Powell River security detail

In a corner of the closet in our Powell River motel room, this pretty spider stood guard, protecting us from the mosquitoes that otherwise would have devoured us.

Cellar spider, species unknown. These always pose so elegantly!

I have not seen one patterned like this before. It reminds me of those "art coffees".

Distilled sunlight

At Mud Bay, yesterday afternoon:

Birdsfoot trefoil. Orange and yellow flowers on the same stalk.

Red-tipped buds.

The plant. A legume, trailing and semi-erect, perennial.

Immature seed pods with strange pointy caps. Mature pods are fatter, and have dropped the cap.

Flowers and a visitor. Small orange butterfly, unidentified.

Snubbed by gulls

We arrived at Sliammon beach close to low tide, and walked out, almost to the edge. At first glance, it seems barren; stony, with a few rocks, a scattered dusting of seaweed; a flat, empty expanse under a big sky.

Looking northwest.

At closer range, though, we saw that most of the larger stones hold tiny barnacles. Underneath them, periwinkle snails and purple crabs wait out the dry hours. I found a few limpets.

A forward-leaning limpet, with an eroded peak.

Along the sides of a creek bed cutting down into the intertidal zone, where salt water mixes with fresh to lower the salinity, healthy clumps of pickleweed (Salicornia) are growing, bright splashes of green in the stony landscape.

Succulent stems of salicornia make a good salad vegetable. (Recipe)

Far out at the water's edge, a flock of gulls dozed and preened lazily. I had a pocketful of bread for them; not the best diet, but as an occasional treat, it's good and our gulls love it. I walked out towards the flock, but they moved away long before I got there, so I stood, tossing bits of bread into the air.

On the White Rock beach, this would have been enough to get me mobbed by the whole shrieking flock, circling and swooping to grab the bread before it hit the ground. Not here. One gull looked in my direction for a moment, then flew away. I walked a few steps closer, and the whole flock lifted off and moved to the next section of beach. I gave up.

Truly wild gulls, not fond of humans.

A Skywatch post.

"Since the beginning of time"

Just a few turns of the highway north of Powell River, the First Nations village of Sliammon lies strung along the shoreline. The Sliammon (Kla ah men) are a Coast Salish nation whose territory when the white man arrived included sites from Saltery Bay north to Sarah Point, at the gateway to Desolation Sound, with a population of some 20,000 people.

They have inhabited this area for at least two thousand years*, and their middens and village sites are found up and down the coast. (*Their website says

The Kla ah men people have inhabited this region since the beginning of time.

which I think may be a slight exaggeration.)

Sliammon townsite, from its wide beach. The Catholic church in front was rebuilt after it burned down in 1918. The homes are much more recent.

Their history since the coming of the white men has been, like that of so many other aboriginal peoples, a mournful recital of losses, from the first epidemics of European diseases, to the expulsion from many of their home sites, to the persistent and systematic attempts to eradicate their culture and language, leaving them at present with a population of about eight hundred. Only in the last few decades has there been a resurgence of hope and activity; they are now permitted to keep their children at home, to have local schools, to celebrate their cultural heritage, and to direct their own lives as adult Canadians.

In 2009, the "Sliammon First Nation raised a 30 foot totem pole to honor their family and friends that have passed on before us." (Sliammon Treaty Society) As far as I can tell, that would be this one:

It faces out to sea, from just above the high tide line.

The Coast Salish peoples were not major totem pole builders, and I'm not familiar with their symbolism. From bottom to top, I see an unidentified head, two killer whales, a winged turtle with suns carved into the wings, and a majestic, tragic face.

Detail: crying turtle with outstretched wings.

Is he carrying a turtle, or a fish?

Grief and endurance personified.

Why sorting photos takes forever

Day Two, continued: Powell River wharf.

(This post is participating in a Pacific NorthWest scavenger hunt today. Details and links on Patricia Lichen's blog.)

The first time I saw the splotches on my underwater photos, I thought I had dirt on the lens. I wiped it (smearing the oil slick around a bit), took more photos of the same area, and the screen showed me even more spots. Dirt in the water, I figured; caught by the flash.

Spots, ruining a photo of  anemones and mussels on a pipe. (I increased the contrast and de-saturated the colours a bit, to make them easier to see.)

But why are all those dirt specks so perfectly round? Click on the photo to get the full impact; they go on and on into the background.

It wasn't until I was inspecting a photo at home, wondering if it was salvageable, that I saw a pattern in one:

A cross jellyfish, almost completely transparent. I highlighted it. .

Looking back at the previous photos, now I recognize the hints of structure in what looked, on site, like clear water. At least some of the photos may have captured jellyfish.

But we had seen none floating near the surface; last year, there were quite a few, close enough to photograph with the above-water cameras. I dug up the old photos and inspected the under-the-dock ones.*

A large anemone, and some small jellies. One, beside the stalk, looks like a moon jelly. Taken without flash.

