Last Towel

Day 260: Inspired by a project from the Weaving Works, I decided that I should weave a Pride Month towel as the last one in a series using a traditional bird's-eye draft. When I finished it up and advanced the warp, I discovered that there was enough remaining to make a place-mat or possibly even another towel. I'm usually rather generous when I measure warp because "too much" is decidedly preferable to "too little" at the end of a project. In this case, I'd kept the spacing between towels fairly close, gaining an inch or two between each pair. Coupled with the extra warp length, this gave me more than I usually leave for the sample I keep in my weaving file. I decided to use the same rainbow design for the last one. Next up will be a much more complicated "Summer and Winter" lap throw. The warp is already measured and ready to go on the loom.

S.O.U.S.es

Day 259: If you've seen "The Princess Bride," you will probably recall Buttercup and Wesley's encounter with the R.O.U.S.es ("Rodents Of Unusual Size"). Note, please, that "unusual" is not synonymous with "enormous," although in the case of the Rodents, that was its meaning. "Unusual" means "out of the ordinary," and that was certainly applicable to a strange growth I discovered on a short length of dead salmonberry stem. I'd been angling around to get the best image of yesterday's Streptopus when it caught my eye. Initially, I took it for a slime mold, and got all excited at the prospect of adding yet another species to Mount Rainier National Park's growing list, but when I looked more closely, I wasn't quite convinced. The tiny dots, the largest of which would have been well under 1 mm, appeared to be concave. "Lichen apothecia?" I said aloud. My naked eye couldn't tell, so a small piece followed me home to go under the microscope, and what I saw there was definitely a surprise. Orange disks were ringed by a fringe of eyelash-like rooting hairs. What I had found was fungal: a Scutellinia of some sort. Accessible information on Scutellinia species is very limited, so after a period of searching for one which was both tiny and grows on Rubus, I had narrowed the options down to one: Scutellinia erinaceus, but I wasn't confident in the ID. I sent the photo off to my contact at the Burke Herbarium, who in turn forwarded it to a mycology expert, and she came back with the same conclusion, although with the same degree of hesitation I felt. Erinaceus or not, it is definitely a S.O.U.S. (Scutellinia Of Unusual Size). And from here on out, I will be paying a lot closer attention to dead salmonberry stems.

Streptopus Lanceolatus, Rosy Twisted-Stalk

Day 258: Rosy Twisted-Stalk (Streptopus lanceolatus) doesn't seem to be as abundant these days as it was thirty or forty years ago, at least not in the areas which I commonly hike. This, of course, is anchored in purely personal recollection, and therefore subject to question as an actual record, but I am attuned to this kind of thing and trust my memory when it comes to plant phenology. There have been no suggestions that the species is moving toward "threatened" or "endangered" status, only a nagging feeling in the back of my mind that there should be more of it in this "pocket ecology" or that. Is it truly in decline, or is my mental database losing its integrity? Unfortunately, my "notebook" has long been maintained solely between my ears, with the occasional photograph to support it. This is just one of the lessons I've come to appreciate in my advancing years: "If only I'd known then what I know now" or as it is sometimes stated, "Hindsight is so much clearer than foresight." Streptopus has taught me that, but rather too late to do anything about it.

Anticlea Occidentalis, Mountain-Bells

Day 257: "Learn something new every day." That's not always easy to do, but sometimes it occurs as a happy accident. Such was the case when I was verifying that the taxonomy of Anticlea occidentalis hadn't changed again. I know the plant's common name as "Mountain-bells," but common names being rather flexibly applied, many nurseries refer to various Alliums as "Mountain Bells" (with or without a hyphen). The term may also be casually dispensed to several other mountain-dwelling, bell-shaped flowers. Common names annoy me, but nevertheless, discovering that our native Anticlea is also known as "Feather-bells" scored a point on my "Learn something new" chart; I had not heard it before, and it seems more appropriate to the delicate, recurved petals of this dainty flower. Mountain-bells are almost always ringing, their chimes only audible to faeries and other woodland sprites. The slightest breeze sets them in motion at the ends of their thready stems. Habitués of moist meadows and seeps, they may also be referred to as "Bronze Bells" or "Mission Bells" by those who don't care to be more specific about a plant's true identity.

