Author: EEC Forest Stewardship

Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as the swelter in the sun along the silent shore, thrill with memories of stirring events connected with the lives of my people, and the very dust upon which you now stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps than yours, because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch.

from ‘siʔaɬ‘s 1854 Oration ver. 1

I was thinking so much about these words from siʔaɬ (Chief Seattle), walking over a bed of non-native oysters planted here by Japanese and American scientists trying to keep the oyster industry in Washington alive over 100 years ago. The introduction was very successful, yet the native oysters of the region were suddenly being out competed by this invasive species. In much the same way First Nations in and around Puget Sound were colonized, this beach in Hood Canal became endemic with Pacific Oysters. Walking in black muck boots, I felt the crunch and smash of shell and crustaceans with every step. It was low tide, and the best way to dig for clams and harvest oysters on the beach. I was participating in this harvest with Washington Outdoor Women, an organization I will be instructing with later in the fall. Today, we were participants with the other women in the field learning about bivalves and legal harvesting. Our instructors were WDFW shellfish experts, also all women, who guided us in the legal, safe, and ethical harvesting of clams and oysters. I was there to harvest wild food and work with other women in the field.

There was endless learning for this landlocked Oakie- I’ve never dug for clams in my life. I have shucked oysters, in The Netherlands, but they were bought and brought home, not harvested in the wild and shucked on the beach. The experience was positive, with a lot of support and comradery. There was also some deep reflection on what brought us to this place and what it meant to the native people and native sea life still present, but silent to our rakes and knives. When I’d first arrived at the beach, I lit some sage and asked permission to be there, thanking the ancestors who cared for this place, thanking the tribal people still present and carrying the memories of deep connection with these lands. I gave tobacco as a token of exchange for the food I would harvest that day. There are all small things in the greater picture of colonial decimation caused by thoughtless taking, but that mindset can change to one of reverence and gratitude over time. My actions would attempt to stitch some acknowledgment into frame.

40 eager women swept down into the rocky terrain with shovels, rakes, and sunglasses. I was glad to be supporting the group learning about the ecology, history, and protections on these beaches. It was still through a colonial lens, but tribal histories were acknowledged, colonial impact was spoken into our learning, and yet, no one was hindered from harvesting. Why should it? I am still sitting with that question. In the moment, I was comfortable putting my rake in the sand because I was there to learn and share. I gave all the clams and cockles I gathered to others at the end of the day. There was a set limit of 40 clams we could take. The oysters had to be shucked on the beach, the shells left behind to keep building the reef for future oyster growth. Native oysters did inhabit the reef, though the Pacific were there to stay. We were limited to 16 oysters each. This activity, and the history around me was palpable. My rake pulled up sea worms, sand shrimp, and small crabs. I could not grasp the number of small things I killed in my quest to dig clams. I acknowledged the slaying out loud, recognizing that in the very act of living, we are killing- and dying too.

Maybe this experience gave me a little more insight into the words of siʔaɬ as he warned the colonizers of their shortsightedness. Even in the 1800s, he could see the colonial disconnect between people and place, the inherent sickness in naming nature the other, disassociating from or dominating of that other. I’ve sat by a wild creek in the mossy understory of oaks back in Scotland, perhaps there my feet touched something sympathetic. Why not at Rendsland Creek here in Washington? But didn’t it? Didn’t I feel sympathy through my actions and recognize that connection? This could be a step in solistalgia, moving towards recognition and retelling for The Southern Lushootseed speaking people like siʔaɬ. I recognize the change, and consequences of colonial influence on this landscape. Shucking oysters in the middle of a shell reef, I wonder what this place would look like if the native oysters could return, why they aren’t and what my place here represents. Then I eat from the land, in that moment, hearing the sizzle on cast-iron, a gas stove cooking the harmful Vibrio bacteria that thrives in shallow warm water. Many new to the area colonists became very sick and died eating shellfish from these waters, hard lessons were learned. Not enough to stop people coming to Seattle and wanting oysters.

