Erigeron Acris

Day 322: Yeah, I know...it's another DPD (Damn Purple Daisy), but in defence of Erigeron acris, I will say that its scarcity and size make it special. The flowers are thumbnail-sized, pale lavender, borne singly on branching stems. The mature seed head is a ball of fluff destined for distribution by autumn winds, although the seeds must not travel very far from this site. When I first discovered the plant several years ago, there were only a few in evidence. Now there is a thriving population which covers at least 500 square feet, wiry stems rising above thin, dry soil in a rocky draw. That said, it is not a rare plant in the Pacific Northwest by any means, just unusual for this particular location. Although it may not be as showy as other larger composites, Erigeron acris is one of my favourite native "asters."

Rorippa Curvisiliqua

Day 321: Be reasonable here. If you had a fun-to-say name like Rorippa curvisiliqua, wouldn't you consider it an insult to be called something as uninspired as "Western Yellowcress?" The Latin binomial breaks the standard rule of emphasis. Rather than weighting the antepenultimate syllable (the third one back from the end) as one would do in a single word, it should be understood that "curvisiliqua" is a compound word, "curvi-" for the shape and "-siliqua" for the type of pod. In other words, Ro-RIP-pa cur-vi-si-LI-qua bears a curved silique when it is in fruit. I may occasionally mangle the Latin, but in this instance, I'll argue my point with any taxonomist you care to bring forward.

Known for living in wet, sandy soils, at Ghost Lake, Rorippa takes habitat to a whole new extreme. Sometimes it leafs out while still under water! By the time the lake has dropped to summertime levels, it's ready to bloom. Specimens here are somewhat smaller than those found elsewhere in the Park, justifying subspecies nomenclature of R. curvisiliqua var. curvisiliqua. Rorippa may not be much to look at, but you have to admire it for the way it has adapted.

The Other Bare

Day 320: There's more than one kind of "bear" in them thar woods! Even though it isn't quite September yet, when the occasion afforded itself, I decided it was time for my annual bath. After hiking around Naches Loop (a popular and therefore populated trail), I clambered down into Ghost Lake just off Cayuse Pass for a quick skinny-dip dunk. The lake is set in a bowl, and the angle of slope deters most casual visitors from making the descent. Nor is there an established trail, so the route tends to be a little brushy. It seemed to me that there were more downed trees to navigate over, under, around or through than the last time I paid a visit, and the lake was a little low and the water was cold. I stood waist-deep for some time, gathering the courage for the final plunge, but once I was committed, I paddled out from my "marker" rock and back a dozen or so times before I was satisfactorily "cleansed of the dross of humanity," as I like to say of this ritual. Good for another year, I then faced the unavoidable consequence: what goes down must come up...back to the car and Longmire, where I spent the remainder of the day in the office.

Naches Loop Bear

Day 319: It's not just me. All across the Park, we're seeing more bears this year, although Paradise seems to be recording them in near-record numbers. This marks my third encounter for the summer, and definitely a more healthy specimen than the scrawny wretch I saw two weeks ago on the Lakes Trail. A party of half a dozen hikers had stopped at a respectable distance and alerted me to the bear's presence with loud voices (but not shouting). "There's a bear on your left! About fifty feet down!" At that moment, my view was blocked by trees, so I continued down the trail until I could spot the animal. Yep, there was a bear, contentedly munching what few blueberries it could find, doing bearish things and posing no particular threat to the humans in its territory. "Oh, hi, bear," I said (my customary reaction when I need to let a bear know it's sharing the trail with a human). Bear looked up briefly and then went right back to pulling blueberries off the bushes, but the hikers were somewhat agitated. "We wanted to wait until you got by it!" I hung around until the bear had moved out of sight and was no longer at risk of causing a less-experienced hiker to panic, not so much worried about the hikers it might encounter as I was about the poor bear who was just trying to have a decent meal without disturbance. Remember: you're in their world out there, so mind your manners and let them go about their business without interruption.

