Boleta Trio

Day 336: "Edulis" means "edible," and that's not saying half of it. Boletus edulis is perhaps my very favourite wild 'shroom, edging Chanterelles into second place. I'd gone past one in the morning, electing not to pick it right then and there because I didn't want it to spend the day banging around in my pack, but on the way back to the car, I was dismayed to discover that I wasn't the only person who recognized the species. My intended dinner had been neatly cut off at the base. I used a little language unsuited to my uniform after checking to be sure no visitors were within hearing distance, but glad nonetheless that I'd managed to find one hiding under the low boughs of a subalpine fir. A search of the harvested area yielded up no more, although I did find two more by making a long detour on a connecting trail. Boletas are generally regarded as a fairly safe family, if not quite a "beginner mushroom." Any with red caps or red reticulation on the stipe are to be avoided, and those whose flesh or pores stain blue when broken or crushed may cause reactions in sensitive individuals. Edulis is easy to identify by its bulbous white/tan base and brown cap. The pores are also whitish. To prepare Boletas, cut the stipes crossways and discard any wormy portions. Remove the pores and if the cap is viscid (sticky), peel it away from the flesh. Slice into 1/4" pieces and fry in butter. Oh, so yummy!

My Kind Of Place

Day 335: I had other plans for extending my MeadoWatch hike yesterday, so instead of continuing on to the end of the maintained portion of the Paradise Glacier Trail half a mile further on, I took my lunch beside this small, persistent alpine tarn. I don't recall having ever seen it dry, even in a drought year. It would be a good "bathtub" but for two factors: the trail runs right beside it and the bottom is covered with grapefruit-sized rocks. Still, it makes a good destination, just a little ways above my last MeadoWatch waypoint. That said, now that Labor Day is past, I had it all to myself for the half hour I spent there.

MeadoWatch is winding down as the plants are now mostly in the seed-releasing phase of growth. I hope to do one more hike on the Naches Loop, but I am quite keenly aware that I am at the mercy of the Weather Gods, and they are not always kind. However, September hiking always brings rewards: the fall colours are starting, the wildlife is active preparing for winter, crisp mornings and cooler afternoons are perfect for the exertion demanded by the Mountain's trails. In the course of my travels yesterday, I encountered a family of four grouse, one bear, one young marmot whose tail I nearly stepped on, and one former Park superintendent with his mate and cub. As he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, Randy King said he'd been hoping to find me on Eatonville's Bud Blancher trail. He showed me a photo. "I bet you know what this plant is, Crow!" I didn't, but I looked it up when I got home. Next time our paths cross, I'll deliver the information. It's a slower world in the Mountain's realm, my kind of place.

Spiranthes Romanzoffiana, Hooded Ladies' Tresses

Day 334: Although not a species of concern, Spiranthes romanzoffiana (Hooded Ladies' Tresses) is sufficiently uncommon that when I found it blooming in an off-trail area, I decided it would be a good subject for my daily post. We are fast approaching the time of year when I start having difficulty finding "blog shots" on my outings; we're not there yet, but it won't be long before the snow flies. It always makes me wonder how seemingly "delicate" plants survive the bitter subalpine/alpine winters, buried in snow for eight or nine months of the year. The secret lies within their cells, literally. As you may know, plain water freezes at 32 degrees. If you add sugar to it (let's say you're making Kool-Aid popsicles), the freezing point is lowered. Since plants normally contain certain amounts of sucrose within their cells (variable depending on the plant), this affords some minor protection. Hardier plants may also contain a type of "antifreeze protein" which prevents freezing in the spaces between their cells. Others may have a greater level of lipids (fats) in their cell membranes, again a factor in creating a lowered freeze point. When you get to the bottom line, you'll find that those dainty little wildflowers are much better equipped to withstand cruel winters than you are. Ain't Nature grand?

The Lorax Tree

Day 333: "I speak for the trees," the Lorax said. And there he was, with all of his friends and relations, in Mount Rainier National Park where I'm sure he was overseeing me at my duties. One look at the Lorax Tree will convince you that Dr. Seuss drew his inspiration from a lichen. Alectoria sarmentosa often "beards" trees and branches, but I have never seen quite so Lorax-y a representation as this. It made me laugh out loud. Undoubtedly blown to either side when a gust of wind hit the tree, the Lorax's facial hair is unmistakable. Don't ever try to tell me the common name for this lichen is "Witch's Hair." Nope, it's Lorax Whiskers, forevermore and always.

Mormon Fritillary, Speyeria Mormonia

Day 332: Sometimes I wonder if what first drew me to natural history was a love of words. Even as a very young child, I delighted in dropping Latin names into casual conversation, much to the annoyance of my peers who dubbed me "the Professor" (and with few exceptions, they did not mean it kindly). My affinity for the sciences was ridiculed, but that only drove me deeper into the books. I couldn't see wasting my time in styling my hair or comparing colours of nail polish, nor in soliciting the attention of boys and attending dances (not that I was ever invited). Science has always provided me a comfortable refuge, even when taxonomy drives me to screaming. Knowing my interest in the etymology of species names, Arnie recently provided me with a link to an exceptionally comprehensive compilation of Latin and Latinized botanical names from Calflora, giving sources and meanings. I had hoped to find something similar for butterflies, but alas, the only information I've been able to retrieve is that Adolph Speyer was an entomologist specializing in Lepidoptera during the mid-1800s, and the genus Speyeria was named for him. The "mormonia" portion of the Mormon Fritillary's name (Speyeria mormonia) remains a mystery, despite multiple undocumented claims to a relationship with the Mormon religion and its followers. It's not enough to pull it up on a Google search. I want to find the truth.

Hopper Heaven

Day 331: "Rainierensis" should give you a clue, and a quote from noted entomologist Andrew Nelson Caudell described them as "numerous in Paradise Valley, where they were destroying grass and small plants." If you're travelling at timberline in the Park in September, you'll find his statement entirely believable. The Cascade Timberline Grasshopper (Prumnacris rainierensis) is arguably our most abundant 'hopper, and when I say "abundant," I mean that they can be found by the thousands on the bare soil of the trails in the high country at this time of year, and you'd probably send a few million into a panic if you walked fifty feet into a patch of Subalpine Lupine. They're small, no more than an inch long, but the crackling of a mass of them sounds like electricity arcing through the meadows. Personally, I've never noted that they were particularly destructive; rather, they are an integral part of the Cascadian biosphere which includes Mount Rainier National Park.

Sectional Marmot

Day 330: Marmots (Marmota caligata) are common in the subalpine zone and are quite acclimatized to hikers, so I wasn't the least bit surprised when one sitting on the left side of the trail allowed me to approach to within a few feet before moving. It crossed the trail directly in front of me and dove into a burrow, and I expected it to continue out of sight, but it stopped with its tail and part of its hindquarters sticking out. Seeing a photo opportunity, I moved in a little closer and snapped several pictures using flash, but I was so focused on the tail that I didn't immediately notice that the head was only a foot away, looking back at me as if to ask what I found so compelling. The "burrow" wasn't a tunnel; it was a bridge about a foot in width, and I was afforded both north-facing and south-facing views of a northbound animal, its center section concealed beneath meadow flowers and earth. Mr. Marmot was obviously well-acclimatized to human presence, and seemed to want nothing more than to doze off while I made a portrait of his sunnier end. The sectional marmot!