WINTER SOLSTICE

The winter solstice is the kind of holiday I like: not affiliated with any religious, political, ethnic, or national group, it simply marks the time of year when the days begin to lengthen after months of dwindling light. (Excuse me for being northern hemisphere-centric here – I realize that for many people the days will get shorter now).

I thought I would mark the day with photographs that have a winter solstice vibe. For me, that would mean images of nature made around December 21st and 22nd. I wanted to publish the post on the day of the winter solstice, which limits me to photos from previous years. I figured why not look all the way back. So that’s what I did.

It turns out that I photographed of all kinds of things at this time of year, including my son. That makes for a complicated stew of images but I decided to go ahead anyway. There’s one big limitation: I’m only including digital photos – there isn’t enough time to use older analog photos. A computer failure obliterated many of my earliest digital photos so it looked like 2008 was where I would begin…but wait! I found a photo from December 20, 2006 – just a day or two before the winter solstice. It’s of my son Colby. He’s 21 and has stopped by the little cottage in Connecticut that I moved to after leaving my husband to begin a new, better life. Colby’s making himself some hot chocolate. It looks cold outside. Winter solstice time.

The next late December photo I found is an odd one from 2008. I had moved again and was living and working in New York City. My office was in a federal office building located across from the World Trade Center. When the September 11th attacks happened a plane fragment landed on the roof and debris from the Twin Towers contaminated the building. By the time I worked there, it had been thoroughly cleaned. My office overlooked what had been Ground Zero and was now a mammoth construction site that New Yorkers called “The Pit”. One afternoon just before leaving work I took a picture out the window of the busy, snowy scene below. The sun had already set but work often continued despite the short days.

It’s not very festive, is it? Back then I lived with the memory of 9/11 every day I went to the office. There was still a strong police presence downtown and people were selling 9/11 memorabilia on street corners. You couldn’t get away from the reminders.

Let’s move on to 2009. Joe and I have gone up to Rockefeller Center to walk around and soak in the holiday cheer. The photos are just snapshots but you get the idea – there’s the big tree that goes up every year at Rockefeller Center. Here’s a long queue of customers at the bakery where we stopped to warm up. The Christmas tree photo is dated 12/18/2009, 5:47pm. It’s already dark. A short day made brighter by thousands of lights.

Just before the 2010 winter solstice I photographed a full moon from our fifth-floor apartment. If it doesn’t look like New York City to you that’s because it isn’t Manhattan. People forget the city has five boroughs. We lived in the most affordable one, Staten Island. There were big old trees, neighborhood delis, even a few sprawling shopping malls. From my apartment I could get to work in under an hour – I’d walk or take a bus to the ferry terminal, ride the ferry past the Statue of Liberty to the southern tip of Manhattan, then walk or take the subway a few stops to the World Trade Center. It was a pretty cool commute.

The 2011 winter solstice found me at my favorite place: Snug Harbor Botanical Garden, an older, modest botanical garden that was an easy ten-minute drive from home. Here’s a slideshow from that day. The pretty buds must be from a Camelia tree, which blooms from late December – February in northern latitudes. What a treat it is to see these sweet buds on the shortest day of the year!

Click the arrows for the slideshow

That year was our last one in New York. In February 2012 we moved across the country to Kirkland, Washington, a suburb of Seattle. A few years later my computer crashed so there are no photos from December 2012. The next year, 2013, is a slim year for December photos. My job was keeping me so busy that sometimes all I had time for was to point my phone out the car window when I stopped for a light. One day I turned the phone on the diagonal to put the city street and the cloud-packed sky in the frame.

Seattle rarely has snow in December but there are often unsettled weather patterns that produce beautiful clouds. The photo is dated December 23rd, 2012, 4:16pm. The sky darkens as the clouds receive the final rays of the sun.

Photos from Christmas Day are the closest I have to winter solstice images from 2014. Here’s Colby again. He seems to look past the old ornaments that I put on the family Christmas trees when I was a child. I brought them home after my mother died on Christmas morning, 1999. I still have them. Colby was 29 here. He had finished tours in Iraq and Afghanistan as a Marine and happily for me, he had moved from the east coast to Seattle. It was good to have him close by and it still is, whether it’s the shortest day of the year or the longest.

A day or two before the winter solstice in 2015 Joe and I drove out to Moss Lake Natural Area, a sphagnum bog, lake and forest preserve in the foothills of the Cascades. I was using a Panasonic Lumix micro-four thirds camera and two lenses, a 60mm f2.8 Olympus M. Zuiko macro (still probably my favorite lens) and a 20mm f1.7 Lumix. Here’s a slideshow from the day. The intense greens and wet tangles of ferns, moss, and lichen are typical of Pacific Northwest forests in winter, when rain is plentiful and temperatures are moderate.

Here’s a wren that visited our deck a few days after the winter solstice in 2016. We had suet and birdseed there, along with branches for the birds to perch on. The railing was good enough for this little guy, who looks like he got very wet. It was 10:06am on December 23rd, 2016. It rained all morning.

When we lived in Kirkland I spent many weekends at Juanita Bay Park, a former golf course that borders Lake Washington, the second largest lake in the state. A series of boardwalks threads through wetlands and leads to platforms overlooking the lake. The birding is very good there but I enjoyed the plants as much as the birds. In the slideshow you’ll see an old willow bending over the boardwalk, dried leaves in various guises, birch trees, and flocks of ducks floating amidst reflections of trees. The photo of the ducks was made just before sunset on December 19th, 2017. The willow has dropped its leaves in readiness for a winter rest.

By 2018 we had both retired and were able to leave the suburbs for a more rural life on Fidalgo Island, a place we had been visiting since we first moved west. As I began to explore the substantial acreage of parks and preserves, the island’s edges became my favorite places to walk and photograph. I learned that large flocks of Northern pintail ducks (Anas acuta) spend the winter around March Point, a peninsula between two large bays full of eelgrass that supports a complex ecosystem of underwater life. The Pintails’ long necks enable them to reach the rhizomes and seeds in the shallows that make up their diet. I found another handsome duck on the edge of Washington Park called the Harlequin duck (Histrionicus histrionicus). They are small sea ducks that feed among the rocks near the shoreline, where they dive for mollusks and crustaceans. The Pintails and Harlequins were photographed on December 21st and 22nd. It was mild but overcast, with nary a ray of sunlight to be seen.

11. A small flotilla of Northern pintails paddling off March Point, Fidalgo Island.

12. Three males and a female Harlequin duck swim close to shore at Washington Park on Fidalgo Island.

Fog frequently thickens the atmosphere on winter days in the Pacific Northwest. On Fidalgo Island it hangs languorously over the lakes and hovers mysteriously at the top of the highest point on the island, Mount Erie. On the winter solstice in 2019 I drove up the narrow, winding road to the top of Mount Erie to experience the fog. It was late, the sun had already set. If there ever was a blue hour, this was it.

13. Fog on Mount Erie. December 21st, 2019, 5:20pm.

A few days after the 2020 winter solstice I was distracted while driving by something that almost made me crash the car. There by the side of the highway, standing on paddleboards in Pass Lake, a man and a woman dressed in Santa suits waved at passing cars and trucks. This was a holiday greeting like no other! How did they manage to keep their balance? Weren’t they cold, standing there on the water? I had to pull over for a photograph.

Later that day, I photographed a few holiday decorations at home. I think the garland on the right originally belonged to my grandmother – it must have seen a lot of winter solstices!

