A Right Frog-Strangler Rain

Day 170: Day before yesterday, we had what my mother would have called "a right frog-strangler of a rain." 1.68" registered in my pluviometer which by no means was a record here, but it was still a substantial amount. It turned the pasture into a lake, filled all the ditches, swelled rivers and streams to near flood stage, and of course brought out that rarest of frogs, the Round-Eyed Refrigerans.

Refrigerans magnetus is unusual among amphibians in that the pupils of the eyes are circular rather than a horizontal or vertical slit. The reasons for this physical anomaly are unknown, although some speculate that it may have to do with the frog's preference for artificial light. These creatures are drawn to kitchens where they attach themselves to freezers and refrigerators (hence the Latin name) and emit a mating call not unlike the humming sound made by the motors of those appliances. The above specimen was discovered in natural surroundings, and quite unnaturally for the species. I would postulate that the unseasonally cool temperatures in the area may be encouraging these rare frogs into habitat not normally utilized.

For Rent, Cheep

Day 169: In today's paper: "For Rent, Cheep. Cozy, recently refurbished single-family dwelling with attached mother-in-law cottage with separate entry. Location can't be beat, close to woodland and fine dining. Shaded from summer heat, this cedar-built unit would be the perfect spot to raise a family. What are you waiting for? Come and see it today!"

The official date of the swallows' historic return to Capistrano is March 21. My Tree Swallows keep a somewhat more relaxed schedule and may arrive a week earlier or later, but this year, they are unseasonably late. I blame our recent low-elevation snow and continuing cool temperatures. The swallow houses stand empty, available for immediate occupancy, and I won't even ask for a credit check.

Raven

Day 168: Raven is one of the principle characters in the stories told by the Pacific Northwest's First Peoples. He is often seen in opposition to Coyote, and both spirits may be referred to as "The Trickster." When the two meet in a tale, As for who wins out in each encounter, it depends on who is telling the story. In the desert country of eastern Washington, Coyote is more likely to be the hero, and the opposite is true for the west side of the mountains where Coyote's mammalian counterpart is less common.

This small desktop "story pole" (the term which is currently considered to be politically correct) comes from the Tulalip nation and was carved in part by Ed Loney as a gift to my mother. When he passed away, the work was completed by his understudy George Craig. Raven, with his prominent "ears" and outstretched wings is the topmost figure.

The Caw

Day 167 (Part B): How could I refuse to take a picture of my cousin here, especially when he engaged me in conversation for ten minutes or more? "Caw...caw...caw," he said; an acknowledgment or greeting from one who recognized a kindred spirit. "Caw," I replied; the equivalent of, "Good morning, I think it's going to rain today." "Caw...caw...caw," he repeated, which (if you are a crow) is a continuation of the thought-concept being entertained at the moment, i.e., "Yes, I think you're right, and there's not much we can do about it so we might as well accept the fact." At that point, my vocabulary failed me. I speak only a few words of my native tongue and lack the proper grasp of syntax and nuance of pronunciation. My friend didn't seem to mind. I remarked that the blackbirds were certainly numerous, and my companion turned around on his branch to verify the fact. Then he picked up a tiny stick which he'd been holding between his feet, heretofore out of my line of vision. He toyed with it for a few minutes, faced me with it held in his beak, and then placed it back underfoot. Clearly, it was a very special stick, all two inches of it. We continued our verbal exchange for another several sentences, and then I excused myself to continue on my way in town, having completely forgotten to mention the heron fishing among the cattails. Caw!

Red-Winged Blackbirds, Agelaius Phoeniceus

Day 167 (part A): The purpose of the stop at my favorite duck pond this morning was to see if the Red-Winged Blackbirds were about. Oh, my! They certainly were, and in numbers. I saw only one female and was unable to get a shot of her, so I returned later in the day to try again. This time, there were only a few birds in the area, but one of them was the female shown on the left.

That said, there were a few other folk visiting the pond: a Great Blue Heron (possibly the same bird whose portrait I've made previously) and another good friend who stole the show. Today, 365 Caws has a bonus edition, and for "good caws." Stay tuned!

Rings

Day 166: The rings you see here were made by my late husband, cast in gold or silver using the lost-wax process and set with gemstones he had faceted himself. The few exceptions to that were star sapphires (my favorite regardless of color) and cabochons which I'd cut from agate and a variety of other materials. I did not have the eye to detail which he possessed, nor the patience, and it always astonished me that his large, ungainly hands could craft such exacting beauty. I could name these stones if my memory was younger: tanzanite, ruby, alexandrite, gallium gadolinium garnet and the like...exotic stones from faraway places and man-made synthetics straight from the laboratory, purchased as thumb-sized boules and sawn into smaller pieces with a diamond blade. His craftsmanship was perfection, each meet (the point at which the angles intersect) sharply accurate and each face flawlessly polished. Ironically, he added each one to my collection knowing that I seldom had occasion to wear jewelry. Even now, I admire them only in the box and rarely put one on my hand.

