Lathyrus Sylvestris, Perennial Sweetpea

Day 291: Perennial Sweetpea is a common sight along roadsides throughout North America. Not as fragrant as its domestic cousin L. odoratus, it still has a pleasant scent when brought indoors in large bouquets. Considered something of a pest, it tangles moist ditches and pasturelands, so if you spot it, you need not feel any pangs of conscience for gathering handsful of the long-stemmed flower stalks to bring indoors. Just mind you don't get your feet tangled in the tough vines.

Limenitis Lorquini, Lorquin's Admiral

Day 290: Knowing that I would be gone all day yesterday, I posted an unprecedented "place-holder" image to 365 Caws, certain that I would have a better photo from the day to replace it. After all, the rule is that the photos must be taken each day, not necessarily published on that day. It is not a practice I intend to use often, and in fact, this is the first time I've done so. That said, Lorquin's beautiful Admiral replaces a rather mundane Gloriosa Daisy for this date.

The Admirals were out in number in the logged-over hills above Castle Rock yesterday, very actively flying in the hot afternoon sun. When one of them alighted on a fern beside the road, I motioned for my companion to stop in his tracks. I first snapped a quick documentation photo, ensuring that I had the species "in the bag," and then began edging closer until I was able to get this shot. Lorquin's is a creature of open spaces, one of the rewards for hiking through areas others might find uninteresting.

Prunella Vulgaris, Self-Heal

Day 289: Prunella vulgaris' common name of Self-Heal derives from the fact that it was used topically to aid in the healing of wounds and cuts. Mixed with lanolin or bear fat, it makes an excellent hand lotion. It is an unobtrusive little plant, growing along roadsides and other clearings, and is easily identifiable by its fringed lower petal and hood-like upper one.

Hemileuca Eglanterina, Western Sheepmoth

Day 288: This was my big thrill for the day! I'd set out on a bike ride somewhat later than usual this morning and found myself riding back to the car in the hot afternoon sun. I stopped for a breather at the high point of the trail, intending to take a photo of an interesting fence. As I approached the wire, a flutter and flash of color caught my eye. Deep in the grass, an enormous moth was vibrating its newly unfurled wings to dry them.

"Enormous?" you ask. Enormous! Fully two inches from wingtip to wingtip, and with great bristly antennae. As I tried to move the grass aside to get a better shot, it kept swinging around on the grass stems, presenting the ventral view of a furry pink and black body almost as big around as a pencil. It was extremely difficult to get a good dorsal presentation, but I finally managed.

When I got home, I began researching an identification. It turned out to be a Western Sheepmoth, and last Autumn, I had photographed the caterpillar of the same species only a few miles from this site. What a treat to have been able to document both phases of this beautiful creature's life cycle!

The Story Of Fireweed

Day 287: Fireweed, aka Willow-herb (Epilobium angustifolium), is a familiar sight to those of us who live in Timber Country. It is a "pioneer plant," which is to say that it is one of the first species to return to areas which have been clearcut or scoured by landslide or avalanche. Its seeds are minuscule, each attached to a tiny bit of fluff which allows it to be carried for some distance on the wind. They are also quite tough and may lie dormant for years before exposure to light causes them to germinate.

Fireweed often forms dense colonies of plants which may reach six feet in height or more. The flowers are very attractive to bees, and the honey made by the pollinators feeding on them is strongly scented with the plant's fragrance.

Historically, the Native peoples used the fluff fibers to make mattresses and clothing, and the stringy fibers of the stems were spun into coarse twine used in the manufacture of fishing nets. The leaves can also be used to make a tea rich in vitamin C.

Foxy Lady

Day 286: Although my intent was to never feature any species of plant or critter more than once in 365 Caws, this young female fox begged for an exception. I spotted her today near Reflection Lake (Mt. Rainier National Park), sauntering down the center line as if she owned the road. Visitors were already pulling over to photograph her, so I pretended I was a tourist and joined the crowd.

Miss Foxy was hoping for handouts. I was hoping no visitor would offer her one. Feeding wildlife can be dangerous, not only to the humans involved but to the overall long-term health of the animal or bird. Fortunately, no one gave her a tidbit, but it was obvious that she was used to playing to a crowd. She came within six feet of me as I stood beside the car and only moved off when I spoke to her.

