Berberis

Day 352: Want autumn colour in your garden year-'round? Plant Barberry! This thorny shrub can be used as an accent plant or may be planted in a row to form a hedge. Deer and elk ignore it. It can be pruned to keep it at a manageable height/size. Birds love the berries, and its ability to spread through seed dispersal is a problem in some regions, so monitoring flower beds for "volunteers" may be required. Many varieties are available in nurseries.

Drosera Rotundifolia

Day 351: I've still had no luck finding the remains of the original Sundew Island at Lake St. Clair, nor have I turned up any new locations for them in any of the lake's four arms. Their last remaining sanctuary is homeowner Jack's log breakwater, but oh, they are happy there! Two logs, one on either side of Jack's dock, help prevent the shoreline erosion caused by boat wake. There are clearly posted speed limits (variable depending on water level) but some boat owners ignore them or pilot ungainly craft which generate a wake at any speed, and many homes along the shoreline have some form of wake mitigation. Jack keeps his logs clear of young alders and invasive pseudacorus, creating a perfect maintained habitat for these insectivorous plants. While I was checking on them a few weeks ago, he stepped down to the dock and hallooed at me, "How are they doing?" "Just fine, Jack," I replied. "You're keeping them very happy. Thank you!" Never mind that he refers to them as "those Venus fly-trap things." His heart's in the right place, even if he doesn't fully understand what a rarity he has.

Pond Sliders

Day 350: My last several visits to Lake St. Clair have generated invasive-species reports, and not solely of plants. The Pond Slider population is growing. Trachemys scripta is a non-native species, probably introduced into the lake when someone decided to release their pets into the wild. After spotting adults a couple of years ago, I got in touch with the Washington Dept. of Fish and Wildlife and was asked to monitor them for any evidence of reproduction. Normally, these turtles have a high mortality rate in our climate and die off before they can breed. However, this year I noticed several young Sliders near one island, and one adult in another arm of the lake. Day before yesterday, I counted four young and one adult in the two eastern arms. I suspect that warmer water temperatures are giving these turtles a leg up toward becoming a problem in western Washington.

Stranger Things

Day 350: The Odd Onion has not made an appearance for quite some time, but I haven't forgotten this "100 Possibilities" photo project. I always select my onions with an eye toward their photographic merits, but as you can see, this one was a little long in the tooth by the time I got around to making its portrait. Many of its predecessors have gone straight into the soup/stew without achieving the slightest fame. This one spoke to me while I was packing up my kayak gear for a fall survey of Lake St. Clair. "Take me with you," it said. I could hardly object. It had been patiently sitting on top of the dryer for over a month without being called to duty. Now I suppose you'll think it rather odd that someone would take an onion kayaking, but I can assure you there are stranger things going on in today's world. The Onion hopes we have made your day a little brighter, if no less surreal.

Oregon Grape

Day 348: First off, we need to get a couple of things straight. Oregon Grape (Mahonia nervosa) is no relation to table/wine grapes. Neither is it related to holly despite what many people will try to tell you, although the leaves are equally prickly. It is edible, but I use the word advisedly, and on that point, I will tell you a story.

Many, many years ago when I was about 10-11 years old, I used to drag my best buddy Marilyn out in the woods on "survival expeditions." I doubt her mother knew what I was putting her daughter through; mine acknowledged my woods-lore, and was probably hoping that I'd be eaten by a bear since I wasn't likely to poison myself. I didn't have the best relationship with my mother. In any event, on one notable occasion, I had planned a weekend outing despite a forbidding weather forecast and was set to prove my (our) ability to survive in the wild, equipped with only a bedroll (blanket), a few meagre provisions, a knife and a book of matches, and I'd convinced Marilyn that we'd have fun regardless of what hand Nature might deal us.

After we got home from school that autumnal Friday, we headed out to camp at the base of an enormous ivy-covered stump my mother and I had dubbed the Liberty Bell, not too far from our barn. When dinnertime came around, it became painfully obvious that we weren't going to be able to open a can of Franco-American spaghetti with my hunting knife, a problem I had not foreseen. Marilyn suggested going back to the house (about 500' away) for a can opener. I informed her succinctly that that would defeat the whole goal of surviving in the wild. It would be cheating, plain and simple. We went to bed early, hungry, rolled tightly in our blankets, uncomfortable despite a thick cushion of ivy for a mattress.

At first light, I roused my companion and told her we were going hunting for foodstuffs, and although she'd endured boiled Skunk Cabbage root on a previous expedition, she expressed some concern about what we might be able to turn up so late in the year. Sure enough, the only edible I could find was Oregon Grape. Now there's a thing or two you should know about Oregon Grape. One, it's mostly seeds. Two, the sparse flesh which surrounds the seeds is strongly acidic and tart. You're not likely to eat more than five or six at a sitting, and I'm betting you won't even go that far.

We'd started a small fire to try to dry out the morning damp which had penetrated our bedrolls and spirits, so the thought occurred that we might render these tiny fruits more palatable if we roasted them. About the size of canned peas, they were not the easiest things to skewer, and the twigs we'd impaled them on burned to cinders before the berries were heated through. Most of our morning was wasted in trying to prepare Mahonia nervosa in some way which would at least allow us to eat enough to stop our tummies from rumbling.

And then to add insult to injury, it started to rain, just like the weather forecast had promised it would.

