Geologic stories at Peanaccle Point.

When my dad asked me if I would like to tag along with him and my brother on a climbing day trip in the western Cascades, I took it up immediately. I haven't had a whole lot of opportunities to go adventuring lately, so I was eager to stretch my legs. 

The approach to the Peannacle Point area is brutal, there's a reason it's mainly climbers that travel to this isolated outcrop. From the trailhead, it's about 1800 feet elevation gain in 1.5 miles, mostly following the Mt. Washington trail until the last half mile or so. The trail leads unrelentingly up the mountainside, winding through a forest of Douglas Fir, Hemlock, Cedar, and Red Alder, with the symphonies of summer wrens and warblers echoing through the canopy. After leaving the main trail, the climbers boot bath scrambles up through some dense brush, over some fallen trees, and through gaps in the rocky terrain. You eventually pop out into an open area of large talus in the shadow of The Peannacle, a small jutting tower of orange-tan rock nearly 2,000 feet above the valley floor. 

The Peannacle from the base. 

The view from here is spectacular, looking west you can catch sight of the Puget Sound, straight ahead is the yawning Snoqualmie Valley, and to the right is the rugged peaks of the Cascade Range. Intertwined with these are all the geologic stories you can see laid before you. 

Filling large portions of the Snoqualmie valley below is a series of large, flat plateaus, several of which have active pit mines. These tablelands collectively make up Grouse Ridge, the remnants of an ice age moraine formed by the Puget Lobe of the Cordilleran Ice Sheet as it advanced from the Puget Lowland up the Snoqualmie Valley. The meltwater streams issuing from the Puget Lobe deposited the sand, gravel, and glacial erratics making up Grouse Ridge in front of it. 

Mount Si with the flat-topped Grouse Ridge Moraine in front. 

Mount Si itself, rising across the valley and behind Grouse Ridge, is another story. Mount Si is made of what's known as a melange, a blended mixture of different rock types swirled together in a chaotic mass. The rocks making of Mount Si are far older than any of the volcanic rocks in the Cascade Range, being emplaced well over 66 million years ago. 

The rock of Peannacle Point itself was an enigma for most of the day. When I first visited this site before my CWU Geology education, I took one look at the rock and proclaimed that it was part of the Snoqualmie Batholith, a granite. I was under that same conclusion at the beginning of this excursion again, until I started looking at the rock closer. As my dad and brother scaled the different faces, I slowly realized I wasn't looking at granite at all. I was looking at something entirely different. The rock at Peannacle Point is a breccia. Breccia is a type of rock formed by gravel or boulders of various other rock types being cemented together in a fine-grained matrix. This is precisely what I saw as I took a close look at different places on the outcrop; to my dismay, I realized I had been a sucker. This wasn't the Snoqualmie Batholith at all; this was part of the Ohanapecosh Formation. 

Cell phone photo of the Breccia of Peannacle Point. Note the rock pieces visible above the camera lens and the large, greenish clast in the top right corner. 

The Ohanapecosh Formation is a thick pile of sedimentary rocks laid down as a direct result of the volcanic activity of early Cascade Volcanoes. A large portion of the Ohanapecosh Formation, including rocks that make up the cliffs of Peannacle Point, is a result of violent volcanic events known as pyroclastic flows. Pyroclastic flows are avalanches of superheated gas, rock, ash, and other volcanic material that cascades down the side of a volcano during an explosive eruption. The early Cascade Volcanoes were highly explosive, probably erupting multiple pyroclastic flows that, at that time, only flowed a short distance down the volcano's slopes before plunging into the Pacific Ocean, which lapped at the volcano's feet. The deposition of pyroclastic flows into water forms breccia, like the breccia found in the Ohanapecosh Formation. 

A pyroclastic flow entering the ocean. Photo courtesy of the British Geological Survey. 

The deposition of the Ohanapecosh Formation occurred between approximately 38 and 25 million years ago. As it turns out, this time is roughly concurrent with the deposition of our dear friend, the Blakeley Formation. Could it be possible that the Ohanapecosh Formation was deposited onto a continental shelf as pyroclastic flows and other volcanic debris crashed into the sea, and when that material demobilized or continued into deeper water, it began to construct a thick undersea fan, settling into distinct, well-sorted layers, building the Blakeley Formation? I think it's more than possible, however, the evidence that I'm establishing for that and my reasoning will have to wait for another post. It's always fun to find something so far from home that might have a connection to the rocks which are just beneath our feet. 

Until the next adventure!  

A New Perspective: The Ecologic and Geologic Oasis of Stephenson Canyon, Bremerton.

A sudden wave of nostalgia washed over me as I followed my friend and Kitsap Sun reporter Josh Farley into the depths of Stephenson Canyon. I had last stepped foot here over five years ago, at the very start of the "Kitsap Waterfall Survey" project. 

The canyon was filled with various shades of greens and browns, exploding with the growth of mid-spring. Carpets of sword ferns filled the understory, with large Big-Leaf Maples, Western Red Cedars, and Douglas Firs creating the canopy a hundred feet above our heads. And of course, down at the bottom, Stephenson Creek chattered away, beckoning. 

A "pocket wilderness" inside Bremerton city limits. 

I've learned so much since I first stepped into the canyon. In 2015 I couldn't have cared less what kind of plants and ecology the canyon hosted; I only cared about rocks. Now, I was taking it all in through a new set of skills and experiences. I looked up and around as well as down, remarking the enigma of such a beautiful Pacific Northwest oasis in the middle of a significant city. Craig Romano described it well in Urban Trails: Kitsap when he called it "...a pocket wilderness that feels like it can be deep in the Olympics." 

Of course, it wasn't entirely without flaw. Invasive English Ivy besieged several trees on the rim and down into the canyon, and trash and old city refuse was abundant. A community cleanup effort here would probably breathe some new life into the area, and the city would do well to pay more attention and protect this beautiful piece of borderline old-growth ecosystem. 

Moving on, we descended into the canyon and crossed the creek, moving our eyes away from the canopy and down to the ground. Various cobbles and boulders lined the stream channel, and the footpath traversed some small but textbook stream terraces that probably get a new layer of sand and mud every time the creek floods. 

