Aw, Nuts!

Day 333: I went to visit my fishing buddy today and took him out in his wheelchair for a long ramble around the compound. We sat for a while at the fishing pond without fishing, simply enjoying the sun and friendship, watching the big trout swim and rise to take dragonflies from the surface. The grounds are park-like: immaculate lawns, old trees casting deep shade, covered walkways, carefully groomed shrubs, and everywhere, fat Douglas squirrels scurry about for the peanuts residents provide. As I was watching one particularly plump female, my eye fell on this happy sculpture on a pedestal under a central canopy. I angled around, trying to get the real squirrel in the shot with it, but unfortunately the depth of field I had to use to get a good exposure on the sculpture turned the live animal into a blur. You can still see her to the left of the statue's tail, sitting upright in a similar pose.

Aqua-Bound

Day 332: What a day! A friend alerted me to a new "paddle cache" near Yelm a couple of days ago, and when I looked at it to get the specifics, I discovered that there were actually five on the sprawling, multi-armed lake. I mapped them out with National Geographic's "Topo!" program and traced a route of approximately 3.5 miles round trip. That, I said to self, is easily do-able. I put the project on my agenda for Saturday, but then was reminded of the holiday weekend by another friend. When you live alone, holidays don't signify. They're easily forgotten, and often leave you snarled in traffic if you foolishly decide to go to town. Saturday suddenly seemed less appealing, but the weather forecast for today was less than perfect. I went to bed with some trepidation.

When I got up this morning, I saw blue through gaps in the clouds. I made the final decision to go for it. By the time I hit Eatonville, I was regretting it. It was simply pouring buckets, in my mind filling the 'yak on the roof and soaking the seat. However, when I reached the blinking light on Hwy 7, rain ceased and puffy white sheep were gambolling on a field of blue. The Weather Gods had smiled on me for my doggedness. The 'yak was only moderately damp inside, and the seat wasn't the least bit soggy.

I launched on Lake St. Clair about 10:30 and was almost at the furthest cache when I realized I'd forgotten something very important. When you're logging five-star hides, you'd bloody well better have signed the log! And that's rather hard to do when you don't have a pen. With less than 300 feet to go to my primary destination, I turned around and started paddling back 'round the rabbit (a chocolate-bunny shaped peninsula) toward the car. Then it occurred to me that I was passing right by a full-sized "regular" cache I'd planned to do later in the day. Surely it would have a pen in it! I was in luck. With the borrowed pen, I "drove" the 'yak back to my intended starting point, found the cache and signed the log. Yes, I returned the pen later.

I faced another challenge with several of the caches. The owner (person who placed them) had not taken short-torsoed, short-armed tiny people into account. In water of unknown depth, I did not want to risk standing up in the 'yak to unscrew a tiny Bison tube hung in a tangle of cedar boughs swinging low over the water! By means of strange contortions, I retrieved that cache and (harder still) replaced it after I'd signed in. Two others were similarly placed. But oh, I was impressed by the tight places the 'yak could reach!

After all the caches had been found, I lengthened the day with explorations of all the lake's major arms (and it has quite a few). In total, my paddle covered approximately seven miles. The weather, for all of its wet beginnings, had turned into perfection. Now I'm ready to bide at home through the busy holiday weekend.

A Weed Is Just A Flower Nobody Wants

Day 331: Given free rein, candytuft would take over your garden, perhaps even more vigorously than those little yellow things you so diligently pull. What makes it a "flower" and consigns hawkweed to ignominy? I haven't got the answer, but I can testify to candytuft's persistent nature by saying that I haven't planted any for over twenty years, and yet here's a specimen poking its head up in a patch I'd let go back to grass. Something...a mole or a shrew or a beetle...must have stirred the soil and brought one lone seed near the surface. Dormant for twenty years, it sprouted. If that's not weedlike behaviour, I don't know how you'd define it.

Abbreviated Summer

Day 330: It was too short, summer. Impolitely, it came late and left early, like a guest who felt obligated to put in a token appearance at Aunt Matilda's birthday party. Oh, it wore a smile when anyone was looking, but as soon as it saw the opportunity, it crept quickly through the crowd and disappeared.

Already a light toss of snow has touched the upper Mountain. The mornings have damp edges and a fringe of chill. Best lay in a stash of good books, wash your woolly socks and chop some kindling because winter's already got its toe in the door.

Nasturtium Square

Day 329: Despite being troubled by aphids, the nasturtiums in their hanging baskets provided a cheerful accent to the back porch this year. The leaves were rather pale and wan, but they've been covered with bright orange blossoms for weeks now. Orange? I distinctly recall planting mixed colors, hoping for a few dark mahogany flowers and seeds I could harvest for next year. Other than one yellow orphan, the "mix" was limited to two very similar shades of orange.

