Flowers Of The Hosta

 
Day 302: Hostas are generally considered a foliage plant, but their blossoms are certainly worth mention. Most are white or lavender, although there are a few varieties which verge on purple or magenta. They are borne on scapes (stalks) which rises a foot or more above the leaves. Foliage may be green, grey-green or green patterned with yellow or white. Variegated species tend to display the best color when grown in partial shade. Don't dismiss Hostas from consideration for a "flower" bed! They will reward you doubly.

Portrait Of An Intense Young Man

Day 301: Today, I again had the pleasure of escorting the Regional office's young intern to various venues in the Longmire compound, introducing him to staff as he pursued the ambitious photographic project of documenting the less visible aspects of Park operations with the goal of presenting to young people the wide variety of employment opportunities available in the National Park Service. I sat in while he interviewed radio technicians, interpreters, rangers, electricians and others, and over and over again, I was impressed with his knowledge of what goes on behind the scenes and his ability to engage each divisional representative with intelligent, well-formulated questions.

As I mentioned in my previous post, I was charged with photographing the photographer in action, and it occurred to me that this young man deserved recognition on his own merits. To that end, I set about capturing a candid portrait to give to him as a gift, one photographer to another. My best wishes accompany it, and I hope our paths cross again.

Aboard The Snowplow

Day 300: My job is so much fun! I never know what I may be enlisted to do above and beyond my regular office duties. Today, I had the privilege of escorting an intern from the Regional office on a photo shoot, introducing him to the supervisors and workers in many of the different Park divisions. I was also charged with the duty of photographing the photographer and his lighting set-up, something of a challenge for me because I prefer not to use flash. Although in many cases I was shooting at speeds of 1/2 second or slower, I was still able to get non-blurred images of him and his interviewees. Of course there was also some latitude for me to take some fun shots of my own, and in both the Auto Shop and the Road Shop area, I was allowed to climb aboard a "Big Toy." Here, the view is from the cab of a snowplow in for its routine summer "physical." I really want to take one of these for a spin around the block!

Garden Patchwork

 
Day 299: So typical of my haphazard gardening, I remember planting poppy seed in mid-May, but apparently I didn't scatter it widely as I sometimes do. The poppies came up in a patch, leaves packed tightly together and stems rising to display brilliantly colored blossoms, but only at one end of the flower bed. Behind them, shorter marigolds are just starting to open (wrong way around, I know...a testament to my poor planning), but much of the rest of the garden is bare of anything except the occasional weed. My little feathered friends saw to that, and I'm not one to begrudge a Goldfinch or a Grosbeak any seed they wish to eat. They are accustomed to being fed regularly, and I cannot expect them to differentiate between breakfast and potential ornamentals. It's just the way of it here: birds first, even when I'm making a trip to the grocery store. That said, they almost always leave me something if I scatter a variety of things. They left the Nigella to sprout, and I am now collecting and drying pods for next year's garden. The marigolds will reseed themselves, and I'll be cursing them as weeds next year. The Juncos do their best to thin them, even eating the young sprouts, but my experience with marigolds tells me that they'll take over the bed if not aggressively controlled. I need more things of their ilk; plants which are happy taking care of themselves. Poppies ought to fill the bill.

My mother used to task me for planting annuals. Perennials were so much simpler, she said, and less expensive in the long term. Plant something once and be done with it, other than weeding around it. I argued that I liked to change my color scheme, and then every year, I'd grow bright-hued Gazanias amid rich blue Lobelia with pink/purple Cosmos towering overhead. Color scheme? What color scheme? It was always a rainbow selection. I never thought I'd see the day, but I'm finding myself agreeing with my mother at this late date. I'm starting to eye the perennials at Watson's with consideration to bird and butterfly attractors like perennial Fuchsia. That's not to say I won't tuck a few annuals in the open spots, but I think I'll buy them as bedding plants from here on out, and just pray the deer and elk don't find the smorgasbord to their liking.

Weir Spillway

Day 298: With a little more time on my hands, I hiked up to the old weir again today for a better look around. Specifically, I wanted to see if the trail extended beyond the site, and as far as I could tell, it terminates at the weir. If I had taken a map and compass or a GPSr, I would have been tempted to explore the upper reaches of the creek. Perhaps it's a good thing I left them behind, or I might not have gotten home in time for dinner.

