Red Buttons

Day 352: Mushrooms are popping up everywhere this autumn, demonstrating the most diverse collection of species I've seen in many years. My skills at identification of fungi are minimal at best. I know what I eat, and I know not to eat anything I don't know. I've gone as far as placing these cute little red buttons in Hygrophorus and have not ruled out H. speciosus, although they are not growing under larch (the species occurs under other evergreens), but even so, there are half a dozen species they could be, and without checking spores under the microscope, I can't be more definite. In any event, some Hygrophorus species are edible, but come with the caution that the common name "waxy-cap" is well-deserved. Apparently, even edible waxy-caps have all the gustatory appeal of gnawing on a block of paraffin.

If I Had A Hammer

Day 351: What's more fun than a construction work party? Why, a DEconstruction work party, of course! After long years of saying "We need to build new tent platforms" and then revising that to "Nah, the old ones will last another season," budget and volunteer opportunity finally came together in time for National Public Lands Day 2019. Traditionally Mount Rainier National Park's largest volunteer event of the year, roughly seventy people gathered in front of the transportation exhibit yesterday before dispersing into three separate work groups: trails, reveg and campground. The campground unit set themselves to moving the platform tents and then pounding apart the deteriorating wood bases, salvaging what lumber could be reused and discarding the reast. Meanwhile, a second group turned the picnic pavilion into a pro-tem carpentry shop and zipped through the assembly of the ten new platforms which will be put into use next spring. The Weather Gods smiled on our endeavours, holding off the rain (if perhaps not the cold) until the projects were done.

Myriopteris Gracillima, Lace Lip Fern

Day 350: This small rock-dwelling fern (Myriopteris gracillima, Lace Lip Fern) was a new one for me. Subalpine plant life tends to be a lot smaller than its cousins from the lowlands, and ferns are no exception. In fact, you might be forgiven for not thinking they were ferns at all, but rather the foliage of some vascular plant. The fronds of Lace Lip are only about six inches long and grow as a dense mat of greenery. The foliage is rather leathery and somewhat stiff. Recognizing it as something new for a natural-history post, I bailed over the edge of an embankment to get a closer look while Joe remained safely on trail. I thought for a minute I was going to have to ask him to pull me back up, but I managed to crawl up the scree on my own. The things we do for science!

Playing The Pitiful Card

Day 349: If ever there were experts at playing the "pitiful" card, Grey Jays would take the prize. Their call is a plaintive mew, not unlike that of a very young kitten, and they understand the power of eye contact, shifting their glance from your trail snacks to your own eyes in obvious interspecies communication. Don't tell me I'm anthropomorphizing. I've studied the corvids and I've lived with psittacines. The term "bird brain" should be considered a compliment. They understand stimulus and response, the "stimulus" being their heart-rending begging and the "response" that you share your lunch with them. If you analyze that closely, it's a bit more sophisticated than pecking a green button to get a treat from a laboratory dispenser. They know how to work an audience.

The issues involved in feeding wild birds are complex, and humans aren't really the brightest crayons in the box when it comes to understanding anything more complicated than "Do this" and "Don't do that." The average hiker sees no difference between giving a Grey Jay a graham cracker and giving it a few raw unsalted sunflower seeds. The reward for the human is the same: Jay sits on your hand or your head, and you get to take a picture to share on Facebook. The Jay, on the other hand, gets a mouthful of chemicals, sugar and processed grain in the case of the graham cracker, or something not too far removed from its normal diet which is digestible and nutritious from the sunflower seeds. I am not against feeding wild birds outside the Park; I am against feeding them the wrong foods. That said, I speak out against the practice in general because humans are largely ineducable on the finer points. But no, the Sheep Lake lot didn't talk me out of my figs.

