"Purpose o life is wurk"

Just had to pass this on.

Laurie, on his blog, "Poems by an Old Reprobate", has a fictional alternate-universe character called Tich Backhouse, who invariably makes me laugh with his creatively spelled "wit and wisdom".

"Tich" has just posted a "leckcheer" on the purpose of life. Science (according to Tich), the state of things and the future of humanity on this old earth; Tich has it all. (Or "orl", as he writes it.)

Go look.

When all waterfowl look alike.

Off the south end of Crescent Beach, last week, hundreds of dark-coloured birds were making their way around the point into the bay. The sun was behind them, so we high-tailed it down the beach, trying to catch up to at least the tail end of the flock where the cameras would be able to function.

We did catch up. But did we get a good photo of them? You know we didn't.

If you click on this to see it full size, you can just (barely) see the line of flying birds, out close to the land over there.

Starting farther out, a goodly number were flying south, just above the water, mere flapping Vs against the sun.

Closer in, still in silhouette, small birds with their heads tight down against their bodies, rubber-ducky style. They seemed to be just floating, not doing anything, but the flock moved gradually southwards. Many of the ones closer to us seemed to be floating with their heads down, almost underwater. Dabbling without upending?

Closer to us were the actively diving birds. Some of these had long, curving necks, with white fronts. Some seemed to be crested. I would swear a few were loons; Laurie pointed out a surf scoter with the white patch on the back of the neck. But it was hard to tell; most were still too far to see clearly. And they wouldn't sit still. One would pop to the surface, and we would aim the cameras in its direction, and it was gone. I got several photos of circles in the water where a bird had been.

Tail end of the flock, catching up.

The most frustrating were a group of quite small, slender birds that came in quite close, wading distance. They were fishing; the only time they stayed on the surface for more than a second or two was when they were trying to swallow a small fish who had other ideas.

The fish were about 4 inches long, slender and very active. (Who wouldn't be, rudely snatched from your peaceful swim by a nasty alien wielding knives?) But they all got eaten; at least, I didn't see any get away.

Our photos, enlarged to full size, show only a smudge of white on the side, white in front, and the slender neck. Some seem to have a white keel, but many, upending to dive, did not flash white at all.

A collage of all the "best" shots, at their full size. Even Laurie's film camera didn't do better.

They don't exactly look alike: I was wrong. But I wouldn't swear to the identification of any of them. No matter; it was a beautiful afternoon, the weather was wonderful, the sunset astounding; these flocks of waterfowl were the final, perfect touch.

We had one other treat in store for us. We had come down another long set of steps to reach this beach (I didn't count this time, but the climb was comparable to the "1001 steps"), and we were hurrying to get back before dark. I was out of breath half-way up, but Laurie charged on ahead.


At the very top, while he waited for me, he did a little victory dance, heels drumming on the wooden walkway. And immediately a loud complaint, a series of screeches and squawks, arose from the top of one of the tall evergreens overhead. Nothing moved. I climbed the last few steps and we stood, looking for the source of the protest. A squirrel? No. Too loud, too raucous. But what local bird shouts like that?

I said, "He didn't like your dance," so Laurie did another good rat-a-tat-tat.

And a red-tailed hawk flew out of a tree just overhead, and headed north, hollering as he went. He must have found another perch just out of sight, because we could still hear him as we trudged up the street to the car. "Dratted humans! Just as I was settling down for a nap! Screech!"

Work, work, work, work

... but I met the deadline.

How is it that every job takes 3 times as long as you budgeted for it, and needs something that you can't find?

I'm off to bed. But here's a photo, anyhow: Laurie's favourite vase from the Culture Crawl, made by Red Iron Studios.

'night, all.

Follow-up on kelp crawlers

A local naturalist, in the comments to my previous post, suggested that the creatures we photographed may have been tunicates, possibly Ciona. Thanks, Hugh.



I have spent most of the evening looking at photos of tunicates of this area, and reading what I could find on their locations. Hugh could be right; Ciona looks possible.

There are five invasive species of tunicate in the area, Ciona savigny, Styela clava, Didemnum sp., Botrylloides violaceus, and Botryllus schlosseri; of these, only Ciona looks like it may match. The colour is right, the shape is almost right, and some of the groupings show circles that may be siphon mouths.

Two similar native species, Corella inflata and Corella willmeriana, are smaller and rounder. They don't match mine. Besides, Corella inflata dies within a few days if exposed to sunlight.

