Day Of The Trifidas

Day 199: I couldn't resist the play on John Wyndham's apocalyptic novel, "Day of the Triffids." I think of the book every time I say "Corallorhiza trifida."

My enthusiasm for this rare Coralroot has become widely spread, now involving members of the Native Orchid Society and an assortment of botanists, some of whom will be making field trips to the site before this ephemeral beauty fades. It occurred to me yesterday to suggest an after-work expedition to my good friend and supervisor, Kevin. Despite a few sprinkles, we stopped on the way home to take some photos and then went orchid-hunting. We managed to turn up two more specimens near to the first, bringing the total to three and a stem. However, I failed to predict the next course of events.

My photos from that late-day session were uniformly bad. I'm struggling with the technique involved in shooting macros with an add-on lens, and low light is always an issue with my camera. Consequently, I waited until I knew the sun would be penetrating the dense overstory at the site, and made a return trip at 10 AM this morning.

First, let me explain these two photos. Other than adjustments to contrast and the depths of highlight and shadow and some minor cropping, they have not been altered. They demonstrate what occurs in the "sun-fleck" forests in which species such as these thrive. In one second, a plant and its surroundings may be fully illuminated by a ray of sunlight. In the next, it may go as dark as the proverbial London coal-hole at midnight. Throughout the day, this shifting of light creates a unique microecology. Plants entirely dependent on sunlight for photosynthesis cannot survive here; often, you will see nothing but evergreen needles and twigs on Pacific Northwest forest floors. However, the mycoheterotrophic species (obligate or partial) require very little sunlight. It is in the deep forest ..."sun-fleck" forest where competitive species would die ... that you will find them.

So, lesson done, here's the story. I arrived at the parking pull-out and pulled up in front of another vehicle. I knew that one botanizing friend was planning to come down to make another observation of our little pet rarity, and noting that the car looked vaguely familiar, I assumed it was his. However, when I arrived at the site of the Corallorhizas, no one was there. Figuring that he had gone for a longer hike, I settled in to capture C. trifida on digital film.

I took up my customary position and had been flopped on the forest floor, camera clenched tightly in my fists, for half an hour or so when a fir cone hit me on top of the head. I cast a glance upward for a squirrel, but saw nothing. Not to be distracted, I went back to taking pictures. A minute or so later, I was pecked on the head by another cone. I brushed at my hat despite the fact that the cone had bounced and landed in the duff. A few seconds later, I got hit again. I looked up and swore at the squirrel, but still didn't budge from my task. Then a mischance cone tagged me at the corner of my eye. Now grumbling audibly and volubly, I pulled my hat down and, as is my usual wont, continued giving verbal posing instructions to the specimen of C. trifida before my lens.

But that bloody squirrel was not letting up! I kept getting pelted with cones, twigs and bits of debris, but I am imperturble when bent upon a goal and didn't flinch. I remained belly-flopped on the ground, talking to the light, the flower, the rocks, the roots, the camera and anything else I felt needed addressing.

Five or ten minutes passed while I endured a continuing barrage and then, thinking to get some shots of the second new specimen, I started to get up. My eyes travelled to the trail above me where I saw first a pair of legs in uniform trousers and then Kevin's laughing face. I have no idea how long he may have been there, nor how he managed to sneak up on me without my hearing his approach.

Kevin, bless his heart, has been infected with my enthusiasm for this botanical marvel, our little Corallorhiza. He had returned prepared to take photos himself, using far better equipment than I have in my arsenal, and had spent an hour doing just that before I arrived. That said, I am forced to admit that although I may and do consistently recollect rocks and trees I've met only once, I had gone up the trail without recognizing Kevin's car despite the fact that I ride in it regularly.

Velvet Star Cluster

Day 198: When Hoya carnosa bursts forth, it does so in an explosion of little succulent stars which, when observed closely, appear to be made of white velvet blushed with pink. They feel waxy due to their thickness(hence the name), but in fact they are as fuzzy-wuzzy as a teddy bear. Each star bears another smaller one in its center, and each pendent umbel hosts a dozen or more blossoms, a veritable galaxy of double-star systems, each one with a dark nova at its core.

