But No Aurora

Day 275: For the first time in at least 15 years, I was away from home overnight, sitting in a parking lot at 6000' with my botany partners Joe and Sharon in the hopes of witnessing the aurora borealis. To make a long story short, it failed to appear, but we were rewarded with a spectacular display of alpenglow at sunrise from Sunrise. Yes, you read that right, and there were a ton of people who had come to Sunrise Point with the same vain expectations. After full light, we began the botanical portion of the expedition, collecting herbarium specimens for two species, checked our Mystery Plant for flowers (none) and locating an uncommon/rare orchid. Once our tasks were done, they dropped me off at home where I am now trying to make amends with a little Boy who is rather upset at having been left alone.

Bringing In 2023

Day 81: Given that New Year's Day brought a circumstance which necessitated a significant dip into my limited financial resources, I am hoping that this morning's spectacular sunrise bodes well for improving conditions. My freezer is terminal, and I hope it will hold together, assisted as it is by a substantial amount of duct tape, long enough for me to eat up the meats and process the fruits into other forms. I am not so gullible that I believe the "promised delivery date" for the new one; too many comments from other purchasers indicated that the supplier is more likely to miss at least once, if not twice. However, the new one will be delivered to my kitchen, and the old one will be hauled away (for a fee, of course). I really had intended those raspberries to be snacks, but they are destined for the jam pot now, and I have my next few days' work cut out for me.

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.

Rainiera - Monotypic Genus

Day 301: The genus Rainiera has but one species in it, i.e., it is a monotypic genus, Rainiera stricta its solitary member. As one might guess from the name, it is particularly associated with Mount Rainier, but does occur as far north as Stevens Pass and south into Oregon. For as common as it is in the Sunrise area, one might find it hard to believe that it falls among plants whose conservation is a matter of concern globally. Indeed, in autumn it seems to dominate the slopes along the upper Sunrise Road. Within Washington or Oregon, it is designated "SNR" or "no status rank," indicating that here we have a healthy population. Formerly known as Luina stricta, Rainiera is distinct from Luina (Silverback). It bears the common names of "False Silverback."

Melting Marmots

Day 288: Even the marmots are melting. I took this photo before the hot spell settled in and drove the mercury above 90 degrees, but daytime highs have been there for three days running now, and several more are on the roster. We may break daily records here in western Washington, and I find myself empathizing with the marmots whose cooling snow patches are disappearing fast. That said, the marmots' thick fur coat actually insulates the animal from summer heat as well as protecting it from cold in winter. Still, marmots seem to have figured out that by chilling the insulation down occasionally, they're less likely to succumb to overheating. I rather suspect that there is a bit more physics going on here than is covered in that very basic explanation, but it will have to do for now because I'm too hot, and I don't have a snowbank to flop on.

In Pursuit Of Boechera

Day 283: Following up on yesterday's post regarding a species of Boechera infected by a fungal pathogen, Team Biota was able to put to rest one bit of the mystery: the affected plants are B. lyallii. We hiked the Silver Forest Trail, searching for both healthy and unhealthy plants to examine. Fewer infected plants were found along the trail than on the roadside 200' higher, a hint that late-lying snow (that piled up by plowing) may have contributed to fungal growth. Note that I say "may have contributed." This is by no means conclusive. I merely put it out there as food for thought. Our current Plant Ecologist specializes in plant pathogens. We will be turning our evidence over to her to pursue if she sees fit.

Antennaria Microphylla, Rosy Pussytoes

Day 278: Pussytoes! Or as I say to Tippy when I blow on his feet, "Pussyfoots!" The pink "blossoms" you see here are actually rose-coloured bracts which surround the true flower: yellow, inconspicuous, and capable of a remarkable reproductive feat: Antennaria microphylla can set viable seed without being fertilized. In botany, this phenomenon is called apomixis or agamospermy. The plant is also capable of sexual reproduction, doubling its opportunities to create a new generation of Pussytoes. Individual colonies of Rosy Pussytoes are likely to be genetically identical, i.e., clones of themselves. Having a backup reproductive strategy is more common in flowering plants than one might expect. Other species which can reproduce by means of apomixis include dandelions and hawkweed.

