Pit dwelling mushrooms

The last gasp of the mushroom season ... Between rainy spells, I checked the museum lawns and their little woods; mushrooms everywhere, many past their sell-by date, but still interesting. On an old, algae-covered stump, sawed-off almost at ground level, I found these pit dwellers.

Taking advantage of a bit of extra protection.

The same group, seen from the opposite side of the stump. None of the mushrooms grow from the surface of the wood.

And in another protected spot, growing out of a crack in the old creosoted logs that support the 1916 donkey engine ...

Mycena sp.? With Cladonia lichens.

More tomorrow.

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La temporada de hongos sigue, pero ya en sus últimos dias. Di la vuelta a los jardines y el bosquecito del museo y encontré un gran número, muchos ya desintegrándose, sin dejar de ser interesantes. Entre ellos, vi estos honguitos que crecen en un troncón cubierto de algas verdes, cortado casi al nivel del césped. Cada uno sale de un pocito en la superficie, como que están aprovechando la protección de una pared de madera.

1. Ninguno de los hongos crece en la superficie.
2. El mismo grupo, visto desde el otro lado del troncón.
3. En otro lugar protegido, este saliendo de una grieta en los troncos que sirven de soporte al antiguo burro de vapor. Mycena sp., posiblemente. Con líquenes Cladonia sp.

Mañana habrá más.

Hard-working donkey

This is the old steam logging engine, retired, passing the days, with an occasional bit of volunteer work as befits an old retiree, in the gardens of the Campbell River museum. I stopped by the last time she (Why do we refer to engines as "she"? But we do.)  was fired up, to listen to the old familiar grumble and clank. Now she rests, again.

Empire Steam Donkey

(The roof is a modern addition; in service, the donkey would have sat out on a hillside, exposed to rain and sun. Mostly rain, here on the islands.)

The donkey engine was built in 1916, worked hauling logs off hillsides among the little islands on the east side of Johnstone Strait, and was abandoned there when her working days were done, in 1948. She moldered away there for 30-some years until the museum rescued her. (From the museum article.)

Walking through well logged off, now recovering, woods the other day, we came across several sections of steel cable protruding out of the ground. Back then, it didn't seem to make sense to pay to clean up a work site; I've seen cables and loggers' spikes half-buried in Oyster Bay, too.

Modern logging sites are full of heavy machinery; back in the day, the only machine would be this donkey engine. I watched them logging beside my house, in the early 50s. A barge towed by a small boat brought in the donkey engine. Men swarmed over the site like ants armed with axes and big two-man saws, human-powered. An anchor point was selected, a sturdy tree, and the donkey engine was hooked up to it. Then she winched herself off the barge, and up the hill, sliding on those two log skids. Loggers selected a strong tree, to serve as a spar tree; once trimmed, cables and pulleys were attached to the top. Then cables from the donkey were attached to cut and trimmed logs, and she winched them down off the hill, and into the salt chuck*. This was strange to see; the logs stood on end, held by the cables dangling from the spar tree's cable, and "walked" down the hill and into the water.

It was a noisy operation. There was always the chug-chug-chug of the donkey, the thunk of axe blades, the rattle of cables, the shouts and whistles of the men. "Timber!" they shouted when a tree was about to come down. The whistles were for signals to and from the donkeyman. Those cables were as dangerous as the falling trees, the widow-makers; sometimes they would snap, or the anchor point would let go, so the whistles were warnings for all the men on the site.

And then it was done; ours was a small hill, and at the end of the summer the donkey engine winched herself back down the hill and onto the barge and was towed away, to the next chosen hillside.

*"Chuck" is a borrowed word from the indigenous peoples of the west coast of the island. I was sharing a hospital room with a local Nootka woman (properly called Nuu-chah-nulth, but we used Nootka back then) and she undertook to teach me a bit of the language. "č̕aʔak", which sounded sort of like "chu-uck", she said, meant the ocean. I couldn't quite pronounce it, and when I thought I had it right, she laughed."No," she said, "that means river water". Salt water is č̕aʔak." It sounded the same to me. I never quite managed to hear the difference. (She taught the doctor how to say, "Good morning," and then laughed and laughed.)

Here's the museum page on logging history.

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Este es el viejo burro de vapor, ahora jubilado, pasando los dias con un poco de trabajo voluntario, como acostumran los retirados, descansando en los jardines del museo de Campbell River. Pasé por el museo la última vez que la pusieron en servicio, para escuchar su voz, despertando mis memorias de otros burros, otros tiempos. Hoy duerme otra vez.

