Smells like fall

A decent camera is a treasure, and the internet is a magnificent medium for passing on the camera's discoveries, but they miss so much! The camera can never capture, nor the internet transmit the greater half of our world of sensation.

No camera can ever capture the aroma of dying cottonwood leaves underfoot, sweet, fresh, and slightly acid.

Nor the damp, spicy, woodsy smell of ripe Douglas-fir cones, still on the tree.

The camera never felt the bite of a chilly, salty breeze on a cheek; its nose and fingertips never tingled in the cold; no flying sea spray scented the air it breathed.

Did it hear the water nibbling at the rocks, the creak of the gulls' wings? Probably not.

The camera never smelled bull kelp drying on the shore.

Nor the blended aromas of salt-preserved wood and dying algae at the high tide line.

The camera never touched the rough, scratchy bark and lichens on an ancient apple tree.

Nor crushed a ripe yarrow seed head in the palm of its hand. It reminded me of an old sunny kitchen, redolent of spices — was that cloves? — and left my hand smelling of my grandmother's strong soap.

Oh, but it did get the spider in its web dangling from the yarrow stalk, which I hadn't seen. There's that.

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Una buena cámara es un verdadero tesoro, y el internet un medio que sirve para comunicar los hallazgos de la cámara, pero ¡hay tanto que se les pasa sin observar! La cámara jamás puede capturar, ni el internet puede transmitir, más de la mitad de lo que llena nuestro mundo.

1. La cámara nunca puede conocer el aroma de las hojas caídas del álamo en nuestro camino, aroma dulce, fresco, algo acídico.
2. Ni el olor de las piñas del abeto de Douglas que todavía cuelgan de las ramas, un olor como de madera vieja, picante.
3. La cámara nunca sintió el mordisco del aire helado en la piel, ni el hormigueo en la punta de la nariz y de los dedos por el frío; nunca respiró aire cargado de espuma de mar. ¿Escuchó cuando las olitas salpicaban las rocas, u oyó el crujido de las alas de las gaviotas? Creo que no.
4. Nunca conoció el olor de las algas "quelpo" que morían sobre las piedras de la playa.
5. Ni las aromas mezcladas de madera curada con sal y algas marinas desintegrándose al nivel más alto de la playa.
6. Nunca tocó la corteza y los líquenes en un viejo manzano; nunca se dió cuenta de su aspereza.
7. Ni jamás machacó en la palma de su mano la cabeza ya madura de una milenrama. El aroma me recordaba una cocina asoleada, antigua, oliendo a especies como el clavo de olor. Yme dejó en la mano un recuerdo del jabón fuerte de mi abuelita.

Bueno, si capturó el imágen de la arañita en su telaraña, lo que yo no había visto. Eso, hay que reconocerlo.

Warm weather snow

 I hadn't been to Baikie Island since the end of January. I didn't realize it had been so long! Rainy and chilly and muddy then; today I found it green and bright, fragrant from the bridge to the very tip of the island with the sweet perfume of our wild roses. White thimbleberry and Pacific ninebark flowers fill in the gaps between the rose bushes. And drifting down from far above, cottonwood "snow" is starting to cover the ground.

Cottonwood, Populus balsamifera spp.Actually, this one's a willow. Same procedure.

The "snow" (also called "cotton", but it reminds me more of snow when it piles up in drifts on the ground) is the cottonwood's method of spreading its seeds. Each little fluff drifts on the wind, carrying one seed. And each female tree produces millions of them. The seeds may travel hundreds of metres, and sometimes even several kilometers. In a week or so, baby cottonwoods will be sprouting on every bit of dampish ground. Luckily for us, or we'd all live in dense cottonwood forests, few of them survive.

The seeds have little endosperm: optimal sunlight and moisture are required for carbohydrate synthesis early in establishment, and, for this reason, seedling establishment in existing vegetation is very low.(USDA)

Cottonwood snowballs. The little specks among the cotton are the seeds.

Nootka rose, Rosa nutkana. 

Look closely at the stem: do you see the trapped cottonwood fluff with its one seed?

I tried to get a photo of bits of fluff as they fell, but they drift too randomly. So here's a photo of the water of the estuary, with floating fluff.

They won't sprout here, but some will make it to shore and grow on the banks.

