Swofford Pond

Day 165: If you've been following along for any time, you will have heard me talk about Swofford Pond and the South Swofford trail. The pond is actually a small reservoir on the south side of Riffe Lake, kept in place by a little concrete dam, and no more than 15' deep at any point. What service it provides under the definition of "reservoir" is unclear, since it empties immediately into Riffe without any sign of a flume or pumping station. Along the north shore, there are a dozen or so single-car pullouts for fishermen, seldom fully occupied although the lake is stocked with hatchery trout. Combustion motors are not allowed on the pond, so boats are also a rare sight, except for yours truly who enjoys kayaking from one end to the other. The nature trail runs along the south shore, backed by hills and for the most part, deeply shaded. Sulphur Creek tumbles down a narrow canyon, its beautiful waterfall inaccessible to any but the most determined cross-country hiker. Farms dot the north side, and on any given day, it is possible to hear dogs barking, cows mooing, discussion between fishermen carrying across the water. It is a tranquil place, for all of being man-made, and the forested slopes along the nature trail never fail to provide me with some curiosity of nature, whether it is a snail, a fungus, a lichen or other naturalist's delight. I spent many hours on the banks with a dear friend now long gone, engaged not in the activity of catching fish, but of fishing. There is a distinct difference between the two, and you cannot call yourself a fisherman if you do not understand it.

First Day Of Skunk Cabbage

Day 154: This is a day of great celebration! Not only is it the First Day of Skunk Cabbage, it was not necessary for me to wade out into the bog at risk of becoming permanently mired in order to get a picture of a perfect specimen. Many of my adventures on this personal holiday have left me mud up to the knees, my boots filled with swamp water, and on one notable occasion, I even fell down, landing on my back in the muck. I have not been savaged by mosquitoes as often as you might suppose, although in some years, they have been vicious. Nevertheless, this is a tradition I have been observing for decades, partly as a nod to my mother who chose Lysichiton americanus as her favourite flower, and partly because to me the plant signifies the beginning of Botany Season. There is no set date for the occasion, other than the fact that it usually occurs in March (rarely February), and is only determined by my own first observation for the year. I usually seek it out as I did today, visiting my "best bog" along the margin of Swofford Pond.

At The End Of The Trail

Day 166: Yesterday was a beautiful day for a hike, albeit rather chilly in the shaded woods on the north side of a ridge. For the first half mile or so, I was wishing I'd grabbed my mittens, but switching my trekking pole from one hand to the other occasionally while keeping the free hand in a pocket solved the problem. I hadn't really intended to walk the entire South Swofford Trail, but as usual, once I start, I find it hard to quit. The stillness and solitude of this little "nature walk" is unlike any other I've found locally, owing in part to the regulation which prohibits combustion motors on the reservoir pond. Small farms and homes dot the north shore sparsely, and only the occasional dog's bark or voice carries across the water. It is a good place to listen to waterfowl gabbling, to woodpeckers drilling, to Pacific Wren singing his complex, lilting aria or even to hear the splash of a trout's rise for an insect on the surface of the lake. The end of the trail is reached in 1.25 miles when it debouches into a grassland which remains deceptively boggy until the driest part of the year. A step or two beyond this point in the current season would overtop a boot with water, preventing access to a patch of Skunk Cabbage at the west edge. I found no early wildflowers blooming in the woods; no Cardamine or Oxalis buds, only small leaves, but I had come for Skunk Cabbage and quietness, and found both in plenty.

Brasenia Schreberi, A Navigation Hazard

Day 330: Brasenia schreberi is a native species. I thought it was best to settle that point right at the top of this discussion. The common name "Watershield" is more than justified by its ability to cover the water so completely in ponds and slow-moving streams. I was out on an invasive plant patrol on Swofford Pond yesterday, dismayed by having found a large patch of Jewelweed (Impatiens capensis) even before I had the 'yak off the car. I shouldn't have been surprised. The plant had established beside the boat ramp, undoubtedly transported there by someone who failed to wash down their water-craft before launching in another lake. That's how many aquatic/riparian invasives are spread: careless hygiene and the "doesn't-mean-me" attitude so prevalent in these pandemic days. I was hoping the invasive might be confined to that one area, but my hopes were dashed when I found it on the little island straight out from the ramp, and then again at a shoreline location. I struggled to pilot the 'yak through the Brasenia so that I could waypoint it with my GPS, often gaining no more than an inch with a paddle stroke. After several such forays, my shoulders objected and I decided instead to make a note in my report that "Jewelweed occurs at multiple locations along the shoreline." Sometimes you just can't get there from here.

