Sunflower Stitchery

Day 365: My birds are grand little gardeners. They've planted millet and milo throughout the flower beds, and I never know where sunflowers may pop up. Burdened by the recent rain, this one was nodding close to the ground, so I supported it with chrysanthemums for the photo which, as you can see, has been processed to give it the look of a piece of framed needlework. Now I find myself wishing I still had the old PC Stitch program on this machine so I could turn it into counted cross-stitch!

My regular readers will notice that the lead-in says that this is Day 365 of 365 Caws' Year Four, and I find myself having to make an admission of fault. 365 Caws began on October 14, 2010, and at the end of the second year (if memory serves), the count was off by ten days. I glossed over it at the time, figuring that nobody was really keeping track, but it bothered me. Somehow, though, I've managed to lose another four days. Therefore, from now through October 13, I will be posting "make-up" entries so I can start with a fresh slate on the 14th.

The Coffee Story

Day 364: Somehow I got up this morning without having heard that today is National Coffee Day. I am shocked to think that this event might have slipped by without my notice, and I am grateful to the friend who served up the jolt which wakened me to the fact. It certainly merited brewing another pot, even though I usually switch to tea in the afternoon. That said, now I must relate the Coffee Story since it is singularly appropriate to the day.

My friends will vouch for the fact that I will drink almost any coffee, good or bad, regardless of age. I draw the line at coffee with mold floating on the surface, although I have been known to pour it out of a thermos, week-old and room temperature, drinking it down without evincing any sign of distaste. I drink camp coffee, the kind which forces you to filter it between your clenched teeth to reduce the amount of grounds ingested, and it is not uncommon for me to take up the cup I left in the microwave yesterday to be drunk without reheating (or reheated, as the mood strikes me). I like it so strong that you can stand a spoon up in the cup, and I generally make a 12-cup pot and leave it on the counter until it's gone, whether that's in one day or three. You can't waste coffee.

There is, however, one way I will not drink coffee: sweetened. Add sugar, and it becomes a different drink. Cream or milk is okay, but sugar, never. Thus I set myself up to fall into a trap laid by my fishing buddy.

We'd been washing bait for several hours on Swofford Pond, and to have something to keep my hands busy while I waited for a bite, I'd eaten all my snacks and had drunk the last of the coffee I'd brought along. Bored and needing something else to do, I asked Sande if he had any coffee left. I failed to see the twinkle in his eye when he offered it to me, just as surely as I neglected to remember that he sweetens his brew rather lavishly. I took up his thermos and pulled a hearty swig directly from the neck. It hit my tongue with a cloying splash which caused my mouth to rebel with the same vehemence reserved for the aforementioned mold when it takes me by surprise. In other words, I spat and gagged, and when I regained my voice, I swore prodigiously.

Sande, with the demeanor he always reserved for people who fell for a prank said, calmly, "I thought you said you wanted some coffee." He'd known full well what my reaction was going to be.

"I did," I replied with as much equanimity as I could muster. "I wanted joe, but dammit, you gave me joanne!"

Retraction: Cross Orb Weaver Spider

After reviewing several resources last night, I jumped to the wrong conclusion. Further investigation this morning has given me a 99.99% positive identification of the Beast at the Door. It is Araneus diadematus, the Cross Orbweaver: http://www.spiders.us/species/araneus-diadematus/

Possible ID

I have received a suggestion from a reader that this may be a Cat-Face Spider (Araneus gemmoides), an Orb Weaver common in the Pacific Northwest. It appears that the next time I run into one of these (and I hope those words are not prophetic), I will need to make a more thorough evaluation since I cannot confirm the ID via the photograph. That's going to mean getting up close and personal. To "Anonymous" who made the suggestion, are you posing me a challenge to overcome my arachnophobia in the name of science? I would be a poor naturalist if I let it stand in my way. Challenge accepted!

Footnote only a few minutes later: I am reprieved. It is a Common Garden Spider, Argiope aurantia. My sincere thanks goes out to the friend from King County Parks who made the ID.

