Justice At Mount Rainier National Park

Day 18: Longmire, WA. A well-known Justice put in an appearance at the Ranger Division's annual "potato feed" today at Mount Rainier National Park's historic Longmire Community Building. The exact nature of her visit was not revealed, although she was seen to keep close company with Park icon P. B. van Trump. Rumour has it that the two spent the early hours of the day behind closed doors and deep in the records of past and present volunteers. Following the gathering, the Justice and Mr. van Trump returned to the offices of the Administration Building and remained closeted for several hours.

Nisqually State Park

Day 17: Between nasty-cold weather and a sore knee, perambulations through Nature's wonders have been at a minimum for the last week or so, and my disposition has taken a turn toward decidedly crabby as a consequence. You hear a lot about Vitamin N these days, and my body demands more of it than most. So, what's to do? Bundle up and head for a relatively flat trail! Nisqually State Park offers a variety of old roads to walk with elevation changes of no more than about 500 feet. That's "flat" in my book, so I headed out with no particular plan in mind except to start at the beginning and go until I was "halfway." That's my criterion for turning around, and I'm a good judge of it, always leaving a little wiggle room for the trip back. I parked in the main parking area and started down the gut. I'd got roughly this far (about a quarter of a mile) before the real Plan surfaced in my mind. It seemed like a good time to explore some of the "bunny trails" which lead vaguely off to either side. The first one headed toward the river, but I was fairly certain it wouldn't descend to it and I was right. It wound in multiple mileage-adding S-curves, occasionally skirting the edge of the bluff but never providing a view of the river, then twisting back into mixed forest with its glades of ferns and thickets of salal. Once, it ventured within twenty feet of the main trail before bending back riverward. I followed it until it forced me back onto the main track. Not satisfied that I'd gone halfway, but not wanting to repeat another recent hike, I headed back toward parking, but then diverged onto a second "bunny trail" just to see where it would wind up. A mile or so later, it dumped me out onto a different road. I recognized the area, and since I knew where the road would take me, I just hoofed it back to the car. Did I find anything interesting? Maybe. I'm waiting for confirmation of an ID.

How To Tame A Pink Elephant

Day 16: How do you tame a pink elephant? That was the question I was asking myself with respect to Mousie's grandma's vintage and pink-heavy flour-sack quilt. We'd already decided that I'd need to cut it apart due to errors in spacing, but I specifically didn't want to undo any of her grandma's stitching, although there were a few places which asked for expert repair. The solution came to me in my sleep several nights ago: frame blocks with "streets and alleys." But what colour? Mouse expressed a preference for blue, so with that in mind, I bought two fabrics. This morning, I dove into the project with a will and when I finally allowed myself a much-needed break from sewing, I had over half of sixteen plates reassembled. Further plans include wide borders of the lighter blue (it's a bit greyer than it looks in the photo, and the muslin is natural, not white). Hand-quilted designs on the borders will allow me to put my skill alongside grandma's, eventually creating an heirloom Mousie can use with joy. She tells the story best in her words of thanks: "I cannot tell you how moved I am that you are undertaking this project - my grandmother died before I was born. She is a face in a picture - your work is making her alive for me." As legacies go, I could do worse.

Two-Ply Corriedale Cross

Day 15: If you were to look around my living space, you'd see multiple projects of various types in different stages of completion. I like to have a variety of crafts going at once because (as I so often say aloud, sometimes in frustration at myself), I have the attention span of a gerbil. A week or two ago, I caught the spinning wheel glaring at me for having ignored it for an unreasonable period of time. I consoled it by completing the two-ply skein of grey yak hair it was holding, and then promptly began a new project of creamy white Corriedale cross wool. One four-ounce skein is finished except for washing and stretching, and the first ply of another is currently in the works. Underneath it, you can see a quilt in progress. It's taking far less long than I expected and I'm only a few weeks away from having it finished, but another quilt has supplanted it and must be completed first.

