Wax Velvet

Day 271: My "standard" Hoya (Hoya carnosa) has come into bloom again, bearing a single but very lush cluster of waxy pink blossoms. Waitaminit...did I say "waxy?" Hoya's common name is "Wax Plant," and indeed the flowers do look and feel as if they were carved from wax, but upon closer investigation, you will see that they are velvety, almost like little kitty tongues. I hadn't really noticed until I brought this image up on the computer screen.

Hoyas are among the most rewarding houseplants you can hope to find. I currently own three varieties: Hoya carnosa (the one everyone knows), Hoya bella (the "miniature" Wax Plant) and Hoya lauterbachii, an exotic variety with "furry" leaves which is very difficult to bring into flower. I have yet to succeed. When it does bloom, the individual flowers are reported to be two to three inches across, borne in an enormous cluster.

High Visibility Team

Day 270: A highly visible team of Mount Rainier Volunteers patrolled a two-mile section of Hwy 706 for litter today, sporting brand-new ANSI-approved vests from the state Department of Transportation. The crew participates in a partnership with WADoT's "Adopt-a-Highway" program. Several members were returnees on their second or third work party with the group.

Prior to every patrol, group members receive a brief orientation to advise them on the proper handling of certain dangerous items they may find along the roadside. While on their beat today, the workers encountered a suspicious container which they believed might have been a "one-pot cooker" used in producing methamphetamine. The location was reported and the object was investigated by a deputy who determined that it was not a meth lab.

Bringing Home The Bacon

Day 269: The Tree Swallows (Tachycineta bicolor) were late to arrive this season by at least two weeks. I kept watching for them to appear at their favorite nesting box, a location which has never gone unrented since I first put it up about fifteen years ago. Every brood raised in the box has been successful; not so in other identical boxes hung on the exterior of my garage. Waiting...it seemed like forever before I saw the first swallow on the wing, and even then, I didn't see them approach the house.

About two weeks ago as I was standing at the kitchen sink, I caught movement in the tail of my eye. The house is under the eave of the garage and somewhat shadowed, so I watched quite carefully until a head appeared in the opening. At first, I thought it was a nestling, but after a few minutes, the bird emerged and flew off, returning a little later with something in its beak. The next time the parent left, I went out and stood under the nesting box, listening for the familiar sound of little chirps. Nothing. Was the food brought by one parent to feed the other? Very possibly, because Tree Swallows share nesting duties, taking turns feeding one another and the young.

As of this writing, I still haven't seen or heard any "little gilligans" (my nickname for the babies), but the parents are removing large fecal sacs from the nest, and they're delivering plump, juicy insects on a regular basis. Something is going on inside the house, and I'm sure it won't be long before I see little faces at the door.

Best Of The Shelf

Day 268: We all have our favorite books. Mine just don't happen to be fiction, biographies, collections of poetry or historical accounts. Nope, my favorite books are field guides, and I have them on a variety of subjects ranging from rocks and minerals, weather phenomena and animal tracks to birds, wildflowers and mushrooms and the more specialized category of lichens.

Among habitual users of field guides, the best resources are generally referred to by author's name. "Brodo" is the North American lichen expert, "Sibley" and "Roger Tory Peterson" ("Roger Tory" for short) the bird men. "Mark Turner" is my go-to guy for Washington wildflowers, alongside "Pojar and MacKinnon." Backing up the hard copies, I also have Sibley on my Kindle Fire, ready to use in the field when some warbler crosses my field of vision.

It always pays to cross-reference. Species names change. Microseris alpestris may appear in one reference with the same plant identified as Nothocalais alpestris in another. These changes often reflect the growth of knowledge about the plant or bird/animal. Taxonomy is a science unto itself, and a little Latin goes a long way in helping the field scientist track a particular specimen down. What shape are the leaves? What is the growth habit? Chances are good that the nomenclature will refer to an identifying feature.

For my nickel (and often a more substantial dip into my bank account), field guides are the best books you can add to your library, even if all you do is look at the pretty pictures. Better yet, learn to use the keys and start exploring the fascinating world which exists all around you. Grab your binocs and magnifiers and let's go on a field trip!

Three-Quarters Of A Pair

Day 267: I don't recall the specifics, but for some reason (possibly decorating for Christmas), I moved the Ethiopian basket and the project it contained from the top of a living-room bookcase to a less obvious one around the corner in the kitchen. The basket has sat there ever since, the sock in progress forgotten, and other more pressing works (quilting, blackwork, bobbin lace) pushing the unfinished knitting away from my attention. You see, a personal rule governs my needlework: I may engage in any number of projects concurrently, but no two of the same type, which is to say I may be knitting, crocheting, quilting, making lace, embroidering, spinning, weaving, tatting in any given time frame, but I may not knit a sweater until the socks are finished. The rule prevents me from becoming bored over the long term, but I think it's about time I pick up the needles again!

