Osprey, Pandion Haliaetus

Day 212: It is only appropriate that the subject matter of today's post should be a bird, but because it is Global Big Day and I'm in the midst of my own "backyard bird count," the Lake St. Clair Osprey will have to suffice. Lake St. Clair contains half a dozen or so small islands, the largest of which is probably close to an acre. Regardless of their size, most have a house or cabin on them. Having humans around has not deterred a family of Ospreys from nesting on one of them, for their nest is built at least 100' above lake level. It is a magnificent edifice of sticks, probably big enough for me to curl up in, stuck in the very tip-top of a Doug-fir. It's been there for as long as I've been visiting the lake, and sometimes I've been lucky enough to spot the chicks' heads when mom comes back from hunting with a gorge full of trout. I was not so fortunate this week, but I could hear the mewing of the younglings as the parent made repeated trips to feed them, and when she'd emptied her gullet, she would return to her perch in this ancient pine to survey the water. If a fish strayed too close to the surface, she would stoop on it with a great splash, sometimes missing her prey but for the most part, being successful with the grab. Soon, there will be more Ospreys in flight over Lake St. Clair.

Sundews Waking

Day 210: As I approached their log in my kayak, I was beginning to worry about my "kids." I could only see a few blushes of red in the moss and grass, and small ones at that. I wasn't thinking about the persistent cold weather which had carried winter into April until I got close enough to see that the Sundews' little sticky, insect-trapping paddles were still quite small, and in fact some of them were still tightly closed, looking rather like bean sprouts trapped in the moss. Then it occurred to me that they were only now emerging from their long winter's nap, having spent the cold season curled in on themselves to form a structure called a hibernaculum (plural, hibernacula). This is how they survive, husbanding their own warmth, minimizing exposure of delicate tissues to freezing temperatures. At this point, they're barely out of bed and haven't had their first cup of coffee. I have no doubt that the next time I visit, they'll be fully awake and possibly even flowering.

A Perfect Paddle

Day 209: It was an absolutely perfect day for a paddle on Yelm's Lake St. Clair, the first time I've been in the 'yak in two years. I spent about three hours on the water, covered a little over four miles, ate a cookie lunch in Pirate's Cove, saw five turtles, an Osprey and a Bald Eagle, and visited some old friends who will make an appearance in a subsequent post. A light breeze kept glare at a minimum, disturbing the surface of the water only slightly. Not too hot, not too cold...I think Goldilocks would have approved this day. But four miles was my limit, and I'm glad I didn't push for more even though I hated to leave. I'll be back. Those "old friends" I mentioned were only just waking up from hibernation.

Back In The Saddle

Day 207: Last year at this time, I was suffering. There was no question about going out in the kayak. I couldn't even lift a cup of coffee out of the microwave. Given that I'd already had a major rebuild of my right shoulder, I wasn't keen on repeating the experience, and in any event, I just don't go to the doctor if I can possibly avoid doing so. During this same time frame, my botany partner had a knee replaced. He was very pleased with the relief he got using a recirculating cold-water pack and suggested that I might try putting ice on my shoulder. I purchased a specially-shaped ice pack for the purpose and for several months, was icing the shoulder six or seven times each day. It seemed to be improving, and gradually, I tapered off the treatment. In hindsight, I realize that I had apparently dislocated it when I raised up under a kitchen counter. The ice reduced the swelling, and in confirmation of my suspicion, one afternoon, there was a loud POP as it snapped back into place, and any lingering pain simply disappeared. At that point, kayak season was behind me without a single outing, not even to visit the sundews, and I swore 2023 was not going to be a repeat. The 'yak rack is on the car, and if the weather cooperates later this week, I'm going for a paddle!

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.

