Esther Oertel - Northwest Obsessed Blog

The Crater Lake Monster now has a name!

For millennia, tales have been told about monsters lurking under the surface of Oregon's famed Crater Lake. The indigenous peoples who made their home near the lake had stories of such a beast, as did the early settlers of the region.

Such legends are not just in the past, however. A frightening modern-day sighting was reported by Mattie Hatcher of Albany, Georgia, who said she saw a long dragon-like creature swim under their rowboat on Crater Lake when she was a child.

Until now, however, this legendary but elusive Crater Lake resident hasn't had a proper name, and this just seemed... well, undignified! Nessie of Scotland's Loch Ness has a name, after all, as does the sea serpent Caddy, who makes appearances up and down the Pacific Coast of North America.

We decided this was a wrong that must be righted, so we held a naming contest, and… we have a winner!!

Magma, short for Magmasaurus, with Maggie as a wonderful, cheery nickname for the monster, was submitted by John Maunder of Sevenoaks, England. The contest judges unanimously choose this as the appropriate moniker for the mysterious denizen of Crater Lake, and since the lake was formed by a massive volcanic explosion, I have to agree!

As John lives across the pond in England, he has kindly offered to donate his prize of dinner and bowling to a worthy family in the area.

Congratulations to John, and many thanks to all who submitted name entries. Each one was massively creative and a winner in its own right!

Thanks must also be given to KWRO radio's Hooked on Oregon for announcing the contest on the air, and to the show's crew - Cam Parry, Mark Mattechek, Rick Osborne, Jeff Galusha, and Sandy Messerle - who combed through the many worthy entries to find the winner. We also offer thanks to North Bend Lanes for their generous donation of a prize.

I stepped into the screened enclosure not knowing what to expect. Flowering plants were everywhere – all colors – and the fluttering of the orange wings of monarch butterflies filled the space around me. It was warm on this late summer morning, not yet at the day’s peak of heat, and it was a perfect moment, a feast for both my eyes and heart.

I’ve always had an affinity for monarchs. Perhaps that’s because they were commonly seen in my home state of California while I was growing up. Sadly, for my granddaughter and others, the joy of seeing a monarch in flight or poised delicately on a flower is a rarer event than it used to be.

When I was a kid in coastal Northern California, a “butterfly tree” graced a fern-filled hollow in our small town. It was secret and special, something my friends and I happened upon by chance one day.

In the heart of a small eucalyptus forest, this particular tree was a seasonal destination for monarch butterflies, and their presence turned its gray-green leaves to orange in late fall. It was where every fifth generation of these migrating creatures came to roost for the winter. They beautifully decorated the tree for months, covering it completely, hanging in silent diapause until early spring when they’d become active again to breed.

With this in mind, you can imagine how delightful it was for me to experience the many dozens of monarchs flitting about when I stepped into the protected butterfly pavilion at the Elkton Community Education Center in rural Oregon.

Amazingly, Elkton, a town of just 180 residents, has developed and sustains a valuable resource not only for their community, but for any who pass through on their way to and from the Oregon Coast.

The Elkton Community Education Center (or the ECEC, as it’s called there) has been in existence for 25 years, with a cluster of buildings that house a butterfly research room, a seasonal café, a community library, an office, and a gift shop.

The butterfly pavilion sits just behind the research room, and down the hill in a meadow near the Umpqua River is a replica of Fort Umpqua, once the southernmost fur trading outpost for the Hudson Bay Company.

In addition, a native plant nursery provides flora (such as rhododendrons) for purchase, and a shaded path meanders through a garden of local native plants. And, finally, as if all that weren’t enough, a small amphitheater provides a space for outdoor events.

The ECEC was the brainchild of Carol Beckley, a 97-year-old retired teacher from one of Elkton’s pioneering families. Beckley’s goal was to create a place for native plant education and propagation, as well as to provide summer employment for Elkton’s teens. Both causes are near and dear to Beckley’s heart, and both have been achieved through the Center.

Beckley's involvement is not just part of a past legacy. I was told that she still comes to the center to, among other things, pull weeds.

With 43 acres of donated land from Beckley and the support of a community, the ECEC was born. The butterfly pavilion and breeding center were established later (13 years ago, to be specific) as a way to attract visitors.

