Lichen surprise

What does lichen do in the winter time? We see changes year-round in the plants, even the evergreens; they have a yearly cycle, there are fresh green tips in the spring and cones on the ground in the fall. Mushrooms come and go, each on their own schedule. But the lichens don't seem to change, except to get greener when it rains and fall off trees when the wind is strong. What do they do when it snows? Do they mind the cold?

Cladonia lichens on the end of a fence rail.

Do they just sit there waiting for spring? Do they keep on growing all winter? (Slowly, slowly, as always.) What about those fruiting bodies I see on this rail end? Are they producing spores even now? 

How did we ever manage before Google?

No, they don't mind the cold. They even grow in Antarctica. They're more likely to go dormant in the dry spells of summer.

Among their many adaptations, lichens that can tolerate freezing temperatures do so by having ice nucleation sites in their tissues that ensure that ice crystallizes in between cells and not within cells. Ice crystallizing inside cells is what causes them to rupture. (Fosters.com)

Frozen leafy lichen. December, 2021

Yes, they keep on growing. As the leafy canopy thins out, more sunlight reaches them, and photosynthesis goes on.

And yes, they do keep on producing spores all winter. In fact, this is when they are most productive. A study of a variety of lichens from Japan, Britain and Canada, where we have good cold winters, found that, 

Winter and spring were found to be good seasons for spore discharge of the temperate lichens studied.

And that, surprisingly to me, 

We found that most of the species we investigated, ... had little or no capability for spore discharge in summer. (J.Hatori Bot. Lab)

Another site mentions Cladonia sp. as winter spore producers.

Lichen on rock. The black dots are fruiting bodies. January, 2023

Oh, and that rail end: I took a photo of it almost exactly a year ago, well above freezing, and dry. It is almost the same now, just a bit battered, but it has spread over areas that were bare last year.

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 ¿Qué hacen los líquenes en el invierno? Vemos cambios en todo el año en las plantas, hasta en los árboles de hoja perenne; éstos en la primavera estrenan hojas nuevas en los extremos de las ramas; en otoño sus piñas cubren el suelo alrededor. Los hongos van y vienen, cada variedad según su calendario preferido. Pero los líquenes no parecen cambiar, aparte de ponerse más verde en dias de lluvia y caerse de los árboles cuando el viento sopla fuertemente. ¿Pero qué hacen cuando cae nieve? ¿Les molesta el frio?

Fotos:

1. Líquenes Cladonia en el extremo de una valla, con nieve.
2. Líquenes foliosos congelados. Foto de diciembre de 2021.
3. Liquen en una piedra. Las manchas negras son los cuerpos fructíferos. Foto de enero de 2023.

¿Se quedan allí, no más, esperando la primavera? ¿Siguen creciendo en invierno? (Lentamente, como siempre.) Y estos cuerpos fructíferos que veo en la madera ¿siguen produciendo esporas ahora?

(¿Y cómo funcionábamos antes de que hubiera Google?)

No. No les molesta el frio. Viven hasta en la Antártica. Si van a entrar en un estado inactivo, es más probable que sea en el verano, en tiempos de sequía.

Entre sus múltiples adaptaciones, los líquenes que toleran temperaturas bajo cero (C) lo logran por tener sitios de nucleación de hielo en sus tejidos, los cuales hacen que el hielo se cristalice en el espacio entre las células y no dentro de las células mismas. Hielo que se cristaliza dentro de las células es lo que hace que se revienten. (Fosters.com)

Si, siguen creciendo. Ya que las hojas de los árboles se han caído, les llega más la luz del sol a los líquenes, y pueden seguir realizando la fotosíntesis.

Y si, si siguen produciendo esporas todo el invierno. De hecho, ahora es cuando producen más. Un estudio llevado a cabo con líquenes de Japón, Inglaterra, y Canadá, donde tenemos buenos inviernos helados, descubrió que ...

El invierno y la primavera fueron buenas temporadas para el descargamiento de esporas entre los líquenes de zonas templadas que se estudiaron.

Y, lo que fue una sorpresa para mi, que ...

Descubrimos que la mayoría de las especies que investigamos ... tenían poca o ninguna capacidad de descargar esporas en el verano. (J. Hatori Bot. Lab.)

Otro sitio menciona las especies de Cladonia como líquenes que producen sus esporas en el invierno.

Volviendo a la primera foto; el extremo de la valla: saqué una foto del mismo objeto hace casi un año, cuando la temperatura andaba alrededor de 5 grados sobre cero; una temporada seca. Ahora es casi igual, aparte de estar un poco maltratado, pero los líquenes se han extendido sobre las areas que el año pasado eran madera limpia.