MeadoWatch On Naches Loop

Day 318: It goes without saying that on a clear day, Mount Rainier dominates the horizon in western Washington, rising as it does some 10,000' above the surrounding foothills. Our other volcanoes are similarly situated: Baker, Adams and St. Helens commanding the view from the lowlands around them. Mount Rainier is of course the tallest at 14,410' and nothing near it approaches its height or size. From north, south, east or west, "The Mountain" thrusts its glaciers up from the green forests and alpine meadows, its position in the geology of the area as indisputable as that of any monarch. Today, I hiked a MeadoWatch transect around Naches Loop directly east of the Mountain, counting wildflowers, being distracted by butterflies, passing along cautions to visitors lest they surprise a foraging bear. Naches Loop is a short hike, 3.7 miles with minimal (800') elevation gain. It starts at Tipsoo (a sorely abused spot of once-great beauty) and encircles rocky Naches Peak, bypassing several small ponds and the larger Dewey Lakes to the south. It is partly forested, but for the most part, it passes through subalpine meadow, an ideal location for phenological monitoring with both eastside and westside ecologies at work on the plants. What might be just setting seed on one side may be full-blown on the other, or several phenophases might be apparent within a mere half mile. Likewise, herbivory (munching by critters) may be prevalent on the west and absent on the east. I had done the pre-season hike of the Loop to report problem snow patches or difficulty in finding waypoints, but had not done another MeadoWatch patrol on it until today. I'll be sharing what I saw over the next several posts, so I hope you'll tag along for the walk.

Postman's Knock

Day 317: As we do in celebration of May Day, Seattle's Morris sides gather at some point near Labor Day to acknowledge the closing of the summer season. In past years, we've performed at Seattle's Alki Beach, but an unexpected conflict with another event necessitated a last-minute move to Greenlake, the requisites being a large flat space on which to dance and a view across water toward the sunset. Together in rotation with the Mossybacks and North by Northwest, we danced the sun down and then retired to a nearby pub. We still have several events on our calendar for the upcoming months. We'll be at St. Luke's in Renton on September 14 and at Finn River Cidery (Chimacum) on October 13 for World Apple Day.

Blackcaps!

Day 316: Mmmmmmm, blackcaps! Even half-ripe Rubus leucodermis will stop me in my tracks for a quick nibble. Nature's provender includes a number of very tasty things in abundant quantities (blue huckleberries, for example), but in all my travels, I have never discovered a patch of Blackcap Raspberries large enough to satisfy my craving for them, and certainly never sufficient to collect for jam. The blue-stemmed vines are easy to recognize, one here, one there, each with a handful of fruit. Gathering them reminds me somewhat of eating sunflower seeds, i.e., a lot of work for very little in the way of caloric value. Still, they are such a special treat that I carry a mental map of where they occur within easy walking distance of the office. Oddly, only a very few of my Park colleagues bother with them. They don't know what they're missing!

Kitty Cathedral

Day 315: While nosing around YouTube a few weeks back, I discovered a video which promised a quick and easy way to make a Cathedral Window quilt using a sewing machine for the entire assembly. Having made one small Cathedral Window quilt by hand, I swore I'd never go down that path again; folding cloth origami and getting good meets is not as easy as it sounds. The video showed how to make a single window panel for a pillow and then suggested that multiple squares could be joined to make a full quilt if care was taken in the laying-out process. I thought I could see how it was done, so a few days ago, I dived into the stash of kitty prints I've been accumulating over the years and settled in to cutting squares. They could have been made any size, but I chose to cut them at four inches in order to accommodate the largest of eighteen different prints.

The first single-window block went well, so I made 32 more squares and joined them in two strips of 16 each, the width of my proposed quilt. It wasn't until I had made the third strip that I realized I'd joined Part A to Part C with no regard for Part B (the offset row) in the middle. Out came the seam ripper, and after much bad language, I took another look at the pattern I'd graphed. Oh, yeah...kinda missed that step, didn't I? Setback aside, the squares progressed much more quickly than I'd anticipated, so between yesterday and today, I made three new 16-square strips and joined them in the proper order. The kitty prints shown here are only pinned in place for the photo. They will be stitched in place with the machine when the batting and backing are added, and then an edge binding will be applied and bingo, the quilt will be ready for use!

Western Meadow Fritillary, Boloria Epithore

Day 314: I have to admit that I am really bad at butterfly/moth identification, but fortunately I'm good with a camera and I'm long on patience. Those two factors in combination mean that when I send a photo to BugGuide.net, the field marks are all visible for their skilled entomologists to review. Sometimes it's helpful to get a ventral view as well as the more aesthetic dorsal view for certain species (knowing which species is helpful), so butterfly photography is not a hobby for anyone who has a schedule to meet or a short attention span. I was on my way down from the end of the Paradise Glacier Trail before the Western Meadow Fritillaries had satisfied enough of their hunger to settle on Mountain Daisies long enough for me to find and zoom in on their bright orange wings, but they were very active in their exploration of each blossom, fluttering and rotating as they probed for nectar. If you'd been standing behind me, you might have heard me say, "Come on, butterfly! Just come up top and open your wings!" As if deliberately misinterpreting my request, said butterfly inevitably moved around to the back side of the flower or took off in flight. But did I know what I had when I had it? No. But I did have a submission for BugGuide which brought forth an identification of Boloria epithore, even if I did submit the image with the title, "Unknown on Erigeron peregrinus."

