Weed Warrior

Day 176: It's National Citizen Science Month, and I'm out there doing my part to control invasive species in a challenge issued by the PNWIPC (Pacific Northwest Invasive Plant Council). Yesterday's project turned into a foxglove pull before I'd ridden half a mile on the east end of the Foohills Trail. Digitalis is only in the rosette stage at this point, and the ground is still moist enough that the plants come up fairly easily even where the soil is compacted. I pulled what I could (the others being too numerous or stoutly defended by nettles). This extension of the Foothills Trail opened a few years ago, but this was the first opportunity I'd had to ride it to its terminus at the White River.

Re-cycling

 

Day 228: My bicycle hasn't seen much use over the last couple of years, largely because there's only one of me, and other forms of exercise have taken precedence. In a normal year, nice weather would find me hiking or kayaking if I had no other pressing obligations, so the bike has pretty much stayed in the garage. However, voluntary isolation has made me rethink my routine. Walking the same stretch of road and the same short wooded trails near home was beginning to get old, and I was feeling the need to change it up, broaden my range, so out came my trusty cheapo Schwinn and off I went on a patrol for Scotch broom infestations. I think walking almost every day has helped keep my legs in shape, but even so, a different set of muscles comes into play when you're pedalling. I made seven miles the first day, ten the next. Both still qualify as "short" trips in my estimation, although the inclines seem steeper than I recall. Couldn't possibly have anything to do with age. Nope. Suffice to say that even being firmly beyond seven decades of existence doesn't keep me from imagining myself to be half that old when the wind is whistling past my ears and the wheels keep going 'round and 'round.

All Factors Considered

Day 168: I'm ashamed to admit that I did very little bicycling last year, taking my exercise largely as a mix of hiking and kayaking (oh, and Morris dancing), so I resolved to remedy that sorry state of affairs this year and began today with a measly little seven-mile ride. I would have preferred riding a rail-trail to pedalling up the highway, but all factors considered, staying local was the better choice. First of all, it's been a year since I sat on a bicycle seat for any length of time. Second, Morris dancing and hiking use a different set of muscles than pushing pedals does. Third, I wasn't sure how my injured shoulder would take to leaning over the handlebars. Fourth...and the most important item in my decision-making process...the damn bike won't fit in the new car! Despite the fact that the car is wider, the dimensions are constricted in the arch behind the rear seats, and the trunk depth lacks about 3/4" inch for accommodating the handlebars. Looks like I'm going to have to invest in a cheap bike rack if I'm going to stick with the program.

Interurban-Green River Trail

Day 230: In the winter of 2009, the Green River went out of its banks and the Green River-Interurban Trail was heavily sandbagged in an effort to protect the homes on the far side of the dike along which the trail runs. Some areas of the trail were damaged as well. Once the floodwaters had receded, King County did not have the funds to remove the sandbags and/or repair the trail. It was a sad day for bicyclists and walkers when it was announced that the trail would be closed for the duration.

One particular bicyclist missed the memo. Three years ago, operating on the blithe assumption that all had been put to rights, I parked in Pacific (the southern trailhead) and launched myself toward a Taco Time lunch at the north end of the trail, approximately 18 miles distant. When about seven miles from my start point I discovered a small mountain of sandbags blocking further travel, I was disappointed, to say the least. Unfamiliar with the city streets which might have allowed me to bypass the damaged section and not fond of riding in city traffic, I simply turned around and went home.

The trail has since been reopened, but circumstances haven't permitted me to ride it until today. I had Old Blue in the shop in Sumner for his annual physical, so when I picked him up, it seemed logical to drive a few more miles to Pacific. That hadn't been my original plan for the day, but what the heck, it sounded like a good idea even if I hadn't packed much in the way of snacks.

So there I was, going merrily along, thinking about lunch at Taco Time as I pulled into the Three Friends Fishing Hole wayside, and what did I see, to my surprise? A big orange "Green River Trail Closed" sign! But this time, there were arrows pointing to a detour route. Dismayed, I followed them, knowing I'd be forced onto city streets whether I liked it or not. In a few hundred yards, I came to a busy highway. I scanned for another detour arrow, and the only one I could find seemed to point in entirely the wrong direction, crossing an overpass. Or did it? It was set at an angle, hard to tell. I gave it a try. No, that was definitely wrong. Maybe it meant that I should go through a parking lot and enter the trail again by a local access. On the trail again, I was alone but for one walker on his lunch break from the industrial complex. I made an inquiry and was given some rather vague directions which I followed...again wrong, but at least they led me to a construction worker who pointed me the proper way. In a mile or so, I was back on track. But as I got closer to Taco Time, I spotted more orange signs saying that other areas of the trail would be closed until some time in 2015. Oh dear!

