I Made Another Bird!

Day 199: I hope my readers will indulge me in these breaks from my customary subject matter. Believe me, drawing takes up only a very small portion of my pandemic routine, and most of my day is filled currently with spinning, weaving, quilting and (weather permitting) gardening. That said, I am trying to do at least one sketch per day as I try to find my style. The White-Crowned Sparrow shown above was first done in pencil, then inked before being coloured in with Prismacolor pencils. It was an experiment to see whether I preferrred the pencils to watercolours, and now I can't decide. Each medium has its advantages and disadvantages. I find I have more control over where the colour goes with pencils, but I prefer the way watercolours blend. Of course, watercolours sometimes blend when you don't mean them to, so that can also be a disadvantage to a novice watercolourist like me. Pencils, on the other hand, tend to accumulate more heavily on any textural bumps in the paper, but I understand this issue can be reduced by using a "blending stump." I don't happen to have one handy, but YouTube is full of videos on how to make your own. For this illustration, I used the basic sketching instructions (circles, ovals and lines) in "Laws Guide to Drawing Birds" and changed it up a bit to individualize the "racing-stripe" sparrow by altering the position of the legs and feet and adding a branch.

How To Draw A Bird

Day 198: A month ago, I was telling an artistic friend that I couldn't draw a cardboard box well enough to make it recognizable, and it was true. She encouraged me to keep trying, pointed me toward another artist whose explanation of perspective was very helpful (at least it taught me to draw the cardboard box so that it didn't look like someone had sat rather heavily on it) and, bolstered by that small success, I invested in a couple of cheap sketchbooks. For the last week or so, I've been drawing something every day. Birds have been a recurring theme, although they haven't been my only subjects. Another friend suggested that I buy John Muir Laws' "Guide to Drawing Birds." I did, and here you see the results of the first lesson. Laws' system was for a pencil sketch, but once I had inked in my "wobbler," I decided he needed some colour. Since I hadn't illustrated facial markings, I turned him into a Yellow Warbler. The pencil and ink drawings at the top of this image show the various stages of my work, first creating a basic bird shape with a few lines, an oval and a circle, into which I "carved" the arcs of neck and throat. Then I added detail to the body, face, wing and tail to show the major feather groups, following that with drawing individual feathers. In the penultimate phase, I applied ink with a fine-point Sharpie. Then, not having a "wobbler" to pose for me, I sat at the kitchen table with Roger Tory Peterson in hand as a guide to colour. For a first attempt at drawing a realistic bird, I don't think I did half bad.

We All Make Mistakes

Day 197: Now into weaving the fifth traditional bird's-eye towel on the floor loom, I settled down to work a few nights ago but noticed something odd in the first three inches. One of the diamonds looked a little off, although when I counted threads in each colour change, everything seemed to be correct. I wove a few more throws, but the discrepancy was bothering me. I finally resorted to pulling out a hand lens (used in fiberarts almost as often as in botany) to analyze the problem. Sure enough, 28 throws back, there was a treadling error. Rather cross with myself, I laid the shuttles aside and went to bed, thinking no one would notice if I left it there, especially since it had taken a hand lens for me to find the mistake. But this is not the way the Crow works. I kept myself busy with other projects for the next several days, unable to force myself to continue on the towel.

In my history as a fiber artist/needleworker, I have been known to unravel two-thirds of a sweater body in order to correct a mistake which didn't lend itself readily to being picked back. Likewise, I've torn out sections of cross-stitch in order to place a quarter-stitch I missed on the pattern. I could give more examples, but you get the idea. Mistakes, you see, are simply not allowed. Last night, I reached a determination. This morning, even before my first cup of coffee, I un-wove to the offending throw, fixed it, and re-wove to to my last stopping point. Now I can feel comfortable about going on.

Mating Season

Day 196: Mating season has begun, and yesterday, a few introductions were made with the aid of a Q-tip. The suggestion came from a friend who thought it might work better than the paintbrush I'd been using, and indeed I think it did. More pollen adhered to the cotton, and although the transfer percentage rate was substantially lower, it only takes a few grains to do the trick. I'm sure the neighbours' eyebrows were raised as they watched my antics. The only female flowers currently open are at the very top of the purple vine, and the only way I could reach them was from a ladder. I have never been successful in fertilizing the white Akebia from the purple one (the purple males don't seem to produce viable pollen), the purple females produced 17 fruits last year when pollinated by the white. In order to bear fruit, two different varieties of Akebia quinata are required and hand-pollination is almost mandatory, so if you see me up the ladder with a swabstick in hand, I'm just matchmaking for some rather shy botanicals.

