Swimming school

It was a quiet afternoon down at the wharf. Very few birds. No harbour seals. Even the usual kelp and assorted crabs and sponges on the pilings were in hiding. But there were fish. Tiny ones, from an inch or so to a couple of inches long, hundreds of them, and everywhere I looked.

Most were swimming just under the surface.

Where they broke the surface, nibbling at invisible (to me) goodies, they made rings. And the rings made the fish look stripy.

And just above the surface, a patient cross spider, catching mainly dust. Good thing the fish aren't jumping!

A couple of tubeworms on the underside of a wharf office.

Go-getter

The tide was going out, the sun shining. Far down the beach, a large flock of gulls sat waiting for lunch. Where I was walking one gull swam alone.

Stories Beach, looking across to the mainland. One gull.

He was too far away for my eyes, but the camera saw.

Why wait for low tide, when the fish are feeding?

He's caught a fairly large fish, with a white belly and a greenish tail.

Hurrying now; gotta get this thing landed!

A second later, he was hidden behind the rocks.

Leopard skin and sequins

I found this sculpin lying on the beach, still bright and richly patterned, even as he lay dead.

He's about 8 inches long.

The belly and tail are a black and tan leopard skin print, the head is decorated in sequinned sunbursts, continuing down the sides with shiny chevrons. And look at those icicle-turquoise spines at the sides!

Zooming in.

I think this is a buffalo sculpin, Enophrys bison; these are extremely variable in colour and pattern, but the raised scales down the sides and the long spines at the back of the cheeks are distinguishing features. Most of the buffalos have several white or light-coloured bands across the body; this one has two.

Testing, testing, Part II

Under the docks at Brown's Bay.

It had been a bright, sunshiny day. In town, everything seemed sharp-edged, colours washed out to whites and off-whites. By supper time, I'd had enough, and headed north, out of town to the greens and the browns, and the cool of the evening. On a whim, I turned off at the Ripple Rock sign, and drove down to Brown's Bay. Maybe I'd have supper in the restaurant there.

There was no "cool of the evening" in Brown's Bay, yet. There were a few hours to go to sunset, and the light shimmered off the water, making me squint. (I'd forgotten my sunglasses in the car, and was too stubborn to go back for them.) Most of the boats in the marina were white, glaring, dazzling, featureless white.

Looking straight out to the breakwater. Vivid setting; a bit more saturated than what my sun-dazed eyes registered, and not as sparkly.

There was darkness and coolness down below the docks, but the contrast was too strong: I could make out vague white shapes down there, see the rings tiny fish made as they sampled the dust floating on the surface. When I was right above them, I could see the fish.

I couldn't see anything on the camera screen. I took photos anyhow.

Those vague white things, Plumose anemones. The camera on the Vivid setting saw them much better than I did.

A few of the fish, and two varieties of large kelp. (Broad-winged and Seersucker kelp?)

The docks float on these blue plastic tubs, home to a community of anemones, worms, mussels, and limpets. And, I think, a few green sea urchins.

The restaurant was noisy and crowded; I'd have to sit outside. In the sunshine. No. I got back in the car and drove to Sayward for a sandwich. The sun was setting as I drove home.

Brown's Bay is just north of Ripple Rock.

I'm pleased with the results using the Vivid setting, at least for underwater life. I've been testing it today with spiders and crickets; I'll post some of those tomorrow.

Oh, those eyebrows!

Gunnels are panicky fish. When I turn over their rocky roof, they flip and twist and flip some more, squirming and twisting until they find a hiding place. But no crack is deep enough; my shadow moves, and they fly into a new frenzy, splashing and stirring sludge, making a slurry dense enough to disappear into. They hope.

No wonder herons stand so perfectly still for so long!

This big saddleback gunnel couldn't find a good spot.

Saddleback gunnel, Pholis ornata. Unless he's a Crescent gunnel, P. laeta. They're almost identical.

The pattern along the spine is either saddles or crescents, but which? Both saddlebacks and crescentbacks may have the line from the eye down to the chin, and the pretty orange pectoral fins. They live on the same beaches, sometimes sharing a rocky hideout.

"You can't see me; I'm under a shiny spot on the water."

