Monthly Archives: February 2018

Looking In/Seeing Through

Never one to be satisfied with received wisdom or the approved viewpoint, I have found my own ways to look at the world. As a plant lover, I like to wander through conservatories and photograph exotic flora, but you can also find me outside the building, looking in. From that viewpoint, everything is less defined. The smudging of edges, the obfuscation of boundaries and the hazy windows, invite a different kind of contemplation.  Something separates me from the plants, but this barrier (the glass) allows me to see them with fresh eyes. Perhaps it’s a more simplified view, since detail is lost. Also, the window frames lend a pleasing order to the view that’s lacking inside. Don’t get me wrong – I love the immersive experience of being inside a conservatory, but the view from outside is intriguing.

More images in this series can be found here, here and here.

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The photographs were taken recently at the Volunteer Park Conservatory in Seattle, using an Olympus OM D1 camera and two lenses: an Olympus 60mm f2.8 macro and an Olympus 45mm f1.8. The photos were processed in Lightroom. Here are a few notes on the processing:

#1 & #2 began with Lightroom split tone presets (found on the left side panel) and then were modified (tone curves, vignettes, etc.).

#3 began with a VSCO film preset, Agfa Portrait xps 160, from VSCO‘s Eclectic films #07, then it was modified.

#4 was processed in Lightroom.

#5 began with a VSCO film preset (Fuji Sensia 100 alt), then was modified.

#6 began with a Lightroom selenium toned preset, then was slightly modified.

#7, #8, #10, & #11 were processed in Lightroom only.

#9 began with the VSCO preset Fuji Sensia 100 warm, with further adjustments.

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I look forward to reading your comments and thoughts.

More than a Glimmer

Soon after I returned from my mid-January trip to the Nevada desert I began noticing small glimmers of Spring. First, it was the tentative strains of Song sparrows warming up their territorial melodies in the woods behind my home. At the botanical garden witch hazel scented the air with an intoxicating fragrance, and the same week, sturdy daffodil shoots pierced the dull brown earth, powering up like legions of little green soldiers.

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Under last year’s leaf detritus the warmed earth has been incubating new growth; even as I type, reed canarygrass (Phalaris arundinacea) motors briskly through the decaying leaf matter and into the sunlight. Speaking of sunlight, there may not be a lot of it around here, but daylight is no longer scarce after 4:00 pm. What a pleasure!

 

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This is the time of year that our native Indian plum leafs out and thrusts cascades of tiny white flowers into the woods, providing nectar for early bees, moths, butterflies and hummingbirds.

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Willows curtain the marsh with beads of lime green on softly waving stems. Way out on Lake Washington one day, just after sunset, I watch four river otters cavorting. Rafts of coots, wigeons and grebes gather near the shore and a pair of Mallards hauls up on a log to rest.

 

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All the crisp brown leaves that were caught on branches and ferns are disintegrating into fine lace. I admire the map-like tracery of veins across the skeletonized leaves.  Pleasing little rows of bumps on Sword fern leaflets are evidence of plentiful spore dots (sori), located on the underside of the leaf. It’s rewarding to peer closely but sometimes I let my eyes and camera go out of focus, to better feel the wild energy of the cold air moving through the forest.

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Bloodtwig dogwood stems (Cornus sanguinea) are showy with color now, and display a handsome, architectural simplicity of form. A few small blossoms on a shrub I can’t identify nod shyly along the wood’s edge.

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At an arboretum in Seattle the earliest varieties of azaleas and cherry trees are blooming, and at their feet, snowdrops and crocuses punctuate thickly mulched beds. A few precocious daffodils are already out. Birdsong rings through the woodlands. We watch an Anna’s hummingbird flit impatiently from blossom to blossom in the azalea, his iridescent green back glinting brilliantly in the sunlight against clear pink flowers.

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For over a month I have noticed trees laden with long, elegant catkins. I couldn’t figure out what they were and it was driving me crazy. At the arboretum I came across one of these trees while on foot and took a close look at it. The catkins, which hold male flowers, each with four stamens, were fully out. Between clumps of them I found the tiniest red starburst flowers perched on vase-shaped buds: the female flowers. Last year’s leaves were still under the tree, so I photographed them, too. The clues made identification easier: the mystery tree is our native Beaked hazelnut (Corylus cornuta). This tree’s nuts are smaller than the European hazelnut so the species is not grown commercially, but it makes a nice specimen tree just the same, with its abundance of golden catkins.

