When The Walls Come Tumbling Down

Day 241: In the light of several recent events, I have been pondering the instability and impermanence of the internet. This monster was released upon the world untimely; unmuzzled, unleashed and relatively uncontrolled, it brought into the peace of our lives a whole new wealth of woes. With it came viruses and hackers, and it made identity theft a fear in the hearts of us all. It gobbled our time; it disenfranchised our families; yet we embraced it and confided in it, dumping our deepest secrets into the electronic ether where they might be retrieved by anyone with a mind to prowl. We trusted it. We gave it our family photos, our driver's license and credit card numbers, our service records. We allowed it to follow us into department stores and forests, into our doctors' offices, into our best friend's wife's bedroom, and we invited it to document the event which transpired there.

Once we awakened to the error of our ways, once we had discovered to our embarrasment and shame that our secrets were available for public perusal at a click, we tried to stem the tide. Alas, it was too late. Fools that we are, instead of withdrawing from its maw, we fed it more of our personal data, blindly believing that the odds would fall on our side, and that the inevitable would somehow pass us by. We did not understand just how insidious the Monster is, nor how pervasive; nor, indeed, how fragile. Websites change. Our most carefully crafted security measures can be circumvented. The internet houses hundreds of thousands of parasitic organisms, each waiting for a victim, and still there is no check, no collar put on this maleficent and virulent beast.

The internet is an unstable edifice. It is not a vault. It is not impermeable. It is not unbreachable. It is a house of cards, ready to tumble at the slightest breeze.

Nasties!

Day 240: "Nasties" as in "Nasturtiums," that is...Tropaeoleum majus. Gardens are so much happier for having Nasties like these in them, and it never occurs to me to plant them until it's too late. This year, I neglected to order flower seeds from Park in January as I usually do, so on a trip to Watson's Nursery, I browsed the seed racks for something quick and easy. Marigolds were a no-brainer, although I know I'll be kicking myself next year when I have to weed them out from where they've reseeded, and a few bedding plants will fill in the hollow spaces in my haphazard flower bed. The Nasties are destined for hanging baskets to go outside the kitchen door.

Just recently, I was discussing with a colleague what to look for when trying to differentiate one type of native Violet from another, specifically the presence or absence of a spur on the back of the flower. "What do you mean by 'a spur?'" she asked. I said, "Like on a Nasturtium. Don't tell me you never bit off the spur on a Nasturtium so you could suck the nectar out!" I couldn't believe what she responded. "No," she said, "and I had to Google to see what a Nasturtium is." The next afternoon, I took her on a quick lunchtime field trip to look at Violets. At some point this summer, I hope to be able to drop some Nasties on her desk. Sucking nectar out of Nasturtiums is an experience kids of all ages can enjoy, even those who managed to reach adulthood without trying it.

All parts of a Nasturtium are edible. The nectar is a bonus! The peppery leaves and/or blossoms can be used in salads, the blossoms can be stuffed with any type of meat, and may be battered and deep-fried for a finger-food treat. The spicy seeds have been called "poor man's capers," and can be pickled just like the fruit of Capparis spinosus, then chopped and added to homemade tartar sauce. Nasties are anything but nasty!

Glowing Gold

Day 239: When the heat pumps were installed, the outdoor unit for the main one needed to be placed smack on top of the Wintergreen and "Gold Dust" Hostas I'd so carefully cultivated. I was more than a little dismayed at the thought, but had no choice but to move them. I lifted as much soil as I could, dropped the shovelsful into dishpans and then replanted them, disturbing the root masses as little as possible. I expected them to suffer something for the transition, or perhaps just up and die.

Maybe it was the soil closer to the front steps. Maybe it was a change in light. Both plants not only reestablished, but burgeoned in their new environments. Or maybe it's the circulating air, product of the heat pump fan. For whatever reason, they like their new homes, and I am very happy about that!

Living In Longmire

Day 238: One of the last places you would expect to see a lawn flamingo is in a National Park unless perhaps it cropped up in Everglades as an April Fools prank by some visitor, but this chap seems quite content living in the employee housing area of Longmire. He's been there for several months to cheer us up as we walk from the administrative compound to the community building, apparently content to live on a diet of fir needles and cones. He always makes me chuckle, and I've stopped several times to take his picture, but never knew quite what to do to present him to the public until now.

And All The World Was In Darkness

Day 237: In both hemispheres of the world, Ravens and Crows appear in similar legends regarding the time before man when all the world was in darkness. The stories begin in a cold, lean age when the other animals could not see to find food and had to huddle together for warmth. They convene to discuss what they might do to improve their situation. This theme is consistent in the oral histories passed down by the indigenous cultures of both the Pacific Northwest and of Australia. It diverges somewhat at this point, but the Hero remains the same: a Corvid.

In Aboriginal myth, the Crow either steals fire from the Seven Sisters (a constellation), or a group of crows band together and use forked sticks to lift the blanket of darkness from the Earth, allowing light to creep in. In Native American lore, Raven is the only animal brave enough to meet the challenge of stealing fire from the Sun. In some local variations, Crow/Raven begins as a white bird and is burned black by the fire/sun. In most versions of the legend, supreme intelligence and cleverness are accorded to the Corvid in question, often with the bird being the originator of the idea of the theft.