Moneses Uniflora, Wood Nymph

Day 276: Recorded from only a handful of locations in Mount Rainier National Park, Moneses uniflora resembles the Pyrolas, but prefers a darker, more moist habitat. Its shining white flowers provide the common name "Wood Nymph," for indeed it is both as elusive and beautiful as those legendary beings. The flowers are scented and highly attractive to bees, although the plant produces no nectar. In a phenomenon known as "buzz pollination," the downward-facing anthers shed their pollen when a bee vibrates its wings beneath the flower. The pollen falls on the bee's back where it can be picked up by the next plant the insect visits. Buzz pollination is a reproductive strategy employed by a number of plants which have poroidal anthers, i.e., anthers which emit pollen through a single pore or through narrow slits which insects cannot enter. Pollen is loosened only when the bee vibrates its wings at a specific frequency. Research on buzz pollination has shown that across plant species, different frequencies are required to effect pollen release, and thus may require a different insect as the vehicle for pollen exchange.

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.

Broken Dawn

Day 304: Dawn is broken. It does not rise golden to push back the night. It does not cast its lengthy rays across meadow and slope to wake the flowers and the creatures who live amongst them, and rather than dispelling gloom, it brings it as a heavy cloud of despair to settle on those beneath its glaring, fire-reddened eye. Dawn is not breaking; it is broken, shattered by humanity's carelessness and greed. Like a china plate fallen from a fireplace mantle to the flagstones of the hearth, it might be that it can be glued back together, but it will never be the same.

Perfectly Notched

Day 285: For some weeks now, I have been hoping for the proper conditions which cause the Mountain to cast an atmospheric shadow just prior to sunrise. It all came together yesterday morning, with two unexpected bonuses. When I first observed the shadow forming, it was the typical wedge shape angling toward the south. I grabbed the camera and darted across the road where I could avoid having power lines in the image, but as I did so, a second dark wedge appeared off the left shoulder. The shadows were being thrown by Columbia Crest (the true summit, central from this vantage point) and Liberty Cap (the northern peak). This double shadow alone was a phenomenon I had not previously seen, but as I was snapping photos, the sun began rising, perfectly notched in the low point between the two summits. Old Sol will be in this position only for a few days each summer, and although weather has permitted me to see the notched sunrise occur a few times previously, it was never in conjunction with the atmospheric shadow (and certainly not with a pair of shadows).

Red Sky In The Morning

Day 55: "Red sky in the morning / Sailor take warning / Red sky at night / Sailor's delight" is an aphorism based in observation, i.e., if clouds are painted by a rising sun, unsettled weather is forthcoming. Conversely, if skies are sufficiently open below the horizon that the sinking sun can turn evening clouds rosy, a clearing trend will ensue. At least that's the logic behind the rhyme here in the Pacific Northwest, although we seldom trust to any promise of sunny days. This morning's sunrise was particularly vivid to the southeast. The Mountain, however, was shrouded by greyer, lumpy wool: a quilt batting gone sour with moisture and mildew, heaped on the foothills without a hint of warmth in its layers. Still, I heard the crows calling up the dawn, revelling in a riot of colours visible only to their more discriminating and sensitive avian eyes. That thought was enough to make me wonder, "What am I not seeing here?" even as I marvelled at the sight.

Squirrels In The Mist

Day 303: Friday and Saturday were our two annual volunteer recognition picnics. The first is held at Longmire where we have use of the historic Community Building. The second is at Sunrise and, although we have the option to hold it indoors if the weather is bad, we're usually willing to put up with a light chill and/or sprinkles to have it in the picnic area. This year, the decision was made with a metaphorical flip of a coin as Rovers and other volunteers began to gather after having spent time on the trail. We set up a grill in the mist-shrouded picnic area and watched as several Cascade Golden-Mantled Ground Squirrels (Callospermophilus saturatus) enjoyed their own personal harvests. This pudgy little moocher had what appeared to be a mushroom in its hands, but whether it had been gathered from nature or was the ill-gotten gain from some visitor's lunch was debatable. I thought the stem looked rather too neatly sliced to have been anything other than commercially raised, but the mist might have been distorting my view. As for the picnic, at the end of the first hour, a few raindrops began falling. Within five minutes, a deluge dropped, bringing the festivities to a hasty and soggy close.