Perhaps A Different Violet

Day 195: I'm confused. Of the 18+ species of Violet native to the Pacific Northwest, a full third are yellow. The remainder are divided between white and blue almost equally. In hexadecimal notation, "violet" is #7F00FF (ribbon background). According to my box of crayons, it's a purple somewhat darker and slightly rosier than that defined by the hex triplet. Streamside Violet (Viola glabella, above) isn't even close with its rich canary shade. Surely there is some logic behind the common appellation of these adorable wildflowers, but would it not have been simpler to refer to them as "violas" rather than anglicizing their scientific name to one so radically different from their nature? No one could confuse them with the musical instrument of the same name and, if one was called upon to justify the term, the shape of the bottom petal and its "bee-guide" stripes bears some resemblance to a viola (stringed). I find this kink in the English language quite distressing, and until someone sorts it out, I will be describing the Goldfinch's brilliant summer feathers as violet in hue.

Brown-Headed Cowbird, Molothrus Ater

Day 194: While they aren't exactly the brightest crayons in the box, Brown-Headed Cowbirds have a nesting strategy which ensures their survival at the expense of other bird species. Molothrus ater does not construct a nest of its own. Rather, this native species (N.B.!) is known to parasitize the nests of at least 140 hosts with a wide range of sizes from Kinglet to Meadowlark, and has been shown to contribute to the decline of such species as Kirtland's Warbler. A female Cowbird may lay as many as 30 eggs in a year, and takes no part in feeding the young, leaving that task to the host. Young Cowbirds generally develop more rapidly than the chicks of the host species and often displace them from the nest. Cowbirds frequently share roosts with blackbirds (here, Red-Winged and Brewer's), and communal roosting sites may hold populations of 100,000 or more. In the last two weeks, several dozen Brown-Headed Cowbirds have joined forces with the Red-Wingeds in my yard, much to my annoyance. While I would never wittingly hurt a bird, my slingshot sits at the ready beside a bowl of rocks at the back door. I aim low, hoping to hit a branch. The ensuing "THUNK!" sets them in flight, but seldom for long. By the time I've walked back around to the living room, one or two of the bravest will have re-settled, inspiring me to run at the window, arms flailing as I scream, "Get outta here, you (censored)!" I won't win, but at least the method has deterred a few.

Best Laid Plans

Day 193: "The best laid plans of" Townsend's Chipmunks "and men gang aft a-gley." Forgive me for bastardizing Rabbie Burns, but in this case, it is warranted. You see, yesterday, I discovered that I had not one but two Townsend's Chipmunks, and while one is cute and tolerable (unlike Douglas Squirrels), two is too many. This morning, I set out both Hav-a-Hart traps and baited them with chunks of homemade oatmeal cookie, as close as I could get to a friend's suggestion of "sugary cheap raisin bread." No sooner had I come back in the house than Mr. Townsend's nose picked up the aroma. As I watched from inside, he tried reaching in through the wires at the back of the trap. No, that wasn't going to work. He went around to the side away from me, and although he couldn't reach the cookie, he managed to get a few sunflower seeds for his pains. He got up on top. I went for the camera, hoping to demonstrate the futility of this project on my end, but by the time I returned to the window, Townsend was sitting beside the fence post. "Aha!" I thought. "He's going to go inside!" And he did. And then to my dismay, he started back out again. I captured his exit in this photo, and I figured I'd been outfoxed once again. However, in the time it took me to process the image, he'd gone in again and had tripped the mechanism. Then I checked the other trap which is substantially smaller. To my complete surprise, the second Townsend was secured inside. I'd like to thank my mother for that cookie recipe, but I'm not sure Townsend will share my belated sentiment.

Siskin Days

Day 192: While Pine Siskins (Carduelis pinus) don't ordinarily like to share their territory with Chickadees, the last few days have seen them here concurrently. Although they don't sit elbow-to-elbow, they seem to be willing to have a "my side, your side" agreement in effect for the seed feeders, but space at the suet is another matter. Everybody wants a piece of the action, except perhaps the Porch Parrots and hummers. Jays, Towhees, assorted sparrows and finches all contend for the prime seat, and if you've never seen a Pine Siskin brazen down a Steller's Jay, you've missed a real show of territoriality. I don't usually feed suet year-'round, reserving it for a high-calorie treat in the cold winter months, but the 'dee-dees have been demanding it of late, to the point that if I fail to fill the basket, they literally knock on the window until they get my attention. I may have created a monster by feeding them out of my hand. One poor soul tried repeatedly to force his way through the glass last night when he saw me standing inside. If I'm at the computer, they come around to the front window where I can't help but notice their antics. The other birds are picking up on the Chickadees' confidence. I have at least two Grosbeaks who won't move off the feeder until I'm within a foot of them, and one "raspberry" Finch has come close to landing on my hand on several occasions. A friend refers to me as the "Bird Whisperer." Nah, I'm just one of the flock.

