World Ranger Day

Day 292: I was a lot younger then, but this is where it began: Carbon River in the summer, Mowich in the winter. My love of the Park was already well-established (and particularly of the Carbon River District), but lack of university credits held me back from even attempting to apply for a paid job as a backcountry ranger. I was still determined to serve the Park, and made such a pest of myself at Carbon that John Wilcox decided to take me on as a volunteer. I worked on a variety of small projects at Ipsut my first summer: painting signs, wilderness patrols, cleaning out fire pits, making visitor contacts and so on. When the summer wound down and the visitors dwindled to two or three on a good day, John asked me if I would be willing to take on winter duty at Mowich. Local thieves had ransacked the cabin several times the previous winter, making off with our emergency supplies (first aid gear, the Stokes litter) and even a 400-pound wood stove. John thought having a "presence" at Mowich would be a good deterrent. I agreed and took the assignment.

In order to keep the thieves off balance, I worked an irregular schedule, snowshoeing in five to ten miles once a month, staying in the cabin for as much as ten days. Radio contact was dodgy in those days, so essentially, I was out of contact with the world. I won't say it was a cozy job. The smokehole of the cabin was buried in snow, so lighting a fire for warmth was out of the question. It was also dark inside with roof-level snow blocking the windows, so I generally spent my days in the "yard," reading from a chair jammed down at a relaxing angle in a snowbank, my feet propped up on another. In the years I served in this capacity, I only had one incident, and that involved an overdue hiker who had failed to sign out. I followed his tracks up and over Knapsack Pass, assured myself that he had not been swept away in an avalanche, only to find out that he'd returned safely some days earlier. That was as close as I ever came to a human contact in the winter.

Summers were quite the opposite. Although Carbon was considered the Back of Beyond by Park management, we got our share of visitors during the summer months, considering how far away we were from civilization. During one notable summer, I had injured myself in a climbing accident and therefore had to forgo the backcountry patrols which I so dearly loved. Walking with a cane, I paced the parking lot and road for days on end, and must have answered the inevitable question a hundred times, "Is this the road to the summit?" I would patiently explain that if the driver simply went on another hundred yards, they would arrive at a tent camp, end of the road.

Ah, the memories I have of Carbon and Mowich! Spider House, the "splasher" mousetrap contrived by my roommate, pulling winter firewood out of the icy lake with a peavey, blackflies...and the good things as well: campfire circles with troops of Scouts, evening programs, Spray Park carpeted in Avalanche Lilies, the jokes trail crew played, reading John's uproarious poems in the log book fill my mind whenever I think of the Carbon years. Half-inch hail, windstorms and running five miles of road with a chainsaw may not have been fun at the time, but events like those make some of the best tales when the rose-coloured glasses of hindsight blunt the misery of the moment. Sunny days in camp and sightings of pine martens don't captivate an audience as thoroughly as the struggle to escape a blizzard while sick with a strep throat. My mental meanderings usually take me down those most arduous paths, and leave me marvelling at how I ever survived, to say nothing of why I kept going back for more. The Carbon years taught me that I was made of sterner stuff than I'd ever imagined, imbued me with a drive which endures even today.

Today is World Ranger Day. I don't recall seeing anything about it in my government email this week, but I'm not surprised. Many of us, paid staff and volunteers, work in the Park because we love it and couldn't imagine being anywhere else. That's good enough for me.

Indian Pipe, Monotropa Uniflora

Day 291: Indian Pipe (Monotropa uniflora) is usually only seen singly or in small clusters, but over the last two years, there has been an uptick in many of the mycoheterotrophic species found in the Pacific Northwest and large groupings are much more common. Earlier in the year, I found 20-30 stems of Candystick (Allotropa virgata) growing together, a highly unusual sight. In the area where I took this photo of Monotropa uniflora today, there were at least half a dozen clusters this size or larger as well as many smaller colonies. I suspect that our recent mild, damp winters are being enjoyed by the mycelia responsible for nourishing these plants, hence their sudden abundance.

Pedicularis Bracteosa, Bracted Lousewort

Day 290: If not as colourful as the Indian Paintbrush of the subalpine meadows, the Louseworts nevertheless put on a good show in shades of yellow, creamy white and purple. They also present something the Paintbrushes lack: a variety of flower shapes. The corollas of these species are characterized by two lips, upper and lower. In some, the upper lip forms an elongated hood-like structure (the galea) which covers and surrounds the stamens, a specialization factor which permits them to be fertilized only by select pollinators. The galea may terminate in a short beak as in the case of Bracted Lousewort show here, or it may form a coil (Coiled-beak Lousewort) or even an "elephant's trunk" (Elephant-head Pedicularis). Eight species and sub-species are known to occur in Mount Rainier National Park.

