Hidden creek

I discovered a new (to me) trail yesterday; a short walk alongside a slow, swampy creek, leading to a viewing platform over the water. Sun and shade and the bare branches and dried grasses of winter. And glowing water.

And another crocodile! That makes 4.

Looking upstream.

The croc, lurking among the reflections.

A tunnelled log, with spalted designs on the outer wood.

Name this guy!

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Descubrí un paseo nuevo ayer; pasando, camino a la playa, vi la entrada. El sendero sigue un riachuelo corto y desemboca en una plataforma de donde se puede observar el agua. Sol y sombra, ramas desnudas y hierbas secas; todavía no llega la primavera a este sitio. Pero el agua está resplandecente.

¡Y hubo otro crocodilo! Este es el cuarto que he visto aquí. 😀

1. El agua corre lentamente.
2. El cocodrilo, usando los reflejos como camuflage.
3. Un tronco con el interior excavado por insectos o moluscos y el exterior veteado por hongos.
4. Dale un nombre a este muchacho.

North Island spring

It was a beautiful day. I got out early and drove north and north and north, seeing the bright spring colours; all those green glowing lights on the winter's bare branches. The pink catkins of the alders have been eclipsed by the shiny neon-green leaves; the maples have hung out their yellow-flowered racemes; new elderberry and salmonberry leaves brighten the edge of the forest. Snowy mountain peaks play peek-a-boo behind the lower hills, seeming to advance and retreat as the road winds, following the rivers in the valleys.

Down a gravel road, off the main highway, at every turn several robins fly off into the bush to wait until I'm out of sight again.  A squirrel dashes across the road; something chitters at me when I roll down the windows. Where the road ends, in Zeballos, the robins are joined by swallows and crows, maybe a raven.

I turn and head home again, stopping here and there to look at rocks or chase butterflies. Or to balance over a steep bank to look at green, roaring water.

Gravel road. The peaks are in the Haihte range.

Heading west.

Warm day, with ice.

End of the road. Looking back at Zeballos town from the pier.

Really the end of the road. Rock underwater, from the pier.

Double falls, near Fault Creek bridge.

Long view just above the falls, where blue water turns green.

Just a creek, any creek. The road runs alongside.

Next: I stop to look at rocks.

A Skywatch post.

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Era un dia hermosa. Salí del pueblo en la mañana y me dirigí al norte, más al norte, siempre hacia el norte, mirando los colores vibrantes de la primavera; todas esas lucecitas verdes, resplandescientes sobre las ramas desnudas del invierno. Las candelillas color de rosa de los alisos han dado lugar a las nuevas hojas, verdes neón; de las ramas de los arces cuelgan rácimos de flores amarillas; nuevas hojas de  saúco rojo y salmonberry alegran los bordes del bosque. Cumbres de montañas nevadas juegan a "ahora me ves, ahora no" tras los cerros más bajos, parecen avanzar y retroceder con las curvas del camino, siguiendo los rios a sus pies.

Saliendo de la carretera principal, siguiendo un camino de grava, en cada vuelta varios petirrojos se levantan y van a esconderse entre los arbustos. Una ardilla corre, cruzando mi camino; algo en el bosque está haciendo comentarios cuando bajo la ventana. Donde termina la ruta, en Zeballos, golondrinas y cuervos vuelan, mirando desde arriba a los petirrojos picando la tierra en busca de lombrices.

Finalmente, doy la vuelta y tomo el camino a casa, pero deteniéndome frecuentemente para observar unas rocas o tratar de sacar fotos de mariposas. O para balancearme encima de una roca para mirar aguas verdes, violentas, allá abajo.

1. Camino de grava. Las montañas pertenecen al grupo Haihte.
2. Dirigiéndome hacia el oeste.
3. Un dia caluroso, pero con vistas de hielo.
4. Donde termina la ruta, en el muelle de Zeballos. Miro hacia atrás, hacia el pueblo.
5. De veras el final del camino. Una roca debajo del muelle.
6. Una catarata doble. Cerca del puente Fault Creek.
7. Extendiéndo la vista más allá del puente, donde el agua azul se torna verde.
8. Un riachuelo cualquiera. El camino se ve a la izquierda.

Mañana; me detengo para mirar unas rocas.

Un post de Skywatch.

Brown's Bay mix

Here are the last of the Brown's Bay photos, in no particular order, before I move on to something else.

Large stump in the forest. The notch part way up is where the loggers anchored a support to stand on while they cut above the wide root end of the tree.

Tiny creek tumbling down the hillside.

Out in the open, by the RV sites. One tree.

Another view from the rocks. With a boat with some sort of yellow tanks.