14. Brave souls greet traffic on busy Route 20. December 23rd, 2020, 4:23pm.

Readers of this blog know about my attachment to Bowman Bay, part of Deception Pass State Park. The beach there is often blissfully empty on winter days. There are Kingfishers, eagles, diving ducks, and if you’re lucky, River otters. The things that wash up onto the sand can be just as interesting (and much easier to photograph!). December brings King tides, a series of strong high tides that, especially when combined with windy weather, deposit interesting life forms on the beach. Great tangles of Bull kelp can be seen, often looped in graceful curves. The wetland at Bowman Bay holds quiet season treasures, too, with its lichen-encrusted trees. I photographed the kelp and wetland reflections on the day after the shortest day of 2021. The day was short but there was still plenty of time to enjoy being outside.

16. A tangle of kelp on the beach. December 22nd, 2021, 3:03pm.

Last year the winter solstice arrived with a big surprise – a snowstorm. First there was just a coating but over the course of several days a deep, drifting mass of snow developed. Appropriately enough, the berries capped by snow below are called Snowberries (Symphoricarpos albus). The well-mannered native bush grows along the edge of our yard and keeps the birds fed when I forget to put sunflowers seeds out for them.

I may as well end with a sunset at Washington Park, on the northwest edge of the island. A narrow, 10- mile-an-hour road winds through the park, offering views of the water and tall Douglas firs. The warm glow in the sky shimmering through the trees was a welcomes sight after days of snow and clouds. It looks like the winter solstice this year will be mild but cloudy – typical weather here for late December. Wherever you are, I hope the solstice finds you well and happy. Cheers!

***

A Month’s Miscellany

1. Canada jays *(Perisoreus canadensis)* go by many other names, including Camp robber. This one was true to that name, swooping down and gobbling peanuts out of our hands up at Washington Pass in the North Cascades. Living in a harsh environment, these plucky birds are alert to any possibility for nourishment. They’re known to nest so early they may incubate their eggs through snowstorms.

It’s been a little more than a month since I came home from from Iceland. Honestly, going from an environment where almost everything looked extraordinary in the viewfinder to one where not much is new and the light grows scarcer every day is a challenge. I’m not looking for sympathy, it’s just an observation I want to offer. There have been days when I felt like I was casting about for something that would engage and excite me the way Iceland did. Along with that comes a sense of futility.

Still, I go out with the camera. I look around. The leaves turn colors and drift to earth, the shoreline horizon never fails to ease my spirit, and the Snow geese have returned to the agricultural fields east of the island. There is much to observe and appreciate, I tell myself. I delight in the smell of smoke in the air, the sight of apples on the ground, and the surprise of a salamander crossing my path. But the crux of the matter is that I haven’t enjoyed the act of photographing what’s around me the way I did in Iceland, where the landscape was so novel. I’m aware that my complaints pale in comparison to the world splitting open once again in the Middle East and the government imploding in Washington DC. My problems are pocket-size compared with what people face elsewhere.

And I know this period of dukkha* will pass, it always does. Though these words hardly sound like an invitation to look at photos, there are some to see here. It’s a miscellany of images from the last 4 weeks that emerged from the thumbnails as a possibility. Sometimes possible needs to be enough. I’ll return to photographs from Iceland later. Right now I think I’ll give these images a little air.

2. The day we were in the mountains was cloudy but the views from Washington Pass still felt exalted.

4. Closer to home, the earthy tones of a dying Bracken fern mingle with deep green blades of grass.

5. In the forest a fallen branch frames sunlit native plants.

7. This Pacific Red elderberry *(Sambucas racemosa)* is about to drop its leaves – but first, there’s one last elegant display.

8. Standing under a Madrone tree, I looked up at the Deception Pass Bridge, a local landmark that draws visitors all year long.

9. Just steps away from the bridge at Rosario Beach a man works on a painting of an immense driftwood log.

10. A few minutes away at Bowman Bay, strands of eelgrass float with the breath of a slack tide.

11. It’s not spaghetti, it’s a Bullwhip kelp stem.

12. Leaves of Sea lettuce punctuate ripples in the sand.

13. A fragment of Sea lettuce floats in the shallows. On the beach at Bowman Bay Sea lettuce washes up into deep piles that the tide eventually covers with sand. When I walk on the beach and my feet sink down a little, I know why.

14. Glistening leaves of Bullwhip kelp wash up on the beach, too.

15. It wasn’t really this dark that afternoon at Sares Head but the constant movement of light over the sea was mesmerizing.

16. I was startled to see a little Rough-skinned newt (*Taricha granulosa*) slowly cross my path in the forest one day. These little amphibians are very toxic but certain toxin-resistant Garter snakes have evolved to be able to eat them safely. Other animals can die from eating these little creatures.

17. Just as most plants are entering a state of rest, Licorice fern *(Polypodium glycyrrhiza)* wakes up to begin a new cycle. I think this plant pays more attention to the presence of rain than the length of daylight.

18. Why not get in close, open the aperture all the way, and then play with the colors, too?

19. Like the Canada jay above, this handsome Clark’s nutcracker (*Nucifraga columbiana*) eagerly ate as many peanuts as we offered. Another denizen of Western North American mountain regions, this species will take advantage of any situation involving food and humans. It landed on my hand with a decided thud – not at all like the delicate touch of a chickadee’s feet. Clark’s nutcrackers can cache tens of thousands of pine seeds in the ground each year. They can locate the seeds even when they’re covered with a meter of snow but some seeds will escape notice and germinate, assuring more food in the future.

***

Though dukkha is often translated as suffering, it’s more nuanced than that. It refers to the feeling that life is unsatisfactory, leading to pain, distress, and suffering.

FARTHER AFIELD: A Dusty Lake Interlude

Last week I was part of a group of seven friends – photographers, botanists, a lichenologist, a ceramicist, a filmmaker, psychologists, and social workers (some categories apply to several people) who journeyed east to explore the dramatic landscape east of the Cascade Range, in central Washington. The Columbia River runs north to south there, grown wide from a series of dams that provide power to customers throughout the northwest. Bluffs line one side of the river; the other side, where we hiked, is cut with canyons of basalt and graced by scattered lakes of all sizes and shapes. One is named Dusty Lake, perhaps for the dun-colored land it rests on.

On the way over the mountain pass, we fended off rain showers, snow squalls, and finally graupel, a kind of snow pellet. In between, glimpses of blue reassured us that it really is spring. As we lost elevation the precipitation cleared out and wind took over, pummelling the landscape. Skies remained overcast for most of our short trip. It could have been a boon to us photographers who dislike midday desert sun, but threatening rainclouds turned the light leaden and flat.

The weather wasn’t a photographer’s dream but we made do. The sculpted landscape thrills you with a power that derives from the liberating, whole-body sense that you are surrounded by limitless space. Grand, crenelated cliffs, here called coulees, rise high overhead, the domain of ravens easefully gliding on the updrafts. A gravel road turns a corner to reveal the surprise of a dark lake where white pelicans preen in the distance like a lost posse of ghosts. Swallows swoop, stitching air and water together. Along the lake margins, Red-winged blackbirds’ rusty cries rise from last year’s crackling-dry cattails. On dusty trails, tangles of weathered grass hide tiny gold and pink wildflower gems. The scent of sagebrush clears the mind as precious oils are released into the atmosphere. Little of the softness one associates with spring can be seen here; rough textures and subdued colors dominate.