Old Friends

Day 289: I haven't been to Carbon River/Ipsut in over a decade, too afraid of what I might find in the aftermath of the 2007 floods. I had heard all kinds of stories, and every one of them made me want to cry. But let me back up a bit to explain my connection with this special place.

When my uncle Gus was in college, he took a seasonal job with Mount Rainier National Park as a ranger at Carbon River. The family made a few trips up to see where he was working, and in those days, it truly felt like we were voyaging into the Back of Beyond. The road to the Park crossed the Carbon Canyon on a high, rickety one-lane bridge planked lengthwise with timbers spaced such that a car's wheels would just fit. The under-layer of the bridge deck was made of similar timbers at 90 degrees to those on top, but spaced so widely apart that when you were on the bridge, you felt as if the car would slip between them if it should happen to stray from the lengthwise planks. My mother was terrified of it, but Gus piloted the car across with ease and we continued up the south side of the river until we reached Ipsut Campground. There, I experienced a great disappointment. Gus had explained that the Carbon River looked muddy because it was full of glacial silt; I misunderstood the word, and expected to find SILK fibers on my fingers when I withdrew them from the water. But I was entranced by Ipsut and Carbon River from my very first visit, probably because Gus was my favourite uncle.

That year or the next, my father passed away. I was only nine, and it hit me hard. Gus, still working for the Park, managed to wangle permission from his superintendent (or so the story goes) to take me in with him to stay at his duty station at Lake James for ten days. That term in the backcountry set the tone of my life. More than anything else, I wanted to be a ranger (preferably one who was somehow involved with science).

Many years later, I started working at Carbon as a winter volunteer. By then, I had hiked extensively in the district and knew it like the back of my hand, both on trail and off. We'd had a number of things stolen from the Mowich cabin (our Stokes litter, a 400-pound wood stove, all our first-aid gear), so I became the winter "presence" to keep the thieves at bay. I didn't keep a regular shift, but when I snowshoed into Mowich, I generally stayed at least 10 days in a cabin almost entirely buried in snow. In all the years I pulled this duty, I never saw a soul. I also worked at Mowich in the summer.

Aside from the professional connection I have with Carbon, I also have a deep personal attachment to the area. I don't expect most of my readers to understand, but those of you who are closest to me will know what I mean. It was that which kept me from visiting Carbon these last ten years: a fear that I would find devastation among my dearest friends and family: the roots and rocks and trees who figure quite centrally in my life.

If it hadn't been for a report of a rare plant along the Carbon road (now a foot-and-bicycle trail), I probably would have gone the rest of my life without facing the demons looming so largely in my mind. However, I was dispatched to search for it, and if possible, obtain an herbarium specimen. Armed with very scant information as to its location, I set off for Carbon today, trying to bolster myself to face the unavoidable. In that, I had quite a surprise. The flood damage was no worse than what I had seen in prior floods except at Chenuis (the pretty bog survived) and at Ipsut Creek (there's a new bridge, but the old one still spans the creek's previous channel). There are some twists and turns in what used to be the Longest Mile, but I'd call that an improvement! I did not go farther than my old campsite in the campground, so I don't know what condition the trail might be beyond that point, but by and large, it's the same old Carbon.

I'll sleep a lot easier tonight, and I'll certainly be making a return trip to visit those old friends along the road. I never did find that darn plant!

Roving Out Of Paradise

Click to enlarge

Day 288: I don't do a lot of meadow-roving, and by that I mean working per the position description of "Meadow Rover," a title which refers to those diligent, patient souls who stay within a mile or so of major parking areas, walking the same trails regularly, repeatedly asking visitors to stay on trail and off the wildflowers. Only a few times each year and generally in conjunction with another event, I manage to get in a little time as an official Rover. Today was one of those days.

The Park was hosting a naturalization ceremony at Paradise, so I went up early with the intention of roving the Moraine Trail, going up to Panorama Point, and returning via Alta Vista. It wasn't long before I realized I was going to have to abbreviate my plan based on the number of visitor contacts I'd had in the first half mile, so instead of turning off to the Moraine Trail, I kept heading up. I made it to the base of Pan Point just at turn-around time, something just over a mile from Paradise parking lot. Still, it was a pleasant hike and a gorgeous morning, mosquitoes notwithstanding. The marmots were out by the dozen even though the wildflowers weren't putting on much of a show.

Once I was back at Paradise, it was my pleasure to observe and take photos as 14 new citizens were welcomed to the United States. What better place could there possibly be to celebrate such an occasion than in a National Park?

