Closing Window

Day 343: The window on hiking season is creaking closed as wet-weather systems stack up along our coast and a chance of snow at higher elevations sets the Mountain to shivering. But all things considered, it has been a greener year than most others in the last decade, meadows remaining lush right up to the last, the first "typical" Pacific Northwest summer we've seen in a long time. I have one more MeadoWatch patrol to do on Naches Loop and then like many other high-country mammals, I'll begin moving down in range as temperatures drop and snow depth pushes me onto lowland trails. Rabbie Burns said it, and I'll be humming his words when you find me on Bud Blancher or in Pack Forest:

Farewell to the mountains, high-cover'd with snow,

Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;

Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,

Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,

My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;

Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,

My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Watch Your Step!

Day 339: It wasn't the first time I'd almost stepped on a grouse because I didn't see it, nor is it likely to be the last. Grice (as I like to call them, because the plural of "mouse" is "mice") blend in beautifully with the particular shade and grain of gravel popular with our trail crew. And they know it (the grice, that is). They stick to the shadows whenever possible, and if it wasn't for the fact that they will eventually move when you're almost on top of them, you might never know they were there. Once alerted to the first one, I realized I had two birds the size of nice laying hens in front of me...no, three...no, waitaminit, that piece of trail moved...four!...and for a few minutes, I thought I was going to be the one who had to step off into the meadow because they were holding their ground. Let me tell you, when one of these well-camouflaged birds lifts off unexpectedly a foot in front of you, you jump out of your hide. That's a lot of chicken to get airborne, and the sound of a Sooty Grouse beating its wings isn't too unlike the whup-whup-whup of a helicopter rotor (or at least it seems like it when you're in close proximity). As it happened, everybody but me skootched off trail about three feet to continue nibbling whatever it is grice nibble, hanging out in an open stand of subalpine fir until I'd gone by. Oh yeah, and one other thing: hikers in grouse country should be advised against wearing light-coloured footwear, and that includes exposed socks. Especially during breeding season, white socks or tennies may instigate a grouse attack.

Amanita Season

Day 338: Super Mario aside, you don't want to muck about with Amanitas of any sort, and they're out there right now, their emerging caps waiting to deceive you into thinking they're a different (and perhaps edible) species. Every year, I get photos from my readers asking, "Can you identify this mushroom for me?" or sometimes, "Is this one edible?" First of all, I am not going to identify a mushroom for you from a photograph unless it is one of the unmistakable "beginner" species like Shaggymanes or Chanterelles, or unless it is obviously a poisonous sort like the distinctive Amanita. In fact, if you ask me to identify a 'shroom from a photo, you're going to get my customary one-liner: there's a reason the Mycological Society used to call their annual dinner the "Survivors' Banquet." Even the most innocent-looking mushroom can be deadly, if not immediately, then somewhere down the line when your liver and kidney functionality starts to fail. Your organ tissues retain those toxins, and there's no way to clean them out. If you aren't "105 percent" sure of what you're picking, do NOT put it in your basket where it can contaminate other mushrooms. If when you get home, you discover that you picked one unidentified 'shroom accidentally and tossed it in with your delicious Chanterelles, throw out the whole damn batch! I'm tellin' you, you don't get many second chances where 'shrooms are concerned. As for you folks who like to get high on the hallucinogenics, your Darwin Award is waiting.

Mormon Fritillary, Speyeria Mormonia

Day 332: Sometimes I wonder if what first drew me to natural history was a love of words. Even as a very young child, I delighted in dropping Latin names into casual conversation, much to the annoyance of my peers who dubbed me "the Professor" (and with few exceptions, they did not mean it kindly). My affinity for the sciences was ridiculed, but that only drove me deeper into the books. I couldn't see wasting my time in styling my hair or comparing colours of nail polish, nor in soliciting the attention of boys and attending dances (not that I was ever invited). Science has always provided me a comfortable refuge, even when taxonomy drives me to screaming. Knowing my interest in the etymology of species names, Arnie recently provided me with a link to an exceptionally comprehensive compilation of Latin and Latinized botanical names from Calflora, giving sources and meanings. I had hoped to find something similar for butterflies, but alas, the only information I've been able to retrieve is that Adolph Speyer was an entomologist specializing in Lepidoptera during the mid-1800s, and the genus Speyeria was named for him. The "mormonia" portion of the Mormon Fritillary's name (Speyeria mormonia) remains a mystery, despite multiple undocumented claims to a relationship with the Mormon religion and its followers. It's not enough to pull it up on a Google search. I want to find the truth.