Pinguicula Vulgaris, Butterwort

Day 256: Every time my botany partners refer to "Butterwort," I experience a moment of confusion. Butterwort? Do I know that plant? Oh, Pinguicula! Why, when the Latin option is such a delightful word, would anyone call this delicate insectivore by an English name? The suffix "-wort" means "plant." Okay, that's easy. Perhaps "Butter" refers to the yellowish foliage and, extending that logic with no particular validation, the fact that flies stick to it when they land on it. Anyone who's ever been to a picnic can see the sense in that. In fact, the Latin nomenclature derives from "pinguis," meaning "fat," and indeed the leaves have an oily sheen to them due to the secretions produced by specialized glands. One secretion lures and ensnares insects and, as the insect struggles to free itself, another type of gland is stimulated to produce digestive enzymes. The insects' soft tissue is dissolved and absorbed into the leaves, leaving behind their hard exoskeletons, like those visible in this photo. Like many other "carnivorous" plants, Pinguicula likes moist areas where insect life is abundant and temperatures stay on the cool side even during heat waves.

One Big Happy Myrio Family

Day 255: A run into the Park at this point in terms of snow-melt would not have been complete without a visit to (mumble) to check on Myriosclerotinia caricis-ampullaceae. While I am no longer overly concerned with the health and safety of this rare fungus after having found a super-abundance of it at another location within the Park boundaries, it is nice to see it alive and well at the site where my botany partners and I first found it. We have now mapped at least half a dozen areas where it occurs, some well-populated and others sparse. Knowing that it grows only on a few types of sedge has helped narrow our searches. At this location which we refer to as "Site A" (the only one currently snow-free), I found 40-60 cups on Wednesday. The largest two were approximately 15 mm in diameter.

Arcyria Celebrates Pride

Day 254: Deep in our Pacific Northwest forests, our sight is overwhelmed by greens and browns. Subtle colour are subsumed, lost in the confusion of verdant hues and shadows. The environment here is painted with a broad brush, one shade blending into another as it translates from the eye to the brain. Unless an object is vivid or obviously out of place, it does not register as distinct from the palette even at close range. The camera is not so easily fooled, and although while I was kneeling beside this bit of rotten wood, I would have described it as a generic "brown," the wide-open lens registered a pastel rainbow surrounding the slime mold which was the focus of my attention: Arcyria obvelata celebrating Pride Month with its own microcosmic parade.

Tarzetta Cupularis' Return

Day 253: Some of my readers may recall that last year around this time, I found an odd little cup fungus which, with the help of experts, I finally identified as Tarzetta cupularis (Elf Goblet or Grey Goblet). It is rare in Washington and perhaps elsewhere, and in fact is only known from three locations in the state, two of which are in Pierce County: this site where it was found by me in 2020, and Pack Forest where it was found in 1987. The species is rather small, as you can see by comparing it to the fir needles in the photo, and even though I had marked its spot with my GPS, I knew I'd have my work cut out for me trying to find it again this year. I've had my eye on the site for a month now, making passes through as I search for slime molds. Until yesterday, I had had no luck. It's possible I overlooked these two specimens earlier because they were roughly 15 feet from my previous find. That discovery suggests that the mycorrhiza extends at least that far, but a further hands-and-knees search of a 20'-diameter circle failed to yield up any others. Tarzetta cupularis is not known for growing in large clusters, but rather as individuals or low-number groupings. Two is cause for celebration!

Supposedly Self-Fertile

Day 252: Should Hardy Kiwi "Issai" prove to be self-fertile (as it is purported to be), I will have enough thumb-sized kiwi berries to feed an army. However, in the three or four years I have cultivated the vines, they have yet to produce a single fruit, nor have I been able to detect pollen on the anthers. In an attempt to solve this problem, I planted a pair (male and female) of an unspecified variety on the advice of a professional horticulturist. The idea is that the male will pollinate both its partner and Issai. That said, the new pair will not bloom this year, so if Issai produces any fruits at all, they will validate the claim that it is self-fertile. If I can detect pollen on any of its hundreds of flowers, you can trust that I'll be out there with my little paintbrush assisting with the natural process which so far has proved quite literally unfruitful.