First Burroughs Fog

Day 303: Yesterday's volunteer appreciation picnic at Sunrise was one of the wettest and windiest I've attended. That didn't stop me from going for a hike. In fact, I found it quite refreshing after more than two weeks of 90-degree temperatures. Thanks to the cool weather, I reached Frozen Lake in a mere twenty minutes, and then after some deliberation over which direction to take, I headed up First Burroughs in fog. It rained a bit (something I devoutly hoped was happening at home as well), giving me a chance to test out the new jacket I'd bought with a gift-card award from the Invasive Plant Council and a pair of Arnie's hand-me-down rain pants, and I'm happy to say that both served me well. As I approached the top of First Burroughs, a bright spot appeared in the northwest and the clouds gave way just enough that I could see Frozen Lake 600' below and a few patches of blue sky. It was the clearest moment of the day. For a Saturday, the trails were relatively free of other hikers, and those who were out went by me with heads down and grim expressions on their faces. You have to be a native Pacific Northwesterner to appreciate the joys of hiking in inclement weather, and if that's what it takes to have some solitude in the backcountry, I am willing to endure anything except a typhoon.

Looking Forward

Day 80: New Year's Day morning wasn't quite as rosy as I'd hoped, but any day you can see the Mountain is a good day. Although there's no substance to omens and portents, I will offer one up by saying that this bodes well for the coming year. In words from the Pixar film "Up," "Adventure is out there!" and I'll be looking for it under rocks, on mountaintops, in swamps, on trail and off. There is always something new to find (or new to me at least, and that's what counts). Will Myrio sprout in abundance again this year? Will the Phantoms return? Can I possibly justify a road trip to Mount Adams to search for Drosera anglica, the "other" Sundew native to Washington?

We tend to become somewhat myopic when surrounded by events like those of 2017, and it's difficult to focus our vision as we look forward. I find myself having to use a magnifier to bring the picture into view when you'd think a telescope would be better suited to the task of seeing far ahead. For me, it is the small, neglected bits of beauty in Nature which inspire my forward progress. In them, I find the compass I require to keep me on track and out of the sinkhole of despair. One lichen, one tiny flower, one botanical mystery, and all else pales in my mind's eye. We all need such helpers as these. I hope you will find yours as we look forward to 2018. Happy New Year!

Marmot Jr.

Day 305: The Berkeley bears didn't make an appearance during my hike to Lodi Creek making this the first time in several years that I haven't had an encounter with either a sow or a cub. Two years ago, I faced off with a rather bold cubbie for five or ten minutes until we agreed on the proper comfort zone for two-way traffic. This time, only Marmot Jr. and his mom shared the trail with me. Junior was slightly bigger than half-grown, still very curious about those two-legged creatures who passed through his meadow but wary enough to keep his distance. I'd first spotted him as he ran downslope and across the trail twenty feet ahead of me to duck into a small grouping of short subalpine firs. As I passed, he popped his head out to watch me, and then once he felt it was safe, he took up this classic pose on a sun-warmed rock. Roughly two hundred feet further on, mom scurried across the track, possibly wondering where her offspring had gone.

Lodi's Wildflowers

Day 303: You may find yourself a little short of breath if you hop out of your car at 6400' and begin racing up the trail from the Sunrise parking area to the crest of Sourdough Ridge, so on this too-warm and smoky day, it was even more important for me to adopt a snail's pace for my hike. Last year, I had not had time to make it all the way to Lodi Creek before the volunteer picnic; I'd gotten shanghaied by visitors at Frozen Lake and stayed there as long as I could, trying to keep them from feeding the chipmunks. When you're in uniform, your personal goals are secondary to the needs of the Park's guests, so we'd allowed some extra time this year for hiking, although I estimated that it was still barely enough for me to make the trek and be back in time for the picnic. Kevin stayed behind at Sunrise to take care of some administrative tasks.