Lavender Bottles

Day 266: Why "bottles?" Is it because of the shape? Truthfully, I have no idea, but "bottles" is what they are called, or alternately, "wands." They make wonderful old-fashioned gifts for anyone who loves the refreshing scent of lavender. I like to keep a couple in my "dainties" drawer.

To create a bottle, you will need an odd number of lavender stems (I've used 11), preferably with the flowers just on the verge of opening. You will also want a supply of 1/8 (3 mm.) satin ribbon. Each bottle requires approximately one yard, although this depends on the length of the flowering portion of the plant. Gather the stems together and tie them snugly with thread or string just beneath the flower heads, being careful not to draw the thread too tightly or you may cut into the stems. Now carefully bend each stem back from the tie. The stems can be broken easily, so ease them gently until they are all pointing toward the top of the flower head.

Fold the ribbon about half an inch from the end and loop it over a stem, sliding it up the stem until it reaches the tie. Now begin weaving over and under, working the tail of ribbon into the weave as you go (keep the short end to the inside). Keep your weaving close together, adjusting it as necessary as you work down the length, covering the gathered flower heads. When you reach the bottom, secure the end with thread or glue, or work it carefully into the interior of the bottle. Then cut a shorter length of ribbon and tie it in a bow near the base.

Lavender bottles will keep their scent for years. Why not make some for your friends?

Foamflower, Tiarella Trifoliata

Day 265: Hikers encountering Foamflower growing in drifts in a shady woodland will readily see how the plant came by its common name. Tiny white flowers widely distributed on a thread, tough stem give the impression of mist laying close to the forest floor. Although some varieties grow at higher elevations, this plant prefers the moist habitat offered by the runoff streams of the lower forest, often forming dense mats of slightly hairy leaves. This specimen was found along the Twin Firs Trail in Mount Rainier National Park.

Door Prize Print

Day 264: My luck with winning door prizes or any other type of drawing is notoriously bad, so when tickets were handed out at the Nisqually Land Trust's Volunteer Appreciation picnic yesterday, I had little expectation of walking away with anything. Indeed, about half the numbers had been called by the time mine was drawn out of the hat, but the prizes provided by the Trust were exceptional. Many had been donated by members of the Nisqually Tribe with whom the Trust is partnered, and there were a number of beautiful prints of Coastal art. As a student of this style of painting, I was utterly delighted to see that a selection was still available when I went up to the table to make my choice. I picked "Bella Coola Sun" by Jim Johnny. After all, Raven stole fire from the Sun to bring light and warmth to the People.

From the back of the print, "Jim Johnny is a well-knkown Kwaguilth artist. Jim is 36 years of age and living with his family in Victoria, British Columbia. His early training was by the internationally known Tony Hunt. He is known for his precise detail and indepth (sic) knowledge of the traditional styles. BELLA COOLA SUN -- The Sun design shows warmth reaching from the life giving sun to the people on earth."

I am delighted to hang this print on my wall to accompany "Spawning Salmon" by Joe Wilson.

Nature Mapping In Ohop Valley

Day 263: The Nisqually Land Trust's annual Volunteer Appreciation Picnic was held today, so I decided to take a little time out en route to do some nature mapping of my regular beat in Ohop Valley. The requirements for this particular type of nature mapping are simple: pick a spot which you can reliably find again, set up your camera and take four pictures, one in each of the cardinal directions. I have my spot marked with a GPSr. The challenge is in getting to it! When I chose the location, the grass had been compacted by winter rains. Now it stands as high as my waist, sometimes reaching shoulder or head height. Lurking in amongst it are thistles, teasels and the occasional patch of Poison Hemlock, just to keep things exciting. It's only a few hundred feet from parking, but when I reached my marker today, I felt like I'd won a minor skirmish with the elements.

Then the issue of finding the landmarks arose. The grass obscured the logs in the creek which I normally use to set the "north" shot. The fencepost for "east" was visible, but the creek beyond was barely visible. "South" and "west" had grass stems in front of the lens which I had to bend down to have a reasonably clear but still representative shot. Even the distant horizon was obscured by the abundant grass. If these shots aren't exactly aligned on the same compass bearing as my previous submissions, don't blame me. Blame Ma Nature!

