Thirteen steam irons ...

... and a shirt.

After a long day, driving in slushy snow, lunch with three babies while discussing a granddaughter's wedding plans over bouncing young heads, more driving (rain and slush this time), and other family matters, this is a fair approximation of the state of my brain:

This was the decoration overhead in the restaurant. Steam irons, with wires and plugs, a shirt ...

... and an improbable blue butterfly. Can't forget the butterfly!

I'll be back to normal tomorrow, I think.

Thirteen and a half legs.

A couple of weeks ago, in a bundle of tossed-up eelgrass from Boundary Bay, I brought home a pair of large, brown isopods. (About 1 1/2 cm. long, 2/3 of an inch.)

They cling strongly to the leaves, so firmly that I couldn't shake them off, nor brush them off without damaging them. When I put them in the tank, however, the male let go and started swimming. They're good swimmers, lying on their backs and paddling with little flaps under the belly. The legs stay off to the side, ready to grab whatever they touch.

Unfortunately, he came too close to the nose of Mr. C, the alpha crab. He was promptly caught and eaten by the entire community. His mate, more cautious, is still safe in the weeds.

Female isopod, possibly the surfgrass isopod.

These are fourteen-leggers, with 7 legs on either side. All the legs serve the same function, mostly crawling and grabbing. They are slow-moving; this female is content to stay all day on one leaf, barely even waving a tentacle. But of course, she's busy babysitting. After she is impregnated by the male, she holds her young under her belly until they are ready to start life as miniature isopods.

You can see these babies underneath her body, here ...

See the sharp hook on the first leg? And the others hooked under the leaf? No wonder they grab on so well! Note; one leg and one antenna are broken. More on that, later.

And now, I must go. It's snowing, and I have to drive downtown in the morning. Wish me luck!

Sudden death on a sunny day

Warning: this is another "dead bird" post. It's not gruesome, at least, but it is still sad; a beautiful bird struck down in his prime.

We were walking along the railway tracks heading in to Crescent Beach, and saw a black heap in the ditch alongside. It was a bird, freshly killed, entire except for the head, which appeared to be whacked off cleanly, as with a cleaver. Nothing else was damaged.

Surf scoter, as we found him.

The feet were intriguing. I had never seen any like that before; a vivid orange-red, with black webbing between the toes. The webbing defined the bird as a waterfowl, but without a head, we couldn't identify it.

Underside. The toes on this side are spotted with black. The flight feathers are grey underneath.

I had to read through the descriptions of black waterfowl in 4 of our guides before I found a description of the feet. This is a male surf scoter, a common bird off-shore, but which we usually see like this ...

Flock of surf scoters, off Centennial Beach. Far off.

They are a distinctive bird, but the defining characteristics are on the head. A white patch on the forehead, another on the back of the neck, and that fat orange, white and black bill. The feet, almost as dramatic, are rarely visible. (But I wish I had learned about them some other way.)

Photo from Wikipedia, by Alan Wilson. Creative Commons.

I found a very few photos showing the entire bird, on the web. Here is a good one, part of a series.

But what killed the bird? Not a predator; an eagle or an owl would have left nothing but feathers behind, a fox would have scattered feathers everywhere and left, maybe a few bones. The head had been cut off, not chewed off.

We have come to the conclusion that it was probably a collision with a train, possibly with some protrusion, something that removed the head with one blow. At least there was no long-drawn-out suffering involved.

The tracks. The trains come along here at a fair clip.

This is why eagles cry

Thursday dawned cold and very windy, but the sun was trying to break through the clouds. On Crescent Beach, the tide was out and still retreating; we walked south, watching the birds far off, hunting along the water's edge or swimming just off-shore. At Kwomais Point, three eagles sat, unmoving, in tall trees. Others flew with the gulls, prompting flocks of ducks and peeps to scramble for safer feeding grounds up or down the shore.

I was shivering, even with the wind at my back. On the return trip, we walked in close to the shelter of the cliffs, where it was warmer. Over our heads, a couple of eagles squeaked (Such a whiny, creaky voice for such mighty birds!) and we scanned the trees looking for them.

There were four, three youngsters, and an adult, supervising from an adjacent tree. And two of the young ones were not happy.

The three.

The one in the centre held this position as long as we watched.

Side view, as he came up for air. His lunch looks like entrails and a bit of feathers or fur.

"Is he going to eat it all? Not leave any for me? Not fair!"

"I'm shocked! Shocked! The nerve! He's a selfish pig! He's supposed to share!"

"I'll tell you, I'm getting mad! Just wait! I'll get even!"

And Mommy (or maybe Dad) said nary a word.

But, Baby, it's (still) cold outside!

Another welcome sign of promised spring (even if it snows tomorrow): a carpet beetle at my window!

