Out And About

Day 205: For the first time in at least a year, I got out and about this morning with my botany partners. It wasn't much of an outing as outings go: just a quick trip up to Longmire to look at the Calypso Orchids and a brief stop to remove illegally-planted materials installed by a repeat offender at a "memorial" site. It was a bit on the nippy side, nighttime temps still hovering close to the freezing mark, but my winter-weary lungs appreciated the bracing mountain air. The Calypsos were less numerous than in years past, although there were some lovely clusters, even some including the white variation. The view of the Mountain from Kautz Creek showed how thin the snowpack has become as glaciers recede and lose mass due to global warming. Snow depth at Paradise is at 129", 81 percent of normal.

Crocosmia In Orange

Day 309: Around on the far end of the garage where I only see it when I'm wandering around the yard looking for post-worthy botanical bits, an orange Crocosmia is struggling to survive. It came to me as seed, courtesy of my botany partners, and was the only one of several dozen which germinated. I am assuming that since it was grown from seed as opposed to a developed bulb, it's taking longer to establish than my old red "Lucifer." It has sent out a blossom spike annually for the last several years, but the plant itself, although healthy, is not spreading with the same vigor as the red variety. I'll probably regret saying this some day ("be careful what you wish for"), but I do hope it eventually takes off. It's such a lovely colour, and not one seen as commonly as red.

Crocosmia In Orange

Day 322: It had entirely slipped my mind that my botany partners Joe and Sharon had brought me a few bulbs of their orange Crocosmia three or four years ago until I was on my way back from the compost heap and spotted this one small panicle of flowers. "Orange?" I said, and my first thought was that a red one had faded in poor soil as my irises have done in the past. Then I remembered planting bulbs from theirs, but to date, all I'd seen was foliage. My red one ("Lucifer") is long done with its blooming period. Does this one bloom later normally, or is it trying to adjust to the difference in climate between sea level and mountain? Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised, although I do know that this plant has a tendency to spread and is notoriously difficult to remove once established. That said, given its own space, it is usually content to form a large clump without encroaching on other landscaping. If you want to grow Crocosmia (and who doesn't love those showy flowers?), be sure you locate it in a permanent spot. Otherwise, you'll be pulling little baby Crocosmia bulbs for the next thirty years. Trust me, I learned the lesson early on. I hope this is a sign that Orange is happy in my back yard.

Great Horned Owl, Bubo Virginianus

Day 250: My botany partner Joe has sharp eyes, so when I noticed him staring at a large glob of moss in a distant maple in the deep shade of the Chehalis-Western Trail, I knew I wasn't seeing the whole picture. "Whatcha got?" I said. "I think it's a Great Horned Owl," he replied. As the only person of the four of us with any zoom capability, I brought my camera up for a better look. Owl's "horns" were obvious even in profile, and when it turned its head, I could see the distinctive feather pattern around the eyes. But Owl was having a little snooze, eyes closed. I took a series of twenty or so photos, and then we walked on. At the two-mile mark, 97-year old Bronka Sundstrom suggested we turn around before the rain moved in. As we again approached the owl's maple, we saw a crow harrassing the larger bird. Owl was now awake and watching the crow, although it wasn't particularly concerned about it. I sat down on the ground at the edge of the trail so that I could stabilize the camera on my knee, hoping that the owl would turn to face the lens. After several minutes with no luck, I tried hooting. Then I tried cawing. The owl wasn't impressed. Over to my left, Joe was fussing with his phone and eventually brought up a series of recordings of Great Horned Owl vocalizations. One, harsher than the others, carried to our subject and made it turn toward us briefly. In that moment, I snapped this photo which, with the magic of post-processing, I've been able to enhance sufficiently to record the sighting.