Respect Our Earth

Day 191: "The goal of life is living in agreement with Nature." Any birdbrain ought to be able to see the sense of Zeno of Citium's philosophy, but somewhere you humans lost the thread and decided that our world's resources were for your exclusive exploitation, and now look at the mess it's got you in. You have rising sea levels, rampant wildfires, incursions of invasives, polluted air, and that's just to name a few of the things your greed has brought to pass. I'd have thought those opposable thumbs you're always bragging about might have meant that you'd use your hands to do good, rather than to destroy. I mean, we're kinda helpless in that regard. We can't defend ourselves against what you're doing to our planet, but you're not just hurting us. You're hurting yourselves. And still you don't learn. If you could fly, maybe a bird's-eye view would give you a better perspective. Today is Earth Day. For just a minute, think about the other creatures who share this world. We're all in this together, you know.

Snowflakes

Day 190: Despite temperatures in the 70s this week, there are Snowflakes in my garden. I am speaking, of course, of Leucojum and its occupancy of a large flower pot outside the Berry Pen where it keeps company with the Checkered Lilies. I keep promising both species more space to spread, but when autumn rolls around, they are no longer displaying foliage to remind me to separate the bulbs. Leucojum's growth habit and size are similar to English Wood-Hyacinths (a plant which here could almost be classified as invasive), its green-tipped white flowers nodding roughly a foot above ground level. The slightest breeze sets them swaying, the chorus of their bells inaudible to human ears. They are happy in full or partial sun, tolerant of dry periods, don't mind being crowded by the chives which also share the pot, but as with any bulb grown in a container, prefer to have as much soil beneath their feet as is reasonable. Mine have survived at least ten years with no more care than casual watering in the heat of summer and the occasional addition of more dirt to top up their pot.

"Measure Twice, Cut Once"

Day 189: Inspired by a friend's artistic endeavours, I decided to give sketching another go. As I may have mentioned, the House of Chirp has new tenants. They've been moving furniture in for the last week or so, and as all of us who have moved around a lot know, sometimes the couch won't fit through the door without some serious finagling. We don't take the couch back to the store; that would be silly. We fiddle with standing it on end, turning it around the other way, maybe even taking the legs off until we can maneuver it into the house. Nor are Tree Swallows likely to discard their selection, and if a twig or feather won't fit through the hole, they try this angle and that until it goes in. Now it must be said that I had intended to make this drawing more cartoonish to suit the caption, "Measure twice, cut once...right," but as I was standing at the kitchen window with the sketchbook held up in one hand and my pencil in the other, watching the antics of the new renters, the drawing took on a style independent of what I had in mind. Once the details had resolved themselves, I sat at the kitchen table to ink and colour it. A second effort made later in the day, drawn entirely from my imagination, did not work out as well. I will not make any claims of artistic talent, but at least my ability to draw a recognizable object is improving.

Bridge Of Childhood Nightmares

Day 188: You know how it starts: "Back when I was a kid..." Well, back when I was a kid, this bridge scared the livin' daylights out of me every time we crossed it. My uncle Gus was a ranger in this corner of the Park in those days, and occasionally, he'd take us on a day excursion to Ipsut. It felt to me as if we were driving through time to an era when miners worked long hours with pick and shovel in the coal mines of the area, when they went to work on horseback and returned home to meals cooked on enormous wood-fired cast-iron stoves. I half-expected to see them, such were my childhood illusions, and that Gus was a part of protecting one corner of nature from their imagined predations upon the land and its animals elevated him to a position worthy of reverence in my young eyes. The fantasy was compounded a hundredfold when we reached the dreaded bridge over Carbon River Canyon, for in those days it did not have a surface of asphalt, and the gaps between the crosswise timbers seemed large enough for Gus' Plymouth to fall between, were it to slip off the lengthwise boards which served as tire tracks. Gus delighted in winding my mother up about crossing the bridge; by the time we reached it, she was thoroughly petrified, and her anxiety transferred to me in the back seat. And then, just to be wicked, he would drive ever so slowly across, explaining that he didn't want to put undue stress on the structure. I don't recall that I was ever fully in tears by the time we again had our wheels on the dirt road, but I do remember that the bridge appeared in my dreams on more than one occasion in a nightmare of the car falling, falling, falling toward the river 250 feet below. Brave Gus travelled across that bridge repeatedly during his years as a backcountry ranger. How could I not worship him? How could I not wish to follow in his footsteps? But by the time I was old enough to continue his mission at Carbon River, the bridge and the dirt road had both been paved, and the ghosts of the miners had retreated to their tunnels in Melmont, Fairfax, Burnett (lower and upper), Wilkeson, Carbonado. And for me, the bridge is now an old friend.