2. Lakes are rimmed with evaporative deposits.

Angled rock, sharp scents, and the rude, cold wind on our cheeks – Eastern Washington isn’t a comforting place but for those of us living on the wet, lush, western side of the state, it offers the novelty of open vistas set with a child’s geometry of huge, smooth, blocks of basalt. It’s a good recipe to awaken eyes accustomed to thick, green landscapes ringed with water. Needless to say, plant life on the other side of the Cascade Range is very different. On the first day of our trip, the botanists lucked out when we ran into a rare plant specialist collecting data for a population viability study of an endangered wildflower. (The “BOTANST” license plate was a giveaway). Looking for a place near the river so we wouldn’t have to drive too far, we had inadvertently chosen a special place to hike. The botanist was as excited to show a group of fellow plant lovers around as his friendly Burmese Mountain dog was eager to greet us. Mark pointed out more plants than we could remember – including the fuzzy-leaved rare wildflower, a member of the Borage family which, as Mark informed us, is a “sandy soil obligate.” Almost all the flowers we saw had yet to reach peak bloom or to even open a bud. Spring has been slow and cool in Washington and the flowers are late. No matter – we enjoyed the impromptu private tour of a piece of land that conceals rare secrets from casual visitors.

4. Last year’s dried, curled grasses swayed in the breeze – but this photo was made using intentional camera movement.

5. Spring brings a rush of water to the streams.

6. The white bits are not flower buds, they’re feathers and down from a large bird that met its end here.

7. I can’t resist a tangle of tumbleweeds. This is close to the river, where moisture is more available.

The following day, after five campers struggled through a night of screaming winds (Joe and I are softies and stayed in town) we crossed the Columbia River and headed inland to hike at Dusty Lake. The landscape there is a schizoid salad of lakes, wetlands, and rocky, sage-dotted desert. The unusual scenery derives from cataclysmic events like the Missoula floods of 18,000 years ago when glacial floods made their marks on a landscape that had been sculpted by lava flows millions of years before. The geological wallops left imposing views and a dry, spare habitat that shelters interesting wildflowers, lichens, and lizards, among others. I think we all enjoyed switching back and forth between the expansive views and small curiosities. One early blooming wildflower delighted everyone with its incongruous beauty: the hot pink Darkthroat Shooting star (Primula pauciflora). Taking shelter under craggy old sage bushes, the flowers nodded their delicate heads in the breeze as if to agree with our praise. Lichens were another source of color, adorning the rocks, sagebrush, and soil with fiery orange, deep gold, and slate blue. The pops of color cut through the barren landscape like a warbler’s song ringing out across a hushed forest.

Eventually, we had our fill of hiking, photographing, and botanizing. We stopped for coffee and then had dinner at a local burger joint that had been in the same family for generations. Grandmother’s recipe for potato salad is still followed, to our delight. Three of our group departed for Seattle, braving snow over the pass in the dark. The rest of us met the next morning in Vantage for a walk along the river. As we discussed where to walk, we spotted a wild herd of Bighorn sheep grazing on a distant hill. We tried to get closer but couldn’t so there are no photos – but the memory is sweet. After a low-key river walk, we began exploring a side road that heads west, the direction home. A construction roadblock halted our progress so Joe and I decided to head back to the highway for the long trip home. I enjoyed watching the scenery evolve from clear, open skies to snow and mist on the pass, then back to springtime green. All the while I knew the computer was calling me – there were plenty of photographs to sort.

Richard and Sharon continued wandering slowly west, finally picking up the highway to cross the mountains. The trip was short but packed with outdoor discoveries and the pleasure of spending time with friends. When I went through the photos, I puzzled over unidentified plants and grew frustrated at the overall palette, which was very subdued. But that fits a high desert landscape under thick clouds. For this post, I decided to emphasize the quiet color range and leave out the pops of color. Bright flowers will show up in a later post. I promise.

9. The lovely Darkthroat Shooting star (color versions coming soon).

12. Big sagebrush *(Artemesia tridentata)* slowly breaks apart on the sandy desert floor.

13. To the right you can see Richard inspecting the rocks for lichens.

14. I believe this is Crater lichen, *Diploschistes scruposus*, a lichen found all over the world. We nicknamed this one the Blob. Somehow, Richard tolerates this kind of nonsense from the rest of us.

15. A massive basalt cliff with unlikely patterns formed long ago.

18. Barb raises a hand for hiking with friends.

***

TEN YEARS: A Look Back at August 2012

Ten years ago I launched a note into the ether –

two photos

and a few words about the still days of August when

summer holds its breath.

Where would my words and images land? Not knowing, I waited.

Then, small scribbles in digital space – a few comments, a few likes

and the little black marks suggested, “Continue.”

The sun set and rose, set and rose,

the moon, too. The earth turned.

I sent more missives into a net

that’s too wide and fine to perceive.

(Funny thing about the notes I launch into that net – they’re all about

physical things that I see, hear, touch, and smell

but the physical substance of the notes themselves? That’s beyond my ken.

A nice contradiction).

As the black marks and bright images flew across space

friendships blossomed and ten years later

here we are. The “we”

means everything.

Thank you.

1. August 2012: I photographed Seattle’s premier landmark, the Space Needle, through a 1984 Alexander Leiberman sculpture called ‘Olympic Illiad.’

TEN YEARS: WHY LOOK BACK?

Fellow photographer and blogger Alex Kunz has been creating monthly “Throwback” posts for years. It’s his fault.

As I considered making a “Throwback” post of my own, it dawned on me that ten years ago this month I posted for the first time on WordPress. Blogging was new then, and my home was as well. I had moved to the Pacific Northwest from New York City six months earlier, in February. While we settled into a cozy apartment in a Seattle suburb and looked for work, we played tourist to acclimate ourselves. It seemed to us that the culture of the Pacific Northwest was as different from New York as the natural environment was. Walking around with our eyebrows raised and our mouths turned up into smiles, we chalked up one contrast after another. No one cut us off on the highways and the onramps were not pitched battles. What? One could almost relax behind the wheel! When we asked for maintenance on our apartment our request was honored, not ignored. Grocery store clerks smiled disarmingly and asked us what our plans for the weekend were, just to make conversation. Weird! Our New York defensiveness, a self-preservation tactic carefully honed over decades, rose up with a “What’s it to you?” that we barely kept from voicing out loud. It was as if we had exchanged bumper cars for sailboats. Life was so strangely smooth.

We adapted. Seattle’s summer “heat” felt cool and comfortable after New York and the sense of a daily struggle just to exist gradually faded. Every month there were new things to do. August was busy – we rode the ferry across the sound from Seattle to Bremerton, explored a rail trail in our valley, and drove up to Deception Pass State Park to explore a driftwood-strewn beach. We went to the Seattle Art Museum and checked out the city’s architecture and public art. We hiked part of the Pacific Crest Trail in the Cascades, visited a Japanese garden in Seattle, and took walks in local parks. Whew!

Of course, a camera was always at my side. It was a Sony NEX-3, advertised then as the world’s smallest interchangeable lens camera, with the quality of a DSLR but not the weight or size. I was a rank beginner with a kit lens and I’d never heard of RAW format. I had only a rudimentary understanding of the camera but I was enjoying it. The little black box wasn’t a burden to carry and was capable enough for what I wanted to do. I could record the beauty around me and experiment with settings. It was thrilling to have control over aperture and exposure, even if I didn’t have a clue about what I was doing!

So here’s a throwback to August 2012. The photos were made that month but I’ve reprocessed them – why not? I’ve learned a thing or two in ten years. The old jpeg files may not have the range that RAW files have but they can usually be persuaded to look a little better.