The exceptional intelligence which Corvids exhibit has caused many negative feelings toward the species. Humans do not like to think of other creatures being equally or more intelligent than they are themselves, or they refuse to recognize an alternate way of thinking as being a cognitive process, attributing it instead to instinct and selective genetics. Those of us who have lived in the company of Crows and Ravens know better. These are highly intelligent beings if, perhaps, on a different level than our own mental functions.

Mister here and his mate Missus have been coming to my feeding station since they were newlyweds several years ago. I observed their courtship, their bonding, and their displays of affection. They kissed beaks and groomed each other; they threw snowballs at each other; they rolled around in the snow like children making snow angels and then touched wings as if holding hands. Now, with several years of married life behind them, they are more subdued in their romance but still sit closely side by side on the fence to await their breakfast. Mister is the braver of the two (and he cautions her to stand back when I am present). He has lost most of his fear of the camera and will even allow me to walk in the yard while he's sitting on the board. I have yet to see them produce any young, but each year at this time, I start listening for the sounds of baby Ravens, the sounds of children learning to speak single syllables to convey complex concepts, things we humans need lengthy sentences to put across.

Quilter's Home Companion

 

Day 236: Skunk's first attempt to take possession of the quilt ended in failure. She wanted to sit on the hoop. She stood on my lap and put her front paws on the edge, and as the frame tipped toward us, she was forced to make a reassessment of strategy. This morning, I found her tucked into the kitty-cave made by the draped fabric. I suppose there's no question now: the quilt belongs to the queen of the household, so I'd better get cracking on finishing it up.

The Life And Times Of Arthur Dent

Day 235 and a Happy International Towel Day to you all!

(Quoting Douglas Adams):
On Wednesday night it had rained very heavily, the lane was wet and muddy, but the Thursday morning sun was bright and clear as it shone on Arthur Dent's house for what was to be the last time.

It hadn't properly registered yet with Arthur that the council wanted to knock it down and build a bypass instead.

At eight o'clock on Thursday morning, Arthur didn't feel very good. He woke up blearily, got up, wandered blearily round his room, opened a window, saw a bulldozer, found his slippers, and stomped off to the bathroom to wash.

Toothpaste on the brush - so. Scrub.

Shaving mirror - pointed at the ceiling. He adjusted it. For a moment it reflected a second bulldozer through the bathroom window. Properly adjusted, it reflected Arthur Dent's bristles. He shaved them off, washed, dried and stomped off to the kitchen to find something pleasant to put in his mouth.

Kettle, plug, fridge, milk, coffee. Yawn.

The word bulldozer wandered through his mind for a moment in search of someting to connect with.

The bulldozer outside the kitchen window was quite a big one.

He stared at it.

"Yellow," he thought, and stomped off back to his bedroom to get dressed.

Passing the bathroom he stopped to drink a large glass of water, and another. He began to suspect that he was hung over. Why was he hung over? Had he been drinking the night before? He supposed that he must have been. He caught a glint in the shaving mirror. "Yellow," he thought, and stomped on to the bedroom.
He stood and thought. The pub, he thought. Oh dear, the pub. He vaguely remembered being angry, angry about something that seemed important. He'd been telling people about it, telling people about it at great leangth, he rather suspected: his clearest visual recollection was of glazed looks on other peoples' faces. Something about a new bypass he'd just found out about. It had been in the pipeline for months only no one seemed to have known about it. Ridiculous. He took a swig of water. It would sort itself out, he'd decided, no one wanted a bypass, the council didn't have a leg to stand on. It would sort itself out.

God, what a terrible hangover it had earned him thought. He looked at himself in the wardrobe mirror. He stuck out his tongue. "Yellow," he thought. The word yellow wandered through his mind in search of something to connect with.

Fifteen seconds later he was out of the house and lying in front of a big yellow bulldozer that was advancing up his garden path.

*****

Crow speaking: Do you know where your towel is?

*****

It was a quiet morning in Pack Forest, and I had gone in search of Vogons (or at the very least, a yellow bulldozer), clad in a dressing gown, slippers (I call them by their Spanish name, pantuflas; I like the sound of that word...pantuflas), and lacking a bowler, my Boy George hat. It had rained heavily the night before, and the grounds were wet and muddy. I was not hung over, and therefore perceived the great hulking yellow machine quite clearly as it bore down upon me from the Vortex. Was I afraid? Not I! I had my Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy in hand, and I had my towel. There would be no panicking on my part on this day, although I can't speak for the people in the car which came out of the housing area while I was standing there with arms raised.

Clothespin

 

Day 234: Really, I ought to make these guys wear nametags. I can't tell one Clothespin from another one other than determining that some are boys and some are girls. Tiny little thing is Rufous Hummer (Selasphorus rufus). When they perch next to a wooden clothes peg on the line under the back porch awning, it towers over them by at least half an inch. That's a piece of standard 1/4" clothesline Clothespin is sitting on, if you'd like a reference for his size.

They have the awning figured out, too. They perch on the exposed line when the weather's decent, but return to cover when it rains. I'd imagine a raindrop smacking you on the head would be quite a jolt if you were as small as this. But oh, what they lack in size, they make up for in voice! An unknown ornithologist once said that a Hummingbird's vocabulary is 90% swear-words, and if you could hear them disputing territorial rights at the feeder, you'd up that estimate to 99%. The females are just as potty-mouthed as the males. I would not want to make a Hummer mad at me!

