The watchers

 Big birds ...

Tyee Spit, and the water surrounding it, the Campbell River estuary and the northern tip of the Georgia Strait, are home to many birds, mostly small, mostly distant, mostly (except for sleepy mallards) extremely active. And then there are the eagles, content to just sit and watch.

They were there when I arrived, they were there when I left, an hour later.

An inventory of the birds of Tyee Spit is never complete without at least one of these:

Cessna 185 Skywagon. Content to just watch for now.

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Pájaros grandes ...

Tyee Spit, la lengueta de tierra que separa el estuario del Rio Campbell del extremo norte del Estrecho de Georgia, junto con sus aguas vecinas, provee hábitat a muchísimos pájaros, por la mayor parte pequeños, casi siempre allá en la distancia, y normalmente (aparte de los ánades reales, los dormilones) muy activos. Esta pareja de águilas, en cambio, se dedican a quedarse quietos, vigilantes.

1. Dos águilas adultas. Estaban allí en su rama cuando lleguá, seguían en la misma rama cuando me fui, una hora más tarde.
2. Ningún inventario de las aves de Tyee Spit se puede considerar completo si no incluye por lo menos uno de estos: esta avioneta flotante es un Cessna 185 Skywagon. Por ahora, se dedica a esperar.

Eagle lineup

 As they promised, it rained all day. And as I planned, I went looking for lichen in the rain. A disappointing search, though; up into the hills where the rain was lighter, the snow is still deep and the plows have built walls between the road and the woods. Coming home, I took the road that passes the dump and found a a lineup of bedraggled eagles on poles.

The light was poor; it was dark, foggy, and still raining softly, but the eagles were nicely posed against the grey sky.

He seems to have his wings held away from his body. Trying to dry out?

This one looks grumpy. Can't blame him. No food; it's all under snow, and all that rain!

Checking me out. I had managed to get closer to this pole.

Not staying around for the photo session.

Look at those talons!

Goodbye!

I think I was happier about this than the eagles were.

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Llovió todo el dia, como nos habían dicho. Y como yo había planeado, salí en la lluvia para buscar líquenes. Una búsqueda sin suerte; subiendo hacia el interior, donde no llovía tanto (pero nunca paró por completo), la nieve sigue en el suelo, aunque ya no queda nada en los árboles, y las máquinas quitanieves han construido muros de nieve a ambos lados de la carretera, impidiendo el paso a los bosques. Ya camino a casa, tomé la ruta que pasa al lado del basurero, y vi una cola de águilas malhumoradas sentados en los postes eléctricos en la lluvia.

Fotos: 4 águilas mojadas. ¡Mira las garras del águila en la quinta foto!

Esto me hizo feliz: a las águilas, no tanto.

Tall

A few trees, from here and there.

Somewhere along the highway near Woss.

I wonder; why is it that snags so often are taller than the forest surrounding them? Did they become snags because they stood out and took the worst of the weather? Or just because they're old? Or did all the other dead trees fall, and these were the toughest? Just wondering.

Nearly home.

I pass this tree several times a week, about 4 minutes from home. No matter how humdrum the day has been, this tree draws my eye upward, away from traffic and road bumps and the shopping list I've been reciting. It immediately changes my outlook on life.

I removed a bunch of wires. The camera sees them, but my eyes don't. Or my busy brain deletes them.

From the Canyonview Trail, a pair of eagles on a tree across the river.

And another eagle, a young adult, beside the highway on a low tree for once.

A Skywatch post.

Eagles for Valentine's Day

One eagle, calling, calling. (Well, squeaking, squeaking.)

Lonely on Baikie Island.

Two eagles. Happy now.

Oyster Bay Park in the snow

Driving slowly because of the falling snow, and because I was rubber-necking, looking for birds, I drifted south to Oyster Bay Shoreline Park, passing the usual flock of cormorants freezing their feet on their chosen rock, (How do they stand it?) and a dozen or so eagles like black angels on the top of tall Christmas trees. Out over the water, a few gulls were catching fresh breezes, but otherwise, the water was empty of bird life.

At Oyster Bay, all was soft, cushiony, silent. White and grey and dark, moody greens.