I'm glad I made this ride today. It feels as if it was ordained by the Fates or some such nonsense. I don't think I'll be riding this way again, not until I hear that the construction is completed.

My Bicycle And Me

Day 224: The Pacific Northwest has been basking in summery temperatures for the last several days and they're due to stick around for a couple more before the rains return. Anyone who enjoys the Great Outdoors can't be expected to stay inside if there's any possible way they can escape other obligations. I did have some shopping to do, and thus my destination was dictated by the convenience of locations where I could purchase pet supplies, fishing lures and possibly pay a visit to the bike doctor for the annual derailleur adjustment.

It's only been a week or so since I rode the Foothills Trail from Orting to South Prairie, so I wasn't expecting any surprises. The frogs aren't out at the wetland wayside yet, nor have I seen the Great Blue Heron who sometimes hangs around, but Red-Winged Blackbirds provided a brief diversion. South Prairie's little riverside park is a pleasant place to stop for lunch, and if no children are about, the swing is great fun for an "older kid." The emu (a sight which stops nearly everyone) was grazing in his field, and otherwise, the river just rolled quietly by, its passage only marred by the regrowth of invasive Japanese Knotweed along the banks. Given this pastoral vignette, the word which might come to mind is "uneventful," which indeed described the day until I came to the bull ambling casually down the center of the trail.

This is not the type of obstacle one normally encounters on paved bike paths. His ladies were calling to him from the pasture, voices he answered with a loud and mournful bellow. It was clear that he had no idea how he'd come to be on the wrong side of the fence and unfortunately, I had no clue either. We exchanged glances and passed each other without incident, and I rode on, stopping at the farmer's house to report his errant charge. The owner's comment? "Yeah, he does that from time to time. I'll take care of it."

Western Dog Violet, Viola Adunca

Day 210: After puzzling my readers with semantically bewildering yellow Violets, today provided an opportunity to expand the record with a more "violet" example. Viola adunca (Western Dog Violet) is common in Washington and like its kin, it prefers the moist ground alongside streams and ditches. The lowest petal is heavily lined with "bee guides" and the two side petals have white beards. Another prominent feature of this Violet is the large spur, visible here on the back of the bud (the hole was made by an insect). Note how the spur projects well back from the sepal. As it matures, it will lengthen and curve upward, becoming more hooked at the tip.

Pardon Me, Your Slip Is Showing

Day 21: First let me say that I did not place that piece of lichen on the cap of this mushroom. This is exactly how I discovered it. Today along the Yelm-Tenino trail, the mushrooms were abundant and varied, but of all I saw, this specimen was the most beautiful. Based on what I observed in other examples, I believe it is a member of the Stropharia family, although the annulus is not readily apparent in this photo. Others exhibited a distinct "ring" beneath the cap. The gills were dusky lavender, and some specimens showed significant scales on the stipe. The "lace" is typical of Stropharias: "Pardon me, your slip is showing."

Taking the mushroom tour today brought back a lot of good memories. My late husband and I lived only a few miles from the future trail, although in those days, it was still an active railroad line. Our property had been his grandparents', and when we inherited it and started making preparations to move in, we often took walks on the acreage to familiarize ourselves with the unique ecology of western Washington prairie. On one particular occasion, we found a dozen or more perfect specimens of Amanita muscaria, the "Mario mushroom" with the red cap flecked with white spots. The species became our mascot for the family ranch, which we then named "Toadstool Acres," although it wasn't the only Amanita which occurred there, nor even the most prevalent. Each walk in the autumn woods turned up something new and generally suspect. Occasionally, we'd find something we knew was edible: boletas, shaggymanes, and one spring, a solitary morel which chose to grow at the very edge of our concrete stoop. Some years, the muscarias failed to appear; other times, they grew in profusion. We never determined what conditions they favoured.

