Northern Flicker, Colaptes Auratus

Day 170: Well! This portends a crop of little baby Flickers in the future! These photos were taken just two days apart, and I'm not sure which bird has taken to drumming on the ridgepole of my house (might be either or both), a fact which both annoys and amuses me. I love my Flickers, but when the house starts rattling, I step out the door, clap my hands and speak loudly when I say, "Get offa there, you pecker!" It usually works, but occasionally the guilty party will just give me the eye and return to drilling. At that point, my voice goes from "loud" to "shout," and my clapping becomes insistent. And, as you might have expected, the bird flies off, only to return before I can close the door behind me.

So...how do you tell a male Northern Flicker from a female? The male sports a moustache! I've zoomed in on the faces here to show Mr. Flicker's red "mo," a marking absent in the female. The local residents are the Red-Shafted race, although I've seen some intergrades with Yellow-Shafted here as well. In the Yellow-Shafted race, the male's moustache is black and he wears a red patch at the back of his head.

A Tisket, A Tasket, A Little Tatted Basket

Day 169: A tisket, a tasket!
A little tatted basket!

These Easter/May baskets have been in the developmental stage for the last two weeks and finally, I'm satisfied with the pattern. I've used Lizbeth #20 thread to construct these two, a little finer than the cheaper crochet cotton I used while experimenting to get the flare of the bowl and handle attachment just right. In one earlier version, I'd tried a Fenton-style ruffle around the top edge, but in the softer Lizbeth thread, it tended to collapse even when heavily starched. There are a lot of things to consider when creating any type of needlework pattern, of which practicality (the intended function of the finished piece), style, fiber and ease of construction are only a few elements. I haven't entirely dismissed the Fenton-inspired design idea, but I believe it would be better made with a heavier thread. That said, I prefer not to use #10, putting it in the category of "ship's hawser," and don't keep it on hand. However, in the back of my mind is a stray thought about tatting a bath mat from strips of t-shirt jersey. Now that would be different, and it would get me up and walking as I pretended to be a needle passing back and forth over a cord strung from one side of my living room to the other.

Memory

Day 168: The human brain is a strange and sometimes unpredictable organ. In the cerebral cortex alone, there are 14-16 billion neurons, each neuron connected to thousands of others by synapses. A synapse can be compared to a light switch. It has two positions, "on" and "off." Until stimulated, a synapse remains open, i.e., unconnected, "off." When it closes (picture a lightbulb over a head here if you so desire), the light comes on. Now whether or not these synapses have anything to do with conscious thought has been the subject of much discussion over the years and nothing has been proven one way or the other; I choose to think it does. In fact, I'm sure I can feel my synapses springing open and snapping closed even as I write this post. That said, I am also aware that some of them are pretty rusty, and there are a few I'm sure will never swing on their hinges again. However, one of them surprised me in the night, and in the process, it triggered several more which had gone at least fifty years without functioning.

When I was attending fifth grade at a parochial school, the boredom of the classroom was broken by rare and precious visits from a drama teacher. She instructed us in the correct posture for reciting poetry (girls with their hands held at waist level, one resting in the other, boys with their hands behind their backs at "parade rest"), and introduced us to Joyce Kilmer's "Trees" with the injuction to revise the last line to use "men" in place of the rude word "fools." She intended also to have us put on a play, somethingornaother "Fan" which I believe she may have authored (it was certainly not Oscar Wilde!). I won the part of the washerwoman/cook when I read it with a Cockney accent. However, something unfortunate occurred before we could present it before the school, and the drama teacher disappeared without explanation. The play might have been "The Golden Fan" or "My Lady's Fan" or some such (I've been unable to locate it under either of those titles), but the drama teacher...the drama teacher...what was her name? Apropos of absolutely nothing, I rolled over in bed at 3:30 AM this morning and said, "Mrs. Manx!"

Tell me where that came from. I was awake, as I often am in the pre-dawn hours, debating whether I should get up or not, and I had not been thinking about the play or the school or anything else which might have caused that particular synapse to snap shut. I swear you could have heard it clank if you'd been standing beside my bed. And another followed it: "Mr. MacKenzie!" He was my fifth-grade teacher, another name which had fled my memory by the time I was twenty. But why now? Why did these two names leap into my head without preamble? Admittedly, my best thinking is done while I'm horizontal. I've been aware of that since I was very young indeed. And should I have a brainstorm in the night and sit up to write it down, the verbalization vaporizes before I can lay hands on a pen. Yes, the brain is a funny organ indeed, and mine apparently has some shelves in sore need of dusting. Who knows what other treasures I might find in its corners?