Autumn Hazards

Day 363: My readers, I ask your forgiveness. I cannot give you the Latin taxonomy for this beast, nor can I provide its common name. If I see it at a distance, I refer to it as "one of those big triangular garden spiders." If I become aware of it somewhat after the fact when it has spread its web across the width of my front door, its appellation is too profane to print in this history. I am to some small degree arachnophobic as the result of spending my early childhood in black-widow country with a mother who was terrified of even the tiniest spider, and I have worked very hard to overcome the Pavlovian responses which she inadvertently instilled in me. I can now pick a Daddy-longlegs up by one of its appendages and deliver it safely to the outdoors when I find it sharing my house, but those little sideways-walking crab spiders give me lingering heebie-jeebies even after I have mashed them flat and disposed of the remains.

In the wild, I react less violently when I take a web full in the face, perhaps because I feel I am an intruder into their territory. My home, however, is my sanctuary, and it should be spider-free. When Big Triangular Garden Spider laces my exit shut, I demount him with a stick (assuming he is detected first, of course) and remove him to some location where, I hope, it will be assured that we do not meet again. Some don't take the hint immediately, and have to be unhomed several times. But worst of all are the nests of hatchlings: thousands of tiny gold offspring strung like dewdrops in the spider-silk, nearly invisible to the eye. They are guaranteed to send me racing for the shower, clawing at my hair, my clothes, brushing myself off with the frenzy of a woman gone mad. In that circumstance, I cannot control arachnophobia. It claims me, and possesses me in the bonds of its web.

Amanita Muscaria

Day 362: Easily one of the most recognizable mushrooms in the world, Amanita muscaria's bright red cap has lent itself to countless cartoon representations of what a "toadstool" looks like. So what's the difference between a mushroom and a toadstool? Some people use "toadstool" to describe poisonous species like our little friend here, but you would be equally correct if you referred to A. muscaria as a "mushroom."

Freaky Fungus Foray

Day 361: As I walked out the door for my lunch break yesterday, I announced to selected colleagues that I was going on a Freaky Fungus Foray with the specific goal of seeing if Ramaria araiospora rubella had popped up under the encouragement of recent rains. This brilliant red version of Coral is uncommon, and the holotype (the specimen from which the species description was derived) was taken two miles south of Elbe, not far from Mount Rainier National Park. I have found it in only one location in the Park, and after first discovering it several years ago, I did not see it again until last year. On yesterday's walk, I was rewarded with two emerging specimens, each about three inches on the longest dimension, found in the same drainage where I had seen it previously. I patrolled further up the drainage, but found no other examples.

Spoon Among Mums

Day 359: Each autumn, I am tempted by the displays of chrysanthemums which populate the entryways of all the home-and-garden stores. Occasionally, I break down and buy one, figuring that a few short weeks of fall color is worth a couple of bucks. This year, I got a surprise. My 'mum from last year sprouted from the root and burgeoned into a good-sized plant, even crowding the Osteospermum ("Spoon Flower") adjacent to it. Now that's a good return on your dollar!

Nature's Provender

Day 359:  In some countries, pigs were used to hunt mushrooms. These days, a different sort of pig can be found in our woods: the commercial picker who cares nothing about sustainable harvesting or collection limits, and wants only to get every last button and the best price per pound. One such mushroom hog was seen to be collecting near my favourite spot a few days ago, and although he wasn't on Park property when I spotted him from my car, he was right on the boundary and I have no doubt that he took his five-gallon bucket into the woods beyond the NPS signs. Today, I did find one area he hadn't covered and was able to bring home just enough for a small fry-up, all I really need. Unlike my predecessor, I left the buttons in the hopes of having a return crop next year.

Madame Skunk

Day 358: Skunk is clearly the Queen of the Household, and enjoys bird-watching from her favourite chair. She came to me as a kitten almost twelve years ago, scrappy little thing who had whipped a pair of dachshunds after they killed one of her siblings and then went after her. The lesson she taught them was not without cost. She came close to losing one hand in the encounter. Having come up the hard way, it's best not to surprise her if you value your skin, but when she is ready for love on her own terms, she will shove aside anything in her way to take possession of a lap. She endures rambunctious, rowdy Tip with the patience of a saint for the most part, but he knows that when she spits at him, she means business and he respects her authority. Skunk rules!

Rockfall

Day 357: During the merry month of May, Mount Wow decided it was time to shed part of its geologic skin, and cast several sizeable chunks of rock onto the hikers' parking area near Dry Creek (Westside Road, Mount Rainier National Park). No one was around to witness the event, but it was not without effect. A visitor's truck was parked in the line of fall, and was totalled when it was struck. The road was closed as soon as the rockfall was discovered, and a team of geologists was sent in to assess the potential for reoccurrence. It was determined that the rocks had been loosened by the natural cycle of freezing and thawing; in other words, Mount Wow was simply eroding as mountains are wont to do.

