Spike

Day 344: After much digging into books and the internet, and consideration of the butterfly species known to occur in the specific area, I am tentatively identifying Spike as the caterpillar (fifth instar) of Speyeria cybele, the Great Spangled Fritillary. Again, we have a taxonomic readjustment. Formerly called Argynnis, members of this group of North American fritillaries have been distinguished from the European genus with their own nomenclature. Update your field guides, folks! And as always when venturing outside botany (and sometimes within it), I reserve the right to be wrong. Butterflies and moths are not my long suit.

In any event, when Spike is all growed up and his/her wings have come in, he will nectar on members of the Violet family, notably our common Viola rotundifolia. Or that's the plan, anyway. Those of you who have Buddleia (Butterfly Bush) in your yards because "the butterflies love it" are doing more harm than good. Great Spangled Fritillaries are drawn to Buddleia like kids to candy, but it doesn't sustain them any more than a diet of chocolates and butter-mints would a human. Not only that, if the butterflies fail to nectar on the Violas, pollinating them in the process, then there will be fewer Violas to sustain the Fritillaries who haven't discovered butterfly-bush smack. Planting non-native species in your "butterfly garden" is a Bad Idea. Plant natives instead, those things which are known as hosts or food for species in your area. There's a circle here, people. Stop messin' with things you don't fully understand.

My Kind Of Place

Day 335: I had other plans for extending my MeadoWatch hike yesterday, so instead of continuing on to the end of the maintained portion of the Paradise Glacier Trail half a mile further on, I took my lunch beside this small, persistent alpine tarn. I don't recall having ever seen it dry, even in a drought year. It would be a good "bathtub" but for two factors: the trail runs right beside it and the bottom is covered with grapefruit-sized rocks. Still, it makes a good destination, just a little ways above my last MeadoWatch waypoint. That said, now that Labor Day is past, I had it all to myself for the half hour I spent there.

MeadoWatch is winding down as the plants are now mostly in the seed-releasing phase of growth. I hope to do one more hike on the Naches Loop, but I am quite keenly aware that I am at the mercy of the Weather Gods, and they are not always kind. However, September hiking always brings rewards: the fall colours are starting, the wildlife is active preparing for winter, crisp mornings and cooler afternoons are perfect for the exertion demanded by the Mountain's trails. In the course of my travels yesterday, I encountered a family of four grouse, one bear, one young marmot whose tail I nearly stepped on, and one former Park superintendent with his mate and cub. As he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, Randy King said he'd been hoping to find me on Eatonville's Bud Blancher trail. He showed me a photo. "I bet you know what this plant is, Crow!" I didn't, but I looked it up when I got home. Next time our paths cross, I'll deliver the information. It's a slower world in the Mountain's realm, my kind of place.

Sectional Marmot

Day 330: Marmots (Marmota caligata) are common in the subalpine zone and are quite acclimatized to hikers, so I wasn't the least bit surprised when one sitting on the left side of the trail allowed me to approach to within a few feet before moving. It crossed the trail directly in front of me and dove into a burrow, and I expected it to continue out of sight, but it stopped with its tail and part of its hindquarters sticking out. Seeing a photo opportunity, I moved in a little closer and snapped several pictures using flash, but I was so focused on the tail that I didn't immediately notice that the head was only a foot away, looking back at me as if to ask what I found so compelling. The "burrow" wasn't a tunnel; it was a bridge about a foot in width, and I was afforded both north-facing and south-facing views of a northbound animal, its center section concealed beneath meadow flowers and earth. Mr. Marmot was obviously well-acclimatized to human presence, and seemed to want nothing more than to doze off while I made a portrait of his sunnier end. The sectional marmot!