I was there that morning to meet Barbara Slot, a retired wildlife biologist and long-time volunteer for the ECEC’s butterfly breeding program. When I arrived, she was deftly plucking butterflies from plants to tag and release. After placing a small, numbered circle on a wing, the butterfly was released into the air outside the pavilion with a dramatic upward fling of Slot’s hand. If all goes well, they'll release more than 700 butterflies this season, a record for the Center. The previous release record was 550.

Both monarch and painted lady butterflies are bred and released there; however, because I arrived late in the season, it was mostly monarchs in the flight room, as the pavilion is called. Painted lady butterflies begin to emerge in May, with monarchs a bit later.

Eggs for the painted lady butterflies are ordered and delivered through the mail; however, there are rules that prevent such transactions with monarch eggs for the protection of the species. Instead, milkweed is planted near the pavilion to attract the egg-laying butterflies. Once laid, the eggs are collected and brought to the butterfly research room to await the appearance of caterpillars.

Since milkweed is the only plant on which monarchs lay eggs (and on which the caterpillars feed), planting it in public spaces and home gardens is crucial for the continued presence of the species. Much of the decline of the monarch population is due to loss of this habitat.

Slot later took me into the research room, where rows of clear plastic cups, each housing a monarch caterpillar, stood on a series of shelves. Once a chrysalis is formed, it's taken to the pavilion to await the emergence of a butterfly.

It was my first time seeing a monarch chrysalis, and I was awestruck by the jade-like appearance. They were like pieces of jewelry, complete with occasional spots of what looked like gold. Magically, the chrysalis turns a translucent black as the butterfly develops. At this stage, the monarch's signature black, orange, and white patterned wings can be seen.

I learned so many things on this visit, including how to differentiate between male and female monarchs (it's all about the spots on their wings) and that when a caterpillar is ready to become a chrysalis, its body, which is attached (typically) to a leaf, becomes J-shaped. The caterpillar body is then discarded and the chrysalis emerges. (We missed by seconds the drop of one caterpillar's body because we were looking in the other direction.) I'm grateful for the time the very knowledgeable Barbara Slot spent with me.

The ECEC, which is located on Scenic Byway 38 (which is a beautiful drive along the Umpqua River) is open year-round; however, butterflies are only available for viewing in the flight room from June through September. Since the butterfly population varies from year to year, it's best to call the Center to check on their status before heading out there. They can be reached at (541) 584-2692.

For more information on the butterfly program or to find out about activities and events at the Center, visit their website at https://ElktonButterflies.com.

Orange and black wings
Flutter now in elegance
My heart gently sings

Could there be a Crater Lake monster? If you ask Mattie Hatcher of Albany, Georgia, she'd say yes.

Like any good landmark, Crater Lake has its legends. There are stories of monsters and Wizard Island fire spirits told by indigenous peoples, as well as by early settlers. In 2002, the Fort Meyers (Florida) News-Star newspaper relayed a modern tale, one of a Georgia woman who claims to have seen a monster in the lake as a child. I would imagine that the experience makes her shudder even now.

As told by Mattie Hatcher of Albany, Georgia, she was out on the lake with friends when something swam underneath their rowboat, which she described as "a block long." She said her friends saw it, too, and that it gave them all a good fright.

"I have never been so scared in my life," she said. "What we saw that day was a monster. To me, it looked like a dragon. I know why the Indians call that place Lost Lake. They say monsters live in it. I believe them. I know, because I saw one there."

Reported sightings of cryptid creatures like Big Foot, the sea serpent Caddy, or Nessie in Scotland are hard to prove. They do occur, though, and probably more often than we realize. If there is a monster in Crater Lake, don't you think it deserves a name?

Here's where you come in. You can give the monster a name by leaving a suggestion in the comments below, emailing me at Adventure@NorthwestObsessed.net, or messaging me through the Northwest Obsessed Facebook page. We're counting on you!

If you need inspiration, you may be able to find it by reading my post about Crater Lake here: Glorious Crater Lake - Northwest Obsessed Blog.

Aside from bragging rights, there's a prize for suggesting the name that's chosen - dinner and bowling for two at North Bend Lanes in North Bend, Oregon. (Don't let the locale fool you - dinner there is seriously good, and with a wonderful wine list!) For those out of the area, we'll think of something to reward your creativity.

The morning sun, softened by haze, gently illuminated the rows of tulips that swept grandly to the horizon. Bands of color met my eye - bright reds, sunny yellows, soft pinks, rich purples, and more - a tapestry of rainbow flora larger than I could have imagined.