Botanicals And A Friend

Day 251: Emboldened by my modest success at drawing recognizable bird species, I have been working on botanicals most recently, trying to be as scientifically accurate as coloured pencils will allow. I've also done a few with graphite pencil, and while I feel that the medium allows me to capture more detail, the temptation to add colour is strong. That said, it's not always about science. The gooseberries (center left) were a bit of whimsy, sketched while sitting in a lawn chair in the Berry Pen. The California poppy (top right) is even more whimsical, and my first real attempt at using watercolours instead of watercolour pencils. I resisted the impulse to outline the plant in ink, a break from my usual style. Top left, you see Buckhorn (Plantago lanceolata), a weed everyone recognizes but can't name. Like the Columbine ("Black Barlow," lower left) and the Honeysuckle (Lonicera), it was a specimen plucked from my yard. And then of course we have Stemonitis middle right. It is a slime mold...not a plant, not an animal, not a fungus, so technically not belonging in this collection at all, but it was the very first Stemonitis I've found and therefore merited a degree of artistic immortality. I mean, what's not to like about slime molds?

From Tower Hill

Day 250: You don't get many scenic views in Pack Forest. Managed by the University of Washington's forestry college, its full name is "Charles L. Pack Experimental Forest." In other words, it's all about trees: types of tree, growing methods, thinning methods, designing better ways to produce the quantity of lumber-on-the-hoof humans demand. Yes, there are a few spots where they've clear-cut, scalped a hillside right down to the soil, creating an environment where the first colonizers will be foxglove, tansy and other nasty weeds. Overlooking one of those and its incumbent stump field, you may have a small and unappealing window on Eatonville, but more likely, you'll be looking out across more forest...second growth, third growth...because forest products are what Washington grows best. Rarely, as you round a bend on one of Pack's roads, you'll get a glimpse of mountains in the distance (the Olympics, most likely), and even more rarely, a shoulder of the Mountain...you know, the one we talk about with a capital letter. I only know one spot (and believe me, I have hiked all of Pack's trails and roads) where you have a clear line of sight to Mount Rainier, and it's not from the very peak of the cell-phone tower hill, no. You have to slope off down its east shoulder a tenth of a mile or so in order to have an unobstructed view. No one goes down here. No one comes up either, even though a rudimentary horse trail attains the ridge from the north side, thick with brush which is nearly impenetrable. This was my goal on Wednesday: a nice spot to enjoy a handful of chocolate-chip cookies before plodding back to my car, but as it turned out, this finger ridge was the only place where I was pestered by flies during the nine-mile hike. I snapped the picture hastily and beat a retreat to a cooler, shadier spot to enjoy my little lunch.

Stemonitis Axifera

 

Day 249: The highlight of Thursday's nine-mile hike was not a grand, sweeping vista, a waterfall, a pristine lake. Those are fine for "destination" hikers to pursue, but I prefer the scenery of a much smaller scale. Since discovering and identifying my first slime mold roughly five years ago, I have been hunting for any species of Stemonitis, carefully examining rotting wood and leaf litter for its distinctive thin-stalked and clustered sporangia. I had found Stemonitopsis (a genus with similar morphological features), but not Stemonitis. Perhaps I was looking in all the wrong places, perhaps my eye simply wasn't tuned to its scale because the genus was reputed to occur relatively commonly. Was I overlooking it? I found that hard to believe, given the amount of time I spend examining the microcosm in which slime molds grow. Earlier in the day, I had found some Ceratiomyxa and was thinking that I should be content with that. However, after nodding to it appeciatively on my return route, I went on a tenth of a mile or so and then stepped off trail again to check another rotten log. "Nothing to see here," I said, but as I turned, a small brown outgrowth caught my eye. "Hang on a mo'...is that Stemonitis? Oh, I've found Stemonitis! Stemonitis! Oh, you little beauties!" Tucked into a crack on the south-facing surface, two groupings of Stemonitis were standing side by side, a third smaller and oldeer group a few inches to their left. The next fifteen minutes were spent angling around with the camera to try to get a clear image, cursing the sunfleck lighting which kept going from deep shadow to bright glare as a breeze moved leaves overhead. A party of hikers passed me by, no doubt curious about what I was photographing but not so inquisitive as to ask. Their destination, after all, had been any or all of the three waterfalls along this same trail, not some piece of rotten wood half-concealed by prickly salmonberry bushes. I doubt they felt a tenth of the excitement at the falls as I was experiencing upon finding a 5 mm diameter brown spot on a deteriorating log. That characteristic...growing on a substrate of rotting wood...as well as its other physical attributes helped me sort out my find as Stemonitis axifera, one of the more common "chocolate tube" slime molds.