Carnosa is but one variety of Hoya, and a common one at that. There are dozens of other varieties, each with flowers unique to the type. Some grow as vines, others as a mat. Some climb, some trail. Some bloom in only one season and others bloom almost continuously. Many are easily grown as houseplants, at least for foliage. Bringing them into blossom may prove trickier, though. I've been tending a H. lauterbachii for about ten years now with no sign of a flower, but my H. bella more than makes up for it with a shower of stars every six weeks or so. Carnosa comes but once a year, like the Perseid meteors, and it makes it worth the wait.

Drip Catchers

Day 197: I've dug and scratched and shovelled and scraped and sifted, and have thrown dozens upon dozens of Bluebell bulbs out of my garden and into the woods. Still the little buggers come back, year after year, worse than Lily-of-the-Valley (which, incidentally, I love). "Scilla," my mother called them, a relic of their former Latin appellation. Hyacinthoides non-scripta is what they go by these days: Common Bluebell, Hyacinth Bluebell, and for my nickel, they should be on the invasive species hit list. They'll crowd anything else out of a garden.

But then the other side of my brain kicks in, the non-scientific, artistic side, and I find myself thinking, "Yeah, but they're pretty," so the bulbs I pull get tossed onto the growing mound of turves at the margin of my woods. I'm building a berm by default, making a clearer boundary between forest and yard. "Naturalize your little heads off," I tell them as I pitch them onto the pile, and naturalize they do, but some of their kin will crop up in the flower beds again next year, more guests I wish I could send out to a motel. Frustrated, I dig them out again. "Go be pretty somewhere else!"

Then comes a moment when the elegance of their blossoms enchants me, recurved petals (tepals, if the truth be told) holding in precarious tension miniature gazing globes in which my garden is reflected. My demeanor softens under their subtle coercion and I permit them to stay, if in close preserves. My heart is not so hard that it cannot be moved by a simple flower waving its colors in the breeze.

Corallorhiza Trifida, Local Rarity

Day 196: One of the most exciting moments in a naturalist's career is the discovery of a species they have not observed before. Following a report from a former Park volunteer, I made a total of four trips trying to locate and obtain a decent photograph a solitary specimen of unusual orchid, and even once I had it "in the bag," I was baffled. Since I could not identify it myself, I sent the photo out to several experts in native plants, and just before bedtime last night, I received an identification from one of them: Corallorhiza trifida, aka Early or Yellow Coralroot.

According to Susan McDougall and David Biek, C. trifida is "rare at Mount Rainier....circumboreal, but is uncommon here in the northwest and recorded a couple of times apparently at the mountain...A terrific find!" It is so unusual that they want to photograph it themselves before the blossoms fade. During a plant survey in the Park last year, they had been unable to find an occurrence of the plant.

Even more exciting for me, of course, is the fact that this rare Corallorhiza is also a partial mycoheterotroph, a group of plants in which I have a particular interest. I believe our mild winter may have allowed the mycorrhizal components of many mycoheterotrophic species to proliferate, thus bringing to the surface a greater number and variety of plants than we'd see in a normal year.

Dear little Corallorhiza trifida, if you were a bird, you'd go on my Life List, but unfortunately, I haven't kept good records of my botanical finds. Maybe you've given me reason to start!

Hattie In Flower

Day 195: Hatiora rosea is not too often seen in houseplant collections, and it is not the easiest plant to bring into flower. Also known as "Easter Cactus," it blooms once a year. I've had mine for over forty years, and for the first decade, it refused to flower. It was consigned to the purdah of my attic sewing room where it was allowed to go dry for long intervals when I forgot about it, and there it experienced cooler temperatures than it had in a south-facing kitchen window. One day as I was looking for materials for a project, I noticed a solitary, one-inch shell-pink bloom, and therein learned Hattie's secret: a preference for cool nights in winter. I have brought this delicate cactus into flower every year since.

The intensity of color varies depending on sun exposure. The plant again resides in a south window for most of the year, and thus the color of the flower is substantially stronger. Its only admittance to the warmer part of the house is during the blooming period, featured before any guests who may drop by.