SNAFU - Some Nut's All Flickr'd Up

Day 234: I've been holding out hope for a return to normalcy at Flickr for several days now, but staff are reluctant to respond in any but the most oblique and vaguely insulting way to over 23,000 angry users. My complaints about the redesign are minimal and largely related to slow internet; in fact, there are more than a few things I sincerely like about the new interface.

That said, I am angry beyond words that Flickr broke faith thousands of users by substituting a different product for the one we purchased with our subscriptions, and without notice. I am aghast at the lack of response by staff to user complaints. Flickr has effectively alienated its client base even while soliciting advertisers to address them. That just doesn't make good business sense.

More Than Just A Pretty Face

 

Day 233: The key to identifying Violets often lies not in their pretty faces, but in the presence or absence of a sac-like structure called a "spur" at the back of the blossom. If a spur is present, observers should take care to note whether it is upturned, long or short, thin or pouchlike. Further identifying features include bearded or unbearded petals, number of petals with veination, and of course leaf shape. Many species of Violets occur in Mount Rainier National Park, and identifying them correctly can be very difficult, especially as young plants.

Your correspondent refers to Violets as "the Warblers of the Plant Kingdom," and if you've ever browsed that section in Roger Tory Peterson's "Field Guide to Eastern Birds," you'll understand exactly what I mean. Peterson devotes two pages of illustrations to more than two dozen species of (and I quote) "confusing fall warblers." You've gotta love Roger Tory. He gets right to the point. Violets, whether blue or yellow, are much the same here in the Pacific Northwest. I took a lunchtime field trip with a colleague today, specifically to seek these out on the Trail of the Shadows at Longmire. Even with Mark Turner's extensive "Wildflowers of the Pacific Northwest" in hand, I found myself only offering a chuckle and a 96% certainty for my identification of this plant as Viola langsdorfii, the Aleutian or Alaska Violet.

May? Not Snow!

Day 232: Snow? In May? Oh, my poor little birdies! The hummers are swearing twice as loudly as they usually do, the Black-Headed and Evening Grosbeaks are perched with shoulders hunched, as dejected a lot as you could imagine. "This isn't right!" they seem to say. "What's going on here?"

Previously, I may have seen snow fall as late as mid-April, and it's not uncommon to have a hard frost any time up to Memorial Day, but snow in May is unthinkable. The white stuff isn't sticking at this elevation, but a thousand feet higher, the webcam view from my second-story office shows quite a substantial accumulation on the ground. Currently, we have a work party scheduled to clean up twigs and fir needles in the Longmire housing compound next Tuesday. This may put a serious kink in the plan!

Venus Recumbent - A Nude

Day 231: Nude photography provides a unique set of challenges, not the least of which is the fine-line distinction between beauty and vulgarity, so easy to cross in posing a model. A hand in one position may be discreet; shifted an inch to the side, it may become distastefully suggestive. The graceful lines of the recumbent form can convey anything from sultry seductiveness to shy revelation. As one artist put it, what is not seen tantalizes the imagination. Uncovered, it is only exposition for exposition's sake.

Given my model's limitations, I have tried to create that which makes classic nudes something which can be admired even by those with the most Victorian morals. If you're looking for porn, just keep walking. Nothing here for you to see.

The Bad Penny

Day 230: I tried to give it away. Really, I did. I've made dozens of quilts in my day and several years ago, I finally decided I'd done enough despite the fact that I was about halfway through the handwork on one in progress. I put it in the trunk for "maybe some day," but "some day" never seemed to arrive. To further reinforce my decision not to quilt, I gave away my quilting hoop as well.

While trying to thin down my accumulation of stuff, I stumbled across the quilt again. "Dang," sez I to self, "I am never going to work on that thing. I should find it a good home." Thus it was that I delivered it along with several of my great-grandmother's quilts to my good friend Kevin's stitchery-loving wife Kelli. "And that," sez I to self, "is the end of that."

Wrong.

When I was down at Kevin's on Saturday, Kelli asked me if I really wanted to dispose of something on which so much handwork had already been done. I told her that I'd disposed of my quilting hoop, but then she suggested the possibility of borrowing a frame. "But I don't have anywhere to put it!" I protested. Some alternate ideas were discussed, but in the end, I wound up bringing the half-finished quilt home. I've been doing more needlework lately. Maybe now was that "some day" I'd been awaiting.

The problem of mounting it for stitching remained. Obviously, it couldn't be put on a needlepoint frame, but I thought my holds-any-embroidery-hoop stand might work even if I had to sandbag its base. I went to JoAnn Fabric and bought a 24-inch wooden hoop, half price with coupon for a measly four bucks. This morning, Frame met Hoop and I'm back quilting again.

Fans Don't Let Friends Wear Red Shirts

Day 229: As an avid fan of Star Trek from its very first season in 1966, I was shocked and horrified when the Next Generation debuted almost twenty years later. What were they thinking, I wondered, to trespass on hallowed ground? I actually rebelled against the thought of our old friends being supplanted by a batch of upstarts in stretchy Spandex uniforms, and I flatly refused to watch any of the first season. When the show returned for a second year, I sneaked a glimpse, feeling ever so much like I was compromising myself. The first episode I saw raised my hackles. "Imitators!" I swore, "Rip-off!" but I went back for a second look. It didn't take long before I was hooked.