This abundance came at a cost. Out time harvesting for an afternoon negligible to the population of Pacific Oysters proudly proclaiming their place on the landscape. I know most of the women at the workshop would not come back to this beach again, but they might be digging somewhere else soon. We all will eventually. In standing on this reef in the here and now, I am still seeing the world through a lens of privilege in being a white woman in a place subjugated by people like me looking for money and place- just place, or place to be a part of? I choose to be a part of, and in being a part of, I take in as much of the picture as I can grasp, which is still far short of the thousands of years Lushootseed people have been a part of this place. How do I exist here now? Though a willingness to learn, accept, and still be a part of. Gratitude for the change to walk on this earth, to eat from it’s bounty, to share such abundance with others, and to keep acknowledging those who came before with a sympathetic touch.

As the weather warms up, more time outside and more daylight abounds. I’m taking weekly trips into The Snoqualmie Tree Farm to hike, fish, and gather firewood. This last task, wood gathering, is a regular gym workout and stock of fuel for the coming Winter. The tree farm lays aside some of the harvest for recreational pass holders to cut and haul for personal use each year. Seasonal harvesting from these specific piles are allowed in Spring and Fall. The wood has to be cut, to fit in the truck bed, about 10-12′. I haul the logs home to buck in a place with quicker access to emergency assistance if something happens while operating the chainsaw. These lengths are heavy, so I use a lot of smart lifting and counter levering to load and unload. Still, this is that free gym workout with winter heat pay out.

Hearth and home are one to me. Anywhere I can sit with flames on a cold day or dark night offers some of the best comfort I know. Learning that the energy to induce that flame and heat, comes from years of sun energy growing the tree can be hard to grasp. Comprehending this cycle, we realize how basic an exchange of combustion for heat sustains most needs. When wood burning becomes more than hearth, to aid industry and mass production, the balance of sun, wood, and heat fall out of alignment. To heat all the homes in this valley with wood heat, we would need all the wood harvested in the tree farm, and more. How do we acknowledge, much less live within the constraints of our natural world? Our own shortsightedness, to see nature as mere object, will be humanities downfall as a species, so get outside please. The natural world is not a things sitting on a shelf, to be looked at, taken from, and used at will, for convenience. Our convenience is killing us. Wood smoke could one day be the death of me, but it won’t be for sitting around a fire, it will be because I work outside, and wildfire smoke has become almost a yearly occurrence.

Thinning the commercial forests is imperative to prevent hot, fast fires that destroy the landscape. Wildfire in an environment that evolved with it over millions of years, would have the balance of animals and plants to allow a healthy water table and reasonable grazing to keep down fuel. Slow burns would scorch the landscape in a wildfire, but not destroy the land utterly. Within a year new vegetation springs up, and the old trees easily survive a ground fire with low temperatures, thus preserving the forest canopy. Clear-cutting, an industrial concept, scrapes all the trees off the landscape at once, even on slopes where erosion threats are high. The cut pictured above is only starting, the full cutting will include both the right and left stands on this hillside. Note the age of these trees, like the others I bring home- they are all under 30 years of growth, maybe even 20. It’s not a well aged forest at all, the industry needs chip board and laminates, not timber for construction. The age of epoxy is here, so wood products can come from young growth, allowing for more product in a shorter time- or does it?

Humans like to convince ourselves we can get more from less. The fact is, nature remains in balance at all times, so taking all the trees away, released huge amounts of carbon back into the atmosphere, and the climate will adjust to less living vegetation by accommodating drought and fire to burn off all the excess. We are the collateral of our own actions, and we’ll learn responsibility whether we like it or not. To survive this change, adaptation will be imperative. Small local action is necessary for thriving through these dramatic and sometimes violent changes. Stepping back from online shopping and streaming entertainment or social media is a first great set of challenges. After that, you’ll have time for social connection with friends and neighbors, work that truly feeds your gifts and therefor, your joy. There is also the practice of letting go. Things are not needs, and convenience kills. In taking firewood on as a need, prioritizing that need, winter heat, accepting the time and physical work to produce it, and the time in tending fire through the cold months, I ground myself to a more basic rhythm dictated by survival instead of convenience. Survival is not a convenience, but a hard won gift from this earth.