Big-leaf Sandwort, Moehringia Macrophylla

Day 194: If you want to see Big-leaf Sandwort (Moehringia macrophylla, formerly Arenaria macrophylla), you may have to put your nose to the ground. This plant's five petals would barely cover the tip of a pencil eraser when fully open. The lanceolate leaves which give the wildflower its name dwarf the blossom at a mere 1.5 inches long. Sandworts grow in a variety of conditions including moist forest and on dry slopes. They can be found at almost any elevation where vegetation is present. This specimen was observed at Longmire, Mount Rainier National Park.

Pilophorus On Parade

Day 193: With the acquisition of a new macro lens/filter, one of my first targets was the colony of Pilophorus acicularis at Longmire. These little fellers are my new "favourite lichen," not only for their cute black hats, but also for their propensity for growing straight out from the side of a vertical rock. Seen from a distance of five feet, you'd take them for grey moss where they cluster thickly. Seen from two feet, they put you in mind of a mutant Chia pet. A few specimens grow upright in this location, although I'm sure that they'd rather be doing horizontal stretches with their compeers, the yoga practitioners of Lichenopolis contending against gravity in pursuit of grace, a grey ballet of black-capped figures on a rocky stage.

Up Early

Day 192: They are up a month early, and the Calypso Orchids are appearing in dozens of unexpected places in the lower forest. Watch where you step if you go looking for these little beauties. From single ground-hugging leaf to tip of tallest petal, Calypso bulbosa stands but six inches in height, easy to miss despite their vivid color. I have pointed out a single flower or two to a group of people at my favourite grove of them with the response, "I see it!" Then I direct them to hunker down or get on their knees to take another look. The new perspective invariably brings the reaction, "Oh, gosh! There are HUNDREDS of them!" If perhaps not hundreds, people will be amazed that they could have been standing among several dozen without seeing even one. If you spot one Calypso, stop where you are and have a look from a lower angle before proceeding. Calypso's flower is crucial to its survival. If it is crushed or the stem is broken, the plant will die.

I'm going to throw that big word out to you again: mycoheterotrophy. Calypsos are among a very specialized group of plants called partial mycoheterotrophs. That means that in addition to photosynthesizing via the customary mechanism for plants (i.e., through a leaf). they also form a symbiotic relationship with a fungus (often one specific species) in order to extract nutrients from the soil, hence the adjective "partial." On the other hand, "obligate" mycoheterotrophs such as Indian Pipe (Monotropa uniflora) rely entirely on a fungal component to sustain them.

We experienced a very light winter here in the Pacific Northwest with a much lower than normal snowpack. Although this is purely conjecture, it makes me wonder if the abundance of Calypsos could be due in some degree to proliferation of their symbiotic fungal counterpart, a response to a warmer environment. Many plants are emerging earlier than usual, and how that will affect the wildflower season in the high country remains to be seen.

Potential For Blueberries

Day 191: Unless you have one of the self-pollinating varieties, you will need two different varieties of blueberry to obtain an optimal harvest. To further complicate matters, the varieties are broken down into three groups: early, mid-season and late-bearing. It will do you no good to have an early variety paired with a late-season type because they will not bloom at the same time, and you want them to cross-pollinate.

Therein was the rub. I'd had two bushes, but one had disappeared and the other was being shaded out by the contorted filbert (bad planning on my part). In the heat of my gardening fit, I dug it up and moved it to a container and only then remembered the pollinization requirement. Its tag was long gone, and with it just coming into leaf, I had no way to tell when it might bloom. Applying logic to the local climate, I figured I'd have bought mid-season varieties. In any event, if I bought a second mid-season plant, there would be some overlap with either a late or early type.

Second blueberry came home a few days ago, blooming and some berries already forming. I put it in a sunken container next to the first one without giving that plant a glance. Today, I was delighted to discover that the original bush is beginning to flower. It's nice to know my logic is consistent.