Of all the following iterations of Star Trek, I have to admit that the Next Generation was my favorite series, although I felt it suffered greatly with the loss of Gene Roddenberry, the Great Bird of the Galaxy. Still, I watched every episode religiously, went to every movie, and attended almost every Trek convention held in the Seattle/Portland area. Sadly, as the various series concluded, the number of "cons" diminished and finally faded entirely away. Star Trek, it seemed, had put on the red shirt and died.

Then in 2009, I heard a rumour about a new movie with an entirely new cast playing younger versions of the Original Series characters. I walked into the theater prepared to be disappointed. I walked out two hours later utterly enthralled.

Four years! Has it actually been four years? I went to see the newest movie yesterday, and if you're expecting spoilers here, go somewhere else. The only things I will say are that in my opinion, this is the best movie yet, and that you'll want to watch all the previous films in order to catch the subtle cross-references this alternate timeline presents. In fact, I am anxious for it to come out on DVD so I can watch it several times in a row in the hopes of picking up those I missed. That said, you don't have to be a fan of the previous movies to enjoy this one, but being well-versed in Star Trek's future history will add an enormous depth to what this movie offers.

Fans don't let friends wear red shirts. Star Trek...a brave new world of Star Trek...lives!

If Only My Garden Looked Like This...

Day 228: I had the privilege of spending today with my good friend Kevin and his oldest son, first going to see the new Star Trek movie (excellent!) and then returning to his home for dinner with the whole family. While waiting for the lasagna to settle enough to make room for strawberry shortcake, Kevin and I went on a photo shoot in his yard. Ah, I wish my garden looked like this! From the top left, one of two enormous rhododendron bushes provided hundreds of flower clusters for models. On the right, a cultivated hybrid of Bleeding-Hearts dangled inch-wide pouches from a stem. For me, the spotlight was stolen by the beautiful red columbine in the lower left which, banked against the green siding of the house, shone like a beacon even in the late afternoon. A sloping embankment leads to the upper part of Kevin's yard and the boys' clubhouse, and is simply carpeted with wild strawberries.

Braid With No Ends

Day 227: How can you braid the middle of a leather strip if you don't have loose ends to work with? Why, just like you'd braid anything else, right over left, left over right. Don't believe me? Here's how!

For practice, cut a strip of suede one foot long and one inch wide. Mark lengthwise lines at 1/3 and 2/3 inches, fold the piece in half and make a small snip at the center of each division. Unfold the leather, insert your scissors in the snip and cut along the line until you're one inch from each end. Do not cut all the way through the ends! (See the first illustration.) Now begin braiding, passing the righthand strip over the center, followed by the farthest left strip over the center (second image). Do these two moves two more times until the strands return to their original positions (third and fourth images). These six moves constitute one full sequence.

But oh, golly! Look at the mess on the other end! It braided itself while you weren't looking! Now you have to straighten that out!

Hold the braided section in place firmly with one hand, securing all strands in their original positions. This is the critical step, shown in the fifth image. See the back (unsueded) side of the leather with the pencil line on it? That's the "tail" you'll be using to unbraid. With your other hand, feed the "tail" back through the tangle, following the intuitive line of travel. You may find that some strands twist in the progress of the work. Just keep fussing with it until they straighten out (sixth image). But remember, you must hold the braided section in place! Don't let go, or you'll have a bigger mess. You may want to hold the braided section against the table until you get the hang of unbraiding.

Once you have the tangle sorted out, you're ready to do another full braiding sequence. Remember, there are six moves to each sequence. When you've done all six (seventh image), secure the braided section with one hand, and with the other hand, unbraid the tail again. Keep repeating the braiding/unbraiding sequence until you have a comfortable, relaxed braided section (eighth image). If the strands want to lay over on their sides, you've done too many sequences.
When your piece is done, work the strands with your fingers until they lay more or less smooothly (bottom left). If you'd like, you can press them between two big books to flatten them out. Or you can unbraid your practice piece and re-do it before starting on a serious project. The little bookmark (bottom right) is half an inch wide and contains only a single braiding sequence. A few beads, and you have a nice little personalized "thank-you" gift for someone.

Calypso Bulbosa

Day 226: As scheduled, today I finished installing the signs to protect three large colonies of Calypso Orchids in the Longmire Campground, and was delighted to see that dozens of new blossoms have opened since last week. Even more thrilling was finding another less accessible colony off to the side of one of the least-used campsites. I did not sign the latter group because they are more protected by the geography than the others. It was interesting to note that the area where the new colony had sprung up was one we cleared of deadfall last year. Apparently opening the ground up to light was sufficient to bring the bulbs out of a protracted dormancy. I am discovering that these fragile plants have astonishing recovery abilities. In yet another area, they are making a comeback a year's absence following heavy foot traffic. That said, my campaign for their protection will be an on-going project for many years to come!

