Secret Falls

Day 175: "Secret Falls" is the name I gave it. On the map, it doesn't have one, and that's understandable because it's only about a yard wide and maybe 15' tall. I made its acquaintance some years ago while snowshoeing up Westside Road when the road was gated for winter. I could hear water flowing, and yes, there was a trickle flowing through a culvert beneath the road, but only a tiny wink of the falls was visible although it was only about fifty feet from me. Curious, I made my way into the forest and around a slight bend, and there it was, its cascade concealed by the angle of the cleft in the rock. These days, it gives me a goal to achieve when I want a short hike as I did on a warm day recently. Secret Falls was there waiting for me, as always.

Tragedy And Comedy Rock

Day 173: I love this old guy! He sits about a mile up the Westside Road, and has revealed many facets of his character in the numerous times I've walked past him. Yesterday was no exception. As I was headed north, he seemed to be in a rather grouchy mood, scowling and dour, but on the return southbound, I found him happy and smiling. "Tragedy and Comedy," I thought, "carved in stone." Or could that be a cat face? In the past, when the ferns of his toupee were more lush, I've seen him as a Raven, a guide for those who walk the path, but try as I might, I could not find the Raven in his profile yesterday, so strongly had this new personality emerged. You never know who you may run into in the woods.

Castilleja Identification

Day 241: There are five species of Castilleja (Paintbrush) known from Mount Rainier National Park, and a couple of subspecies within them. The most common are vibrantly red, orange or magenta, and the least common of them is often described as "yellow." This has led to many erroneous reports of its occurrence when in fact the observer has found the yellow variation of Harsh Paintbrush (Castilleja hispida). As readers will undoubtedly know, the colourful portion of the Castillejas are not the flower of the plant. Rather, these are bracts, modified leaves. Observation of their shape can assist with making an identification of the species. Note that in the photos above, the tips are divided into several "tongues." This clearly defines both plants as C. hispida. When the true flowers appear, they will emerge from between the coloured bracts as pointy "beaks" like those just visible at the top of the red plant in the image.

Dehiscence

Day 346: Here's a good word for you to drop into the conversation at the next party you attend: dehiscence. Of course, if your party companions are the same kind of people I enjoy being around, no one will bat an eye, but that's another subject. The term comes directly to us from the Latin verb "dehiscere," "to split open or gape," which is exactly what certain seed pods do when ripe. Legumes are notorious for their ability to dehisc violently when fully dry, often throwing seed 25 feet or more from the parent plant. Others such as the slender siliques of Fireweed simply split and peel backwards to release their fluff into the breeze. On the other hand, indehiscent fruits such as sunflower seeds and acorns open only when the germinating seed begins to exert pressure from inside, or when the hard outer shell is weakened by some external factor (freezing, fire, moisture, etc.). In the case of Fireweed (Chamaenerion angustifolium, shown here), the teensy-tiny seed attached to the silky pappus is so hard that it still requires scarification by fire before it can sprout. It is often the first plant to emerge in clear-cut timber plots which have been burned over to remove debris. But do not assume that fluff and dehiscence equate. They do not. Although Fireweed siliques dehisc to release their seeds, the common dandelion is indehiscent, its fruit an achene, albeit attached to a silken parachute.

Autumn Wow

Day 345: A sure sign of Autumn's incursion, the vine maples are beginning to redden, and one of the best local displays is guaranteed to catch the eye of any hiker on the Park's Westside Road. At the base of Mount Wow's rugged slopes between Dry Creek and Fish Creek, the talus fields are covered with this native shrub. If you're thinking you'd say "Wow!" if you were standing here looking almost straight up, you'd be right in doing so, but wrong if you thought that was how the 5921' peak got its name. As the story goes, "wow" is a transliteration of a word from an indigenous language meaning "mountain goat," and indeed, the goats can often be seen precariously perched on the narrow ledges above the road. But there's one old goat who never made the summit of the massif, and probably never will. That's not to say I didn't make the attempt a few times, but never found a route which was not obstructed by dense vegetation or insurmountable cliffs. Still, were you standing here beside me, you might hear me say, "Wow!" I might be referring to the scarps above, or it might just mean I've spotted a sure-footed goat who has boldly gone where no Crow has gone before.