Dandelion Madness

Day 190: They say that everything has a purpose. I will allow that (given the possible exceptions of mosquitoes and ticks), especially after creating this "happy accident" from a reasonably boring "Little Big Shot" macro of a dandelion seedhead. I hadn't even noticed the rainbow refractions until I'd completed the "orbifying" process. That's one of the fun things about Orbs: you can't predict the results to any great degree. Admittedly, Orbs may be only slightly higher in rank with regard to purposelessness as those ticks and mosquitoes I mentioned, but I think "eye candy" has its merits.

Little-Known Places

Day 189: I thought I knew where I was going, but I soon realized that my memory from forty years ago was probably faulty. Plus, the directions I'd been given weren't tallying with my observations, leaving me to question whether I'd misread or misinterpreted them. In any event, getting where I was going wasn't working out according to plan, so I decided to try an alternate route. In so doing, I stumbled across this which, after forty years, I had forgotten was there.

There are several small spillways like this, tucked away in tacitly undisclosed locations in the Park. Some are part of existing water systems while others are simply forgotten bits of history. If you know where to look, the trailheads to some are obvious, if unmarked and lightly disguised by vegetation, but others require orienteering skills and tough hide to attain. It does take one aback somewhat to encounter a man-made waterfall in the backcountry, a reminder that there is probably no one place in the Park where Man's foot has not been put down. Wilderness is a state of mind, wild only until you realize that before you, someone was there, marking their territory.

Photographer At Work

Day 188: Yesterday, I had the privilege of being part of "Team Lisa" during a walk for MS in Portland, OR. Our team captain was none other than my good friend and fellow photographer, Lisa's brother Kevin. Kevin and I have different photographic styles, his leaning more toward captures with human interest: faces and events, images which tell stories in and of themselves and have (in his words) "emotional resonance." My style, as you well know, is more analytic, framed to show field characteristics for making identification of species. Occasionally, though, we dabble in the other's specialty, and in the default environment of the urban throng, I was stretched to find subject matter in a sea of strangers' faces. Although I took several decent candids of Kevin which showed his smile and eyes, this is the portrait I preferred, specifically because it does tell a story...or perhaps because I've identified him previously and didn't feel a further need to capture his field markings.

1000 Road Butterfly Hunt

Day 187: There is a stretch of about a tenth of a mile's length on Pack Forest's 1000 Road (north side) which the Mourning Cloaks have deemed prime territory for reasons known only to them, and it was in search of Mourning Cloaks I went, on my annual "1000 Road Butterfly Hunt."

One of the earliest butterflies to emerge, individual Mourning Cloaks may overwinter under flakes of bark, a behaviour which allows the species a head-start over other butterflies in the spring, mating soon after their emergence. The adult butterfly then enters a period of aestivation, going dormant during late summer after the females have laid their eggs. The larvae hatch in the fall and undergo several instars in which the skin is shed as the caterpillar grows larger. The mature caterpillar then pupates and metamorphoses into the adult butterfly.

As for my Butterfly Hunt, I was rewarded not only with a dozen or more Mourning Cloaks (Nymphalis antiopa), but Commas (presumably Polygonia faunus) as well as Green-Veined Whites (Pieris napi) and some unidentified Blues. That's a pretty good score for mid-April!

Pack Forest Surprise

Day 186: I had gone on a mission to Pack Forest about 10 AM and was coming back down from Windy Ridge, walking along the western portion of the 2000 Road with my eyes scanning the slope for a better example of Snow Queens than the ones I'd found near the trailhead. Suddenly, I saw something entirely unexpected: the bright magenta flags of two dozen or more Calypso Orchids on a steep embankment, so deep in shade that I had missed them altogether when I'd gone by an hour earlier. These are the first Calypsos I've seen outside Mount Rainier National Park. They have also emerged at Longmire and at Ohanapecosh, according to reports I've received, flowering there about a month earlier than normal.

New Camera Accessories

Day 185: "Oh, no! Another gardening post!" I can hear you now. No, the Vinca minor was modelling for a test of a new piece of camera equipment, a "Little Big Shot."