I hadn't had a chance to get up the Westside Road this year, and because I'm feeling a bit poorly, I didn't hike beyond Ground Zero. I just wanted to see the damage before the road crew makes little rocks out of big ones with some well-placed dynamite. The rock I'm leaning on was by no means the largest. Note that it has barely dented the road. The one on the righthand side of the photo left an impact crater more than three feet deep!

Pick O' The Peppers

Day 356: Last day of the Fair (a hot one, hence the peppers), and although I interacted with hundreds of people in the last two weeks, one contact shines above all the others. We have three hand puppets in the booth: a bear, an enormous mosquito and a raven. It goes without saying that the raven is my favourite, and in the slower times, I often used it in conjunction with my best imitation of a crow to draw people over to the booth. In the manner of a ventriloquist, I barely open my mouth, and when people first look around and see a bird sitting on my hand, they may mistake it for a real one. Such was the case with a little girl who couldn't have been more than two.

As her family approached the table, I knelt down to be at her level, cawing occasionally. When her mother asked her what she thought that was, with wide eyes, she replied, "Bird!" At four feet away, she stopped, clearly not sure if the raven was safe to approach. Mom offered encouragement, as did I, but the daughter wanted Raven to hop off my hand and onto the ground. When he was reluctant to perform at her command, she thought it might be all right if he sat on her shoulder instead. I had her turn around to face her mother, but Raven didn't jump onto her shoulder, oh no! He stepped onto the top of her head. She was a bit startled at the contact and flinched, which of course gave me the opportunity to have Raven come back to sit in my palm.

I spent close to ten minutes with her, Mom snapping pictures with her phone camera, and finally, the little girl got brave enough to touch Raven on his wing. I am convinced that she believed he was a real bird, and I bet she never forgets the encounter with her first corvid!

Didja Miss Me?

Day 355: My poor Sundews must have thought I'd forgotten about them! Between wind and a busy schedule, I had not had a chance to get out in the kayak since late August until today, and the first order of business was to check on my little friends. I am happy to report that they are prospering on both of Jack's logs; however, the colony on the wandering dock I call "Sundew Island" is suffering for lack of light at its new location. There is no way that I could return it to its former spot without committing an act of criminal trespass; it has been roped in place by the people who own the shoreline, and thus far, I've been unable to make contact with them. I rather imagine this has occurred before, and as long as Jack's colonies remain healthy and happy, there should be no shortage of Sundews at Lake St. Clair.

Occupation Of Port Ryffe

Two years had passed since we last berthed at Port Ryffe, there to take on victuals, but before we had set sail again on that occasion, chance brought our captain into close contact with her deadliest rival and twin, Katherine. The encounter had left a scar on the captain's hand and the taste of gall on her tongue, a rancor directed as much at the port's government as at her sister for the matter of having harboured her. The captain had sworn vengeance, exacting it upon her sibling when another circumstance brought the two together, yet the score had not been settled with the official bodies at Port Ryffe to the captain's satisfaction. Thus each man of the Winged Adventure's crew knew that salt meat and dried fruits were not Capt. Corbye's sole interests when she laid the chart and ordered all hands to make sail toward that shore.

Coincidence is a tool in the Devil's hand. None would have thought that Morgan Corbye's plan to relieve the port of its rum stores and to lighten the government coffer-chest would bring her to a tete-a-tete with yet another old foe, Harbourmaster Franklin Beale. Engaged at a gaming table in the local pub, Beale was observed exchanging the publican's dice for his own shaved pair from behind a dusty curtain. Stifling the sneeze she felt building when she let the draperies fall, Capt. Corbye slipped into the darkened alley behind the tavern and brought her men together in conference.

"We've a change o' plans, lads. We're takin' Port Ryffe. Back t' th' ship right quick, an' bring th' irons. That cheatin' scoundrel Beale wants some teachin' in th' way o' 'onesty. You," and she addressed Robin Penn, our one-legged bursar, as she threw a purse of coins to him, "see to it 'e stays at table. Lose, but lose wisely. Keep th' sums in 'is favour, but just. You," she said, motioning to your narrator, the sorriest excuse for a pirate of the lot, "bait that mealy codfish they calls guv'nor down here, an' I don't care how but do ye no' force it! Tell 'im 'is auld mither is sickenin' t' die or summat. Nae, tell 'im th' bloody truth o' it! Tell 'im auld Beale's been cheatin' at dice an' someone's lookin' t' 'ave a piece o' is 'ide fer it. Beale's 'is pet, is Beale. That'll bring 'im. Get on! Go!" I sped off on foot and was not privy to the remainder of the Captain's outline.