Hopper Heaven

Day 331: "Rainierensis" should give you a clue, and a quote from noted entomologist Andrew Nelson Caudell described them as "numerous in Paradise Valley, where they were destroying grass and small plants." If you're travelling at timberline in the Park in September, you'll find his statement entirely believable. The Cascade Timberline Grasshopper (Prumnacris rainierensis) is arguably our most abundant 'hopper, and when I say "abundant," I mean that they can be found by the thousands on the bare soil of the trails in the high country at this time of year, and you'd probably send a few million into a panic if you walked fifty feet into a patch of Subalpine Lupine. They're small, no more than an inch long, but the crackling of a mass of them sounds like electricity arcing through the meadows. Personally, I've never noted that they were particularly destructive; rather, they are an integral part of the Cascadian biosphere which includes Mount Rainier National Park.

Where Chip Belongs

Day 329: The summer of 2019 seems to have been exceptionally kind to furry wildlife. As previously reported, I've personally observed nine black bears and also an astonishing abundance of marmots, and where I'm used to finding a fairly large number of squirrels and chipmunks, I've never before seen as many young Townsend's chips. Particularly along lower Skyline Trail between its junction with the Lakes and Paradise Glacier trails, baby chips are all over the place, some small enough to make me think they're only a month or so out of the nest, scampering here and there, running up trees to scold me as I pass. It makes me wonder: is this a "boom year," to be followed by a "bust?" Or is it a trend, critters from the lower forest moving up in range as global temperatures rise? Mammals, birds, insects and others follow their food sources; plant ranges are shifting, both geographically and seasonally. Many of the target species I'm monitoring for MeadoWatch are blooming earlier, setting seed earlier, and while this might seem like good news for some critters, it's bad for those who can't adjust or are slower to respond to change. In some cases, a shift in period may initiate a "meltdown," for example, if Pedicularis blooms before its species-specific pollinators arrive, it won't set seed. Even if the pollinators arrive early the following year, there will be fewer plants to support them, and the decline will continue. Our 2019 boom of mammals may tax the food web. Then what? I'm simplifying, yes, but there has to be balance in order to maintain a healthy biota. This isn't a foot-race with only one winner. Humans aren't going to "come out on top." It's a community. We all depend on each other, and we all have to do our share.

A Six-Bear Day

Day 325: Well, this sets a personal record. Today, I saw six bears (SIX!) during a MeadoWatch hike on the Lakes Trail. SIX!!! There was a mid-sized adult of indeterminate sex, a sow with two cute little cinnamon cubs, a yearling, and this healthy, husky gentleman who was a bit closer than I would have liked, given his size and age. But there were visitors to protect, so I escorted two terrified young women past him, a dicey situation because it involved us disappearing behind a stand of trees for a minute and a half, then reappearing directly in his line of sight. I hoped he wouldn't think we were trying to sneak up on him. He gave us a reproachful glance and took a few steps toward the trail, but then resumed eating wildflowers. No wonder I was checking off the box for "herbivory" at so many of the target plots! My previous daily and/or yearly record for bear sightings might have been as many as three at once (probably a sow and cubs). So far this year, I've encountered nine.

September's Flower

Day 323: A glad, good September Morn to you, dear readers. For those of you new to my posts, today is significant to me personally because it opens the "beautiful month" when mountain meadows put on their fall colours and the Bog Gentians take the blue skies of summer into their hearts to guard it through the coming winter. Of all the flowers of the field, rare or otherwise, Gentiana calycosa holds a top spot on my list of favourites. It is the last flower to come into bloom in the subalpine zone, and obviously one of the most showy. A white variant exists (not a separate species), which sometimes carries a note of grey not often seen in nature. Perhaps that's it's gentle way of reminding us that grey days are coming, to take September and live it to the fullest: hiking, roaming the hills, exploring one last rocky peak for the year. The grey also speaks of frost, soon to deliver its bracing note to our early morning wanderings. There's nothing quite like that early chill to move you along to the next point on your route. So do this, my friends: let September take you to the high country. Go, before the snows fly.