Another silver-phase Red Fox was featured on Day 260. The coloration is normal for Vulpes vulpes in this area and does not change at any time of year.

The Purple Wall

Day 285: Meanwhile back at the ranch...

This Clematis was advertised as C. jackmanii on the wrapper, but I have reason to doubt the identification. Jackmanii is normally a "large-flowered" Clematis, the blossoms not as richly purple and often marked with a streak of lighter color. It is, however, a Group III plant as far as pruning goes, i.e., it blooms on new wood every year, so in late winter or early spring, you hack it back to 6-12" and then wait for it to start growing as the weather warms. This particular vine rewards you abundantly for your deed, swarming up walls and over porch roofs and blooming so profusely that the leaves are almost invisible beneath flowers. It should be fertilized to achieve this end and sadly, mine has not been fed for several years. It forms a loose mesh of leaves and blossoms known to my friends as the "Purple Wall." Its blossoms are approximately four to five inches across and bear four to six petals.

Wildflower Season

Day 284: The wildflowers are finally coming out at Mt. Rainier National Park! They're a little late this year. When the season arrives, everything bursts into bloom at once because the growing season is very short. Consequently, the alpine meadows are a riot of color. Here you see Penstemon, Indian Paintbrush and a species of native Aster, all vying for the attention of the pollinators...and for tourists as well.

Summit Sunrise

Day 283: I had chased over to the pasture hurriedly, hoping to catch one dawn-lit cloud hanging off the shoulder of Mt. Rainier before it dissipated with the rising of the sun. I'd popped off a few shots with a bit of tree on the right side of the frame, and then stepped out into the pasture proper to check sky conditions to the west. As I turned around from that view with the camera still raised, I caught a glint in the viewfinder, a sun flare positioned in the "dip" between Liberty Cap and Columbia Crest. In the next ten seconds, I shot three images, but the sun was hastening into the sky, and the flare was overblown in the later two. Right place, right time. Sometimes photography is all about luck.

The Chronicle Of Little Slow

Day 282: I am cheating somewhat, in that only the photo of the empty nesting box was taken today, but it was cause for great anxiety over the last week. You see, during the mating season, this box was rented out to a young couple. I am not certain of Dad's status, but Mom's coloring indicated that she was a young bird and a first-time mother. They signed the lease three weeks later than my other tenants, and already that was cause for concern.

In time, I watched the other homes go vacant, the fledglings rising on the wing to follow their parents. The flock hung around (for swallows are a flocking sort), sweeping the air of insects, and I observed both Mom and Dad making feeding forays, often returning to the nesting box with great mouthsful of tasty bugs. About two weeks ago, I saw the first bright eye appear at the hole, awed by the new world outside the dark confines.

The little fellow seemed to be an only child. Listening carefully, I could only detect one distinct voice inside the box. A good kid, he would disappear from the door as soon as I stepped onto the porch, only emerging when Mom or Dad called to him to come to dinner. On the occasions I could see him from the kitchen window, he seemed to be developing nicely.

Perhaps he was developing too nicely. Tree Swallows normally leave the nest in 16-24 days. I'd been hearing chirps and seeing activity for too long. A week ago, I began to wonder if the little guy was stuck inside the box. Mom was fairly broad-shouldered and had had a difficult time getting in and out. She and Dad were both still feeding the youngster, but at the same time, they were patiently trying to coax him to emerge. Often, one or the other of them would hold a tidbit just out of reach, or would give the baby a peck on the beak without delivering a morsel of food. This activity would go on for half an hour at a time before the parents would fly off in search of food for themselves, leaving the nesting box unattended.

For the last three days, not only the parents but other members of the flock have been trying to coax Little Slow out. Mom was doing everything in her power, hovering like a hummingbird just below the hole, obviously trying to draw the little one past the threshold and into a fall. Although he didn't seem to be struggling at the opening, I thought he might have grown too large to fit through the hole. His gape (the yellow mouth characteristic of young birds) was beginning to darken with age, a sure sign that he'd overstayed the rental agreement.

