Where The *Bleep* Is Spring?

Day 138: This is not your typical Pacific Northwest end-of-February weather. This is a misplaced late-December or early-January snow, but it didn't read the job description, didn't get the memo, showed up late for work on its first assignment and now because of union issues, we're having trouble getting rid of it. It's a vagrant snow. It wandered in from nowhere in particular and now it wants to lay around, shiftlessly. It is obstructing the orderly process which leads to swelling buds and froggy chorales, to birdsong and to those pairings and partnerships the Spring generates, and it seems to have come to stay. My fear is that when it goes, it will do so in a rush of warm rain, wreaking havoc in its path. It comes too close to April showers, this excess of snow, and somewhere beneath it, my daffodils are waiting.

Summer's Past

Day 137: Let this photograph stand as a testament to my belief in Spring's eventual arrival. The bouquet is the history of a summer long since past, a summer in which color ran rampantly through the flowerbeds and alpine meadows, a summer of bright days and shades of green more numerous than the myriad birds beating the air with sun-warmed wings. It records Summer's joy, its radiance; it sings with a quiet voice the songs of soft, fleeting rains. Summer's enthusiastic spirit lingers in the pale hues, fragile yet undaunted by Winter's persistent assault. I believe in flowers. I truly, truly do.

Tangled Reflections

Day 136: Not a foot of man or creature had disturbed the snow so gently laid across the coarse litter which customarily affronts the eye at the Mineral Lake fishing dock, masking refuse with natural beauty for the moment. I hesitated stepping there, not wanting to disturb the rare harmony between Nature and construct. Yet step I did once I had spotted the sleeve of a lawn chair forgotten by some angler, tied in plain sight by its drawstring, unnaturally bright against the tones of water, dark hills and snow. I was impelled forward by the sight of what I believed to be a waterfowl unknown to me, a bird which in fact turned out to be nothing more than snow and twigs of huckleberry projecting from the stub of a submerged stump. If not entirely disappointed by this revelation, I turned to leave. It was then I saw these tangled reflections of the shoreline.

In such simple things, do I find great pleasure; that an untidy hodepodge of berry vines and twigs which in summer might be called unsightly can in winter transform into loveliness with the touch of a different brush. A good morning, this.

Meditation On Snow And Shadow

Day 135:

Specks of frozen sun
Shadows climb over mountains
A twig makes no sound

Hardy Color

Day 134: You have to admire primroses for their durability. Their leaves are not the least bit intimidated by a heavy snow, and their blossoms refuse to collapse under its weight. Even yesterday's accumulation of ten to twelve inches failed to daunt this deceptively dainty powerhouse. I simply dusted it off with a broom to reveal its happy color. Would that we all could be so cheerful with this sudden reprise of white, cold nights!

Snow Birds

Day 133: Late-season snow has come to the Pacific Northwest, not as a flurry, not as a shower, but as a full-fledged fall of inches presently nearing a foot of depth. With it, the Dark-Eyed Juncos arrive at the feeders abundantly, giving rise to their locally common appellation, "Snow Birds." They share politely with the Song Sparrows and the Towhees, and gladly pick up the seed scattered by the careless Steller's Jays who seemingly disperse more than they eat. Year-'round residents they are, who shrug off this untimely snow with typical complacence, "Oh, I guess it isn't Spring yet. Oh, well," and then go about business as cheerfully as usual.

Cladonia Bellidiflora

Day 132: I am fairly certain that this is Cladonia bellidiflora, although there is another very similar species (you'll hear me say that frequently with reference to lichens). Both are typified by their extremely squamose (scaly) stalks, but bellidiflora purportedly has redder apothecia. This wonderful specimen was found in Smallwood Park in Eatonville, WA.

The foregoing paragraph brings me to the point of a seeming nonsequitur: I hate history. I have never done well at history or at geography for that matter, but at English and the sciences, I excelled. A few days ago while pursuing the study of lichens, I realized why I dislike history.= so passionately. In it, there is no new terminology.

In history, you will find no squamules, no podetia. It is neither nidicolous nor altricial. It is not composed of gluons or quarks or neutrinos. It does not possess nares or a supercilium. In short, history is no more than a collection of the language's most boring, mundane words, "fourteen hundred and ninety-two," "colonists," "kings" and "politics."