Zombies Don't Stand A Chance

Day 225: I can't begin to tell you how disappointed I was when Rovio released their new "Angry Birds Friends" game and I discovered that it requires you to belong to the bubblegum crowd on Facebook. Oh, I have a Facebook account, but I don't "friend" people I don't know, and I don't keep an appointment list for what times I'll be on the computer to play a game against an opponent. However, I find myself rapidly running out of birds to fling and pigs to blow up, and therefore I needed something to amuse myself when I want to kick back in my favorite chair and put my feet up. A friend whose opinions I value suggested a game which from the name sounded rather unappealing to me: "Plants vs. Zombies." As I was creeping closer and closer to the completion of all Angry Birds episodes at the three-star level, I finally gave in.

Okay, it's not as much fun as Angry Birds. I'll tell you that straight up, but there's something entertaining about playing as a gardener who is trying to win out over the horde of zombies invading the yard. Oh, yes...you play as the gardener, not as a zombie. That was the first surprise, and given the popularity of guts and gore, it was even more astonishing to find that the zombies aren't particularly gruesome. They're kinda silly, actually, and the plants...well, the plants are just plain cute. There's a Chomper, a globose, fanged purple species which resembles a Venus Fly Trap and eats zombies who get too close. It takes a long time to masticate its meal, though, and is vulnerable while it's chewing. With my fondness for carnivorous plants, it endeared itself to me immediately.

The game is easier than Angry Birds, and I'm skipping through the levels quickly. The Kindle Fire version is missing some of the content available to PC users (notably the Zen Garden), but since I've never played it on the computer, I don't notice the lack. And if I can't win out against the deer in my real garden, at least in this virtual one, I can keep those pesky zombies at bay.

Frog-o-Rama

Day 224 (Part B): It was a froggy day down on the Nisqually Land Trust property in Ohop Valley. I've been watching for these critters to show up for some time now, and today, the wait was over. They're a pretty jumpy lot, these...the slightest vibration from a footfall sends them leaping into the water, but experience has taught me that if you wait patiently, any given frog usually returns to its post within ten minutes or so.

These are not small frogs by any means. They would easily cover my palm. Some are vividly green like the fellow hiding under the reed in the top photo, but others are almost blue in color like the chap on the bottom. I do not know what species they are, and can only hope they're not the type considered "invasive" in many Washington waterways.

Frog Bridge

Day 224 (Part A): While on patrol for invasive weeds and litter at the Nisqually Land Trust property in Ohop Valley today, I had to work my way through waist-high grass to reach the water's edge where a beer case was lodged against the shoreline. In doing so, my heavy footfalls startled a number of bullfrogs. As I looked around for the source of the splashes, my eye was caught by the reeds floating on the water and mud-puppies resting on a rock just below the surface. It was only then that I noticed the graceful arc of the bridge where it was reflected and the inviting visual line created by old posts marching beneath the span. "That's worth a picture," I said to myself. I snapped a couple of quick shots and then remembered that I had the tripod in the car. "Oh, I can do an HDR of this!"

By the time I got back (the car was a quarter mile away), a few frogs had returned. Again, my descent to the water's edge was punctuated by enormous splashes. I set up the tripod and planted my feet in one spot, determined not to move until at least one frog made an appearance. After all, I was going to be there a while, but I knew I had to be perfectly still to have any chance of capturing one in the lens. I got sidetracked listening to Yellowthroats chanting, "Wickedoo-wickedoo-wickedoo, WEET!" and shifted my weight. Splash! A foot from my foot, a bullfrog dived into the water. I hadn't known he was there.

Eventually, I got a couple of frog photos as well as the requisite exposures for an HDR image (in this case, I used five). Stay tuned for Part B! That's where the frogs come in!

Red Dogwood

Day 223: A little over fifteen years ago, a friend of mine asked if she could plant a Dogwood tree on my property in celebration of the birth of her daughter. I said I'd be glad to host a Dogwood, but admittedly, I was thinking of the standard white variety. So was she, but when they went to the nursery to purchase it, there were no white ones. When they arrived on my doorstep with a "red" Dogwood, I winced. I knew "red" was just another word for "pink." I couldn't very well withdraw my offer of space, so we dug an enormous hole beside my driveway and installed the tree.

In past years, it's shown very little color other than a mahogany-red tinge to the early leaves. It would occasionally put forth a few or partial "blossoms" (the "flower" of a Dogwood is not the showy part, but that little tight cluster of dark buds in the center). In short, it was rather disappointing in its lack of pinkness. This year, however, it's simply a mass of color, and in spite of my aversion to pink, I find myself rejoicing in its splendid display.

Camas, Mount Rainier's Gift

Day 222: Several varieties of native Camas grow on the prairies of southwestern Washington where they were a dietary staple for the indigenous people, and when I lived on the prairie, I looked forward to seeing their blue flowers rising above the early spring grass each year. However, once you get away from the lowlands, you do not see them, so I purchased a a dozen bulbs at my favorite nursery and added them to my flowerbed. They have multiplied quite nicely, and now I have a dense patch about two feet in diameter.

Legend tells us that Mount Olympus (the highest peak in Washington's Olympic Mountains) had two wives, one of whom was very jealous of the other. One day, she decided to leave. She packed a basket with foodstuffs and set out walking. By the time she reached southwest Washington, she was tired and hungry, so she rested there for a while and ate. When she started on her way again, she left behind a few bulbs of Camas. That was how the Camas prairies came to be. As for the jealous wife, she continued inland until she found a spot where she wanted to make her home. She spread out her skirts and settled there, and today, we call the jealous wife by the name of "Mount Rainier."

