Clouds concealed Sourdough Ridge and filled both valleys. Mark and Karen, two of my hiking companions, became abstract silhouettes though they were only a hundred feet in front of me. Laurie and I caught up with them at the crest where a breeze made it chilly. The four of us stood abreast, …. keep reading in the link.
“Oh, look, two Black Oystercatchers are in the rocks,” Craig said. One bird stood on a seaweed-covered rock a foot above the water. The other waded in the shallows; the gentle swash was only coming an inch up its tarsi. My three buddies and I had been scanning Padilla Bay for 20 minutes, watching the Surf Scoters, Common Goldeneyes, and Buffleheads that were feeding offshore. Our three spotting scopes had been straining to find a loon, murrelet, or grebe while right, almost at our feet, were these two black birds that blended into the rubble in spite of their long red bills.
The Oystercatchers moseyed toward the right. One stopped to bathe in three inches of water, then flew to a small rock where it started to preen. The other ambled around the edge, probing into the debris but without putting much energy into it. They both seemed to be enjoying the late afternoon sun on this 45-degree February day.
Mt. Baker rose in the north above Padilla Bay and had overlooked our journey like a god watching the peasants work. “We should get a picture of the oystercatchers with Mt Baker,” Bruce said. Craig already down on one knee held his phone vertically and was snapping amazing photos. Their red bills glistened while the volcano sparkled in the distance.
“Look, there’s Glacier Peak through the gap,” Craig pointed east across the water. A white pyramid rose above the Douglas firs on the east side of Padilla Bay. “The Peak is way back and only visible in a few places.” We had been discussing all the snow-covered peaks on this cloudless day; my friends knew them while I was working on learning their names.
Our gaze returned to the Oystercatchers who had drifted another dozen yards down the surf’s edge. “Let’s stop at one more place around the point before we head back,” I said. Bruce, Gordie, and I had left Seattle early this morning and birded the Stillaguamish Flats before heading north to meet Craig on Fir Island. Identifying fifty bird species had warmed our souls on this chilly winter day.
The water cascading down the narrow valley, crashing and tumbling over boulders. Mist hung in the cool air, and the musty smell of fallen leaves and wet conifers filled my nostrils. Beverly Creek, a tributary of the North Fork Teanaway River originates high in the Central Cascades at the edge of Alpine Lakes Wilderness Area. Light snow covered the high ridges, and recent rain made the forest wet, giving much to fill this little creek. The sounds and smells wrapped around me and I settled to contemplate this watercourse.
Scientists recently released “Climate Science: Special Report,” which concluded, “… based on extensive evidence, that it is extremely likely that human activities, especially emissions of greenhouse gases, are the dominate cause of the observed warming since the mid-20th century. For the warming over the last century, there is no convincing alternative explanation supported by the extent of the observational evidence.” In late fall, as I sat beside the creek, it was actually cold – low forties – and I wondered how long I could sit before I needed to move to stay warm.
Leaves lined the sides of Beverly Creek as snowmelt and rain contributed to the torrent of water crashing over the rocks. (G. Thomas Bancroft)Winter snowpack is an essential component of keeping these forests healthy as well as downstream areas. The Teanaway River flows into the Yakima River, and this system is already experiencing water shortages during the summer because of the reduced snows this region has experienced over the last few decades. Allocating water between people, agriculture, and nature is difficult when the amount isn’t sufficient. And this challenge is likely to worsen.
The report also concluded:
Annual trends toward earlier spring melt and reduced snowpack are already affecting water resources in the western United States and these trends are expected to continue. Under higher scenarios, and assuming no change to current water resources management, chronic, long-duration hydrological drought is increasingly possible before the end of this century.”
The state recently protected more than 50,000 acres lower in the Teanaway watershed from additional development because of concerns about water supply. The national forest where I sat, as well as the wilderness upstream, protects additional lands critical to maintaining natural water regimes. Fortunately, Washington State is a leader in combating climate change. During the 2018 Legislative session, our representatives will have the chance to pass legislation that could make Washington a model for how to implementing programs to reduce the release of gases causing climate change while also maintaining a healthy and robust economy.