As a person who is fascinated by words, history has nothing to hold my interest. Lichens, on the other hand, are a verbal garden wherein I may pick from an entire new semantic species, and if English alone does not suffice, I can delight in tracing the lineage of Latin upon which the taxonomy depends.

Yes, give me lichens with their Brave New Words, and keep your Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria. I am in bliss among the soredia and pseudocyphellae of my fruticose and foliose friends!

Menzies' Tree Moss

Day 131: Menzies' Tree Moss (Leucolepsis acanthoneuron) resembles nothing quite so much as miniature palm trees. It is a fairly common moss in dark, humusy woodlands and the shady north side of Hugo Peak in Charles L. Pack Experimental Forest provides the perfect habitat. This plant was used by the Native peoples as a dye.

Tillandsia Tree

Day 130: These Tillandsias were a gift from a friend (thanks, Heidi!) through a friend of hers in Florida where they grow wild. They are epiphytes, "air plants" which are most often found growing in the crevices of a branch just as they are depicted here. They rely on nutrients carried to their roots by rain as it runs down through bark and decaying leaves. As houseplants, they should be given occasional light feedings of fertilizer applied with a hand-sprayer and should be misted with plain water every few days to keep them hydrated.

As for the post-processing, I recently purchased PaintShopPro 9. PSP has added some effects since the older version 7, and I'm having fun playing with them. This image was created with a mask inversion, a cut-out ellipse from the original and an effect called "Balls and Bubbles."

Sparky

Day 129: I spent another day prowling the back acres of Mt. Rainier Scenic Railroad's train yard today, nosing among gigantic gears and cogs, broken-down cabooses, cables, chains and whathaveyou, and discovered this 1940s-1950s era fire truck with its glum face frowning down upon a pile of rubbished metal.

I had to think that this old girl had seen some pretty high excitement in her day, but her history is tracelessly gone. She rests here, forgotten except perhaps for a dim recollection in someone's mind as a shiny red rescuer, someone whose life she saved. Yet today, her personality shone through in that spark upon her door handle, a spark which she cared only to reveal to one who came to visit her, however accidentally, in her lonely corner amidst the brush and debris.

Never Enough Socks

Day 128: A hiker never has enough socks, and there is nothing quite like the luxury of slipping into brightly colored, hand-knit wool tootsie-warmers even when you're sitting around the campfires of Home.

Sock-making has always been one of my favorite needlearts and is not as complicated as many people believe it to be. Manipulating four or five needles is only a little different from managing two. It is easier to effect in the Continental style than in the English way of holding the needles (at least in my opinion), but with practice at working close to the needle points, the transition between sections will not leave "ladders" between stitches. Making the heel flap is simple, and you can turn the heel with a gusset as easily as decreasing for a raglan sleeve. Socks are quick to make and therefore very rewarding. Best of all, you can always display those bright colors you know you love with the excuse, "Oh, I made these!"

Hope Springs Eternal

Day 127: There are subtle signs of Spring poking their little heads through the ground in my front flowerbed, bright chartreuse spires in the clutches of pale green leaves. Frilly double daffodils will soon be showing their smiles to the Mountain, followed shortly thereafter by the slower narcissi with their bright orange eyes. The promise of verdant fields and fantasies of lush foliage are in these pioneers of Spring, greeting me as I step off the porch and lifting my spirits with their determined ascension from the debris of Winter.

Contorted Climate

Day 126: A spring snowstorm was not on the agenda. No, we Pacific Northwesterners have no reason to complain when the East Coast and Canada are up to their proverbial eyes in the white stuff, but because it is unusual at this point in our winter, it's worthy of remark.

I personally love these late-season snows. They come down hard in large flakes and for the most part, disappear as soon as they hit the rain-soaked ground. They're fun to have around for a few hours...guests, if you will, who know when it's time to leave. They seldom become irritating, nor do they leave much to clean up after they've departed. This current visitor seems to be destined to stay a few nights, however, but I don't think we're in any danger of running out of hot chocolate before it too realizes it might be overstaying its welcome.

