In her day, Margaret was well known to the Olympia City Commission. She would show up at meetings, in force, having gathered friends and fellow activists to join her, often with a sheaf of signed petitions, to challenge decisions not to their liking. She knew how to get things done. She saved important places in Olympia for wildlife and humans alike. Her example and values live on in memory. I have conjured her image many times when feeling tired or cynical or distracted and she has pushed me along to stay involved and engaged in saving natural places in our area.

Two things collided yesterday that brought her vividly to mind: I learned of a meeting of Council members to discuss the sale of a patch of land that I know is valuable and scarce habitat for birds, to be bulldozed and made over to housing; and I read of the Cornell Ornithology study about the catastrophic loss of birds in the last decades. The biggest factor in the failure of birds to thrive is loss of habitat. Bit by bit, we are frittering it away… and now we have a full-blown crisis. What to do? What would Margaret do? She would, I think, seize this moment and use it as a teaching moment, an opportunity to exercise our better natures, to save this piece of Nature. To act, to not give in to despair. I wrote the following letter to my City Council, hoping that they take a moment and reconsider their priorities and I invited them to make a difference, to choose birds, and not business-as-usual. And I pledge to find more ways to take up this cause and follow Margaret’s path wherever it leads. For the birds.

Dear Member of our Olympia City Council

You represent all of us who live in this beautiful place, and with that position of trust you have the power to do something of lasting goodness for us all. A decision is coming up on your calendars that is an opportunity to make a difference in our quality of life and the life of our local wild neighbors who depend on us for their very existence.

You may have read a recent news story that scientists have been able to determine that since 1970 this country has lost more than one in four birds in every biome; that is 2.6 billion birds. And we know that the loss of birds also means the loss of companion animals, insects, plants and trees. Pesticide use is one of the causes but by far the most serious cause of this catastrophe is habitat loss: we are “eating away at the foundation of all our major ecosystems on the continent,” according to one of the researchers involved in the study. One of the hardest hit of all the bird groups are ones who live in grasslands. More than half of that population has disappeared.

Here in Olympia we have a special place where these particular birds flourish. It is rich in a variety of foods, shelter, and places to nest and rear young. It is an “edge” environment which supports many different species who can find what they need in the nearby forested area, the grassy areas, and the bushes and other growth found there. If you go there and just listen and look, you will see many birds of every description going about their lives. That is all they ask of us: let us live. That place is the ten-acre parcel adjacent to the LBA Woods, commonly known as the “scotch broom area.” That moniker can sound dismissive but it is in fact a richer bird environment than the woods themselves.

So this is an opportunity to save habitat for birds and other animals and plants. Instead of ripping out all this vegetation and building over it, losing it forever for wildlife, we could think again and save it. This study telling us of the dire situation of habitat loss and its resulting devastation of bird life is a wake up call. It is new information that calls for new thinking and new decisions and responses from us all. I am aware that the old plan was to build housing here, but it is not too late to value this place for what is already here: valuable, irreplaceable habitat for birds.

We can only turn this terrible situation around, place by place, bird by bird. This place matters, birds matter. Please take time and visit and listen and rethink and make a better choice for Olympia and for birds. Thank you for your attention to this critical matter.

For more information on this study, see the Cornell Lab of Ornithology website at https://www.allaboutbirds.org/vanishing-1-in-4-birds-gone/?

Vanishing: More Than 1 in 4 Birds Has Disappeared in the Last 50 Years

Vanishing: More Than 1 in 4 Birds Has Disappeared in the Last 50 Years

Vanishing: More Than 1 in 4 Birds Has Disappeared in the Last 50 Years

The most visible bird on any trip to Woodard Bay are the dark shapes of cormorants winging to and from their nests clustered on the far shore to the bay waters and pilings where dozens were gathered, crowding near the hauled up seals. It was difficult to know which species were mumbling and grumbling more about the state of the world, yet together they seemed rather content to soak up the sun emerging from the morning hangover of clouds. Almost the only other sound was the whirring of wings as cormorants went about their business on this late summer day.

