By Request: The Redheads And Mr. Lincoln

Day 110: I stand reproved. I had multiple requests in various venues for the Redheads presented as a Penny Perspective, and not to disappoint those among my readership who have surprised me with their interest in my lovely lichen companions, I took another short walk on the Bud Blancher Trail today, returning to the site of yesterday's subject matter. In the process, I discovered a species which I have yet to place in a family (crustose, white, growing on live alder) as well as some nice Cladonia grayi. I suspect the white specimen will prove problematic when I try to identify it, but I do enjoy the challenge.

Bud Blancher's Cladonia Forest

Day 109: It was a year ago, during one of my first walks on the Bud Blancher Trail that I discovered several lush colonies of Cladonia bellidiflora growing on decaying logs and at the bases of three or four trees newly exposed to light from the north. At the time, I said to myself that this was a good opportunity for a field experiment, and made a mental note to monitor the lichens to see how they would react in the absence of shade. No significant changes were registered in 2015 despite a droughty summer, nothing beyond the normal reaction to dry weather. It remained to be seen if they would spring back when the rains arrived, so when I walked the trail a few days ago, I paid them a visit. I am happy to report that the colonies (all of them) are thriving.

Cladonia bellidiflora is quite common in the Pacific Northwest. It nearly always exhibits bright red apothecia (fruiting bodies), but the density of squamules (scales) on the podetia (stalks) may vary widely. Bud Blancher's specimens are not particularly squamulose.

This End Up

Day 108: I left my camera unattended in the office again, and Kevin's sideways pose brought up a memory from years ago when a friend was visiting. I am normally an "early to bed, early to rise" person, a strong contrast to the night-owl habits of my guest. Over the course of the evening, the conversation had drifted to quantum physics and relativity, carrying us well past the midnight hour, and I was getting a little pecky for being tired. When my friend remarked that I needed an "attitude adjustment" because I was complaining about being up past bedtime, I replied with the first thing which sprang to mind. It was a comment entirely within keeping to theme: "Yeah, I'm vertical and I need to be horizontal." The ba-da-bing took half a minute to occur.

Still trying to sort it out? "Attitude" is the operative word. Kevin has the right idea, too. Sometimes all you need is a little attitude adjustment to brighten a work day.

Snowdrops For The Taking

Day 107: The invitation offered by side trails cannot be refused by anyone who loves exploring. Something drew animals or humans to create them, and my inquisitive nature will not let me pass them by. Thus it was that last year during the Park's fitness challenge I discovered a patch of snowdrops, discarded from someone's garden and gone native in a shaded niche off the main walking path. At the time, I told myself I should return, trowel in hand, but for one reason or another, the job went undone, although not forgotten. Yesterday, I went prepared. The buds were just starting to open and therefore I could expect a good margin of survival, but success depended upon being able to reach the bulbs. Rooted among rocks, they were difficult to extract, but I managed to "lift" a dozen or so, a mere dip from the well of hundreds, and planted them in my front flower bed as soon as I got home. If they fail...well, I know where to get more!

Fowl Language

Day 106: "And don't sass me back!" The sounds of argument came down to me like a shower of hail as I walked the Bud Blancher Trail this morning. Clearly, someone was having their place in the pecking order explicitly defined with great vigour. Occasionally, I'd hear a mew of complaint, shrill and whiny, quickly followed by a stern command. The playground bully was made to stand in the corner of the classroom, head bowed in humiliation, as the teacher executed a silent repertoire of postures meant to reinforce the rule of the roost. I have never seen a Bald Eagle look as hang-dog as this one, clearly indicating a demotion from alpha by only looking up when both birds were distracted by a low-flying aircraft. After the plane passed, Raven made a gesture of beak-snapping and a head thrust to which the Eagle responded with a resumption of the "downcast eyes" position. Authority was re-established immediately.

The dispute was undoubtedly over feeding privileges. The Nisqually Stream Stewards recently held a "fish toss" nearby, returning frozen salmon carcasses to the waterway as part of a habitat restoration project. Dead fish always draw Eagles: in fact, I counted eight or nine individuals during my six-mile walk. Like other corvids, the opportunistic Ravens are always ready to join the feast and often get into arguments with the larger birds over possession. Intelligence invariably wins out over instinct, and no sensible Eagle will stand up to a Raven for long. This one certainly knew when he was licked!