Chilly nest

More from the cold snap. From the hill where they've clearcut the forest, leaving a view over Seymour Narrows, the water looked strange, almost as if it were blue land, bumpy and solid-looking, almost as if you could walk on it. The smoother areas looked more like ice than like sea water. The temperature had dropped to 12 below zero Celsius, and the wind was vicious, especially in this area, creating a wind chill in the vicinity of -20°.

Looking northeast. The photo doesn't show the cross-hatching in the lighter areas.

I looked back at January temperatures for Campbell River over the last 30 years. The lowest it ever got, one day in 2004, was 10 below zero; the usual range was between 10 above and 5 below zero.

And the eagle nest is still there, still in use.

Two eagles standing guard. One above, one below.

I once saw, in Bella Coola, an eagle whose talons had frozen around his perch in -20° weather, hanging upside-down from the branch. I wonder what these two think of the unaccustomed chill. No protection from the wind in this tree now that their forest is gone.

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Hacía frio. Pasando por el sitio donde han cortado todo el bosque, dejando una vista sobre el Estrecho Seymour, vi que el agua, agua salada, se veía muy extraña, como si fuera tierra sólida, pero azul. Parecía que se pudiera caminar allí; hasta donde el agua se veía más clara, más bien parecía hielo. La temperatura había bajado a 12 grados bajo cero, y con el viento helado, muy fuerte en este sitio, daba un enfriamiento eólico de unos 20 grados bajo cero.

Foto: El Estrecho Seymour, viendo hacia el noroeste.

Revisé las temperaturas obtenidas en enero durante los últimos 30 años aquí en Campbell River. La temperatura más baja, un dia en 2004, fue de 10 grados bajo cero. La temperatura normal variaba entre 10 grados sobre cero, y 5 grados bajo cero.

Foto: Y el nido de águilas sigue en uso.

Una vez vi, en el norte, en Bella Coola, un águila cuyas garras se habían congelado sobre su rama, con la temperatura aproximadamente unos 20 grados bajo cero. El pobre pájaro colgaba cabeza abajo, fijado en su percha. Me pregunto qué pensarán estos dos águilas de este frio inusitado. En ese árbol, ahora sin bosque alrededor, nada les protege del viento.

Chilly heron

I was walking along the top of the breakwater, looking at moss and lichen on the rocks, and trying to sneak up on a little brown bird who was just too smart for me, when I saw this puffy heron below me at the water's edge.

"It's cold down here!"

Another heron, in the distance, was smooth and elegant; this one had all his feathers fluffed out. Keeping himself warm, inside a feather quilt.

He was as alert as the little brown bird; I took one more step towards him, and he flew away, grumbling.

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Caminaba por encima de las piedras del rompeolas, mirando el musgo y los líquenes que crecen en las rocas, y tratando de acercarme a un pajarito café, sin éxito: el pájaro tiene mejores ojos que yo: cuando vi a esta garza abajo al borde del agua.

Traía todas las plumas paradas, como para hacerse una colcha de plumas. Hace frío allí entre rocas y algas marinas.

No pude acercarme más; estaba tan atenta como el pajarito café; di un paso más, y se levantó y se fue volando y quejándose.

Winter shapes

Abstracts: snow, moss, rocks.

On the lake face of Strathcona Dam

With winter-red stems.

And is that Foghorn Leghorn, relaxing there among the stones?

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Arte abstracto: nieve, musgo, piedras en la fachada de la presa Strathcona.

Volunteer mushroom

When it froze hard two days ago, I brought a few pots of succulents inside. Today, a tiny mushroom has sprouted in the soil of one pot. Thinks it's Indian summer, maybe.

Cute, isn't it? 1 cm. tall.

Green, white, yellow, brown: the colours of trees

Back to the remainder of the stored photos before I start on this week's mushrooms.

Trees I have been watching.

From the Campbell River Museum window. February, 2017.

Baby pine, Tyee Spit, The beginning of January, before the snow.

Tree and contrail, Tyee Spit. January, a couple of weeks before the snow.

York Road, a couple of weeks earlier.

Back to Tyee Spit. October.

Path to the Eve River, July. Hot, dry season.

Glorious cottonwoods, Oyster Bay, last week.