But No Luck

Day 329: It has been many, many years since I did any fly-fishing. When my fishing buddy's health began to decline and it was no longer possible for him to hike into the alpine lakes or navigate streambanks while I waded among the slippery rocks, we shifted gears without really noticing, either sitting in a public area or dropping our lines from a locally popular bridge. My fly rods gravitated to the back of the closet and my vest collected spiders in its folds even though we still fished together once a week year-'round. Eventually, even that became too much for him and our piscatorial times together dwindled. I'm sure the fish were glad for the reprieve. And then after he passed away, it didn't feel right for me to fish alone despite that having been my preference before I met him. In fact, he'd been gone at least five years before I ever dropped a line in the water, and even then, it had a lure attached to it rather than a fly. I discovered I could troll from the kayak quite successfully, the time between my paddle strokes allowing a lure to drop and raise with a natural action. However, I prefer to catch and release. I'm not a big fan of fish, especially those which taste like they've been raised in a hatchery, so fishing was never really the sole purpose of a kayaking trip. Nor was it today, but something inspired me to put my good rod in the 'yak. I didn't catch any fish, but I was glad to see that my technique hasn't gotten too rusty, although it could use a lavish dose of polish.

Swofford Pond

Day 159: Take a "listening walk" with me along the south side of Swofford Pond. Don't say a word, not a peep. As we leave the parking area, we hear the idle chatter of the shore fishermen, punctuated by the occasional louder phrase when someone gets a bite. We may hear a passing car or the scrape of metal as someone backs a trailer down the concrete boat ramp, but these sounds are lost by the time we've gone a hundred yards along the trail which crosses the wetland. Now we hear the burble of water seeping up from the soil and making its way to the lake. We may or may not see it, covered by grass as it is, but we hear its conversation with the earth. Further on, the buzz of insects rises from a skunk-cabbage bog, but it's too early for mosquitoes, so we assume it's flies and beetles feeding in the decomposing plant matter and helping it along. Entering a forested band, we hear another small creek's patter, its expressions rising from the rocks over which it passes, and somewhere beyond us, an even louder voice becomes apparent. It is Sulphur Creek, relating the stories of its leap from a cliff and subsequent journey through fungus-rich woodlands and maple groves. Let us stand for a few minutes on the wooden bridge crossing it on the flat. We cannot understand its language, but its intentions are made clear: that nothing will obstruct its duties to nature.

Beyond its monologue, we are again in forest where a liquid, long song rises from a brush pile. The flutter of wings draws our eyes to the source: Pacific Wren. The bird's beak opens, and a cascade of ringing notes falls from it, one after another as we marvel at the length of the melody. In the distance, the coarser honk of Canada Geese bells on the water, then the chaos of splash and flutter as the bulky birds take flight. Again, the hum of a beetle burrs in the background, and the "pips" of Juncos tip us off to their presence in an ancient apple tree in an open meadow. A farm dog barks, its alert carrying across the water from the populated side. A cow moos in response or dispute. We also hear the voices of two fishermen in conversation at one of the pull-outs along the country road which follows the north shore. They are too far away to be understood, but the exchange seems friendly and relaxed. Duck quacks pull our eyes back to the near shore where a pair of Mallards are dipping for their breakfast. A Varied Thrush calls, its single-note whistle disguised by some mysterious avian ventriloquy which prevents us from locating the bird. Another small stream bisects our path, and we step across it with a light sucking noise as our boots pull free of its mud. It does not object, this stream. It immediately fills in the dented pocket in the soil and continues talking to itself in a mutter, and if we are the subject of its one-sided discussion, the phrases are said in such a low tone that we cannot make them out.

Eventually, we come to a point where nature denies us any further exploration and the clicks of bark-beetles advise us that we must reverse course. The splash of a rising bass among the lily-pads punctuates the order and we turn back with some regret that this idyll could not go on forever. The "silence," while not perfect, has been as close to natural as it is possible to get in this hurried world. And now I ask you: what have you not heard while on this trail? Aside from the initial clanking, grating, grinding sounds of mechanisms and motors by the boat launch, we have heard no evidence of the industrial world. Combustion engines are prohibited on the pond. Blissful, wasn't it?

