A Landmark Weed

Day 326: They say that desperate times call for desperate measures, and so it was that I pulled Hitchcock off the shelf after an hour of browsing through pretty pictures of plants in the hope of getting lucky. I had a problem. The cause of my consternation was a weed, and therefore unlikely to appear in any field guide with "wildflower" in the title. Nor could I find it in any of my customary sources for descriptions of invasives; therefore it was probably a "weed of no concern" despite its abundance on an island in the middle of the Tilton River. As such, it had issued a challenge in the character of its three-fingered glove, and the geas was upon me to name it. There was no other option but Hitchcock in such a desperate time.

Now you might be wondering at my hesitance to dive into a dichotomous key. I am ashamed to admit that my past experience with keying out species runs rather backwards to the recommended procedure, working in reverse from a point where I can say, "Well, it can't be that." In this case, I had no such point of reference. The only thing I could say for certain about the mystery weed was that it belonged to the Fabaceae, the family of peas. That signature was in the morphology of its flower and in its distinctive leaf arrangement. I opened Hitchcock to "Fabaceae" and settled in for the siege. Fortunately, my photos had captured all the necessary details, and within a substantially shorter time than I'd expected, I had identified Melilotus albus, aka "white sweet-clover." I was so proud of myself that I immediately shot an email off to Arnie to let him know that Hitchcock and I had finally made friends with each other. Arnie's congratulation came with a qualifier of which I am equally proud: "Now you're a real botanist." Inspired by a weed! Whodathunkit?

Common Merganser, Mergus Merganser

Day 325: One of the many things I enjoy about kayaking is that it gives me the opportunity to observe waterfowl and shore bird species. At this same location several years ago, I saw a Spotted Sandpiper and was hoping that another one might be patrolling the shingle, but what I found instead was a group of five or six young Common Mergansers diving among the weeds in the shallows. They were quite active, and as soon as one made a dip, the others would follow, with the whole group often disappearing beneath the surface of the water and then popping back up en masse amid much splashing. I could not tell what they were eating, but young mergansers are only modestly discriminating. They will consume weed, invertebrates or tadpoles, although as they mature, they graduate to a diet of fish. Fry were plentiful in a nearby part of the river, but the aquatic weeds were too thick here for me to see what had attracted the birds. I watched them for fifteen minutes or so, entertained by their synchronous display of diving skills which, if not quite perfect, should have earned them a prize in their class.

Tilton Paddle

 

Day 324: Although this trip has been in the planning for the last couple of weeks, I had not realized that four years had passed since the last time I paddled the Tilton Canyon. Accessed via Ike Kinswa State Park, the route begins where the Tilton empties into Mayfield Lake. Progressing roughly eastward for half a mile, the waterway restricts abruptly into a steep-walled, narrow canyon for a quarter mile, then to open out onto this scene where the river splits into two channels. In previous years, I've turned left here, and so I did yesterday, only to find myself blocked from further passage by a log jam another half mile up. Coming back, I rounded the point of the gravel-bar "island" and continued on my journey. A small riffle posed a challenge. I nearly succeeded in paddling through it, but the current in the last three feet was such that I could only hold my ground, despite paddling as furiously as I could. I let the flow take me back downstream fifty yards, got out on the shingle and dragged the kayak in shallower water until I was beyond the riffle. Even so, I only reached my usual turn-around point, and I ran aground where the channel was again blocked by logs. There, the island was too weedy for me to portage, and in any event, I'd only have gained a few hundred feet before another riffle would have presented a new and possibly insurmountable obstacle. I ate lunch on the island, documented invasives, and then "shot the rapids" down the little riffle to return to this basin. Then it was back to the canyon, around another small island, and home, feeling that September Morn had indeed been well-spent.

Paddling Tilton Canyon

Day 324: With yesterday being September Morn, I wanted to do something special, and although I'd determined that I wanted it to involve the kayak, when I went to bed Thursday night, I was still undecided as to where to go. Lake St. Clair was out because I'd just gone there recently, and none of our other local lakes is particularly appealing. I kept coming back to one location: Tilton Canyon, but thrifty Scot that I am (read "cheapskate"), the $10 access fee to Ike Kinswa State Park raised my hackles. In the end, the lure of the Tilton won. I mean, it's September Morn, right? That would be my gift-to-self. That said, I was not willing to pay an additional $7 to put in at the boat launch, so I put the 'yak on the cart and dragged it 100 yards through the day-use area.

The beautiful portion of Tilton Canyon is rather short, depending on where you start measuring. The true neck is only about a quarter mile in length, but in that quarter mile, the walls rise straight up and are covered with maidenhair ferns. The canyon is overhung with rich greenery (Big-Leaf Maple, mostly), and it's dark and cool and utterly enchanting. A few small trickles descend from unknown lands above, chuckling unseen in their concealed beds. At one spot, the thin veil of a scattered streamlet drops from the rocks in a hundred tiny rivulets, dashing the river's surface with the force of a torrential rainstorm a foot wide and six feet long. By mid-day, reflected sunlight casts coruscating shadows on the canyon's walls, augmented by the trembling of the maple-leaf canopy. Travelling beyond the upper end of the canyon, the river flattens out so much that navigation is tricky even in a kayak. Eventually, the explorer reaches a point where portage is mandatory. I stop here, not wanting to carry 'yak and gear over 300' of round river rocks to get to the next stretch of flat water.