Now what? The beach is that-away, over the logs and down the slope. There's a winding trail, but where?

There! Some helpful person had stomped his way through the snow, found the gaps in the logs, and left a clear path, just wide enough for my boots. Thank you, whoever it was!

And out on the water, one lonely female bufflehead bounced up and down on the waves.

Snowflakes on a beached log, below the snow line. Looks sort of like a flaky, frozen, otter.

I walked almost to the point, seeing no birds but a distant gull, returned to check out the other half of the park, the nature reserve.

The trail maker had been here, too. But earlier; the path is snowed under.

Rose hips with hats.

And an eagle in a distant tree.

And I went back to the parking lot, stamped the snow off my boots and legs, shook it off my back and hood, cranked up the car heater, and dripped all the way home, counting eagles; another eight.

It's eagle weather. The rest of the birds are laying low.

It has stopped snowing, but more is on the way, they say, and then freezing rain, just to make driving a bit more of an adventure.

Trail to Serendip

If I'd been paying attention, I never would have found it. I daydreamed myself into the wrong lane, got hemmed in by trucks, and was forced to turn right down a side street that, two blocks later, dead-ended at the river bank.

Campbell River, looking down towards the estuary.

I parked and went to look at the river. On my left, a wood fence shut off the view and access to the bank. On the right, blackberry canes and other weedy shrubs made another wall of sorts. But while I watched the river, a woman with a hiking stick and a backpack came along behind me and turned into a narrow gap in that wall. I followed her.

There was a path, narrow and muddy, hemmed in by weeds, but after a short walk, it broke through into an open space. There were benches, and a sign.

Myrt Thompson Trail. Home Depot off to the right.

The trail itself hadn't been improved; it remained narrow, half gravel, half mud, carved out only by foot traffic. I went on; the trail had to lead somewhere.

It follows the river bank, heading downstream, towards the estuary, an area that I had often looked at from Tyee Spit, but never found any way to get there. Now, in mid-winter, the vegetation is mainly weedy grass and, along the bank, alders and evergreens. Someone has planted a few new evergreens alongside the path; they look like they're struggling through their first winter.

The trail goes on and on, past old parking lots, (Where did those come from? Where is the access? Not on Google maps, for sure.) across a narrow wood bridge, onto a long spit barely a dozen metres across, with the trail down the centre. I met a few people; crossing a bridge, I had to press up tight against the side to allow them to pass.

Eagle landing. I think that's a crow on the tip of the tree on the right.

Red and yellow branches beside a bridge. Waiting for spring.

A narrow spit with a flock of sleeping mallards.

Nearer the river mouth, the water breaks up into a maze of back-channels, pools, and bays; mini-islands dot the area. In the main channel of the river, the current is strong, but here, the water lies quiet. Ducks dabble in the shallows or sleep in the sunshine. Overhead, high in the trees, eagles squeak, their calls sounding more like reluctant doors than like bird song. In the distance, I saw an osprey.

With the sun behind a hill, looking towards the town behind yet another islet. It's cold, and each house sends up its plume of smoke; I can smell wood burning, even from here.

After a time, the trail ends in a wood observation platform, looking across the estuary to Tyee Spit and the ocean beyond. But no, the trail hasn't ended, except in the planners' minds; the footpath takes off to the right, through a stand of alder, down a spit as narrow as the mallards' bedroom, to the very tip.

The river opens into the sea. Tyee Spit lies directly ahead, with the airplane hangars and offices on the right. On the left, industry on the far bank of the river.

I turned and went back. I still had errands to run before dark.

Moss between the path and the river, with afternoon shadows.

Near the beginning of the trail, an explanatory sign has been erected. Now, muddy and scratched, it is difficult to read. I took a photo and cleaned it up enough to decipher the information.

Part of the sign.

It tells of the restoration of Baikie Island, which had been an industrial site until recently; the area around it is still full of machinery and noise. At home, I looked it up on the web; it's not marked on Google maps; on the map version, not even the access road to Baikie Island is included. But I found some information on the Campbell River Parks site.

Baikie Island is the bit of land I had been watching across the river from the path I was on. I had poked around that area, and found no access to the shore, but it must be there, though there are no signs that I could find. (Like the unmarked Myrt Thompson Trail that I was on.)