But what the heck, it's color, right? And looking through the sliding glass door today at grey skies, that orange was a welcome sight. That said, "mixed" seed packets which produce only one or two colors seem to be the general rule these days. If you want variety, the way to guarantee it is to buy several envelopes of single colors or mixes packaged by different growers, a plan I never seem to remember from year to year.

Secondary Attractor

Day 328: The season is winding down, evidenced by the shortening of the days, and plants which enter a dormant period are acknowledging the change. New foliage is shorter, more spindly, the energy now being directed into flower and subsequent seed production. Old foliage is withering and dropping, turning into mulch which will afford roots some protection against colder temperatures. Plants raised indoors or in greenhouses are not immune to the diminishing hours of light. My Venus Fly Trap has dined well and is now preparing for a winter nap by putting up a stalk of flowers, a secondary attractor in the rules governing this species' game of survival.

Fishing Buddies

Day 327: Day before yesterday, my fishing buddy was ensconced as a permanent resident in a nursing care facility about 45 minutes from my home. His daughters had told me that there was a fishing pond on site, and expressed the hopes that I could visit and take him fishing. Today, I wheeled him down to the pond where, using a borrowed pole and off-brand imitation PowerBait, he proved that he hasn't lost his touch. As a guest, I am only allowed to assist him, so I cast out his line and placed the pole in his hands. About fifteen minutes later, the tip of the rod was jerked sharply downward and the game was on. With a flunky drag on the reel, it took him five minutes to bring the fish out from under the dock and into range of the waiting net. Unfortunately, fish (a gorgeous rainbow) had swallowed the hook deeply and couldn't be released. That said, the pond is well stocked with trout of similar size and larger, and only the threat of showers and dropping temperatures urged my old pal from the dock. I suspect we'll be spending many hours here.

Second Time Around

Day 326: Friends of mine got married for the second time today. I'd known them for a decade before they had their first wedding thirteen years ago, and I was honored to be one of the officiating ministers despite the fact that the occasion was not then recognized by the State of Washington. Today I was only a guest, but if anything, my pleasure was greater. Today, in full accordance with state law, Karen and Beth were wed.

Many who gathered in their back yard today had been in attendance thirteen years ago to acknowledge this couple's dedication to one another; like me, some had known one or the other of them before they met. Over the years, we watched them make a home together, supporting each other through the rough patches and sharing in each other's joys. We had seen them nurture a niece, "adopted" as a daughter, raising her from an unruly child into a fine young woman. We watched them garden together and make music together, and we saw the honest love passing between them as partners. We saw in them a unity and a commitment and a strong sense of family values. We saw them, not as two women living together, but as a couple, as "married" as any of our other friends might be said to be.

Today, the State of Washington officially acknowledged the marriage of these two people, just a little slow off the mark to see what their friends knew all along: they were meant for each other.

Lake Kapowsin Paddle

 
Day 325: I was really weighing the weather before setting off on a paddle across Lake Kapowsin, but when it seemed to be brightening here at home, I threw the 'yak on the car and headed out with intent to find the geocache on the island. I'm finding my interest in geocaching is a little stronger if it gives me an excuse for my new sport, although I'm not at all excited about "getting my numbers up" with a series of guardrail micros. With over 4000 finds, I'm pretty bored with those. Tempt me with some exercise like a paddle or a hike!

The cache was the real goal today, and the shortest land route to it was from the back side of the island. Kapowsin is a maze of stumps and snags, and navigating between them was further hampered by the darkness of the water and overcast skies. At best, visibility into the water was only a few inches. Once around the south end of the island, I found myself in fairly shallow water in the "inside passage." I put into port at a campsite approximately 200 feet from Ground Zero and simply followed a trail through the salal to reach the spot. There was a tent set up nearby, but I did not see any occupants, and found the cache easily.

My goal accomplished, I then set out to explore the shallow eastern lobe of the lake. Perhaps I was going a bit faster than I should have been, given the opacity of the water, but I suddenly felt a bump and heard a scrape and when forward motion ceased, I realized I'd grounded myself on a submerged stump. I back-paddled and went absolutely nowhere. Strong forward strokes didn't move me an inch ahead. Efforts to turn left or right resulted in spinning 'round and 'round like the propellor on a beanie, my fat bum in the boat the pivot point of futility. I laughed at the predicament I'd got myself in, but another corner of my mind was occupied with the possible permanence of the arrangement. Finally, a series of a dozen or so seated "butt-hops" skootched the 'yak free. Without knowing the depth of the water, the thought of having to get out and push was not a comforting one! But all's well that ends well, and about that time, the wind came up and the sky darkened, so I made for home port, tagging a few more subsurface deadheads with the paddles as I progressed across the lake.