Calypso Orchid, Calypso Bulbosa

Day 214: I can always count on Arnie to provide me with reading material on the subject of plants. He's very good at finding snippets of information in research papers I can't access, and comes up with answers (or theories, as the case may be) when I question him about a plant's individual ecology. He also occasionally forwards things he thinks might interest me (they always do), and this morning's contribution was timely. It covered an interesting aspect of Calypso bulbosa, and fits right in with the photo I had planned to use as the basis for today's post.

This lovely little plant is native to the area, although it isn't abundant by any means. It is pollinated by bumblebees, and it goes a long way to attract them. It does so by deceiving them, pretending to offer prizes it does not deliver. Its scent draws bumbles to it, and the hairs on its lower lip mimic easily accessible anthers. It also displays false "nectar spurs" (not visible in this photo). A bee, visiting the flower for the first time, winds up going away disappointed, then landing on another  Calypso where it again receives no reward. The Calypso has the advantage of the bee's unwitting cross-pollination service, but not for long. The trick only works until the bees wise up to it, i.e., it's only effective with newly emerged, uneducated bees. Botanists refer to this tactic as "cross-pollination by deception," and Calypso has it down to a science, little liar that she is.

Secret Falls

Day 213: A few days ago, I took a walk up to Secret Falls. That's my name for it, anyway. USGS doesn't feel it merits a designation. Why "Secret?" Even though it's less than 50 yards from Westside Road, its 20-foot cascade almost entirely hidden from view by virtue of being around a corner of rock, and anyone who hears it as they walk by raises their eyes to a more visible upper tier which they assume is its voice. The stream which feeds it originates in the Lake Allen basin, although not the lake itself which, incidentally, is only accessible by those committed to serious cross-country navigation. I have been to the lake once, and having found a fresh cougar-killed deer (the carcase still steaming), I decided once was sufficient. However, my sense of adventure is strong enough to sometimes make me forget my age, and Wednesday's excursion found me climbing a steep, mossy slope in an attempt to reach the upper tier of the falls. About halfway there, I had a "mortality moment" (rare for me) and as I looked back down that which I had climbed, the Common Sense Demon on my left shoulder advised, "You're getting yourself in over your head for not having told anyone you might be up here." I cast one last longing glance in the direction of the upper falls (no longer visible from my vantage point) and carefully inched my way back down the slope, trying to remember where I'd seen bare, slick rock showing through thin places in the moss. Perhaps another day and a different route will take me there, when I've filed a flight plan with a friend.

Swamp Gooseberry, Ribes Lacustre

Day 215: Field guides sometimes refer to the edibility of specific plants. Some may even describe how certain parts of a plant were prepared by indigenous populations. An important thing to bear in mind is that the term "edible" does not necessarily equate with "tasty," a fact to which your correspondent will most strongly attest in the case of Ribes lacustre, also known as Black Gooseberry or Swamp Gooseberry. This thorny member of the currant family produces a small, round black berry lacking in any gastronomic appeal. While not specifically unpleasant, its insipid taste and somewhat dry texture do not recommend it to the palate. Despite its gustatory failings, it is often listed as "edible." Yes, and so are organically-produced paper products, although they're better suited to use under your breakfast fare than in it.

Penny Perspectives - Chickweed Monkeyflower

Day 213: Most hikers in the Pacific Northwest will be familiar with the larger pink or yellow Monkeyflowers which often line the banks of our streams, their open faces telling the story of how their common name came into existence. Just as common but less well-known is tiny Chickweed Monkeyflower which begins blooming in late spring and persists throughout the summer, better adapted to dry soil than its larger relatives. Shown here in a Penny Perspective, Erythranthe alsinoides will be listed as Mimulus alsinoides in all but the most recent field guides. The distinction came about when molecular studies showed that Erythranthe followed a separate evolutionary line from Mimulus, and thus it was removed from the family Scrophulariaceae and placed instead in Phyrmaceae. While this informational tidbit in no way affects our enjoyment of the smiling "monkey faces" in our meadows, the reclassification demonstrates that science is always moving forward, toward a better understanding of the world around us.