Oregon Ash Foliage And Samaras

Day 313: When Pacific Northwesterners hear the word "ash" used to indicate a native plant, the image which springs immediately to mind is of Sitka Mountain Ash (Sorbus sitchensis). The name is misleading. Sorbus is not an ash at all, despite the fact that its leaf arrangement resembles that of true ashes (Fraxinus). Sometimes called Rowan, Sorbus is a member of the Rosaceae family (Rose) and bears clusters of orange-red berries in the fall, much to the delight of migrating Cedar Waxwings and Grosbeaks. On the other hand, Oregon Ash is a true ash; Fraxinus in the Oleaceae is akin to olives and lilacs, and its fruit is a samara which contains a single seed. The papery wings of the samara allow it to be wind-carried to distances beyond the parent tree rather than falling to the ground directly beneath it as a nut would. When a mature ash grove forms, it can be very effective in shading out opportunistic and frequently undesirable understory plants such as Reed Canary Grass. For this reason, the Nisqually Land Trust chose it as one of the native species to be used in the restoration of Ohop Valley.

Dam Ohop Creek

Day 312: Since my "Forest Succession" nature walk in the Ohop Valley, I have been puzzling over the aspect of human psychology which compels us to interfere. I can't claim to have come up with the rationale, but it strikes me that it is intrinsically linked to our insistence that others conform to what we consider "right," whether it is our religious belief, our political agenda, or even just our side of the nonsensical argument of whether the faces on our paper money should be centered or offset. This came up because one of the people attending my walk (someone not affiliated with the Land Trust) told me that when he sees a beaver dam blocking a creek, he opens a portion of it to allow fish easy passage, claiming that he used to work for Fish and Wildlife and by inference, that he knows better how to manage the ecology better than Mother Nature. I attempted to reason with him (asserting my side of the argument, and here I damn myself for committing the very offense which is the subject of my rant), explaining that the healthiest, strongest migrating fish will leap over a small dam such as this one, or that by the time the upstream migration occurs, high water will make passage much easier. The unstated and unjustifiable assertion that "fish are better than beavers" bothers me. Who are we to make that determination? What gives us the right? Why can't we just leave it alone (whatever "it" is), and let Nature follow her own course? She managed the balancing act quite well until we insisted on getting involved.

Xanthoria Polycarpa On My Beat

Day 311: Recently, I gave a talk to a group of Park volunteers which was primarily focused on lichen species. The first half was conducted indoors and a field trip through Longmire Campground was scheduled for the second half. The field-trip hour turned into two and a half as I conducted part of the group through a more extensive exploration as their enthusiasm gave me the opportunity to talk about one of my favourite subjects. With some adaptations, I will be using the same lecture material for a Nisqually Land Trust talk in a few weeks, but since the Pacific Northwest will soon be entering its autumn weather pattern (read, "rain"), I'm planning an indoor "field trip" for the attendees. To that end, I want to gather specimens of a dozen or so of our most common lichen genera to have available for "hands-on," and one species which I most wanted to demonstrate was Xanthoria polycarpa, so showy with its bright orange colour. That presented a small problem: the only place I knew where I could collect a sample without spending a lot of time driving was behind the gate to a closed community where a friend used to live (and no, I don't know any of her former neighbours). I was about to despair of finding it in a more accessible location when lo and behold, there it was, growing on an ancient Oregon Ash beside one of the waypoints for my Land Trust "Forest Succession" talk, right on my very own beat, and I'd never noticed it before. Maybe I'd been too focused on the Poison Hemlock nearby. Funny how a little thing like that can distract you.

Elmera Racemosa

Day 310: Whenever I hike the Lakes Trail for MeadoWatch, I always continue climbing past the last waypoint to check on Elmer, i.e., Elmera racemosa, Yellow Coralbells. It's not exactly a common plant in Mount Rainier National Park, but not sparse enough to be called "uncommon" although you certainly won't find it without some effort. It prefers to grow in the rocky, dry subalpine/alpine zones, often in talus or on rocky ledges...you know, among those ankle-wrenching rocks so typical of Pacific Northwest mountain paths above treeline. Its foliage resembles that of the Heucheras and in fact, for many years it was placed with them botanically because of the morphological similarities. We now know that it is sufficiently distinct to merit a separate genus. I was happy to see the population above the Stevens/Van Trump Monument not only thriving, but spreading. As an aside to that, I also observed Sitka Valerian in the same environment; a bit of a puzzlement, that, and something which I believe bears watching.