There are three of us, sisters-of-the-heart for lo, these many years. One lives in New Hampshire, one in New York, and then there's me, out here in the Pacific Northwe't. We haven't all been together for a decade or more, but our multiple daily emails are always shared. Very recently, the New York member of the contingent asked if I would be willing to do a huge favour for her: make a quilt using a top her grandmother had sewn by hand. I was inspired by the "heirloom" aspect of the project and agreed, somewhat along the principle of buying a pig in a poke. I had no idea what I was letting myself in for. Alison understood that, and assured me that I could back out of the commitment if I so desired once I'd seen the quilt. It came in the mail ten days ago. I gave it a preliminary assessment, hatched a few ideas, ran them by Alison and we came up with a Plan. But, as plans of mice and men are wont to do (or I should say "of a Mouse and a needlewoman"), it went a-gley. There were problems with grandma's spacing (four inches between some appliqued plates and seven between others), and my designs just weren't working. I gave the project a serious chunk of think, and proposed a daring idea to my heart's dear sister. I would cut up grandma's quilt and reassemble it with coloured strips in between and a wide border to bring it up to king-size.

Needless to say, this has become a much larger project than initially anticipated, but with Mouse's approval, I went to town today and bought the additional fabric. I also bought some more Corriedale wool because I'm going to need a lot of breaks over the next two or more years.

Varied Thrush, Ixoreus Naevius

Day 14: Varied Thrush (two of them, actually) was doing an astonishingly good job of blending into the rich fall of Japanese maple leaves, and hopping about on a bug hunt which made the bird very difficult to track through the lens. Soon, his diet will shift from insects to berries, notably snowberry and mountain ash, both of which are present in my yard. I seldom saw Thrush here until the mountain ash reached maturity and began to bear fruit, and now I count them among my "regulars." The female of the species (shown here) is slightly browner than the male and wears a washed-out breast band as opposed to the male's distinctive black cummerbund. Young birds may be easily mistaken for females, but can be separated by a lighter "eyebrow" and a greyer breast. Like the American Robin to which they are related, Thrush may rebuild their nests in the same location each year, often stacking new material on top of the old base. Regrettably, this very preference has led to the species being listed as in steep decline as the old-growth forests which have provided suitable habitat are being logged off. If I can see the benefits of conservation right here in my own front yard in just the space of a few years, what makes it so hard for others to understand?

Bisporella Citrina, Lemon Discos

Day 13: Hiking in deciduous forest affords opportunities to find things you wouldn't see among conifers. I can't say what prompted me to stop at this particular point on the trail, but had I not done so I wouldn't have noticed teeny-tiny little orange spots on a piece of decaying wood. Moving in for a closer look, I discovered that they weren't closely attached to the substrate as I had initially thought. Each little disk was supported on a stalk (stipe). The largest cap was no more than 3 mm and a smaller branch to the side was freckled with even more in the 1 mm range. "Cute!" says I, thinking that they probably wouldn't be listed in any of my mushroom/fungus field guides, but they were: Bisporella citrina, commonly called "Yellow Discos." Discos? I thought it was a misprint, the "o" having slipped in with a fumble of fingers. I checked. No, it really is Discos. Alternately, they're called Yellow Fairy Cups. They can be found growing on decaying hardwood which has lost its bark.

Cladonia Fimbriata

Day 12: The Cladonias are particularly difficult to differentiate, to the extent that experts will often disagree even as they're standing over the results of chemical testing and microscopic analysis. That said, I hope my readers will understand when I say that I am going out on a very long and wobbly limb to identify these specimens as Cladonia fimbriata based solely on their morphological features. Specifically, I refer to the powdery surface, limited number of squamules and shape/height. Had they been fruiting, I might have had another clue. Since the tests for lichen substances in Cladonia are not something I can do at home, I did not take a sample. While the term "Pixie Cups" is generally accepted as the common name of C. pyxidata, the generic uncapitalized form "pixie cups" can be used to refer to any golf-tee shaped Cladonia.

Puget Sound Garter Snake

Day 11: The next time I see this guy (or one like him), I will use the proper form of address when I request a portrait: "Would you mind, Mr. Pickering?" There are two subspecies of Common Garter Snake in the Pacific Northwest: Puget Sound (Thamnophis sirtalis pickeringii, above) and Valley (Thamnophis sirtalis fitchi). The most obvious distinction is in their colour. Fitchi is striped with yellow and marked with red dots, while pickeringii sports a vivid aqua blue. Both can be found in grasslands where sufficient moisture is present. Mr. Pickering took me somewhat by surprise because I was focused on a forest of Shaggymane mushrooms about a foot to his right. I would never have forgiven myself if I had trodden on him. He was warming himself in noonday sun, not moving a muscle even when I knelt down to gather the 'shrooms. Life's rough when you're a snake and the nights are cold.