Penny Perspectives - Blue-Eyed Mary

Day 212: As shown in this Penny Perspective, "small-flowered" is an appropriate epithet for Collinsia parviflora, also known as Small-Flowered Blue-Eyed Mary. In fact, the whole plant is seldom more than four inches tall. Even when growing in masses, its brilliant blue flowers fail to stand out against the drab greys and browns of rock and soil. A closer look at this plant would reveal that its petals form a tube which is bent near the base, turning Mary's bright blue eyes to face outward and slightly up, as if to welcome the summer sun and herald the start of wildflower season.

Team Biota's first day in the field since last autumn didn't yield any rarities, although it brought a surprise which was less than pleasant: ticks. I have not previously encountered ticks in the Park, but one of my botany partners and I each found one walking on us. The soil in the area where we picked them up was quite dry for this time of the year. I suspect we'll be seeing more and more of these nasty little creatures as changes in our regional climate shift toward a hotter and drier ecology.

National Park Rustic

Day 359: They call the architectural style "National Park Rustic," although this was the first time I'd seen it applied to a bicycle rack. The last time I'd hiked up to Round Pass, a standard bent-pipe frame had been standing in this spot, provided for those wheeling stalwarts who wanted to take on the challenge of the rocky road. I'm not a strong cyclist, so I'd never taken my bike, figuring that I'd have to push it almost all the way just so I could ride slowly down. No, it's boot leather for me, not tires, not even with the improvements they've made to the closed portion of Westside Road. That said, a lot of work went into the creation of this National Park Rustic rack, achieving the style's goal of keeping Park architecture as visually non-intrusive as possible.

Gobbler's Knob

Day 357: The "shoulder season" of autumn is my favourite time of year, and good weather is not to be wasted! I lost sleep last night trying to figure out if I wanted to take another kayak trip or go for a hike in Pack Forest, and got up this morning with the issue still undecided. A light frost gave me a little more time to think because I usually wait until the thermometer hits 40° before heading out, and by the time I was ready to leave, Pack Forest had won the argument. Or so I thought. As I put my hand on the doorknob, I said, "Y'know, I could go up Westside Road. That would give me a lot more options. I could go up to Indian Henrys via the old Tahoma Creek trail, or I could go up to Round Pass and then decide if I wanted to go to Lake George or go up to South Puyallup Camp and the Colonnades." Before my alarm system could tell me I'd held the door open too long, I grabbed the Park map from its niche in my hutch desk, one decision made and others pending.

At the parking area at Dry Creek, I was still undecided. Nothing for it but to put the pack on the shoulders and let my feet take me where they would! I was surprised to see a brand-new bridge over Fish Creek hefty enough to support trail crew's trucks, even more surprised to find the rocks, ruts and potholes beyond it nicely smoothed out. At the Tahoma Creek trailhead, I said, "Nah, I don't feel like climbing over root balls today...maybe some day when I can get an earlier start." At Round Pass, Lake George beckoned, but I had forgotten that it was only a mile up. "Too early to turn around," I mused, "but do I have time to make it another 1.6 miles to Gob Knob?" Even with the trail getting steeper, I figured I'd just make it in time to be back at the car by 5.

The fire lookout at Gobbler's Knob (lovingly referred to as "Gob Knob" by all Parkies) is no longer manned, but houses a repeater station for our radios. We sometimes have issues with break-ins, so I was happy to see that everything was secure. I spent about fifteen minutes on top, taking the obligatory photos, and then beat-feeted it back to the car. Total distance: roughly 12 miles. Elevation gain: 2700'.

Super-Cool Slime Mold

Day 222: Today, botanists and others honour the birthday of Carl Linnaeus, father of our current system of binomial nomenclature, so although I praise him today, I'll be back to damning him and the breed he spawned the very next time I discover that some plant/lichen/fungus I've found has been renamed since whatever field guide I have open was written. Taxonomy! I love it because it classifies things and makes sense of them. I curse it because it's a fluid science, and what we thought we knew yesterday may prove to be wrong tomorrow, necessitating reclassification and an update to the nomenclature.

