southwest Washington show a long spit arching down to the southeast from Cape Shoalwater, north of the entrance, and the main channel near present day Leadbetter Point, on the south end. Successive charts map the shift of the main channel northward over the next century-and-a-half. During those decades, Cape Shoalwater eroded into the surf from its south and west edges, and Leadbetter Point built up out of the surf northward. This situation is not unique to this or any other coastline, and serves as a severe reminder of the fragility of coastal lands built of sand. Similar stories could be told for Grays Harbor and Columbia Entrances.

Around 150 years ago, when the first charts were drawn of Leadbetter Point, the peninsula ended at what is now the north parking lot at the point, on the last high dune. North beyond this dune was intertidal flats to the west of Grassy Island, which was initially mapped as a tiny bit of upland surrounded by channels and intertidal flats. At high tide, all of this tidal area was covered with surf. A small channel ran north between the spit at the point, and island and flats inside the bay; access was not possible by land even on minus low tides in those years.

By 1871, a long narrow spit of dunes extended along the beach at Leadbetter Point toward Grassy Island. The spit slowly widened and built up, continuing to extend northward and slowly growing westward. Then, soon after the jetties were constructed at Columbia and Grays Harbor Entrances early in the 20th century, sand flowed ashore in larger amounts and the beach and dunes rapidly built westward; extensive wetlands were created in the area of the original spit and behind the westward-moving foredune. Leadbetter Point built north and west rapidly in the first fifty years following jetty construction, then more slowly, and steadily, it continued north.

At the same time, Cape Shoalwater was eroding. In his book, <em>The Pacific Northwest Coast</em>, marine geologist Paul Komar illustrates the shift in the main channel and the loss of the cape with information from charts made between1871 and 1891. Even in the earliest complete Coast and Geodetic Survey charts in 1871, Cape Shoalwater eroded from prior records made in 1851. In the 1930s, Cape Shoalwater spit became the first unit of Willapa National Wildlife Refuge, set up to provide wintering habitat for Pacific Brant, which fed on eelgrasses behind the spit. At the time of establishment, this unit of the refuge covered more than 1,500 acres. But the spit was already eroding. It was basically gone by the late 1980s along with the Willapa Bay Lighthouse, other buildings, and eelgrass beds on the bay side. Cape Shoalwater ceased to exist as a refuge unit late in the 20th century.

The entrance channel also shifted over these decades. In the last quarter of the 19th century, from south to north in the entrance were the flood channel (where water surged in on flood tides), the ebb channel (where it left on ebbing tides), and the long elegantly curved spit of Cape Shoalwater. By late in the 20th century this condition had reversed, so that one deep channel on the north end served to move most of the water in and out of the bay, with minor channels full of water at flood tide to the south, and a long spit from the south that grew north year by year.

Actually the Willapa Entrance was probably changing all the time, but by 1911 there were enough old charts to document the shift. As the main channel shifted north, it abandoned a succession of old paths, which filled in with sand and became minor channels.

This circumstance did not pass unnoticed, particularly by fishermen and coastal residents. Elders living from Grayland and Tokeland around to the peninsula remember conditions from the 1930s onward, and talk of dunes, farms, other lands and landmarks that disappeared on the north side as the channel shifted. On the south side, they recall the extension of the Leadbetter spit and annexation of Grassy Island.

There were also hundreds of acres of intertidal shoals and dune fields south of Tokeland that disappeared as the main channel moved north. The last remains of Cape Shoalwater became known as Washaway Beach; ultimately dozens of homes were lost to the ocean — and continue to be lost to this day. In the 1990s, as the channel approached State Highway 105 southeast of Grayland, a short jetty was installed to stabilize the channel, protect the highway and stop erosion. You may judge for yourself how effective this action has been.

Meanwhile, on the south side of the entrance, Leadbetter Point continued to build northward, and is now well north of Grassy Island, which some decades ago connected to land. The expansion on this side is over 1,000 acres in the past 100 years. The main channel of the 1850s-1870s has filled in, and an extension of the south spit sits on top of it. The channel between the island and point disappeared in the 1960-1970s, then ceased to be tidal soon after. These days, Grassy Island can be reached at any stage of tide, as a dune connects it to a former end of Leadbetter Point. The present point is a few thousand feet to the north of the uplands of the 1850s. The Willapa Entrance now appears to have three channels: the deepest one is on the north end, with two shallow channels to the middle and south.