I was at the Wooden Shoe Tulip Farm in Oregon's Willamette Valley with new friends, my gracious host, writer Sue Kuenzi, and her mother, Joan, an impressive 80-year-old woman who I had just met that morning. I had heard about this lovely Oregon feature a few years back and was eager to experience it. It was wonderfully serendipitous that I was in the northern part of the state in April, when the tulips were at their best.

I was astounded by the sheer variety of them, not just by the plethora of color (endless shades, it seemed), but by the shape and texture and patterns of the petals. Some had subtle blended tones, and others had stripes or ruffles or fringy edges.

Dozens upon dozens of buckets were filled with bright cut tulips for sale, and other types of geophytes made appearances here and there. In other words, the "blissfulness of bulbs" was present everywhere! And, speaking of bulbs, visitors can order them during the festival for fall planting.

Hours passed like minutes as we wandered the rows, sometimes together, and sometimes on our own. There was just so much to see! One could get lost in the details of one flower (and another and another) and at the same time be overwhelmed in the best of ways by the sheer scope of the plantings.

The whole place had a festive feel, with carnival-style rides for the kids, hot air balloons, much laughter, and people chattering in different languages. It was clear that this is a well-known tourist destination. There were a few rows of vendors, and food was available.

On a clear day, Mt. Hood is visible to the east across the fields, a beautiful and benevolent guardian. The haze prevented a good view of the mountain when we were there, but a quick online image search for Mt. Hood with tulips brings up an array of stunning photos, the best of which, in my opinion, are the sunrise shots.

Because of frost and temperature, each year is a bit different, but the tulips generally bloom sometime between March and May. The farm sets the dates for its "Tulip Fest" based on the predicted bloom, a shifting window dictated by the conditions of the season. The 2024 festival was held from March 22 through April 28. Visitors are welcome to the farm to view tulips during the festival.

Tickets are only available through the website, and we had purchased ours the night before. To ensure an optimum time for photos, we chose a morning entry, but it turns out that was a good choice for another reason. It gave us time to roam the bright rows before the crowds set in. The farm is expansive, though, and even as more people arrived, there was plenty of space to wander freely.

In addition to tulip viewing, the farm offers other festival activities. Among them are wine tours and lessons on making wooden shoes. Their website, www.woodenshoe.com, gives info on bloom status as festival season grows closer. If you're there after the bloom, there are limited summer activities noted on their website, including farm tours and access to the gift shop.

Hello, friends! The Pacific Northwest is full of stories waiting to be told, and I'm on the trail seeking the very best ones! What would you like to see featured here? It could be a bucket list spot or a little-known place… a person, event, or organization that makes the Pacific Northwest wonderful… a quirky story about Big Foot, a local legend or a piece of historical trivia… an interesting geological anomaly… anything that you think would make a fabulous story that highlights what's special about this unparalleled area! I look forward to your ideas, which you may add in the comment section. It's a beautiful world… so stay adventurous!

The red wine that my new friend Rhonda and I shared that evening helped our conversation flow, though we discovered that we really didn't need the assistance. Evening had fallen on the little town of Astoria in far Northwest Oregon, and the orange-yellow lights of the crab boats coming in from sea were bright in the Columbia as a grand story of love unfolded at Rhonda's dining room table.

We poured another glass of wine, and Rhonda's eyes danced with joyful memories of her husband, Dwight, a photographer and pastor. Like my husband, he exited this world far too soon, leaving behind a woman adjusting to life without him.

It was my first visit, but the home felt familiar to me. I was born to two artists, and memories of the homes of my childhood came rushing back. Rooms were filled to the brim with an eclectic array of all kinds of art, not just on the walls, but everywhere my eye landed.

Like many of Astoria's homes, it was built in the early 20th century and, as a "working man's Craftsman," had plenty of character. As is common here, Rhonda's home sits perched on one of the town's many hills. A bank of windows reveals an expansive view looking west toward the mouth of the Columbia River, one of the three bodies of water that surround the peninsula on which Astoria sits. Beyond that lies the Pacific Ocean.

Though we had just met, I was an overnight guest, a generosity that Rhonda extended based on the endorsement of a mutual friend. I was grateful, both for the accommodation and for the comfortable exchange of stories. I was experiencing one of the many benefits of being a traveling writer.