Because it was September Morn and I felt I needed to serve Ma Nature in some regard, I conducted an invasive plant survey. I was pleased to see that the Japanese Knotweed and Spotted Knapweed noted two years ago has diminished and appears to be under treatment by some unknown agency. Much of the remaining Knotweed had been bent, and much of the Knapweed had been cut to remove the flowering heads. Likewise, I noted far less Buddleia, just a few small plants and one large parent bush. However, a new invader is running rampant: Jewelweed. I did not see it here two years ago; now it covers acres (literally acres!) of riparian land.

Before the day was done, I had paddled nine miles on the Tilton and Cowlitz arms, the two rivers which join to form the greater Cowlitz at Mayfield Lake. I'd found a massive beaver dam, circled several islands and put into port on two (neither much bigger than the floorplan of a modest home). I'd shared the Canyon with a beaver, several ospreys, several herons and a tolerable number of recreational boaters (one of whom bottomed out when he tried to go too far up-river). It's not easy to get away from it all on Labor Day weekend, but I think I managed pretty well.

Allow Me To Introduce You

Day 300:  While we normally think of introduced species as a bad thing (case in point, the Tansy Ragwort shown in this photo), introduction of a species can sometimes be beneficial if managed wisely. The Cinnabar Moth (Tyria jacobaeae) was introduced to Washington in 1960 as a biological control for Tansy (Senecio jacobaea). You see, these little yellow-and-black buggers are very specialized. They are predatory on members of the Senecio family almost entirely to the exclusion of any other food. When that food source dries up (i.e., they eat themselves out of house and home), the caterpillars turn cannibalistic, thereby controlling their own population.

Paddling Tilton River Canyon

Day 298: I can't tell this story without prefacing it with a rant against Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife's extortionate fee system, because it very nearly ended this adventure before it could begin. When I arrived at the "public" boat ramp (I use the word "public" with tongue firmly in cheek), I came up against a sign advising me that if I wanted to launch my little craft, it would cost me an additional $7. The extra charge was tacked onto the $35 I'd paid for my Discover Pass, a permit which apparently only allows me to sit in my car in the parking lot looking wistfully at the water. This is the second time I've encountered a surcharge when I had nothing but a $20 in my purse and was not inclined to backtrack 10-30 miles to get change. In the first place, I resent having to have a Discover Pass and/or a Northwest Forest Pass to enter the woods half a mile on either side of my home. Fortunately, I am exempt from also having to purchase a National Parks pass, or I would be restricted entirely to pavement. Luckily, I was able to track down a semi-official person in the State Park campground who pointed me at the "day use" area where I could launch my kayak free of charge, although I'd have to wheel it about 300 yards. Wheel it I did, bump-bump-bump down the concrete steps at the swimming beach. That 300 yards was harder on my shoulders than the nine miles of kayaking which followed. As for WDFW, they have got the last cent out of me they'll ever see, except for my fishing licence. The Discover Pass is a masterpiece of false advertising, and I won't make the mistake of purchasing it again.

Now for the trip...I'd heard from one of our Park volunteers that the Tilton River Canyon was a fantastic kayak trip. I had seen it from above while walking the trail, and it did indeed look very enticing with its fern-covered walls and milky blue-green water. However, walking the trail gave me little sense of how far up the river I might be able to go. I expected to get quite a bit farther than I did. After being forced to get out and walk on three occasions, about two miles up, I hit the final obstacle: a small rapids I couldn't pass without portaging the 'yak, and I could see another larger one a tenth of a mile further on.

Upon turning back, my adventure took on a different mission when I noticed Spotted Knapweed (a "hit list" invasive) on the river bar. I had my GPSr with me, so I put in to take coordinates and photos so that I could report it to the Invasive Plant Council. While trying to determine the extent of the affected area, I also discovered Buddleia, Tansy Ragwort and acres of Japanese Knotweed. When I got home, I mapped the infestation. It's all on State Park land. The one good note I can inject here is that the Tansy was being devoured by Cinnabar Moth caterpillars, a biologic control introduced a decade or two ago which has had a good success rate (but maybe not here).

Because I'd had to turn back earlier than expected, I was feeling rather disappointed. I made a couple of loops around the island opposite the swimming beach, put in at a 20' x 30' knob of rock and dirt in the middle of the river and had lunch, and then decided to do it all over again! Back up to the rapids I went, and on the second pass, I was able to find a channel which didn't require getting out and dragging the 'yak through the shallows. I also saw some whopping big fish, and was kicking myself for having left the rod behind. Oh, well. I'll have another chance before my present Discover Pass expires, and now I know how to get around that stinking surcharge. $7 just to put a kayak in the water? Get real.