Soup Mix

Day 10: I know I'm repeating myself here, but this has been an amazing year for mushrooms. I decided to take the long way around to Coprinus Corner, not expecting to find any Shaggymanes in good condition in the wake of our recent cold temperatures and rain. About three-quarters of a mile into my walk, I spotted a couple of Chanterelles, so pulled out my "perhaps bag" and knife on the principle that when Mother Nature offers you a gift of any size, you show your appreciation by accepting it. Three Chanterelles is enough for a cup of soup; five or six are needed for a lunch-size bowl. A mile and a half further on, I found my first Shaggys. Only one was in condition to pick, but I collected it and added it to my perhaps bag. In another hundred yards, I found myself in the middle of a Shaggymane supermarket. At that point, I could afford to be selective, taking only prime specimens and leaving those starting to ink or only a few inches tall. Before I'd finished up the five-mile loop, I had plenty for a lunch and a dinner, and I'd left dozens, a hundred or more, growing on the path to propagate future meals.

Spinning My Wheel

Day 9: When the weather's crummy, I may be just sitting here spinning my wheel. I needed a break from quilting, what with one project on the frame, one in construction and another awaiting a few lines of machine-stitching, but mainly because a friend has asked me to batt, back and hand-stitch an heirloom quilt top made by her paternal grandmother. It came in the mail yesterday, Dresden plate big enough to cover a king-sized bed, and dominated by pink prints. Yeah, pink. That little fact can work two ways. Either I will find it horribly difficult to devote myself to, or I'll work like fury at it to get it out of the house as quickly as possible. Since it's for a friend, I anticipate the latter. In any event, I wanted to have a breather from working over the frame, so I pulled out my spinning wheel and finished up a second skein of double-ply yak in about three days. I was sure I had more yak hair, but couldn't find it when I dug into my stash. That left me with three choices: creamy white Corriedale top, silky silver Gotland top, or grey fleece (a gift from a friend). The Corriedale won, if for no other reason than it's been a while since I made any white yarn. I'm finding the fiber an absolute delight to work with and had intended to fill the basket with it for this photo, but when I went to get it out, I pulled down a large bag I had assumed was fleece, but which in fact was the remaining yak. Well, nuts! Since I only have a pound of the Corriedale, I'll finish it up first. I'm betting you'd have another meaning in mind if you told someone you'd be yakking and spinning your wheel(s).

Seriously?

Day 8: I don't think any of us were quite ready for the sudden transition from summer to winter, but after all, we should have expected it. Autumn in the Pacific Northwest lasts a matter of days, as does Spring. In the space of a week, leaves change colour and are stripped from the trees by wind and rain  to stand bare and shivering. If you're a resident of the higher elevations like Sooty here, you'd best know where to find shelter and food. During the winter when snow prevents access to any other food source, Sooty Grouse subsist on a diet comprised almost exclusively of evergreen needles. Yep, that's what I said, evergreen needles. The occasional bug out for a winter stroll may wind up as a protein snack for a grouse lucky enough to spot it. Sooty Grouse populations are on a slow decline, although you certainly wouldn't have thought so if you'd been hiking near Paradise this year. They are listed as a species of concern which, without careful conservation, may be upgraded to threatened or endangered.

Hypogymnia Imshaugii, Forked Tube Lichen

Day 7: I keep falling over the name "Imshaug" in my travels, sometimes attached to lichen taxonomy, other times to research papers or field studies. Although I'm not normally the least bit interested in human history, Imshaug's repetitive presence raised my curiosity. I haven't been able to find out much about him, since it seems that academics are as proprietary about biographical information as they are about scientific discoveries, but what I have been able to find without paying $10 for the privilege of reading a 7-page article is that he was primarily a lichenologist and was the curator of the cryptogam collection at Michigan State University's herbarium. Bingo! That answered one of my main questions right there. Imshaug's name appears in the list of explorers who, in 1941, found Myriosclerotinia caricis-ampullaceae in Mount Rainier National Park, a rare fungus which captured my attention several years back. I wondered how an herbarium specimen of the rare cup fungus cropped up in MSU's collection. Imshaug undoubtedly took one back with him. Imshaug oversaw the studies of a number of graduate students who went on to become noted lichenologists themselves, including Irwin Brodo, author of the forty-pound field guide, "Lichens of North America." The lichen shown above also bears his name: Hypogymnia imshaugii, Forked Tube Lichen.

Rusavskia Elegans At Panorama Point

Day 6: I recently decided to re-read Terry Pratchett's "Hogfather" and discovered that I'd previously gone right over a gem of botanical humour without it registering. I present it here, aptly, to accompany Rusavskia elegans, formerly known as Xanthoria elegans.