Our main destination, of course, was "Stephenson Canyon Falls." The little cascade I "discovered" so many years ago. We rounded the corner, and the first words that flashed into my head were, "I'm an idiot." 

Back in 2015, I had no geology education other than a couple basic geology classes, and I hadn't done a whole lot of research on the geology of the bedrock underlying the Kitsap Peninsula. The extent of my knowledge was that most of the bedrock in the area was basalt. So I had assumed that the falls dropped over basalt. I was dead wrong. 

"Stephenson Canyon Falls" with slightly dipping beds of the Blakeley Formation. The Falls drop over possible sandstone, while the satchel sits on mudstone/siltstone.

"Stephenson Canyon Falls" actually drops over a resistant ledge of the "Blakeley Formation," a much younger rock with a completely different origin than the basaltic rock that makes up the Blue Hills. The area around the falls exposes two types of rock within the Blakeley Formation. The base of the falls is made up of siltstone or mudstone, and the falls themselves drop over what might be a sandstone with larger softball-sized class embedded within it. I have my own interpretations of what this layer might be, but I'm going to hold off on that until a later date after I do more research. 

Downstream of the falls, Stephenson Creek flows over and alongside some of the nicest Glacial Till deposits that I've seen on the Peninsula. Blue Gray concrete-like deposits form shelves and small embankments, peppered with glacial erratics and small potholes drilled during times of flooding or high water.

An exposure of glacial till with a carved pothole at the bottom of Stephenson Canyon. 

After viewing the falls and surrounding geology, it was time for Josh to head back. We made our way downstream again, where we stumbled upon an absolutely titanic Douglas Fir Tree, possibly an old-growth giant from before the first caucasian colonists arrived in Western Washington. It was a sight to behold and was a great symbol that despite the surrounding urban sprawl, Stephenson Canyon is still very much wild. 

Chasing Erratics on the Great (Kitsap) Peninsula.

Yesterday I decided to go on a little adventure and investigate some of the known glacial erratics that I had heard of on the Great (Kitsap) Peninsula, specifically in the Illahee Area.

A glacial erratic is a piece of rock that differs from the size and type of native rock in the area on which it rests. They are carried by glacial ice, often hundreds of miles. Erratics can be as small as pebbles or larger than a building.

Erratics are common on the Great (Kitsap) Peninsula because this area has been subject to half a dozen or more glaciations over the past 2 million years, with the last one ending 16,000 years ago. During these glaciations, a large tongue of ice known as the Puget Lobe advanced south to fill the Puget Lowland as far as Olympia. Over the Great Peninsula, it was probably well over 2,000 feet thick! More than enough to flow entirely over the top of Green Mountain and the rest of the Blue Hills.

The extent of the Puget Lobe of the Canadian ice sheet. Photo courtesy of Washington DNR. 

Since this glacier came from the north, originating in southern Canada, it was plucking pieces of rocks off the mountains there. The rock types found in the Canadian Rockies and coast ranges are much different than those found here on the Great and Olympic Peninsulas, mostly granites and metamorphic rocks. Our hard bedrock here is either igneous rock of the Blue Hills or sedimentary rock of the Blakeley Formation. So if you see a granitic rock somewhere on the Peninsula, whether it be your yard, a beach, or a park, you can assume it's a glacial erratic.

We likely have hundreds if not thousands of significant glacial erratics on our peninsula. Most of them are probably buried beneath the surface, trapped in the thick glacial formations. This point was illustrated to me quite nicely when I was watching a well being drilled near Central Valley, it encountered a glacial erratic along the way down, and suddenly shards and flakes of beautiful granite came flying out!

However, there are some sizable erratics on the surface that you can find. Yesterday I found 3, which are listed below.

• Ther is a glacial erratic in the Almira Drive parking lot for the Illahee Preserve in East Bremerton. This is a metamorphic rock showing smooth surfaces probably polished by glacial ice as it was transported. 

The Illahee Erratic, with a telephone pole for scale. 

• There is a large glacial erratic on the east side of Illahee road just as the road begins to drop towards the coast traveling northbound. This is one of the largest erratics I have seen on the Peninsula. And interestingly. It is not granitic or metamorphic, it appears to be a large chunk of basalt, which means it may have been plucked from the Olympic Mountains.

• On the corner of Trenton Ave and Fernwood Street, in a lucky person's front yard, is a huge glacial erratic of Blue-Gray volcanic rock suspiciously similar looking to the rocks found in the Blue Hills. Perhaps it was plucked off of Green Mountain or one of the surrounding summits? The best viewing for this erratic is in the pullout on the west side of Trenton Ave, please respect the landowner's property by not attempting to go into their yard. 

These are just a few of the many significant erratics that are scattered around the peninsula, as I stumble across more, if they are substantial enough, I will do a write up for them too. I know there are several in North Kitsap, so perhaps I'll go explore up there sometime in the near future. Summer is just around the corner, and geologic adventures are everywhere in Washington State and the Great Peninsula!

What is Geyser Gazing?

Almost every facet of nature has a "fan club" or community of hobbyists associated with it: bird watchers, mycophagists, rockhounds, storm chasers, etc. In Yellowstone National Park (and occasionally other places with hydrothermal activity), you can find the geyser gazers. 

The author and another gazer enjoying an eruption of Fan and Mortar Geysers in 2014. Photo by Mara Reed.

People who identify themselves as geyser gazers have a variety of reasons that they enjoy spending long periods watching and studying geysers. Some do it for research purposes, collecting and analyzing data on behavior, patterns, and connections with other features unofficially or officially. Others do it with a camera in hand, always striving to get a great shot of these geologic fireworks. Some are in it mostly for the social aspect, hanging out with good friends and enjoying camaraderie while waiting for nature's show. Adrenaline junkies are present, chasing the adrenaline-fueled pandemonium during eruptions of massive and rare geysers. And some people practice the hobby as a way to enjoy a unique aspect of nature. But, to put this all together in a simple sentence, being a geyser gazer boils down (pun intended) to being someone that has a specific passion for geysers. This manifests itself in the many ways listed above, and others.

One of the now-extinct geysers at Steamboat Springs, Nevada. Photo by Rocco Paperiello.