Port Ryffe is not sizeable and therefore is managed exclusively by the Governor, an aide who is little more than a secretary, and two constables. Each, save the innocent and rather naive aide, has a personal method for lining his pockets with an undue portion of the common man's wages. It was the captain's surmise that Harbourmaster Beale had devised the means to serve his own interests at the cost of the local government and, knowing this, the Governor and his allies would undoubtedly treat any proof of disreputable dealings as an opportunity to discredit the very man who sought to profit at their expense.

It was quite easy to convince the Governor that he should be witness to such a criminal act, and that he should bring both constables to the pub to support the accusation it was his intention to make. All three men came along nicely, followed by the aide who was anxious to see how the due process of the law would be effected. When all had arrived and were grouped around the tables, Robin Penn, upon a signal from Captain Corbye again at her station behind the velvet, rose upon his good leg and knocked over his stool with his peg. "Ye bloody b-----d!" he swore. "Cheat a one-legged man outer 'is pittance? Ye're a rascal wot deserves throwin' t' th' 'ogs wi' th' rest o' th' swill!"

At that moment, seven members of the Winged Adventure's crew and the Captain herself sprang from the shadows and, two to a man, pinned them to the ground where they were shackled. Only the aide was spared. Justice was indeed served as all four agents of the goverment were frog-marched to the piggery, there to be rolled in the mud and subsequently put on public display through a hot September afternoon, the mix of earth and pig-soil hardening in the sun as rum and ale were served to all comers. The young aide was heard to plead with Capt. Corbye, "Oh, please! Take me to be a pirate!" but the good Captain refused, saying, "Ye'll make a better guv'nor when yer time comes, lad. Much better by far."

Lovely Lapis Lazuli

Day 353: My interest in rocks began at a very early age, and by the time I was nine years old, I had a mineral collection which (to my mother's dismay) covered the top of my dresser. Each specimen was labelled with what I believed it to be (often erroneously) and where I had found it. As I grew to be an adult, I developed an interest in stone-cutting as an adjunct to rockhounding, and was not content to work simply with slabs of agate or pieces of Australian opal. One of my favourite stones was lapis lazuli.

Lapis is somewhat difficult to work. Pyrite inclusions are desirable; veins of quartz are not. Both create problems for the lapidarist in that they are softer or harder than the blue matrix material. I was quite proud of the uniform finish I achieved on this particular stone (a 20 x 30 mm. cab).

Fake lapis abounds in the jewelry market. Most often, it will be blue-dyed howlite. However, although howlite also contains quartz, it never contains the pyrites which typify true lapis.

See Ewe At The Fair

Day 352: Now we have come to the part of the Fair I'm always afraid I'll miss. They brought the sheep in today! I am not sure of the technicalities, but sheep cannot be on the grounds at the same time as some other species of farm animal due to the possibility of communicable disease. For that reason, sheep are among the last critters to be exhibited. The dates they are to be shown are often difficult to locate in the Fair schedule, and it was just by chance that I happened to be working in the Park booth at the same time. I was overjoyed when I saw them in their pens after my shift.

Y'see, I used to have sheep. Oh, it wasn't much of a flock...six at peak...but running Romney-Suffolk and/or Romney/Corriedale crosses meant that I got both wool and meat. Since I like mutton stew and mutton-burger, I usually kept any given animal through two shearings before sending them off to the butcher. I sold cleaned fleeces to a couple of shops catering to hand-spinners and also to Pendleton Woolen Mills in Oregon. I kept the sheep in "sheep coats" throughout the year, so their wool was always in prime condition.

Quite honestly, I miss the woollies, but there are too many predators here and no shearers willing to travel the distance for just a few sheep. Time has made me forget the cold, rainy nights in the sheep shed during lambing season, and the occasional unfortunate engagement between a porcupine and a curious ewe. I only remember the sweet smell of lanolin and capering in the yard with lambs who followed me around like puppies. Ah, those were the days! But now I buy spinning wool by the batt and lamb-burger from the grocer, and only dream of having my own little sheep station when I walk through the stalls at the Fair.