Great-Grandmother's Cat

Day 125: As the family story goes, this old cat rode across the Plains on a buckboard, sitting on her silk pillow on my great-grandmother's lap. Kitty was regarded as ancient even in my youth so long ago, her ears chipped and her paint scratched, and I was only permitted to visit her, to admire without picking her up. On occasion, her pillow was sometimes placed in my hands so that I could read the verse:

Sweetheart
I love you when you're laughing,
I love you when you're sad,
I love you when you're teasing,
I love you when you're glad,
I love you when you're fooling,
I love you when you're true,
And the reason why I love you,
Is just because you're you.

Was Kitty a courting gift from Great-Grandmother's new husband? I will never know. My family is gone, each and every one. I have their stories and memories in my own grey head, though perhaps romanticized or embellished and in me, the spirit of their chronicle endures as truly as my love of this precious old and time-worn cat and her silk cushion. In your dotage, Kitty, I love you just because you're you.

Stormy Waters

Day 124: If you compare yesterday's photo of Storm King to this image, you might notice that the sweep of ridgeline on the right looks vaguely familiar. Storm King, here hidden in cloud, lies beyond that dip.

The storm is upon us, bearing more bluster than moisture, puffing and huffing the lake into whitecaps freckled only with a few sprinkles; but blowing it is, perhaps not a gale but forcibly nevertheless, whipping the water into a froth of peaks and troughs. It is too soon for the March lion to be breathing at the threshold, yet we are reminded of his presence, as if perhaps he is stirring in his sleep.

Storm King

Day 123: At 4752', Storm King Mountain towers above the "pass" of the Divide by approximately 3000'. With such a peak within proverbial "spittin' distance," the enticement wore on me for almost twenty years until I decided the temptation was too much to resist. You see, although there are roads which take you there, they are gated. The only legal access to the summit is via foot or a combination of bicycle and foot, and the round-trip distance from the only public entry point is sixteen miles. The last half mile is a combination of rock-scrambling and intense bushwhacking through tightly packed subalpine fir reprod so dense that your feet are often invisible to your eyes. The window of the route is narrow, making a GPSr with backtracking capabilities almost mandatory. And there's another catch: the entire trip must be made in daylight of a single day. Overnighting is not permitted.

Two and a half years have passed since I made my ascent. Today I look at Storm King and remember the field of lupines, arnica and Indian paintbrush which surprised me as I came into the clearing where the cell tower stands. It may not have been much as summits go, and six ascents of Mt. Rainier notwithstanding, I count that day as one of the highlights of my backcountry career.

Harem Girls

Day 122: A sure sign of spring, the elk are coming to browse the new shoots of green grass in the pasture across the road. Three separate herds feed here, and I have counted as many as 108 on a summer evening. This morning there were about twenty. Of these, two young bulls were engaged in a mock battle, idly pulling grass between perfunctory sparring as the cows looked on with only marginal interest in the display of testosterone.

A Hike In Lichenopolis

Day 121: Charles L. Pack Experimental Forest has few trails but one of my favorites leads to the summit of Hugo Peak. Only a mile or so up, the route passes through a clear-cut which affords a wonderful view of the Olympic Mountains to the west when there are no clouds in the way. It is also an excellent area for observing small birds such as Chickadees and Kinglets or watching Ravens sweep overhead. Views and birdwatching aside, I've recently discovered another source of amusement among the stumps, tangled brush and salal: lichens.

In a few hundred yards of trail, there are more types of lichen than I could count on both hands, from delicate, squamose Cladonia species to flat, floppy foliose structures such as this Frog Pelt (Peltigera neopolydactyla). Several varieties are currently in their fruiting phase, exhibiting distinct apothecia (the tan/cream fruiting bodies shown here), and each one looks as if it could have been transplanted here from an alien world.

Paul Bunyan

Day 120: Some folk would tell you Paul Bunyan come from one o' them states what starts with M. Don't matter which one, 'cuz the truth of it is, he was borned right here in Washington. Now maybe he had a twin brother. I cain't say for sure about that angle, but Paul done let loose the first yell of his life in a cabin in the hills not far from mine. I ain't sayin' I was around when it happened, but the old-timers tell that when li'l Paul cut loose with that holler, it flattened all the trees on one hillside. That's how they knew the tyke was bound to be a lumberjack when he growed up.

