Vertical

A few more cliff photos along the eastern shore of Buttle Lake. Because I just can't resist a good pile of rock.

View from the far side of the road along the shore.

There's the road at the bottom.

A large white section.

The lake is long and narrow and makes a good wind tunnel. I noticed moss hanging sideways on tall trunks facing the shore, and here, the trees seem to huddle towards the cliff, as if for shelter.

That same white patch, with a square-cut block, tipped over. What dances went on in these rocks over the millennia?

Somewhat tamer rock face, and a sharp curve with no visibility. Typical for this road.

Small plants shelter in the shadier spots. Here, pearly everlasting, maidenhair ferns, willow, grass,and a couple of others I can't identify from the photo. And moss, of course.

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Aquí presento unas pocas fotos más de los precipicios al lado del lago Buttle. Porque no puedo resistir un gran montón de piedra.

En la tercera foto se puede notar que los árboles se inclinan hacia la roca, como si buscaran protección. El lago es largo y angosto, y forma un túnel de viento. Noté en otros árboles que el musgo cuelga casi horizontalmente.

La penúltima foto muestra un precipicio menos llamativo, y una vuelta en el camino sin visibilidad, típica de esta carretera.

En la última foto, se ven plantas chicas que se refugian en una grieta, fuera del calor del dia.

On a windy shore

The stretch of shoreline south of Salmon Point is always windy, even on the hottest, stillest days. In the winter, the wind howls so that it is impossible to hear what your companion on the trail is saying.

This tree shows the prevailing direction: north by northwest.

Looking east, across Georgia Strait to the mainland.

Wind powered

Let it blow; who cares?
I've a kite out there,
With a board that I ride,
And a string sort of thing ...

(Apologies to A.A. Milne.)

Kite surfing, Boundary Bay

Just the kites, seen from the far side of the dunes.

A few minutes later, the guy with the blue kite was 'way over on the far side of the bay. That was a brisk wind!

A Skywatch post.

In like a lamb ...

... out like a lion. So they say. March started for us, with sunny, warm days. I left my jacket at home.

And now ... does this look "lionish" to you?

Blackie Spit, March 30th.

Appearances are deceptive. The wind was blowing; chill and strong, so strong it pushed me along the beach, willy nilly. Facing it, I could barely breathe. I couldn't stand still to take photos; I rocked back and forth in the wind unless I was holding on to a fence or bench. My fingers went numb.

In spite of the flying branches along our streets and the invisible hand pushing the car here and there on the highway, we had gone down to Blackie Spit. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, the tide was out; it would be a good time to explore the lower reaches of the beach.

The beginning of Blackie Spit, at low tide.

Ah, but look there, far down the beach; see the whitecaps?


Blackie Spit is a hook forming a protected bay at the inner end of Boundary Bay, at the outlet of the Nicomekl river and the Serpentine, both slow-moving, gentle streams. The water is shallow all the way across the inlet, and at low tide, exposes wide mud flats. Only in the centre of the Nicomekl channel is there depth enough for boats.

It's a quiet spot, where waterfowl of all sorts dabble in the stream and sleep on the mud. Usually they do.

Brown water in front; the Nicomekl. Then mud. Then the blue line that marks the Serpentine.

Here's that quiet water, day before yesterday:

The Nicomekl, disturbed.

Four ducks bounced through the waves. A seagull tried to walk along the shore; most of the time he was moving sideways. He found a clam, and flew up to drop it on the rocks to break it open. The wind blew him backwards, and he missed his aim. He struggled back to the clam, flew up and dropped it again three times while I watched, missing the rocks every time. I've never seen that happen before. Around the bend, in the shelter of the headland, a few seagulls and an eagle rested.

We had the beach almost entirely to ourselves. Farther inshore, three teenage girls played at leaning on the wind; a car parked, a couple of women got out, then quickly got back in and drove away.

Empty beach.


Empty headland.


Empty benches.

And it was beautiful, exhiliarating. The air smelled fresh and salty. The sky looked as if it had been just re-painted, piled with new cotton clouds. And our legs and lungs got a thorough workout.

