Fruits Rejected by Robins

Day 345: Military MREs ("Meals Ready to Eat") are often jokingly called "Meals Rejected by Everyone." The avian version of that is FRR, "Fruits Rejected by Robins." Although Mountain-ash berries are a favourite with both the Robins and the Cedar Waxwings, these apparently aren't ready yet. Half a dozen appraisers showed up yesterday, sampled the fare of both trees from top and bottom, and flew off in disgust. They like 'em a bit on the winy side, the little drunks, and we're not there yet. We need a few cold nights to soften the pulp and raise the sugar content before they'll begin to ferment. That said, for the last several years, the Waxwings have failed to show, and currently, the Birdcast Migration Dashboard doesn't show them in the area. I'm sure the robins are up to the task of ensuring that my driveway is berry-free, but I do wish the Waxwings would come. Happy Autumn, folks!

A Favourite Autumn Walk

Day 4: Nisqually-Mashell State Park affords recreational opportunities to a variety of users including dog-walkers, horseback riders, bicyclists and hikers. None of its trails is particularly demanding insofar as altitude gain is concerned, but many are brushy and overgrown and not frequently used. One of my favourite autumn walks takes me down an old dirt road, first through a mixed forest of evergreen and deciduous trees, then opening out into stands of young alder and eventually returning to the mix as the "trail" debouches onto the Nisqually River. The changes of colour are rung through deep greens and golds with occasional accent notes in red when the vine maples are of a mind to put on their best performance. Regardless of the season, it is at this point, roughly halfway to the river, that I invariably pause and say aloud, "...stopping by the woods on a snowy evening..." because it speaks to me of the eastern forests I visited a decade ago. The play of light and shadow changes quickly here, in one moment concealing and in the next revealing the bright caps of mushrooms in their season, or the jewels of salmonberry flowers and fruit in the burgeoning spring. It is not a country whose interior one would care to attempt to penetrate. It is too tangled, too wild, too full of angry sticks and crotchety thorns to offer welcome to a well-intentioned visitor. Yet still, my eyes wander beyond the margins of the road in search of botanical bounty, my adventuresome spirit wondering if a balance could be struck 'twixt pain and gain were I to spot a treasure beyond the reach of my fingers or lens. Not even deer go aside here, passage through the twiggy maze restricted to agile squirrels, nimble bunnies and other small scurrying mammals, a habitat in which they may revel in safety from predators. The human, casual interloper, is contained by Nature.

Shaggy Soup From Coprinus Corner

Day 363: I had the most delicious lunch from Coprinus Corner, my favourite spot in chswnekdisneld... "What's that, Crow? I didn't quite catch what you said." No, you didn't, nor am I likely to repeat it anywhere within the hearing of a friend of a friend of a friend who might possibly be the friend of a mushroomer. Knowledge of the locations of good mushrooming spots requires a security clearance which makes "maximum" look downright lax. I discovered Coprinus Corner some time back while exploring a disused trail for no other reason than I wanted to see where it wound up. I nearly tripped over a substantial colony of Shaggymanes growing smack in the middle of the path. Because it was autumn, I had a "perhaps bag" in my pack and the hope of chanterelles in my heart. I wasn't even thinking about Shaggys, my favourite soup 'shroom. Judicious harvesting practices have ensured the health of the patch, but this year, it went over the top with respect to production. I easily left at least half of what was available and choice when I gathered these, never mind the ones which had started to ink along the lower margin. There were many more buttons just barely peeping through the soil. Even so, this collection was sufficient to make two large bowls of Shaggy Soup, thick with mushroom bits.

Quercus Garryana

Day 8: Although I dearly love living among the evergreens, there are a few things I miss from the days when my home was on one of Southwest Washington's prairies, notably Camas and Garry Oak (Quercus, garryana, aka Oregon White Oak). Unlike some of its cousins, Garry does not colour up red in autumn; however, it turns a lovely shade of warm brown which is very pleasing to the eye. The acorn of this species is about twice as long as it is wide and contains a smallish nut which can be ground into flour or eaten after soaking in plain water to remove the tannins. That said, they are a favourite with the squirrels, so you don't often find them on the ground.

October Wow

Day 358: Wow! "Mount Wow," that is. The name was derived from a native-language word meaning "mountain goat," and applies to a massif on the western boundary of the Park which is prime goat habitat. Foreshortened here by my proximity to the trees, Mount Wow rises abruptly to 5921' from the Westside Road and has been the source of many damaging rockfalls. The constant scouring of its slopes by rock and avalanche keeps vegetation at a minimum with the exception of dense groves of pioneering vine maple (Acer circinatum). If Mount Wow's towering face wasn't enough to make you say "Wow!" then the maples in a "red year" such as this certainly would.