The shiny spot proved useless; now he's hiding under a black prickleback. The tail looks like a leaf.

And look at those eyes!

Dotted line eyebrows. And from this angle, the clear jelly part of the eye is a brilliant orange.

I took a couple of photos of the black prickleback, and carefully rebuilt the roof of their hideout. The tide came in and covered them. They live to panic another day.

50th parallel, again.

No need for feet

In an empty boat berth at the Discovery Harbour Marina, hundreds of young herring were dancing. There's no other word for it; they swirled in loops and figure eights, twisted down into dark water, then leapt to break the surface, creating rows of winking lights. They split into groups, which met and mingled in complex patterns, then pivoted to promenade stage right, in unison. All that was missing was the music.

Upswing

Spin

All together now

(The water reflected the clear blue of the sky, and a few clouds; the herring were silvery grey. I saturated the colour and increased the contrast to define the herring.)

All the sky glows

I found myself yesterday evening at the entrance to Garry Point Park, on the southwest corner of Lulu Island. The shoreline was crowded with people on logs, on chairs, on benches, on rocks, apparently all there to watch the sunset. So was I, but I walked around the shore to the westernmost point, where Scotch Pond emerges to Georgia Strait.

From the south side of the point, and with my back to the sun, the sky was just beginning to take on a pink hue; the water was still blue.

(I'm posting the photos in chronological order to show how the light changes.)

Entering the south arm of  the Fraser River, heading for the docks in Steveston. 7:55 PM.

Goofing around with Picasa, and a photo that was too grey, I ended up with this: the tide coming in, swamping beach grasses and rearranging driftwood. Some of the pink hue stayed in.

When I turned to face west, the colours changed; everything was orange or black.

One of the many photographers already set up waiting for the magic moment.

The camera sees more orange than I do. My eyes are more flexible; I can squint into the too-bright light, without it affecting the whole scene.

From the outlet of Scotch Pond, looking directly west. There's enough reflected light from the slough for some of the green to show up.

All those poles! A few, farther out, are light beacons, but the rest are rotting pilings. In 1899, a cannery was built here (the Scottish Canadian Cannery, which gives its name to Scotch Pond). Rather than build on solid ground, the owners put it, with the workers' housing and net racks, all out on pilings on the tide flats, a good quarter of a mile outside the dike. It was still occupied as housing for Japanese families until 1942. The buildings have been gone for over a half century now, but the pilings remain, serving as perches for gulls and cormorants. There are two in this photo, or are those eagles?

From almost the same spot, looking north, over the Lulu Island tidal flats. What is that round thing? There's a row of them, all along this coastline.

10 minutes later. The sun is almost at eye level now.

While I waited, I' prowled around, looking at plants; beach pea, blackberries, some orange and yellow asters, a few lupins, gone to seed already, and purple loosestrife, struggling to keep its foothold. And there, below the point, on the rocks, were a couple of fishermen with their poles. Backs to the sun, intent on their lines, they stood almost immobile until the lines jerked; then they reeled in their catch and dropped it in a mesh bag at their feet in the water.

Peamouth chub, about 6 inches long. Everything is blue, because my back is to the sun.

I thought the orange fins and tail were an effect of the sunset, but no; that's their real colour.

These shallow bays are usually productive because when the tidal current is strong, most residential fish hide in them. Next time when fishing at Garry Point Park, instead of chucking a large chunk of worms into the fast water, try fishing close to the rocks with a float. Peamouth chub and some incredibly large northern pikeminnow usually rest by the rocks waiting for you to feed them. (From Fishing with Rod.) 

These are small fish, not especially good eating, but plentiful and easy to catch. They are a freshwater fish, but also live in brackish waters, such as this slough. While I watched the two fishermen caught a half-dozen fish, all small.

20 to 9. The sun is still there. A couple of kayakers head back inland, in an orange sea.

8:45. Just about sunset. The fishermen are still at work; those are their poles, angling across the slough.

Another photographer, waiting with his tripod and zoom lens on the high ground, told me that the best time to catch the sunset is about 10 minutes after the sun has dropped past the horizon. All the sky glows, he said. I should wait for it.