Even in those days, I was a stubborn little thing, and I had a point to prove. Did we scamper for the warmth and shelter of the house? I would not hear the suggestion! We built a shelter of boughs leakily shingled with ivy and endured another night longing for the contents of that unopened can of overprocessed spaghetti. It rained even harder Saturday night and drowned the remnants of our pitiful little fire. I could not rekindle it on Sunday morning, so we had another breakfast of Oregon Grape directly off the vine. About 2 PM and at Marilyn's urging, I relented. The two of us bundled up our soggy bedrolls and went back to the house. We'd survived, but I can never see Oregon Grape without remembering what torture I put my best friend through in the name of "fun."

Top Done!

Day 347 (bonus post): The quilt top is done! It measures 70" x 90" (roughly). Now I have to make a judgment call on how to back it. Apparently double-width broadcloth has gone the way of so many good things. I was unable to find it, and since I didn't really want to back the quilt with muslin (natural or white), I bought yardage of the standard 44" width. This means that the backing will have to be pieced, and I need to decide if I want to make squares the same size as the blocks (probably not, because it would make hand-stitching harder where seam allowances stack up), or if I want to use strips or larger rectangles. One side of my head argues that I should just back it with boring old muslin and use the broadcloth for something else. I don't like having seams on the back of a quilt. It's frustrating to be undecided at this point, so close to having it on the hoop and doing the handwork I enjoy most.

Pathfinder

Day 347: When we think of "wildflowers," we are most likely referring to a plant with a pretty flower. After all, that's part of the word. But not all wildflowers' blossoms are showy or brightly coloured. Take Pathfinder for example. This plant's tiny white flowers are hardly noticeable, yet Adenocaulon bicolor (also known as Trail Plant) still holds a surprise. When a passing critter (animal or human) bends or breaks its flexible leaf stem and the leaf turns up to expose the back side, it reveals the reason for its Latin name. The back of the leaf is a bright, silvery-green. Even if you don't know where you're going, Pathfinder will show you where you've been.

Patience Corner Assembly

Day 346: Assembly of the new quilt is going MUCH faster than expected and in part I will attribute that to using a rotary cutter instead of scissors. The tool allowed much greater accuracy in the cuts and therefore running up seams can be done without a lot of fuss. The design is a simple one as well. Each block can be broken into four smaller blocks consisting of one rectangle and two squares, and with a little planning, these can be sewn together with only one critical meet per pair. The final seam of each block also has only one meet. This morning, I laid the blocks out on the floor to see how I wanted to rotate them (lower left), then stacked them carefully for "batch processing." At the machine, I completed three seven-block strips and joined them in the space of just a few hours, and then decided to call it quits for the day. "Patience Corner" certainly doesn't require a lot of patience to piece!

Reading Rhubarb

Day 345: Between weather and schedule, it's been hard for me to round up "blog shots" for the last several days, so today I went out for a walk at Park Headquarters and came home with absolutely nothing to show for my time and effort. Frustrated, I turned to the yard and discovered that one enormous rhubarb leaf had changed colour when none of the rest had. I captured a close-up, not intending it for a post, but then I recalled that years ago, a friend had pasted a city street map over one of my photos of a catalpa leaf, a trick which I'd found quite amusing. I wondered if I could find an appropriate map for the rhubarb, and while browsing topos for Eatonville and east to the Mountain, I was struck by the similarity in topography between the rhubarb and Lynch Creek. It took a while to figure out how to merge the two to best effect.

Sheep Show

Day 344: I came into the Fair through the Green Gate as I usually do when I'm working at the Park's booth, and the first sound to greet me was a lengthy and distressed "Baaaaaaaaa!" from the new Agricultural Arena. I quickly diverged from my planned line toward the Piglet Palace and discovered  handful of black sheep being judged. The complex next door was filled with all sorts of bleating voices, making me glad I'd gone in early. Yes! Apparently the main "sheep show" had been saved for the last days of the Fair!

I do miss having sheep, although I'm wise enough not to go down that path again for a variety of reasons. That said, looking at all these fine animals (wool and meat breeds both) made me long for the days when I ran Romney-Suffolk crosses. The cross gave me the best of both worlds. I like mutton stew and "lamb-burger," so I'd raise my flock long enough to get two shearings and a new crop of lambs before turning the older sheep into freezer fare. I wasn't raising them for profit, but one year I ran the numbers and figured out that I was breaking even, the expenses of food and shearing balanced out against what I got in terms of fleeces sold to Pendleton Mills and local weaving shops, and meat for my table.

The Akebia Experiment

Day 343: I'm not to the point of calling the Akebia Experiment a success yet, at least not if the goal was to have ripened fruit, but the cross-pollination certainly worked. The fruits are beginning to turn a lighter green, although they are still hard as rocks. They should be blotchy purple when mature. References say that the maturation period is 40-50 days. Right, yeah, sure. We're well into the fourth month since I tickled their little stigmas with the paintbrush. Admittedly, there might be some latitude between varieties just like there is in corn, tomatoes and a host of other vegetables and fruit, but two whole months? That's stretching this botanist's credulity. I have to admit that it's been fun watching the fruit develop even if I don't ever get to taste it.

