Earplug

Day 79: Yeah, that little bastard, right there. I was sitting in my chair, puzzling out a word game on my Kindle and Tippy, resting on my lap, was intent on something overhead. I looked up to be sure it wasn't a spider, heard something ping off the hot lightbulb in the floor lamp, felt something strike the side of my face and then, before I even had a chance to raise my hand, it bounced into my ear. Thoroughly discombobulated by the turn of events, the affronted housefly dove for safety into the nearest hole where it was trapped by hundreds of tiny hairs angled in toward the depths of my ear canal. Unable to back up, the fly scrabbled deeper, beating its wings and buzzing to rival your best 36" Stihl chainsaw. By the time I managed to get out of the chair to run screaming and cursing to the bathroom, the fly had become hopelessly ensnared. I tried to flush it out, which only incensed it further, so more buzzing and burrowing ensued, and by the time I had succeeded in drowning it, it was in too deeply to reach with my botany tweezers (never mind that you should never stick anything in your ear except your elbow). At that stage in the game, there was nothing for it but to call my doctor who, as luck would have it, was still in the office although it was near closing time. He knew I had an hour's drive to get there, but still told me to come right down.

In the office, they tried to flush out the grisly remains of my drowned passenger. It wasn't budging. Doctor was on the verge of sending me to an ENT specialist on emergency status, but said he was willing to try to remove it himself with the warning that, "...since it's right up against your eardrum, this is going to hurt...a lot." He wasn't kidding. As I gripped the edges of the examining table and shouted helpful comments like, "Bloody hell! Oh, ow, goddamn!" he dug for the culprit and finally dislodged it. Upon being shown the evidence of his skill, I said, "Put that son-of-a-bitch in this test tube. It's gonna be famous on Facebook tomorrow." And there you have it, my earplug removed. Doctor's parting words, designed to inspire great faith in medical professionals, were, "I can't believe I got that out of there without damaging your eardrum." And I am done...DONE, do you hear me?...with holiday disasters. No more. I quit. I'm going to bed on November 30 next year, and I am not going to get up until January 2.

Mossyrock Dam From Dunn Cemetery

Day 78: I'm of two minds about geocaching, and largely, the side of me which disapproves of "licensed littering" wins out. I no longer place caches and pulled all of my old ones, not wanting to leave a legacy of metal and plastic containers in the woods. However, I do still enjoy the search, although I no longer feel compelled to find every single one within any given radius of my home. There are a few nearby which I know I'll never get, simply because I have too much respect for my car to take it on logging roads. These days, I usually wait until more than one new cache pops up in an area before I'll make a foray. Such was the case yesterday when I went out to find three. One of them took me to a spot I didn't know existed: Dunn Cemetery, a small county cemetery overlooking Riffe Lake from west of Mossyrock Dam. Below the dam, the Cowlitz River continues its meander toward an eventual junction with the mighty Columbia, miles below yet another reservoir (Mayfield Lake) at Mayfield. Hydro power is produced by both dams as well as another further upstream at Lake Scanewa. "Dammed if you do, dammed if you don't" might well be the lament of the salmon which used to have a strong native run in these waters. Nowadays, farmed fish are the rule.

A Melanelia Among Usneas

Day 77: I am not sufficiently well-versed in distinguishing one Melanelia from another in the field to say positively that this is Melanelia fuliginosa (Shiny Camouflage Lichen), but it is either that or Melanelia/Melanelixia subaurifera. I lean toward M. fuliginosa because it was decidedly "shiny" compared to other species I have observed. In any event, it is one of only a few lichens which exhibit this particular brown colouration, and in either case, it may be tinged with orange or be somewhat closer to "Army green." It will be closely attached to its substrate, generally deciduous or coniferous tree bark, but also occasionally on acidic rock. Microscopic examination would reveal branched cylindrical isidia, but then I didn't bring a sample home. 'Sokay, I know where it lives.