I remembered the first time I had seen that these cormorants nested high up in trees along the shore of the bay. I had supposed they were ground nesters like many shorebirds but instead, like Great Blue Herons, as incongruous as that seemed for such large heavy birds, they built massive twiggy nests well off the ground in a kind of sky-high community in a grove of fir trees. I happily added that new information to my small store of bird lore. But on this trip, for the first time, I noticed that the nest trees were looking decidedly gray—dead or dying, in fact. My very knowledgeable companion confirmed that cormorants eventually killed their nest trees with the accumulation of droppings and from the damage inflicted by stripping branches for nest materials. The evidence of their burden, pardon the pun, was visibly adding up. Silently I wondered what would become of this beautiful shoreline forest if the cormorants moved from grove to grove leaving behind devastation. Would the process eventually reverse itself with the extra nutrients enriching the soil and regenerating the trees? I tried for the long view, but I had my doubts.

I’m far from alone with my feelings of ambivalence. Wanting to know more, I searched for information about the life and ways of cormorants. I recalled news stories about struggles down on the Columbia River where cormorants were gobbling up young salmon as they made their way around dams to reach the sea. Wildlife biologists were struggling to moderate the hungry birds’ “take” and balance one form of “Nature” with another, letting birds do what birds do and yet needing to protect endangered salmon from their seemingly voracious appetites. This is a very human-induced problem. We built the dams that decimate the salmon and, as it happens, we—as it were, represented by the Army Corps of Engineers—created an artificial island near the dam in the early 1980s called East Sand Island, now home to this thriving colony of cormorants and Caspian terns. The absolute security from predators on this island, with a guaranteed abundance of fish, have created the conditions for the largest gathering of cormorants on the continent. And now we are aghast and bringing in measures both annoying and lethal to deal with the flourishing cormorants.

Not so long ago, in 1972 the National Audubon Society listed cormorants as a species of special concern. They had been hunted relentlessly, not for meat or feathers but because they compete with us for fish, and were also vulnerable to the contamination of the environment with DDT. Since the banning of DDT and with protection of their nesting sites with the revision of the Migratory Bird Treaty Act and other acts to include cormorants in their provisions, the species have bounced back with a remarkable resurgence of numbers. Is this success? It seems humans can’t make up their minds about cormorants. Anywhere humans feel they are competing with the diving birds for fish there is conflict; anywhere the nesting birds appear to dominate areas and compete with other beloved birds or destroy trees there is also conflict. And where there is conflict there are attempts to get rid of cormorants. Should we be picking favorites, privileging one species over another: herons and egrets over cormorants, trees over the birds who inhabit them, fish over birds who eat them, fishermen and fish farmers struggling to make a living over the birds who just want to live?

Is there room for everybody? The seals and cormorants were able to share the haul-out logs; can we find a way to live and let live, too? What would a true balance of nature look like? In this Anthropocene epoch we’ve gone too far down the road of management to just throw up our hands; we’ve got to engage in the difficult work of sorting out what is “natural” and what could do with a little help, or acceptance, or more study.

My thoughts on cormorants were informed by reading an essay by Richard J. King, “To Kill a Cormorant,” posted on the website Natural History at https://www.naturalhistorymag.com/features/19298/to-kill-a-cormorant

And the essay by Brian S. Dorr and David G. Fielder, “The rise of double-crested cormorants: Too Much of a Good Thing?” posted on the website of The Wildlife Society at https://wildlife.org/the-rise-of-double-crested-cormorants-too-much-of-a-good-thing/

There is a persistent buzzing sound emanating from the tangle of rhododendron bushes that create a safe bird habitat tunnel on one side of my house. I pause and wait and am rewarded by a glimpse of something small and pert with an upright flag of a tail: a Bewick’s wren. As a novice birder I am pleased to have recognized that distinctive call that drew my attention to the otherwise small brownish gray bird nearly invisible in the thick leaves. Learning bird sounds, bit by bit, has added to my awareness and affection for these lively but elusive creatures. My ordinary-day life is made richer by these chance encounters; there is more life going on than I knew!