Home Arts

Day 348: An unexpected windfall of Asian pears from my botany partner Joe set Tuesday's course of action. I spent the morning peeling them (a process which dyed my fingers a lovely shade of orange), and then dragged out the water-bath canner and my biggest cook-pot which was necessary to accommodate sixteen cups of pear bits. I prefer to chunk them up rather than canning halves or slices; you get more in the jar, and fewer jars require less storage space. I put them up in pints rather than quarts so I can parse them out judiciously over the winter months. That said, I've never canned Asian pears before and was unsure how long to process the firmer fruit, so gave them a slightly longer boil in light syrup than I'd have given standard pears followed by twenty minutes in the water-bath. A dose of ascorbic/citric acid product will keep them from turning brown. Oh yeah, that's the kitty quilt in the background. I'm a little over half done with the machine-quilting.

Washington State Fair 2019

Day 347: I entered three pieces in the Washington State Fair's Home Arts "Textiles" competition this year: a hardanger centerpiece, a tatted doily and a handwoven bag with a shoulder strap. Of the three pieces, the one I didn't think the judges would even give a second glance was the bag. Okay, I wove the body and the strap on two different types of looms (floor loom and backstrap), and it was fully lined, but it was just a simple tabby weave. Surprisingly, it brought me a first-place ribbon. The hardanger and tatting both took second place in their class. This was my second year at the Fair. Last year's entries also took two seconds and a first. I'm already at work on entries for 2020!

All For One Demo LIchen

Day 346: On October 6, I will be giving an "Introduction to Lichens" presentation for the Nisqually Land Trust, an indoor "nature walk" (as it were). To that end, over the next week and a half, I will need to gather specimens for demonstration, and of course I can't collect from inside the Park. Obviously, this means I'm going to need to go a bit farther afield, "farther" in this case meaning a 7-mile hike (round trip) out to Sheep Lake in order to obtain a sample of Letharia vulpina, a particularly interesting species. Since I was going to be hiking the PCT from Chinook Pass to Sheep, it seemed only logical to tack another 3.5 miles on in order to complete a MeadoWatch hike on Naches Loop. The weather could have been better, but the missions were both accomplished. Joe Dreimiller's assistance was greatly appreciated since he was able to reach a second lichen species (Bryoria fremontii) and pulled a chunk of it down out of a subalpine fir with his trekking pole. The remainder of my chosen samples will be easier to obtain from sites much closer to home.

Forecast Missed Mist

Day 345: It was certainly not the wettest or the coldest hike I've taken, but it was also not precisely the pleasant 45-degree, 20 percent chance of precipitation the forecast model was bold enough to suggest. Joe Dreimiller and I started out for Sheep Lake in thick mist in all our available layers of clothing: rain gear, gloves or mittens, warm hats and longjohns, shedding only one layer halfway there when we both began to overheat. "Just let me have one moment of sun at the lake," Joe implored the Weather Gods. They obliged with a two-minute break, but then followed it up with an increase in moisture and gusty winds. Sheep completed the first portion of our day's mission. There, I was able to gather a few specimens of lichen on the list of those I plan to demonstrate to participants in an upcoming indoor "nature walk" for the Nisqually Land Trust. A MeadoWatch circuit of Naches Loop Trail filled out the day, my last for the season. In total, we spent six hours in drizzle and hiked eleven bracing miles.

Spike

Day 344: After much digging into books and the internet, and consideration of the butterfly species known to occur in the specific area, I am tentatively identifying Spike as the caterpillar (fifth instar) of Speyeria cybele, the Great Spangled Fritillary. Again, we have a taxonomic readjustment. Formerly called Argynnis, members of this group of North American fritillaries have been distinguished from the European genus with their own nomenclature. Update your field guides, folks! And as always when venturing outside botany (and sometimes within it), I reserve the right to be wrong. Butterflies and moths are not my long suit.