Worth More Than Two

Day 248: They say, "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush." Nope, that's wrong. This right here is worth more than all the gold in Midas' hoard. It's taken several days and a lot of tries to accustom the Porch Parrots to the shiny silver point-and-shoot Sony in my right hand, can of seeds tucked under my arm on the same side. This fellow flew a couple of circles around me before deciding it was safe to land, but once there, he seemed content to stay. Eventually, I moved the hand closer to the feeder and nudged him gently onto the tray, then proceeded to lift the lid to fill it. Did he budge? Nope. Either he was very hungry (not likely!) or he feels confident that the Bringer of Food means no harm to Parrots. Even the sound of a sunflower seed cascade didn't bother him.

Maximum Occupancy

Day 247: At least one of the Tree Swallow kids fledged yesterday, for a while flying with Mom even as she returned to the House of Chirp to feed the two siblings who remained inside. Frequently, Mom presented an empty beak to the hungry youngster at the door, her way of saying, "If you want lunch, you'll have to fix it yourself." Only when the little ones' cheeping grew insistent would she deliver a bug. This is how it works. I've observed this sequence of behaviour every year of the last thirty. Only once was a fledgling too pudgy to fit through the door. He eventually made it, albeit with a great deal of struggling, and when I took the House down to clean, I enlarged the opening ever so slightly with a rasp. That said, baby swallows are not supposed to return to the nest once they've fledged, and I suppose that technically, Fledge #1 didn't..."technically" being the operative word in this sentence.

Tree Swallow parents continue to feed fledglings on the wing for a few days, but after flying around with Mom for a while, Fledge #1 seemed to think he was getting the short end of the bargain. He decided to roost on the peak of the roof, begging with open mouth as Mom returned. He stayed there for at least an hour, Mom mostly confining her feedings to the two kids still inside. Then it was almost as if a cartoon lightbulb came on over his head: "If you're outside, you don't get fed. If you're inside, you do." When I looked out the window next, there were two heads sticking out of the House of Chirp. Smart little Fledge #1 had popped inside the mother-in-law unit which has never, ever in thirty years had a bird inside it! And there he remained overnight, safe and snug. An hour and a half past dawn this morning, he popped out to fly with Mom as she resumed her efforts to extract the two youngsters still inside the main living space.

Weather Humour

Day 246: I don't stand staring at the monitor for my weather station. I check it every day, record the highs, lows, precipitation and peak wind speed, and make appropriate notes on a paper graph of any significant event such as hail or a thundershower. I've been following this same routine for almost 50 years now using a succession of stations. Until yesterday, none had made me laugh out loud.

Yesterday morning was cloudy, giving way around noon to some sun. It was a pleasant day until late afternoon when in the span of a brief fifteen minutes, the skies turned dark and threatening. The beginnings of a squall shook the leaves of the Japanese maple, set the Mountain-ash to trembling. The Grosbeaks beat for cover, as if they could anticipate what would next occur. Suddenly, a torrent spilled from the grey overhead, so violent that after two or three minutes, my curiosity kicked in. I stood up from working on a jigsaw puzzle and stepped over to the weather station, observing that in those few moments, almost a quarter of an inch of rain had fallen. As I started to move away, the display changed to read, "Its raining cats n dogs." Even as I did a comedic double-take, it switched back to its customary verbiage. The downpour was beginning to abate, but continued until the display had cycled through "cats n dogs" a few more times, long enough for me to grab the camera to record the delightful weather "Easter egg" Davis had included in their software. I'm just surprised I hadn't seen it before in the year and a half I've owned this particular model.