Boulder

Day 105: I've only managed to walk the Bud Blancher Trail once this year to date, largely because I don't feel like hiking in the rain and we've had very few decent days in January. It seems like my schedule and weather work at odds with each other, invariably a commitment falling on the same day as sunshine. That said, this nice walking route nearly always turns up something of interest, whether it's fungi, lichens, frogs or even a lonesome boulder on the bank of the fishing pond in Smallwood Park. I like rocks with personality, and this old fellow seemed to be waiting for derby day and the hordes of young anglers who turn out for the event. For now, though, he has no one to keep him company except the strolling photographer who thanked him quietly for posing before leaving him to his private thoughts.

Burns Night

Day 104: Th' esteemed 'aggis is devour't, an' a pint o' dark ale t' see it on its way in celebrating o' wee Rabbie Burns' natal day. A fine braw beastie it were, neeps an' tatties t' keep it company. A guid Burns Night t' th' lot o' ye, an' I leaves ye wi' th' Bard's immortal "Address to a Haggis":

Fair and full is your honest, jolly face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, tripe, or intestines:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm.

The groaning trencher there you fill,
Your buttocks like a distant hill,
Your pin would help to mend a mill
In time of need,
While through your pores the dews distill
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour wipe,
And cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like any ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm steaming, rich!

Then spoon for spoon, they stretch and strive:
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Till all their well swollen bellies by-and-by
Are bent like drums;
Then old head of the table, most like to burst,
'The grace!' hums.

Is there that over his French ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a sow,
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust,
Looks down with sneering, scornful view
On such a dinner?

Poor devil! see him over his trash,
As feeble as a withered rush,
His thin legs a good whip-lash,
His fist a nut;
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit.

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his ample fist a blade,
He'll make it whistle;
And legs, and arms, and heads will cut off
Like the heads of thistles.

You powers, who make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery stuff,
That splashes in small wooden dishes;
But if you wish her grateful prayer,
Give her a Haggis!

Soft Catkins

Day 103: Here it is, a sure sign that winter's reign will soon give way to spring. The emergence of pussywillows marks the beginning of my seasonal calendar, the natural equivalent of New Year's Day. They've been out for a week or so already, waiting for me to acknowledge them with a portrait as soon as the rains stopped. I haven't checked the twig I planted in the front yard last year, a slip from this tree, but it bore leaves well into autumn last year, so I'm sure it's all right.

Sprangly though it is, this tree projects up beyond the peak of the garage roof. It too originated as a slip, taken from a branch found on a back road, broken off by an ice storm several years ago. Pussywillows used to be quite common here in the Pacific Northwest, but in the last several decades, they've become harder to find growing wild, and it's my considered opinion that the world needs more of their cheer. Willows of all sorts root readily in water or moist ground. Pick pussywillows just as they begin to open, put them in a jar of water and let the catkins go through their cycle. When the catkins fall, the twigs will begin to develop leaves. By the time the leaves are mature, a healthy crop of roots will have developed as well. The twigs can be put directly in the ground at that point, or as I prefer to do, pot them up to confine the roots and force them to grow into a good ball. Plant the following spring and keep well watered through the heat of summer.

Looking At Lichens

Day 102: Our friend Mr. Thoreau would have been delighted with the literal windfall of lichen species I discovered in Longmire Campground a few days ago, among them this magnificent specimen of Fringed Kidney Lichen. Its apothecia (fruiting bodies), well-developed in this photo, give it its common name. Scientifically, it is Nephroma helveticum, a designation which sounds like it should apply to a font rather than the forest. As I've been making surveys of the areas hardest hit by our winter storms, checking the branches and boughs brought down by gusty winds, I've been rewarded with several additions to my Life List. This Nephroma qualifies as one of my better finds. I don't get much distance out of my "storm patrols," but like Mr. Thoreau, I do enjoy them!

Chrysothrix Candelaris, Gold Dust Lichen

Day 101: If you've done any hiking in the Pacific Northwest, you've undoubtedly encountered evergreen trees (notably Douglas Fir) with a strange greenish-gold coating on the bark. If you looked more closely, you probably thought there was nothing particularly noteworthy about it, or if you touched it, you would have found it powdery on the surface, but impossible to wipe off entirely. There your curiosity was likely to have ended, and if you remarked on it at all, you simply said to yourself, "Weird yellow-green dust on a tree, okay" before moving on to showy wildflowers and butterflies in the meadows.