Says Ponder Stibbons of bananas, "...Botanically, its a type of fish, sir. According to my theory it's cladistically associaed with the Krullian pipefish, sir, which of course is also yellow and goes around in bunches or shoals."

Ah, yes, the logic of taxonomy! For generations, that was exactly how it worked. This plant has five petals, the ovary is superior, the leaf has such-and-so shape and is semi-succulent, the growth habit is trailing, therefore it has to be a Nasturtium. Okay, it was a little more complicated than that, but you get the idea. Many things (not only vascular plants and lichens, but animals as well) were dumped into genera based on obvious morphological features. With the advent of and growing accessibility to DNA analysis, we're discovering that even some species which look almost identical are in fact members of different genera than we thought. In-depth knowledge of their genetic structure sometimes necessitates the creation of a new genus as was the case with Rusavskia. It looks like a Xanthoria (duck), quacks like a Xanthoria (duck), swims like a Xanthoria (duck), but it is not a Xanthoria. It's still duck-like, but Rusavskia is a goose.

And there was a whole flock of Rusavskia "geese" bright against the dark rock and skies above Panorama Point's historic resroom, more than I have ever seen in one place. I couldn't get close to the main population of rosettes without climbing on the roof (prohibited), but the rock face looked as if someone had come along with a can of orange spray paint and laid on a streak six inches wide by three feet long. In just a few weeks, they'll be buried in snow, remaining hidden for the next six months or so, to survive the cruelty of the prolonged alpine winter.

Counterpoint

Day 5: Panorama Point is aptly named. On a clear day, you can see three major mountains and possibly catch a glimpse of a fourth if you walk around until you hit the right spot. Most distant and hardest to see is Jefferson in Oregon. Hood is more obvious. Washington's Mount Adams has a similar profile to Mount Rainier and dominates the skyline to the southeast, and of course the great crater of Mt. St. Helens is the most significant feature to the southwest. That said, the nearest horizon is built from a chain of lesser peaks known as the Tatoosh Range. For their part, the Tatooshes draw the line for the sawtoothed southern boundary of the Park from Longmire eastward: Eagle, Chutla, Wahpenayo, Lane, Plummer, Pinnacle, Castle, Unicorn, Boundary and Stevens. Of the Tatoosh Peaks, Unicorn is the highest at 6817'. You might think you were at an elevation below its summit, but in fact at Panorama Point, you are 300' higher.

On Tuesday, I could see Adams and Hood in the distance, although St. Helens was lost in cloud. Lenticular clouds were forming near Adams and one, dark and foreboding, seemed to have been snagged by Unicorn's black horn. In truth, it was well to the south, following the white one already trapped in Mt. Adams' grasp. The counterpoint of light and dark captured my eye despite its visual fiction.

Panorama Point

Crow and the Tatooshes

Day 4: I'm going to play the "little old lady" card here and tell you how it was in the Good Old Days. Thirty or forty years ago, you could go up to Paradise on a summer weekday, park your car in the upper lot and head off hiking a confusing network of dusty trails. By the time you'd reached your destination, you might have passed a few other hikers, but if you'd left early enough (like say at 8 o'clock), you might not have encountered anyone until you started back. Weekends were different, of course, because everybody and their dog (no, not in the Good Old Days...let's say "everybody" instead and leave the dog at home)...everybody came out on the weekends, especially if the weather was nice. There would be so many people on the weekend that you might have to park in the lower lot if you didn't get there before 1O AM. You could still find pockets of solitude once you were on the trail because everyone dispersed as soon as they hit trail intersections, but yes, the trails were more populated on pleasant weekend days. As population figures rose, so did visitation. More social trails developed through the lovely wildflower meadows: paths to rocks and overlooks which in truth were not all that much different than the established by-paths only a few feet away. The Park found it necessary to take steps to protect the meadows, so they paved some of the lower trails to try to keep people from venturing off on their own.

I don't recall exactly when the paving began because I largely avoided Paradise, preferring to hike in places where I was less likely to encounter another human. In fact, I usually only used a trail to get to a jumping-off point, departing from it to enter designated wilderness where foot traffic was regulated by your ability to navigate with map and compass. The next time I returned to Paradise (an event occasioned by duty), the amount of asphalt laid on the Mountain's shoulder appalled me. Paradise is being "loved to death" by thousands of visitors, hundreds each day, many of whom ignore the regulations to traipse across fragile alpine meadows, often with their dog in the lead. When someone asks me where they should go in the Park, I tell them, "Not Paradise. They paved Paradise and put up a parking lot," recalling Joni Mitchell's song, "Big Yellow Taxi."