Hand-fed Grosbeak

Day 245: Although they have so far been reluctant to come to my left hand when I have the point-and-shoot camera in my right, several Evening Grosbeaks (both males and females) have accepted seed either by remaining perched on the tray of the feeder while picking it up from my palm, or allowing me to lift them onto my fingers and down to a position which doesn't tax my shoulder muscles. One female may have imprinted on me as the Bringer of Food. She followed me across the road to the mailbox and back again, taking sunflower seeds from my hand for several minutes as I stood in the yard. This is a privilege few people experience. It's one thing to have a Canada Jay steal crackers during a hiking rest break, and a step up from that, to have Chickadees accept your offerings. To have a species less acclimatized to humans eat from your hand (and more than one individual!)...well, that's like finding a rare orchid in the Back of Beyond.

It's A Big, Big World

Day 244: There's been lots of activity at the doorway of the House of Chirp over the last few days, both parents flying in with tasty bugs to lure the kids up from the nest cup for their first look at the big, big world. And once the youngsters have seen Mom flying, their curiosity draws them to peek out time and again, siblings jostling for the prime position. "Where does she go? How does Dad catch bugs? Oh, it's a long way down!" The parents perch on the power line, calling to the kids. "Come on, you can do it!" It won't be long now before this brood takes wing. The little ones' gapes are still yellow, their head feathers dark grey. The gape colouration will change over the next two weeks, although the parents will still feed them on the wing for a while. Their feathers will grow stronger and take on the iridescent sheen of purple and green as melanin is activated, although much of what we humans perceive as feather "colour" is actually due to the microscopic structures within the feathers themselves, and not to the pigment. Within a month, the kids will look just like their parents, but a practiced eye may be able to pick out youngsters by their behaviour. After all, kids will be kids, even little birds.

Damn Yellow Daisies

Day 243: Birders have their LBJs and LGBs (Little Brown Jobs and Little Grey Birds). Botanists have DPDs and DYDs...Damn Purple Daisies and Damn Yellow Daisies, respectively. The latter is sometimes expressed as DYC, the terminal word being "Composites." The acronym is pronounced "Dicks," which gives a sense of the frustration felt by anyone attempting to identify one of its members.

Seen in the corner of my eye, I was about to dismiss this DYD as common hawksbeard (Crepis), but one of the lesser deities of botany was on duty and and grabbed me by the ears before I could walk past. "Leaf," I said, the subconscious observation rising to the surface of my thoughts. "Linear? What the heck...? Aaaaaagggghhhh! DYD!" Only then did I notice that what I had initially taken for abundant ray flowers were in fact far fewer petals, each having three distinct lobes. If I had thought about it at the time, that would have given me a clue because I've seen a much smaller cousin, but I turned to my field guides and Hitchcock as soon as I got the photos out of the camera. I pinned it as Madia almost immediately, but then had the task of sorting out which one. I was guided by leaf shape, number of ray/disk flowers and a hairy involucre to settle on Madia sativa, aka Coast or Chilean Tarweed. Despite the misleading nature of the common name, it is native to the area.

Plectritis Congesta

Day 242: As long as I was already in Rimrock County Park on a Sanicula hunt, I thought I'd check on the...um...uh-oh...the word is in there somewhere...that pink thing up on the knob. Maybe it's because it's pink, or maybe it's because I've only found it in one location, but the name "Plectritis congesta" doesn't want to stick between my ears, nor "Sea-blush," because the aforementioned location is significantly inland of any salt water. How it came to grow on top of an exposed rocky knob where little else but Scotch broom has put down roots is a mystery to me, but this is one of the things I enjoy about hiking in Rimrock. Owned by the county, the park is undeveloped. Evidence suggests that it was clear-cut many years in the past, but even as second or third growth, the acreage offers a good variety of "pocket ecologies." I've found several plants there which I have not seen elsewhere, including Sanicula crassicaulis, Erythronium oregonum and a DYD ("Damn Yellow Daisy") which will be the subject of tomorrow's post. Lots of "bunny-trails" lead off the main path, established by deer and going nowhere in particular, as tangled as a plate of spaghetti. There are no broad views, although if you know where to stand, you can get a glimpse of the Rimrocks, and even through a screen of alder foliage, they're an impressive sight. But even so, I seldom hike for the broad view. My preferred "scenery" seldom exceeds a foot and a half in height. Plectritis tops out at about eight inches, a pink Marine buzz on a rounded pate of exposed rock. That's worth challenging a few nettles to see.