A lion, but a friendly lion.

And April? Isn't it supposed to be spring? Then why is it snowing tonight?

.

A bit of a chop

That's what we called it when I was a kid on Vancouver Island; a bit of a chop. More or less the usual, the everyday winter crossing of the channel. Just a little wind, a little chop, the odd whitecap here and there. Good weather for seabirds. And me; I loved the wind in my face, the slap-slap-slap of the bow on the wavelets, the salty dampness in the air.

I still do.


Crescent Beach, the last day of March. Out of the wind, with the sun on our backs, it was almost warm. Along the unprotected shore, the wind was brisk and nippy. My eyes were tearing up, and my lips stung from the cold. At least I'd thought to bring the tuque and gloves.


"Desolate," Laurie kept saying. "It looks desolate." It did. Flatness, greys and blues, no land features. Even the few people on the beach were bundled up and walking sedately, preserving energy.


A small boat went by, leaving a white wake. I would have liked to hitch a ride, just for the pleasure of the spray in my face.

The birds flying overhead (click for full size) followed an erratic path, looking as if they had been tossed into the sky by some ancient wind god. (Ehecatl, maybe?)


That's Laurie, getting his boots wet. Patches of off-white foam were scattered over the beach, looking like old, dirty soap suds, but in reality a rich, nutrient broth, loaded with elegant skeletons of phytoplankton.

Windrows of phytoplankton remains show that the sea off our coast is producing tons of food for other creatures in the food web.
From New Jersey Scuba Diver: scroll 'way down to "Sea Foam".

A bit off-shore, a pair of mallards idled in the shelter of a breakwater. Further out, buffleheads were fishing, visible only in flashes of black and white as they surfaced for air.


It was still early, but we were chilled through. We headed back home for steaming cups of tea.
.

Glass Half Empty, Glass Half Full

Adrift

We've had a chilly, rainy August. And a cool July. Not for the first time; BC's weather is generally unpredictable.

But this year, it seems, has been a little more out of kilter than usual. There were severe storms last winter, flooding in November, a severe windstorm in December, when thousands of trees were blown down; not only Stanley Park suffered, but all our green spaces. I blogged about the damage in Watershed Park last spring; we passed a big downed tree just last week in the SAMWMA.

Add to that, a record (for this area) snowfall (I measured 18 inches on my birdbath), a 5-metre high tide plus winds that washed out a section of Boundary Bay's seawall, storm-caused power outages (50,000 homes here, 200,000 just across the border), flooding in the upper Fraser River this June leading to sandbagging as far south as New Westminster, and more. The Lower Mainland's reputation as a laid-back paradise may not recover.

The storm that swamped Ladner's harbour was just one of these events, but a significant one. Not in terms of the immediate damage, but possibly as an advance warning.

Natural Resources Canada, in a page on climate change impacts, focuses on the Fraser Delta.

Even today, parts of the coastline of the Strait of Georgia are eroded by waves during winter storms. Higher seas may also flood deltas, tidal marshes, and other low-lying coastal areas. Dykes may have to be built or upgraded to protect these areas.


Fraser Delta tidal marshes are critical habitats for waterfowl, shorebirds, and salmon fry. A rise in sea level may drown the marshes or squeeze them against sea dykes that protect Richmond, Ladner, and Delta.

...
What impact would the loss of Fraser Delta marshes have on ducks, geese, and shorebirds that migrate along the Pacific Flyway?

Climate change. We experience it as a local series of events, but we know it is happening around the globe. Flooding on the Thames, calving icebergs in northern waters, hurricanes in the Pacific not following their own rules, drought in the US, typhoons in China, a heatwave in Hungary ... Bird flu and malaria, HIV and the latest viral mutations ... Extinct dolphins and invasive snails ...

And nothing we can do about it. Or is there?

It certainly feels as if nothing I can do will make any difference. Sure, I can avoid useless consumption, eat local foods, keep the car tuned up, "Reduce, Reuse, Recycle". But so what? The roads are still jammed with SUVs, the grocery still sells fruit and veggies from the other end of the globe. What good is my little bit?