Sapsucker Sucking Sap

Day 262: At first, I thought Red-Breasted Sapsucker would move along nicely after having a go at the red dogwood, but not only did he persist, he brought a friend. After two days, the dogwood was nearly ring-barked about three feet from ground level, holes drilled every half inch, and great bare areas weeping sap all down the trunk. The two birds were still diligently pecking away. When I discovered them going after the mountain ash when I got home from work today, it was plain that I needed to intervene. I got a couple of pieces of chicken wire out of the garage and made several loose wraps around the injured areas of both trees so the Sapsuckers could land and drink their fill until the tree stops bleeding, but they are prevented from doing any more active drilling.

Sphyrapicus ruber is trying to do me a favour by removing bugs from beneath the bark of my ornamentals, but he is a bit too enthusiastic, necessitating preventative measures. He has a whole forest populated with sweet-sapped vine maple, chokecherry, alder and big-leaf maple to satisfy his appetite, and within ten seconds' flight of my yard. He doesn't seem to be aware that I am trying to cultivate habitat for my diverse avian friends by planting trees which bear bird-tasty fruit in autumn, but I'm sure he'll thank me some day, even if I have locked him out of the pantry for now.

Master Of Mischief

Day 261: My history with the National Park Service goes back a long, long way, beginning with an uncle who was a ranger during the mid-50s who managed to wangle special permission from the superintendent to allow me (then in elementary school) to hike in and stay with him for ten days in a remote patrol cabin. I suspect that Gus thought the nine-mile, 3400' elevation gain hike would prove too much for a young girl, especially since he loaded a 35-pound pack on my back. It was my duty to carry our supplies; he was transporting a 65-pound tube radio. Did I falter? Not a bit of it! Every time we stopped to rest, I would run ahead on the steep trail to see if I could find another toad or butterfly and then rush back to prod him ever onward. At the end of ten days, I had a firm path in mind for my adult years, and thus it was that I returned to the very same district some 20 years later as a volunteer ranger.

As green as any little gourd upon the vine, my enthusiasm was undeniable, as was my desire to maintain the best possible image of the National Park Service before the public. My uniform was always pressed, the trousers creased, nametag in place above my breast pocket, and I kept a smiling face and cheerful attitude even when faced with pouring rain, failed plumbing, muddy patrols, drunken campers and the inevitable ridiculous questions from visitors. My colleagues knew me as a no-nonsense, dedicated worker who, then as now, would take on any task I was assigned. As such, it fell to me to "mind the store" while my supervisor was on leave for a month, and during those weeks, several memorable events occurred.

One day, I had gone into a small metal shed which housed our safe, leaving the door open behind me because there was no electricity in the building and I hadn't thought to take a flashlight. As I sorted among items which included our cash box, several radios and the weapons carried by the district's law enforcement rangers, searching for something I no longer recollect, the interior suddenly went dark. I turned around to find a very tall man filling the doorway, blocking the light. In my best Park Service manner, pushing trepidation aside, I asked, "May I help you, sir?"

His reply took me back a pace: "Is this the road I go up to take my snowmobile to the summit?"

First of all, snowmobiles are not allowed in the Park, never have been. Secondly, the road was a dead-end, terminating five miles beyond the entrance and approximately 12,000 vertical feet below the peak. A slight tinge of non-Washingtonian accent gave me a hint that I was dealing with a tourist, a breed entirely apart from the resident visitors who frequent the Park and know the rules. I patiently explained the situation: no, snowmobiles are not allowed and no, you can't get there from here.

Still blocking my exit from the dark shed, the man responded, "But Superintendent Briggly told me this was where to go."

William Briggle (not "Briggly") would have said no such thing, and I knew it. "I'm sorry, sir. You've been misinformed. Snowmobiles are not allowed in the Park, and there is no road to the summit. The closest you can get by car is Sunrise at 6400'."

He was insistent. "But I've got a letter right here from Superintendent Briggly. It says I can take my snowmobile to the top."

I swallowed a sigh. The man in the doorway didn't budge, so I took a step toward him. He towered over me by a good foot, and probably outweighed me by almost twice. He didn't flinch. I took another step toward him, and placed myself in an assertive stance. "Sir," I said firmly, "the Superintendent would not have said that because it is not true. Snowmobiles are not allowed in the Park. Someone is pulling your leg."

I was relieved to see Goliath give ground to David, if only a foot of space as he withdrew by one backward step. And then I heard a second voice, one I recognized, coming from behind the shed. "Nope, we're pulling yours. This is Scott from White River."

Trail crew. Damnation, if I had a nickel for every trick they pulled on me that year, I'd be laughing my way to the bank.

The Master of the Mischief retired a few years ago, and I missed the party, but he still comes 'round the Park for special events. Today at an interpretive training, he spotted me and gave me an enormous hug, no doubt remembering all the fun he and his team had at my expense. Here's to the good old days, Carl! This was your best prank, and the "baby ranger" is still just as gullible as she was thirty-five years ago.