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Hellebores have been blooming for a month now at the botanical garden, while fat buds on trees reach out into the delicately hued forest, and the Crepe myrtle tree’s patchwork bark seems to glow a little brighter than before.

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It’s happening. And it’s more than a glimmer.

 

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Some of these photos were made using a vintage super Takumar 50mm f1.4 prime lens, with an adapter to fit my camera. This film era lens is somewhat heavy (it has an all-metal construction) and it can be difficult to focus. It doesn’t produce the same kind of all-over tack sharpness that modern lenses have, but there’s a particular beauty to the way it renders colors and tones. I’ve mentioned it in previous posts. Here’s a quick video about the lens.

Number 2, #3 (except the daffodil shoots), #6, #9, #10, #11, #12, #20 and #21 were made with the old Takumar 50mm. All the others were made with an Olympus 60mm f2.8 macro lens.

For gardeners, the Witch hazels are Hamamelis x intermedia ‘Pallida’ and Hamamelis x intermedia ‘Arnold’s Promise’.

One more thing – since beginning this post another mass shooting has occurred in the U.S.  I stand in sympathy for the victims and their families, and this includes all the kids who are traumatized by this event. I heard an interview with a 23-year-old newspaper reporter who has already covered three mass shootings. How does she deal with that? The National Association of Social Workers put out this statement, which notes that our country leads the world in mass shootings and recommends treating gun violence as a public health crisis. Mass shootings are complex problems, not reducible to one cause or one solution, but people in power need to begin the hard work of fixing this problem.

 

 

Death Valley

I wanted to escape the dreary northwest winter. Though a lot can be said for sticking with the situation you’re in and making the best of it, there would still be weeks and weeks of winter when we returned. I would have ample opportunity to build my moral character and strengthen that stiff upper lip by bearing down amidst the endless parade of damp, gray days that characterizes the Pacific northwest winter (yes, and maybe spring too…and OK, maybe fall).

So we flew to Las Vegas in January with the idea of visiting three desert parks. One was Death Valley, one of the hottest places in the world in summer. In the winter though, it’s quite tolerable, with the proper precautions. What I found was a landscape that, unlike the wet temperate forests where I live, does not invite you in. In fact, the close-up view at Death Valley tends to be off-putting; salt-encrusted soil and jagged rocks don’t really make you feel like luxuriating in their presence. The wider view – those grand vistas that Death Valley is famous for – does invite “Oh’s” and “Ah’s” but it is still a very harsh and unforgiving landscape.

Visitors walk the salt flats at Badwater Basin, Death Valley National Park

A few quick facts about Death Valley, California, USA: this National Park was created in 1933.  3,000 square miles (7,800 km2) of it (or 91%) is designated as wilderness. The park is huge and isolated; services are few and far between. It’s a place of extremes: the highest temperature recorded on earth happened here on July 10, 1913, when the air temperature at Furnace Creek was 134° F (56.7°C). The area receives less than 2 1/2 inches of rain a year, but there are over 160 springs and ponds. The tallest point is Telescope Peak, at 11,043 feet high (3,366 m) and the lowest point in the park, Badwater Basin, is the lowest point in North America, at 282 feet (86 m) below sea level. The valley was named “Death Valley” in the mid 1800’s, by people known as the “Lost 49ers” who, with great difficulty, crossed this inhospitable land to reach California gold fields.

Driving west towards Death Valley from Las Vegas, we passed through red rock country:

A view from Rt. 160 as it cuts through Red Rock Canyon

Death Valley has a number of extraordinary sights but they are too spread out to visit in one day. We planned on two days, knowing we still would barely scratch the surface. However, it had not rained in about 117 days, and rain was finally on the way. After hearing the weather report, and thinking about a day spent driving through vast expanses of desert in a cold rain, we decided to scrap our second Death Valley day and go back towards Las Vegas. We thought we might get ahead of the storm, which was coming from the west. Heavy rain closed some roads in Death Valley the day after we were there, so I think we did the right thing.