Uphill Climb

Day 324: It's been an uphill climb, dammit, but I've got here by putting one foot in front of the other one, navigating around crevasses, keeping my focus on reaching the goal. I don't know that I've achieved anything in anyone else's eyes, but that's not the point. It's just about getting to the top...and getting back down again in one piece. Sometimes the obstacles have seemed insurmountable. Sometimes I've felt dwarfed by the challenge ahead, but as I've chided myself time and again, "You ain't gonna get there by lookin' at it," and that philosophy has driven me to take the next step even when I thought I couldn't go on.

So what's up there that's so important? Nothing but a purely personal reward: "Been there, done that." Is it worth the pain? Too damn right it is! Yeah, there are risks. There are risks in getting out of bed in the morning. You can't let fear govern you, but you have to be wise in the way you approach the pitfalls. You have to be on your toes, in control, tight every single moment. Takes a lot of mental discipline, life.

If you were to ask me what single event stands out among the things I've done, I'd pull out that top photo and say, "This. I spent a night on the summit of Mount Rainier. On purpose." There are a lot of people who overnight up there without planning it, so I have to qualify that. My husband and I climbed via Camp Hazard and Kautz Glacier, laden with full expedition gear "just because." We spent the next day exploring the crater and venturing into steam caves; not deeply, but far enough in to feel the breath of the volcano whispering in our ears. We touched warm rocks with our bare hands when our faces were aching with cold though we were masked by wool balaclavas. We smelled the sulphrous gases emerging from the Mountain's digestive tract.

I was nine years old when I decided I wanted to be a climber. There was only one Mountain on my "to-do" list in those days because I was too young to know there were others. Yet even after I had met Mount Rainier's challenge and gone on to conquer lesser peaks, there was only one Mountain in my heart. Six successful ascents I made, by five routes or variations, but only once did I tuck in for the night with the crater rim rising around me, the greatest moment of my life spent sleeping so soundly that I did not wake to view the stars.

A Corner Of Color

Day 323: In a day when "clashing colors" meant that you didn't wear green with blue, red with orange or purple, grey with brown, my mother's sage but somewhat contradictory advice was to take direction from Mother Nature. If colors did not appear together naturally, they were verboten. I promptly went out and found many examples of red flowers with orange centers, brilliantly blue blossoms rising over vivid green foliage and verdant mosses growing on the grey bark of the alders so prevalent in the Pacific Northwest. Mother Nature, it seemed, was ready to excuse any shades I cared to combine. Soon, the aesthetics were to change. With the advent of the Hippie Era, clashing colors became de rigueur, but the trend was for unnatural shades, the "day-glo" palette. With the exception of eyeball-bursting chartreuse, the hippie hues offended my sensibilities.

Today, I fall back on my garden for fashion counseling. It trends toward the jewel tones, assiduously avoids pink, mixes anything else while being based primarily in greens. It does not matter if it runs down a bit at the heel, is rumpled or has a few patches. It's comfortable in its loose fit, rather old-fashioned, and most importantly, it's a happy, riotous rainbow from top to bottom with no concern for that silly idea that any two colors might clash.

Lawrence Lake Adventure

Day 322: Although I've pretty much given up geocaching, the idea of adding a couple of "paddle caches" to my list of finds gives me an excuse to take the kayak out on a variety of relatively local waters. Because these caches are generally only accessible by boat ("special equipment"), they carry a five-star rating for terrain. Personally, I think that's rather liberal. A 20-mile backpacking trip, scuba dive, helicopter lift or technical rock climb rates no higher. But who am I to argue? I've walked to two paddle caches at low water, earning five stars for nothing more than getting a bit muddy or wet up to the thighs. Today's challenge, however, honestly required a watercraft or the ability to swim. I crossed a mere third of a mile of water, put in on a tiny island, and in less than fifty steps through light brush, had the cache in hand. That done, I was free to spend the rest of the day exploring the lake.

Lawrence Lake is largely surrounded by homes, many of which have a commanding view of Mount Rainier. The lake is approximately 330 acres and consists of a large kidney-shaped section running roughly north-south which connects with a smaller triangular bay to the southwest. The southeastern arm of the lake is shallow and filled with lily pads and cattails, and therefore provided a lure the naturalist could not resist. After making a full circuit of the lake, I decided to prowl among the reeds where only kayaks can go.

The wind had risen and the chop was on the main water, but among the lilies, it was relatively calm. I edged forward, making as little disturbance with the paddles as possible, but still startled dozens of frogs into great arcing leaps, chirping annoyance at me from mid-air. One brave soul stood his ground. When I spotted him, I stopped paddling and let the wind carry me toward his roost until the boat ran aground, but like his companions had done before him, he sprang into the air and came down with a splash as soon as I started to urge the boat out of the mud. Circling among stands of cattails, I found a water lily root on the surface, looking ever so much like a sea monster or scaly water dragon. The real thrill came when I spotted shorebirds. With the sun in my eyes, I couldn't tell what I was photographing. It was only when I got home and could adjust the shadows and pull up the details that I discovered my little friends were Semipalmated Plovers. There was a second species eating mud bugs alongside them, but I did not get a shot from which they could be identified.

