Trillium Bonus

Day 169: I'd gone prowling in the local woods on a trillium hunt only a few days prior to a hike in the Mossyrock area, returning home without having observed a single leaf. Our populations of this native wildflower have suffered greatly from human predation (for that is what I choose to call it), and now they are no longer as abundant in our lowland forests as they were when I was a youngster. I suppose they would still be categorized as "common," although it has been many years since I would have chosen that term to describe their occurrence. Nowadays, each and every one delights me with its flower almost as much as the clusters of them in the acreage behind our house did when I was a child. I remember picking one, bringing it home to my mother who gave me a stern lecture on its fragile botany, and never again did I look at the plant in quite the same way. It may have been that lesson which first made me aware of man's sins against nature; in any event, I learned to respect and value plant life in situ from that moment forward. Perhaps that's why I make this annual pilgrimage to find the first trilliums of the season: penance, and to ask their forgiveness for the one of their number which I so brutally destroyed almost three-quarters of a century ago.

Hypogymnia Physodes

Day 168: Collectively, the Hypogymnias are commonly known as "tube lichens." Why? If you examine one closely, you will see that the lobes are puffy, like miniature balloon animals. In some species, this resemblance is accentuated by each lobe being pinched at the base. Hypogymnia physodes does not exhibit these restrictions, but it has another characteristic which makes it relatively easy to identify, and one which gives it its common name of "Monk's-hood Lichen." The inset takes a closer view of the lobe tips, revealing the powdery or granular soralia (asexual reproductive structures) typical of this species. Where the soralia have fallen away, the tubular nature of the lobes becomes obvious. The lower surface of this lichen is black, but if it is separated from the upper layer to reveal the underside of the pale green top (the medullary ceiling), it will be seen to be white. Differences in the colour of the medullary ceiling are also diagnostic when trying to identify Hypogymnias.

Sweet Cardamine

Day 167: It was one of the few things on my list of goals which actually worked out according to plan during my hike in the Cowlitz Wildlife area near Mossyrock a few days ago, although I was an hour and a half into the walk before I spotted the first ones. Cardamine (Cardamine nuttallii) is one of our earliest flowering species, and for years, I served it badly by never being able to remember its name. Eventually, I struck upon the idea that "it's something to do with 'heart' and it starts with a C...cardio-, carda-...cardamine!" and now the common name is firmly cemented in my brain (or perhaps it's my brain which is cement). In any case, I believe it is at its prettiest when the flowers are still nodding, before they open out into the four distinct petals which are characteristic of crucifers. At this stage, one can imagine them as the skirts of faeries, an interpretation influenced by one of my favourite books from childhood, Elizabeth Gordon's "Flower Children." The book has nothing to do with hippies, having been published first in 1910, long before the psychedelic generation was born, and illustrates common garden flowers as flapper-style garments worn by humanesque figures. It was through that book that I learned at a very early age to identify columbine and buttercup. In fact, I would say it seeded my interest in botany even before I could read the words of the poems which accompany each drawing. Even today, I see faeries in the skirts of hollyhocks, old men in bearded corn, dancers in the iris' ballroom gowns, and tiny sprites in the dainty bells of Cardamine.

Heather, Comma

Day 166: March is a little early for the Commas to be out and about, so I was rather surprised to find one on my heather yesterday. The day was quite warm for March, peaking at 62 degrees, and in addition to the Comma, there were some small black and white butterflies I couldn't identify as well as a few honeybees and one fat bumble whose weight caused the tips of the heather to droop when he latched on, so that he was always hanging upside-down by the time I'd got the lens trained on him. I am assuming this is a Satyr Comma (Polygonia faunus), since that species is what usually comes to my yard. However, I was unable to observe the underside of the wing where the shape of the white marking which gives the species its common name would have confirmed the identification. Satyr's "comma" looks like a check mark; Green's is rounded, and resembles the comma of punctuation. In any case, both species nectar on the nettle flowers which at the present time are still tight buds. I'm glad Mr. Comma found heather to be an acceptable substitute.

Stick Art

Day 165: First and foremost, Mother Nature is a scientist. Of that, there can be no doubt, but it is not always about improving design to make it more efficient or durable. Sometimes her creative side surfaces and then, if we are privileged, we may witness an exhibition of her art.

I had several goals in mind when I left home yesterday for a hike. Very few of them bore any fruit. I did manage to cover five or six miles without seeing or hearing another human being, although the buzz of a chainsaw was audible from the top of the hill. It temporarily drowned out the chorus of Pacific Tree Frogs who were singing their spring anthem in the wetland below, though not the voices of Canada Geese flying overhead. Once back in the forest, the chips and cheeps of woodland birds were the only sounds, and I was left to enjoy visual immersion in uncountable shades of green. Here and there, the Cardamine inserted a pale pink accent, its flowers nodding, unwilling to fully wake into the light, damp chill of the morning, and a few Trillium who had had too much rain at last night's party tried to shake off the aftereffects with limited success. There were no spring mushrooms, not yet, and the nettles were too far advanced to pick for tea. They were quite defensive, and expressed their sentiments toward being gathered by biting me through nitrile gloves. With "gathering" removed from my list on those two counts, "exercise" was the next best option. I decided to cover as much ground as the weather and mud would permit, with "photography" a given as it is any time I am out and about.