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We spent time at three points of interest: Salt Creek, a meandering desert creek that supports the rare little Death Valley pupfish, Zabriskie Point, a scenic overlook where part of Antonioni’s film Zabriskie Point was made, and Badwater Basin. We tried for Artist’s Palette, a scenic loop with beautiful rock formations, but the sun was setting by the time we got there.

Salt Creek, Death Valley, where life is adapted to high salinity and harsh temperatures.

 

 

The endangered Death Valley pupfish lives in this creek, and a curious, salt-tolerant succulent called Pickleweed (Allenrolfea occidentalis) grows around it.

 

The view across Death Valley with the Panamint Range in the background

 

Another view across Death Valley, approaching Badwater Basin

 

At Badwater, a spring-fed pool in the salt-encrusted valley floor reflects the foothills of the Amargosa Range. A similar image in color is here.

 

Looking north across the salt flats at Badwater

 

 

A colorful rock formation caught my eye between Badwater and Artist’s Palette

 

The sinking sun heightens subtle desert colors.

 

Earlier in the day at Zabriskie Point, we admired the pale contours of Manly Peak against the soft purples of the Panamint Range.

 

Zabriskie Point’s mountain contours. These badlands are the remains of an ancient, eroded lake.

 

Another view from dramatic Zabriskie Point

 

The land itself seems to flow at Zabriskie Point.

 

Increasing clouds made for a quiet, but beautiful sunset as we drove out of the park.

If you compare these scenes with the lush, dripping greens in my previous post, you’ll understand how this rocky, spare landscape is diametrically opposed to the look and feel of northwest forests. That’s the draw for me, but the lack of plants at Death Valley was so ubiquitous that it put me off. For my taste, Red Rock Canyon was more appealing. I like at least a side dish of plant matter with my main landscape course!

Another location we explored on this trip was Valley of Fire State Park, a scenic red sandstone area about an hour northeast of Las Vegas. We also visited Eldorado Mine, an old gold mine full of odd memorabilia and junked vehicles near the Colorado River. More about those locations later!

 

Winter Green

January in the Pacific northwest was wet, with over 8″ of rain; the average January precipitation is closer to 5 1/2″. That has made outdoor photography difficult, but I’ve been darting out between showers to a nearby park, hoping the rain doesn’t begin again before I reach my destination.

O.O. Denny Park isn’t far from home but it feels almost like another planet – a very green one, especially now. Local residents favor the park’s pleasant waterfront picnic and recreation area on Lake Washington, but across the street there is a deep, wet ravine dotted with tall, moss-covered trees and luxuriant undergrowth. The gurgling sound of  water from the park’s fast-moving creek stays within earshot as you walk a loop trail up the creek, across it, and back. There is a magical feeling here, a sense of stepping back into a place defined by trees, not cars.

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This month I’ve been inspired by the otherworldly quality of a landscape drenched in mist, mist that sometimes turned to rain as I walked, tempting me to run back to the car. If the rain is gentle the trees provide enough cover to wait it out; experiencing the changes adds to the pleasure. This week I was caught by a hailstorm. Ducking under an old cedar tree, I listened to the surprising clatter of tiny ice balls bouncing all about me. I emerged feeling frigid, with numb fingers and toes, but I’d been given a weather gift, and I was thankful.

Water is happy in the ravine; it stays and makes a home, decorating its domain with all manner of lichens, mosses and mushrooms, funneling its way up tree trunks and down them, too. Water speeds the rot and decomposition that smells so rich here, it makes tinkling stream music, it forces you to step carefully on slippery surfaces, it gives the Yellow Skunk cabbage all the oozy muck it wants, and sometimes – no, often –  it throws a hazy curtain of rain or hail over the lot, prompting you to squint, or maybe just close your eyes and breathe.

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When I first walked the paths at O.O. Denny Park, the landscape was so different from what I was used to seeing that I couldn’t take it in. I just gaped. As I walk the loop trail repeatedly, I see more.  I slowly prise the details apart and begin to see the patterns. The Big Leaf Maple thrusts moss-laden branches high into the sky for light, and each fall the maples drop a mother-lode of leaves. Because the leaves are huge and the forest is crowded with growth, many leaves are caught on the way down. There’s a pattern: caught leaves, decomposing in place.

