The Beat Generation

Day 18: We were hip, baby.
We were cool.
Gimme five and lay down some jazz, daddy-o,
and don't be square.

Those nights in the coffee shop,
making the world over,
Conforming to a standard for nonconformity,
Hip cats, hepcats jivin'
to Patchen and the skins,
On the road to Nowheresville
Behind
Our shades.
We were gone, man.
Gone!

We birthed a new generation,
Paisley-patterned rebel sons and daughters of our blackness.
What goes around comes around, daddy-o,
We got ours.
Oh, yes, we did.

But we were hip, baby,
Hip to the end.
We were cool.
Now lay down some jazz and let me read a line or two because
(Can you dig it?) -
the beat goes on.

Mistress Of Disguise

Day 17: It came up in conversation a couple of days ago that I have very few "real" clothes in my closet other than my uniforms, and while that isn't accurate in the purest sense of the phrase, there are only half a dozen items which could do double-duty as everyday wear in, say, an office environment. As a matter of fact, I consider two of these images more frightening than the rest because they call to mind the expression, "There but for the grace of God go I." They are the anti-Crow, the antithesis of who I really am.

There are elements of the spy, the villain, the schoolmistress, the sorceress, the puckish woodland spirit, the aborigine and the entertainer in my makeup, and a healthy dose of pirate as my readers know, but there is no trace of the household drudge nor (horrors!) of the fashion-conscious businesswoman. In those two photos, I am in costume more than any of the others, playing a role so foreign to me that I am glad I did not have to carry a speaking part. When I think that I might have become either of those sad and lifeless beings had my educators been able to stuff me in their molds, I cringe. Scary stuff, that! Give me ghoulies and ghosties any day, but spare me the heels and handbag. That's where the real zombies are.

National Cat Day

Day 16: Skunk and Tip would like to wish you a happy National Cat Day. We did not know it was National Cat Day when we got up this morning, or we would have been better prepared. After breakfasting, we snugged down for our customary postprandial nap, only to be disturbed by Mama running the vacuum cleaner and then moving our chairs and other furniture around so she could do a photo project. It was an exhausting morning for us, so when everything was put back to rights, we immediately settled in to finish the business of napping. Alas, that was when Mama discovered it was National Cat Day. You can imagine our frustration as once again she woke us up and made us pose for portraits. Hopefully, there will be no more disturbances between now and bedtime, when we'll both wake up, ready to bounce and pounce the whole night long. Humans just don't understand how hard it is to be a cat.

Still Life ON Gold

Day 15: In the purest interpretation of the phrase, a still life contains as one of its major elements something which was but is no longer living, i.e., life which has been stilled, such as fruits picked from a tree, flowers gathered from a garden, even (shudder) dead animals. While you will find none of the latter in my compositions, I do love a good still life although I stop short of including any of the arcane symbolism present in many historical works...or do I? Do we read into art things which are outside the artist's intentions? And is it not the place of Art to evoke interpretation? What hidden meaning might lie in this simple arrangement of seed heads and ceramics displayed against softly draped, rich fabric? Though Art addresses the eye, it also engages the mind whether by design or accident.

As still lifes go, this one is pretty basic, but I hope it stimulates you to think beyond pottery and plant matter. Have fun developing your own "read" of the photographer's constructive process!

An Historic Sighting

Day 14: I have been transcribing historic migration records for the Bird Phenology Program for a number of years now, always fascinated when I stumble upon one from Mount Rainier National Park and the surrounding area. Some have been disturbing, such as the "collection" of specimens in Grand Park or in Indian Henrys. Although undoubtedly done under permit in the name of science, the contrast to modern Park policy is shocking. However, most reports are innocent: Clark's Nutcracker observed at Paradise, Mountain Bluebirds flocking at Sunrise. That said, I had quite a surprise when this card came up in the rotation.