The wildlife area near Mossyrock Dam affords a variety of ecological niches. Managed by Cowlitz Wildlife under the auspices of WDFW, it offers woods, ponds, grasslands and thickets spaced throughout roughly 14,000 acres. There are only a few maintained trails and no "destinations," rendering it less popular with hikers than other areas. I have observed a number of interesting plants and fungi there, and a wealth of lichens, many of which I have yet to identify. I was walking the ADA trail when I found this stick, barely recognizable as such beneath its lavish embellishments of lichen and moss, Art in its purest form. The scientific half of my brain registered Ochrolechia (little round dots), Usnea (wiry threads), Platismatia (ruffled lobes) and a moss even as the artistic side exclaimed, "That's beautiful!" Ma Nature had succeeded in engaging my full appreciation, a feat no human artist has ever managed. All other considerations aside, the Stick was the highlight of my hike, and I don't say that lightly.

Plying The Cinnamon Twist

Day 164: I go at my crafts in fits and starts, a factor which used to annoy my husband terribly. I'd spend six months doing cross-stitch and beadwork and then, without further ado, shelve the supplies for both and pick up sewing or needlepoint. The point he was missing was that I finished everything I started, sooner or later, as my interest in a particular form of fiberart circled around again. Unless I was driven to complete a project by a specific date, say for a birthday or wedding gift, it didn't make sense to me to work at something I found boring when I knew that a vacation from it of weeks or even months would eventually draw me back and perhaps even be more productive in the long term, but that logic escaped his view entirely. He objected that I would stockpile supplies only to abandon their craft after a few months, but in the broad view, that was simply not the case.

For the last four years, I have had a quilt (several different ones, actually) mounted on a frame which takes up a substantial portion of space in my living room. The quilt currently on it is almost complete. Even though I have begun piecing another one, I will probably put quilting aside for some time as I delight in once again having "room in my room." Weaving...well, weaving is another story. The big loom has a room of its own, and it seldom stands empty for more than a week. Admittedly, some projects have taken me months to complete because I got bored halfway through, but when I returned to them, I went at it with a vengeance, usually driven by having another project in mind. Other crafts are seasonal, like spinning. I set the wheel aside when our wet months began, simply because I don't have space inside to hang finished yarn to dry. Now that nicer days are in the forecast, I've settled in to finish the "cinnamon twist." During the winter, I picked and carded the remaining brown wool and finished spinning it a few days ago. Now I am plying it, having also spun up most of the white Corriedale needed for the project. What's next? I don't know, but the likelihood of another year of isolation leaves space for a lot of fiberarts projects.

Spring Has Sprung!

Day 163: There are many variations on the poem, but I learned it as follows:

Spring has sprung,
The grass is riz,
I wonder where
The daisies is?

I don't know that you could stretch the definition of "daisy" far enough to encompass primroses, and the word's reach certainly does not extend to forsythia nor to rhubarb, so let's just say that the first colours are out, giving us a foretaste of what is to come. The gardening bug has bit me, and the number of seed flats and pots in my east window is growing almost daily, with marks on the calendar for the optimum planting dates for a variety of flower and vegetable seeds. Some species are ones I've never grown before like Mexican Sour Gherkins, one-inch cucumbers which resemble tiny watermelons and can be enjoyed straight off the vine. Others are my old stand-bys: Gazanias, marigolds, Calendula, cosmos. Not a square inch of prepared bed will be wasted, but neither will I plant according to a plan. I like the look of what I call a "scatter garden," plants and seeds stuck willy-nilly wherever space allows, to be a floral crazy-quilt at the peak of the flowering season. I do try to keep the border low and the back high, but there are always a few strays and volunteers with other ideas, particularly the sunflowers planted by my little avian friends for their personal harvest. Bring your paint pots and brushes, Summer! My garden is a canvas for your most expressionistic art.

Laws Of Weaving

Day 162: This photo is illustrative of one of Crow's Elementary Laws of Weaving. Can you tell what that might be? Simply, it states that whatever your next planned project requires is inversely proportional to its availability. In other words, two-thirds of the threads I have on order are out of stock, the most critical absence being the natural colour I need for the warp of a summer-and-winter weave lap throw. Now admittedly, there's enough fiber here to keep any weaver occupied for several months, and I'm sure many would envy the selection I have at my fingertips, but I am reluctant to put an interim project on the floor loom for several reasons. The first is subject to another factor in weaving: the smaller the project, the greater the waste by percentage. I allow roughly two yards of waste when measuring warp for the floor loom, four feet for the table loom. This is why I usually warp for long-term projects on either. The second factor is personal: I tend to get bored with interim projects easily, and therefore they hang on the loom for longer periods of time than projects I'm inspired to do (like the pending summer-and-winter). This said, I still have two towels to weave on the current warp, so I guess I'll ration my time at the loom while I wait for the supplier to receive their next shipment.