Over the course of a 12-hour work day, I spoke with 129 visitors at Sunrise alone, answering questions about the weather, the trails, the notable absence of birds (smoke-related), wildlife, and of course plants, plants, always plants. I recruited five potential new Meadow Rovers and two greenhouse volunteers (one, a Master Gardener), and gave water to a parched hiker who had misjudged how much he'd need on his own hike (a common occurrence). My annual ablutions were fulfilled with a ritual swim in a hidden lake where I found one new plant (as yet not identified by me), and I even spent half an hour lugging 4' slabs of cedar puncheon to a site where trail crew was replacing a footbridge. The hike to Lodi was a mere two miles one way, but between heat, smoke and visitor contacts, required an hour and a half to complete. Once there, I had time to take a few pictures and put my hands in the water (my customary greeting to this old friend), and then I was headed back up the hill, grateful for a cloud which settled in to block the sun during the steepest part of the ascent. At the picnic, I socialized with some 60+ volunteers and handed out service awards to those who had put in the hours or years required for recognition.

All other things aside, it was those five minutes I spent with my old friend Lodi which "made my day." We had many good times together during my active backpacking years, Lodi and I. Rain or shine, Lodi's cheerful chuckle always greeted me when I was en route to Berkeley, Grand Park or Fire Creek, and the abundance of wildflowers along its moisture-rich course were often the highlight of a trip around the Northern Loop. There are no rarities here, just a lush garden of memories only I can see.

Genetic Predisposition

Day 104: Mount Rainier National Park, Sunrise Community Kitchen, circa 1933. The young woman in the foreground is my mother, the babe-in-arms my uncle-Gus-the-Lake-James-Ranger. It was Gus who set me on the course of my life when I was but nine years old, having obtained permission from his superintendent for me to stay with him in his duty station for ten days. My father had died in the spring, and Gus (ever my idol) was doing his part to help me adjust. In those ten days, I determined two things: that I wanted to climb the Mountain and that I wanted to grow up to work in the Park. My first stint at Carbon River as a volunteer preceded my first successful ascent by a year or two, but I went on to summit five more times (a total of six), and my readers know to look for me at Longmire today.

Aside from having a Park Service bloodline, I feel a strong bond with the broader NPS "family," and I know many of them are likewise moved by a sense of kinship, as well as being united in a common cause. When one of us is attacked or oppressed, it affects us all. Recent events have shown how we will rise to meet the occasion, "rogue rangers" defending our own in their private time. There aren't many organizations which generate that depth of community connection. Parkies together!

September Ramble

Day 353: Yesterday, my friend Maggie and I celebrated the season's end by taking a short hike to Dege Peak above Sunrise. Maggie had finished her seasonal term in the Park and I'd worked in some capacity or another for ten days straight, so you might have thought we'd go in town for a movie or something, but that's not the way of those of us who love the outdoors. It was the proverbial "busman's holiday," and cool temperatures, a slight breeze and grey skies provided near-perfect conditions for the walk. The only thing missing was a view of the Mountain, its dominating figure almost entirely hidden beneath a dark-bottomed cloud.

The brooding skies provided an additional benefit of ideal light for photographing Harebells (Campanula rotundifolia), a subject which invariably glares under any ray of sun. These delicate flowers are one of the signature species in the subalpine zone and can often be found in groupings, their bells pendent from thready stems and trembling in the lightest current of air. They frequently persist right up until first snow, as if trying to hold the last traces of summer sky. For us, they rang out September and the season's close.

Callospermophilus Saturatus, Cascade Golden-Mantled Ground Squirrel

Day 352: Squirrel! You might easily mistake Cascade Golden-mantled Ground Squirrel (Callospermophilus saturatus) for a chipmunk due to its size and lateral stripes. However, the broad, dark saddle and eye ring tell the story. Chipmunks and squirrels are members of the same family (Sciuridae). The easiest way to tell them apart is that chipmunks have a light stripe running through the eye and squirrels have only a ring of lighter fur surrounding it. Ground Squirrel's "racing stripes" may be more pronounced than those exhibited by this individual, giving it an even stronger resemblance to the chips of the area, so check that eye! Both can be very persistent pests in the backcountry, gnawing holes in packs and tents to get at food, or even chewing on sweaty boots and other clothing for the salt.