The tale of how Dwight and Rhonda's relationship bloomed has everything to do with the love of art they shared and how their unique talents intertwined. Dwight was a photographer who had studied under Ansel Adams, and later, under another acclaimed American photographer, Wynn Bullock. Stonehenge-like monoliths in Scotland had been his latest muse, and his ability to capture the interplay between light, shadow, and stone on those neolithic monuments created majestic images that graced his black and white photos.

Oil paints are Rhonda's chosen medium, and much of her work is hanging in scattered places around the house, sometimes grouped as a series. Rhonda's technique is unique and is inspired by subtractive methods practiced under a couple of her college art professors. Using rags fashioned from garage sale cotton sheets, layers of paint are manipulated to create beautifully ethereal landscapes in muted earthy shades. A by-product of this process is a growing supply of color-soaked rags, and the seeking of a way to make use of them was the catalyst for their love.

Dwight and Rhonda met in 2009 during a post-show dinner at the Astoria Music Festival. Discussion that evening included mutual commiseration on the dismal state of art sales. "The Great Recession," as the snowballing economic crisis of the time was dubbed, had dampened enthusiasm (and the means) for art collection. Dwight, a talented writer who contributed articles to local media, later called Rhonda to interview her for a story about art in troubled times. It turned out that this was the first chapter in another story, theirs.

Around this time, Rhonda had been experimenting with creating outdoor installations of flags made from her large collection of colorful used rags. She became inspired to do a series of these installations in a variety of natural settings, something that perhaps could be described as a sort of "Andy Goldsworthy meets Christo" project. She asked Dwight to photograph her installations, and an artistic collaboration was born. Their goal was to create a book that featured the work they did together.

The project took 14 months. They not only had to find mutually acceptable space in their busy schedules, they were beholden to the will of Mother Nature, with things such as low tides and weather to consider. In Astoria, where it rains a lot, this could be a challenge. But they did it. Flags were installed and photographed at beaches, along trails, and near rivers. In 2011, they published "Unexpected Grace," an art book of installations by Rhonda Grudenic photographed by Dwight Caswell. The book was part of their collaborative gallery show in the same year and, for those interested, is still available for sale on Amazon.

Dwight, who had become enamored with Rhonda during their work together, asked for a "relationship upgrade" after the installations and photography were complete. Rhonda's affection for Dwight grew slowly while she shared with him the poetry she had written to accompany his photographs in the book. "He listened to my thoughts," she said, and they spent many hours together enjoying each other's company. They married in 2017.

Dwight later took Rhonda's flags to Tibet, where he hung them among the traditional prayer flags of that region.

In 2022, just months before he passed from this world, Dwight's photography of Scottish monoliths was featured in an Astoria show which also included his wife, Rhonda, and close friend and potter, David Campiche. Dwight's spirit can still be seen in his photography, remembered in the sermons that touched his parishioners, and felt in the hearts of Rhonda and all who loved him.

"Unable are the loved to die. For love is immortality." Emily Dickinson

Each summer, like deeply-hued jewels, indigo blueberries appear for the picking on farms throughout Oregon. More of these luscious little berries are grown in Oregon than in any U.S. state besides Maine, with more than 1,000 farms collectively harvesting a whopping 24 per cent of our nation's crop. I had the opportunity to gather my own little batch at a friend's Oregon ranch on a recent sunny day, where the multicolored array of berries in various stages of development was a bright and pleasing sight. It didn't take long for me to collect a little bowl full of these tiny gems, which became a perfect offering for blueberry pancakes.

Oregon has proven to be a fabulous spot for cultivating blueberries, and no wonder, as the berries thrived in the wild in the state long before they were grown commercially. Oregon's climate, the characteristics of its soil (including pH), and ample water table provide just the right environment for blueberries to thrive.

Though grown throughout the western half of the state, the fertile Willamette Valley and the coast, particularly near Bandon in Southern Oregon, contain a plethora of farms. The state's blueberry farms vary greatly in size, from huge commercial operations to smaller farms that offer U-pick options, which can be a fun family activity.

Blueberries become mature during the summer, particularly the months of June and July. Depending on the year, however, the season can extend into September.

Blueberries, which are related to huckleberries, bilberries, and cranberries, pack an incredible amount of nutrition into a tiny space. The benefits of consuming them are legendary. They contain significant amounts of antioxidants, as well as no less than 16 phytonutrients, all of which work to protect the body from disease.