Morning Watch

Day 309: I leave the car with an inordinate expanse of bare skin liberally doused in bug spray. I'm in atypical dress: shorts and a short-sleeved shirt to match the weather forecast, but I'll be on trail, not bushwhacking, so other than layers of SPF-50 and Deep Woods Off, I can leave my legs and arms unprotected. It's a little chilly at 5000', not yet far enough into autumn to be at a discomfort level, but even if it was ten degrees cooler, I'd likely be dressed the same, knowing what's coming later in the day and especially since at my high point, I'll be out on bare rock where the plants aren't tall enough to shade my ankles. I love hiking in the cool of morning; best to get the climbing done before the sweaty hours. Even so, there's no dew on this meadow. It's been too warm for that, although it's been a good wildflower season. And that's what I'm out here to do: count noses, report on the phenologic phases of the species on my list. I'm MeadoWatching, hiking the Lakes Trail in this iteration, pausing at waypoints to observe and record Magenta Paintbrush releasing seeds, Northern Microseris in bud, Mountain Daisy and Bracted Lousewort setting fruit, and Subalpine Lupine engaged in every phase but pod-burst, still lushly carpeting patches in glorious purple bloom. That said, the season is winding down. Plants are rushing to fulfill their botanical imperative before the snow flies. In less than a month, this meadow will whiten; in two, it will be buried beneath three, four, five or more feet of snow and ice, sleeping cold for three-quarters of the year, surviving conditions which make my complaints about chilly legs seem ridiculous and so very vulnerably human.

Eggplant Surprise

Day 308: Since the eggplants began blooming in late July, I have been watching closely for any sign of developing fruit. How then did a four-inch dark purple object escape my attention until yesterday afternoon? It is still quite firm, and because the plants came to me from one of our Morris dancers, I have no idea what size to expect it to attain, but I am delighted by this Eggplant Surprise. My favourite way to prepare it is as a substitute for pasta in lasagna. My mother sliced it, dipped it in batter for stove-top frying and served it up with maple syrup like pancakes, perhaps not a traditional method of preparation but tastier than it sounds. That said, eggplant is on the same spectrum as okra: if you don't care for it, no amount of fancy chefery or cajoling will change your mind. That's okay. It just means more for me!

Gnophaela Vermiculata, Police-Car Moth

Day 307: "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means." No, but when I told Kevin I'd been chasing Police Cars, it only took him half a beat to reply, "Oh, you mean the flying kind." Clearly, he remembered reading my July 19 post which included a photo of this striking moth's blue caterpillar. Kevin knows me well. He doesn't bat an eye when I tell him I'm going over to the campground to look for Kidneys (Fringed Kidney lichens). Aside from my pursuits as a naturalist, he also knows that I enjoy playing with words. That said, my recent MeadoWatch hike engendered several high-speed chases as the Police Cars swerved dangerously across the trail, intersecting my path, sometimes coming to a brief halt on the Bistorts they seemed to prefer. Invariably, by the time I could get the camera disentangled from the GPS and my pack straps, my target Police Car would take another call. I was beginning to despair of getting a "field guide" shot showing all the relevant morphology, but then my visual radar picked up a black-and-white blip intensely involved in searching one particular Bistort head about fifty feet from my position. I edged in closer to get it within zoom range, hoping not to startle it into flight. Zoom photography is all well and good if you can find your subject and keep it centered as you pull it into focus, but when confronted with a meadow full of Bistort, it's amazingly difficult to find the right one. Fortunately, there was a Western Anemone seed-head close by which I could use as a guidepost, allowing me to bag the Police Car, photographically speaking. And then it was off, a two-inch moth with a strong sense of purpose not obvious from its erratic flight: eat, mate and die, having ensured a new generation to police the Bistort meadows of the Lakes Trail.