In any event, when Spike is all growed up and his/her wings have come in, he will nectar on members of the Violet family, notably our common Viola rotundifolia. Or that's the plan, anyway. Those of you who have Buddleia (Butterfly Bush) in your yards because "the butterflies love it" are doing more harm than good. Great Spangled Fritillaries are drawn to Buddleia like kids to candy, but it doesn't sustain them any more than a diet of chocolates and butter-mints would a human. Not only that, if the butterflies fail to nectar on the Violas, pollinating them in the process, then there will be fewer Violas to sustain the Fritillaries who haven't discovered butterfly-bush smack. Planting non-native species in your "butterfly garden" is a Bad Idea. Plant natives instead, those things which are known as hosts or food for species in your area. There's a circle here, people. Stop messin' with things you don't fully understand.

Closing Window

Day 343: The window on hiking season is creaking closed as wet-weather systems stack up along our coast and a chance of snow at higher elevations sets the Mountain to shivering. But all things considered, it has been a greener year than most others in the last decade, meadows remaining lush right up to the last, the first "typical" Pacific Northwest summer we've seen in a long time. I have one more MeadoWatch patrol to do on Naches Loop and then like many other high-country mammals, I'll begin moving down in range as temperatures drop and snow depth pushes me onto lowland trails. Rabbie Burns said it, and I'll be humming his words when you find me on Bud Blancher or in Pack Forest:

Farewell to the mountains, high-cover'd with snow,

Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;

Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,

Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,

My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;

Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,

My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Coprinopsis Lagopus/Lagopides

Day 342: For all of the fact that my scientific friends regard me as a keen observer, I am usually quite oblivious to my surroundings insofar as other human beings are concerned. Thus it was that I surprised a man walking his dog in Yelm's Cochrane Park with a loud exclamation of my favourite scientific phrase, "What the hell is that?" In the next instant, I was on my knees in the wet grass, camera focused in on the healthiest of a dozen specimens of a thin-fleshed translucent mushroom shaped rather like our friend Myriosclerotinia. I soon discovered a few deteriorating examples which gave me a clue to the identity. If not a Coprinus (Inky Cap), at least they were related. Examining the area more closely revealed more with flatter caps; the upturned rim appeared to be a function of age. Man and dog joined me. "They're beautiful, aren't they?" he said. "Yes," I replied, "and I haven't ever seen them before." We talked for a while, but his curiosity seemed to end at identifying them as a "mushroom" as opposed to something else (what, I can't imagine). As soon as I got home, I hit the books and Google. Edit: my initial identification was in error. This is either Coprinopsis lagopus or C. lagopides, the latter being the most likely to occur in this area.

Chicken-of-the-Woods

Day 341: I'd seen it a couple of days earlier and was in too much of a rush to turn around and find a safe spot to get off the road to Paradise, but when Dreimillers and I noticed it again, Joe pulled over and we walked back. No mistaking it: Chicken-of-the-Woods (Laetiporus conifericola). We hadn't been the only ones who recognized it. Every "shelf" within arm's reach had been neatly pruned of its tender outer rim with a knife. I've never eaten it, but my mother collected it whenever she found it. That said, polypores tend to be a bit on the woody side, and only the youngest Chickens are suitable for the table. Older specimens become tough, later turning chalky. Whenever I've found them, I've let them be, content to simply enjoy their striking nature.

Sunflower Season Dresden Plate

Day 340: For some reason, I'm on a quilting jag. I have one row to go on a fully machine-made Cathedral Window before I can start setting cats in the "windows," so in the interest of keeping the spirit alive, I made a sample Dresden Plate block using blue scraps. I was so pleased with the way it turned out that I decided the time had arrived: at long last, I'd sew the orange quilt I've been threatening to make since the 1970s.

Now it has to be said that when I start assembling quilt blocks, I find it much more difficult to keep the placement of the pieces random than setting them in order. Ironically, it is that very randomness that I find most appealing in quilts. I spent a lot of time sick when I was a kid, usually nursing a sore throat and a fever beneath the Double Wedding Ring quilt my great-grandmother made as a wedding gift for my mom and dad. She'd pieced it from cotton flour sacks. I would amuse myself by "walking" the Double Wedding Ring path with my fingers, attempting to find two or more pieces of the same print. Most of the time, it was easy, but there were one or two prints which had only been used for a single wedge. Those were my treasures, those singletons, and by the time I'd recovered from one malaise only to come down with another, I'd have forgotten exactly which ones they were, and the process of finding them could start all over again.

