September Ramble

Day 353: Yesterday, my friend Maggie and I celebrated the season's end by taking a short hike to Dege Peak above Sunrise. Maggie had finished her seasonal term in the Park and I'd worked in some capacity or another for ten days straight, so you might have thought we'd go in town for a movie or something, but that's not the way of those of us who love the outdoors. It was the proverbial "busman's holiday," and cool temperatures, a slight breeze and grey skies provided near-perfect conditions for the walk. The only thing missing was a view of the Mountain, its dominating figure almost entirely hidden beneath a dark-bottomed cloud.

The brooding skies provided an additional benefit of ideal light for photographing Harebells (Campanula rotundifolia), a subject which invariably glares under any ray of sun. These delicate flowers are one of the signature species in the subalpine zone and can often be found in groupings, their bells pendent from thready stems and trembling in the lightest current of air. They frequently persist right up until first snow, as if trying to hold the last traces of summer sky. For us, they rang out September and the season's close.

Callospermophilus Saturatus, Cascade Golden-Mantled Ground Squirrel

Day 352: Squirrel! You might easily mistake Cascade Golden-mantled Ground Squirrel (Callospermophilus saturatus) for a chipmunk due to its size and lateral stripes. However, the broad, dark saddle and eye ring tell the story. Chipmunks and squirrels are members of the same family (Sciuridae). The easiest way to tell them apart is that chipmunks have a light stripe running through the eye and squirrels have only a ring of lighter fur surrounding it. Ground Squirrel's "racing stripes" may be more pronounced than those exhibited by this individual, giving it an even stronger resemblance to the chips of the area, so check that eye! Both can be very persistent pests in the backcountry, gnawing holes in packs and tents to get at food, or even chewing on sweaty boots and other clothing for the salt.

MeadoWatch Patrol

Day 351: My favourite month slipped by with little time for hiking or any other outdoor activity, so I was grateful to get out on my last MeadoWatch patrol of the year without having to don rain gear. It was a little chilly when I set out, but that's one of the things I love about September: it lets you work out without getting too steamed. The sky was mostly overcast and although clouds obscured the Mountain, the seasonal colour was stunning in the meadows. There was suprisingly more data to record for the target wildflower species than I'd expected this late in the season. Even at this high point (the last stop on my patrol from Reflection Lake), Western Anemones were releasing their seeds and some lupine pods had not yet burst. That said, it seemed to have been a poor year for Sitka Valerian, at least in this local micro-ecology.

Dissection And Discovery

Day 350: After a phenomenal 10-day blooming run, the points of Huernia zebrina's star-shaped inflorescence folded in on themselves, hiding the raised red "donut" in its center (refer to my September 15 post to see the open bloom). Now it was time for some science.

I've been curious about what purpose the "donut" might serve, so I removed it carefully from its point of attachment and made a transverse slice just above the sepals which also removed the reproductive structures. These were not examined. I then sectioned the "star," removing two of the points in order to have a clear view of the tissue of the "donut." I was somewhat surprised to find that it was simply thicker but otherwise appeared to be identical to the tissue of the points. Based on this discovery, I believe that the "donut" serves to restrict access to the reproductive structures to specific pollinators, i.e., those small enough to enter the chamber or those with long tongues (butterflies, bats, humingbirds). To date, I have not noticed any fragrance in the flowers which might draw nectar-feeders, but given the apparent limitations imposed by the "donut," I am inclined to believe that "Lifesaver Plant" is pollinated by nectar-feeding species.

The Way It Was In 1932

Day 349: The photo in yesterday's post was taken from the site of the historic Sunrise Auto Camp, shown here in a two-panel panorama created by my maternal grandfather in 1932. His images were shot from a higher vantage point which I have not been able to identify in the field and shows Mt. Fremont faintly in the background beneath the overlaid blue sky as well as the unmistakable profile of the west end of Sourdough Ridge. I captured Sourdough's horizon from my photo, reduced it in size and pasted it over Gpa's shot at 80% opacity. The parking area shown here is the site of our revegetation efforts. Quite a change!

Sunrise Reveg

Day 348: With National Public Lands Day projects on the horizon, I have been watching the weather forecast with some anxiety for the last two weeks, seeing it progress from a threat of rain to the promise of sunny but chilly conditions at 6400' where our revegetation efforts would be concentrated. Consequently, when I left home yesterday, I was kitted up in my thermal underwear, expecting to be kneeling on frozen ground at least until mid-day. It was brisk where we gathered in White River Campground at 8 AM, 2000' lower, but by the time we had hiked to our staging area near Sunrise, the temperature had risen to a point where it was refreshingly cool and kept us sweat-free as we whellbarrowed flats of wildflower seedlings and "cubies" of water to the site of the 1930s Sunrise Auto Camp.