Mourning Dove

Day 167: A friend recently asked me if I could possibly be as alert to the sounds of Nature as I think I am. I assured him that yes, I most definitely was, and even more keen to respond to the absence of natural sounds when such a rare event takes place because it startles me into immediate attention. Even through my double-pane windows, I hear the constant chorus of voices in my yard, the full melodic range from the throaty basses of the Ravens to the chipping sopranos of the Goldfinches and Chickadees (hummers don't count...they're off the chart). One of the most enjoyable tones to my ear comes from a member of the pigeon family, surprisingly: Zenaida macroura, the Mourning Dove. This robin-sized bird's mellow contralto coos don't inspire me to race at the window shouting, "Get outta here, you blankety-blank pigeons!" like the similar call of the Band-Tailed does. No, when I hear the Mourning Dove, I sit perfectly still so that the bird will not take flight. If I can get a glimpse of soft grey-brown feathers or take note of the black markings on the wing without disrupting my visitor, I count it as a bonus to the performance of one of Nature's most soothing melodies in the theater of my yard.

Spring Thrush

Day 166: A few days ago, I thought I heard the whistle of the Varied Thrush (Ixoreus naevius), but dismissed it from mind because my mental record of its phenology told me it was too early. I should have known to trust my ear. Thrush (at least two) are appearing at my feeders, this being the best restaurant on their maps, and also scratching in the leafy debris under the contorted filbert (an area generally considered by the Spotted Towhees to be their private domain). While Thrush prefer a diet of insects during spring and summer months, switching to fruit and nuts in autumn, these seem perfectly happy with black-oil sunflower seed. Black-oil seed is by far the most popular fare among my guests. Only the Northern Flickers and Red-Breasted Sapsuckers demand anything else, and lately if I've let their provision of suet run out, the Flickers have been taking possession of the trays as soon as I refill them. Thrush can be aggressive towards other bird species, but with plenty of food available, I've seen no arguments. Largely a species of west-coast evergreen forests, Varied Thrush are known to winter in the upper midwest and northeastern portions of the United States.

River Bend

Day 165: This is the mighty Nisqually, meandering down through the section of its historic course not far from my residence. A few miles further on, it backs up against Alder Dam to form the reservoir known as Alder Lake. Had it not been so obstructed, it would have retained its natural cascades in a canyon etched some 400 feet deep. Further yet, it meets with another obstacle to its progress at LaGrande Dam. From there, it makes its lazy way to Puget Sound. It doesn't look like much in this photo, but when a warm rain follows a heavy snowfall on the Mountain, the Nisqually shows its temper. It spreads out across this plain and beats against the thirty-foot bluff, chipping away at the rocks embedded there. Sooner or later, it will win (Nature always does, you know) and (hopefully much later!) my little house will be swept downstream as the river reasserts its inalienable right to the valley.

There have been seasons when I lay awake at night, listening to the boulders falling and tumbling, propelled by flood waters. I can tell you it is not a comforting sound. I have been stranded by those same floodwaters on what I jokingly referred to as "Ashford Island" when the roads washed out both above and below me, cutting me off from any possible line of escape from their rage. In those times, I hunkered down to weather the literal storm, hoping that it would pass without claiming me. And when Mt. St. Helens erupted in my slightly larger "back yard," I sheltered in place to keep from breathing volcanic ash, the powdered remains of St. Helens' rocky cap. You must do what you must do, not what you wish to do in time of crisis if you intend to be a survivor. Listen up, people.

Spring Trio

Day 164: Ah, the colour is starting to appear in my yard! The morning flower beds are full of daffodils still in bud, but where the noonday sun falls out front, a handful of yellow trumpets are nodding in the rain. A handful of crocuses have survived the years of deer and raccoon predation, although I might have to amend that claim after Bambi's late-night visit. The grape hyacinths took me by surprise. I had not noticed them budding while I pulled an inexcusably thick layer of chickweed nearby, too intent on my task, I suppose, to be distracted by their little pointy hats. Is it any wonder that we think of traditional Easter colours as yellow and purple? Winter is losing its grip and my gardens are rejoicing.

Oxalis Oregana

Day 163: I hope my readers will bear with me as my ability to find natural-history subject matter of a visual nature is further curtailed by Washington State Governor Jay Inslee's "stay at home" order which, unsurprisingly, no one in this community seems to be obeying except me. Traffic is flowing past my house in both directions: toward the Park and toward the grocery stores. Meanwhile, I've moved my exercise equipment into the back bedroom and have installed daylight LEDs in both floor lamps in order to have enough light to compensate for the need to have one curtain partially closed to obscure the back neighbour's large 2020 presidential campaign banner. Being denied hikes into the deeper recesses of Nature was bad enough without THAT cropping up in my field of view. Enough, Crow. Take a deep breath, focus your mind and talk about Oxalis. They came here for science, the few who show evidence of having brains.

