Ahead Of The Jays

Day 362: We have had at least half a dozen light frosts here in the last two weeks, so it was time for me to start taste-testing the grapes. Almost without exception, this ritual is pointless; I decide the grapes need a few more days on the vine, and the jays clean me out just before I go out to pick. This year, I seem to have gotten the jump on them, at least to some extent. While the lower bunches are still tart and hard, a few of the higher ones are sweet and tasty. The clusters of this variety are small and loosely formed and the fruits are also small, but may be used for wine as well as being very good on the table. While I wouldn't begrudge my jays a meal or two at my expense, it's nice when they allow me to share in the bounty.

Litter Pickers

Day 361: Happy National Public Lands Day! In honor of the occasion, Mount Rainier's Volunteer Program held its first "Adopt-A-Highway" litter pickup along SR 706, the gateway to the Park's most popular Nisqually entrance. One professor, nine students from the Evergreen State College and two local residents spent four and a half hours collecting seventeen bags of trash from the roadside despite occasional sprinkles.

It pleases me to say that everything went smoothly because this project was my "baby" from the seminal thought to the execution of this first patrol. Through the Volunteer Program office, I made contact with the State Dept. of Transportation to negotiate an agreement which was acceptable to both them and us. With National Public Lands Day shortly to come up on the calendar, we had to move fairly quickly to have everything in place today. Last week, I took delivery of State-supplied bags, signage and a training video, and then rounded up the remainder of our gear from various offices in the Park. Safety vests and long-armed grabbers were distributed among four "knots" of workers (three people to a knot), and in four and a half hours, the teams worked diligently to be certain each half-mile section of a two-mile length of highway was immaculately litter-free. A few hazardous items were marked for special pickup by the DoT.

Art students, the two young men (Taylor and Jude) kneeling to the left of me in the image drew the short straw and now know far more about native plants than they expected to learn during a trash pickup. That said, both entered the information in their personal journals and accompanied the descriptions with beautiful pen-and-ink illustrations of the plants pointed out to them. They also sketched owl, flicker and crow feathers in great detail. I was also thoroughly amused by the fact that they assigned a sound to each "species" of litter as it was dropped into the bag.

All in all, I couldn't have asked for a better group of Volunteers. Thanks, gang! It's a dirty job, but somebody's gotta do it.

Not Lerner And Loewe

Day 360: Within seconds of receiving last month's Bird Phenology Program newsletter, I was drafting a response to the trivia question in the hopes of winning a prize. Fingers flying, I typed in "Lerner and Loewe!!!" and in the next second was shaking my head and saying, "No, no, no, no, no...you do that every time! It's Leopold and Loeb!" I backspaced my error and rewrote the correction. For once, I hadn't hit "send" prematurely, and I was still in time to be the winner. My prize arrived in yesterday's mail, a coffee cup with the Patuxent Wildlife Research Center's logo and two BPP pens. In honor of the occasion, I made oatmeal cookies.

So what was special about Lerne...excuse me, Leopold and Loeb? The trivia question was this: "What famous ornithologist was sentenced to life imprisonment for murder in 1924?" The pair were convicted of the murder of a 14-year old boy. Nathan Leopold died while serving his sentence, but Richard Loeb was released after 33 years' imprisonment and went back into his chosen field of study, ornithology. He is known primarily for his research into the bird species of Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands.

Ethiopian Basket

Day 359: When my mother was a young girl, family friend Daisy went to be a missionary in Ethiopia. Idealistic to a fault, I have no doubt that Daisy's eyes were opened wide when she discovered the living conditions her converts had to endure, but she stuck with it for several years until she contracted malaria and had to be sent home to the US.

During the years she ministered to the impoverished and spiritually needy, she sent home a few handcrafted items, one of which was this sewing basket which in my own childhood was still brightly colored. My mother was rather casual about where she kept it, and thus the lid became badly sun-faded. The interior is still bright (perhaps not as bright as it once was), and now I keep it out of strong light, still using it as a container for sewing supplies and small projects. Although I never knew Daisy, the memories of her which my mother imparted to me always rise when I lift the lid.