While there won't be any singles in my "Sunflower Season" Dresden Plate quilt, I am still striving for randomness. It's easy to build an ordered universe, not quite so simple to create a chaotic one.

Watch Your Step!

Day 339: It wasn't the first time I'd almost stepped on a grouse because I didn't see it, nor is it likely to be the last. Grice (as I like to call them, because the plural of "mouse" is "mice") blend in beautifully with the particular shade and grain of gravel popular with our trail crew. And they know it (the grice, that is). They stick to the shadows whenever possible, and if it wasn't for the fact that they will eventually move when you're almost on top of them, you might never know they were there. Once alerted to the first one, I realized I had two birds the size of nice laying hens in front of me...no, three...no, waitaminit, that piece of trail moved...four!...and for a few minutes, I thought I was going to be the one who had to step off into the meadow because they were holding their ground. Let me tell you, when one of these well-camouflaged birds lifts off unexpectedly a foot in front of you, you jump out of your hide. That's a lot of chicken to get airborne, and the sound of a Sooty Grouse beating its wings isn't too unlike the whup-whup-whup of a helicopter rotor (or at least it seems like it when you're in close proximity). As it happened, everybody but me skootched off trail about three feet to continue nibbling whatever it is grice nibble, hanging out in an open stand of subalpine fir until I'd gone by. Oh yeah, and one other thing: hikers in grouse country should be advised against wearing light-coloured footwear, and that includes exposed socks. Especially during breeding season, white socks or tennies may instigate a grouse attack.

Amanita Season

Day 338: Super Mario aside, you don't want to muck about with Amanitas of any sort, and they're out there right now, their emerging caps waiting to deceive you into thinking they're a different (and perhaps edible) species. Every year, I get photos from my readers asking, "Can you identify this mushroom for me?" or sometimes, "Is this one edible?" First of all, I am not going to identify a mushroom for you from a photograph unless it is one of the unmistakable "beginner" species like Shaggymanes or Chanterelles, or unless it is obviously a poisonous sort like the distinctive Amanita. In fact, if you ask me to identify a 'shroom from a photo, you're going to get my customary one-liner: there's a reason the Mycological Society used to call their annual dinner the "Survivors' Banquet." Even the most innocent-looking mushroom can be deadly, if not immediately, then somewhere down the line when your liver and kidney functionality starts to fail. Your organ tissues retain those toxins, and there's no way to clean them out. If you aren't "105 percent" sure of what you're picking, do NOT put it in your basket where it can contaminate other mushrooms. If when you get home, you discover that you picked one unidentified 'shroom accidentally and tossed it in with your delicious Chanterelles, throw out the whole damn batch! I'm tellin' you, you don't get many second chances where 'shrooms are concerned. As for you folks who like to get high on the hallucinogenics, your Darwin Award is waiting.

St. Luke's Fete Mystery - Styrax Officinalis

Day 337: For the last several years, Sound & Fury has danced at St. Luke's English Fete in Renton. We did so again yesterday, and afterwards I sat for an hour with the ladies who were spinning wool, the conversation centered on the topics of fiber and sheep. As I stood up to leave, that which had been hanging above my head the whole time caught my eye. "What in the heck is THAT?" I said, and anyone who has ever been on a botany hike with me would have recognized my tone: Crow had found a mystery plant.

The mystery proved fairly easy to solve. Mark Turner's excellent "Trees and Shrubs of the Pacific Northwest" gave me my first clue. Although only a rare bush-like California species (S. redivivus) is included in the book, further digging brought up descriptions of other Styrax species. While I am not 100% positive that this is S. officinalis (my specimen was a little the worse for wear by the time I got it home), the height of the tree exceeds the upper limits for S. redivivus by a substantial margin. S. officinalis is also more likely to be available from commercial growers.