You'll notice I stopped right there, without calling it a lens, without calling it a filter. I'd put it in the category of filters, but the manufacturer refers to it as a lens. It was designed for "bridge" cameras like my Canon SX30 IS which do not have interchangeable lenses. In fact, out of the box, the SX30 doesn't accept filters, either. I purchased an adapter ring which allows me to use 58mm filters. The Little Big Shot is, in short, a lens in a frame which attaches to the camera by means of an elastic band. It's not elegant, but hey, it does a great job, as you can see here. I have a set of macro filters which seem to distort the subject a bit more than is acceptable to me, and do not give as good resolution. I believe the vignetting in this shot is due to the fact that I did not remove the adapter ring I normally use for filters before attaching the LBS. All in all, I'm quite happy with this new...whatever you want to call it. It will be in my camera bag, and those macro filters may stay home.

Door Wardens

Day 184: A little desperate for a blog photo tonight because I have been out gardening and (ugh!) mowing all day, so I thought I would give my readers a closer look at the newest addition to my Sarracenia collection. This is "Carolina Yellow Jacket," a hybrid of three varieties. It is a compact plant, the tightly packed pitchers grow to no more than eight inches in length. The hoods of Yellow Jacket are erect rather than nodding, a factor which allow rainwater to collect in the cups. Like other Sarracenias, its pitchers are lined with downward-pointing "hairs" which prevent unwary insects from escaping their inevitable doom. Once inside a pitcher, the only direction a bug can travel is downward, into a reservoir of digestive enzymes. I am happy to have Sarracenias guarding my back porch from mosquitoes and flies!

Making More Work

Day 183: I had to go to town today and wanted to pick up some more bark mulch for the garden, but wound up with a little extra time on my hands before an appointment. What happened next was as certain as death and taxes: I came out of the garden store with a full cart. My acquisitions included two more Blue Star Junipers, two "Furzey" Heathers, a Vinca minor, and two sedums and a stonecrop (a taller plant) which will be the centerpiece of the strawberry jar, presently under conversion to a succulent garden. This phenomenon is known as "making more work for myself," something I do all too frequently when planting season rolls around. With snow sprinkled on the hills above the house like powdered sugar on gingerbread, I successfully resisted the temptations offered by zonal geraniums and calibrachoa. Neither is frost-hardy. However, I did fall for the lure of a wrought-iron trellis which barely fit in my car.

One, Two, Three!

Day 182: I must be doing something right. Sarracenia rubra has not one, not two, but three blossoms coming! Can you spot the third one? It's hiding out behind the one on the right.

You might think that these showy and mysterious carnivorous plants are tropical, but in fact the Sarracenias are native to the United States and Canada and are quite hardy, despite their exotic appearances. Mine thrive on my back porch, and I only bring them indoors when nighttime temperatures dip into the low 20s. The secret to keeping them is in providing the bog-like conditions they favour. They like peaty soil, and their pots should be kept standing in an inch or two of water (depending on size) at all times.

The flowers are spectacular, peaking approximately two months from the time they break the ground (see my posts for 23 June last year), and hang on for four weeks or more, the vivid colour gradually fading to a sere brown. If you want a conversation piece for your garden, you couldn't do better than a Sarracenia.

Bitten By The Gardening Bug

Day 181: Over the last two days, I have planted juniper tams, dug and transplanted a small fig tree, relocated the tomato pot (sunk to its waist in soil), sunk a second pot into which I moved a blueberry bush, relocated two of five horse chestnut trees to their permanent locations, stretched over 100 feet of weed barrier fabric, spread five bags of bark mulch, weeded the raspberries and laid weed barrier around them, and in all, have shovelled what surely must have been at least two 15-yard dump truck loads of dirt (I exaggerate, but my back and arms don't believe it) and busted enough sod that it's a wonder I have any grass left (but I do, and it needs mowing). The catch? I'm probably less than halfway done with the chores I've outlined for the yard and garden this year. Do I have a showplace yard? Not hardly! I love to work the soil, but I'm not much on keeping up appearances. There are no Joneses to keep up with, but if there were, I have the best crop of dandelions in the neighborhood.

Reviewing What We've Learned

Day 180: All right, class, let's review what we've learned about frog species this week. And before you accuse me of using the editorial "we," let me remind you that I've been learning right alongside you, and now I feel more confident in my ability to differentiate Cascades Frogs from Northern Red-legged Frogs.

