End of summer at the beaver pond

We had a good rain yesterday (Yay!) and today has been cool and damp. Currently we're at 17° C and going down. It feels good.

I've spent these two days processing photos from the beaver pond and trying to identify a bunch of plants and one spider, with varied results. Some plants are easy; an image search, a look through a couple of guide books, searching iNaturalist and other plant websites, and there it is. Others, not so much. Is it this, or that? Do the leaves have spots? What shape are the stems? Squint at my photos, examine a sample I brought home, search some more.  When I read, "this species often hybridizes," I give up.  For now.

So I have a bunch of photos for today, and another half dozen on hold until I go out and look at the same plants again at the pond. Tomorrow, weather permitting.

It's an interesting time of year; the flowers are mostly done, leaves are stained and dropping, everything is going to seed. The bees seem to have gone into hiding; here at the pond, there are dragonflies everywhere, red, blue, brown, huge and tiny, all flying constantly, fattening up for a final mating and egg-laying before the winter.

Today's photos; the computer chose the arrangement. Good enough.

Dry seed heads of an unidentified rush, Juncus sp.

Cattails, Typha latifolia.

The last of the hardhack flowers; the rest are all brown seedheads now. Spiraea douglasii.

Heal-all, Prunella vulgaris. Aka self-heal.

The beaver lodge. This year a thicket of hardhack has grown on top. Good camouflage, maybe a good protection against winter weather.

Marsh cinquefoil again, a clearer photo. Potentilla palustris.

And again, because I liked the shadows.

Red-osier dogwood, Cornus stolonifera. With a bonus ladybug.

One of the large, blue dragonflies, caught in flight.

This was strange. A tiny plant, almost a seedling, got started too late to make more than one flower, one seed pod. St. John's wort, says iNaturalist.

Very stiff, sharp-edged leaves. So far, I think it's a sedge, Carex sp.

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Ayer llovió, y fuerte (¡Qué bien!) y hoy estuvo nublado y húmedo. Estamos en el momento a 17°, y la temperatura sigue bajando. Me gustan estas condiciones.

He pasado estos dos dias procesando fotos que saqué en la laguna de los castores, y trantando de identificar un montón de plantas (y una araña), con resultados variables. Algunas plantas se identifican facilmente; una búsqueda de imágenes, un repaso de mis libros guía, de iNaturalist y otros sitios web, y allí está. Otras plantas no son tan fáciles. ¿Es esta? ¿O esa?  ¿Hay puntos amarillos en las hojas? ¿Qué  forma tienen los tallos? Veo mis fotos a tamaño grande, examino una muestra que traje a casa, vuelvo a buscar en el internet. Cuando leo, "esta especie frecuentemente se hibridiza," me rindo. Por ahora.

Así que tengo casi una docena de fotos para subir hoy, y otra media docena esperando hasta que pueda ir a mirar las mismas plantas otra vez. Mañana, si no llueve.

Es una temporada del año muy interesante; las flores se han marchitado, las hojas están manchadas y torcidas, todas las plantas están ocupadas en producir semillas. Pocas abejas se ven ahora, pero aquí en la laguna, hay una multitud de libélulas, rojas, azules, cafés; gigantes y miniaturas, todas en movimento continuo, alimentándose en preparación para un acoplamiento y la postura final de huevos antes de que llegue el invierno.

1. Las cápsulas con semillas de uno de los tules, Juncus sp.
2. Totoras, Typha latifolia
3. Las últimas flores de Spiraea douglasii. Las demás ya se han vuelto cafés y están esparciendo semillas.
4. Consuelda menor, Prunella vulgaris. Aquí la llamamos "sánalotodo".
5. La madriguera de los castores. Este  año se ha cubierto de un bosquecito de Spiraea douglasii; servirá de camuflaje, o en invierno tal vez como aislante del frio.
6. Potentilla palustris. Una foto mejor que la que subí antes.
7. Y otra vez. Porque me gustaron las sombras.
8. Cornus stolonifera. Con una mariquita (o catarina o cotorrita o sanantonito o ... según donde las encuentras.)
9. Una de las libélulas, en el aire.
10. Esta planta me llamó la atención. Apenas empieza a crecer, y ya se le hizo tarde. No llegó a su tamaño esperado, produjo una sola flor, y ahora lleva una sola cápsula con semillas. Hypericum sp.
11. Una de las juncias, creo. Carex sp. Tiene hojas fuertes, con bordes afilados.

