Star Gazing

Lava Beds National Monument, California, USA

This post is mostly about current events, but I’ll start with a clear morning over twenty years ago.  Dale and I were canoeing on Tokatee Reservoir, Oregon, fishing brown trout.  I cast my grasshopper over the clear, cold water and was startled to see a searing white light cut through the sky and disappear behind the nearby mountain.  What was that!  

Later, back at Dale’s office I described my sighting to his Forest Service office mates.  The sighting was very close to the Fourth of July, and promptly dismissed as someone’s fancy fireworks.  I didn’t buy that explanation.  Fortunately I didn’t have to.  I soon learned a meteorite had fallen into the Cascades Mountains.  I wasn’t the only person to have seen it.  

Now, fast forward to last Tuesday night.  This time it was pitch dark. Dale and I had already reached Lava Beds National Monument and were about 5 miles from camp.  Wow!  A blaze of bright tore through the sky and fell behind the nearest ridge -- way brighter than any shooting star.  It seemed as bright as the meteorite I’d seen years ago, but I assume the dark sky was misleading.  I couldn’t help but wonder if it was another meteorite, but I would have to wait until we got home to find out more.

We camped three nights.  Lava Beds is the best place I know to peer far, far into the heavens.  The monument is a treasure of sage, bunch grasses, juniper, and lava tucked at a relatively high elevation and far from any ranch lights.  The moon was well past full and rising after total darkness.  In those few hours between total darkness and moonrise, the Milky Way stretches above -- a faint avenue of brightness caused by zillions of stars.  When I gaze into those depths I feel I’m part of the Universe, not just a spot on Earth.  I never see that clear, crisp sky when I am in town or in most places for that matter.  

While at Lava Beds I pay extra attention to the stars above.  We saw several shooting stars while snuggled in our sleeping bag.  I noticed the top of the big dipper was parallel with earth when darkness fell and just starting to tip when we went to bed.  I always make an outhouse run in the middle of the night.  Part of the run is checking on where the big dipper is.  Has it tipped far enough to tell me I probably won’t have to get up again during the night, or is it traveling all too slowly as it pivots around the North Star?  I know by morning it will have rotated a little more than 120 degrees (Each day it rotates full circle, 360 degrees; so it’ll move about 120 degrees during my night).  

Once home I checked the internet to see if there was any news of a meteorite falling --  No.  But I did learn we had camped during the Orionids meteor shower -- a time when earth passes through debris left by Halley’s Comet.  This happens twice a year!  It has been a good year with lots of ‘fireballs’ sighted.  When the meteoroids enter earth’s atmosphere, 30 to 80 miles above ground, the friction of their intense speed literally burns them.  Most are destroyed in the process, but a few meteorites survive and hit the ground.  

Did I see another meteorite?  I don’t know.  It wouldn’t surprise me if a little dab of outer space now lies in the Medicine Lake area if northern California.  Its an unpopulated area.  Perhaps we were the only ones to see it fall.  

If anyone is interested in learning more about meteor showers, there is a wealth of information on the web.  Each year we have half a dozen showers of significance.  A lot of ‘shooting stars’ and small and far away.  The closer ones, ones that blaze as they enter our atmosphere are often referred to as ‘fireballs.’  Each one is named for a constellation in the sky and that gives a clue as to where to look. If you plan to go star gazing be sure to check on the phase of the moon.  Even just a half moon in the sky at Lava Beds means we see far fewer stars in the sky.

Lulu, Daisy Mae, and Darth Vader

Cris, a friend of my just lost a pet chicken, Suzi ... the little hen that never was quite healthy and died before she was a year old.  Fortunately Cris has four others, all best buddies and a big joy in her life.  Not only do I get to enjoy the chickens on her blog ( http://anartistscountrylife.blogspot.com ), but I have even visited them.  

Right now I ache for Cris.  I also have been very attached to a pet chicken.  Actually I had a series of pet chickens when I was a little girl.  Cris’s loss has brought back fond memories of my pets.  