Joe's Brunnera

Day 189: I have to rib my botany partners a little bit here. Last year, they brought a commercially-grown plant for my garden which upon first glance, I nearly refused because it looked astonishingly similar to a forget-me-not (Myosotis). There was a tag in the pot, though, so I graciously accepted it, all the while thinking I might wind up regretting the impulse. The tag told me that it was a Brunnera called "Jack Frost" for its silvery leaves. A little further digging with the Google shovel revealed that it was unlikely to spread, but offered some cautions about not allowing it to set seed. I diligently removed the flowering heads as the blossoms faded, and found myself rather enjoying the foliage in and of itself. It died back in late autumn as expected, and...Joe, forgive me!...I told myself I wasn't going to be heartbroken if it didn't come back in spring. That said, when it broke ground a few weeks ago, I was happy to see it had returned. If it does spread a bit, I won't mind. It gives a bit of colour to an awkward spot at the end of my carport. I'll pinch the tips when they're done flowering, but if I miss a few, it won't be the end of the world.

Goats In Smoke

Day 334: While I was down at Lodi Creek, Joe and Sharon were counting goats. The final tally was something over 20, as I recall, arranged in several small groups along the ridgeline. Some were resting. Others were looking for forage among the tough scrub characteristic of this habitat, but all looking quite well-fed. Oreamnos americanus is particularly suited to this environment. Their hooves are equipped with flexible inner pads which act like suction cups and give them grip on the smooth, slick surfaces of rock slabs and ice. They also have dewclaws which add stability and traction. Their wool...well, lemme tell you about that, okay?

I've been a spinner for a long time, and back in the days when I was a bit of a mountain goat myself, I spent a lot of time climbing the same scree slopes and rocky ridges which Oreamnos finds so attractive. I often found clumps of their wool on the ground.  I knew that the native peoples of the area had used it for clothing and insulation, so I set about collecting as much of it as I could find. After I'd gathered roughly a gallon Ziploc full, I began trying to clean it for spinning. First, I removed the long guard hairs which protect the soft undercoat. That reduced the volume of material by about 50%. Then I started trying to pick out the larger bits of goat dander and found that for every flake of dandruff I pulled out, two or three soft hairs came with it. It soon became clear to me that the yield from a gallon of wool was probably going to be a little string about six inches long once it was spun up, so I abandoned the project with a new and refreshing perspective on the diligence of hunter-gatherers. Trust me, it would have taken a long time and a lot of walking to gather enough wool to make a pair of mitts or a hat. No, I think I'll buy my wool in bags, cleaned and processed and ready for the wheel.

Botanizing With Bears

Day 275: Uncle Walter may go waltzing with bears, but he's got nothing on Joe, Sharon and Crow who go botanizing with them. Yep, today my botany partners and I made our first excursion since the pandemic closed us down in March 2020. We spent a fantastic 11 hours searching slopes, ditches and bogs for the rare and unusual species found in Mount Rainier National Park and came home with hundreds of photos between us and two mystery plants which have so far eluded identification. I'll be focusing on those over the next few days, but my readers can expect a week or more of wildflower posts, and although all of them may not be of rarities, I hope to impart some bit of knowledge to you about each. As for Bear (Ursus americanus, black bear), he/she was stopped traffic on the Sunrise Road for the better part of twenty minutes while enjoying a leisurely lunch at the meadow smorgasbord.

A Team Biota Day

Day 257: Team Biota had a field day yesterday in two senses of the phrase. We spend 9.5 hours in a variety of habitats, including lowland and subalpine forests where hiking ranged from clambering over logs, weaving through devil's-club thickets, slogging in bogs and navigating cross-country over snow-covered terrain. We documented a total of six Phantom Orchids still in bud and a new location for Myriosclerotinia caricis-ampullaceae (a whopping 29 specimens), and managed to rule out several other potential sites for the latter. Muddy, wet, tired, the three of us (Joe, Sharon and I) reported our findings to Arnie at the end of the day, thoroughly satisfied at having observed not one but two rarities in the space of a single field trip.