Common Merganser, Mergus Merganser

Day 325: One of the many things I enjoy about kayaking is that it gives me the opportunity to observe waterfowl and shore bird species. At this same location several years ago, I saw a Spotted Sandpiper and was hoping that another one might be patrolling the shingle, but what I found instead was a group of five or six young Common Mergansers diving among the weeds in the shallows. They were quite active, and as soon as one made a dip, the others would follow, with the whole group often disappearing beneath the surface of the water and then popping back up en masse amid much splashing. I could not tell what they were eating, but young mergansers are only modestly discriminating. They will consume weed, invertebrates or tadpoles, although as they mature, they graduate to a diet of fish. Fry were plentiful in a nearby part of the river, but the aquatic weeds were too thick here for me to see what had attracted the birds. I watched them for fifteen minutes or so, entertained by their synchronous display of diving skills which, if not quite perfect, should have earned them a prize in their class.

Tilton Paddle

 

Day 324: Although this trip has been in the planning for the last couple of weeks, I had not realized that four years had passed since the last time I paddled the Tilton Canyon. Accessed via Ike Kinswa State Park, the route begins where the Tilton empties into Mayfield Lake. Progressing roughly eastward for half a mile, the waterway restricts abruptly into a steep-walled, narrow canyon for a quarter mile, then to open out onto this scene where the river splits into two channels. In previous years, I've turned left here, and so I did yesterday, only to find myself blocked from further passage by a log jam another half mile up. Coming back, I rounded the point of the gravel-bar "island" and continued on my journey. A small riffle posed a challenge. I nearly succeeded in paddling through it, but the current in the last three feet was such that I could only hold my ground, despite paddling as furiously as I could. I let the flow take me back downstream fifty yards, got out on the shingle and dragged the kayak in shallower water until I was beyond the riffle. Even so, I only reached my usual turn-around point, and I ran aground where the channel was again blocked by logs. There, the island was too weedy for me to portage, and in any event, I'd only have gained a few hundred feet before another riffle would have presented a new and possibly insurmountable obstacle. I ate lunch on the island, documented invasives, and then "shot the rapids" down the little riffle to return to this basin. Then it was back to the canyon, around another small island, and home, feeling that September Morn had indeed been well-spent.

New Kids' Corner

Day 284: Any time I go out on Lake St. Clair, the first order of business is to visit the Sundews, and of course now I have a second group of "kids" to monitor, so I started with them. They're not easily visible in this photo, and my reason for posting it is to show you just how difficult they are to spot. See that slight red cast at the base of the green vegetation? From fifty feet away, that hue draws me like a magnet. It could just be stems of something else, but it might be Sundews. That was how I found the original Sundew Island (a piece of broken dock similar to this one): a touch of red. There are several hundred Sundews in this photo, believe it or not, but not a one of them had an open flower, which was what I was hoping for on Thursday. The sun had not yet risen above the tree tops, so I paddled around the lake for a few hours before approaching the second group I call Jack's Lot. Nope, no flowers there either. Buds, but no flowers. Still, a day on the water is better than a day at home, and a visit with the "kids" is always good.

Test Pilots

Day 283: While paddling around Lake St. Clair yesterday, I heard the familiar call of an Osprey from their annual nesting site on a small island. Looking up to the broken crown of a tall Doug-fir, I could see what I initially took for a parent bird sitting on the rim of the massive nest. Occasionally, it would stretch its wings or turn its head, and after watching for several minutes, I decided to move on. Coming around on the other side of the tree, I turned the 'yak toward the nest again and thought I could see a second bird. The first raised its wings several times, and then the second began flapping and fluttering. At that point, I realized that these were two juveniles experimenting with the mechanics of flight. The second bird seemed to rise from the nest slightly as it beat its wings, and then suddenly, it lifted clear of the nest and caught three or four feet of air before settling back into the bowl. It only happened once in the ten minutes I watched them, and I was fortunate to be able to capture photos of the best action.