Although the leaves of Oxalis oregana (aka Redwood Sorrel) resemble those of clover, the plants are not related. Oxalis is a member of its own Family (in the taxonomic sense), the Oxalidaceae (Wood Sorrels). The species occurs only in the western United States and British Columbia. Its three heart-shaped, lightly hairy leaflets are photo-sensitive, drooping downward when light levels are high but returning to a more flattened state when shaded. In certain exposures where shade and sunlight alternate by the minute, the change in position occurs quickly enough to be observable by eye. The flowers may be almost entirely white, or may be striped with pink or purple as they are in the photo. The plants associate with Douglas-fir in Washington as well as with the redwoods which give them their common name. Although the leaves were eaten by native peoples, the plant is not considered edible due to the presence of oxalic acid in the tissues.

Wrecked On The Mashel

Day 162: In these days of COVID-19 and social distancing, it's becoming increasingly difficult for me to find natural-history material for my posts. Consequently, I thought I'd share with you a discovery from my last outing (possibly my last outing for some time, I'm afraid).

In my younger years, I thought nothing of setting off cross-country with my trusty map and compass in the tangled woods of the Pacific Northwest. These days, the knees and hips don't do so well in descending steep ravines, nor do they like climbing back out again, particularly when the climb involves heaving the entire body over fallen trees or clambering up on andesitic handholds supported only by the merest tip of boot toe. The bottom line is that the old grey mare, she ain't what she used to be, a fact I've had to face, like it or no. That's not to say I don't still go cross-country, but I go less far and I choose my routes with a sharper eye to potential obstacles like those infamous 40-foot cliffs which lurk between 20-foot contour lines. No, my exploring is somewhat more limited these days, and usually finds me on some "bunny trail" (as Kevin calls them), obscure paths created by a very few footfalls, human or animal as the case might be. I figure if the elk found a passage, the chance I could get through without breaking a leg is pretty good. However, if the bunny trail was made by repeated human use, there's a good chance there's something worth seeing at the end of it. In this instance, I was trying to access the Mashel River from Nisqually State Park. The bunny trail took me down a finger ridge where I found a car hung up in a tree. I'm not usually very keen on man-made artifacts even though they make interesting photographic subjects, but in this case, I thought I'd nose around.

I can't tell you the make of the vehicle, but it must have been a nice car at one time. I was able to determine that its seats provided "All Leather Comfort" and were manufactured by MoPa(something) from a small metal oval riveted to the frame. Shiny chrome still surrounded the broken gauges on the dash, but any other identifying ornaments had long since been removed. The paint was bluish, but whether that was the manufacturer's application or a black faded by sun and age, I couldn't tell. Content that I had learned all I could about a subject far outside my expertise, I let my imagination have its fling as it conjured up multiple scenarios for how the vehicle came to be in this spot, and that kept me entertained as I struggled back up the hill, hoping to find another bunny trail to explore.

Step By Step, Inch By Inch

Day 161: Hylocomium splendens is arguably one of the prettiest bryophytes in Pacific Northwest forests. Also known as Step Moss, it produces new frond growth annually, so that its age can be estimated with a fair degree of accuracy by counting the number of "steps" on any given stem. Where it occurs in an optimum environment, it can blanket the forest floor as a thick mat of golden-green. The stems are red and wiry, with bipinnately branched fronds (i.e., feather-like). The translucence of the foliage gives rise to another common name: Glittering Wood Moss. Like most other mosses, it prefers a moist, shaded habitat, with a particular affinity for late-succession conifer stands, especially those of spruce. It is useful to scientists for determining heavy metal pollution levels in the environment because it absorbs them with little or no damage to the moss.

Nidula Niveotomentosa

Day 160: "Nidula niveotomentosa!" It's fun to say and interesting to find. The Nidulariaceae (bird's-nest fungi) used to have a taxonomic niche all to themselves, but were reclassified recently and lumped with other Agaricaceae. Three species of Nidula are known in the Pacific Northwest, the most common being Nidula niveotomentosa and Nidula candida. For those of you who might be wondering, "nidula" is Latin for "little nest." "Niveo-" means "snow" and "-tomentosa" refers to the hairy outer surface (the "tomentum"). During their fruiting period, the cups hold lentil-shaped, spore-filled structures called peridioles (the eggs in the bird's-nest, if you will). In Nidula, these peridioles are contained in gelatinous material and are not attached to the cups themselves. During rainy weather, the peridioles float free from the cups and may be carried some distance from the parent "nest." In certain similar genera (Crucibulum, Cyathus), the peridioles are attached to the cup by a hair-like thread, keeping spore dispersal confined to a tighter area. In either case, the spore dispersal mechanism means that the species are often found in colonies.