Sipping at a cool drink of sugar water.

As long as they don't lay eggs in my sweaters or carpets, they're welcome to drop in for a snack. As soon as it thaws, though, this guy's going outside to nibble on flowers instead.

Sleeping under the sky

Sometimes we see faces or animals in clouds. Sometimes they're in snow-capped mountains. It's rare, however, that Laurie and I see the same thing, without prompting. But we both saw an old lady lying on the North Shore mountains, the other day. Do you see her?

North Shore, from entrance to Centennial Park, Tsawwassen.

That was such a nice, warm day! And now our weather has reverted to winter. The birdbath is frozen solid, and has little raised pimples where hail fell and never melted. The birds will be hungry tomorrow!

Travelling musician

Life, if you're a worm, is uncomplicated. The simple pleasures; eating, resting, housekeeping. The excitement of sex, in season. You live in the moment. Dangers and difficulties will be dealt with when they come. Qué será, será.

Of course, you protect yourself as your worm ancestors always did, burying yourself in the sand, building a strong tube for shelter. Then you go cheerfully up to find your next tasty mouthful of debris.

Sometimes, though, a worm discovers a strategy that makes things a lot more interesting. This little genius, for example. (I think he's planning to become a conductor of an orchestra.)

(As usual, YouTube embedding doesn't seem to handle the sound properly, at least for the first day.  Now I find that I have to click the "Full Screen" button to start it. I can come back to here immediately afterwards, and it's fine.

And get rid of the ad; it hides a couple of captions.)

Those extra dark sunglasses come in handy

... even the camera wears them.

Afternoon sky, from the Centennial Beach parking lot.

A Skywatch post.

The more I see, the less I know.

On logs tossed up along Centennial Beach, I occasionally find strange white, spiky mushrooms. Each new encounter is more confusing than the one before; they look the same at first glance, feel the same, grow in the same places. Yet each time they're so different that they may be another species entirely.

This year's crop brings new doubts.

Could be common split gills.

Close up for peaky "meringue" texture. They feel dry and leathery.

The underside, with flash, showing the pinkish gills, many forked, or "split".

They're so distinctive that they should be easy to id. But here are the 2009 crop:

Same texture, same colour, another driftwood log on the same beach.

Another batch on this log was shaped more like the usual ones.

And the year before; more like this year's. But ...

The gills were very different.

All very frustrating. Or fascinating. Or both.

(And there's another photo; Laurie caught me, elbows and knees in the sand, rear prominent, nose to the log end, red collection bag at my side, and a tipsy yellow and green garbage can looming over me. Ah, the indelicate poses my passion for small things forces me into! And no, I'm not posting the photo.)

Creatures great and small

The sun finally overpowered the clouds, and, by the end of the afternoon, even warmed our backs. We wasted no time heading for Tsawwassen and Centennial Beach. At the entrance to the park, the hawks and eagles were out in force, several in every clump of trees, the leftovers sitting on power poles. An osprey was casting back and forth over the swamp, hunting. (And we think we've found their nest; next time, we'll head that direction.)

In the centre of the duck pond, the redwings are nesting, and making quite a racket about it, almost drowning out the chattering ducks (mallards, wigeons and assorted hybrids) and the gulls, who were arguing, as they do, over a few handfuls of bread crumbs.

Juvenile redwing on spotty reeds.

Off-shore were more ducks and gulls, and far out in the bay, flocks of small, dark birds, flying back and forth in long lines or bobbing up and down on distant waves. These came close enough to be identified, just barely:

Surf scoters. The white spots are the backs of their heads; the pink triangles are those ridiculous beaks. The two in drab are females.

And this made us very sad:

Gull with torn foot

He came right up to my feet, begging for food. He even tried to eat the cracked corn I was carrying; most gulls just look at it scornfully. Happily, a woman came along with bread and crackers. I hope he gets a good share of tomorrow's barbecues. (I'm hoping it's still sunny.)

The poor gull could barely put his foot on the ground; mostly he hopped or flew. The foot was not only broken, but badly mangled and torn. Here's another view:

Looks painful.

What could have done this? It looks to me as if he had been grabbed and shaken by a dog. Both the leg and the foot are ripped in several spots, and the bone is broken.

I love dogs, but I wish people would keep them on a leash if they have the slightest tendency to chase birds. It's not as if they were having to hunt down their food; they're not wolves or coyotes any more.

On a happier note, I found this spider running along the sand. I've never seen one like it before. I've submitted a couple of photos to BugGuide.

Orange and black sand spider.

(Update: Lynette Schimming, at BugGuide, says it's a wolf spider, of some kind. Update # 2: Arctosa perita.)

More cheerfulness:

But it's serious business.