Birds are everywhere! As the cat follows me onto our front porch we both hear the scream of an eagle aloft in the sky as it wheels large circles above nearby Capitol Lake; we look at each other for reassurance and she elects to stay on the porch for now. I nod my agreement even though it would be fantastical if an eagle could dodge all the fences, bushes and other barriers to snatch the cat dozing by the tomatoes, but who wants to find out?

She elects to sprawl on the cushioned bench where she studiously has to ignore the frantic maneuvers of two hummingbirds squabbling over the hanging feeders. Their iridescent flashes are the lightning bolts to the thundering whirr of their wings as they chase each other through the garden. Quieter birds go about their business scratching for bugs, twittering to each other in my neighbor’s protective holly tree, and gathering in small groups on the wires above; mating and raising broods are done for the season. The only other sound comes from scrub jays pounding hazelnut shells on the roof, hopeful of the prize within.

It’s the in-taking pause of breath as one season begins its turn to the next, summer into autumn. Mornings are cooler, often misty and gray, but clearing into heat and high skies by afternoon. We awake now in darkness and clear away dinner dishes as night overtakes sunset. The birds already know all about the waning season; observing them and understanding their cycles offers us a calendar of days full of light and dark, growth and rest, the eternal round.

It feels counter-intuitive that pioneer era women might enjoy camping. Hadn’t they had enough rough living? Or was it a kind of nostalgia or romanticism for the adventures of their youth trudging the Oregon Trail? But there are enough examples extant to accept the practice as not uncommon and experienced as a delightful vacation. (Perhaps no one attempted laundry while tenting.)

A charming memoir of a mid-nineteenth century woman traveler, Caroline Leighton, is outstandingly cheerful. She kept a diary while touring much of the Pacific Northwest with her husband who had been appointed Collector of Customs for Washington Territory and Oregon State, and later California, in the years 1865-1879. She writes of her enthralled voyages by Indian canoe, tramps through trackless forests, and other adventures trekking to far-off corners of the map. For instance, this is how she recounted one such experience:

The journey from Walla Walla to Fort Colville occupied eleven days and nights, during which we did not take a meal in a house, nor sleep in a bed. It was cold, rainy, and windy, a good deal of the time, but we enjoyed it notwithstanding. To wake up in the clear air, with the bright sky above us, when it was pleasant; and to reach at night the little oases of willows and birches and running streams where we camped—it was enough to repay us for a good deal of discomfort. At one of the camping-grounds—Cow Creek—a beautiful bird sang all night; it sounded like bubbling water.

[West Coast Journeys 1865-1879: The Travelogue of a Remarkable Woman, by Caroline C. Leighton, Sasquatch Books, 1995, page 34]

Olympia women enjoyed a good camping adventure too, but took their time away a little closer to home and, no doubt, with a few more creature comforts. Still, it was camping in the pre-Gortex era. Families took boats down the bay and made their way to the old missionary grounds outside of the town for picnics and walks in the woods. Some even swam in the calm waters off the wooded shore or clammed and fished for dinner. On the other side of the bay, in a place known as Butler’s Cove, families found spots suitable for setting up camp near their friends. It was the site of an old Donation Land Claim which later was opened to the town for summertime get-aways, community gatherings, and clam-bakes until it’s transformation into a golf course in 1926.

Margaret’s family was among the ones camping near the lapping waters of the bay under the trees and stars. Even after Margaret’s father passed away in 1899, she and her mother continued to camp on the grounds. There is a mention in the social section of a local paper, The Daily Recorder, that they were among some of the last to break camp in 1907, “hav[ing] spent a number of weeks at the cove and were delighted with the summer’s outing.”  And we know from other sources that Margaret was an excellent swimmer. The family, like others, used the bay as their accustomed place near the old missionary grounds, now a city park called Priest Point Park. These small bits of information help create a picture of her early formative years and the kind of person she became.