Why did the channels shift north so dramatically, removing one spit and building another? Geologists speculate that the channel may have abruptly shifted to the south side in response to the last subduction zone earthquake in 1700. For a short period of time afterward, the main channel may have been just north of the high dune at Leadbetter Point, running between it and Grassy Island. Then as sand supplies and ocean long-shore currents re-stabilized with sea level, it shifted northward. Euro-Americans arrived when it was about 150 years into that process. Now, 300 years later, we may be seeing the entrance at its north extension in geologic time. Without a full 300 years of charts to substantiate this hypothesis, we can only speculate, and wait to see what happens after the next subduction zone earthquake.

To see the north side of the entrance, drive west on Highway 105 past Tokeland to a series of short jetties, which jut out into the north channel about a mile from the ocean and Grayland. The deepest part of the channel is a few hundred feet offshore of this site. You can see entrance shoals and Leadbetter Point to the south, ocean shoals, beach, and a few water pipes-all that remains of several homes-to the southwest at low tide. Trees, roots and all, tumble off the edge of the dunes in this area, along with the remains of several buildings.

To see the entrance from Leadbetter Point, drive north on Highway 103 to Leadbetter State Park, and north to the north parking area, which is on the boundary between the park and wildlife refuge. Hike west to the ocean beach, then north several miles on the beach to the north tip. You can also hike around to Grassy Island, now southeast of the present tip. No signed trails go up the east side of the spit to Grassy Island, so if you cannot navigate or walk easily over rough ground, do not go up the bayside.

   On everyone’s list of Top Ten Plants That Define the Pacific Northwest, you’ll probably find Sitka spruce, red alder, hemlock, Douglas fir and western red cedar. But look between and beneath those fine trees and you’ll likely encounter another Top Ten contender: the salal, more humble maybe, but ubiquitous in northwest forests, clearcuts, roadsides, and indeed everywhere it can spread its rhizomes.

   Thriving over an enormous area from Alaska right down into southern California, from mountain slopes to the edge of the sea, salal has staked its claim as the iconic understory plant of our region.

   Everyone knows salal, either as a backyard plant providing cover and food for wildlife, or as the shrub that intertwines so tightly with its neighbors as to be impenetrable to a hiker or steelheader. You might know it from florists’ arrangements, its tough oval-shaped leaves providing a backdrop for showier flowers. The name ‘salal’ is derived from the Chinook word for the plant, recorded in their famous journals by William Clark as ‘Shele wele’ and by Meriwether Lewis as ‘Shal-lun.’ Our scientific species name shallon comes from Lewis’s name for the plant.

   Salal is a member of the Heath family (Ericaceae), cousin to huckleberries, manzanita, kinnikinnik and heathers. These woody evergreen bushes are covered with leathery leaves serrated on the edges. In mid-spring, pink urn-shaped flowers bloom, with a delicate fringe around the lower margin. Their stems bend down as they develop, suspending the flowers straight down. In late summer, the flowers evolve into prodigious numbers of dark purple fruits, each containing many seeds.

   An attractive and useful plant, salal was once treated as a weed, scorned in suburbia for the very traits that have since made it the darling of the landscaper and developer.

   The shrub has been recognized in England as an ornamental landscape treasure since botanist David Douglas introduced it there in 1828. Douglas, of fir fame, visited the lower Columbia region in 1825 on a botanical expedition to collect and describe plants new to science. After a year’s voyage from England on board the Hudson’s Bay Company supply ship William and Ann he arrived at Cape Disappointment at the mouth of the Columbia River and made his first scientific observations: “On stepping on the shore Gaultheria Shallon was the first plant I took in my hands. So pleased was I that I could scarcely see anything but it.”

   Not surprisingly, the abundant fruits of the salal provided its chief attraction to Native peoples throughout its range. Any compendium of Pacific coast ethnobotany lists the salal berry, fresh or dried, as a prized food of every Native group studied from Alaska into California: Bella Coola, Klallam, Tsimshian, Karok, Wakashan, Kwakiutl, Makah, Okanagon, Pomo, Quileute, Quinault, Salish, Skagit, Skokomish, Snohomish, Chinook, Swinomish, the list continues.