And here is my pessimistic, glass-half-empty, outlook: some of us, quite a few of us, see what's happening and want to make any changes necessary to at least ameliorate the impact. But many people, important, influential people, do not see this. Or do not care. And the majority will go along in their happy cloud, "eating, drinking, marrying and giving in marriage", as the Bible puts it, until disaster slaps them in the face.

Then, oh, then; there will be an uproar, a hullabaloo; "We've got to do something!" And people will pursue solutions -- any solutions, possible or not -- with great energy. But it will be too late by then.

Really, it is already too late for our best efforts to have much effect. We should have been working at this back in the 1950s.* We knew at least some of the dangers, even then. We have been inexcusably lax.

Painted cement block, Ladner Harbour Pub

But ... I am not always pessimistic. My glass might be half-full.

This old earth, and we two-legged, chattering inhabitants with it, have weathered many storms before. Not easily, not comfortably; but we made it. And provided we don't blow ourselves into clouds of hot dust, we will possibly make it through again.

Our children and grandchildren are in for a rough ride. And their world will not be the one we know. But they will see the clouds in the sky, the green of growing things; they will feel the warmth of the sun. They will look at the fruit of their efforts, they will look into smiling eyes, and they will feel joy.

One can hope.

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*Update: GrrlScientist has a video from 1953 that is a must-see in this context. Quite exaggerated, with a 150-foot rise in sea levels, but the basic idea was there. Did people ignore it because it was just too unpleasant to live with? Or because it was a SEP? I know that I knew about the "Greenhouse effect", as it was called back then, in the 1960s.

Good Planets are Hard To Find, Feb. 17, 2007

To find the universal elements enough; to find the air and the water exhilarating; to be refreshed by a morning walk or an evening saunter ... to be thrilled by the stars at night; to be elated over a bird's nest or a wildflower in spring--- these are some of the rewards of the simple life.

- John Burroughs

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Welcome to "Good Planets are Hard to Find", February 17th edition!

Today's theme; the third of our 4 ancient "elements", air, what Shakespeare called, "this most excellent canopy, ... this brave o'er hanging firmament..." (Hamlet) That most essential of all the amenities of this nurturing earth.

It has been hard to find photos of "air", hasn't it? Of course, since the stuff is invisible and we can't photograph its touch, its smell, its power. The way it fills our lungs and ruffles our hair. The rustling of the grasses, the rattle of dry leaves, the howl of a storm. The games it plays.

Oh, but we have an albumfull, in spite of that! Just look:

To start us off right, Bev Wigney, at Burning Silo, sends us a dawn photo of Tule Lake (N. California).

Skylar gives us a mistier view, a foggy afternoon south of Big Sur, CA along the Pacific Coast Highway.

From Bev, again, an old white house in central Oregon under a blue and white sky.

But it's not all quiet, empty skies; they're full of singing, screeching, honking life. Here is a flock of shorebirds (sandpipers?) racing over the water on a windy day. Off the Ladner Dikes, Delta, BC

Starlings. Some people call them a pest. TheFatLadySings says they're "Pretty cool".

Mary Ferracci, at Mary's View, "saw a Cooper’s Hawk overlooking my North Carolina back yard feeder."

And a photo C. Corax calls "impressionistic". A crow in full flight, wings a blur.

Liza Lee Miller, at Egret's Nest sent a photo of "Honkers" flying over New Melones Reservoir, California.

Sometimes they land: "This guy or gal (Red-breasted Sapsucker) has been hanging out everyday in the same spot, right where I can see him easily from my computer. Life is good!" says Dawn Bailey

Skylar sends an unusual photo; a seagull in flight, from above, looking for breadcrumbs. On the central Oregon shore.

A juvenile Peregrine Falcon, wings spread in the air, sent by Robin, at DharmaBums

And here's what we do with the air, especially when it's in motion:

Flags in Bermuda, near one of the old forts, sent by Donna Wenger, at KGMom Mumblings.

Kites fly over Oregon's Pacific coast on July 4th. Skylar, again.

On Boundary Bay, last summer, swimmers and waders. And kite flyers, always. This one was unusual.