Experienced cross-country hikers will know that following a creek up-slope is a bad move. All too often, creeks have steep headwalls somewhere above, and in any event may be so densely lined with vegetation as to be impenetrable. In the Pacific Northwest, that vegetation frequently is comprised of Devil's Club which makes creekbed travel even less feasible. The best choice of route is one which follows a ridgeline where the natural fall of debris is at a minimum. That said, I explored a short way above the weir where I found a series of tumbling cascades hidden in deep shadow; mossy, green, cool and with more than an adequate supply of mosquitoes. Retreating with prudence, I then ventured down an embankment to obtain this shot from below the weir spillway. Further travel downstream from this point would have required a rope.

Mycoheterotroph Season

Day 297: It's the season when those most mysterious mycoheterotrophs are at their best in the lowland forests! These amazing plants would not exist if it were not for their symbiotic relationship with species-specific fungi. Formerly classified as "saprophytes," obligate (full) mycoheterotrophs are incapable of photosynthesis on their own and must parasitize a fungal component. Facultative (partial) mycoheterotrophy occurs when a plant is capable of photosynthesis (as in the case of some orchids), but take a portion of their nutritional requirement by parasitizing a fungus.

Okay, okay...that's probably too much science for many of you, and if you get me started, I'll go on for volumes. I'm fascinated by the mycoheterotrophs, as a couple of strangers discovered today. I was in my famous "naturalist enraptured" pose, down on my knees and elbows, derriere in the "two o'clock" position, trying to hold the camera steady for a long exposure of the Candystick when I heard a young man's voice asking, "Is that a real person?" I had not heard him approaching with his mother, and they must have taken me for one of Mount Rainier National Park's more peculiar exhibits. Before she could answer (and she was taking her time, possibly wondering the same thing), I laughed and said, "Yes, I'm a real person." I think they were somewhat startled even so! They escaped before I could deliver my usual interpretive lesson on mycoheterotrophy, but I am always on the lookout for anyone who may be curious about these intriguing plants.

Candystick (Allotropa virgata) is less common than Pinesap (Monotropa hypopitys), although both specimens were found growing along the stretch of the Wonderland Trail between Longmire and Cougar Rock Campground. The Candystick occurred only in two locations, whereas Pinesap was observed in numerous spots. Coralroot (Corallorrhiza sp.) was also widely seen, but it is at the end of its flowering period and is now forming seed pods.

Treasure In The Mist

Day 297: Back in the Good Old Days when cameras used film or plates coated in emulsions, photographers created special effects both in and out of the darkroom. One of my favorite techiques was the use of filters, specifically what I call "creative filters," i.e., homemade devices placed between the lens and the subject. These creative filters could be anything from a piece of window screen, sheer fabric, cellophane to glass coated with a thin film of petroleum jelly or other oily substance. The latter was often used to give a soft, romantic atmosphere to wedding photos. Nowadays, of course, special effects are something many of us add during post-processing, however I have yet to find any program which can duplicate the unique appearance created by shooting through a piece of Vaselined glass.

Yellowstone Circa 1915-1925

Day 295: I didn't realize what a rarity I had here until I started trying to research the provenance of these old "penny postcards" after staging the shot to acknowledge a friend who is leaving for Yellowstone tomorrow. The cards and two totem poles were handed down to me from my mother, souvenirs from a family trip taken when she was very young, and I thought he might get a kick out of seeing what the National Park was offering for souvenirs almost a hundred years ago.

The box claims the cards are a "set of fifty," but I count 73, and a fair number of them are imprinted with "Haynes Photo." Only one bears a date, "1916 by Haynes, St. Paul." A few say, "Curtis for N. P. (or Northern Pacific) Ry." and one elaborates, "by Asahel Curtis for Northern Pacific Ry. Co." Digging into Wikipedia, I discovered that the Hayneses (Frank Jay and son Jack Ellis) were photographers for Yellowstone from 1884 until Jack Ellis passed away in 1962. Haynes Guidebooks continued to be published for a few more years following Jack's demise. Frank Jay Haynes was known as Yellowstone National Park's first "official photographer," and his son achieve fame as "Mr. Yellowstone" when he succeeded him.