Grosbeak Hazel

Day 165: Imagine, if you will, a Goldfinch the size of an American Robin. That's how you could best describe a male Evening Grosbeak, although his yellow is a bit more greenish. These handsome birds are one of the most colorful species in western Washington and a welcome sight at the feeders at almost any time of year. During mating season, their heavy seed-cracking bills turn a brilliant chartreuse color, as if they weren't already easy to recognize. Their appetite for black-oil sunflower seed is legendary, and not a one of them ever goes hungry at Café Crow.

Skunk Cabbage, Lysichitum Americanum

Day 164: When I was very young, it was my mother's custom each Spring to pick one flower of our native Skunk Cabbage to be brought indoors. Its pungent odor (that which gives rise to its name) would permeate the house for several days. Although I don't observe the custom in my own home, the scent of a Skunk Cabbage bog brings with it a number of fond reminiscences, not the least of which was my mother's independent, nonconformist character. As a symbol, it is my opinion that a person could have worse.

Undaunted, Spring Rises

Day 163: I feel as if I have spent the winter months photographing things without spirit: man-made things, things unnatural in the truest sense of the word. There is no heart in a plastic mechanism, no soul in a clockwork device, nothing to animate dead wood or metal. I am hungry for the essence of Nature's being in my environment and weary of seeing constructs of the human hand. I ache to return to the world of gracefully curved lines, putting sharp angles to my back, to see soft colors with hues no paint-pot ever held. Winter has lingered over-long, but today Spring rose undaunted by recent snow at the edge of my sidewalk, and in that moment, the world regained its color and its grace.

A Storybook Farm

Day 162: Over a hundred years ago, immigrant farmers came to this area looking for fertile land in a river valley, a place where they could pasture herds of cattle. Meandering Ohop Creek held promise as a continuing water source, but little did the settlers realize until some years had past that the boggy nature of the valley was not an occasional phenomenon, but rather a permanent situation. In an effort to drain the land and make it more arable, they excavated Ohop Creek and straightened out its channel, intending to create a faster run-off, but they were defeated by the clayey nature of the underlying soil. The straightening of the creek's channel had another unexpected side effect. It destroyed the habitat for spawning salmon.

In the last twenty years, restoration of the wetland has been a project for a variety of groups. Contractors were brought in to restore the natural meander, native plants have been reintroduced to the flood plain and invasive species have been removed. Today, visitors to this lovely valley will see farm buildings such as this only above the flood plain. Most lowland structures have been removed.

The Daily Eagle

Day 161: Earlier this morning, I took the tripod over into the pasture and happened to notice Mr. Eagle sitting in the top of the tallest foreground cottonwood, a favorite place for both eagles and ravens. The light was poor at that hour, and consequently the images were somewhat lacking in quality, especially given a digital zoom factor of 95-118x. After the sun was fully up, I put my boots back on and went across the road again. Mr. E was still in his tree, so I began a slow approach.

Now when you're creeping up on an eagle, "slow" is the operative word. It took me half an hour, feet freezing in rubber boots, to get into position for this shot. It's still a strong zoom (74x, if memory serves), but it brought out the detail in his feathers and more importantly, his eye. The trick was finding a spot where he didn't have a branch obscuring his face and then waiting for him to turn his head into a position where his eye wasn't in shadow. I thought I might get a little closer, but my next movement sent him into flight, but he'll be back. I never tire of these magnificent birds even though they're quite common in my area.

Zeno's Paradox

Day 160: Greek philosopher Zeno proposed a number of paradoxical problems, one of which might be termed, "You can't get there from here." Let us suppose that a walker starts at Point A and progresses x number of feet. He then turns left and continues for one-half that distance, at which point he turns left again. He continues on, halving the distance travelled at every turn until he finally...

...fails miserably at reaching his destination, because he still has half the distance left to travel from the last point at which he stopped.

Despite the fact that Aristotle stepped in a few years later and refuted this assertation by introducing time into the equation, his solution was still not perfect. Today, the hypothesis remains a subject for debate, and perhaps will not be fully resolved until Mankind develops the mental capacity for embracing dimensions beyond the normally accepted four.