Hard at work: aermotor windmill in front of a windfarm in central Oregon. Sent by Bev, at Burning Silo.

More windmills, from C. Corax, who tells us, "this is in upstate New York off Route 12. I forget what town they're in. This shows the tiniest fraction of the wind farm, and definitely gives no idea of how mind-blowingly HUGE these things are. Honestly, the things give me the creeps, they're so huge."

"Another view of life on the Navesink River in NJ. Not the greatest of pics, but I was so taken with this one particular iceboat - it was the largest on the river and if you've got a good imagination you might hear the WIND billowing through the sails. I think every kid in town had a ride on it that day, but I was too hesitant myself to step out on the ice or I would have liked a go!" Laura, Somewhere in NJ.

"Here's a windmill from Volendam, Netherlands, just outside Amsterdam. It is a fully operating windmill, that is 350 years old. When it is in full operation, it pumps 12,000 gallons a MINUTE. It pumps water from the lowlands out to the sea. The arms of the windmill have an amazing sweep, and you can feel the whoosh as they go by. Also, they are lethal, and visitors are cautioned not to get near them." Also from Donna Wegner.

There is no air on the moon. Not enough to count, anyhow. But the air around us modifies how we see it. Here are a couple of samples.

A yellow moon...

... and a pink one. The Fat Lady Sings says, "That pink color is unusual - especially for winter. I've seen pink moons during hot, summer weather; but this was quite different."

And with the photos, two separate contributors sent along this well-known poem.

WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND ?
by CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 

Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling
The wind is passing thro' 

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads
The wind is passing by.

That's it for tonight, folks! And a Big Thank You! to all who took the time to sort through and send along these marvellous photos.

Next week, the theme is the fourth element of the ancients, "Fire". And people are already sending in amazing photos. I look forward to seeing what else my e-mail brings me; you can send them to me at susannah at dccnet dot com, or through the carnival widget on the sidebar.

P.S. One more quote; a short one.

Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air.- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Rain, Rain, Go Away...

Not to grumble at a little wetness, but there are limits...

It rained today. It poured. The wind blew; smoke from the burners by the river was pouring out horizontally. We got the full brunt, going over the Alex Fraser Bridge. By the time we got to IKEA, the parking lot was a puddle.

When we left, we got a boy from the service desk to help us load the car (a chest of drawers that I will have to put together tomorrow); by the time he was finished, the poor kid looked like a drowned rat. A cold drowned rat.

I sometimes think we humans are semi-aquatic. Water does us no damage, as long as we keep it out of our lungs. We love to look at it, paddle in it, play on it. Every day, by choice, we take off all our clothes and stand in it, singing, maybe.

But we like it warm. Or hot. Not cold. Not soaking our clothes so that we shiver in the car all the way home.

Coming across the Richmond farmlands today, bumper-to-bumper with miserable, creeping traffic, we noticed a large flock of seagulls* in a soggy field. Some just standing in the water, most in the air, cavorting. A sizeable group wheeled in unison, making a pattern of white bodies/grey wings, obviously delighting in the wonderful wild wetness.

I envied them, from there in our finally-dry car with the heater blasting and the wipers click-clicking, with the damp umbrella and jackets spread on the back seat and the coffee cooling in its holder; I envied them their joy in the wind and the rain.

The photos are from a previous rainy afternoon, taken over a 1/2 hour period along the WhiteRock beach. It was pretty wet; Laurie took his photos holding the camera in one hand, the umbrella in the other. You can see round circles where the flash caught a falling raindrop.

The beach, of course, was almost deserted, except for one man who seemed to be collecting something in a pail, and the seagulls. It was still supposedly daylight, but the automatic lights over the pier were on.

They remind me -- strongly -- of my childhood on the We(s)t Coast of Vancouver Island, where it was an old cliché that we didn't tan, we rusted.

*Is it a "flock" of seagulls? Wikipedia gives me also a "colony of gulls", but I think that may refer to the breeding season. Their other suggestion, which I like and will use in future, is "a screech of gulls". Somebody got that right.