The double note chip of a Pacific wren caught my attention, and I turned to watch the bird move through a tangle of cedar branches before flying back into the woods. I then rose to walk along the edge of the creek, studying the design of the fallen leaves in the water eddies, some still holding a little yellow color. The water felt cold, not much above freezing. Snowmelt from higher elevations was driving the flow. The crystal clear water should make ideal habitat for aquatic insects. Small fish and American dippers should be along this rivulet. The sounds radiating from the creek filled my heart with hope and resolve. Washington can lead us forward to a solvable solution to this dilemma.
The soft sound of water cascading across rocks filled the air with the sweet sound of fall. (G. Thomas Bancroft)
USGCRP, 2017: Climate Science Special Report: Fourth National Climate Assessment, Volume I [Wuebbles, D.J., D.W. Fahey, K.A. Hibbard, D.J. Dokken, B.C. Stewart, and T.K. Maycock (eds.)]. U.S. Global Change Research Program, Washington, DC, USA, 470 pp., doi: 10.7930/J0J964J6.
The morning fog filled the landscape with a sweet damp smell and dawn had only just started. It was late May in Western Pennsylvania. The eastern deciduous forest surrounded me. A few hemlocks grew on some north-facing slopes, but mostly oaks, cherries and maples dominated the landscape. The gurgling sounds of the stream filled the atmosphere and contributed to the sublime feeling.
I had just rounded a corner when I heard the first morning notes of a Wood Thrush. The flute-like whistle resonated through the forest and immediately a second and then a third began to sing. I stopped my walk to listen and imagined this cinnamon bird with a streaked breast sitting a dozen feet up in a tree proclaiming its territory. Since moving to Seattle, I’ve missed hearing this bird in spring and summer. When I lived in Maryland, I looked forward to its return in late May. One would sing from the oaks just up the street from my house, and I’d listen from my backyard.
We often call migratory birds like the Wood Thrush that breed in the United States “our birds,” but is that the right characterization when they spend most of the year farther south. Wood Thrushes winter from southern Mexico south through Panama, spending at least as much time there as they do on the breeding grounds.
In 2009, I was invited to do a Christmas Bird Count in Costa Rica and arrived late at night before the count day. The next morning, we met at 4 AM to begin our search. The first bird we detected was the “pit-pit” call of a Wood Thrush. Later when talking with folks, I thanked them for sharing “their bird” with us in the United States and told them about the thrill I had each spring on hearing them sing.
Although populations of Wood Thrushes are still strong across the northeast, their numbers have decreased by more than 60% since 1966. They are now listed as a species of “Continental Concern” in the 2016 State of North American Birds’ Watch List.
Other birds, including chickadees, titmouse, cardinals, and Carolina wrens began to join the wood thrushes in morning melody. I closed my eyes to take in the beautiful sounds before continuing my walk.
The dawn sky was just starting to lighten as I snuck into the quaking aspen grove, trying not to make a sound, to sit and listen to the day’s first chorus of birds. About a mile up the Umtanum Creek from the Yakima River, the tumbling water in the stream and the wind in the aspens were the only sounds present. The hot, dry air had the smell of fresh hay and reminded me of summers on our Pennsylvania farm. The sun wouldn’t rise for another 50 minutes as I settled, leaning against the smooth bark of a young aspen tree to listen and wait.
About ten minutes later, the first squawk happened, and it came from the far side of the grove, too far for me to record the sound well. A yellow-breasted chat had begun its morning song, a mixture of whistles, cackles, screeches, mews, caw notes, chuckles, rattles, gurgles, and pops. Expecting a mixture of bird songs including Lazuli buntings, black-headed grosbeaks, Bewick’s wrens, spotted towhees and maybe some warblers or vireos in addition to the chat, I patiently waited.
After a quarter hour, a bunting sang far in the distance, but nothing other than the chat was nearby. Maybe at that point in early June, all the birds were incubating eggs or caring for young and not that interested in advertising their presences, so I climbed to my feet to walk around the aspen grove and approach the singing chat.