Not So Lost

Day 260: As a youngster, I had what I thought was quite a substantial collection of marbles. I think the tally was one side or the other of 350 by a small margin, certainly more than any of my schoolmates had, but then, I didn't wager them in the ring at recess, and only occasionally traded two-for-one if I could get a rarity like a white cat's-eye in exchange. Shooting marbles was unthinkable. Marbles got dinged or broken in games, and I wanted my shiny things to be pretty. Instead, I entertained myself with arranging the collection in various manners: sorting by color or by type, ranking them smallest to largest, creating patterns and so on. Another favorite occupation drove my mother to distraction: setting a line of marbles in the groove of the lid of a metal fruitcake tin, swirling them around and around and around, captivated by the coruscations of color and the hypnotic sound. New acquisitions were made largely with bits of pure luck and the occasional patrol of the playground after the other children had gone home. Only once or twice did I reject a find by virtue of it being wounded beyond all hope.

As I grew up, I lost my marbles. I don't know where they went after I left home, and my mother had no recollection of disposing of them. Perhaps they went forgotten in an outbuilding when she moved, or perhaps they were boxed up and taken away with so many other things she had to sacrifice when moving to a smaller space. In any event, as an adult, I found myself without any marbles at all, and that's a sad state of affairs for anyone to bear.

I don't remember how or when I came by the first ones, but my collection now numbers 3788, thanks to the addition of these eleven vintage cat's eyes which were sent to me by my sister-of-the-heart, Patty. I wonder if I'll live long enough to see the number reach 5000. Ya think I should write a letter to Santa? "Dear Mr. Claus, I would like everybody to get along, and oh, could you also bring me a bag of marbles? Thank you!"

Joy Of Fresh Cilantro

Day 259: Anyone who knows me even half well has heard me complain that I cannot grow vegetables. I failed miserably at Radishes and I flunked Zucchini in grand style. Yes, it's really that bad! For several years, I managed to convince a pair of cherry tomatoes that they were flowerbed fare by planting them in a huge pot sunk to the waist just outside my kitchen door. That said, for the last two years, I've gotten less than a dozen tomatoes from two plants. I do have a patch of leathery chives within easy access to spice up scrambled eggs and cottage cheese, but even the Greek oregano behind the garage has given up the ghost.

This year, I decided to try something new: growing a leafy herb in a pot. Since I only use basil on the rare occasions I make Carbon River salad, I decided to go with one of my other favorites, cilantro. It should be as easy as parsley, right? But my attempts at parsley have been less than successful.

Cilantro is definitely an acquired taste. There was a time when I thought it tasted like soap, a time even the slightest speck of it in salsa sent me hunting for a toothbrush. Then on a visit to a local Mexican restaurant, I discovered that in the right combination with other spices, it was palatable. Little by little, my taste buds became sensitized to the subtle undertones in the herb, and I actually found myself enjoying it more and more. Then I began adding it (dry) to my own Mexican dishes, and eventually came to a point where I was willing to try it fresh.

A year or two ago, I was at a picnic and someone brought a black-bean salad heavily laced with fresh cilantro. I went back for seconds, thirds and fourths. To me, the black beans, corn and avocados are secondary. The joy of eating is in the greenery: cilantro! Recently, I have begun using it in place of lettuce to stuff soft tacos, and that's a long way from the days when I didn't want to get a piece of it in my mouth!

Fresh cilantro, growing just outside my back door! Doesn't get any better than that, and I think I've convinced it that it's an ornamental!

Tahoma Creek Suspension Bridge

Day 258: A couple of days ago, our SCA intern Joshua mentioned that he was thinking about taking a hike up to Tahoma Creek Suspension Bridge and it occurred to me that I hadn't been up there since the last big flood. The trail is no longer maintained and in fact is not readily noticeable unless you know where to look for it along the West Side Road. My late husband and I considered it one of our favorite short hikes and many times, we'd go on to Indian Henrys if time permitted, but during the winter of 1998-99, huge sections of the trail collapsed into the creek channel, leading to it being closed to the general public. It still saw considerable use, often as a bail-out point for Wonderland Trail hikers who felt they couldn't go the whole route, and the repeated foot traffic established detours around the worst sections. Some small improvements were made by trail crews, but use was still discouraged. A second flooding episode in 2006-07 did further damage, and that was what I had not seen for myself until today.

The river cuts quite close to the embankment early on. There is a hazard from dirt/rockslides for a short way, and then the route becomes rather indistinct once it enters the river channel. I found it much easier to follow back in afternoon sun than I did going up with the morning light in my eyes. Once this section has been conquered, a series of relatively minor but aggravating ups and downs go from channel to forest and back again, with frequent clambering up root or rock "stairs" only to find you must go down again on the other side. You mustn't be afraid to get your feet wet, either. Some of the side-stream crossings were a bit wide for my stride.