Ramalina Farinacea, Sorediate Margins

Day 76: Lichen terminology can be very confusing even for botanists because certain structures have no counterpart in the physiology of vascular plants. My readers will have heard me use the term "soredia/soredium" for a specific type of vegetative propagule generated by some lichens, and they may also recall having read the word "soralia." Soralia are where soredia are produced. They manifest as small patches where the lichen cortex ("skin") has cracked or broken down. The emerging soredia often have a granular appearance and lack any cortex; soredia are one of the parent lichen's means of reproducing. In the inset, you can see the soralia/soredia along the margins of this fine specimen of Ramalina farinacea from Ohop Valley. Many lichens have more than one reproductive strategy to ensure their survival as species. Some are capable of reproducing both sexually and asexually. On the whole, lichens are atonishingly successful in the natural scheme. They were here long before humankind, and unless we pollute them out of existence, they will endure long after evidence of our brief passage has faded from the surface of the Earth.

Restoration

Day 75: The restoration work you see here along the margins of a small backwater of Ohop Creek may be recent, but it was thirty years ago, give or take a few weeks, that I worked on my first live-staking project in Ohop Valley. Today, I am a Site Steward for the area, making forays now and then to clean up litter (of which there seems to be a limitless and constantly replenishing supply), to check on the status of plants, to report wildlife and human activity, to monitor invasives and remove them when possible (obviously, the War Against Reed-Canary Grass is one which cannot be won by the hands of Man alone). Thirty years, and still the valley gives the appearance of a new planting. Yes, I can see changes from thirty years ago, but the real effects of restoration may take a century or more to make themselves visible to the inexperienced eye. I look at these young Red Osier Dogwoods and think, "That's Warbler habitat which wasn't there ten years ago." I see the clear water, and my mind runs to the Great Blue Heron who is doing his part to eliminate the invasive Bullfrogs. I see young willows and twinberry, their fruit and bark food sources for birds and mammals, and off over in the distance, I see taller Red Alders. "Those are my kids!" I might say to you proudly, if you were standing beside me. They're thirty years old now, and survived being thrust as bare twigs into wet soil by my own hands. I see my legacy to the Earth rising tall and green on the horizon, and I say to myself, "Well, I tried."

Wheels Within Wheels

Day 74: The wheels have been turning a bit more slowly these last two weeks while I've been dealing with tooth issues, but now my engine has begun to rev up and a bit more progress is being made. I'm finding that I'm going to need to ration quilting time in order to have anything left for the Feathers & Fur Quilting Tour to do when they arrive (date still undetermined), although if it came right down to it, I have another quilt partially done which I could quite easily pop back on the frame. As for spinning, even once the Cinnamon Twist is finished and I take up turning it into a sweater, I still have grey Gotland, more white Corriedale, black Shetland and a huge bag of silvery-tan, long-staple Romney fleece to keep my fingers busy. For those of you who are curious, my wheel is a Louet S15, bought before they began manufacturing models with a balanced flywheel (hole in the big wheel). I do not regret my choice. The slight difference in balance has not been an issue (it's easy to learn to compensate with the treadle), and it allowed me to paint a Tree of Life design on the face. The Tree of Life has been incorporated into each of my homes in the last 50 years in some form or another and always contains at least one bird among a welter of botanical diversity. Some of the figures have personal significance; others are simply drawn from fantasy.

The Important Things

Day 73: Some few of you may know me well enough to know that I have been a loner most of my life. Perhaps that comes as a surprise to others of you, but it's true. As a child, I was known by my peers from an early point as "the Professor," and the nickname was not meant kindly. I developed only one close friendship with anyone, and that friendship endures even today. Marilyn was almost as geeky as I was, but her social skills were greater (which is to say she had some, which I did not). Even as an adult, I did not fit in, and was quite content to remain apart. It wasn't until I started working in the Park for the second time that I began to form relationships with other people, quite possibly because we were meeting on a literal "common ground." A little further down the line, I started Morris dancing, and that brought a whole new assortment of friends and acquaintances. Okay, rangers and Morris dancers are both a bit peculiar, but at least I felt I'd found places where I wasn't a complete outsider. Still, the recent outpouring of help and support from members of both groups came as a complete surprise to me. Suddenly, I found myself surrounded by a family of unrelated people, adding a new definition to a word which had previously applied only to the feathered or furred critters who have been my companions over the years. If I now appear to be at a loss for words, it's because I am. I simply don't know how to express how much it means to have friends. You've had them for years; it's "old hat" to you. For me, it is a novel and humbling experience, coming as it does in this late stage of my life. Thank you for the best Christmas gift of all.