She camped whenever she could get away to the mountains or woods. One of her favorite places was up in the Olympic Mountains. She writes to a friend:

“I just returned from a trip to Hurricane Ridge. I slept under the stars at Idaho Shelter. There is no more magnificent scenery in America. I know you agree.”

A little pencil work on the side confirms that yes, as this letter was written in 1955, she was seventy years old then and still sleeping outside, not in a tent, “under the stars.” And loving every minute. She and Caroline would have been kindred spirits.

Credit and thanks for background material for this post to Emmett O’Connell’s essay, “Butler Cove: Tension Sparked at Historic Olympia Landmark” posted here: https://www.thurstontalk.com/2016/04/21/butler-cove-olympia-history/

And to Ed Echtle for his essay on Priest Point Park history posted here: https://olympiahistory.org/historypriestpointpark/. Additional information on Butler Cover was found on the Olympia Historical Society website, “Butler Cover/The Firs” in “Where Are We?”  https://olympiahistory.org/butler-cove/

We were just returning from an exploratory walk in Mission Creek Nature Park in northeast Olympia when we observed a still figure perched on a fence railing. As we quietly approached, my friend noted the white breast with its few streaks of brown and the banded tail, “It must be a juvenile Cooper’s Hawk. It doesn’t know enough yet to fly away.” Not that we posed any danger; we stood still in awe just drinking in its form while it appeared indifferent to our presence. But who could tell what such a wild creature was thinking? We were not as interesting as a mouse or small fluttering bird! Its expression was a blank to us but we were thrilled to be touched, even remotely, by our brush with untamed nature.

Mission Creek Nature Park, now that I think about it in hawk terms, offers a good habitat: “forest, broken woodland, farms, neighborhoods,” as listed by my handy guide, Birds of the Puget Sound Region, by Bob Morse, Tom Aversa and Hal Opperman. They note that these hawks are fairly common and can be found throughout the region. Had it chosen, the hawk could have burst from its perch with speed; had we been prey it would have snatched us in a swoop of its wings. It is known to haunt birdfeeders. Its call is said to be a “repeated kek” with a nasal twang. That day, however, it remained impassively silent. We slipped away.

The park offered a perfect edge environment inside the city, with enough forested land, grassy fields, and some wetland areas with low bushes to support a healthy hawk, handily supplemented with birdfeeders in nearby back yards. Reading the work of University of Washington Professor of Wildlife Science John Marzluff has changed the way I see this mixed landscape. In his Welcome to Subirdia study, Marzluff studies both the new opportunities these human disturbed places created for birds—and other adaptable wildlife like coyotes—as well as the hardships for those whose needs are not flexible. While still working to save true wilderness, we should also value these accessible places where many birds can flourish.

Margaret wrote extensively about gardens and birds-in-gardens. She would have enjoyed Marzluff’s work immensely as it confirmed what she already knew: that we can all make the world friendlier for birds if we take into account their needs for food, water and shelter along with our own needs. We can co-exist. The sight of a magnificent Cooper’s Hawk could be our reward for leaving some spaces “wild enough.”

See my review of Mazluff’s book, Welcome to Subirdia in The Echo, the online publication of Black Hills Audubon Society, January 15, 2018 edition: https://blackhills-audubon.org/armchair-birding/

We weren’t in the mood for parades or fireworks but instead sought out a quieter, more contemplative celebration of the national holiday by immersing ourselves in the majesty of one of our premier local places of refuge. We headed across town to McLane Nature Trail on Delphi Road, to walk—and linger—on the boardwalk that brought us to lookouts on the pond and McLane creek, and a woodland trail that wound among giant trees shaggy with moss. It was just what we needed.

On our way to the first lookout where we hoped to glimpse beavers busy with their own business, or at least newts, I stopped to admire this wildflower tucked snugly into place, a reminder that a forest walk is also all about the small exquisite sights that refresh our spirits if we but notice them.

