Yesterday afternoon we enjoyed a short outing up to McClellan Butte near Snoqualmie Pass--what a happy surprise to find trilliums still blooming above 1600 feet. 
High up on the trail we encountered a grove of old growth trees--there is definitely a different character to those groves which is hard to describe, but in a few words, I will try. If I were blindfolded and walked beneath these trees I would know I had entered a different part of the forest--suddenly it becomes quieter and cooler, I feel no wind, hear a distant woodpecker that I could not hear before, though the bird is no closer now than it was minutes ago. Then opening my eyes, I see the rich cinnamon bark of a centuries old Douglas fir, majestic as any sequoia or more-celebrated giant species, reaching up to the sky beyond where my eye can follow it. These forests have been compared many times before to the inner spaces of cathedrals, Gothic pillars rising to the heavens, light filtering through the upper branches like clerestory windows. Perhaps there is no better metaphor. So little remains of these forests that were so widespread--I am grateful for the national parks, where larger tracts have been preserved. But even here, in a mixed use forest, this spared remnant is something to be thankful for.