Northern Flicker, Red-Shafted Race

Day 72: Once considered two separate species, Northern Flickers are now believed to be two different races within the same species, Colaptes auratus. The Red-Shafted version (C. auratus cafer) occurs in the western part of the country and the Yellow-Shafted (C. auratus auratus) occurs in the east. Occasional intergrades are seen along the line where the ranges meet and in fact, one showed up in my yard last year displaying the head colouration of a Yellow-Shafted along with distinctive red feather shafts. The pure form of Red-Shafted has a grey face and brown crown, whereas in the Yellow-Shafted, it is reversed (tan face, grey crown). Male Yellow-Shafts wear a black moustache (as did my intergrade) while Red-Shafted's "mo" is red. The flight pattern is the same for both races and is what gives the species its name: the wingbeats are struck in a repeating "flick-flick-flick (glide), flick-flick-flick (glide)" which causes the bird to dip in the air like the loops in a Christmas swag. You might think that Flicker's faddish polka-dot jacket would make the species an easy target for predators, but in fact it provides very effective camouflage, breaking up the bird's silhouette by imitating areas of light and shadow such as would be cast by branches with or without foliage. Flickers often feed hanging upside down, using their tail to brace against a limb for stability and to provide greater power to the thrusts of their beaks. Members of the greater family of Woodpeckers, Flickers drill with a slow, even "tap-tap-tap" rather than rapid jackhammer rapping.

Christmas, Cawed

Day 71: A light dusting of snow fell last night, just in time for me to create my annual Christmas, cawed. The usual guests showed up for breakfast: dog kibble, black-oil seed, mixed seed, suet, laid out on the sideboard in lavish supply for the welter of crows, jays, towhees, juncos, porch parrots, sparrows and chickadees who flock in to bring good cheer. There are the gate-crashers, too: snotty, spotty starlings, gluttons of the worst sort and rude in the bargain, but I can't bring myself to deny them a place at the table, no more than I could have ever slammed the door on bickering, unpleasant in-laws despite a wish to the contrary. It's Christmastime, and everyone deserves a little kindness regardless of their nature. More snow is in the offing...and as I always say, it will be on the awning as well. Let it fall! No feathered friend will go unfed on my watch.

Thoroughly Modern Mozart

Day 70: I joke that I eschew modern music, defining "modern" as anything north of Mozart, but in fact I stretch the rule to include Haydn. However, it is Amadeus himself who has my attention at the moment, and for the first time in many long years, I am seriously practicing a sonata. Now you must understand that there is a real live harpsichord in one corner of my living room, but it is extremely cantankerous about holding its tuning and an absolute bear to bring to a state of being tuned due to the fact that each string services two different notes and it has two voices (in other words, each note has to be tuned twice). That said, my husband was gifted with perfect pitch and kept it tuned during the years we were together. For me, the process of tuning becomes a two-day struggle, and by Tuesday, I often find that the notes I brought into accord on Monday have gone a bit flat. Such being the case, it does get tuned perhaps once a year, and played until even my poor ear acknowledges pitch problems. All is not lost, though. I replaced my massive upright grand piano with a small electronic keyboard several years ago and although I haven't been able to make much sense of the instruction manual, I've at least figured out how to get different voices. Mozart is lovely played as dual English horns. In the last few months, I have spent more time fingering the keys than in the whole of the last five years. It's delightful to lose myself in music once again.

Deliberate Obfuscation

Day 69: Obfuscate: to cloud or obscure; to cause confusion; to make difficult of comprehension or interpretation; to make unnecessarily complex; to throw into shadow or make difficult to see.