At the same time, I love hot water on tap, water that turns on at a facet head, and the filters that keep sediment out of the shower head. I’ll enjoy this convenience while it lasts, but also remain attentive to hauling water, gauging rain catchment, and planning for what will happen after the well runs dry, or more likely and earthquake takes out the well bore. The hauling I do is minimal because of smart rain catchment and collection points. The setup of firewood on the land echos similar principals of design that are the premise of permaculture, but also the foundations of comfort in this life. Convenience and comfort are two different things; we would do well to mark this and learn the differences for the sake of our species. What does that look like? Where can you make a reduction in your consumption? Where can you make a quality of life choice?

Within and around the tree farm where I harvest my firewood, there are many avenues of beauty and awe. Though much of the acreage is in active logging cycles, which is a far cry from sustainable, a few old growth trees continue to grow, and token ridge lines like Mt. Si, are kept “pristine” for public viewing. More often, the timber industry forest ridges look like the landscape pictured below, taken in the tree farm, on a mountain side not facing public view. The taller trees left on this mountainside, are along a creek with what was once federal setback laws, now abolished and left to state regulation. Luckily, in Washington State, there are standards, but minimal at best. I have seen evidence of cutting much closer to wild waters in this tree farm, and with current state funding crippled by withheld federal dollars, there will be more abuse and less oversight in these commercial industries. This is another reason I come to the tree farm, to have some oversight of the surrounding forests and waterways that make up my habitat- our habitat as a species.

If we are not looking beyond our neighborhoods, into the greater landscape that makes up our water systems, ecological framework, and wildlife habitat, we are ignoring our very survival. When I drive up into the mountains beyond my town to collect a heat source for the winter months, I am looking at my drinking water sources, checking wildlife activity and presence in the woodlands that will later produce food for my table, and sustain a complex web of life that I rely on for my existence. Eyes in the woods witness the toll planted mono-cultures and continued cutting have done to the creeks and rivers, filling them with sediment, blocking the fish and other marine life that once thrived here. I see the forest of young trees being cut, never reaching a ripe old age, there are no stands of old growth anywhere for miles, just a few stand alone trees, which cannot support wildlife like the endangered Marble Murrelet, which needs square miles of old growth forests to properly nest and thrive. We took that away from the birds, but also ourselves.

As I cut and stack wood, looking around the clearcut that provides this fuel for my winter hearth, I wonder at the ease machines clear these trees, grabbing with metal claw, a saw slipping through fibers of hard grown sun energy now being harvested by a fossil fuel energy that took even more time to create. Perhaps that’s the missing link for mankind, time, and the geologic time we’re just a blip in. This encourages me to step back into my work, hauling the sun energy imbued in this wood back home for hours of bucking and splitting- using more fossil fuel energy to amass enough cords to heat my home next season. In my own backyard, I plant willow, alder, and hawthorn for a future of small wood harvesting, without any machines, to one day heat my home with material harvested closer to hearth and home. Always working towards a smaller footprint, thinking of a future where my mules and I pack a load of firewood from only a few miles at most, on foot, or hoof, to heat as ancestors have heated centuries ago. In reaching for this relationship with forest and fire, I hope to weave part of my ancestry’s quality of life back into my own.

If only we would all start a “farm” in our backyard. “farm”= producing some food- any food. When we put all our eggs in any one basket, there is huge risk in the investment. This film talk about the state of our agricultural system in 2023, so the recent government changes (some of which have been profoundly painful for farming), are not reflected in this story. Shout out to the farmer raising Katahdin Sheep- I could tell by the hair. Second shout out to Seattle protests against WTO in the 90s. I was in high school and became aware of the problem with international corporate monopolies on our food system, on all living systems. Neo liberals believe lower prices through monopolization is good- well, it’s not, it’s really not- it’s about profit for steak holders, not community. American ideals of greatness have been hollowed out- the foundational values of “everyone can” has shifted to corporation addiction. Hog farmer Webster Davis said it best in his poem towards the end of this watch- “Where or where has prosperity gone?”

Website to Farm Action, the organization farmer Joe Maxwell helped found.