Historic Panorama Point restroom

If your goal is to get somewhere specific from Paradise (as opposed to taking a wildflower walk), your best option is to go in the shoulder seasons of spring or fall. In the first instance, you'll need snowshoes or skis; in the second, solitude can still be had if you're willing to brave the weather. When a new virtual geocache was allowed to be established at Panorama Point's historic restroom, it gave me a reason for an autumn hike. Some snow had already fallen at Paradise and the forecast was for more this weekend, so I went up on Tuesday, the leading edge of the front building a stack of lenticular cloud pancakes on the summits of the Mountain and Mount Adams in the distance. The distance to Pan Point is 1.7 miles. The elevation gain is 1700'. Do the math. One thousand feet per mile is considered "steep" by most hikers, and the steepest portion of the Skyline Trail is that first asphalted three-quarters of a mile straight out of the parking lot. Above the Dance Floor, it rolls back a bit and the ascent becomes a series of rock stairs interspersed with short stretches of sandy soil, but at no point does it offer relief from lifting your body with each progressive step.

At Pan Point (as we lovingly call it), you are afforded a full view of the Tatoosh Range to the south and, if you're lucky, you may be able to spot Mount Hood and/or Jefferson as well as Adams and St. Helens. In my case, Adams and Hood were out, but St. Helens was hidden by cloud. Wind, pushed by the front, whipped across the ridge and added an additional 15 degrees of chill to the nip one would expect at 7100' on a cold autumn day. I abandoned plans to continue up to Pebble Creek or to loop through Golden Gate, retreating the way I had come and making...yes, even under threatening skies...making 44 visitor contacts before I got down.

Classic Mountain Goat Photo

Day 3: My first thought was, "Oh, Joe is going to be so jealous!" My botany partner has been searching for goats all summer, and even as I was climbing past Handsome Billy en route to Panorama Point, Joe was off on his own "last hike of autumn" to Pinnacle Peak saddle. Billy was lying down when I first spotted him above the junction to Pebble Creek, roughly 100 feet from me. Having had a few goat experiences during my career, I wasn't going to try to get closer. I'd rather have to deal with a bear in the backcountry than a goat. You can reason with a bear if you gently explain that you need to reach your destination and don't try to force it to give ground. A territorial goat is another matter entirely, particularly a male. I edged a few feet up the Pebble Creek trail for a view clear or foreground rocks, but even that slight encroachment made Billy turn his attention toward me. Nope, deeming it not worth the risk to get closer, I retreated. Further along the trail, I looked back. Billy was on his feet now, backed by grey rocks in a classic mountain goat pose. As I zoomed in for the shot, I thought again of Joe, somewhere over there in the goatless Tatoosh, but I knew he'd be getting some spectacular photos of his own.

But enough of me. You're here because you want to know something about mountain goats, right? Ever wonder how they get out on some of those ledges, or more to the point, why they don't fall off? It's the hooves. A goat's hoof is cloven into two "toes," and each portion consists of a hard outer shell of keratin, the same stuff (goat version) which makes up your fingernails. Draw a teardrop-shape in your mind. That's the exterior of each toe. The center portion of the teardrop contains a rough-surfaced but soft pad not too unlike the pads on your dog or cat's feet. That soft portion functions like a suction cup when the goat steps onto a slick rock. To give even better traction, a goat's toes are somewhat flexible, spreading apart as weight is put on the hoof. This isn't saying that goats never make fatal judgment errors, but it happens rarely enough that you're almost as likely to find rock-climber bones at the base of a cliff as you are goat remains. Almost.

Upon Discovering A Maze...

Day 2: Jefferson County's HJ Carroll Park is not a place one would expect to find a faerie-land. The core area is devoted to athletic fields of one sort or another and a picnic area with pavilions (and by "core," I mean probably 25 of those 40 acres). It is ringed by a wide walking trail which is subsequently bordered by woods. Roughly a third of this woodland serves as a course for disc-golfers. The southern section is bounded by Chimacum Creek, accessible via several short forest paths. I had only just started down one of these in a hunt for invasive plants when I stumbled across the maze hidden in the freckled shadows of fragrant cedars. I could not recall it from previous explorations of the park; it's not something I would have missed. I walked its twists and turns with the delight of a child, discovering as I did so that it was not a true maze, but was laid out in such a way that to reach the center three stones, you were required to travel around every bend and corner. It was a meditative experience, both complex and simple. I wish I had known how to address the faeries who must surely dance there in the autumn fogs, but they did not reveal themselves.