Successful Carnivores

Day 358: In just a week or two, the inevitable frosts will put my carnivorous garden to sleep for the winter. Native to Oregon, these plants are cold-hardy, but go into a dormant period when the tops die back, and although they ordinarily grow in boggy areas, the soil should be allowed to dry out quite a bit during that time.

When I first purchased these three plants (two Pitcher Plants and one Sundew), they had very few heads. Apparently they've enjoyed a diet of mosquitoes, flies and other hapless insects because they have really burgeoned into a lush bowlful of exotic shapes. A month or so ago, our resident buck cropped the tops of several of them only to discover that they didn't taste as good as he had hoped. I hung a string of bells to further deter any unwanted samplings, and the plants sprang back with amazing vigor. It's nice to step out onto the back porch, knowing that my "guard-plants" are on watch for those pesky mosquitoes!

Inner Workings

Day 357: There was a project I've been postponing all summer because there was no real need to get it done, but now that we're heading into the rainy months, it was time to replace the degraded post and platform holding the pluviometer. I have a Davis Weather Monitor II station which does not connect to my computer, so every day, I record weather data by hand, having done so with a variety of stations for over forty years with only a few gaps when I needed to replace equipment. To date, the Davis has been the most reliable, although the anemometer is crudded up, and I need a longer ladder in order to get it spinning properly again.

Here you see the inner workings of the pluviometer (the inset shows the device with the collection chamber reinstalled). Rain drips through a hole in the collector until it fills one of the two identical cups at the ends of the rocker arm, triggering a sensor and dumping the water into a drain hole on either end. There is a gap beneath the base plate and the mounting board to allow the water to run off unobstructed, and each cup hold precisely 0.01" of rain. The data accumulated by the pluviometer is transmitted to the station's readout in the house, so there is no need for me to go out in the rain. Occasionally, I have to take leaves and/or fir needles out of the collection basin to allow the rainwater to run freely through the drip hole, but otherwise, there is no maintenance to be performed on this device.

Adopt-A-Highway

Day 356: We are ready to roll! Today I took delivery of the supplies provided by the Washington State Department of Transportation for their Adopt-A-Highway program. I have eleven Mount Rainier Volunteers at my disposal on National Public Lands Day next Saturday and a two-mile stretch of highway badly in need of cleanup. The weather forecast is favorable, so now all I need to do is pick up additional safety vests, gloves and long-armed grabbers from Park stores and wait for my crew to show up at 9 AM at Tahoma Woods.

My thanks goes out to everyone who helped make this project possible. Without your cooperation and assistance, it couldn't have happened. Let's hear it for those wonderful Volunteers who give their time and effort to Mount Rainier National Park!

Pointwork And Needle-Hitching

Day 355: It has taken me a week to finish a covering for my dagger sheath because I changed horses in midstream at least half a dozen times when my mental vision exceeded the physical execution of a particular pattern. For this precise reason, it's always best to use multiples of threads which have a number of different possible divisors. In this case, I was working with multiples of four, making it easy to drop out threads as the taper grew narrower.

This type of marlinespike seamanship is largely decorative, and is a dying art despite its close relation to macramé. The techniques are discussed in detail in the "Ashley Book of Knots." From the top of the sheath near the dagger hilt, you see a turk's-head executed in artificial leather cord, two sections of common underhand needle-hitching separated by a panel of Carrick bends, and then two turk's-heads spaced at either end of a long pointwork section. The cord used in the body of the work is nylon. None of the knots/hitches shown here is particularly difficult to do, but in combination, they become a piece of fancywork any good pirate would covet.

Grommet Practice

Day 354: Before tackling two-inch lengths of slippery synthetic sash cord, I thought it might be wise to refresh my skills at grommet manufacture with some leftover sisal. Any ply can be used, but three strands are by far the easiest to end off with a simple short splice.