In other mycological pursuits, Bruce proved himself to be a superb "truffle hound," rooting out the best and biggest before my mom or I had added a single 'shroom to our baskets. He had a nose for boletas which couldn't be matched, and frequently out-picked us two to one. Riding through Mushroom Country today, I had to wonder what he could have found for dinner while I was grubbing around on my knees taking pictures of "toadstools" you wouldn't want to eat. I bet he'd have come up with something.

Footnote: I am almost certain this is Stropharia ambigua, a mushroom common in Pacific Northwest conifer forests. It is reputed to be edible, but "tastes like old leaves" and therefore is not desirable.

Craw-Cray-Fish-Dad

Day 307: Feeling the need to exercise the muscles I missed on yesterday's kayak outing, I decided to go for a short (15-mile) bike ride on the Foothills rail-trail today. The stretch from Orting to South Prairie is a pleasant ride through farmland and wetland, and the few intersections with driveways and cross-streets require only looking both ways for safety in contrast to the frequent signalled crossings you will encounter on the way north from downtown. With hot weather contributing to the equation, South Prairie seemed a reasonable destination.

There's not much to South Prairie, just a few streets of houses, a mini-mart/gas station, a fire department building, two espresso stands and a lovely little park with old wooden picnic tables and tall trees to offer shade. The trail ends at the park, its eventual extension still tied up in right-of-way negotiation with private property owners. There is a bridge to nowhere across South Prairie Creek, a memory of the old railroad.

I was perched at a picnic table when I first observed a man and very young girl (his granddaughter, perhaps) exploring the exposed rocks in the creek bed. Occasionally, the man would roll a melon-sized rock aside from its spot in a pool, then stand like a watchful heron, dipping quickly with his hand into the water. The signs were clear to me: he was searching for crawdads. When I saw that he had finally captured one, I stepped down the bank and asked if I could take a picture.

Like the lobsters they resemble, crawdads...crayfish...crawfish are delicious. The problem lies in catching enough for a feed. The only meat is in the tail, but it is juicy and buttery and may be served with or without sauce. The little critters are numerous in most lakes and streams in the area, but the Washington Dept. of Fish and Game regulates the "catch" with respect to native/non-native species, size and sex. You almost need a degree in fisheries biology to tell one from the other, but I believe this is the native Signal Crayfish (Pacifastacus leniusculus) which in many locations is classified equally as an invasive species. Go figure!

Sunny Bunny

Day 286: Almost every time I go for a bike ride, I see bunnies, and after hearing a horror story from a bike technician about how he broke his collarbone when he smacked a bunny on his way to work one day, I live in mortal dread of one of the little critters running out in front of me. They can change direction on a dime, these little guys, and they make jack-rabbit starts (yeah, I know...bad joke). I'd had half a dozen running alongside me this morning before I spotted this guy, hiding in the dappled shade of a small cedar. Usually, they're too jumpy to get a decent picture, but I think he was convinced his camouflage was impeccable. He sat still as a stone and allowed me to go past him, no more than ten feet away. And there he sat, content to let me take his picture and go on my merry way. I hope he finished his breakfast before some other cyclist frightened him away.

Swamp Witches

Day 245 (bonus edition): I can't resist posting this shot from yesterday's bike ride. It makes me feel like I was dropped into a Russian fairy tale and Baba Yaga is lurking in the woods. The pool is one of many alongside the Foothills Trail between Orting and South Prairie. This one in particular also reminds me of a Mangrove swamp. The trees are Cottonwoods and Alders, though, and the pool dries up almost entirely by the end of the season. Still, these Swamp Witches do their voodoo and enchant me every time I pass by.

Open Hostility

Today as I was sitting by one of my favorite wetlands along the Foothills Trail, I was casting about for photographic subjects and in the tail of my eye, caught a flurry of wings and a dive-bombing streak. I looked up and saw a Great Blue Heron perched at the top of an old snag about twenty feet high and a Red-Winged Blackbird devilling the daylights out of him. There were actually two male Red-Wings working together. One bird would dive for the Heron's head, permitting its companion in the assault to approach from behind to land on the big bird's back or stubby tail. The Heron stood its ground for a good fifteen minutes, remaining motionless under the savage attacks save for stretching its neck and raising its beak. Finally, it gave up. One Blackbird immediately occupied the perch and announced its dominance with rapidly repeated calls. If you look closely, you can see where the cap of the Heron's wing has been bloodied by repeated peckings. I was fortunate to make this capture of the Red-Wing in full display.