Google maps. The Campbell River estuary. I have marked the MT Trail in red. It's a little over 1 km long. Baikie Island is the leaf-shaped land mass in the bay to the left.

The next day that the weather permits, I'll head over there and find the entrance.

A pair of eagles on a tree on Baikie Island.

Merry C and sad tree.

Christmas day turned out sunny and warm (although the puddles were covered with thick ice, and the side hill roads were treacherous); all the beaches, the sea walk, and the beach-side coffee shop, were swarming with people and their dogs, out for a pre-Christmas dinner appetite-raising exercise, maybe.

I drove south to Saratoga Beach, where I found this message in the sand.

Merry C, with long blue shadow fringe. I couldn't get high enough to capture the rest in one photo.

On the way back, I stopped to look at an eagle on a little tree.

Poor tree! It's almost a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. Scrawny, bare. lopsided. And then this miserable, heavy eagle stands on the tip and bends it right over.

And there's his mate, half hidden, stressing out a side branch.

I took these photos through the windshield, then got out of the car to see if I could get around the far side to see the bottom eagle, just barely above my head height. I took one step, and they both flew away.

But at least the tree got some relief.

Purple starfish! Healthy purple starfish!

I've found about a dozen of the purple starfish, the ones most affected by the sea star wasting syndrome. And they look healthy!

The way it worked out was this: on the most recent trip to the low tide line, when I found all those six-armed and mottled stars, I waded as close as I could to the border marker. Couldn't get quite there; the water would have been up to my waist, and I wasn't dressed for that.

But I stopped there to take photos of an eagle, and then a pair of eagles perched on the top of the marker.

One eagle

Two eagles. He seems to be doing some sort of dance.

They sang a duet for a while, him squealing and her burbling, while I tried to find solid footing underwater to get a good shot. I gave up and backed off, to take a photo of the whole marker with the reflections in the water.

Striped zones: watermarks, bare cement, barnacles, and a layer of seaweed, then the shelf. Then the whole thing reverses in the water.

At home, I had other photos to sort, and too much to do; the eagles got set aside and forgotten. It wasn't until tonight, cleaning up the recent files, that I saw the starfish.

Do you see them? Look on the right-hand end of the shelf for a pile, and then scan left.

From here, they look healthy enough; properly spread out, wearing all their arms. There's even at least one young one, just under the ladder.

This makes me happy.

As I trudged back towards the distant shore, one of the eagles passed me, in a hurry.

Things to do, errands to run, chocolates (or fish) to get for her ...

Blue

Crescent Beach, Friday afternoon:

At the south end, almost at Kwomais Point

A half-dozen juvenile eagles were soaring over the point. This young couple were especially playful. The one in the rear repeatedly flipped upside-down to fly underneath the other, almost belly to belly.

Wet rocks and waves.

Blue and white and deep, dark grey.

Not blue:

Someone had tied this kelp stipe around and around a leaning alder.

A Skywatch post

Fog and winter sunlight

A collection of photos from two January afternoons on the White Rock and Semiahmoo beaches. (Same beach, opposite sides of the pier.)

Sunshine, fog, and the gulls flying ...

White breasts all in a row

More wing than gull

This little girl brought back memories. I was her, so many years ago. She moved along slowly, on hands and knees, examining each spot carefully. Once, she jumped up and ran to show her mother something she'd found. A minute later, she was back, searching through the stones again.

At one point she opened her arms as wide as possible, as if to embrace the whole marvellous beach. I know what she meant.

Kindred spirit.

Crow on a log. Some of the brush keeps its red colour all winter.

From the Semiahmoo beach, a hint of sunset, with birds flying into it.

The afternoon train, between the promenade and the actual beach.

Eagle, far overhead. Another golden juvenile?

Bald eagles, very annoyed. They were sitting on the rail by the railroad, and the train chased them off.

Late afternoon fog creeping in, slightly tinted by the setting sun.

I lived just up the hill a ways from this beach the year I was 11, back when the dinosaurs were still roaming about. I loved it then, I love it now; but more so on foggy days like this, with the gulls calling.