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No había visitado la isla Baikie desde finales de enero; demasiado tiempo. Ese dia todo era lodo y agua helada. Hoy, verde brillante, y el perfume dulce de nuestras rosas nativas llenaban el aire desde el puente hasta el extremo de la isla. Thimbleberry (Rubus parviflorus) y Pacific ninebark (Physocarpus capitatus) alegraban la vista con sus flores blancas. Y desde allá arriba, la "nieve" de los álamos bálsamos (Populus balsamifera spp. trichocarpa) y de los sauces caía, empezando a cubrir el suelo.

Foto #1: Ramas de un sauce, con sus amentos llenos de semillas.

La "nieve" (también la llaman "algodón", pero más me recuerda la nieve cuando se apila sobre el suelo) es el método que usa el álamo para esparcir sus semillas. Cada vilano (o papus) es un especie de paracaídas que flota en el viento, cada una llevando una semilla. Y cada árbol hembra produce millones de estos.

Se conoce como anemocoria a la forma de dispersión de las semillas por el viento. (Wikipedia)

Las semillas pueden esparcirse sobre cientos de metros, a veces hasta varios kilómetros. Dentro de una semana, alamitos recién nacidos surgirán en todas partes. Por suerte, o si no, viviríamos todos en bosques densos de álamos, pocos de estos nuevos arbolitos sobrevivirán.

Las semillas tienen poco endospermo: se requieren luz solar y humedad óptimas para llevar a cabo el síntesis de carbohidratos durante el período temprano de su crecimiento, y por lo tanto, el establecimiento de los brotes donde existe otra vegetación es muy bajo. (USDA)

Foto #2: "Bolitas de nieve" de los álamos. Los puntitos entre el algodón son las semillas.

#3: Nuestra rosa nativa, Rosa nutkana. Mira con cuidado: ¿ves la semilla que atrapó la rosa?

#4: Traté de sacar una foto de la "nieve" mientras caía, pero el viento no lo permitía. Pero aquí está una foto del agua del estuario con los vilanos flotantes. Aquí no crecerán, pero algunos llegarán a la orilla, y establecerse allí.

Location, location, location

Some lichens are picky in their choice of growing sites. Reading through the habitat section in the guide book, I find such narrow ranges for specific lichens as, "near waterfalls" or "on sloping rock", "among the roots of fallen trees in shady sites at lower elevations", "on smooth bark of deciduous trees"; "acid mineral soil", and so on. Some will grow only on conifers, some prefer alders. Some like their wood alive, some want old lumber. Some prefer their rock to be freshly exposed; others are happy with any rock, as long as it's in the right location.

So looking at lichen, trying to identify each type, it helps to notice where exactly it was growing, not only the substrate, but its surroundings.

These four grow in the Oyster Bay Shoreline Park, all on the edges of the small meadow.

Cladonia spp.

This was growing on the cut end of a very old fence rail. A few grew on other cut areas, but not along the length of the rail.

Could be Bull's eye lichen.

I couldn't get down close to this rock for a better look. The lichen grew on two large rocks a few metres apart, in an exposed spot with little to no shade. Going by the age of rocks and of lichen, this could classify as "freshly exposed"; the park was only developed 30 years ago, and these rocks bolster the new dike.

Brand-new lungwort.

Two patches of this lichen are growing in the shade on an old cottonwood. More grows on other cottonwoods nearby. Lungwort likes trees in humid forests, and this is a dry site, but cottonwood is a water-loving tree with an extensive root system, and its wood is always wet.

A dust lichen

This dust grows on the same cottonwood, near the roots on the more exposed side where it receives a bit of sunlight but is protected from rain by dense branching overhead.

Note: paying attention to the growing site won't identify the lichen, but it helps. It helps.

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Algunos de los líquenes tienen ideas muy concretas acerca de donde quieren vivir. Leyendo en mi libro guía, en las descripciones del habitat de cada liiquen, encuentro descripciones tan específicas como, por ejemplo: "cerca de cataratas", o "sobre piedra inclinada", entre las raices de árboles caídos en lugares con sombra en alturas bajas", "en la corteza lisa de árboles de hoja caduca", "en tierra mineral ácida", y así por el estilo. Algunos crecen solamente en los coníferos; otros prefieren alisos. Algunos necesitan madera viva; otros la quieren muerta y bien podrida. Hay los que buscan rocas recién expuestas al aire; otros aceptan cualquier roca con tal de que esté en su lugar preferido.