Ranger J. B. Flett was primarily a botanist in the early days of the Park, and produced one of the early field guides to the flora of the area. He wound up getting a glacier named after him for his labours (albeit a very small one) and thus earned a footnote in the annals of Park history. Coincidentally, he seems to have had at least a mild interest in ornithology, as this screen-capture of a bird card attests. I was thrilled to find it because it documents his presence in the Park on a particular day and in a particular location. As such, I have forwarded the document to our Chief of Interpretation who, I trust, will route it to the proper office for inclusion in the Park's historical records.

But that was not the only amazing thing about this card. Flett's sighting of a Belted Kingfisher (Ceryle alcyon) occurred at Lake James where, almost fifty years later, my uncle Gus took up his station as a ranger. After the death of my father, Gus wheedled special permission from the Park's superintendent for his young niece to accompany him for one ten-day tour of duty at the Lake James cabin. That trip charted the course of my life from then on.

I feel like the discovery of Flett's observation has brought me 'round in a circle, as if I was destined to find this card among the six million in the transcription database. What are the odds it would have come my way?

I Love Autumn, Warts And All

Day 13: If you asked me to name my favourite season, I would answer "Autumn" without the slightest hesitation. Certainly it is a time when storms may keep me pinned down at home, but even torrential downpours and the howl of wind have a lyrical quality to them. When they lift and the freshly washed sky again leaps overhead, it has an intensity of blue not seen at any other time of year. Autumn is the season of jewel-tones, rich colors which enfold the visual sense in their warmth, and nothing says "autumn" quite so clearly to me as a bowlful of festive gourds.

My gardening season is too short by a good third to be able to grow these otherwise useless cucurbits, so I buy them in a departure from my accustomed thriftiness. They won't dry properly in this climate, so in a few weeks when they begin to mold, I'll resign them to the compost pile as I tell myself I've gotten my money's worth from the pleasure they gave during their brief span as objets d'art. After all, a bowlful of gourds doesn't cost as much as a movie, and it lasts longer (a feeble justification, but one which has served me in good stead in other matters as well). In their rustic charm lies a reminder for those stormy days when I long to be out hiking: Autumn is beautiful, warts and all.

Weed Killer Weekly

Day 12: You can't blame us for getting a little goofy after the job was done. After all, it doesn't happen very often that you leave home for a work party under a forecast of "heavy rain and strong, gusty winds" only to arrive at the job site under blue skies and warm temperatures. Oh, the storm came in as predicted, but by the time it arrived, I was sitting here processing the photos from the event.

This little corner of Nisqually Land Trust property is now ready to be planted with native species. The little Scotch broom which remains will soon be shaded out by snowberry, twinberry, native willows and a variety of other trees and shrubs scheduled to go in the ground in November. Our efforts today met with the approval of a Chickadee overseer whose cheerful commentary was as welcome as the sunshine. He seemed to know we were working hard to restore his habitat.

Sock Season

Day 11: It's sock season again! I'm back knitting away, in this case finishing up a project I started last spring even as I plan for the next pair. Knitting is one of those things I do when the weather is nasty, and this past week has certainly fallen into that category. Socks are one of my favourite projects, too. Know anybody who has cold toes?

Optical Onion

Day 10: A few of my readers will remember my Odd Onion project: take 100 photographs featuring an onion in creative ways. Most notorious among the photos so far was "Whistler's Onion," for which I tore my bedroom apart and recreated the setting of the famous "Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 1" with myself as Mother, holding the Onion on my lap. While not a recreation in that sense, this image was strongly inspired by the works of Piet Mondrian, whose minimalist approach is very pleasing to my eye. Viewers will also notice that there is an optical illusion at play here. The lines are purely white, but as the eye moves across the canvas, it will appear that there are dark dots at the intersections, hence the name of the piece, "Optical Onion."

