Failed escape

Mountain bluet, (I know, this sounds like one of those oh-so-blue little damselflies, the Boreal bluets I expect to find hovering over the beaver pond I visit, but no, it's a flower, equally blue) aka Perennial cornflower, is growing alongside the road behind the pond.

Centaurea montana.

I was glad to see these, they've always been one of my favourites, but then I got home and discovered that they are on the BC list of invasive species. A garden escapee, a perennial introduced from Europe, it tends to spread both by its seeds and through the roots. Oh.

Another reason to be glad: this back road is one of the sites where people dump their trash, into the creek, into the beaver's back bog, even on the road itself. It's not so much construction materials here, but household discards, the things that should be taken to a recycling depot or even sent to a thrift store. Pots and kettles, old dishes, backpacks and clothing, broken furniture: that sort of stuff.

Recently someone has come in and cleaned up the whole road. Good for them; Ma Nature (and I) appreciate it! I saw only one light fixture that they missed, down in the mud where I've seen beaver tracks.

I think that the Mountain bluet probably arrived with some trash, maybe in a cracked plant pot. But they don't belong here. Next visit, I'll bring a shovel. In a pot beside my window it won't have a chance to spread; I can pick the flowers for my table before they set seed.

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Centaurea montana, en inglés se llama Mountain bluet, que la hace facilmente confundida con el Caballito del diablo, Boreal bluet, esa libélula miniatura de un azul brillante que en esta temporada espero ver en el aire sobre la laguna de los castores, pero, no, esta "bluet" es una flor, tan azul como el insecto. Las encontré al lado del caminito que pasa detrás de la laguna.

Foto: Centaurea montana.

Me dió gusto ver estas flores; siempre han sido una de mis favoritas. Pero en casa descubrí que están en la lista de especies invasivas de la provincia. Es nativa de Europa, y aquí se ha escapado de los jardines; libre, se promulga tanto por las semillas como por las raices.

Otra cosa que me dió gusto: este camino es uno de los sitios donde la gente sin responsabilidad tira su basura, llenando el riachuelo que sale de la laguna, contaminando el lodazal donde he visto huellas de los castores, y hasta haciendo montones en el mismo camino. Esto no es material de construcción, como en otros sitios, sino desperdicios caseros; sartenes y ollas, platos, mochilas y ropa vieja, muebles rotos y otras cosas por el estilo.

Hace poco alguien ha limpiado todo el sitio. Bien hecho; la Madre Naturaleza (y yo) lo agradecimos.

Se me ocurre que estas flores habrán llegado con los desperdicios, tal vez en una maceta rota. Pero no es sitio apropriado; a la próxima visita, traeré una pala. En una maceta bajo mi ventana, no podrá invadir terreno, y tendré flores año tras año.

Why, why, why?

 Occasionally I just have to rant a bit.

On a quiet hillside, off the highway on a forgotten road leading nowhere, where a squirrel scolded me, objecting, it seemed, to my intrusion, where moss lies deep and salmonberry branches sprout new spring buds, where the breeze carries scents of pine and a hint of rain, I came across human sign; black plastic garbage bags, crushed water bottles, messy t-shirts and underwear, tin cans, torn grocery bags, whacked alder saplings. And an apparently intact camping stove, set up ready for use on a stump, and left behind.

Why?

Why, if you love nature enough to set up camp away from the usual amenities of provincial campsites, the firewood and picnic tables and potable water, and — oh, so welcome — the rustic outhouses, why, if your delight is in the freshness of the forest, why do you then fill it with your rubbish?

Plastic is forever.

That reminds me: why, you careful dog walkers, why do you so considerately collect your dogs' doings in plastic bags, tie a knot in them, and toss them into the bush? Where they will sit, unprocessed by Ma Nature's cleanup crew, for centuries. It's good that you take the dog's leavings off the trail, where people can step in it, but please, just scoop it away, without the plastic. Off the path, it will be taken care of like the bear and deer scat is. Worms and beetles will recycle it, the rain will wash it down into the soil to feed the trees; come back in a week, and there will be no sign of it.

But plastic is forever.

Old tin plate, moss, and Oregon grape leaves.

Someone left behind an enamelware camping plate. Maybe by mistake; this was all by itself in another section of forest. At least this will disintegrate; the metal will return to the soil. The enamel is non-toxic. This is forgivable, if careless.

But not plastic. Plastic kills.

Rant over. Until next time.

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A veces siento la necesidad de protestar.

Un camino subía la ladera de un cerro y me dejó en bosque abierto donde una ardilla me regañaba, protegiendo su territorio privado, donde el musgo cubre todo con un cojín verde y de las ramas secas de salmonberry brotan los nuevos botones de la primavera, donde el aire huele a pinos con un toque de lluvia prometida, me di con huellas humanas: bolsas negras de plástico con basura, botellas de agua aplastadas (de plástico, claro), ropa vieja; camisas y calzoncillos sucios, latas, bolsas de plástico de las que llenas de verdura en el mercado, arbolitos cortados como con machete. Y una estufa de acampar que parecía estar en buenas condiciones, dejada en su sitio sobre un tocón, lista para cocinar, y abandonada allí.