Meadow restoration is a long-term endeavour, and work has been going on at this location for at least a decade. Several of this year's crew (including me) were returnees. Reveg is compelling because it is a tangible labour. You begin with a bare patch of ground (an old campsite, a social trail) and with each seedling bedded, the trails disappear; the campsites fill in. Taking a step back, you observe a measurable progression of your work. If you were part of a previous year's work party, you may even be rewarded by seeing your prior plantings now releasing the seed of their first season. Every hole you dig and fill with a young plant reinforces your connection to the site, to its history, to the Park, to the Earth.

Before the snow flies, some 50,000 plants will have been put in place...not all today, but over the course of the autumn weeks. People may ask, "But are they really wildflowers if you raised them in a greenhouse?" Of course. The seeds from which they were grown were gathered nearby to maintain the local genome. We're just giving them some help in reestablishing their territory, repairing damage we inflicted.

As for the weather, by mid-day, our jackets had come off and some of us were regretting the added insulation of long johns, although when the sun slipped behind a cloud, a bit of chill returned. When we finally called it a day, I was in a sweat and had planted something between 300-400 Potentillas, asters, Partridgefoot and assorted sedges, a figure equalled by every member of the team. As a final step in ensuring their survival, we watered our charges well, then wheeled our tools and empty seed flats away and, with wistful, backward glances to our handiwork as we hiked over the last roll, consigned our green "children" to the Mountain's keeping.

The Maw

Day 347: Without having seen "Little Shop of Horrors," it took me a while to find out what my friends meant when they'd say, "Feed me, Seymour!" in response to my posts about the collection of carnivores living on my back porch. I finally watched the original movie a few months ago, and although I now understand the reference, I can't for the life of me figure out how such an obvious plot twist and cliché filmography earned the film cult status. At some point, I will watch the modern version, although I suspect that it will offer more gore (something I can do without), but nothing to improve the premise. Let's see...the original Rod Serling "Twilight Zone" must have had a version, and its precursor "Tales of Tomorrow" certainly did. Both pre-dated "Little Shop" by a decade or more. Fun if you're 11 or 12, not so attention-grabbing once you've passed through adolescence.

So...movie critiques aside, this is Sarracenia x Carolina Yellowjacket, my "other" Sarracenia. It has wider but shorter pitchers than Sarracenia rubra (background), but their unique, somewhat portly shape suggests that this plant can consume a lot more bugs. Like rubra, its pitchers are lined with downward-pointing hairs which guide insects first into the throat and then into a pool of digestive enzymes at the bottom. There's no escape for the hapless fly who lands here! To date, Yellowjacket has not bloomed for me, but it has filled its pot to the point that I'll have to divide it next spring. Say bye-bye, bugs! You're doomed!

Sex Life Of Liverworts

Day 346: Marchantia polymorpha (a liverwort) is a common pest in nurseries and greenhouses, and that's how it came to find a home in my front flower bed. I "imported" its spores in a pot of Wintergreen, the thallus not yet developed and visible, and although I've tried to eliminate it by removing the infected soil, it continues to reproduce abundantly. You see, Marchantia is sex-crazed. It reproduces in any of three different ways: by spores contained within the gemmae found in the gemma cups (left), by spores contained in the receptacle (right), or via pieces broken off the main thallus (vegetative propagation). That's "sexessive" even among other thalloid liverworts!

This is the first time I've observed the receptacle (cute little palm tree!), and no wonder; they're supposed to appear in spring, to be followed in summer and autumn by the gemmae. When it releases its spores, they can be carried some distance by wind. On the other hand, the spores in the gemmae wash out onto the soil when the cups fill with rain, much like the peridioles of Bird's-Nest fungi. It's doubtful I can win out over such a complex and successful reproductive strategy, so I might as well just start thinking of my flower bed as a field laboratory for liverwort biology.

Goats And Sheep

Day 345: For all of how much I've disparaged the Washington State Fair this year, I received a pleasant surprise today when I went in for my last shift. The sheep and goats were in, and sheep had been moved from a small barn into the new, much larger Agriplex, and almost every pen was filled. The only disappointment was in not finding any Romneys, one of the breeds I used to raise. Goats no longer had to share space with sheep and likewise were well-represented, occupying the whole of the barn they formerly shared. One nanny tried to eat my camera as I was taking photos of her pen-mates, and one ram tried to lick it but only succeeded in thoroughly sheep-slobbering my hand.

Sheep and goats are my favourite part of the Fair. I haven't had a goat since high school, but kept a small herd of Romney, Romney-Suffolk and Romney-Corriedale sheep for many years, supplying myself with both wool and meat. If it wasn't that they require daily care, I would love to have sheep or goats again.

Prospecting For Gold

Day 344: I did my tasks first. I baked a loaf of sourdough bread. I sewed up 15 more bat bags (and ran out of ties). I balanced my checkbook and made some important calls. And when I was all done, I said, "I'm going prospecting for gold!" I'd seen three chanterelles in the Longmire area a few days ago, but they were very small so I left them to grow. Afternoon rain had kept me from checking my usual spot that same day and then other duties kept me out of the forest over the weekend.