Top left (slanted): "4293. Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone"
Top center: "4522. Angel Terrace"
Top right (slanted): "10072. Mammoth Hot Springs Terraces" (Haynes)
Second tier (left): "4261. Brown Bear Waiting for Garbage"
Second tier (right): "4314. Official Gardiner Gateway"
Third tier (left): "4504. Ten Minutes for Lunch"
Third tier (center): "4509. Fishing Cone, Yellowstone Lake"
Third tier (right): "4309. Silver Gate and the Hoodoos"
Lower tier (left): "10137. A Buffalo Head" (Haynes)
Lower tier (center): "4500. Handkerchief Pool" (N. P. Ry. Co.)
Lower tier (right): "4511. Old Faithful Geyser by Moonlight" (N. P. Ry. Co.)

My NPS colleagues will no doubt find  a few chuckles in the subject matter here. "Brown Bear Waiting for Garbage" refers to a time when garbage was dumped off in certain areas specifically to attract bears for public viewing. In "Ten Minutes for Lunch," the bear is drinking out of a glass. In "Handkerchief Pool," the ranger drops a handkerchief into the geyser where it is sucked down and then resurfaces some time later.

Pipsissewa Pursuit

Day 294: Chimaphila umbellata goes by two common names, Pipsissewa and prince's pine. The first is a Native American (Cree) word meaning "breaks into small pieces" (a reference to the fragile petals), but the second is a puzzlement. Who was the prince (lower case p, mind you), and what association did he make between this plant and pines? Although I've seen some speculation in various sources, I have never found believable etymological support for the peculiar nomenclature. Suffice to say that I call it Pipsissewa in daily reference, and hasten to explain that it is evergeen and to some degree mycoheterotrophic (i.e., it establishes a symbiotic relationship with specific fungi and is dependent upon them for survival).

As most of my readers will recall, I am particularly captivated by the mycoheterotrophs, and anyone who knows me even slightly can attest to my fascination with words; thus, the prince's pine has entered the ranks of my favorite forest flowers, its exquisitely beautiful waxy flowers a bonus to its other intrigues.

Incredible Edible Tropaeolum Majus

 
Day 293: Yes, that's right! You can eat almost any portion of a Nasturtium, and many people find them quite tasty! As children, many of us delighted in biting the tip off the spur on the back of the flower so that we could suck out the sweet nectar, but the whole blossom can be dipped in tempura batter and deep-fried for a tangy treat. Young leaves add a kick to salads, imparting a peppery zing among more boring greens. The seeds may be pickled and used as a recipe substitute for capers. To date, I've not heard of a use for the stems or roots, but this plant goes way beyond being an old-fashioned garden staple when it enters the kitchen.

A Cawlection Of Crows

Day 292: When someone asks me what I collect, my first thought always runs to my marble hoard. It fills a five-gallon glass jar and spills over into a second container, and the tally is approaching 5000. Next, I think of the ceramic "worms" (caterpillars) on display in a shadow-box, a grouping which started with a gift given me on my first birthday. I may even cast a cursory glance at the shelf of Lomonosov porcelain and bird figurines, the bells, the cats, or any of several other less populous collections, in all cases my eyes slipping right past one of the most prominent assemblages in my home. I won't say they appear in every room, but visitors are never out of line of sight with some item of the numerous crow and raven representations I possess. They ornament the hutch top of my desk, hang on the wall in the kitchen, stand watch over me while I sleep. They emerge from my jewelry box, as cards and stationery, or from my library shelves. Many of them have been gifts from friends who know my abiding interest in the fascinating corvid family. Others have followed me home from shoppes both near and far away.

I have been associated with crows (and to a lesser extent, ravens) for most of my life. I've studied them, made friends with them, learned a few words in their complex and elegant language. I feed them daily, converse with them when I am hiking, or sometimes in parking lots if one invites me to an exchange of civilities. I often greet friends on the street with a loud and realistic "Caw!" which, to my great amusement, sometimes causes others within hearing range to look to the sky. I seek out crows wherever I go, sometimes as trinkets, sometimes as temporary companions, so yes, I'd have to describe my "best collection" as one of crows.

A Rudbeckia Of A Different Color

 Day 291: Typical of my haphazard gardening, I bedded starts and sowed seed in the spring and then promptly forgot what I'd planted. The best part of this method is that something invariably takes me by surprise. I did remember that I'd stuck some Rudbeckias out there...perennials because I'm getting lazy in my old age...though the fact that they were a rich maroon entirely slipped my mind.