It Started With Sanicula

Day 241: Earlier this year while hiking in Rimrock County Park, I found some odd foliage I couldn't identify. I referred it to my two tame experts, Arnie and David Giblin at the Burke Herbarium. They both identified it as Sanicula crassicaulis, and left it to me to determine the subspecies (var. crassicaulis). David said, "And be sure you get pictures of the flowers when it blooms." That was my project for yesterday: find a bloomin' Sanicula. I think David must have been having a quiet little chuckle, knowing what was ahead of me. I hadn't gone far up the trail when I spotted the familiar leaf. A few tall stems rose above the foliage, terminating in what I took to be seed capsules. As I continued on, I was kicking myself for not having made the trip in late May, thinking that the petals had already dropped, but then noticed a tiny fleck of yellow on another inflorescence. "Hang on a mo'," I said aloud. "Is that the freakin' flower?" What I'd seen earlier were buds. A hand lens would have been nice to have at this particular juncture, but no one had warned me. I put my eye right down on the yellow bits and discovered that yes indeed, the Sanicle panicle displays a number of tiny corymbs, all in a space no larger than the pink of your thumbnail. I'm trying to work that into a poem to drop on David as my revenge.

Contraption Connection

Day 240: It didn't take me long to figure out that the book charkha really wasn't designed to accommodate plying, i.e., twisting two strands of spun cotton together to make a heavier, stronger thread, but I figured that since it had a built-in "lazy Kate," it should serve some purpose. Several attempts with the parts in various positions only resulted in tangled or broken threads, and YouTube was no help at all. I spoke with the seller and was told that my original assumption was correct, that the charkha was meant to spin singles. Therefore, it was up to me to devise a way to achieve a two-ply thread. I tried putting the tahklis in separate tall glasses. The threads still tangled and broke, and in the process of trying to untangle them, I impaled my hand with one of the points. Then I tried using a test-tube drying rack. That worked somewhat better, and although this solution was improved even further by the addition of twisted wires to hold the tahklis in place, it was still far from perfect. Then it occurred to me that perhaps I was approaching the problem from the wrong side. Maybe I didn't need a different "lazy Kate." Maybe what I needed was a different means of controlling the single threads.

My Louët wheel (standard spinning wheel) does not spin fast enough to spin a cotton single, even when geared at its lowest tension. It was designed to spin wool or other long fibers. However, when threads are plied, the direction of spin is reversed, an action which to some minor degree "un-spins" each single. It occurred to me that this might be exactly what I wanted for a plied cotton thread: minimal untwist. With some degree of trepidation at the thought of possibly ruining my hard work, I set two tahklis up in the charkha's "lazy Kate" and hooked them up to the Louët. After spinning a few inches, you might have heard me shout, "Yes! Perfect!" when I realized my connection of contraptions was producing the exact result I'd wanted. Necessity, they say, is the mother of invention. Move over, Rube Goldberg.

There Is Absolutely Nothing...

Day 239: My friends have heard the phrase countless times, but I'm going to say it again: There is nothing...absolutely nothing!...cuter than baby birds. I had gone out to make another delivery of black-oil seed to the Porch Parrots and as I stepped slowly down the sidewalk, this little mosquito darted out from under the Hellebore with a parent right behind. The yellow gape told me he was barely fledged. The white tailfeather said, "I'm a Dark-eyed Junco." The streaks might have fooled me but for the presence of Mama and that glint of white. We engaged in social niceties for a few minutes even as the Parrots were getting testy (their young are now coming to the feeders with them) and then I shuffled cautiously forward. The little guy flew up, landed in the driveway where he was almost perfectly camouflaged against the rocks. I went back in the house via the kitchen and came out through the front door for the photo op. Then I wanted to be sure Freckles didn't head out toward the road, so I edged around until he flew to safety, first to the raspberries where he'd last seen mom and then into the protection of the contorted filbert. I'm sure mom was already in the thicket of trunks presently hidden by a full complement of leaves. Baby birds! Little Grosbeaks doing tremble-wingies, begging to be fed, a chorus of little bitty peeps and cheeps deep in the House of Chirp, and now a baby Junco. My life is so rich!