The Bear Went Over The Mountain

Day 159: You know the song. You probably sang it in Scouts or Guides or even just with your family while sitting around the campfire roasting marshmallows.

"The bear went over the mountain,
To see what he could see.
And all that he could see was
The other side of the mountain.
That's all that he could see."

I've lived my life by those words, and it's really been bothering me that I hadn't found an access to the Mashel River from Nisqually State Park, no matter how many bunny trails I went down. Oh, yes, there are other places to get down to river level, even along the north and west sides, but I wanted to get closer to the river's confluence with the magnificent Nisqually at a point opposite the end of a Pack Forest road. There had to be a way, although I was beginning to think I might need to take a rope. Yesterday, in an effort to socially distance myself (and more on that in a minute), I found not one but two routes down and a spur which dead-ended in a blackberry thicket. Neither of the trails terminated at anything even remotely resembling a sandy beach or rocky shingle, but my feet were within a foot of the water's edge at both sites, and that was good enough for me. In the process, I discovered another network of bunny trails, adding roughly two miles to my walk. Even so, I encountered one family who obviously had had the same thought that the woods would be a good place to achieve social distance, but when I got back to the parking area, I was horrified. Pick any warm, summery day in memory, and you would recall no more than three cars and one horse trailer occupying the spaces. On this occasion, it was packed! So much for sheltering in place! It's bad enough that you people are travelling to buy up all the TP, flour, sugar and other staples from our little rural stores. Can't you just stay the hell out of my woods?

Return Of The Elk

Day 158: The days of a hundred or more elk in the pasture are long past, the three herds which used to populate Elbe Hills now separated or "thinned" by hunting, but now that the first shoots of tender grass are beginning to peek through, the thirty-plus members of this single herd have returned to graze. Standing off the left edge of the photo is the glaring offense of an enormous campaign sign, the name on it sure evidence of the mind-set which would place a mega-resort on this property along with four hundred houses. a strip mall, a golf course, a convention center and a train station, all designed to line the pockets of a family which wants a monopoly on the valley's tourist trade. It is the only view of Mount Rainier from SR 706, and even when the elk are not present, the sight of the Mountain (particularly at sunset) stops visitors by the dozen who wish to capture its magnificent presence with their cameras. Nor do I take the Mountain's striking beauty for granted for all of the years I've lived here. My files are filled with different seasonal views from this same vantage point. That said, I cheated for this shot. It was so near last light that the elk were little more than bright-rumped black dots if I set the exposure for the Mountain's glowing colour or, if I let the elk be seen, the glaciers and sky became one shade of lightly tinged white, the contours invisible. Had I thought to take a tripod, I could have done better, but instead, I braced against a wobbly fencepost and took two shots at different speeds, then combined them as best I could using my photo-processing software. You get the idea, anyway. Wouldn't you rather have this view than to look out over a testament to greedy capitalism?

Killdeer, Charadrius Vociferus

Day 157: A short local walk yesterday brought me to the cobbled shingle of the Nisqually River where a spurt of motion among the rocks caught my eye as it wandered in search of natural-history tidbits. But where exactly had it occurred? For a minute or more, I scanned the scene for any sign of life until at long last, one of the "rocks" scurried amid the others, followed by a second "rock" a few yards behind it. They were too far away for a naked-eye identification although I was fairly certain what they were. My educated guess was confirmed neatly when I zoomed in with the camera: Killdeer (Charadrius vociferus), and presumably a mated pair by their behaviour. I watched them for some time, hoping theyd' come closer, but typical of the species, they seemed intent on drawing my attention away from a presumed nesting location. I kept my distance, not wishing to disturb them, listening with great enjoyment to the plaintive call which is the root of their common name: "Kil-deeeer! Kil-deeeer!" Its whistled tones rose above the gabbling of the Nisqually, fading as the birds moved downstream and out of my sight.

Phlebia Radiata, Wrinkled Crust

Day 156: The crusts are a unique group of fungi which adhere closely to their substrate. They may appear on living or dead wood, and if a piece of tissue can be lifted, the underside can be observed to be without the pores noticeable in shelf fungi. The lower surface may be smooth, wrinkled or pimpled, and the upper surface may exhibit radiating folds and/or wart-like tubercles (both are present in this photo to some degree). Fairly common in the Pacific Northwest, Phlebia radiata (commonly known as Wrinked Crust or Radiating Phlebia) contributes to the overall ecology by facilitating the decomposition of wood. It largely affects hardwoods, but occasionally is found on conifers.