Of Ghosts And Graffiti

Day 187: With both of us fully vaccinated, I accepted Kevin's proposal to go for a hike to the ghost town of Melmont yesterday, my first real social contact in over a year, discounting brief out-in-the-yard visits with friends on half a dozen occasions. The Washington Trails Association website described the hike as being a six-mile round trip, but gave three different starting points which, as we drove by them, we discovered were up to a mile and a half from WTA's recommended starting point. That should have given us a clue to the reliability of the description, but we assumed (as would any other reasonable person) that the length of the hike would be measured from the primary trailhead to the destination. Therefore, we were a little surprised when we came to the first evidence of human occupation (above) less than half a mile from the car. A little further on, we came to a four-walled and heavily graffiti-ed structure roughly 15' on a side, the old dynamite storage facility beyond which we expected to find a "mud pit" and a Y junction in the trail per the WTA instructions. The mud pit never materialized, and the left arm of the Y took us to a similiar stone construction which, after some consideration, we determined to be the schoolhouse basement. It too was graffiti-ed within an inch of its life, and I could find no angle for a photo from which I could block out the scrawls with trees and ferns. Here, the question arose as to whether we had found Melmont or not. The WTA description implied that the schoolhouse was set apart from the rest of the town, but it was the only other remnant of a building we were able to locate. We were only a little over a mile in. Maybe we should keep going? So we did.

At a point just short of three miles from the car, the wide dirt rail-trail abruptly devolved into the customary boot-track of a true trail. At 3.5 miles in, we said to each other over lunch, "That must have been Melmont," and decided to turn around. Back at the Y, we dropped down onto the flat which we assumed held the townsite, found the footings of the old bridge and some scattered red bricks among the ATV-carved ruts, concluding, "Yep, we've seen Melmont, all right."

While the hike was enjoyable, it was not what we had been led to expect from the WTA description. For one thing, the total trail length had apparently been measured from the most distant possible starting point to the site, and what ruins there were had apparently become so overgrown with vegetation since the web page had been written that they had entirely "ghosted" from view. The abundance of graffiti detracted from any sense of history I might have felt in viewing the old structures and on the return, there were way too many people on the trail for me to be comfortable since most of them didn't bother to mask up as we passed. But that said, in the early hours when we had the trail to ourselves, we heard the call of the thrush, the piping of frogs, the rush of Carbon River, and we had the companionship of one another, friends on the proverbial "busman's holiday" in a different corner of the forests we both love.

Red-Flowering Currant, Ribes Sanguineum

Day 186: I have friends who will tell you that the pale blue fruits of Red-Flowering Currant (Ribes sanguineum) are edible in the sense of "desirable as food," but I would use the word "edible" to describe them more as "something which will not poison you if you eat it." I have tried repeatedly to accustom myself to the taste, really I have, and have only found that the dusty appearance of the berries carries over to the palate in a way that is resistant to coffee, tea, water or Gatorade. That said, the flowers are lovely and the hummingbirds are drawn to them in droves, second only perhaps to the hardy fuchsias which come later in the summer. Still, it seems a pity that in this instance, I must reject Nature's provender when she lays it in such abundance at my doorstep. For me, these native plants must remain in the category of ornamentals. Perhaps I'm not sufficiently hungry.

Hoya Fitchii

Day 185: If you say "Hoya" or "Wax Plant," most indoor gardeners will visualize Hoya carnosa, the species most commonly found in plant shops. Some may also think of Hindu Rope (H. carnosa "crispa") with its curled and tightly massed leaves. A smaller number may call to mind H. bella, the "miniature Hoya" which I refer to as "the world's most satisfactory houseplant" (certain friends' ability to kill it notwithstanding...yes, I'm talking about you, Di). That said, there are a large number of Hoya species which are less well known, five of which hang beside the old standards in my living room windows. There is a reason they remain relatively obscure, that being that for the most part, they are more difficult to bring into bloom than the popular ones. Take Hoya fitchii, for example. I've had the plant for four or five years now, and this is the first time it has flowered, bearing exactly two -count them!- blooms. Not exactly a spectacular showing, but the colour is stunning. The supplier refers to it as "coppery." It is definitely neither pink nor yellow, but has elements of both. If copper could turn pale, it would fade to this hue. Perhaps some day, Fitch's three flower spurs will put on a more lavish display. For now, this will suffice to reward my patience.

Leftovers

Day 184: At the end of any plied spinning project, the spinner will probably have some yardage left over on one bobbin. If this is a short length, it can be pulled out until the end is reached, then doubled back and carefully spliced so that the remainder can be spun up (bottom photo, double ply white Corriedale). However, if there is too much left to stretch out across your living room with a weight at the bottom of the loop, you have two choices: leave it on the bobbin if you intend to spin more of the same fiber at some point in the (possibly) distant future, or you can have some fun playing with it to try out a new technique. In this case, I needed to free up a bobbin in order to begin a new project and had about 100 yards of Corriedale single-ply left over. I decided it was time to try making bouclé (upper photo).