Would it surprise you to know that this is a lichen? Its common name is particularly descriptive: Gold Dust. Note the fir needle just right of center for a size reference. That will give you an idea how fine the texture is. Scientifically, it is known as Chrysothrix candelaris, a reference to its resemblance to another lichen family, the Candelarias.

This Is Nuts!

Day 100: I've done over two dozen pages in the "Enchanted Forest" colouring book I was given by a friend, and when I came to this particular page, I expected it to be rather boring when compared to trees and flowers and hidden critters. I was in for a pleasant surprise. As I began the first acorn, I realized that simply filling in the spaces with colour was uninspired, so I decided to try shading. My first attempt was less than stellar, but with each subsequent nut, I felt I was improving. I completed each one individually to avoid repetition. Now I'd have to say that this has been one of my favourite pages, and I still have the leaves to finish!

Hypogymnia Apinnata, Beaded Tube Lichen

Day 99: Sometimes you just have to go with your best guess. Hypogymnia apinnata and H. enteromorpha are so similar that it is impossible to tell them apart reliably in the field, and my home laboratory is not equipped to test for the acid reaction which may or may not distinguish them from each other. Their distribution is almost identical as well, so location is of no help. In the Pacific Northwest, enteromorpha is more common and indeed, I believe I saw many examples during my hike of Eatonville's Bud Blancher Trail. However, there were subtle differences in a very few specimens (half a dozen at most), and among them was this compact colony which made me pause for a photo. Lichens and their admirers can be said to have something in common: we go out on limbs. I'll extend myself on one to call this H. apinnata.

Baeomyces Rufus, Brown Berets

Day 98: It's always a thrill for me to find and identify a new lichen for my Life List ("and identify" is the qualifier), but I am a little ashamed to admit that this this dense colony of Baeomyces rufus (Brown Beret Lichen) was growing on a group of Cladonia-bearing rocks which I have studied minutely on several occasions. How did I overlook it? It may have been that the apothecia were just developing and I may have dismissed it for Icmadophila ericetorum, guilty of the sin of not looking closely enough to see the white podetia beneath the pinkish-tan berets. Icmadophila ericetorum is stalkless, but also grows from a pale green thallus (one of the most peculiar colours I've witnessed in nature). Baeomyces' thallus is slightly more yellowish, and at least with these specimens, less uniform. Under a magnifier, the thallus is revealed to be finely squamulose (scaly) or warty, but it's those little white stalks which set this species apart from Icmadophila and give away its true identity. Suffice to say that finding it in profusion at this location was quite a surprise! That'll teach me to pay attention to the whole picture, and not just the first thing which catches my eye.

American Dipper, Cinclus Mexicanus

Day 97: "Well, hold still a second, willya?" Little Dipper was doing the happy dance on a partly submerged twig, flailing bits of grass against the water and bobbing at the knees as is typical for the species. I'm not sure what he was trying to accomplish, but every now and then, he'd stop his activity to stare intently into the water. Could this have been an example of a bird using a tool? I think he might have been trying to get insects to rise to the surface, and apparently with some success.

The American Dipper is also known as a Water Ouzel, although the older name is not often heard these days. While "Dipper" is certainly descriptive of his dance, this little bugger dives and swims like a Puffin, too! It's not uncommon to see them leap into a creek in the high country, disappear from sight and emerge a minute or more later upstream to perch on a rock, bob-bob-bobbing before taking another plunge. They're great fun to watch!

Botanical Art

Day 97: My talent for art is feeble at best, although I'm learning how to handle coloured pencils thanks to a Christmas gift of Johanna Basford's "Enchanted Forest" colouring book. As I've experimented with shading and blending, it has occurred to me that any naturalist worth the name should at least dabble at illustrating. Here you see my first effort, catkins plucked from Harry Lauder, the contorted filbert in my yard. I made a faint outline of my subject with a standard lead pencil and then began applying colour. Unfortunately, I failed to center the drawing on the page (laziness on my part...I should have erased it and started over), and I find the colour saturation to be lacking (best I could manage with these pencils), but as a first attempt, I'm not too disappointed.

Pickin' And Grinnin'

Day 95: My readers have often heard me refer to the fact that I use the European method of "picking" when knitting, as opposed to "throwing" in the American style. Picking is a much faster system, particularly when working ribbing because it is much easier to bring the yarn to the front of the needle for a purl stitch. In picking, the working strand is held in the left hand. Depending on the individual knitter, tension is achieved by carrying the yarn over the backs of one or more fingers or by winding it around a finger. I prefer to wrap it around my pinkie. It then passes over the index finger from back to front.