Right On Schedule

Day 161: They have arrived! Tachycineta bicolor (Tree Swallow) may not keep as tight a schedule as the swallows of Capistrano, but they can be relied upon to show up here in the latter half of March. Anticipating their arrival, I hung the House of Chirp and Pussywillow Cottage in the customary locations several weeks ago to ensure that prospective tenants wouldn't have to leave disappointed. I haven't seen activity around either house yet, but they've only been here a few hours and have spent most of it perched on the power line, recovering from what must have been an arduous and somewhat snowy journey north. By the end of June, a new generation will be peeking out at the scary big world and preparing to take their first flight. Spring has truly come! A little birdie told me.

Gardening V.s Horticulture

Day 160: It might surprise you to learn that I have not always enjoyed gardening. Although I was driven each year by the human compulsion to grub in the soil each spring like a mole, it was not a process in which I took much pleasure and because of that fact, the results were what one might expect, i.e., partial or complete failure. My flower beds never bloomed. How could they, beneath the weeds which grew faster than the seedlings? And vegetables? Have you ever met a person who flunked both zucchini and radishes? Now you have. It always seemed to me that after I had weeded once, weeding should have been done for the year, and once I had stuck a plant in the ground, it required no further care than occasional watering. Suffice to say that it was not a formula for success, although ornamentals like this black Hellebore fared better than edibles and inspired me to take better care of my flower beds. I began fertilizing, adding soil amendments, choosing plants for specific problem areas, and I began to see results. Whether by accident or not, one year saw a bumper crop from the cherry tomatoes I planted in sunken containers, and I proudly shared the bounty with my friends. Now I had come to understand that there was more to gardening than planting. A few more years passed, and the riotous hodge-podge of random colours in the flower beds and harvests of tomatoes, blueberries and raspberries encouraged me to expand the garden and my labours. That said, it was not until horticulture crept into the equation before I could say that I enjoyed my work. Once I began hand-pollinating vines and layering shoots, I was hooked. Now each year, I look forward to playing Luther Burbank, paintbrush in hand to tease pollen from one Akebia vine for transfer to another. And then I wait anxiously for signs of success, checking almost daily to see if pods are beginning to develop. It's science, people, and the garden is my laboratory. I won't say that's made weeding fun, but it makes it worthwhile.

Swofford Pond

Day 159: Take a "listening walk" with me along the south side of Swofford Pond. Don't say a word, not a peep. As we leave the parking area, we hear the idle chatter of the shore fishermen, punctuated by the occasional louder phrase when someone gets a bite. We may hear a passing car or the scrape of metal as someone backs a trailer down the concrete boat ramp, but these sounds are lost by the time we've gone a hundred yards along the trail which crosses the wetland. Now we hear the burble of water seeping up from the soil and making its way to the lake. We may or may not see it, covered by grass as it is, but we hear its conversation with the earth. Further on, the buzz of insects rises from a skunk-cabbage bog, but it's too early for mosquitoes, so we assume it's flies and beetles feeding in the decomposing plant matter and helping it along. Entering a forested band, we hear another small creek's patter, its expressions rising from the rocks over which it passes, and somewhere beyond us, an even louder voice becomes apparent. It is Sulphur Creek, relating the stories of its leap from a cliff and subsequent journey through fungus-rich woodlands and maple groves. Let us stand for a few minutes on the wooden bridge crossing it on the flat. We cannot understand its language, but its intentions are made clear: that nothing will obstruct its duties to nature.

Beyond its monologue, we are again in forest where a liquid, long song rises from a brush pile. The flutter of wings draws our eyes to the source: Pacific Wren. The bird's beak opens, and a cascade of ringing notes falls from it, one after another as we marvel at the length of the melody. In the distance, the coarser honk of Canada Geese bells on the water, then the chaos of splash and flutter as the bulky birds take flight. Again, the hum of a beetle burrs in the background, and the "pips" of Juncos tip us off to their presence in an ancient apple tree in an open meadow. A farm dog barks, its alert carrying across the water from the populated side. A cow moos in response or dispute. We also hear the voices of two fishermen in conversation at one of the pull-outs along the country road which follows the north shore. They are too far away to be understood, but the exchange seems friendly and relaxed. Duck quacks pull our eyes back to the near shore where a pair of Mallards are dipping for their breakfast. A Varied Thrush calls, its single-note whistle disguised by some mysterious avian ventriloquy which prevents us from locating the bird. Another small stream bisects our path, and we step across it with a light sucking noise as our boots pull free of its mud. It does not object, this stream. It immediately fills in the dented pocket in the soil and continues talking to itself in a mutter, and if we are the subject of its one-sided discussion, the phrases are said in such a low tone that we cannot make them out.

Eventually, we come to a point where nature denies us any further exploration and the clicks of bark-beetles advise us that we must reverse course. The splash of a rising bass among the lily-pads punctuates the order and we turn back with some regret that this idyll could not go on forever. The "silence," while not perfect, has been as close to natural as it is possible to get in this hurried world. And now I ask you: what have you not heard while on this trail? Aside from the initial clanking, grating, grinding sounds of mechanisms and motors by the boat launch, we have heard no evidence of the industrial world. Combustion engines are prohibited on the pond. Blissful, wasn't it?