When mourning routine brings a fresh heirloom rose and newly hatched chick to greet the day, something amazing is happening. Growth of lush gardens full of food, medicine, and beauty- with a lot of weeding. Chickens that are healthy, happy, and able to hatch out a fresh batch of young ones for the continued cycle of life. The fresh rain from last night gives the landscape a damp freshness, with tons of slugs prowling the garden. I’m on another gathering mission shortly to pluck them for the chickens. Two buckets stand full of weeds for the sheep, and a rogue ewe stands ready to drop her first lamb into this world. What a full and productive place to live. EEC Forest Stewardship is a lifestyle, with constant projects, fast reaction time in sudden emergencies- like a lamb caught in the fence, or geese slipping out the gate and down the road to a neighbors house on an adventure. There are days when I miss things, like a drowned gosling stuck in a water bucket in the night and becoming hypothermic, or a devastating weed like morning glory getting into the garden through some composted manure from another farm. Those blind spots can cost time, money, and heartbreak. Not everything about this life is cute chicks and a bed of roses. However, the vast majority of days in the field are nurturing and fulfilling, which makes it a priceless opportunity.

Another ewe is being crossed off the flock list, because her first lamb, a ram, has some stubby horn bits on his head, meaning that line has to go, as Katahdins must remain poled- meaning no horns, which makes them much safer to handle. Many sheep and cow breeds are horned, but go through disbudding to remove the horns. These methods use scalding with heat or chemicals to remove the root of the horn to stop future growth. If we can naturally breed out horns to avoid this process, I’m all for it. So this ram lamb and his mom are on the cull list to prevent horns from returning in this breed. That was a 5 minute reflection as I fed the weeds to the flock this morning. I already had the rose in hand, so taking a moment to smell the deep perfume of this blushing beauty helped steady the genetic consequence. There is so much complexity in working with the living world, so much I never see or understand, so much more I want to know, experience, and repeat. That’s the gift of this lifestyle, a daily ritual of opening my eyes to new plants, animal behavior, and a slow awakening to the more subtle changes over nearly a decade and a half of being with place, rooting in for a lifetime if I can.

This is a snapshot of recovery in progress, right by the creek, there is a buffer of ground protected from cutting in the 1970s, when EPA standards came into effect and America agreed leaving some protected space next to wild water would help prevent pollution and erosion in our vital freshwater streams, rivers, and creeks. In Washington State, salmon protection helped strengthen the buffers to a whole 25′ on both sides from the center of a small creek’s bed. I’m sure there was good science backing this measurement to include the fluctuation of water’s flow from season to season, as well as nature’s tenancy to move a stream’s bed over time, waxing and waning the topography with flooding and erosion events, which dictate a stream’s path, unless we canal and cement a wild water’s pathway to accommodate human expansion.

Luckily, this creek did not suffer such fate, but it was dammed, rerouted, culverted, and largely forgotten until the 1990s, when a local man dug up his ancestral family homestead maps and saw the creek labeled and designated as having salmon in it. I wonder how many tribes would have oral histories on that creek, and many others lost in colonial expansion and domination of the landscape for extraction gain. The entire property, and hundreds of miles in all directions was timber land, clearcut and hauled by mules, oxen, and later rail to the ship yards and rail lines owned by many of the same people directing timber harvests and mining. The hills and ridglies of The Snoqualmie Valley, and thousands of other valleys all over this earth, have been clear cut, burned, railroaded, and paved to give us access to more resources for the rich at the great cost to the land, and human health long term.

Replanting the forest, extending stream buffers to over 100′, replanting that with native plants, both trees and crucial understory, this is the slow road to recovery for our lands and the health of all life on earth, not just people. In caring for place, rooting in, being more connected directly to the rain coming down right now, giving me a window to write and reflect, knowing it will stop again in a while and I’ll be back outside weeding and wondering at the living world that I am a part of. There is still a railroad cut through this land, a shadow of the iron horses and desperate immigrants looking for a way to survive in The New World. The Snoqualmie people will not be in these historical photos, they did not put the rail in, or cut the trees- though their future generations, caught up in the extraction culture of colonial abuse, have become tree cutters. This capitalistic genocide still holds them today on token land grants, a legacy of original people who have lived here in these woods, by these rivers, with the salmon, elk, and cedar tree; these people are still holding a history of living in harmony with the earth, not raping her for petty cash. It is rape- in the sense of taking needlessly by force, with violent acts, again and again.