Many tunicates eat anenomes, but Ciona savigny is a filter feeder, eating bits of waste. There are obviously no anenomes on this kelp.

Most of the tunicates live at greater depths, out of the sunlight, but a few are found under docks and floats. Most of them, including Ciona, fasten to firmer ground, though; pilings, rocks, even mussels. These were on kelp.

A couple of the things look definitely like Melibe leonina, which is transparent and usually found on eelgrass. I found one mention of it on kelp.

Several of the other shapes could be Melibe, as well, either singly or in groups. Do Melibe hang out together in flocks? Or could this be a mixed bag, Melibe and Ciona? Do they mix?

And should I report these as invasive species? And to whom? The address I have is for across the border.

Every question leads to a list of questions, doesn't it?

Help wanted; identify these, if you will

Last week, at Crescent Beach, we noticed this large bull kelp caught on the pilings of the pier. The tide going out dragged it into the sunlight, and we could see these white jelly-like things on it.


I had never seen anything like this before. Can anyone identify them?

Laurie climbed through the railing onto a slime-covered board a few inches wide and bent 'way around the corner to take this shot. I almost had a heart attack.


I hung over the railing, zooming in as far as I could.


Cropping and increasing contrast to show the things more clearly. Click on the photo for a full-size view.

How about it? Does anyone recognize them? Are they what they look like to me?

Help!

Quick Change Artist

Afternoon sea and sky, off Ocean Park beach.

What's inside the Paneficio Studios?

Blogging the Culture Crawl: fourth of maybe seven.


I promised you a look inside the old bakery, the "Paneficio". I have written about it on a couple of previous occasions, with a photo or two of some of the storefront display, most recently here. But this is another of the working studios, not a gallery; we had never been inside.

Paneficio Studios houses 6 artists at the moment; we entered first through the door on the corner, where the old Paneficio sign hangs. Valerie Arntzen has this space. The display inside was similar to the crosses of baking tins that we had seen in the window earlier, but much more varied. She combines Mexican "milagros" and statuettes with bleached bones and found objects in a variety of containers as frames; a meditation, it seems to me, on mortality and hope. (I could be so far wrong that I'm not even in the same country, but that is what her work suggests to me.) This link will take you to her portfolio on Picasa.

I had wanted to talk to her, but she was giving an interview to a reporter the whole time we were there. Another day, maybe.


A bucket of found objects; supplies for future work, in the junction between Valerie's display area and the next artist's.


A painter's work space. Sharon Petty or Esther Rausenberg, I'm not sure which. More Mexican motifs.


A vase, something pink and feathery, broken bottles. And paint brushes.

This front room is divided into three "roomlets" or largish cubby holes. At the back, a door led out into a narrow hall or alley, still under the Paneficio roof, but seeming to be the passageway between buildings. floored with boards on mud, and now used for storage of old lumber and what's-its. It went on for a fair distance, then, just before a door opening onto a real alley, we found a studio door on our right. People were coming out; we went in.

We were in a large, open metal-working shop. Right in front of us, this coffee table held a card, giving the owner's name. Arnt Arntzen.


Arnt is a furniture designer, working in recycled wood and metal. He writes,

In this world of mass production, I feel it is important to design pieces that can not be mass produced. this is achieved by cutting my own wood from trees that have already been cut down and left to rot or from demolished buildings. Much of the metal comes from scrap yards or is found.

This studio fascinated me; I could have spent hours here, poking among the materials collected along the walls, hanging from the roof, jammed onto the benches. Or just admiring the finished and half-finished pieces; everything was so unexpected, but at the same time, just so right.

(I discovered something about artists: they use different lighting than we do. I had set my camera for indoor lighting, and most of my photos came out in strange colours, especially these. Looking later at Arnt's lighting fixtures, I realized that he used a mixture of fluorescent, tungsten, daylight from skylights, and what looks like surgery lights from a hospital. To get a true idea of what we saw this day, follow the links to the artists' galleries.)


Part of Arnt's workspace. Those tall, shiny things are propellers (airplane? boat?)


Wooden mice on a piece of machinery.


A half-finished chair, made of one of those propellers, hanging from the ceiling. You can see three varieties of lighting in this photo.


Unfinished wooden bowls shoved under a rack.


More stuff hanging from the ceiling.


A little side table.

Arnt also makes the "totems" that I have shown before; there was an unfinished one in a corner.

But there were 300 artists to see; I dragged myself away. Out into the hallway/alley, out the door to the lane, back to the street. Around the building, passing a door to other studio spaces, closed at the moment.