Patience Progress

Day 342: You'd think I'd want a break after completing the Twenty-Year Quilt, but no, it inspired me to start a new one, and I'm already over halfway done with the cutting and piecing of the blocks. Each colour scheme has two versions. I refer to them as "dark" and "light" based on the fabrics used in the large rectangles. Prints used as rectangles in one version become the prints used in small squares in the other, and vice versa. At this stage of the game, I have all blues and purples cut and pieced. The aquas are cut and 60% pieced, and the greens are roughly 50% cut. Once they're done, I will start assembling the 63 blocks in a 7 x 9 grid. The order runs diagonally, alternating "light" and "dark" of each colour scheme; thus the top row would be dark green, light purple, dark blue, light aqua, dark green, light purple, dark blue. Since the blocks are identical within each "dark" or "light" for each colour, I haven't decided whether I will keep them in the same orientation or rotate them 90 degrees each time they appear in a new row. I'll have to lay them out to make that determination.

Captain's Leisure

Day 341: Although not odd to the point of eliciting deep curiosity, it was uncommon enough to generate whispers among the crew when two weeks earlier, the Captain had ordered the first mate to take her ashore in the jollyboat to the windward side of a heavily forested island. Nary a man was chosen to accompany her; thus one green wit among us put forth the indelicate suggestion that she was going to see a lover. Upon overhearing the hand's inevitable and scurrilous elaboration upon such a subject, the first mate fell into a wild fury, taking up a belaying pin with which to enforce his order to "Shut yer gob, ye filth!" The blow never fell, for at that moment the young sailor (a lad in his early 20s) tripped on a coil of rope and went crashing backward into the hold, to break his neck in the fall. The sudden shadow of death sobered us all, but none so much as the mate who had only meant to chastise, yet he sternly reiterated his admonishment that there would be "none o' that talk" among the rank and file at risk of the lash. How he might explain to the Captain our crewmate's absence was a matter he would have to reconcile on his own.

Perhaps he invented a tale of desertion, though were he caught out in a lie by Captain Corbye, his remaining hours of existence might be counted on the fingers of one hand. Whatever account he devised to mollify her wrath, she was in good humour when he brought her back aboard eight days later. One might say it was an exceptionally good mood, for she dealt us out each a generous handful of coin though we had not participated in obtaining it. Since that time, we had been under sail in ragged weather, making toward Port Ryffe against a stiff wind. Upon putting in to the safety of the harbour, the Captain dismissed those of us the ship could spare, joining the crew at the pub in the confidence that her foe Harbormaster Beale had been called to court to answer charges of dereliction of duty as a direct result of our previous visit to his fair town.

The Captain passed over to the publican a leathern bag, the contents of which rendered him wide-eyed and immediately subservient and obliging. In short order, ale or beer was in the hands of every jolly sailor, and at no lightening of our purses. The Captain drew up a weathered trunk as a seat, and equipped herself with a tankard of ale for although the chill of evening had shouldered through the door with the impertinence of an uninvited guest, no fire had been laid. The massed humanity within the cramped confines would soon raise the temperature. We fell to serious drinking, the patchwork of our conversations overlaid with occasional roistering song.

As the Captain took a fourth beverage to her lips, her countenance was lit with a smile unsettling in its benignity. For a fraction of a moment, I saw her in freshly laundered and mended clothing, not as the master of a crew of blackguards and rogues, but as a woman of advancing years taking her leisure at the pub like any common matron of similar age. No artifice glinted in her deep eyes, neither of scheme nor of malice, the eroded tracks of prolonged wind and salt exposure softened somehow by a light not wholly external. Unsettling, I say, for it gave to Morgan Corbye a vulnerability heretofore unseen by this biographer. If known to her crew, none had dared speak it aloud, nor would, knowing it to be illusion. In the public-house dimness of the Nine-Tailed Cat, the Captain's harsh voice lifted in the recitation of "Leave 'Er, Johnny," crackling off-key above the keen of the wheezing bellows of a mysteriously-acquired concertina. My observations drawn perforce to the instrument and the hands which clumsily drew forth from it a mere approximation of the shanty's tune, I saw it: the sapphire ring which but a year ago her sister Kat had plundered at the cost of a long period of unconsciousness. How had this repossession happened, unbeknownst to any of the crew?

One did not ask questions of Morgan Corbye, but as the evening wore on and she slipped further toward the brink of the ale's sweet oblivion, she laid aside the instrument and came to sit at my side on a low stool. Her disfocused eyes raised to meet mine by the accident of her physical position and, for all that I am a tall man and she of diminutive stature, for a moment I was caught in an illusion of superiority. In syllables smeared by strong ale, she spoke.

"Och, bloody 'ell, lad. I be gettin' auld." I knew she was speaking from her cups, yet was at a loss for a means to stem the tide I feared was surging inland. I had at times been her confidant, but only in regard to plots and plans, nothing of a personal nature. To be cast in such a role was not a burden I wanted to bear, yet she seemed determined to steer into the rocks. "Dinna look at me so," she said. "I'll be a'ter outlivin' ye by a decade, sprout. I only means t' say tha'...well, bloody 'ell! Leave me t' tell th' tale an' see if ye're no' in agreement."