I have a passion for dark-colored blossoms. I love Queen of Night and Black Parrot tulips, Superstition Irises, black Callas (which I can't grow), even silly little black Pansies. I am always looking for new black-flowered plants which can survive my neglectful gardening practices. If not black, give me the darkest shades of purple or red available for a species.

This is not to say that my garden has a funereal aspect. Far from it! I really don't plan for color, so the flowerbed looks more like a crazy-quilter had a hand in its design. Over here, there will be a thick mass of bronze marigolds; over there, clumps of blue Globe Gilia or a tangle of pink, white and purple Nigella. It's not a "scatter garden." It's more like a mosaic.

The Rudbeckias will be permanent fixtures, although they may get shifted around over the coming years so that they form a backdrop for shorter flowers. I'll probably forget where I put them until they burst through the ground, ready to surprise me with their gypsy-dark eyes yet again.

Camouflage

 
Day 290: If this guy had ordered a custom paint job from the military, they couldn't have done a better job of camouflage! When I stopped to photograph the sunflowers at the Mountain Community Garden in Eatonville, I didn't notice the bees until I zoomed in and tightened the focus. Then I realized they were hard at work on several flowers, some rather a bit too close at hand for someone who's highly allergic to their stings.

The Mountain Community Garden leases raised beds for vegetables and provides a "commons" for growing taller plants. The Garden also hosts an area dedicated to cultivation of produce specifically destined for the Eatonville Food Bank. Last year, the Garden donated over 200 pounds of organically-grown vegetables, benefiting people who might otherwise not have been able to afford a healthful diet.

Tippy Turns Five

Day 289: Somebody's a Birthday Boy! At six months old, Tip had just been brought in from his temporary foster family to be put up for adoption, and I was looking specifically for a black kitty. I didn't know it at the time, but black and "tuxedo" cats (black and white) are the least likely to be adopted from shelters. Why? Some say it's the superstition, but how did that superstition evolve? Well, if you've ever fallen over a black cat in the dark of night, you might be inclined to say they were unlucky. Even if you haven't tripped on a cat, you may have stepped on a midnight-colored tail and seen a sudden flash of white just before the teeth were embedded in your leg. Yeah, I can see why people think black cats are unlucky.

But not Tippy. Tippy was one of the luckiest finds of my life. I'd just lost a little black genius of a kitten during routine surgery, and friends who had seen the zest come back into my life with Harry Dickens' presence were pushing me hard to take on another kitty. A search of local shelters and pet stores yielded nothing, and I wound up travelling several hours north only to discover that the last kitten at one shelter had been taken just before I arrived. A friend who had accompanied me pulled out his phone and started calling around. He found one shelter with mostly adult cats and a few juveniles, but to my dismay, no little baby kitties. However, when we arrived, they showed me a pair of six-month old "tuxedo" brothers. I picked out the one with the least white and spent an hour getting to know him before deciding to take him home.

A few days later when I took him in for his first physical, the veterinarian told me he had a heart murmur. With my emotions raw from the loss of little Harry, I was rocked hard by the news. The shelter footed the bill for a full cardiological exam, and Tip was given a better prognosis than I had feared. His current doctor monitors his condition carefully and so far has not been concerned. "He's just noisy," she said, but she wants me to watch his weight and be sure he gets good exercise.

Exercise? He's a mile-a-minute fellow! He runs and leaps, and keeps up a sweet, soft commentary as he passes things by. "Mirrl?" he asks his toys. "Mirrl-mirrl!" he tells me as he races around my legs to encourage me to chase him. He plays ever so gently when I tickle him; never a bite, never a scratch, and he's always ready with a nose-rub or a paw on my cheek. For all the love he gives me, my Boy was a very lucky find indeed!

Discovery

Day 288: Now you realize that this place wouldn't be secret if I told you where it was, so you're out of luck there. Suffice to say that a few days ago, I discovered an abandoned road...more like a disused trail, really...and only had time to explore part of its length. I had a pretty good guess what might lie at its end, but without checking a map, I had no idea how far I might need to travel to reach my imagined destination. With a little free time today, I decided to see how far I could get before a borrowed watch told me I had to turn around.

