Giving The Pacific Northwest Its (Wild) Flowers
- Paige Rasmussen
- Apr 27
- 3 min read
Updated: Apr 28
This morning, my alarm didn't wake me up. Instead, I felt a brush of coarse hair across my face, then quickly, heard a sound I can only describe as a loud - and very fast - whoosh whoosh whoosh, like a fixed-pitch propeller.
My three-year-old dog Barklay, a long-legged Westie-lookalike was awake, so naturally, I must be too. Quick but calm, I turned on my side, rolling to the edge of the bed in a familiar effort to avoid any licking or encourage playtime this early in the morning. Then, silence.
With great suspicion, I cautiously opened one eye to find myself nose to nose with Barklay, suddenly seated back on the floor in front of me, his eyes locked on my single squint and his tail thumping on the floor.
At 5:56 AM on a Saturday, just four minutes before my alarm was set to ring, I gave in and pulled myself out of bed, knowing the views would be worth it later.
Packing up the car with my coffee in hand, playlists ready and waiting to press play, we hit the road by 6:46 AM.
Despite the lack of sleep, an early morning drive through Portland is far superior to stop-and-go (mostly stop) traffic during rush hours or on the other hand, dodging unpredictable and erratic lane-changers any time of the day. Pleasantly surprised, we comfortably cruised through the suburbs, into the city, and finally, along Interstate 84 for about 70 miles sandwiched between the Columbia River and mountainside vistas.
We arrived in Mosier, Oregon just before 8 AM. Typically, on a weekend afternoon, this miniature town comes to life with cars parked bumper to bumper by the edge of the road with spillover down to the train tracks. Mobile food trucks begin to cook and small businesses prop open their doors for customers by late morning. Bikers, runners, hikers, and other dogs make their way into town to choose their adventure. Today, however, not even the little wooden coffee shack on the corner looked open, and the train by the highway was standstill. It was perfect.
The sun was beginning to bake through the clouds and a cool, coastal-like breeze was rustling through the trees. Birds chirping and the faint sound of water rushing were the only other noises to be heard.
Just in front of the trailhead and before crossing an old-timey white bridge above Mosier Creek, we turned down a rock-covered road to the railroad tracks to park, the only car in sight.
Backpacks on, for the both of us, we hit the trail.
At the top, I wasn't prepared for the views. I've lived in the greater Portland area for about three years now, having visited many hiking, biking, snowboarding, and many other outdoorsy attractions countless times, but the wildflower season along the Columbia River is unlike any other.
As we made our way across the street to the bridge, through the Mosier Pioneer cemetery dating back to the 1800s, passed the Falls and traversed the dirt path switchbacks, small bursts of yellow and purple wildflowers began to peek through the valley.
The trail is about three miles total out and back, but the view from the overlook is what most hikers are drawn to.
About halfway, we took a break, removing a layer. Still early, we had the trail to ourselves, listening only to cars rushing in the distance below, a handful of birds zipping around above us, the clear buzz of insects petal-chasing nectar, and the sound of the wind. Strong gusts danced back and forth with the scenery, gently pressing the long flower stems down to the ground, nimble and swift to pop back up.
Like any other onlooker in awe, we explored the area, watching our steps to preserve the delicate sanctuary around us, keeping to the trail. It was beautiful.
As time passed, other hikers began to appear from below, awaiting their turn to look out onto the river gorge. Satisfied, we made our way back down the trail, passing many other people and dogs, careful to maneuver the skinny walkways.
With so many things to see in Oregon, the wildflowers in Spring are still a favorite.
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