The first was a white leghorn, Lulu.  By the time I realized Lulu was a dashing rooster it was too late to change his name.  He didn’t mind.  He was very self assured.  Remember that Johnny Cash song where the guy is named “Sue?”  Well, the guy named Sue turned out just fine and so did my Lulu.  

I was too young to know the consequences of having just one chicken during a Wisconsin winter.  Poor Lulu froze the tips of his toes off.  Even that didn’t bother him.  He fluffed and strutted and crowed.  It was the crowing that ended my wonderful time with Lulu.  At home in rural Wisconsin the crowing was a joy to wake up to, but I was allowed to take Lulu when I went to visit my grandmother for the summer -- in a residential community outside Boston.  Crowing definitely was not on the agenda!  Poor Lulu was given to a chicken farm.  I had no choice.  I was just a little girl.  I can still see the farm.  Hundreds of white chickens pecking about and long low sheds for egg laying.  I had no choice in the decision but it seemed all right.  I wonder how he managed with all those ladies? 

Daisey Mae in Her Chicken House

Next spring I had another chick, this time a little red one, a New Hampshire Red.  Daisy Mae was a doll.  She soon grew into a handful of fat, egg-laying joy.  She rode the handle bars of my bicycle and laid her eggs in a box in our outhouse.  We tried other spots but she knew what she wanted.  I know she liked grabbing the tail of toilet paper that hung down and would run with it until the paper tore.  My father always sputtered, reminded us not to leave a tail hanging, and put up with this nonsense.  Meanwhile my mother made sure Daisy Mae wasn’t going to freeze her toes off.  She built a tiny double walled, insulated, chicken house complete with a window and a solid door.  At most the chicken house could have held three small chickens or two big ones.  I could reach in and feel that Daisy Mae’s body heat was warming the interior.  When it got bitter cold, we could put a light in there for warmth.  At sunset the door was closed, and the first person heading out to the outhouse in the morning opened the door.  

All went well until I read a paragraph in “Ripley’s Believe It Or Not” about a chicken that could swim.  Could Daisy Mae swim?  I often kicked about in an inner tube with her on my lap, but I never put her in the water.  Remember ...... I’m only about ten years ago and no one is paying attention to what I’m doing.  I put Daisy into the water, just for a moment.  Immediately I knew she wasn’t going to make it into Ripley’s, but the damage was done.  A few days later my dear Daisy died of pneumonia.  I was devastated.  Not only had I lost my pet, but I was responsible.  

My next chicken was too old when I got it -- probably just two or three weeks.  Nina was a pretty bantam hen, but she didn’t tame down.  She happily pecked about the yard and always knocked on the kitchen window when she wanted to lay an egg.  Her choice of place for egg laying was a Quaker basket in the living room.  Nina would go straight to the basket, make a big fuss over the small plastic jar of Elmer’s Glue in the basket, and then sit tight until the egg was laid.  But she wasn’t a pet ..... so off to a farm she went.  

My fourth, and last chicken was a disaster.  As usual we didn’t know the sex the little chick, but I named it Pinocchio.  He should have been named Darth Vader or the Terminator.  I only had my chick a few days when I was shipped off to my grandmother again -- without Pinocchio.  My parents assured me they would take good care of Pinocchio.  They did.  He had plenty of food and safe harbor, but no bike rides, inner-tube swims, and never got dressed up in doll cloths.  By the time I came home in the fall he was an aggressive monster with spurs an inch long.  One of our dear friends was attacked when she got out of her car.  Ruth had to have stitches to mend her leg.  Needles to say, Pinocchio got farmed out to another farm.  But this time I didn’t mind.  Pinocchio and I never had enough time together to bond.  

My chicken days were over, but I had learned several important lessons, the most important being they can be wonderful pets, but they need lots of care and attention to include humans in their flock.  I look back fondly at the time when I was a member of a chicken family.

Pika Poo and More

Crater Lake National Park, Oregon, USA

I’m sitting on a boulder sketching and waiting  ... and waiting.  This looks like good pika habitat -- high country, rocks, and some vegetation. 

