Lookout, look out!

A mountaintop dispatch — and a fundraising update.

Hi friends! Up first: My deepest thanks to those of you who have contributed to the making of Monumental, the documentary film I’m directing. So far, 22 people have donated, bringing me about a third of the way toward my $10,000 summer fundraising goal.

Thank you for supporting this film! And if you haven’t joined your fellow Monumentalists yet, there’s still time to give. Please consider a tax-deductible donation via Film Independent. Your contribution goes toward hiring some outstanding creative partners to bring this project to a screen near you in 2027.

****Also: Don’t forget to check out the two-minute trailer!****

And now, a photo dispatch from Central Oregon…

Mt. Washington, seen from Black Butte. Near Sisters, Oregon. July 5, 2025.

Last weekend, my little fam hiked to the top of Black Butte, a 6,436-foot mountain near the town of Sisters in Central Oregon. We began at the main trailhead, which is at about 4,800 feet above sea level at the end of a narrow, bumpy, gravel road. The peak is about two miles up, with an elevation gain of 1,539 feet—it's a consistently steep trek.

At first, the trail winds through a sun-dappled ponderosa pine forest. About a mile in, it's more exposed. There's evidence of recent fires, most of them caused by lightning strikes. The southern face of the mountain opens to steep wildflower meadows and views of other peaks, many of them still snow-capped in early July. Butterflies danced around us.

I’m not certain what kind of butterfly this is, but a Friend of the Windfall Dispatch tells me it’s perched on a Washington lily.

It was a beautiful, clear day for a hike, and not too hot. But as the sun warmed the path, it grew more challenging for Mojie. Her feet were just too hot, even on the soft, dusty path. We had plenty of water for her and us, but whenever she encountered a shady spot, she plopped down to rest. All the other dogs on the trail were looking for cool refuges.

Mojie, cooling off her paws.

This was my first hike up Black Butte, even though I lived just 100 miles from the mountain as a teen, and then spent a month with the peak in my sight in 2021 while writing the final chapters of Windfall in Sisters. Sometimes we don't see the most obvious places. And sometimes the most obvious places have the best views.

Atop Black Butte is a working 62-foot tall fire lookout tower, as well as a historic cupola fire lookout dating to 1923. From a viewing platform, you can see all the way to Mt. Adams to the north as well as Mt. Hood, Mt. Jefferson, Mt. Washington and the Three Sisters and more. All the iconic volcanoes of the region, basically.

The fire lookout atop Black Butte, still in use during fire season.

The day we were there, so were two volunteer historians, who gave us a tour of the cupola while Mojie rested in the shade. Inside is an old crank-operated telephone, which was once used to call in the coordinates of fires. There's also a stool with glass insulating bulbs covering the legs; the watch-keeper would perch atop during lightning storms to stay grounded. Sometimes there'd be so much electrical activity during storms that their hair would stand on end, the guide told me.

I don't want to be too ham-handed about it, but there is a metaphor here. It takes watchfulness and the care of our neighbors to attend to what we have, and to maintain it and to fight for it.

Only you can prevent forest fires! Inside the historic cupola.

The next day, we drove home through lava fields along the McKenzie Highway, which is closed much of the year by snow. There in the midst of lava fields is the Dee Wright observatory, a castle-like structure constructed out of volcanic rock in 1935 by the Civilian Conservation Corps. I forgot to take a wide photo of it, but you can see it here. And see below for what it looks like peering from the viewing windows inside the observatory.

Hey, that's Black Butte, the mountain we climbed the day before!

Black Butte in central Oregon, seen through a viewing window built into Dee Wright Observatory.

From reading the interpretive signage, I know that the lava fields surrounding the observatory are of a type known as "‘A‘ā," pronounced "ah ah." It's a Hawaiian term for basaltic lava "characterized by a rough jagged clinkery surface."

Imagine my delight as a writer, taking the scenic route home after a holiday weekend, stopping to read signage written by a geologist, and coming across two new-to-me words that sound like what they mean when said out loud: "‘A‘ā" and "clinkery." Perfect day, truly.

Atop the observatory, out in the open, there's a brass peak-finding plaque that identifies all the mountains within view. There, I had a brief conversation with a man with a Baltic accent about backpacking to a nearby alpine lake, and how our main, mutual regret is that life is too short to see all the beauty in this world.

Yours,

Erika

A portal to another dimension. Or a burned snag from a past lighting-strike fire atop Black Butte.

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