¿Porqué?

¿Porqué, si amas tanto la naturaleza como para acampar fuera de los sitios que provee la provincia, sitios con acceso a agua potable, leña para tu fuego, mesas de picnic, — muy apreciados — los retretes rústicos — si tanto amas la pureza de los bosques, porqué, entonces, los llenas de tus basuras?

El plástico dura para siempre.

Y ya que estoy en ese tema, tu que con tanta consideración de los demás, recoges lo que deja tu perro, lo metes en una bolsita de plástico, le cierras con un nudo, y luego lo avientas entre las hierbas, ¿porqué? Si allí permanecerá, sin que los recicladores naturales lo puedan tocar, por siglos. Sí, es una buena cosa que lo quites del camino donde la gente lo puede pisar, pero por favor tíralo sin el plástico. Ya fuera del sendero, la naturaleza se hará cargo, como lo hace con lo que dejan los osos y los venados; los escarabajos y las lombrices lo convertirán en alimento para los árboles, la lluvia lo lavará; regresa en una semana, y no encontrarás nada.

Pero el plástico es para siempre.

Foto: un plato de campamento esmaltado entre el musgo.

Alguién dejó su plato cuando abandonó su picnic. Tal vez por olvido; solamente había este solo plato en ese sitio. Por lo menos, esto va a desaparecer; el metal regresará al suelo; el esmalte no es tóxico. Un descuido perdonable.

Pero el plástico, no. El plástico mata.

End of the trail

Two more photos from the Hoomak Lake trail:

Tree remains in the lake. With lichen.

And this:

Why, people? Just why?

A mere hundred or so steps from the end of the trail and a trash bin, someone tossed this bottle as far into the forest as they could. I had to stumble and crawl over logs and moss to retrieve it and take it to the bins.

Why? It wasn't carelessness; that was a purposeful toss. At least it wasn't plastic, but still ...

There and back again

I walked from White Rock almost to Kwomais Point, looking for purple starfish and Lion's Mane jellies.

Kwomais Point, from the Southeast.

I was aiming for that big squarish rock near the point. It has always been loaded with interesting critters, including a family of purple and pink starfish. Unfortunately, by the time I got there, stumbling over rolling rocks in unfamiliar wading shoes, it was unreachable;

Starfish Rock

I did see two Lion's Manes, both very dead. No starfish.

On the way back, following the easier path at the top of the tidal zone, I collected a big bagful of plastic and styrofoam. If I'd had more bags, I could have filled them, too. What is wrong with people?

Green fishie on dried eelgrass. Probably left behind by mistake.

Dem dry stones

Cougar Creek drains from the clay soils near our house, seeps under a couple of malls, meanders over to Cougar Creek Park with its lagoons and beaver dams, and plunges into a steep canyon. At the bottom end, it tunnels under the road into Sunshine Hills, and out into the Burns Bog flats.

We started our rock flipping excursion from that road, heading upstream, at first, into the canyon.

Reflections of the trees at the top of the Canyon. This year, the creek is shallow and slow.

Dying alder leaves and shadows of horsetails on the stones along the river bank.

We turned over many stones, both on the banks, and in the dry areas of the creek bed. Under a few, we found pillbugs, and one earthworm. Nothing more; the ground was dry, the creek bed scoured clean, and barely damp.

Where the creek was slightly deeper, held back by sticks and leaves caught on a few rocks, I turned over a rock, saw something flashing in the current, and caught it. I spread it out on the next rock to examine it.

A gruesome find. A red dragonfly, minus most of the head and abdomen, probably eaten by fish. The wings are intact. Nothing there to interest a hungry trout.

We crossed the road into Burns Bog. This part of the bog was once extensively mined for peat, and is criss-crossed by walls and railway tracks. A large part of it was paved over, but the pavement is cracked and mossy, buckling as the ground has heaved under it. Alders and maples grow in the gaps.

Moss breaking pavement, making soil for larger plants.

Cracked pavement. I looked in the cracks; nothing was moving.

It's been a dry summer; even in the shade, the moss was dry and scratchy. The ground underneath was no damper. We turned over many rocks and chunks of broken concrete, finding mostly dry soil, baked hard.

Under one slab of concrete, a few reddish ants had dug tunnels. They have something damp and bluish in the upper centre here; some sort of dead critter.

The underside of a paving stone. Ant trails, hot and crispy. No ants in sight.

Pillbugs

And a small, sleeping slug. I have never seen one before with a spotted white face; I didn't know there were such critters.

And this I will never understand: Burns Bog is supposed to be an ecological preserve, even this once-mined area. Access is mostly on foot, and the trails are long. Why, then, do people haul garbage deep into the woods here? On foot, carrying heavy trash, when we have door-to-door pickup or easily available bins?

Every time, we find something. Bottles and buckets, bicycle parts, grocery store trolleys, old cabinet TVs, rotting mattresses, shoes . . . This time, it was electronics. Underneath the chunks of concrete.

TV? Or what?

And what is this? It's plastic, backed with cardboard.

This I do understand. There's a graffiti'd wall just beyond.