A Crow In Its Natural Habitat

Day 326: The Reflection Lakes MeadoWatch hike ends at a waypoint not too far above the intersection of the Skyline Trail with the Paradise Glacier Trail, at a transition point between subalpine meadow and alpine barren, but I cannot turn around there, not with rocky exposures calling to me only a mere half mile further on. In the days when I had two good shoulders and young legs, my preference in backcountry campsites generally took me far off trail and into this inhospitable environment. I describe my camping choice as anywhere "high, bleak and desolate," somewhere with a broad view of the forests and meadows below with nothing above me but sky and the bulk of the Mountain. One of my favourite spots was a sandy patch just large enough for a two-man tent at 7800' on Curtis Ridge, ideal if one happened to be in the mood for watching the Perseid meteor shower in August, or later in the year, admiring the silky glow of Puget Sound at sunset with the lights of Tacoma sparkling in the foreground. In this environment, I felt secure in my solitude on Curtis Ridge; any human approaching could be seen well in advance of their arrival in my camp. At the heart of it, you must understand, I am a solitary creature. If I were younger and not quite so surgically reconstructed, I would go, perhaps not "where no one has gone before," but as close as possible in the modern world. But all things said, the fact that I've been partially rebuilt limits me now to the day hikes which never succeed in taking me beyond the possibility of human contact. Still, it is those high, rocky places which draw me into going the extra distance for whatever moments of personal time I can share exclusively with my Mountain.

Elmera Racemosa

Day 310: Whenever I hike the Lakes Trail for MeadoWatch, I always continue climbing past the last waypoint to check on Elmer, i.e., Elmera racemosa, Yellow Coralbells. It's not exactly a common plant in Mount Rainier National Park, but not sparse enough to be called "uncommon" although you certainly won't find it without some effort. It prefers to grow in the rocky, dry subalpine/alpine zones, often in talus or on rocky ledges...you know, among those ankle-wrenching rocks so typical of Pacific Northwest mountain paths above treeline. Its foliage resembles that of the Heucheras and in fact, for many years it was placed with them botanically because of the morphological similarities. We now know that it is sufficiently distinct to merit a separate genus. I was happy to see the population above the Stevens/Van Trump Monument not only thriving, but spreading. As an aside to that, I also observed Sitka Valerian in the same environment; a bit of a puzzlement, that, and something which I believe bears watching.

NPS Centennial

Day 317: Happy Birthday, NPS! I am happy to say that I have been a member of the Park Service family for over a tenth of its lifetime and plan to keep going as long as I can. For those of you who may have wondered, I began volunteering at Mount Rainier just slightly under forty years ago, and although there was a rather large gap in the middle of my service, I have over ten years to my credit. I have occupied my primary position for over five years, but work with a number of different Interpretive and Natural Resources programs as well as the occasional spot of Outreach or Maintenance.

Since I am called to duty for the 100th birthday celebration at Paradise, I shuffled the schedule a little so that I could visit the site of the historic Paradise Ice Caves while putting in hours for the MeadoWatch plant phenology program. The real Ice Caves are long gone, and I suspect the ones I saw in the '50s were but shabby stand-ins for those so famous in the '30s. Even fifty years ago, MORA was talking about their decline. Today, no vestige of the original Ice Caves exists. I do remember when the Paradise Glacier overhung the cliffs at my back in this photo, and when something resembling ice caves tempted stalwart (read, "foolish") climbers and hikers to enter into their depths. I was never tempted. A glimpse into the interior was sufficient warning: a maze of frozen stalactites hung from the ceiling and from every low point, painfully cold drips of water waited to fall down the back of your neck. It was not uncommon for great chunks of ice to break free and fall to the floors of the chilly tunnels.

There have been many changes on the Mountain in 100 years, both natural and administrative. Some set well with me, and others not so well. However, if I have learned one thing in the years I have spent in the Park, both as a volunteer and as a private citizen, it is that the Mountain endures. In fact, I have often referred to the great snowy presence on my horizon as "the one stable point in my universe." That familial attachment is what inspires me daily, and I am grateful beyond expression for those who strive to protect its integrity. I am proud of my Park Service family and am thrilled to be part of the celebration of the NPS Centennial.