Linnaeus' original system consisted of three kingdoms: animals, plants and minerals. Anything non-living fell into the latter category. We have since refined his "Systema Naturae" and today use six kingdoms (five if you're European) to incorporate all living things: Animalia, Plantae, Fungi, Protista, Archaea and Bacteria. Slime molds were originally classified under Fungi, but when it became apparent that they were capable of locomotion, communication and cooperation, scientists kinda had to take a step back to ask themselves a burning question: "Just exactly what the hell is this thing, anyway?" Fungi don't go hunting for food. These guys do, gathering together to move in response to a chemical signal as a mass, albeit slowly, to a new location. Originally, it was believed that portions of the organism were dying off and being replaced by new growth, but by using time-lapse microphotography, true motion of individual cellular entities was observed. This behaviour seemed more suited to the category of "animal" than to "fungus" or "plant," and thus a new kingdom was designated to include them and similar oddities: the protists.

How fast can slime mold move? If you were to set your cell-phone camera down beside a colony and record it for a period of 24 hours, you might see them advance or retreat several inches, "creepy" in the literal sense of the word. You might see them send out "fingers," scouting parties looking for a new food source. Or, as my botany partner Joe discovered when he went back to try to find them again 24 hours after this photo was taken, they may have done an Elvis and left the building entirely. And you thought "Little Shop of Horrors" was funny!

5/27/18 - My identification of Leocarpus fragilis has been confirmed by Angela Mele, slime-mold expert and artist.

Snowshoe To Secret Falls

Day 80: It doesn't happen often enough that I can call it a tradition, but when conditions are right, I like to close out the year with a snowshoe hike. Although I had a haggis dinner planned (complete with neeps and tatties), I finally couldn't resist the pull of sunshine (albeit cold) and bare road. I pulled together a quick winter daypack, threw my snowshoes and poles in the back of the car and was on the trail by 11:30.

Westside Road is gated in winter and makes a lovely snowshoe walk with several turnaround-point options which leave you feeling as if you've achieved a goal. Sometimes, I'll just go as far as the Graphis Scripta Grove, a stand of Red Alder about a mile in, the only place in the Park where I've found the tiny lichen which gave the site its nickname. Other times when I'm feeling ambitious, I'll hit Dry Creek or Fish Creek, but at three miles from the car, the trip back feels like it takes forever. On this occasion, I figured I'd just tag Graphis Scripta and be home in time to cook the haggis, but I got a pleasant surprise.

The route is closed to motorized travel, but skiers and snowshoers both use it for winter recreation, as do boot-footed explorers who invariably discover that postholing isn't fun after the first half mile. Consequently, the track is usually chewed up and lumpy, skiers cutting deep, narrow swaths and snowshoers stumbling along, tripping on the raised edges of the ski ruts. Yesterday, however, it seemed that the skiers had stuck to one "lane" and snowshoers to another; in other words, travel was an utter breeze! I was at Graphis Scripta in no time at all and exulting in my good fortune, decided to continue on to Secret Falls.

That's not it's real name. In fact, it's too small to even have a name. A small cascade tumbles over rocks no more than 50 feet from the bed of Westside Road, but is deeply set in a niche which makes it invisible to anyone on the road. In summer, it can be heard, and thus a small social trail leads to it; in winter, it hides from anyone who does not know where to step into the forest. It is always festooned with icicles in winter, but photography is difficult because the site is so shaded. I kicked myself for not having thought to put the tripod in my pack, but then, I hadn't planned to hike any farther than the alder grove. Fortunately, the snow wasn't overly crusty, so I improvised by jamming the camera into the snow covering a fallen log, allowing me to get in the shot to give some size perspective to the icicles. My visit done, I was tempted to go further, but the thought of haggis pulled me homeward. It was delicious, if a little later to come to table than anticipated.