On the verge of intervening, I decided to sit tight for two more days, a forecast of good weather in the offing. Good weather means lots of bugs, lots of swallow activity. The parents were still making feeding runs, so I wasn't concerned about Little Slow starving.

At sunrise this morning, he peeked out in the usual fashion. Mom brought breakfast and resumed trying to lure him into emergence. I stood in the kitchen, watching, hoping to see him tumble free and take wing. It happened, but not while I was observing. I only noticed that no head had appeared at the door for several hours. I went outside and listened beneath the house. There were no chirps within. Hesitantly, I took down the box and opened it. I breathed an enormous sigh of relife. Little Slow had flown.

Luscious Lavender

Day 281: Lavender. It is one of the world's most easily recognizable scents, and who does not love it? It is a fragrance I associate fondly with my grandmother, and particularly with her button box, a container of treasures which was entrusted to my small hands only on special visits. When the lid was removed, the box exuded a dusty, musty lavender scent as old as the dresses which had long since had their buttons removed and stored safely away for future use.

In those days, buttons were made of bone and wood and shell, porous materials which absorbed the scent my grandmother and great-grandmother had dabbed on their pulse points, the better to release the fragrance. Even above lily-of-the-valley and crushed roses, lavender won the war of perfumes.

The aisles of Memory are lined with lavender-scented images in my mind, days of playing with buttons, bright toys no child of today's world would give a second thought.

Fish Face

Day 280: Nematanthus gregarius, aka Goldfish Plant (or in my realm, "Fish Face") is running a close second to Hoyal bella for the title of "World's Most Satisfactory House Plant."

Fish Face came to me as a slip from a friend in New York, an exchange (as it were) for the Hoya bella slip I'd sent her the year before. Any rooted slip which can survive being shipped across the country with its feet wrapped in a damp paper towel is clearly demonstrating a will to survive. As soon as it arrived, I stuck it in a glass of water and let it remain there for a couple of days before planting it in good potting medium. It stayed on the counter out of direct sunlight for a couple of months until I felt it was established. Then I moved it to a sunny window because it is a light-loving species.

And there it sat. Doing nothing. But doing nothing is better than dropping leaves or keeling over entirely, so I kept its soil moist but not wet and waited. About six months later, I saw signs that it was making new leaves. Aha!

Since that day, it has put on several new stems, leafing out nicely in a sprawling sort of way. Some stems trail while others remain upright, i.e., it seems to be a good candidate for either a plant stand or a hanging basket. It has taken over a year for it to decide to bloom, but presently bears five of the one-inch bright orange "fish face" blossoms which give it its name.

Thanks, Alison! :wink:

Comet Falls In Mist

Day 279: Believe it or not, I was going to go fishing. I went out the door with my fly rod and vest, intending to make a quick side trip into Mt. Rainier National Park. But as wee Rabbie Burns reminds us, "The best laid plans o' mice and men gang aft agley," and I wound up at Comet Falls instead, wondering just how hard it was going to rain before I could get back to the car.

Comet Falls drops a precipitous 320' in a single cascade, then hops another eighty feet over boulders until settling down to join Van Trump Creek. To reach it, you climb 900' over 1.9 miles, and the falls is set so deeply in its cleft that it cannot be seen until you're nearly upon it. Today, approximately a third of that distance was covered in deep, icy snow, warning signs at the beginning of the trail strongly recommending that hikers carry ice axes for the approach. I took with me a cupful of caution and a pair of trekking poles. I've done this before.

When I reached the falls, it was invisible through the heavy mist. I waited, the rain insistently pattering on the evergreens above my head, dripping cold drops down the back of my neck. I waited patiently, hoping that any faint glimpse of Comet would make an appearance to justify the lack of trout on the dinner table. Faintly, I could see it. I snapped a few photos and waited a bit more. The falls became more apparent, but still only barely distinguishable in the fog. At the insistence of the rain, I gave up and started down.

At the last possible point where I could see the falls, I turned and looked back. There it was! Within minutes of the shutter's snap, the mists rolled back into the cleft in the hillside and Comet was again invisible.

Birthday Boy

Day 278: *Somebody* is even more special today than on any other day because *somebody* is having their third birthday!