William Fraser Tolmie takes the prize. I've stayed in touch with Arnie, our former Plant Ecologist, since his retirement a year ago, and a few weeks back, he mentioned to me that he was working on a project which required transcription of some of Tolmie's letters and journals, copies of which he had obtained from the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew (London). He was finding them particularly difficult to read, so I asked him if he'd like me to take a look. I have some background in deciphering mid-19th Century handwriting, having transcribed something to the effect of 100,000 birding records for Patuxent Nature Center's Bird Phenology Program. Arnie sent me one of the "folios" and I zipped through the first page like a knife through hot butter. I thought, "This is going to be easy!" Then I turned to page two and began struggling through faded ink and stains, putting question marks wherever it was illegible. It didn't help that Tolmie had recorded many plant names in transliteration from "Tshinook" jargon; there was no hope for those, and even some of his Latin terminology was archaic and unreadable. I eventually finished the first folio to the best of my ability, and with a few notes and potential corrections, Arnie sent it off to Kew where it will become part of their archives. I've just finished a second folio, working with hard copies as well as digital in a variety of enhanced versions. It's tough going.

Neither Arnie nor I are looking forward to the dreaded "Folio 192," which is cross-written with text running both vertically and horizontally on the same page. To me, it looks more like a weaving draft than penmanship. In his search for clearer copies, Arnie discovered that Tolmie had written it in that manner in purposeful obfuscation, to make it difficult for anyone but his colleague and friend Hooker, long used to Tolmie's peculiarities, to decipher, not thinking in the least of the future generations who might wish to refer to it. Of course, Tolmie probably never expected to achieve any particular fame as a botanist, nor to become a household word in the annals of Pacific Northwest history, but you never know. Could anyone read my handwritten notes-to-self on Myriosclerotinia caricis-ampullaceae or on Cephalanthera austiniae? Sometimes I can't!

A Fishy Story

Day 68: Don't say that you weren't warned with respect to the nature of my next few days' posts. I'm recovering from having two impacted wisdom teeth removed (yes, at my advanced age) and if the thought that makes your toenails curl, you might appreciate a laugh. This is one of my favourite jokes.

A woman from an upscale neighbourhood in a large city (we won't call it New York for fear of offending someone...maybe it was Seattle) was planning a large dinner party featuring a variety of esoteric seafoods. Her cook (for she was the class of woman who has domestic staff) had been unable to find the particular type of Atlantic cod required for the main course. With the clock ticking, she decided to go out on her own to hunt for it, thinking that her face and reputation might gain her access to some of the more private suppliers. To that end, she called for a cab from the company she normally used. With it being close to the holidays, their entire fleet was occupied and there was no driver for her. She tried another company and another, but it was to no avail. There didn't appear to be a cab available anywhere in the better part of town. Desperate, she called the last number in the book, a fly-by-night in a seedy district down by the railroad tracks. When the cab arrived, she ran out as fast as she could (faster than you might expect a woman in four-inch heels to be able to run), and leapt into the cab with the exclamation, "Quick! Do you know where I can get scrod?"

The cabbie's eyes raised to his mirror in startled surprise. He said after a long moment's hesitation, "You a English teacher or sumpthin'?"

Christmas-Card Redtail

Day 67: A few days ago, I was making my Christmas deliveries and as I pulled into a friend's yard, I noticed this Red-tailed Hawk weighing down a lichen-covered fruit tree branch. As always, I had the camera handy, but the light was poor and the hawk was too far away to be within preferred zoom range. I've done quite a bit of post-processing on this image to bring out sufficient detail to confirm the identification, so the photo is not up to my usual standards. That said, most of you already know that I've been dealing with dental issues, so I wasn't able to get out into the field this week. Today, I am slated for a rather involved oral surgery and probably won't be feeling exactly chipper for a couple of weeks while I'm healing up. I intend to keep up my daily posts, but I beg your indulgence if they aren't up to par. Mr. Red-tail will have to suffice for a Christmas greeting since I'm unlikely to be out on any serious walks in the near future.