The Enigmatic Smile

Day 351: Getting good animal photos in the dimly-lit barns at the Fair is always a challenge for me because I am adamant about not using the flash. For one thing, I don't care for the look of flash images taken outside a rigidly controlled studio environment, but for another, it is a courtesy I give the critters. They don't like having spots before their eyes any more than we do, and they understand it less. That said, it's a tricky proposition to capture an in-focus shot of critters who are under stress both by being in a strange place and by having hordes of people milling around them. It takes a good bit of patience, and some small talent at being able to predict when the subject is going to hold still for a 0.3 second exposure. This lovely lady, cousin I am sure to La Gioconda with her enigmatic smile, was quite cooperative.

25 Hours

Day 350: The Nisqually Land Trust celebrated its 25th anniversary this month, and as part of the festivities, the dozen or so volunteers who have contributed 25 hours or more since January 1, 2014 were each awarded a limited-edition t-shirt in recognition of their service at the annual meeting and picnic yesterday. While 25 hours may not sound like much, the silhouetted characters on the t-shirt demonstrate how many of those hours were spent. If it wasn't for the page-boy bob haircut, I think the gal with the weed wrench looks like me.

At The Other End

Day 349: Day before yesterday, I posted a picture of myself near the headwaters of the Nisqually River. Today, I visited the other end, 78 miles downstream. The "Niz" (as it is called by many locals) has its source in Mount Rainier National Park, and flows through the communities of Ashford, Elbe, LaGrande, McKenna and Yelm before spreading into a broad delta at Puget Sound. An amazing eighty percent of its shoreline is protected, thanks to the efforts of the Nisqually Land Trust and its partners. I am proud to say that I serve at both ends, and today donned my Land Trust hat for our annual picnic.

American Pipit, Anthrus Rubescens

Day 348: I like checking off new birds on my Life List and don't get many opportunities to do so because I don't travel. Therefore, I grabbed Peterson (where the List is kept) with great enthusiasm, only to feel somewhat deflated when I saw that I had placed a question mark and an "S" beside the listing. Pipit is a bird of the tundra; "S" stands for "Sunrise" in my notation system. The only upgrade I could conscientiously add was that I had documented the species with a photograph which allowed me to confirm a previous (if uncertain) sighting. Pipit ("Water Pipit" in Peterson, "American Pipit" in Sibley") was not a new bird for me.

This little character and his cohorts were staying ahead of me in a group on the Paradise Trail system, scampering along the edge of the trail, fluttering up to the summits of boulders occasionally where they made repeated, quick dips of their tails. That one behaviour was enough to narrow down the possibilities. Upon looking at the photo, I could pick out their field characteristics: the eye ring, the white throat, the streaking on the breast, the faint black smudge on the throat, the narrow and somewhat unusual bill shape. Yes, without a doubt, these were Pipits, and I'll let the authorities argue out the first part of their common name. And "pipit" was what they piped to me as they ran along ahead, escorting me on my hike. "Pipit! Pipit!" Sometimes even experienced birders forget to listen to what their little friends are telling them. "Pipit! That's me! That's me!"

Roving Crow

Day 347: I had a wonderful opportunity today to combine duty with pleasure and did a stint as a Meadow Rover on the Moraine and Nisqually Vista trails out of Paradise. I found plenty to keep me occupied, making 45 visitor contacts in three hours. It was a great day to be on the Mountain, with perfect temperatures, a light breeze and an impeccable blue sky stretched above meadows filled with heather. Life, ladies and gentlemen, is good.

Winds Of Change

Day 346: Of the eleven Grange displays at the Puyallup (Washington State) Fair, I was most captivated by this sixth and eighth place winner. I believe its clever theme went right over the tops of the judges' pointy little heads. The old and the new are depicted here, immediately obvious in the contrast between a vintage windmill and the wind turbines, but if you look closely, you'll see how the theme is carried throughout the arrangement. Notice the pressure canners at the top left and right. Look at the jars beside them. Even more subtle are the two pitchforks, one spanking new and one well-used. The produce is fresh and artfully laid out with the exception of the untidy onions, and the premise (innovation in agriculture) is certainly more relevant than the Seahawks' "twelfth man" subject a few panels away. Now I know most people only give a cursory glance to these displays, but the creators deserve more than that, not just for making an attractive showcase, but for all the hard work it took to grow those perfect fruits and veggies.