Snow Queens, Veronica Regina-Nivalis

Day 158: Okay, that does it. Who spilled their coffee in the DNA sequencer? Snow Queens have been reclassified into the Speedwells as Veronica regina-nivalis, and that's just since I got my latest edition of Hitchcock where it's still listed as Synthyris reniformis. That's not the first sticky-note I've put in Hitchcock's index, and I can guarantee that if the taxonomists have their way, there will be a lot more before the next edition is released. Now I am tasked with remembering the "Veronica" portion of the Latin. "Regina-nivalis" is easy. It means "queen of snow." I s'pose I'll have to take to addressing this early bloomer as "Queen Veronica" when I meet her in the woods. That said, it was not necessary for me to make a six-mile trek to reach Snow Queens this year. As luck would have it, Rimrock County Park is full of them, starting only a hundred yards up the trail, as I discovered when hiking there on Wednesday. I do enjoy seeing this lowland plant with its purple anthers peeking out from a bell of pale lavender petals. I think of them as the eyes of curious faeries, watching the human who has intruded into their woodland to be sure she does no harm. One of the first flowers to emerge in spring, Snow Queens outpaces even Cardamine and Trillium, if perhaps running head to head with Skunk Cabbage. It is this phenology which pulls me out of my bear-den each year, anxious to celebrate my floral friends' emergence from their winter naps.

Giant White Fawn-Lily, Erythronium Oregonum

Day 157: "I bet they're not up yet," I said as I was packing my pack for an impromptu hike in Rimrock County Park on Wednesday. I had been quite surprised when I stumbled across them (almost literally) two years ago. The colony was the first I'd ever encountered, and they were in full bloom at the time. I had to shift gears mentally from my initial, "What are avalanche lilies doing down here?" The flower is quite similar, like a miniature Easter lily: white, six-petalled and nodding. The leaf is striking, mottled brown and green, and undoubtedly the source of one common name, Trout-lily. It's easier to remember than the alternate for Erythronium oregonum, Giant White Fawn-lily. "Giant" is misleading, although this Erythronium is admittedly somewhat (not much) larger than its alpine cousins. A subspecies is found in western Washington, but I have not determined whether these particular plants belong to it...not yet. It will be a few weeks before that little bud opens to reveal clues to its full taxonomy. Like Schwarzenegger said, "I'll be back."

Number 100

Day 156: It doesn't look like much...a few leaves, no pretty flower...but it is a milestone in my career as a plant photographer. Sanicula crassicaulis (Pacific Sanicle) is the 100th taxon I have submitted to the Burke Herbarium image gallery, i.e., the 100th species of plant, fungus and lichen over a total of 170 photographs under my name. I take no credit for identifying it from the foliage. I threw it at Arnie as soon as I got the photos onto the computer. Nor did I know it would be #100 when I knelt down beside and and said, "So who are you, guy? I don't remember ever seeing those leaves before." And I owe a special thank-you to Kevin for forgetting to put my pizza in the car with the rest of my groceries. If he hadn't forgotten, I wouldn't have had the excuse to go down to Eatonville to retrieve it from his fridge or been able to rationalize a hike in Rimrock County Park (undeveloped) with the logic, "Well, as long as I'm down there, I might as well check on the..." But wait! If I let that slip, it would spoil tomorrow's post. Suffice to say it was a good day, botanically speaking.

Update: not only was it my 100th species for the Herbarium gallery, it also seems to be the furthest east sighting of it in the county!

The Weavin' O' The Green

Day 155: I was a little worried that the emerald green thread I'd ordered wouldn't arrive in time to help me celebrate St. Patrick's Day, but it showed up on Tuesday, coinciding with the completion of the third towel in a series of four currently in progress on the floor loom. Thus, I will be a-weavin' o' the green today (that's "weavin'" as opposed to "wearin'" for those of you who might have missed the word-play). I chose to use a textured weave in the white stripe rather than a simple tabby to give the towel a little more character. This is one of the reasons I enjoy Bird's-Eye: many different looks can be achieved with combinations of treadling and colour on the same warp. And yes, I am already planning a project to follow this one: a "summer-and-winter" lap throw which will take significantly longer to complete than a set of mixed-colour towels. That said, I'm playing the waiting game again. More warp thread should arrive in about a week.

Mathematical Shiny Objects

Day 154: Pi Day has come and gone. I acknowledged it with cookies because I am a non-believer. We're going to be paddling in the deep end today, so be sure to wear your bathing/thinking cap. Let's begin with a circle. Draw it on your computer, paint it on your floor, put pen to paper, just draw a circle and then fill it in with colour. When you finished the job, you should have been able to calculate exactly how much colour you'd used. But you can't. Because pi. Pi is an irrational number. To date, it has been calculated out to some billions of places and its fractional sequence still cannot be determined exactly; therefore, you cannot calculate how much colour you used to fill your circle. I don't care if you weigh the paint can or count the grains of graphite left in your pencil. You cannot know the exact amount of colour you used to fill your circle. Period. Well, that's a hell of a thing, ain't it? Science just did a whopping belly-flop in our mental swimming pool.