Climbing Cleats

Day 221: "Hiking boots of Neta Budil / Neta and Elwood Budil joined The Mountaineers, Tacoma Branch, in 1943. Neta climbed Mt. Rainier in these boots with tricouni nails and cleats around the edges stamped with: Ome Daiber, Seattle USA, No. 613. Ome Daiber joined the Seattle Mountaineers in 1931. / Donate by Neta's granddaughter Julie and her husband Bill Miller."

If Neta Budil isn't exactly a household word outside the Pacific Northwest climbing circle, Ome Daiber holds that distinction. I had the privilege of meeting the mountaineering legend and inventor of "Sno-Seal" one afternoon as he was hiking down from Camp Muir and I was on my way up. I was a sprightly and energetic 30-something, but Ome put me to shame. He'd made the 5000' elevation-gain ascent to Rainier's best-known base camp in just under four hours. He was 78 years old, and still going strong. Ome invented other products for alpinists as well. Prior to the invention of crampons, climbing boots such as Neta Budil's were outfitted with tricouni nails for traction on hard-frozen snow. Ome's specialized cleats gave mountaineers a substantially improved grip on the ice.

Ome became something of a hero to me after that chance meeting. I was new to the sport of climbing and somewhat in awe of the men and women who had accomplished so many ascents with such primitive gear. Outfitted in the most modern equipment, I went on to meet the challenge of Mount Rainier six times by five different routes, picking off a few other lesser summits as well. Some time later, I learned that Ome had developed late-onset diabetes. He made a successful summit bid on the Mountain after losing one leg as a result of the disease, but passed away the following year after having the other leg removed as well.

Photo taken in the newly remodeled Tacoma Mountaineers clubhouse during Mount Rainier National Park's annual Volunteer Brunch.

Whatzit Tree

Day 220: Friends often hear me refer to the Whatzit Tree in my front yard, and invariably, I get the question, "Well, what is it?" In the first place, it's a Weeping Whatzit Tree, definitely an ornamental as opposed to a native species. It has to be pruned carefully to really get the best "weep," and I'm rather lax in that department. Every few years, I go out with a saw and take out the branches which stick right straight up at the sky.

"It's a Crabapple," says one friend. Um...I hate to tell you this, but it makes a fruit which resembles a Chokecherry, i.e., about the size of a pencil eraser and nothing but a single pit with a little skin wrapped around it. It's not a Chokecherry either. And to further complicate things, it's not a "flowering" variety even though it flowers prodigiously. The leaves emerge before the blossoms.

I have to admit that my area of expertise doesn't include a lot of knowledge about cultivated plants. I'm a wildflower person. I know Cedar trees and Hemlocks, and can show you the difference between a Subalpine Fir and a Noble, but I wouldn't want to be put to the test on some of our Pines. Suffice to say that the Whatzit Tree has kept me befuddled for almost twenty-five years now, but it sure is pretty.

Buzz Lightyear To The Rescue

Day 219: Oh, no! The evil Zurg has cowboy Woody and Becky Thatcher tied to a caterpilla...cata...cat...oh, catapult!...and he's going to launch them into far outer space beyond Saturn and Neptune! His Deadly Dinosaur is chewing on the rope! They're going to launch! Oh, but here comes Buzz! Lightyear! To the rescue! Biff! Pow! Bash! Stomp! Take that, you Deadly Dinosaur! Now Becky and Woody can go free! Buzz! Lightyear! Saves the day!

Being the child that I was, I woke up one morning when I was about ten years old to the frightening realization that I was losing my ability to truly IMAGINE as only a child can do. I'm not talking about thinking up games and inventing plot-lines for toys. I'm talking about something greater than simple visualization and creativity. I am talking about the ability to believe in the happenings within a non-existent world. At that moment, I made a conscious decision to hold onto my imagination as long as I could, or as some might put it, I vowed never to grow up.

Now you have to admit that this rather existential concept was somewhat beyond the average ten-year old, but then I had always been an adult in a child's body. The dilemma I then found myself in was how to become a child as my body grew older. I set about practicing, exercising my imagination every day. By the time I'd reached my late teens, I could see what a substantial portion of the ability I'd lost. I am happy to say that the decline ended there, though. Now as an adult, I am more childlike than I was when I was young, if perhaps not as innocent.

So what happens when you close the door at your house? Do your toys come to life, leading a secret existence to which you are only given brief and tantalizing glimpses? Mine do, and there's no way you can convince me otherwise, not in an Infinity or Beyond!

The Calypso Project

Day 218: Those of you who regularly follow my posts will no doubt remember the Longmire Volunteer Campground's Calypso Orchids I worked so hard to protect last year. The only resources I had at that time were a roll of yellow caution tape and permission to cordon off the areas where these delicate plants were emerging. In addition to the physical protection, I spread the word among my co-workers, and found them very supportive of my efforts. Today, the issue of the Orchids again came up in conversation, and I went looking for a better way to protect them.