First of all, the most reliable field characteristic seems to be the spots on the back. Cascades Frogs have well-defined spots as opposed to those of Red-legged Frogs which have a blurred or somewhat indistinct outline. Cascades Frogs have yellow bellies and legs, but the observer can be misled by a young Red-legged Frog whose red pigmentation has not yet developed. Often, the red pigmentation isn't visible on the legs, but may be seen in a ventral view. Of course that means dip-netting your specimen and subjecting it to the indignity (however brief) of being turned over on its back. Unless you are engaged in a formal scientific study, I strongly advise against this. The next characteristic is a little more vague. Red-legged Frogs only extend in range to approximately 2800-3000 feet elevation, overlapping the range of Cascades Frogs in a wide band. With climate changes occurring, this range may move up, creating a broader area in which the two species may coexist.

The Cascades Frog shown in this photo was found at 3000' elevation, very near an area where Red-legged Frogs have also been sighted. However, I am happy to report that my initial assessment of its identification has been confirmed by two experts in the field of "frogology." Incidentally, Cascades Frogs were recognized as a separate species in 1939. The holotype specimens were collected in Mount Rainier National Park.

Look What Followed Me Home!

Day 179: It began as a couple of innocent items on my shopping list for today. Preparatory to transplanting a couple of horse chestnut trees and a fig, I intended to purchase potting soil and bark mulch in order to do the job right, but that meant checking a couple of different garden centers for the best price. Strangely, by the time I was again bound homeward, my car was packed as full as it could be: five bags of mulch, two of soil, a pair of Blue Star juniper tams, an orange tuberous begonia, a one-gallon Clematis Vancouver Sea Breeze, and the greatest prize of all, Sarracenia x Carolina Yellow Jacket.

The Pitcher Plant is a new hybrid and according to the tag, "a hardy horticultural conversation piece," i.e., a companion for my Sarracenia rubra (which, incidentally, is developing two blossoms this year). It too will stand guard at my back door, protecting me from flies and mosquitoes and perhaps the occasional guest who arrives unannounced. Trespass not, lest ye be eaten!

Confirmation Of Identity

Update: My expert and her expert got their heads together today over my photos of the frogs and egg mass, and I am happy to report that we are ALL in agreement on the identification: Cascades Frogs. I feel much better now.

When Experts Disagree

Day 178: I do not claim to know much about amphibians, so when I captured a portrait of a frog of unknown species, I referred it to an expert for identification. It wasn't the best photo as far as being a "field guide" shot. It failed to show enough definitive features, but my expert said she thought it was a Cascades Frog. She offered to refer it to another expert who reported back, "I think it's a Red-Legged Frog based on what we've observed previously in that location."

I'd like to point out something I learned early on in my career as a naturalist: never assume that your specimen is Species A simply because Species A is the most common in the area. My expert's expert's remark made my hair stand on end, an example of bad science if ever there was one.

Since my initial submission to the "panel of two," I have taken much better photos showing the full morphology of the frog in question, and just this evening referred them back to the experts along with this image of an egg mass. I offered my own observation and said that if I was wrong, I would appreciate knowing the points on which I failed. That said, at least I'll know I was in good company. One or the other of my experts has to be in error.

The Guy With The Racing Stripes

Day 177: Several species of sparrow come to my feeders during the summer months, notably Song Sparrows (back), the guys with the racing stripes (White-Crowned Sparrows, front), and although they haven't shown up yet, Golden-Crowned Sparrows as well. Today seemed to be bath day, every puddle hosting a bird or two. The juncoes and jays were also active, as were half a dozen Spotted Towhees and much to my delight, a couple of Rufous Hummingbird females. Time to lay in a good supply of seed!

Xanthoria Polycarpa, Sunburst Lichen

Day 176: From the Latin "xanthus" meaning "yellow," the Xanthorias are a very distinctive genus of foliose lichen and, at least in the Pacific Northwest, are most commonly found growing on hardwood bark, generally in sunny, open locations. Xanthorias also colonize on rock. Their colour is striking, and often gives rise to expressions of repugnance in the uninitiated, on the order of, "Ewwww! What's that orange stuff all over the trees?" On closer examination, the structures of the lichen become apparent: a foliose thallus dotted with raised apothecial disks. Xanthoria polycarpa occurs farther inland than the very similar X. parietina, although both are primarily coastal species. X. parietina is not known to occur in Washington.