Tengo una mosca para mañana.

Last gasp of summer

The long, dry summer has ended. The soggy BC weather we're accustomed to is back. Outside my windows, the petals have blown off the roses, the cosmos that last week caught the morning sunlight in their petals are lying in the water-logged grass, the plum tree dances in the wind. On my doormat, wet leaves, orange and yellow and still green come to rest, even a couple of big-leaf maple leaves from far down the block. Chia, the cat, goes out and comes back, dripping wet and purring madly; she's a true we(s)t-coaster; she loves this weather. So do I.

It was a quick changeover. These flowers were basking in the sunshine only last week.

Cosmos catching the light.

A jumping spider on a half-opened rose, keeping all her eyes on me.

One of only two dahlias that bloomed this year. Making up for it with the dramatic colour.

Crocosmia. A volunteer plant in its second year.

Bee on bacopa. These will keep on flowering until the first frost; they love the rain.

Another sign of fall: the days are shrinking. Sunset today was at 7:08, with less than 12 hours of daylight. Tomorrow we lose another 4 minutes. We've lost 4 hours since mid-summer; we'll lose another 4 before Christmas.

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Septiembre. Ya pasó el solsticio de otoño, y ya puso fin al verano tan largo, tan seco de este año. El clima de los bosques pluviales ha vuelto. Fuera de mis ventanas, la tormenta se ha llevado los pétalos de las rosas, las plantas de cosmos que hace dias resplandecían bajo el sol matutino ahora yacen tumbados en el césped empapado, las ramas del ciruelo bailan con el ritmo del viento. Hojas caídas, amarillas, anaranjadas, y algunas todavía verdes, aterrizan en el tapete a mi entrada; algunas son de los arces de hoja grande, árboles del bosque al final de mi calle. La gatita, Chia, sale y regresa salpicando todo con gotas de lluvia, ronroneando fuertemente; es una nativa verdadera de la costa; le encanta la lluvia. A mí, también.

Fue un cambio rápido. Hace apenas la semana pasada, estas flores y bichos aprovechaban el calor del sol.

1. Las flores de cosmos, a pleno sol.
2. Una araña saltarina en una rosa, mirándome con todos sus ojos.
3. Dahlia. En una de solamente dos dahlias que llegaron a producir flores este año, pero sustituye cantidad con los colores dramáticos.
4. Crocosmia. Una planta que apareció voluntariamente, ya en su segundo año.
5. Bacopa, hisopo de agua, con una abeja. Estas seguirán floreciendo hasta la primera helada. Les gusta el agua.

Otro cambio que viene con el otoño; los dias se acortan rapidamente. Hoy se puso el sol a las 7:08, dándonos menos de 12 horas de sol (eso si el sol pudiera penetrar las nubes). Mañana perderemos otros 4 minutos. Ya perdimos 4 horas desde el solsticio de verano; para la navidad habremos perdido otros 4.

Pink barn

I love old barns. We had one up north, a ramshackle, disintegrating, greying, roomy old building that housed our rabbits, goats, chickens, geese, and horse. Cosily enough, even though the old boards had shrunk over the years, leaving gaps we could see light through. But the fragrant bales of hay in the loft, the trampled hay on the floor provided warmth and comfort all winter.

Sometimes, in the summer, I would just stand there in the cool, listening to the interspecies chatter around me, revelling in the colours and shapes; the silvery grey of old wood, the ripe yellow-brown of the tail end of last year's hay, rich browns of horse and old leather saddle, pitchforks and pails, bags of feed smelling of grain and molasses, a smooth, round goose egg . . .

25 years later, the sight of a decaying barn brings it all back.