Herd In Passing

Day 159: No trip to Washington State would be complete without a visit to Mount Rainier National Park. The Mountain draws people...and weather...like a magnet. As elusive as the Mountain may be for tourists seeking that perfect sunset photo, a sight equally rare is that of the herds of elk pasturing at the peak's feet.

These magnificent animals are most likely to be spotted at dawn and dusk, times when the light is dim and the possibility of getting a good photograph is minimal, even for those of us who live here. However, as we drove toward the Park this morning, the elk were out on both sides of the road, close enough to the highway that we could remain in the car and avoid spooking them into flight.

Spaghetti Betty

Day 158: Your mother told you not to play with your food. That's because she didn't know you were going to grow up to be a photographer. While I've seen a lot of examples of food-art faces, I'd never made one myself. Permit me to introduce Spaghetti Betty. Her hair is spaghetti (obviously). Her mouth is red bell pepper. Her eyes are slices of hard-boiled egg and olives. Her nose is a tiny piece of cheese, and her "beauty mark" is a pepper seed.

Let's Go Fishing

Day 157: While the rest of the country is lamenting unseasonably warm temperatures, the Pacific Northwest is experiencing yet another unusual March snowstorm. Oh, we get a flurry or two in the lion-lamb month, but it seldom sticks and certainly doesn't pile up like it did last week. Today it has come and gone in the yard, but driving across the Divide to Riffe Lake was treacherous. The stuff was coming down sideways, blanketing the road to the point that I had to put one wheel on the rumble strip to be sure I wasn't too close to the verge. Unsurprisingly, not even the hardiest of fisherfolk was out on Riffe Bridge today. I don't think a run of 18" silvers would have brought a soul to drop a line at this exceptionally popular spot, not even yours truly.

And Ye'll Be Havin' A Wee Haggis Wi' That, Aye?

Day 156 (special edition)
Happy St. Patrick's Day to all my
FRIENDS!

Crow In Winter

Day 156: In the legends of the Pacific Northwest's First People, it is told that when the world was new, it was entirely shrouded in darkness and it was cold. All the people and animals lived in misery, unable to see to hunt, unable to warm themselves. After a period of time, they gathered together to discuss what might be done to relieve their suffering. It was proposed that some one of them would go to the Sun to steal fire and bring it back to Earth, but no one, not even Coyote the Trickster, was brave enough to undertake the task. Raven, who at that time was a white bird, knew that he could gain stature with his fellows if he proved himself to be braver than Coyote, so at length he said that he would go. He flew for many days, feeling the increasing heat from the Sun until it became almost unbearable,but knowing he had a task to fulfill, he bore on until he reached his goal. He snatched a piece of fire from the Sun and flew away, but his feathers were burned black. When he returned to Earth, he gave the piece of fire to the other animals and the people, and thus became one of the principle characters of local legend.

Perhaps not so strangely, this story has a parallel among the Australian Aboriginal peoples. There, it was the clever Crows who got together to save their companions. They took long sticks in their beaks and pried up the edge of the great darkness, allowing light to creep in beneath its hem.

Today, the Crows brought both light and snow to the morning, reminding me of the legend as they gathered in the big Doug fir to await their daily tribute of dog kibble.

Catkins

Day 155: I went out to the garage today, purposing to pot up the rooted pussywillow twigs which had been living in a Mason jar in my kitchen window since late January, and after having done so, I lined them up against the side of the building for a commemorative photo. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a few flecks of something silvery caught in the branches of an earlier pussywillow start which had seldom put on more than two or three catkins. "Wait a minute!" I said to self, "Silver?" and glanced around to see several branches bearing a few soft grey buds.

Pussywillows elsewhere around here are done, their catkins gone to long, drooping strands laden with yellow pollen. March is not pussywillow season, not at all. And yet there was the evidence on the bush: catkins, soft and silvery in the dismal light of afternoon, as if to acknowledge the newly potted twigs, "Oh, I see you've come to join me. I'll dress for the occasion." It was certainly a surprise for me, and now I trust that I will never have a shortage of pussywillows again, although I don't think I can expect to see them bloom in January as everyone else's do.

Eagle Peak From Longmire Meadow

Day 154: The projected lowering of the snow level did not occur today as planned, and instead the precipitation came down as a hard rain at Longmire, dissolving icicles and turning sidewalks into trenches filled with slush. A brief late afternoon lull permitted me a fifteen-minute ramble around the Trail of the Shadows and the sight of Eagle Peak piercing a low ceiling of cloud. It is the season of melt here now, skunk cabbage and devil's club waiting for the snow to recede before putting up buds, but today the only green was a few brave shoots of meadow grass at the edges of the water.