There had been so much alteration to the landscape that I really didn't recognize much until I came to one enormous rock outcrop about a quarter mile from the bridge. "Oh, I know you!" I said, and then promptly found a small waterfall, another old friend. As I passed the trail sign near the bridge, I felt a twinge of nostalgia, remembering how after leaving our camp at Devil's Dream, my husband and I had cooked breakfast at that very spot during the Wonderland Trail trip we made together in 1978. Bruce was always terrified of the bridge, and I couldn't help but wonder what he would have thought as I sprinted out into mid-span for the photo without ever touching a hand-rail.

Canterbury Bells

Day 257: These winsome, delicate flowers could be the delight of anyone's early-season garden. The large bell-shaped blossoms rise on thready stems to a height of two feet or more, often bearing several blooms on each stalk. Also known as Bellflower, some varieties of this Campanula have a second set of more loosely open petals beneath the central cup, giving rise to another common name of Cup-and-Saucer.

As much as I would like to claim I photographed them in my own yard, I have been unsuccessful in cultivating them. However, they grow like weeds in my fishing buddy's wife's flower beds. In white and shades of blue ranging from pale to purplish, they fill the spaces beneath carefully pruned shrubs and trees, and add delightful accents against foliage plants.

Western Wood Anemone, Anemone Lyallii

Day 256 (Part B): Western Wood Anemone, aka Lyall's Anemone is a relatively uncommon species which may occur in lowland forest to subalpine regions. It prefers a habitat of shady woodland. The inflorescence (flower) can range in color from blue to white (occasionally pinkish), and it can be distinguished from A. oregana by observation of the stamens. A. oregana generally has more than 35. These specimens were noted at the west end of public parking at Longmire on June 15, 2013.

Stick Pickers!

Day 256 (Part A): Storm debris has been accumulating in the Longmire campground for many years, and the customary means of disposal (dispersal) had proven to be less than effective. A ring of downed limbs and branches was building up behind the campsites faster than Nature could accommodate. Last year, two teams worked to bring the debris forward where it was hoped crews could be brought in to load it into drop boxes for removal, or alternately, that it could be chipped and distributed into the campground environment.

For the last two weekends, Mount Rainier volunteers have been hard at work clearing away the piles created by last year's work parties. On June 8, geocachers participated in their annual "CITO" event at the campground, and today (June 15), another team of nine individual volunteers gathered near the platform tents at 9:30 for a second assault. Four hours later, two 15-yard drop boxes had been filled to capacity, accounting for approximately 75% of the debris.

My personal gratitude as well as the Park's goes out to all the hard-working folks who have pitched in (literally!) on this project. Longmire Campground is now a much more pleasant environment, thanks to you!

Daisy Defender

Day 255: I have a photographer friend to thank for identifying the Daisy Defender for me. It is a Crab Spider (Misumena vatia), and this specimen must surely be a female because it is so plump. Thank you kindly, I have no aspirations to becoming an arachnologist, although I have overcome my abject horror of spiders to the degree that now they only make me mildly uncomfortable when I encounter them in their own environment. That said, the door is the dividing line between Theirs and Mine, and the only exception I make to taking extreme measures is when I find a Daddy Longlegs. Those I will politely remove and put out of doors where all good spiders should stay.

My fear of spiders was instilled in me by my mother. We lived in the Yakima Valley when I was very young, and the words "Black Widow" were on everyone's lips in the farming community. My mother was an arachnophobe of the first water, and one morning when I went out to play in the sandbox just off our back step, she spotted a Black Widow in the corner. Her panicked reaction which included shrieking, violent physical movements and vividly colored swear-words as well as a firm yank on my small arm told me then and there that spiders were something far worse than the Kidnapper Who Lived By The Railroad Track (a device she used to keep me from wandering too far from home). She did not dispatch the Black Widow, so deep was her alarm; no, she called my father home from work to take care of the grisly deed. I was not allowed in the back yard for some weeks thereafter while he reasoned with her about the likelihood of seeing another Black Widow. It was not as if they were a creature commonly found in open areas.

Nevertheless, my dread of arachnids stayed with me until I was in my 20s, and then I sought to combat it with familiarization techniques. Rescuing Daddy Longlegs spiders was the first step. Even so, if a little black sideways-walker were to drop on me from the ceiling today, I would be likely to have a full-blown case of the heebie-jeebies. Walking into a faceful of newly hatched garden spiders in a veil slung from the top sill of my front door sends me straight to the shower and my skin crawls for hours afterwards, and unfortunately takes me by surprise almost annually. If the Daisy Defender hadn't been so busy concentrating on the small bug and had raised its arm toward the lens, I might well have gone ass-over-teakettle backwards as instinct took control over reason.