Crows In The Corn

Day 9: It looks like a pair of thieves have found the corn the farmer's wife was gathering for her harvest display! These tiny cobs are beaded, and for a sense of size, I've included an inset showing them with a penny for scale. With any of the needle-arts, I tend to gravitate toward the "fine" (size) end of the spectrum, preferring to knit with #5 or smaller needles, to crochet with a #10 or smaller hook, to tat with the finest thread available, and in beadwork, I never use anything larger than a #11 seed bead. The corn was made with #13 beads, even smaller yet.

Each cob has eight horizontal rows worked in square stitch over a pigskin core which was cut at one end to form the husks. Two decreasing rows were added after the main cob was completed in order to make the tapered tip.

I have made a larger version of these using #8 beads which are about the same size as a kernel of  "Indian corn." I worked them over a felt-padded raffia core, with raffia for the husks. They look real enough to eat!

Crow Woman

Day 8: "Bad hair day," she thought when she first looked in the mirror on Monday morning, and then, "Boy, I need more sleep. I'm getting dark circles around my eyes." It hadn't been a particularly long weekend in the vernacular sense of parties and liquor; no, it was solely the mental clarity typical of myopic vision and expecting not to see the unexpected. It wasn't until she picked up her toothbrush that another realization took hold. "What the hell? I've got a BEAK? Wait a minute here...I don't recall Gregor Samsa being in the forecast."

It was an incomplete metamorphosis. The hand holding the toothbrush was pink and fingered. The elbow bent at a slightly odd angle, but it brought the arm up and allowed her to touch her hair. At least some things hadn't changed. Again she spoke a stream of invective, and this time, she paid attention to the sounds she was making: "Caaaaw! Caw-caw CAW-ca-caw!" Sibilants and fricatives had absented themselves from her tongue. Her second language came naturally, however. After all, she'd been using it for years to communicate with her corvid friends. She'd always claimed a kinship with them as well, citing similarities in their behaviours to her own. Perhaps it was the corvids' talent for situational assessment which kept her from panicking at this moment, and some of their curiosity as well.

If millet toast had tasted good to her as a full human, it tasted even better to the palate of a semi-crow. Coffee posed a problem, if only for the size of the cup compared to her bill. Breakfast accomplished, she then began thinking about how her co-workers would view this alteration in her appearance when she showed up at her job. She decided it probably wouldn't be an issue. No one pays a crow much attention unless they're raiding songbird nests, and as an ornithologist, she had always used the utmost care when measuring and weighing eggs, returning each one lovingly to its bed of down and weed-fluff.

Communication was going to be a poser, though. She had a class to give, and twenty students who had only got as far as the correct pronunciation of "Caw" as a signal of danger. "Turn to page twenty-six" was going to be difficult to get across. Demonstration! That was the key. It would also present a means to illustrate how serviceable a beak is for lifting and probing. Without consciously noting it, she was demonstrating another ability common to the Corvidae: intelligent analysis of a problem.

As the next few hours progressed, it became apparent to her that not much had changed except for her appearance. The traits common to corvids were none other than those of her human persona, traits which had stood her in good stead all her human life. A crow from birth, she'd simply fledged.

Bear Went Over The Mountain

Day 7: As often as I have tried to photograph this carving of Bear, the Healer, I have never felt the results did him justice until now. He came to me from one of my heart's sisters, carved by her from hop hornbeam (a singularly hard wood) at a time when my spirit was in dire need of his energies. He worked his magic well, and therefore photographing him became a challenge. I wanted a representation which carried a sense of warmth and well-being, and of ancient power, and my captures were notoriously flat and uninspired. Today it occurred to me to place Bear in a tableau of craggy mountains where he could have a broad view of the world and those who struggle down below. Warmed in the light of sunrise, he rouses from his sleep and goes a-prowling, alert for those who need his healing energy.

Yes, We Have No Bananas

Day 6: It looked like a banana sticking out of the bank above the ditch. I did a double-take and realized I was looking at one of the biggest Stinkhorns I'd ever seen, and it wasn't even fully open yet.

