Shallow Waters

We've been gradually making our way around the coast of the Fraser Delta. Ladner Dikes, Tsawwassen, Boundary Bay, Mud Bay, Blackie Spit, Crescent Beach (not necessarily in that order, although that is how they line up on the map). Between Crescent Beach and White Rock, almost on the US border, there is a long, rocky stretch, accessible only on foot. We made a start on it a couple of weeks ago.

The tide was halfway out and the shore looked rocky. While Laurie went back to the car for his boots, I went wading. The water was shallow and warm; I walked for quite a ways, straight out, with the water never coming up to my knees. Looking back, I could see the whole coastline laid out for me.

Looking southeast: the beginning of the wooded area. There is housing under those trees, but well shaded, and back a bit from the cliff face and the railroad track that follows the shore from here to the US border.

Looking northeast:
A bit beyond me, a woman was walking her dog. In the water. Still not up to her knees.


The water was really clear, almost transparent. In this next photo, it was several inches deep over the shells and sand. The wavelets warp the image, but don't change the colouring.


Laurie came back, booted for walking on rocks, and we went on south. After a short stretch of sand and snails (more of those invasive Asian snails), the shore turned to rocky shingle. It made for slow going. We passed a few sunbathers, up close to the bank where there was shelter from the wind, and a circle of teenagers with a cooler; otherwise, the beach was empty.

Bad hair day.

An uprooted tree, long denuded, just begged to be climbed.

By teenagers.

And not-so-teen-agers. Here's Laurie: "Lord of all I survey!" he claimed.


Seaweedy rocks, stepping stones to nowhere.

The railroad runs right above the water line here, straight south, and then curving back east to the WhiteRock Bay.

A staircase supported on huge blocks of concrete crosses it about the level of 24th Street, then winds on up the cliff face. We'll have to start there, next time.

Graffitti on the concrete. Of course. ME, it says. Signed work.

On the way back, we had the beach to ourselves. The tide was coming in.


Or almost to ourselves. If you look at this photo full size, you will see how the sand is speckled all over. Those dots are the invasive Asian sea snails, on their mission of world conquest.

Mixed feelings

I have mixed feelings about these photos. On the one hand, this is pollution. Possibly deadly to plants and animals, probably a sign of the lack of concern on the part of the neighbouring farms and businesses. I worry about it, and rail at the blindness that makes short-term monetary gain so urgent that we merrily go about fouling our own nests, or the laziness that refuses to take the few extra steps to discard our leftovers where they won't endanger our neighbours.

But somehow, in spite of that, they have their own sad beauty. I love the way the sluggish current swirls those soapy suds in the first photo, the patterns they make.

Another ditch. A study in blues and browns.

At Steveston pier, Richmond; bits of rope fiber, wood and other flotsam between a boat and the wharf. The to-and-fro of the waves has pushed them into a feathery pattern.

One more. A ditch dug between new industrial development and the Fraser River, through old bush. Oily, slimy water eroding away the soil. No fish, no ducks in these ditches. But beautiful reflections, browns and greens.

When I was a little kid, I used to love wading in oily puddles, watching the kaleidoscope of colours on the surface of the water. Pure enjoyment.

I didn't know any better.

Now I do; I still see the beauty but it makes me angry, too.

Treasure Hunt

We read about them in Lulu Island Blog: sundews. The last time I had seen any in the wild was 20 years ago, in the mountains above North Vancouver. And these were right close by, in the Richmond bog. We had to go and find them.

I didn't have high hopes; they are tiny, elusive plants and the bog is big. But we would enjoy walking there, whether or not.

We started at the Richmond Nature House, off Westminster Highway. Signs outside warned us: no dogs, no bikes, no feeding the animals. Do not pick the plants, not even berries. And no smoking; bog fires are easily started, hard to put out.

In the Nature house, a very small boy was watching a very large garter snake in an aquarium. He (the snake) was flicking a red tongue out at the boy; when Laurie peered over the top, the snake rose up to investigate, sticking the tongue out even more, an inch or more. The tip was forked and black.

On to the trails. Fireweed, birch, twisty pines, salal, the occasional mountain ash. And acres and acres of blueberry, mostly the invading high-bush blueberry, quite a bit taller than it was the last time we walked there. Underneath, the Labrador tea struggles to maintain its foothold.

Blueberry. Beautiful, but invasive.

Over the pond, dragonflies danced. The tiny blue damselflies with the brilliant head and rear end, some sturdy-looking brown dragons, and one of the blood-red meadow-hawks that I had seen before by Crescent Beach. Try as I might, though, I could not get a photo; I would focus the camera on what seemed to be a favourite spot for them and wait. They would be elsewhere. As soon as I turned to where they were now, they went back and parked at the old spot. I'm sure they do it on purpose.