Bike-Eating Tree

Day 153: You encounter the strangest things when you're out in the woods in the Pacific Northwest, but this is one of the odder finds of my career. I've seen choker cables embedded deep inside shattered stumps, nails and spikes largely grown over with bark, and even a steering column complete with wheel seemingly piercing a tree like an arrow, but this is the first time I've run across a rare Bike-Eating Fir. A more distant view would reveal that the bicycle is up about nine feet from ground level, and from the looks of it, it was probably left propped up against the tree back around 1950 or so. Maybe little Johnny Jones forgot where he'd parked it. There's a story here, giving rise to dozens of theories with no possible hope of validation, and one wonders if perhaps that's not for the best. It is good to have an unsolved mystery or two rattling around in your head, something which makes you puzzle over just how it came to be. Some things are simply meant to be unknowable.

An Inconvenience Of Snow

Day 152: Why is it snowing so abundantly in bloody March, I want to know! At most, the Pacific Northwest gets a couple of dustings in this, the month when Spring purportedly begins. Yet today, I found four inches on the ground when I drew back the drapes, and it is continuing to snow, the total accumulation now registering at approximately six inches depth, sufficiently that the crows sank belly-deep in it when they came to feed at the board.

Grosbeaks such as this fellow and the other smaller birds walk on the top of it, repeated landings knocking most of it off the feeder roofs. Below the feeders, the surface is stamped with tiny footprints and peck marks where the ground crew has been cleaning up scattered seed. To them, beings with no regard for the calendar, this snowfall is but a minor inconvenience. To me, on the other hand, it is a puzzlement. Why a January snow in March? That's what I want to know.

New Kid In The Club

Day 151: Well, you probably could have guessed that my favorite Angry Bird would be the black one, although I have to admit a fondness for the toucan-looking guy who boomerangs on command. With a collection of stuffies any kid would envy already on my shelves, I figured one more wouldn't tax the system. I hope he fits in with Corax, Ms. Crow and the little kids. I'm a bit concerned by his penchant for colorful language and his deportment certainly would not earn high marks on his report card, but I think his social skills will improve as he interacts with the club. Of course, getting him away from the influence of those vulgar pigs was of paramount importance.

Oh, Brother!

Day 150: Running in third place behind mowing the lawn and washing the car, sewing takes its place among the tasks I hate to do. Never mind that I've made dozens of quilts, elaborate period costumes, men's wear, women's dresses, blouses, two Star Trek uniforms and assorted other projects! I hate sewing. I really do.

When my forty-year old sewing machine died last fall, I won't say I was exactly jubilant, but I did figure it gave me the excuse I needed to say, "That's it. I never have to sew again." Shortly thereafter, I discovered I needed to replace the elastic in a favorite pair of trousers. I bought new trousers instead. Then I needed to take six inches off the bottoms of my uniform pants. I paid to have it done. All of a sudden, buying a new sewing machine started to look like a better option.

Well, I've been putting up with long tails on my uniform shirts for over a month now. They're long enough that I could belt the shirts and pass them off as summer mini-skirt dresses. It's a five-minute process to tuck them down pantlegs when I've responded to a call of nature, and occasionally, I've inadvertently dipped them in the bowl. Yeah, a sewing machine was definitely in order.

To that end, today I bought a low-end Brother at Walmart. The shirts are hemmed. Hopefully, I won't have to sew anything else for a year or more.

Skunk And A Bouncy Ball

Day 149: Trying to get a picture of a running cat swatting a bouncy ball in low light simply wasn't going to work, but Skunk was so enjoying having her mama's undivided attention for some romping play that I finally just put the camera down. It occurred to me that her interest in bouncy balls has waned since she lost her hearing. Now I find that I need to bounce it in her line of sight in order to get her to chase it.

Skunk is no spring chicken. She's coming up on her tenth birthday and has arthritis in her hips and back. Today, she forgot about the aches and pains of age for a bit to be a kitten again, and then laid down for a nap where she could keep an eye on that bouncy ball just in case it decided to bounce off somewhere without her.

Cootie

Day 148: A few days ago while I was searching for something in my garage, I discovered I had cooties...four of them, to be precise, all of their legs, antennae, eyes and proboscises intact...and I wandered down the path of nostalgia to a place of gentler, simpler times.

My father and mother played this game, and it was perhaps my first introduction to the scientific terms for insect body parts. At four or five years old, the words fascinated me and after all, the box does state, "an exciting educational game for all ages." Was it a guidepost on the course of my life? Yes, I believe so.

Cooties. Whodathunk they'd play a role in the formative years of a child?