Corallorhiza Mertensiana

Day 206: "You're looking for pink asparagus." Those were the words I used to describe our quest to Park colleague and friend Anne Spillane this morning. We'd already visited Corallorhiza trifida at two locations and had discovered one more specimen, bringing the year's total to an astonishing 17. During the hunt, I had noticed a few spears of Corallorhiza mertensiana (a related and much more common species) poking their little heads up through the forest duff. I asked Anne if she would like to visit a site I call the "Mertensiana Grove," a suggestion to which she readily agreed. It was there where the search for pink asparagus began in earnest. By the time we had covered roughly half an acre of mossy ground in open forest, our tally of Western Coralroot surely numbered over 100. There were 21 spears in this colony alone, more evidence that 2016 promises to be another banner year for mycoheterotrophs.

As a footnote, our trip also included removal of two more specimens of Tussilago farfara, the invasive I described a few days ago. Both were found at the site of the original infestation. In a moment of whimsy, I put today's score in an interoffice envelope directed to our Plant Ecologist.

Lobaria Oregana, Lettuce Lung Lichen

Day 140: Several varieties of Lung Lichen grow in abundance in the lowlands of the rainy Pacific Northwest. Lobaria oregana is one of the most common; in fact, one source states that in an optimum habitat, it may attain a biomass equivalent to 1 ton per hectare. This species can be distinguished by its unique colour and a lavish fringe of lobules embellishing its margins. Like other Lobarias, Lettuce Lung is pollution-sensitive, and thrives in the clear air of old-growth forest. Generally found on coniferous trees, it may also colonize deciduous species.

Wet And Dry

Day 139: These two photos were taken only three days apart, and they point up one of the issues lichenologists have to face when they're trying to make an identification. A specimen can look very different depending on whether it's wet or dry. Lobaria pulmonaria (Lung Lichen), a common species on Mount Rainier National Park's wet west side, is known for its bright green colour and the ridges which texture its lobes. However, when it dries out, it appears almost grey. A rain shower is all it needs to perk it back up, though. Moisture settles into the network on its upper surface and quickly revitalizes the algae which provide its distinctive hue.

Beak Rock

Day 138: As if dislodged from its place of prominence at the top of a story pole, the head of Raven nonetheless observes all who travel on Westside Road. It is not as apparent when going south to north, but walking north to south, the likeness always stops me in my tracks. A shaggy mat of ferny feathers cascades from the crown, casting the eye into mysterious shadow above the stony beak. I half-expect a quork of mountain-rattling proportions to come forth from this spirit's throat, though what I hear is a softer series of vocalizations made far overhead. It is an acknowledgement: we know that you, human, have seen and recognized our ancestor. We will go with you and keep you safe. My walks are frequently accompanied by ravens, but here, I am in a greater presence.

Secret Falls

Day 136: I thought I'd give my readership a break from lichens for today, although lichenizing was what carried me to this spot. I call this little cascade "Secret Falls" because once the brush grows up, you really have to know where to take a 50-foot detour from the road in order to find it. It's tucked away in a concealed niche just off the Park's Westside Road, and anyone driving by would miss it. Even if you are on foot, the whisper of its passage down the mossy slope is almost lost under the rushing tumult of nearby Tahoma Creek until you are standing close enough to feel its spray. Little sun penetrates here, only a ray or two at the height of the day, casting ephemeral rainbows where surely the wee folk come to bathe. It has no name on any map; it's far too small to be accorded any official dignity, but I for one am glad to have been invited into its confidence.

Peltigera Venosa, Fan Lichen

Day 135: Mount Rainier National Park hosts quite a variety of Pelt lichens, but one I had never recorded was Peltigera venosa, commonly called Fan Lichen. This Peltigera is unique among its fellows in that it exhibits distinct, raised veins on the underside rather than the rhizines (root-like structures) typical of the genus. In fact, it attaches to the substrate with a single rhizine at the very base of the lobe. One of the easiest Pelts to identify, its bright green colour fades to a dreary grey-green in dry conditions. I discovered it along Westside Road while looking at something else, ironically only a couple of days after remarking to a friend that I had not seen it in the Park. There were only half a dozen "leaves" of this small species present at this site.