Spring Break

Remedies for the blahs

The last couple of weeks have been blah. I have felt unfocused, moody, tired, and grumpy. I am functioning but mostly on automatic pilot. Writing has been challenging: this is my third attempt at this week’s newsletter, and I have mostly ignored my other long-term writing project for the past month. I have skipped days of exercise, and on several occasions, I would start a pilates or yoga routine only to surrender to the comfort of the mat and pillow and close my eyes. I am not ill or depressed. I don’t have any new external stresses and am not feeling anxious. I am just blah. 

I am normally energetic and thankful to wake up each morning and live my life. Part of my melancholy is the slow and fickle transition of seasons. I enjoy seasonal living that is part of the northern latitudes, but each season gradually wears out its welcome. Spring and autumn are my favorite seasons for different reasons: Spring is full of energy, life, and long days, and autumn is the time for rest, dormancy, and short days. Both seasons seem to take forever to arrive.

Though it was the right decision to make, postponing a long-planned spring road trip to the warmer southwest states to hike and camp certainly has contributed to my condition of blah. I only have one item on my bucket list: spending as much time as possible exploring the American West via road trips. So far, that bucket list gets buried by the to-do lists.

I follow a woman on social media who sold everything and has chosen to live in her vehicle, hiking daily and camping in beautiful places throughout the American West. I think about doing the same, at least part of the year, but then I come up with all the reasons why I shouldn’t.

Central to my life is my relationship with nature: my daily and seasonal activities of walking, hiking, and gardening are as important to me as eating and sleeping. When I was a young child growing up in a troubled family that was falling apart, I escaped to a seasonal wetland to avoid the loud noise of anger and the sudden uncertainty of life. I remember little from my childhood, but my memories of that wild place are vivid: sitting along the tree-lined creek, ice-skating on the small frozen pond, and watching the sunset while standing in the golden waist-high grasses of August. We moved back into the city after the divorce, and I regularly walked to a neighborhood park to try and hold on to the healing power of nature.

Research in the last four decades confirms that time outside in natural settings improves our cognitive abilities, reduces our blood pressure and heart rate, calms emotions like anxiety, tension, and stress, engages all five senses, improves our ability to focus our attention, and fosters a sense of well-being. Richard Louv, author of the best-selling book Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children from Nature-Deficit Disorder, coined the term Vitamin N to describe the necessity of spending time in nature. Louv wrote two more books about the importance of nature for adults and communities.

I don’t need science to inform me of the benefits of time in nature; I experience them whenever I step outside. So, on the warmest day so far in 2024, despite a never-ending list of Important Things to Be Done (file taxes, garden work, write, clean house, etc.) I laced up my hiking boots, loaded my backpack, and drove down the mountain to Catherine Creek, a former cattle ranch now managed by the Forest Service as a preserve. Situated along the Washington side of the Columbia River, it hosts over 90 species of wildflowers for about half of the year. With a bit of elevation gain, the views are sit-worthy. 

I read that simply looking at photos of nature can have benefits, so I thought I would share my wildflower hike with you in case you have a case of the blahs.

Last week was spring break in WA, so I expected the trail to be busy. However, after hiking for about 30 minutes, I found myself sitting in solitude, taking in a spectacular landscape. Looking east about halfway up the trail, the Columbia River looked like a mirror.

The most abundant blooms were blue-petaled camas (Camassia quamash) and prairie stars (Lithophragma parviflorum). Before European settlements, camas covered the prairies from Idaho to western Washington & Oregon. One early observer viewed a prairie covered with the blue blooms of camas and wrote that he thought they may have reached the Pacific Ocean. A member of the Lily family, Indigenous people harvest the camas root for food.

Columbia Desert Parsley (Lomatium columbianum) is an endemic species to the Columbia River Gorge.

Another species of desert parsley (Lomatium grayii) seems to be better at reproduction than the endemic species.

The 3-mile trail winds around the Arch, a basalt outcropping. Mount Hood, home of the historical Timberline Lodge, peeks above the foothills on the Oregon side.

Overgrazed by cattle, it’s taken decades for the wildflowers to return and balsam root has yet to return. This lonely balsamroot was guerilla planted by a native plant lover. It’s a slow-growing perennial; 7-9 years to produce flowers.

Ponderosa pines are the primary conifer tree on this preserve, but they have been weakened by drought and attacked by the mountain pine beetle. Due to climate change, North American pine species are experiencing devastating infestations of pine beetles. Winters are no longer cold enough to kill their larvae.

Heading around the Arch, an Oregon White Oak forest is just forming buds. My Merlin bird app sound-identified Lewis’s woodpecker, Dark-eyed junco, and Stellar jay. A Western meadowlark serenaded me as I hiked up to the Arch, and then a Red-tailed hawk showed up, and the meadowlark went silent.

A few of these Pacific hound’s tongues were in full bloom.

Don’t you love this beauty? Meet Big Leaf Maple (Acer macrophyllum) in bloom; the leaves will turn bright green during the summer and then a brilliant yellow in the fall. The grape-looking pendants are the tree’s inflorescences.

Remnants of a cattle corral were likely used to load and unload the animals.

Headed down to the parking lot and then home, leaving the blah somewhere along the trail.