Bouclé is a labour-intensive yarn. First of all, you will need two Z-twist strands to ply together. At least one of them should be hand-spun because this is a spinning project after all, but the the second can be anything you feel is suitable for a core. The core strand isn't going to show much in the finished yarn. I went hunting in my fiber stash for a skinny Z-twist. Most 4-ply commercial yarns wind up as S-twist because the singles are spun as Z, so nothing in my yarn bins was going to work, but crochet cotton had the proper twist. The one I pulled out to use as my core thread was also a leftover, the tail end of an ancient ball of 20 weight. It was green. "Eh," I said to myself, "it's an experiment. Who cares?" The next step was to select a binder from my sewing thread drawer. I found a blue-green which matched "close enough for government work." Now I was ready to start my bouclé.

To spin bouclé, the core yarn is held in one hand and fed onto the bobbin smoothly. The cover yarn (in this case, single ply Corriedale wool) is held in the other hand, and as the core yarn is drawn onto the bobbin, the cover yarn is pushed up along it to form loose coils around the core. This is repeated in steps at the spinner's discretion, and the two plies are spun in the opposite direction from how they were originally spun (two Z-twists are spun using an S-twist to combine them). To help you visualize the result, the two-ply will then look something like a spring (cover) with a swab stick (core) in its center. When you are done plying the two together, you are ready to add a third ply using sewing thread, and going back to a Z twist. The sewing thread serves as a binder to hold the cover strand in place, and to open it out into the typical "snarls" which give bouclé its unique look (top photo). I'm not sure how I'll use the yarn (roughly 35 yards), but it was fun to make.

Spinning My Wheels

Day 183: The pandemic has left me feeling as if I'm spinning my wheels. Oh, hang on a mo'...that's exactly what I've been doing. In addition to my other fiber-arts projects, I have not only been spinning woolon my 40-year old Louët, I've taken up the new sport of turning cotton into thread on a charkha. Not only did I finish up 42 ounces of "cinnamon twist" (white Corriedale plied with a cinnamon-coloured lamb's wool), I polished off a pound and a half of silver-grey Gotland over the last month. Now I have moved on to a lightly washed raw fleece I call "Honey-lamb" for its golden overtones. It was a gift from another spinner, and I've felt guilty about not getting to it before this. While I normally card my wool into batts and spin directly from them, Honey-lamb seems to want to be processed into rolags in order to achieve a smooth yarn, perhaps because it is a very long-staple fiber, measuring out at 5.5-6.0 inches on average. I spent last night and part of this morning filling my basket with rolags, wool which has been carded and formed into loose rolls. Tonight, I will spin up as many as time allows. And so it goes: card and spin, card and spin. Sometimes spinning your wheels is a good thing.

Fritillaria Meleagris

Day 182: Of the many questions which have arisen during my career as a naturalist and amateur botanist, one resurfaces at this time of year and demands an answer I cannot give: What was Fritillaria meleagris thinking when it got dressed for the garden party? Its checkered gown is one of the most outlandish I've seen on a plant. What fluke of evolution, what survival strategy, what random mutation inspired its choice? Stripes on petals, particularly fine stripes at the heart of the flower, serve as "bee guides," directing pollinators to their work, likewise zonal colouration. Streaks and patches were originally the result of a mosaic virus in tulips, although most of the "broken" colours available today have been selectively bred to ensure the pattern. So why gingham, Fritillaria? There seems to be no advantage to dressing like Dorothy Gale, not from a botanical perspective. You intrigue me, little lily with your bold imagination and complete lack of fashion sense.

Red Aggressor

Day 181: It wouldn't be bad if there were only three or four of them, but there are...wait, that was number 32,794 who just zipped by...there are DOZENS of them, and they're all in bad moods, driven by the biological imperative to attack each other, the Anna's, Evening Grosbeaks, Steller's Jays and even me if I happen to be trying to hang up a refilled feeder. Sitting at the rigid heddle loom with my back to the front window, I could be excused for thinking there was a logging operation going on in my front yard, so loud is the buzz and whir. I've mentioned previously that there seem to be an inordinate number of birds in my yard presently, and that includes a veritable swarm of Rufous Hummingbirds (mostly male). Their most active period is at dusk, each trying to seize a spot in the queue for the feeders but being so preoccupied with defending their territory against all comers that only a lucky few actually reach a port. They say that red is the colour of aggression; Rufous is out to prove it.