*     *     *     *     *

The theft of the sapphire ring by her sister was an affront Morgan Corbye could not ignore. Over the past year, she had engaged every available eye and ear on the mainland to the purpose of tracking Kat's movements until such time as her twin went to ground. Like the Captain, Kat had gone ashore unaccompanied on a certain wooded island, there to take a short respite from the hard labours of piracy in a lair she felt secure. Had it not been for the keen eye of one young fisherman, her plan might have succeeded but, duty-bound as he was to the chime of silver against silver, this ragtag urchin carried word to another of his gang who took it directly to his uncle who was in Capt. Corbye's employ. In possession of this knowledge, our Captain engaged the mate to convey her immediately to the same island, for time was of the utmost essence and the overland journey promised a hard challenge. When a few days later, Morgan Corbye caught first sight of her twin, she (Morgan) was bloodied and bruised by the cruelest of inanimate enemies; rocks, brambles and branches had torn her skin and hair as she passed through those lands where no other would venture. Her jubilation at seeing her twin nearly made her cry aloud when Nature's savagery had not, yet she took to cover and waited, the pangs of hunger cramping her belly unnoticed in her fierce concentration.

Expecting the tale to continue with a description of a fight and conquest, I leant back against the wall in anticipation. The Captain's next words struck like a thunderbolt.

"An' there she sits, 'erse'f roostin' on a rock like a shag, a-starin' out t' th' empty sea," she continued, "an' I slips up be'ind 'er quiet-like...though I think she's gone a bit deef, that one...an' I runs me pig-sticker str'ight atween 'er ribs an' gives it a good twist, an' by gawd, she falls orf th' rock, dead as dead. Me sister, me ain flesh, dead at me feet." She paused as if collecting herself, and had I not known it for a trick of the light, I might have said that a tear crept into the corner of her eye. Were it there, it would not have been for the death of her enemy but for the loss of purpose to her life, and thus I understood the reference to age with which she had opened her discourse. I recalled her threat to take the sapphire as well as her sister's hand which wore it, and silently wondered yet again why such a minor token was worth the enmity. As if she knew the course of my thoughts, she said, "I cuidna do it, laddie. I cuidna take th' finger wot bore ol' Service's sapphire. It were bloody 'ard t' pry orf 'er, bu' I couldna sp'il me sister's carcase. I'd kilt 'er, lad. I cuidna do th' bloody thing!"

Service's sapphire? It had been Edgar Service who had inducted a twelve-year old stowaway into piracy those many years ago. Now her mood came into stark relief. What I had taken for a guileless mien was that wistful smile which so often disguises pensive melancholy, and that which I had read for vulnerability was in fact far more dangerous to the spirit and soul of a pirate. In the flickering lights of the pub, I saw that there lay in Morgan Corbye a seed, a mere grain but with the potential to sprout into a pernicious weed, a seed of conscience. However, never before had Morgan Corbye been more wrong. At that moment aboard the Grey Raven, her sister's compassionless surgeon was cleansing a deep knife wound with turpentine and sealing it with hot tar with complete disregard for the whiskeyed moans of his patient. Although her recuperation would be long and fraught with pain, Kat Corbye lived.

The Show Must Go On

Day 340: This is not exactly the post I intended to write about Marco and Heather Landin. I first saw them performing at the Puyallup Fair as green-clad "Florasapiens" several years ago, Naturally, I took photos and posted one of Heather on Flickr with no idea of their real names. I was suprised to get a message from Marco a few weeks later after he just happened to see the photo come up in Flickr's rotation, complimenting me on the rave review I had given them. They are indeed fantastic, and perform a lot more widely than I'd realized. Marco has toured with Cirque du Soleil as a solo fire-performance artist, and the pair frequently appear in Las Vegas (visit dreamcityvegas.com for more information about their acts and characters).

It was during the process of searching for their webpage that I found out that Marco had been badly injured in June of last year when an unidentified man approached him from behind to grab Marco around his stilted legs and lift him off the ground. His center of balance thrown off, Marco pitched forward, thrusting out his arms instinctively to protect himself in the fall. Both his arms were broken and his wrists were shattered. His assailant (who had been harassing other performers during the Electric Daisy Carnival) was never apprehended after his companions forcibly freed him from grounds security people. Police closed the case because they had no leads. Marco underwent a long series of surgeries and was told it would be at least a year before he would be performing again. Consumate artist that he is, Marco Landin is in the air again, bringing his especial magic to all who see him. The show must go on.

Separating The...

Day 339: Several years ago, I was told by a Fair employee that sheep were only brought in at the end of the Fair's run due to the possibility of disease being cross-communicated to cattle. In my years of raising sheep, I had never heard of any such thing, but I figured Fair officials knew what they were talking about. Consequently, I nearly always missed the sheep exhibit. Oddly, this year the restriction seemed not to apply. Sheep were scheduled for mid-month, and to my delight, the show overlapped one of my duty days. Again to my surprise, goats were housed in the same barn concurrently. Apparently the Fair no longer separates the sheep from the goats!

I've often thought about getting a goat. When I moved here thirty years ago, I brought two sheep with me, only to learn a hard lesson when they were attacked by neighbourhood dogs. A sheep is a docile animal, a goat not so much so. Unless taken down while in a small enclosure, a goat can stand its own against a dog or coyote. But sheep are grazers, good for keeping your lawn mowed. Goats are browsers, and will eat almost anything from knee-level up as high as they can reach, standing on their back legs to to do. I don't have a lot of brush, and wouldn't want them devouring my ornamentals. In any event, I feel that staking a goat on a tether is unkind to the critter. A little Angora is tempting, though.