AT HOME

That summer I discovered a deserted railway bed near our apartment where I could pick wildflowers. Even Butterfly bush (Buddleia) grew there! One August morning I arranged them in an old, dented silver pitcher, brought them outside, and began to experiment.

3. Placing a sheet of watercolor paper under the vase, I photographed the shadow of a California poppy with a wide aperture. My experiments with depth of field weren’t always accurately focused but it was exciting to see what could be done when you have something better than a point-and-shoot camera.

4. I brought out a frame that had glass in it but no picture. Held inside the frame, the shadows and reflections became the picture.

5. In the frame or not? Ambiguity rules.

ON THE FERRY

6. As the ferry sped across Puget Sound, a man fed Cheetos (really?) to passing gulls as I watched from the upper deck. What a grand game! And hardly any misses.

7. We got off the ferry and walked into Bremerton, where I photographed swirls of water in a fountain.

DECEPTION PASS

One day we explored Rosario Beach, part of a sprawling state park named for the deceptive, turbulent channel of water separating Fidalgo and Whidbey Islands. A large, weathered wood sculpture commands the space. Immense driftwood logs rest on a beach of smooth, round rocks, and tidepools harbor marine life. Reveling in the scenery, I had no idea that six years later we would move to a cottage less than ten minutes away from this spot.

LODGE LAKE TRAIL

Lodge Lake Trail is part of the Pacific Crest Trail, a 2,653 mi (4,270 km) wilderness trail running from the California/Mexico border to the Washington/Canada border. The Lodge Lake Trail begins just off I-90, Washington’s busiest east-west highway but soon the traffic fades and mountain scenery emerges in the distance – depending on the weather.

11. Hikers in morning fog at Snoqualmie Pass, elev. about 3,000 ft (920m).

12. Through hikers doing all or part of the PCT can write notes in the registers housed in waterproof boxes along the trail.

*

13. The trail cuts across a downhill ski area that turns into a huge field of strawberries, blueberries, and blackberries in the summer. Lodge Lake breathed fog that day, a mystical sight. We sat on a log, ate lunch, and admired the pretty Yellow pond lilies *(Nuphar polysepala)*. At our feet, water striders skimmed the lake while swallows zipped through the air in search of insects.

14. The forest produced classic Pacific Northwest scenes like this one that day.

SEATTLE

We’d seen Pike Place Market several times so one day, we headed to the Experience Music Project. As a Frank Gehry fan, I had a great time finding interesting compositions outside of the building he designed – there didn’t seem to be any reason to go inside!

15. Then called the Experience Music Project, it’s now the Museum of Pop Culture. The building’s stainless steel and painted aluminum skin is so brilliant that it throws colored reflections onto the concrete.

18. Street photography in Seattle was just a matter of What’s next?

19. A sculpture called Grass Blades by John Fleming is at the Seattle Center, where the Space Needle and Frank Gehry’s building take pride of place.

KUBOTA GARDEN

Almost hidden in a residential section of southeast Seattle, Kubota Garden was the all-consuming project of Fujitaro Kubota (1879-1973). Beginning in 1927, Kubota slowly added more land for his dream project, a traditional Japanese garden that would contain primarily native plants. After being interred in a camp in Idaho with his family throughout WWII, he began again, creating ponds, waterfalls, and a moon bridge. Eight years after he died the garden became a Seattle landmark and Kubota’s labor of love is a now peaceful public park.

23. Like the creek that runs through Kubota Garden, the experience of creating posts has been a lively river of inspiration, a place where I can send my work into the world, knowing that people everywhere are free to enjoy it.

***

FURTHER AFIELD: Venturing Out Again

After over a year of refraining from overnight travel* we made a brief foray with friends to the other side of the mountains, what I like to call The Dry Side. The western and eastern halves of Washington State are separated by a formidable barrier: the North Cascade Mountain Range, a vast, wild, land of evergreen forests and rocky summits. When prevailing winds roll across the Pacific Ocean and onto land, the Cascades exert a powerful effect on the weather. Clouds mass and stall on the western side of the mountains, releasing rain and snow in a process that creates lush, temperate rainforests and gives Seattle its Emerald City nickname. After dumping all that moisture on one side of the mountains, the other side gets very little, a phenomenon called the rain shadow effect. For Washingtonians, that means all you have to do is travel over a pass to the other side of the mountains and you’re in a different world.

Our friends proposed that we meet in Vantage, a small town situated roughly in the middle of the state. After leaving home at a reasonable hour we drove south, then east on the interstate. We cleared snowy Snoqualmie Pass by 11 am and drifted down the other side of the Cascades, losing 2,000 feet of elevation as forests of Lodgepole pine yielded to open, rolling, foothills as far as we could see. Finally, we reached the mighty Columbia River, where we turned north and then back west for a few miles to meet our friends. Our rendezvous spot was at the base of a series of wide, grassy hills, the site of a network of interpretive trails for Ginkgo Petrified Forest State Park. You heard me right – ginkgo – and no, ginkgo trees haven’t grown here for millions of years, but petrified ginkgo logs were discovered near Vantage by chance, almost 100 years ago.

1. Over the pass; through open range; along the Columbia River.

3. Looking across the Columbia River at a spare landscape of rock, grass, sage, and water.

5. A closer look: patterns of fractures and lichens on petrified wood at Ginkgo Petrified Forest State Park.

6. Muted desert colors in the leaf litter.

It was something very American – highway construction – that led to the discovery of the rare, petrified wood pieces now on display at Ginkgo Petrified Forest State Park. A local college professor recognized a rock someone was carrying for what it was when crews began moving earth for a new highway in the late 1920s. Professor Beck rounded up a group of students to get to work and see what else was hiding under the dry hills. The mix of petrified trees they found was strange – Douglas fir (still abundant in many parts of Washington), magnolia, and ginkgoes shared space with species from a variety of habitats. Long ago, water from floods or lava from volcanic eruptions probably transported trees from different places to this spot, and over time, mud buried the trees and kept them from disintegrating. When lava from a major volcanic fissure crept across the area and quickly cooled, basalt was formed, causing the submerged wood to slowly morph into mineral and rock.

One of us, a keen lichenologist, pointed out extensive communities of lichens growing on the petrified wood. Who would have thought that stone could host all that life? But look closely and a whole new biological world opens up in front of your eyes. It was the same thing on the hillside where we hiked – what looked like a sere expanse of dry grass from afar yielded a bountiful crop of wildflowers in shades of gold, purple, pink, and white. All you have to do is walk slowly and examine your surroundings, which is exactly what we did. And frankly, we walked very slowly.

The ecosystem is called sagebrush-steppe and indeed, sage was everywhere, lending a soft, gray-green cast to the landscape. Only 8 or 9 inches of rain falls in the region annually, so plants have adapted to the aridity with low, mounding shapes, fuzzy leaves, pale colors, summer dormancy, and other tricks. The soil is coated with something called a cryptogamic crust, a slow-growing, delicate layer of lichens, mosses, algae, and cyanobacteria that stabilizes and protects the soil. These biological soil crusts are very susceptible to disturbance by grazing animals, invasive grasses, and human traffic of all kinds. We tried to stay on the trail but temptations to gently step off for photographs were hard to resist. Spring is when the rains come and the flowers sprang up like gems in the rough, each one presenting pure color to the dome of blue above. The liquid, warbling song of Meadowlarks drifting over the hills was a treat for our ears. Squeezing a few leaves of sage between my fingers and inhaling the pungent scent, I remembered desert trips from the past. The Dry Side was yielding a feast of sensations.