Arctic Lupine, Lupinus Latifolius

Day 254: Arctic Lupine (Lupinus latifolius) is one of the most common Lupines in Mount Rainier National Park. The upper petals of the pea-like blossom are marked with a splotch of white (occasionally yellow) which darkens with age. In this specimen found growing at Longmire, the white is obvious. Lupines are among the earliest wildflowers to emerge in the Park, a foretaste of that ephemeral, short season when the meadows are a patchwork of color. "Sumer is icumen in! Lhude sing cuccu! Groweth sed and bloweth med"...and bright, the Lupine blue!

Carrot, Caret, Carat, Karat

Day 253: There is nothing which intrigues me more than the edifice of language, and English in particular is a marvel of construction. Were this word spoken singly, the hearer would have no frame of reference for its meaning. Two of the spellings place it in the field of jewelry manufacture. Another is a proofreader's or editor's mark indicating that something needs to be inserted. Yet another refers to a vegetable, and if you can't sort out which spelling applies in that case, you're beyond all hope of redemption and need not read any further.

English has many such instances of a common pronunciation, e.g., "bear-bare," mettle-metal," "bough-bow" and so on. When the spelling differs as it does in these cases, the words are referred to as "homophones." They are members of the greater family of homonyms which also includes homographs (words which are spelled alike and sound alike, but have different meanings).

So let's count our "karəts!" What, exactly, do we have here, and what's for dinner?

Carrot - a root vegetable; long and skinny and orange
Caret - an editor's instruction
Carat - the mass in grams of a stone (one carat equals 200 mg.)
Karat - a unit of measure for the purity of an alloy with gold (pure gold is 24 karat)

You'd dent the fourth one if you bit it, but you'd break a tooth on the third. The second might not be too tasty in your soup. The first makes a delicious and healthful snack (not "healthy," mind you...that's what you hope to become by consuming them as a regular part of your diet). Hurrah for karəts! Hurrah!

That Old Black Magic

Day 252: That old black magic has me under its spell! This "black" iris is called Superstition and looks much darker on an overcast Pacific Northwest Day than it appears in this image. It holds its color well, but is somewhat sensitive to soil pH. Planted in another location only ten feet from its present spot, the blooms were a rich mahogany red! The only other "blacks" I've cultivated successfully have been tulips: Black Parrot and Queen of Night. Both retain their color better than other varieties.

Bring 'Em On!

Day 251:
Some. Days. Are. Just. Like. That.
Where are the pigs? Bring 'em on!

Help With The Big Pieces

Day 250 (bonus video!) Be sure you read the post below this. I was very grateful for the assistance of a fork lift operator who removed some of the biggest logs and loosened the pile up for me.

Debris

Day 250: It's my pet project: removing at least ten years' accumulated debris from the Volunteer Campground at Longmire. This year, we had the equipment and we had a means of disposal, but we lacked manpower, so today I went in to see what I could do about shortening up the work before a second small crew comes in at the end of the week. In eight and a half hours, I succeeded in economically filling a 15-yard drop-box using a rake, a pitchfork, a wheelbarrow, a bow saw and my gloved hands.

There's nothing like manual labor to make you feel good about yourself, and to shunt aside whatever other frets might be on your mind. Frustrations? Take them out on a woodpile! When you're done, you can kick back and take a break, knowing that you deserve it.

The War of Crow vs. Pile is by no means over. Fifteen yards only accounted for half of one of a dozen heaps. Whatever the world hands me, there's lots of work to help me forget about it.

Tents Up!

Day 249: A hard-working batch of geocachers and Mount Rainier Volunteers gathered together today in the Longmire Campground for the annual spring cleanup and installation of five platform tents which serve as temporary housing for volunteers throughout the summer months. The event was officially billed at Geocaching.com as a "CITO" (Cache In, Trash Out) and was the seventh annual gathering of this type at this location. The work went smoothly. Participants ranged in age from pre-school kids to senior citizens, each contributing their best efforts to the project. Go, Volunteers!

Missus Comes To Breakfast

Day 248: It was a feeling. At first, I thought that it was because this bird seemed just a little more wary of me than the one in my May 27 post, but then I said to myself, "No, there's some physical difference, I'm just sure of it." When I took the previous image and put it side-by-side with this one, I could see that the beak was a little shorter, the nasal bristles a little more extensive, the top of the head a little more domed and the legs a little more dainty. "Missus!" I exulted. "Missus is off the nest!"