Pond. No dragonflies.

But we were looking for sundews. I kept my eyes mostly on the ground at the sides of the trail. There were tiny flowers, several kinds. You have to look closely at this next photo, taken down at the base of the reeds, to see the flowers; some kind of miniature shooting star. (Update: Hugh Griffith -- see comments -- identifies it as a cranberry flower. Thanks, Hugh!)

Mosses. Pale green spagnum, and this rose-coloured mat.

'shrooms. Several varieties, mostly deep in the underbrush. This one was just beside the path.


Looking up for a change, I saw a bleeding tree, with tiny trapped flies.

And, yes, we found the sundew! One small patch, a few feet across, 1/2 inch high, hiding among mosses and grasses. Almost invisible, but there it was.



The day was hot and dry; even the bog paths were dry. But when I sat on the moss to take these photos, I found out that the water table is barely finger-nail deep. The sundews' roots -- I tested -- sit in soggy soil. And they pull that water up to the tips of their leaves, and stand there looking dewy-fresh, even in the heat of the day. All done in order to trap unwary insects, coming for a drink, only to be eaten.

It's a dog-eat-dog world. But beautiful, in spite of it.

Birding at Blackie Spit

We are gradually working our way around Mud Bay/Boundary Bay, walking a different stretch each week. A week ago, our choice was the inner part of Blackie Spit, on the tip of Crescent Beach.

Maps from Google and Park sign.

Blackie Spit is reported to be one of the best bird-watching sites in Canada, with up to 200 species sighted in one year. Our count, so far, runs far below that; we've been here at the wrong times, probably.

Our first glimpse, this vist: an overview of the tidal flats of Mud Bay. The white dots down there on the sandbar are seagulls.


From under the railway tracks, we watched Canada geese stream by. This is the tail end of the flock; there must have been over one hundred in all.

Laurie liked these grasses, standing deep or lying every which way. The tide comes in right up to their roots and the wind blows erratically along this shore. The grass just flops wherever it ended up when the wind stopped, I guess.

Down on the spit proper, sparrows sang in the trees and swallows dipped and soared overhead.

It's good country for swallows; plenty of standing water to breed mosquitos and noseeums, a wonderful diversity of vegetation, home to all sorts of bugs. The dragonflies like it, too. Last year, I saw several blood-red dragonflies; I was on the lookout for them this time, but was disappointed. Maybe next visit.

There are a number of swallow nest boxes on pilings out in the delta, where they are safe from predators. Well used, it seems.


Left over traps, now catching barnacles.

Pickleweed, and a crab shell. (See my previous post on Salicornia pacifica, with a recipe.)

Sandpipers. I tried to get close, walking slowly and gently, but this was the best I could do. One step more, and they flew away.


And I watched, but didn't photograph, a grey heron, flapping lazily down an avenue of barnacled pilings.

You can just barely see four of the sandpipers flying, above the last pilings.

A park guardian. (Look at it from a distance; can you see the face?)

We had done the circuit of the permitted area. Ahead of Laurie, in this next photo, is the off-limits section. I could hear the twitterings, down there in the grasses, but couldn't identify any of the vocalists.

Along the way, I picked up assorted shed feathers; crow, eagle, and something small and dark, not a sandpiper. They went in my feather collection at home; later, I will share them with my granddaughter, maybe help her make a headdress.

A dead tree. Just because I liked it.

All in all, a quiet afternoon walk, with bird song.

Two snails, and a dilemma

Here's looking at you:
The eye of a snail, investigating that other eye-on-a-stalk on the camera.

This is a more conventional view.

My little garden is shady and damp; slugs, snails and sowbugs love it. The sowbugs I ignore, the snails I remove from leaves and toss into the ivy bordering the path, hoping they won't find their way back. And the slugs, I kill on sight; I have lost far too many good plants to slugs to have any tolerance left.

Why the snails merit any kinder treatment, I don't really know. They are basically just slugs with a shell on the back, and they eat the same plants. Maybe not as voraciously, and maybe they haven't proved themselves quite as prolific. Or it may be that the shells are attractive.

I'm silly that way.

I caught this brown one on a ficus I have moved outside for the summer. New munchies!

These are not as common around here as the banded snail (above). And notice the difference in patterns and colour on the body. Browns instead of blue-black.

The yellow banded snail seems to be possibly one of the Cepaea, which are extremely variable in colour and pattern. (See bootstrap analysis, or Google cepaea images.

I'm not so sure of the brown one. It could be a Cepaea nemoralis, or then again, maybe an Allogonda townsendiana; they both live around here. See local photos of both, taken just a few miles east of us.

And one is endangered, the other a pest. Was I wise to move it to the ivy? Or should I have squished it? Or let it have the ficus?

Why don't these things come with labels on the bottom?