Goldenseal, Hydrastis Canadensis

Day 238: Goldenseal (Hydrastis canadensis) is reputed to offer a number of health benefits and as a medicinal plant is at risk from over-collecting despite the fact that collection of wild Goldenseal is prohibited by law. I purchased two nursery-raised starts thirty years ago, and today my Goldenseal patch looks the best it has ever done. Until it was listed as endangered, it was commonly dug for the saffron-yellow roots which give it its common name, but even if collection was confined to gathering the leaves, the species would still be in jeopardy. You see, each root produces a single stem which bears a pair of leaves, and that's it. That's all you get: two leaves on each plant, period. I am very judicious with regard to harvesting from my specimens, taking only a few tips from the lobes of any given leaf. Later, as the berries ripen and the photosynthetic process is drawing to a close, I may go back and again take tips from the remaining lobes, but never from every lobe of one leaf. This procedure has allowed my plants to flourish and multiply to the lush bed you see in the photo. Hydrastis belongs to the same family as buttercups and exhibits many of the same habitat preferences. Even though I dug out a thick patch of buttercups to give it a nice home in my garden, they still pop up from time to time to keep it company.

Ready To Roll On Weeds

Day 237: Once again this year, the Invasive Plant Council honoured me with an award for being one of their top three volunteers. I was asked to pick my prize from one of three items, and opted for a Patagonia "Black Hole" day-pack worth (gasp!) $129. It has convenient sleeves in the interior to hold various small items, one of which will be used to contain the brochures I hand out to land managers when appropriate. I've already put in several patrols this year. While I can't exactly claim to enjoy finding invasive species, having my time and effort recognized in this fashion softens the aggravation and annoyance of discovering large patches of Yellow Archangel, acres of Knapweed and patches of Poison Hemlock or concentrations of any of the other "baddies" on the state's blacklist. I treat them when possible: pulling, digging out or clipping seed heads as recommended for each individual species, or if the situation is obviously beyond the scope of one person's ability to handle, filing a report with EDDMapS for referral up the chain. Say 'bye-bye,' you weeds! Crow is coming to get you.

Botanical Drawing

Day 236: After many attempts which I wouldn't even show to my cat, I think I am gaining some skill in botanical drawing. I am finding that using graphite pencils allows me to include more detail, and although the temptation to add colour is strong, I am unsure how to effect it in a manner which will preserve the clarity of a plant's intricate morphology, i.e., those features which allow a botanist to separate one species from another. I chose Geranium robertianum...pesky, invasive Stinky Bob...for my subject because it was readily available and because I wanted something fairly easy for my first serious rendering. The leaves began to wilt even before I'd set the vase on the table beside me, and not long after, the blossom began to droop. Although I captured the flower in one go, the leaves had to be replenished before I could continue. Botanical drawing is very time-consuming, and I was not bothering with measurements for this first study. Perhaps I will map out future illustrations with scientific accuracy; for now, I was content to just get it on paper, hairy stems and all.

One Log, Two Arcyria Species

Day 235: After mistakenly identifying a specimen in the field (obvious to me once I got the photo up on the screen), I decided I was going to have to put a sample under the microscope. I made a second trip up to the site to collect some of the material, and lifted a small bit of what I assumed to be older: darker, expended sporocarps presenting capillitial filaments. Using a darkfield microscope at 1000x, I was able to observe the "cogs and half-rings" typical of Arcyria denudata and thought I had it nailed. However, upon seeing my photo of the lighter coloured sporocarps, a slime mold expert asked if I had considered A. obvelata. I defended my identification by citing the visible cogs I had observed on the capillitial filaments under the 'scope. That night, I did not sleep well, plagued by a nagging feeling that maybe there had been more than one species of Arcyria on that log, and what I had thought was older by virtue of its colour might in fact not be the same as the tan specimen. The following morning, I downed a second cup of coffee and headed out the door to collect another sample. What I saw under the 'scope confirmed that the lighter of the two was indeed A. obvelata. Its capillitial threads resembled rock candy, and the spores were 1-2 microns larger than those I'd observed from the first specimen. As a botanist, I should have known better than to take a sample from one specimen and a photograph of another, even one which was in very close proximity! As I studied the sample of A. obvelata under 1000x magnification, I was delighted to find a section which hadn't shed quite all of its spores on my kitchen table. In the top right photo, the circle on the left shows spores still attached to the capillitial strands.