The lily-pad covered waters were shy of beavers but we were delighted to observe some juvenile wood ducks poking about unconcerned by our presence. Dragonflies zoomed, distant birds called, the clouds had lifted and fleeced across the warm blue sky. We could feel all cares melting in the summer air.

As we entered on the forest path, the woods had a soft feeling, quiet, padded with years of drifted leaves, shed fir debris, deep moss, and the slow ticking of time as trees stretched and grew, fell, and nursed other trees to take their place. We slowed our walk to bask in the hushed atmosphere; even the trickle of stream water over gravel hardly made a sound. Yet the world felt very alive!

Here and there were signs of past disruption: some open, straight lines passing through the forest that marked where old logging railroads had once chugged their loads of felled trees towards millponds and mills. And giant stumps. Where once the kings of the forest had stood, the stumps had turned into stunning sculptures; with bark shed and only almost-abstract forms remaining, we marveled at their beauty and strange dignity. Somehow the violence of their demise was transformed into images of endurance and wonder. After more than a century, they were still there, a vital part of the forest.

The trail winds through the trees, giving peek-a-boo sights of the creek but keeping its gravel beds inviolate for salmon spawning in the fall. We skirted the pond—still no beavers—and found ourselves back at the beginning of the loop. We were completely satisfied with our walk. We had seen young wood ducks, their future extravagant markings just hinted at, we had breathed deeply the forest air and shed our preoccupations, we had felt the warm sun and slight breeze of a perfect day. And there was the white flower, aha! We had everything we had hoped for.

During the years Margaret lived in New York City, 1927 to 1943, she rented out rooms in her house for extra income, and when she returned to Olympia, she continued the practice. As a free-lance writer the income gave her some financial stability, but it also brought her new friends. Dale and Barbara were one such couple who rented from Margaret in the 1950s and found not just a place to call home while stationed at Fort Lewis, but a generous and avid guide to the natural wonders of the area. They enjoyed many outings with her to hunt for mushrooms, wild strawberries, explore mountain meadows and on one occasion, the rich sea-life of Puget Sound. Barbara recalled, “Margaret took us to an aquarium that had specimens of all the things in Puget Sound. And, of course, she could identify them all. That was a fun day.”

In the correspondence, notes and books, and other papers saved from Margaret’s records there are plenty of mentions of mushrooms, birds, trees and wild flowers, and local wildlife, but no mention of tide-pools or the creatures that populate the near-shore environment. Still, “she could identify them all.” And that is a puzzle. How did she learn about all the curious creatures found under the rocks and washing in with the tide? There were few to no guides available yet; she likely learned her marine biology from a fellow aficionado, so far name undiscovered. As her curiosity for nature study was inexhaustible, however, her expertise should not be a surprise. 

Guides to marine life and Internet sites now abound, but the most illuminating way to learn about this hidden bounty is have the good fortune to be present as we were recently for an “Ocean Day” hands-on experience at a local beach. I’ve experienced the generosity of birders who share scopes and knowledge with novices; now I can add marine biologists who happily initiate children and adults alike to the mysteries of what can be found on or near our shores.

What a revelation! As we clambered over rocks to peer into tide-pools, we were shown whelks clinging to the rocks, but also masses of their eggs—which look like small grains of rice—clustered in the crevices. I would have missed seeing them on my own.

Nets employed to gently scoop up small beings were emptied into large aquariums for easier viewing and identification. Crabs, small fish of various kinds, jellyfish, bits of seaweed, and life forms I’ve never seen before swam, floated or scuttled about the tanks. Two of the many creatures which intrigued me were species of nudibranchs (see below) and a creature that looked like a blade of grass with the tiny face of a seahorse on one end, commonly called a bay pipefish!

We stayed, peering into the tanks and chatting and exclaiming until the onset of sunburn reminded us of the passage of time. It was a glorious day of discovery and camaraderie. If Margaret had been with us, she would have been in the thick of things, pointing out the wonders, drawing in the children, and enjoying herself immensely. And identifying everything!  