And on the way home, we saw this small merlin, the first I have seen close up. I had to lighten the photo quite a bit, because it was silhouetted against a bright sky.

As interested in us as we were in him.

And Laurie got his feet soaking wet inside the boots, collecting water and seaweeds for our critters in the tank. They appreciated it: he's so good to them!

Waiting for spring

Eagle against a wet sky:

He looks as though he doesn't approve of the weather. I don't blame him. Nor do I.

Purple heart

A stone I brought from White Rock, holding barnacles for my trophon snails, also carried this red-wine fuzz:

Soft, red cushion in my favourite shade.

I think it's an encrusting sponge, although it could conceivably be another of those invasive tunicates. (They were interesting and pretty, but I had to get rid of them; not an easy task.) I'll keep an eye on it as it grows.

And another heart for Clytie's Random Hearts blog.

Mr. C sits for his portrait

He built himself a studio under a big oyster shell jammed up against the glass, and sat in it all morning, waiting to have his photos done. I had to oblige.

Mr. C., in polka dots and fur trim.

I discovered another amazing worm! Video in the works.

At least the grass is green

The middle of February. Rain, rain, and, for a bit of variety, showers. The weather pages I've consulted promise more of the same right up until next Saturday. Then there's a day of possible sunshine, followed by - you guessed it - more rain.

"Great weather for ducks," they always used to say, and, "BCers don't tan; they rust." Except we're not ducks, and I don't think we really rust; I think that's mildew.

I'm not complaining, not really. It's what we're used to. And my honeysuckle vine has sprouted leaves already, sprinkling little arrows of green all through the maple tree it climbed last year. The hellebores below are blooming; if it stops raining in the daytime, maybe I can get a photo or two. The chickadees are turning up in fresh, white headdresses to dazzle prospective mates with, and the crows are doing mating dances in the sky above the parking lot. This greyness is not going to last much longer.

Varied thrush, hiding his brilliant colours under a cloudy sky

I laid in a great store of goodies for the birds at the beginning of the winter. There hasn't been much need for it. But every morning I go out and toss around a few handfuls; small seed for the juncos and sparrows, black sunflower seed for the chickadees, larger sunflowers, peanuts and other nuts for the squirrels (although yesterday, a junco collected a big one and flew off with it in her beak.) Within a minute, at most, (sometimes it's only a few seconds) of the time I come back in and shut the door, the varied thrush turns up. Next are the juncos and chickadees. A few minutes later, the squirrels arrive. They must all be waiting around, listening for the sound of my door.

Then I stand there with the camera, trying again for a decent photo. As long as the sky is overcast, it's in vain. Flash scares the birds away and/or bounces off the window; without it, all the colours are dingy and "noisy", most photos blurred.

Why grumble? It's BC in February; what we're used to. Great weather for ducks, but not juncos.

Junco, checking out the snack bar.

Peachy sky

I'm working late again. I took a short break to rest my eyes. This was just what I needed:

Sunset over Delta. 5:28 PM

Back to the salt mines ...

Oh, and I guess this is a Skywatch post.

Black and white

White Rock beach in the sunshine;

Black, on pebbles and barnacles and black mussels.

White (and grey) on sand and water.

It's a living: tubeworm video

Worms! I finally got the video together and uploaded.

I haven't been able to id these worms; the closest I can find are the three-section tubeworms, but they don't quite match. I'd appreciate any help!

(As before, the sound only works for me after I've switched the settings to 480p. I can't figure out why. And get rid of the ad asap; it's hiding a couple of captions. Viewing the worm full-screen gives you a better look at the features of the head and tentacles.)

Rubies underfoot

We caught the out-going tide on the White Rock beach ...

and it left behind these ridges and valleys half-full of seawater ...

and in those valleys, we found many tiny shrimp, like this one:

Transparent shrimp, with red dots on a thin red cord. About 1/2 inch long.

Against a dark background, with flash; the red cord disappears.

Unfortunately, the one we brought home didn't survive the trip. And I couldn't ID it, either. There's nothing like it in my encyclopedia.

There were wormies, too! Photos anon.

Tree lace, with birds.

The low-lying Delta fields are full of black birds these days, rising in swarms from one patch of dead grasses, drifting in the wind to another, and settling to become temporarily invisible among the weeds. Or maybe, perched in trees or on the blackberry canes, waiting. For what, I wonder?

Crow tree. The rest of the flock is below, pecking at the space between the railroad tracks.

Red-wing blackbird tree.

Red-wing blackbird females, listening to the guys proclaiming the merits of their nesting sites.

Faded to brown

Last year's flowering weeds, still worth looking at:

Tansy

Some sort of aster; I'll have to wait till summer for a better ID.

Goldenrod

And thistle

Tansy against the sky.

Mud Bay Station, again.