Bullfrog Blues

Day 175: As mentioned in an earlier post, the Bullfrogs invading local ponds and creeks can be quite varied in colour, ranging from brown through green, sometimes even aqua blue. The colour of any one frog may change over time as a result of exposure to increasing or decreasing amounts of light, not in response to its surroundings as was once believed. This change is effected in specialized cells and by the manner in which they reflect light. The transition may take weeks or months to occur. The specimen of Rana catesbeiana shown here is entering a blue phase, and if my Bullfrog census for this city park in Yelm is any indicator, the Herons certainly won't be singing the Bullfrog Blues for lack of a hearty dinner.

Morning On Swofford Pond

Day 174: I doubt you could find a more tranquil setting anywhere in western Washington than Swofford Pond. This 216.5 acre reservoir is located southeast of Mossyrock, just above much larger Riffe Lake, into which it drains. Not only will you find decent trout fishing here, a lovely nature trail runs along the south margin for a mile and a half, but does not afford access to the water. There are no homes directly on the shore, and many single-car pullouts give anglers plenty of space to cast a line. Combustion engines are not permitted on the lake, a factor which also makes it a nice place to kayak. There are also many opportunities for the bird-watcher, both in the woods and on the water. I've made at least two Life List sightings along the shore, the most notable a flock of Townsend's Warblers on their spring migration.

Share The Trail

Day 173: You really have to mind where you step on the South Swofford Trail. I know of no other location where the Oregon Forest Snail (Allogona townsendiana) is so numerous. Perhaps its popularity with this species can be attributed to the trail's shady, moist environment. It is south of the lake, but north of a ridge, and stays dark and cool even in summer. That said, the OFSes are more plentiful in the months of autumn. I was surprised to see several munching the mulch on my walk today.

An Acquired Taste

Day 172: Ask your friends and colleagues about cilantro, and you'll find that they either love it or hate it, and those who hate it will usually make horrible faces as they describe its somewhat soapy taste. However, you can accustom yourself to the flavour with a little effort, and may find yourself joining the ranks of those who can't imagine their favourite Mexican dishes without it. My palate for this herb has increased to the point that I prefer using it to replace lettuce in tacos and taco salads. I grow my own in season, but always seem to pick it faster than it grows, necessitating trips to the market for more. I store it as you see here: in the fridge with its stems in water, the tops loosely covered with a plastic bag. Cilantro! It's not just a garnish in my kitchen.

Usnea Longissima, Methuselah's Beard Lichen

Day 171: We now resume our regularly scheduled programming, and by that I mean "no more April Fools' jokes."

Frequently and easily mistaken for a moss, Usnea longissima is one of the most elegant members of the lichen family. Also known as Methuselah's Beard, this Usnea grows in strands which may reach lengths of nine feet, and drapes over branches like a tinsel Christmas swag. Like the lung lichens, Usnea longissima is a good indicator of air quality since it is highly sensitive to pollutants. Seen here growing on Red Alder along the Rainey Creek trail, Methuselah's Beard is abundant at the east end of Riffe Lake.

Papilio Niveus, Snow Swallowtail

Day 170: The larval stage of the uncommon-to-rare Papilio niveus is almost identical to that of P. zelicaon, but there can be no mistaking it due to its predilection for emerging in early spring at higher elevations, often while snow is still on the ground. This caterpillar feeds exclusively on bearberry (Arctostaphylos uva-ursi). In the third instar of the caterpillar's development, small red or red-brown warts containing a bitter and toxic alkaloid appear on the third and fourth segments, deterring attacks from Steller's Jays, the species' primary predator. These warts are also present during the pupal phase, but disappear in the mature butterfly. The adult is distinguished from other Swallowtails by purplish, fringed margins on the hind-wings. Additionally, if you've believed a word of this, you should be aware that you have been browsing an April Fools' Day field guide. This caterpillar is a plastic replica of a larval Anise Swallowtail.