Driving up the road today, I saw quite a few cars parked in all the customary areas, so I was hoping I hadn't dallied too long. I needn't have worried. The buttons were just beginning to emerge on my favourite hillside. I found a few larger specimens and was almost satisfied with my haul and thought I might check another location in the hopes of finding enough for a second fry-up, but only found one before I saw one of the Park's law enforcement vehicles pull up beside my car. I was sure no new regulations had been put in place, so I was puzzled when I saw the LE walk around my car, peering into the windows. I was back a bit in the woods, so I hustled to clamber over a series of fallen logs to get within hollering distance and then shouted, "I see you, Joe Spillane! Don't tell me I can't park there!" Joe looked up, as did the second LE who I hadn't previously noticed. Jeepers, had I done something wrong?

Turns out they were making a routine check and hadn't realized it was my car, but yes, they were looking for people illegally harvesting. Mushroomers are limited to one gallon of edible fungi per day, but people who pick and sell to commercial gatherers often come into the Park and take far more than their allotment. Joe asked me how I'd fared. I opened my little bag and showed him the solitary chanterelle in the bottom. "But I have more in the car. This was my second stop," I assured him. "I have enough for dinner." I'm glad to see that they're on the ball even if they did give me a bit of a scare!

Sad State Of A Fair

Day 343: Empty stalls have not been uncommon in the last decade of the Puyallup Fair, but in my recollection, the vacancy rate has never been as high as it is this year. These pens should be filled with dairy cattle, and I have not yet seen them occupied. The adjacent row was only half-full, and even the brand-new "Agriplex" was only at about 75%. In my opinion, the lack of agricultural displays is even more appalling than the hikes in food prices. At almost $9 for a funnel-cake or elephant-ear, a family would take a fortune to feed. I did indulge in my customary gyros (a dollar higher than last year), and scones have gone up another twenty-five cents from 2015. Quite honestly, if I didn't have free admission and parking through working at the Park booth, I would have no justification for attending. It is indeed a sad state of affairs.

Peril At Port Ryffe

Day 342: We had been at sea the summer long, provisioning ourselves from what beneficent Chance placed in our path, knew no dearth of any stuff save the dried mangoes which were a favourite with the Captain, and only put into land for maintenance and some well-contained recreation. Yet for all our idyll, Capt. Corbye took often to her cabin, there to be found frequently in a brooding, dark mood and poring over her charts. When the zephyrs of late August filled our sails, we set a course upon her rigid instruction and likewise held back from any raids, instead performing a series of short hops from port to port along the coast. An undercurrent of confusion circulated among the men for it seemed that the Captain had a plan but had not made us privy to it, and acting the roles of respectable citizens for a month's duration taxed us sorely though we strove to follow her orders expecting her intentions to be revealed. That we paid our bills and kept a clean slate on shore did not go unnoticed by the townspeople, and tongues began to wag until some were saying that we had renounced our pirating ways, all the while wondering by what means we had obtained our seeming fortunes.

The tide of gossip among the citizenry rippled outward and came to wash against the hull of the Grey Raven where she lay in a hidden harbour, her captain also in a sullen mood and for much the same reasons as those which affected Morgan Corbye. Two years had flown since last the sisters Corbye had met, and that Morgan was described to be revelling in plenty set like a fishbone crosswise in the throat of Katherine. Kat surveyed her charts with the keenest eye to the tides and an instinct for winds. Indeed as she suspected, her sister's course implied that the Winged Adventure was making for Port Ryffe.

To say that there existed an animosity between the sisters would be to do an injustice to a resentment and conflict so venomous that it stopped just short of deadly, and that because Morgan plainly took greater glee in humiliating Kat than could have been exacted by killing her outright. Kat, on the other side, felt no such sophisticated constraints and was prevented from demonstrating her passion by somewhat lesser skills with sword and knife. Yet despite having been bested in every encounter with her rival, she was not to be deterred from planning further assaults upon her twin, as always hoping to catch her in an unguarded moment. She had drawn blood on several occasions, in sufficient flow that it emboldened her and perhaps inspired a tendency toward ill-considered action as it did now. The Grey Raven took a heading toward Port Ryffe, her captain blithely unaware that she was being led into a trap.

*     *     *     *     *

Shortly before our arrival in Port Ryffe, Morgan Corbye called together the crew of the Winged Adventure and let it be known that they had served without foreknowledge as instruments in her plan. Her justification for secrecy soon smoothed over any resentment we might have felt at not having been taken into her trust; our belief in the rumour we had helped to start was crucial to its success. Capt. Corbye had dipped heavily into the ship's coffers in confidence only with Robin Penn, our one-legged bursar and her most trusted confidant, funding our on-shore revels in a manner which lent us the temporary appearance of having come by a vast windfall. We had in fact done well over the summer, though the mass of our wealth was but an illusion, chum tossed in our wake to draw a certain shark to the gaff. Should the Captain's plan succeed (and we had no cause to think that it would do otherwise), we would be reimbursed from the chests of the Grey Raven, our autumnal carousals paid in full or more.

