Ice Planet

Day 47: "I don't care where we go, just as long as it's warm." Crow took one last look at the frozen Earth as the TARDIS spun into the time stream, ready for any adventure as long as it didn't involve thermal underwear. The Doctor had promised her abundant lichens to study, but something had gone terribly wrong. Instead of landing in an interglacial period, they had come down in a mini-Ice Age. "I suppose I should be grateful for the lack of mosquitoes," she continued. "I didn't really think that through very well. Can we turn up the heat? My toes are still numb."

The only specimen she had been able to retrieve for her collection proved to be identical in all respects to the Cladina mitis of her own time. While it was interesting to note that lichen evolution had apparently reached its acme in this era, and the Cladina was proving to be superbly adapted by surviving without change for thousands of years, the knowledge warmed nothing but the proverbial cockles of her heart. Her hands were blue. Her nose was red. Her hair, already silver, carried a fine sheen of frost. "How about orchids?" she asked. "Mycoheterotrophs? And what are YOU worried about, anyway? The bugs don't like you. It must be that sonic screwdriver, the noise it makes. Gawd, give me Daleks any day over mosquitoes and ticks!"

It could be that the Doctor didn't know what he was letting himself in for when he picked up his latest companion. He'd found her flat-out on the forest floor, magnifying glass in hand and a camera around her neck. He'd asked what she was looking for and she'd replied, "Alien life-forms. They're everywhere." A widely travelled man, he'd taken her figure of speech literally and offered his assistance, something he could hardly withdraw over a minor misunderstanding. When at last she exulted, "Pilophorus! I knew you were around here someplace!" he realized his mistake. Only then did she face him, introducing herself with a grubby handshake. "I'm Crow," she said. "I'm studying lichens."

"I noticed," he replied as casually as he could manage. "And I'm the Doctor. I know a place..."

Velvet Star Cluster

Day 198: When Hoya carnosa bursts forth, it does so in an explosion of little succulent stars which, when observed closely, appear to be made of white velvet blushed with pink. They feel waxy due to their thickness(hence the name), but in fact they are as fuzzy-wuzzy as a teddy bear. Each star bears another smaller one in its center, and each pendent umbel hosts a dozen or more blossoms, a veritable galaxy of double-star systems, each one with a dark nova at its core.

Carnosa is but one variety of Hoya, and a common one at that. There are dozens of other varieties, each with flowers unique to the type. Some grow as vines, others as a mat. Some climb, some trail. Some bloom in only one season and others bloom almost continuously. Many are easily grown as houseplants, at least for foliage. Bringing them into blossom may prove trickier, though. I've been tending a H. lauterbachii for about ten years now with no sign of a flower, but my H. bella more than makes up for it with a shower of stars every six weeks or so. Carnosa comes but once a year, like the Perseid meteors, and it makes it worth the wait.

Sky Watch

Day 92: You might think that astronomy was an odd hobby for someone in the Pacific Northwest to want to take up, but with the approach of Comet Lovejoy, my desire for a good telescope was renewed. However, for the last two weeks, I've found myself wishing for a giant fan to blow the clouds away, and I was beginning to fear that any occasion for viewing the comet would be doomed by overcast conditions. I was watching the weather report closely, but NOAA seemed to have a very different definition for "partly cloudy" than what was happening in my sky. My fears were turning to despair until yesterday when I finally saw blue. However, by late afternoon, clouds had reappeared.

After walking nine miles, I ate dinner and treated myself to a hot bath and a cup of decaffeinated tea. What happened next was as certain as death and taxes: I sat down in my chair and promptly fell asleep. When I woke up, it was almost bedime. The desire to crawl under the covers was strong, but I felt I really needed to check sky conditions, so I stepped outside in my nightie and looked up to see Orion, big as life, and the Pleiades as well. Those were just the pointers I needed to find Lovejoy! But I couldn't detect it with my naked eye, nor could I find it with binoculars. I was sure I was looking in the right spot, so I went back into the house, pulled on jeans and a fleece jacket, and carted a card table and the telescope out into the back yard. In an exceptional display of foresight, I had re-sighted the LED star-finder that afternoon after fiddling it out of whack by turning the wrong knobs when trying to turn it on. I pointed the LED at the target location and put my eye to the eyepiece. It was only necessary to pan a little bit before a fuzzy blob of light entered my field of view. I centered the comet in the 'scope and carefully changed eyepieces for a higher magnification which allowed me to distinguish the nucleus, if only faintly. I did not move up to the Barlow doubler because the comet nearly filled the field (it would have made a fuzzy object bigger but fuzzier). Needless to say, I was ecstatic with my "discovery," and now I'm anxious for the next astronomical event. After all, Lovejoy was a surprise to everyone.