To make a knit stitch (top), the working thread should be behind the left needle. The tip (only the tip!) of the right needle is inserted in the first stitch on the left needle in the normal fashion and is "picked" through to the front. The stitch is then slid off the needle. At this point, the knitter will see how easy it is to bring the working thread to the FRONT of the left needle for a purl stitch. To purl (bottom), the yarn is held in front of the left needle. The right needle passes through the first stitch on the left needle in the usual manner. A slight twist of the left wrist drops the working thread over the tip of the right needle from front to back, and the stitch is then taken off the left needle. There is no tedious transferring of the yarn from front to back as there is in throwing. Rather, it is how the needles are positioned which allow the stitch to be knit or purled as desired.

Picking is easy to learn whether you're right-handed or left-handed (I am right-handed), but for lefties, it is much easier than throwing American-style. Try it! You'll be pickin' and grinnin' in no time at all!

Swallowtail Scales

Day 94: As I mentioned a few days ago, finding material for posts during the gloomy months of winter is no easy task, especially when I'd like to present a glimpse into the marvelous world of Nature. However, today it occurred to me to pull out my stereoscope for a closer look at a butterfly wing. Where did I get my subject matter? I have a small collection preserved in a Riker mount, traffic fatalities otherwise undamaged by impact.

It might surprise you to know that butterflies are both hairy and scaly. Both types of structure afford protection from predators. The hairs are a tactile deterrent (imagine a bird with a speech balloon above its head reading, "Ew! Furry!") whereas the scales shed readily if the butterfly runs afoul of a spiderweb. You might think of butterflies as being brightly coloured, but in fact, their striking hues are not due to pigments but to refraction of light within the microstructure of the scales. The feathers of Steller's Jays and many other bird species give the impression of being coloured, but in fact, most birds are brown despite how they appear to human eyes. The same principles apply to the wings of a butterfly. Mother Nature will have her little jokes on us, fooling us into believing we're seeing reds and blues where none exist. It's enough to make you wonder if anything is as we perceive it.

Footnote: I had this photo ready to go, but just happened to notice a feature in the new PaintShopPro called "text cutter." I couldn't resist experimenting. The letters were cut from the butterfly wing in the photo with just a few clicks!

Potions

Day 93: There is a decided film-noir air to January so far, today marking the passage of another of my favourite entertainers, Alan Rickman. Although most people know him for his role as Severus Snape, my introduction to him was in "Galaxy Quest" where he played a burnt-out actor from a sci-fi television show who is mistaken for his character by a group of aliens. They abduct him and the rest of the series' crew, having taken the fictional episodes for "historical documents" and expect the team to rescue them from the villainous Sarris. "Star Trek" fans either love or hate "Galaxy Quest" for the way it spoofs the show and Leonard Nimoy's protest that "I Am Not Spock." The character of Alexander Dane is perceived to be science officer Dr. Lazarus, and Tim Allen's character of Jason Nesmith is in turn believed to be Capt. Peter Quincy Taggart by the aliens.

That said, Rickman's portrayal of Snape is a tour de force, balancing villainy against heroism in just the right proportions for the character. It could not have been an easy task to maintain the duality of the character, yet Rickman did it extremely well. Some of us were not fooled by J. K. Rowling's red herrings, not for a minute. From the first book on, I suspected Snape of being a double agent. As a writer, it was what I would have done with the character. I had one brief moment of doubt when Dumbledore was slain, but a hint given in the latter part of the fifth book supported my faith that all would work out in the end.

Suffice it to say that following the loss of David Bowie whose "The Man Who Fell To Earth" is, in my opinion, one of the most profound films of the modern era, Alan Rickman's passage saddens me equallly. The position of Potions Master can never again be adequately filled.

Fun With FX

Day 92: When you're rained in, finding blogworthy material can be difficult, so I went back to January 2014 and dragged up one of my favourite selfies to use as a test subject for the special-effects program which came as part of a new PaintShopPro suite. Yes, after hours of frustration with trying to get the old one to cooperate with new display driver software, I gave up and bought the new version. It could have turned into a costly mistake (at least temporarily), but I am happy to say that I'm now back in the photo business even if I don't feel like swimming out for lichens. There are some major differences, notably the loss of almost all of the "picture frames" I have used in the past, but the major photo tools are those with which I am familiar. I haven't had a chance to fully explore the new features, although I did take a look at filters. I'm not sure how often I'll use any of them, but I'm sure I'll have some fun. My favourite so far is the "centerspot vignette" shown lower left.