All my senses tell me that something is wrong here. Obviously, we have used finite amounts of colour to fill a well-defined area, and yet we cannot quantify it. The trouble originates with pi, or rather with an artificial construct without a precise value, as demanded by our system of mathematics. Aha! There, dear readers, is the elephant in the room which no one wants to talk about: our system of mathematics. Heaven forbid we should have to admit we've been wrong all along in how we calculate things.

I have said repeatedly that the human mind is still in a very early stage of evolution. One example of the primitiveness of our mental capacity would be that fiction as a form of entertainment was an unknown concept a mere thousand years ago. Oh, there were a few examples of it earlier (I could point out a major one, but would be risking the displeasure of the religious among you), but the mind of the average human could not grasp the "un-factualness" of a tale. Lying was understood, but using non-fact as an amusement was not. Likewise, the idea of geocentrism was eventually discarded when humans realized that the starry field above them was far more distant and moved in a manner which could not be explained by being centered upon the Earth.

Even today, we revert to beliefs when no other explanations afford themselves in a manner we can understand. Our mental incapacity hobbles us when trying to solve the cosmological constant problem, but we lean on it because we don't know how to look in another direction. We don't even know that another direction exists. Nor do we know how to look for the stability another system of mathematics might give to pi, one which allows us to know precisely how much colour fills our circle. In fact, we have been so distracted by the mathematical shiny object of calculating pi to its last decimal place that we aren't even bothering to look for a way to make the irrational rational.

Woods Elves

Day 153: The woodland elves are out and about! Although these two species of "elf-cups" are similar in overall shape (i.e., you'd call them both "cup fungi"), they are in fact only cousins removed by several degrees. In taxonomic rank, there is a specific hierarchy: Domain, Kingdom, Phyllum, Class, Order, Family, Genus and Species. These two diverge at Family, with Sarcoscypha coccinea (Scarlet Elf-Cup) in the Sarcoscyphaceae and Pseudoplectania vogesiaca (no common name, sometimes listed as S. melanaea) in Sarcosomataceae. In simpler terms, their relationship to each other is on the same level as that of dogs to foxes (stealing my example from Wikipedia because I haven't had my second cup of coffee yet). They might look as if one could be a figurative Pekingese and the other perhaps a Doberman, but their genetic tree splits at a higher point. Why? In part, the distinction lies in the shape, size and number of spores contained in each ascus. Both are saprobic, which is to say you'll find them on dead wood, happily assisting with the decomposition process which keeps our forests healthy and vibrant. Elves in the woods! As conspiracy theories go, that's a pretty good one, and here's the evidence.

Devil's Tower

Day 152: I talk about the Devil's Tower in conjunction with trips to Sulphur Creek Falls, but have rarely posted photos of it because it doesn't present itself readily to the lens, obscured as it is by vegetation. It is also difficult to capture its detail since it is almost always backlit by the sun. I believe it to be an ancient volcanic plug, exposed by erosion. In any event, its pockmarked, knobbled construction affords mosses, sedums and various other mosture-loving plants a place to take hold, and very little of its rocky structure remains visible through gaps in their blanket. It stands as gate-keeper to the Tolkienesque stronghold of Sulphur Creek Falls; you cannot go below its base without wearing heavy armour against the massed forces of devil's-club and salmonberry, and if you should be inclined to come in from above, there is no way down short of a treacherous rappel. I would estimate its height at roughly sixty feet from the narrow, mud-greased ledge I refer to as its base (although presumably it is anchored in some geologically impressive lava conduit far beneath the forested slope). Its ledge always draws a sigh of relief from my heaving chest. There, I can progress some thirty yards without struggling for every toehold, even pausing to admire its botanical garden. "That really is Suksdorfia," I say to myself as I admire a cluster of scalloped leaves which obviously enjoy the wet, north-facing wall. It is the only location outside the Park where I have observed the species. As much as any other reason, the botanical diversity pulls me back here, certain that there is some rarity on the Tower which I've failed to notice, being too set upon the goal of the falls.

Crow At Sulphur Creek Falls

Day 151: I first visited Sulphur Creek Falls in 2005. I learned of its existence through geocaching. It took me two tries to get there, the first failing when I tried to follow the instructions provided on the cache page and wound up in a tangle of devil's-club, but the second successful after a friend counselled me to "use your woods sense" to pick my own route. You see, there is...or was...no trail to this magical place at the end of a box canyon. Elk and deer trails criss-crossed a steep hillside, but as animal trails have a wont to do, they often disappeared without warning. Natural hazards abound here: mud, thickets of devil's-club and salmonberry, fallen trees and so on. But once I had attained my goal and found the cache, I kept going back every year. Very few other people even made an attempt to reach the cache. The cache owner disappeared from the GC website and finally, after several years of maintaining the cache myself, I petitioned to adopt it. It was a long process, but eventually GC turned it over to me.

That said, every subsequent year brought new obstacles. There were landslips, more fallen trees. And there was evidence of human activity which I did not like: litter, and ropes put in place to make the descent to the base of the falls easier. Every time I went in, I cleared it out. If a little old lady didn't need a rope to get there, the young bucks (human) who were partying at the site and leaving their beer bottles behind could certainly make it without assistance. Then a flood came and changed the landscape even more. I had to relocate the cache about 150' from its original location. However, even that site was not secure. Last year, a large cedar tree slid down the hillside, its massive root ball coming to rest when it hit the two trees my revised cache was between. The cache was still accessible, but barely.