A Happy Hobbit

 Day 287: Like any Hobbit worthy of the name, when Mother Nature lays her finest at my feet, I do not hesitate to gather it in. Kevin and I left work together and walked toward the car, but as we rounded the end of a fallen tree, he heard me yell, "Oh, my gawd! DESSERT!" and just that fast, I'd swooped down and picked the best two of four specimens of Boletus edulis, a wild edible I have not found for decades. This, dear readers, is the King Boleta, and it deserves acclaim. It is, in my opinion, the best wild mushroom the Pacific Northwest has to offer. If plates of Morels, Chanterelles and Edulis were placed side by side within my reach, I would choose the Boleta without further consideration. Those massive, bulbous stems are edible as well as the fleshy cap, although oftener than not, one or both are riddled with tiny worms. In this case, the mushrooms had sprung up during the day; at least Kevin is certain they were not there when we parked the car in the morning. I made a side trip before going to the office and might have missed them. Freshly sprouted, there were still worms in the stems and a few in the caps. These were judiciously pared away, and the remainder of the caps were fried up in butter with only a little salt and pepper for a condiment. What a treat! Why didn't I pick the other two, you wonder? Because I never take them all. Ma wouldn't like that.

Floating The Nisqually

Day 286: When a friend of a friend injured herself in a fall, I was asked if I would like to replace her in the Nisqually Land Trust's annual float trip. I've wanted to participate for many years but could never justify the expense, although I very nearly signed up when it was announced last spring. At that time, I decided that a piece of lab equipment to further my lichen studies would be a better use of my limited funds, so when this opportunity arose, I jumped at the chance.

The 13-mile stretch of the Nisqually River between Pack Forest and the town of McKenna has very limited public access and indeed, few private properties border on the river. The majority of the shoreline is owned by three entities: the Land Trust, Centralia City Light and Washington State Parks. Development of a new park (Nisqually-Mashel State Park) has just begun, but even once it's completed, river access may be restricted. Consequently, few people are privileged to see the river's wild run, and among the few are those of us who are working to protect it in perpetuity. To date, the Land Trust manages 78% of the Nisqually watershed, making it the longest stretch of protected river in the United States.

Nine guides and 53 participants gathered at Wilcox Farm in the morning and were bused back up the hill to Pack Forest where we put in at the confluence of the Nisqually and the Mashel, nine rafts loaded with 7-10 people each. Almost immediately, we bounced through a short section of choppy water and rode down a small cascade. Then the river smoothed, allowing us to drift with only the guide serving as tillerman. My eyes were peeled for invasives, expecting to find some which might have floated down from known problem areas on the Mashel. I recorded quite a few over the space of the trip, but not in the quantity I had anticipated.

We encountered a number of short sections of swifter water where the river fanned out and became more shallow. Sometimes the rafts scraped bottom, but only once did we have to portage and walk with them to reach a deeper flow. Approximately midway into our journey, we put in for lunch at a wide gravel bar and everyone exited the rafts. I was in rear position, and saw that where I was expected to get out, the water was a bit deeper than I could probably manage without mishap. I am thankful for the foresight which told me to stow the camera safely, because as I slipped over the edge, my feet were carried by the current and I landed SPLASH! on my back in the river, head held aloft by my life jacket. I'd planned to take a dunk anyway, so once I'd regained my feet, I waded out in a safer spot and sat on the bottom, water up to my chin. Other members of the party, stronger swimmers than I, took turns floating several hundred feet in the stronger central current. Not everyone was hardy enough to brave the cold water, and many people simply stayed on dry land to relax.

After lunch, we got back in the rafts and continued down the river, engaging in some spectacular water-fights along the way. The whole float took a little over five hours, and when we arrived back at Wilcox Farm, we were taken in buses to our cars, some of us still a bit damp around the edges. I so thoroughly enjoyed the trip that I think I'll put it on my "must-do" list for next year.

Western Anemone, Anemone Occidentalis

Day 285: Today I bring you one of the most mispronounced flowers of Mount Rainier National Park: Western Uh-NEM-uh-nee. It is not a "an enemy" or any other amusing confusion of the consonants. Let's practice: "uh (pause), NEM (emphasized, pause), uh (pause), nee," M in the middle, Ns on the ends, "uhN-eM-uhN-ee." Now try it three times fast from memory, Anemone is not an enemy.