Door #2 of the Paneficio.

And around the corner, to doors #3 and 4:


One of Arnt's totems, outside the studio of Jordan Bent, painter.

Jordan's studio was an amazing experience; painting after painting, in vivid, Mexican colours, incorporating the familiar and the fantastic to create worlds unknown, each telling a story that grew and changed as you looked.

His website explains that, "His work is an exploration of longing, a detail of searching, an illustration of the weight of duty."

I took one photo, and a helper came over to ask me to desist. He did give me permission to use this one on my blog, however. It doesn't begin to do justice to the painting; I should never have used the flash on high-gloss paint.


So: all in all, beautiful work, lousy photography. Next year, I'll do better.

Wordless (almost)

Sasha

Interlude

Today, the sun was shining, the wind was not blowing. It was bitterly cold, but beautiful; in the afternoon, we bundled up and went to Crescent Beach.

The water was as smooth as glass.


Except when the occasional boat left a wash.


Like this.


Photo op.


I wish you well, CF and CP.


Ambling home with the tide.


Ducks and seagulls. Out farther, a few loons, mallards and geese.


End of the afternoon.


Last gasp. I set the camera for "Backlit" and aimed straight into the sun. Probably fried the camera's brain.

Wobble Pots and Wonky Teapots

Blogging the Culture Crawl: third of a bunch.


I promised to look inside the Paneficio, but London Drugs Photos machine called in sick, so the photos will be ready tomorrow. I hope.

Instead, we'll wander down the street and look at a few ceramics studios.

Our first stop was Gailan Ngan; we had been pressing our noses to her windows every time we were in Strathcona, and never finding her there. This time, we would find her.


A wobble pot. Yes, that is its name. Her website explains;

Her ceramics blend a playful, sculptural energy with crisp, functional design. Her tableware includes an ongoing series of meditatively simple bowls, plates and cups, as well as her new “wobble pots,” footless, kinetic pottery that rocks gently, but safely, on your table. Designed to be stacked, these sets work as a unified sculpture when not in use.

And they do wobble, gently. And right themselves nicely, like one of those tipsy dolls we used to play with. The cups look like they would nestle happily in a hand, but I wouldn't want to fill one too close to the top.

I love to look at other people's work spaces. (Not mine; I always think, "Oh, I've got to clean that up!") So, here is a corner of Gailan's:


On down the street, we found the Red Iron Studios, and the pottery by Rod Wuetherick. Nice mugs, beautiful vases (later I'll post Laurie's photo of his favourite), bowls, and some delightfully wacky teapots:


Laurie calls this one the "Tin Man".


Against the window, the light fights with the pot. But then, this pot fights with reality in general. Imagine trying to pour hot tea out of that spout!

A quote on Rod's site warns us:

"A bunch of pots together is the worst place to view individual pieces--
it's like having all your friends in an elevator"
-Jack Troy, at Hiroshi Ogawa's kiln opening

And he's right. These pots, and the next group, really should be looked at one at a time. Imagine them sitting in state in the centre of your favourite table, maybe with your best cloth on it. See the difference?

And on to the next: Kathleen Murphy. No wobbling here, no jagged lines. Smooth, serene shapes, gentle curves. And vases that seem to stand on a point.



My favourite one, but look at that tiny base!

And something a little more practical, in the blue-y light from the window.


And no, we didn't buy any. Not this time. But we will be back, cash in hand.

Crawling and Climbing and Trying Not to Trip

Blogging the Culture Crawl: second of a bunch.


300 or more artists (the actual number is uncertain, because some artists never registered*, they just hung the yellow balloons outside their doors, instead) opened their studio doors in Strathcona, Vancouver, over the last weekend to the general public. Some of them, it is true, sell from their studios year round, but most display their work elsewhere. We joined the crowds "crawling" from door to door Sunday afternoon.

The weather contributed; it had been raining, but Sunday dawned clear and grew warmer as the day progressed. We dawdled down the streets, cameras in hand.

Most of Laurie's film photos are still in the shop, so I will wait until we have them in hand to pick out the best for you. But for now, I can post about a couple or three visits where I know he took no photos.

I wouldn't have noticed this one, but my granddaughter knew the site. At the back of an unkempt yard, bounded by weeds and a rotting shed, down a crumbling cement walk past doors unpainted for decades, and up two stories worth of rickety outside steps, wooden and a bit slippery, this little critter greeted us:

Some kind of arachnid. Your guess is as good as mine.