To make a grommet, you take a length of rope three times the circumference and then some and carefully unlay it until you have three strands of single-ply material. Each one will be used to create a single grommet. Using the center of the length as the bottom-most point of the circle, bring the ends together at the top and lay them across each other. Following the lay of the rope, re-ply taking each end in the opposite direction until both come back to the starting point. You should have extra length to work with at this point. Separate each strand into two equal parts and tie the middle two in a simple knot. Work these two "tails" back into the grommet with a short splice and then trim all four ends close to the surface of the lay. If desired, roll the grommet until the bristly bits of the ends are to the inside. There ya go! In no time at all, you'll have a whole handful of little rope circles which, if you'd thought about it beforehand, you could have joined in imitation of the Olympic Rings. Hindsight...it's always clearer than foresight!

Performance Art

Day 353: The grace and elegance exhibited by this stilt-walker at the Western Washington State Fair and her identically-costumed male companion was an utter delight to watch. Moving in slow-motion with exaggeratedly high steps, the pair towered over the crowds by four feet or more, often laying a leafy hand atop a passerby's head or stooping to tickle the ears of an awestruck child, seldom holding still for more than a second. Their arm motions were those of dancers, their facial expressions revealing a background in mime as they interacted not only with the audience but with each other; two flowers, swaying in a gentle breeze, heads nodding, leaves fluttering, bowing on slender stems. As performance art, this pair was for me the highlight of the Puyallup Fair, outshining any jug band, magic show or gymnast who might have been headlining on one of the various stages in the venue.

Real, Alive And On My Hand

Day 352: I kinda forgot to ask this guy's name...something along the lines of Giant Black Scorpion, I believe. My hand is across the descriptive text, so no hope there. With Mr. S's owner standing close by, I manipulated the camera with my other hand while leaning on the display case in the Puyallup Fair's Rainforest Exhibit, only a little apprehensive that he might take a sudden dislike to me. None of the other onlookers seemed the least bit interested in sharing the experience, so after a few minutes, Mr. S. was returned to his keeper's care. Fortunately, the tarantula handler was out to lunch. I'm not sure I have that much bravery in me.
Footnote: Careful analysis of what little text is visible shows "...ror Scorpion" below the rear leg. That was my clue to this chap's identity. He is an Emperor Scorpion, Pandinus imperator, and his sting is categorized as "mild to severe in sensitive individuals." I'm usually one of those "sensitive individuals."

Sister-Foe

Day 351 (the bonus): Upon this day, 'tis a fact that many a pirate puts t' port an' takes on ship's stores an' pays a visit t' a grog shop or two, but 'tis also a fact that there's many a score t' settle, an' by the lord Harry, there ain't none more fierce than that blood-feud wot lies atween th' Black Blade an' 'er thievin' dastard o' a sister, 'er wot they calls the Dread Pirate Corbye in some quarters. Identical they is, an' were only experience wot made one o' 'em better at th' knife than t'other, made 'er stronger an' quicker an' a dab 'and wi' the lash.

This feud, now...it goes back a long ways t' when these two wuz dressed by they's mum in pink satin and ruffles (wot, y'might imagine, they both despised, a-bein' o' the piratin' nature from early on), fer it was Kat Corbye wot made folk believe she were 'er own sister, an' gettin' blame laid on the backside o' the Black Blade wi' a strop fer the mischief she'd be about. An' the two o' 'em were sich rivals that when Black Blade shipped out in th' cargo 'old o' a vessel bound fer Tortuga at age o' twelve that naught would 'ave it but Kat Corbye follered suit an' weaseled 'er way inter bein' cabin boy fer a cap'n wi' a shady reputation, conked 'im cold an' chucked 'im overboard a fortnight out. Blood were spilled next time th' two met, an' Black Blade 'as sworn she be a-goin' t' flay Kat Corbye alive wi' cat-o-nine-tails afore she keelhauls 'er an' leaves 'er wi' cannibals, 'er wretched ship on th' bottom in some uncharted cove.

Black Blade (for it be she wot's stronger an' quicker) will no' be lettin' Kat Corbye sully 'er name on this day of all days! 'Twas a certain mischance that th' two o' 'em put into same port 'ere, commencin' t' fight t' th' death, I'll warrant, lest that plaguey sister o' mine slinks back t' 'eal 'er wounds in th' bilge where she belongs.