Geology Sandbox Interactive Display

Day 338: Working in the Outdoor Building at the Puyallup Fair, I might have missed this ultra-super-cool interactive display in the Department of Natural Resources exhibit had it not been for someone on the next shift drawing my attention to it. It's basically just a sandbox for grown-ups, but oh, what fun for a map lover! An overhead projector beams colours and contour lines onto the surface, and as you push the sand around or pile it up, you get a feel for how physical topography works. A pit dug over here fills with the blue of water, green forested zones grow or shrink as rocky red ridges and mountains are built up or torn down. The challenge I took was to create a mountain tall enough to maintain a snowcap (not easy with shifting sand!), and here you see the result.

Birthday Girl

Day 337 (bonus post): Today is Skunk's 15th birthday! She came to me at about six weeks old, a wild little thing who had been born outdoors and stolen from her mother by another barn-cat who was nursing kittens several weeks older. Smaller but much feistier than the other kittens, she withstood an attack by two savage dachshunds which almost cost her a paw. It was a hard beginning, and it took many years before she would consent to being touched, even longer before she would sit on my lap. At seven years old, she developed an ear infection which failed to respond to the standard treatment. A stronger antibiotic administered in her ear canals rendered her deaf. She fell into a deep depression with the sudden and total loss of her hearing, and lost over half her body weight in a matter of days. A different vet gave her subcutaneous fluids and a bad prognosis, but I force-fed her for several weeks and brought her back to moderate health. Since then, she has become very affectionate toward me and often pushes aside my projects to insert herself on my lap. She still has health issues and is developing geriatric problems as well, but she's my good old girl. Happy birthday, Skunk!

In Your Face, Ranger Lady!

Day 337: When I arrived at the Stevens-VanTrump monument near the top of my MeadoWatch hike, I noticed a man eating a sandwich and a marmot on the ground about a yard away from his feet. I figured I was going to have to speak to him about feeding the animals, but then I realized he wasn't feeding the critter. As I watched, the marmot brazenly moved closer until it was just inches away from the visitor's legs. Then it hunkered down like a cat getting ready to pounce, its hindquarters wiggling in a way any cat owner would recognize. At that point, I saw that a rapid intervention was needed to keep the animal from jumping into the man's lap, so I shooed it off, but it moved reluctantly and only went a few feet to stand its ground at the edge of the trees. I chased it a little more vigorously, but as soon as I turned my back on it, it came right back to where the man was sitting.

After I had hazed the animal several more times, the hiker got up and walked over to the stone bench to eat his sandwich standing up. The marmot followed, got up on the high back of the bench, and appeared to be preparing to leap onto the man's shoulder. By then, several other visitors had gathered around. The marmot went up to several of them, contacting their shoes or pantlegs with its nose.

In all, I spent about 45 minutes chasing the marmot back toward its den. Invariably, it returned as soon as I stepped away. I even pushed it with my trekking pole (rather forcibly, but not abruptly or sharply). I figured this stand-off might well go on all day, so after instructing all visitors present that they should not approach or feed or in any way encourage the marmot, I went off to complete my hike. When I came back down, marmot was still there with a new set of visitors and being just as insistent as before. For the record, I have never seen such assertive behaviour in a marmot, but after all, they are just enormous squirrels.

The Twenty-Year Quilt

Day 336: It's done! Well, I still have to create a "made by" tag for the back, but it's ready for the laundry. 60" x 68", it makes a nice topper for a full-size bed. They say that the skill of a quilter can be best seen on the back of their work, and while I'm not exactly proud of the machine piecing (I was working with "mistake cuts" for the print squares), I think the actual hand-quilting would pass muster. Each of the 72 blocks (pale blue center surrounded by 20 small squares) took approximately four hours. Hand-stitching is time-consuming! I feel a great sense of relief to have this one out of my "unfinished works" basket, but I've already started piecing another one.

September Blue sky

Day 335: Some of the Park's volunteer activities are so popular that dates have to be reserved well in advance. Take MeadoWatch, for example. Right after the June training/review, I put myself on the calender for two Thursdays in September (my favourite time of the year to hike). Did I have an in with NOAA that I had a long-term forecast for no rain? Not hardly! When the first of the dates rolled around, we found ourselves under a suspension of all outdoor interpretive activities due to thick smoke from the Norse Peak fire. Even if I could have drawn a breath without coughing, I couldn't have done the hike as part of my duty. Luckily, there were still a few openings this week, so I reserved Tuesday (yesterday), hoping that the weekend's cooler, breezier conditions would blow the smoke away. I got lucky. Other than being rather too warm by late morning, the skies were gloriously September-blue. It is worth note here that it's been forty years since I first put on the uniform. Admittedly, my service hasn't been continuous (being gone so much caused family trouble), but I have in roughly twelve years and plan to keep going until I drop.

Blue Elderberries

Day 334: "It seemed like a good idea at the time." Those words always chime in my head when I see blue elderberries.

When I was growing up, the red-fruited Elderberry was the only one you'd see in the cooler, damper climate of Snohomish County. It wasn't until I moved to southwest Washington that I saw blue Elderberry in abundance. My mother had always told me that the fruits of red Elderberry were poisonous, and while that is not exactly true (they must be cooked before eating), it kept me from nibbling on the ones in our neighbourhood. She also said (correctly) that black or blue Elderberries could be used for pie and jam. As a young housewife, I was tempted by the abundance of dusty blue berries within a short walk of our prairie property, and one afternoon set out with my husband to collect a five-gallon bucketful. Our mission was soon accomplished and we returned to the house for the next phase. That's when it all went south.