Ravens partner for life. They share nesting duties, and parents are often aided by the previous year's offspring in caring for the newly hatched young. Ravens do not flock like Crows, so if you see several together, they are most likely a family unit. Mister and Missus have been "married" for a couple of years now. I was privileged to watch their courtship and their young love. Let science deny it if they will persist in wearing blinders, the long-term Raven watcher knows that a mated pair holds each other in great affection: kissing, romping, playing good-natured pranks and so on. These behaviours are but a few examples I could cite from my observations of the pair. These birds' first two nests produced no offspring, no baby Ravens for them to educate to Raven language and society under my vigilant eye. Today, though, when Missus left the feeder board and flew into the woods with her crop full of dog food, I heard something which made me smile quite broadly: the high-pitched monosyllablic cry of at least one cranky, hungry baby somewhere near the Courtship Tree.

Out For A Walk In The Woods

Day 247: For obvious reasons, I am not going to reveal the location where I shot this image, but I think it should be apparent that it's not the kind of thing you see every day. I've been here on many occasions, and yes, the sign is authentic, as is the container and its contents.

You'd see the flash before you heard the boom, if only by a nanosecond, and you certainly wouldn't be aware that you saw or heard it in the next nanosecond. I do love stumbling across things like this when I'm hiking. They kinda take your mind off the little singing birds, the tangled mosses, the delicate lichens and the sweet wildflowers, if you take my meaning.

Basic Still Life

Day 246: Still life photography is an exercise in artistic principles. Arranging simple props such as draped fabric, flowers, fruit and vegetables, vases and baskets, the artist-photographer strives to create a visual flow from one component to the next, effectively tying together a composition in such a way that although the primary subject dominates, the remaining elements nevertheless capture the viewer's attention. In even the most basic still life, a fold of fabric may mimic the contour of a vase, background drapery may subtly frame a flower or provide visual balance. The key to a good still life is in the interaction of the elements of the composition. These are things the artist must keep in mind.

Swamp Witches

Day 245 (bonus edition): I can't resist posting this shot from yesterday's bike ride. It makes me feel like I was dropped into a Russian fairy tale and Baba Yaga is lurking in the woods. The pool is one of many alongside the Foothills Trail between Orting and South Prairie. This one in particular also reminds me of a Mangrove swamp. The trees are Cottonwoods and Alders, though, and the pool dries up almost entirely by the end of the season. Still, these Swamp Witches do their voodoo and enchant me every time I pass by.

The Mistake Quilt

Day 245: Piecework is pretty, but for my money, the real beauty of a quilt can only be seen when you flip it over and look at the back. It is on the reverse that the needleworker's skill is best displayed: the intricacy and regularity of the stitches, the development of the design, factors which are obscured by the panoply of bright colors on the front. The pattern is my own creation, and I've worn out several hard-card templates for the center flowers.

As you may recall from an earlier post, I tried to dump this half-finished patchwork on a friend, thinking my days of quilting were done. At her insistence, I took it back, bought a hoop because I had given my frame away, and resumed the work where I had left off. I have made a substantial in-road into the work remaining and have great faith that this time, I will see the project through to completion.

The top has an amusing history. I had got it in my craw to make a "Cathedral Window" quilt after seeing several at the Puyallup Fair one year. I selected a wide variety of prints and had carefully cut several hundred tiny squares for the central motifs, centering birds or flowers as the fabric allowed. When it came time to begin stitching the middles into the folded solid-color "windowpanes," I realized I had forgotten to leave a seam allowance. Rather than waste the fabric squares, I stitched them together as "streets and alleys," and the Mistake Quilt was born.

Open Hostility

Today as I was sitting by one of my favorite wetlands along the Foothills Trail, I was casting about for photographic subjects and in the tail of my eye, caught a flurry of wings and a dive-bombing streak. I looked up and saw a Great Blue Heron perched at the top of an old snag about twenty feet high and a Red-Winged Blackbird devilling the daylights out of him. There were actually two male Red-Wings working together. One bird would dive for the Heron's head, permitting its companion in the assault to approach from behind to land on the big bird's back or stubby tail. The Heron stood its ground for a good fifteen minutes, remaining motionless under the savage attacks save for stretching its neck and raising its beak. Finally, it gave up. One Blackbird immediately occupied the perch and announced its dominance with rapidly repeated calls. If you look closely, you can see where the cap of the Heron's wing has been bloodied by repeated peckings. I was fortunate to make this capture of the Red-Wing in full display.

Good Citizens

Day 243: In an era when the two groups were almost equally popular, I was a Camp Fire Girl rather than a Girl Scout. My mother had been in Camp Fire, and it seemed that the basic tenets hadn't changed much over the intervening generation. The Scouts focused more on home skills such as sewing and cooking. Camp Fire encouraged girls into the outdoors, and as you undoubtedly can guess, I didn't need a push. Both groups emphasized good moral values and a sense of civic duty.