Most people recognize Western Anemone when it is in its gone-to-seed clothes, but a smaller percentage readily identify it when it is in flower. The seed stage looks like a mop-head or as a Trekkie friend termed it, "Tribble-on-a-stick." In fact, an alternate common name for it is "Mouse-on-a-stick," and the feathery nature of its achenes provide yet another from the manner in which the seeds disperse: Windflower. It is also sometimes called Western Pasqueflower, so if your tongue simply cannot handle the twists and turns of "Uh-NEM-uh-nee," you have plenty of other options.

Invasive Knapweeds Of Washington

Day 284: While driving along one of my accustomed routes in South Hill yesterday, my eye recognized flecks of lavender on a leggy, three-foot diameter plant with sparse pale greyish-green foliage. By the time I had uttered the words, "Dammit! Was that Knapweed?" the car had travelled about 100 yards, and I found myself looking at a monoculture covering a quarter-acre of open field. I couldn't stop safely, so continued on to finish my shopping, and on the way back, I parked a little ways away and made a patrol on foot. I was horrified at what I found. Although the quarter acre was the most densely covered by this invasive, I could see mounds of it throughout an acre or more of county/private property. I suspect it has been there for years, and I never noticed it because I never caught it in the flowering stage. I took coordinates and filed a report with the Invasive Plant Council, although with the Knapweeds listed as "Class B" weeds, the landowners are not required to control the infestation. It is precisely that short-sighted thinking which makes the campaign against invasive species so frustrating. Education is currently the most important tool we have to stop the spread of Class B invasives. More information and free pamphlets can be obtained through the Washington State Noxious Weed Control Board. Click the "Resources" tab.

Spotted Knapweed (Centaurea stoebe) is the second species of Knapweed I have found in Pierce County in 2016. Earlier this year, I was conducting a training for the IPC on the Bud Blancher Trail and discovered Meadow Knapweed, a related species. To date, the Town of Eatonville has not seen fit to control it, and when I checked on it two weeks ago, it was beginning to go to seed. The two species can be differentiated by looking at the tips of the bracts under a magnifying glass if you're curious (the fringes are "fringier" on C. jacea x nigra), but in any case, any Knapweed you happen to find should be regarded as the enemy.

Fuligo Septica, Scrambled-Egg Slime Mold

Day 283: Fuligo septica has an alternate and more widely used common name, but thank you all the same, I prefer "Scrambled-egg" to "Dog-vomit." The latter seems too harsh for one of the most unusual life-forms on the planet. Once lumped with fungi in the botanical hierarchy, the behaviour and life cycle of this organism justified creating a new Kingdom in which to contain it: the Protists. Individual amoeba-like cells have a life independent of others, moving about until they encounter a partner cell with which to fuse and breed. This motion can actually be observed in the space of a minute or two in some slime molds such as Fuligo septica. Slime molds may also respond to stimuli such as a change in light or proximity to a food source. That thought should make you watch where you step in the forest!

Drosera Rotundifolia: A Profile

Day 282: I began yesterday's kayak trip with a visit to the Sundews, only to find that while some of them appeared to be in the flowering stage with white petal tips showing, none of the flowers was open. Closer analysis revealed spent blooms, the withered, browned petals visible above the calyces. Some of the older inflorescences demonstrated developing seed pods, and some younger stalks carried full cymes of unopened buds. The accumulation of evidence led to a conclusion: the little buggers had closed up for the night and would open later in the day. Early bird that I am, the proverbial worm wasn't out of bed yet. I did the only sensible thing: took photos of the various stages and then went off for a paddle on the rest of the lake. When I returned in the afternoon, I found several open flowers, and it was interesting to note that when a cloud drifted across the sun, they closed quickly, responding rather more slowly in comparison as they re-opened when the sun emerged.

Drosera rotundifolia (and indeed other Drosera species) presents a fascinating natural history. They thrive in an ecology where other vascular plants might starve, and do so by supplementing their nutritional requirements carnivorously. Additionally, they survive in low pH (acidic) conditions where soil is almost non-existent, their shallow root systems serving largely to anchor them in place. Their laminae (paddle-shaped leaves) are covered with gland-tipped hairs which secrete a sticky substance containing digestive enzymes capable of dissolving all but the exoskeleton of insects including gnats, mosquitoes, beetles and even damselflies (see yesterday's post) as well as arachnids. They prefer high-moisture conditions, often growing right at waterline. In winter, the laminae curl up tightly to form a basal rosette called a hibernaculum. This structure conserves heat and prevents the plants from freezing. It's the only phase of their life-cycle I have yet to photograph, but then, botany ain't for wimps.