The Stinkhorns are a fairly small family with only a few representatives here in the Pacific Northwest. They call them the Phallales, and here I will detour from the subject of their taxonomy in the interest of keeping this report family-friendly. They are certainly one of the more unusual fungi, and as one field guide puts it, "the sight and smell of a stinkhorn is something most collectors will never forget." Another refers to the "odor of decaying flesh." Edible? No one wants to try!

As the Stinkhorn matures, it will exude a greenish slime which contains its spores. Insects, attracted to the smell, assist in transporting the spores as they stick to their feet. Indeed, even though this specimen had not yet ruptured, flies were already visiting it.

With respect to its identity, I am not sufficiently versed in mycology to make a determination other than to say, "Yes, we have no bananas."

Sarracenia Finale

Day 5: If you will scroll back to June 8th of this year, you may watch the progression of Sarracenia's mysterious, exotic blossom as it unfolds to the peak of its beauty on June 23d. After that date, the color began to fade and the petals curled and dried. I kept expecting them to drop, or for the dome-like structure in the center of the flower to burst, but neither happened. Sarracenia held onto her solitary bloom until it became a dry and withered husk. When a raccoon knocked over the plant stand and I found my baby spilled onto the concrete, I freaked, but unnecessarily. Neither the foliage nor the half-dry blossom sustained any major damage and in any event, I'd needed to move the colony to a larger pot before winter. The unscheduled transplanting had no particular effect on the plant; she just kept going, like the Energizer bunny. Today, I picked the withered flower, and after photographing it, consigned it to a vase where it will keep company with Nigella pods and strawflowers until dust wins out over keepsake value.

Ohop Creek Bridge

Day 4: A month or so ago, a friend was exploring one of those roads that go nowhere and discovered at its end this quaint old bridge. Today, following in his tracks, I paid it a visit, puzzled at myself for having neglected to do so at any time over the course of more than two decades. The scene begged to be converted into an impressionistic painting with its magical light and touch of autumn color, so I ask my readers' forgiveness for posting two "artworks" back to back.

Painted Mountain

Day 3: When the clouds lifted this morning, Mount Rainier was revealed in a luxurious wrap of new snow which had fallen overnight. Only a few days ago, I had stood looking up from Longmire at an expanse of bare rock until, embarrassed at seeing her aged flanks so exposed, I averted my eyes out of deference. Her naked season seemed protracted this year, only a faint and transient veil of white coming in September to hide her craggy body, yet she maintained her majesty throughout.

Those of us who watch the Mountain's seasons know her many faces and have favourites among them. The "new dress" is mine.

Gravity Goblet

Day 2: When I first started playing in one of the photo-hosting websites, I stumbled across an image very similar to this one. It had been posted by a man who quite possibly had as much invested in his photographic gear as I have in my house and car combined, and consequently, I figured there was no earthly possible way I could imitate his art with my piddly-diddly little bridge camera and array of household light sources. It took a fair bit of planning prior to the final setup, but here you have it: a Gravity Goblet. A minimum of post-processing was employed. Now it's up to you to work out how I managed to defy one of Nature's most rigid laws.

A Dacha On Boardwalk

Year Five, Day 1: It'll cost you 500 Rubles to stay in my dacha on Boardw...I mean, on the old Arbat. You'll get off much cheaper if you land on Mitnaya where a night in a sleazy hotel will only run 250 Rubles. Yes, this is an authentic Parker Brothers Monopoly board, a limited edition purchased about forty years ago when I was struggling to get a handle on the Russian language. With only records, tapes and books to guide me, I did very poorly with the spoken word, but eventually learned enough to be able to read children's stories at the elementary-school level. The few times I tried to hold up my end of a basic "hi, how are you" conversation were miserable failures. That said, as a good capitalist, I bought two of the game boards (a monopoly on Monopolies, if you will) so that I could preserve one still in the mailer as a collectible. What made the Russian version even more special was a one-time-only issue of a new metal character piece, a bear. A later Russian-language edition was released minus the iconic ursine.