Fair Fare

Day 345: Some folks go to the Fair for the big-name entertainment shows. Others go for the food. Some go to ride the rides and play for prizes on the midway. Some (although I cannot comprehend the logic) go to throw away their money buying things no human being could ever need in any of the increasingly larger commercial venues. Some want to see local talent on display in the art and photography pavilions. Others enjoy watching demonstrations of wool-spinning and sheep-shearing. For me, two things make a Fair: animals and vegetables. Without pigs and giant pumpkins, without Grange displays and exotic breeds of chickens, there is no Fair.

This morning found me making a beeline for the Grange building with the tripod tucked under my arm. Last year, the Grangers found themselves in new quarters, and it was a change for the better as far as lighting was concerned. However, as luck would have it, some time after the Fair closed, the new Grange building burnt to the ground. The new "building" is a giant tent, and the lighting is almost as poor as it was in the Showplex Building where vegetables took a back seat to vacuum cleaners and knives guaranteed to stay sharp forever. The floral show is housed in the same tent, as are the prize-winning pumpkins. Sadly in the shadows these days, dazzling dahlias and gorgeous gourds don't deserve the level of illumination reserved for aromatherapy diffusers and magnetic jewelry. After all, they're just to look at, not to sell and buy.

Sarracenia

Day 344: Of all the plants in my garden, none gives me as much pleasure as the potful of carnivores just outside my kitchen door. They must be grown with "wet feet," and therefore their pot is set in a deep saucer which I top off daily (or oftener on hot days), yet they are surprisingly cold-hardy. I only brought them in last year as temperatures dipped into the low twenties and teens, and still kept them in a room where the nights were below freezing. They do not die back, although some individual pitchers may wither. This year, a solitary and most unusual flower emerged from among the foliage, its center a dome-like structure with small openings around its interior edge. Peering inside, I can see stamens and a wealth of bug carcases whose nutrients have been drawn out by the plant's digestive enzymes. It's nice to know that my porch is protected by such a beautiful "watchdog," even though I do sometimes wonder if I should keep the door locked at night.

Nothing Cuter Than Piggies

Day 343: What is it about little piggies that makes them so endearing? I don't know, but I am one of the thousands of people who think piglets are an essential part of any county or state fair. Yep, it's time to "do the Puyallup" again, and because I'm working in the Park booth, I get in early and can get up close to the pig pens before the mobs arrive. Piggy popularity has been so high that Fair officials have installed a closed-circuit TV to provide viewing for people who lack the sharp elbows and steel-toed boots otherwise necessary to get a position at the fence, and more squealing and grunting comes from the crush of visitors than from the pigs themselves.

Red Flax

Day 342: Who wouldn't welcome this sweet little plant's cheery red face in their garden? Red Flax (aka Scarlet Flax) is a late-season annual and may be strewn about with abandon since it seldom reseeds. If, as I do, you like the unkempt look of a scatter-garden, don't forget to add it to your broadcasting mix next spring.

Yep, I am already thinking about what I will or won't plant next year. I'm thinking of adding more perennials for the Hummingbirds...perhaps a couple more hardy fuchsias, since they were a great success and spread quickly. That said, I like grubbing in the soil too much to abandon annuals entirely, and I love the wanton, unstructured palette created by randomly-colored poppies popping up among assorted Livingston daisies and white Nigella. I don't plan for a tiered effect, save for a backdrop of Delphiniums and sprays of red Crocosmia rising above interwoven foliage, no. I simply let my garden take the reins and go where it will. Mother Nature is a better artist than I could ever aspire to be.

September's Gentians

Day 341: There is a story I like to tell...not a myth, not a legend, just a story...about how Gentians got their color. As you may know, Bee is a creature of the sky, particularly the blue summer sky. Bee was given a very important task: to make sure that the sky couldn't slip away from the Earth and go somewhere else. This job puzzled Bee until he remembered the deep white cups of Gentian where he often gathered precious pollen in the autumn when all the other wildflowers were gone. "I know!" said Bee. "I'll take hold of the sky, and slip down inside a Gentian blossom. When the flower closes up at night, the Wind won't be able to pull the sky away because I'll be holding onto it, and the Gentian will be holding onto me." Bee put his plan into action, but when he woke up in the morning, he saw that the blue sky had stained the blossoms. That's why our Gentians today are blue.