According to my references, the resin of S. officinalis is fragrant, and it (or that from related species) can be used in combination with other substances to make incense and perfumes. Indeed, my fingers were left very sticky after peeling the outer husk (still green and sappy) away from a small brown nutlet. The flowers of the tree are white and also highly aromatic, in appearance not too unlike those of shadbush (serviceberry). I think I'm going to have to take a trip back to St. Luke's in the spring when the tree is in full bloom.

Boleta Trio

Day 336: "Edulis" means "edible," and that's not saying half of it. Boletus edulis is perhaps my very favourite wild 'shroom, edging Chanterelles into second place. I'd gone past one in the morning, electing not to pick it right then and there because I didn't want it to spend the day banging around in my pack, but on the way back to the car, I was dismayed to discover that I wasn't the only person who recognized the species. My intended dinner had been neatly cut off at the base. I used a little language unsuited to my uniform after checking to be sure no visitors were within hearing distance, but glad nonetheless that I'd managed to find one hiding under the low boughs of a subalpine fir. A search of the harvested area yielded up no more, although I did find two more by making a long detour on a connecting trail. Boletas are generally regarded as a fairly safe family, if not quite a "beginner mushroom." Any with red caps or red reticulation on the stipe are to be avoided, and those whose flesh or pores stain blue when broken or crushed may cause reactions in sensitive individuals. Edulis is easy to identify by its bulbous white/tan base and brown cap. The pores are also whitish. To prepare Boletas, cut the stipes crossways and discard any wormy portions. Remove the pores and if the cap is viscid (sticky), peel it away from the flesh. Slice into 1/4" pieces and fry in butter. Oh, so yummy!

My Kind Of Place

Day 335: I had other plans for extending my MeadoWatch hike yesterday, so instead of continuing on to the end of the maintained portion of the Paradise Glacier Trail half a mile further on, I took my lunch beside this small, persistent alpine tarn. I don't recall having ever seen it dry, even in a drought year. It would be a good "bathtub" but for two factors: the trail runs right beside it and the bottom is covered with grapefruit-sized rocks. Still, it makes a good destination, just a little ways above my last MeadoWatch waypoint. That said, now that Labor Day is past, I had it all to myself for the half hour I spent there.

MeadoWatch is winding down as the plants are now mostly in the seed-releasing phase of growth. I hope to do one more hike on the Naches Loop, but I am quite keenly aware that I am at the mercy of the Weather Gods, and they are not always kind. However, September hiking always brings rewards: the fall colours are starting, the wildlife is active preparing for winter, crisp mornings and cooler afternoons are perfect for the exertion demanded by the Mountain's trails. In the course of my travels yesterday, I encountered a family of four grouse, one bear, one young marmot whose tail I nearly stepped on, and one former Park superintendent with his mate and cub. As he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, Randy King said he'd been hoping to find me on Eatonville's Bud Blancher trail. He showed me a photo. "I bet you know what this plant is, Crow!" I didn't, but I looked it up when I got home. Next time our paths cross, I'll deliver the information. It's a slower world in the Mountain's realm, my kind of place.

Spiranthes Romanzoffiana, Hooded Ladies' Tresses

Day 334: Although not a species of concern, Spiranthes romanzoffiana (Hooded Ladies' Tresses) is sufficiently uncommon that when I found it blooming in an off-trail area, I decided it would be a good subject for my daily post. We are fast approaching the time of year when I start having difficulty finding "blog shots" on my outings; we're not there yet, but it won't be long before the snow flies. It always makes me wonder how seemingly "delicate" plants survive the bitter subalpine/alpine winters, buried in snow for eight or nine months of the year. The secret lies within their cells, literally. As you may know, plain water freezes at 32 degrees. If you add sugar to it (let's say you're making Kool-Aid popsicles), the freezing point is lowered. Since plants normally contain certain amounts of sucrose within their cells (variable depending on the plant), this affords some minor protection. Hardier plants may also contain a type of "antifreeze protein" which prevents freezing in the spaces between their cells. Others may have a greater level of lipids (fats) in their cell membranes, again a factor in creating a lowered freeze point. When you get to the bottom line, you'll find that those dainty little wildflowers are much better equipped to withstand cruel winters than you are. Ain't Nature grand?