International Talk Like A Pirate Day

Day 351: Ahoy, mates! Today be International Talk Like A Pirate Day, and if ye think I be tellin' a fib or 'avin' a little fun wi' ye, ye'd best be Googlin'. Fer th' occasion, I'll be bringin' ye a Special Edition o' 365 Caws an' addin' to it o'er th' day. 'Oist th' mainsail, lads! We're off on a adventure!

Set ye down, me buckos, fer 'ere's th' tale ye've been a-waitin' t' 'ear, o' th' day the Black Blade pirated th' Interceptor. Aye, ye might not be knowin' o' that vessel by th' name wot she's called today, but I be tellin' th' truth of it when I sez she were th' same tall ship wot once sailed under command o' that Cap'n Jack Sparrow lad ye might o' 'eard of. Fer the nonce, she be th' brig Lady Washington, an' on a fine, fair day at end o' August, she left port o' Kirkland t' wage in battle ag'inst th' topsail ketch, Hawaiian Chieftain, th' Black Blade among 'er passengers.

There were some thinkin' an' strategizin' goin' on in me 'ead, fer th' Black Blade allus likes t' be on th' winnin' side. Would not be a-furtherin' me career as pirate if I be sunk untimely. Aye, I'd be needin' to take measure o' me chosen vessel's crew an' cap'n afore makin' a move t' seize 'er. I be a-bidin' o' me time 'ere, innercent as newborn babe, an' plottin' th' whiles as crew goes 'bout they duty. We put out right smartly, an' cap'n none th' wiser that 'e 'ad a pirate in 'is midst.

Seas were calm on that day an' wind barely breathin'. Two mile out, we sighted th' foe bearin' down on us, 'er sails coaxin' all possible speed out'n the fiddly breeze, unfortunate at our disadvantage. She come alongside us an' got off two volleys wot did us no 'arm, but our cap'n couldna bring our guns to bear 'fore she were out o' range o' anythin' but pow'ful curse-words wot the crews was flingin' one at t'other heavy. We stood apart from 'er as wind died an' left us both dead in th' water. Then, as luck would 'ave it, our sails filled an' 'ers did not. We came 'round sharp an' cap'n cried, "Down 'er length, Madame Gunner!" Cannon an' swivel brought t' bear, the Chieftain 'ad not a chance fer another single shot as we peppered 'er repeatedly wi' fire.

Th' battle over and th' ship sound an' whole, th' Black Blade whispered a few sweet an' pointed words in cap'n's ear an' the man stood down an' let me 'ave th' tiller. "Let bloody crew sort it out amongst 'em," sez I, "an' th' Black Blade takes best o' the spoils. 'Tis a pirate's life fer me! Yo-ho!"

She be a square topsail ketch, th' Hawaiian Chieftain, fer all th' good it did 'er when she sailed inter battle wi' us on this day. T' be sure, she 'ad th' advantage o' first two shots fired, but then th' fickle, fiddly wind went dead calm an' left us both standin'. T'were nought cap'n could do save wait, an' when she rose ag'in, th' wind favored us. Our gunner brought swivel and cannon t' bear an' ne'er gave 'er a chance, though t' give 'em credit, 'er crew were a valiant lot 'neath 'eavy fire. But on this day, 'twere the Interceptor...beggin' yer pardon, the Lady Washington wot was the victor. Bring the grog topside, lads, an' give them as met Davey Jones in this battle a 'earty "Huzzah!"

Onion Rock

Day 350: Honest, I do not ride around in the car with an onion in the passenger seat. Or a rock, for that matter, but immediately upon spotting this sign, I went in search of both. Some things are just too good to pass up, y'know? Actually, there were two versions of the sign at either end of a half-mile stretch of road. Even standing on the seat of my car, I could barely reach up high enough to get the onion and the rock in the photo. I still had to stretch at the second sign, but it was a good two feet shorter than the first one. That said, there is an ironic twist to this tale. There is no rock outcrop...not even a large boulder...in the area which might bear the appellation "Onion Rock." Perhaps the sign's manufacturer just thought an onion (singular) was really cool. Onion, you rock!