And one of the swallow nests I went to look for. No swallows.

I posted this swallow nest and another to the Worst Bird Photographs Facebook page, although it really shouldn't have counted: there are no birds to be seen. Just feathers. The parents were zooming back and forth, but it's probably too early for chicks.

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Estas son las últimas fotos de Brown's Bay, antes de que pase a otro tema.

1. Un tronco grande en el bosque. El corte hecho a medio tronco es donde los madereros insertaron un soporte donde se podían parar para cortar el árbol.
2. Un riachuelo bajando el cerro a saltos.
3. En donde se estacionan los remolques y RVs, todo bien "civilizado" con pasto y un solo árbol.
4. Otra vista desde las rocas, con un barco en la distancia con un gran tanque amarillo.
5. Un nido de golondrinas. Los padres estaban volando alrededor, pero no hubo polluelos visibles. Probablemente sea un poco temprano y no más hay huevos por ahora.

Hidey-hole

It was a day of contrasts. The sun was blazing out of a blue sky. But in the forest, the shade was deep and the tree trunks made tall, dark stripes. Far above, the new leaves, maple and alder, glowed in the light, green and yellow, almost neon colours.

View from the road.

I followed a road that leads to campsites and trails above the highway. They're all off-limits now, because of the virus: Parks Canada says they can't carry out the necessary sanitation on campsites and other park amenities, so they've barricaded entrances to the park areas. But outside the park, the forest is open. I drove slowly, enthralled by the unfolding scenery.

At one point, a narrow footpath led off into the woods. There was no sign, no notice: Keep Out!. I parked and went to investigate. The trail climbed a mound of road-building leftovers, then dropped into the forest. And came to a dead end.

Fallen trees over the trail.

The trail led under the logs: I had to crawl to continue, but then on the far side the path was clear, a well-travelled footpath a foot wide. Not a bear trail. The soil was too well packed, and there were no bear markings or scat. Not a deer trail. Too solid for a raccoon trail. Must be human. But why? It led straight ahead through the forest, towards a glowing light beyond.

Open woods.

Where the trees ended, the trail dropped straight down a steep, muddy, slippery slope. I had to hold onto tree branches as I went, to keep from falling.

And at the bottom, a creek. A creek with deep, dark pools reflecting the golden light overhead.

View from the bank

Reflected tree, detail.

And in the ferns beside the creek, there were a dozen or so empty beer cans. So: a human trail, probably someone's favourite hiding place.

The spot was so peaceful, the reflections so intriguing, the gently flowing water so mesmerizing that I stayed a while. But eventually, I climbed that slope (not on the muddy trail: on my hands and knees up a mossy bank) and followed the trail back through the woods, under the logs, and back to the car.

I won't go back: the creek is someone's secret haven.

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Era un día de contrastes. El sol brillaba fuertemente en un cielo azul. Pero en el bosque había sombras, y los troncos se veían oscuros contra la luz. Arriba, las hojas nuevas (maple y aliso) eran como llamitas verdes y amarillas, de colores ¡tan fuertes, tan fosforecentes!

Seguí un camino que nos lleva a sitios para acampar, y a un red de caminos por el bosque, todos cerrados ahora por lo del virus. Parks Canada no puede hacer la limpieza necesaria en las instalaciones (tomas de agua, mesas, sanitarios), así que han puesto anuncios en cada entrada a los parques prohibiendo el paso. Pero el bosque fuera del parque está libre.

Manejaba despacito, mirando la escena, las luces y los troncos cubiertos de musgo. Vi un caminito, apenas el ancho de un par de zapatos, que entraba al bosque. No había ningún letrero: este camino está abierto. Me estacioné y entré.

Y el camino terminó de repente. Se habían caído tres troncos, uno encima del otro, cortando el paso. Seguí a gatas, y encontré el camino del otro lado, yendo directamente por el bosque hacia la luz tras los árboles.

No era camino de osos; demasiado marcado, y sin troncos rotos, o excremento de oso. Ni venado; los venados apenas marcan el suelo. Los conejos y mapaches hacen caminos angostitos que apenas se ven. Pero ¿que haría una persona aquí?

Llegué al fin del bosque. El camino bajaba por un banco lodoso, muy inclinado, muy resbaloso; tuve que detenerme de ramas de un árbol para no caer.

Y abajo, un riachuelo, tranquilo, hondo, muy silencioso, reflejando los árboles y la luz de arriba. Y en un nido de helechos, una docena de latas de cerveza. El escondite de algún humano, buscando paz.