Así es que, al tratar de identificar un liquen, hay que considerar el sitio, no solo del sustrato, sino del ambiente donde se halla.

Estos cuatro crecen en el parque Oyster Bay Shoreline, en los bordes del pequeño prado.

Foto #1: Cladonia spp. creciendo en el extremo cortado, muy viejo, de un riel del cerca. Donde otros rieles llevaban cortes, también crecía este liquen, pero no a lo largo de los mismos rieles.

Foto #2: Puede ser el liquen Placopsis gelida. No pude bajar para verlo mejor. Crece en dos rocas grandes separados por unos cuantos metros en un sitio expuesto a los elementos, sin protección de árboles. Tomando en cuenta las edades de rocas y de sus líquenes, esta roca puede tal vez considerarse como "recién expuesta", ya que el parque mismo tiene apenas 30 años, y las rocas que aquí sostienen el dique nuevo habrán sido colocadas después de esto.

Foto #3: Una Lobaria pulmonaria nuevecita. Crece en la sombra en la corteza de un álamo viejo. Más ejemplares crecen en otros álamos alrededor. A este liquen le gustan los sitios húmedos, y este lugar es más bien seco, pero el álamo es un árbol amante del agua con un sistema de raices muy extendido, y la madera siempre está mojada.

Foto #4: En el otro lado del mismo álamo, cerca de las raices, donde le llega un poco de sol, pero donde las ramas entrelazadas arriba le protegen de la lluvia, crece este liquen polvoriento.

Hay que recordar que aun al establecer el sitio, eso no asegura la identificación. Pero ayuda.

Curly moss

 You walk past something time and time again, never really noticing it. It's "just" old wood, "just" weeds, "just" rocks. And then one day, it is different. Or is it that you're really seeing it for the first time?

This week it was some "just" moss on the trunks of cottonwood trees. It grows in large patches, a brownish, greenish mass, "just" a background for the lichens I usually look at. But this week it looked different; patterned with rows of little glowing commas.

Tight little curls. 

Zooming in. It's the curly tips that are glowing.

Looking through my guide book, the moss that looked most like this was yellow moss, Homalothecium fulgescens. I looked it on the web. E-Flora has photos; they call it yellow curl-moss. iNaturalist calls it Tree Mat Homalothecium moss. And some of the photos have it curled up like this; in others it's spread out, with straight branch tips.

In a blog called 10,000 things of the Pacific Northwest, (an ambitious blogger!) I found a discussion on identifying this moss. 

Epiphytic mosses help to hold and slowly release water from rainfall, but because they are on a vertical surface they are prone to drying out. It is therefore good to be able to recognize them in various states of hydration.(10,000 things)

And going back to read the various descriptions, in my guide book and on E-Flora, I discovered that they do mention that the moss spreads or curls depending on the weather.

There are 6 species of Homalothecium in our region; I can't be sure which this one is. H. fulgescens and H. nutallii both grow on deciduous tree trunks, including cottonwood.

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Caminando, caminando, pasas sin ver muchas cosas, o sí que se te presentan a la vista, pero no las haces caso alguno. Son "solamente" piedras, "solamente" hierba, "solamente" cualquier cosa, nada que te llama la atención. Y de repente, un dia se ve diferente. ¿O es que realmente lo ves por la primera vez?

Esta semana, lo que vi de esta manera fue un musgo que crece en la corteza de los árboles cottonwood. (Álamo negro.) Crece en grandes masas entre verdes y cafés, cubriendo el tronco del árbol, "solamente" un fondo para los líquenes que voy mirando. Pero esta semana, se veía diferente, como que llevaba un diseño de hileras de comas chicas, doradas.

Fotos: el musgo, y un zoom.

Buscando en mi libro guía, descubrí este musgo, Homalothecium fulgescens, que se parece al mio. Allí lo llaman musgo amarillo. Pasé al internet. E-Flora tiene fotos que se parecen; ellos lo llaman musgo enrizado amarillo. Está en iNaturalist; allí se llama colchoneta amarillo Homalthecium. Y en algunas de sus fotos está doblado y en otras se extiende sin doblarse.

En un blog llamada 10.000 Things of the Pacific Northwest, (¡Un blogger muy ambicioso!) encontré sus comentarios sobre la identificación de este musgo.