Small barn in afternoon sunlight, Fraser Valley.

Pinhead spiders, pinhead spider food

With the onset of fall weather, we've been hurrying to finish postponed summer gardening chores, and settle the gardens in for the rains. In the last three days, Laurie chopped down a small tree and we dug out its roots. By hand, digging and chopping, prying and scraping. I thought we'd never get it done. I've finished cutting down the summer's crop of ivy that was making a new onslaught on our evergreens. The rhododendrons are pruned. My shade garden is cleaned up, fertilized and mulched. The hawkweeds are no more.

Whew!

I was too tired to look at the blog yesterday.

This afternoon, the last thing I (thought) I would do before I quit for the day was to cut off a couple of old hydrangea flower heads whose stems had broken.

There were spiders among the drying petals. I went for the camera.

Worn out dark blue hydrangea

The spiders were all tiny, some barely big enough to cover a pinhead, some slightly bigger, but more mobile.

I snapped umpteen variants of this; Ma spider just slipping around to the far side of the stem.

And as I chased spiders, I found a whole community of critters, so small that I hadn't realized they were there. So that's what all the spiders have been eating!

Snail, a couple of millimetres across.

Another snail.

Whiteflies. About 1 - 2 mm. A pest, but they weren't too numerous. And winter is coming.

Baby American house spider. Probably eats whiteflies; they're about her size.

Another one. These were so small that I couldn't see what they were with the naked eye.

A small meadow spittlebug, Philaenus spumarius, about 1/4 inch long. Another of the critters that keep moving to the far side of the leaf.

A very small weevil that I couldn't identify. I like his back markings; the back side of a comic-book hawk? A Sasquatch in a rain cape?

Earwig hiding in the crotch of a flower stem. A composite; one photo had the head in focus, another had the tail. And none had the middle. And then the 'wig ran away.

This earwig was from a few days earlier, on a rhododendron leaf. I really want to get a good photo because I love the markings on the thorax. Try again!

This spider, and several others like her, fell out of the flower heads as I de-leafed them. They're very fast runners.

Chased but not caught: a flock of those orange flies with the red, red eyes. And I put my head, again, through a cross spider's web.

Lost and found

The summer has come and gone. The days are shrinking. The gardens are collapsing back into the soil to wait for spring. Squirrels are burying maple "airplanes" for winter goodies.

A time for endings. I've been sorting through this summer's photos, re-arranging, storing, and deleting, deleting, deleting.

I found this one, forgotten in a folder of beach critters.

Dwarf cosmos, on the way back to the car.

Tidying up, and an unhelpful gull

End of September; time to start the fall cleanup in the garden, and start battening down for winter. (Which may come or not, as whimsy takes the BC weather deities*.) The pair of juncos has been joined by a second couple; they scratch and peck at the soil I just turned, clearing out dying annuals. A nuthatch is packing away sunflower seeds for the cold weather ahead, as if it couldn't trust me to keep the supply coming. And whenever I go out to get some work done, the chickadees scold; I'm in their way. They'd prefer I only work in the garden at night.

Not a chance. The computer needs work, too. It's bulging at the seams with leftover, unsorted photos from all summer, from the Lower Mainland and from Campbell River. I just discovered another 401 in one "Save these for later" file.  Good thing I didn't take any new photos today.

I've been sorting all night. There are some good things there, worth sharing; I'll get them organized asap.

For now, here's a gull on Crescent Beach this July:

"What shall I do with this clam? Is it big enough to be worth the effort?"

I was trying to catch a photo of a gull dropping a clam, both in mid-air. They're too fast for me. With this guy, I was ready and waiting, so he hemmed and hawed, poked at the clam, watched the tide cover it, considered some more, and then flew away without it. Meanwhile, his companions dropped clams around and behind me; I could hear them plopping on the sand.

I think they were laughing at me, too.

* Re BC weather deities; either they're completely capricious, untrustworthy, lackadaisical, prone to long vacations and frequent hangovers, and sometimes spiteful, or they don't exist. Take your pick.