Showing posts with label winter light. Show all posts
Showing posts with label winter light. Show all posts

Monday, February 06, 2023

Road closed

The sky was blue, in spots. The sun shone brightly; a nice change from the daily rain. Along the highway, hemmed in by tall evergreens, I was still in shadow, even in the early afternoon. The sun lies low on the horizon in February here, at 25° above the horizon at noon. Through a gap in the trees, I saw that the sun warmed the far side of the river; I crossed and went down the river-side trail.

On the trail, I was still in deep shade, but where light filtered in, colours glowed.

Evergreen fern and moss at the base of a tree.

The trail makes a loop here, crossing and re-crossing side channels of the river. I took the upper branch of the loop, but soon found my way blocked.

End of the road.

The tree had been standing on the bank, and had snapped off, leaving the roots still in the ground. As I retraced my steps and took the lower trail, I started to notice how many trees had been freshly downed over the last few months. Most exposed their shallow roots, going down without breaking until they hit ground; the soil is soggy and soft after a wet winter.

Then there was this one:

Booby trap?

On the far side, I stopped to look at it again:

Hard hat zone.

This one has been there for a few years, evidently. It snapped at the base, and the upper end has been sawed off where it crossed the trail. And there it hangs, held only by a couple of branch stubs.

More logs, these fallen into the water.

Slanted light, picking out last year's maple leaves.

Quiet stream, with another new-fallen tree making a bridge of sorts.

The top of the tree fallen over the bridge is just visible on the far right. And no, that isn't a bear on the far left. Just a stump. But I think the figure in the distant centre, beyond the fisherman, is a Sasquatch. Really.

Poking around, looking at fallen logs and root masses sent me off down another tack. About that, tomorrow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
El sol brillaba. En el cielo se veían areas azules, un cambio bienvenido después de semanas de lluvias diarias. En la carretera, sin embargo, cercada como está por bosques de coníferos, estábamos todavía en sombra; el sol en este mes de febrero apenas llega a 25° arriba del horizonte a mediodía. En una brecha entre árboles, vi que el sol iluminaba el lado opuesto del rio. Crucé un puente y tomé el sendero que baja por la orilla del agua.

El sendero seguía en la sombra, pero donde se intercalaban rayos de luz, los colores resplandecían.

Foto #1: Un helecho perenne y musgos a la base de un árbol.

El sendero hace un círculo aquí, cruzando y volviendo a cruzar ramas laterales del rio. Tomé la rama superior, pero pronto la hallé bloqueada.

Foto #2: El final del camino.

El árbol había crecido en la mera orilla del agua, y se había roto a la base, sin desenterrar las raices. Regresé al sendero original, fijándome mientras iba en cuantos árboles se habían caído recientemente. La mayoría llevaban consigo las raices, poco hondas, dejándolas expuestas al aire, cayendo sin romperse hasta que dieran con el suelo; la tierra está mojada y sin cohesión; ha sido un invierno lluvioso.

Uno era éste:

Foto #3: ¿Trampa cazabobos?

#4: Volví a mirarlo desde el otro lado: Area de Cascos.

Este, parece que ha estado aquí por unos años. Se rompió cerca de la base, pero luego lo han cortado los que mantienen los senderos, dejando el camino sin peligro. Y allí cuelga, fijado en su sitio por solamente un par de restos de ramas.

Más troncos, éstos caídos al agua:

#5: Con la luz filtrado por el bosque iluminando las hojas de arce del año pasado.

#6: Otro árbol recién tumbado hace algo así como un puente. Al lado derecho se ve, apenas, el tronco del árbol que cayó sobre el puente. Y no, eso no es un oso al lado izquierdo. Pero la figura en el centro, entre el bosque atrás del pescador es un Sasquatch. De veras.

Y el estar mirando troncos caídos me llevó a descubrir otras cosas. Las dejo para mañana.

Thursday, November 22, 2018

Troubled water

It had been raining earlier, but now all that was left was a heavy cloud cover, shot with filtered sunbeams. I went down to the shore to see if I could get a photo of the dying light.

There was no wind, but the waves were high. They pounded the shore, rolling stones and logs.

A ways out, a flock of wigeons were resting, rising and falling with the waves. They were too far away to see clearly, except as a sprinkling of black dots.

I walked for an hour on the beach, listening to the roar and rumble of the stones, splashed with spray when a big wave came too close to my narrow path. As I returned to the car, I noticed a small flock of wigeons that had ventured closer to shore, close enough to be caught by the breaking waves.

They like sheltered water. They're asking for trouble here.

Wave coming.

Uh - oh!

Walking on water?

Wigeons in a blender

Flee!

"And we're outta here!"


Sunday, December 31, 2017

There's always hope

Somewhere the sun is shining ...

Light on the far shore. And a moon.

And that's it for 2017! Let's hope 2018 is brighter!

Thursday, December 21, 2017

Blue light

Here in the rain belt, the warmer the winter, the colder the light, it seems. As if the damp in the air were visible; a reminder that the clouds overhead will drop to the ground in fog at any moment. Colours are muted, greyed out, even at midday. Blues predominate.

Bird viewing shack, with photographer. The strongest colours are artificial; the drink container and the blue tarp on the roof of the shack. Down in the brown grasses and mud, mallards and wigeons sleep, their bright winter coats hidden from hunting eagles.

Monday, December 18, 2017

Light on the estuary

2 PM. Clouds in the sky, clouds in the river. The sun trying its best to squirm through. And mallards catching a few stray rays.

Looking up Campbell River, from Tyee Spit

I think I've posted a similar photo several times. Similar, never the same; the trees may stay put, but the the clouds and the river are never the same twice. And I never get tired of watching them.

A Skywatch post.
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