Placopsis Let's-Call-It Lambii

Day 155: There is a good bit of debate over whether this particular Placopsis lichen should be P. gelida or P. lambii. Some sources claim that P. gelida has not been found in Washington, and that herbarium records labelled as such are actually misidentifications of P. lambii. Others will tell you that P. gelida is the most common species of Bull's-eye Lichen from Alaska to California. Who do you believe? And why can't they nail it down? The simple answer (and trust me, the alternative is much more complex) is that sufficient genetic analysis of the samples has not been done. Gene sequencing is a fairly new tool for the lichenologist's toy box, and obviously, there's a substantial backlog of research to be done. As lichen DNA is examined, we are having to split genera, create new taxonomy, and to reevaluate what we thought we knew. Science is not a static field (no pun intended, but I'll leave it there for your enjoyment). It is always changing, always evolving as technology progresses and allows us to take a closer look.

Cladonia Macilenta, Lipstick Powderhorn

Day 154: It's not often that you find a Cladonia you can identify in the field based on macroscopic characteristics and range alone, but given squamule size and shape, habitat (exposed to sunlight for the better part of the day), substrate and a few other details, I am going to venture out near the end of the limb to suggest an identification of Cladonia macilenta, commonly called "Lipstick Powderhorn." There are several other species in western Washington which also have red apothecia, but most have some other morphological feature which takes them out of the running. Several Douglas-firs along the exposed southern shoreline of Lake Scanewa bore a thick growth of tall, red-headed "push-pins," rather too dry and brittle for this early in the season. Lest you think that they might have only been recently exposed to the sun by storm removal of branches, I can assure you that these particular trees have stood in the open for twenty years or more, based on personal observation. I have many fond memories of Lake Scanewa, having sat with my fishing buddy along the shore with our lines in the water, waiting for one reluctant fish to take our bait. It was never a very productive spot, but the companionship was good, and the lack of other fishermen left Nature to speak undisturbed to us in the words of breeze and lapping water. She is never silent, Nature, and even as I muttered to myself as I examined lobes and podetia in minute detail, she was in my ear, reminding me softly of a friend now committed to memory. Good days, those.

Heterotextus Alpinus, Poor Man's Gumdrop

Day 153: It is with great delight that I say I have finally identified this darling little orange fungus as Heterotextus alpinus (syn. Guepiniopsis alpina). Commonly called "Poor Man's Gumdrop," "Jelly Cup" or "Alpine Jelly Cone," it's fairly common in the Pacific Northwest and is often confused with other orange jelly fungi. The defining features of the species are its short and stubby stalk-like point of attachment and a top surface which is somewhat concave. The fruiting bodies frequently hang from the sides or bottoms of decaying wood, looking ever so much like the "gumdrops" in their nickname, but don't let the common name mislead you. Although they are purportedly edible, reports from those who have tried them say that although they have the consistency of a slightly soggy jelly-bear, the taste is insipid and only faintly "mushroomy." They fruit in spring and autumn.

Inside Job

Day 152: The last several times I've been here, I've been there: out on the Cispus Arm above Lake Scanewa, paddling my kayak and patrolling for invasives. It made me think that I might not have done a survey for lichens on the faint trail I remembered as following the shoreline bluff eastward for a mile and a half, a perfect route for "social distancing" if ever there was one. I drove over to Scanewa yesterday expecting to find the last mile gated, but it was not. The parking area was empty. I'd gone less than fifty feet into the woods when I encountered the first evidence of winter storms, and the further I went, the more deadfall I found across the trail. Finally, a mere half mile in, I wearied of weaseling through tangled branches, mince-stepping through mazes of fir boughs and dead wood, and when I could no longer see any trace of the trail ahead of me, I said (in no uncertain terms), "Screw this!" I took a short connector on the way back, took photos of a few fungi I figured I'd never be able to identify, and then set off to walk a second trail leading north from the parking area. It too was inaccessible, overgrown with blackberry bushes. My third and last option heading west petered out in deadfall roughly a quarter mile in. Given the few pictures I'd taken and a cheering but disappointing result from searching for invasives (there were none), I wrote the whole trip off as "pointless." At home, I had to revise that opinion. Settling in with the field guides, I managed to identify all four species of fungus and lichen which I'd photographed, including a Cladonia. Not so pointless after all!