So...welcome to Year Five of 365 Caws. When I started this project, I only expected it to run for a year, but I enjoyed it so much that I decided to continue it for a second...and a third and fourth. I find that writing a daily essay helps me keep my creative edge, although rounding up photo material is sometimes very difficult, especially during the winter months. Nevertheless, I know that many of my readers are "visual" folk, so rest assured I have no intention of eliminating the daily photo. Some of you have been with me all the way, and I appreciate your patience with me on those days when I haven't been quite up to par. Thank you so much for your loyalty! I hope I can continue to entertain you.

Hovering On Winter's Edge

Makeup Day (last one!) 13: Today, I discovered a rather unusual visitor in my garden: a hoverfly, aka "tiger fly." Normally something I associate with the high country and its dual attractors of Sitka Valerian and Rosy Spiraea, this wayward critter nevertheless exhibited the species' fondness for pink, and spent quite some time engaged in exploring all the nooks and crannies of a floppy Shirley poppy. Was he driven here by a falling barometer, or blown off course by the rising winds? In any event, I hope he finds a safe place to spend the night for despite his resemblance to something which might give you a nasty sting, Hoverfly is an innocent being and a vital pollinator.

With this entry, we conclude four calendar years of 365 Caws. I got a bit off in my numbering, hence the "makeup days" to bring this blog back to its starting date of October 14. Seasons willing and "the creek don't rise," I hope I may continue to entertain my readers with at least another year of essays, photos and ramblings.

Forest Gold

Makeup Day 12: I knew it was going to be a good day when one of my Park colleagues invited me over to her house for a breakfast of chanterelles fried up with egg and served on toast. As if I needed additional persuasion, she threw in the option of lattes as extra enticement, and then suggested that afterwards, she'd introduce me to her favourite mushroom-picking spot. How could I possibly decline?

Breakfast was delicious, just a touch of garlic added to the mushrooms as they seethed in a lightly oiled pan, the egg stirred in at the last minute to bind them together. Then, with caffeine coursing through our veins, we headed into the woods with bags and knives in hand. Several hours later we returned with a burden of forest gold, more than I've picked in the last three or four years combined. Back at the house again, a second round of lattes carried us into an afternoon of pleasant conversation. Thank you so much, Karen, for a very enjoyable day!

Red Brolly

Makeup Day 11: Inspired by a passion for surrealist art, I particularly enjoy finding unusual features in the landscape which I can incorporate into my photography, particularly when creating a self-portrait such as this. However, today I had a more impressionistic concept in mind for the Red Brolly when I left home, but hunting season left me cut off from the world of Seurat and the quaint little bridge I had intended to use as a stage. Gone were all thoughts of soft-focused autumn colors to set off my centerpiece when I found the placid countryside taken over by orange-garbed, armed males, some shorter and possibly younger than the rifles slung over their shoulders. Thus I turned to a different area, one where innocent animals were not likely to go: a rocky bar at the east end of Riffe Lake.

It must be pointed out that for this shoot, I was perforce in costume, i.e., makeup, wig, a white dress and fashion raincoat, low heels and a newly-purchased, cheap French beret. The rain politely held off until I was done, but that did not prevent spatters of mud from dappling my dress and caking on my shoes, and although I did not break a heel, the end caps disappeared somewhere amid the rocks. The Red Brolly held up as well as could be expected in the wind, but somehow, somewhere, the beret took wing and left no clue to its whereabouts. In later (unused) shots), it is gone from my head, its departure entirely unnoticed until I packed up my gear to leave.

It is my belief that sometimes sacrifices must be made for Art. Today, the beret and my feet were among the vicitms. Heels and rocks do not go well together, nor wind and hats. Perhaps next time, I'll go for limp watches and the Persistence of Memory.

Squirrel!