We dropped anchor at the limb of a small estuary where low tide gave but inches to spare for the Winged Adventure's keel, and a handful of men set out in a jollyboat to put in upon a steep and rocky shore. Atop the bank, this land rolled back into a tangle of trees and thorny vines which without the service of cutlass and machete was nigh impenetrable by any creature larger than a rabbit. Upon the orders of the Captain, we made a foray into the interior at a heading of SSW to twice the length of a rope brought for the purpose of taking a measure. There, we scouted out a large rock on which we took a compass bearing and paced off its distance from our previous mark. From point to point we progressed until we had charted a route to an indistinct but identifiable feature where with no caution to conceal the evidence of our presence (again under the Captain's direction), we dug a pit and buried a small wooden hamper laden with a jumble of precious metals. "Bait," explained the Captain, "needs must suit th' fish."

At the moment of our emergence from the forested zone, filthy and with shovels over our shoulders, Kat Corbye had climbed into the rigging of the Grey Raven some distance off and with spyglass determined that we had been up to some mischief she felt compelled to investigate at the first opportunity. To that end, we provided her with the occasion by sailing 'round a promontory to the east, there to tuck into a cove where we were fairly well concealed. Canny as a fox, she did not at once make her approach. In fact, we kept our station for three days, taking watches both day and night from cover on the shingle. She stayed well off, the ship's lanterns mere points of light in the darkness and her masts naught but a faint fringe on the horizon by day. At five bells o' the forenoon of the fourth day, she made her move and sailed boldly forth, presuming us to be again on the move to our next port of call.

For three nights and days, Morgan Corbye and the bo'sun (himself a fine swordsman) had kept themselves out of sight on land whilst the Winged Adventure was hove to, and little did the Captain's twin know that when she anchored the Grey Raven well into the deeper portion of the cove, our sleek barque was turning tide and wind to advantage. Kat Corbye went ashore in the company of but two other sailors, leaving her crew in a vulnerable position which we were quick to exploit. We fell upon them swiftly from astern, making off with what loot our boats would hold and leaving the ketch's crew trussed and stacked like cordwood in the ship's filthy hold.

Upon making landfall, Kat sent her two men ahead following our well-trodden line and when neither reported any evidence that some of our crew might have stayed behind, she cast caution aside and went herself at an expeditious pace into a small grove of trees where she found a stone, flat-faced and canted at an angle at the roots of one and disturbed ground at its base. "'Tis 'ere they've left summat," she said, "an' frae 'ere 'tis we wot will take it. Dig, ye dogs, an' quick about it!" The sailors fell to the work and shortly brought Morgan Corbye's hamper to the light. Its weight required the two to carry it together from the woodland to the shore where Kat ordered it laid among the rocks and then in an unconsidered move sent her meagre retinue again into the brush to hunt after rabbits, a suggestion inspired by their discovery of a trap which we had deliberately left behind. It was not long before the pair was laid out between logs and quite oblivious to the world, sent into dreamless slumber by our bo'sun and his Captain.

Kat at that moment was tucking a particularly attractive sapphire-set piece into the security of her bosom, for her dispatch of the sailors had not been entirely well-intentioned. That the crew needed meat and other provisions was fact and a few rabbits would have been a welcome supplement, but fairness with her crew was not a trait Kat Corbye shared with her sister Morgan and whenever possible, she made arrangements to skim the cream from Fortune's cup unobserved by other eyes. Given wholly to greed, the passage of time was naught to her as like Midas, she fingered the contents of the hamper, selecting the most portable goods to go into her personal keeping, and thus allowed Morgan to come upon her with stealth from behind. Her first awareness of her sister's presence was of a sword point pressing firmly upon her spine between the bones of her shoulders and her second, the sudden release from its prickling pain. In the next instant, the flat of the blade caught her on the side of the head and sent her sprawling, her unconscious form disposed upon the rocks in a graceless pose from the force of the blow.

The fracas had not gone unnoticed by the Winged Adventure's crew, back aboard their own ship with such stores as they had brought from the Grey Raven, and four men had set out in our second jollyboat to come to the Captain's side. Morgan Corbye was not yet done with her sister; she had ordered buckets of offal and fish guts brought to land, there to be dumped in quantity over Kat where she lay. "Leave 'er t' th' gulls," she said, "an' may they get a bellyache o' peckin' at 'er."