These subtle walls of green are returning, through all the pillage and waste that came for over one hundred years to this place, now reforming, reshaping the story from blight to light. Ferns, snowberry, salmonberry, tailing blackberry, and the cedar, hemlock, and fir trees sheltering them from above are witnessing the return of salmon, the sounds of elk bugling nearby, and hear the creek flowing once more, skipping over rocks and bubbling down from the spring fed hillside to the great Snoqualmie River below. This is the poetic journey I’ve woven into in this blink of consciousness on earth, one heart beating in time with the opening of a rose, or the peeping cry of a new chick hatching forth. When I can ground in those sounds, there is healing. When I can hold the harvest in hand and smile, this is the good life, may we all find our way back to planting and watching ourselves take root once more.

To most, this might look like a green wall of general vegetation, not a natural fence to a small garden. The hedgerow planting runs north to south along the east wall of this high use seasonal kitchen garden. Plantings include cultivars mixed with native plantings that need added protection. Within this well set wall of green you will find Pacific Crabapple, twin berry, Nootka Rose, mint, day lily. buckwheat and more. The livestock love browsing this hedge too- and it makes a great snack bar for the animals without letting them into my vegetable patch. Natural fencing has been around for centuries. Setting hedges to keep animal out- or in, remains a tradition around the world. From stacked stone to dead hedges of spiny acacia branches, humans have built walls, but growing them, while weaving the branches into each other as the wall establishes, gives boundary with food, medicine, and materials built in. There is maintenance required to maintain a hedge, but if you have browsing livestock- like Katahdin sheep, and a good pair of shears for cutting small branches, you can tend a small hedge with minimal effort.

Another important aspect of hedges, habitat, offers small creatures of the clearing a place to nest, seek shelter, and build community. Lady bugs, juncos, and bumble bees all clamor in the hedges. These walls of living biodiversity offer greater support to the garden inside. Pollinator species are well established, birds glean pest bugs all around, and many plants grow where an otherwise stagnant fence would stand. It’s important to remember the nesting season in the hedges, and avoid trimming and harvesting during these more sensitive times. I have found letting the sheep brows the hedge during nesting season, in the spring, does not disrupt the birds. Letting flowers bloom and fruit is also part of the timing with hedges- that’s why it’s best to cut them back every few years, or in the case of a small kitchen garden hedge, weave the longer branches back into the lower hedge to thicken the structure and prevent overshadowing of the garden. Birds love nesting in a thick hedge for protection.

It’s Spring, 2025, and I’m about to shape this small hedge before too many blossoms open up. The taller branches are just starting to overtake the edge of the garden, so I’ll bend them over to reinforce sideways growth while thickening the wall. I’ve found that reburying some of the lower branches will re-root some species- the crabapple does so in this hedge. Without cutting anything, I manage to tuck the hedge back in on its self. In time, some parts die and snap off, building carbon in the soil below. I’ve been using this technique with this small garden hedge for almost a decade. It’s thriving and hosting a variety of wildlife while keeping the garden safe from deer and sheep. This action is also mimicking the effect of another large herbivore not around this ridge-yet. Elk would come crashing through the understory, browsing down brush and shoving over smaller understory trees like the crabapple with their large antlers during the rut. For now, my hands do the work of keeping the hedge down while enjoying a kitchen garden.

The young fruit trees continue their growth here at EEC Forest Stewardship. Blooms are a sure sign of health and happiness, along with active pollination and the forming of fruit on the stem. Flowers were out early this year, and pollinators have been slow in their arrival, so some trees may have a lot of great blossoms, but as the petals fall, no bulge at the base means no fruit on the stem. The later flowering fruit varieties should be more successful this year. Sometimes, the early fruit comes with a warm spell, activating the pollinators early enough. This year, there has been no warm, up, which is normal for Spring in this area. Most of the native plants flower later in the Spring, closer to mid-May or early June. In years of tracking the fruit here at EEC, our production varies often. A bumper corp year usually comes with cool Spring temperatures, but a lot of good rain. Our precipitation has been waning in recent years, especially in Springtime, when you would expect more consistent showers.