They’re an excellent source of bone-healthy vitamin K and have very good stores of free radical-scavenging vitamin C and manganese. They’re also a good source of heart-healthy fiber.

In addition to whole body antioxidant support, studies have shown that blueberries contribute to cardiovascular health, lowered blood pressure, eye health, protection against cancer and healthy blood sugar levels. Scientific studies have also reflected their benefit to the improvement of cognitive abilities, including memory restoration in older people.

So, it would seem, there are plenty of reasons to consume them aside from their plump and juicy deliciousness.

As well as being wonderful eaten fresh out of hand (especially just seconds off the bush), there are many creative ways to use blueberries in cooking and baking. Below is my recipe for blueberry-ricotta pancakes developed during my years-ago career as a culinary instructor. The recipe includes two classic blueberry pairings: cinnamon, included in the batter, and lemon, which is incorporated via a simply made syrup for topping them. Please enjoy!

Blueberry-Ricotta Pancakes

This recipe makes about 12-14 pancakes.

Ingredients

2 egg whites
2 tbsp butter, melted
1 - 2/3 cup buttermilk
1 - 2/3 cup all-purpose flour
1 - 3/4 tsp baking powder
1 - 3/4 tsp baking soda
1 pinch (1/8 tsp) of salt
1 tbsp sugar
1/2 cup ricotta cheese
¼ - ½ tsp cinnamon
A few handfuls of fresh blueberries

Procedure

Sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt into a large bowl.

Pour the buttermilk, butter and sugar into the dry ingredients and mix until incorporated.

Whip the egg whites into stiff peaks and gently fold them into the batter using a spatula.

Mix the cinnamon with the ricotta and add in tablespoon sized drops to the batter, lightly mixing in.

Heat a large frying pan or griddle to medium high heat. Using a ladle scoop about 3/4 of a cup of batter onto the heated surface. Drop as many blueberries as you'd like onto the surface of the pancake (about 5 – 7 works well).

When you see bubbles across the surface and the bottom of the pancake is golden, flip & cook until lightly golden.

Serve with lemon syrup (recipe follows).

Notes: I recommend whole milk ricotta for this recipe, but part-skim will work. If fresh blueberries are unavailable or are of poor quality, frozen blueberries will work. (Add them to the pancakes while still frozen.) Maple syrup may be used in place of the lemon syrup; if so, a little lemon zest can be added to the batter.

Lemon syrup

This recipe makes about 1 – 1/2 cups.

Ingredients

1 – ½ cup sugar
Finely grated zest of 1 lemon
1 cup water
Juice of 1-2 lemons, strained, depending upon juiciness and taste

Procedure

Combine the sugar and water in a small saucepan and bring to a boil.

Reduce to a simmer and add the zest and juice.

Cook until slightly thickened but pourable, about 10 minutes.

Notes: The syrup will keep for up to twp weeks if refrigerated in an airtight container. Start with the juice of one lemon and adjust with more as needed. The syrup can also be used as a topping for baked goods, such as lemon-poppy seed bread, or as a refreshing beverage when mixed with sparkling water and ice.

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When we pulled into the overlook, a blue unlike any other was spread before me, still and glassy, set in a dizzyingly deep bowl surrounded by sheer rock cliffs. I couldn't speak, or so I thought. Perhaps the truth is that I babbled incoherently, unable to find words worthy of describing the glorious scene in front of me. My brother tells me that I couldn't stop saying "Oh, my gosh!" Based on how I felt, that certainly sounds credible.

We had traveled two hours east from rural Roseburg, Oregon along State Highway 138 to get to the lake. The route was wonderfully scenic, a gradual climb that wound through the Umpqua National Forest along the path of the similarly named river, and time passed quickly because of the natural beauty around us.

At one point, my brother spotted an osprey nest (or possibly that of an eagle) resting atop a dead tree leaning precariously over the river and we stopped to take a closer look. It was good to hear the rush of water that met my ears as I stepped out. The Umpqua ran fast and wide, tumbling jade green over boulders in the shallow canyon below us as it made its way west.

When we encountered Diamond Lake, which lies just 20 miles north of Crater Lake, the snow resting atop Mount Bailey was a testament to the elevation we had attained. The surface of Diamond Lake is just over 5,000 feet, and Mount Bailey tops 8,300. We would climb another 1,500 feet above Diamond Lake before arriving at our destination.