8. A mound of Spiny phlox *(Phlox hoodii)* hugs a rock; Woolypod milkvetch (*Astragalus pushii*) blossoms; budding Thyme-leaved buckwheat *(Eriogonum thymoides)*; Hooker’s balsamroot (*Balsamorhiza hookeri*) just starting to bloom; Big-seed biscuitroot *(Lomatium macrocarpum)*.

9. Petroglyphs that would have been lost underwater when the Columbia River was dammed were moved a mile downriver to reside at the interpretive center. The display sparked a conversation among us about the universality of symbols.

10. Spring green in the form of little “paws” on Big sagebrush (Artemisia tridentata).

The next day we crossed the river to hike at Ancient Lakes, a landscape of towering basalt cliffs, canyons, and mesas scoured out by Ice Age floods that left basins of water behind like scattered pearls dropped from a broken necklace. This complex environment has more interesting features than we had time to investigate that day; our eyes, ears, and noses were well stimulated.

We met at a civilized hour (three of us camped and two didn’t – guess which two didn’t!), crossed the Columbia River and headed to the Quincy Lakes Wildlife Area, part of a million acres of land managed by Washington’s Department of Fish and Wildlife. We were still in sagebrush-steppe habitat, a hot-in-summer, cold-in-winter land of poor soil that was once occupied seasonally by Native Americans. Much of the surrounding land is now irrigated for wheat, potatoes, apples, wine grapes, livestock, and other crops. Thankfully, the unusual landscape at Quincy Lakes is relatively intact and available to anyone who has the time and wherewithal to look.

Speaking of looking, the first thing that caught our eyes when we stopped at a parking area was four White pelicans soaring high overhead in the cloud-paled sky. As we watched them circle round and fly off to another lake I thought about the squadron of White pelicans that spends five months each year on Padilla Bay, just minutes from home. They still seem exotic to me and hopefully, they always will. After looking around a bit we decided to continue on to a place down the road that two of us remembered from previous trips. By the time we settled on the right spot to explore, it was lunchtime. We perched on rocks overlooking a spectacular array of waterfalls, wetlands, ponds, and distant mesas as we ate hard-boiled eggs, sandwiches, and snacks. The ticks, rattlesnakes, and unrelenting sun of warmer months were absent. We set off down a trail across a dramatic tableau of canyons, cliffs, and ridges, and soon lost ourselves in wildflower and lichen discoveries. One of the best surprises for me was finding tiny Shooting stars (see the photo below) hidden in the grass beside the trail. I associate this plant with wetter conditions close to home. I was amazed to see it in this harsh environment but when I thought about it, the place where I’ve seen Shooting stars before is rocky with thin soil and dry summers, like Quincy Lakes. Still, it was a sheer wonder to see this beautiful little flower wafting in the dry desert breezes.

12. The results of volcanic eruptions that occurred millions of years ago delight the eyes today.

15. Three delicate-looking wildflowers that are adapted to harsh conditions: a small Prairie star *(Lithophragma sp.)*, an unidentified flowering shrub, and a tiny Shooting star (*Dodecatheon sp.*), almost hidden in the grass.

16. I jumped with excitement when I saw little frog’s eggs in a shallow stream, like perfect, pink pearls, and so vulnerable. Sights like this make my day.

17. Power-lines on the horizon are a reminder that civilization isn’t far away.

18. This year’s blossoms rise from last year’s faded, crinkled leaves. Like #8 above, this is a Balsamroot, probably Arrow-leaf.

20. Hats, walking sticks, sturdy boots, water, and curiosity….we’re prepared.

21. The last scene was the kind that makes you promise yourself that you’ll return.

We had to turn around for the long trip home sooner than we wanted to that day. We had filled our souls with the unaccustomed sensations of The Dry Side: Meadowlarks, Magpies, Balsamroot, sage, and burnt orange vistas, both gentle and rough. Maybe best of all was the pleasure of stretching one’s mind out over wide expanses of open space in the company of good friends. Here’s to more venturing out!

***

*It had been well over a year since we traveled: the last trip we took before the pandemic stopped us in our tracks was to Vancouver, Canada, in November 2019. That year we took three other trips: a three-week foray through northern Europe in April, a road trip in eastern Washington in May, and another road trip through Oregon and northern California in September. The year before that (2018) we flew to Las Vegas to see Death Valley in January, took an Oregon/California road trip in April, and spent a week in Los Angeles in October – in addition to moving house in July! In 2017 we traveled to New York, central Oregon, and southwest Arizona and made numerous day trips around the state. We took the freedom to go where we wanted when we wanted for granted.

The pandemic changed everything. The enforced absence of travel, the radical limitations of our social lives, and the general tone of the world had a profound effect on me throughout 2020, more than I realized until we ventured out for a brief jaunt over the mountains. Suddenly the reality of 2020 was set in relief against the possibilities of seeing other places, being with friends, and feeling the freedom of the open road. The hectic pace of travel we maintained previously had ground to a halt in 2020. We entertained thoughts about a possible trip now and then but in the end, we decided to be safe and stay put for fifteen, long, quiet, months. I became so accustomed to life at home and its circumscribed rituals (most of which I appreciate) that I found myself missing my own bed, my routines, and my home after being away for only two days! Missing home is definitely NOT my typical response to travel.

But we’re getting back on the horse and already planning a trip to Boston and New York next month. After that? It’s hard to tell, isn’t it? We don’t know what the next year will bring.

***

LOCAL WALKS: Whidbey Island Wandering

It was a day of serendipity. I had an appointment on Whidbey Island, our neighbor to the south, and decided to wend my way further south instead of heading right back home. The small, historic town of Coupeville beckoned. I’m sorry I don’t have photos of Coupeville’s charming Victorian architecture or its old wharf and quiet waterfront, but I was beelining to Little Red Hen for espresso and treats. Their too-small-for-COVID-times indoor seating space is closed so people lounged around outside as they waited for their orders, trying to maintain distance on the narrow sidewalk. I ordered an egg sandwich with goat cheese and crunchy fried kale served on their own English muffin. But wait, there’s more! I didn’t pass up the crisp, warm double-filled dark chocolate croissants, nor did I forget to buy a ginger-molasses cookie. You have to stock up when you’re in the presence of a baker who knows what they’re doing.

I found a spot with a nice view and wolfed down the sandwich, sipping a rich, intense macchiato between bites. Yummy. Then, on the way out of town I noticed a place called Ciao Food and Wine. I’d passed it before but never checked it out. It was time to investigate. Inside, a chef was frying garlic in olive oil only steps away from shiny displays of high-end Italian deli treats, the like of which I hadn’t seen in several years. I spent my formative years in New York, where Italian food reigns, and foods like like ricotta salata and sfogliatelle are comfort food to me. I miss that now and realize that I took good Italian food for granted, so I couldn’t stop smiling as I chatted with the salesperson, chose a wedge of cheese and a pretty pastry, and tucked a menu in the bag, in hopes of tempting a certain someone into coming back with me for lunch.