Detail of wall on the landing.

The door opened into a tiny space between kitchen/hallway on the left and a small room on the right. This was the living/work/display area for the artist, Christie. A sofa, funky 1930s linoleum on the floor, a display table, two clothes racks, more clothes hung on a wall. Not much else. A sign announced, Ladies*Bridal*Grad. Aha! Jess is thinking of next spring's grad parties already; that's why she knows of this place.

I am not much into clothes; I expected to be bored, a bit. But no: in the window, the Mary Craig's line of jewelry gleamed, with the sunlight streaming through it and the browning oak leaves just outside.



I give you two photos, even though they are similar, because I couldn't choose between them. The second really needs to be seen full size to get the full effect of the layering. Click on it to see what I mean.

The display area was mostly taken up by a line called "Carny Love"; funky dresses, short-shorts, little vests, all made of 1950s-style fabrics. My daughter bought a scarf/collar, which she wore for the rest of the afternoon.

In the mirror, the artist, loving her work.

We left, watching our step on the way down.

Later, up more steps, concrete and just a dozen or so, and down an uneven walkway between two building, single file, in a basement suite, we found a warm, clean haven. Beige carpeting, a wood fire in a glass-fronted stove, creamy walls. And on these walls, framed embroideries, in off-whites. Beautiful, minimalist work; I wished I could have somehow fitted one into my decidedly non-minimalist decor.


These old boxes and books were the only bit of colour in the room. The cups on top are made of embroidered felt. And the light was so strong that it overpowered my poor camera, hiding two of the cups.

Unfortunately, I can't credit these to the artists; I brought home a card, but it seems to have fallen out of my pocket. And they are not listed with the registered "Crawl" participants.

The third fabric artist we found was another non-registered hostess. This one was housed in a second basement apartment, with her door underneath the back staircase of the house. Inside, we were greeted with the aroma of buttered popcorn; Brenn Kapitan, the artist, had laid out individual cups of fresh popcorn, bottles of water and cups of cider for the refreshment of her exhausted visitors. Wonderful! (No-one else, so far, had been so thoughtful, and it was now past sunset.)

Great enthusiasm here: her boyfriend, Andrew Williams, had a table in back, displaying his unique idea for instant heirlooms; tea-light holders made of lumber from vintage homes. Brenn told us all about it, then went on to show off her own sketches and collages, pausing between phrases to greet new visitors and offer them drinks.


Detail of a collage, unfortunately fuzzy because of the jostling of visitors in the narrow room. I really should have gone back and taken several, to be sure. Forks and spoons, old-fashioned dress, money, and ?MacDonald's? There's a meaning here, but what is it?

*Mary Craig writes to tell me that she did register, but too late to get on the website and brochures. And that the studio belonged to her friend Christie, who has the Carny Love line. Mary does the jewelry.

Next: What's inside the Paneficio.

We Crawled

... did the East Side Culture Crawl in Strathcona, that is.


And I came home and fell asleep over supper. So I'll put off posting photos until tomorrow. Here's a taste, though:

Painted gourds. From Gailan Ngan.

For Jean, because ...

... you liked the ocean photos.

I took this little video to pick up the sound of the waves rolling the pebbles on the beach. See if you can hear them.

Train, a bug's eye view

While we were at the White Rock beach two trains went by. I was caught by the first one at the top of a difficult, hands-and-toes climb up to the tracks; with barely a foot of room beside the tracks, I decided to scramble down a couple of feet and lie low. So here I am, at wheel level and meter or so away. Noisy!

Wind and Water and small stuff

It's not just the people and their property that are affected by weather in its more active moods. One example: in Bangladesh this week, the mangrove forests, home to the Royal Bengal Tiger, were in the direct path of Sidr. They and their prey species and the trees that shelter them hunkered down, ran, bent and broke, burrowed under, climbed higher, held on tight, as their instincts and abilities permitted. Some died, maybe even some of the tigers. We can hope not.

We saw this rehearsed on a much smaller scale a few days ago. One of our winter windstorms blew over BC last week; not as violent as last year's storm, when thousands of our trees in Stanley Park and elsewhere were destroyed, but strong enough to do damage.

The first sunny day after the storm, we went down to the WhiteRock beach to see the surf.

The tide was high when we arrived, almost at its upper limit. (The low tides come at very inconvenient times, like after dark and before dawn, this fall.) We parked at the western end of the manicured areas, and walked further west, along a narrow, rocky strip between the high water and the railroad track.