There are many reasons why geysers are probably one of the unique geologic features on the planet and deserve attention. There are fewer than 3,000 of these erupting springs on the globe. Naturally, their numbers wax and wane almost weekly, with new geysers forming and erupting and others ceasing activity and going dormant or extinct. But, in addition to their natural fluctuations, recent human developments also severely threaten geysers. Drilling for geothermal power and oil, the construction of hydroelectric dams, as well as other projects, have destroyed or severely impacted several hydrothermal fields around the world in the past several decades. Geysers over 30 feet high were present above highway 395 in Nevada, just outside of Reno, before the Steamboat Springs geothermal powerplant went online in 1986 and snuffed them out forever. Their rarity, combined with the current anthropogenic threat, is what makes geysers the endangered species of geology.

Castle Geyser erupts at Sunrise. 

It's impressive enough that, in specific instances, the laws of physics and geology operate in such a way to propel boiling water into the air, it's even more fascinating when you realize that many of these features have discernable patterns to them. Some geysers erupt so regularly that you can nearly set your watch by them. On the opposite end of the spectrum, some geysers seemingly operate on a geologic coin flip, erupting erratically and seemingly randomly. But the latter chaotic side also gives them an allure. Most geysers do not play on a predictable schedule; some erupt days, weeks, months, or even years apart. The high regularity of Old Faithful is the exception rather than the norm. Another level to this is that this irregularity my be in part because many geysers are connected with other hydrothermal features, creating fascinating interplay, like a pool draining during an eruption, or activity in one geyser heralding, or even triggering, the eruptions or activity of another.

Every 200-foot major eruption of Giant Geyser (The huge cone) is preceded by a Giant Hot Period (surrounding activity), but not every hot period ends in a Giant Eruption. Talk about suspense!

There are persons from many walks of life in the geyser gazing community; teens, college students, moms and dads, retirees, etc. Gazers often congregate while waiting for the next geyser eruption, whether it be large or small, common or rare. Those times are frequently filled with laughter and happiness, stories and data are exchanged, jokes are quipped, and theories debated while waiting for the eruption. But gazers will have their specific individual interests as well. Some go towards Geyser Hill near Old Faithful or watch a particular geyser or several related ones. Others are content to go off into the far corners of the basin to wait on more erratic and unpredictable, but relatively quiet, geysers. Still, others prefer specific geyser basins around the park.

Gazers wait for an eruption of Steamboat Geyser.

Standing or sitting for long periods watching a geyser or other hydrothermal feature tends to attract attention, especially when you have a radio and notebook in your hands. Of the plethora of questions you receive, many commonly revolve around the theme of: "Why are you doing this?" Which is essentially asking, "What is geyser gazing?"

Geyser gazing is the person screaming for the big geyser, the person in the hat and sunglasses quietly sitting with a notebook by a spring, It's the person pulled over off the side of the road staring at some steam in the distance. Or it's the person leading an energetic explanation to a group of visitors about why they need to wait five more minutes and get the show of their lives. Geyser gazing is a passion for geysers and any form that takes. If you look for it, you'll see it, and maybe you'll become a part of it. 

Micah's Big Three

Once I take a liking to something, I tend to hyperfocus on it, sometimes to the point of obsession. This applies to hobbies, movies, food, books, and especially geologic features.

Over the past seven years, I have found three geographic features that have consistently captured my interest, bring me excitement, and that I love to talk about. Those three are geysers, waterfalls, and natural arches.

Geysers are the first feature that drew my attention. Back in 2012, I visited Yellowstone for a week and fell into the midst of the Geyser Gazers. Geysers instantly entranced me for their variation, patterns, activity, and uniqueness. I have now studied geysers and their associated hydrothermal features since, and it's something I plan to do for a long time.

The author observing an eruption of Beehive Geyser, photo by Cris Gower. 

The second geologic feature that ensnared me was an indirect result of geysers. In 2014, a good friend of mine talked two other friends and me into a three-day backpacking trip into a remote section of Yellowstone National Park known as the Bechler Region to view and photograph three world-class waterfalls. The trip was a chaotic blend of awesome and misery, but I came out of it with a new fondness of water going up as well as water going down. I kicked off the Kitsap Waterfall Survey just four months later.

The author at "Tin Mine Falls", Kitsap County. Photo by Rocco Paperiello.

The third geologic feature is the most recent, and one that took me somewhat by surprise. This last Fall (2019) after the end of my Yellowstone summer employment, I took a road trip through central Utah. I always wanted to go to Utah to view its amazing geologic landscapes and formations. Several people told me before the trip that it would become my favorite state, and that I might gain another feature that I was obsessed with, arches. I laughed them off at the time, but that all changed when I actually got there. Natural arches joined the list, and now I take great joy in hiking to and photographing arches whenever the opportunity presents itself.

Author at Sand Dune Arch in Arches National Park. Photo by Rocco Paperiello. 

There is an interesting consistency when it comes to my enjoyment of these features. In all three cases, whether it be a geyser, a waterfall, or an arch, I always enjoy smaller features rather than big ones. I'm not sure why this is, perhaps I feel I can take in more details of these features. Take geysers as an example. I enjoy a massive 200-foot eruption as much as the next person, but you're almost detached, staring in awe at this gargantuan thing, trying to wrap your head around it. With smaller geysers (sub 20 feet), you are often closer, and they erupt more often, which allows you to get more in-depth with their formation and behavior. This same general concept applies to waterfalls and arches as well. I always gravitate towards the smaller features because I can get right up and close to them. "Wright Creek Falls" is one of my favorite waterfalls on the Kitsap Peninsula for this reason, as is Metate and Mano Arches in Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument in Utah.

During this time that we're all jonesing for some good ol' outdoor exploration once it becomes sensible, think about some of your favorite geologic or geographic features and why that is. Then get out there and explore!

Drawing the Short Straw: Gorst's 900 A.D Devastation.

Every once in awhile there's a geologic story that just needs to be told.

I have been reading a series of scientific papers about the Seattle Fault. Many people who live on the Great (Kitsap) Peninsula know about the Seattle Fault. This crack in the earth runs east-west from Bellevue to disappear(?) under the glacial deposits west of Lake Symington. The Seattle Fault is capable of producing large earthquakes that shake the entire Puget Sound region, producing tsunamis, triggering landslides, and creating ragged scars across the landscape.