Beloved Villains

Day 91: Having exhausted Netflix's library of modern "Doctor Who" episodes, I jumped in the TARDIS and took a trip back to the William Hartnell years for a look at the very first Doctor. I have to say I'm enjoying the old stories immensely despite their lack of sophisticated special effects. My greatest delight, however, is in seeing the original Daleks. Remarkably, they have changed very little over the years. Their ship is another matter. When they first invaded Earth, they travelled from Skaro in a pie tin, the "flying saucer" so popular in 60s culture. That said, the Daleks were just as malevolent in those days as they are now...the most-loved villains of all time.

Back In The Saddle

Day 90: Today marks the start of the Park's Winter Fitness Challenge for 2016, and I am not (repeat, NOT!) going to go for the Iron Ranger title this year. I've done it two years in a row just to prove that little old ladies are a force to be reckoned with, but it's time to step down and rest on my laurels. For one thing, it's a time-consuming job to achieve the aerobic equivalent of 18 walking miles every day for 12 weeks straight. It may lengthen your life, but it takes a substantial chunk out of it as well. Second and more importantly, I'm developing hip problems, very likely due to the abuses I've piled on this tiny body over the years. Still, I think I can pull off six miles a day for a total of 504 at the end of the run. That will more than cover the 409 miles required from our team of four. Day One is done, anyway!

Why Cats Paint Frogs Ahead Of Time

Day 89: The last 18 hours of my life have been consumed by a computer issue, the upshot of which is that I have a new display driver which unfortunately is incompatible with PaintShopPro. In order to bring you today's image, I've had to use an older version of the program and the semi-retired computer on which it is installed. Suffice to say that this arrangement of "Book Spine Poetry" is all the humour I could muster.

"Why Cats Paint" and its spin-off cousins, "Why Paint Cats" and "Dancing With Cats" are three utterly marvelous expositions of post-processing skills and dry wit. Like many people, I was about halfway through "Why Cats Paint" before I realized my leg was being pulled, and the images which gave me the first solid evidence were a sequence taken of the same cat (Minnie) at work on a single piece of art. Oh, it was the same cat. I have no doubt about that, but the earlier photos show a bobbed tail while in the later ones, the tail is full length. Cats' tails simply do not grow back, certainly not in the space of a few hours. At that point, I went back to the beginning of the book and re-read it with a different eye, and laughed my way through to the end, the moreso that I had been effectively gulled by the creators. And living with cats, I realize now that the reason they paint frogs ahead of time is because that although they use tools, they are backwards animals at best.

Caterpillars In My Pockets

Day 88: Could my path have been laid before me by my parents who, on the occasion of my first birthday, presented their infant daughter with a planter in the shape of a caterpillar, a cactus growing from the middle of his back? Yes, that's the very item to which I refer, there in the lower right corner of this image. As far back as I remember, collecting ceramic "worms" was one of the joys of childhood. Whenever my folks found one in a shop, they'd buy it and give it to me some time later as a gift. I've lost a few in moves over the years, although I still have quite a few which are almost as old as I am.

"Worms" (as I called them) later became the bane of my mother's existence. She didn't mind so much when I brought home an inchworm, insisting upon keeping it as a pet in a Mason jar, but when tent caterpillar season arrived, it's a wonder she didn't send me out to play stark naked. It was almost a given than when I returned home, any or all of my pockets would be full of wriggling, live caterpillars, dozens of them. I was particularly intrigued by the fact that about 1:100 tent caterpillars was blue instead of orange. Of course I now know that these were two different species, respectively Malacosoma disstria (Forest Tent Caterpillar) and Malacosoma californica (Western Tent Caterpillar), but at the time I simply thought they were worth further study and therefore would spend long hours searching "tents" for specimens. My mother was profoundly unappreciative of my research.