Quite A Let-Down

Day 66: If the weather forecast holds, in a few days, I won't be able to get to this location to take a follow-up shot. Water management practices are a complex subject which goes much farther than letting water out of a reservoir such as Alder Lake in order to accommodate snow melt or heavy rains. Tacoma Power is bound by numerous regulations which stipulate that a certain minimum volume must pass through the spillway and that the water must be within a specific temperature range in order to accommodate salmon habitat downstream. This may mean drawing cooler water through the lower gates of the spillway during times of higher surface temperatures. If the power company fails to meet those criteria, they can be fined. To the average observer, though, Alder Lake "dries up" during the early months of winter, revealing sections of the old road and rail line which passed beside the town of Alder's schoolhouse where it sat on a high point of land. Fragments of the foundation still exist on Schoolhouse Island, and visitors to Sunny Beach Point will need to wade to reach it during the high-water summer months, but for now, Schoolhouse Island is high and dry, surrounded by the mud and unattractive stumps which form the bed of Alder Lake.

Natural Art

Day 65: As a scientist, I am always picking things up to get a closer look, maybe using a magnifier, sometimes even nicking a small sample for examination under the microscope. However, that doesn't mean that I can't appreciate natural art when I find it. While most of Mother Nature's handiwork seems rather random to the human aesthetic sense, occasionally she elects to bridge the gap with something more to our tastes: balanced arrangements, colours which compliment one another, mixtures of visually appealing textures, etc. Admittedly, sometimes the line between science and art is blurry, and in those cases, I nearly always allow the right brain its moment of appreciation before permitting my analytical tendencies to dominate. In this particular instance, I'd been looking closely at a specimen of fungus, but when I raised my head and noticed this fragment of lichen (Evernia prunastri) perfectly laid out on a bed of decaying cottonwood leaves, science took a back seat. Its dichotomously branched lobes were artfully displayed, as if to illustrate the definition of the term on its page in the living encyclopedia of the forest.

Pair O' Dees

Day 64: They say you should be careful of what you wish for, but I have no regrets about having wished for chickadees in my yard even though it's made walking out to the feeders rather dangerous. I thought the hummers were bad, zooming around my head, threatening to poke me in the ear or in the eye, needling me with their little beakies in anticipation, but now I have to walk through a veritable cloud of chickadees, wings all a-flutter, chattering "Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!" or "Tzick-a-dee-dee!" depending on species. Oh yes, I have two kinds, Black-capped (Poecile atricapillus, left) and Chestnut-backed (Poecile rufescens, right), and probably a few intergrades as well...dozens, DOZENS! of 'dee-dees in the contorted filbert and Japanese maple (not so much the dogwood...wonder why?). Given this auspicious turn of events after a thirty-year void, I suspect it won't be long before the Kinglets show up as well, Golden-crowned and Ruby-crowned groupies who follow the 'dee-dee concert everywhere.

Tree Trio

Day 63: I put out the seed first thing in the morning like I normally do, then settled in to work on Mousie's quilt with my back to the window. It wasn't long after that I heard a familiar and unmistakable "CHURP!" I wasn't expecting Porch Parrot guests, but when I turned around and looked at the feeder, it was elbow-room only, at least six Evening Grosbeaks inside and several others perched in the contorted filbert and on the shepherd's hooks nearby. There were at least a dozen, mostly males, demanding that the Chickadees (equally abundant now) budge up and accord them first privilege. I tend to think of my parrots as fair-weather friends, in the sense that they normally only come around in spring and summer, but then I remind myself that it was a cold January and February when I cared for Friend while his broken wing mended and he was able to be released back into the wild. I'd like to believe that one or more of my winter parrots might be descended from him, for surely these are the offspring of his flock, following the same map to my door and the limitless supply of black-oil seed.

Cinnamon Twist

Day 62: I'm loving my cinnamon twist, and we're not talking about bakery goods here. My current spinning project is moving along rapidly. The finished yarn is two-ply, slightly lighter than standard worsted. One ply is white Corriedale and the other, a cinnamon-hued lamb's-wool I refer to as "honey-lamb" for want of a more specific or descriptive name. The Corriedale fibers are long, straight and silky, while the fluffy cinnamon has a medium-grade crimp with a glossy finish. The second skein is still on the spindle, waiting to be measured and hung wet to set the twist. The first skein weighs 4.3 oz. and contains 167 yards of luxuriously soft yarn. Unlike most of my hand-spun wool, the future of "Cinnamon Twist" has been preordained. It will become a sweater for my personal use.