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One day this week I tried to grab a window of time without rain, and made my way up the O.O. Denny ravine path, camera in hand. The clouds parted to reveal a rare glimpse of blue sky but it was a changeable day, and soon a cold drizzle began to fall. I paused and heard a ping, ping, ping. Soon tiny ice balls began bouncing all around me. I was transfixed. Bundled up in a down jacket and wool scarf but without gloves or a hat, I put my hood up and stepped backwards, taking shelter under a large cedar. The hail came clattering down. It coated the path in front of me white, it collected in furrows of leaves on the ground and in mossy crevices on trees, and it turned the ravine into a magical fantasy land.

Holding my camera under my scarf, I awkwardly reached for my phone in an inside pocket. With frozen fingers I composed a few pictures. Finally, the hail stopped and I set back out for my car, avoiding the muddy, icy puddles as well as I could. I was very cold and desperately wanted to feel that heater!

 

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More photos from O.O. Denny Park are here (Fall), here (Spring), and here (Spring).

The Photos:

  1. A section of the loop trail. Late one afternoon I noticed a tell-tale splotch of white on the path here. It was still wet so I looked up and sure enough, there was a Barred owl, staring me down from a perch just overhead. Not wanting to disturb the owl, I left the camera at my side, and enjoyed the opportunity for a brief, eye-to-eye connection across species lines.
  2. Bigleaf maples (Acer macrophyllum) form a tangle of green, enriched by abundant rain. The biggest maple in North America, Bigleaf has an affinity for mosses, ferns and lichens. Their lush growth on Bigleaf trunks and branches produces “canopy soil” full of nutrients. The trees can actually produce tiny canopy roots, taking advantage of the rich biomass, high above the forest floor.
  3. Flanking this Bigleaf maple are the gracefully swaying branches of Western Red cedar (Thuja plicata), a common northwestern evergreen. Given the right circumstances, these trees can live over 1,000 years and grow 230′ tall.
  4. The moss-covered tree is probably a young Bigleaf Maple; the orange leaves are Bigleaf Maple leaves.
  5. Somehow, a maple leaf was speared by this branch. It will probably hang here until it fully decomposes.
  6. Another maple leaf caught on a branch.
  7. And another – so precarious!
  8. A pause in the rain.
  9. A single Bigleaf maple can support several tons of “epiphytic material” – the mosses, lichens, ferns and associated bacterial and fungal species that live in the trees.
  10. Licorice ferns (Polypodium glycyrrhiza) take root in the moss on this branch. The trees in the background to the right are Western hemlock (Tsuga heterophylla).
  11. The Sword fern (Polystichum munitum) is a large, tough evergreen fern found throughout our area, up into Alaska, and down along the coast to southern California.
  12. Licorice fern has a similar distribution, and favors the trunks and branches of Bigleaf maples but will grow elsewhere.  A nibble of the rootlet yields a sweet, faintly licorice taste; the plant is used medicinally and for food. “Polypodium” refers to its habit of having many feet – growing from different points along a creeping rhizome.
  13. I believe this pretty lichen is Oakmoss, or Evernia prunastri. It grows across the Northern hemisphere and is used in the perfume industry in Europe.
  14. This fragment is typical of broken branches seen on the forest floor. It’s covered with a complex mix of lichens and moss, and I can’t identify a single one!
  15. Elegant Western Red cedars and sturdy Douglas firs create a cathedral-like atmosphere on one of my favorite sections of trail.
  16. These little bright gold mushrooms are probably Hygrocybe flavescens. They grow across North America; Europe has a very similar species.
  17. The Indian plum, or Osoberry (Oemleria cerasiformis) is already budding! Soon their tiny, white dangling bells will punctuate the forest. They’re the first native shrubs to flower here, offering nectar to early foraging bees. Song sparrows and Pacific wrens are singing…it won’t be long.
  18. The hailstorm.
  19. Local forests shine bright green in January because of an abundance of evergreen trees, ferns, understory plants, and mosses.
  20. Hail pellets are gathered in a cup of maple leaves on the forest floor.
  21. The hail won’t damage these ground covers that are green all year.
  22. Along the path, the little ice pellets begin to melt and soak into the ground. In an hour there will be no trace of the hail, except for mud, puddles, and more water in the creek that makes its way down to Lake Washington, through the complex of bays, canals and waterways that divide Seattle in half, into Puget Sound, through the Straight of Juan de Fuca, and finally, into the Pacific Ocean.