After sketching for a while I can’t resist taking a peek in the darkness under a rock near me.  It is hard to get close.  With my eyes I thought there was just littered dirt under the boulder; but then I set my camera for flash and shoot the hole.  Sure enough!  A fresh mix of forbs and grass stems is spread out -- drying.  I’ve found where a pika is storing food for winter.  Often their haystack is big enough to fill a bushel basket. I’ve read they often harvest plants that are toxic when fresh, but become edible after drying.  Are these some of those plants?  

Where are the little guys? After about an hour in one spot I move to another and start a new sketch.  Ah hah!  I hear the wheezy call of a pika .... first one near the toe of the slope and then one to my left, but nothing close.  I sketch.  So pleasant sitting on my very hard boulder.  Cotton-ball clouds float in the blue sky; a flicker calls off in the distance.  Shadows grow long early at this time of year.  Soon I’m sitting in the shade ... but I hear one sorta close.  He calls from the spot I left half an hour ago.  

There he is.  Cute little fella!  He sits on a rock and scolds me for a moment, then off he goes.  

I walk over to Dale, who is also is in wait and watch mode.  He is content to stay a little longer, so I go back to my second spot, back to sketching. 

“WHEEZE!”  Geez Louise, that was close!  I spin my head around to locate the pika who has the audacity to scold me from such close range.  Bad idea.  No pika.  Did I spook him, or is he just so well camouflaged I can’t see him?  In any case it is time to put my paint away and pick up my camera.  

I slowly get to a standing position and wait, camera in hand.  .... “WHEEZE!”  Another blast.  This time I can just see the top of his head.  He is close.  Wonderfully close.  But I want to see more.  Will he let me move?  I slowly plant the toe of my mono pod about three feet to my left, then I start to ease over.  Drat!  The dry grass is way too crunchy.  I feel like an elephant in a hen house.  

Slowly I move the necessary three feet.  There he sits.  He must know I’m only ten feet away.  I suspect he thinks by freezing I might not spot him.  Ha!  No hiding from me this time.  I get a picture!  

Poof!  he is gone.  Soon I spot him again on the far side of a tiny meadow, a meadow the size of my bedroom.  He is having his evening meal.  My pika eats his grass backwards, the best part first.  I can slurp spagette faster than he ingest his grass ... but he’d win a grass eating contest if I couldn’t use my hands.  For about five minutes I get little peeks of him foraging and then off he goes to a less settled spot.

Before I end this, I must tell you about pika poo (feces).  I get on my hands and knees to look under a boulder near me.  Have I been standing right next to another haystack?  No.  It’s a pika latrine.  I looks as if someone has spilled a quart or more of little dark peppercorns under the boulder!  Hundreds of them, probably thousands. The little round turds really do look like peppercorn but smaller.  Pikas, like other mammals in the order Lagomorphs, (which includes rabbits and hares), eat their feces twice.  The first batch of pika poo is soft and dark -- and still full of nutrition.  The second time around the poo comes out like little peppercorns.  How tidy of them to do so much of their pooing in one place.  

In the Fog

A coast guard vessel heads out to the open sea.
Charleston Harbor, Oregon, USA

I was in a fog a couple of days ago ..... but the right kind of fog.  Cool, damp fog.  There was a breeze to go with it.  Enough of a breeze to stir the pot of fog, sometimes making it thicker, sometimes making it thinner.  Mostly it was the coolness I appreciated.  It had turned hot inland again and we came to the coast for some coolness.  It felt wonderful standing outside letting the chill seep in.  

When we arrived at the end of the little dike road in Charleston Harbor there were about a hundred gulls clustered on the small sandy beach and two big terns, probably Caspian terns.  It was too foggy to see the terns all that well, and they left soon anyway.  Dale and I sat in the car and munched on our traditional coast lunch:  a nice big shrimp cocktail, veggies, cheese, and crackers.  Yum.  A foghorn droned softly in the distance.  Various boats emerged and then disappeared back into the fog.

Then a brown pelican flew in and another.  The two landed on the sand just a few feet from the gently lapping waves.  Charleston Harbor is far enough up the Coquille River to eliminate any ocean swell, but the water still rises and sinks with the tides. The tide was near high and not much beach left.  One of the pelicans popped back up into the air and splashed down only about ten feet from its starting point.  Success.  He quickly gulped down a small fish and then returned to the sand.  