General map of the Seattle Fault. Map by the Kitsap Sun. 

Bounded on the north by the city of Bremerton, the Sinclair Inlet is one of several bays of the Great Peninsula. Basalt rocks of the Blue Hills meet the shore just west of the shipyard, while the south shore houses the city of Port Orchard. At the west end of Sinclair Inlet, where Gorst Creek kisses saltwater, is its namesake town, Gorst.

Aerial view of Sinclair Inlet looking west. The city of Bremerton lies in the center of the image. Gorst lies at the end of Sinclair Inlet near the top left corner. Image courtesy of Wikipedia. 

One winter day between A.D. 900 and A.D. 930, the entire Puget Lowlands experienced a 7.0-7.5 magnitude earthquake generated by the Seattle Fault, thrusting Gorst upwards by 9-15 feet. Uplift on the floor of Puget Sound spawned a tsunami that struck surrounding beaches, bays, and estuaries, including Sinclair Inlet. A train of waves, perhaps reaching close to 20 feet high, surged into the inlet and crashed ashore at the present-day townsite depositing a layer of sand and mud eight inches thick where cars and trucks are being sold today. According to computer modeling, the wave heights that Gorst endured were some of the largest that struck the Great Peninsula as a result of this event. But that wasn't the final blow.

During the earthquake, somewhere near the headwaters of Gorst Creek, a mass of water-saturated glacial debris shook loose, liquified, and began moving downstream as a massive debris flow. The debris flow rolled down the creek, stripping vegetation from the banks and leaving a deposit of sandy material in its wake. It bulldozed over areas that had already been inundated by the tsunami and finally came to rest in Sinclair Inlet, dumping the rest of the material offshore. In some places, such as Otto Jarsted Park, the deposit left behind by the flow is 1.5 feet thick or more.

Debris flow rushing down a valley in the Alps, carrying large boulders. The debris flow that swept down Gorst Creek in A.D. 900-930 may have been similar, but probably did not carry large boulders, as there are none in the resulting deposit. Photo Courtesy of Youtube. 

Before the earthquake, the valley of Gorst Creek was forested with Western Hemlock and Red Cedar. A salt marsh with saltwater grasses marked the transition from Gorst Creek valley into the tidal zone, filled with oysters, mollusks, and clams in thick mud. Following the 900-930 A.D. Seattle Fault earthquake, the tsunami and debris flow had covered the tidal flat and salt marsh with nearly five feet of sand. Gorst Creek was filled with so much material that it likely transformed from a gently meandering stream to a sediment choked braided watercourse for a short period before flushing itself out.

Following the A.D. 900-930 Seattle Fault Earthquake, tsunami, and debris flow, Gorst Creek may have looked similar to this. Courtesy Pueblo City-County Health Department

The sand layers deposited by the tsunami and Gorst debris flow can still be seen today in tidal channels along the bay, leaving stark reminders of the forces that wreaked havoc at the head of Sinclair Inlet 1100 years ago. Similar stories may exist elsewhere, yet to be discovered, but here at Gorst, the sediment record tells a story that presents itself as a clear and present reminder of the hazard that lies beneath our feet. Are you prepared? 

Kitsap County Geology: Green Mountain, Gold Mountain, and the Blue Hills.

I'm back. And no foolin'. 

The volcanic plateau of Yellowstone National Park that I call home is closed, set to reopen in the future at some as yet undecided date due to the pandemic sweeping the globe. I'm currently in Kitsap for the time being, socially isolating and eagerly awaiting any news. So during this lull, I got out the technological feather duster and opened this blog up after a...*quick mental math*... two-year absence. My sincerest apologies to devoted readers out there. 

Everyone in Kitsap County knows about Green Mountain, our forested little peak rising to an altitude of 1,710 feet, the second-highest peak on the Kitsap Peninsula. Gold Mountain to the south beats it out by 50 feet, reaching 1,761 feet. Green and Gold Mountains are the two highest summits in a cluster of hills referred to collectively as the Blue Hills. The Blue Hills is an official name accepted by the United States Geologic Survey, I would love for it to become common usage. Wishful thinking? probably, but you heard it here first!

Terrain map of the Blue Hills. on the Kitsap Peninsula. The city of Bremerton lies on the right side of the image. Kitsap Lake in the right-center. 

The Blue Hills emerge like the tip of a rocky iceberg from the center of the Kitsap Peninsula in a sea of glacial deposits. The glacial deposits have their own story, but that's a tale for another time. What are the Blue Hills made out of anyways? 

Chart from the USGS about igneous rocks and their mineral components. Surprisingly, you can find examples of almost every rock on this chart in the Blue Hills. 

The chart above illustrates different igneous rocks and their mineral components. Igneous rocks are rocks formed from magma or lava. If the rock is formed from magma below the surface, it is called an intrusive rock. If the rock is formed above the crust as a result of magma erupting onto the surface as lava, it is an extrusive rock. The Blue Hills are made up of both intrusive and extrusive rocks.

The primary rock composing the Blue Hills is gabbro. Gabbro is a coarse-grained, dark-colored, intrusive igneous rock made up mostly of the minerals plagioclase feldspar and pyroxenes. Gabbro is the intrusive equivalent of the most common extrusive volcanic rock on earth, basalt. Basalt is also present in large quantities in the Blue Hills. Gold Mountain is completely made of basalt, and the large rock outcrops you can see on the north shore of Sinclair Inlet alongside Highway 3 are basalt lava flows. Basalt from the eastern edge of the Blue Hils is mined and used in landscaping and construction purposes. Many of the rock retaining walls you can find around the Kitsap Peninsula were mined from the Blue Hills.

A typical basalt lava flow. Photo by USGS. 

Following the emplacement of the gabbro and basalt of what would become the Blue Hills, the whole mass of rock was invaded by a swarm of structures known as dikes. Dikes are tabular or sheet-like bodies that intrude into existing rock units vertically or near vertically. When exposed they can look like narrow vertical cracks filled with volcanic or sedimentary material. Two kinds of rocks form the dikes that riddle the Blue Hills. Some of the dikes are andesite, a volcanic rock made up of mostly plagioclase, similar to basalt, but containing some quartz, which is rarely found in basalt. The other type of rock is dacite, another volcanic rock which has an even higher percentage of quartz than andesite (See chart above).