The Lorax Tree

Day 333: "I speak for the trees," the Lorax said. And there he was, with all of his friends and relations, in Mount Rainier National Park where I'm sure he was overseeing me at my duties. One look at the Lorax Tree will convince you that Dr. Seuss drew his inspiration from a lichen. Alectoria sarmentosa often "beards" trees and branches, but I have never seen quite so Lorax-y a representation as this. It made me laugh out loud. Undoubtedly blown to either side when a gust of wind hit the tree, the Lorax's facial hair is unmistakable. Don't ever try to tell me the common name for this lichen is "Witch's Hair." Nope, it's Lorax Whiskers, forevermore and always.

Mormon Fritillary, Speyeria Mormonia

Day 332: Sometimes I wonder if what first drew me to natural history was a love of words. Even as a very young child, I delighted in dropping Latin names into casual conversation, much to the annoyance of my peers who dubbed me "the Professor" (and with few exceptions, they did not mean it kindly). My affinity for the sciences was ridiculed, but that only drove me deeper into the books. I couldn't see wasting my time in styling my hair or comparing colours of nail polish, nor in soliciting the attention of boys and attending dances (not that I was ever invited). Science has always provided me a comfortable refuge, even when taxonomy drives me to screaming. Knowing my interest in the etymology of species names, Arnie recently provided me with a link to an exceptionally comprehensive compilation of Latin and Latinized botanical names from Calflora, giving sources and meanings. I had hoped to find something similar for butterflies, but alas, the only information I've been able to retrieve is that Adolph Speyer was an entomologist specializing in Lepidoptera during the mid-1800s, and the genus Speyeria was named for him. The "mormonia" portion of the Mormon Fritillary's name (Speyeria mormonia) remains a mystery, despite multiple undocumented claims to a relationship with the Mormon religion and its followers. It's not enough to pull it up on a Google search. I want to find the truth.

Hopper Heaven

Day 331: "Rainierensis" should give you a clue, and a quote from noted entomologist Andrew Nelson Caudell described them as "numerous in Paradise Valley, where they were destroying grass and small plants." If you're travelling at timberline in the Park in September, you'll find his statement entirely believable. The Cascade Timberline Grasshopper (Prumnacris rainierensis) is arguably our most abundant 'hopper, and when I say "abundant," I mean that they can be found by the thousands on the bare soil of the trails in the high country at this time of year, and you'd probably send a few million into a panic if you walked fifty feet into a patch of Subalpine Lupine. They're small, no more than an inch long, but the crackling of a mass of them sounds like electricity arcing through the meadows. Personally, I've never noted that they were particularly destructive; rather, they are an integral part of the Cascadian biosphere which includes Mount Rainier National Park.

Sectional Marmot

Day 330: Marmots (Marmota caligata) are common in the subalpine zone and are quite acclimatized to hikers, so I wasn't the least bit surprised when one sitting on the left side of the trail allowed me to approach to within a few feet before moving. It crossed the trail directly in front of me and dove into a burrow, and I expected it to continue out of sight, but it stopped with its tail and part of its hindquarters sticking out. Seeing a photo opportunity, I moved in a little closer and snapped several pictures using flash, but I was so focused on the tail that I didn't immediately notice that the head was only a foot away, looking back at me as if to ask what I found so compelling. The "burrow" wasn't a tunnel; it was a bridge about a foot in width, and I was afforded both north-facing and south-facing views of a northbound animal, its center section concealed beneath meadow flowers and earth. Mr. Marmot was obviously well-acclimatized to human presence, and seemed to want nothing more than to doze off while I made a portrait of his sunnier end. The sectional marmot!