Foto: el burro de vapor, "Empire".

(El techo es moderno; en sus dias de actividad, se quedaba sin protección alguna del sol y de la lluvia. Por la mayor parte, aquí en las islas, era lluvia.)

El burro fué construido en 1916, y trabajó entre las islitas que bordean el lado este del Estrecho de Johnstone, y lo abandonaron allí cuando ya no les servía, en 1948. Y allí se quedó, a solas, por unos 30 años, hasta que el museo lo rescató. (Véase el artículo del museo.)

Caminando el otro dia en un bosque talado repetidas veces, ahora en dias de recuperación, pasamos por unos pedazos de cable de acero medio enterrados. Hace años no les parecía importante a los madereros dejar el sitio limpio cuando se iban. He visto porciones de cables y clavos de madereros en la tierra en Oyster Bay, también.

Los sitios de tala de madera en estos dias están llenos de maquinaria pesada; en la primera mitad del siglo veinte, la única máquina sería el burro de vapor. Los observaba al lado de mi casa en los primeros años de la década de los 50. Un barquito jalando una barcaza trajo el burro. Un grupo de madereros se arremolinaron sobre el sitio, al parecer como un hervidero de hormigas llevando hachas y sierras "crosscut". Se localizó un punto en donde fijarse, un árbol firmemente establecido, y le ataron un cable desde el cabrestante del burro, que entonces se puso en marcha y se arrastró desde la barcaza hasta el cerro, arrastrándose sobre esos dos troncos que le sirven de sostén. Los madereros escogieron un árbol fuerte y alto, llamado "spar"; una vez que le hubieran cortado todas las ramas, le fijaron varios cables y poleas. Luego, ataron los troncos ya cortados y desramados al cable que venía del burro y los levantó y los trasladó hacia el mar. Observar esto era algo extraño; los troncos se paraban, colgados del cable del spar, y "marchaban" bajando el cerro hasta caer en el agua. (El "salt chuck"*)

Hacían mucho ruido. Siempre se oía el rugido del burro, los golpes de las hachas, el traqueteo de los cables, y los gritos y chiflifos de los madereros. —¡Timber!— gritaban cuando empezaba a caer un árbol. Los chiflidos eran señales desde o para el operador del burro. Esos cables eran tan peligrosos como los árboles que caían (creadores de viudas, los llamaban); los cables se podrían romper o su punto de fijación se podría desconectar, así que los chiflidos servían de advertencia para todos los hombres en el sitio.

Y ya habían terminado. El nuestro era un cerrito pequeño, y al final del verano, el burro se arrastró de nuevo bajando el cerro y se subió a la barcaza. Y se fueron de allí, camino al siguiente cerro escogido.

*"Chuck" es una palabra prestada, tomada del idioma de indígenas en la costa occidental de la isla de Vancouver. Yo compartía por un tiempo un cuarto en el hospital con una mujer de la tribu que entonces llamábamos "Nootka". (La palabra correcta es "Nuu-chah-nulth".) Ella se divertía enseñándome algo de su idioma. "č̕aʔak", dijo, quiere decir "oceano". Sonaba algo así como chu-uck. Yo no alcanzaba a pronunciarla correctamente, y cuando creí que ya la tenía, ella se rió. —No — dijo — eso quiere decir agua del rio. Agua salada es č̕aʔak. — Para mí, eran lo mismo. Nunca llegué a distinguir la diferencia. También le enseñó al doctor como decir "Buenos dias". Y ella se reía y se reía.

The timid mushrooms

 More of the museum grounds mushrooms. These are some of the tinies.

These are in a crack in the supports for the ancient donkey engine.

Pale pinkish mushrooms. A large Douglas fir cone measures up to 3.5 inches, so these mushrooms are about 2 inches across the cap.

White mushrooms, with Douglas fir cones, moss.

These last two photos were taken under mixed trees, conifers, big-leaf maple and alders, in the same spot where I found similar mushrooms last year.

Tiny mushroom on stumps of small shrubs. In the museum woods, under Douglas fir, big-leaf maples, and mixed understory shrubs.

More white muushrooms, and one of the slimy brownish ones. I found many of these, under leaves, already turned to mush.

Tomorrow; a batch of more showy mushrooms.

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Estos son algunos otros de los hongos que encontré alrededor del museo anteayer; para el dia de hoy, los chiquitos.