Tip is a very special little person for a variety of reasons. First, he came to me from a rescue shelter shortly after I lost another very special little kitten during a routine surgery. Harry Dickens only lived a few months before his demise, but was doomed from the onset by a severely enlarged heart. When he passed away, friends encouraged me to find another kitten even though I felt it was too soon. I am glad that I listened to them, because that's how Tippy came into my life.

The second thing which makes Tip special is that he too has a heart problem, a murmur. When it was first diagnosed, I was devastated, but since he had already survived one anesthetic event (his neutering), the kitty cardiologist gave him a good prognosis.

Today, Tippy turned three years old. He is a rambunctious Boy, full of zest and play, and at the same time a loving and gentle companion to both me and to Skunk, my older kitty. His murmur is "noisy," but not an immediate threat to his life. And for however long he may live, he has the comforts of a "forever home" where he knows he's the most loved little Boy in the whole wide world.

Dawn Shadow

Day 277: This is such an unusual and fleeting meteorological phenomenon that it merits inclusion in 365 Caws. It is the second such occurrence I have witnessed in the last six weeks, product of an abnormally cloudy and cool summer. Taken at 5:30 AM, the shadow of the Mountain was only visible against the clouds for five minutes before fading gently into a uniform and vague blush of orange. The ceiling was dropping rapidly, the exposure of Mt. Rainier's craggy flank diminishing. Fifteen minutes later, not a trace of Mountain or sunrise were to be seen. Were I not a creature of the early mornings, this sight would not have been witnessed by human eyes.

Trail Behind The Veil

Day 276: Reaching this unnamed falls in Goat Creek south of Riffe Lake requires a drive of five miles on rough, steep logging road and a mile-long hike on relatively easy trail. What makes it unique is that the foot-path passes behind its eighty-foot free cascade and at the base of a deeply etched grotto of crumbling basalt. Below the trail, the falls encounters a knob of rock over which it gathers itself together again as Goat Creek, resting momentarily in a small plunge pool before continuing down its valley. It has its one moment of glory here, a gauzy gossamer veil of water set amidst emerald mosses and skyscraper trees, singing its swan song as it dives to the rocks below, nameless and magnificent.

It's An Avalanche!

Day 275: It's an avalanche...of Avalanche Lilies, one of the best-loved wildflowers of the alpine areas. A flood of blooms follows quickly on the heels of the receding snow. In fact, ten days ago, this very spot was still snow-covered, but beneath the cold blanket, the drifts of plants were already emerging.

Kin to the yellow Glacier Lily, it is easy to remember which is which. Avalanches of snow are always white. Glaciers tend to color up with debris and age. Erythronium montanum is a flower of the high country, preferring elevations over 3500'.

Petunia's Unfortunate Name

Day 274: "Pttt-tooon-ya!" Let's call it the "watermelon-seed-spitting plant," because that's the sound its name invokes. Worse, the term derives from a word meaning a type of tobacco, so maybe it's actually the "snoose-spitting plant." Either way, this lovely common flower has been done an injustice by those who assign such things without an ear for euphony.

The way the aspirants and fricatives and mellifluous vowels work together to form syllables often affects the semantic shades we apply in defining words. Take, for example, "melodious." It rolls from the tongue smoothly. Conversely, much of our profanity is composed of single harsh syllables. A good writer considers these things when composing sentences and with them, paragraphs, keeping not only the flow of the story line but the flow of the words themselves vibrant and alive.

Pity then the poor Petunia, doomed to be spat verbally like a bug in a peanut butter sandwich, and yet she holds her chin up, looking to a brighter horizon.

Diamonds In The Mist

Day 273: An overnight shower left the pasture strewn with diamonds, their glint in morning light cast against a soft melding of mist and cloud. An indistinct boundary, that technical division of molecules; one rising, one sinking, intermingling, converging; confused moisture, clinging to whatever straws it might find, and attaining ultimate perfection as a unified droplet. The beauty of Science captured my eye as did the joy of Art, the mathematics of each as indefinable as the taxonomy of vapours. One gives up thinking when faced with splendors such as these, and merely revels in the moment.