Now Paul's daddy was a little bit of a thing. By the time he was seven, young Paul could pick him up in one hand. He'd set his pa on a tall stump and then go on about playin'. Paul was allus into mischief. Weren't a dang thing the old man could do to stop Paul when he dug a big hole in the back yard with his bare hands. When the hole was knee-deep to him, the lad toed in a trench to let the ocean flow through. Them science fellers would tell you somethin' else, but that's how the Strait of Juan de Fuca and Puget Sound got made. Another time, he knocked the top off Mt. Rainier and filled it full of snow so's he could have somethin' cold for summer afternoons. But most times, he was a good boy and helped out at home. In fact, one day he cleared his pappy's field of all the rocks, stacked 'em up neat down the middle of the state. Nowadays they call the pile the Cascade Mountains.

Yep, Paul's our native son and we're right proud to own him. Lots o' little places show it too, like Morton. But only a few of us remember Paul himself, a man tall as the sky with a heart to match, but remember him we do, and no dang state with M in it's got more rights to his legacy than us'ns. Maybe he did have a twin brother. I ain't sayin' yea or nay, but Paul...Paul was a Washington boy.

On The Skids

Day 119: Skid Road. The name calls up connotations of down-and-outers, rough men, hard times and the backwaters of many a small town "out west." It describes the mentality and way of life typical of the hobos of the Depression as they rode the rails beneath boxcars and flatcars, risking their lives for a meal and a spot to sleep in some kindly soul's barn. To be "on the skids" was to be sliding deeper into the pit of poverty and loss of self-esteem, a path often greased by drunkenness and crime. But what was this "Skid Road" which led to perdition?

This Fordson tractor dates from the era of Model Ts and was colloquially referred to as a "skidder." Beneath it, you see two peeled timbers, i.e., skids. A "skid road" consisted of timbers such as these laid end-to-end on hillsides and across marshlands to allow logs to be dragged ("skidded") out of the forests. When the lumberjacks drew their checks and wanted to head to town for a well-earned bender, they literally went "on the skids" to their destination. Like many of the Skid Road ladies, this old gal has seen better days.

Fore!

Day 118: Cladonia fimbriata. They call them "pixie cups," a generic term for a wide variety of Cladonia species which exhibit this distinctive golf-tee shape. They're smaller than the real thing and fairly common in Pacific Northwest forests, but most people pass them by without a second glance. They grow on rotting wood, often colonizing among mosses and other lichens with "similar interests," a world in microcosm amid tall Douglas firs and hemlocks, or even in open areas such as a clearcut in Charles L. Pack Experimental Forest where these were observed today.

Wood Duck

Day 117: I stopped by a favorite small park with time to kill today, and as I was framing a classic duck shot, the camera passed over one bird whose unusual coloration registered in the tail of my eye. Lowering the lens, I saw a solitary female Wood Duck paddling around amongst some twenty or so Mallards, male and female, occasionally giving voice to a distinctive squeal unlike the raucous quacks of her companions. According to David Allen Sibley, this "ooEEEK" is a distress call, although Ms. Woody did not seem particularly anxious. In fact, the Mallards appeared to accept her as one of their own.

Peppers Of Pre-History

Day 116: Time. Many refer to it as the "fourth dimension," a concept which cannot be measured in width, breadth or depth or, for that matter, any of the other hypothesized dimensions now popular in theoretical physics. What is time, anyway?

Is it only a construct of the human mind, an artificial measurement? Is it measurable at all? Certainly those increments we refer to as seconds, minutes and hours are quantifiable, but are they qualifiable? Consider if you will the idea of waiting for a bus in the rain. Now consider the same span of minutes engaged a pleasurable activity. Time passes quickly in the latter scenario, and drags out in the former. Clearly "ten minutes" is not an accurate description of these dimensional experiences.

Consider the Peppers Of Pre-History here. How long have they hung in my kitchen window, and in how many previous kitchens? Their colors are bright, preserved from the sun's hard brush by a curtain. Have they hung there six months or six years? Time...time...they've been there forever, a "forever" which was an awakening for me today as I photographed them; a "forever" of over forty years.