I thought, then, that maybe most of the other circles, the ones without crosses, could also be jellies, like some we photographed last year. They showed a distinct centre circle, then a rayed "doughnut" around them, like the Aequorea species. I wrote the post up this way, then Tim came along to correct me. He said dust caught in the flash made those circular shapes, too.

Yes, but ... on some the rays were too evident to be an illusion. Or were they? I mulled it over, then tried an experiment. I filled a large black bucket with water from the tap. I didn't wash the bucket first, so it was dusty. I added a white kitchen utensil for a focal point, dunked the camera, and took a few photos.

And the "jellies" turned up there, too! So much for that. Some of the circles had the same rayed doughnut shape. None had the cross on the top, so at least those were probably really jellies.

Sample section from bucket photo.

These next photos were taken last year, with the dry-land camera. They were swimming just under the surface, in full sunlight. The water was clear, but there was a sprinkling of dust over the surface.

The cross jelly, Mitrocoma cellularia, swimming on its side. The mouth is that heart-shaped dark spot on the top of the inner surface. The band around the bottom is luminescent in darkness. It's about 4 inches across, full size for this species. (No flash on this, nor on the next two.)

A doughnut, one of the "water jellies", Aequorea spp. Look closely to see the trailing tentacles at the bottom.

Top view of a water jelly. Like the cross jelly, it is bioluminescent, giving out a green light when disturbed.

These two jellyfish are leptomedusas. ("Lepto-" means "flat"; the bell is wider than it is deep.) They spend part of their life as hydroids, fixed to a solid surface. The jelly, or medusa, is the adult stage. They reproduce by spawning eggs or sperm freely into the water; once the egg is fertilized, it sinks to the bottom and grows a new hydroid. In this stage, it is a colonial animal, where each member has its own function. Some bud; the buds sometimes develop into new medusae. When they are ready, they break off and swim away.

Anemones, June 2010. Flash used.

*How to get an underwater shot with a dry-land camera: worm yourself into a position close to the water surface and completely in shadow. Arrange it so that there is more light on your subject than on the water surface. Aim from a low angle to the surface. Don't use the flash. Don't fall in, either.

Purple crabs, pink stones, and periwinkles

On Sliammon beach:

Shore crabs, probably purple, so dark the polka-dots barely show.

Most of the crabs we saw this trip, on several Sunshine Coast shores, were much darker than the shore crabs we find at home. The snails looked about the same.

And I'm still only halfway through Day Two, with more wharf photos, the rest of the Sliammon story and the evening sky to go.

On my calendar

Where did the summer go? Yesterday, driving home, I saw a sign reminding us that school starts September 6, barely a week and a half away. And suddenly, the calendar is full of things to do, places to go. The blogging calendar is, too.

So: here's what's coming up next, this month (what's left of it) or in the first weeks of September:

• Skywatch will be back online at 2:30 this afternoon. It had been on hiatus since the sad death of its owner, Klaus Peter. Thank you, Sandy, Sylvia and Wren for picking up the thread!

Sailor's delight

• August 27th, the day after tomorrow, a few Pacific Northwest bloggers are participating in a scavenger hunt. On their blogs, so you don't have to travel. Pat Lichen is hosting it on her blog, here.

Here's the plan: this Saturday, Aug 27 at 9:00 AM, I'll post a series of questions along with a list of PNW bloggers. Your challenge will be to visit the blogs and, using the posts found there, answer each of the scavenger hunt questions correctly. Then you'll send your responses to me at patriciaklichen@gmail.com--the winner of a random drawing of correct actions will receive (what else?) a free, autographed copy of my novel Kidnapping the Lorax.

• As planned, the International Rock Flipping Day will be held here on September 11. I'll add more details for the new flippers in a future post. Meanwhile, start picking out your rock! Here's last year's fun, for inspiration: Mongoose Poop?

• The September Circus of the Spineless will be hosted by Danna, at the Cephalopodiatrist. Send your links to Kevin Zelnio this week!

What very important blog date have I forgotten? I know there's something; there always is.

A Skywatch post.

Day Two; a complete loss of dignity

The weather was perfect, again. The sky was clear, the water at the Powell River marina glassy smooth, in deep, deep blues, the boats sleek and dazzling white in the sunshine. Beautiful, but our attention was focused downwards, in the shadow of the planks of the wharf. There, the clean lines gave way to straggly algae, dead weeds and oily scum.

Brand-new planking, grungy attachments, some alive, some dead.

Something slimy and bubbly, long fibrous growths (possibly colonies of diatoms), dust, and oil sheen.

Some of this fringe would be alive, and probably host to many tiny animals. I might have pulled some up to look at it more closely, except that the surface was oily. Later, dunking my little underwater camera, I discovered that it was sticky, too; I had to rub hard at the screen in between shots to be able to see it, and my hands ended up all gunky, so that I gummed up the other camera, too.