Fatally Attracted

Day 281: After a busy June and early July, I finally got out in the kayak today and witnessed first-hand the capture of several blue damselflies by the Sundews of Lake St. Clair. I had wondered how large an insect they might be able to trap with those sticky little hairs, but I never suspected the degree of efficiency I observed here. Almost as soon as a damsel alighted, its feet became ensnared. As it struggled to free itself, its wings and tail were trapped by adjacent Drosera pads, and the enzymes started their work. It only took a few minutes for the insect's activity to cease as it began to be digested. Abundant evidence of prior meals remained among the hungry foliage, proof that those dainty little Sundews can take on a hefty bug despite their size. More on Drosera tomorrow!

Triteleia Hyacinthina, Fool's Onion

Day 280: Although Triteleia hyacinthina has other common names ("White Brodiaea," "White Hyacinth"), none describes it quite as aptly as "Fool's Onion." It has seldom been reported in Mount Rainier National Park, but Team Biota recently found it in abundance (i.e., over 100 plants) in a previously unrecorded location. It is substantially larger than the Alliums it resembles, often reaching heights of 18 inches or more. The inflorescence is an umbel up to 3 inches in diameter surmounting a sturdy stem which sometimes leans under the weight of the flowers, and individual petals are marked by a greenish central stripe. Its rarity caught me by surprise. Because it was so numerous at this site, I assumed it was common elsewhere until I checked the identification in several field guides. Another score for Team Biota!

Ctenucha Rubroscapus/Multifaria Complex

Day 279: A few days ago, I was out in the swamp with our Park Plant Ecologist searching for examples of a rare plant in the chest-high "grass," and was pulled up short by this handsome insect hiding deep in the vegetation. "Who you?" I said, and then, "Arnie? You know anything about bugs?" A negative from my companion didn't deter me from taking photos, and when I got home, I submitted one to BugGuide.net, trusting to their entomologists to provide me with an answer. In due time, it was identified as a Ctenucha ("ten-OO-cha"), with the reservation that it is one of several species in the rubroscapus/multifaria complex. The generic common name for these critters is Red-Shouldered Ctenucha, a type of Tiger Moth found only on the West Coast.

Wonderful Waxwings

Day 278: A seasonal delight, the Cedar Waxwings returned to my yard a few days ago and have been busily de-bugging between the weeds which pass for my lawn. Yesterday evening, a group of four birds took turns hunting or perching on the fence, so while fending off mosquitoes with one hand, I managed to capture a digital record with the other.

Bombycilla cedrorum presents such smoothness of body colour that it is difficult to distinguish feather texture even when seen at close range. The transition between its milky-tea brown head and yellowish flanks occurs so smoothly that it fools the eye. However, Cedar Waxwings' distinctive black mask augmented by a thin white line around the edge is striking, and the tail is marked by a yellow band across the tip. The wings are unpatterned except for a frost of white on the tertial feathers and the waxy red "drops" which are sometimes visible on the tips of the secondaries. This feature is characteristic of the species and gives it its common name. It is believed that this secretion is a concentration of the pigments contained in the red berries preferred by the birds (mountain ash, honeysuckle, dogwood, etc.), a factor which may also influence the depth of colour found at the tips of the tail-feathers. Waxwings also consume bugs, buds and blossoms, but their diet is largely fruit.

Delphinium Glareosum, Rockslide Larkspur

Day 277: No rarity here, just a blue that'll knock your socks off! Rivalling Gentian and Monkshood for intensity of colour, Rockslide Larkspur (Delphinium glareosum) puts on a rather weedy but spectacular show, its flowers loosely arranged in an open inflorescence rising up to 30 inches above fan-shaped, mostly basal leaves. A cousin to "garden-variety" Delphiniums, this Larkspur's central "bee" provides our botany lesson for today.

As a generalization, flowers are comprised of four whorls: the calyx, the petals, the stamens (filament and anther) and the stigma/style/ovary. Not all flowers contain all these elements, and when one is lacking, they are referred to as "incomplete." In the case of Larkspur, its petals are white (the second whorl) and its sepals (segments of the calyx) are blue (the outer whorl). Its reproductive parts are concealed by the petals, a factor which limits the types of insect which can pollinate the plant. Only bugs of a specific size/shape or the deft tongue of a hummingbird can penetrate its "inner sanctum" to ensure future generations of this blue beauty.

Pettable Thistle

Day 276: While we're on the subject of weeds, it might surprise you to learn that although most thistles in the area are introduced species, there are some natives and not all are as prickly as they appear to be: case in point (forgive the pun), Cirsium edule, the Pacific Northwest's unique "pettable" edible.