The younger fruit trees will take time to establish and adapt to these changes as they grow. I’ve alreadt noted quinces thrive, and cherries that dodge blight do well. Apples are hit or miss, with some loosing their grafts and going feral- we’ll graft onto those soon. Nut trees are starting to pick up in production, though it takes a good 8-10 years for one tree to mature enough to be commercially viable. Good thing we’re not working to become an industrial nut farm. Fruit trees are a part of working more food production into the landscape here, and also keep alive some very good apple strains that do produce well in a changing environment. Heritage varieties were developed before modern pesticides, so they are more resilient to many pathogens and pest insects that would plague orchards with modern industrial varieties developed for good looks, shipment resiliency, and size; while relying on harsh chemical protections applied by the farmer.

No toxins are used at Leafhopper Farm, and EEC Forest Stewardship remains a restoration forest with no use for chemical treatments in a healthy restored rainforest. Fruit tree cultivars are not part of a wild temperate rainforest, but they are a great short term tree that builds hard wood and fleshy fruit to feed us while we work to restore native plants over time. Many replacement species are already established and growing nearby. Oso Berry, Saskatoon, and mock orange are all understory trees that will help to establish the landscape for larger trees to come. Much of the northern most point of the EEC property remains open to cultivation and human habitation, so we don’t plant large evergreen trees while people are still living here. This allows for a clearing with good sun for our cultivation areas near housing. The majority of the property is being reforested, and the understory native fruit bearing species are thriving. In many parts of our cultivation, we mix native and non-native together for diversity. Below you see oso berry with a cultivar apple. There is also currant, hops, rose, and a cultivar cypress shrub in this planting, part of the kitchen garden hedge that protects the veggie patch from chickens and sheep.

Mom’s Orchard is still focused on individual fruit trees in what looks like a more traditional orchard layout- rows of young saplings with a manicured ground to prevent competition with food trees. Each tree is fenced to protect it from our livestock and the wild deer that roam through. The older, more mature trees up hill, are almost tall enough to take away the temporary protections, while there is a row of very young trees at the lowest point on the slope that are as of yet fenced. I was hoping once the upper area of the property was fully fenced, we’d stop having deer visiting, but they do still jump in occasionally. The sheep can be kept off the trees in future with electric mesh portable fencing. What I plan to do next is add in understory crops like comfrey and beans, wildflowers and ground cover like kinnikinnick. In diversifying the understory of this orchard, we’ll help to layer support for the fruit trees in fellow plants that act as companions by exchanging surplus resources with the trees to enhance overall soil health and root networks.

Science has proven forests are collaborative. Though also competing for sunlight, the nutrients needed in a forest ebbs and flows; being easily exchanged, between growing things in the mycological network. The collective forest does not hoard extra resrouces, but stays in a give and take with neighbors and stands, cultivating diversity, equity, and the inclusion of healthy soil below our feet. This is how a living ecosystem thrives. Talk about trust, everything in the forest participates in fair exchange- but that’s environmental. Cooperation always outlasts conflict, though conflict is necessary for evolution. This is the constant shifting entropy encompassing all things- and it’s not woo woo, it’s the living, breathing world we humans are a part of- but back to the fruit grove. This orchard still reflects a typical planting for industrial layout. The trees are planted in rows for mechanical access- in this case, chicken tractors and electric mesh movable fencing, sheep grazing, and slope staggering for maximum sunlight. This site offers some good orchard planning tips. Here in Western Washington, south facing hillside is great for the diverse range of fruit species we’re hosting. Pest cycles, climate extremes, and continued cultivation in diversifying the understory will have Mom’s Orchard a thriving food forest for generations to come.

You may know this mountain as St. Helens, but it’s called many other things by the people who have lived ear it for thousands of years. Tribal people have always been well aware of it’s unstable rage, from smoke to fire, this mountain pours out volcanic violence with little warning. Perhaps if the volcanologists had payed more attention to the tribal stories and oral histories, they would have understood the danger in 1980, when once again, the mountain erupted on the north side. Yes, in tribal oral history, Loowit would throw fire to the north at her sister Tahoma (Rainier). They were in a fight over their husband Pahtoe (Adams). Because there are so many tribes, there is not one single name or story for the various landmarks across the landscape, but this general theme seems to dominate within tribal lore. For a more complete list of tirbal names and stories, I loved this site.