Treats in hand, I thought I was heading home but serendipity intervened again. The sky darkened with dramatic clouds to the west so I swerved off the highway in that direction to find a better view. The road led to Ebey’s Landing National Historic Reserve, a generous parcel of land along Whidbey’s Island’s western shore that features gorgeous views with a side of local history. Colonel Isaac Neff Ebey was an early settler on the island – or should I say, an early white settler. He brought his family over from Missouri and began making a life amidst conflict and hardship. Before he turned 40, Ebey was killed by members of a northern tribe (most likely Tlingit) in retribution for the death of one of their chiefs during a battle between a large tribal party that came down from their territory to effect a slave raid. Traditionally, a number of northern tribes took slaves from other tribes to establish wealth and rank but now, with whites in the picture, the scenario didn’t go as planned. Many people, including a chief, were killed by U.S. Navy sailors in what is known to whites as the 1856 Battle of Port Gamble. A small number of Tlingit men who were captured were eventually returned to their homeland, and again following tradition, they planned the revenge raid that ended in Ebey’s death. (He was actually not the target but ended up being a convenient mark for the tribe, as he was home that day and the doctor they planned to kill was not).

A few years later Ebey’s brother and cousin constructed a public house so his two sons would have a means of support. The handsome structure still stands, overlooking the broad fields that swoop down to a shoreline that once bustled with ferry traffic. The absorbing history of the Ebey family includes stories about Colonel Ebey’s role in the Oregon Territorial government, the death of his first wife from tuberculosis, and rumors about Ebey’s scalp, which was held by the tribe for a time, then sold to a fur trader and returned to the Ebey family. After that, the exact location of that sad remnant of a tragedy is murky; the trail runs cold in California.

Engrossing history aside, that day I was just looking for fresh air and stirring views.

In fact, the air was so fresh it was bracing. I found a trail passing the austere, slate gray house and tracing the edge of still-tended fields out to a bluff overlooking Admiralty Inlet, where the Olympic Mountains pile on top of one other across the cold, choppy water. I quickly regretted not putting my hoodie on – the chilly wind whipped my hair in my face and bit at my ears. Invigorated, I paused on the bluff with my back to the gale and watched clouds ride the wind and switch places across a vast, shifting, gray-blue panorama. The beach below was strewn with driftwood logs and an occasional walker could be seen braving the wind. A few wildflowers waved their heads frantically and ravens tore across the sky, slicing it every which way. Then a family approached, triggering my retreat.

Going back was shorter, as it always is, so instead of scurrying to the car I stopped to peer into the gloom of Ferry House. I couldn’t see much inside – the light was against it – but what I saw in the windows made up for the murky interior. The dramatic, cloud-darkened sky swirled around in the glass. A window on the far side of the house appeared like a beacon and my own reflection, broken up by repeating rectangles, disappeared into an abyss of light.

***

FURTHER AFIELD: The Boulder River Trail

The green island where I live is brimming with lush parks, but as much as I enjoy the beauty here, my restless spirit keeps spinning dreams of the mountains, where up is higher, down is lower and vistas are rugged and vast. Late summer is a perfect time to venture inland, to places like Mount Baker in the North Cascades or Hurricane Ridge, high in the Olympic mountains. Those two places have been teasing my brain for months and we could visit either one – they’re two or three hours away. But it’s prime time for visiting parks and crowds don’t appear in the pictures in my mind. When the summer frenzy abates there will still be time for those trips. In the meantime, last week I was looking for an alternative, an easy hike that doesn’t require too many hours on the road. I came across the Boulder River Trail and we decided to give it a go.

The trail leads through a forest surrounding the rushing waters of Boulder River, which tumbles down from a remote lake, high up on Three Fingers Mountain, where three jagged peaks rise 6,500 feet above sea level. Following an old railroad grade on the side of the canyon, the trail enters the Boulder River Wilderness, where 49,000 acres of forests and mountains are distinguished by wet conditions (twelve feet of rain annually), thick vegetation and steep terrain. The river plunges down three separate waterfalls on the way to its confluence with the larger Stillaguamish River. One of those waterfalls is the big draw for the hike.

The first waterfall is noisy Boulder Falls, which can be heard but can’t be seen without descending off-trail through thick woods. The next waterfall is the prettiest and at just over a mile from the trailhead, requires the least effort. Some sources say it has no name but others call it Feature Show Falls. Just don’t disagree about the directions and I’ll be fine!

1. The road to the trailhead is overhung with mossy Bigleaf maple trees.

Feature Show Falls is a lovely, 180-foot-tall double cascade that runs all year, unlike some waterfalls that dwindle to a trickle in summer. The hike isn’t long but you pay a price for that: the trailhead is at the end of a pot-holed, gravel road. Happily the road is only four miles long. Many Pacific Northwest trailheads can only be reached after navigating cratered roads at a snail’s pace for at least an hour. The relatively easy access and non-strenuous hike appealed to us. Even better, a mile up the road there is a well-built vault toilet with lots of toilet paper and a door that locks. Just when you need it!

We were relieved to see only three cars at the trailhead when we arrived on a Thursday morning at about 10:30. We set out under a stunning canopy of moss-hung Bigleaf maple trees, with golden light angling down from high overhead. Our packs held plenty of water and snacks and our masks were stuffed in our pockets. I had a new, wide-angle prime lens on my camera that I was eager to use. Unfortunately, I had left a circular polarizer on it the day before and didn’t notice it until well into the hike. It’s frustrating, but who hasn’t done that? If I’d known the polarizer was on the lens I would have turned it for the best effect. In some cases I would not have wanted it – our forests can be very dim, even in summer. Some photos were beyond saving and others needed a lot of help in Lightroom but, c’est la vie!

3. This forest was logged many years ago. Western hemlock, Douglas fir, Western redcedar and Bigleaf maple are all plentiful. Slopes are very steep but timber is valuable, so back in 1909, eight miles of railroad track were laid into the woods here. It’s hard to imagine how they did it. Further into the forest, the trees were spared because the going got too tough.

4. We admired this well-worn boardwalk across a wet section of trail. It’s made with thick planks of Western redcedar, once felled and split for cedar shakes and shingles but now left to grow tall and play its part in the great scheme that is life, here in this one particular slice of our earth.

The trail is mostly level as it traces the old railroad grade cut into the face of a steep slope. Nature proceeds unhindered here. Trees fall and rot in place, returning nourishment to the soil, with its wealth of fungal networks that in turn, nourish the plants above. Of course, some trees fall right across the trail and if they’re too big to remove, you have to climb over or under – whatever works. We were awed by the size of the fallen giants, especially two conifers that fell across the trail right next to each other. There was very little space underneath them but they seemed way too big to straddle. I handed my pack and camera to Joe and took the awkward way, crawling under the log. A pass of the packs and it was his turn. At times like these, I think, “Will this be the moment when the big earthquake we are overdue for finally happens?” The funny thing was, on the way back we noticed that someone had cut large notches in the tops of the two trees, making it practically a walk in the park to climb over them. We hadn’t studied the situation well enough on the way out, or maybe we’re just not experienced enough to know to look for those handy notches. Swinging up and over wasn’t so hard and it was much nicer than crawling across sharp rocks!

6. The first of many trees to duck under or climb over, this one doesn’t need notches because there’s plenty of room to walk under it. The tree further down the trail can be walked around.

7. Another place I don’t want to be when the big earthquake hits. The notch is near the rock on the right; the second tree is hiding behind this one.

8. This piece of tree trunk plunged into the earth like a spear and then stayed there. I pushed and it hardly gave at all. It must have hit the ground with formidable force.

9. Sword fern shadows, a gentler side of the forest.

10. Like someone having a bad hair day, this frond on a Deer fern *(Blechnum spicant*) twists and turns every which way. Deer fern has two kinds of fronds – spore-bearing and sterile. The bright green sterile fronds usually grow low to the ground, like in the photo below. The spiky fertile fronds rise from the middle, standing straight up at first but contorting into wild shapes when they’re ready to release their spores. Yes, deer eat these ferns.