Hypogymnia Hultenii

Day 1: It seems fitting my newest lichen discovery should take the honour of opening this tenth year of daily natural history posts. I don't often travel outside my own environmental niche, but when I have occasion to do so as I did yesterday, I make a point of exploring the regional ecosystem. I'm a scientist. You can't expect me to enjoy hitting the shops or tourist attractions. No, you should look for me in the woods somewhere. Look down, because I'll probably be on my hands and knees. That's exactly what happened when I found this Hypogymnia. There was only one piece of it, dropped from some branch well over my head, but it shouted at me visually because it just Didn't Look Right according to my mental field guide. As I examined it more closely, I made note of the distinguising features: flatter lobes than most other Hypogymnias, knobby collections of soredia at the lobe tips (what had caught my eye in the first place), rough lower surface. It took me a while to sort it out when I got home because it had undergone a taxonomic change and was in Brodo under the old genus Cavernularia, but eventually I came to Hypogymnia hultenii, a coastal species. Made sense, because after all, I was on the Olympic Peninsula. My day had been made, as they say, and there was Morris dancing yet to come. Happy New Year!

Evernia Prunastri And Usnea Scabrata

Day 365: I often refer to lichens as the "wildflowers of winter," in part because that's when many of them form their fruiting bodies, but largely because that's when they're at their best. Even after a hot, dry summer, a little rain and a few humid days is all it takes to restore them to their former vigour. Some, like Evernia prunastri (foreground) and Usnea scabrata (behind it and in the background) will be so stiff and crisp at the end of the summer season that they crackle underfoot, but soon return to a pliable, sometimes even limp state once they have absorbed sufficient moisture. As with these three here (a Parmelia is just barely visible left of the yellow leaf), mixed species often share the same substrate, everyone getting along famously, no one competing for dominance. I'll leave you with that thought as Year 9 of this blog closes. Don't worry. I'll be back.

Fungal Fingers Of Fate

Day 364: At the main entrance to Pack Forest and just north of the gate house, you'll see a small rise with a set of steps leading up about four feet and a sign which says, "Model Forest Trail." The whole area is no more than 250 feet on a side, so you kinda wonder what it's all about. As you follow the path, you may notice a grapefruit-sized rock with a legend painted on it, like "1000 Rd." or "Hugo Peak." Eventually it registers: this postage-stamp of land is actually what the name implies, a scale model of Pack Forest. Now you begin paying attention to the layout. Yes, there's the canyon, deeply ditched but of course without the Nisqually running along its bottom, and here the 1000 Rd. splits to make its eventual loop. As you climb up (a whopping elevation gain of about ten feet), you come to Kirkland Pass and the junction of the 1000 and 2000 Rds. Following the 1000 down toward the Mashell, you begin to enter a meadow (represented by moss) and there, right before your very eyes, is something which has no full-scale equivalent: the fungal fingers of fate show in the photograph or, as I like to call them, the "bean sprouts."

It's been several years since I first discovered Clavaria vermicularis growing in the Model Forest. I would assume that their spores were brought in with the load of soil which now beds the moss. There was only a handful then and, in subsequent annual autumnal visits, no more than a few groupings ever appeared until now. As I've mentioned previously, fungal diversity and sheer biomass is at an all-time peak this year. 2019 will definitely go down in my book as the Year of the Fungus. I was not expecting to find more than a few threads of vermicularis in the heart of the moss "meadow," but not only were they present in abundance there, the hillside behind them (all three feet of it) sported a Mohawk of fine white clubs in a strip roughly six feet long by a foot wide. Obviously, the mycelium found this year's cooler, damper summer much to its liking, as did I.