Bog Naturalist

Day 170: "And here we have a specimen of Physicus palustris, the Bog Naturalist, drawn out by warm spring temperatures and the scent of Skunk Cabbage." Yep, the pull was more than I could stand. I've been thinking about visiting my favourite bog near Swofford Pond for the last couple of weeks, not wanting to be too early or too late for the best flowers, and apparently I timed it just right. The bog was rather drier than usual, although still tricky to navigate without sinking in, but at least this year, I didn't fall over or lose a boot to the mud, both consequences I've suffered in past years. The Skunks were somewhat smaller than normal (probably a consequence of the drier soil), but abundant. I could hear frogs, but search as I might, I never saw one. They fell silent at my footfall before I could get close. I spent half an hour in the bog, then went on to another adventure: seeking out invasives in a new location. That too was productive, if perhaps not as gratifying.

Devil's Tower, Tolkein Style

Day 273: There's a long story behind this post, but the upshot of it is that I had a need to revisit this location today because my geocaching partner is still recovering from heart surgery. As much as he would have liked to make the trip with me, it wouldn't have been wise.

When I first started geocaching in 2005, it took me a while to figure out that everyone's routes and coordinates might not be the best. Typical of Crow, I didn't want to go around lifting up lamp-skirts to sign log sheets in film cans; no, I wanted to make an adventure of caching, to seek out strange new places, to get off the beaten path. One of the first caches on my to-do list was Sulphur Creek Falls. I made a couple of false starts as I tried to follow the cache owner's instructions, but it didn't take me long to realize that he was no woodsman. Nobody with any brain tries to go up a creek bed which is likely to be choked with devil's-club, or have piles of impassable boulders obstructing progress. On the advice of a more woods-savvy friend to "follow your own forest sense," I took to a ridgeline and then shot a contour directly to the base of Devil's Tower (the Washington version). Having found the cache at the base of a beautiful waterfall, I knew then that I'd be paying another visit. In fact, I made several return trips in the company of various friends...one from New York, and a memorable group expedition in the company of Kevin, another cacher, my caching partner and Indiana Jones. Oh, yeah...that'll take some explaining. Indy was a "travel bug," a little toy with a numbered tag, meant to be taken from cache to cache and logged in. We had fun photographing Indy on the trip.

Not many people were willing to make the trek into Sulphur Creek Falls for a single cache smiley, and the cache owner moved out of the area and abandoned the hide. After several years and many maintenance visits, I petitioned Geocaching to allow me to adopt the cache. They gave the original owner time to respond and when he did not do so, ownership was transferred to me. Then when I decided it was time for me to archive my other caches (not wanting to die with a legacy of plastic and metal left in the woods), I asked my caching partner if he wanted to take over from me. He readily agreed. However, he wasn't able to visit the site again, so I kept up the maintenance runs.

Recently, someone tried to find the cache and failed. For some reason, it came to the attention of Geocaching that it had not been found since 2013 and, despite my logs showing I'd performed maintenance every year, they saw fit to send Dan a "nastygram" last week, threatening to archive the cache unless he performed maintenance. And there you have the reason for today's trip...a hike I made in the cool of the morning before I'd even had my second cup of coffee. Not much to see in the way of a waterfall right now, but in the spring (the best time to go), it comes down those rocks in a veritable river. The hike is much easier now, too. There's a well-established trail once you get through the salmonberry thicket. Admittedly, you need to be second-cousin to a mountain goat to navigate portions of it, especially the last drop to creek level, but it's well worth the effort.

Quest For World Domination

Day 154: Yesterday's foray was all about Skunk Cabbage, but it was a short-term mission and I needed some way to fill the rest of the day. Since I'd decided to invest in a Discover Pass which allows me access to state parks, I thought I'd do a land survey of Ike Kinswa. My previous surveys of the area have all been done by kayak. That said, before I left the Swofford Pond area, I decided to check on a nasty infestation of Yellow Archangel at the boat launch. The land managers have been trying to eradicate it since I first alerted them to its presence a few years ago. Unfortunately, the stuff is amazingly hard to wipe out and spreads like wildfire unless it is hit hard and on a regular basis. Sure enough, the 3000-square foot patch is taking off again, bad news which gave me cause to file another report with the Invasive Plant Council.