Perhaps it's for the best that as I matured, my passion for natural history became more focused on the subjects of birds and wildflowers, although whenever I spot a "worm" of any sort, I greet it cordially and move it out of harm's way. When the Woolly Bears emerge, I patrol the road in front of my house, shifting them from the pavement into safety. Needless to say, my walks are somewhat shortened by multiple rescues. Woolly Bears are one of the few caterpillars I recognize, but that may change, thanks to a gift from friends of "Life Histories of Cascadia Butterflies." This new field guide covers every...yes, every...species in detail, with photographs of every instar of every caterpillar found in Washington and marginally into British Columbia, Oregon and Idaho. Sounds like I may be coming home with my pockets full of caterpillars again.

Looking At Longmire Lobaria

Day 87: With the return of precipitation to the "Pacific Northwe't," many lichen species such as this Lobaria are at their best during the months of winter. As you already have learned, the plants we call lichens are a symbiosis of fungal and algal components, i.e., two species in a cooperative relationship which benefits both. On their own, fungi are not capable of photosynthesis and rely on other means to obtain nutrients. In lichens, this is where algae come into play. Algae are the photosynthetic partners ("photobionts") which "feed" the fungal member of the symbiosis.

Lichens are paradigms of survival. During periods of low precipitation or drought, they dry to a point that observers might assume they were withered and dead. However, when the rains return, they spring back to health readily, "greening up" in a delightful display. The photobionts responsible for this change of colour include green, blue-green or brown algae singly or in combination, so a wide range of hues is possible, from dark brown-green to bright chartreuse. The winter forest is far from being drab and dull. Just look to the lively, lovely lichens!

Northern Flicker, Colaptes Auratus

Day 86: While walking through the snowy, dim stillness which is Longmire's wintertime Trail of the Shadows, a small movement drew my eye to the base of a tree and caused me to stop my walk until I could identify its source. It was no easy task, the light dimmed by overhanging cedar boughs, but when a few seconds later, a bit of brown-flecked "bark" moved again, it revealed itself to be a Northern Flicker, foraging in a cavity. Intent on its business, the bird plunged its head time and again into the hole, emerging after several probing thrusts with its beak to look 'round for potential predators. It must have felt I wasn't dangerous, because it allowed me to move closer until I had a clear view through the lens, although it continued to perform its safety checks between bouts of searching in the hollow until I moved on.

The bird we call "Northern Flicker" is a member of the woodpecker family. Colaptes auratus is further broken down into "Red-Shafted" and "Yellow-Shafted" members (western and eastern variants respectively). Our Red-Shafted Flicker males can be told from the females of the species by the bright red malar ("cheek") marking. In flight, these birds reveal reddish underwings and the distinctive "beat" which gives them the name "Flicker."

Young Pups

Day 85: "Mother of Thousands!" If you've ever grown one, you'll know all too well how the name was derived. Bryophyllum daigremontiana (aka Kalanchoe daigremontiana) propagates vegetatively, i.e., it forms "pups" along its leaf margins which, as they mature and grow roots, drop from the parent plant to take hold in any available soil. Unmonitored, all your African violets and the philodendron you exiled to the utility porch when it outgrew its allotted space in the living room will soon have little Mothers flocking at their bases like the birds gathered at St. Francis' legendary feet. Although this is a fun plant to grow, take precautions to keep it and its offspring away from the questing mouths of pets and children. All parts are poisonous.

Late last summer, I was on a work party with a group from REI and "Mother" came under discussion. One of the members of the group offered to send me some pups from her parent plant. Some time later, they arrived in a mangled, sodden envelope which looked like it had been run down by the postal steam-roller. She had shipped the pups wrapped in a wet paper towel, only loosely confined in a piece of plastic wrap! Many of them were smashed beyond any hope of redemption, but I gathered approximately two dozen from the carnage and put them in a pot. Every one survived.

A week ago, I transplanted two to another pot, and almost immediately, one began making pups in response to having more room. I will eventually limit the number of Mothers in my household to two, and they will be kept far, far away from any other pots they might be disposed to colonize.

National Bird Day

Day 84: There's a lot of talk on the internet about today being "National Bird Day," but Googling for any official proclamation will have you swimming in a sea of confusion. Some say the US observes the occasion in May as originally specified by Charles Babcock in 1894; in fact, Wikipedia lists both dates, although it gives no background on the institution of January 5th as the holiday. Similar holidays occur in Canada and the UK, also on different dates. So what's the story? Personally, I'd like to see a holiday recognizing Nature supplant either Hallowe'en or Valentine's Day, both of which seem to promote tooth decay and commercialism, but I doubt I could raise the support for such a radical change. In any event, the point is moot: EVERY day is Bird Day at my house!