11. Stairstep moss *(Hylocomium splendens)* in filtered light, a single berry on a Hooker’s fairybell plant *(Disporum hookeri)*, and a young deer fern spread out on the ground like an octopus.

12. A Pine white butterfly *(Neophasia menapia)* moved slowly enough for me to get a sharp image but in the end, I like this partly blurred one better. By this time I had switched to a macro lens.

13. This sculptural arrangement of roots and rock consists of at least one mature Western redcedar tree growing on an old, Western redcedar stump that grew on a large rock. To give you an idea of scale, the rock is big enough to sit on comfortably, with your feet barely touching the ground and your head two feet below the top of the stump.

14. Maidenhair fern *(Adiantum pedatum)* flourishes on moist rock walls. Unlike Sword fern and Deer fern, it’s not evergreen and the leaves were getting ragged. It’s not white, of course, but is fairly light in color, especially compared to evergreen ferns. I’m fond of the circular growth pattern.

15. Vine maple (Acer circinatum) prefers consistently moist environments so I rarely see it where I live. I was happy to see it growing here, even if some of the trees (technically they are large shrubs) were insect-ridden. Vine maple’s closest relatives are Japanese and Korean maples and like them, it is a graceful, delicate tree.

16. The forest is full of old trees; many of them have rotted. This mushroom, probably a Red-banded polypore (*Fomitopsis pinicola*) was one of the biggest I’ve ever seen. Black and white emphasizes the sinuous curves.

We heard the enticing roar of Boulder Falls, then rounded a bend and climbed an incline. Feature Show Falls was in range. After all, we were hungry so we must be near the end! We had taken far longer than the other six or eight hikers we saw. There was so much to admire – moss-covered trees disappearing into the canopy, filtered sunlight picking out leaf details, late-blooming wildflowers, six kinds of ferns, a dark, hollow tree with white, dew-dotted mushrooms inside it, huge stumps with loggers’ springboard slots cut into them…and finally, the waterfall appeared through the thick foliage. The trail had narrowed and footing was precarious in places. As we picked our way carefully across rocks and roots, we glanced across the deep ravine, getting bits and pieces of the falls. Eventually we arrived at a wide opening on the side of the ravine. A conveniently placed log offered a spot to sit while we ate lunch and listened to wild streams of water tumbling down 180 feet of rock to the Boulder River below. A rough trail leads steeply down to the river but we were content that day to just sit and listen.

16. There were no vantage points to see the whole falls, top to bottom and right to left, without descending to the riverbed. I worked with what I had. This view is through the moss and lichen-covered branches of a Bigleaf maple tree.

17. The air was cool and fresh and filled with tiny insects flying back and forth in the charged air next to the falls. Leaves fluttered from breezes let loose by the force of the water. Fine threads glinted and wavered, catching the light – they were spiderwebs, strung high over the river from tree limbs. Only the rocks were still.

18. A view through graceful Western hemlock branches.

***

Celebrating Two Years

Two years ago this week we traveled 70 miles north, leaving a booming Seattle suburb for a quiet, 41-square-mile island of about 20,000 people. We have witnessed all four seasons here twice now. We have zeroed in on an assortment of favorite places – bluffs and beaches for sunset views, shorelines to meander along, coffee shops to linger in, forests to immerse ourselves in. Our lives feel very different than they did before we moved. It’s a good time to celebrate the pleasures of this place.

1. Mt. Erie, the island’s highest point, wrapped in fog. June, 2020.

2. Mt. Erie from the south, with Pass Lake. December, 2019.

3. A trail through old Douglas firs. January, 2019.

4. Bark studies. March 2019, August 2018.

5. Lichen-encrusted branch, Bowman Bay. March 2019.

7. Abandoned building. Anacortes. September, 2018.

8. Around Anacortes: Old wooden ship used as breakwater, Shed in an alley, Flower in the sidewalk, Bookstore shelves and ladders, Coffee and COVID mask, Island Enterprise in for repairs. July, 2018, December, 2018, July 2020. July, 2020, July, 2020, December 2018.

9. Mt. Baker from Cap Sante. October, 2018.

10. Rain over Deception Island; Fidalgo Island is to the right. December, 2019.

11. Hardhack *(Spirea douglasii)*, Nootka rose *(Rosa nutkana)* and Dark-throat Shooting star *(Dodecatheon pulchellum)*. Little Cranberry Lake, July, 2019, Bowman Bay, May 2019, at home, May 2019.

12. Driftwood, grasses and wild roses; Rosario Beach. February 2020.

13. Floating burr-reed (*Sparganium angustifolium*) (?) and reflections, Little Cranberry Lake. September, 2018.

14. Bullwhip kelp *(Nereocystis Leutkeana*). Bowman Bay and Rosario Beach. September 2018, January 2019, November 2018.

15. Evening reflections, Little Cranberry Lake. October 2019.

16. Rain shower, Little Cranberry Lake. February, 2019.

17. Barred owl (Strix varia) at home, River otter *(Lontra canadensis)* family at Rosario Beach, Douglas squirrel *(Tamiasciurus douglasii)* at Rosario Beach, Columbian black-tailed deer buck *(Odocoileus hemionus columbianus*) at Bowman Bay. September 2019, September 2019, July 2018, June 2020.

20. Chestnut-backed Chickadee *(Poecile rufescens)* at home, Satyr comma butterfly *(Polygonia satyrus)* at Sharpe Park, Harlequin ducks *(Histrionicus histrionicus)* at Washington Park, Great blue heron *(Ardea herodias)* at Rosario Beach. January 2020, May 2019, December 2018, December 2018.

21. A fishing boat tied up at Trident Seafoods in Anacortes. November, 2018.

23. Western tiger lilies *(Lilum columbianum)*, Washington Park. Clasping twisted stalk, *(Streptopus amplexifolius)*, Sugarloaf. Flat spurred Piperia *(Platanthera transversa),* Sharpe Park. Western Bracken fern (Pteridium aquilinum), Sharpe Park. June 2020, April 2020, July 2020, May 2019.

25. Looking west from Lighthouse Point. December 2018.

26. Bell, shadows and reflections at home. February, 2019.

***

LOCAL WALKS: Washington Park

Set into a chunky peninsula on the northwest corner of Fidalgo Island, Washington Park is a singularly beautiful place. I’ve been there thirty-odd times in the past couple of years and each time I return, I see something new, and I’m enchanted again. Here is a selection of photos from this favorite local haunt.

1. Winter sunset. The Olympic Mountains are low on the horizon; a gnarled, half-dead Seaside juniper tree is silhouetted on the bluff.

2. Ferries to the San Juan Islands (seen in the distance) leave from a terminal a mile away, but why leave?

3. A winter view from the park’s edge. The glacially-scraped rocks are serpentinite, from deep down in the earth’s mantle. These rocks are uncommon, and they’re around 170 million years old. This little cove has a mind-boggling variety of sea life hiding just under the water – brown and red algae, anemones, sponges, worms, chitons, snails, sea slugs, sea cucumbers, sea stars, barnacles, crabs, fish, and more have been found by inquisitive explorers.