The final drop of "Gold Creek Cascades" goes over a dike of andesite. 

So, where can you see these rocks? Unfortunately, if there's one thing that Kitsap geology isn't, it's being easy to see. Right square in the center of the Pacific Northwest, our lush vegetation and vibrant growth hides most of the rocks from our sight. I already mentioned the most easily visible outcrop of rock in the county, the cliffs of basalt towering over highway 16 on the north shore of Sinclair Inlet. Aside from that, there are exposures of gabbro and basalt on the way up to the summit of green mountain, with the main viewing area (currently closed as of this writing) being built on the edge of a large basalt cliff. If you know the location of "school rock/turtle rock/eagle rock" on the south flank of Green Mountain, that is composed of gabbro. And there are a couple blink-and-you-miss-it outcrops of rock along the south side of Holly Road as it skirts the base of Peak 1291.

There are other stories to be told about the geology of the Blue Hills that I left out of this post for the purpose of time and the fact that scrolling for long periods is universally hated. I do plan to stay diligent though and see if I can get the flow going on this blog again. I can't promise multiple posts a week. But hopefully, something between 1-5 posts a month is what I'm shooting for. If there's one thing I love more than geology, it's telling other people about geology. And I've learned a LOT since I last worked on this blog. I think it's time to share some of that. Until next time!

Kitsap Waterfall Survey: "Lower Lost Creek Cascades"

Well over a year since I've last surveyed a waterfall on the Kitsap Peninsula, this was a nice return to form. Several months ago, a friend of mine mentioned to me the existence of a small cascading type waterfall on Lost Creek within publicly accessible land. With me being busy at CWU, it was put on the back burner at the time. Not anymore, This past weekend (2/4/2018) I joined my friend, his son, and their dog and set out to document and photograph this cascade with my own eyes.

Our waterfalling dog companion, Delilah.

A half-mile after it's opening fanfare, Lost Creek encounters another outcrop of Siletzia bedrock which underlies much of the Kitsap Peninsula. The canyon walls and creek bed become lined with a gorgeous blue-green-gray basaltic rock. After tripping over a small rapid in the shadow of a massive fir stump, the creek flows around a bend and slides over a ten-foot drop into a beautifully secluded alcove with a surprisingly deep plunge pool.

The initial 10-foot drop of "Lower Lost Creek Cascades" 

Immediately after this drop, the creek narrows from 10 feet wide to less than 3 feet and careens through a narrow slot cut into the rock, dropping an additional 4 feet in the process. The force of the water tearing through this slot has drilled large circular potholes into the bedrock, making interesting shapes and formations.

Lost Creek tearing through the small defile, with several large potholes in the foreground

Immediately after the main slot, the creek funnels through another bottleneck in the rock in a slide 3 feet high slamming into a jutting rock, taking a 90-degree turn to the left and bouncing over a couple small drops, before leaping over a messy 5-foot rock face. This final drop ends in a rocky alcove similar to the large one upstream. Shortly downstream, "Lower Lost Creek Cascades" terminates in a final small 3-foot slide, bringing the total height to ~25 feet.

The bedrock lining the creekbed. 

The geology of the canyon here is both fascinating and stunning. The underlying grey-blue gabbro rock sets the tone, peppered with red-brown pieces of basalt, and cut with white veins of quartz and calcite. In quieter pools and gravel bars, occasional light colored granite clasts can be found from the overlying glacial debris mantling the entire peninsula. At least at one spot within the cascade, I found evidence for faulting and the intrusion of volcanic andesite dikes 50 million years ago. I plan to write posts on both those geologic stories in the near future.

Movie Monday: Seattle Fault-Nick on the Rocks

Here at CWU we have something of a rising celebrity. My advisor and professor Nick Zentner has begun a new small mini-series on KCTS this last year that discusses geologic stories within the Pacific Northwest. Season 2 just premiered this last Friday and it had an episode that, although brief, featured rocks from the Kitsap Peninsula. This episode discusses the threat of the Seattle Fault and the evidence we have for its existence. That evidence is the uplifted rocks of the Blakely Formation, exposed on Bainbridge Island and in South Kitsap, which I have discussed on this blog previously.

Without further ado, enjoy five minutes of Nick doing what he does best!

The Ellensburg Formation: A Distant Cousin to Kitsap's Blakely Formation.

It's been almost a year to the day since I've last posted. I hope to get a flow going again, especially since I'm graduating this March. So here we go.

The Cascade volcanoes have been erupting for 40 million years, constructing massive volcanic edifices, ejecting clouds of debris and ash to rain down on eastern Washington, and sending mudflows and floods careening down river valleys into the Pacific Ocean, Puget Sound, and eastern lowlands. Today with the current position of our five active fire mountains, most, if not all, lahars are directed to the west towards Puget Sound with its densely populated metropolitan centers or south towards the Columbia River. Millions of years ago, the setting was slightly different. A volcano or a group of volcanoes near the present-day location of White Pass were active, violently active. Explosive eruptions blasted frothy gas-rich magma out of their throats and sent moving masses of water, ash, and clay barrelling down ancient river valleys. One of these valleys was aimed at the present-day location of Thorp, Washington.

The Kittitas Valley with its modern-day volcanic sentinels Mount Adams (Left) and Mount Rainier (right). 

Driving east along Interstate 90 past Thorp, one can look across the valley to the north and spot a group of imposing white cliffs towering over the adjacent fields. For a closer look, Highway 10 between Ellensburg and Thorp passes immediately below these cliffs. These are the "White Bluffs," and they are a geologic staple of the Kittitas Valley. These cliffs reveal a stack of 4-5 volcanic lahars produced by the volcanoes near White Pass so many millennia ago. The lahars appear as a solid white mass of ash-rich cement, suspending huge boulders of volcanic rock and peppered with sponge-like pumice, which is typically produced in significantly explosive eruptions. Each lahar is separated by beautifully layered river deposits, organized and sorted beds with crossbeds and other patterns, marking periods of slower processes compared to the catastrophic volcanic apocalypses which ravaged the river valley half a dozen times. 