Thus we sailed from the encounter, Morgan Corbye again victorious and relishing the ignominies she had committed upon the hapless Kat, our stores and coffers replenished beyond the degree of their former depletion, and no loss of life or limb on either side of the feud. Yet all was not as cheerful as it might have been within our pirate's Elysium when at nine days out, our Captain took inventory of the contents of the wooden hamper which had proved her sister's undoing. Louder than the lapping of the waves of the season's first storm and the wind snapping in our sails, the curses emanating from her cabin struck all hands with foreboding.  "Me ring! Me bloody sapphire ring! I'll be 'avin' 'er 'ead on a pike, th' cesspot! A pox on ye, Kat Corbye! Ye've gone an' pinched me bloody sapphire! I'll be 'avin' it back, ye rot-gilled bottom feeder! Aye, an' th' 'and wot wears it! We shall meet, o sister mine,  an' on me sworn oath, ye'll regret when ye was borned."

Turn O' The Tide

Day 341: Avast, ye lubbers! Th' winds o' autumn are come an' Morgan Corbye's sailin' fer port. Ye wimminfolk best tuck yer sweet'earts an' 'usbands inter yer cellars fer I hears it said that she's conscriptin' new blood fer 'er crew. Shuild ye no' be 'avin' yer lads goin' fer t' pirate, ye'd be well-a'vised t' get 'em safe away. Beware th' turn o' th' tide on th' morrow!

Sewing For Science

Day 340: Recently, our Park Wildlife Biologist put out a request for volunteers willing to sew "bat bags" as part of a study project related to White-Nose Syndrome, a fungal disease which is decimating bat populations across the country. White-Nose was detected a mere 30 miles north of the Park boundary earlier this year and may exist within our confines although we are not yet aware of it. This project will involve the capture, testing and subsequent release of bats in specific locations. Obviously, we do not want to risk contaminating healthy bats by exposing them to anything which has come into contact with infected ones, so the holding bags in which they will be placed prior to testing will have to be laundered before being reused. Tara's request was for 600 bags (way out of Natural Resources' meager budget if purchased from a commercial supplier), so our former campground host and I put our heads together and came up with a plan. She would provide as much fabric as I felt I had time to sew over the winter, and I'd do the stitchery.

A 25-yard bolt of 36" muslin is just enough to make 81 bags. Each bag requires two feet of 1/4 or 3/8" grosgrain ribbon to use as a tie, and the bags must be constructed in such a manner that there is no danger of a bat becoming entangled in loose threads. I have completed 21 bags of a projected 243 and have 60 more to make from the first of three bolts. It's taken me 7 hours to get this far (time includes cutting the full bolt of fabric). We'd better get a lot of rainy days!

Sweet Dreams

Day 339: It took several visits to the Pig Palace before I was finally able to get a good shot of one of the piglets. They are so squirmy and rambunctious when they're this age, and just as cute as anything. The owner had gone into the pen, sitting down with outstretched legs in the clean shavings, and was having her pantlegs chewed by one of this sleepyhead's week-old siblings. Only a few minutes earlier, Sleepy had been pushing his litter mates around, clambering over them, nosing them aside. Piglets seem to have only two speeds: go and stop, and this little fellow had tired himself out. Pigs, sheep, goats, chickens...for me, that's what a fair is about, and judging from the number of people who crowded into the Pig Palace later in the day, I'm not alone in my sentiments.

Huernia Zebrina, Lifesaver Plant

Day 338: Huernia zebrina (Lifesaver Plant, named for the donut-like structure in the flower's center) is rapidly turning into one of my favourite houseplants. In the first place, as a member of the cactus family, it's very forgiving of neglectful watering even though it's lived in a hot window all summer. If that didn't win me over, its enthusiasm in putting on a show of bizarrely shaped flowers over a fairly long span of weeks would move it into the top ranks. The blossoms only last a few days once they've opened, but the development of them is fascinating to watch. From the tiny bud just below the dime in the upper image to reach the origami-like star of the middle phase requires almost two weeks. When the flower finally bursts open and the petals furl back from the center, its unusual form is a traffic-stopper. I have yet to dissect one to investigate the interior of the "lifesaver," but I am intensely curious about its role in the plant's biology.

Concertina Week 1

Day 337: I've had the concertina less than a week, and although I have a long way to go to become proficient, I think there's hope! I began by learning this piece ("Blue-eyed Stranger," a traditional Morris dance tune) as just single notes, then added a simple baseline which gives it a bit more substance but only requires three buttons on the left side (mostly just one). The bellows are still quite stiff, so my playing is a bit breathy, but that too will improve with practice. The reeds also need a break-in period, particularly those in the upper register. Upload times do not permit me to post the whole piece even if I could play it reliably for the duration of a video, but you will get the idea from this excerpt. For the time being, I'm treating the instrument as a 10-button model except for the occasional F-sharp in the bass, but it has 20 buttons and plays in the keys of C and G. A 30-button concertina was beyond the range of the budget for an instrument I wasn't sure I'd be able to play, but maybe some day, I'll feel I can step up.