Where Chip Belongs

Day 329: The summer of 2019 seems to have been exceptionally kind to furry wildlife. As previously reported, I've personally observed nine black bears and also an astonishing abundance of marmots, and where I'm used to finding a fairly large number of squirrels and chipmunks, I've never before seen as many young Townsend's chips. Particularly along lower Skyline Trail between its junction with the Lakes and Paradise Glacier trails, baby chips are all over the place, some small enough to make me think they're only a month or so out of the nest, scampering here and there, running up trees to scold me as I pass. It makes me wonder: is this a "boom year," to be followed by a "bust?" Or is it a trend, critters from the lower forest moving up in range as global temperatures rise? Mammals, birds, insects and others follow their food sources; plant ranges are shifting, both geographically and seasonally. Many of the target species I'm monitoring for MeadoWatch are blooming earlier, setting seed earlier, and while this might seem like good news for some critters, it's bad for those who can't adjust or are slower to respond to change. In some cases, a shift in period may initiate a "meltdown," for example, if Pedicularis blooms before its species-specific pollinators arrive, it won't set seed. Even if the pollinators arrive early the following year, there will be fewer plants to support them, and the decline will continue. Our 2019 boom of mammals may tax the food web. Then what? I'm simplifying, yes, but there has to be balance in order to maintain a healthy biota. This isn't a foot-race with only one winner. Humans aren't going to "come out on top." It's a community. We all depend on each other, and we all have to do our share.

The Golden Hoard

Day 328: I went gold-mining on my way home from work yesterday and found a pretty good seam. It's still a little early for Chanterelles, but by the time I'd added a few more to this pile, I felt I had enough to share with a Park friend who had expressed a desire to try wild 'shrooms. I drove back up to the office to deliver them, only to discover that he'd gone home early. I was unable to reach him at home, so entrusted his share of the Golden Hoard to Kevin, trusting that they would not mysteriously disappear before reaching their intended destination. That said, I could tell by the glint in his eye that Kevin is hoping the scales will balance against his thoughtful produce-share contributions as the season progresses. He's kept me in veg this summer, and I hope to repay with a fungal feast or two.

Chicken and Chanterelles
Cut chicken breasts into one-inch cubes. Slice chanterelles to 1/4" thick, and cut into larger ones into pieces, leaving some of the small buttons whole. Fry unbreaded chicken and a healthy dollop of minced garlic in a small amount of shortening until the chicken is almost done, stirring to brown on all sides. Add chanterelles and cook until tender, but be sure some liquid remains in the pain. In a small bowl, combine flour and cold water until you have roughly three tablespoons of flour/water paste. Add a little of the hot mushroom liquid to the paste, and then simultaneously add the paste and 1/4 cup milk to the chicken and 'shrooms. Add salt and pepper to taste, and serve over rice.

Male Mariposa Copper, Lycaena Mariposa

Day 327: A fairly unremarkable butterfly as far as wing patterns go, there were enough of them flitting around the Cascade Asters on the Naches Loop that I felt I could safely conclude that I wasn't just seeing faded individuals. As to the butterflies' true identity, I didn't have a clue. My "best guesses" turn out wrong 50% of the time when I submit them to BugGuide.net, so I've even stopped speculating and simply label them as "unknown" until one of the experts responds, and "book education" seems to be doing no good with respect to improving my skills. I was bemoaning that fact as I moved along the trail, stopping now and then to take another photo, when a butterfly net appeared in my field of view. It was followed by a second, borne in the hands of two Cascade Butterfly Survey volunteers who quickly provided the names and sexes of the species I'd photographed during my hike, including this male Mariposa Copper (Lycaena mariposa). Now there's a thought: sign up for the training next year!