   Everyone enjoyed the fruits-both fresh and preserved for winter use. Cakes of berries were dried and stored; dipping them in whale or seal oil restored the sweet, chewy seedy flavor, adding vitamins and flavor to a fish-heavy winter diet.

   Captain William Clark described the salal fruit as “a Deep purple about the Size of a Small cherry called by them Shal lun,” which the Chinook “prise highly and make use of as food to live on.” His colleague Meriwether Lewis wrote that, “the natives either eat these berrys when ripe immediately from the bushes or dryed in the sun or by means of their sw[e]ating kilns; very frequently they pound them and bake them in large loaves of 10 or fifteen pounds; this bread keeps very well during one season and retains the moist jeucies of the fruit much better than by any other method of preservation. this bread is broken and stired in could water until it be sufficiently thick and then eaten; in this way the natives most generally use it.-”

   Clark described tasting a syrup and fruit soup made from dried salal berries by the method Lewis described: “in the eveng an old woman presented a bowl made of a light Coloured horn a kind of Surup made of Dried berries which is common to this Countrey which the natives Call Shele wele  this Surup I thought was pleasent, they Gave me Cockle Shells to eate a kind of Seuip (soup) made of bread of the Shele well berries mixed with roots …”.

   Astoria fur trader Gabriel Franchere in his 1820 memoir wrote that salal fruit “is not of a particularly fine flavor, but it is wholesome, and one may eat a quantity of it without inconvenience. The natives make great use of it; they prepare it for winter by bruising and drying it; after which it is moulded into cakes according to fancy and laid up for use.”

   James Swan, living on Shoalwater Bay in 1852, also documented the Chinook method of preserving the fruit: “It is excellent cooked in any form, and is dried by the Indians, and pressed into cakes containing some five or six pounds, which are covered with leaves and rushes, so as to exclude the air, and then put away in a dry place for winter’s use.”

   In addition to the widespread consumption of salal as fresh or preserved food and a spice, it had a number of recorded medicinal uses. Northwest coast Natives used salal leaves as a poultice for cuts and burns, an infusion for indigestion, colic, and diarrhea, for respiratory distress from colds or tuberculosis, and as a convalescent tonic. (Note: these are recorded traditional uses, and may be ineffective or harmful.) Leaves were also blended for smoking with kinnikinnik, and berries used as a stain for wooden artifacts and baskets. One Vancouver Island tribe encouraged newlyweds to eat the larger salal leaves to ensure the birth of baby boys.

   It may not serve the latter function, but the humble salal should be honored for its contribution to the Native diet and its modern use in landscapes and florists’ arrangements. And I can attest that the berries make a fine pie and jelly, though I haven’t yet tried Captain Clark’s Surup or Seuip.

Brian would like to thank Nancy Eid for her botanical assistance.

Western red cedar can be found from the Alaskan panhandle to the northern tip of California. It is a shade-tolerant coniferous evergreen that prefers moist soils and grows to great diameters and ages. Some specimens have been known to live well over a millennium. In its extreme old age the tree takes on a majestic look, with an enormous buttressed base and an irregular, multi-forked crown reminiscent of cathedral spires. The wood of the cedar is soft and can be split easily. It also contains thujaplicin, a natural oil that inhibits fungus growth and keeps rot at bay for an extended period.

No one can say with any certainty when coastal peoples first began working with cedar. Archaeological evidence unearthed in British Columbia suggests that it may have been over 4,000 years ago. Numerous legends exist among Northwest Coast peoples explaining the origins of cedar, and although they don’t establish a time frame, they indicate that the tree has been utilized since antiquity.

Over countless generations Native American woodworkers perfected their tools and techniques for working cedar. By today’s standards their tools were rudimentary-stone hammers, hardwood wedges, and stone-bladed adzes and chisels-but in experienced hands, they proved to be all that they needed. Their wood source came in the form of drift logs, wind-thrown trees, and under certain circumstances, a combination of controlled burning and adze work was used to topple standing trees. Transporting logs and timbers took great effort, so location was critical in selecting just the right tree or log.