The yellow-breasted chat was on the backside of a large elderberry bush that sat up against the aspen grove, and he was hidden from my view. His song was loud though, raucous and full of variability. Standing in chest high grass, I listened to hear when he repeated individual songs, but I lacked the experience to recognize so many different notes, whistles, and screeches. A song would radiate out from the bush; then a pause happened before the next one jumped out. He reminded me of a person who liked to hear himself talk non-stop; not listening to what anyone else had to say. An hour later, he was still singing and had not made an appearance above the bush. I left to hike up the valley and look for other things in this wild country.
Dr. Donald Kroodsma, an expert on bird songs, once answered a question about how he learned so much about songs by saying he listens with his eyes. Here is sonogram movie of 10 minutes of this yellow-breasted chat’s singing. His calls are shown by intense red, and where the sonogram becomes almost white, it is showing the loudest notes. Individual calls, songs, and screeches range from 1,500 kilohertz to almost 15,000 kilohertz. Note the variability of his calls and how he mixes them up in a random order. This chat may be responding to other chats in the distance, or he may simply be singing what he wants. A lazuli bunting and an American goldfinch can be heard in the background and appear on the sonogram.
The glaucous-winged gull came flying straight toward the boat. It’s wings fixed in a steady glide into the wind. The bird’s speed and the wind created enough lift to allow the bird to close the hundred yards to me without once flapping its wings. The bird was going to fly directly over our boat, and I would be able to look right up at this marvelous example of flight.
Have you every wished that you could fly? When I was young, I dreamed about what it would be like to soar like the red-tailed hawk that flew above our farm fields or to fly like a barn swallow low over the hayfield twisting and turning to catch insects. This gull, so aerodynamic, glided right toward me. Envy seemed to be surging through my veins. As the bird approached, I almost felt weightless and imagined extending my arms to join it as it passed.
My body tensed and my heart sped up as I stared at this perfect example of aerodynamics. This bird’s feathers create a streamlined body, and its skeleton has been modified to be light but sturdy. Most bird bones are hollow, filled with air, and yet can support the torque created by muscle contraction and the pressures of flight. Large breast muscles attached to their sternum provide the power to flap their wings, and their well-developed cardiovascular system can pump large amounts of oxygenated blood to these muscles. They can sustain vigorous activity for long periods of flying, but this gull seemed to glide effortlessly.
Holding my arm in front of me, I marveled at how a bird’s wing is a modified version of my primitive vertebrate forelimb. Bird wings have a humerus, ulna, and radius. The digits are reduced to three, and some bones in the hand are fused together. The primaries — outer flight feathers — attach to the hand bones, and the secondaries attach to the ulna. These flight feathers provide the power for flight. The downward movement of the wing creates lift as well as thrust forward. The upper surface of the wing bends up, creating a convex surface and a longer distance for air to travel than it does across the bottom of the wing. Consequently, the air moves faster over the wing’s top, reducing air pressure, and creating lift.
“Wow. Look at that, amazing”, came from the crowd around me on the boat. I had just missed seeing an orca breach. The gull, however, passed directly over me, and I turned to watch it continue past our boat. I smiled wondering how many of my whale-watching colleagues thought about the wonders of flight.
The Burke Museum recently opened an exhibit titled Wild Nearby that allows you to get a real sense of the vastness and intrigue of the North Cascades. The exhibit has a full sized replica of a fire lookout. You can even get a splinter from the wood if you are not careful. You can handle skulls of a wolverine, deer or coyote and they have movies on wolverines and high mountain frogs.
They printed my photograph of the Watson Lakes really big and it is on display in front of a floor map of the North Cascades. I am so honored to have one of my photographs of these wilderness lands included in the show. The exhibit is open until February 5, 2017. The Burke Museum in on the campus of the University of Washington in Seattle.