Loowit is not a National Park, but a National Monument. This is a distinct difference; it’s a downgrade from park. Washington State has a few active strata volcanoes, and only one of them, Tahoma, is a National Park. Loowit was Weyerhaeuser territory in the 1980s, and the timber giant was not excited to give up land with forest, but after the blast, so much land had its trees blasted right off, that the company agreed to give up some land for a monument, in return for a lot of federal aid to rebuild access, and future promises about long term management, which is still under debate. With the current administration as of 2025, things don’t look good for the forests around this unique peak. Now that almost half a century has gone by, the timber has had a little time to come back, and nature’s incredible resiliency has dollars signs hanging from the branches now.

There is an incredible diversity of species and elevations of ecology around Loowit. The undisturbed areas of study after the blast to see how nature returns have brought countless understandings to restoration on disturbed landscapes. There are some folks tired of these ongoing studies, because it keeps people out of areas they once had access to. Though the land is considered public, it falls under protections as a monument, and is the only place in the world this crucial recovery research can go on. There are still vast areas of access for recreation, including two beautiful lakes, three educational centers, miles of trails, including back-country winter access. In planning my own trip to the mountain in May, 2025, I found more than enough free direct access, along with plenty of nearby free fishing, boat access, and well marked trails- some of which we could take the dog on. I would say Loowit is balanced for research observation, wildlife habitat, human recreation, and preservation of delicate ecology found no where else on earth for future generations.

In trying to find good maps online, I continued to realize how controversial this area of the country continues to be. Below is a map of the monument, which we never saw while there. We came right before official opening season, so we missed what I’m sure are amazing presentations by the park staff and volunteers that work at the monument seasonally. I bought a map at the gift store- which was open. It was still just a trail map, and didn’t have the park buildings or information on what was currently open. I’d been to this place in 2009 when I first came to Western Washington. We drove right up to Johnston’s Observatory and hiked a short loop from the education center. It was mind blowing then, but far more barren a landscape. Coming back 16 years later, I could tell the vegetation had grown in quite a bit more, and the logging trucks were running every ten minutes down highway 504, the only way out of the woods on the west side of the mountain.

We stayed at Silver Lake, near the town of Toutle, which was the major emergency evacuation point during the mountain’s eruption in 1980. The area is about 20 miles from the volcano, and just at the edge of the blast zone. The Toutle River famously carried most of the lahar, which came off the mountain during the eruption. There is incredible video of this part of the disaster, which you can find here. The mud flows caused by lahars further down river, blocked several of the tributaries feeding into Toutle, which formed Coldwater, Castle, Spirit, and Silver Lakes. All five are now monitored and maintained by The Army Corps of Engineers to prevent future flooding in the towns and cities down stream. A huge sediment dam was constructed, to slow erosion as the ash and debris from the 1980 eruption continue their journey down from the mountain over time. This large man made structure offers an easy hike, some good signs with interpretation of the area, and interesting views of Loowit from the valley floor.

Scale is difficult to fully comprehend in this landscape. Form twenty miles away, the mountain looks like a sleeping strata, like all the other cone shaped peaks in the region. It takes some time, traveling over many ridges and across great gullies, winding towards what is slowly revealed to be a towering cauldron. Loowit has thrown out her peak to the north, at her sister Tahoma; opening her head in a rage, which still shows in leveled forests and hummock valleys all around. At each view point, we stopped to look in awe at this dynamic peak, still smoking as a new cone begins to rise from shattered center. Our minds reeled that the though of all that power, erupting violently from earth’s center. There were some not so subtle hints on the landscape, reminding us that we had stepped into the blast zone, where nothing had survived this cataclysmic geological change.