Los musgos epifitos ayudan a detener y soltar lentamente el agua de la lluvia, pero porque se sitúan en superficies verticales facilmente se secan. Es, por lo tanto, bueno poder identificarlos en diferentes estados de hidratación. (i0,000 things)

Y por cierto, cuando volví a leer las descripciones en mi libro guía y en E-Flora, vi que sí mencionan que el musgo o se extiende o se dobla según cambia el tiempo.

Hay 6 especies de Homalothecium en nuestra región; no puedo estar segura cual de todos estoy viendo. Tanto H. fulgescens como H. nutalli crecen en árboles deciduos, incluyendo el cottonwood.

Learning the hard way

Here's a story. A bit embarrassing, maybe, but how do we ever learn except by making foolish mistakes?

It was the late 1970s. I had been away from the coastal rainforests for 20-some years, ever since my teens. And now here I was in the north country, with a house and small farm. I had a lot to learn.

How to stay warm in the winter, for example. That first year, I made sure the woodshed was full. Three cords worth (about 11 cubic metres), they told me, would last a winter. We cut trees on our property, hauled them down the hill, chain-sawed and chopped them into stove-sized chunks, stacked them neatly. The woodshed, piled up to the roof, smelled of freshly-cut wood. It felt so good!

We had red alder, pines and fir on our side hill, and cottonwood. The cottonwood was bigger, and we ended up with a good stack of it.

("Cottonwood burns well", says a Canadian government page. Some conditions apply.)

Cottonwood is a tree that grows in moist to wet to very wet conditions. It "acts as a massive nutrient pump, drawing up and storing nutrient-rich water." (Vancouver Island Big Trees) Ours was typical. We found out the hard way. In mid-winter, with the temperature hovering around 20 below zero Celsius, and our airtight stove roaring away, we were cozy enough. Unless we were trying to burn that fall's cottonwood. Inside the stove, it oozed and steamed and dripped, and put out the fire. In the woodbox beside the stove, it made puddles on the floor as it thawed out. I took to putting a few pieces at a time on top of the stove to dry out; there it hissed and whistled as the steam found its way out. Only when it stopped dripping did I dare put it into the fire. Then, yes, it did burn well. But it didn't produce much heat. Or hold a fire overnight.

Live and learn.

But I do still love cottonwood. Not in a stove, but standing tall, glowing in the fall light, growing lichens and mosses all year; the rough bark, the scarring, the tangled and broken branches all up and down the trunk, and maybe also the dampness of the wood even in summer, provides a rich habitat.

These three lichens are on cottonwoods at Oyster Bay.

A hanging leaf lichen.

Interesting pattern of a yellow-green powdery lichen on outer bark.

A large, loose, leaf lichen. Lungwort or something similar.

 Moss tomorrow.

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Una historia personal. Una tontería, pero ¿cómo aprenderemos si nunca hacemos estupideces?

Estábamos a finales de la década de los '70. Yo había estado lejos de los bosques pluviales de la costa por más de veinte años, desde que era apenas una adolescente. Y ahora estaba en el norte, con una casa y una granjita. Había mucho que aprender.

Por ejemplo, como mantenernos calientitos en el invierno norteño. Ese primer año, me apresuré para llenar la lleñera. Unos once metros cúbicos, me decían, serían suficiente para el invierno. Cortamos árboles en nuestro terreno, los trasportamos hacia la casa al pie del cerro, los cortamos con la motosierra y las hachas, y apilamos la leña hasta el techo de la leñera. Todo en orden, todo oliendo a madera nueva, picante. ¡Se sentía tan bien!

Teníamos alisos, pinos, abetos, y álamos en la propiedad. Los álamos eran los más grandes, así que nuestra leñera tenía mucha de esa madera.

("Cottonwood (álamo negro) se quema bien" según dice el gobierno de Canadá. Llenándose ciertas condiciones, por cierto.)

