Icmadophila Ericetorum, Spray-Paint Lichen

Day 110: Invariably when the subject of lichens arises, someone will take me to task for my pronunciation of the word. Y'see, I say "litch-en" to rhyme with "itchin'" rather than "like-en," which to me is something done with careless abandon on Facebook. Webster's Third New International Dictionary (my bible) supports my usage, although admittedly it adds "chiefly British" by way of justification. It's not the only word in my vocabulary which has been influenced by proximity to Canada, but it is probably the most deeply entrenched. I've recently started countering the teasing with a riposte: "Quitcherbitchin' and call it 'litchen.'" Of course if you prefer, you could always stammer your way through the Latin names of these fascinating life forms instead. Let's start off with Icmadophila ericetorum, aka "spray-paint lichen" or "candy lichen."

Think Spring!

Day 109: Spring is coming! Of course to date we haven't had much winter in the Pacific Northwest other than a cold snap which lasted a few days in early December but here, pussywillows are a January item. The earliest varieties seem to be the cultivated types: big catkins borne close together on fat, stiff stems. The smaller wild ones won't show up until later, and they are growing increasingly hard to find. For many years, I've hunted them down, picking just a few twigs to put in a vase in honor of Spring's return. Occasionally, the slips root in water, but until a few years ago, my transplanting efforts failed. That said, I was finally successful with one of the fat-catkin varieties and planted it at the corner of my garage. For a while, it looked like I might lose it to the deer and elk, so I wrapped the lower branches with harsh plastic netting to deter them. I am happy to say that the tree is now about ten feet tall and the varmints are leaving it alone.

Nature's Lace

Day 108: A few walks ago, I noticed a connector trail to Mashel Falls forking off just past the western bridge of Eatonville's new Bud Blancher Trail. I'd started up it, but soon discovered that it was too muddy for sport shoes, so retreated and put it on my "later" list. Today I returned, this time wearing hiking boots, and it was a good thing I did. The mud was slick and ankle-deep in places. After having passed through several particularly slippery sections, I started thinking about what it would be like on the return trip, and consequently changed my plans, opting to make a longer loop hike rather than risk falling in the slop.

Halfway up, another spur branched off at an intersection I recognized as the trail to the falls. Having been there before, I knew that it is always a muddy mess even under optimal summer conditions. Considering what I'd come through already, good sense dictated foregoing a trip to the falls. In any event, I'd been there, done that, and wasn't particularly impressed. There had also been a bit of a fib in the weather forecast, and what should have been sunny and fiftyish was foggy and hovering near forty. My proposed four-mile hike had doubled in distance, and I was wishing I'd worn one more layer. I returned via the 1000 Road, connecting with the Bud Blancher Trail at the far west end. As luck would have it, I was almost back to the car when the persistent fog lifted, allowing me only about half a mile under sun.

Foothills Trail Walk

Day 107: The town of Orting lies in the path of prediction: sooner or later, Mount Rainier is going to turn loose a lahar which inundates the valley. When it will happen is anyone's guess, but as the climate grows warmer and warmer, the likelihood of the event increases. However, given a sixty-degree January day, who could pass up the opportunity to walk or ride the Foothills Trail? I elected to go by foot from downtown to the wetland interpretive site 4.5 miles east in the full knowledge that I could never outrun a mudflow if the Mountain chose to send one down the Carbon River. It's not that I am in denial of the hazard; it has not happened in my lifetime, so I'm playing the odds. That it could happen is never far from my mind, but that it would happen "on my shift" is a chance I'm willing to take. Like the residents of this valley, I just don't believe it will be today.

Stars

Day 106: Once or twice a year when my Hoya bella's trailing branches grow long enough that the cats can chew on them, I give the plant a radical "haircut," taking the stems back to about eighteen inches. I always put several slips in water to pass along to friends who want a durable and reliable houseplant. I've had a few people tell me that they've lost theirs through neglect, but considering my own forgetfulness with respect to watering, theirs must have been quite severe. This plant grows like a weed, surviving almost any stress except over-watering, and rewards its owner with lavish cascades of star-shaped waxy blossoms on a 6-10 week timetable. The flowers are lightly fragrant and may be borne at any node along the stems. Unlike other Hoyas, it does not form spurs, but drops its blossoms at the end of the blooming period.

Separating The Sheep From The Goats

Day 105: While it's actually quite easy to distinguish Evernia prunastri (top) from Hypogymnia inactiva (bottom) using only field characteristics, many lichens require reagent testing to achieve an accurate identification. Since some of the reagents commonly used have a shelf life of mere minutes, the amateur lichenologist is at something of a disadvantage. We often resort to placing "sp." ("species") at the end of the scientific name (as in "Hypogymnia sp.") when we are unable to test our specimens or narrow an identification down by location or substrate. That's "close enough for government work" when you don't have laboratory faciilities available.

Chieftain Of The Pudding Race

Day 104 honors Robert Burns whose 256th birthday Scots everywhere celebrate today. I give you a translation of the great man's own words regarding the eminent haggis.

Address to a Haggis

Fair and full is your honest, jolly face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, tripe, or intestines:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm.

The groaning trencher there you fill,
Your buttocks like a distant hill,
Your pin would help to mend a mill
In time of need,
While through your pores the dews distill
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour wipe,
And cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like any ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm steaming, rich!

Then spoon for spoon, they stretch and strive:
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Till all their well swollen bellies by-and-by
Are bent like drums;
Then old head of the table, most like to burst,
'The grace!' hums.

Is there that over his French ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a sow,
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust,
Looks down with sneering, scornful view
On such a dinner?

Poor devil! see him over his trash,
As feeble as a withered rush,
His thin legs a good whip-lash,
His fist a nut;
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit.

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his ample fist a blade,
He'll make it whistle;
And legs, and arms, and heads will cut off
Like the heads of thistles.

You powers, who make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery stuff,
That splashes in small wooden dishes;
But if you wish her grateful prayer,
Give her (i.e., Scotland) a Haggis