Valley Hues

Day 336: I've had out-of-state friends tell me that all the green in Washington makes them feel claustrophobic. Claustrophobic? Really? I can't imagine what it must be like to live in a place which is not green, and especially one where man-made colours leap at you at every turn. Green is meditative, placid. It soothes and restores even while it beckons the eye to pick out individual shades. One can never grow tired of greens. There are too many to ever be boring, from the rich, deep forest-green of shadowed ferns and mosses to the light spring-greens of new alder leaves, from the grey-greens of lichens to the blue-greens of river water flowing through a wooded canyon. I look out my window and see hundreds of greens along the margin where pasture meets forest, no two exactly alike. How can that inspire claustrophobia? It makes me want to go exploring to see how many more greens I can discover in my lifetime.

The Winner

Day 335: I have now worked two shifts for the Park at this year's Washington State Fair (three more to go), and as always, I've gone in early to snap photos before the crowds arrive. Much to my dismay, I have come away with very little worth sharing. If that seems odd to you, it also puzzled me until I realized that my enthusiasm for the Fair has dwindled in parallel with the reduction in the number of agricultural exhibits.

The Grange displays were rehoused last year, and at the time, I thought it was an improvement. However, many of them are nearly identical to those seen last year and the year before or even a decade ago with little or no innovation. The building is still poorly lit, if not quite as badly as in 2014 when the produce was relegated to the darkest wall of the Showplex building. A new Agricultural Building has been constructed, but it seems only destined to hold dairy cows. Perhaps that means the old dairy barns will be torn down to make way for another building full of glitzy jewelry, vacuum cleaners, leather goods, chamois cloths and strange devices guaranteed to stimulate your (fill in the blank) or cleanse your system of negative energies.

Another significant decline was evident in the Pavilion's home arts area. No canned goods were on display, the showcases standing empty. Only one case of lacework was present, with small, poor samples of bobbin, tatting, crochet and knitting. Basketry was represented by a mere half-dozen pieces, and if any woven goods were shown, I missed them.

Poultry and rabbits still vie for space in the same dismal, dark barn, sharing it from time to time with other fowl. The horse barns (both 4-H and draft horses) were closed both days I attended, as was the goat barn. A few goats could be seen in "Animals of the World," along with half a dozen alpacas and a few sheep (the main sheep exhibit will be brought in later, and fortunately on one of my scheduled days). The cattle barns were only half full. Even a 1309-pound squash can't fill that void.

Death Traps

Day 334: The Door Wardens are hard at work. As I was taking this photo of Sarracenia rubra, a Bald-Faced Hornet landed on the uppermost tip of another trap out of frame and began edging toward the depths of the pitcher, lured by the odor of Sarracenia's previous victims. If you look closely at the photo, you may be able to discern the fine downward-pointing hairs which are this carnivore's secret of success. The hornet was compelled to continue on a descending path by their angle and in very short order, had passed the point of no return from which it could not fly free. There, it will be digested by enzymes in the liquid in the bottom of the trap, providing the plant with a nutritious meal.

Odd as it may seem, this Sarracenia as well as some others are hardy in our northern climate. Mine live in saucers of water on the back porch and will be left out until nighttime temperatures drop to the mid-twenties. This Sarracenia has survived in my care for a number of years now, and has so abundantly filled its pot that I will need to divide it next spring, likewise a second species called "Carolina Yellowjacket." Although they don't do a perfect job of keeping my porch mosquito-free, they certainly put a dent in the population.

Morris Kit

Day 333: The trappings of Morris dance are unusual, to say the least. Dancers wear costumes which reflect specific regions, but nearly all include a hat lavishly decorated with flowers or ribbons and the traditional bell-pads which give the dance its character. The latter are worn on the shins and sound the rhythm loudly during the vigorous dance. Musical instruments used in Morris may include accordion, concertina, recorder, penny whistle and fiddle among others. By knowing how to play an instrument, dancers can trade places with musicians when they get tired.

Years ago, I inherited my mother's concertina. At the time, I didn't feel I could devote myself to learning another instrument, so I passed it along to a friend whose husband took to it readily. Now that I'm becoming involved in Morris, I decided to give it another whirl and bought one as my September Morn present-to-self. It arrived just a couple of days ago, and already I am playing simple one-note tunes and the occasional chord (sometimes accidentally). The bellows are still quite stiff at this point, but a break-in period was to be expected for a new instrument. However, there's one problem I can't resolve: you just can't dance and play at the same time!

Pickled!

Day 332: A few days ago when a Parkie friend asked me if I would like some of her pickling cucumbers, my response was enthusiastic, "I haven't made pickles in YEARS!" She dropped off about a dozen small cukes yesterday which I brined overnight, and this morning made a half-batch of my mother's curry pickles which in my considered opinion are the best pickles in the world. Pickles are no more difficult to make than jam (perhaps even easier), but although my mother's directions say to pour into sterilized jars and seal without additional processing, modern recipes recommend placing them in a boiling-water bath for reasons of safety. I've adapted my mom's instructions to reflect that. The addition of a small amount of curry powder gives these pickle chunks a little extra zing and a flavour which can't be found in your average supermarket. For the full 6-pint recipe, follow the directions given below. For a half batch, use half as many cukes and brine according to the instructions, but when making the pickling liquid, reduce the vinegar to 1 1/2 cups and the sugar to 1 3/4 cups. Select firm, small cucumbers for your pickles. Wash them thoroughly before brining.

