Hericium Coralloides

Day 71: Three species of Hericium are known to occur in Washington, with the most common type being H. abietis. The other two have only been documented in a few counties, and I am pleased to say that one of the records is my own observation of H. coralloides (above) from 2020. I had not seen it in the intervening years, so was rather surprised when I found it again a few days ago in the same location which, of course, I never pass without checking for it since it is relatively rare. This particular specimen is well-protected by brush and brambles, and had I not known exactly where to look, I would have passed it by without noticing it. As it was, when I came to the tree, I thought I could see a glimpse of pinkish white in the tangle and, at hazard to life, limb and eyeglasses, pushed my way through to an unobstructed view. I could barely crouch down without spiking some portion of anatomy on thorns, and once the requisite photo had been taken, extricating myself from the cage of branches and bristles was another challenge since I'd bent them all down one direction as I'd made my way in. For a brief moment, I felt much as a lobster must feel when it enters a trap. Botany is not a bed of rose petals, my friends. It can be a very dangerous sport.

A Good Sign

Day 70: In observation of the Solstice and a rare day of decent weather, I went for a little hike yesterday. Six weeks ago, my plans for a walk on this old road were foiled by a sign reading, "Trail closed for road repair." I said to myself, "Bet that clay bank slipped." As it turned out, I was half right. It hadn't slipped, but it had subsided to such a point that they laid a new gravel road bed over a a stretch roughly 500' long. I was in for another surprise when I reached the bottom: much of the river bank was taped off and marked with signs indicating that revegetation work was in progress. I was pleased to see it, even though it cut me off from my goal by a hundred yards, particularly since the signs had obviously been put up by Washington State Parks. The area is one of very few along the river which is not protected by the Nisqually Land Trust or the tribe, both of which have been engaged in restoring the shoreline for years. Seeing that State Parks has finally joined the effort to protect the river was the perfect topping on the Solstice "cake."

Bifurcation

Day 2: Calocera cornea is relatively common in our PNW forests at this time of year, but it takes a keen eye to spot it since it is relatively small. It grows on rotting conifer wood, in contrast to a similar and less common Calocera which prefers the wood of deciduous trees. Either species may exhibit bifurcated tips, so the best way to tell them apart without microscopic analysis is to observe the substrate. Despite its resemblance to the coralloid species, Calocera species are classified as jelly fungi.

Seeing The Small Things

Day 364: A friend suggested that I notice small things because I'm built closer to the ground, i.e., I'm barely five feet tall. While his hypothesis has a certain degree of merit, I firmly believe that it's because I've trained my eye to spot the unusual, regardless of its size. In this instance, I was down on my knees in wet leaf litter taking photos of Lemon Discos (a fungus) which, at a diameter of a millimeter, are pretty dang little. About a foot to the left, something on the same log peculiar registered. "Is that a freakin' SNAIL???" I said. Sure enough, I was being observed by the tiniest snail I have ever seen. Obviously, I can't offer an ID, but I suspect it is Allogon townsendiana, one of our most common snails here in the PNW. The shell, roughly 2 mm in diameter, clearly exhibited whorls, and I could see the little eye stalks probing the world of giants. This image was taken with a 4x macro filter, also on a macro setting.

Not Even A Button

Day 10: I hadn't expected anything when I made my first foray to Coprinus Corner about ten days ago. It's been too dry, but I had hoped to find a few Shaggymanes this morning, given that we've had almost an inch of rain over the last two days. It doesn't take much to pop them through the ground, and a friend reported seeing them near Olympia. Alas, my search was in vain. There was not even a single button in evidence. This is probably going to be a rather thin year for mushrooms, all things considered. My hike this morning was a short one (about a mile and a half), and there was simply no fungus of any sort to be seen. Tough times for an old Hobbit!

Fall Flowers

Day 8: A mile or so in, something stoplight-red caught my eye in the distance. My first thought was that I'd found a new location for Ramaria araiospora, an uncommon coral fungus which I've only previously observed inside Mount Rainier National Park. As I got closer, I thought I could see its tips emerging from a thickened base. "Young one," I thought. "That's why it's so bright." And then the pin of truth pierced the balloon of hope as I realized I'd been led down the path by a fraud. The "fungus" turned out to be an artificial flower, gone astray from some bouquet. Then continuing my hike, I'd gone another mile and a half before spotting a distinctly unnatural blue at trailside. A short distance away, hot-pink petals stood out against the grey-brown debris, presumably from someone's idea of a fitting memorial for their dearly departed. This begs the question as to how anyone could hike a state-park trail unobserved with a bouquet large enough that they wouldn't notice it was shedding fairly large pieces. This is not the first "flower fall" I've encountered on this trail, either, although it may have been the freshest. And before I go off on a rant about completely unnecessary hydrocarbon-based products, I'll close.