Intrepid Explorer

We've been too busy these last few days to go far afield, but we took a few minutes to check out the vacant lot across the street, the one I bioblitzed just a couple of months ago. The grass has now overwhelmed even the blackberry vines.

And now, back to chasing the clock.

More pieces of the green bug puzzle

Hugh Griffith, of the Lulu Island Blog, left a comment on my last post, Aphid in Sheep's Clothing, suggesting that the woolly green bugs I have been trying to identify may be flatid pale green planthoppers.

The bug, in the nude, as I saw it on Wednesday.

Off I went, to research immature planthoppers. And some of the nymphs are woolly, just like woolly aphids. They have those funny little winglets. Some are even green. But none were quite like what I had.

I had put the tray of leaves and bugs outside on the patio. After I had looked at too many jpegs of planthoppers, I went out to look over the real thing again, and incidentally, to see if they had survived my manipulations. They had. But one looked different, even to the naked eye; the little brown winglets now looked larger, and white.

I brought it inside to the light and grabbed the camera right away. Which was fortunate, or I would have missed this:

First photo; about 2 minutes after I had discovered the change. The white wings are already larger. Note, on the left, the exoskeleton, with wool, that he had just vacated; I had caught him in the final moments of molting. His eyes and antennae are white, he's lost his goggles, that black tail end is gone, and now he has some sort of pale brown tubing at the rear.
A minute later; the wings are longer already. Having trouble with the lighting.


Barely another minute: now the wings are well beyond the tail structure.Wings straightening up. He now seems much larger than the little shell he came out of, just minutes before.
Total time, from first glimpse to final photo, about 5 minutes. After this, he just sat there. I went to look over the photos. When I came back, much later, after supper, etc., he hadn't changed much, except that the antennae were no longer transparent.


There is no trace of his previous eye and tail markings, although the body shape is similar, and he is still that brilliant green. The eyes, depending on the light, are now brownish or white.

I looked again, at photos of treehoppers. Most of them seem to have solid-colour wings, but there are a few similar to mine. He looks something like a whitebacked planthopper, which is present here in BC, but much greener. He resembles, in some ways, the Ormenaria rufifascia, from Florida, but without the orange head striping, and with paler, silvery wings.

So, I think I am dropping the idea of a woolly aphid, and running with an indetermined species of planthopper.*

And I am still left with the questions: why? What function, if any, does that woolly, waxy blanket serve? And does the planthopper exude honeydew, like the aphid? Because those leaves definitely became sticky; or is that due to the wax?

The more I learn, the more mysteries I find.

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Update: The big guns have spoken.

Dr. Hamilton identified my photos on Bug Guide as Psyllidae, otherwise known as plantlice. So the breakdown goes: Insects (Insecta) » Winged Insects (Pterygota) » True Bugs, Cicadas, Hoppers, Aphids and Allies (Hemiptera) » Plant-parasitic Hemipterans (Sternorrhyncha) » Psylloidea » Psyllidae.

These insects (one of the planthoppers) are very "host specific" (Wikipedia); they feed on one species or a small group only. So it was important to note that I found these on alder. Googling Psyllidae and alder, and looking at another series of photos, both of nymphs and adults, I come up with Psylla alni as the closest match. Still not exactly the same, but near enough to know I am on the right track. Finally.

Phew!

And look at this stunning photo of a nymph of Psylla alni, under its coating of fiber! (Copyrighted.)

Weekly Five, and an update on the green bug

First, the bug.

I planned to send my photos to What's that Bug?, but when I went to the site, I found this announcement:

We're Swamped!!!!!!!

We've Returned
(05/29/2007) We were in Ohio between May 20 and May 29 and we returned to over 700 emails. Sadly, we can only answer a few.

There is such a thing as being too useful, I guess.

I loaded my photos, instead, on Bug Guide. Hopefully, someone will help with their identification. The real difficulty is that some of these creatures go through several different shapes and habits in the course of their life cycle. So that a nymph, which I'm thinking this guy is, may not look anything like his adult form, nor even live in the same environment.

Next: science links, the weekly five.

1. May as well give you Bug Guide's home page. Well worth just wandering around.
2. Astronomy picture of the day. Yesterday's was amazing; I was going to link to that. But today's is wonderful, too. I'm going to go back and browse the archives.
3. Sharks do too get cancer! On Junkfood Science.
4. Arctic ice caps reach tipping points. Scary, but a bit premature.
5. And GrrrlScientist passes on a report on Body Bugs. Denialism blog explains this in a more credible, less credulous fashion, in Folie a news. (Not to say that GrrrlScientist is credulous, but the producers of the report certainly were.)

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going back to look at those astronomy pics. G'night!

Disappearing Act: Finn Slough

Wetlands. Endangered species. Sinking islands. Developers and fishermen. Language barriers. Common law and lawyers with writs. Bureaucracies, old and new. And a long struggle and desperate hope; the tale of Finn Slough has it all.