1. En una grieta en el soporte del antiguo "burro de vapor" afuera del museo.
2. Unos hongos de un color de rosa muy pálido. Los conos de los abetos Douglas miden, a lo máximo, 9 cm. Por lo tanto, los sombreros de estos honguitos miden aproximadamente 4 cm.
3. Honguitos blancos y más conos de abeto Douglas. Estos y los anteriores crecían bajo árboles coníferos y deciduos, arces de hoja grande, y alisos. El año pasado los encontré en el mismo sitio.
4. En el bosquecito del museo, bajo abetos Douglas y arces de hoja grande, además de una variedad de arbustos nativos, este pequeño hongo crece en los troncos viejos de arbustos.
5. Más de los hongos blancos, y uno café. Estos últimos son siempre mojados, viscosos. Encontré muchos debajo de las hojas, todos bien desmoronados ya.

Para mañana, tengo un grupo de hongos más llamativos.

Donkey engine sprouts

Last year, in cracks in the dry logs that support the Campbell River museum's ancient donkey engine, I found several orange mushrooms. Passing by this Saturday, I looked for them again. There were none in the site of last year's find, but from a crack on the log on the opposite side, something is pushing its way out.

New stems or old?

These look as if they had been sheared off, just leaving the truncated stems. I didn't crop out the one on the right side, even though it's not in focus; at least it looks as if more of the mushroom is there.

This is the mushroom as I found it last November:

I identified it, tentatively, as the false chanterelle, Hygrophoropis aurantiaca.

I'll check on it again next week.

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En noviembre del año pasado, encontré varios hongos anaranjados creciendo en grietas en el tronco que sostiene el antiguo "burro de vapor" del museo de Campbell River. Este sábado, al pasar por el sitio, otra vez examiné los troncos. No había nada en el sitio donde crecían los hongos el año pasado, pero en una grieta en el tronco del otro lado, algo está saliendo.

Primera foto: la grieta, con lo que parece ser tallos truncados del hongo, como si alguien los hubiera cortado. ¿O será que así son de nuevecitos?

Segunda foto: el hongo que encontré el año pasado. Lo identifiqué, con algunas dudas, como uno de los falsos rebezuelos, Hygrophoropis aurantiaca.

Volveré la semana que entra para ver si han crecido.

Of boom boats and donkey engines

On a hot summer's day in Powell River, there is no better place to be than in the forest and near the shore. For example, on the Willingdon Beach trail.

The trail used to be part of a railway that hauled logs to the mill at the north end of town. This track was in operation only from 1910 to 1918; afterwards, the rails were removed and the trail was used by mill workers living to the south, in Westview. Now it has become a popular easy walk for local residents, with shade, access to beaches along the way, interpretive sign, native artifacts among the trees, and old logging equipment rusting quietly in the shade.

I had to stop and examine each of these machines. They brought back vivid memories. I grew up, so long ago, on the west coast of Vancouver Island, seeing the loggers working up and down the hillsides along the shore; I remember the chugging of the donkey engine, the clatter as a log danced down the hill, the shouts of the fallers ("Timberrrrrrr!"), the rumble of loads of logs tumbling into the water to be hauled away in big booms. So different, these days, with the operations on mountainsides far away, the hills shaved down to the dirt, the logs (so much smaller these days - mere toothpicks!) picked up in mouthfuls by big-toothed monsters.

Boom boat.

These little round iron tugs push and pull around logs many times their size, maneuvering them into position in the booms, wallowing around half swamped, it seems, with the water washing over the decks . Laurie wondered how they floated; they look too heavy, but they enclose a lot of air in the deep hull. I found a video showing one at work. Fun to watch!

Minimalist pilot house.

Controls of a large caterpillar.

I don't know what this contraption did. It looks fairly new.

A winch.

On our west coast mountains, in the absence of machines that could carry logs, they were attached to steel cables, dragged into an upright position, and winched down the mountainside. The winches also dragged machinery into position.

The donkey engine.

Every operation had a donkey engine, in those days. It was a steam boiler on a sled, powering the winch which it used to drag itself up the mountainside. There, its cables were attached to the top of a spar tree, the tallest, sturdiest tree on the site. The cables ran down the hill to the dumping wharf. Harvested logs dangled from the high cable as they made their way down to the water.

Logging was a labour-intensive industry then; the slopes swarmed with men, cutting, trimming, and fastening logs, clearing brush, tending the few machines. Wood, even though we were surrounded by it, was still costly, in terms of man-hours. But our houses were smaller, lumber was recycled; none was wasted.

Two of the signs near the donkey engine were interesting:

That donkey engine weighed 16,300 pounds!

Thanks, Margy, for the suggestion. I loved this trail!