As its common name suggests, the stems of the plant are edible, but must first be peeled of their tough outer layer. You'll find that Edible Thistle's thorny leaves are remarkably soft for all of its spiky appearance. Although I wouldn't suggest grabbing them with any amount of force, you can easily stroke them from base to tip or roll them in your fingers without fear of getting poked. Likewise, if you'd like to pat Cirsium edule on its head, you'll only detect stiffness in those purple spines, not a penetrating sharpness. This friendly native thistle is all bluster and bluff until it dries out in the fall (but then, we all get a little crabbier as we get older).

Silene Vulgaris, Bladder Campion

Day 275: What defines a weed? Most people think of weeds in terms of a plant which takes over gardens and lawns, out-competing the things we want to have in their place. By this definition, both White Lawn Clover (Trifolium repens, non-native) and Pineapple weed (Matricaria discoidea, native to the PNW) are "weeds," despite the fact that what they may be displacing are cultivars not otherwise known in North America. To a naturalist, a weed is any introduced species, a definition which excludes Pineapple weed despite its tendency to take over disturbed areas, and one which could be extended to include your prize marigolds. Location is often a factor in defining "weed" species, e.g., horsetails (Equisetum arvense) are native in the PNW, considered an invasive of the first order in other areas of the US.

This brings us to the debatable status of Silene vulgaris, Bladder Campion. It is an introduced species, but it is not invasive. In fact, it is generally rather short-lived when it does appear and does not out-compete natives. It occurs most frequently on disturbed soils (roadsides, trail margins), but seldom extends into the thicker growth of meadows. Unlike our native Campions, Silene vulgaris is the only one which bears male and female organs in the same flower. You'd think that would give it an advantage, but apparently it does not. However, like our native Silenes, it has a strong point working in its favour: it's pretty (of course, that's the same logic which brought us dandelions), but since it poses no significant threat, I'm not too inclined to yank it out when I find it.

Anticlea Occidentalis, Mountainbells

Day 274: To quote one of my botany partners, "My favourite wildflower is the one in front of me," and although I have a handful which top my personal list, Mountainbells puts up a good argument for the next spot in line. Formerly known as Stenanthium occidentale, Anticlea occidentalis is uncommon in the Park and I am pleased to have been able to document it this year in two locations new to me. Its reddish-purple half-inch bells are striped with green, and each inflorescence may consist of a dozen or more on a foot-high, thin stem. The slightest breeze sets the stalk to swaying, much to the aggravation of a photographer who eschews the use of flash for anything other than portraiture. If the bells make a sound when they are thus rung, only the faeries can hear it, but a human nose may detect a light, tangy fragrance rising from this member of the lily family.

Gaultheria Ovatifolia, Western Teaberry

Day 273: This is not the first time I've made the assertion that I'd rather be mildly embarrassed by correction than to continue in ignorance. I am grateful to Mark Turner for stepping up to the plate (or maybe that should be "bearding the lion") with the true identity of this plant. I was fooled by a taste-test, and felt that it could not possibly belong with the Wintergreens since the berry was sweet and juicy with no hint of wintergreen flavour. I was wrong.

Gaultheria ovatifolia is indeed a Wintergreen, although I think I'll refer to it commonly as "Western Teaberry" rather than "Oregon Wintergreen" based on its fruity flavour. The berries are eminently edible, and good enough that I might be tempted to collect them by the handful for nibbling while hiking, an adjunct to the tiny alpine strawberries which come into delectable ripeness at the same time. Taken together, I might have been able to pick enough to fill a coffee mug over the distance of a mile, neither fruit exactly thick on the ground, but worth this gatherer's efforts for a treat.

Clintonia Uniflora, Bead-Lily

Day 272: Far from being rare, Bead-Lily is nevertheless one of my favourite wildflowers because it provides a visual treat at two stages in its life-cycle. Its graceful, solitary flower delights the eye in late spring and early summer, held aloft on a narrow stalk above leaves which are reminiscent of lily-of-the-valley, if not quite as large. The 1-2" bloom faces upward, giving rise to the plant's alternate appellation of "Queen-cup." Once you have found it in the wild, make a mental note of its location and return to the spot in a month or so when the fruit has had time to develop. Where once the white lily bloomed, you will find a single dark blue pod, the "bead" which provides the source of its common name.

Comarum Palustre, Purple Marshlocks

Day 271: Rare in Mount Rainier National Park, Comarum palustre is a denizen of boggy or swampy areas. Formerly grouped with the Potentillas (cinquefoils) and previously bearing the misleading appellation of "Marsh Cinquefoil," Purple Marshlocks has undergone changes in both its common and scientific names as research determined that it was a genus in its own right. While most modern field guides will have the correct taxonomy, the older and confusing common name persists. It bears a compound leaf comprised of 5-7 leaflets, toothed, and arranged somewhat palmately (like fingers on a hand). The similarity of the leaf to that of the cinquefoils ("cinque," five; "foil," leaf) was one of the factors which led to its original and inaccurate classification.