Soon more pelicans arrived, until we had 6 juveniles an one adult.  One by one they rose up and floated about forty feet above the water.  A pelican’s bill points forward when he is traveling, and mostly down when he is searching for fish.  These had their bills downwards.   It took just one plunge for me to hop out of the car with my camera.  I picked a spot to stand where I was partially hidden by rip rap and long beach grasses.  Mostly I think the fog help to soften my silhouette.  I stood about 50 yards from shoreline, and the pelicans were fishing just off the shoreline.  

Young pelicans are mostly grey brown, the fog just made them look a little duller.  The one adult has white on its head, also softened by the fog.  I watched one and then another soar by, bill down,  and suddenly turn and flare.  When he first spots a fish, he looks rather ungainly, but then the wings go back, the neck stretches out, and he plunges in, almost disappearing.  A quick little gulp when he comes up tells me he was successful.  Sometimes when a pelican fishes they seem to come up with a gallon of water in their pouch, but not these.  Maybe little fishes mean little gulps.  

Look Who Came to Dinner

Umpqua National Forest, Oregon, USA:  June 9, 2013

My photos were taken the first two times I visited the willow bush in this blog.  On my third visit I sketched instead of   photographing.  

I’ve been thinking a red squirrel has been scolding nearby.  Towards the end of the day I realized it is a sapsucker drilling willow stems and objecting to my presence.  Sapsuckers get their name from their unique habit of drilling holes into the bark of certain trees and then sipping the sap as it oozes.  I’ve even watched a sapsucker fly in with a beakful of daddy long legs and other insects, goober it well with sticky sap, and then fly off to their nest to feed their young.  

This willow patch is dense and tall.  I can’t wiggle in to get near enough to get a good photo the sapsucker, but I can see glimpses in the tangle.Then I realize there are several drilled stems close by.  The sapsucker just goes to the far off ones while I’m standing in his willow bush.  

Meanwhile three hummers are caching in on the fresh sap. When all three arrive at once, the hummers go into mad chases -- sometimes zipping by close enough for me to feel their breeze.  

Mourning Cloak Butterfly

I soon realize a big dose of patience is in order.  I can shift my camera between six different stems, but shifting always spooks the hummingbirds.  Better to pick one stem and wait. 

June 12, 2013 

Bald-faced Hornet

‘My’ willow patch has been on my mind.  It’s the second time in my life I’ve found where hummingbirds are stealing sap from a sapsucker.  It’s always hard to get good photos because of dappled sunlight coming through the willows ... and too many branches, but I want another try at it.  

It’s a bit of a struggle, but I’ve succeeded in wiggling farther into the willow patch this time.  About a dozen stems have been drilled some in front of me and some behind.  For once the temperature is pleasant.  I’m standing in ooze but not soggy enough to get my feet wet.  No birds singing, but rustling leaves talk to me. 


Zooom!  A hummer is behind me, but I don’t dare move.  Did I make a mistake by coming so far into the willow patch?  A song sparrow scolds softly, then quiets again.  First visitor -- an ant.  I have six stems in front of me, but only two I can photograph.  The second visitor is a big fly and then a bald-faced horned.  

“Zoom. Zip”  I hear a whir of wings and angry chatter.  Two hummers zip in and are gone as fast as they came.  This patch of sap wells may belong to a sapsucker, but it is obvious at least one hummer has claimed ownership when the sapsucker is away.  I haven’t seen or heard the sapsucker today, but he/she has been in here working on fresh wells.  Each well is good for a limited time, I think a day or two; then it dries out.  So the sapsucker drills new holes higher and higher on the stem, keeping the bonanza of sap flowing for days.  

Oh good!  I hear the whirr of one hummer in front of me.  First she sips off to my left, but then she picks one of the two I’ve chosen for photographing.  I’m so close!  At most ten feet.  I see her tongue darting out, gathering sap from under the frayed bark.  She works around the 1 1/2 inch stem -- then, zip, off to another stem.  

I hear hummers behind me again ... then another where I can get a picture.  I see a small flycatcher perched high in the willow .. and a new rustling, quiet movement.  What?