A Crow In Its Natural Habitat

Day 326: The Reflection Lakes MeadoWatch hike ends at a waypoint not too far above the intersection of the Skyline Trail with the Paradise Glacier Trail, at a transition point between subalpine meadow and alpine barren, but I cannot turn around there, not with rocky exposures calling to me only a mere half mile further on. In the days when I had two good shoulders and young legs, my preference in backcountry campsites generally took me far off trail and into this inhospitable environment. I describe my camping choice as anywhere "high, bleak and desolate," somewhere with a broad view of the forests and meadows below with nothing above me but sky and the bulk of the Mountain. One of my favourite spots was a sandy patch just large enough for a two-man tent at 7800' on Curtis Ridge, ideal if one happened to be in the mood for watching the Perseid meteor shower in August, or later in the year, admiring the silky glow of Puget Sound at sunset with the lights of Tacoma sparkling in the foreground. In this environment, I felt secure in my solitude on Curtis Ridge; any human approaching could be seen well in advance of their arrival in my camp. At the heart of it, you must understand, I am a solitary creature. If I were younger and not quite so surgically reconstructed, I would go, perhaps not "where no one has gone before," but as close as possible in the modern world. But all things said, the fact that I've been partially rebuilt limits me now to the day hikes which never succeed in taking me beyond the possibility of human contact. Still, it is those high, rocky places which draw me into going the extra distance for whatever moments of personal time I can share exclusively with my Mountain.

A Six-Bear Day

Day 325: Well, this sets a personal record. Today, I saw six bears (SIX!) during a MeadoWatch hike on the Lakes Trail. SIX!!! There was a mid-sized adult of indeterminate sex, a sow with two cute little cinnamon cubs, a yearling, and this healthy, husky gentleman who was a bit closer than I would have liked, given his size and age. But there were visitors to protect, so I escorted two terrified young women past him, a dicey situation because it involved us disappearing behind a stand of trees for a minute and a half, then reappearing directly in his line of sight. I hoped he wouldn't think we were trying to sneak up on him. He gave us a reproachful glance and took a few steps toward the trail, but then resumed eating wildflowers. No wonder I was checking off the box for "herbivory" at so many of the target plots! My previous daily and/or yearly record for bear sightings might have been as many as three at once (probably a sow and cubs). So far this year, I've encountered nine.

Parnassia Fimbriata, Grass-of-Parnassus

Day 324: Grass-of-Parnassus is an excellent example of how confusing common names can be. First of all, it is not a grass. Purportedly named for its abundant occurrence on Mount Parnassus (Greece), the species actually growing there is a botanical cousin. Also called "Marsh Marigold," it is not related to the Marsh Marigold (Caltha leptosepala) known and loved in PNW alpine wetlands. Yes, it prefers a similar habitat, and thus comes a third common name, "Bog-stars." This is why I prefer Latin. There can be no doubt when Parnassia fimbriata is specified. Whatever you call it, its fringed one-inch flowers are highly photogenic. Look for it along the margins of perennial seeps and springs in the subalpine zone.

September's Flower

Day 323: A glad, good September Morn to you, dear readers. For those of you new to my posts, today is significant to me personally because it opens the "beautiful month" when mountain meadows put on their fall colours and the Bog Gentians take the blue skies of summer into their hearts to guard it through the coming winter. Of all the flowers of the field, rare or otherwise, Gentiana calycosa holds a top spot on my list of favourites. It is the last flower to come into bloom in the subalpine zone, and obviously one of the most showy. A white variant exists (not a separate species), which sometimes carries a note of grey not often seen in nature. Perhaps that's it's gentle way of reminding us that grey days are coming, to take September and live it to the fullest: hiking, roaming the hills, exploring one last rocky peak for the year. The grey also speaks of frost, soon to deliver its bracing note to our early morning wanderings. There's nothing quite like that early chill to move you along to the next point on your route. So do this, my friends: let September take you to the high country. Go, before the snows fly.