Still, it would have been interesting to see what's living there. Next time, I'll be more prepared. Gloves and bags and more cleaning rags will be in my kit.

Our destination points were the wells where the pilings anchor the floating dock.

Four barnacled pilings: what is under there?

 This is a difficult spot for photography; the water is about two feet below us, there are spots of deep shadow and stripes of bright sunlight. The oily, dirty water surface reflects the flash, making it unusable. I was glad I had remembered the little underwater camera.

Around the pilings, feeding on the seaweeds, were many small fish; perch and rockfish and others, unidentifiable in the shadows. Most stayed down near the bottom, but there were always a few nibbling at the barnacles near the surface.

There's something big down there, but I can't see it clearly. Higher up, the lumps are purple starfish.

On the underside, and sometimes the sides, of the big supporting beams, the big anemones grow. Last year, they were all opened up, brown and pink and white tentacles waving. This year, most were closed down.

Mostly anemones, mostly sleeping. That white bit of fuzz may be a worm, or a small anemone. The red fan in the background is a worm. Laurie climbed on a pile of rope, and dangled himself down precariously into the well to get this shot.

I have discovered, watching the one large anemone (plumose anemone, like these above) in my aquarium, that it is extremely sensitive to temperature. One or two degrees extra is all that it takes to make it shut itself down to a tiny, flattish, brown lump. I add ice to the tank, and soon the stalk swells upwards and the mouth opens wide. (The smaller anemones, the striped green anemone (the tentacles are cream), are much more tolerant; they feed while their big cousin is sulking.) I wonder what the water temperature was, and what is normal for that dock area.

Large anemone, closed down almost completely, but with an open mouth.

We were disappointed, not finding the photogenic anemones from last year, but we persisted taking photos, almost at random, since we could barely see what we were doing. I held the underwater camera at arm's length, facing this way, then that; I couldn't see the screen from above, but I held the button down halfway for a few seconds, then clicked. The flash went off, I pulled up the camera and looked at the (oily) screen; it worked! I got a fish! So I tried again, and again. Most of the photos were duds. But a few held wonders.

Unhappy anemones, tiny stuff, and a pair of red calcareous tubeworms, one feeding.

The mouth of a tubeworm. Disturbed, it pulls back inside and slams its red trapdoor (operculum). The cauliflower-like structure at upper right is a half-contracted anemone. This species is lobed; each lobe makes a "floret" here.

Dwarf calcareous tubeworms, like tiny, white macaroni stuffed with orange feathers. I think I saw a flatworm somewhere in there, too.

I don't know what these are. They look rather like scallops covered with algae.

Barnacles on a piling. I have seen this before, but never managed a photo: if the light is right, the open mouths show a bright red interior, probably due to their hemoglobin. 

At the end of the float, under the ramps (new and old), Laurie and I sprawl on our bellies, peering down at anemones on a pipe.

What else we saw, I'll show you on Saturday. Meanwhile, on to another town's beach, tomorrow.

Sunshine Coast, Day Two. Powell River wharf

Small fish:

Flat fish:

Yellow fish:

Not a fish:

Very messy crab, under Powell River wharf. I think it may be a  large kelp crab.

I've been sorting the underwater photos, and finding much more in them than I expected. Full story tomorrow.

Sunset over Malaspina Strait

Sunshine Coast trip, Day One, continued:

The last 20 kilometres or so of the highway to the Earl's Cove ferry gives my arms a good workout. It snakes its way north and east, following the line of the coastal slopes, never deciding on any one direction for more than a few metres. We swing left, right, left again, right and right and right until it seems that we'll be tailgating ourselves, then left again at the last minute. Laurie mentioned seasickness. I like it; it keeps me alert.

Every so often, there's a sign; a twisty arrow, just in case we hadn't noticed the curves. Or a bent arrow, with a speed limit, usually about the speed I'm going already.

It always takes longer to travel these 20 km. than I planned.

On the ferry, the Island Sky, the windows were sparkling clean. We got a front seat with a good view over the bow, I got out the camera, and promptly fell asleep. Laurie woke me as we arrived in Saltery Bay. So much for enjoying the view!

But the view we came for was waiting for us in Powell River, at our motel, the Westview Centre. It is pasted onto the side of a steep hill; the driveway is a bit scary, and I always feel that we need chocks for our wheels when we park. I'm almost surprised to find the car still at our door in the morning. The drawing card is the sunset; this is the best place I know to see it.

I was awake for this, at least.

Looking straight down the driveway. The North Island Princess, arriving from Blubber Bay.

Straight overhead, blue sky and baby-pink clouds.

Looking over Malaspina Strait. Georgia Strait is just beyond Texada Island, directly ahead.

Turning our back on the view; the sunset in a motel window.

Next: The wharf!