Shaggy Soup From Coprinus Corner

Day 363: I had the most delicious lunch from Coprinus Corner, my favourite spot in chswnekdisneld... "What's that, Crow? I didn't quite catch what you said." No, you didn't, nor am I likely to repeat it anywhere within the hearing of a friend of a friend of a friend who might possibly be the friend of a mushroomer. Knowledge of the locations of good mushrooming spots requires a security clearance which makes "maximum" look downright lax. I discovered Coprinus Corner some time back while exploring a disused trail for no other reason than I wanted to see where it wound up. I nearly tripped over a substantial colony of Shaggymanes growing smack in the middle of the path. Because it was autumn, I had a "perhaps bag" in my pack and the hope of chanterelles in my heart. I wasn't even thinking about Shaggys, my favourite soup 'shroom. Judicious harvesting practices have ensured the health of the patch, but this year, it went over the top with respect to production. I easily left at least half of what was available and choice when I gathered these, never mind the ones which had started to ink along the lower margin. There were many more buttons just barely peeping through the soil. Even so, this collection was sufficient to make two large bowls of Shaggy Soup, thick with mushroom bits.

Blah Beauty

Day 362: The Pacific Northwest is famous for its diverse Coral fungi. Like the holotype of its brilliant red cousin R. araiospora, the specimen from which Ramaria acrisiccescens was described botanically was collected only a few miles from my house. It is much more abundant than araiospora; in fact, I was compelled to watch where I was walking yesterday to avoid stepping on it. While these examples were hand-sized, others were as large as a gallon milk jug. When seen in the scattered light of sun-fleck forest, the translucent branch tips fairly glow, suggesting that its common name of "Blah Coral" was ascribed to it for its lack of gustatory appeal rather than its aesthetic quality.

Aleuria Aurantia

Day 361: It's only natural that we associate autumn with the colour orange. Farmers' fields are filled with ripe pumpkins, the leaves are turning, those delicious Chanterelles are springing up alongside other orange mushrooms and fungi, including the thin-fleshed, delicate Aleuria aurantia, commonly called Orange Peel. And that's what it looks like: little bits of orange peel discarded by some thoughtless hiker. Unlike citrus peels, Aleuria is short-lived in the environment. If not exactly ephemeral, they disappear within a couple of weeks of their appearance, the brittle flesh breaking into bits quite readily. "Aurantia" is Latin for "orange" (as in the colour). The root word "aurum" means "gold," and of course you already knew that the chemical symbol for the metal is Au on the periodic table. Occasionally, the outer surface of young specimens of Aleuria aurantia may be covered with a whitish fuzz. This disappears rapidly as the cups mature. Orange and forest green have always been two of my favourite colours. No wonder autumn is the season I love best.

Fuligo Septica

Day 360: Despite a rather abrupt passage from warm summer to chilly autumn, the slime molds were out in force this last week. Maybe the change in the weather caught them with their plasmodial pants down, or maybe they've altered their plans for world domination to include winter assaults, but in any event, I was thoroughly surprised to find not one but three different species out and about in the woods. They're normally at their most active during warm weather. Although they can be difficult to tell apart when in the early stages of development, I feel I can identify this one as Fuligo septica with some assurance because I've seen it at this location before (several times, as a matter of fact). I hope it doesn't feel overly proprietary toward the Chanterelles in the area because I would not wish to get on its bad side.

Leocarpus Fragilis On Usnea Sp.

Day 359: If you were a slime mold, you would begin life as a single cell, having "hatched" (as it were) from a spore. Like any self-respecting cell, you would grow by fission. After reaching a certain state, you might encounter another compatible cell and, after a suitable cellular courtship, you'd join with it in a second biologic process called fusion. This fusion (similar to that of sperm and egg) would include the respective nuclei of both partners. The resultant diploid zygote would then feed and grow, its nuclei redividing and increasing, eventually resulting in a structure known as a plasmodium: a single multi-nucleate amoeboid cell. When various environmental factors align (food supply, temperature, light level, moisture, pH), the fruiting process is initiated (shown here in Leocarpus fragilis on an Usnea lichen). Inside the fruiting bodies, the protoplasm separates into units each containing a single nucleus. These undergo further division reduction until what remains of each unit is a haploid spore. When the sporangia (spore capsules) rupture, the spores are dispersed and the process begins again. That said, some slime molds have a secondary reproductive strategy to ensure the continuation of their species, and they will continue to populate the Earth long after we humans, so convinced of our own importance, are gone to dust.

Trichia Decipiens

Day 358: In the last week, I have found three species of slime mold, a bit of a surprise given cooler, wetter weather. Slime molds are more commonly out and about when conditions are dry and warm. That said, this one (Trichia decipiens) was a new one for me. As you can tell from the wood grain, they're tiny little buggers, but I'd tuned my eye for red/orange, having been out on a hunt for Ramaria araiospora and as a sidebar, a potential chanterelle dinner. I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw them, giving vent to the phrase which will go down in history as my contribution to science: "What the hell is that?" In the next heartbeat, I said, "Ooooooh, new slime mold!" Seriously, I'd be the easiest person to find if I ever got lost in the forest. Searchers could locate me by ear if they listened for my running natural-history soliloquy. Trichia decipiens has a fondness for decaying conifer wood, thus the Pacific Northwest makes an ideal home for the species. Slime molds being what they are, I can't help but wonder if their plans for world domination are being coordinated from Mount Rainier National Park.