Strategies

Day 269: If you have ever accidentally come into contact with fly-paper or a sticky trap, you can appreciate an insect's panicked reaction to becoming stuck on a Sundew. The difference is that you were in no danger of being consumed, and only had to find some sort of approved solvent to cleanse the gluey residue from your fingers once you'd pried yourself loose. You did not struggle and further ensnare yourself with each flutter of your wings or thrashing of your limbs; you did not feel enzymes beginning to dissolve your soft tissues like some bizarre form of flesh-eating bacteria. A Round-leaved Sundew is ruthless. Each of the fine hairs surrounding its spatulate disk is tipped with a drop of something far less forgiving than instant glue, creating an ambush which only the strongest can elude. The righthand photo shows a Sundew from which an insect has escaped. Notice that at the 1 o'clock position, the hairs are missing from the disk, wrenched away by a more fortunate bug than most. On the other hand, the predatory strength of Sundew "glue" is clearly indicated in the lefthand image (side view) where a single Drosera paddle has snagged a damselfly dinner. And forgive me, for as curious as those of you who have ever licked a piece of frozen metal may be, it must be stated that I have never prodded a Sundew. Sorry, kids. If you want that experience, you'll have to find your own plants.

They Hunt In Packs

Day 267: Warning: you are going to see several days of Sundew posts. It's been a year and a half since I had a chance to visit my "kids," and if I can put up with your offspring/pet posts, it's only fair that you can endure these. Besides, they are just SO CUTE! Each one displays something unique, its "personality," if you will, but don't be deceived by appearances. These creatures hunt in packs, albeit non-mobile ones.

Arnie recently sent me an article which described a different species of Drosera and its behaviour: D. makinoi, which is found in Japan. The researchers who studied it ran a statistical analysis to determine if closer-packed communities of plants captured more or less prey species, and the size of the prey they obtained. They found a correlation between plant density and larger captures which, if you think about it, makes perfect sense. They posited that D. makinoi's long, slender leaves helped multiple plants snag a shared meal. On the other hand, though, they found no such correlation with Drosera rotundifolia (Round-leaved Sundew), and that's a point with which I will take firm issue. I have seen too many damselflies captured in the tightly-packed rosettes of Lake St. Clair's Sundew colonies, and will argue that plant density most certainly does work as a hunting strategy, at least there. In fact, I think damselflies are the primary food source for the group I've dubbed "Jack's Lot," shown in the photo above. One damsel may find herself helpless in the clutches of four or five hungry little Droseras at once! And when there has been a hatch of damsels, the Droseras gorge.

In a sidebar, I am pleased to announce that I found a second population of rotundifolia on the lake. It was near where I first discovered the broken, floating remnants of a dock I called "Sundew Island." During the winter several years ago, Sundew Island went adrift. I was able to find pieces of it for a couple of years, but eventually, all traces of it disappeared. The new population occupies another bit of broken dock which may some day go wandering, but I'll be looking for it, wanting to keep an eye on my "kids," wherever they may roam.

Jack's Lot

Day 274: An unseasonably wet June conspired with Park duties and other commitments to keep me from getting out in the kayak until yesterday and naturally, my first priority was to check on my "kids" at Lake St. Clair. The original Sundew Island (a bit of dock gone astray) has long since disappeared, but the colonies on one homeowner's breakwater logs are vigorous and spreading. I call them Jack's Lot, Jack being the homeowner under discussion. True to form, he spotted me taking photos and hollered down from his deck, "How they doin'?" "Fine, Jack!" I shouted back. "They're in bloom. I'm getting some new photos for a talk I'll be giving in the Park next month." After repeated encounters with me, Jack now realizes that he has something very special in his care, so he replied, "Don't tell anybody about them! They're our little secret!" I gave him my assurance, as if he really needed it.

Drosera rotundifolia (Round-leaved Sundew) has disappeared from one location within the boundaries of Mount Rainier National Park, shaded out by the encroachment of young alders. I have never visited the second Park site where this insectivorous plant is known to occur, so cannot speak for the population there. In the longer view, Sundews are relatively rare in Washington overall. A second species (Drosera anglica) has been reported from a tight handful of locations in the state. Some day, I hope to see it as well. That said, the surprise of unexpectedly coming across rotundifolia in the field while on an ordinary kayak trip is one I will never forget: a snap of my head toward a blur of red and an uncontrolled vocal outburst of "Is that Sundews!?" The sudden recognition of a species I had only dreamed of finding was most certainly one of the high points of my botanical career. You can have your birthdays and anniversaries. These are my Life Events.