A Beary Interesting Hike

Day 306: Yesterday's MeadoWatch hike offered up a little surprise. I left home early in the morning to be on the trail during the cool of the day, and had been looking for bears on the slopes as I came up the Lakes Trail, but hadn't seen any sign of one except for one deposit of scat early on. When I got up to the monument at the junction with the Skyline Trail, I sat on the stone bench to take a short break. I'd been there for a few minutes when a piercingly loud marmot whistle (the loudest I have ever heard!) knifed through my eardrums. With no one else around, I stood up as I said, "Jesus, marmot! Deafen me, whydontcha?" and then I saw why the marmot had sent out the alarm. A scrawny yearling bear loped at speed up a draw not thirty feet from me, turning and heading down the Skyline Trail when I made my presence known with a startled, "Oh, bear! Hi!" Bear went over the side and into the valley to the east about fifty feet further on, crossed the creek, started up the other side of the valley but thought better of it when two hikers came to the edge of the slope to see what was going on. The bear then turned south and tried to climb up a steeper slope, grabbing onto a rotten stump for an assist. The stump collapsed under the animal's weight and dumped poor bear onto his hindquarters about five feet downslope. He recovered from the indignity with something less than good grace and disappeared around the knoll to the west. By this time, I'd gathered a crowd of visitors who were curious about what I was photographing, but only the two on the far side of the valley actually saw the bear. Still, it was time for some bear education, so I spent the next half hour talking to visitors, letting them know that this particular bear was both young and very thin and therefore might require a little more caution in a potential encounter. That said, my sympathies were with the poor bear who was obviously not having a good day, even without the presence of too many humans on his patch.

Clintonia Flower And Fruit

Day 305: This post has been three months in the making. Although the photos don't show the exact same plant, they represent the flower and fruit of Clintonia uniflora, known commonly as Bead-lily for reasons which should be obvious. That said, the image on the left shows an aberration: a "uniflora" with two flowers (one in bud), unusual because "uniflora" means "one-flowered." In fact, my botany partner and I found more than one example of double-flowered Clintonia this last spring, all in the same general location. As for that gorgeous blue "bead," the squirrels and chipmunks love them, which has been making them a little more difficult to find than they were a decade ago. From the perspective of one who observes as opposed to one who simply "sees," it's apparent that ranges are shifting, expanding, contracting, moving up or down. You don't have to have a degree in a natural-history field to notice that things are different than they were ten, twenty, thirty years ago. The evidence is right before your eyes.

Verbascum Blattaria, Moth Mullein

Day 304: Moth Mullein (Verbascum blattaria) is a non-native species and in some states (notably Colorado) is listed as an invasive. In my limited experience with it, it has not been difficult to eradicate and in fact, if growing in an area where taller grasses abound, it will "shade out" (die off from lack of light) before it becomes a problem. It was introduced to the North American continent from Eurasia and has been reported in every state with the exceptions of Minnesota and Wyoming. It is a biennial, flowering in the second year from seed. Quoting Wikipedia, "In a famous long-term experiment, Dr. William James Beal, then a professor of botany at Michigan Agriculture College, selected seeds of 21 different plant species (including V. blattaria) and placed seeds of each in 20 separate bottles filled with sand. The bottles, left uncorked, were buried mouth down (so as not to allow moisture to reach the seeds) in a sandy knoll in 1879. The purpose of this experiment was to determine how long the seeds could be buried dormant in the soil, and yet germinate in the future when planted. In 2000, one of these bottles was dug up, and 23 seeds of V. blattaria were planted in favorable conditions, yielding a 50% germination rate."

Squirrels In The Mist

Day 303: Friday and Saturday were our two annual volunteer recognition picnics. The first is held at Longmire where we have use of the historic Community Building. The second is at Sunrise and, although we have the option to hold it indoors if the weather is bad, we're usually willing to put up with a light chill and/or sprinkles to have it in the picnic area. This year, the decision was made with a metaphorical flip of a coin as Rovers and other volunteers began to gather after having spent time on the trail. We set up a grill in the mist-shrouded picnic area and watched as several Cascade Golden-Mantled Ground Squirrels (Callospermophilus saturatus) enjoyed their own personal harvests. This pudgy little moocher had what appeared to be a mushroom in its hands, but whether it had been gathered from nature or was the ill-gotten gain from some visitor's lunch was debatable. I thought the stem looked rather too neatly sliced to have been anything other than commercially raised, but the mist might have been distorting my view. As for the picnic, at the end of the first hour, a few raindrops began falling. Within five minutes, a deluge dropped, bringing the festivities to a hasty and soggy close.

Pterospora Andromedea, Pinedrops

Day 302: Three days ago, I gave a lecture on lichens and mycoheterotrophy to a group of Park volunteers. I did not include Pinedrops in the discussion because I didn't have a suitable photo of it. We also missed it during the field trip because we took a different route; ironically, this specimen was right behind the building in which I gave my talk.