Our boat cruised slowly in a southeast direction toward where several humpback whales had surfaced briefly. We had just finished watching a fin whale dive repeatedly in the middle of the Straits of Juan de Fuca. Now we hoped to have a look at one of the humpback whales feeding in this area. The captain cut the motor, and we began to drift. The deck became quiet as all the passengers stared toward the southeast. The salt air smelled sweet, and the intense sun beat on my shoulders but the light breeze kept me from feeling warm. I had slipped on a light sweatshirt while we sailed and found it still helpful. My leg braced against the railing, and my feet were spread apart to counter the sway and wobble of the boat. Ocean swells a meter or more high came at an angle to the bow and caused it to rock wildly one way and then another. I held my camera tight against my chest to be ready if a whale surfaced. Without the camera, I would have been holding the railing.
The blow caught our attention as the cetacean surfaced a few hundred yards in front of us. His exhale shot water up into the air, drifting quickly in the breeze, as the mammal glided across the surface. The humpback’s blowhole submerged as his back surfaced. His back gradually slid by in a slow curve and then briefly his small dorsal fin showed before water covered him, and he disappeared. Fifty seconds later, he surfaced again to breathe. He took another seven breaths before he dove, arching his back more than before and his fluke rising completely out of the water. The crowd erupted in cheers as the fluke dripped water before it, too, vanished. I could feel the smile cross my face even though I held my camera tight against it, crushing my nose, as I created photographs of the complete sequence. The captain said we would continue to drift and see if one surfaced closer to us.
Pacific herring form large schools in the Salish Sea. These small fish, up to 15 inches long, lay their eggs in eelgrass beds in Puget Sound and represent an important food item for salmon, seals, whales, and birds. We were drifting over a ledge that creates underwater eddies and ideal places for herring to feed on the plankton that flourish in these nutrient-rich waters. I leaned out over the railing to look straight down into the water. The churn of the waves around the boat prevented any view down into the depths, but somewhere down there I could sense the excitement of life. Zooplankton fed on algae. Herring chased plankton, and humpbacks corralled the herring. My body tensed with the awe of this perceived action.
Over the next half hour, we watched several more humpback whales surface to breathe, but none had come particularly close. Each time, they took five to eight breaths before they dove. With each dive, the fluke rose above the water to cheers from the crowd. Our boat floated with the currents, gradually heading into the Salish Sea. Common murres flushed from the surface as we passed, and glaucous-winged gulls flapped overhead on lazy wing beats. The sublime setting mesmerized me.
“There,” screeched from both sides of me as everyone spotted a new spout half the distance out from the last. The whale was coming right toward us. If this humpback continued on this course and took half a dozen breaths before diving, we might have an incredible look. He stayed submerged for about a minute and then breathed again, repeating this process, coming closer each time. The captain had turned off the motor, and silence filled the air. I could feel the tension in the passengers that surrounded me, shoulder to shoulder. No one said a word and my guess was that we all held our breath too. On the sixth surface, the captain said, “I think he is about to dive,” and we watched as his back bent as he buckled over, and his fluke rose out of the water, right there in front of us. The ship rocked as everyone yelled in amazement. We couldn’t have asked for anything better. I felt the tension loosen in my muscles, and I reached for the railing as I set my camera against my chest. These were truly magnificent beasts.
The spout rose a couple of dozen feet above the surface in a reverse cone of vapor and droplets. A whale blow well off our starboard side, and the captain turned the boat to cruise in that direction. The whale’s back continued to glide along as more and more of it surfaced in a slow arc before the mammal submerged completely. The captain cut the motor, and we began to drift. Just the breeze and the chatter of the passengers filled the air. This fin whale had been sighted the week before and seemed to be hanging around. This individual was only the second confirmed sighting of this rare baleen whale in the Salish Sea in many decades. The blood rushed through my body as I attempted to hold my camera still for the next surfacing. I had seen a fin whale a quarter century ago in the Gulf of California but never one in the United States.
A minute later the whale surfaced again, blowing water vertically, the water droplets glistening in the afternoon sun. It’s black skin reflecting light as it surfaced and the water slid down the glossy skin. The sickle-like dorsal fin eventually rose above the surface before the beast submerged again. This individual was 60 to 70 feet long, an adult. Fin whales are bigger than all but the blue whale. Our whale surfaced seven times before its back arched, and it dove. Its fluke never rose above the surface.