Y'see, for all of the fact that they grow in heavy clusters, each one of these berries is only about 5 mm. and consists largely of skin wrapped around hundreds of crunchy little seeds. After crushing the full five gallons and pressing (I might say "squeezing the hell out of") the mash through a jelly bag, the juice extracted would not have filled a quart jar. Perhaps this was the wrong way to approach the project; maybe I should have put them in a pot with some water and boiled them, but I was new to jam and jelly production then, and was following a "live off the land" recipe which I suspect had been written by someone who'd never actually tried to do it themselves. In the end, I chose the only reasonable option. I threw mash and juice onto the compost heap and put the cookbook in the darkest corner of my library.

Older and wiser now, I choose to leave blue Elderberries on the bush for the birdies. "Once bitten, twice shy" is another phrase which comes to mind.

Summer Whimsy

Day 333: The hot weather of the last few weeks brought out the Whites by the hundreds...not the usual Margined Whites (Pieris marginalis) or Pine Whites (Neophasia menapia) I'm used to seeing in my yard, but good old-fashioned Cabbage Whites (Pieris rapae). I don't recall having ever seen them here before, supported by the fact that I have no photos of them in my archives. With them came the Woodland Skippers, both strongly attracted to the few remaining lavender flowers in the garden. These two butterflies were common when I was young, and among the first I learned to identify with common names. While I am happy to have both in my yard, I would like to know what shifts in climate brought them here. And why such huge numbers of them in a location where I have never observed them previously? Certainly some precursor to this phenomenon evaded my notice in 2016; butterflies don't generate from thin air. There were far too many to have come from an isolated pair mating outside their normal range. Such is the nature of science: not to solve the mysteries of the world with one discovery, but to raise more questions with each new revelation.

Grange Displays

Day 331: Another feature of the Fair which I always try to see before the crowds arrive is the vegetable displays put on by the various granges in the area. These are housed in the Floral Building, and this year, they had improved the lighting substantially. A lot of work goes into the arrangement and maintenance of the produce during the Fair's three-week run.

To me, agriculture is the soul of any county or state fair. Unfortunately, the Puyallup Fair seems to be shoving it farther and farther into the wings each year, especially since becoming the Washington State Fair. The trend is toward commercialism, and I'm not talking about $5 cones of cotton candy and $4.75 caramel apples. Even the unique vendors (sellers of lavender products and orchard honies) are being pushed out by soulless mega-corporations like Verizon. What few merchants aren't hawking hot tubs and mattresses are pushing the same cheaply made products from three or four booths in different locations around the venue. Once around the Fair was enough for me. I'll visit the critters again, but as far as I'm concerned, they might as well close the doors on the Multiplex.

Piggies!

Day 331: At the end of last year's Washington State Fair (aka the Puyallup Fair), I decided that the driving involved in taking two shifts per week was a bit more than I could handle, so this year, I just signed up for Fridays. Yesterday I had the early shift and as usual, came in through the green gate so I could stop at the Pig Palace before I went to my duty station in the Park's information booth. There were two sets of piglets on display, the little white guys (lower left) only a day old. Later in the day as I walked around the rest of the fair, I found more piggies in another barn.

So what is the univeral appeal which pigs seem to command? I think it's because they always look like they're smiling. A pig in clean straw is a paradigm of contentment, and the proverbial "hog in mud" seems happy enough to have generated a catch phrase. Even when they're squabbling over whose turn it is at the teat, a nestful of squealing, wriggling piglets is a sight to brighten any case of the blues.

Chrysanthemums

Day 330: Adding bedding plants to your garden is the easy way to keep colour fresh all summer long. Chrysanthemums are a fall favourite, and sometimes reward you by sticking around to re-sprout the following year. As a matter of fact, the purple one I planted in the center of the strawberry jar just off my back porch is now on its fourth year, and I have done nothing to protect it from winter temperatures. These three followed me home recently and replaced the straggling nasturtiums in a planter box on the steps.

Although perennials require less work than annuals (especially if you're growing your bedding plants from seed), changing up the colour in your garden can be a creative experience. It's fun to play with themes, although I seldom seem to stick to one, or at least not strictly to (say) reds or blues. Some plant outside the palette always manages to sneak into my cart...a purple chrysanthemum, for example. My layout never goes exactly as planned either, so the result is that my flower beds are a riot of colour in the manner of an English cottage garden. I like the unstructured look, although I wish I'd put the tall snapdragons closer to the back, and had spread the celosia out evenly along the border rather than dedicating two square feet of space to its cockscombs. "Maybe next year," I tell myself, and then when next year rolls around, the Haphazard Plan becomes the rule yet again. Perhaps I just can't bring myself to impose structure on Nature.