Superstition

Day 272: My favorite Iris is one called Superstition. Its rich color when freshly opened makes it the closest thing to a true black Iris available on today's market. As it matures, the color softens to a deep purple with reddish overtones. The falls bear a medium purple beard, and only in the deep interior does one see any hint of yellow and white. It is truly an essay in black magic!

Jeffrey's Shooting Star, Dodecatheon Jeffreyi

Day 271: Arguably one of the best-loved wildflowers in Washington and certainly one of the most photographed, Jeffrey's Shooting Stars are an eye-catcher despite their diminuitive size. A mature plant will seldom reach more than a foot in height. They prefer a moist, marshy environment and emerge in the high country concurrently with Avalanche Liies and mosquitoes, i.e., shortly following the retreat of snow. This many-flowered beauty was seen growing near Paradise on the shoulder of Mt. Rainier.

Goldenseal, Non-Native Medicinal

Day 270: Goldenseal (Hydrastis canadensis) is native to the northeastern portions of the US and southeastern sections of Canada. It is an essential in my medicinal garden, providing leaves for a tonic tisane which has anti-inflammatory properties as well as benefiting liver function.

It is somewhat difficult to grow outside its native regions, preferring much the same habitat as buttercups (to which it is distantly related). When I started it here twenty years ago, I dug up a patch of buttercups on the north side of my garage and planted two cultivated starts. It has multiplied nicely by runners, but the patch remains small. Each root (a pip) sends up a single stem which bears only two leaves. To preserve the vigor of the plant, I harvest sections of each leaf, leaving the rest to photosynthesize until it dies down in the autumn.

Today as I was weeding out the returning buttercups, I inadvertently broke off several leaves. You see them here freshly washed and ready to be made into a bitter but very thirst-quenching tea.

Gaillardia In The Garden

Day 269: I am a poor gardener at best, but by planting species which will thrive despite my customary neglect, I am occasionally rewarded with flowers. Gaillardias, in particular "Arizona Sunshine," have proved to be tolerant and durable. Started from seed casually raked into the soil at the beginning of May, they are now starting their blooming cycle. They're rather lonely, surrounded by more bare ground than is justifiable for the number of wildflower seeds broadcast in the same bed. In fact, I see nothing but a few Bachelor's Buttons sprouting up, and a handful of Marigolds which I don't recall sowing. Gaillardias! Never was a plant more determined to bring its color to your garden...unless, of course, you count the weeds.

Salmonberry Season

Day 268: I do not know if Salmonberries (Rubus spectabilis) occur in other parts of the country, but they are a familiar sight here in the Pacific Northwest. There are two species, differentiated by the colors of the berries they bear. To my tastebuds, the orange variety is more flavorful than the red. Other people will disagree with that assessment, and some will tell you the taste of both is "insipid" and not worth the bother of picking them. More for those of us who appreciate them!

The fruit is somewhat watery, however, and the taste is by no means as full-bodied as that of Evergreen or Himalayan Blackberries. You would not want to make a pie from them, but using powdered lemon Jell-o as a binder, they make a delicious cobbler. Simply sprinkle the Jell-o over the top of a layer of berries and spoon dollops of Bisquick onto the surface. Bake until the biscuit dough is nicely browned, remove from the oven and then allow a few hours for the Jell-o to congeal. A skilled camp cook can effect the same results using a tinfoil reflector beside the campfire.

Native peoples mixed these berries with the grease obtained from oolichan (candlefish) to make pemmican, a durable staple. Young sprouts of the plant were also boiled and eaten as a vegetable.

Your narrator happens to love Salmonberries and was somewhat delayed in arriving back at the car from a nine-mile hike when the trail passed through a grove of them. I picked only enough to nibble on my journey, since they do not transport well in any great quantity. Nor would I have wanted to deprive the Robins, who love them as much as I.

Don't Listen To Your Mother

Day 267: No matter what they tell you, there are times when you shouldn't listen to your mother. I grew up calling this lovely, showy wildflower by the name my mother used, and she called it by the wrong name because my grandfather had done so. Y'see, in the MidWest, there is a similar but redder lily known commonly as "Turk's Caps." My grandpa spent a large portion of his life in the MidWest and although he was an educated man, he assumed that Lilium columbianum was one and the same with Lilium superbum. They were "Turk's Caps" to him and, by default, also to my mother. I always figured she knew the right of it because it was one of her favorite wildflowers, lighting its tall orange candles in honor of her birthday. It never occurred to me that she could be wrong about something as important as that.