Common Seaman's Ditty Bag - Work In Progress

Day 349: No sooner than I complete one project, I start a new one. In this case, it's a common seaman's ditty bag made from heavy cotton duck. Once the basic bag is completed, I will make three small rope grommets to buttonhole into place along the upper edge. Then the real fun begins! Using a variety of fancy knots and hitches of the type seen in marlinespike seamanship, I will create a long lanyard to serve as a shoulder strap. This piece will also be part of my proposed exhibit of knotwork at next year's Puyallup Fair.

You may notice that I'm using a curved needle here. This is helpful in keeping the overcast stitches uniform on both the front and the back of the work. The straight seam behind the overcasting was worked with a three-sided sailmaker's needle. It's always best to have the proper tool for the job, and of course a good sewing kit was an essential piece of equipment which the old-time sailor stowed in his ditty bag. No off-the-shelf items in those days! Even the ship's ropes were made on board, re-spun from fibers salvaged from worn-out lines.

Ashley No. 2242, Prolong Knot

Day 348: I went and put my foot in it. Talking to the Hobby Hall officials at the Puyallup Fair, I mentioned that I'd like to put in a display of marlinespike seamanship next year without considering the fact that I've given away most of the work I've done. Now I'm up against it: I have to produce the goods! To that end, I'm starting big with a Prolong Knot mat which will be the central feature of the display.

The Prolong Knot is so named because it may be extended indefinitely by adding additional bights in multiples of three. The minimum number of bights for a Prolong is four; subsequent additions give 7, 10, 13 and so on. It is a fairly simple knot to double (here doubled three times) for a nice doorstep mat. "Doubled three times?" you ask. "Don't you mean quadrupled?" No, doubling is the term for retracing the route of the rope, and each time the rope repeats its path, it is said to be "doubled again," thus when four complete circuits have been made, it is said to have been "doubled three times" (the original knot and three repetitions).

This particular mat measures 18" x 9" and required forty feet of 3/8" sisal rope to manufacture. It took about two hours to complete. A single knot is worked loosely at first, and then as it is doubled and redoubled, excess rope must be worked out until it is nicely formed and lays flat. Upon completion, the raw ends of the rope are seized (wrapped) and stitched into place on the reverse. In more compact work, a pointed metal tool called a marlinespike (marlinspike or marlingspike) is used to adjust the rope, hence the name "marlinespike seamanship," i.e., the sailor's art of knot-tying. There are a number of books available on the subject, but the Ashley Book of Knots is considered to be the ultimate reference.

Icon Of The Pacific Northwest

Day 347: I took the scenic route home from my fishing buddy's place tonight, thinking to get an overview of this valley and the smoke haze which continues to plague western Washington. I've often taken photos from this spot, but tonight parked slightly farther down the back side of the hill. As I walked back to my accustomed viewpoint, I noticed this arch of blackberry vine which made a perfect frame for that icon of the Pacific Northwest, Mount Rainier. It does not matter which side I see; to me, the Mountain always means "home."

Smoke Haze

Day 346: A veil of smoke from fires in Eastern Washington has drifted south across the Cascades, so thick that at Longmire, a visible haze lies between the administrative center and the Mountain. Even the columnar bastions which give Rampart Ridge its name are tinged with a desaturating brush, less than a mile distant from the observer. Wildfires in Wenatchee and the Okanogan are forcing people from the backcountry and from their homes. The forests are tinder-dry on "the other side of the mountains" (a common phrase which defines the separation of two radically different ecologies), and as we go into the latter part of September, no rain is in the forecast for either side.

Transition

Day 345: For the last three mornings, Jack Frost's touch has been in evidence in my yard. To put it in the modern vernacular, I am so not ready for this! The furnace has been rumbling and grumbling, the cats are bedded down on blankets instead of windowsills, and the garden plants have gone all tatty and pale. Two tomatoes were my reward for a summer's tender care, those and a flush of color which seemed to come all at once following a cold, wet June. The frost is on the blackberry now, the grass crisp underfoot, and the irony is that in a final gasp of summer, today's expected high is 87°.