Illuminated Purr

Day 115: She's an old girl, my Skunk, named for the irregular streak of white along her spine. She is not so old in years as in her health which took a decided downturn two years ago following an illness. Her walk is arthritic, although on her good days, the kitten within comes forth to romp; she's deaf and thin and often cranky as befits her lot in life. She loves the warmth of sunlight or the fire, and sleeps contentedly on the cushion of a blanket or a lap. She is mistress of this house, her moods respected by her human and her companion Tip, that boisterous, irrepressible Boy who helps her keep a toe in the door of Youth.

Loggin' Country - Northern Pacific

Day 114: Invariably, I pick a rainy day to visit the train shop (workshop, not gift shop) and wind up wiping the lens between each shot, cursing when it gets speckled again before I can re-frame. So why don't I wait for a sunny day? Because there's just something about the sheen of rain on once-glossy paint which gives it a uniquely rustic look and an appeal I can't resist.

I am not a train buff by any means, but the old engines and railroad cars and cabooses at the shop are a goldmine of photo opportunities. Today, there were a dozen or more which were not there two weeks ago. How do they bring them in? I never see them being pulled along the tracks.

The Northern Pacific shown here particularly caught my interest as I pulled into the yards. My dad liked trains. He had a model train set (HO gauge) with a Great Northern engine which could have been this one's offspring, racing around beneath chairs and in between table legs much to the amusement of a little girl who doted on her daddy, even moreso on the occasions when he played with trains.

For many people, trains typify a bygone generation of hard-working men, staunch in spirit, tough as the machinery of their trades. For me, they recall a gentle man and winter evenings in front of the fireplace. Today, the Northern Pacific is right on time, pulling into East Nostalgia Station.

Crow On The Beach

Day 113: Whether I wanted to go or not, I had to make a trip down to Flatland today to have an MRI done on my knee. I've been stumping around on it for the last four months, hiking anything up to twelve miles and simply being cautious about how I placed my weight on it. But last week when I had trouble getting up my own front steps (all three of them), I decided I'd waited long enough for Nature to take its course. I made an appointment with my doctor and subsequently scheduled the MRI.

Well, as long as I was in Flatland, I decided I'd visit the beach, i.e., Tolmie State Park on Puget Sound. I am more of a mountain person than a seashore type, and the last time I'd been on this particular beach, I'd been digging butter clams among the rocks. Cold as the day was, walking the shoreline brought back a few fond memories.

As I strolled along, a couple of my corvid cousins came strutting up to walk along with me, friendly fellows these, and not particularly wary of a stranger in their midst. I waited for this one to get in a "shiny" place so I could wash out the grey sand as I brought out the detail in his feathers with the camera. Nice to have such a willing model!

Not long after I got home, I got "the call" from my doctor's office. They'd received the results of the MRI and it was as expected. I have a torn meniscus which will require surgical repair. Damn.

Dam Fishing

Day 112: You'd never guess from this steelhead fisherman's posture that the temperature was below the freezing mark, nor that he'd been there since sunup and hadn't had a bite. The Cowlitz at the Barrier Dam is running high and fast, and the main channel is well beyond the reach of any caster without an assist from a grenade launcher. Side-planers are out of the question, swamped by the time they reach mid-flow. But the stalwarts persist, hoping some fish will make a loop into shallower water, hoping for that piscine judgmental error which will bring twenty pounds of silver-sided beauty leaping above the water. I am past ice-in-the-guides enthusiasm for big fish, beyond the stiff muscles and backaches of thrill-seeking angling. Give me a trout stream and a flyrod and a sunny afternoon!

East Creek, The Old-Fashioned Way

Day 111: My maternal grandfather was a professional photographer whose images were used by Eastman for a number of their "penny postcards." Over the last few weeks, I've been playing around with post-processing, trying to duplicate that wonderful old hand-tinted look, in the hopes of applying it to the same type of scenes he favored.

Today I took a stroll on a nature trail, intending to look for mosses and lichens, birds, perhaps even a view of little East Creek as it meandered down to Alder Lake. I did not consider the fact that the reservoir is at capacity, so I arrived at East Creek's shore somewhat precipitously. Where there should have been a grassy meadow, there was a still reflecting pool. My mind turned to my grandfather's photographs and the opportunity literally spread out before me. Forgive me a moment of vanity, but I think Grandpa would approve.