A few days ago, I made a decision to archive the cache due to two factors: increasing erosion (both natural and human-caused), and my age. You don't see very many tiny women at the three-quarter century mark prowling around in trailless and somewhat dangerous terrain. But I had one last mission which took me to Sulphur Creek Falls again yesterday: remove the cache container. After a year of voluntary lockdown, I hoped I still had the steam for the trip. "Slow and easy," I told myself time again as I struggled up the slopes using roots and branches and the occasional clump of ferns to leverage myself up one more step, mindful that the muddy ground was likely to give way and send me 50-100' down to creek level if all three of my anchor points failed. "Bush-belays" are not my favourite climbing tools, but I'll use them if nothing else is available. I went nose-to-mud twice before I reached the base of our local version of the Devil's Tower, but the challenge didn't end there. Once up to safe ground, I had the descent to cache level ahead of me, perhaps the most dangerous part of the trek. In fact, I had to find an alternate route from my usual, owing to yet another landslide. I retrieved the cache container and then made my way from this point (photo) to the base of the falls, up and around that pile of lumber behind me, and then back down again. One more "up" took me back to the base of Devil's Tower, from which I descended without incident (not counting a muddy bum) to the nice, flat South Swofford Trail, continuing there on a leisurely walk for a mile and half almost to its end, glad that my multiple missions were all complete. It is unlikely that I will return to Sulphur Creek Falls again.

First Day Of Skunk Cabbage

Day 150: I thought I knew what day today might be, but in order to confirm my hypothesis, I needed to make a serious Trip Out to visit Ma Nature. Only her phenological calendar could show it for sure. Still, I have been having a run of bad luck/unpleasant events lately, and because I also had in mind a more adventuresome outing than a visit to the bog (American usage, please!), I was a little apprehensive. Would I wind up hurting myself to cap off the series? Or could I possibly break the run by doing something fun and exciting? I was deliberating as I stepped out on the front porch to feel the temperature, and Pacific Wren's long, burbling song came to my ears from the brush pile. That clinched it. Pacific Wren is a trusted advisor, and he had just indicated to me that I needed to spend some time in his woods. I came in and immediately started packing my pack.

I saw no Skunk Cabbage as I drove over the Divide, nothing in any of the usual swampy areas. Maybe I was on a wild skunk chase after all? But as I approached my "best bog" on the South Swofford Trail, I saw a spot of yellow and, minding my footing in the mud as I got closer, a shaft of sunlight fell on a pristine example of my mother's favourite flower. It was indeed the First Day of Skunk Cabbage, a day almost as important to me as September Morn.

Then I started up the hill toward Sulphur Creek Falls. I had archived my last geocache and needed to pull the container. Over the last several years, both natural and human-caused erosion have made this trek even more perilous than before, the "trail" (such as it is, made by deer and elk) crossed by numerous fallen trees and, in the steeper sections, landslides. In fact, I found the cache almost buried by the huge root mass of a tree which had slid down the embankment. I was able to retrieve the container, but only barely.

I made my way back down without incident and then continued on out the South Swofford Trail nearly to its end, where I sat on the corner of a bridge in the company of one small Skunk Cabbage blossom and a horde of Blue Duns (well, that's what we call them in fly-fishing). Then it was back to the car and home, where yet another catastrophe appeared to loom into view, but thanks to Kevin's internet skills, I was able to restore my computer's health by blowing the dust out of the transformer plug. Have I gotten around Murphy's plans for my future? I hope so.

Didn't All Croak

Day 148: I joke that my crocuses all croaked. In fact, there are a few which Bambi and his larger friends the elk missed when they browsed the garden snack bar during a midnight raid, but they still surprise me when they pop up each spring. The cervid problem is a major issue with any type of gardening here. My raspberries stretch up past six-foot walls of chicken-wire, and the Berry Pen likewise except on the side where the gooseberries' myriad thorns form a strong defense of the perimeter. Bambi and buddies stand on their hind legs to pull plums and apples from the neighbours' trees, but the chicken-wire won't support their weight, a detail they learned by trial and error. However, any vine which dares send a stem through the wire is guaranteed to find the pruners waiting. I've taken to keeping my slingshot and a bowl of appropriately-sized rocks on a shelf by the back door, although obviously, I cannot maintain a 24-hour vigil. Getting pinged on the rump a few times teaches most (but not all) that I mean business when it comes to guardin' my garden.