It was not until after my mother passed away that I discovered among her possessions Camp Fire's handbook of ethical guidelines for girls of her era. I was fascinated by the requirements for some of the elective honors my mother and her teenaged friends strove to achieve. I present for your enjoyment a random selection from hundreds of possible awards included in "The Book of the Camp Fire Girls," 1933 revision.

Home Craft - Pick, dress and cook a fowl.
Housekeeping - Write out an appetizing, balanced, vegetarian diet for one week.
Radio - Construct a crystal radio set and be able to hear over it.
Care of Children - Make a set of practical playthings for a child three years old.
Care of Sick - Make six visits a month for three months to sick in homes, hospitals, or other institutions.
Laundering - Iron for eight hours in two months.
Bird Lore - Make a wild bird your friend without caging. Teach it to eat from your hand or make other friendly advances.
Plants, Trees, and Flowers - Identify and describe ten grasses.
Wild Animals - Describe, from personal observation, the home, appearance, and habits of three wild animals.
Business - Fill a regular salaried postion for four months.
Thrift - Help secure for Everygirl's Magazine an advertiser who has national distribution or is in a position to fill mail orders.
Community Service - Contribute some service to your community in connection with Street Cleaning, Beautifying front yards, Conservation of streams, Conservation of birds, Conservation of trees and forests.

I do not know what my mother's badges mean, although I have her ceremonial gown. Many of the patches have fallen off and been lost, leaving only traces of stitchery and a darker space of fabric where the leather had been tacked down. Her three strings of beads, recognition of lesser endeavours, reach my knees if I put them around my neck. She lived and breathed Camp Fire throughout her adolescence. I was only in a group for two years before we moved to a place where neither Camp Fire nor Girl Scouts were represented. Still, I am proud to say that Camp Fire instilled in me many of the moral values I hold today, and I am proud to have been a Camp Fire Girl.

Nesting Season

Day 242: After an exhausting day at the end of an exhausting week, I was delighted at the prospect of spending a quiet evening with friends (something of a rare event in my life). I joined them for dinner and their youngest son's piano recital, and when we returned to the house, it was just in time for Kevin's magic cell phone to announce that the new geocaches he'd installed had been published. Looking over his shoulder, I discovered that he had designed them with my love of Angry Birds in mind. One was a traditional cache requiring only the input of the stated coordinates, and the other was a puzzle which needed to be deciphered in order to learn the exact location. I took one look at the math involved and said, "I'm too tired to solve for the third side of an equilateral triangle, Kevin. This is going to have to wait until morning."

As I drove home, the sun was setting, but my mind was not on the comforts of my bed. I came in the door and turned on the computer, grabbed the coords for the traditional cache and sped out again under dying light to find it. It was a simple find, if perhaps a little awkward to reach for someone of my tiny stature. On returning to the house, I logged the find and then couldn't resist taking a peek at the puzzle. An hour and a half later, I finally threw in the towel and went to bed, no closer to a solution than at the point where I had started.

It was one of those nights when you're just too tired to sleep. I tossed and turned. I moaned and fussed. At 3 AM, I said profane words, got out of bed and turned the computer on to pursue a hairbrained idea about the puzzle which gained me precisely nothing. At 4:30 AM, I shot an email to Kevin and said, "This is more math than I've done in 55 years. I'm going back to bed." I included a link to a trigonometric formula I'd been wrestling: sine, cosine, trajectory, bearing, velocity, frustrated by the obviously missing factors of time and mass which I felt needed to be known in order to calculate distance. Needless to say, my further attempts at sleep were pointless. I can't let something like this rest, and it pays me back in kind.

At 5, I got up again. At 6:30, I was still wrangling numbers, but then an email popped up from Kevin to tell me I was overcomplicating things ("as usual"). He thoughtfully provided me with a link to a plug-in calculator for the required formula and I was overjoyed to see some progress being made at last. Projecting a waypoint from the solution should have been easy using either the function in my GPSr or an external projector, except that I was too muzzy to remember that I needed to reverse the direction from point of impact to point of launch, a snag which cost me yet another half an hour.

Still, once I'd got that part whipped, his validator for the coordinates failed to respond politely to my input. "Incorrect!" it told me time and again. I double-checked, triple-checked my numbers and my typing skills. Nope, it just wasn't working for me.

Now here's where human nature kicks in. It had to be someone else's fault, not mine. I decided Kevin must have made a mistake when he entered the numbers in the validator, so I called him. As I was reading my data to him over the phone, I saw where I had gone wrong.

Jeez, I should have taken off my socks when I ran out of fingers! Eight plus eight is sixteen, not seventeen!