But the mosquitoes had found me, and they were vicious. I was slapping my head, my ankles, my ears, my wrists, my ankles again, my neck ... Too much; I turned off the camera, snapped the lens cap on, and hurried away.

(The mosquitoes followed me, and got their fill. I lost my glasses on the way across the park and had to look for them in the dark, to the great delight of the whining horde.)

A Skywatch post

Another handful of fish

This one's a Pacific Snake Prickleback, aka Eel-blenny.

Lumpenus sagitta, about 8 inches long. Alive, but sluggish, so I'm holding him underwater.

Again, more on these later; I'm still sorting fishy photos.

A fish in the hand ...

is worth any number in the sea.

Pacific sand lance, Ammodytes hexapterus

More on these later.

Fish-eye lens

I took the car in for some work this afternoon, and as usual, went to commiserate with the bored fish in their cramped tank while I waited. A couple of the residents found the camera's eye on the far side of the glass interesting.

"Ohh! And who are you, and how did you get out?" 

"Looks fishy to me!"

And then I got the car back and went out into the sunshine. While the prisoners in their tank swam round and round, back and forth. If they were lions, they'd be pacing.

Brief encounter

I took the car in for maintenance yesterday. In the waiting room, there's a big fish tank, and I always spend some time watching them. Each time, there's a new mix of fish, all different, all exotics. I don't know if they're changed regularly for variety, or if they just don't survive; a glass tank with plastic vegetation and rocks and no other life is a far cry from their native environment.

It must be boring, too, for them. Round the black central tower, up to the top, down two feet to the bottom, around the tower again . . . same view every time, same lifeless water.

Some of them take an interest in me, close to the glass, and in my camera, even closer. This one was more than usually curious.

Puckered up

I, at least, get to go home when the car's done.

Spots, patches, circles along Cougar Creek

At the entrance to the Cougar Creek canyon, the creek flows over a sandy patch; there we could see small fishes swimming.

Fry, about 3 inches long in a gentle current.

These are probably first-year fish, aka fry. Cougar Creek is home to cutthroat trout, Coho and Chum salmon; I'm not sure which these little ones are. The spots along their sides may be a clue to those who know their fish. I don't.

Some trout, such as the rainbow trout, are salmon species; cutthroat trout is a salmonid, but not a salmon.

A bit further up the creek, where the shade is deeper and the current more variable, water striders chase each other over the surface.

This may be a male trying to capture a female.

Water strider females need to mate only once, whereas males mate as frequently as they can; the last male to mate is the one who passes on his DNA. The females, once they've mated, flee or fight other hopeful suitors. (More detail in The Case of the Reluctant Brides.)

I love the way their feet always make circular spots on the water, and when the water is clear, a half-dozen circular shadows some distance away.

And I just liked the pattern on this log:

Moss, bleeding heart leaves, spots of lichen, and peeling bark.

Reifel Island: it's not all about the birds.

I'm still processing photos from a couple of hours on Reifel Island. We were shutter happy.

Near the gate, after we run the gauntlet of absolutely starving (to hear them tell it) mallards, we come to a clearing overlooking the lagoons to the east. Just below the fence, a school of carp are usually milling about, waiting for seeds, just like the mallards. I love to feed them, watching them slide over and under each other, in a slithery, complicated dance.

Most of these carp are about 2 feet long.

4 fish here, and swirling water.

Most of the birds were lazing about, waiting for Saturday, but the insects don't have that luxury. They were all busy, busy, busy.

Cross spider, Araneus diadematus, in the center of her web. Every bush and clump of tall grass had several of these, all fat, quite a few with their latest catch.

Big blue-eyed darner, pausing to catch his breath. Not for long.

Syrphid (hover) fly on asters.

Goldenrod and brown water. With a spider's anchor line.

The same goldenrod with a pair of yellow and black look-alikes; a small, long-legged wasp, with a yellow face and yellow striped abdomen,and a hover fly, with its striped vest.

Luckily, this huge wasp nest (10 to 12 inches high) has been abandoned; it is only a couple of feet off the path, and at head height. Usually, they are built higher up in the trees.

We had ostensibly come to see birds.

Sky, branch and mallard reflected in a still pond.

Semicircle of one-legged peeps.

Just a late-summer path.