Looking back east.

The water was still rough, but a flock of surf scoters were happily riding the waves and diving for food, eel-grass dwellers like sea slugs, maybe. Or clams and crabs, which are plentiful here.


It was hard to get photos; they were never in the same place twice, and as soon as we pointed the camera their direction, either the waves would hide them, or they would dive.

A relatively calm moment.

Along the beach great mounds of freshly-uprooted eelgrass, still wet and green, covered the rocks and logs, over a foot deep in many places.

A new handful just tossed in.

And a whole forest of bull kelp, the long, whip-like, snake-ish, 30-foot pipes that so delight kids who find the occasional one, -- the whole forest had been ripped up, rolled in masses and blasted high onto the beach.


A small sample. Bull kelp is a strong plant; the stems, or stipes, are thick-walled tubes, tough and springy. At the top is the floating bulb, the size of a large onion and filled with gases, including carbon monoxide; the clump of long floating leaves is attached to the top of this bulb.


And at the bottom is a holdfast. I was able to examine a few. They are tough clumps of wiry roots that grab onto the rocks and -- as implied by the name -- hold fast. Laurie says they feel like wires. I yanked at this one, trying to get it out into a more visible position; it wouldn't break off, nor even bend where I held it.

I picked up a few pieces of smaller seaweed; a red, knobbly, flat-leaved species, a bladder seaweed, another large greenish-black variety covered with the remains of tiny tube worms, some of that fine mossy growth.

Something about the strength of that wind and water: on top of those mounds of eel-grass were sprinkled handfuls of stones. Not fine sand, but regular pebbles, up to an inch or more across. Lifted by the water and dropped on top, well above the high tide line.

On a bit of eelgrass at the water's edge, I noticed a bit of transparent jelly, and picked it up. (Not with a bare hand; some of those things can sting, even dead.) Melibe leonina, a hooded nudibranch, my particular favourite sea creature. (See my previous post, A hungry blob of jelly.) Dead and limp; no casting out that glorious net any more!


At home, on a plate. The green is the digestive system, the big circle is a net to catch prey, the tentacles sting. The "ears" are cerata, a fin-like structure. The whole animal smells like a lemon.

As she was, in life. From here.

These sea slugs live among the eel-grass, just off-shore, but well below the low-tide line. They do not come out onto the beach. This one has been thrown up with the torn grasses.

We turned and walked east, to the car for a snack, and then on to the lawns above the most used part of the beach, where the water is shallow and warm and the sand goes out and out and out into the bay. And where the waves get a good run at the beach.

And they had picked up debris and logs and washed them well up onto the grass. And washed away great chunks of soil in the process.


On the lawn, I saw a seagull with a broken leg. I fed it bread until the other seagulls crashed the party and it hobbled away, then took to the air. At least it could fly, and gulls are more in their element in the air than on land; it will survive.

I don't know about this one, though:


It tried, when I came near, to lift that dragging wing; this was the best it could manage. So sorry. At least, it is in a well-traveled area; it will be fed, maybe even rescued. I hope.

Other birds were doing famously. Down at the water's edge, among the seagulls, a few Canada geese were grazing. Unusual behaviour for them; they are normally found on the lawns and parks eating grass. We walked down to see what was going on.


They were feasting on that freshly harvested eelgrass, roots and all.

Hoping for the best (least worst)

This is better news than I expected:

Fewer deaths (so far) than predicted from Sidr.


Seems that some things do work, sometimes.

Aftermath of a Windstorm

... At least, that was what I was planning to blog about. Death and destruction, on a miniature scale.

I'm leaving that aside for now; the "real thing", in human scale, is in the news. Go read.

Chris Mooney's blog is following the story closely: Time to Panic over Cyclone Sidr, and Preparing for Sidr from the other Side of the World are the two latest posts. (As of 6:00 PM PST)

Greg Laden has more: Hundreds of Thousands of People May Die Tomorrow Afternoon in Hurricane. "A Category 4 hurricane/cyclone is about to plow into what might be the most vulnerable place on the earth..."

CNN, inexplicably, has not carried the story yet. But it is up on CBC (Canada).

From the comments on The Intersection: "Nearly 10 million Bangladeshis live in vulnerable points along the coast, but there are storm shelters for only half a million people".

I will get back to our local storm and its ravages anon.

And why not?

People do strange things:

Go out of our way to splash in a puddle.


... Even older brothers.


Toss coins onto a wishing ... piling?