On The Hummocks Trail #229, you can see an old growth log sticking out of the hundreds of feet of ash and rubble, which came crashing down the northern side of the peak in May of 1980. Still the largest recorded landslide in human history, the eruption of Mt. St. Helens still haunts the landscape with evidence of many more sudden earth changes dating back thousands of years. Now, 45 years after this famous eruption, Loowit continues her recovery, with mother nature’s strong will to survive. Massive replanting were begun only a year after the catastrophe; Weyerhaeuser didn’t want to waste any growing time on the seedlings that would eventually repopulate the mountain slopes and ridge lines now cloaked in layers of ash, along with layers more under the loose topsoil, a legacy of unstable tectonic activity here in The Pacific Ring of Fire. Tribes that lived in the area for thousands of years, still hold oral histories that warn of the youthful vigor on Loowit’s slopes. Paul Kane, early colonial explorer, painted this eruption below in the 1700s.

This eruption, like all others spoken of by the tribe, happened on the north or northwest side of the peak. What happened in 1980? The same thing. I fact, a bulge began forming a week before the final cataclysmic end. It still puzzles me that a young Dr. David Johston and his colleges were camped out on the opposing ridge line northwest of the volcano. On May 18th, Johston happened to be taking his watch, and was able to get in a final radio call to The USGS stationed in southern Washington State:

“Vancouver, Vancouver, this is it!“

The transmission was cut off by the explosion, which came crashing over the ridge, and many beyond. As my friend and I began our ascent towards the observatory that now bears his name, we walked amongst thousands of tree trunks on the ground facing to the north/northwest. They lay in alignment with the blast, which leveled thousands of acres of forest, both young and old trees, nothing withstood the amount of force coming out of that mountain. I made a little video showing the explosion coming over the ridges and traveling past our trail.

The sign of devastation remains deeply instilled in these ridges. For us, it was a magical walk through recent geologic upheaval, along with some good ecological restoration. The studies on complete desolation and recovery after volcanic inhalation remains ongoing, with so much great scientific discoveries and advancement. Better satellite tracking to monitor active volcanoes world wide, understanding of how quickly the environment can begin recovery after a major eruption, and much more. Just walking along the ridge-lines that were once buried in hundreds of feet of ash and rock, now hosting young forests, wildflower meadows, and crystal clear lakes that had been boiling churning muddy messes right after the blast. It is truly a testament to natures resiliency, when left to make her own recovery. On nearby hills that were replanted for the timber industry, clear-cutting continues. Mono-culture forests for profit are raked down and replanted, reducing soil health and removing tons of biomass that would have fed future forest layers imperative for old growth trees to mature. Truck after truck sped past us on highway 504, carrying off the very trees that might have stabilized the ashen soil and prevented landslides.

Instead, more cutting continues, destabilization of the hillsides remains a threat to the communities living down stream, and our tax dollars go to propping up logging, rather than supporting the much larger tourist industry around the mountain. I found it very interesting that so many trees are cut while the community remains concerned about landslides and flooding. Even highway 504 has been washed out a few miles from its end at The Johnston Observatory. Though it was very cool to have a private time at the center on that special ridge with a perfect view into the volcano’s crater, it makes this magical learning center less accessible to the public, and the road is not slated to be reopened until 2027. The Observatory will be staffed through the warm season, but without maintenance, the road cracks and weathering of trails erodes infrastructure, causing more expensive upkeep in the long run. Cuts to state park funding might soon see this amazing place shut down, or worse, sold into private hands, or handed back over to Weyerhaeuser.

What a wonderful opportunity to return to Loowit for connection with the active tectonics of this region and reminders of the dynamic landscape here in The Pacific Northwest. There is rich geologic history of this region, along with endless landscapes and incredible topographic features like active strata volcanoes. Was I concerned about a sudden eruption? No. Do I think there are more eruptions in the future of this volcano’s life? Of course. There are also four other strata volcanoes in our area, along with the threat of The Big One, an earthquake that would level Seattle and send tsunami waves into The Skagit Valley, salting the soil where most of our produce grows. Drought worries me the most in day to day life on the land. I spend more time watching my creek flow and observing soil health than thinking about the next mountain to blow her top here in Western Washington. What I do love is all the on site learning to be had here. I can visit an active volcano just a few hours from home. It may not bee spewing lava, but it’s left a legacy of learning I’ll not soon forget. Gratitude to the mountains, our time sitting with them and listening, for regrowth and recovery in time, and all the scientific studies helping humanity better understand their place in this world.