El cottonwood es un árbol que crece en tierras húmedas, muy húmedas y bien mojadas. "Actúa como una bomba de nutrientes enorme, absorbiendo y almacenando agua rica en nutrientes." (de Vancouver Island Big Trees). Nuestros cottonwoods seguían el modelo, lo que descubrimos de la manera más difícil. A medio invierno, con la temperatura alrededor de 20 bajo cero y la estufa llena de fuego, estábamos cómodos. Eso, si no estábamos tratando de quemar ese cottonwood. Puesto dentro del fuego, producía vapor, goteaba, chorreaba hasta apagar el fuego. En la caja de leña al lado de la estufa, dejaba charcos en el piso mientras se descongelaba. Me dí por poner varios pedazos encima de la estufa para secarse; allí chiflaba y silbeaba mientras escapaba el vapor. Una vez que dejaba de gotear, la podía poner en la estufa, y sí se quemaba. Pero no producía mucho calor, y no duraba.

Se vive y se aprende.

Pero de todas maneras, me gusta el cottonwood. En el fuego, no, pero en pie, brillando en la luz del otoño, o todo el año decorado de líquenes y musgos; la corteza tan arrugada, tan cicatrizada, las ramas que brotan por doquier, y que se rompen dejando grietas, y sí, tal vez la húmedad de la madera misma, hacen de estos árboles un habitat perfecto.

Fotos: tres líquenes en álamos de Oyster Bay.

1. Un liquen de hoja delgada.
2. Unos líquenes polvorientos en la base de un tronco.
3. Un liquen de hoja despegada, grande. Tal vez sea una pulmonaria, o algo parecido.

Mañana, unos musgos.

1. 
   

Hanging on

 Lichens on cottonwood, Oyster Bay Shoreline Park:

These are in the centre of the rest area, exposed to wind and sun.

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Líquenes en el tronco de un álamo en Oyster Bay, en el centro de la zona de descanso, donde están expuestos a los vientos y al sol.

Palest green

A shrubby lichen, on downed cottonwood bark.

Wind catcher, tree peeler.

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Un liquen arbustivo en corteza de álamo que ha sido arrancado por el viento.

View from Highway 28

Someone ripped up a bit of forest and left a mess. And for once, I'm not complaining. They left a view that wasn't there before.

Upper Campbell lake, distant peaks, nearby cottonwoods, November, 2019

The bare trees are maples; they've already lost most of their leaves. Now it's the cottonwoods' turn to warm up the blues and greens.

When Google went by, in 2011, the area closest to the highway had been logged off, but the shoreline and the lake were still masked by trees.

Google map photo, 2011, slightly tinted to render the mountain peaks visible. Taken by Google from the roadside point where I stood to take my photo.

I spent several hours trying to identify those two distant peaks. I think the one on the left may be Kings Peak. Google Earth let me get close, but refused to give me a name.

Google Earth view. Rocks and ice.

Those trees again

Once again, here's the pair of trees I take photos of every time I park at Oyster Bay Shoreline Park. Always the same trees, always slightly different.

Midwinter, with the afternoon sun off to the side. No birds, for a change. One dead leaf.

And this time, I turned my back on them to look at the cottonwoods in the centre of the parking lot. The setting sun warmed them, and a lonely crow, in spite of the snow at their feet.

So tall! The roof at lower right shelters a big log, peeled and trimmed,with an information plaque on the far side.

A Skywatch post.

Reaching for the sun

An old cottonwood in winter:

Bare branches, covered trunk

Life goes on, winter or summer. While the leaves are composting on the ground, the mosses bask in the light. Here, near the crown, a patch of licorice ferns, shade lovers, grows on the north side of the tree.

Ridge Trail, Elk Falls Provincial Park, high above the Campbell River.

Lichen samplers

Lichens on bark, found underneath cottonwoods at Oyster Bay:

Leaf lichen, and crust lichens, maybe bark barnacle.

Another piece of bark. Black, brown, green, yellowish dots and circles.

I look at the photos in my guide, read through the descriptions, and decide that I know what species a lichen is. Then I read it all again and change my mind.

It doesn't matter: they're beautiful, no matter what species they are.

Ground cover, after the rains

Crossing an unused picnic area at Oyster Bay, I almost stepped on the remains of a mushroom, bedded on soaked leaves.

Red alder and cottonwood leaves, half a gilled mushroom. I couldn't find the stalk.

Directly under the cottonwood trees, walking on their dropped leaves released a sweet, fruity aroma, with overtones of cinnamon. I had to stop and just breathe.