Bike Trail Chuckle

Day 147: Sometimes you run into something which just makes you go, "Hmmmmm." I found this bit of art (and I use the term loosely) on the Chehalis-Western bike trail today, and it made me laugh out loud. A fir cone was mounted on the posts at either end of the strand of barbed wire, and although a few had apparently fallen off, I'm certain each barb had at one time borne a cone as well. The cone in the upper two images is the same one. I didn't get a shot of the one on the second post. In the lower image, you'll see the full array of decorated barbs. Someone has a strongly developed sense of whimsy, and most assuredly "made my day," as the saying goes.

Disk Harrow

Day 146: Once a year, the fellow who owns the pasture across the road reassembles this old disk harrow and makes two or three passes up close to the brush line, a swath no more than twenty feet wide. I assume he's creating a fire break. He's certainly not doing it as a means of weed control because the undisked land sprouts up with thousands of Canada thistles which are invariably allowed to go to seed. The disk sits idle for the rest of the year, seldom in the same location. It is as if the plowman says to himself, "Okay, that's it. I've had enough," and drops his task whenever the mood strikes him. Since last summer, the machinery has been at the far end of the pasture, and until today, I had never bothered to photograph it.

Stalacticicle

Day 145: Last week, that icicle was about eighteen inches shorter but almost the same diameter it is now. I was told that a foot or so broke off the bottom, replaced now by a daily cycle of freeze and thaw. I'd not want to be the deer mouse standing beneath it when it finally lets go, and I imagine we'll hear the crash in our second-floor office. I hope somebody weighs the pieces!

Spring Pastels

Day 143: Spring is not a myth. Despite snow flurries today, the robins are out en masse. These are not our winter robins, no. The winter group has flown north, returning to Alaska. These are Oregon's robins...or I should say, these are our robins returning from a vacation in a warmer climate.

The robin exchange is well documented and occurs almost everywhere these birds are found. Most people believe that they have the same robins year-'round, but that's not true. I don't quite follow the robin logic here, since obviously the needs of the incoming robins are adequately met. Why don't the outgoing robins simply stay on? Is some holdover gene spurring them to migrate in the fashion of their antecedents? Or is it just because they enjoy a change of scenery? In any event, a swell of red-breasted spring heralds has arrived, and are chanting a chorus of chirps to dispel the snow.

Pufferbelly Smokestack

Day 142: "Down by the station, early in the morning,
See the little pufferbellies, all in a row.
See the stationmaster pull the little handle.
Chug-chug, toot-toot, off they go!"

This one isn't going anywhere, unfortunately, but it sits outside the tiny Elbe depot owned by Mt. Rainier Scenic Railroad to encourage people to take a ride. Passengers travel between Elbe and Mineral, crossing the Nisqually River on a new bridge which replaced the one washed out in the floods of 1996. The tour was suspended for a number of years as Tacoma Rail considered the economic feasibility of repairs. The line had only one other client, a lumber mill in Morton, and they'd discovered that trucking their product was no more expensive than shipping it by train. Evenutally, the potential for tourist trade prevailed and the area received a minor economic boost when the line reopened. Ironically, residents take the train for granted, and few of us have ever ridden it ourselves.

Invaders From The Cat Planet

Day 142: Y'know, every now and then, you run across something which is just so utterly butt-ugly that it's cute. I don't really have a spot in my garden for this feller, so he did NOT follow me home, but I was sorely tempted. As to his purpose...well, maybe he's a mouse-getter. If he was a toad house, the opening would be at his base rather than being a mouth. I can imagine installing a mousetrap inside his hollow tummy, primed for a deer mouse to scamper up and tumble in. I mean, what's a cat for, if not to catch mice?

Hellebore Emergent

Day 141: Hellebore is a child of two worlds, a flower of transition which binds together the seasons of winter and spring. It lifts its head above the snow undaunted, its color a welcome contrast to the stark, harsh landscape of frost and ice. Its nodding flowers are unproud, unlike the daffodils whose upright, brazen faces dare the elements of weather, and in that habit is the key to its survival. It is both beautiful and humble, a plant of lesson and moral for humankind.

Siskin Club's March Meeting Minutes

Day 140: The Siskin Club meeting was called to order on the contorted filbert at 12:15 PM, March 1. The first topic on the agenda was food availability. No shortages were reported and it was decided that relocation was unnecessary. A motion was raised to install heating cables at the most popular branches, but was quickly shelved when the issue of DoE permits was introduced to the discussion. President Carduelis brought the matter of the weather to the floor, stating in disgust that he felt March should have been better planned, and the membership concurred unanimously that it was time to adjourn to the better shelter of the feeders. The group reconvened at the new location for brunch. A new version of March should be announced later in the week.