Our boat drifted in the Straits of Juan de Fuca a little west of Port Townsend. The captain said the whale was either feeding on krill or schools of herring that had congregated in this area. An escarpment cuts across the bottom in this location, and the water churns here as the tides move in and out of the Salish Sea. The mixing of nutrients makes an ideal soup for plankton to bloom and the krill and herring to feed. The abundant food drew our fin whale as well as several humpback whales that were surfacing half a mile to the south.
Fin whale populations have slowly recovered since they were protected from slaughter in the 1960s. The use of the Straits may indicate that fin whales are seeking new feeding areas or possibly the straits were having a large bloom of krill and herring this year. If fin whales return in future summers, then maybe this sighting is an indication of improving populations. Fin whales tend to be solitarily and so it wasn’t unusual to see just one individual.
The boat had rocked for about five minutes before the whale surfaced from its feeding dive. I tried to imagine how it might have opened its huge mouth, filling it with water and possible food items, and then using its tongue to push the water through the bristly baleen like a colander and finally swallowing any food. This time, it had halved the distance between us. It looked like it would pass our bow. The passengers erupted in cheers, and many clapped hands in excitement. I felt the compression of human mass as everyone tried to congregate on the starboard side to see each successive breath of this cetacean. Each time, a new spout of water droplets rose like a flag announcing its arrival. In the distance, Mt. Baker showed behind the whale like a queen overlooking her kingdom. The snow and ice of this stratovolcano sparkled in the bright summer sun and gave me the sense that we had seen something special. After five more surfaces, our rorqual dove for the depths and another bit of lunch.
Twenty minutes later and after a few more sightings, the captain suggested we look for the humpback whales. Holding the railing as the boat rocked in the waves, I watched the spot of its last dive wondering what this fin whale thought of us watching it.
Clouds had obscured Mt Adams all day except in late afternoon when a small window formed between the high and low clouds. I hoped the clouds might disappear as the day shifted to night and so I set my alarm for 10:30 PM. I had hiked into Muddy Meadows in Mt Adams Wilderness with the hope that I could photograph the Milky Way over Mt Adams. I have a personal goal of photographing the Milky Way over all 5 shield volcanoes in Washington. With a new moon just started, this night promised to be dark and perfect for seeing the Milky Way if the clouds disappeared. Lodgepole pines and firs surrounded the large wet meadow and the meadow had taken on a wonderful warm brown tinge as fall approached.
At 10:30 PM the Milky Way twinkled above the mountain and I didn’t see a single cloud. I found a good place to watch the sky and the mountain. A few meteors streaked through the sky and one large one looked like a shooting rocket. Unfortunately, it was just outside of my camera’s view. I found the stars memorizing and lost track of how cold it was. My fingers slowly became numb in the low 40s temperatures. Little light pollution was evident and I could see far more stars than I can see in Seattle. Muddy Meadows sits on the north side of Mt Adams and a little northwest of the peak. The Milky Way stretched southwest. I wondered how many stars were out there? Some scientists estimate that we may have 400 billion stars in just the Milky Way and many have planets circling them. It always thrills me to think about the vastness of the universe and how small our planet is within the expanse of space.
I stood staring at the stars when suddenly I caught the shadow of a dark object shooting by the right side of my head, maybe only an arm lengths away and slightly higher than me. Just beyond me, it dropped down to eye level and disappeared into the darkness without a sound. I thought an owl, maybe a northern pygmy-owl. It surprised me that I hadn’t jumped or even flinched. The owl must have been checking out what this strange object was in the middle of “its” meadow. Seeing it added an additional excitement to the night experience. I wondered what else might be watching me from the surrounding wilderness?
I did it again here. I seem to drift into a meditative state each time I stand watching stars gradually drift west. My mind wanders from family and friends to thinking about wild country. Seeing wild country or experiencing it through literature, films and art always seems to leave me energized, happy, and excited for tomorrow. When I began to shiver, I realized it might be time to find my tent and my warm sleeping bag. I grabbed my camera and tripod, turned to head toward my tent, but stopped for one last look up and to wonder a little more.
Do you enjoy seeing the Milky Way? Does it raise thoughts and feelings in you?