However, the misnomer perpetuated in my family like a hand-me-down sweater, and I grew up calling them "Turk's Caps" until I began studying our native flora and discovered that L. columbianum was the local variety. It is known in many field guides as "Columbia Lily." A few references simply call it "Tiger Lily," extending the nomenclature from the garden to the wild. It deserves better than that.

I've learned to call it by its proper name, at least most of the time. Occasionally, I slip. Old habits die hard, and I had a good twenty years of thinking Joe was really Fred.

Feeding Time

Day 266: It's that time of the year again! The little "gilligans" are starting to poke their noses out the doors, getting their first glimpses of the Big Wide World. It won't be long before Mom begins tempting them toward their first flights by holding a bug just out of reach. For now, she and Dad are still catering meals.

For some time, I've been hearing lots of rustling and twittering inside the House of Chirp, as this favorite nesting box is known. Several other houses are also occupied, but this one is always the first to rent out. The side unit is purely decorative, too small even for a mother-in-law cottage.

"'Gilligans?' Is that the correct term?" I knew you'd ask, but no. The first year they nested here, my playful name for one of them stuck. They've been "gilligans" ever since, and a cuter batch you'll seldom see.

Beneath The Cow Parsnips

Day 265: Cow Parsnip is a plant of conflicts. Although contact with it can cause a rash and/or blisters to form on the skin, it is edible, although anyone harvesting it must take extreme care because it is easily confused with Poison Hemlock. A common plant in marshy areas, it may grow up to ten feet in height. Seen here as an isolated specimen growing alongside the Chehalis-Western bike trail, it is not particularly invasive.

Pacific Ninebark, Physocarpus Capitatus

Day 264: Ninebark (Physocarpus capitatus) is aptly named. In Lewis and Clark's day, it was called "Sevenbark," but regardless of which term is employed, twenty or more layers of parchment-thin brownish red bark can be peeled away layer by layer from a mature twig no more than 3/8" in diameter. The wood of the stems is very supple and flexible and was employed by Native peoples in the Pacific Northwest to make fish spears and toy bows for children. The flowers generally appear in rounded umbels and appear in profusion on trees which may grow up to twelve feet in height. It is a medicinal plant; tea made from the bark is a purgative.

Identified as Opulaster opulifolius in older texts, Ninebark is a prime example of the mutability of taxonomy which is the bane of all naturalists.

Common Monkey Flower, Mimulus Guttatus

Day 263: Monkey Flower, so named for the appearance of its "face," grows in a variety of wetland environments. Mimulus guttatus (shown here) is a denizen of ditches and seeps within the range of low to middle elevations. There are several yellow species with varying concentrations of spots. A pink species (Mimulus lewisii) is common in Mount Rainier National Park. Monkey Flowers are "ticklish" to some degree, and if the stigmas are touched gently with a blade of grass or other prod, they will contract. Insects beware! Although not carnivorous plants, insects do become trapped in the flower throats.

Trifolium Arvense, Haresfoot Clover

Day 262: Little Haresfoot Clover (Trifolium arvense) is a European invader. You might want to think of it as the Luxembourgian Armada since it really poses very little threat in terms of effecting a successful coup d'etat. It forms its ranks in disturbed ground, i.e., alongside roads and man-made trails, and spends more time in strategic conferences than it does in actual maneuvers. Its armies are not Napoleon's, but rather those of some ineffectual duke with an ample coffer and a longing for the toy soldiers of his youth.

Go Out

Day 261: Sunrise. Without a doubt, it is my favorite time of the day regardless of the season. It is rare that I am not up to observe it, whether it marches into the sky with fanfare or seeps into the grey sea in the manner of a stream piercing the ocean's vastness. The rising of the light, however faint, brings with it a restoration of spirit and a sense of connectedness with the things of Nature.

The pasture has gone wild with July fever now, its grasses burdened o'mornings with unseasonally heavy dew; yet they stretch their arms above the tall daisies, seeking ultimate dominion of the land.

"I only went out for a walk, and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in." ~~John Muir