I spent almost as much time in the reeds as I had spent paddling three miles on the lake. There was so much to see, from native and non-native water lilies to an odd corkscrewy aquatic which remains a puzzle to me. The swallows dipped and dived, picking insects off the water surface, and an osprey soared overhead. Reluctantly, I headed back to shore, three and a half hours on the water spent, and enjoyably so.

The Way She Was

Day 320: To look at me now, you might find it hard to believe that I was a climber in my younger days, and until this point, my proof has been locked up in a few fading prints and a large box of slides tucked away in a cupboard. A friend loaned me her brand-new, never-been-used, slide scanner (compatible only with Windows XP) and I spent the morning installing it on the semi-retired computer in the crafts room. I thought it would be appropriate to present my documentation by featuring another old gal who ain't what she used to be: Mt. St. Helens.

Getting fogged in on the Dog's Head was something Bruce and I experienced on many occasions, regardless of the season, but one of the most memorable was our very first climb of "The Lady" on the Fourth of July 1978. It was one of those ascents when you could barely see your partner at the other end of the rope, let alone tell where you were going (top left).

Bruce and I rarely climbed with anyone else, but on the day we did the Forsyth Ice Fall direct, another friend accompanied us. I led the climb, being the lightest and least likely to break through fragile snow bridges, belaying the men when it came turn for them to cross (lower left). After I had called "Belay on," the guys moved forward. On seeing the bridge, they looked at each other and said, "She's got to be kidding!" The two photos on the right were taken earlier that day.

In our opinion, the best time of the year to climb Mt. St. Helens was in the winter. The ice formations we saw on the upper mountain varied from crusts of bubbles to long, feathery plates so fragile that the slightest touch made them crumble. Although the center photo was taken on a climb in November 1978, I hold the distinction of being the last woman known to have climbed St. Helens before she blew her lid in 1980.

Chip And Bucky

 Day 320: The general rule of thumb is that my blog photos have been taken on the day of posting, however there are those occasions when I want to share something special with my readers like these two wildlife shots from my hike to Lodi Creek yesterday. I missed the bear and the herd of mountain goats, but was able to capture a cute little Townsend's Chipmunk and an elegant Black-tailed Deer buck in full velvet. Sightings such as these are not unusual in Mount Rainier National Park, so if you come to visit us, be sure to carry your camera!

Lovely Lodi Creek

Day 319: With the second of two Volunteer Appreciation picnics being held at Sunrise on the east side of Mount Rainier National Park, I had an excuse to visit one of my favorite places in the line of duty. With a radio slung on my belt, I set out from the parking lot at noon and, typical of a busy Saturday, had not gone a hundred yards before I was stopped by the first visitor with a question. I don't often have the opportunity for visitor contacts, although it's something I greatly enjoy, particularly when the inquiries touch on my fields of interest. In this instance, I was asked to identify a wildflower. Oh! Those are the questions I like best! A little further on, another visitor pulled me aside to ask why the snow was oddly colored, opening the door for me to explain about red algae. I heard that same question at least five more times during my hike.

With frequent stops, I finally got to Lodi Creek two hours later after having heard reports of bear and goat sightings near Frozen Lake and below Skyscraper Pass. I saw neither. At Lodi, I was again engaged in conversation with several groups of visitors, almost all of whom were foreigners or from out of state, some visiting Mount Rainier National Park for the first time. It is always a thrill for me to be part of someone's introduction to the Park.

My free time was half-exhausted by then, so I started back up the hill, chatting with more visitors on the way. I stopped to admire a four-point buck (eight-point to you east-coasters!) and to photograph a Townsend's Chipmunk kindly pointed out to me by an elusive flock of some kind of warbler which disappeared into the brush before I could spot where one had landed. Then I returned to Sunrise where my colleagues were gathering for the picnic and spent the remainder of the afternoon in their delightful company.

Future Figs

Day 318: Two weeks ago, I stopped to visit friends who are organic gardeners and came away not only with a large bag of sweet, juicy, ripe Desert King figs, but also a well-rooted start taken from their 10-year old tree. The parent tree was about this size when they planted it and took about four years before producing its first figs. Last year, they picked over a hundred. This year, it's even more heavily loaded. Desert King is a cold-hardy variety, perfect for the Pacific Northwest climate. Although their tree has suffered some tip-kill over the winter, it springs back beautifully. They suggested that I plant this sapling in an area which is somewhat protected. Having had prior failures with trees and shrubs planted in the fall, Desert King will remain in its pot until spring, protected from marauding deer and elk by a wire cage. I am looking forward to a future of figs for the picking!