Tremella Mesenterica On Hardwood

Day 61: Natural history lesson for the day: it is often helpful to identify the substrate on which a lichen or fungus is growing. Some species prefer hardwoods to soft, as is the case with Tremella mesenterica, commonly known as Witches' Butter. It has a close look-alike in Dacrymyces palmatus which, conveniently, exhibits a preference for softwood such as Doug-fir. When the wood on which the fungus grows is too badly decayed to sort out, we must resort to microscopic examination of the spore-producing basidia. Both Tremella and Dacrymyces are common in the Pacific Northwest. While identification of the substrate isn't a foolproof way of separating them because Dacrymyces also occasionally occurs on hardwood, if you observe an orangy-yellow jelly fungus similar to the one shown in this image and it is growing on rotting alder, it is undoubtedly Tremella mesenterica.

Hypogymnia Tubulosa

Day 61: This little bugger threw me for a loop. I discovered many examples of it while hiking recently in Nisqually State Park, and I thought I recognized it by the knobby, sorediate tips of the lobes. That said, it didn't want to fit into the description of Hypogymnia hultenii because (as I discovered when looking back at my own post from October 14), hultenii was an exclusively coastal species. I'd seen it at H. J. Carroll Park in Chimacum! So, it was back to the forty-pound field guide (Brodo's Lichens of North America) and more head-scratching because hultenii had originally been classified as a Cavernularia. As I am accustomed to doing any time I encounter a Hypogymnia, I had peeled the layers apart to examine the medullary ceiling (the underside of the top surface) and had noted that it was a light grey-tan. That and the sorediate lobe tips identified it as Hypogymnia tubulosa (Powder-headed Tube Lichen). Sure enough, when I re-read the information listed under "Cavernularia hultenii" (now Hypogymnia hultenii), it compared it to H. tubulosa. It's always nice when the haystack yields up the needle without having to resort to chem tests.

Pierced Ear

Day 59: Whodathunk it? Mother Nature has a pierced ear! It only makes sense that she'd keep up with trends, but I was still surprised to see her decked out in fine fashion on a little-used trail in Nisqually State Park. As for the fungal ear, it was not in a position for me conducive to examination of the underside, although it appears to display teeth rather than pores when viewed from this angle. This would suggest Cerrena unicolor, as opposed to Trametes versicolor (Turkey Tail) which has pores in the manner seen on many other species of shelf fungus.

Winter Guests

Day 60: Call them "camp robbers," "whiskey jacks" or Grey Jays (Perisoreus canadensis), these very friendly birds are recognized by almost every hiker in the Pacific Northwest. They have become so acclimatized to humans that it's not uncommon for them to land on an outstretched hand or a person's head, hoping to share trail food. That said, they're usually seen at altitudes above 2000'; however, living in proximity to the Mountain as I do, I have had a family unit of three come consistently to my feeders over the last three winters. On the other hand, Scrub Jays have moved up in altitude range and occasionally appear here during the summer months. Jays are highly adaptable as a general rule (a trait common to most corvids), and the presence of Steller's (my "anchor species"), Grey and Scrub demonstrates that all three can live compatibly within the margins of their specific ranges.

Tilachlidium Brachiatum

Day 57: When a Park colleague sent me her photos of a strange growth she had discovered on the cut end of a trailside log and said, "Crow, do you have any idea what this is?" I was frankly baffled. I could tell it was fungal, but it was entirely unlike anything I'd ever seen. I misread her instructions or locating it and made two trips on the wrong trail before finally asking her to accompany me to the site, but when we got there, I was no more certain of its nature than I'd been before. The specimens taken by the Park's Plant Ecologist were too dry to examine (she was also baffled), so I took a fresh sample to put under the microscope. When I did so, I found that the thready bits were in fact growing on a gilled structure which I believed to be Angel Wings (Pleurocybella porrigens). The threads were an overgrowth. Armed with that clue (despite it being a very small one), I was eventually able to find information which led to its identification as Tilachlidium brachiatum. My photos of the fungus in situ became the first in the Burke Herbarium's photo gallery. A few days ago, I revisited the site and took this photo. Obviously, "Tilly" has not taken any hurt from cold or damp and is, if anything, doing even better. However, a concerted grid search of a 100-foot radius of her log revealed no other examples of the fungus despite the fact that it is known to occur on a wide variety of shelf-fungus hosts, many of which were present in the area. Tilly is on our 2020 watchlist, for sure.