Makeup Day 10: As a rural homeowner, there is no fondness in my heart for Sciurus carolinensis. Cute though he may be when he comes bouncing along to mooch peanuts and popcorn in city parks, he is a holy terror if he gets into your attic where his passion for chewing on coated electrical wires quickly becomes apparent. Too, this immigrant from the east coast has displaced the native Western Grey Squirrel to the point that it is believed to be extirpated in many locations on the Pacific Coast. If you see a grey-colored squirrel in western Washington, it is almost certainly an Eastern Grey.

Our meeting today was in an open campus-like environment where squirrel-feeding humans are abundant. So brazen was this little demon that he mounted the stairs to meet me at the top, and for a moment, I thought he was going to continue his ascent up my leg. It was obvious that he thought the camera contained food of some sort. After all, it was in my hands, so what else could it be but a bag of treats? He was supremely offended when I stamped my foot, but he only retreated to a low crotch in a nearby tree, there to glare at me as I captured his portrait.

Textbook Specimen

Makeup Day 9: With my eye on the goal of Pinnacle Peak saddle, I walked right past this field-guide specimen of Amanita muscaria and only noticed it as I came down the last few steps of the trail before reaching the Stevens Canyon Road. Only once before have I found such a picture-perfect example, and that one fostered the name my husband and I gave to his grandparents' ranch when we inherited it. "Toadstool Acres" was what we called our place, and the photos I took during the late autumn before we moved in became the centerpiece of our Christmas cards that year. Nowadays, I laughingly call this species the "Mario mushroom," and it is easily one of the most widely recognized fungi in the world. The old hippies among my readers will remember it by its reputation as a hallucinogen, a detail which led quite a few members of that era to experiment with it despite the very high potential for incurring liver damage from ingesting the alkaloids. Although not deadly in the short term like its cousin, Amanita phalloides, this pretty little toadstool will get you in the end.

View From Plummer Peak

Makeup Day 8: When I left home this morning, I promised my friends that I would not climb Pinnacle Peak, and I'm good for my word. I did not climb Pinnacle Peak, although I've done so at least half a dozen times. I climbed Plummer instead. It's not quite as high, nor is it as steep, although you don't want to trip while you're walking the hogback.

So, to put things in reference here, that's Pinnacle in the middle. The route to the top goes up just below the ridgeline facing the camera until it gets beyond the trees. Then it turns left and gets serious. When you reach the top of the light grey section, you'll find yourself at a dihedral, and the holds are just a little too widely spaced for someone as small as I am, particularly on the descent. My husband never went up with me. He sat at the bottom and agreed with people that yes, I was crazy. I never climbed Castle, the next peak to the right, nor have I climbed Unicorn which is beyond it. Today was my first ascent of Plummer, and a nice way to shake out the kinks from my last hike. That was something else Bruce never understood: the need to take another hike to loosen up stiff muscles.

As adventures go, this was pretty tame. I only got stuck between a rock and a tree once, and I came down with my all skin intact. I gave Lane and Chutla a brief moment of consideration, but today...well, today was just for Plummer.

Tahoma Creek Suspension Bridge

Makeup Day 7: The Tahoma Creek suspension bridge often stops hikers in their tracks for a few minutes (sometimes longer) until they can come to grips with the fact that they're not going to get from Over Here to Over There without crossing it. It is one of two "build-your-own-bridge" kits in the Park, the other spanning Carbon River in the northwest corner. Both are substantial (pun intended) improvements on the former wood-and-wire contraptions, but nevertheless, I have seen a range of people from little old ladies to strong men go down on their knees to edge across either on more than one occasion. The braver individuals still tend to grip the wire handrails tightly, and set a nervous, hesitating pace which causes the structure to bounce more radically than it does when taken at a normal stride. I'm a veteran. I hold my trekking poles vertically in one hand so they won't catch a cable and run the other hand lightly along the top wire as I stride across. About mid-way, I do a catch-step to break the oscillation as it transfers to the descending portion of the planking. And then, if I happen to have a companion, I stand at the far end and offer words of encouragement, which is to say I berate them for being one of the world's biggest chickens, bruk-bruk-bruk.