And Now To Knit

Day 180: Handspun yarn can present its own unique challenge to knit in that it may or may not conform to the gauge required in any particular pattern. I tend to spin almost all my double-ply wool in an approximation of worsted-weight, and I am rather proud of the fact that out of 41.8 ounces of "cinnamon twist," I only have a variation of 3 yards/ounce between the thinnest of eight skeins and the thickest. I've worked with machine-produced yarns with greater variation than that! This morning, I knit up a test swatch and was pleasantly surprised when it came in at exactly the gauge given for my favourite raglan pattern, so now I can jump straight into knitting without having to make adjustments to the pattern itself. There is more than enough wool here for the sweater/jumper, but I may incorporate a design into the yoke in pure "cinnamon" and/or white Corriedale "sugar" which, you might have guessed, I spun up at the same weight. In fact, in some countries, spinners show a preference for spinning at a single thickness, then plying two, three or four strands to obtain different weights of yarn. This "practice makes perfect" technique makes it easier for the spinner to judge and control the amount of raw wool slipping between the fingers and therefore they are able to achieve a more uniform thread.

Book Charkha

Day 179: Spinning cotton with a tahkli proved to be so enjoyable that I decided I would indulge my fiber-arts habit with a new toy when and if the gov'mint saw fit to stimulate my personal economy. This odd device is a "book" charkha, which is to say it's a spinning wheel which packs up to the size of the current edition of Hitchcock's "Flora of the Pacific Northwest," eminently portable and entirely self-contained. Every component locks in place, both for use and for storage, and it can be assembled and ready to go in less than two minutes. The workmanship on this particular model from India is exquisite, right down to the finish of the wood. Three tahklis are included so that when two are filled, the threads can be plied together on the third. It even includes a yarn swift! Although I'm not yet spinning threads as fine as I could achieve on the tahkli, I've only had the charkha for less than 24 hours and am still in the process of learning to control the feed of short cotton fibers to the degree I eventually hope to achieve. The ratio between the large drive wheel, the accelerator wheel and the spindle imparts an incredible amount of twist to the thread with very little effort. The spinner turns the drive wheel with one hand and manipulates the raw cotton with the other, drawing it out to the desired thickness until arm's-length is reached. Then a few full turns of the drive tightens the twist and it can be wound onto the tahkli spindle. Yes, I think it's time for wool to move over. I've found a new love in cotton.

Townsend's Chipmunk

Day 178: Squirrel Wars 2021 have begun. Okay, so Tamias/Neotamias townsendii isn't a squirrel in the common usage of the word, but chipmunks including Townsend's are nonetheless members of the Sciuridae and therefore a "squirrel" in the scientific sense. Perhaps they are not as obnoxious or aggressive as Douglas Squirrel, those destructive grey monsters who eat all the birdseed and nest noisily in the attic (where, I am told, they may chew electrical wires and start house fires), but they still annoy me. At the first sight of a bushy tail in my garden, I break out the "relocation gear," two Hav-a-Hart traps, the smaller of which has only ever captured one chip. I bait them with a variety of things because you never know what the varmints wants for dinner. Tonight, it might be sunflower seeds or tomorrow, raspberries. Oddly, peanut butter is consistently rejected by the local Sciuridae and only draws rodents of another even less pleasant type. It won't be long before Townsend goes for a little ride, but unlike the gangsters of old, he won't be fitted with concrete overshoes. He'll be released into a wide new world where there is plenty of food and a comfortable habitat, and where he's likely to encounter at least one of his numerous kinfolk who have been transported previously in the back of my car.

Erythronium Oregonum Ssp. Oregonum

Day 177: As long as I was out and about day before yesterday, I thought I'd make a side trip to see if the Erythroniums were blooming. If they were, I might be able to determine subspecies. They're not very far from an unmarked, little-known trailhead, but the first tenth of a mile is one of those rises I call "qualifiers." If you get to the top without having to stop to catch your breath, you're good to go. Having already done five miles, I didn't make it. About forty feet from the point at which the trail rolls back a bit, I paused to heave and gasp. As I stood there (less than a minute), my eyes strayed to the woods on my left. Oh, look! More Erythroniums! Further investigation revealed that my "patch" (still ahead) wasn't just twenty square feet; it was about a thousand square feet of moss-rich Fawn-Lily habitat! Most were not even in bud, but the few early bloomers confirmed what I suspected of their subspecies: Erythronium oregonum ssp. oregonum. Fawn Lily is a cousin to the Avalanche Lilies found at higher elevations, and has foliage spotted with a rich chocolate brown.