Townsend's Chipmunk, Tamias Townsendii

Day 317: I make no secret of my dislike of squirrels. No homeowner who has ever discovered chewed wiring or damaged shingles would claim to be a fan. No one who has been kept awake nights by scurrying and gnawing noises in the attic would say they enjoyed their company. Their gluttony for birdseed is insatiable, and they can surmount any obstacle from greased poles to hooded feeders to obtain it. Squirrels...the Douglas squirrel of the Pacific Northwest in particular...are obnoxious, destructive little varmints (a word, incidentally, which derives from the term "vermin," and appropriately so).

I first noticed this little fellow a few weeks ago and, not being expert in mammalian critters, I dismissed him as a different breed of squirrel until his unsquirrelly behaviour made me think twice about my cursory identification. For one thing, he didn't raid the bird feeders. He only collected what seeds he could find on the ground, those spilled out by the careless Jays. Instead of bullying the Juncoes and finches, he sat back until they vacated the area to make his forays. Day by day, he grew less cautious around me until I was finally able to make a field-guide portrait. Although I am not fully confident of my analysis, I believe this is Townsend's Chipmunk, one of the most common "chips" in western Washington, but a new species for my yard.

My little friend is very mannerly. He sits with his treat in hand, demurely nibbling black-oil sunflower seeds or bits of corn, one wary eye cocked my direction. He (and I surprise myself in saying this) is a textbook example of "adorable." To date, his only crime...a misdemeanor...is that he has been burying his winter stash in the begonia pot on the front porch. I'd been wondering if I'd potted the tuber in recycled soil when sunflower seedlings came up between the leaves. It wasn't until I found a pile of shells on the step that I caught on.

The Pride Of The Garden

Day 316: The pride of my garden does not grow in a flower bed. It stands in an elevated saucer of water beside the kitchen door, filling an eight-inch pot with deadly beauty.

Here you see two varieties of Sarracenia, carnivores which lure insects into their seductive maws by enticing them with nectar on the rims of the pitchers. "Pitcher plant" is the generic term for these unusual botanical delights, a term which also includes their cousins, the Darlingtonias.. Several species are native to the United States. That said, mine were cultivated in a greenhouse and wholesaled to a nursery, not harvested from wetland habitat. There are strict laws regarding taking specimens from the wild!

The hapless bug who alights beneath the "umbrella' of Sarracenia finds itself on slippery footing at the pitcher's mouth. Once in the pitcher tube, escape is further hampered by fine, stiff hairs which point downward into the tube. The insect is forced deeper into the tube as it struggles, and eventually comes into contact with digestive enzymes in the base. It may take a week or more for the plant to break a hard-shelled beetle down into its nourishing components. Sarracenias go dormant in the winter months, but are hardy even at temperatures well below freezing. During this period, the plant does not need to "eat."

Bugs beware! You shall not pass my well-guarded door.

Putting Into Port

Day 315: Weather has kept me from kayaking over the last few days, and I've been anxious to get out on the water. Today's adventure was close to home: Mineral Lake. With the unexpected assistance of our Park geologist Paul Kennard, I put in at the public boat launch (barely visible in the far distance) and power-paddled my way to the north end of the lake, fighting wind all the way. Oddly, I found myself battling the wind on the return as well, and bucking choppy waves in the bargain. Having made one circuit, I was considering calling it a day, but as I got near the boat ramp, I swung the 'yak around and went wide to keep from interfering with someone taking in a power boat. At that point, I said to myself, "What the heck, I might as well do another lap."

The chop had subsided a bit, but as soon as I came to the gap in the foothills where down-valley winds sweep off the shoulders of Mount Rainier, I was again pulling hard. Good exercise, this! Then from behind me, a series of unusual, broad swells lifted the boat and propelled it forward. I do not know what generated them, but my thought was that there might have been a small earthquake. They were fun to ride.

One thing about being out and about in a boat, sometimes you need to put into port for one reason or another. The north end of Mineral Lake is undeveloped, and for the most part, there is no easy bank access. I managed to find a pleasant harbour by weaving my way through deadheads, one of the significant advantages a 'yak has over other craft. Apparently I was not the only one to have discovered this haven because set in the woods fifty feet or so was a large fire-ring of stones, well-used, and the tree canopy above them very close and low. It's the second "secret camping spot" I've discovered while paddling (the other was on the back side of Bogucki Island). Rounding the end of the lake a second time, I checked on a boatful of fishermen I'd spoken with earlier. They still hadn't had any luck, and reported to me that their largest catch of the day was a whopping four inches long.

Still fighting wind and chop, I found myself losing the "paddler's box," the energy-efficient posture a good kayaker strives to maintain. Three hours and three miles were enough for this day, given the challenge of rougher water. I am loving my new sport!