These kit structures are so solidly built that they do not need to be let down on one side during the winter to ease the weight of snow build-up. Not so the old bridges! I remember coming upon this particular crossing in late October or early November one year with my sights set on Indian Henrys, only to find that the right-side cables had been relaxed and the planks were hanging at a 45-degree angle over the canyon. I was not in a mood to be denied the remainder of my hike, so by holding onto the cables still tautly strung and placing my feet carefully on the top ends of the planks, I worked my way across, the weight of my pack causing me to tip backwards even farther than the angle of the boards. I didn't know about Donkey then, or I'd have said, "I'm lookin' down, Shrek! I'm lookin' down!" Still, I did the deed (alone, mind you, with no one to tell me how foolish it was), and of course had to repeat the adventure on the return to the trailhead. Given this history, I hope my readers won't fault me for making fun of those who this newer, sturdy, substantial bridge intimidates. After all, I'm still here to tell the tale.

Mirror Lake Idyll

Makeup Day 6: Because of my age, I am attempting to be more diligent about filing a flight plan with friends before taking off on an adventure, but after fifty years of hiking alone and wherever my feet could take me, it's difficult. For one thing, "adventure" by its very definition cannot have strictures. Thus it was that the "plan" I laid out this morning read, "I'm going to go up to Indian Henrys if I can get around the washout on the old Tahoma Creek Trail. I've gotten around it before. If I can't get around it, I'll either go up Gobbler's Knob or up to South Puyallup Camp, or maybe beyond." That's about as definitive as I can manage. At least it would put the SAR team on the west side of the Mountain.

In the past when I've filed a flight plan, I've deviated from it a good 90% of the time, and sometimes rather radically. Crows, whether avian or mammalian, are opportunists. If time permits, I may go wandering off-trail with map and compass in hand to find a waterfall I've never seen before, or some little bathtub-sized alpine tarn. I want only to be governed by available daylight and my endurance. In fact, if I'd had another three hours today, I would have climbed Pyramid Peak, but as it was, I only went as far as Mirror Lakes (not listed on my projected itinerary). Yes, I got around the washouts (plural) and reached Indian Henrys and the ranger cabin there, although once I'd started my journey, Mirror overshadowed any other goal. Funny how it works out that way once my feet touch the ground.

Roll Out The Crackers!

Makeup Day 5: If you agree with me that homemade bread beats store-bought by a country mile, you should try homemade crackers! They're rather a bit of a bother to make, given the yield and the fact that they disappear all too quickly, but well worth the work for an occasional indulgence. My favourite recipe comes from a book titled appropriately, "Crackers!" which is now out of print. The nutty flavour of millet flour gives these crackers their character, and a sprinkling of whole millet provides texture and crunch as well as serving as an indicator to tell you when you've rolled them out to the proper thickness.

You will need
1/4 cup of whole millet
1/2 cup millet flour
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp. salt
1/3 cup shortening
1/2 cup plus 2 Tbsp. milk
1 Tbsp. honey

Preheat the oven to 350°. Stir the flours, whole millet and salt together in a large bowl. Cut in the shortening until the mixture is the texture of coarse meal. Warm the milk and honey in a small saucepan and add it to the flour mixture. Stir with a fork until the dough holds together in a ball. Give it a few quick kneads by hand, but don't overdo it or you will toughen the dough.

Divide the dough into two parts. Roll each part out on a floured surface and cut into shapes or squares. You will know when you've rolled them out thinly enough because you'll begin hearing grains of millet crack beneath your rolling pin. Ideally, they should be only as thick as one grain of millet. Place the crackers on a parchment-lined baking sheet and prick each one three or four times.

Baking times can be variable. "Crackers!" says to cook them 10 minutes on each side, but I have found this browns them too much. I give them 8-9 minutes before turning them, and then 7-8 minutes on the second side. Watch them carefully and adjust the time for your own oven. Cool, and serve with a lavish application of real butter.