Been There, Done That

Day 83: The phenomenon first made itself known to me when I was about 45. I was engaged in a conversation about mountaineering with a couple of much younger friends and mentioned that I'd made six successful summits of Mount Rainier on five routes, only to see eyebrows go up in that inimitable, disbelieving arch which precedes the dismissive, "Oh, really? That's nice," phraseology which falls just short of calling the speaker a liar. Part of their skepticism could be blamed on my diminutive size, but the bulk of it lay with the silver threads which had begun to weave themselves into my raven-black hair. The older I got and the greyer I became, the more frequently my stories were met with suspicions of embellishment or outright doubt, and although that might have irritated another person, I found it amusing (if in a mildly aggravating way).

Last night, I had the slide projector out for another reason, and as I returned one slide to its catalogued slot in a plastic sleeve, it occurred to me to pull out a few others from my climbing files. Capturing them from the textured screen was a less than perfect process, but I did get better results than previous attempts with a scanner. All were taken on Mount Rainier: top left, on the crest of Disappointment Cleaver, 1988; bottom left, camp in the summit crater (ascent via Kautz Glacier), 1984; right, vertical ice climbing, Cowlitz Glacier, 1977. My last successful summit attempt on Mount Rainier was in 1990, and I continued climbing lesser peaks for another decade or so.

My Colouring Book

Day 82: If you had gone shopping for art supplies in any of the major hobby/craft stores this last week, you might have discovered cupboards as bare as Mother Hubbard's. Apparently, colouring books for adults were the rage for Christmas gift-giving, although I received mine as a "just because" gift several weeks earlier. Fortunately I already owned a full boxed set of 120 Prismacolor pencils and was therefore able to start as soon as holiday activities died down.

I wondered how I'd take to this pastime, having done no artwork worth mention since my days in the SCA when I served as one of our barony's scribes, and that with pens and inks. With the drawings already done for me, I was afraid I might get bored. However, I soon discovered that I could personalize the medium by adding shadings and interpretations to the illustrations. I had done several pages (starting at the beginning of the book, of course) before encountering this two-page spread. The pages mimic each other, but are not exact mirror images, and seemed to demand a spring/autumn rendition.

Prior to this, my winter days were often filled with working jigsaw puzzles, the same puzzles every year since I have a closetful. I'd put them together and take them apart, with nothing to show for the hours spent bent over the table. With colouring, the results are more permanent. It's also quite relaxing, even meditative (something which can't be said for puzzles). But the work does not go quickly! It took four days to complete these two pages.

A Return To Simple Pleasures

Day 81: Last spring, the noisy family who had been my neighbours for the last five years moved away. I knew better than to expect an immediate response from the birds who had become skittish and elusive during their tenure. Too many generations had hatched, and the tendency toward nervousness had been reinstilled even in those adults who knew empirically that I was not to be feared. Gradually, the Dark-Eyed Juncos grew less timid and the Steller's Jays' boldness reasserted itself. The Ravens returned, and the Crows gathered by dozens on their feeding platform. Over the summer months, a regular schedule of daily rations brought fewer and fewer panicked flights when I would step out onto the porch, at least with the year-'round residents, but the migratory species were slower to adjust.

When the Porchies first showed up a few weeks ago, I couldn't even walk around the living room without sending them flying across the road. Opening the back door caused a mass exodus from feeder and bough alike. After having had their trust for so many years, the flighty behaviour created by my former neighbours upset me, but I still had hope. Evening Grosbeaks are friendly people once they get to know you, and I am happy to say that this morning I spent quite a while standing on the porch, camera in hand despite the cold temperatures, listening to the happy sounds of seeds cracking and throaty chirps. Porch Parrot Paradise has resumed business as usual, and black-oil seed is being lavished on the clientele.

Heralding A Good Year

Day 80: If I believed in omens and portents, I'd say 2016 was going to be a good year. It's off to a good start, anyway. Of course we're paying for the scenery by turning up our thermostats and buying new winter woollies, but for my nickel, I'd say it's worth it. The only problem is that I want to be Up There, and the snow is keeping me Down Here unless I'm working. I don't like to drive on icy roads, not even to get to a trailhead. All that aside, I do hope to get out snowshoeing this winter. The Mountain is calling, and I can never resist that for long.