Each observation seems to bring up a whole new set of questions: How many plants do six stems of Cephalanthera represent? Based on proximity, the answer could be any number from two to six. How far does the mycorrhizal component extend? What is the mycorrhizal component, since it seems to be different in the Park than in other areas where Phantom is known to occur? Does water chemistry have any effect on Myrio's preference for growing in some meadows where its host sedge occurs and not in others? Is there a connection between the presence of certain other plants in conjunction with Myrio? Observation suggests it, but there's no proof for a link. And how do we get answers when the Park's budget is pinched so tightly that it's even unlikely the aquatics crew's broken pH meter will be replaced in the near future?

Gathering field data is a step forward in ensuring that these rare species will eventually be better understood. That's what Team Biota does. We're the "boots on the ground," ranging the places where (hopefully) few others go. Somehow when you're on your knees counting little Myrio noses or taking a photo of a Phantom, "wet, muddy and tired" just don't seem to matter.

And Kidneys To Top It Off

Day 152: I'm not sure where to start relating today's events, so I think I'll begin with the photo. Ever since finding Fringed Kidney lichen following a windstorm several years ago, I've haunted the same spot, hoping that another specimen would have dropped from the upper canopy. I've been disappointed until today when I found one very small grouping. The largest of the apothecia wouldn't cover my thumbnail and the foliose portions are rather browned from harsh weather, but this is Nephroma helveticum, and now I think I know which tree it occupies. No, I am not thinking about climbing it.

When I arrived home from work, I had a surprise in my mailbox. Joe and Sharon, my partners in Team Biota, are hoping to light a fire under me with respect to dragonfly identification. To that end, they sent me James Walker's "Common Dragonflies and Damselflies of the Pacific Coast - A Life Size Field Guide." I have collected a few images of these insects over the years, but have not been able to identify more than a few. This book will definitely improve my skills.

However, the biggest event of the day left me speechless and very near to tears. For some time, I have wished I could afford to attend the lichen portions of the Northwest Scientific Association's annual conference, but I simply couldn't budget it. Today as I sat at my office computer crunching volunteer applications and answering Park emails, I recognized Arnie's voice at the door. He came into the office and leaned against a cluttered bookcase. "I have a question for you," he said. Expecting it to be something botanical and wondering how he thought I'd be any help if he didn't know, I said, "Yeah? What?" Without preamble asked, "How interested are you in the Northwest Scientific Association's lichen conference?" I told him I'd love to go, but that it wasn't within my means. "What would you say if I said I'd send you to it?" he replied.

For a second, I was speechless. Then I said, "Surely there's somebody else who would benefit more from your budget than me!" He said, "You let me decide that." After some flabbergasted sputtering on my end, he continued, "Would you want to attend all four days or just pick a topic which interests you?" We dragged up the conference program and I determined that there was really only one day I thought would provide information I thought I could use in the Park. We discussed the options, but I was insistent. One day was sufficient. I completed the registration and he took care of the fine points (i.e., payment), and when he stood up from the desk, I couldn't help myself. I threw my arms around him in a bear hug, trying to keep the tears from running down my face. And then, after I finished my office work with as few corrections as I could manage through my excitement, I went out walking in the snow and found the Kidneys.

It's been a long time since I had a day like this one.

Very Cold Fun

Day 93: Several years ago, when I first saw images of broken frozen soap bubbles on the internet, I decided that on the next bitterly cold day, I'd try to create them. Now "bitterly cold days" don't come often in western Washington, and when one finally did arrive, I failed miserably at my appointed task. I wrote off the lack of success to our marine climate, but the issue was actually in the formula I was using to make my bubble liquid. Thanks to my friends Joe and Sharon (Team Biota) who supplied the secret, I took advantage of the current chilly temps to try again.

First of all, I'd like to explain that this is not a quick process, so put on your long johns and wool socks, and don't forget your hat. It took about twenty minutes for the "super-bubbles" to freeze, and only a few of them survived that long. The first few I tried to break simply deflated and collapsed in on themselves. Patience will reward you with success. Go in the house and warm up while you're waiting. Give your bubbles at least 10 minutes before you start trying to break them. The image in the lower left shows a popped but still slightly limp half-shell.