Ramaria Araiospora

Day 357: Unique to the Pacific Northwest, the Himalaya and for reasons obscure to science, Kansas, Ramaria araiospora is the most spectacular of all the Coral fungi. The holotype (the specimen from which the species was described botanically) was collected in 1967 from a location only a few miles from my home. I feel a little proprietary about this lovely fungus, and consequently get a little testy when someone asks, "Is it edible?" The answer is yes, but I'll sidestep the question whenever possible and might even respond with, "Why would you want to destroy something so beautiful?" I do not understand the human compulsion to taste everything. Surely that instinct should have been deemed unnecessary to our genome by the time Ugg and Ogg left their cave. By then, Homo sap had discovered its vulnerability to poisons and was having no particular difficulty surviving on Nature's provender, and some members of the species were even beginning to develop a sense of aesthetics, painting the walls of their shelters with images of animals and geometric designs. The feast Ramaria araiospora provides the eye is one which nourishes our need for beauty. Its caloric value is negligible when placed on the table. To me at least, the choice between its two merits is clear.

24-Karat Gold

Day 356: It was an afterthought. The rain stopped and I was in the area so, backache or not, I said, "Y'know, I really ought to go see if there are any chanterelles." It's been a banner autumn in the mycological sense, but even so, I wasn't expecting to find the first buttons less than 100 feet up the hidden trail which eventually takes me to my secret patch. By the time I reached Ground Zero, I had enough for my own dinner and was working on filling a second bag to give to Kevin. True to form, I didn't pick any one spot completely, always leaving a few 'shrooms on both ends of the age spectrum as "seeds" for next year's harvest. It's a practice which has stood me in good stead these many years of collecting from the same spot, as evidenced by this haul. Kevin and Kelli will eat well tonight, and I have a second batch waiting to be fried up for today's lunch.

From Alectoria To Xanthoria

Day 355: This temporary collection of two dozen species represents many miles of driving and at least 15 miles on foot, demonstration specimens for my upcoming Nisqually Land Trust "Introduction to Lichens" talk this Sunday. I'm glad we booked a conference room at Billy Frank National Wildlife Refuge because as of last night, thirty people had signed up, more than double what I was expecting. Of course it's always nice when you can guarantee that a "field trip" won't be rained out and you don't need to advise participants to dress warmly. Maybe that's what accounts for the popularity of this event. Folks will have the opportunity to view lichen structures under the microscope, and will learn how to identify some of the more common genera from Alectoria to Xanthoria . Note that in the first sentence, I used the word "temporary." All but a very few samples will be returned to their respective homes, weather permitting.

Pseudohydnum Gelatinosum

Day 354: Bottom line: I think Pseudohydnum gelatinosum is cute. It looks like it wanted to be a shelf fungus when it grew up, but just couldn't pass the exams to get into the course. The stipe is not centered as it is in most terrestrial 'shrooms although it has some height, and the cap projects forward from its point of attachment giving the whole 'shroom the look of a faerie awning. The lower surface exhibits fine "teeth," and the flesh is translucent white. If carved appropriately, you could stick 'em in a bowl of white gumdrops and safely so; it is considered edible. Your friends might never trust you again, though. What? Who said that? You're not coming trick-or-treating to my house?

The Bizarre Akebi Fruit

Day 353: Consider this an editorial retraction. This year's bumper crop of hand-pollinated Akebi fruit has changed my mind about lack of redeeming merit, if only by a smidgin. I waited for the pods to be fully open (more open than the one in the foreground) before picking half a dozen. By forcing the pulp through a sieve to remove the abundant large black seeds, I retrieved roughly a quarter cup of frothy "juice" which, when taken by the teaspoon, was pleasantly sweet and somewhat aromatic. They're definitely not something you'd want to pack in your lunch, but at least they've proven themselves to be more than just a botanical novelty/pasttime. I would need a few hundred more and a healthy helping of patience before I'd attempt to make them into jelly. I still have only had success pollinating one direction, white-flowered vine to purple. Only the purple one bears fruit.