Hikers in the autumn backcountry may encounter support for this tale by taking time out in their travels to sit by a patch of Gentian and wait for the "minarets" to unfurl. It's not uncommon to see a surprised Bee take wing from deep inside the cup where overnight, it has been trapped.

Busy Bees!

Day 340: What's the latest buzz? You'd have known the front-page news was poppies if you'd walked past my garden this morning. The honeybees were having a heyday in the Shirleys, up to five at once at the center of a blossom, frantically working gathering pollen. I've never seen them as busy. What was it about the poppies? They ignored the lavender and the Livingston daisies, didn't give a glance to the Nigella or Globe Gilia. Their attention was focused solely on the Shirleys. Seeing them so busy made me glad I had another obligation this morning which precluded joining a work party at the site where I was stung three weeks ago!

Islands

Day 339: Tonight, I wish to gift my readers with a simple visual meditation: Islands.

Whistle-Pig

Day 338: If ever a critter could be said to be iconic of a National Park, the Hoary Marmot would surely take first prize at Mount Rainier. You cannot hike alongside a talus slope or through a boulder field without seeing marmots perched on rocks, often sitting bolt-upright on their haunches. You'll hear them as well, giving the high-pitched, double-toned pipe which supplies their nickname, "whistle-pig." Able to dart away in less time than it takes to say "Wauhaukaupauken Falls," marmots often allow hikers to come within a few feet of their resting places, but please, don't approach the wildlife. They have long, sharp teeth and needle-like claws and, like other members of the squirrel family, are not as cute and cuddly as people might like to believe.

A mature Hoary Marmot may weigh up to 25 pounds. Some larger individuals have been reported. Unlike Pikas (another denizen of talus fields), marmots "bulk up" through the summer in order to hibernate through the winter months when their normal forage is covered by snow. Young are born in the spring. The photo, taken above Summerland in Mount Rainier National Park, shows a first-year juvenile.

An Abundance Of Geology

Day 337: Once above verdant Summerland, hikers enter a bleak terrain where trees do not grow, wildflowers are sparse, rocks are abundant and snowfields linger all year. Many would say that this landscape is ugly and boring, but in fact it is one of the most geologically-rich areas of Mount Rainier National Park. Here, ancient glaciers have scoured exposed domes and prehistoric lava flows have congealed into hexagonal columns of andesite which tower above the rugged floor of the landscape, and metamorphic processes are in evidence at every turn. One of these processes was what engaged my interest on this day: a matrix studded with quartz-filled vesicles known as amygdules poised somewhere between Summerland and the spine of Panhandle Gap.

My attention had been caught by this marvel of geology over forty years ago when I passed through the area for the first time during a hike of the Wonderland Trail. A rockhound then, I was intrigued but not sufficiently resourced to track down the mechanism which created it. Like my specimen of diaspore, this phenomenon went on the shelf (mentally, if not physically) for future analysis. Recently, it was brought to my attention again by one of our Park geologists who not only explained the origin of amygdules, but posed a challenge to seek them out below Panhandle Gap. Since I already had a speaking acquaintance with the rock in question, it seemed only logical that I should be first to meet the challenge. However, the ointment had two flies in it: weather, and the busy Labor Day weekend.

I am a morning person by nature. Holiday or not, I knew I could find parking at the trailhead if I arrived early enough. I rose at 3:30, drove two hours, hiked the first mile of the trail by headlamp and thus managed to be well ahead of the hordes. After fiddling around at Summerland for a while, I headed on up into amygdule country and once on site, took measurements and calculated strain ratios to determine how much the lava had been stretched as it cooled. I am pleased to announce that my conclusions met with the geologist's approval when I submitted them yesterday evening.

Then, because it was September Morn, I continued on to Panhandle Gap, one of my favourite places in the Park, bleak though it may be. I spent an hour there before a pair of hikers came through...and then another and another and another...and then I realized it was time to leave. Holiday notwithstanding, I'd managed to capture several hours of precious solitude, and I'd learned something in the process. What good will it ever do me? Probably none, but I have the immense satisfaction of knowing that now if I ever need to hold forth on the subject of amygdules, I can do so convincingly and correctly.

A Glad, Good September Morn!

Day 336: By the time this goes to press, I should be a few miles up the trail, so I want to take this (scheduled) opportunity to wish my readers a glad, good September Morn! Remember that patience is a virtue, and it will be rewarded when the daily feature resumes on Tuesday.