The largest and longest-lived feature of Northwest cedar culture was the longhouse. Large extended families lived together in these houses, which withstood the rain forest environment for generations. Early Euro-American explorers often marveled in their journals at the size and seamless construction of these longhouses, some in excess of 100 feet in length. Logs measuring several feet in diameter made up the framework of the dwelling, which was sided and roofed with heavy cedar planks.

Another testament to superior workmanship was the dugout canoe. These graceful craft offered coastal peoples their primary means of long-distance transportation and helped facilitate their intricate trade networks. Although sizes and styles varied, the methods used to construct the canoes remained relatively consistent throughout the region. Carvers hued and hollowed the dugout from a single log using chisels, adzes, and fire. The canoe was then filled with water and hot rocks from a fire placed within the hull to steam and stretch the gunwales, creating a wider beam. As useful as the canes were to the living, they also served as sarcophaguses for higher-ranking individuals upon their death.

Numerous other items came from the wood of cedar as well. Bentwood boxes, with all four sides created by notching and steaming a single plank, were used for cooking and storage; canoe paddles, fishing spears, and net floats aided maritime pursuits and the fishery; ceremonial masks and carved poles helped recall ancient traditions and history; and children’s cradles, toys, and serving dishes helped round out the household.

According to author Hilary Stewart, woodworking was traditionally men’s work, while women specialized in using the bark, branchlets, and roots of the cedar tree. Every spring as the sap began running, multiple generations of women would venture into the surrounding forest to strip bark. First, a horizontal cut was made across the truck of a young, straight tree and the bark loosened with an antler or hardwood wedge. Then, with a firm grip, the women would pull long, slender strips of bark from the tree in the shape of an inverted V. These strips would then be dried and beaten until soft and spun into yarn. From this fiber weavers created clothing, hats, mats, blankets, baskets, rope, and nets. Branchlets and roots were also used in basketry and for heavier-strength ropes.

As Euro-Americans began to colonize the Northwest Coast during 19th century, they too relied on cedar. Many pioneer farmers used the wood to build houses, barns, and fences. Throughout the 20th century, cedar was a sought after source for shakes, shingles, and finish lumber. As its popularity grew, so did its harvest level.

Today, few stands of lowland, old growth cedar remain. Some of the most accessible, remaining groves can be found around Willapa Bay, in southwest Washington. The most easily reached old growth cedar can be found at Teal Slough, 14 miles north of Ilwaco on Highway 101. For more adventurous cedar seekers, a larger, 274-acre stand can be found on Long Island. The island is part of the Willapa National Wildlife Refuge and is accessible only by boat. For more information call: (360) 484-3482.

Mixed stands of ancient cedar can also be found in the Valley of the Rainforest Giants around Lake Quinault, located 40 miles north of Aberdeen on Highway 101. Drive the 31-mile loop around the lake or hike any number of forest trails to view these magnificent trees. For more information call (360) 288-0571 or visit www.quinaultrainforest.com.

Stand anywhere in Clatsop and Pacific counties, and Saddle Mountain will be visible in the backdrop to the south. It is not an imposing peak, as mountains go, but provides a prominent landmark to northcoast residents. Often overlooked and shunned as not worthy of the effort, Saddle Mountain is one of the north coast’s best-kept secrets. Rising 3,283 feet above sea level, it is the highest peak in Oregon’s north Coast Range.

The cool wet maritime climate of the region favors luxuriant forest growth. Sitka spruce and western hemlock predominate with Douglas fir, alder, and an occasional red cedar also present. And, it should go without saying, the abundant rainfall and moist foggy gray days encourage an abundance of mosses and ferns. Huckleberries, Oregon grape, and salal form the understory.

At higher elevations, the forests of the mountain give way to the grassy slopes and meadows at the three peaks. Deer and elk grazing and humans tramping have kept this area short-matted. But there exist in the park several areas untraveled by two and four legged creatures that have allowed many rare plant species to flourish. Saddle Mountain is also of interest to botanists as it served as a plant refuge during the last Ice Age. Species known to thrive on Saddle Mountain exist in few other locales, and have adapted and evolved enough to defy typical species descriptions. Rare and isolated, these plants have followed their own unique paths of genetic variability.