Boogers Identified

Day 152: Perhaps the most useful phrase in the world of science is this: "Looks like I was wrong." If you can't make yourself say it, you have no business calling yourself a scientist. I felt quite sure of my identification of this particular fungus when I found it growing on a tree in the Park that I posted it with the label "Ascotremella faginea," and that was even after I'd examined a sample under the microscope. A few days ago while hunting for something else entirely, I came across a reference to the nearly-identical Exidia candida. I made mental note of the distinction and a promise to myself that if I ever encountered another specimen of "boogers," I'd look at them with a different eye. During a walk on Tuesday in Nisqually State Park, I ventured down a little-used bunny-trail and almost immediately came to a booger-infested branch across the trail, the fungus identical to the specimen I'd found in the Park some years ago. At this stage in its development, the morphology (specifically the colour) indicated Exidia. Consequently (and because I'm only human, and like to bury my mistakes), I have gone back and edited all previous posts referring to the fungus. I may be guilty of being wrong, but I do not want to further the offense by leaving erroneous information where it might be accessed by inquiring minds. That said, Exidia is considered an "artificial" genus. No gene sequencing has been done, and its classification is based solely on morphologic characteristics. In other words, there's a lot of "wiggle room" here, plenty of space to use those telling words, "We were wrong."

Lichenomphalia Umbellifera

Day 151: Yesterday, we talked about an ascomycetic fungus (i.e., a fungus which reproduces like a lichen), so today, we'll switch it around and talk about a basidiomycetic lichen (i.e., a lichen which reproduces like a mushroom). I told you this was a confusing field. Now you should have a better grasp of what I meant.

Now as you know, lichens are a symbiosis of fungus, algae and yeast. The algae come in two forms: green algae and cyanobacteria ("blue-green algae"). They are the photosynthetic partner in the ménage à trois. One type or the other is always present in a lichen, and is generally obvious in the colour even though some orange and yellow lichens might make you doubt my word. This is germane to the discussion, as you'll see shortly.

You're walking down the trail, looking for cool things, and your eye is caught by a cute little creamy white or tan mushroom growing out of an old stump. It looks like a little umbrella. You can see that it has gills if you look at the underside of the cap, so your immediate assumption is that it is a fungus. You're only partly right. Lichenomphalia umbellifera produces a fruiting body which resembles a mushroom in more ways than just visually. Its spores are produced externally by basidia, specialized cells on the margins of its gills, as opposed to most other lichens whose spores are produced in internal asci.

Now you're asking, "But what makes this a lichen? It looks like a mushroom to me." That's because you're not looking at the whole picture. The thallus (the main body) of Lichenomphalia is that pea-green and eminently algal substance coating the wood from which the "mushroom" grows. Fruiting body and thallus are parts of the same whole: a basidiomycetic lichen found fairly commonly on decaying stumps in the Pacific Northwest.

Things are not always what they seem to be at first glance.

Finding Hypoxylon Fuscum

Day 149: I have often remarked to friends that I have no need or even particular desire to travel to foreign lands because there is so much to see right here in the Pacific Northwest. Almost every time I go out, I stumble across something new or odd, whether it's a species I haven't previously observed or a morph/sport/aberration of something common and familiar. My "score" from yesterday's four-mile walk was Hypoxylon fuscum, and for that identification, I have to thank a slime mold expert who set me straight on its fungal nature. I'd hoped for a new slime. Nope, it's a fungus.

Hypoxylon is a pioneer, one of the first fungi to colonize the decaying wood of its chosen host. It disappears rather rapidly once it has invaded the cell structure and broken it down into a form more readily used by other fungi like the Tremellaceae which are frequently associated with it. Unlike most other fungi which are basidiomycetes, i.e., their spores are formed externally, it is an ascomycete, i.e., its spores are contained in internal capsules called asci (singular, ascus) like those in most lichens. Just as a sidebar here, it should be noted that there are a few lichen genera which are basidiomycetes (Lichenomphalia for one), exhibiting a mushroom-like fruit which sheds spores from its gills. Likewise, there are other fungi which are ascomycetes. Confused yet? Please remember that lichens are a symbiosis between fungus, algae and yeast. Hypoxylon is purely fungal. This species (Hypoxylon fuscum) is one of two known from Washington, hosted by Red Alder (Alnus rubra).

A Sure Sign, Cardamine

Day 148: Hooray! I have been hunting for Cardamine for several weeks now and until today, hadn't even spotted cotyledon leaves (not that they're easy to find with this plant). The eruption of Cardamine means that spring is truly just around the corner. I was also surprised to see some early Oxalis flowering in the Cowlitz Wildlife area near Mossyrock Dam. I'd gone lichen hunting, wanting to breathe good, pure air and give my winter lungs a workout. I may have gone into "social distancing" mode, but I will continue to take exercise in the superlative atmosphere of our Pacific Northwest forests. Today's choice of trail took me up a few small hills whose summits I had not previously attained, and one section of the pathway was so lined with Red Alder hosting Menegazzia terebrata (Tree Flute lichen) that it shall henceforth be known the Menegazzia Spur in my mental atlas of botanical waypoints. As I mentioned a few days ago, now that I've identified it, I'm finding it everywhere. No complaints from me on that score! It's also one of my favourite spots for early Cardamine, so maybe I was cheating just a little, hunting it down where I knew it would be easiest to find.