I was almost at the halfway point on the clock when I heard the sound of rushing water in the distance. Damn! Should I risk being late and go on, or do the responsible thing and turn around? I knew I'd make better time on the downhill run, so I decided to go up a switchback, at that point heading away from the water. I came to the second corner in fairly short order, but of course couldn't guess how many times the trail would turn back on itself before it delivered me to the creek. Fortunately, the next bend took me straight there, to this lovely and isolated weir. With the clock ticking, I snapped a few photos and then raced back down, reaching the bottom only two minutes past the time when I was expected to return. My slight tardiness was deemed justifiable by the like-minded soul who had loaned me the watch, a person who could not have resisted the siren call of that rush of water any more than I could.

It's not every day you get to name a geographic feature. Knowing what we know, the two of us were in complete accord on the designation of "Calypso Creek," and I'm sure he'll get up there to see it soon!

Large-Flowered Collomia, Collomia Grandiflora

Day 287: I'm afraid I can't resist posting a wildflower photo taken during my bike ride yesterday. You see, Large-Flowered Collomia is somewhat uncommon in Western Washington, and the only place I know that it occurs is on the prairie. Primarily a plant of the east side, it grows in open to lightly wooded areas and meadows. The flowers form a compact head, and are a pale yellowish-salmon color which is most unusual and appealing. The stamens bear dark blue pollen.

Sunny Bunny

Day 286: Almost every time I go for a bike ride, I see bunnies, and after hearing a horror story from a bike technician about how he broke his collarbone when he smacked a bunny on his way to work one day, I live in mortal dread of one of the little critters running out in front of me. They can change direction on a dime, these little guys, and they make jack-rabbit starts (yeah, I know...bad joke). I'd had half a dozen running alongside me this morning before I spotted this guy, hiding in the dappled shade of a small cedar. Usually, they're too jumpy to get a decent picture, but I think he was convinced his camouflage was impeccable. He sat still as a stone and allowed me to go past him, no more than ten feet away. And there he sat, content to let me take his picture and go on my merry way. I hope he finished his breakfast before some other cyclist frightened him away.

Sweetfern, Comptonia Peregrina

Day 285: The common name "Sweetfern" is misleading. Comptonia peregrina is not a fern. It is a deciduous shrub commonly found in the understory of Eastern pine forests. Reputedly difficult to establish from a slip taken in the wild, mine which began as a thready 12" stem with only a handful of leaves has matured into a densely foliated bush with very little encouragement on my part. It presently sprawls three feet wide and equally as tall, adding a lovely spicy fragrance to the air outside my kitchen door. Its seed pods are particularly fascinating. Although they look spiny, the "prickles" are quite soft. In its native environment, this shrub tends to be leggy and somewhat weedy in appearance, but as a garden plant, it provides an excellent backdrop of green for colorful flowers.

Lucifer's Horns

Day 284: Over the years, the front corner of the flowerbed has been occupied with a succession of plants, none of which has been fully successful. The first was a densely bristly, compact spruce of some sort which never failed to bite me when I was weeding. It grew tall and interfered with the power lines and the roots were threatening the house foundation, so I decided it and its companion by the kitchen door had to go. Digging them out was a major task involving everything short of stumping dynamite which, in any event, wouldn't have done my sidewalk any good. The one in the corner was replaced by a camellia which proved too tender for our cold mountain winters. Frost invariably nipped blooming in the bud, and the leaves generally looked ratty. Still, it had been a fairly expensive shrub (it was a yellow variety), so I made inquiries among my friends and found one who was willing to take a chance that it might live or die. I delivered it to her in a bucket where she left it for a week before planting. Amazingly, it survived and is quite happy in its new home.

Although I really wanted something evergreen for that corner, I didn't want to risk having to uproot something a few years down the line. I also wanted something which would dominate the corner, i.e., a fairly wide and tall plant. Abandoning the idea of evergreens, I started casting about for other things which would fill the spot seasonally. I finally selected a Crocosmia (var. Lucifer) in full knowledge that it will take over the garden given half a chance. I planted one four-inch pot of thready starts. The plant is now in its second year, barely fills a foot of ground space, but the flower heads stand waist-high and bring a note of vivid color to the yard. If it wants to spread, I say, "Spread away!"