Amanita Muscaria

Day 364: Amanita muscaria is arguably the most recognized mushroom in the world, and its status as such pre-dates the "Mario" games by centuries. It is very distinctive in its textbook morphology: red cap dotted with white spots, a skirt around the stipe and a bulbous base, but as it ages (or in some cases, where soil conditions affect its growth), the cap may be yellowish or tan, leading to possible confusion with other Amanita species. That said, it is poisonous, and those who have experimented with its hallucinogenic properties have undoubtedly done some measure of damage to their livers with the toxins which accumulate there. But it is a beautiful thing, this "toadstool" of faerie tale, especially when caught in its prime. This specimen had only recently popped through the duff and hadn't had a shower to wash away the debris of its birth. Nearby, a few salad-plate sized companions had fully opened, and had tipped over sideways from the sheer weight of their flattened, fading caps.

Unique Well

Day 361: Well, that's unique. Several days ago, I went for a hike in Nisqually-Mashel State Park. My intention was to follow an overgrown logging road until I came to a spur trail where I'd noticed some unusual fungi previously. When I turned off the main track onto the old log road, I was surprised to see it cleared of brush and the soil marked by the passage of some kind of machinery. A little further on, I spotted several pieces of Jersey curb surrounding a pipe. "That looks like a wellhead," I said to the surrounding forest, and sure enough, that's what it was: a "unique well," I might add. This state park is only newly formed and is still being developed for public use. I assume that the well was put in to service a future campground or restroom, but I wondered what made it "unique." As it turns out, that is simply the industry jargon for a particular well and its identifying number, from which reports of water quality, depth, date of installation, etc. can be looked up through the Dept. of Ecology. While all that is very interesting, it was rather disappointing to discover that its uniqueness did not imply any special characteristic of the water table as I had initially (and mistakenly) surmised.

Tranquil Ohop Creek

Day 348: Ohop Creek declines gently through pasture and land conservancy, chuckles at a bed of over-ambitious rocks which seek to impede its flow through a state park, whispers its life-filled song amid native plants and invasives alike, healthier now thanks to the intervention of a handful of humans who care for much of its reach. It remembers its origins, mindful of its history as salmon habitat, is grateful for the return of a few wild fish to its bed. And yet it does not know where it is going, does not know what lies around its next and last bend. There, it will be caught up in the dynamics of the ebullient Nisqually to be swept away and borne out to sea like a press-ganged sailor, thence to mingle with the sea until its freshness is lost and unrecognizable in the greater waters. Its destiny is written and unchangeable, and yet it is oblivious to it and its imminence as here, in this place and moment, it reflects on its past.

Ramalina Sp.

Day 347: I needed to get Out yesterday. September has disappeared all too quickly, and since the weather is slated to turn wet and ugly, it was a "now or never" situation. I chose to walk down to the river through Nisqually-Mashel State Park, hoping to find solitude. In that, I succeeded, although sounds of humanity were audible until the rush of water drowned them out. It seems there is no escape from banging, clanking, rumbling noises these days, at least not for someone who can no longer reach the deep backcountry. Even there, the sound of planes overhead is a reminder of Man's industry. In any event, I managed to avoid any strong evidence of humanity for several hours. During my walk, I noted that the recent wind and heavy rain had hit cottonwoods harder than other tree species in this particular area, and of course that gave me the opportunity to examine downed branches for lichens. I would be going out on a limb (ha-ha) to infer that this is Ramalina farinacea because I did not bring a sample of it home, but that is the Ramalina species I have encountered here previously.

Second Billing

Day 332: Doogie here (Douglas Squirrel, Tamiasciurus douglasii) only gets second billing. The real star of my hike in Nisqually-Mashel State Park yesterday was a Pileated Woodpecker who shared the trail with me for a scant seven or eight seconds, long enough that there was no room for doubt regarding the identification, but not long enough for me to get the camera off my shoulder. That is one big bird! My sightings of Pileated have been few and far between, and I am always thrilled when I can add another location to my tally. The bird was a male, full red crest with no darker feathers on the forehead. I'm sure it must reside somewhere near where I sighted it because after shearing off into the forest, it circled around and came to rest near where it had been perched when I surprised it. As for Doogie, the co-star of this epic, he showed some reluctance to abandon his log until I was within twenty feet of his position. I suspect he might have been guarding his winter stash.

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.

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.