Sundew Rosette

Day 333: The primary motivation behind any kayaking trip on Lake St. Clair is paying a visit to my "kids," the burgeoning Sundews which have colonized two breakwater logs on either side of Jack's dock. Jack, the homeowner whose last name is unknown to me, sometimes comes down to the shore for a chat, and always assures me that he's taking good care of them (even if he does refer to them as "those Venus Fly-trap things"). Part of his maintenance is to keep the logs free of other growth which might snuff them out. To this end, he goes out on the logs on foot, cutting small alders and rooting out Pseudacorus as well as other weedy species, but unfortunately, this means that there is always a certain amount of attrition in the Sundew population as a trade-off for his diligence. If the Sundews were any less numerous, this would give me cause for concern, but they are doing well, and each year, I see new colonies springing up as they gradually claim more of the logs as their own. They obviously like the habitat, as evidenced by this year's crop of seed capsules.

Paddle Cache

Day 331: I'm of two minds about the two dozen or more "paddle caches" on Lake St. Clair. Although I enjoy getting five stars from the terrain rating (it takes "special equipment," i.e., a water craft), it annoys me that almost every one of the caches was placed by the same cacher under any of several different accounts. Basically, she "owns" the lake, leaving no room for anyone else to place a hide there. Worse, because she uses a couple of different names for herself as well as acting as proxy for a small handful of other cachers, she also gets to claim each cache as a find for one or more of her alternate personas. She's quick to fill in any vacancies. The cache in the photo above was one of the earliest placed on the lake. When it went missing and its owner archived it, the glutton seized the moment and claimed the spot for her own. That said, I've retired from placing caches and only go out to find those which are either rated high for terrain or have some other particular appeal, so I'm reaping the rewards of her hoggishness at the same time I'm disparaging it.

Yakking About Bioluminescence

Day 247: Quoting Wikipedia, "Noctiluca scintillans, commonly known as the sea sparkle...is a free-living, nonparasitic, marine-dwelling species of dinoflagellate that exhibits bioluminescence when disturbed...Its bioluminescence is produced throughout the cytoplasm of this single-celled protist, by a luciferin-luciferase reaction in thousands of spherically shaped organelles, called scintillons." And that was the basis for an outfitter-run kayaking paddle into the Nisqually Reach and McAllister Creek from 8-11:30 PM last night. I got home at 1 AM, still sparkling with the thrill of having completed one of my Bucket List projects: witnessing bioluminescence with my own two eyes.

We set out from Luhr Beach just before sundown, ten clients in five tandem kayaks and the outfitter (a biology researcher) in his single. We shot about a mile out into Hogum Bay, and then as darkness settled over us, we turned inland, paddling a hundred or so yards off-shore toward McAllister Creek. Sam (the outfitter) knew what to expect, and naturally sighted the first glints of bioluminescence long before anyone else did, but within ten minutes of his first announcement of the phenomenon, it began showing itself to the rest of us. At first, it appeared as only a few quick sparks of light, but as the night grew darker and our eyes adjusted, the flashes became more frequent until with each stroke of the paddle, it seemed like silvery fireworks were bursting in the disturbed water, thicker in some areas, absent in others, and sometimes clumped up into larger masses. It shimmered like glitter, each flash lasting only a microsecond. Sam explained that each single cell stores only enough energy for one flash per day, and that the organism uses the effect as a "burglar alarm," protecting itself against one predator by luring a larger one to eat its pursuer.

A lot of what Sam related as we paddled through the field of seaborne "shooting stars" pertained to the history of the area: the settlement, the agriculture, the politics. I contented myself with watching the fire in the sea, dancing beneath the water's surface. I've never been much for human history. It seems so dull when placed alongside the wonders of the natural world.