Sundew Paradise

Makeup Day 4: No trip to Lake St. Clair is complete without a visit to the Sundews, and I am very glad I decided to go yesterday instead of waiting for the "better" weather today which turned up cloudy and showery out of plain cussedness. I did several more miles on the lake than planned, simply because for the most part, it was like a sheet of glass. Even this late in the season, I managed to catch (and release) six nice trout.

The real purpose of the trip had nothing to do with fish or rare plants or even recreation. It was to deliver a loaf of homemade whole-wheat bread to my Lake St. Clair friend Jim as a thank-you for the four packages of bass filets he sent home with me two weeks ago. I had no way of keeping them cold, so he packed them in a cooler filled with ice before he delivered them to me. With autumn upon us, I figured it was prudent to return his cooler lest it stay in my kitchen until next spring. It would have been rude to return it empty, so I got up at 4:15 to begin baking. By the time the morning fog had lifted and the temperature had risen above 45°, the fresh loaf was airing on the stove. A phone call en route brought him down to the launch and the bread was delivered. Then I set off for the main body of the lake to fish until the sun had risen over the hill which keeps the Sundews in shade during the early part of the day.

It was hard to come off the lake on this occasion, unlike the last time I was out and sickening with a summer cold not yet to the symptomatic point. I'd come home early, tired and achy, puzzled as to why a 6.5 mile paddle had taken the starch out of me so dramatically. Fully recovered now, I was reluctant to leave off my explorations even as the sun sank lower and the air turned a bit too cool. Perhaps I'll mount another expedition to Sundew Paradise before the season ends, weather permitting. At least I take comfort in knowing that I have done my duty by returning Jim's cooler in a timely fashion, for it is my way to "neither a borrower nor a lender be."

How Big Is An Osprey Nest?

Makeup Day 3: Without anything for a size comparison (and fir cones don't count), it's difficult to comprehend just how enormous an Osprey nest is. Earlier in the year when I was out on Lake St. Clair, I watched the parents diving for fish and returning to the nest to feed at least two hungry young whose heads barely popped up above the rim of the structure. Now the little ones are gone, but the nest remains and will be used again next year. So how big is it? Look on the shoreline of the lake just to the left of the golden tree. Those are two rowboats on the bank and a house just to the left of them. The nest is about the same size as one of the boats.

Forest Seat

Makeup Day 2: Not far from the offices at Pack Forest, there is a little cabin set back about fifty feet from the 1000 Rd., faded checker curtains at the windows and the door secured by a massive bolt with several locks. An industrial oxygen tank stands on the collapsing porch, an incongruous point of balance to this superannuated chair. It is obvious that the building has not been occupied for many years, and I doubt the door has been swung open in a decade, but always as I pass it, I wonder who lived there, and why.

I recall a time when the chair would support a visitor; in fact, I have sat in it on several occasions as I thought about the cabin's former occupants and why the little building had been let go to ruin. I sometimes imagined myself living snugly there, the single room warmed by a wood fire and the chatter of birds in the forest beyond the windows. It reminds me of my earlier days of duty at Mount Rainier and the simpler, if more rugged way of living I then enjoyed. Indeed, were it not that I own a home with all the creature comforts I require, I would be tempted to inquire about a position which would include tenancy (after some improvements, of course). Ah, but it is a fantasy, although if this building knew it, it would be pleased to know it is admired even in its present state of decline.

A Day's Mushrooming

Makeup Day 1: Two members of the interpretive staff and I went out during lunch break today to see how the Ramaria araoispora was coming along. In the process, we found dozens of other beautiful specimens to photograph whether or not we'll ever be able to positively identify more than just a few species. Also among our finds were enough chanterelles for a couple of servings of "Ranger Fries." I seethed mine in butter seasoned with garlic salt and just a touch of thyme. Top, Pholiota sp.; bottom left, Ramaria araiospora rubella; bottom right, Cantharellus sp.