Western Meadow Fritillary, Boloria Epithore

Day 314: I have to admit that I am really bad at butterfly/moth identification, but fortunately I'm good with a camera and I'm long on patience. Those two factors in combination mean that when I send a photo to BugGuide.net, the field marks are all visible for their skilled entomologists to review. Sometimes it's helpful to get a ventral view as well as the more aesthetic dorsal view for certain species (knowing which species is helpful), so butterfly photography is not a hobby for anyone who has a schedule to meet or a short attention span. I was on my way down from the end of the Paradise Glacier Trail before the Western Meadow Fritillaries had satisfied enough of their hunger to settle on Mountain Daisies long enough for me to find and zoom in on their bright orange wings, but they were very active in their exploration of each blossom, fluttering and rotating as they probed for nectar. If you'd been standing behind me, you might have heard me say, "Come on, butterfly! Just come up top and open your wings!" As if deliberately misinterpreting my request, said butterfly inevitably moved around to the back side of the flower or took off in flight. But did I know what I had when I had it? No. But I did have a submission for BugGuide which brought forth an identification of Boloria epithore, even if I did submit the image with the title, "Unknown on Erigeron peregrinus."

Morning Watch

Day 309: I leave the car with an inordinate expanse of bare skin liberally doused in bug spray. I'm in atypical dress: shorts and a short-sleeved shirt to match the weather forecast, but I'll be on trail, not bushwhacking, so other than layers of SPF-50 and Deep Woods Off, I can leave my legs and arms unprotected. It's a little chilly at 5000', not yet far enough into autumn to be at a discomfort level, but even if it was ten degrees cooler, I'd likely be dressed the same, knowing what's coming later in the day and especially since at my high point, I'll be out on bare rock where the plants aren't tall enough to shade my ankles. I love hiking in the cool of morning; best to get the climbing done before the sweaty hours. Even so, there's no dew on this meadow. It's been too warm for that, although it's been a good wildflower season. And that's what I'm out here to do: count noses, report on the phenologic phases of the species on my list. I'm MeadoWatching, hiking the Lakes Trail in this iteration, pausing at waypoints to observe and record Magenta Paintbrush releasing seeds, Northern Microseris in bud, Mountain Daisy and Bracted Lousewort setting fruit, and Subalpine Lupine engaged in every phase but pod-burst, still lushly carpeting patches in glorious purple bloom. That said, the season is winding down. Plants are rushing to fulfill their botanical imperative before the snow flies. In less than a month, this meadow will whiten; in two, it will be buried beneath three, four, five or more feet of snow and ice, sleeping cold for three-quarters of the year, surviving conditions which make my complaints about chilly legs seem ridiculous and so very vulnerably human.

Gnophaela Vermiculata, Police-Car Moth

Day 307: "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means." No, but when I told Kevin I'd been chasing Police Cars, it only took him half a beat to reply, "Oh, you mean the flying kind." Clearly, he remembered reading my July 19 post which included a photo of this striking moth's blue caterpillar. Kevin knows me well. He doesn't bat an eye when I tell him I'm going over to the campground to look for Kidneys (Fringed Kidney lichens). Aside from my pursuits as a naturalist, he also knows that I enjoy playing with words. That said, my recent MeadoWatch hike engendered several high-speed chases as the Police Cars swerved dangerously across the trail, intersecting my path, sometimes coming to a brief halt on the Bistorts they seemed to prefer. Invariably, by the time I could get the camera disentangled from the GPS and my pack straps, my target Police Car would take another call. I was beginning to despair of getting a "field guide" shot showing all the relevant morphology, but then my visual radar picked up a black-and-white blip intensely involved in searching one particular Bistort head about fifty feet from my position. I edged in closer to get it within zoom range, hoping not to startle it into flight. Zoom photography is all well and good if you can find your subject and keep it centered as you pull it into focus, but when confronted with a meadow full of Bistort, it's amazingly difficult to find the right one. Fortunately, there was a Western Anemone seed-head close by which I could use as a guidepost, allowing me to bag the Police Car, photographically speaking. And then it was off, a two-inch moth with a strong sense of purpose not obvious from its erratic flight: eat, mate and die, having ensured a new generation to police the Bistort meadows of the Lakes Trail.