Contrary March

Day 147: Just as battle lines are drawn between political parties in an election year, the institution of Daylight Time separates modern Man into discrete and highly combative camps. I'm on the left with my fellow "morning people" who gladly exchange darker mornings for extended evening hours. I get up in the dark regardless of the season. My body's alarm clock is naturally set for pre-dawn. On the flip side, the autumn reversion to Standard Time invariably lowers a cloud of gloom over my head. Where did the lovely light go? Damn, I'd better get off the Mountain before it's too dark to see the trail. Is it bedtime yet? Homo sap is influenced by diurnal rhythms than he may care to admit; after all, we've supposedly cast aside the animal instincts which tell us to sleep longer in the winter, and to be most active during the long summer days. That said, the seasons exert pressures on us as well, and this morning's burden of snow shocked a vividly purple list of profanities from my lips when I threw back the curtains with plans for a nature walk in the forefront of my mind. As I stepped out to feed the birds, the chill cut through my jeans. I don't do cold as well as I did when I was younger. I beat a hasty retreat back to the blanketing warmth of a large, fat cat on my lap. Even as I write this, well past my lunchtime, the snow has not gone from the shadows and hollows of the yard. Daylight Time? What about Summer Time?

Parked And Forgotten

Day 146: "I forgot where I parked the car!" It's been years since I discovered this less-than-mint-condition vehicle alongside a short nature trail near Mossyrock Dam. I'm no expert on Things Automotive, but my best guess would be that it was a farm truck. There isn't enough left of the rear portion to hazard a further identification, nor are their any clues as to its make, although "Ford" would probably be a safe bet. The wooden wheel spokes make it particularly intriguing in the fact that they have endured the ravages of time equally well, possibly better than the metal itself. That said, the Pacific Northwest jungle will eventually reclaim it entirely, to be overgrown with moss, lichen and berry bushes until its molecules are the only remnants of its history, its story as silent as its erstwhile horn.

Vintage Crocheted Apron

Day 145: "Copyright 1946 by The Spool Cotton Company, price 10 cents." That's the stats from a book of patterns "Featuring 14 New Pineapple Designs" which was gifted to me by a member of our Morris dancing side. I paged through it briefly at the time, more intently once I'd arrived home, and knew as soon as I saw it that I simply would have to make this dainty, delicate little apron for entry in the Washington State Fair. I reinterpreted it slightly, using black ribbon instead of white for the trim to bolster the suggestion that it would be worn by an upstairs maid. Maybe I've been watching too many Victorian dramas lately, but I love lace despite what my rugged, outdoor persona might suggest. Even as a costume, I couldn't pull off the look for longer than thirty seconds holding perfectly still with my mouth arranged properly by having repeated, "Prunes, prism" three times before the sitting. I can't disguise my stride or body language; sooner or later (sooner, most likely), years of wearing boots and plodding uphill shows through. The appreciation and construction of lace (the more delicate the better) are what I refer to jokingly as my "pink and fluffy side." Sometimes it peeks through the angular greens and browns of my root lifestyle. So what purpose will this vintage re-creation serve once its Fair days are done? I do not know, but as long as it is in my possession it will serve to remind me of the highly romanticized but gentler and more courteous times of my grandmother's era, and how vainly she tried to instill in me the deportment appropriate to a lady. For all of having missed her mark in that, her skill at lace-making and her love of lace transferred at least in part to my hands and heart.

Nature's Ear, Auricularia Auricula-Judae

Day 144: It would seem that word of my endeavours to stimulate interest in the natural sciences has reached the ear of Nature herself. It's nice to know Ma's listening. This delightful discovery from the South Swofford Trail was the most ear-like example among dozens of a spring cup-fungus known as Auricularia auricula. It is purportedly edible, but you won't see me going there since most cups are rather leathery even in their tenderest moments. In our area, it occurs on both elder and maple, more commonly on decaying wood than on living. The interior of the cup is pinkish-brown to brown in age, and the exterior darkens as the fungus matures. It has a lengthy and tedious taxonomic history, and indeed its proper classification is still under debate. In some mycological references, it may be listed as "Auricularia auricula-judae," i.e., Judas' Ear, one of many other common names, some of which are less than racially sensitive. Other sources may refer to the North American species as "Auricularia americana." It is currently listed in the Burke Herbarium as Auricularia auricula, so I'm sticking with that.