The study of mycoheterotrophic plants is still fairly new; consequently, we don't have a complete map of which fungi are associated with which plants. What we do know is that the less common the fungus is, the less common the associated plant will be. This extends backwards even further because certain fungi are only associated with specific hosts, so if the host isn't present, the fungus won't be present, and therefore the plant will not be present either. In the case of Pinedrops (Pterospora andromedea), we know that its associated fungi belong to the genus Rhizopogon, including R. arctostaphylli which utilizes Arctostaphyllos uva-ursi (common names, Bear-berry or Kinnickinnick) as its host (as a sidebar here, this is a good example of taxonomy which is actually informative, which I greatly prefer to those names which acknowledge a person, i.e., if this fungus had been called R. smithii, I'd have had to do a lot more digging to find out what its associates were). Over the last decade or so, I have observed Pinedrops less frequently than in the past, certainly far less often than I did during my early backpacking years. This would seem to indicate one of two possibile contributing factors: a decrease in the fungus species and/or a decrease in the host plant for the fungus. I have not noticed a particular decline in the Arctostaphyllos population, so theory suggests that the fungal partner's needs are not being met due to some other condition; perhaps our drier summers over the last ten years have led to its diminished presence.

I've said it before, and I hope by saying it again that I wish I had another fifty years in which to attempt to find answers. The best I can hope for is to inspire someone else to pick up the research and move it forward. Fungus seems to be at the root (literally in some cases) of much of the world's diversity. We need to further our understanding of the mycorrhizal connection to life.

Heterotheca Pollinators

Day 301: Whatever they are, they would appear to be a primary pollinator for Heterotheca oregona. These little beetles are roughly 1-1.5 mm long, and they were abundantly present on every open flower when Joe and I examined the Heterotheca patch on Tuesday. Our actual mission was not to find beetles, but to explore for other occurrences of Mount Rainier National Park's "newest" Damn Yellow Daisy by wading the river and searching the gravel bars on the opposite side. We were successful, but the results were not as revelatory as we would have liked. We found only two more specimens, both located directly across from the east-side patch, although while we were searching, we turned up another "non-Biek" location for Sibbaldia procumbens with a single specimen. As for the beetles pollinating Heterotheca, we're still trying to identify them.

Sooty Grouse, Dendragapus Obscurus

Day 300: As with many bird species which exhibit morphologic variations from one side of the country to the other, Dendragapus obscurus is technically a Blue Grouse in "Sooty" form. Its eastern and interior counterpart is the Dusky Grouse. The differences are most obvious in the males. Sooty's tailfeathers are tipped in grey whereas Dusky's tail is almost solid black. In mating display, the air sacs on the sides of Sooty's neck will be yellow; in Dusky, they are purplish-red. The females are quite similar, with Sooty being perhaps a little darker. Where the ranges of the two subspecies intersect, they intergrade.

Last week on a hike above Paradise, I heard a grouse drumming in the same area where I encountered this one a few days ago, but couldn't spot the bird. This female was impossible to miss. She was determined not to relinquish the trail even after Joe and I had gathered several visitors behind us while we photographed her. We'd move ahead a foot, and she'd do likewise, invariably stopping in a shady spot which made photography difficult. At one point, we expected her to head downhill through the meadow, but instead, she ran, skitter-skitter-skitter through a sunny patch on pavement, only veering off trail when she came to a small rocky wash. Even then, she remained a mere six feet from us as we passed her, and then returned to picking and eating wildflowers.

Minor Outbursts

Day 299: Like most Pacific Northwesterners, when temperatures start edging into the upper 80s and lower 90s, our glacial streams and rivers get a little cranky. Tahoma Creek has a notoriously short temper in this regard, and over the last several days, made its displeasure with the weather known in a set of at least two minor outbursts. When Joe and I drove over the bridge on Wednesday en route to a Team Biota survey, it remained muddy and high despite having had close to 24 hours to calm after its most recent tantrum. It had gone down another two feet by the time we returned to take photos, and new deposits of mud and rock were visible in its bed. It was still pounding hard on the buttresses at either end of the bridge, a reminder that once not too long ago in a major fit of anger, it joined with the larger Nisqually to destroy Sunshine Point Campground. Outburst floods like these two most recent surges may have a number of different initiating factors, including pooled glacial meltwater being released when an ice dam collapses. Tahoma Creek has experienced several outbursts of this nature.