Sheep In The Shower

 

Day 176: There will be more botanical bits coming up, but first I think I'd better 'splain 'bout the sheep in the shower. Y'see, when I started playing with cotton and the tahkli, it kicked my spinning urge into high gear. As soon as I felt I was getting sloppy with the tahkli and my cotton thread began exhibiting lumps and thin spots, I'd lay it aside and pull the Louët over to my chair so I could resume working on the "cinnamon-twist" yarn I started a year or so ago. Working with wool is a whole different ball game, one which most spinners will tell you is substantially easier than cotton. Right now, I'd agree with them, but I think once I've mastered the nuances of short fibers, I might even find it more restful than working with long-staple wool. But for now, shifting off to spinning wool relaxes me. After an hour or so, I'll be ready to pick up the tahkli again. So...'nuff said. Let's talk about the sheep. The white strand is Corriedale top: soft and silky, and came to me already prepared to go directly on the wheel. The brown was something I purchased at a bazaar, two pounds still in the grease. I washed it, teased it out, carded it and spun it separately. Then I plied the two strands, cinnamon and sugar together. The next step was soaking it in tepid water, and hanging it (weighted) in order to set the twist. Since our nights are still dipping below freezing, the "sheep" has to be moved from its clothesline pasture to a safe shelter before bedtime. The shower serves as the "barn." This makes bathing a bit tricky, for obvious reasons. The "cinnamon-twist" is a beautiful yarn, if I do say so myself, and now that I've reached the end of the bag, I have enough for a sweater/jumper. While these are hanging to dry, I'm working on some silver Gotland, a happy spinster at the wheel.

Out And About - Nisqually-Ohop Confluence

Day 175: The internal debate was on. I'd aired up my bicycle tires thinking I might take a local ride, but I really wanted to be out in the woods, not pedalling along to the sound of traffic whishing past. That being the case, maybe I could just ride a short ways, stow the bike in the woods and hike closer to home. I can't get the bike in/on the car, so that was out of the question. So if I was going to take a hike, where did I want to go that I could be fairly certain I wouldn't run into any people? Pack Forest was out. It's become a zoo since covid moved in, likewise the obvious trails in Nisqually-Mashel State Park. Still, if I left early enough, I might be able to make it down to the river and back before the hordes showed up, so that went on the list as Plan A. I had a couple of Plan Bs in the back of my mind for "just in case," but when I arrived at the river-walk trailhead, there were no other cars in sight. About half a mile in, I spotted a bunny-trail I hadn't explored before, more obvious now because the brush hasn't leafed out, so I followed it to a dead end at a landing about half a mile in. I found some interesting little wetlands and heard frogs, although I didn't see them. I returned to the main trail and went another half mile to an old road which has tempted me every time I've hiked down to the river, so again, I took a half-mile detour to yet another landing and a dead end at the bluff. With those two side-trips behind me, I then decided it was time to head to the actual goal: the confluence of the grand Nisqually River with quiet little Ohop Creek. I thought I might get lucky and spot some Kinglets, but although their companion chickadees followed me along as if they knew that I am a friend to their kind, I neither saw nor heard a single Golden-Crowned or Ruby-Crowned all day. Kinglets aside, I was not disappointed by the lack of anything particularly noteworthy on my walk. It was enough to be out and about, Plan A accomplished.

Go-Faster Stripes

Day 174: The Sparrows with the go-faster stripes are back in number! Also known around here as "Racing-Stripe Sparrows," White-Crowned (Zonotrichia leucophrys) looks to me like he's wearing a designer bicycle helmet. The lines of white above his eyes intersect with the one over the top of his head, meeting at the back.

I am seeing a greater number of birds in my yard this spring than ever before, although they are all familiar species. I know that Washington Dept. of Fish and Wildlife was concerned about salmonellosis being spread and asked that people take down their backyard feeders. I took an alternate route, one which I instituted several years ago when House Finch Eye Disease (conjunctivitis) was prevalent: disinfecting the feeders by pouring boiling water on them once a week. I had noticed HFED in some of my visitors and read up on the subject. After I began disinfecting, it cleared up in my local population within two weeks and has not reoccurred. Nor have I had any sick or lethargic birds here this year, but I am wondering if the increase of visitors to my feeders is a result of other people discontinuing feeding. I think my readers know that I would take any measures I felt necessary to protect my birdie friends.

In other news, I am experiencing problems with my computer, so I will ask for your indulgence if there is a sudden cessation of posts from me. Thanks!

Easter Flowers

Day 173: Easter is not a day I celebrate, unless it's to use it as an excuse to make a couple of devilled eggs for lunch. On the other hand, my garden is breaking out its spring wardrobe. The first narcissi opened yesterday, preceded by a few double daffodils by less than 48 hours. The grape hyacinths sneaked in and surprised me, standing beside furled peony foliage. In even better news, the honeybees and bumbles have joined a parade to the blossoms, and a handful of butterflies (largely Commas) are fluttering their standards at the head of the march. Indoors, I'm setting seeds in flats, already rewarded with the eruption of poppies and tomatoes, both now at the point of putting on their first true leaves. I may not celebrate Easter, but I do celebrate planting season with great enthusiasm. Unfortunately, I have no mustard in the house, so my hard-boiled eggs will have to be eaten plain.