The real blessing of Saddle Mountain lies in its abundant wildflowers. Over 300 species of plants exist on the mountain, and the relatively small park can keep the wildflower hiker busy for an entire season. At lower elevations you can find abundant lilies early in the season, with white and pink fawn lilies (Erythronium oregonum and revolutum) , chocolate and tiger lilies (Fritillaria affinis and Lilium columbianum) , and the rare alp lily (Lloydia serotina) all beckoning. Later, the abundance of flowers increases, with a display of the usual (paintbrush, columbine, and monkey flower) and unusual (boykinia and bluebells).

Regional endemics for Saddle Mountain include Saddle Mountain bittercress (Cardamine pattersonii) and Saddle Mountain saxifrage (Saxifraga hitchcockiana). Perplexing on Saddle Mountain are the flowers that stop us in our tracks, and make us wonder “what are you doing here.” The rein orchids, more at home in the alpine regions of the Cascades, are magical on Saddle Mountain. Though you may find lots of trilliums, shooting stars, and fairy lanterns growing everywhere in our county, it is curious to see rarities such as nodding onions and dutchman’s breeches making their stand, as if to defy the rules of nature.

Saddle Mountain has something for every outdoors taste. If your hiking centers around how quickly you can bag a summit, Saddle Mountain will be easy, but will offer enough of a challenge to get your heart racing and lungs gasping. It can be accomplished before lunch by fit individuals; just don’t forget to look down to enjoy the flowers or look up to enjoy the views.

If, on the other hand, you tend to turn every hike into a nature walk, plan on spending an entire day. In fact, plan on returning at regular intervals throughout the summer as the wildflower show emerges throughout May, June, July, and into August. The plant diversity of the park will cause you to pause and wonder. Don’t forget to pack your camera; the photo opportunities will be numerous.

Don’t be fooled by this mountain’s gentle appearance. The trail is easy to follow and generally in good repair, but each winter’s storms create enough damage that the way can be treacherous in spots. Wear shoes meant for rough terrain, pack a sweater and windbreaker for the summit. Don’t forget to carry water; there will be none along the way, and carry a snack to munch on while enjoying the panoramic view at the top. If the hike up the steep rocky outcrop doesn’t cause you to pause for a rest, the 360-degree view from the summit will. Most days the ocean is visible, but on a clear day, the Olympics, Mt. Rainier, Mt. St. Helens, Mt. Adams, and Mt. Jefferson will all pierce the horizon to the east and north.

The entrance road to Saddle Mountain State Park is from US 26, eight miles northeast of Necanicum Junction. Ten primitive campsites near the trailhead are available on a first-come first-served basis. For more information, see the State Parks’ website at: http://www.oregonstateparks.org/park_197.php

My college roommates didn’t believe me when I told them about cone picking. The subject came up our sophomore year during a game of pinochle that evolved into a discussion of jobs we’d held in junior high and high school. When my turn came, I ran through the usual list for a boy growing up in southwest Washington—haying, mowing lawns, working in the bean and strawberry fields—before mentioning that I’d also earned a few dollars picking cones. My companions were native Northwesterners, but childhoods in Tacoma and Seattle had provided few contacts with the natural world. Pine cone? Fir cone? They didn’t know there was a difference.

Suspecting a ruse, they smiled and waited for the punch line as I explained that pickers gathered Douglas fir cones in gunnysacks, and then sold them by the bushel to timber companies that used the seeds for replanting. I’d begun to convince them I was telling the truth when someone asked if climbing the trees and picking the cones was difficult. When I said, “Squirrels cut the cones; you only have to pick them up,” they laughed until they cried. I realized then that they would never understand.

For three decades in my corner of the world, cone picking served as a symbol for independence, reverence, and self-sufficiency. It epitomized our long-standing milk-the-resource mentality while simultaneously expressing the love for landscape we are often reluctant to acknowledge. Cone picking was a harvest uniquely Northwest, and we took it as both a benediction and a confirmation of the rightness of our lives. Cone picking is gone now, though the loss seems trivial when contrasted with the eradication of old growth forests or the steep decline of native salmon and steelhead runs. Yet it’s one more item deleted from the list of wonders that defined our place and made it livable.

After World War II, Weyerhaeuser Company came to grips with the gloom-and-doom prediction that forestry experts had been attempting to sell for decades: the timber industry’s cut-and-run modus operandi would result in severe shortages of product once the majority of low-elevation old growth was logged out. Weyerhaeuser and the Washington State Department of Natural Resources formalized a plan to regrow Northwest forests. They offered money for Douglas fir cones with good seed counts from elevations matching those of clear-cuts designated for replanting. Cones purchased from area pickers were laid on screens in drying sheds. As the cones opened, their seeds dropped out and were gathered for aerial distribution by plane or helicopter.