Prairie Driftwood

Day 344: The grass prairies of central western Washington are disappearing. Douglas Fir now crowds out the prior stands of Garry Oak and Scotch Broom threatens to obliterate the whispering grasses called "shelm" in the Nisqually dialect (a loose pronunciation), a term which gave rise to the early white settlers' name for the town of Yelm. My late husband's grandparents were among those who tried to dry-farm a section of land, hauling water in barrels from the Deschutes River several miles from their ranch. Had Grandpa Harry not also been an inventor, the family might well have starved for the little produce they eked out of their acreage.

When we took over the homestead from them, the Doug Firs Grandpa had planted on the property stood 60-80 feet tall. As he had done before us, we kept the property free of Scotch Broom by religiously hand-pulling any we found growing. After one season of trying to garden with rain-barrel water, I gave up, preferring to listen to the gentle "shelm" instead of the sound of my hoe hitting rock after rock.

Today, Yelm is a burgeoning "bedroom community" for Olympia. The "shelm" is drowned out by cars. Our old homestead has been timbered and divided, and a well was sunk by one of the several successive owners who weathered far less years on the prairie than the eighteen we endured with no conveniences. Yet when I return to the prairie, I feel a twinge of homesickness. The house looks the same on the outside and the trees are growing back, but the "shelm" is audible only on the windiest of days, blowing ghosts of another era through the tall grass.

Dooty Station

Day 343: When I signed up for a tour of dooty at the Puyallup Fair representing Mount Rainier National Park, I really should have asked out Outreach Manager to spell it out clearly. Yep, for the last two days, I have been explaining the differences between doo-doos to youngsters utterly enchanted by the subject. Oh, kids love this exhibit! The supplies are very true to life and it's not uncommon for them to believe it's the real McCoy at first. Some bravely touch it while others shy away. Usually, a little parental coaxing is enough to break the spell. The adults are more likely to converse among themselves to ask, "Isn't that like what you saw in the yard last week?" or "That's what I saw up at the cabin!"

You have to admit it isn't every day you get a tour of dooty at an interpretive display!

Get Your Happy On

Day 342: A "street candid" from the Puyallup Fair, and I am at a loss for words. The Fair's slogan for this year is "Get Your Happy On." This young man had obviously tried, but fell somewhat short of the mark if his expression tells the story. He was not a vendor advertising wares, nor a performer. Alone and lost in his thoughts, he was a simple fairgoer, one in a crowd of thousands. Perhaps he wanted to stand out, and to me he did; others did not give him a second glance where he sat moodily on a concrete bench. Fair prizes of all sorts surrounded him on the arcade, the glitter of plastic and sparkle of mylar insisting that no one can attend a Fair and not enjoy themselves, yet somehow their arguments could not sway an unspoken logic here. Of happy people, I have a dozen photos, but none strikes me as profoundly as this one because none has such a mystery as this.

I am attending the Fair this year in three capacities: as an ordinary visitor who loves the exhibits, as an exhibitor in the International Photographic Salon, and as a representative of Mount Rainier National Park at our booth in the Outdoors Building. I have certainly "got my happy on."

Garden Lace

Day 341: In a tangle of finely divided leaves, the flowers of Globe Gilia and Cosmos are embroidered onto the scatter-garden's garment of foliage with brilliant threads, pearls among the lace which falls in abundance at cuff and collar. The garden is grandmotherly and of an older era. You may catch the scent of lavender rising from her bosom if you stoop to take her hand, and if of a moment, she asks you to stay to tea, you would do well to accept the invitation. Stay an afternoon with her before she fades, compliment her mode of dress. Here, in the dotage of Autumn, she has gifts to bestow on those who linger beside her.

Where The Booty Is Hidden

Day 340 (Part the Second): Ye'd best not let th' Black Blade ketch you peepin' through that knot'ole, laddie. Aye, I knows ye wants a share o' the booty...maybe too big a share, I'm thinkin'...but 'er Ladyship don't take right kindly to them as goes nosin' where they ought not to be. She'll not be pettin' yer back wi' the cat-o'-nine-tails, not 'er. She'll measure yer length on the deck wi' that one-fisted monkey o' 'ern. Gots a rock in it size o' a orange, it does. I seen her pelt it a hunnert feet and 'it 'er target square on the mark. Ye'd best be puttin' all thoughts o' treasure outter yer mind, mate, if ye 'ave a mind to keepin' yer 'ead on yer shoulders. Hist! Get below! I 'ears 'er scrabblin' about in there an' she don't sound like she's in a sunny mood!

