Alternate realities

The public washrooms at Blackie Spit, midwinter:

Another time, another place. Nowhere on the Lower Mainland.

And in this universe:

Here and now. Crescent Beach shoreline, from Blackie Spit.

It's colder. And greyer. And muddy, to boot. But I'd rather be here; with the gulls.

Midwinter browns

More Blackie Spit photos. We left the river bank and walked back to the car over the fields and old farm country. It's very quiet at this time of year; all those rackety summer critters are sleeping under bark or duff, the shouting blackbirds have gone south; among the human Spit visitors, even the children walk along sedately, encased in puffy down jackets. And the weeds and trees are quiet in their way, toning down their riotous summer colours to cool browns.

Two berries. I don't know what they are. There were no others for comparison.

Dried weeds against an old fence

We sat on a bench by the path to rest Laurie's back. I entertained myself taking partial photos of the tree right in front of us, to build a composite once I got home. An alder, still carrying a few old leaves and its mature cones.

Unusually-shaped branches and buds. I don't know what this is. There were three in a row, as if planted.

Zooming in on those stubby finger-like branches. And two dead leaves.

A rotting log, with orange fungus. I didn't even see the spider until I got home. Can you find her and her web?

Just a dead branch. I was intrigued by the pattern of the thick bark. The whole branch is about 6 inches across at the widest point.

I moved to the far side of this branch, to get a photo with the sun on it, although the bark was rather bashed and broken.

Laurie sees a face here; a fish, he says. I see a skinny moose who's lost his rack. He's very sad about it.

Grasses protected from the winds by a tall fence.

Teasels against the sky.

And they're promising us snow for the morning! A few hours of whiteness, until the rain starts again. Back to grey.

Observation

Gulls are weird.

"Hey! Look over there, to our right!"

"His beak is shrinking!"

"Or maybe not ..."

"Screeeeeech!"

"Just pretend we don't know him, ok?"

"What?"

Nicomekl River, Christmas Day.

Dreaming of a (Pale) Blue Christmas

Christmas Day, 2014, on the banks of the Nicomekl River, at Blackie Spit.

Looking north, at near high tide.

Palest blues, reflecting their light on the crow's belly.

Floats marking off the dog-free zone. All of it dog free, now at high tide.

Gull

'nother gull, matching the greys of the clouds.

Tree lace

And the sun was warm, the air cool and fresh, the gulls peaceful. The perfect afternoon, between bouts of Christmas pandemonium. Hope your day was as happy!

A Skywatch post.

In like a lamb ...

... out like a lion. So they say. March started for us, with sunny, warm days. I left my jacket at home.

And now ... does this look "lionish" to you?

Blackie Spit, March 30th.

Appearances are deceptive. The wind was blowing; chill and strong, so strong it pushed me along the beach, willy nilly. Facing it, I could barely breathe. I couldn't stand still to take photos; I rocked back and forth in the wind unless I was holding on to a fence or bench. My fingers went numb.

In spite of the flying branches along our streets and the invisible hand pushing the car here and there on the highway, we had gone down to Blackie Spit. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, the tide was out; it would be a good time to explore the lower reaches of the beach.

The beginning of Blackie Spit, at low tide.

Ah, but look there, far down the beach; see the whitecaps?


Blackie Spit is a hook forming a protected bay at the inner end of Boundary Bay, at the outlet of the Nicomekl river and the Serpentine, both slow-moving, gentle streams. The water is shallow all the way across the inlet, and at low tide, exposes wide mud flats. Only in the centre of the Nicomekl channel is there depth enough for boats.

It's a quiet spot, where waterfowl of all sorts dabble in the stream and sleep on the mud. Usually they do.

Brown water in front; the Nicomekl. Then mud. Then the blue line that marks the Serpentine.

Here's that quiet water, day before yesterday:

The Nicomekl, disturbed.

Four ducks bounced through the waves. A seagull tried to walk along the shore; most of the time he was moving sideways. He found a clam, and flew up to drop it on the rocks to break it open. The wind blew him backwards, and he missed his aim. He struggled back to the clam, flew up and dropped it again three times while I watched, missing the rocks every time. I've never seen that happen before. Around the bend, in the shelter of the headland, a few seagulls and an eagle rested.