At Ike Kinswa, I found some digitalis (foxglove) along the roadside. This wasn't unexpected, and it's much easier to control. The first shocker came when I got to the highway and saw Vinca minor which had been deliberately planted beneath the park's entrance sign. It had escaped from the landscaping and was moving into the forest. A grounds-maintenance person was on staff, so I mentioned it to her before continuing along the Mayfield Lake Trail. Oh, but what a nightmare I found there! However the plant may have crossed the highway (subsurface runners, seed, fragments caught in someone's boot or tires), the invasion force was hard at work. I mapped approximately 30,000 square feet of Vinca minor, so aggressive that it is even overwhelming the Himalayan blackberries.

The real mind-boggler is this: nurseries in Washington are still allowed to sell both of these virulent invasive groundcovers, and they do so, touting the plants' ability to "suppress weeds." Those words alone should be a warning to anyone with half a brain. Both of these plants are extremely difficult to remove once they become established, so if you have them in your yard and don't intend to live forever to maintain them in a confined space, get rid of them NOW!

Swamp-Stomping And Bog-Slogging

Day 153: Happy First Day of Skunk Cabbage! Here we see the world's only known specimen of Corvus minimus in its natural habitat. This rare and endangered creature is likely to emerge from winter dormancy in early to mid-March at which time it seeks out the Pacific Northwest's famous Yellow Skunk Cabbage (Lysichiton americanus). The importance of this springtime ritual is thought to be deeply rooted in Corvus' DNA, a genetic code which specialists believe is carried in the maternal line. The function of the ritual is not known, but invariably includes wallowing in mud and sacrificing blood to early mosquitoes. Today's sighting occurred near Swofford Pond in Lewis County WA, repeating the pattern of the last several years. One might conclude that the abundant and pungent fragrance of Skunk Cabbage from this particular area acts as an irresistible lure for the swamp-stomping, bog-slogging corvid.

Naturalist At Play

Day 161: For the way today started, the posts I have planned for the next several days will seem rather anti-climactic. You see, I decided to pay my favourite Skunk Cabbage bog a visit today, and while I was there, it occurred to me to take a selfie of the Naturalist At Play. Like any good photographer, I take several shots of the same subject in order to assure myself of having one good one, and in this particular case, I tried for one too many. I was already sinking in almost to the tops of my wellies and when I misjudged and stepped on the same soft spot twice, my right leg went into the mud to knee-depth and I toppled at the moment the shutter clicked (middle photo shows my leg). It's amazing how much thought you can pack into the short time it takes you to fall in slow motion. You realize that because your leg is encased in mud, your muscles are not able to make it respond to the change in balance as it normally would. The motion is inhibited, and since you probably haven't had a lot of practice coping with this particular scenario, the muscles react in the only manner they know. In other words, once you start going over, you don't have the slightest chance of being able to compensate. The only thing you can do is resign yourself to the inevitable and hope for something better than the worst possible outcome. As it was, I only sat down in the bog rather than falling on my back (something I've done previously). Undeterred, I continued on my adventure, the results of which will be featured over the next several days.

Down In The Swamp

Day 146:  In need of something to occupy my thoughts and energies, I went out searching for subject matter to honour the First Day of Skunk Cabbage, and found it behind Swofford Pond. Never mind that the weather was a bit inclement; I had Purpose, and that is not to be denied. There I was, in my knee-high muck boots midway across the bog setting up the tripod when the cloudburst arrived. It had been a tricky crossing, swamps being what they are, filled with spots which look like solid ground but aren't, so a hasty retreat to the cover of a large cedar tree a hundred feet away was not an option. Hoping that the squall would pass, I shielded the lens with my hands and continued my work. The rain pounded down, but at last I was satisfied that I'd gotten a good angle on Uncle Skunk and made my way back across mossy logs and islands of bunched sticks, stepping gingerly as I assessed my footing. The potential for mishap was high, but none occurred, and predictably, just as I reached the shelter of the car, the canopy of cloud opened to reveal blue sky. Such is the work of a naturalist, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Morning On Swofford Pond

Day 174: I doubt you could find a more tranquil setting anywhere in western Washington than Swofford Pond. This 216.5 acre reservoir is located southeast of Mossyrock, just above much larger Riffe Lake, into which it drains. Not only will you find decent trout fishing here, a lovely nature trail runs along the south margin for a mile and a half, but does not afford access to the water. There are no homes directly on the shore, and many single-car pullouts give anglers plenty of space to cast a line. Combustion engines are not permitted on the lake, a factor which also makes it a nice place to kayak. There are also many opportunities for the bird-watcher, both in the woods and on the water. I've made at least two Life List sightings along the shore, the most notable a flock of Townsend's Warblers on their spring migration.