I am so grateful to Barbara Esler for sharing her memories of living at Margaret’s house and adding insight and color to my understanding of Margaret’s personality and life. I would also like to thank Rob Underhill of Mayne Island Conservancy for help with information for this post and the enthusiastic marine biologists who generously shared their knowledge, Kelly Nordin, Dave Hutchinson and Michael Dunn, while hosting Ocean Day at Kadonaga Bay, St. John Point, on Mayne Island.

We were walking in the woods, reveling in the huge shaggy moss-draped Big-leaf maples, the burst of fresh green leaves on the Salal lighting up the undergrowth, and the majesty of the Doug-firs, as we explored up and down the trails and poked into corners new or half-remembered from other walks. The high chatter of birds only accentuated the quiet we craved. Only a few people were out walking dogs or strolling as were we. One, a woman with two golden retrievers, stopped to chat. She asked if we had found any lilies in bloom. No, we had not. Yet. Her question became a quest, a focus for our attention.

As I searched the margins of the path, I also tried to search the disorganized file-box of my memory: when had I seen them last year? I remembered the delight of finding the bright orange splash of color, the elegant curved-back petals with the extravagant stamens, the tall slender stalks with flower after flower reaching for the dappled sunlight. I remembered the setting, how they grew near openings in the forest, how the wandering paths were opportune spots for their growth and just as opportune for us seeking to view their splendor. But what time of year was it that had we had discovered their presence?

Not for the first time I resolved to keep a nature journal, a record of just this kind of information. Margaret would have known the annual date of blooming from all her years of wild flower gardening and close observation of natural cycles. She could step out of her door and note the arrival of a migrating bird, then its nesting and eventual fledging of the new offspring. The flowering and fruiting of native plants, the seasonal round of growth, would play out just steps from her home. She would have been aware how everything worked together—the insect bloom to feed the young birds as they hatched, the new growth arriving just when deer and other grazers need it most, the spring rains freshening and supporting the new life, the longer days of sunlight powering the entire cycle—making the wheel of life turn.

Keeping a notebook of natural occurrences would also prime us for these moments of wonder and joy. We eventually did find some lilies; first one bravura burst of orange, and then another, and another, until we were seeing them everywhere we looked. Our day was transformed by the beauty and surprise of the lilies. We were lucky to be in the right place at the right time. Memory stirred and I recalled that I had seen the lilies last year about this time—the week of my birthday. Surely I could remember that wondrous gift.

On a trail walk in Grass Lake Nature Park in Olympia, my friend and I stopped short at the sight of these pale, almost shimmering, white stalks growing in a clump in the undergrowth. They resembled hunched over asparagus. They had to be something special. We got down on our knees and studied them close up. They were spooky feeling!            

We discovered they were quite special. They were listed in Pojar and MacKinnon, authors of the authoritative text Plants of the Pacific Northwest Coast, under “Oddballs.” The authors explain,

“Most plants make their own food through photosynthesis, but some plants get their food in other ways. Such plants often have little or no chlorophyll, and so do not look particularly green. The weird appearance of these botanical oddballs commonly arouses wonder and puzzlement (‘What is that thing?!’), and so we have grouped them in a special section on their own.”

They listed four different types of plants in this grouping: Insectivorous, Saprophytic, Parasitic, and in a special category of its own, the Indian Pipe. As Pojar and MacKinnon described: “The roots of Indian-pipe, a member of the wintergreen family, are connected to the roots of coniferous trees by a specialized combination of fungal filaments and plant roots called a mycorrhiza (meaning fungus-root). Nutritionally it is a parasite, but a very special one, because it is not connected directly to its host.”

I learned more about this unusual relationship in a book by David Suzuki and Wayne Grady, Tree: A Life Story. This book centers on one particular Douglas-fir and then by root and branch examines all that touches its existence and reciprocally, all it influences in turn. (If you had to pick the center of the universe, why not a magnificent tree?) As they studied the tree, they noticed Indian pipe living in close relationship to this fir: “their faintly pink stems and bowed heads poking up like pale, sad worms above the forest litter.”