Misumena Vatia, Golden Crab Spider

Day 298: Sorry to spring this on the arachnophobes in my audience without any forewarning, but trust me, I fall within your numbers. That does not stop me from appreciating the clever beauty of Misumena vatia, the Goldenrod Crab Spider so common in Pacific Northwest gardens. Misumena exhibits quite a range of colour variation from solid yellow to a gold heavily striped with red, a factor which renders it relatively unnoticeable when it's perched on an orangey-gold Rudbeckia flower. This female (note the large abdomen) took me entirely by surprise when I bent over to turn on the water tap. After I began breathing again, I retrieved the camera from the house, but she was not exactly enthusiastic about having her portrait made. Although I was careful not to allow my shadow to fall across her, she waved her forearms at me menacingly. I took the picture and the hint, and left her in peace. Sometimes using a foe's fear against themselves is the best defense. Misumena wins this round.

The Barren Wasteland

Day 297: Readers and friends will have heard me refer to the Barren Wasteland as a section of my garden, perhaps without understanding the history which brought about its naming. When I moved onto this property some thirty years ago, the flower beds had been let go for so long that they were entirely grassed over and filled with weeds. My first horticultural project was to clean them out and salvage what I could. To that end, a friend and I excavated to a depth of 18", delving up unidentifiable roots, pieces of broken glass, old wire and the occasional rock of grapefruit-sized dimension. The roots were returned to their beds, and no one was any more surprised than I when peonies and delphiniums shot up the following year. But the flower beds were not my only focus. I wanted a vegetable garden. A forested belt to the west excluded digging up the back yard for the simple reason that it received very little light after 2 PM, not an ideal condition for sun-loving crops. The front yard was out of the question and at the time, the side yard was partly covered by a concrete patio, ruling it out as well. The 10'-wide strip between the exterior kitchen wall and the garage seemed to be my only option, so I set about digging and sifting, weeding and hoeing and, at long last, planting. Bottom line: the only thing it would grow was green beans. Not lettuce, not zucchini, not radishes and definitely not corn.

Whether the fault lay in the nutrient-poor soil or in the hoodoo which customarily overshadows any attempts I make with respect to vegetables, I can't say. I suspect it was a bit of both. The patch became known as the Barren Wasteland and returned to weeds when I resigned myself to eating store-bought veg. A few years after I conceded the match, the gardening bug bit me again. This time, I pulled weeds and threw down wildflower seed from a mix. I mean, surely something will grow, right? It did. California Poppies and Yarrow filled the space and threatened to invade the rest of the county. Then I noticed a few oddments: Deptford Pinks, Wallflower. I pulled the more aggressive plants from around them in the hopes that they'd fill in. Rudbeckia seed spread naturally from my flower beds, providing some welcome tall colour. Seeing its success, I transplanted some Echinacea. It was happy there. Pigsqueak (Bergenia) and tall Phlox surfaced from the previous owner's garden, a bit too pink for my tastes but I welcomed them nevertheless, adding Rose Campion to keep them company. There's a wild Currant in there somewhere, a treat for the hummingbirds when it's in flower, and the Yarrow and Poppies persist in the "understory" despite my best efforts to eradicate them. I still call it the Barren Wasteland, although it's anything but. Today, that impoverished strip of land is largely populated with tall colour which spills out of the hoops I use to confine it, homesteaders succeeding despite the difficult conditions of their environment.

Mug Shots

Day 296: I'd heard about the crime problem in rural Pierce County before I took up the badge of Squirrel Enforcer. I knew I had a hard job ahead of me, but I was new to the beat and just a little naive. "Hard" to me meant that I'd still be going home to my wife and kiddies at night, eating three squares and watching a little TV before catchin' a few zzzzzs like a normal person. "Hard" didn't include 24-hour stake-outs and clever perps who could steal the tie right from under your chin without you noticing. No, "hard" meant something entirely different to a rookie who was badge-proud and cocky. I got over being green damn fast when I came up against the Townsend gang, and now I have a reputation with the Force. I also have one with the Townsends, and for the same reason: I bring 'em in. One by one, I bring 'em in, transfer the little creeps to Lewis County and go back to my stake-out. It's a hard job, but somebody's gotta do it. That's me, Trapper the Squirrel Cop. I'm good at it.

Mission Impossible

Day 295: Invasive Knapweeds (Centaurea species) are spreading rapidly across western Washington, but I was still surprised to find them in such abundance along Hwy 12 above Packwood, and horrified to see a monoculture covering approximately an acre at the junction with Hwy 123. These are lands administered by WSDoT (Washington State Department of Transportation), as I noted in my report to the Invasive Plant Council. Come on, Washington! Do your part to control these plants while there's still some hope of eliminating them!