Playing With Matches

Day 56: Three species of Matchstick Lichen occur in North America. One is confined to the coastal areas in Washington, and the other two appear frequently in Longmire and other Park locations, but unless you are looking for them specifically, you would probably pass them by without a second glance. Shown here with a fir needle for size comparison, Pilophorus clavatus (Tapered Matchstick) exhibits club-shaped, black apothecia atop podetia (stems) which may take on a reddish hue under certain conditions. Pilophorus acicularis (Devil's Matchstick) is similar in size, but has obviously round apothecia. Both species are "pioneers," i.e., they are capable of colonizing in a very thin layer of dust and can be found growing on otherwise bald rocks. Take a magnifier with you if you're hiking the Rampart Ridge trail, and if you happen to notice someone down on their knees in front of a rock, that's probably me, playing with Matches.

Platismatia Duo

Day 55: If I'd been conducting a lichen walk, I couldn't have asked for a better demonstration of two species of Rag Lichen. A piece of Ribbon Rag (Platismatia stenophylla) had dropped on the trail right beside a similarly-sized hunk of Ragbag (P. glauca), forming a textbook comparison without the slightest rearrangment by me. At first glance, P. stenophylla could be taken for P. herrei (Tattered Rag) which also occurs in the Park, but herrei exhibits soredia and isidia (reproductive structures) on its lobes. As a general rule, Platismatias tend to have a soft, limp feel when handled, hence the word "rag" in so many of their common names. In particular, Platismatia glauca takes on a pink tinge as it ages, making it look even more like a soppy old dishrag.

A Run Around Rampart Ridge

Day 54: With snow on the ground at Longmire, I figured I'd have to turn around before I reached the crest of Rampart Ridge, 1200 feet higher. My original intention was to check on the Tilachlidium which, if you stay tuned, will make a healthy and happy appearance in an upcoming post. I was worried it might have succumbed to wintery temperatures and humidity, but when I discovered it in good shape, I went off-trail to search for other examples. In a 100-foot radius, I could not find any more. I will have to expand my search area later. At any rate, I decided to keep going up Rampart's steep east end and when I reached the intersection with the trail to Van Trump Park, the ground was still relatively snow-free. I checked the time on my camera. Could I finish off three more miles and be back before Kevin wanted to head home? I thought it might be possible, if only marginally. The ridgeline is relatively flat for almost a mile. I won't say I ran it, but I definitely was travelling at a good clip, even moreso when I started down the switchbacks of the west end. Only pausing briefly to speak with a visitor at the viewpoint, I made it back to Longmire with an hour to spare, five miles and a twenty-minute Tilachlidium hunt in just a little over two hours.

Overlooking Ohop Valley

Day 53: If you park at the Nisqually State Park trailhead and start to walk toward the river, you'll see another path shearing off to the right in about a hundred feet. If you follow it, you will come to property owned by the Nisqually Land Trust in about a mile. I participated in a frosty-cold winter planting there three or four years ago, and had not been back until today. I was dismayed to find that not a single one of our saplings had survived. I hadn't expected a high survival rate, not in the rocky, thin soil clinging to a previously clearcut hillside, but neither had I thought to find 100 % failure. It was a sorry testament to the long-lasting havoc logging operations can inflict. Having shed a few tears for the mother of us all, I returned to the main trail and explored it somewhat further before returning home, stepping over blackberry vines and brushing aside Scotch broom in what may develop into a jungle of invasives if not checked.

Ovaries!