Jar Music

Day 314: Plink! Plink! Plink! That's the sound of lids sealing on jars fresh from the water-bath canner. Plink! And it's a music unlike any other. It made me dance into a batch of gingersnaps and a changeout of old liner paper in the baking cupboard, and then urged me to organize the oils, vinegars, syrups and sauces. That done, I tidied pie tins and colanders, sifters and sieves. The sound of plinking continued as I washed dishes and put away the wares of cannery: jar lifter, food mill, pot, pan and pouring cup. The glittering brass smiles of the jar rings teased me as I boiled berry stains out of brand-new washcloths, rinsed sticky spills of jam from well-seasoned towels and threw the lot in the washer for a final treatment. Through the months of winter and spring, I tend to forget how much I enjoy the act of canning even as I savour its results.

Jam Session

Day 313: I have my work cut out for me. I'll be juicin' tonight and jammin' tomorrow.

Himalayan Blackberries may be a nuisance plant in the Pacific Northwest, but no one wants to see them entirely eliminated because they make very tasty jams and jellies. I put the berries through a food press which substantially reduces the number of seeds in the final product, but not to the extent that you could refer to it as "jelly." That's just more work than it's worth, and when the jam is spread on a toasted slice of hearty homemade bread, the additional crackle of crunchy seeds is a textural bonus.

Okay, you lot. Listen up. Those of you who didn't return your empty jars won't get jam for Christmas this year. You know who you are! You've still got time to redeem yourselves if you want more of this delicious Pacific Northwest specialty.

Gardener's Study

Day 312: Thunderstorms are not common in the Pacific Northwest like they are in so much of the rest of the country, and generally occur during the nighttime hours, although not exclusively so. I had been asleep for an hour or more when the first flash-and-crash woke me. Several more rollers tumbled through, following several seconds behind the broad brightness of lightning behind the clouds. Then came the torrent. Ten minutes of pattering, pounding rain broke against the shingles and filled the gutters. Half an hour later, the storm had passed, searching for new sleepers to awaken.

As welcome as the rain was, it took its toll. I found the tallest Rudbeckias' stalks broken six inches up from ground level, the flowers toppled over and dashed with muddy splatters. The Rain Gods had seen fit to leave the Delphiniums standing through June, so to complain would have been ungrateful. Instead, I interpreted their whims as a gift, and after rinsing the mud from the flowers under the garden hose, I brought them indoors. I don't usually cut my garden's color, though to round out the arrangement, I clipped a a few orange and yellow bits to go with the mahogany.

Distraction

Day 311: Nothing distracts me quite like Nature's provender. I'd gone out on assignment, looking for a good shot of the lower forest environment for display at Mount Rainier National Park's booth at the Washington State Fair, and was just coming back to the car after making a circuit of the short Twin Firs trail when I spotted wild blackcap raspberries ripe on the vine. These are not particularly common in the Park because they prefer to grow in disturbed soil. If it hadn't been for that windstorm a couple of years ago, this spot would have been like the rest of the surrounding habitat: ferny, full of Canadian dogwood and vanilla leaf growing up through a duff of mixed evergreen debris. That windstorm uprooted several old trees, snapped others, opening up the canopy, stirring up the soil and giving these blackcaps the opportunity to grow. Alongside them, trailing blackberries covered the ground. They too were ripe and ready, but Rubus leucodermis took precedence. Some things are just too good to pass up, and like this species, I seized the moment. You can learn a lot from plants, if you take my meaning.

Hidden In Plain Sight

Day 310: You really don't want to go sticking your nose in the daisies around here. You never know who might be living there. Misumena vatia, the Crab Spider, is a master of camouflage, although its ability to change hue requires a protracted stay on the flower its coloration mimics. When it moves to a white or pale green blossom, it slowly excretes the yellow pigment normally found in the outer layer of cells. These spiders are very common in the Pacific Northwest, but are often overlooked because of their chameleonic talents.

Small Green Secrets

 
Day 309: Hidden in clefts, concealed by folds of the landscape, guarded by tangled forest, small green niches share their secret beauty only with those who know how to find them. Some are intermittent, their chuckling cascades a feature of the springtime. Others rise and fall with the season, whispering into the decline of summer, roaring in the floods of autumn's progress into winter. Verdant, virgin mosses cover the stones and boulders which guide these rivulets to the larger rivers, sluicing the cool flow down from tiny springs emergent in meadows painted with wildflowers. They will sing you songs of paintbrush and aster if you sit and listen, but they speak only to those who seek the peace of their hidden sanctuaries. They are the storytellers, the shamans of the Mountain, bestowing serenity and renewal in their quiet passage.