Taste The Jam

Day 148: Once the flu-like side effects of the Moderna vaccine had worn off, I began to feel invigorated, just as I had done after the first dose. Perhaps "invigorated" isn't the right word; more like I'd eaten an entire eight-ounce bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans. Yesterday, I hit the yard, and I hit it hard. I cleared out the Barren Wasteland, preparatory to replanting it with cosmos, marigolds and alyssum and then, after a fifteen minute sit-down, I launched into weeding both the front and side flower beds (a job for which I usually allow 3-4 days). The "perky" phase is still full-blown today. I transplanted half a dozen volunteer yews, added soil amendments and fresh soil to the blueberry, gooseberry, currant and tomato containers, fussed and fiddled with a number of other small projects. While on my knees in the Berry Pen, I noticed that the gooseberries were beginning to put on their first leaves; I think I have one jar of jam left from last year's crop. Spring can't get here fast enough for me! I have a pair (male and female) Hardy Kiwi Anna vines on order, in the hopes that the male will also fertilized the purportedly-but-not "self-fertile" Issais which frame the Berry Pen gate, as well as a few packets of flower seeds. But maybe I'm a little premature. Yesterday, I was pelted with small hail while I was working. Today, it was snowing. Still, it felt good to get down-and-dirty in the garden.

Hopping-parrot

Day 147: Meet my newest friend/charge, Hopping-parrot. If you've been following along, you'll understand the "-parrot" portion of his name, but "Hopping" might make you wonder. As it happens, Hopping-parrot has a gamy wing. He can't fly, but he is an expert hopper. He's been with me about three weeks now and I do believe the wing (presumably broken) is growing stronger. He seems to be able to flex it a bit more, even flap it a little, although it's obvious that he doesn't trust it to carry him from the tree to the feeder. He forages on the ground, retreating to the safety of the tree in between meals with a rapid succession of hops which takes him there, and then from branch to branch with clear knowledge of the best routes through the tangled branches. I have observed his behaviour for twenty or thirty minutes several times, watching him exercise the survival strategy which has brought him this far. I have to marvel: where does he go at night to be safe? Does he nestle down in the heart of the winding trunks, out of the reach of raccoons or other predators? Do I see a glint of greater-than-average intelligence in that beady black eye? He must be cleverer than most. He talks to me when I put out seed, although he is not bold enough to approach me...not like the daring, darling chickadee who landed twice on the camera while I was capturing this portrait.

Update 3/13: He flies! I've seen him make it twice from the tree to the feeder (the actual feeder, not to the ground below it), and a couple of times a foot or so between branches. He still prefers hopping, but the wing is obviously on the mend!

Pick A Little Bouclé

Day 146: Having almost fully recovered from my dalliance with mRNA, I am ready to resume my weaving projects. For this set of towels, I picked a little bouclé in springtime yellow and paired it with 8/2 lime green in both warp and weft to make a check pattern. The bouclé provides a challenge as it likes to hold hands with itself as warp, so rather than weaving with it on the floor loom, I've assigned it to duty on the rigid heddle. It's my first experiment with this particular thread and so far, I'm pleased with the results. I'm sure it will "full" nicely once it's washed without losing the bouclé texture. In all honesty, I was reluctant to use it as warp on the floor loom due to issues with getting it to pass through the heddles without binding up. The eyes in the rigid-heddle reed are larger and perhaps more importantly, they are made of a plastic which provides a smoother "glide" for a textured fiber.

Not So Smug Now

Day 145: Having come away from my first dose of the Moderna COVID vaccine with nothing more than a sore arm, I was hoping I'd breeze through the second half as easily. Nope. By bedtime (early) last night, I was beginning to have chills and aches. By midnight, there wasn't a muscle in my body which didn't feel like I'd been on the losing end of a bar brawl. Even my hand muscles hurt! A blinding headache accompanied the other symptoms, my eyes very light-sensitive. This morning, I'm somewhat improved, but definitely a long way from "perky." In fact, I only got up in order to check in with friends and family, all of whom know what it takes to lay me low.

The Semantics Of Rock-Gathering

Day 144: Let us today consider the semantics of rock-gathering. If I were to tell you that I went rockhounding, you would be correct in assuming that I had gone in pursuit of precious or semi-precious stones, aesthetically-pleasing mineral specimens or other lithic anomalies deemed worthy of collection. Indeed, I am (or was, at least) a rockhound, but at times, I am also a rock-hunter, implying that I seek out rocks suitable for some purpose or another. The most common of these on my list could be termed "cobbles," football-sized or slightly larger, river-worn and of a particular heft. I use them to hold things up. I use them to hold things down. I use them wherever one might need to have a 20-30 pound rock of no particular artistic merit.

With the sun shining and my second dose of COVID vaccine beginning to course through my body, I went rock-hunting, having used the last of my stash to keep my "Black Lives Matter" sign from blowing over in the wind. Given that Murphy is always on the alert for projects such as these, waiting to throw his monkey-wrench into the works, I only had enough for three sides. And Murphy, a worse prankster than Raven or Coyote, sent the winds from the one unguarded quarter. I pencilled "rocks" on the list for my next foray out. I found five which met the criteria, the most important being that they were only a short distance from the car. All in all, I'd say it was a pretty successful hunt.