Tribble-On-A-Stick

Day 327: Any Star Trek fan would be happy to identify this wildflower for you. It's "Tribble-on-a-Stick" and the subalpine meadows at this time of year are a testament to their reproductive abilities. Seriously, though...Anemone occidentalis does carry the quirky common name of "Mouse-on-a-Stick" in addition to "Western Anemone" or "Western Pasqueflower." The flower is one of the first to appear in the spring, often blooming in between snow patches. Phenologically speaking, Western Anemone has one of the longest cycles between budding and "blowing" of any of the subalpine plants and may be observed in the meadows throughout the whole season in one form or another. The "mop-heads" familiar to most hikers (as shown above) are the seed-bearing phase. When the seeds are fully mature, the plant will release them to be sown by the wind, ensuring a whole new generation of Tribbles to plague Captain Kirk.

September's Flower

Day 323: A glad, good September Morn to you, my readers! As many of you know, this is a special day for me, second only to Christmas and that, only because Christmas is the holiday recognized by the majority of my friends. September Morn heralds the season of colour, of cool nights and blithe days, of harvest; it opens "the beautiful month," my favourite time to be in the high country, and no plant is more symbolic of September than the Bog Gentian. These flowers are the last to bloom in the subalpine meadows, and they are so intensely blue that they seem to be drawing the sky into themselves, husbanding the summer's cloudless days, taking the azure vault of the heavens into their roots, there to hold it in care through the long winter. Sometimes a white form can be found, an errant cloud browsing through a sunny day like a wayward sheep. Ah, September! If we must give farewell to summer, you have consoled us with the glorious Bog Gentian.

September Blue sky

Day 335: Some of the Park's volunteer activities are so popular that dates have to be reserved well in advance. Take MeadoWatch, for example. Right after the June training/review, I put myself on the calender for two Thursdays in September (my favourite time of the year to hike). Did I have an in with NOAA that I had a long-term forecast for no rain? Not hardly! When the first of the dates rolled around, we found ourselves under a suspension of all outdoor interpretive activities due to thick smoke from the Norse Peak fire. Even if I could have drawn a breath without coughing, I couldn't have done the hike as part of my duty. Luckily, there were still a few openings this week, so I reserved Tuesday (yesterday), hoping that the weekend's cooler, breezier conditions would blow the smoke away. I got lucky. Other than being rather too warm by late morning, the skies were gloriously September-blue. It is worth note here that it's been forty years since I first put on the uniform. Admittedly, my service hasn't been continuous (being gone so much caused family trouble), but I have in roughly twelve years and plan to keep going until I drop.

Fall Colour

Day 357: The "drizmal" season has arrived, and already I'm longing for the backcountry, oppressed by rain and grey skies. It was just a week ago that I was stepping out among the brilliant colours of autumn, hiking in shirt sleeves to delight in the crispness of a September morning. The grey had not yet turned gray, a distinction in spelling which I employ to differentiate soft, comforting hues from those of gloom and foreboding so persistent in our Pacific Northwestern winters. An absence of sunlight does not bother me; born-and-bred Washingtonians regard the sun's shine as intrusive and painful. We revel in our overcast, despite the fact that our fellow photographers from elsewhere in the country invariably accuse us of having "blown out the sky," not understanding that white or grey are normal and blue is a rare exception. Neither do short days bother me to any great extent, but being penned indoors by cold, soaking rain pushes strongly against my tolerance for inclement weather. It came too fast, this shift to the dreariness of October, as if someone threw the switch and locked the doors behind Summer.