Oligoporus Petticoats

Day 143: Just to ensure that none of my readers think I am an insufferable know-it-all, I present to you one of the all-too-frequent botanical puzzles I've come across recently. I have spent several hours trying to move from genus (Oligoporus) to species with a growing sense of futility. In the first place, the visual information I could extract from the specimen was inadequate, but more obstructive yet is the fact that there simply aren't field guides which cover the less common species of bracket fungus, and any scientifically detailed on-line information is locked firmly behind academic blockades which only allow access to those with research-level credentials. My files are full of images titled, "Unknown" or "Identify." Equally, they occupy pages in my mind so that should I happen to stumble across some obscure clue or secret pathway leading to a conclusion, I can follow it. I do not forget these "unknowns"; they haunt my dreams and keep me awake at night.

Why, you might wonder, is this so important to me? For one thing, I believe that knowledge should be easily accessible to everyone, but that isn't at the root of the matter. The seminal reason is that I feel knowledge of Nature increases our connectivity with it, even when that knowledge is something as artificial as a taxonomic designation (in practice, much of botanical taxonomy demonstrates morphologic and/or genetic links, but the regrettable current trend is moving more toward naming species for people). We are more likely to consider "John Smith" a friend than we are "that guy with the glasses and brown hair"; we are more likely to be interested in the habits of a Varied Thrush than we are of "that whistling bird which looks kinda like a Robin." The name...the application of specific syllables to a thing links us to it more strongly than does the simple observation of it.

Monday night, I had dinner with a friend who is an ecopsychologist. In the course of his pursuit of a doctorate in the field, we exchanged many letters exploring Homo sapiens' connections with Nature (or lack of them). Our conversation over the meal set me to thinking once again about the scope of Man's growing disassociation with the natural world. I don't have an answer to the problem, but I intend to do what I can to increase the knowledge of it, even when it means I have to admit I can't identify a species.

Dislodged Kidneys

Day 142: When the Park reopened after the storm damage was repaired and I could get back into Longmire, one of the things on my agenda was to check the campground for dislodged Kidneys. I have found Nephroma helveticum there in two locations. In both cases, it had dropped from the canopy far above my head and was attached to either a branch or twig from some tree I couldn't pinpoint. My most recent find (above) was about 100' from one of the customary drop-zones, but given the size of the twig (no more than four inches long) and its lightness, I concluded that it had probably been blown there on a gust of wind. Five species of Nephroma are known to occur in the Park. As shown here in a Penny Perspective, Fringed Kidneys (Nephroma helveticum) are easy to identify by the creamy white "ruffle" which borders the brown disks like a crocheted edging. The lower surface is smooth.

Bisporella Citrina

Day 141: Bisporella citrina is a fungus quite common in the Pacific Northwest, but it takes a keen eye to spot it because the discs are seldom more than 3 mm in diameter. Since it grows on hardwood branches which have lost their bark (usually broken and on the ground), visibility may be additionally occluded by an overgrowth of moss or lichen. When the fruiting bodies first emerge, they appear as stalkless, rounded bumps. As they mature, a depression develops in the center of each bump, giving rise to the common name "Yellow Fairy Cups." They are also known by the enchanting name, "Lemon Discos."

Menegazzia Terebrata

Day 140: You know how it goes. You spot something you've never seen before...a Greater Spotted Purple Jayfinch or a Volkswagen painted to look like a coconut jellybean...and you think, "Wow! Look what I found!" Then in the next week or two, you see ten or twenty more of them (whatever "they" are). At the very least, it makes you wonder if there is a sudden proliferation of "them," or perhaps it inclines you to reevaluate your powers of observation. I don't know how many times I've walked past this particular Red Alder on the South Swofford Trail thinking, "Yeah, yeah, that's another Hypogymnia" as I swept by, but while on the trail earlier this week, its "rosettishness" inspired me to take a closer look. Hypogymnias don't typically form rosettes, but several superficially similar species do. Even from a distance of six feet, I could tell this was no Hypogymnia. No, it was in fact a Menegazzia, a genus I only recently observed for the first time in Olympia. How had I missed it every single other bloody time I'd walked past the Swofford tree? The perforations in the lobes were obvious, as were the powdery soredia. I nicked a small sample, dropped it in one of the test tubes I always carry and brought it home for analysis, where I confirmed it as Menegazzia terebrata, aka Tree Flute. Now I s'pose I'll be finding them everywhere. You won't hear me complain.