Icmadophila Ericetorum

 

Day 143: Science is about asking the Seven Questions: "what, why, how, when, where, how much" and to some extent even "who." Any one of these may lead into another, and sometimes those of us who pursue science find ourselves following Alice down the rabbit hole until we are so engrossed in our discoveries that we temporarily lose track of where we began. Take the lichen Icmadophila ericetorum, for example. It goes by the common name of "faerie/fairy-barf," and as I was puzzling over the sophomoric humour of the appellation, it occurred to me that "barf" was a word I had not encountered until I had reached adulthood. I thought this rather odd since children universally seem to know all sorts of words for disgusting substances, yet "barf" had not been in the lexicon of my school-aged peers. That the word was probably imitative of the sound made by someone retching I had no doubt, but when had it entered the English vocabulary? My three-volume dictionary printed in 1966 did not list it, so I turned to Google. Indeed, it was first recorded some time between 1955-60 as a verb and advanced to an acceptable noun in 1960. And you thought this post was going to be about the lichen, didn't you?

Lichenomphalia Umbellifera

Day 142: You could be excused for thinking that this is a mushroom, but in fact it is the fruiting body of a lichen. Lichenomphalia umbellifera may be listed in your handy-dandy field guide as Omphalina, but that taxonomy is now considered out of date. Lichenomphalia is unusual among lichens in producing this type of fungal outgrowth. Most fertile lichens form apothecia in which spores are encapsulated within asci (saclike structures) as opposed to spores contained in basidia along the gill margins as is the case with Lichenomphalia. The thallus (body) of Lichenomphalia is comprised of small granules or flakes of the alga Coccomyxa. It can be seen in the photo as the pea-green crust on the rotting wood. Viewed from the bottom, the gills of Lichenomphalia will be seen to be decurrent (i.e., running down the stipe) and widely spaced, looking ever so much like a faerie's umbrella. This lichen is fairly common in the damp forests of the Pacific Northwest.

Hair Ice

Day 141: Over the course of these posts, I have shown my readers rare plants and fungi, but how about a rare ice? Hair ice occurs only in a narrow window of coinciding events which include temperature, humidity, latitude, type of wood (deciduous) and degree of its decay, and...are you ready for the punch line?...a fungus called Exidiopsis effusa. That's right. Without the fungus, hair ice does not form. The precise mechanism of the fungus' role is not understood, but it has been suggested that it may provide a natural antifreeze which stabilizes the formation of ice crystals. It has been noted that the ice "hairs" form at the openings of medullary rays (a cellular structure formed in active cambium, perpendicular to the growth rings of the plant). The "hairs" are also similar in diameter to the medullary rays (roughly 0.02 mm).

I encountered hair ice for the first time this year about a month ago, and found myself in something of a pickle when my camera battery went dead. Oh, I was ready for that. I had the spare in my kit. However, I was soon to discover that I had apparently forgotten to put it on the charger as I usually do. Hair ice all around me, I had not one but two dead batteries! Since that day, I have been waiting for the right conditions to occur again, and with my second cup of coffee still settling under my belt, I geared up and headed out for Big Bridge, fairly sure I was going on a wild goose chase. Indeed, when I got to the site where I had seen the hair ice previously, my prospects looked pretty bleak. Still, I made a foray into the brush to hunt for it and found one small cluster just as I was about to give up the search. That inspired me to push deeper through the tangled salmonberry vines where I was rewarded with this classic curled specimen. As I knelt to photograph it, the first rays of sun touched the leaves beside it. Had I been half an hour later, it would have been gone.

Wild Ginger

Day 140: As an amateur botanist, I am sometimes faced with having to identify a plant which is not in bloom. Leaf shape and arrangement (opposite or alternate) are good starting points, but from there, it gets a little more involved. Does the leaf clasp the stem? Is it fuzzy, and if so, is it fuzzy on both the top and bottom? What about the leaf margins (edges)? Are they smooth, serrated, incised? Is the stem round or angular? Determination of these and other factors can distinguish one species from another, the operative word in the sentence being "can" as opposed to "will." Fortunately, Wild Ginger (Asarum caudatum) is pretty distinctive and since it is one of my favourite wildflowers, I recognize it easily even from twenty feet away. "Oh!" said I, "Look at what I found!" I was not expecting to see it on my hike yesterday, so it took me somewhat by surprise. In fact, I found it in three locations, the third at least half a mile distant from the other two, and on property where (if I were of a mind to) I would be allowed to "lift" a root for transplant to my yard. For now, I've placed it on my mental map so that I can return when its exotic, long-tailed flowers emerge. See ya later, Gingie!

Little Bridge

Day 139: Three weeks ago (February 10, actually), my readers accompanied me vicariously to Big Bridge, a landmark on the Lower Elk Spur trail. Snow prevented me from taking them on a walk to its counterpart Little Bridge (above) which likewise spans Sahara Creek, but on the Upper Elk Spur. A cross-trail connects the two spurs higher up and west of here, but today I chose to continue east on the ADA trail instead. It is also a loop, but what the land owners mean by "ADA" is most certainly not the same definition used by the Fed. Notable features along its purportedly "accessible" length include a tessellation of baseball-sized rocks in the surface, ankle-deep mud and one bridgeless stream crossing. Other hazards would be equally difficult for a wheelchair to navigate. In any event, I could not recall having ever hiked the eastern portion of the ADA trail, or if I had, it was so long ago that it faded from memory. I will say that the trails have better signage now than they did two or three years ago, although nothing to indicate how far it is from point A to point B. But then, that's what an Adventure is about, isn't it?