Use veggies as patio decor.


Take photos with our back to the scenery.


Sailing, sailing ...
(Reflected real world, model on desk inside.)

Taken at New Westminster Quay, mid-November.

Cormorant, but what kind?

We see cormorants along the shores at many sites, usually posing on a piling far in the distance, most often in groups. This is the first time I have seen one close up, or fishing alone.

We were at the New Westminster Quay. I looked over the railing at the wharf, as I always do, checking out the mallard situation. The normal half-dozen were there, dabbling at the edge. And in the centre of the protected area, this guy was diving for fish.

We followed him up and down the stretch, trying to guess where he'd come up next. We were mostly wrong. However, I did get four photos; I think Laurie got a few more than that.



Ok: what kind of a cormorant is he? Orange-red on the face, smooth curve of head, blackish colouring. The books and websites give us 3 choices in this area: pelagic, Brandt's, double-crested. Audubon's Guide tells me that the double-crested has the red pouch under the bill, but I find photos with red-orange on the face for both pelagic and double-crested. The pelagic shows a crest in some photos; the double-crested has the smooth head. The pelagic is quite a bit smaller; our bird was a bit bigger than the mallards.

Based on the size, I vote for pelagic.* What do you think?


Fishing alone in silvery water. We saw no companion anywhere.


It was a silvery water day. And as cold as it looks.

*All cormorants (35 or so species, if I remember correctly) are classified in the genus Phalacrocorax; the pelagic is P. pelagicus, the double-crested is P. auritus. The name derives from φαλακρός (phalakros, "bald") and κόραξ (korax, "raven"), via latinized Ancient Greek. (Wikipedia) "Bald", as I understand it, refers to the featherless pouch under the bill (red-orange in our find).

I don't understand this ...

... I ran my blog URL through a site that tests its readability. This was the result:

(Check your own blog or site, here.* (Link removed, may have spam content.))

I expected a much lower level; I write as I speak, and my school-age grandkids understand me. (As much as kids understand any adult, that is.)

1. Is something wonky about this test? (Now, that's a good post-grad word, isn't it?)
2. Most writing for the general public is supposed to be around upper elementary - Junior High level. I checked one of the longer stories on my website (Dressing for Don Pedro) and it was rated at Junior High, as expected. A story I wrote for the kids (Chaucer and the Peanut Butter Sandwich) earned the "Elementary School" badge. As it was intended to. What gives with the blog, then?
3. I tested a couple of blogs similar to mine. One got Junior High. But Dharma Bums was rated "Genius". Why? (Not to say that it isn't a great, intelligent blog; it is.)
   
4. Test your own blog. And/or test a couple of your favourites. Let me know what you find.

Strange things happen when you try to test something by a standardized measure. At least, when the blog was deemed "PG", the site told me why: usage of "bad" words. (Like "dead".) This new site doesn't give reasons; it leaves me guessing.

Any ideas?

Wordless Friday

Babysitting tomorrow ...

... So I'm off to bed early tonight.

Detail, drawing by one of the little ones.

Goodnight, all!

Good weather for ducks

Hugh, over at Rock, Paper, Lizard, has two recent posts about the annual influx of Lesser Snow Geese. We saw them a couple of years ago; thousands of big white birds arriving and settling in one field. A cacophony of honks and flapping wings, a busy to-and-fro of white-clad conventioneers. Impressive!

The weather has been mostly good, recently, so we decided to make a day of it and go see the geese. Hugh photographed them at Terra Nova, in Richmond, whereas we had seen them on Westham Island, just outside the Reifel Island Migratory Bird Sanctuary. But Hugh told me that he had been there a week ago, and there were no geese.

So we went to Westham Island. Really.

Because it was starting to rain by the time we got out to the car, and Richmond is a fair distance. And in rainy weather, the traffic is miserable.

We saw geese, though. Two geese, one pair. And it was a delightful outing.

Westham Island. Our route in pink.

It was raining hard by the time we got to the island. I drove slowly along the narrow roads; it's always a good birding spot, and the ducks do love the rain. We even wasted time taking side roads down to their dead end at the water's edge.

Crossing the bridge to the island, we noticed, in the centre of a flock of mallards, a wood-duck. It's a one-lane bridge, and cars were waiting at both ends; we went on.

Ditches. With mallards. Sloughs. With mallards. Mallards in the air. And starlings. A seagull or two.

I stopped at one point to watch a heron ambling lazily across a rain-swept driveway.