Make a brine of 1/2 cup NON-iodized or pickling salt and 8 cups of water. Place the cucumbers in the brine and weight them to hold them beneath the surface of the brine. For crisper pickles, separate layers of cukes with washed, raw grape leaves (optional). These will be discarded after brining. Allow the cucumbers to sit in the brine for 12 hours. Keep them in the brine until you have sterilized your canning jars by boiling them in a covered pan for 20 minutes. Near the end of the boiling time, prepare jar lids and rings and assemble your canning equipment. Have scalded lids ready to go.

You will need:
16 cups of brined cucumber chunks
2 cups of 5-6% white vinegar
2 1/2 cups of sugar
1 1/2 tsp. curry powder
1/4 cup of mustard seed
1 Tbsp. celery seed

Rinse and drain the cucumbers. Rinse a second time and cut into bite-size chunks. Combine all ingredients except the cucumbers and bring to a boil in a large saucepan. Add cukes and return to the boil. Keep at a simmer while you remove the jars from the boiling water. Ladle cukes into jars and top up with liquid to within 1/4" of the rim. Seal. Place the sealed jars into a boiling-water bath for 15 minutes. Remove and allow to cool on the counter. Pickles will be ready to eat in two weeks!

Crevasse!

Day 331: The Park has used this floor poster at several events now, and it always amuses me that many times, I'm able to spot the real mountaineers in a crowd because they tend to avoid getting too close to the edge out of habit. For those of us who have at some point in our lives stood on the lip of a crevasse, the very thought of it breaking away to send us plunging into the depths sends chills up our spines, moreso if we've had the experience. I'm among the latter, and although I never fell far, the sensation replays in nightmares all too frequently. But today I managed to convince myself that it was perfectly safe, and had a little fun before the Washington State Fair officially opened.

Botany Of The Cosmos

Day 330: What is "a flower?" Maybe it's not as easy to define as it sounds. Let's take a Cosmos blossom and break it down. Cosmos belong to the family of composites (Asteraceae), a word which might give you a clue that there's more going on here than meets the eye. In the most basic terms, there are two types of "flower" in the makeup of a Cosmos bloom: ray flowers (the "petals") and disk flowers (the "center"). What we commonly refer to as a Cosmos "flower" is in fact a head bearing many small flowers. You can see this in the closeup example, upper right. If you examine the disk through a hand lens, the smaller flowers will become apparent. Depending on the plant species, disk flowers may be a mix of male and female as they are in Cosmos, or male and female flowers may be borne on different heads, in which case they are referred to a "staminate" or "pistillate" depending on the sex. The microscope views show both sexes of Cosmos disk flowers, the brown stamens of the males obvious in the center right image, females lower right. The "birds-and-bees" of botany is quite a complicated process!

Hardy Fuchsia Erecta

Day 329: The most delicate of my hardy fucshias, "Erecta" did not sprout new growth on old wood this year, but emerged instead from the ground and thus came into bloom somewhat later than the others. It may require a little additional protection. Despite having felt the touch of Jack Frost's breath last winter, it put on a good show starting in mid-July. The novelty of this plant is that true to its variety name, the flowers point upward or outward rather than being pendent like other fuchsias. For that, I can forgive it being pink. The two tones of its densely packed blossoms (creamy, blushing sepals and orchid-pink corolla) are not unpleasing to the eye and shine like little stars from its shady niche.

Birds And Bees - Begonia Botany

Day 328: Today we have a little basic botany, i.e., the "birds and bees" of Begonias. If you've ever grown tuberous Begonias, you may have noticed that some of the flowers have only a single whorl of petals while others are lush and full. There's nothing wrong with your plant. The difference is just that which exists between the "boys and girls" of the Begonia world. The male flowers (bottom left) are double and put on an ostentatious display. Female flowers (top left) are single, and if you look at the back side of the blossom, you'll see the winged ovaries (right). In the case of Begonias, the ovaries are referred to as "inferior," meaning they occur beneath the flower. In other species of plants (Sunflowers, for example), the ovaries may be "superior," positioned above the petals. Tuberous begonias generally produce clusters of two female flowers and one male. Many growers pinch out the female flowers to encourage stronger development of the males, but I have never felt the need. Every year, I pot up a tuberous Begonia for my front steps and never have a shortage of flowers. Tubers can be dug and wintered over in a cool, dry location.

Counting Your Chickens

Day 327: Hens-and-chicks Sempervivums delight kids of all ages, but are particularly suited for introducing youngsters to the joys of gardening. Simple to grow and requiring only minimal care, they will quickly overrun the edges of any pot in which they are planted. Adults should take that last phrase as a word of advice: confine them to a small space (the Sempervivums, I mean...although it might also be applicable to your children as well).