Share The Trail

Day 173: You really have to mind where you step on the South Swofford Trail. I know of no other location where the Oregon Forest Snail (Allogona townsendiana) is so numerous. Perhaps its popularity with this species can be attributed to the trail's shady, moist environment. It is south of the lake, but north of a ridge, and stays dark and cool even in summer. That said, the OFSes are more plentiful in the months of autumn. I was surprised to see several munching the mulch on my walk today.

Outgrown

Day 232: It was windier than expected today, so rather than letting the kayak drift in the middle of Swofford Pond while I ate my lunch, I tucked in behind a half-submerged fallen tree with the 'yak's bow on the margin of the shore, the restless waves rocking the boat like a cradle. Not much to see on Swofford, I was thinking (although I'd found a beaver lodge), and I'd given up any hope of fishing after discovering what had made that brittle snapping noise when I'd taken bags of groceries out of the car a few days earlier. Yep, the tip of my $17 6.5-foot, 40-year old Shakespeare kiddy rod had split when I jerked instead of analyzing why a sack was stuck. It was clearly beyond any hope of redemption, but fishing was out of the question. Well, I'd come to paddle, and fishing would have just been a bonus. The day wasn't a total loss, catastrophic failure of equipment notwithstanding. The beaver lodge would do nicely for a blog shot, I thought, and then my eye fell on this touching scene: a dragonfly offering its farewells to the nymphal husk which had housed it fairly recently.

With deep shadows and the boat bobbing up and down on the waves, I had no alternative but to use a a higher ISO than I liked, hence the graininess of the image. However, to my delighted surprise, the dragonfly lifted off before I had finished my lunch, allowing me to retrieve the nymph casing to photograph it in better light.

A dragonfly begins its life cycle when it emerges from the egg as a naiad, an aquatic phase which may last several years. When the naiad is ready to metamorphose into an adult dragonfly, it climbs up the stem of any handy grass or reed, and as the shell begins to dry and the larva starts to breathe, the shell splits down the back. The adult dragonfly then works its way free, remaining with the empty husk until its wings have completely unfurled and are ready for flight, as this specimen did today as I looked on.

Alien Life Form

Day 18: Just when you think you've seen it all, Nature throws you a curve ball...one made out of some kind of aquatic weed. Floating just beneath the surface of Swofford Pond, I thought at first it was something man-made; however, as I paddled up to it, I could tell it was a vegetative structure. Swofford is full of weed (both invasive and native), but this was the only specimen of its kind.

Ten days have elapsed since my last kayak outing, and I was anxious to do some paddling despite cool morning temperatures. I loaded my gear in the car as soon as the thermometer registered 45°, thinking that an hour's drive would find it raised to a tolerable 50°. When I off-loaded the 'yak and went to get into my waders, I discovered that I'd grabbed my rain pants instead. "Oh, that's gonna be cold!" I said as I rolled up my trouser legs and put on a pair of rubber sandals, clearing my throat preparatory to using all my father's tractor-starting words as I waded in. Within half an hour, I was shedding my wool shirt, comfortable even in the shady niches of the south side of the lake. I wove my way through mazes of "shoestrings" (stems of some small waterlily-like plant), dragged milfoil off the paddles in gobs, put up a large flight of mixed ducks, and wreaked terror and havoc among a population of frogs which seemed to be hanging out with nothing but their eyes showing. I never saw one, only heard their great flops and splashes as the bow penetrated the floating jungle. I had the lake to myself, other than sharing it with the wildlife. Not a fisherman, not another paddler intruded into my sight. A full circuit of the lake accounted for three miles, but as I began a second lap, an unpredicted wind came up. "Enough for today," said I, "I'm going home."

Kayaking Swofford Pond

Day 306 - and be sure you watch the 15-second movie just under this post!

Beautiful weather for the Tanager's inaugural voyage! Swofford Pond has long been a favorite place of mine. With no homes along the shoreline, no combustion engines allowed on the lake and very little traffic on the road which runs along the north shore, it is one of the most idyllic settings you could hope to find in the modern world. Cowlitz Wildlife manages the south side, and a little-used, little known trail runs a mile and a half before petering out into brush at the edge of a privately owned farm. The Pond is stocked regularly with trout, but bass, bluegill, catfish and even sturgeon may be caught. The sturgeon were stocked here in the 1990s to control scrap-fish, and a few naturalized. When someone hooks one, it makes the newspaper!