"Red years" only occur when certain climatological criteria are met, and what those criteria are remains a mystery to me. Prolonged dryness is one factor, but by itself, it is not enough to trigger a red year. Sometimes after a summer drought, I have seen these trees go from sickly yellow directly to dead brown. On other occasions, they transition through a feeble pink without ever achieving their full red potential. Nor is it cyclic, although glorious, full-blown red years occur roughly one in five. This year, the slopes of Mount Wow are aflame with maple fire, a delight for the eyes even in the absence of goats.

Fall Colour

Day 355: I half-expected to see little pockets of frost in the yard when I stepped out onto the back porch and felt the chill in the morning, but if it was there, it eluded my eye. That said, a few things are starting to colour up and seed pods are bursting, ready to be harvested for next year's planting. Autumn is not the end, but rather the beginning of a new gardening season, the time when potential is paramount in the gardener's mind. It is a time of evaluation and planning, identifying what needs lifting, what needs moving, what might go here or there to give shade or to eliminate it. Autumn's advice must be heeded. What worked well? What did not? In pulling out the nasturtiums, I discovered that they had saved my other plants from attack by black aphids. A boon, perhaps? Or in a garden where they had only ever been a problem on marigolds, were they drawn to the nasturtiums, there to breed and lay eggs? Whatever the case, a lesson was learned under Autumn's tutelage. There will be no more nasturtiums for me!

Pinnacle Peak Trail

Day 353: The trail to Pinnacle Peak saddle isn't long (only 1.3 miles), but it gains about 1200' in elevation, approximately half of that on terrain similar to what you see here in this photo. The more ambitious hiker can continue on to Pinnacle's summit, a class 3 scramble I've done half a dozen times, but now consider foolhardy given my age. My late husband always refused to attempt it, and would stay at the saddle watching with trepidation as I spider-walked my way up what from his vantage point looked like a vertical pitch. Up was never an issue with me, but down was sometimes worrisome. On one notable occasion, he was joined by another Park visitor, a woman whose concern for my well-being inspired her to ask Bruce, "Is she NUTS?" Bruce assured her that yes, I was definitely certifiable.

Today, however, I contented myself with going up and over the saddle and out as far as I could follow a fading social trail to the west. The day was beautifully serene until on my return, I sat down behind a roll of terrain to have my lunch. I'd only been there fifteen minutes or so when a pair of loud-mouthed young women shattered the perfect silence with a conversation better suited to social media than to the backcountry. I think (and this grieves me terribly) that the possibility of solitude in the Park is now beyond the reach of my aging legs and hips. There was a time, though, when I could imagine that I shared the whole 235,000 acres with nothing but the wildlife. For a few minutes today, I recaptured that feeling as a raven spoke his secrets to me and uttered a call to adventure which, sadly, I could not answer, "Lead, and I will follow you."

Myco-Forensics

Day 327: Acting on a tip given to me by a floral friend last spring (and by that, dear readers, I mean that a little plantie told me), I stopped by ... cough ... excuse me, something in my throat ... this noontime in the hopes of discovering a new "gold panning" location, i.e., a chanterelle spot, and I was not disappointed. Okay, it took me 45 minutes to gather enough for a decent fry-up to accompany tonight's menu of chicken, but I left lots of buttons to grow up into bigger chanterelles. Better yet, I really doubt anyone else would think to hunt them at this site even if they could figure out how to access it. It's not that it's difficult to reach, but you have to know how. As for my botanical benefactor, I am not at liberty to give a name. In the science of myco-forensics, secrets must be closely guarded.

I Love Autumn, Warts And All

Day 13: If you asked me to name my favourite season, I would answer "Autumn" without the slightest hesitation. Certainly it is a time when storms may keep me pinned down at home, but even torrential downpours and the howl of wind have a lyrical quality to them. When they lift and the freshly washed sky again leaps overhead, it has an intensity of blue not seen at any other time of year. Autumn is the season of jewel-tones, rich colors which enfold the visual sense in their warmth, and nothing says "autumn" quite so clearly to me as a bowlful of festive gourds.

My gardening season is too short by a good third to be able to grow these otherwise useless cucurbits, so I buy them in a departure from my accustomed thriftiness. They won't dry properly in this climate, so in a few weeks when they begin to mold, I'll resign them to the compost pile as I tell myself I've gotten my money's worth from the pleasure they gave during their brief span as objets d'art. After all, a bowlful of gourds doesn't cost as much as a movie, and it lasts longer (a feeble justification, but one which has served me in good stead in other matters as well). In their rustic charm lies a reminder for those stormy days when I long to be out hiking: Autumn is beautiful, warts and all.

Autumn Splendor

Day 7: Unlike the vibrant shades of red and orange which make New England famous for fall color, a good year in the Pacific Northwest sees a transition largely in the range of yellows and golds. For the most part, autumn is an almanac of browns: umber, ochre, tan, buff, sienna, khaki, coffee, mahogany and on through a thousand shades too subtle for the eye to name. That is not to say it is a dull season, because when the sun breaks through and the Mountain peers over the tops of burnished evergreens and sere pasturelands, the landscape is gilded with copper and shimmers where it is laid against a pale aqua sky.