We had the beach almost entirely to ourselves. Farther inshore, three teenage girls played at leaning on the wind; a car parked, a couple of women got out, then quickly got back in and drove away.

Empty beach.


Empty headland.


Empty benches.

And it was beautiful, exhiliarating. The air smelled fresh and salty. The sky looked as if it had been just re-painted, piled with new cotton clouds. And our legs and lungs got a thorough workout.

A lion, but a friendly lion.

And April? Isn't it supposed to be spring? Then why is it snowing tonight?

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Walking on water

On the first really warm day of the year, every last resident of the BC lower mainland goes to the beach. Taking the dog, if there is one.

We're not immune to the bug. We ended up on Crescent Beach and lined up to park with all the others. The water was full of white sails, the dog section of the beach with people tossing sticks. Out on Blackie Spit, wheelchairs followed the main path and kids flew kites on the beach itself. There were no birds but one lone seagull and a quarrel of crows in the scrub bush. The rest had made themselves scarce.

We escaped the crowds only by skirting the salt marsh.

The footpath threads between a flat mud surface hidden by a mix of saltgrass, pickleweed, and sea arrow-grass, with scatterings of sea lettuce and rockweed, left by occasional very high tides. The odd crab shell lies tangled in the grasses, even on the higher parts of the marsh.

On the shore of the slough, with our backs to the marsh.

A couple of large puddles attracted our attention, and we went to look at them, walking carefully so as not to sink in the mud.

The water was about an inch deep over a brownish scum, scattered with bits of weed. Not much to see, at least with the naked eye.

I was about to turn away when I saw a white blob on a blade of drowned grass.


I don't know what it is. White, somewhat bubbly, with a paler rim. Maybe a quarter inch lengthwise.

Tiny midges flew over the water surface. While I watched them, a water strider scooted out from the shadows.


Only one? That's all I saw at the time. But, zooming in, look:


One waterstrider, but a bunch of tiny, tiny water walkers. Baby striders? Or something different? What do you think?
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Birding at Blackie Spit

We are gradually working our way around Mud Bay/Boundary Bay, walking a different stretch each week. A week ago, our choice was the inner part of Blackie Spit, on the tip of Crescent Beach.

Maps from Google and Park sign.

Blackie Spit is reported to be one of the best bird-watching sites in Canada, with up to 200 species sighted in one year. Our count, so far, runs far below that; we've been here at the wrong times, probably.

Our first glimpse, this vist: an overview of the tidal flats of Mud Bay. The white dots down there on the sandbar are seagulls.


From under the railway tracks, we watched Canada geese stream by. This is the tail end of the flock; there must have been over one hundred in all.

Laurie liked these grasses, standing deep or lying every which way. The tide comes in right up to their roots and the wind blows erratically along this shore. The grass just flops wherever it ended up when the wind stopped, I guess.

Down on the spit proper, sparrows sang in the trees and swallows dipped and soared overhead.

It's good country for swallows; plenty of standing water to breed mosquitos and noseeums, a wonderful diversity of vegetation, home to all sorts of bugs. The dragonflies like it, too. Last year, I saw several blood-red dragonflies; I was on the lookout for them this time, but was disappointed. Maybe next visit.

There are a number of swallow nest boxes on pilings out in the delta, where they are safe from predators. Well used, it seems.


Left over traps, now catching barnacles.

Pickleweed, and a crab shell. (See my previous post on Salicornia pacifica, with a recipe.)

Sandpipers. I tried to get close, walking slowly and gently, but this was the best I could do. One step more, and they flew away.


And I watched, but didn't photograph, a grey heron, flapping lazily down an avenue of barnacled pilings.

You can just barely see four of the sandpipers flying, above the last pilings.

A park guardian. (Look at it from a distance; can you see the face?)

We had done the circuit of the permitted area. Ahead of Laurie, in this next photo, is the off-limits section. I could hear the twitterings, down there in the grasses, but couldn't identify any of the vocalists.

Along the way, I picked up assorted shed feathers; crow, eagle, and something small and dark, not a sandpiper. They went in my feather collection at home; later, I will share them with my granddaughter, maybe help her make a headdress.

A dead tree. Just because I liked it.

All in all, a quiet afternoon walk, with bird song.