Much to my surprise a chipmunk peers at me from one of my two stems.  

Gone!  But not for long.  Back he comes up the branch, checking me out as he climbs.  I hardly breath. Soon the chipmunk’s gluttony wins.  He hardly bothers to look at me while his little pink tongue comes out and he licks and licks.  He finishes one stem and jumps to the next.  Cleans that one off too.  I half expect an irate sapsucker to come tearing in, but the chipmunk has chosen his time well.  He cleans off all my stems, then disappears into the dense foliage.  

It’ll take awhile for more sap to ooze, so I wiggle out of the bushes and go for lunch.

Sometimes I feel so lucky!

A Slow Watch -- Slugs

Have you ever watched a slug?  It is a slow watch.  About the only thing they do quickly is hide their head under their mantle when disturbed.  Wait.  Watch.  Finally one of the four feelers slowly comes out; then another and another and another.  The two feelers on top are much longer and seem to check for obstructions as he slides along ever so slowly.  He checks out a cavity in the wood and then slowly slithers his way back out. 

Cormorant Watching

Oregon Coast:  July 25, 2013

At first we think the coast is going to be smothered in fog.  As we near the coast big splats from fog drenched branches are hitting our windshield.   Patches of fog hang about.  Anything cool is welcome.  July has been running way hotter than normal. 

By the time we reach Shell Island at noon, the fog has burned off. A cool wind blows, the tide is just turning --- delicious!  I zip myself into my lined wind-breaker.  It is a temptation to let myself get chilled to my very gizzard just to erase all memories of sweaty hot.

A flat of sand stretches in front of the little island; on it are a mix of elephant seals, California sea lions, Steller’s and harbor seals.  In the distance a few murres fly low over choppy waves.  At least ten pelagic cormorant nests cling to Shell Island’s steep cliff wall.  Most are full of half grown youngsters.  Young gulls up there too.  The bird guano on Shell Island looks like white frosting dribbled on a bunt cake.  

Next we stop at Sunset Bay.  Off in the distance is a little island covered with a sparse cap of dead trees.  I remember when it was a lush grove of Sitka spruce -- but then double-crested cormorants set up housekeeping.  Their colony is a busy place.  Years of cormorant guano soon killed the trees.  Now some of the trees are down and most of the branches on the remaining ones have snapped off.  Enough branches remain for about 100 nests, fewer than in years past.  It won’t be many more years and the cormorants will need to move to a new location.  

I don’t see a lot of flying to and from the colony.  It is mid day.  Perhaps the young are well fed for now. I pick the fullest tree to sketch.  It has 24 nests, but I only sketch 14.  Most youngsters are nearly full grown -- trying their wings, hopping from nest to nearby branch and back again.  I’m sketching from the car.  I’ve got 20-60 power spotting scope mounted on the window -- far better than my binoculars. 

When an adult finally flies in I watch carefully.  Its nest has four large young.  Three seem content, probably have full bellies already.  The fourth begs immediately.  He stretches his long, scrawny neck up, nibbling at the corners of the adult’s mouth, first one side and then the other.  It is the same motion used by coyote and wolf pups when they pester at the corner of an adult’s mouth, triggering the adult to regurgitate meat.  Much of the meat these carnivores bring back to the den is brought back in the adult’s belly.  I’ve seen the alpha male of the Druid wolf pack so stuffed he looked ready to pop. Our cormorant has brought back a belly full of fish for its nestlings.  

Getting the adult cormorant to regurgitate takes longer than I expect.  For about two minutes the chick continues nibbling at the corners of the parent’s mouth.  Finally the adult gulps a little and bends down towards the chick.  

The chicks head half disappears inside the adult’s open throat.  Lots of gulping by both.  

Once free, the adult isn’t left in peace for more than a moment.  More begging.  This time it doesn’t take quite as long for the adult to regurgitate.  Afterwards a different sibling reaches out and starts the nibbling process.  Soon he, too, is gulping down food.  I can’t track if each chick gets a meal, or just the first two -- too far away to tell for sure.  I can see the adult regurgitates five times before leaving.