Much of the time, it's difficult to identify a Knapweed as a specific species because they hybridize readily and any particular plant may be a genetic stew. That said, the key to identification is in the scales of the involucre (the "cup" of bracts from which the petals arise). The manner in which each bract terminates is crucial; some may be fringed or have papery margins which others may narrow down to a single point.  When fringe is present, it may be sparse or abundant, or it may be brown, black or white. It may be modified into spikes, as is the case with Yellow Starthistle. Between scales and flower colour, a reasonable guess at the genetics of a hybrid is possible if a specific species can't be singled out. In the case of the Hwy 12/123 population, they seem to be largely Centaurea diffusa (left) and C. stoebe x diffusa (right). As I got closer to Packwood, C. stoebe became more prevalent, leading me to conclude that C. diffusa is in migration across White Pass from eastern WA where it has been problematic for decades, now hitchhiking to new territory in tire treads and mud caked on the undercarriages of vehicles. Y'know, now that I think about it, maybe I ought to wash my car more often to prevent unwitting transport of invasive species.

Chamaenerion Latifolium, Broad-Leaf Fireweed

Day 294: The tall flowering stems of Fireweed will be recognizable to almost any resident of western Washington, but most people will be unaware that there is more than one species of Chamaenerion (formerly Epilobium) in the state. Chamaenerion latifolium (Broad-Leaf Fireweed, above) is a significantly shorter plant, more compact in nature, and its flowers are frequently larger and more robust than those of its cousin. Like Chamaenerion angustifolium, its seed pods (siliques) are long and slender, bursting to release seeds when they become dry. The seeds are borne aloft on fluffy white parachutes and may travel for miles before separating and dropping to the earth. In order for the tiny seeds to germinate, they must be scarified by fire to weaken the outer layer, hence the common name. Fireweed is often found in clear-cuts which have been deliberately burned over, a pioneer species whose eventual deterioration will contribute to a soil base in which other vascular plants can take root.

Sibbaldia Procumbens

Day 293: Sibbaldia procumbens has been observed in only a few locations in the Park but sufficiently often that it is considered "uncommon" rather than "rare." It goes by the enchanting common name of Creeping Glow-wort, and when a photo of it was sent to me by a Park colleague for confirmation of identity, my radar immediately began pinging. I wrote back, "Did you take coordinates?" but then I didn't bother to wait for her reply, choosing to be in the office yesterday morning to catch her as soon as she came through the door. She gave me an excellent set of instructions to the location and off I went. I have often argued that I can't file a safety "flight plan" when I'm out looking for plants because I can't predict where the habitat will direct my search, especially when I'm in the deep backcountry exploring drainages and outcrops. Likewise, I've maintained that you won't find rarities beside established trails, not where people would walk past them every day. Sibbaldia proved me wrong on the last point. A 12-inch patch was growing at the very edge of a paved trail...paved, mind you!...and several smaller plants were struggling for existence in an adjacent and thoroughly boot-stomped margin. Its "uncommon" status certainly can't be attributed to fragility; this plant is a definite survivor. It is relatively small, the flowers only a few millimeters in diameter, not large enough to call attention to it. The leaves are perhaps its most striking feature, displaying sparse silky hairs, each leaflet terminating in three points, not unlike the fast-food utensil we know as a "spork." While this was not my first observation of Sibbaldia, it is my first photographic record of it.

Little Dipper

Day 292: Botanists and birders have some very special nomenclature they apply to species which are problematic to identify. In the world of plants, it's DYDs and DPDs, i.e., "damn yellow daisies" and "damn purple daisies" respectively. The birder's lexicon includes LBJs and LGBs, "little brown jobs" and "little grey birds." I was flanked by representatives of both disciplines during a recent field trip as I engaged in documenting the occurrence of the DYD while enjoying the presence of a familiar and much-loved LGB in the nearby river. This particular LGB is an American Dipper (Cinclus mexicanus), also known as a Water Ouzel. Dipper takes his common name from his habit of diving into streams and rivers where, beneath the surface of the water, he swims or walks along picking up aquatic insects and larvae for his dinner. It's not uncommon to observe a Dipper enter the water at one point and see it pop back out again fifty feet upstream half a minute later. When the bird perches on a rock or stick, it may be seen to perform a series of deep knee bends, bobbing up and down repeatedly before making another dive. Birding is not always about spotting distinctive physical field markings; sometimes the behaviour is enough to separate one LGB from another.