So what is the secret ingredient? Corn syrup. The sugar polymerizes and yields a bubble with extended longevity. I used a straw to blow 1-1.5" bubbles. It was 25° when I conducted the experiment. Colder temps would give a faster freeze time.

Here's the magic recipe, reduced to a much more reasonable eighth from the original supplied by Sharon and Joe:

3/8 cup of water
1/8 cup of dishwashing liquid (I used Dawn)
1 Tbsp. white corn syrup (Karo)

Finding Team Biota

Day 259 (Part A): Don't be misled by what appears to be a trail in the center foreground. That relatively brush-free strip of ground was only about eight feet long and was probably the remnant of an old elk trail. For the most part, Team Biota's assault into the Myriosclerotinia bog could best be described as a "penetration." It was rare when we could catch more than a glimpse of another team member even though we were only 15-20 feet apart. Sucky mud, tangled slide alder, fallen logs and hidden ankle-grabbers are just a few of the hazards keeping anyone but the most dedicated researchers out of the area. All but three of the 51 specimens of the rare fungus seen just six days ago had completed their ephemeral life cycle and no evidence of them remained. That said, we discovered two vascular plant species which had not previously been reported in this location. Science ain't for wimps!

Myriosclerotinia Caricis-ampullaceae

Day 249: Since my botanizing partner Joe and I (Team Biota) discovered this unusual cup fungus in a snow-melt meadow in Mount Rainier National Park, a flurry of emails went out, first from Joe to a friend who is a mycologist, thence to a mycological society and further, to mycologists around the globe. The consensus is that it is Myriosclerotinia caricis-ampullaceae. This particular species is considered "very rare," but the genus is rare as well. Who would have thought that such a lowly thing could generate such interest? And who would have expected to stumble across it while hunting for rare/uncommon vascular plants?

Joe, his wife Sharon and I have made several return trips to the site over the last two weeks, and have learned that these fungi are extremely ephemeral, here today and gone tomorrow. Joe and Sharon found a few on their second trip, but none since. After a conference with the Park's Plant Ecologist earlier this week, I was authorized to take an herbarium specimen if enough examples were present. Arnie knows my feelings on collecting, and trusted me to make the critical judgment call for collection of a rare species.

I went into the meadow in full rain gear on a blustery, cold day and began searching the margins of snow-melt pools and the banks of a tiny stream, but was frustrated at having no success in finding my quarry. With additional information I had been given about the species, I examined several dozen stems and leaf sheaths of the Carex (Cotton-grass) native to the site, but found no evidence of sclerotia. It was beginning to look like my mission was going to be a bust. Then, just as I was packing up to leave the meadow, I saw something floating in the water, loose. It was a single specimen, not attached to anything, waiting to be lifted out for preservation with only minimal pangs of conscience on my part. It was in less than perfect condition, admittedly, but it would serve for DNA analysis at some future date, should the budgeting for such advanced research ever be possible.

Team Biota has another trip to the site planned, but even if this ephemeral species is done for the year, there will be other years. The last known record of it at Mount Rainier is dated 1948, and a specimen from that date is preserved in the University of Illinois herbarium. I may be dead and gone before it sprouts again, but for 2016, I was there. I saw it. A solitary specimen is drying on my desk as I write this. I have a feeling the story of Myriosclerotinia caricis-ampullaceae is not at an end.

Campanula Rotundifolia, Harebells

Day 277: "These are not the Campanulas you are looking for." Campanula scouleri remains elusive, even when I was in the company of the two friends who found it a few days ago, but an abundance of the more common Harebell (aka Bluebell) provided a bright interlude to scouring the ditch alongside Stevens Canyon Road. The three of us retired to the Tipsoo Lake area after spending an hour in search mode, there to find a number of other delightful wildflowers which I'll feature in upcoming posts. Upon a return to the search area and another two hours of patrolling, we decided that C. scouleri must have lost the petals of its only two blossoms and that looking for a solitary specimen with a leaf closely resembling that of another common plant was not likely to lead us to success, we packed it in and called it a day.