My brother entertained me with facts about the lake as we drove, and I found the story of its creation fascinating.

Crater Lake lies within the Cascade Mountains, which are, geologically speaking, a relatively young range stretching from British Columbia to Northern California. The caldera that holds the waters of Crater Lake was once Mount Mazama, a towering volcano more than 12,000 feet high, which, incidentally, is about 1,000 feet taller than Mount Hood, Oregon's current highest peak.

Some 7,700 years ago, layers of bubbling magma burst violently from the sides of the mountain, explosions that spewed out 75 times more material than the 1980 eruption of Mt. St. Helens. The eruption is considered one of the largest of any in the Cascades, and to give an idea of its scope, layers of ash from the exploding mountain can be found across much of North America... and even on the other side of the Atlantic in England.

The area around what was to become Crater Lake was populated at the time, and stories of the event as witnessed by ancestors of the Klamath tribe of Native Americans are still extant in their oral history.

With its magma chamber nearly empty, the structural integrity of Mount Mazama was compromised, and eventually its upper half collapsed into the voided space, leaving behind a crater that over time was filled by rain and melting snow.

At a maximum depth of more than 1,900 feet, Crater Lake is the deepest in the United States and the tenth deepest in the world. No rivers flow into the lake bringing sediment or other debris (nor do any flow out), and as a result, the water is clear and pristine. Perhaps this, along with its depth, is the reason for its unmatched shade of blue.

As we got closer to the park, Mt. Thielsen, a Matterhorn-like cinder cone and a precursor to a change in the landscape, was visible ahead of us. Forest soon became ashen plains dotted with cinder cones and only the hardiest of pines.

Once in the park, we took East Rim Drive with the intention of circling the lake entirely, though we later learned that road work prevented that. Snow covered the ground in large patches, a surprise, as the temperature was well into the 90s when we left Roseburg. As we climbed, cliffs to our right prevented our seeing the lake until, suddenly, it burst into magnificent view. I was stunned at the sight, and it was all I could do to commandeer the vehicle to the first pullout.

After a long time of staring silently at the lake, we sat on the pullout's low stone wall and ate the leftover pizza that my brother had packed for our lunch. The act of enjoying such basic fare against the backdrop of the lake's breathtaking beauty was a strange juxtaposition, but, somehow, it felt like a celebration.

Like any good landmark, Crater Lake has its legends. Could there be a Crater Lake monster? Do the fire spirits of evil men reside on the lake's Wizard Island? There are such stories told by indigenous peoples, as well as by early settlers. In 2002, the Fort Meyers (Florida) News-Star newspaper relayed a modern tale, one of a Georgia woman who claims to have seen a monster in the lake as a child. I would imagine that the experience makes her shudder even now.

And what of the ghosts of Wizard Island? Native American legends tell of fire spirits that haunt the island, and I've heard it said that park rangers have observed campfires there and have boated out only to find no traces of flame or smoke.

Whether or not these tales are true (and I don't discount the experiences of others), one thing is certain. Crater Lake is an amazing place. If you ever get the chance to see it, please don't pass up the opportunity to encounter this natural wonder.

"To say that this wonderful lake is grand, beyond description, is to give an idea of its magnificence. Everyone gazes at it in almost tearful astonishment." - Jim Sutton, Editor, Oregon Sentinel newspaper, 1869

It was the kind of day when colors pop under a gray Oregon sky and the air is pregnant with coming rain. We made our way up a gravel logging road that wound though a fern-filled forest with a magnificently swollen creek flowing at our side.

The air was filled with mossy goodness and trees with barren branches hung wraithlike from every cliff and bank. There had been a lot of recent rain and waterfalls were at their winter peak. There were many, and not just where the creek rushed high between its banks. Frothy runoff converged to flow down roadside knolls and the faces of cliffs, an overflow of water seeking release from the saturated earth that could no longer hold it.

We were chasing waterfalls and this remote location near the small community of Dora in rural Coos County was the mother lode.

We pulled off the road at our first stop, a little concrete bridge where the water rushed fast and loud. The thundering could be heard as soon as the vehicle doors were opened, an impressive, persistent roar that revealed the force of nature in pure and powerful form.