Bureaucracies being what they are, I contacted the sign shop to find out how to go about obtaining signage for the area. I expected to have to get approval for the project at the administrative level, but when I explained the situation, I was told that in this case, I could have signs without going through the departmental rigamarole, but that it might take some time to round up holders for them. I pleaded urgency, expecting the Orchids to emerge some time in the next two weeks. The sign shop said they'd see what they could do.

Satisfied, I turned back to my regular work, but in about fifteen minutes, there was a knock on the door. Eight signs on metal posts were delivered into my hands.

Just before we planned to leave for the day, Kevin and I took a walk around the campground loop. Just in case, I'd taken two signs with me. We found one Orchid in bloom in the primary spot, and scores more in the bud phase. Look closely just off the upper right corner of the sign to see this Orchid in its habitat. Hard to see, aren't they? Next week, I'll be installing the remainder of the signs. Gotta protect my babies!

A Little Light Reading

Day 217: I got the chain-sawing done. I got the whole lawn mowed. I got the fenceline weed-whacked, and I did it all this morning. With my yard actually looking like a yard instead of a weed farm for a change, I decided to stage a "light reading" shot under the Whatzit Tree, "stage" being the operative word in that sentence. Admittedly, the mosquitoes aren't abundant yet, but in a few weeks, you wouldn't want to sit outside without being covered in bug spray. It's the price you pay for living out here in the dingleberries.

That said, for the last several days, the weather has been unseasonably gorgeous, maybe even a little too warm for those of us who are native to the area. It feels like summer ought to feel, a time for lemonade and straw hats and breezy clothes. And nothing reads better outdoors than a field guide, although Brodo is a bit heavy on the lap.

Sulphur Creek Falls

Day 216: My first day as a volunteer with the Invasive Plant Council was an astonishing success. I had emailed the land manager for the Swofford Pond Trail last night (he's a personal friend) to let him know that there was a large colony of Yellow Archangel at the boat ramp. As I drove past his office this morning, I noticed his truck in the lot, so I stopped to chat. At that very moment, he was loading up the prescribed chemical spray to control the infestation, and was going to be heading to the site with his crew within a few hours. Now that's what I call a fast response!

When I got to Swofford, I documented the species with photos and GPS coordinates, and then set out on the trail to see what else I might come across. Richard had mentioned the possibility of Purple Loosestrife, English Ivy and Yellow Flag Iris occuring in several spots and asked me to check on them. I did not discover any, although I did find a Holly, a "monitored" species. I stopped and reported it to Richard on the way home. It will also be listed on the survey sheet I turn in to the IPC.

When my patrol of the south shore was almost complete, I found myself juggling the idea of taking a side trip up to Sulphur Creek Falls. The only "trail" to it is one created by elk and a few hikers who try to follow them with somewhat limited success. I've been there enough times that I no longer need map and compass to find the falls, now entirely familiar with almost every root and rock en route. It's not a long hike, approximately half a mile, but it is steep and the vegetative hazards are myriad. Years ago, my first few attempts to reach the falls were stymied by Devil's-Club, dense Salmonberry thickets and prodigious nettles. It is also challenging to get down to creek level when you arrive at the falls. A fall on the steep slope would surely end in broken bones. The box-canyon walls rise a hundred feet or so above the narrow valley floor, only permitting sunlight to reach the bottom for a few hours in the afternoon.

I stayed at the falls for half an hour or so before heading down. As I neared the boat launch, I could smell the chemicals Richard and his team had applied to the Archangel. The area will require monitoring for a few years to be sure it doesn't come back, a duty which will give me an excuse to make another trip to the Falls.

New Duties

Day 215 (Part B): After attending a training session and filling out the paperwork, I am proud to say that I am now a registered volunteer with the Pacific Northwest Invasive Plant Council. It is our purpose to monitor public lands for the spread of invasive species, to document them photographically or take specimens for documentation purposes, to eliminate them when possible and safe to do so, to contact land managers when infestations require serious intervention or when hazards such as contact poisons may occur.

There are currently thirty species of particular concern in Washington. Not all occur in any given area. Some are aquatic, but most are terrestrial species such as Giant Hogweed, Knotweeds, Yellow Archangel and Tansy Ragwort.

There are three classifications for invasive plants. Washington State law dictates that Class A noxious plants must be controlled by land owners and managers. Control mandates for Class B weeds vary from county to county depending on the degree of infestation. Class C invasives are species are those for which control is recommended but not mandatory. This is not to say that all invasive plants are on the State's list. Far from it! Some such as Scotch Broom and Herb Robert are considered to be beyond possibility of control.

Check your state or county Weed Control Board for the steps you can take to eradicate invasive weeds, or join a group like the Pacific Northwest Invasive Plant Council. Let's stop the spread!

Spoons Of Dark Purple

Day 215: By special request and because this morning, the blossom was fully open, here is the darker shade of purple "Spoon Flower" Osteospermum shot in somewhat better light than the lavender one I featured yesterday. "Spoon Flower" is also available in white. The petals unfurl to some extent as the flower matures, but never fully open out flat. Spoon up some summertime fun in your garden with this delightful and unusual Osteo!