Beginning in the mid-1950s, cone picking was a September ritual for my family, wedged between summer’s warm, lazy days and the opening of deer season in October. A sense of excitement rode with us on our trips to the woods, the sort of anticipation that moves hunters and fishermen with the joy of possibility. We were blessed with an in during those early days: Uncle Tiny was delivering diesel and oil to logging outfits in the Toutle River drainage. He had keys to nearly every gate on Weyerhaeuser land and didn’t mind sharing them with family and friends. The road numbers are lost to me now, but I remember the names of the place where we picked: Green River, Old Camp Five,

Hemlock Pass, Coldwater Ridge. There is magic still in the simple act of their recitation.

When we spotted cones scattered across a logging road edged with firs, Dad stopped the pickup and we bailed out with buckets and burlap sacks. It was easy to get turned around, to lose our way as we searched the woods, heads down with no consideration of landmarks, always thinking, “One more tree.” We tried to maintain voice contact, calling to each other like geese in a fog every few minutes, but the possibility of a significant find could take a picker a ridge beyond where sound carried.

Pay varied, but the rate I recall was $2.50 a bushel; a gunnysack typically held two bushels, so we could make five dollars a bag, provided the seed count was decent. On a good day, it wasn’t unusual for our family—my father, mother, brother, and myself—to fill eight to twelve sacks and earn upwards of fifty dollars. The money was a nice lure, but it wasn’t just the pay that drew us to cone picking. Even when the luck wasn’t with us, we could explore shadowed vales of jack firs and hear the wind catch in the treetops. The money merely lent legitimacy to our quest for what we and our fellow Northwesterners have always been intent on validating: the belief that we have an intimate and wholly compatible relationship with wildness.

Like hunting and fishing, cone picking has its own family mythology: my mother shucking off her pants like a quick-change artist when a hornet found a way in through a hole in the seat; Uncle Otto, out of sacks in the midst of a major find, peeling off his rain pants, tying the bottoms shut, and filling the legs with cones; my cousins, Larry and Bob—high school studs at the time—taking me along on a cone-picking trip at their mother’s behest when I was ten and making sure I got the privilege of dragging a bag of cones I couldn’t carry down Tower Road on our trek home; my father-in-law, wearing White Ox gloves and a white dinner jacket I’d bought for a buck at a garage sale, wading through sopping huckleberry and Oregon grape and breaking into laughter every time he paused to consider how he was dressed.

But mostly my memories are of things native: the angry jabber of squirrels whose goods we commandeered; the rustle of cones dropping through layers of boughs and the thud that accompanied their landing on the cushioned forest floor; nurse logs dissolving into needles and soil; rich smells of dampness and decay; caches of lime-green cones, sugared with pitch, tucked beneath windfalls; silence thick as rain-fat clouds; the skin-prickling sense of aloneness beneath the overstory of firs.

My daughters got in on cone picking’s final hours. Six and four at the time, they still talk about the trips we made, though what they remember most are sodas and pastries purchased at some convenience store after we’d been paid. By the mid-1970s, timber companies had learned that hand planting gave new trees a three- to five-year growth boost. Nurseries began crossbreeding genetically superior trees that grew far more rapidly than those germinated from seed. There was increasingly less call for cones, until, by the end of the decade, Weyerhaeuser was employing only a handful of private pickers.

But some things haven’t changed: squirrels still go about their business on autumn days when rain triggers instincts woven to harvest and survival. Troves of cones stowed safe in hidey-holes light the fuse on rodent dreams, while we humans are left with one less reason to set foot in the woods. Looking back now, I understand that cone picking was a gift.

When money isn’t involved in our relationship with nature, we shuffle awkwardly, embarrassed to rationalize a love for the land that is not contingent on a profit motive. To care about beauty for beauty’s sake would be like walking the forests without a chainsaw or hunting rifle to justify our presence. Insistent on pragmatism and unwilling to openly express our love for place, cone picking was as close as many Northwesterners ever came to an act of faith.