Scribblings and pumpkin tarts

Once the fall leaves are busy making mulch on the ground, it's a good time to stop and look at the exposed tree trunks and stumps, each with its own crop of mosses and lichens. The unnamed trail I was following passed through a mixed forest, half evergreens, half deciduous trees, mostly red alder, cottonwood, and various maples.

Black cottonwood; mid-size tree, with its mossy earmuffs.

Two persistent leaves. Cottonwood.

Orange jelly fungus. Looking closely, the surface even has the bumpy texture of an orange peel.

Lipstick cladonia on a rotting log

And these miniature pumpkin pies are a barnacle lichen, Thelotrema lepadinum.

The genus name, "Thelotrema" comes from the Greek for "perforated nipple", which accurately describes the immature "barnacles". "Lepadinum" means "like limpets". Someone got their intertidal critters mixed up.

Red alder, Alnus rubra. With bark barnacles and pencil script lichen.

Red alder, moss, and lichens

Zooming in. The little branching lines are the fruiting bodies of Pencil script lichen, Graphis scripta. 

The pale patches are the main body of the lichen; it's a crust lichen, making smooth writing surfaces on trees in shady woods.

The path. Well travelled, wide enough for the occasional vehicle.

Still round the corner we may meet

A sudden tree or standing stone

That none have seen but we alone.

(From JRR Tolkien, "Walking song")

Not quite wordless

Dead leaves, Elgin Heritage Park:

Cottonwood, I think.

Late night, early morning. Off to bed.

Weigela with cottonwood snowflake

At Bear Creek Park

That bit of white fluff is a cottonwood seed in its parachute.

Water hogs

Along the banks of the rivers in the delta, towering over the big-leaf maples on the cliffs overlooking the seashore, wetting their feet in duck ponds and soggy watersheds, our cottonwoods - black cottonwood, Populus trichocarpa - draw our skyline. (Or distant mountain line, if we're looking north or east.) In a month or so, they'll be providing "snow" to delight children (and me) all over the Lower Mainland, and nesting sites for birds from hummingbirds  to eagles, owls, and ospreys. Some of the birds will use the "down" (aka the "snow") from the ripe seeds to line their nests.

I often take photos; they rarely amount to anything. The trees are so tall (up to 50 metres) that to get a full view, we have to be on the other side of the river. Close up, the branches start far overhead; they block our view of the leaves and catkins; at eye level we see only rough, fissured bark, lichen and moss.

Dawdling around Centennial Park last week, I decided to photograph one tree from my normal vantage point.

There are buds on the tips of branches far above. If you look really closely, you might see a few.

Bark on an old tree. Young ones aren't quite so craggy.

Root tops, cut where they broke the surface.

The cottonwood is a water hog. The roots go far afield, close to the surface to catch every drop of rain, breaking ground to reach into rivers and ponds. When one of these roots is cut, it will leak for days.

20-some years ago, I was living up north, in Bella Coola. I had been too long in the cities; I had a lot to learn. Coming into my first winter, I was prepared, I thought; I had asked for advice, and filled the woodshed with the appropriate number of cords of firewood for our two stoves. Good dry alder off our own slopes, aromatic cedar for kindling, and plenty of big cottonwood logs for steady heat overnight. (They do say it makes good firewood.)

I didn't realize that cottonwood may take a year to dry. In the middle of the winter, with the temperature outside at -20 degrees Celsius, our alder supplies were running low, and we brought in the cottonwood. In the hot stove, it hissed and sang, dripping steaming water onto the coals, sometimes putting the fire out altogether. Even in the woodbox next to the airtight stove, the cottonwood logs leaked, leaving the woodbox sitting in a puddle.

I took to putting logs on top of the stove, while alder burned inside. The cottonwood dripped, even there, for hours, but eventually it was burnable. We didn't freeze; we made it through to spring. But the next year, the woodshed was full of alder.

At Centennial Park, every tree is numbered.

Lichens, grey-green and bright yellow cover the old bark.

More lichen.

I stepped back to where I could see the top. These big branches break off easily; most older cottonwoods bear the scars of departed limbs.

One other thing about cottonwoods; they're easy to plant. Grab one of the broken branches, or twigs, or a piece of root. Shove it in wet ground and leave it; it will sprout and grow quickly. The fallen branches sprout where they lie, or float down the river and sprout where they land, rapidly forming small forests wherever they find sun and water, plenty of water.