The story starts 120 years ago, in the 1890s, when a group of Finnish fisherfolk pooled their savings to buy land on the south shore of Lulu Island, near where Woodward slough meets the sea.

Photo from David Dorrington.

Now, Lulu Island is flat terrain, at sea level and prone to flooding; early settlers built dykes by hand to protect their fields from the salt water. The dykes went up both sides of the slough, which wasn't dammed; a convenient setup for fishermen, who could bring boats right up to their doors.

They set about carving homesteads out of the forest, and began to build fish boats. One of the men towed two float houses up the slough for his family; others built from scratch, on pilings. And of course they built a sauna for the community.

At high tides, the sea invaded. Chickens had to roost at times on the roof of the henhouses. Plank walkways were built above the tide level, and drawbridges with removable boards to permit boats to go on past and into harbour.

Life was good there; salmon were plentiful and the water calm. The community thrived.

In 1900, a local farmer had a dam built at the foot of #5 Road, and floodgates set in the entrance to Woodward Slough. It is doubtful whether the Finnish-speaking residents had any advance notice of this, since they didn't read the English newspaper, where it was publicized. At any rate, they could no longer bring their boats up the slough, and instead found a handy harbour between Whitworth Island (just a gravel bar, really) and the mainland. They built a walkway over to the island for access.

New immigrants arrived. Many could not afford land, and lived in float houses or on their boats. A school was started. Gasoline motors revolutionized the work; the first powered gill net drum was invented and built here. #4 Road was extended to the dykes; now the fishermen could drive to Steveston or Vancouver.

Now, here arises a problem. Whitworth Island, or Gilmore Island as it is also called, was never purchased by the residents; it was just a spit of land in the river where they could pull up their floating houses and docks. In fact, it moved around as the river ate at it, so that the surveyed area of the island no longer exists; it is underwater.

In 1989, a developer managed to obtain a deed for the property. Four years later, the residents found notices pinned to their doors: "... all individuals without written consent (must) leave the Island." This was the first they knew of a proposal to build a condominium and marina complex on Finn Slough.

They fought back, of course. They managed to get jurisdiction over the slough transferred to the Fraser River Harbour Commission and to have the site inspected and designated as an environmentally sensitive area. They formed the Finn Slough Heritage and Wetlands Society, and have been enlisting support of artists, environmentalists, historians and the general public.

The water of Finn Slough is brackish; all of the island, except for about half an acre, is underwater at high tide. So it is home to salt-tolerant plants, several of which are rare or uncommon. One of these is the chocolate lily, Fritillaria camschatencis, which I included in yesterday's post, and which grows now in very few places in the Fraser delta.

Yesterday, as we walked, we were charmed by the singing of birds, a choir of different voices, each with his own tune, yet all harmonizing. I read that we could find the black-headed grosbeak there, and the yellow warbler. I don't think I have ever seen the first.

However, the deed still rests in the hands of the developers. There was an attempt made to invoke common law, which gives continuous residents for more than several decades a deed to the land they occupy, but so far, no luck.

Next generation of fisherfolk, learning the trade.

Today, I found the latest proposal by the developers: an "Executive Summary" outlining 4 possible projects.

* Raise Gilmour Island and put in estate lots similar to the lots developed at Deering Island. The Deering Island lots sold for a minimum of $500,000 during the last real estate recession Vancouver had in 1993.

* Raise Gilmour Island and build a higher density complex. The City of Richmond feels that on this site it is realistic to build townhouses.

* Raise Gilmour Island and develop a residential plus marina and yacht club facility.

* Raise Gilmour Island and build a private residence with water access.

Note that all these proposals start with raising "Gilmour" Island. Killing the plants, burying them under tons of cement.

No mention is made of the community presently living on the Slough; even the name has been somehow "forgotten" and the ancient name of Tiffin Slough is used instead. The Island is called by a misspelling of its alternate name, Gilmore; no doubt to circumvent researchers into the actual status of the land. A photo taken from high above gives no hint of the heritage buildings and structures, nor of the unique characteristics of this wetland.

I would laugh, if it didn't make me so angry: they write,

"The City of Richmond feels that on this site it is realistic to build townhouses."

Realistic, on a site that shifts around with the tide, that is mostly in, not beside, the river? In an area that already needs to be protected by dykes, and at a time when weather patterns may be changing?

But they won't care, I'm sure, once they've built and sold the property; it will be the new owners who are the losers.

Financially, that is. The real losers will be the residents; the birds, the lilies and other plants, the fish and the fishers. And with them, all the rest of us.

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Finn Slough Heritage & Wetland Society

Natural History of Finn Slough

Islands in the Stream

Life on the Fraser