Da Little Noses

Day 283: Two days ago, the first of da little noses peeked out of the Tree Swallows' nesting box on the side of the garage, giving me my first glimpse of this year's crop of "gilligans," as I nicknamed the babies years ago. I have no idea how many nestlings are in the House of Chirp because I can't tell them apart at this stage, but Colin Harrison's "A Field Guide to the Nests, Eggs and Nestlings of North American Birds" says that Tachycineta bicolor's clutch may consist of four to six eggs. In the number of young born and raised in this house over the last ten or more years, I have never found evidence to indicate anything other than a survival rate of 100%. Nesting boxes in other locations on the garage have not been as successful.

This side of the garage faces roughly north and catches a little morning sun. It is protected from hot afternoon sun by a wall of tall evergreens. It is visible to me from the window over the kitchen sink, and at this time of year, I need no urging to wash dishes. Even with the window closed, I can hear the youngsters putting up a fuss when the parents are returning with tasty insects, and as soon as they get close, whoever is in the doorway opens wide. Sometimes, the bug is stuffed so far down the nestling's gullet that it looks like the parent's head will get wedged in the gape, but particularly large morsels are delivered into waiting beaks. I am always amazed at how much food these tiny little birds require.

Twinflower, Linnaea Borealis

Day 282: A drift of Twinflowers brings to mind a gathering of tiny faeries dancing on the forest floor, the slightest breeze setting the bell-shaped blossoms trembling on hair-like stems. The pale pink flowers are borne in pairs on Y-shaped stems arising from vining runners. Since this little beauty prefers to surround itself with dozens of its own kind, the massed effect can be breathtaking.  Like faeries, it is a creature of the forested zones, and loves cool, moist woodland areas.

Parnassius Clodius, Mated Female

Day 281: All right, class, settle down. Today, we will be venturing into the somewhat embarrassing subject of how to tell girls from boys, i.e., "the birds and the bees" as it relates to the peculiar anatomy of the Clodius Parnassian butterfly (Parnassius clodius). Our specimen here is not perched on a nodding flower. The hollow, keel-like white structure you see beneath the black body is called the "sphragis," and originates as a gelatinous secretion deposited by the male during mating. This secretion hardens into a plug which prevents sperm from escaping the female's body, giving much better odds for reproductive success. Parnassians are one of the few families of butterfly which exhibit this unusual anatomical characteristic.

Willow Flycatcher, Empidonax Traillii

Day 280: Last night, a geocache was published in LaGrande and I was certain that the Eatonville crowd would be stumbling over each other in the hopes of being able to claim "first to find." I knew better than to bother trying to get there before them. I'm farther away, and in any event, they'd probably have gotten the notification on their cell phones long before it ever hit my computer. I didn't even bother looking at the listing when I got up this morning, but when boredom set in and I decided to go birdwatching in Ohop Valley, I said, "What the heck, might as well pick up that cache while I'm at it." Oddly, no one had logged it. I saw that there were two people tracking it, usually a pretty good indicator that there's something wrong with the coordinates or that the hide is harder than the ratings suggest. Still, it was en route (more or less...a section of the road was closed, necessitating a detour), so off I went. I was pleasantly surprised to find a blank log book when I got there. Now I'm wondering what happened to the Eatonville cachers!

Then I was off to my real mission for the day: trying to capture a Yellowthroat with the camera at the Nisqually Land Trust property where I am a Site Steward. Oh, I heard them in abundance, but the little stinkers were staying in cover. I spotted Cedar Waxwings at a distance, and as I was training the lens on them from a bridge, movement below caught my eye. I saw a flash of wings, followed them to some brush overhanging the creek, and from the flight pattern, I was sure I was seeing Flycatchers. Since I've observed and confirmed Empidonax traillii at this location before, I was fairly certain that's what I was seeing.

Flycatchers are masters of camouflage, and I shot up several dozen frames trying to get a photo which would demonstrate how neatly they blend into the background. Their pale overall coloration and darker wing markings effectively conceal them in the habitat of dried reeds and twigs. Seen against murky, brownish stream water, their colors resemble the sparkle and shimmer. As I watched, several birds made repeated short flights, tagging the surface of the water with their beaks and wings, returning to the tangle of branches with tasty bugs in their mouths. Like fish, they followed the "hatch," first working from the brush, then shifting position to a small stump in mid-flow, then back again to the brush. They were amazing efficient at their work.

Birdwatching is of course one of my favorite sports, but couple it with another recreation such as hiking, bicycling or geocaching, and I'll have to say you'd need to work hard to top that. Flycatchers are the icing on the cake!