Persisting

Some plants just won't give up. On Tyee Spit, the rosebushes are bare sticks, the Queen Anne's lace is reduced to dry, brown heads on empty stalks. Only the grass is green; the blades will stay green, even sleeping under a snow coverlet, although there will be no new flowering heads until next year. But the gumweed is stubborn. Winter? Freezing nights? No light? So what?

You never know! A bee just might come by: we're ready for him!

Three new flower heads on the way.

Grasses and yarrow, sleeping.

Just remembering

... when the skies were blue.

And I needed a jacket.

I needed that.

Four new fires have started today, just south of me, here on the Island. The sun was red, glaring angrily through the smoke; it's hard to breathe, outside.

Up north, at Kleena Kleene, people who had returned to their homes have been evacuated again. The highway is closed. There's a fire out of control just out of the Bella Coola valley. My daughter is somewhere in that mess.

The fire near Bella Coola was started by lightning, but our local fires, says the BC Wildfire Service, were started by people. Carelessly lighting bonfires, or tossing cigarettes, probably. Why? Why? Why?

We're all hoping for rain.

Ice

I had gone to the top of the hill to look at distant snowy peaks, when I looked down at my feet instead.

Ice on construction site puddle

Puddle # 2

And the view I had been looking for. Mt. Washington, again.

On sun-warmed rock

Snoozing Snails:

Actually, under sun-warmed rock. The snails were clustered in the chilly, wet dark underneath. I flipped the rock back after I'd taken a photo.

Every stone I turned over on this very stony beach had its own little community of snails sleeping away the lazy spell between tides, in the dark and cold.

Bedroom community, at Oyster Bay

Just exploring

I drove up to Kelsey Bay, 75 km north of Campbell River, following a winding road off the highway, through Sayward village (pop. 400) and on until I came to a dead end at a small, rocky, dark beach, slippery with rockweed and shreds of kelp, splashed with wind-driven waves. There, I went looking for critters, tripped and ended up in the water, froze my fingers until I couldn't feel the camera buttons, and then found the only local coffee shop closed. An interesting afternoon; a good day!

Broken, empty green sea urchin, still retaining most of its spines.

Fragment of the shell, from the inside.

There will be more photos tomorrow; scenery, kelp, and critters.

Off the beaten track

I spent much of today on the road, hurrying along freeways and up city streets, racing the clock. On the way home, I was feeling very sleepy, and on the spur of the moment, took an unfamiliar exit off the highway, and then, to get out of the way of trucks, dodged down a dead-end street, going south towards the river.

A quick walk in the cold without my coat woke me up. And my little old camera was in my purse (and the battery was charged - oh, joy!). I wandered about snapping photos of everything and nothing until my fingers went numb, then got back in the car and came home.

I liked these 4 photos.

Above a ditch full of blackberry canes, these dead fireweed stalks reach for the sky.

At the dead end of the dead end, a rough trail led to this fence, and to one of the tugboats that ply the river, in for repairs. The trees are on the bank of the river.

Frozen roses, crispy and shrunken, but still pink.

I'm back on the road home, waiting for the light at my turnoff, and looking at the back side of  Burns Bog. I love this view in winter; in the summer the skeletons of the trees are hidden behind a green blanket.

On the road again tomorrow. I hope the weather holds.

Cold weather haven

The weather has turned cold this week. At night, the thermometer dips below freezing. Where the sun shines in the daytime, it warms up, but in my shady garden, the bird bath stays frozen all day and even my winter-hardy bergenias and primulas have wilted.

Chickadees come to my door early, calling to me; "Hurry up with our breakfast!" They've got a busy day ahead, getting enough to eat to stoke their tiny furnaces overnight. After them, come the juncos and a towhee or two, poking around in the frozen earth, looking for anything edible, mostly tiny weed seeds. In my garden, the native bleeding hearts bloomed just before frost; their black seeds were ripening this week. The astilbes, the heather, and the lemon balm were still dropping seeds, too.

The smaller animals have gone into hiding. There are no slugs to be found, even under flowerpots and heavy leaves. No sowbugs. No beetles. Spiders have crawled into crevices: the babies have hatched and ballooned away. The bees and wasps are gone. I saw one harvestman a couple of days ago, and a small moth last week. It's winter. The sleepy season.

I needed a piece of lumber for a small repair, and remembered I had a plank propped against the wall in the corner of the patio, behind the compost bin. I moved the bin and retrieved it. And was surprised to see small things (and some not so small) scuttle off in all directions. It's not winter yet in that protected corner.

A couple of fair-sized spiders came along with the board.

Mid-sized Tegenaria. If you look closely, you can see that the surface of the wood is covered with spider webs.