Outcrop of the "White Bluffs" showing a lahar (Thick layer at the base) and river deposits over the top. 

This outcrop is just a small section of the Ellensburg Formation. This geologic formation can be found throughout the Kittitas and Yakima Valleys and varies significantly throughout its extent. Just southwest of Central Washington University's campus is "Craig's Hill," an elongated knoll in the middle of the city. This hill is almost wholly composed of the Ellensburg Formation. However, it differs in composition from the "White Bluffs" in that there is only one volcanic lahar exposed; the majority of the hill is mostly a series of thick river rock deposits known as conglomerates. 

An exposed cliff face on Craig's Hill in Ellensburg showing it's large gravel deposits. 

The Ellensburg Formation's make up should sound familiar to readers, with its interwoven gravels, sandstones, and mudflows. It is, in fact, similar to the Blakeley Formation, which lies around the shorelines of Puget Sound and similarly records early volcanic activity in the Cascades. These two geologic cousins demonstrate how volcanism has been significantly affecting the state on both sides of the cascades for millions of years, and they will continue to do so for quite some time.

Waterfall Wednesday: Hunting a Titan, the photography expedition of Giant Falls

The Kitsap Waterfall Survey as a project has gotten a lot of attention over the past couple years. But there's something a lot of people don't realize. The Kitsap Waterfall Survey is only one of many similar projects. I'm not the only waterfall hunter in the state, and there are others who seek much larger prizes than our 30-50 foot cascades.

When I began to hunt for waterfalls, I fell into acquaintance with two gentlemen who are waterfall hunters themselves. One of them, Bryan Swan, hunts for waterfalls across the entire Pacific Northwest, documenting and photographing hulking giants that dwarf anything that Kitsap has to offer. The other is named Aaron Young, and he has made it his mission to document every major fall specifically from Whatcom to King Counties. Bryan Swan helms the Northwest Waterfall Survey, while Aaron calls his project Aaron's Waterfall World. And these are just two in a vast community of close-knit people who hunt down the crashing whitewater of isolated streams.

Late in 2015 or early 2016, discussion reached my ears of attempting to reach one of the Northwest's hidden behemoths. For nearly a century, Giant Falls was marked on maps of Mount Rainier National Park. This thundering tower of water was located where the Mowich River roared over a massive volcanic cliff, careening into the valley below. And yet, despite its grandeur and relatively close proximity to one of the Park's most thoroughly traveled trails, no one could find any record, photograph, or written description of the fall. The large white streak on Google Earth was all that gave an indication of this fall's ferocity.

Bryan and Aaron had set in their minds to hunt down Giant Falls once and for all and be the first people to photograph and document it in detail. Luck was on my side, as I was invited to come along. After months of planning and late night Facebook discussions, we agreed to meet at the Mowich Lake trailhead on August 21, 2016.

The sky was clear as my Toyota truck bounced up the rough road to the lake. I pulled up to the trailhead between 8 and 9 and was soon joined by Aaron and Bryan. Within the hour, we set off on our quest. We started with a short warm-up side tangent to the west, photographing and measuring the two waterfalls located on Castle Creek just after its exit from Mowich Lake. After this, we turned back to our main goal.

As Bryan Swan states in his write-up of Giant in the Northwest Waterfall Survey, "Accessing the falls is a demanding undertaking which requires highly seasoned route finding ability." Not to mention that some portions of the trip could be downright dangerous to inexperienced adventurers. Due to this fact, I will not go into specific details about our route. But that being said, reaching Giant required several hours of bushwhacking, stream fording, rock scrambling, and all out war with the woods. The final thing that stood between us and our view of the falls was an unbelievably thick stand of Slide Alder. Finally, after grunting and shoving and thrashing our way through, we stumbled out onto a massive gravel bar and stood in awe at what was before us.

Giant Falls roaring out of its 

Dead ahead of us was a giant, the Giant. The Mowich River came howling out from around the bend in a U-shaped canyon, crashing against the wall and diving hundreds of feet into a raging plunge pool. Mist and spray buffeted us even from over 100 yards away. The trees on the river bank swayed and hissed, creating a beautiful harmony with the ever present river, the crash of rolling boulders right at our feet. The spray carried fine glacial silt with it, flocking every surface with a fine dusting of gray grit. The sound was like a runaway freight train, it's baritone bass pounding at your ears, while the constant hiss of a broken steam valve drowned out anything below a slightly raised voice.

We stayed and enjoyed the falls for an hour or two, munching on our sandwiches while taking in the spectacular display. After lunch, we all fanned out on the rocks to snap the best photos and videos we could, basking in the grandeur of the cascade. Then, after one last glance of the falls, we turned and plunged back into the woods for the long journey home. We made it back to the cars as the sun was falling low, and Mount Rainier bid farewell to me cloaked in a ruddy glare.

I've seen quite a few different falls across Washington State during my short time as a waterfall hunter, but this one is easily at the top of the list. I will never forget the gusts of wind against my face, and the glaring sun reflecting off the spray. Giant Falls will be etched in my memory for years to come, and maybe, someday, I will return to view it's ferocity once more.

Kitsap Geology: The Blakeley Formation

The Kitsap Peninsula’s geologic history span tens of millions of years. There’s the Crescent Formation: the vast mass of 50 million-year-old basalt rock that forms the core of the Blue Hills southwest of Bremerton. And, although you may not know it, most of us are also familiar with the most recent geologic story, which makes up most of the peninsula’s bulk. Our homes and towns on the peninsula are built on top of the enormous pile of debris left behind by the retreating ice age glaciers which filled the Puget Lowlands up to 17,000 years ago, this is collectively known as the Vashon Stade.

Blakeley Formation exposed at Manchester State Park

But there is a third geologic story. Named for its prominence around Blakely Harbor on Bainbridge Island, the Blakely formation is a 36-34 million-year-old stack of sedimentary rocks, transported from the east. It’s accumulation occurred between the emplacement of the Crescent Formation and the deposition of the Vashon Shade.





Today, on the Kitsap Peninsula, the sight of the distant Cascade Mountains to the east accentuated by the hulking mass of Mount Rainier is a mundane one. But this view wasn’t always here. The Cascade Range is relatively young, first beginning to rise around 40 million years ago. Mount Rainier and our other fire mountains of the northwest haven’t been here for nearly that long. Average stratovolcanoes only erupt for about a million years. Thus over the past 40 million years, there have been entire generations of cascade volcanoes that have erupted and then been eroded away. The Blakely Formation is one piece of evidence of their existence.