Osteospermum Spoon Flower

Day 214: When my friend Patty got a "Spoon Flower" last year, I knew I'd just have to find one for my garden! An Osteospermum, the plant is an annual, but I am given to understand that it reseeds freely. The "spoony" variety comes in medium purple like this one, dark purple and white. I bought a medium and a dark purple. I won't be putting them out in the garden just yet, though. It's not uncommon for us to get a killing frost in late May. I never put tomatoes out until at least the first of June.

And speaking of tomatoes, they've failed to produce for me for the last two years because cold nights came early. Even with a maturation date of 60-65 days, a pair of my favorite Sweet Million cherry tomatoes only produced half a dozen fruits. I am trying a different variety this year (Oregon Spring) in the hopes that it's better adapted to our climate. Oregon Spring matures at 60 days.

Swofford Idyll

Day 213: "The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope." So wrote Scottish angler John Buchan, and thus it was that my 92-year old fishing partner, his two daughters and I spent the day with our lines in the tranquil waters of Swofford Pond, hoping. We hoped the morning away, hoped through lunch, hoped as the sun progressed across the sky and laid the shadow of a Douglas fir across our strip of shoreline and a soft breeze gave a faint briskness to the air. The girls fell to chatting with and at me, although my eyes never ventured far from the slight belly in my line as I hoped it would show evidence of tension. In a sudden interruption of a lopsided conversation, I leapt up to land a twelve-inch rainbow trout, hope rewarded. Somewhat later, I discovered a few bluegills hugging the shoreline and exercised them with my fly rod and a woolly bugger. Two came to land, and were quickly unhooked and released to panic their fellows into vacating the cove.

For all the hoping done by my companions, I am sorry to say that no other fish were lifted from Swofford Pond on this day. That brings me to another oft-heard aphorism of the sport and its devoted enthusiasts: "It's not about catching fish, it's about fishing." I'm cool with that.

Weave A Paper Heart Basket

Day 212: By popular request, here is a set of visual instructions for creating the heart-shaped interlaced paper May basket I posted yesterday. You will need two sheets of colored paper (two colors), a ruler, a pencil, scissors and glue if you want to add a handle.

Begin by creating a heart-shaped template. Using an engineering compass or by tracing around a jar lid or glass, draw a circle. Fold it in two neatly and on another sheet of paper, trace around the edges with a pencil. This gives you the curved upper portion of the heart. Measure across the diameter of the circle, and then draw a square with the sides equal to the diameter, i.e., if your circle has a three-inch diameter, your square will have three-inch sides. Align the square with the straight edge of the half-circle you drew on the second piece of paper and trace around the edge of the square. Bingo! You now have a half-heart template!

Step One (top left): Trace around the template onto your sheets of colored paper. Mark the points where the semicircle and square meet and draw a line from point to point. Next, divide the lower portion of the half-heart into five equal sections lengthwise (a center-finding ruler works best, but any ruler will do if you measure accurately).

Step Two (top right): Cut carefully along the lengthwise lines, taking the cut just slightly beyond the horizontal line which divides the curve of the heart from the lower portion. Reverse the fold of the half-hearts so that any pencil markings are on the inside.

Step Three (middle left): Begin weaving the folded tips by passing the innermost blue strip through the center of innermost orange strip. Then pass the orange strip through the center of the second blue strip. At this point, the work progresses on an angle and is fairly easy.

Step Four (middle right): Do not completely weave any strip all the way across at this point! Gradually add in new weaving until the work becomes too tightly packed to weave the last strip. Ease the first strips of weaving toward the curve of the heart, being careful not to tear the paper.

Step Five (lower left): The last few weavings will be the most difficult. Continue working the earlier strips toward the curve of the heart until the final strip of orange can be passed through or over the last two strips of blue. Patience is the key here, and if you want a real challenge, try making a two-inch heart out of fragile origami foil!

Step Six (lower right): Your woven heart is complete! Add a handle by gluing on a strip of leftover paper, or even glue a narrow strip of the contrasting color to the center for a fancier look.

This pattern was originally published in the Jan.-Feb. 1989 issue of "Cross-Stitch and Country Crafts." I adapted its size so that it was suitable for a May basket.

Happy May Day

Day 211: The tradition of leaving May baskets on the doorsteps of friends and family seems to have fallen by the wayside. A common practice when I was a young girl, I often made trugs of woven construction-paper strips or even just rolled a cone and attached a handle. Indeed, the construction of May baskets was an annual class project when I was in the elementary grades. Sometimes, my Campfire group created them as well.

Often as not, the flowers I used to fill the baskets were pilfered from the gardens of the very friends who were to receive them, but no one ever seemed to object. Sometimes when winter had held on too long and flowerbeds were only just beginning to color up, I'd fill my May baskets with dandelions and ferns.

May baskets are the springtime equivalent of a visit from St. Nicholas on December 6. The approach to the door is made with extreme stealth, and the basket is either hung on the knob or placed on the doormat where it can't possibly be missed by the recipient. Then, a knock on the door or a push of the bell, and and a quick scamper around a corner to a hiding place sets the stage. The giver of the May basket awaits the inevitable comment, "Oh! Someone left me flowers! I wonder who?" and may or may not reveal themselves as the benefactor.

In my opinion, the practice of giving May baskets is one which should be revived. Simple joys are almost forgotten in today's hurried and impersonal world.