The Well-Dressed Brigand

Day 340 (Part the First): Th' Black Blade don't go much fer joolery 'ceptin' for the pig-sticker wot ain't ever far from 'and, but when ye've got a mo' t'spend ashore an' 'ave a mind to some better grog'n ship's stores, it ain't doin' no 'arm to put on the dog a bit. Fer th'occasion, I tied me up a turk's-'ead ring outer a bit o' leather cord an' 'ung that bloody no-account timepiece on me belt, that wot I kipped out'n 'is Lordship's pocket last landfall. Didn't know the bugger was bust, nor that it weren't real gold when I whopped 'im upside the 'ead wi' me one-fisted monkey. 'F I'd knowd then wot I knows now, I'da let some other brigand 'ave the piece. Aye, but a lady do need t'look like she's got jinglin' change in 'er purse when she goes in a grog shop, by golly, but that there watch ain't worth a pint o' poor beer.

September Light

Day 339: Growing on the vertical face of rock, the parched sporophytes of a moss catch a drop of September's finest wine, the slanting golden light which creeps in amongst the evergreens. This dry environment does not toll the death-knell for the moss; rather it aids in its rebirth. The capsules at the tips of the thready stems are opened by August's temperatures and lack of humidity to scatter spores where September's first true rains may wash them into crevice and crack. There, these "seeds" of moss swell and germinate. September is the beginning of a life-cycle, not an end. September is a celebration, its light a banner of gold shimmering over an Earth weary of summer.

Grass Of Parnassus, Parnassia Fimbriata

Day 338: Today I had the privilege of hiking 10 miles in the Tatoosh Wilderness with a good friend and fellow photographer, and incidentally my supervisor at Mount Rainier National Park. Twenty years younger than I am and in much better condition, he kindly allowed me to set the pace in the hopes that we both might be able to reach our goal, the site where a fire watch lookout once stood on the summit of Tatoosh Peak. If the distance seems somewhat short as hikes go, consider that the elevation gain was approximately 4000', given ups and downs in the trail as it dipped into couloirs to avoid steep cliffs. A fair bit of time was spent taking photographs, as you can probably imagine, and my favorite discovery of the day was Grass of Parnassus (Parnassia fimbriata) with its beautifully fringed petals. Although field guides for the area refer to this as a common plant of moist meadows, it was the first time I have encountered it.

Bends And Buttons

Day 337: Carrick bends (the doubled "figure-eight" knots shown here) are simple to tie and make an attractive belt or bag strap. Various means can be used to finish the ends depending on the intended purpose, and since this small piece was only destined to be a demonstration, I decided to get some practice tying single-strand Chinese buttons.

To tie a Chinese button in the hand generally requires a bit more cord length than I allowed here, and the finished knot can be positioned before the running end is trimmed by working out the surplus in either direction. These functional knots are often found on traditional Chinese clothing, as the name implies, and are frequently doubled (two turns using the same cord) to make a larger version.

If you're interested in doing serious knotwork, I highly recommend "The Ashley Book of Knots." It covers everything from simple hitches to marlingspike seamanship, and will provide you plenty of ideas for projects utilizing ornamental knotwork.

Friends For Half A Century

Day 336: Marilyn and I first met when we were ten. She was a hall monitor at our junior high, and I was in the hall between classes. As the most unpopular kid in the school, I was always expecting to be bullied, so when she confronted me, I pulled the necessary paperwork out of my notebook and said loftily, "I. have. a. hall. pass." Thus began a friendship which has lasted over fifty years.

We shared a lot of interests in those days: reading, studying, music (she was an accomplished clarinetist) and fishing, a sport which we pursued unchaperoned at a rent-a-cabin on a distant lake as often we could. In those days, my spirit of adventure was just as strong as it is now, and it never once occurred to me that my offsider might not feel the same way. I led camping trips and midnight piscatorial excursions in a "borrowed" rowboat, and sallies into neighboring blueberry patches and vegetable gardens when our expedition fare ran out. Marilyn tagged along, compelled (I realize now) by her mothering instincts to keep an eye on me lest I get into too deep trouble.