Good And Evil

Day 270: In close-up, it's easy to see that these two plants are not the same species, but from a distance of six feet, you might simply think one was a colour variation of the other or a fading specimen. The similarity of the two allowed an invader to go unnoticed for a number of years until it had spread over an area encompassing approximately 600 square feet of Longmire Meadow. It was only through the curiosity of a Park colleague that its true nature came to light. Once we determined that it was not our native Self-heal (Prunella vulgaris ssp. lanceolata, left) and was in fact Carpet Bugle (Ajuga reptans, right), we began working on a plan to eradicate it.

Over the next ten days or so, I pulled together a team of volunteers who assaulted it in a manner not unlike the grid-by-grid excavation system used in archaeological digs, and on Wednesday when they left the site, about 75% of the weed was gone. Yesterday, Plant Ecologist Arnie Peterson took a break from his office duties to help me clear the remainder. A total of 50 man-hours went into the project, contributed by eleven "deveg" team members. Nine full-sized trash-can liner bags filled with Ajuga were taken away from the site.

Ajuga propagates both by seed and by stolon. The site will have to be monitored closely for the next several years to be sure that this invasive species doesn't regenerate and get a toe-hold again.

Marchantia Alpestris - A Liverwort

Day 269: By and large, liverworts are far less common than mosses and lichens, and thallose liverworts (those having a "leafy" structure) even less common. In fact, most of our local species closely resemble mosses, so separating them visually without a hand lens can be daunting. On the other hand, the thallose species sometimes look like lichens, and that factor was what drew my attention to this specimen. From a distance, I took it to be Peltigera venosa, but on closer inspection, the pores and gemma cups characteristic of Marchantia became obvious. Although difficult to see in this photo, just above center in the middle of the lobe and again in the center of the lobe to the left, these structures are evident, each cup containing several gemmae (the spore-bearing "eggs" of the species). "Liverwort!" I exulted to my botany partners, Joe and Sharon. "But that's as far as I'm willing to go."

At home, I turned to the only two field guides covering Pacific Northwest liverworts to any extent, certain that they'd be inadequate to the task. I got as far as genus: Marchantia. My specimen was considerably larger than Marchantia polymorpha (a common pest in greenhouses, and one of very few liverworts I can recognize in the field), so I referred it out to expert David Wagner, who identified it as Marchantia alpestris, a species which occurs at higher elevations.

Campanula Scouleri, Scouler's Harebell

Day 268: Although Campanula scouleri isn't particularly rare, it is somewhat ephemeral and therefore difficult to find in good condition. My botany partners in Team Biota reported it blooming at a location in Mount Rainier National Park last year, an isolated specimen. Two days after they saw it, I made a trip to the site, but its flowers had already dropped. This year, we organized a mission, and every week, at least one team member visited the site in the hopes of finding it. Joe and Sharon spotted it on Tuesday, not quite open. Wednesday's warm temperatures seemed encouraging, so Joe took today off and I arranged to go to work a couple of hours late. The hunt for Scouler's Harebell was on!

Getting stuck in a construction zone confused our plans to meet at a pre-arranged site and, not knowing whether Joe and Sharon had gotten ahead of me when I got stuck behind the flagger or whether they were somewhere far behind, I went on to the site alone. Only minutes after I found the plant, they pulled in, and Sharon called out as they were walking up, "Did you find it?" I replied, "Why do you think I'm plastered to this rock wall?" We took turns photographing our prey and searching crevices for any sign of more. We think we may have found some just beyond the cotyledon stage, but will have to go back next week to check.

Kalmia Microphylla, Alpine Laurel

Day 267: Kalmia microphylla is a delightful little native plant, and as its common name "Alpine Laurel" implies, it generally prefers to grow at higher elevations although can sometimes be found at lower altitudes. Like its larger, shrubby garden cousin, its saucer-shaped flowers display five points, the edges of which roll slightly toward the center. Some references separate our local Kalmias into two species, microphylla and polifolia, but other sources (the WTU database and our own Park herbarium) support lumping them as a single species with variations in the growth habit. For once, taxonomists are a house divided, so until further genetic research settles the issue one way or another, your correspondent won't make a distinction.