Little Miss Rufous

Day 279: I'm of the opinion that you cannot have too many hummingbirds, although the little stinkers have been putting a sizeable dent in my grocery budget since mid-April. Sugar is something I only use for baking, but somehow a five-pound bag doesn't seem to last long enough to make three batches of cookies. That said, it's a treat to watch them at the feeders and to listen to their verbal battles with one another, throwing insults left and right, and even occasionally cussing out a hapless Goldfinch or Pine Siskin who made the mistake of perching on the "shepherd's crook" stake. I've come close to taking a Hummer in the eye or the back of my head when I've been slow to replace an empty bottle, and have had them hover within inches of my hand as they wait in line.

Selasphorus rufus, the Rufous Hummingbird, is a tiny little thing. The males exhibit a beautiful rust-colored back and brilliant metallic red throat, the back coloration readily separating them from male Allen's which are green with a rufous tail. The females are green-backed with rusty flanks, deeper in shade than that of the smaller female Calliope Hummingbird. Female Anna's have grey flanks. My population consists entirely of Rufous.

Talk To The Hat

Day 278: There's a story among those of us who have spent a good portion of our lives alone, and I first heard it related about a fence-rider in the Australian Outback. A new-chum happened upon him one day while he was holding forth an animated argument with his hat where it was jammed down on a post, and reported back to his mates at the bunkhouse that the poor old sod was going a bit barmy and might be due for a spell back among human companions. "Nah, 'e's orright," the new-chum was told. "Not to worry, so long as the 'at don't answer 'im back."

I haven't reached the point at which the hat responds in kind, although I do discuss the price of tea in China with various rocks, trees and small wildlife, and have been known to reproach a piece of barbed wire with an epithet and a demand to "Gimme back my sleeve, willya? I don't have all day to stand here waitin' for you to let go of me. I've got work to do." Brambles are often accosted in much the same manner, as are puncheon bridges which grab the point of a walking stick, refusing to give it up to allow me a normal walking pace. It sometimes seems that objects have minds of their own, particularly when met in Nature, but so far, none has expressed itself within my hearing.

Mount Rainier

Day 277: You cannot live at the base of such grandeur and say that you take it for granted, not unless you are totally blind to the beauty of the natural world, but it occurs to me that in this blog, I have posted very few photos of Mount Rainier, giving short shrift to one of the most compelling forces in my life. It was having this mountain in my back yard, so to speak, which fostered in me a strong adventurous spirit. Even at a very young age, I felt the Mountain's pull. I wanted to explore the meadows, to hike, to climb, to learn the names of the wildflowers and to become a forest ranger. I would not say that Mountain set my path; rather, it became the path on which my every footstep fell, existing simultaneously as the route and the destination.

Once upon a whim, I left the state for a period and, too inexperienced in emotional attachment, did not recognize for some time the source of an incredible homesickness. It was not friends or family I missed. It was my Mountain on the horizon. When I discovered the shape of the hole in my heart, I beat-feeted it home for good.

When I walk out behind the Longmire housing compound during my lunch break nowadays, I Mountain-watch. A cloud on the shoulder of Gibraltar Rock, a cap on the summit, the debris of a rockfall darkening a glacier each give me a glimpse of the seasonal mood. No more than I could take this peak for granted could I refrain from imbuing it with a personality. This is the Mountain, regent of the Pacific Northwest, and I'll thank you to spell that with a capital M, please.

Hardhack, Spiraea Douglasii

 
Day 276: Hardhack is a member of the family of Spiraeas, but instead of bearing its flowers in a flat cluster, it sends up tall spikes. Technically a shrub, it is a rather weedy plant, often forming thick cover for wildlife where it fills in wetlands. It is the most common Spiraea in western Washington and a cousin, Spiraea menziesii, is found more often on the east side of the mountains. The two may be distinguished by the presence or absence of fine, matted hairs on the back side of the leaves.

A Farmall Fourth

Day 275: As much as I love watching parades, I enjoy actively participating in them even more. Today, it was my privilege to be one of almost two dozen uniformed representatives of Mount Rainier National Park who swept through Eatonville, handing out candy and high-fives to the kids, waving acknowledgement to the community residents and smiling in general goodwill. It was perhaps our best Park turnout ever, and the small-town populace lined both sides of the streets elbow to elbow, ranked three to five deep in places, over a one-mile route. The high-school band followed directly behind us, marking a lively tempo which inspired some -ahem!- to "boogie" joyously. Our group was fairly near the front of the parade, so when we had completed the circuit, we stood on the sidelines and watched as other groups passed by. As in many other rural areas, tractors come naturally to a parade. I was delighted to see two Farmalls bringing up the rear and managed to catch this shiny red beauty before she headed back to the barn.