Further up the road we stopped again, and, following the creek on foot, we were rewarded with a cluster of places where water tumbled furiously over rocks and drop-offs in glorious fashion.

Bearing witness to such an abundance of flowing water satisfied an underlying longing in my soul. Unlike the Upstate New York of my childhood, in Northern California, where I live, most creeks are seasonal and it's a rare winter when they rush as abundantly as in this lush and spectacularly verdant place.

I suspect this day will be forever emblazoned in my memory, my first one graced with the wild magic of Oregon's winter waterfalls.

The coast is what formed me. In my blood runs a combination of marine plants and salt air, sand and rough surf, infused in my growing up years through countless hours cliffside watching the sea and playing till numb in cold Northern California waves. I'm fascinated by the narrow line where the earth meets the open ocean, so it's no surprise that I took to heart a friend's suggestion to visit the Heceta Head Lighthouse on Oregon's central coast. I'm so glad I did.

Heceta Head (pronounced Ha-SEE-tah) and its beach and lighthouse are located almost exactly halfway between the towns of Florence and Yachats, accessible via Highway 101. Snow in Roseburg turned to rain as I traveled west on Highways 138 and 38 along the Umpqua River, but as I approached the coast, the skies cleared and brightened just in time for me to see a herd of elk sunning themselves in a roadside meadow. I headed north from Reedsport, a lovely little town that sits where the Umpqua Highway meets 101 and the Umpqua River meets the sea.

After a 40-mile trip north, I exited the highway at Heceta Head and made the curving, downward trek to the beach where the trailhead to the lighthouse is located. As soon as I opened the door, the delicious sound of surf greeted my ears. The sandy beach that's tucked there between cliffs is pristine and lovely, especially so with the sun dancing on the waves as it did that day.

I had traveled under the Cape Creek Bridge to access the parking lot, and its sturdy but graceful below-road curves took my breath away. Oregon's coast highway is home to a number of magnificent bridges, thanks to an ambitious post-World War I road building project. Conde McCullough, the state's bridge engineer from 1919 to 1935, is responsible for their design, incorporating elements from various architectural styles - classical, Gothic, Art Deco, and Art Moderne - to provide rich detail to the structures. The repeating arches and columns of this bridge are reminiscent of a Roman aqueduct.

The trail up the bluff to the lighthouse winds through a fern-filled forest, where sunlight filtered through foliage casts shadows on the packed earth trace I walk. The ocean can be glimpsed through the trees, the perspective ever-changing as the path continues upward. The lighthouse is occasionally visible, too, growing closer with each twist in the path.

The keeper's house, now an inn, appears about halfway up, a stately Queen Anne affair that sits in an open area on an expanse of lawn surrounded by a white picket fence. A little gift shop in an outbuilding is near the trail. As I climbed, I stopped often to take pictures, but if I hadn't, the mild uphill amble would've taken no more than ten or fifteen minutes.

Along the upper reaches of the path, concrete stones run up the center of the trail, remnants of the site's early days when the keepers trod the path from their home to the lighthouse. The earliest route up the hill was a wooden boardwalk with a handrail.

I am thrust at last into open sun-filled air and am stunned momentarily by the wide view of the ocean. It spreads out far below me, sweeping toward the horizon in an endless parade of rippled blue. To the south and below I can see the beach, and just to the east of that, a faraway view of the impressive form of the Cape Creek Bridge.

There's something heady about being on top of the world. The wind, quiet at the beach and on the ascending footpath, is strong here and whips my hair around my face as I take in the vista.

The squat white lighthouse isn't particularly tall, just 56 feet, and reminds me of a castle turret. It's a pleasant sight, and not unlike something from a child's storybook. Built in 1893 and first lit in 1894, it still operates today, casting its bright beam every 60 seconds, visible 21 miles out to sea. It's Oregon's strongest coastal light. The last keeper retired in 1963 on the day the lighthouse became automated.

With such easy access to the site now, it's hard to believe just how isolated it was when the lighthouse was built. At one time the property had its own post office and one-room schoolhouse, where the children of lighthouse keepers and nearby ranchers were taught.

The view is mesmerizing and so dazzling to the senses that I don't want to leave. Finally, I turn with some reluctance and head back down the path, enjoying the quiet of the forest as I go. At the bottom, I realize that I've lost my sunglasses somewhere along the way, but since I'm expected soon in Astoria, I leave them for another traveler to find.