Day 52: Ovaries! I have ovaries! You may recall that roughly two weeks ago, I took my little paintbrush and transferred pollen from a white Christmas cactus to a yellow one. The ovaries of the two receptive flowers are now noticeably swollen. When my husband performed a similar experiment, it took months for the pods to ripen and turn red. As I recall, they hung on the plant for months after that until Bruce's impatience got the better of him and he picked and opened them. They did contain seed, but either he had plucked them before they were fully mature or the seed was not otherwise viable because planting it brought no results. I may not be able to report the outcome of this botanical adventure for a year or two, but at least this phase of it was a success.

Usnea Longissima, Nature's Garland

Day 51: I have quite a few "favourite" lichens. I mean, it's hard to choose a single one from over 1000 species (not counting subspecies) present right here in the Pacific Northwest, but Usnea longissima pretty much tops the list. It is Nature's version of a Christmas garland, its long strands unbranched and sometimes growing (in my personal observation) up to fifteen feet long. At Rainey Creek, it festoons many of the trees close by the water, dwindling in occurrence the farther one goes from the creek banks, as it is quite sensitive to air pollution and prefers the circulation afforded by proximity to moving water. Like other Usneas, it can be used to dye wool and cotton, and the current popularity of home dyeing with natural materials is leading to a decline in Usneas in some areas. Even as abundant as it is at Rainey Creek, I will not collect it. I prefer to observe, admire and enjoy Lichen Christmas all year 'round.

Rainey Creek Heads

Day 50: It's been several years since I spotted the first head (top right) lodged in the crotch of a tree alongside the trail to Rainey Creek. With a playground nearby, I figured some critter or mischievous kid had stuck it there and didn't think anything more about it. Late last year or early this spring, I found the fuzzy guy (bottom right) wedged in his knot like Winnie the Pooh in Rabbit's doorway. I did not connect the two until yesterday when I found evidence of two more relatively fresh beheadings, one nailed six feet up a tree facing the trailhead, the other jammed onto the spike of a deteriorating post. Suddenly it occurred to me that there was a theme going on, and that no reasonable explanation was going to cover the purposeful placement of these items. The trail is most often frequented by hunters during bird season and occasional dog-walkers, and the trailhead is a popular drop-off point for the locals who feel they can't afford a trip to the dump, but the latter fails to explain the heads in any logical way, and the fact that they have been appearing over a period of years suggests that this is not the work of a child who surely by now would have outgrown the need to torment a younger sibling by sadistically mutilating their toys. The heads of Rainey Creek must remain a mystery, and one I hope never to resolve during my walks on the rambling paths.

Incongruous Bridge

Day 49: First of all, my readers must understand that winter is not the easiest time of the year in which to find material for natural-history posts, but cold and wet notwithstanding, I went out today intending to make a quick one-mile trip to Rainey Creek and back, retracing my footsteps. As plans often do, this one went awry when I began following a side trail I'd never walked before, one which eventually looped around and reconnected to the main path. In so doing, I covered roughly two miles, my hands painfully cold despite being mittened and in my pockets for the most part. Over the next couple of days, I will bring you the results despite the fact that you probably can't fully appreciate the sacrifices I make on your behalf. That said, one upcoming post must be prefaced with a warning: I found something rather bizarre and creepy, and I don't want to hear any lectures on the danger of hiking alone. If you are easily freaked out, avoid these pages tomorrow.

Now, to the point: Rainey Creek is a pleasant little natural area at the east end of Riffe Lake and is administered by Cowlitz Wildlife. As such, it is the site of game-bird releases and should be avoided during hunting season. It should also be avoided in spring and early summer when the mosquitoes are thick in the air and very, very hungry. It is at its best when the grass is sere and gone to rosy-tan, for then you can see the abundant lichens (mostly Usnea species) on the trees. The air is particularly clear here, and consequently, Usnea longissima grows in profusion on the trees closest to the water. A future post will feature the loveliest of lichens, at least for my tastes. That said, anyone walking the main trail to Rainey Creek will be following an old road which is still used sometimes by Cowlitz Wildlife vehicles. Perhaps that explains the sturdy and incongruous blue bridge which comes as a bit of a surprise to hikers more accustomed to cedar-puncheon structures or logs. Metal or not, lichens are colonizing its surface, Parmelias and Hypogymnias having taken hold in the thin dust adhering to the steel, and giving evidence that Nature is stronger than Man.