Eye Of The Beholder

Day 329: After winding up a discussion with Arnie, I was on my way back to my desk and had just exited Tobin Center when something lime-yellow caught my eye at the base of a tree. "Well, hello!" I said. "Where'd you come from, beautiful?" Immediately, I regretted not having hung the camera around my neck when I'd left the office. It never fails. The one time you don't have the camera is when you'll find something interesting you want to photograph. Fortunately, our offices are only separated by a parking lot, so this wasn't a huge issue. However, I was so excited by the discovery that I wanted to share it. I pelted back into Tobin at full speed and came to a stop in Arnie's doorway with the enthusiastic announcement, "You have got an absolutely gorgeous Dog-Vomit slime mold just outside your door! C'mere! You gotta see this!" Dutifully, Arnie joined me with a question on his lips: "Dog vomit?" Apologetically, I replied, "Don't blame me. That's the thing's common name." Together, we bent over to examine the specimen. For just a second, I imagined that I could see it pulsing plasmodially. Exultantly, I said, "Isn't it beautiful?" Arnie is used to me. He replied tactfully, "It looks like scrambled eggs."

"Scrambled Eggs" is indeed an alternate common name for Fuligo septica, although with humans being the strange creatures that they are, "Dog-Vomit" has taken the popular lead. The term covers a number of different Fuligos which are similar in appearance, but the four usual contenders can be distinguished from each other by the thickness and colour of the cortex and the size of the spores of each species. What invariably surprises me when I find one in the late summer is that they often occur in the hot, dry season rather than in cooler weather which one might imagine they'd prefer. Whatever food source drew these protists together, it was entirely concealed by their active consumption of it. At this site, they will eat and reproduce, and then go their separate ways until another food source is identified. As a scientist, it would be difficult for me not to admire the cooperation and communication which the slime molds display, better at social skills than many humans. Yes, I admire these handsome little critters despite the uncomplimentary terms others have laid upon them. "Dog-Vomit" indeed! Fuligo septica, your beauty is in the eye of this beholder.

Sunshine Gazanias

Day 328: Although some nurseries carry Gazania starts in the spring, they are not easy to find and generally sell out very quickly to those in the know. I start mine from seed, which means they come into bloom a little later than if I had purchased them as bedding plants, but they will continue blooming well past first frost. In years past, I've had them flower until Christmas, sometimes even holding their cheerful heads above a light fall of snow. The flowers of the aptly names "Sunshine" mix are brightly coloured and zonal, but solid-colour or pastel options are available in seed. The plants are short and mounding, excellent silvery-green foliage for the border, and the blossoms open out to 4-6" across! Gazanias are prolific bloomers, and do best when the flower bed has been given an early-season dressing of composted manure.

Final Screen

Day 327 (bonus): This is it, folks! The last "screen," the last two blocks! The Twenty-Year Quilt is almost quilted! The next step will be adding a simple binding (machine sewing), and it will be DONE! DONE! DONE! For those who are curious, each of the 72 blocks consists of a four-inch center (light blue) surrounded by twenty 1" print squares. Blocks are joined squares to squares, making each "street" a double line of squares; an extra row of squares was added as a border around the entire quilt. Each small square is shadow-quilted. The plain centers are also shadow-quilted around the edge, plus a fleur-de-lys design in the middle. If you look at the back (bottom), you can see how each small square becomes a little "ravioli." Time spent in hand-quilting will be roughly 250-300 hours.

Fuchsia's Edible Fruit

Day 327: Gardeners think of Fuchsias largely in terms of the showy annuals we see in hanging baskets, but there are hardy varieties, some of which even have blossoms as large as those of the annuals. By and large, their stems are woodier and they grow as sprangly bushes which have the potential for taking over six feet of your garden unless you keep them pruned. The flowers come in almost as wide a variety of combinations as those of the annuals, and hummingbirds love to visit them. Some even produce an edible fruit!

I have used the term "edible" loosely here. While not bad-tasting, these little berries are not particularly flavourful, either. They are slightly sweet, but the seedless soft flesh is only very lightly fruity. Eaten three or four at a time, they make me wonder what the result would be if I made a jelly of them the old-fashioned way, boiling down the juice until it set without the addition of pectin. The slightly perfumy note to the meat might produce a truly unique product if I could only gather enough of them for a half-pint (only two of my five varieties of hardy fuchsia have developed berries)! For now, I nibble on them on my way to and from the mailbox, rather more to enjoy the experience of having such an unusual fruit in my garden than for the taste.

Magnificent Bryozoan

Day 326: This is a colony of Magnificent Bryozoans (Pectinatella magnifica). Yes, that's really the name of the organisms which form this gelatinous underwater mass. I would imagine (I would hope!) that some of you are opening your mouths and/or limbering up your fingers to ask, "A what? What's a bryozoan?" The word translates as "moss animal," and that pretty much says it in a nutshell. Although they could easily be mistaken for a coral or blob of algae, these creatures (zooids) are filter-feeding aquatic invertebrate animals. Seen singly, they resemble tiny sea anemones. A colony begins when a single zooid buds to reproduce genetically identical copies of itself asexually. As the colony matures, the reproductive process converts to a sexual one. Large colonies such as this one are a mosaic of smaller colonies (each with its own individual genotype) which must merge before their gelatinous exoskeletons harden. The Magnificent Bryozoan is unusual in that it occurs in fresh water (most bryozoans are marine). They are native to North America and to the Pacific Northwest, although until recently, they were considered rather rare here.