Bogucki Island Kayak Adventure

Day 308: When I left home this morning, I had no set plan other than to put the 'yak in the water at the public boat launch near Alder Lake Park and go paddle around for a while. Once I was afloat, Schoolhouse Island looked tempting, but also very far away. "Maybe that would be a good goal," I thought, "once 'round the island and back to the launch. Yeah, I can do that." I set a leisurely pace, had a curious duck come up to visit, put up a flock of geese close to the island, and 'round I went. At that point, I was still thinking of calling it a day when I got to the launch, but as I got closer, I said to myself, "It's too early to go in. I'm not done having fun yet." I went on up to Alder Lake Park (not very far), beached the boat to take advantage of the facilities close at hand, but when I started paddling again, I still didn't feel like quitting. So what's to do? I made another loop around Schoolhouse Island, this time in the opposite direction. My route is shown in blue on the map, points of interest marked by red arrows. Yes, the story continues.

Power boats were out on the lake in number, most of them dragging water-sleds or water skiers along behind at high speed. I got to test the seaworthiness of my little craft as it rode some pretty substantial rollers. On my first circuit of Schoolhouse, I'd entertained the idea of crossing the lake to tag bigger Bogucki Island, but couldn't find a window through the speed boats. On the second circuit, they'd moved to some different location. "Tag Bogucki," I said to self. "That's a good goal."

I've been to Bogucki on foot. Yes, that's right...on foot. There was (may still be) a geocache on the island, and I knew that it could be reached at low water if you were willing to walk a mile or so through sloppy mud. Two caching friends and I made the crossing several years ago. Today, however, the reservoir was at or near capacity with no danger of running aground even in a power boat. I paddled over to Bogucki with the thought in my mind that the island is only about a mile long. "Around or back?" I asked myself, and settled on "around."

The power boats were on the back side of Bogucki, as luck would have it, and again sent some large rollers my way. The Tanager handled them beautifully. Once I'd rounded the north tip of the island, a new problem presented itself: teenagers on jet skis. One young man about 12-14 years old raced alongside me about 15 feet to port. The wake he set up was choppy and of a shorter interval than that of the power boats, and I had water splashing over the bow. Once he was past me, I power-paddled to get out of the racer lane and then took my time getting back to the boat launch, tired but having thoroughly enjoyed the four hours I was out. I'm putting the distance at 5-6 miles.

Craw-Cray-Fish-Dad

Day 307: Feeling the need to exercise the muscles I missed on yesterday's kayak outing, I decided to go for a short (15-mile) bike ride on the Foothills rail-trail today. The stretch from Orting to South Prairie is a pleasant ride through farmland and wetland, and the few intersections with driveways and cross-streets require only looking both ways for safety in contrast to the frequent signalled crossings you will encounter on the way north from downtown. With hot weather contributing to the equation, South Prairie seemed a reasonable destination.

There's not much to South Prairie, just a few streets of houses, a mini-mart/gas station, a fire department building, two espresso stands and a lovely little park with old wooden picnic tables and tall trees to offer shade. The trail ends at the park, its eventual extension still tied up in right-of-way negotiation with private property owners. There is a bridge to nowhere across South Prairie Creek, a memory of the old railroad.

I was perched at a picnic table when I first observed a man and very young girl (his granddaughter, perhaps) exploring the exposed rocks in the creek bed. Occasionally, the man would roll a melon-sized rock aside from its spot in a pool, then stand like a watchful heron, dipping quickly with his hand into the water. The signs were clear to me: he was searching for crawdads. When I saw that he had finally captured one, I stepped down the bank and asked if I could take a picture.

Like the lobsters they resemble, crawdads...crayfish...crawfish are delicious. The problem lies in catching enough for a feed. The only meat is in the tail, but it is juicy and buttery and may be served with or without sauce. The little critters are numerous in most lakes and streams in the area, but the Washington Dept. of Fish and Game regulates the "catch" with respect to native/non-native species, size and sex. You almost need a degree in fisheries biology to tell one from the other, but I believe this is the native Signal Crayfish (Pacifastacus leniusculus) which in many locations is classified equally as an invasive species. Go figure!

Kayaking Swofford Pond

Day 306 - and be sure you watch the 15-second movie just under this post!

Beautiful weather for the Tanager's inaugural voyage! Swofford Pond has long been a favorite place of mine. With no homes along the shoreline, no combustion engines allowed on the lake and very little traffic on the road which runs along the north shore, it is one of the most idyllic settings you could hope to find in the modern world. Cowlitz Wildlife manages the south side, and a little-used, little known trail runs a mile and a half before petering out into brush at the edge of a privately owned farm. The Pond is stocked regularly with trout, but bass, bluegill, catfish and even sturgeon may be caught. The sturgeon were stocked here in the 1990s to control scrap-fish, and a few naturalized. When someone hooks one, it makes the newspaper!

Technically, Swofford is a reservoir. A tiny dam at the east end keeps the lake level uniform, and the spillway allows Swofford to drain into Riffe Lake (a much, much larger reservoir with hydroelectric dams at either end). At maximum depth, the Pond is about 15 feet. Aquatic weed is prevalent, and occasionally, I had to remove a few vegetative "strings" from the paddles, but for the most part, the Tanager simply glided through or over the tangles. The length of the lake is about a mile and a half, width approximately one quarter to one half mile at the widest. The public boat launch is at the northeast end, That's where I put the 'yak in, wading out in green slime so we wouldn't scrape bottom too badly. With foresight, I'd put a towel aboard. Within just a few minutes of parking the car, I was on my way down the length of the Pond.