A bit later, down a side road, Laurie saw a grouse in the field. When I stopped and backed the car, it flew away. That's the third we've seen in about 5 years.

On we went. A woodpecker working on a telephone pole left as soon as I stopped the car. An eagle permitted himself to be photographed from the car window, but when I eased on forward he flew to a pole farther away, roused his mate there (who we hadn't seen) with a screech, and took her place. She flew off down river.


In another field, what we think was a plover took off as we neared. First I've seen around here.

And three cormorants sat on a log in the centre of the river.

We came to "our" "goose field". It had been plowed and sown with winter wheat; the young plants were green and undisturbed, fence to fence. Not a goose in sight.

We went on to Reifel. At least, as far as the parking lot; we weren't going to do the long walk around the slough in this rain. And there we found the two Snow Geese. And three pairs of coots, among my favourite birds. And a gazillion mallards.


Coot. Neat little swimmer and diver. Walks and pecks like a chicken on land, hangs out close to its mate. Wears green-and-grey floppy feet 'way too big for its size. Compare to the mallard feet. (A mallard may measure up to 28"; the coot just over half that, up to 16".)

"So, are you going to throw me some more goodies? I'm waiting!"

It was raining hard by now; I had to hide the camera under my jacket between shots and hope it didn't get too wet. And the light under the trees was iffy. But here are the two geese.


While we were in the Reifel parking lot, a tour bus drove in. A good half of the ducks immediately left the water's edge and streamed towards the bus, quacking exitedly. The bus parked, and after a few minutes, the driver got out with a bag and began feeding ducks beside the bus, where they could be seen from the windows. So his passengers could look out and take photos of the mallards, an occasional coot, the pair of snow geese, their poor driver, and two insane birders getting soaked. All without getting wet themselves. Nice.

As for us, we were wet enough. We went on home. It was barely raining at all there.

Smaller fleas ... to bite 'em

"So, naturalists observe, a flea
Has smaller fleas that on him prey;
And these have smaller still to bite ’em;
And so proceed ad infinitum."
by Jonathon Swift (1667-1745)

We were on a rugged shoreline a couple of weeks ago. The tide was at its maximum; we were scrambling over bare rocks, with nary a sign of life below the tree line.


I picked up an interesting rock, grey granite with an "icing" of white crystal , put it in my pocket. And forgot about it, until I was putting away my jacket at home. I took it out and dropped it on the table, and three tiny snails that I hadn't seen before fell off.

The snails were alive still. But they would die soon enough, and stink up the place if I kept them. I dropped them in a pill bottle with alcohol and put them aside for later investigation.

Tiny snail, 3/8 of an inch at it's longest axis.

A couple of days ago, I remembered them, and dumped out the alcohol onto a plastic lid. Something bright flickered in the liquid, and I trained my lens on it.


A beach hopper of some sort. Hitchhiking on the snail.

And I'll bet that it has its own stowaways.

In which I speculate wildly

I posted this photo yesterday: the double-headed bird we picked up at the antique fair.


Normally, Laurie collects antique Japanese porcelain and Chinese jade, and I look out for vintage salt-shakers and anything Mexican, especially Tonalá and Oaxaca pottery. But sometimes something else catches our eye. This was one of those "somethings".

It is a cast-iron vase, about 8 inches high, unpainted except for the red centres of the peacock feathers. The seller insisted that it came from Gibraltar; which means little, since sellers are frequently wrong.

It reminded me, in pattern and concept, of the designs I have often seen used in Mexican woven and embroidered textiles. But I know of no Mexican village that makes this type of cast iron.

In the fluidity of the lines, I saw hints of India. Where peacocks are common. But was it Indian? It didn't feel like it.

Are those central creatures dragons? Is this Asian? Or feathered serpents, from Latin America? I couldn't tell.

So, back at home, I headed for Google. Searched and searched and searched. I could find nothing similar. Not in Gibraltar, not in Latin America, not in India. There was mention of double-headed birds in Turkish rug patterns, in Chinese paintings, and all over North and South America. None were like this.

I found eagles (the Roman eagle), thunderbirds, quetzales, even double-headed chickens. No double-headed peacocks. Stylized bird-ish shapes, aggressive arrow-bearing raptors. Whimsical ducks.

I looked over my own collection:


A peacock, certainly. The "tree of life" from Metepec, Mexico. A very traditional design. Not double, except that it has 4 feet.


A Huichol gourd, from the north of Mexico. This is more like an eagle. Two heads, one body.