Many people living in the Puget Lowland have heard of the volcanic phenomena known as lahars or mudflows. Mount Rainier and the other volcanoes which dot the skyline are mantled with a blanket of permanent ice and snow. When these volcanoes erupt, the molten material falling upon the glaciers and snowfields melt them and create a slurry of debris that roars down valley and buries everything in its path. The deposits left behind by recent mudflows are what underlies many of the towns and cities at the foot of Mount Rainier. But just as volcanoes have been erupting in the cascades for 40 million years, lahars have been flooding the lowlands just as long.

A Lahar raging down a river valley from Mount Ruapehu in New Zealand. Photo Credit goes to Geoff Mackley (Who has some incredible Volcanic footage and photography if you look him up)

30-40 million years ago, the ancient volcanoes of the Cascades sent lahars and volcanic floods careening straight into the ocean. Puget Sound didn’t exist back then, and the Olympic Mountains, which are such a centerpiece of our skyline to the west, didn’t rise above sea level until 10-20 million years ago, long after our story takes place. As these floods settled on the ocean floor, they formed an extremely thick stack of sandstones, siltstones, and conglomerates just off the coast, building up to several hundred meters thick under the waves. After solidifying, these rocks were folded and shoved upward, probably around the same time that the Olympics and Kitsap’s Blue Hills rocks were uplifted. Finally, after being re-uplifted, the successive invasions of ice into the Puget Lowland buried the Blakely Formation in a thick layer of glacial silt and gravels. Since then, erosion has exposed the formation in several places.

Today there are two main sites where you can view the Blakely Formation on the Kitsap Peninsula proper. The first is Manchester State Park; this state park is located east of Port Orchard and requires a Discovery Pass to visit, which are 11 dollars for a day pass or 35 dollars for an annual pass. Excellent exposures of the Blakely formation can be seen on the shore of the park, with good exposures of more recent glacial deposits in places as well.

The  Blakely Formation as exposed on the Shores of Rich Passage at Manchester State Park. Photo by Micah K. 

The other place in Kitsap where you can view the Blakely Formation is probably much closer to home and convenient for most people but is a little trickier to access. Driving south down Tracyton Beach road, park at the first pullout you encounter on the south at the coast (or the last on the left if driving north). From the pullout, scramble down a small (and steep!) embankment, and you will be standing directly on top of Blakely Formation rocks. Proceeding south along the shore, you will find different layers, and some amazing textbook examples of a rock formation called tafoni, which is also known as honeycomb weathering. Be sure to step gingerly and be careful around these sensitive formations so that others may enjoy them in the future! Just below the roots of a large pine tree is a layer that I have interpreted to be from a volcanic lahar, with large rocks perpetually frozen in the silty matrix that surrounds it. It is probably best to observe this outcrop at low tide, as high tide forces you to scramble along the steep rocks.

The Blakely Formation as exposed on the shore of the Port Washington Narrows along Tracyton Beach Road. Photo by Micah K.

Reflections of 2004: Are you Prepared?

              Twelve years ago, as American kids were marveling at their new gifts they had received the day before, the earth jolted.

               Twelve years ago, as family members hugged goodbye, and planes were being boarded for the journey home. The ocean roared.

               Twelve years ago, as the rest of the world settled for a relaxing Boxing Day, the Indian Ocean Basin experienced an apocalypse.

               A section of the seabed over 800 miles long jerked to the west and upward in a titanic 9.2 magnitude earthquake that shook the countries of Bangladesh, India, Malaysia, Myanmar, Thailand, Singapore and the Maldives. Massive shockwaves rocked the ground for up to 10 minutes. People were thrown to the ground, buildings collapsed, sand boiled up like water from cracks. And that wasn’t the end.

               As soon as 15 minutes following the earthquake, tsunami waves up to 80 feet high careened into the coastlines, leaving a wake of death and destruction which took the lives of over 250,000 people around the Indian Ocean coast. It is one of the deadliest natural disasters in written history. And it wasn’t just a freak event.

The 2004 tsunami crashes to shore. Photo by Wikipedia. 

               In 2010, a magnitude 8.8 earthquake and resulting tsunami devastated the coast of south-central Chile. And in 2011, the northeast coast of Japan was ravaged by a 9.1 magnitude earthquake and massive tsunami which leveled entire towns. And in 2014 and 2015, Chile experienced an 8.0 earthquake which caused widespread damage each time.

               The twenty-first century is beginning to intimately introduce us to Megathrust Earthquakes. Huge events on Subduction Zones that can wreak havoc across half the planet. And while many countries around the world have experienced this cataclysm, the Cascadia Subduction Zone off our coast remains quiet.

               You’ve heard the spiel before, we’ve all read the New Yorker’s Post. So, I won’t go into the nitty gritty details of what nightmare fuel is waiting for us in our possibly near future (some seismologists put us at a 1/3 chance within the next 30 years). All I ask of you today, on the anniversary of the deadliest event of this kind is: Are you prepared? If not, here’s a couple links of how you could prepare for an earthquake in our area. Stay safe.

Ready to go.

Red Cross

FEMA Earthquake Checklist

           

Kitsap Waterfall Survey: The Hidden Splendor of Lost Creek Falls

When I first began searching for waterfalls on the Kitsap Peninsula, one of the first things to catch my attention was the large canyon of Lost Creek. The creek digs a deep gouge over two miles in length west to east through thick glacial deposits, hugging the northern reaches of the Blue Hills. Upon further investigation and observation of the topographic maps, I began to realize that the head of the canyon likely housed one of Kitsap’s largest waterfalls, a hidden giant (in Kitsap terms) 50 feet high or greater. Reading the county parcel map, I also quickly realized that the location was inaccessible as the entirety of the hypothesized falls lied within private property - foiled again!

As my waterfall survey continued, and I checked more and more streams off the list, Lost Creek remained at the back of my mind. Finally, I caved. I sat down and wrote a detailed letter to the property owners along Lost Creek explaining my intentions and asking permission to access the creek. Rather rapidly I received confirmation from all of them; unfortunately, I moved to Central Washington University around the same time, and everything was put on hold. 