I encountered my first Magnificent Bryozoan colony in Swofford Pond two years ago. I had no idea what I was seeing, and quite honestly, I was rather repelled by the great gobs of goo I saw floating just below the surface of the lake. I made some inquiries and found out that these creatures are becoming more prevalent in our lakes, and some scientists believe that this is due to a rise in water temperatures. I am inclined to agree. During my September Morn paddle, I encountered HUNDREDS of colonies along the west edge of the Tilton Arm where it debouches into Mayfield Lake. Most were attached to submerged logs and branches, but a few were free-floating.

Magnificent Bryozoan colonies are large (up to two feet across) and surprisingly firm, if reports are to be believed. Thank you, I will admire this life-form from the 'yak. I feel no compelling need to lift one out of the water for the sake of science.

Fossils

Day 325: My September Morn paddle was not without other notable discovery in addition to the anticipated invasive plants. I found fossils! Well, sort of..."fossil" needs to be qualified. I think what I found up the Tilton Arm qualifies as a "pre-fossil." What initially caught my eye was an ochreous clay concretion which had broken apart to display the imprint of something teardrop-shaped roughly 1.5" long (a freshwater mussel shell, perhaps?). Turning over other fragments of the material revealed a pattern of straight lines which on closer examination appeared to be the imprint of evergreen needles; under the magnifier, the central vein of each needle was quite distinct. The clay matrix was quite soft, easily scored with a thumbnail. I suspect the clay is a recent deposition, probably pre-dating Mt. St. Helens' 1980 eruption, but possibly not. This area did receive substantial ashfall. I will ask our Park geologists for their thoughts on the find.

Even if the mineral specimen isn't a "fossil" in the truest sense of the word, you can't deny the paleontological significance of a Tyrannosaurus rex preserved in its entirety. My second discovery of the day came from the Cowlitz Arm, just off the banks of Ike Kinswa State Park. Never knew they'd roamed the Pacific Northwest.

Paddling Tilton Canyon

Day 324: With yesterday being September Morn, I wanted to do something special, and although I'd determined that I wanted it to involve the kayak, when I went to bed Thursday night, I was still undecided as to where to go. Lake St. Clair was out because I'd just gone there recently, and none of our other local lakes is particularly appealing. I kept coming back to one location: Tilton Canyon, but thrifty Scot that I am (read "cheapskate"), the $10 access fee to Ike Kinswa State Park raised my hackles. In the end, the lure of the Tilton won. I mean, it's September Morn, right? That would be my gift-to-self. That said, I was not willing to pay an additional $7 to put in at the boat launch, so I put the 'yak on the cart and dragged it 100 yards through the day-use area.

The beautiful portion of Tilton Canyon is rather short, depending on where you start measuring. The true neck is only about a quarter mile in length, but in that quarter mile, the walls rise straight up and are covered with maidenhair ferns. The canyon is overhung with rich greenery (Big-Leaf Maple, mostly), and it's dark and cool and utterly enchanting. A few small trickles descend from unknown lands above, chuckling unseen in their concealed beds. At one spot, the thin veil of a scattered streamlet drops from the rocks in a hundred tiny rivulets, dashing the river's surface with the force of a torrential rainstorm a foot wide and six feet long. By mid-day, reflected sunlight casts coruscating shadows on the canyon's walls, augmented by the trembling of the maple-leaf canopy. Travelling beyond the upper end of the canyon, the river flattens out so much that navigation is tricky even in a kayak. Eventually, the explorer reaches a point where portage is mandatory. I stop here, not wanting to carry 'yak and gear over 300' of round river rocks to get to the next stretch of flat water.

Because it was September Morn and I felt I needed to serve Ma Nature in some regard, I conducted an invasive plant survey. I was pleased to see that the Japanese Knotweed and Spotted Knapweed noted two years ago has diminished and appears to be under treatment by some unknown agency. Much of the remaining Knotweed had been bent, and much of the Knapweed had been cut to remove the flowering heads. Likewise, I noted far less Buddleia, just a few small plants and one large parent bush. However, a new invader is running rampant: Jewelweed. I did not see it here two years ago; now it covers acres (literally acres!) of riparian land.

Before the day was done, I had paddled nine miles on the Tilton and Cowlitz arms, the two rivers which join to form the greater Cowlitz at Mayfield Lake. I'd found a massive beaver dam, circled several islands and put into port on two (neither much bigger than the floorplan of a modest home). I'd shared the Canyon with a beaver, several ospreys, several herons and a tolerable number of recreational boaters (one of whom bottomed out when he tried to go too far up-river). It's not easy to get away from it all on Labor Day weekend, but I think I managed pretty well.

A Glad, Good September Morn

Day 323: A Glad, Good September Morn to you, my friends! As many (but not all) of you know, this is my personal "holiday," second only to Christmas on my calendar. Traditionally, it is celebrated with a swim (or at least a dunk) in a chilly alpine tarn somewhere, but with this being Labor Day weekend, the celebration will have to be put on hold until it can be performed without the chance of being seen. Instead, I have chosen to bring you the beauty of my garden, just a small bouquet which includes no more than three stems of any given plant species. Believe me, the sacrifice was negligible! Included are two types of Coneflower (Rudbeckia), two Cosmos, Nasturtiums, Lavender, Delphinium, hardy Fuchsia, Snapdragons, Nigella, tall Phlox and a few California Poppies which were in a "wildflower" mix. May your coming year be as bright and festive as these flowers, and may you find joy in the Beautiful Month.