In Mayan textiles (like the huipil the new addition sits on), a double-header is common; from the Guatemalan Maya Centre (London), I picked up some sample designs.


Here there are three two-faced birds, eagles, probably. Definitely not peacocks.

So: a mystery bird.

In Mexican traditions, the double-headed birds speak of past and future; looking forward, looking back. The two are indivisible. Hope and memory, planting and harvest. Sometimes this looking back is associated with good and evil, or life and death.

In some Asian traditions, I learned, the birds reflect the story of Prometheus, whose liver, in punishment for giving humankind fire, is eaten daily by eagles, and regenerated every night. Japanese birds are similarly divided; one half lives; the second, eternally attached, eats at his companion, attempting to kill him.

The Turks used the double-headed eagle as,

"a sign of grandeur and magnificence and it was to support the claim of Turkish rulers over the Roman imperial inheritance."

But that's the eagle. A peacock is an entirely different story. Here's a take on it from Persia;

"The motif of two peacocks, one on each side of the Tree of Life, is a well-known feature of Persian decorative arts. A pair of peacocks stands for the "psychic duality of man" similar to the role played by the Gemini in western astrology, says Cirlot (A Dictionary of Symbols.)"

This interpretation resonates with the Mexican tribal view. It all makes me wonder how much mixing of stories and traditions there has been over the centuries.

And as for our new acquisition, since nowhere, so far, have I found its own story, I think I will give it the gentle one that most seems to fit its beauty; memory and hope.

Double-header

We were antiquing yesterday, at the "Best of the West" Fall Antique Show. I'm too tired to say much at the moment, but here's one of our purchases:


Cast iron. Seller said it was from Gibraltar. We have our doubts.

Will write more, later. But now, I'm calling it a night.

In a muddle of dead leaves and bark ...

... the tiniest of the tiny mushrooms.

You'll have to click on these to be able to see most of the 'shrooms.


Earth tongues, or maybe coral mushrooms. Too small for me to identify them. And tiny pinheads.


Yes, those are mushrooms. And can you find the pink ones?


This one is already blown up a bit, but click on it anyhow, to see those marvelously delicate stems.

Found last week on the south slope of the White Rock bluffs.

Weekly beastie fix

Plate 66, Ernst Haeckel's Kunstformen der Natur
Wikipedia commons

Looks like this week's linkfest will be all creepy-crawlies. And I am glad; for the last week, I've had no tiny visitors. It's been cold enough to send even the spiders into hiding. There is not a web in sight out my back door.

It's the birds' turn. The juncos are back, in force. A tiny brown wren came right up to my door, looking for crumbs. A pair of flickers skirts the edges of the row of evergreens. And the chickadees are as bold and busy as they have ever been.

Still, ... the tiny ones. I miss them.

So, here are the creatures I've picked up on the web this week. Enjoy!

From DailyKos, an essay about a marine worm. And what a worm! Named Aphrodite; for reasons that will be obvious when you click on the link. By the way, did you know there is a species of worm called Bobbit because of the female's habit of feeding the male's penis to her young? (HT to Mark.)

From Deep Sea News: a marine snail covered with scales. Iron sulfide (fool's gold) scales. Talk about armour! "The coolest invertebrate ever", says a commenter.

One more underwater find: the oldest living animal on record. A quahog clam. Unfortunately deceased shortly after the find.

"Researchers from the University of Bangor recently discovered the oldest known animal on record, a 405 year-old clam, while dredging at the bottom of the North Atlantic above Iceland. Then they killed it."
Zoologix

Benny writes tongue-in-cheek. More accurate info at Milk River Blog. But Benny has the better photo.

And on to land ...

"This is so cool. A one-millimeter long spider (Cenotextricella simoni) encased in amber gets "digitally dissected" using Very High Resolution X-Ray Computed Tomography."
From John Lynch at Stranger Fruit. Excellent photos here.

And a good write-up on the same spider, at Richard Dawkins. No photo; good thing John had them!

That was then. And now, we have a Hallowe'en Battle, spider vs. centipede. From Niches.

And "Follow the Leader": spiderlings on a tight-rope. From jciv's Flickr album.

And, in case you haven't had enough, here's Circus of the Spineless # 26. Lots of photos, more great articles!

And I'm going back to browse that Flickr album. See you tomorrow!

Three horns and an axe

Head decor, this Hallowe'en.

Paint and duct tape

A BC loggers' theme. Keep safe!

(Taken at the entrance to our apartment building.)