The bioluminescent effect grew in strength as the night deepened and as we paddled back to our starting point, each stroke of the paddle was outlined in a milky glow and ripples of light followed. Sometimes a single star-like glint would linger on the paddle blades, or on our fingers as we trailed them in the water. Then as we approached the boat ramp, the phenomenon appeared to dwindle as artificial light assaulted our eyes. No doubt the sparkle was still present, but as with so many things, the influence of Man dominated, repressing the magic of Nature.

Seussian Sundew

Day 223: I encountered a Seussian Sundew in my patrol of Lake St. Clair today, or maybe it's the child in the poem:
There was a little girl who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good, she was very, very good,
But when she was bad, she was horrid.

Yes, I made my first trip out in the 'yak for the year, and of course my priority was visiting my kids. They are exceptionally lush this year along Jack's logs, but I still haven't been able to locate the errant Sundew Island which went adrift a couple of years ago. Some of Jack's mob were just starting to unfurl and looked very much like bean sprouts. Others were fully open and already digesting a wide variety of insects. It's too early yet for the flowering stalks to emerge, but you can bet I'll be checking on them every couple of weeks.

Mysterious Island

Day 12: Lake Kapowsin is shallow. Its maximum depth is roughly 30', and it is a veritable minefield of subsurface stumps due to the geologic process which formed it. When the Electron Mudflow surged down the Puyallup Valley approximately 500 years ago, it blocked the outlet to Ohop Creek and caused the water to back up in the basin we now know as the lake. The stumps are the remains of the drowned forest, and are a significant hazard for boaters, even one moving slower than usual in her kayak. One high spot of terrain remains as a 30-acre island on the northeast side. Most of the island is very brushy with salal and other shrubs, but a few open areas are considered "party spots" and are used occasionally as illegal campsites. A few pockets are so densely canopied that little light reaches the forest floor, a factor which led me to explore there for lichens and fungi. I found no unusual species, although there was a notable abundance of Evernia on the few Doug firs growing among the cedars.

Port Of Call

Day 11: It would have been criminal to waste a day of glorious, golden October weather, so as soon as the nip was out of the morning air, I headed for Lake Kapowsin with no purpose in mind other than to paddle until my arms got tired. Of course, I'm ever vigilant for invasive plants, but other than the occasional blackberry vine, I found none. However, an encounter with a Nutria at the neck of the "inside passage" behind the island left us both feeling quite surprised. This was the first time I have ever seen one in the wild, and unfortunately, I was unable to get a photo before it slipped off the log where it had been resting. I got a good view of the hindquarters and rat-like tail. Nutria were farmed for their fur in Washington many years ago, and when the practice proved cost-prohibitive (the guard hairs are difficult to remove from the desirable portion of the pelt), many of the farms simply turned their animals loose. Now I know to watch for them when I'm on Kapowsin.

Drosera Rotundifolia

Day 351: I've still had no luck finding the remains of the original Sundew Island at Lake St. Clair, nor have I turned up any new locations for them in any of the lake's four arms. Their last remaining sanctuary is homeowner Jack's log breakwater, but oh, they are happy there! Two logs, one on either side of Jack's dock, help prevent the shoreline erosion caused by boat wake. There are clearly posted speed limits (variable depending on water level) but some boat owners ignore them or pilot ungainly craft which generate a wake at any speed, and many homes along the shoreline have some form of wake mitigation. Jack keeps his logs clear of young alders and invasive pseudacorus, creating a perfect maintained habitat for these insectivorous plants. While I was checking on them a few weeks ago, he stepped down to the dock and hallooed at me, "How are they doing?" "Just fine, Jack," I replied. "You're keeping them very happy. Thank you!" Never mind that he refers to them as "those Venus fly-trap things." His heart's in the right place, even if he doesn't fully understand what a rarity he has.