Since it has no chlorophyll of its own (it turns black as it matures), it does not produce sugars either for itself or for its mycorrhizal partner, and yet Boletus is there. It turns out that the fungus attached to the Indian pipe roots also attaches to the roots of nearby conifers, such as Douglas-fir; the Boletus siphons nutrients out of the conifer and transfers them directly to the Indian pipe. No one knows what, if anything, the Indian pipe contributes to the fungus or to the Douglas-fir. It might contribute nothing; if so, this is one of the rare instances in nature of a free lunch. (page 58)

This reads like a botanical mystery story, ripe for discovery by some future brilliant plant detective. Meanwhile, I want to return to this spot and see if I can witness this mature phase when this plant turns from a sickly white to black to…whatever happens next. Who knew the plant world held so much suspense!

As a historian/biographer working to understand Margaret McKenny’s life-and-times, one of my most basic tasks it to accurately create a chronology of what she did and when she did it. This involves searching all kinds of archival collections and sources to document her activities and understand the context that informed her work and points of view. (Just cast your mind over the ephemera in your desk drawers at this moment and think about what some future historian might conclude about your life and its meaning if it was all sorted into an archival box!)

I do this task with respect and great caution; much has been saved but also so much lost that most conclusions are tentative and, using the historian’s much-used phrase “needs more research.” One of the delights—and problems—reading Margaret’s papers and publications is that she sounds ageless. She is sprightly, coy, full of fun and jokes, and sometimes stern and formidable….but all at once. She does not begin “young” and grow older in her remarks so that they progress in seriousness or purpose. She retains her spirit of adventure and sense of wonder and fun all the way through her life.

One exercise I sometimes use to remind myself of whatever decade I’m delving into is to ask myself what she might have been wearing so that I can picture her more clearly. Another reason for asking this is to remember that she was born in 1885. Queen Victoria had sixteen years of her reign still to come. Grover Cleveland was president of the United States. Washington was still a territory; statehood came four years later. And around this time the Gibson Girl look was all the rage in the fashionable world. As a girl and young woman, whether she indulged in keeping up with the popular magazine pen-and-ink image created by artist Charles Dana Gibson that stamped a generation of women, it was ubiquitous copied or resisted. Tall, small-waisted, hair piled high up on the head to accentuate a long graceful neck: it’s fair to say Margaret did not fit the bill. But another side of the look was decidedly athletic and adventuresome: bicycling, playing tennis, swimming and even mountain climbing (while wearing a corset), were much more appealing and aspirational images, perhaps minus the tight lacing.

For an alternative look and exciting example for girls and women in Washington, twenty year-old teacher and journalist Fay Fuller donned “flannel underwear, a thick flannel bloomer suit, woolen hose, heavy calfskin boy’s shoes with caulks, and to top it all off, a small straw hat” to summit Mount Rainier August 9, 1890. Not shown, she also wore goggles to protect her eyes from snow glare and, as was the practice, darkened her face with charcoal to prevent sunburn. She was the only woman in a party of climbers who reached their goal, and is credited with being the first woman to make it to the top. She repeated her triumph on Rainier seven years later and climbed many area peaks with local climbing groups of which she was a founder.

It is likely Margaret did wear the long skirts and fitted blouses of the pre-Great War era, even when she was out botanizing, tramping in the woods, and camping on Mount Rainier or the Olympic Mountains, all favorite activities when she was a young woman, as well as later. That’s probably how we should imagine her.

There are not a lot of photos of her that have survived but in every one of them, right up to the end of her life, she is wearing either a dress or a skirt. And usually a hat. It’s true that in later years the dress hems no longer swept the sidewalks but….a dress (and stockings) is still a dress.  So, in that way, she was of her time, when women did not wear pants.

It never held her back.