Fast forward to this Friday. I sent out an email to one of the property owners asking if it was still ok if I could investigate the falls on their property. I was surprised when I got a very kind reply back that I was more than welcome, in fact, I could come that same day. Throwing my waterfalling gear on and hurling myself into my truck, I made my way over to the Stephen family's property, perched on the precipitous canyon hiding Lost Creek. 

I was very fortunate and lucky that the Stephens family opened up their home and property for me to explore and run around on. That being said, the photos and report of these falls described here are for your reading only. The Stephens have asked that they would like these falls to remain off-limits to the general public, so please respect their wishes and enjoy the photos and detailed description I give here. Do not attempt to reach these falls.

I arrived at the Stephens' property not sure what to expect. I was greeted by Katie and Joe, who grew up on the property, and they happily led me down several trails to the bottom of the canyon, showing the best access points. They returned to the house to let me scamper along the creek. Here's what I observed.

The first 10 foot drop of the upper cascades. Photo By Micah K. 

Lost Creek babbles onto the Stephens'  property in a quiet, unassuming fashion with musical chattering echoing through the leaves. Shortly after passing the property line, its character rapidly changes. The creek skitters over a tiny shelf of brown bedrock and picks up speed, flowing past a gravel bar and then crashing 10 feet over a brown mass of bedrock into a small plunge pool. Across this plunge pool from the face of the falls is a large outcrop of grey blocky bedrock. The creek skips around this and begins a series of small drops into a deep gorge. I didn’t have the time to explore this gorge in detail, but there is at least one 10 foot drop at its head and a 5 foot drop at the bottom, making this initial cascade at least 25 feet high.

The final drop on the upper cascades. Photo by Micah K.

After this gorge, the creek takes a brief rest, flowing alongside a massive gravel bar of shattered bedrock and occasional glacial erratics transported from the north tens of thousands of years ago. After squeezing through a logjam, the creek begins its chaotic downward tumble again. As soon as the creek escapes the tangled mass of logs, it spreads out across a broad, grooved shelf of grey-blue bedrock that spans the entire floor of the canyon. The creek hisses across this shelf and loses 10 feet of elevation in around 60 feet of run. This shelf ends abruptly in a small 4-5 foot plunge into a beautiful and hauntingly deep pool. Upon exiting this pool, the creek works its way through another loose logjam and immediately hurtles 15 feet over a spectacularly photogenic block into a gorgeous blue-green pool. Without pause, the creek crashes over another  15 foot cascading slide, pooling at the base of a cliff of grey rock. After a short turn around the cliff, the creek trips over a 4 foot rib of rock and flows quietly for 30-40 feet.  

the most significant tier of "Lost Creek Falls" 

After navigating past another small logjam, the creek hurtles 10 feet over a rugged ledge, turns, and dives over what appears to be another 10 to 15 foot drop jammed between two ribs of rock. I was only able to view this final drop from the top, and from my vantage point perched on the precipitous walls of the canyon, the creek calmed down following this and flowed around the corner out of sight. However, I know that the whitewater doesn't stop there, as neighbors downstream have reported several waterfalls on their property. It is inevitable that I will have to strap on my waders once more and return to Lost Creek to finish the survey I started, and I hope that day comes soon. Until then, I am currently analyzing and identifying the rock types that make up the bedrock at these falls and hope to do the same at other falls around Kitsap. 

The second main tier of "Lost Creek Falls." Note the first main tier peeking out in the background. Photo by Micah K. 

Thank you to the Stephens family for opening up their home and canyon to me for exploring! This blog post wouldn't have been possible without their hospitality. 

Kitsap Waterfall Survey: Upper Dickerson Creek.

Thus far, I have written about four of Dickerson Creek's waterfalls: "Elegance," "Divergence," "Dickerson Creek", and "Beaver Dam Lake Falls." Finally, I'm crossing off the final two waterfalls. Both are located on upper Dickerson Creek before it enters Beaver Dam Lake.

Dickerson Creek spawns in a marshy lake in southwestern Ueland Tree Farm. There are several lakes like this on the farm, resting in valleys gouged out by the glaciers that covered the Kitsap Peninsula 17,000 years ago. After it exits the lake, the first half-mile of Dickerson Creek is calm, flowing through the dense second-growth forest. This quiescence is cut short as the creek encounters the first rock layer on its tumultuous journey to Chico Creek.

"Cedar Gorge Falls" The first waterfall on Dickerson Creek. Photo by Micah K.

What the first waterfall on Dickerson Creek lacks in height, it makes up for in character. Here the creek intersects a basalt ledge and dives ten feet into a shaded, dark pool carved into the head of a steep-sided gorge. Several young cedar trees overhang this pool, adding to the shaded environment. For the presence of these trees and the overall location of this fall, I have named it "Cedar Gorge Falls."

"Upper Dickerson Falls" upper tier. Photo by Micah K. 

Flowing for another 60-70 feet and around a slight corner, the creek exits the gorge and drops over another, more striking fall. This is "Upper Dickerson Falls" This waterfall is composed of two tiers totaling about 30 feet in height. The first tier begins as a shallow cascade hissing over orange-red colored basalt which rapidly steepens into a final slide into a shallow basin. In low to medium water levels, only a small portion of the basalt face has water flowing over it, but I imagine in the height of winter or after a heavy rain, the entire shelf is one roaring mass of violent whitewater.

Between the two tiers is a section of level creekbed with a bottom of rounded stones. These stones range in composition from the basalt of the falls to pink-tan granites transported onto the Kitsap Peninsula from the northern cascades by the ice-age glaciers.

The second tier would be as gorgeous as the first, if it weren't for the two massive logs that have fallen across it, effectively blocking half from view. Despite this eyesore, the color of the bedrock is a mesmerizing dark blue-purple. At the base of the falls is another large piece of bedrock checkerboarded red and blue with white mineral veins crisscrossing the surface. Not only is this one of the most visually pleasing falls in the county, but it's also one of the best geologic outcrops Kitsap has to offer too.

"Upper Dickerson Creek Falls" bottom tier, Photo by Micah K.