Wapato Hills
“What is the Wapato Hills Nature Walk?” my wife asked me a few weeks ago. Google calendar may have saved our marriage, but occasionally it causes some confusion.
I added that event on a whim, uncertain if we would even be able to attend. It turned out to be a perfect Saturday morning, and with two of our three kids at home with nothing to do, we decided to hit our nearest urban trail and try the guided walk.
Our extroverted daughter usually paves the way for her more introverted younger brothers. Her absence as we headed out the door made them cautious. “Who will be there? How long will it take? Will I have to talk to anyone? Can we just stay home and play Legos?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know, probably and no. Trust me, you’ll be glad you went.” They remained skeptical but resigned. The only thing they asked was that I refrain from corny dad jokes. I feigned shock, but reluctantly agreed.
Brianna, who works at the Tacoma Nature Center, met us and a few others near the park sprayground. She gathered us in a tight circle and began by asking if anyone knows what a drumlin is.
I was about to say it was the percussion section of a marching band when I remembered the boys’ one demand. I bit my tongue while Brianna explained it was a hill shaped by the flow and recession of a glacier. “Wapato Hill is a somewhat unique drumlin in that it has a wetland on top.” A thin memory percolated in my mind. I’d heard that term somewhere.
Brianna led us up the gravel path and the birds began to appear as if on cue. There was a Stellar’s Jay with it’s loud kawack. Next a hummingbird proudly displayed it’s ruby throat and zipped away.
When Brianna pointed out a Cedar Waxwing I leaned over my eldest son’s shoulder and whispered, “I wonder if they ever fly too close to the sun and melt.”
I’m certain I saw a grin before he groaned and walked away, pretending he didn’t know me.
As we proceeded down the path we looked not only to the trees but to the trail where one hiker pointed to a pile of droppings and asked what type of animal left it behind.
Brianna unshouldered her backpack excitedly. “Let’s get the scat rag out and see.” She began to unfold the banandana and we took an instinctive half step back to avoid whatever might be in a “scat rag.”
Our precautions proved unwarranted as the bandana displayed images of (not actual) dung and labels of their owners. According to the the scat rag, this trailmine was most likely left by a coyote. I thought, but did not say anything, about chasing roadrunners.
We continued around the trail while Brianna pointed out flora from quaking aspen to Garry oaks, the latter of which I finally learned is pronounced with a hard “g.”
In between we learned about the great edibility of Wapato Hills. Most of us knew about the blackberries, but I’d never heard of Indian plumbs, Elderberries, Salal berries or the surprisingly delicious Thimbleberries, which won over even our most skeptical forager.
I never would have had the courage to try any of these delights had it not been for our guide. By the end of the hike our hands looked as if we’d been finger painting, or had committed a grisly crime.
It wasn’t until we finished the walk that the thin memory of the drumlin emerged as one of Amelia. Amelia Haller was a late in life poet who lived just two blocks from the park. I was fortunate enough to get to know her before she died a few years ago. One of her poems, simply titled ‘Wapato Hills”, was the source of my memory. “As if waiting were from some other world/the sun, fast over the drumlin/ like an ancient being, broke into our eyes” She described taking her kids up this hill we’d just finished traversing, “We went for cattails and polliwogs: I for memories, they for discoveries.” The same motivation could certainly be ascribed to us; memories, discoveries and of course a chance to tell bad jokes.