Technically, Swofford is a reservoir. A tiny dam at the east end keeps the lake level uniform, and the spillway allows Swofford to drain into Riffe Lake (a much, much larger reservoir with hydroelectric dams at either end). At maximum depth, the Pond is about 15 feet. Aquatic weed is prevalent, and occasionally, I had to remove a few vegetative "strings" from the paddles, but for the most part, the Tanager simply glided through or over the tangles. The length of the lake is about a mile and a half, width approximately one quarter to one half mile at the widest. The public boat launch is at the northeast end, That's where I put the 'yak in, wading out in green slime so we wouldn't scrape bottom too badly. With foresight, I'd put a towel aboard. Within just a few minutes of parking the car, I was on my way down the length of the Pond.

I went more or less directly, navigating around weed beds and avoiding boat fishermen's lines. I'd always wanted to see that far end because you can't quite get there by trail. I discovered that the last quarter mile or so is quite shallow, so shallow and weedy that the boats with electric motors avoid it. Not me! The return trip was more nonchalant. I made several cross-passages to check out interesting features in the terrain, trees which had fallen into the water, and once put up a Great Blue Heron who flew several circles, honking Heron cuss-words at me for disturbing his breakfast. About halfway back, I decided to try my luck at fishing and tossed a lure out behind the boat, paddling at a good trolling speed. In all honesty, I have to say the few "bites" I got were probably weeds.

I was out about three hours and could tell I was getting tired when I started banging the side of the boat with the paddles on every other stroke. Just as I started to head back to the boat launch, a stiff breeze came up. The last quarter mile was the hardest paddling I'd done all day, but the Tanager handled beautifully. Getting out wasn't the challenge I'd thought it might be.

For a short boat, the Perception Prodigy 10.0 tracks quite well. It seemed very stable, too. The paddles are adjustable and may be used with the blades aligned or with them offset about 15 degrees. I found that using them in the aligned position worked best for me. Now, about those back muscles I haven't used for twenty years...

The Maiden Voyage Of The Tanager

Day 306: It takes so long to upload to Blogger, and they only allow me 15 seconds, so this has been cut. Still, it gives you the essence of the Tanager's maiden voyage. Sorry about the tilt. I had the camera half-zipped into my PFD to hold it up high enough to see over the bow.

Swofford Idyll

Day 213: "The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope." So wrote Scottish angler John Buchan, and thus it was that my 92-year old fishing partner, his two daughters and I spent the day with our lines in the tranquil waters of Swofford Pond, hoping. We hoped the morning away, hoped through lunch, hoped as the sun progressed across the sky and laid the shadow of a Douglas fir across our strip of shoreline and a soft breeze gave a faint briskness to the air. The girls fell to chatting with and at me, although my eyes never ventured far from the slight belly in my line as I hoped it would show evidence of tension. In a sudden interruption of a lopsided conversation, I leapt up to land a twelve-inch rainbow trout, hope rewarded. Somewhat later, I discovered a few bluegills hugging the shoreline and exercised them with my fly rod and a woolly bugger. Two came to land, and were quickly unhooked and released to panic their fellows into vacating the cove.

For all the hoping done by my companions, I am sorry to say that no other fish were lifted from Swofford Pond on this day. That brings me to another oft-heard aphorism of the sport and its devoted enthusiasts: "It's not about catching fish, it's about fishing." I'm cool with that.

A Ray Of Sunshine

Day 204: Pacific Northwest forests can be very dark places especially when the overstory is tall and dense. At the edge of my property is one such band of woodland, though my portion of it only accounts for a depth of ten feet before you encounter the dilapidated barbed-wire fence which separates it from five acres of thick brush and towering evergreens. The understory in my little strip of woods is full of bedstraw (cleavers), yellow violets, false lily-of-the-valley and oxalis. While none of these is designated a "sun-fleck" species, they benefit from long periods when only slim rays of sun slip between the boughs overhead.

Among the litter of evergreen needles and twigs, dry grass and other withered vegetation, the oxalis' bright eyes open to the sun on those rare days when the sun shines, and nod closed when the clouds gather. Today, they welcomed the shafts of brilliant light, so ephemeral in the Pacific Northwestern spring.