I went more or less directly, navigating around weed beds and avoiding boat fishermen's lines. I'd always wanted to see that far end because you can't quite get there by trail. I discovered that the last quarter mile or so is quite shallow, so shallow and weedy that the boats with electric motors avoid it. Not me! The return trip was more nonchalant. I made several cross-passages to check out interesting features in the terrain, trees which had fallen into the water, and once put up a Great Blue Heron who flew several circles, honking Heron cuss-words at me for disturbing his breakfast. About halfway back, I decided to try my luck at fishing and tossed a lure out behind the boat, paddling at a good trolling speed. In all honesty, I have to say the few "bites" I got were probably weeds.

I was out about three hours and could tell I was getting tired when I started banging the side of the boat with the paddles on every other stroke. Just as I started to head back to the boat launch, a stiff breeze came up. The last quarter mile was the hardest paddling I'd done all day, but the Tanager handled beautifully. Getting out wasn't the challenge I'd thought it might be.

For a short boat, the Perception Prodigy 10.0 tracks quite well. It seemed very stable, too. The paddles are adjustable and may be used with the blades aligned or with them offset about 15 degrees. I found that using them in the aligned position worked best for me. Now, about those back muscles I haven't used for twenty years...

The Maiden Voyage Of The Tanager

Day 306: It takes so long to upload to Blogger, and they only allow me 15 seconds, so this has been cut. Still, it gives you the essence of the Tanager's maiden voyage. Sorry about the tilt. I had the camera half-zipped into my PFD to hold it up high enough to see over the bow.

The Tanager

Day 305: She's no' been christened proper yet, on account o' a stiff wind come up out'n th' east an' put too much chop on th' water. Yet she 'as a name, she do. She be th' Tanager, fer bein' colored alike that purty bird o' th' same callin'. An' wi' that said plain an' simple, I be plannin' t' rise wi' dawn on th' morrow, be th' weather fair an' calm, we'll be puttin' out o' Mossyrock at Swofford Pond fer a day's sailin'.

Two-Part Part A

Day 304: Take a guess! Take a wild guess what Crow bought herself for an early September Morn present! All I got to bring home today was the two-part paddle, but tomorrow, I'm heading back down to REI to have a cartop rack installed, and then the boat comes home. I thought about holding off until they could order a green one in for me, but with summer running down fast, I decided I could live with red in exchange for more days' paddling time. After researching specs and comparing reviews, I finally settled on a 10-foot Perception Prodigy, a wider and therefore more stable boat than many of the others. I had anticipated paying more for the rack than I did for the kayak, and yes, that's how it worked out. The other major factor I had to consider was weight, and whether or not I'd be able to load it onto the rack without a helper. That also determined what type of rack I'd need to buy.

There's no shortage of flat water here! Within easy drive from home, I hope to set sail on Swofford Pond, Lake Scanewa, Alder Lake, Mineral Lake, Lake Kapowsin and Ohop Lake. It's not the Winged Adventure of my dreams, but now this old pirate's at least got a boat to float!

A New Experience

Day 303: Although I've been out in rowboats and a fly-fishing pontoon boat on many occasions, it has been over forty years since I paddled a canoe, and I have been giving some thought about getting one for flat-water fishing excursions. I'd also entertained the idea of purchasing a kayak, but since I had never used one, I was hesitant to make the financial commitment. I'd made that mistake with the pontoon boat. It hadn't worked out for me. I am a very small person, and even with the footrests adjusted all the way in, I had to sit slumped in the seat. It was difficult to handle in even the slightest breeze, and on one occasion, I found myself down the length of a small mill pond, struggling to gain an inch at a time to get back to the launch. My inability to load a rowboat onto a roof rack put that option out of the question. A canoe or kayak sounded better than a rubber raft.

Last night, I attended a retirement party at a Park Service colleague's home on Alder Lake. She had canoes and kayaks available for any of us who wished to go out for a paddle, so I seized the opportunity to try out an 11-foot Necky Manitou. Described as "A thoughtfully scaled down rec version of a sea kayak...(which) bridges the gap between stability and performance, delivering rock solid stability and impressive tracking," the Manitou impressed me with its slick glide and maneuverability. I swept across a mile of lake in short order, only drifting sideways when I hit the current in the river channel central in the reservoir. I felt very secure in the cockpit even when a power boat came by and left me to ride its wake (of course I turned the bow into the waves). The return trip was facilitated by a slight tailwind, and as I rowed into the sunset, my thought was, "I've gotta get one of these."