What A Difference A Day Makes!

Day 234: How does that old song go? "What a difference a day makes! 24 little hours..." When you're a specimen of Tubifera ferruginosa (Raspberry Tube slime mold), this is the time frame for your reproductive phase. Once Tubifera had depleted the tasty bacterial food source on this rotten log, it began to sporulate. Its plasmodium extended sporocarps, closely packed together to form the pinkish-orange mounds we filmed on Wednesday. Within 24 hours, many of the aethalia had ripened and had turned black, indicating that they were ready to release their spores. These photos show the difference, and emphasize the great good fortune the film crew had in being in the right place at the right time. In another few days, Tubifera will have literally gone to dust, its days as a film star over.

Slime Mold Hunters

Day 233: The Oregon Field Guide team called it a wrap late yesterday afternoon after a full day of searching for slime molds in a half-mile stretch of trailless woods. Here, cinematographer Stephanie focuses a Probe lens on a colony of Tubifera ferruginosa while producer Ian checks her framing of the shot. We were able to add three more species to the documentary: Tubifera ferruginosa (the orange patches in the lower right of the image), Arcyria denudata and Trichia decipiens, the latter two also new to the species inventory of this property. We also found many more examples of Lycogala epidendrum and Ceratiomyxa fruticulosa. Our total of five species was more than I'd expected, and I don't know who was more delighted when both members of the crew made their own discoveries unassisted by me. Ian was a little disappointed that we failed to find the infamous and fairly common Fuligo septica. "I never thought I'd hear myself say this," he told me, laughing. "I really wanted to find Dog-vomit."

Ceratiomyxa's Starring Role

Day 232: Yesterday marked the first day that I worked with the film crew from Oregon Field Guide for a segment featuring slime molds. I was rather concerned that the stars of the show would fail to appear, because only last Friday, I went on a concerted search for slimes in the area and found nothing but a collapsed colony of Lycogala epidendrum. It didn't bode well. When I arrived at our meeting location, the cinematographer (Stephanie) was already there and had begun getting her gear out. I took advantage of the time we had before Ian was due to arrive to explore the immediate area, and was delighted when I found a large patch of Ceratiomyxa fruticulosa var. poroides, perhaps my favourite of all slime molds. I reported back to Stephanie that the team wouldn't have to return to Portland skunked. After Ian arrived, they moved their gear to the site and we began filming. I seized a moment while Stephanie was using a Probe lens to capture this photo of her and Ceratiomyxa. We found a small grouping of Lycogala nearby, providing a second species for the documentary. Later in the day, we picked a quiet spot in the woods for the "interview" portion of the segment where Ian and Stephanie both grilled me with questions about slime molds and my interest in them. Today, we resume our search in a different spot. Wish us luck!

A New Challenge

Day 231: Birds are one thing. Botanical art is another, and although I want to be as accurate in my representations as possible in both subjects, plants are infinitely more difficult to portray. Petals/tepals and stamens must be counted, leaf form must be scrupulously observed. Does the leaf clasp the stem? Is it serrated? Notched? Are the stems glabrous or pubescent? Colour and shading are the least of your worries when you're trying to draw a plant with scientific accuracy. Maybe that's why so much botanical art is done in pencil or pen. In fact, I have been hesitant to add colour for fear of losing important detail, but at this point, my detailing skills are marginal, so I'm hiding my sins beneath a wash of pigment. For now, I am content to show the plant in its proper genus; species is going to take a lot more work. (Clockwise from the left: Paeonia, Lamprocapnos, Rhipsalidopsis, Centaurea).