A plump cobweb spider, probably Steatoda sp. The frass on the left includes a spider leg, either the remains of a molt, or of her unfortunate mate.

Neither of these two wanted to leave their warm board. I shooed them off, and they ran to the edge and over to the underside. I flipped the board, and they moved to the new underside. Again, and again. I finally convinced them by brushing and shaking the board vigorously, and they scooted down the side of the compost bin. There's still another board back there; they've got a few weeks more before the cold reaches them there.

Winter quarters

Another few old photos; these are from last October.

Woodbug in rotting pine cone, with snail.

Every fall, I pile some of the current crop of pine cones underneath a potted cedar, to help keep the cold out. In a pot, without the insulation provided by the surrounding soil, a plant is more vulnerable to cold, so even when the plant itself is winter-hardy, I wrap and cover its pot.

Over the winter, the centers of the cones rot, liberating the seeds. Some of these sprout, but that's not the point. The tightly-closed cone becomes a mini-compost pile, its own heat source; even when the ground is frozen hard, the center of the cone stays cool and moist. So it's a winter home for the small animals that don't necessarily go into stasis during these months.

Several times during the cold weather, I bring in a few cones and break them up to see who's living there. There are always a fair number, all wide awake.

In this batch, I found several snails, a family of woodbugs, a few baby slugs, earthworms, two species of springtails, millipedes, and one plant louse. Smaller things scuttled and slithered out of sight as fast as I broke off the scales of the cone; probably more 'pedes, and a spider or three.

Cyanide millipede

Another millipede, sleeping. And the head of a long earthworm, plowing through the composted wood.

Plant louse, exploring a sheet of paper on my desk. Seriously cute.

A pinhead snail, not the same species as the one above. He hid when I moved him to the paper, but a minute later, set out to explore the desk. I put him back in the cone.

When I was done, as usual, I collected the remains of the cones, critters and all, and replaced them under the tree, covered with a layer of duff for warmth.

They made it through the winter; this afternoon, when I moved a couple of pots in the garden, they were all there, with a crowd of their friends and relations.

Who cares if it's freezing out there?

Not us, not when the peeps are feeding on the beach.

Looking southwest. Silvery sea and the beginnings of a sunset. The black lines on the water in the background are more birds.

Looking north; peeps not minding Laurie. He's just a step away, off camera to the right.

Ankle-deep water (to a dunlin's ankles, that is.)

Sand patterns, with a few dunlin tracks

Icy blue birds

In Crescent Beach the snowdrops are flowering already, the bush glows with yellow-green lights. And ice imprisons the sloughs and lines the creeks.

Ice shelf over a thin coat of ice on the running creek.

Captured feathers

Who cares if it's cold? This bushy tree doesn't!

It was low tide, and the wide, muddy beach was covered with sandpipers, flying, feeding, flying again, swooping and flashing their white undersides. They didn't seem to mind us, dropping in to feed almost at our feet, flitting away, swirling back, landing in front of us, just behind us, anywhere, as if we were just more innocuous rocks on the beach.

We took hundreds of photos, peeps flying, feeding, even bathing. But it was so cold - so cold! - that I had no feeling in my fingers, and early on, I brushed against the dial on the camera, turning it to my setting for tank photos. Never noticed, of course; there was no time to check the photos as I took them; just to wildly click, click, click, click, over and over for 200-odd photos. Which all turned out blue, deep, deep blue.

So did the ice, and a cute blue wren, and a deep blue sunset. Blue!

I may be able to rescue one or two.

Blue! Gah!

Brown, black, green

The water is low at Cougar Creek Park; they've ripped out the beaver dams again. The creek runs between bare mud banks, and the little lake lies a good foot below the last bit of greenery.

They - whoever "they" are - have cut down the blackberry patch: good; it was invading the only path on the north side. Not so good; they've also cut down the tall grasses where the heron liked to hide, hunting frogs at the edge of the water; they've planted rose bushes instead. We saw no sign of the heron, on this visit.

February: a cold, cloudy day, with the sun occasionally making a half-hearted attempt at piercing the clouds. The shrubs are still just bare stems. What with the mud of the banks, the left-over tangle of felled branches and trees, the remaining dried grasses, all the colours are subdued.

Except for the brilliant green of the mallard males' heads.

Mallards and squiggly reflections

Light and dark

"Black"

And in spite of the low water, the cormorant is back. There must be some fish for him; some small fish that don't mind shallow, muddy water.

Cormorant and mallards