4. Three males and a female – attractive Harlequin ducks ply the waters around the park in winter.

At 220 acres, Washington Park isn’t particularly large, but a varied habitat of saltwater shoreline, rocky bluffs and evergreen forest makes it a rewarding place to explore. From the park’s shores you might see harbor porpoises, seals, the occasional whale, oystercatchers, herons and even the elusive Marbled murrelet, which sometimes fishes near the shore. (The Marbled murrelet is an odd seabird. Back in 1974 a tree-climber found a murrelet chick high in an old tree; that was the first time Western science had found a Marbled murrelet’s nest. They may feed way out at sea and then fly up to 50 miles (80km) inland to raise their young. Their preference for old growth forests means habitat destruction is impinging on their nesting success. Foraging habits may also be negatively affected by climate change; currently the Marbled murrelet is considered endangered.)

Turning away from the water, the park’s woodlands invite scrutiny. Weather-ravaged junipers and Douglas firs command rocky headlands. Mounds of delicate, slow-growing reindeer lichens (Cladonia sp.) speckle forest openings and wildflowers that may be uncommon elsewhere bloom in the park each Spring. Deer, squirrels, and birds abound. There’s a bench by the loop road (open to walkers, bike riders and cars willing to go 10mph) with a lovely water view. It has become a favorite spot to hand-feed chickadees, sparrows, towhees and other birds. Tiny Chestnut-backed chickadees will perch on any outstretched hand with a few seeds in it; they’ve cleaned me out of nuts and seeds more than once.

6. Moisture from the Salish Sea keeps mosses green through most of the year. This photo was taken in November; in the summer there is very little rain. Plants adjust by going dormant, dropping leaves or just biding time until the rains return in September.

7. An old Seaside juniper is flanked by the evergreen leaves of several young Madrone trees. The uncommon Seaside juniper *(Juniperus maritima)* only grows in certain parts of southwestern British Columbia and northwestern Washington State. Scientists recognized it as a separate species in 2007. The trees favor drier, south-facing slopes on the islands and are fairly plentiful in Washington Park but are scarce to nonexistent elsewhere. Seaside juniper is vulnerable to climate change since many of the trees grow on islands. If an island’s climate becomes inhospitable, the trees cannot slowly migrate away like they might be able to do on the mainland.

8. Seaside junipers and Madrones enjoy good light on this open headland slope facing uninhabited Burrows Island. The uprooted tree will slowly decompose on a bed of moss and reindeer lichen. Leaving the log where it is allows a whole host of non-flowering plants, insects, and other creatures to live their lives, which are connected to our lives.

10. A little Nodding onion *(Allium cernuum)* blooms here in June.

11. This unusual, tiny plant, a fern called Indian’s dream *(Aspidotis densa)* lives on serpentine soils, which tend to be inhospitable to many other plants.

12. Pretty pink Sea blush (Plectritis congesta) and white Field chickweed *(Cerastium arvense)* mingle on ground littered with broken, lichen-covered branches.

13. Tiger lilies (*Lilium columbianum*) were blooming in the forest only a few yards from the loop road, in June. What a delightful discovery!

14. A Douglas fir needle dangles from a Red huckleberry twig by a thread of spider silk. The forest at Washington Park sometimes seems to glow green, with plant life. The high, dense canopy of evergreens reduces the light entering the forest but open water on three sides of the park reflects light that brightens dim places.

15. Branch tip of a Seaside juniper tree.

16. Three juniper cones on the ground. I’m tempted to call them berries but they are actually cones containing one or two seeds each. A number of the park’s Seaside juniper trees may be over 200 years old.

17. Tall Douglas firs are plentiful in the woods, along with Western redcedar, whose gracefully drooping leaves are to the left.

18. I guess this rock is a glacial erratic. In the forest it quietly gathers lichens, mosses and insects, producing an ever-changing palette of life on its surface, even on a gray November day.

19. The complexity of crossing branches revealed after leaves have dropped is absolutely dizzying.

20. This beauty looks like it’s covered with snow but no, those are lichens that have found a happy home on a dead evergreen. The tree may no longer be producing needles and branches, but it still plays a vital role in the forest.

21. The snow-capped Olympic Mountain range is shrouded in clouds on a quiet December afternoon. Barely visible to the left is the Burrows Island lighthouse, the oldest intact wooden lighthouse in the state. The light went into service in 1906, then it was automated in 1972. The uninhabited island can only be reached by private boat. One of the delights of Washington Park is gazing out at the Salish Sea and dreaming of “what-ifs.” You can bet I’ll keep going back as long as I can.

***

Local Walks: Tofoni at Larrabee

These photos are a celebration of tafoni* and accompanying formations in the rock at Larrabee State Park, along with two vistas so you can see the context. And there are children enjoying their finds before returning them to the water, and two intertidal denizens called Purple sea stars.

Tafoni – in Sicilian it means windows (or so I read in Wikipedia). And in Corsica, taffoni (with two “f’s”) also means windows (says Wiki). The tafoni we’re talking about could be related to a Greek word for tomb, taphos but in any case, the window/tombs I’m thinking about are sensuously sculpted holes in rock. Tafoni is a term geologists use for certain the intricate patterns that occur in rocks from complex weathering processes.

This phenomenon can be found in the desert and at the shore, and the shore is where these photographs were made, at Larrabee State Park in northwestern Washington.

Larrabee was Washington’s first state park, thanks to a wealthy family who donated some beautiful waterfront acreage to the state over a hundred years ago. Primarily a rocky stretch of saltwater coast, the park also includes the west side of Chuckanut Mountain. The cliffs there are very steep: last year a man died in a fall from the rocks, and a couple was injured in another fall this year. The narrow, winding road that passes through Larrabee is full of blind curves and marvelous scenic views which you can enjoy as long as you remember to pay attention to where your tires are. After arriving at Larrabee I like to cross under the railroad tracks and follow the easier paths along the shoreline. The rocky beach is great to explore at low tide when tidepools reveal all sorts of creatures.

Maybe because they’re more dependable than sea life, the rock formations are the big draw for me. Whether the rocks are towering over the shoreline or defining it, the 57-million-year-old sandstone displays many fascinating forms. You can’t help but wonder how the tafoni and the smooth, svelte curves came about. The process of honeycomb weathering (those Swiss cheesy holes in the rocks) is fairly complex. It begins with the process of physical weathering, a loosening of the structure of the rock caused by a tree root, freeze and thaw cycles, the action of wind, acid rain…a myriad of forces that work on rocks to alter their shape. At Larrabee the rock is quite permeable. It’s subject to salt from ocean water, carried from many miles away by the tides and storms. Salt water splashes on the rocks, leaving salt crystals between grains of rock as it dries. The salt crystals grow, pushing grains of rock aside, a process that happens readily because sandstone here is quite porous. Certain minerals in the sandstone are more susceptible to salt crystallization than others and once a pit begins it can increase its size more quickly than the surrounding rock, so weathering can be very uneven.

Add to this the effect of algae growing on the surface of the rocks. Where algae grows, the rock absorbs water much more slowly so weathering is retarded. In places without algae the rock is eaten away faster, expanding into a hole. There is controversy about the exact science here and frankly, this is as much detail as I can absorb! If you’re interested, Dave Tucker at Northwest Geology Field Trips points to further discussions of tafoni in a blog entry here.

Better yet, visit this little stretch of shoreline and admire the rocks in person. Run your hand along the surface – it may look smooth but it’s not; the grains are large and rough, providing nice handholds if you want to scramble. Or locate a place close to you where honeycomb weathering can be found. Altdahn Castle in the Palatinate Forest of Germany, Mt. Wellington in Tamania, and Arches NP in the US are some examples, and here’s a map of the world with tafoni locations. Check it out. And bring your camera.

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Wanderings & Observations

Category Archives: Washington