Remembering George

Day 274: We called her George. It started when I was about 10 years old, on the occasion of a brutal self-inflicted haircut which left her with a one-inch pigtail in the back. "Mama, you look just like George Washington," I said, and "George" stuck. She was George to my friends, George to her own. Not too many people have a mother named George.

George's favorite flower was Skunk Cabbage, but running a very close second were "Turk's Caps," miscalled because that was how her father referred to them because they looked like the Turk's Caps he knew from the midwest. I grew up calling them "Turk's Caps," and only in adulthood became aware of the error. Even now have to remind myself that they are really Columbia Lilies, the Pacific Northwestern cousin. What the heck, if your mother's name is George, surely a tiger lily by any other name is still a tiger lily.

Menzies' Larkspur, Delphinium Menziesii

Day 273: No matter how many wildflower pictures I may bring home from a hike or bike ride, Larkspur is almost guaranteed to trump anything else. The intense blue stops you in your tracks.

I bicycled thirty-five miles on the Yelm-Tenino and Chehalis-Western Trails today as part of a patrol for invasive plants, and fortunately, Larkspur isn't on the list. That said, I found a massive infestation of English Ivy and two small patches of Yellow Archangel which will be duly reported.

It was a lovely day for a ride. After rescheduling work because I expected today to be in the 90s again, the forecast changed overnight. I awoke to sunny skies and the promise of somewhat cooler temperatures, so I threw the bike in the car and headed for Flatland. As is so often the case, I drove down into overcast by the time I reached Eatonville. The clouds persisted until after noon and a fresh breeze kept the sweat from rising. On the way home, I rewarded myself with an iced mocha from my favorite espresso wagon.

Crow's Crows

Day 272: "Where did you get your nickname? Is it a Native American name?" If I only had a nickel for every time I've been asked those questions, I'd be a rich Crow. The answer to the second is that no, it is not a Native American name, although it could be said that it was derived in much the same way that many cultures name their children at birth and then another appellation is given or chosen at adulthood as the person's "real" name. This leads into the answer for the first question: I have been associated with crows since I was very young.

My dad started it. He was a fan of the "Dick Tracy" comic strip, in which a little girl who was called Wings appeared occasionally. She had long, black hair which was worn swept back from her temples in a somewhat more flamboyant manner than the way I wore my own long, black hair. Daddy started calling me "Wings," and when we were working out in our house vegetable garden, he would recite poems to me which often contained crows. "One for the worm, one for the crow, one to die and one to grow," he would say as he placed four corn kernels in each hill, and would then tell me that the corn had an even greater chance of survival since it was covered on two accounts: one to grow, and another to grow for the crow, i.e. for his Wings.

With this initial association, a love of Edgar Allan Poe's "Raven" was a natural outgrowth. I began looking for crows in other venues and never failed to speak with them when I saw them in the wild. Their intelligence appealed to me, as did the fact that they were social pariahs for the most part, as was I. The more I observed them, the more fascinated I became with the species overall, seeing perhaps more of myself in them (both good and bad) as I came to know them better. I learned to speak a few words of their language (ever so much more complex than any human speech) and took to feeding them in my yard. They grew to accept me, many times coming down to the "crow board" before I'd walked five feet away. My studies of them deepened and then widened to include the other corvids, but by that time, I was already known as one of the flock, a Crow.

In the Native American fashion, Crow could be said to be my "spirit guide"; in the Australian Aboriginal culture, my Dreaming. Crows and I are inseparable. Raven, that much-revered benevolent trickster of the Pacific Northwest's First People, is a friend by extension, as are the family of Jays. Crow watches out for me, alerting me to unusual things in the forest, sometimes guiding me to discoveries and adventures. Crow teaches me as I observe his relationship with the natural world, and his interactions with members of his own kind and with other species. Crow is ever present in my life, and I have only to give a quick caw from the back porch to find his ready companionship. Caw! And that's how I got my name.