Pontia Beckerii On Plantago Lanceolata

Day 266: Another score for Team Biota! During one of our recent botanizing exploits, we were minutely examining a rock wall near Box Canyon when something near ground level caught my eye: a white butterfly on an inflorescence of Buckhorn, Plantago lanceolata. The similarity in colour to the individual Buckhorn flowers was striking, a pale yellowish green which seemed almost luminescent. The butterfly was perfectly motionless, so I sneaked in for a close-up even though I figured I wouldn't be able to identify it without a dorsal view. When I got home, I submitted the photo to BugGuide.net. Their response took a little longer than usual, and before I received it, I got a note from Joe and Sharon (my botany partners) saying that they had shown their photos to an entomologist who had identified it as Pontia beckerii (Becker's White). A few minutes later, I had confirmation from BugGuide. Joe later got an email from a contact at BAMONA (Butterflies and Moths of North America). In his words, "...this is probably a first county record for Pontia beckerii in  Lewis County, so it's a great find!"


When you're out hiking, don't just look at the broad views. Sometimes the greatest sights are those within arm's reach.

Fourth Of July Parade

Day 265: You've got to love small-town parades. The citizenry of Eatonville lined the streets along the one-mile route despite cooler than usual temperatures. We had a good turnout of Parkies and their families, and even brought the Park's fire engine down off the Mountain to bring up the rear behind a patrol car. Superintendent Randy King led the way, carrying the Park's banner with the assistance of Junior Ranger Logan, and following right behind them, Mount Rainier National Park's BioBlitz dance team repeated their energetic routine at every intersection and stop along the way to the tune of "Bird Machine (feat Alesia)". A grand time was had by all, but it may take me until July 4, 2017 to recover!

Things My Mother Taught Me

Day 264: In a roundabout way, my mother is responsible for instilling in me a preference for Latin names. Y'see, her dad came from the Midwest where a very similar flower to our native Columbia Lily goes by the name of "Turk's-cap." He was ignorant of the distinction between Lilium superbum and Lilium columbianum, and therefore applied the common name to the flowers he saw blooming here. My mother grew up calling Lilium columbianum by the wrong common name, so inevitably, that was what I came to call them as well. I was in my early twenties when I discovered the error, but the name was so deeply ingrained in my memory that I spoke of them as "Turk's-caps" more often than not, backing up to correct myself each time it happened. Then one day, I hit upon a solution to the problem. I had already learned enough about wildflowers to appreciate the value of Latin names to distinctly identify species often covered by a much broader common name (there are dozens of Penstemons, for example), so it was a fairly easy shift to say "Lilium columbianum" for our regionally-unique "tiger-lily."

It is common for Columbia Lily to have 3-5 blossoms per stem, but don't be surprised if you see more. In my own experience with the species, I counted a whopping 13 flowers on a single stalk near Windy Gap, and have seen quite a few "11s" during my career, both in the Park and in Flatland. Lilium columbianum is not selective with regard to altitude. It blooms from sea level through most of the subalpine zone, and shows up just in time to present a botanical fireworks display for the Fourth of July.

Hypericum Anagalloides, Tinker's Penny

Day 263: Local field guides may refer to Hypericum anagalloides (Tinker's Penny) as "common," but it is not often found in Mount Rainier National Park. It was only by chance that we discovered it while searching for the Fungus of Worldwide Concern (FOWC), several small patches almost entirely hidden by the dominant sedge. As its scientific name implies, it is a member of the same genus as common St. John's Wort, but unlike its weedy roadside cousin, it is native to the state. It is a tiny plant with stems no more than 8 cm. long and blossoms ca. 4 mm and so intensely yellow that they put buttercups to shame. Unfortunately, your correspondent neglected to place her reference penny beside the Tinker's Penny for comparison, thoroughly distracted by the FOWCs and the need to document them for posterity.

Camoufrogged

Day 262: Watching where you step is very important when you're searching for rare plants and the occasional Fungus of Worldwide Concern ("FOWC"). While glopping through the gloopy mud at the edge of a bog, I was mildly startled when several brownish-green blobs leapt for the safety of the denser forest. Although I'd had my eyes peeled for Cascades Frogs (Rana cascadae), I had not spotted them until they moved, and then they seemed to be everywhere. Fortunately, my footfalls set off vibrations in the soil well in plenty of time to alert them, but of course that made approaching one for a close-up all the more difficult. Still, sometimes stillness is the best adjunct to camouflage, and this fine froggy froze in place. I moved in slowly, careful to keep my shadow from falling on my photographic prey as I knelt down in the wet. When I stood up again, I noted how effective this species' markings are in making it blend in with its environment. Only the symmetry of the eye gives it away.