Proper Perspective

Day 172: I have often remarked to friends that I have no artistic talent whatsoever, at least as far as putting a medium on paper or canvas is concerned. My "art" is fiber art. I create with threads and yarns (and sometimes create those very yarns and threads in the first place). That said, when I was actively hiking several hundred miles each month, I kept a journal to document the events of the day, illustrated with a Sharpie since it was the only pen available which didn't bleed through the paper of the book. I developed a scribbling style which was quite effective for rocks and trees and mountainous horizons, but when it came to drawing a coffee mug or a sign on the trail, I could never get the perspective right. Since the journal was for my own enjoyment, it didn't really matter that you couldn't tell my tent wasn't an elephant in repose, but I was dismayed by my inability to translate what I was seeing to a flat surface.

One of my sisters-of-the-heart is a talented artist. As I have monitored her activities in classes and on line, I was taken with one of her instructors whose style seemed to be along the lines of my own scribbles. I began following him on Facebook just in time to tune in for a two-hour lesson in perspective. His simple "one-point" method inspired me to make this sketch today in Sharpie and watercolour, drawn entirely from my imagination. While still not exactly what I'd call "artistic" when stood side-by-side with Patty's paintings, the technique helped resolve my issues with perspective. Our other sister dubbed my picture "Tippy Under the Tree." Hey, if they both recognized him as a cat, I must be doing better.

Spinning Cotton With A Tahkli

Day 171: Looking at the top photo, you might think, "Oh, she's spinning yarn with a drop spindle," but the bottom photo puts my latest fiber-arts adventure into a different perspective. The spool of thread is there for size comparison only. I thought you might miss the needle without something to draw your attention to it. I am spinning cotton using a "supported spindle" device known as a tahkli. It works on the same principle as a drop spindle, but as you can see, the resultant product is much finer.

Cotton is a short-staple fiber, which is to say that the individual fibers are much shorter than those found in wool. Consequently, the device on which cotton is spun must be able to impart a lot of twist in a short distance. Some spinning wheels have a ratio which is high enough that cotton can be spun on them under low tension, but mine is a relatively "slow" wheel and isn't capable of supplying the necessary amount of twist to thread before it is drawn onto the bobbin. There are wheels made expressly for spinning cotton, the most common being the charkha as seen throughout India (-cough- waiting for the stimulus check to arrive...).

The tahkli is the simplest form of "spinning wheel" possible. Spin is imparted to the shaft by the fingers with the pointed end resting in a bowl. The whorl (in this case, a brass disk) at the base keeps it spinning for a long time while it is held upright by the newly forming thread. The loose cotton fiber is held in one hand and drawn out slowly until it reaches a comfortable arm's-length and then is pinched while the tahkli is spun several times to add twist. Then the thread is wound onto the shaft and the process repeats.

Even with my years of experience at the spinning wheel, it took me the better part of an afternoon and about a quarter ounce of cotton before I was able to make a satisfactory thread. I watched a dozen or so YouTube videos, most of which offered at least one clue into the device's operation. None covered the full process adequately. How to start the thread was discussed by one presenter, how to remove slubs by another, how to wind the cone by yet another. I was struggling and getting a little frustrated with how frequently my thread pulled apart or got too thin or too thick, but finally I hit on one description of how to hold the unspun fiber ("loosely"), and that simple suggestion provided the key to being able to spin a realtively consistent strong and fine thread. I won't say I have the technique perfected yet, but at least I'm well on my way to being able to spin my own cotton threads for incorporation into some very special weavings.

Sparrow Dipped In Raspberry Juice

Day 170: Roger Tory Peterson's "Field Guide to Western Birds" was my first bird guide and still remains a favourite, balancing just about equally with that by David Allen Sibley. I frequently use the two side-by-side to compare the finer points of identification, and on any given occasion, it may be one or the other which tips the scales. That said, Peterson wins hands-down when it comes to humour, describing Purple Finch (recently reclassified as Haemorhous purpureus) as looking like "a sparrow dipped in raspberry juice." To differentiate Purple Finch from House Finch where the two species occur together, simply remember that "houses have shingles." The breast of House Finch is marked by distinct dark flecks while that of the raspberry-juice-dipped-sparrow are blurry and pale. East Coast populations of Purple Finch are darker than those found on the West Coast. The females of both are coarsely streaked, the only factor which saves them from being lumped as "LBJs" or "Little Brown Jobs" in birder parlance. Purple Finches eat a wide variety of foods, including seeds, insects, nectar, young leaf buds and fruit.