The perfect container for Hens-and-Chicks is an old-fashioned "pocket pot," aka a "strawberry jar." Plants set around the edge of the main container will soon send offshoots out on trailing stems, and these "pups" will root of their own accord in the secondary pockets. Likewise, Hens-and-Chicks are good for filling in dull spots in a rockery, but keep in mind that they spread readily and may crowd out other plants with their densely packed, succulent rosettes. Give them plenty of sun and don't overwater. Many varieties are available commercially and fairly cheaply, but ask your friends if they have them in their garden. I've given away dozens.

Fipple Flutes

Day 326: A note on my musical history...trained as a keyboardist, my first love was of course the harpsichord and with very few exceptions, I eschew modern music (the word "modern" here referring to anything post-Mozart) in favour of that of the Baroque and pre-Baroque eras. I did perform professionally for a number of years on Celtic harp until disaster befell my instrument and put me out of commission permanently. However, during the same span of time, I also directed and played in a small recorder ensemble. Our gigs were mostly Christmas shows at malls and senior centers, done free of charge simply for the joy of sharing music with others. Although some of us had wooden instruments like the maple ones in my personal collection (above), not all members of the group could afford them, and thus our name was derived from the Cheap Plastic Recorders we used in performance, ergo the "CPR Consort."

As I mentioned yesterday, my late husband couldn't read a note but had an enviable talent for playing by ear. He would often drift off into lavish improvisations on any piece we played, returning to the theme in the final bars like a true pro. There was no need for him to learn to transpose from C to F when he exchanged a soprano recorder for an alto or sopranino as those of us encumbered by sheet music had to do. He simply picked up an instrument, played a few notes and then joined in. He was the only one of us who had the hand-span and lung capacity to play a tenor, and although he longed for a bass, he never found one within our limited household budget.

I still enjoy playing the recorder occasionally, although I have to admit it's more fun when someone else can play a different part. I miss those days when he and I would spend half an hour doing strange and exotic riffs on "Spagnioletta" and "My Grandfather's Clock."

Poco A Poco

Day 325: There's an old joke about harpists which applies almost equally to harpsichordists: they spend half their time tuning up and the other half of the time playing out of tune. Trust me, I know. I play both. Although a harpsichord holds its tune better than a harp, it is much more difficult to maintain because each note is serviced by two strings, each of which supplies a "voice," i.e., when A is struck and both voices are active, two plectra are raised to pluck adjacent strings. These voices can be isolated or muted at the performer's discretion, although doing so does not affect tuning. However, to further complicate the tuner's job, each string runs the length of the sound box from one tuning peg, goes 'round a stationary peg and returns to be wound on a second tuning peg to give the next musical half-step. In other words, A and B-flat are played on halves of the same string in any one voice. As the tuner brings A to pitch, the tension of B-flat is also affected, so that a balance must be achieved, and each voice must be tuned separately.

Okay, if you're good and confused, maybe you'll understand why I always left the tuning of my harpsichord in my late husband's capable hands. The man couldn't read a note, but had perfect pitch. It took him about half an hour to perform the equivalent of a full-day operation for me. Since I've been on my own, tuning is something I try to avoid, often playing with the instrument so badly out of pitch that it makes me cringe, and never playing in front of anyone.

I've been feeling a need for music in my life, and not the kind which comes out of a speaker. As a side to my current interest in Morris dance, I've dragged out a recorder and my harmonica and have been picking away at "Shepherd's Hey" and "Tinner's Rabbit." Although that has satisfied my desire to make music, it hasn't done so fully, hence my project for the morning: tune the harpsichord. I settled in for the siege, but surprised myself by having it done in about an hour. Now, where's Haydn hidin'?

September Morn

Day 324: As my faithful readers may remember, September Morn (September 1) is for me a special day, ranking second only to Christmas. It marks the changing of the seasons on my personal calendar, and opens the Beautiful Month. With the whims of the weather gods dictating, I seldom manage to perform the ritual associated with September Morn on the actual date, and this year took my annual de-stressing ablutions during August with a twenty-minute cold dip in Ghost Lake. Rinsed pure of what I refer to as "the dross of humanity," I am now ready to tackle another year. If possible, I'll have a second dunk in a chilly alpine tarn some time during the month to reinforce the cleansing. I had hoped to take a hike today, and although that's not entirely out of the question, a heavy mass of grey and foreboding cloud is currently hiding the Mountain from view. A little rain won't keep me from enjoying a dinner out at a Chinese restaurant, though!

In honour of September Morn, the photo depicts one of my favourite fall wildflowers, Orange Agoseris (Agoseris aurantiaca). It is usually found in limited numbers in the alpine meadows, and its unfortunate resemblance to the non-native invasive Orange Hawkweed (Hieracium aurantiacum) puts it at risk for well-intentioned but misguided removal. Know your plants before you pull (and don't pull anything in the Park, regardless)!