Me quedé un rato; el lugar era tan tranquilo, los reflejos tan bellos, el movimiento lento del agua algo hipnótico. Pero por fin, me trepé otra vez hacia el bosque (a gatas entre el musgo para no llenarme de lodo), crucé el bosque, gateé bajo los troncos caídos, y regresé al coche.

No volveré; es el lugar secreto de otra persona.

No name creek

Flowing into a no-name lake.

Tumbling down from the bank above the road,

pouring under the road, and winding down to the lake.

Scenes in a rainforest. A rainforest built on ancient piles of rock, mostly vertical. Everywhere we go, there's running water, trickling over cliff faces, oozing through the moss, scouring the boulders. Racing, pouring, seeping, falling, tunnelling. A constant undertone to the voice of the forest, the murmuring of the leaves, the scraping of branches.

On any road, like this one, the drop down to Brown's Bay from the highway, I pass dozens of little creeks bursting out into the open where the road made a gash in the forest. This one falls into the end of a tiny lake with no name on the map; just another of the puddles that dot the island.

From the other end of the lake, a darker line on the satellite view on Google Maps meanders down the hill to Brown's Bay, then disappears. Underground, under the man-made roads and parking lots, evidently, because then the creek appears on the beach, flowing into the salt chuck, where they all end up.

Calm

After a difficult week, plagued with griefs both personal and public, I spent this afternoon sitting in deep woods, watching a creek and a kingfisher. Life goes on.

Creek off the Quinsam River. The kingfisher is there, but invisible.

An idle afternoon

Laurie comes from Yorkshire, UK, and for a while as a boy, lived in York. So when we saw the York Road sign on the highway near our motel in Campbell River, we decided to follow it and see where it went. (Sure, that's a silly reason to pick a destination, but when you're exploring, any excuse counts.)

York Road heads off into open country, mostly flat, mostly empty of anything but abandoned development sites, cleared and growing back in alders and young evergreens. Here and there we passed a house or small farm, some selling eggs or veggies, some with greenhouses and flowers. 9 kilometres of two-lane, winding road, with not much else to see. A pleasant enough drive, if a bit boring.

We came to a dead end. There were three houses, nicely fenced and landscaped, then nothing. We parked; we were here, wherever here was, and we might as well make the best of it. A narrow trail led off into the bush; we abandoned the car and walked in.

The bush was just bush. Tall evergreens, huckleberries, vanilla leaf, ferns. The trail went on, like the road, winding, seemingly aimless, until we came out onto the bank of a wide creek.

Woodhus Creek*, looking upstream.

This was in 2010. It had rained recently, and the creek was full, and flowing fast. But the bed was sandstone slabs, some carved down to make winding channels, most near the surface, both above and below. We were able to walk up and down the creek, and across to the other side without getting our feet wet.

It was beautiful; so calm, yet so busy with rushing water, so enclosed, like a room with green curtained walls, so varied, with deep, still pools and hurrying falls, green and red-brown and yellow and reflected blues, against the background of smooth, beige sandstone.

We came back again this year, after a long, dry summer.

Wavy sandstone, a green and brown pool.

Clear water, turning the sandstone green.

Have I mentioned before that I love sandstone? Probably. One thing I like is that, unlike most other rock, it absorbs water like a sponge. The wetness seeps up above the water level, painting the rock, softening all the contours.

Laurie taking a photo of wet rock.

A tiny pool between two stones, reflecting the sky and trees above.

Waterfall

A thin sheet of water pours over a slanted slab. The little lines are individual plants, about an inch long.

Turbulence in a shallow, yellow pool.

Calm water, a brown growth on the bottom, and Water striders!

The pinpoint feet make big snowshoe reflections on the bottom. If you click on this to see it full size, you will notice that the water striders are not above the shadows. If you were a bird looking for a cool snack, you'd get a beak full of nothing. 

Reflections.

Laurie, out in the middle of the creek, deciding that, in spite of his injured leg, he could easily jump that channel.

Green and beige of the sandstone, yellow-ochre muck, glittering water.

We had been hot and tired (me) and sore (Laurie); now we were behaving like children. We floated leaves down the stream to see them drop over falls, then be caught by eddies and spin off into becalmed pools. We followed them as they wound back and forth, dropping every now and then to a new level. I threw that stick, above, into deep water and watched it get hung up in the shallows, then, no doubt because of the pep talk I was giving it, shaking itself free and finding a good current again.

Eventually, we remembered our dignity, calmed down and went home.

Near the edge, a fern finds a crack in the rock.

But not yet. There's more to see! But that will wait until tomorrow.

On the trail back, the trees stand tall.

*Woodhus Creek flows into the Oyster River, just a couple hundred metres beyond this point. The river is on the map, but not the creek.