Perhaps the most memorable of our "survival" trips took place in a pelting downpour. We'd pitched a tarp and spread our bedrolls expecting to camp for two nights under starry skies. Alas, in the Pacific Northwest, there's no assurance of dry weather, and by midnight of the first night, the rain was coming down in sheets. Upon arising in the morning, we got a small fire going; not enough to warm us or dry us out, but sufficient to cook some Bisquick dough wrapped around a stick. Foresight, y'know...if you're going to be thrust into a survival situation, you should be well provisioned, at least for your first meal. After our meagre breakfast, the work of the day began. The hunter-gatherers needed to hunt and gather or go hungry at dinnertime. It was late in the year, if memory serves, and we were a long way from water and our skill at catching perch was worth nothing as far as filling our bellies. We created a few snares in the hopes of catching a squirrel or rabbit (not that either of us would have known what to do with it if it had stumbled into one of them). We cast about for edible fruits, nuts and berries (a subject on which I was knowledgeable) and came up with only one food source: the fruit of Mahonia nervosa, the Oregon Grape.

Oregon Grape is no relation to true grapes. It resembles a low-lying holly plant (thorny!) and bears a cluster of pencil-eraser sized tart, seedy and altogether unappetizing fruit. We gathered these in number and ate handsful raw, and then began trying to figure out some other way of rendering them edible. In the end, we speared them on tiny sticks and heated them over the fire for our evening repast and again for breakfast the following morning. The rain had not let up, so at last we retreated from our "survival expedition" to my house, a hundred yards from camp.

Marilyn is the mother of four and a grandmother of one. She does not have an outdoorsy bone in her body. Years ago, she set down a rule: if I don't talk about mountains, she won't talk about kids. We both slip from time to time, but the friendship remains solid as a rock, despite what I put that poor girl through.

Footnote: the card was given to me by her during our first year of friendship, and the Buddha was a gift for my 16th birthday.

Splicing An Eye

Day 335: During the Portland Pirate Festival, I had the opportunity to sit down with a couple of chaps who showed me what I've been doing wrong when I attempted to splice rope. The solution was simple and should have occurred to me: you back-weave against the lay, not with it. D'uh! I came home and practiced the technique this morning with a piece of silky 1/4" diameter decorative cord, and then decided to go to town after some spanking-clean rope (unlike the stuff in my garage). Here you see the splice in progress. I've worked back three full turns. If this eye was under reasonable tension, five would be sufficient to hold. Having no marlinspike, I'm working with a nail set as a substitute. Necessity is the mother of invention!

This shot also gives me a chance to show off the Black Blade's new 'at, a fine genuine leather tricorn handstitched by James the Cordwainer. Ye'd best be gettin' used ter pirates in me photostream, most 'specially in t'month o' September.

Missed One!

Day 334: Well, neener-neener-neener! The dang deer and elk missed a few! This rosy, sweet little gem became my dessert tonight, and never did a tiny tomato taste better! If the weather holds for another week, I might have a dozen more.

It is always a battle with the browsers here. You wouldn't call them aggressive, but they're only a pinch shy of it, brazenly walking on my back porch steps to get 'round the various lines and noisemakers I've hung to deter them. Nor is it that they're short of natural food, though I have to agree that a tender, juicy tomato is better fare than crackly grass and withering ferns. What baffles me is why they are even eating "deer-resistant" species such as hostas and crocosmia. Frustrating, but at least this year, I can say I got a crop (loosely termed) of tomatoes.

Rogues And Scallywags

Day 333: Another day o' piratin' for the Black Blade, this time in the port of St. Helens, Oregon. 'Twas a fine gatherin' o' them as is called the terrors o' the high seas, and by the Lord Harry, I did set my eye on a younker who well might stand for a double or a son o' old Jack Sparrow. Do ye no' see the likeness o' him here? An' cor blimey, that bloody monkey was about as well, but I didna catch 'im in a portrait, more's the pity, for I'da had 'im in a stew. Mayhap one of these rogues done the job, for if ever an animile wanted stewing, it be the monkey o' Hector Barbossa.