In January I wrote a “Local Walks” post about Washington Park, a 220-acre, wooded park about 20 minutes from home. I found out about this captivating place in 2017 but I lived far away then, near Seattle. After moving to Fidalgo Island in 2018, I could visit the park more often. Then, when COVID-19 restrictions closed another favorite park in March, I became a regular as Washington Park remained open for walkers, bikers and to a limited extent, auto traffic. Almost all of the Fawn lily photos from my last post were taken here, as well as the Calypso orchid photos in the previous post. Needless to say, this little dot on the globe is playing a big part in my life. I’m so very thankful it exists.
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The park has too many stories for me to begin sorting them out: the history includes a one-dollar-a-pie Lemon pie sale that local women organized in 1922 to raise funds to expand the park; the geology includes an unusual mid-Jurassic period rock ledge which was once part of the earth’s mantle; the park’s flora includes leafless, rootless orchids that spring out of the ground only to hide in plain sight and an odd little fern that looks like parsley and thrives in infertile serpentine soils. Let’s not forget the stories of the people who use the park every day, walking their dogs on the 2-mile loop road, camping under the tall trees, boating, picnicking, exploring tide pools at low tide, hand-feeding Chickadees and chipmunks, or even grabbing a 25-cent shower in one of several clean restrooms (I’m always pleasantly surprised to find a clean restroom in a park).
Some stories with personal meaning include the times I’ve spotted seals and porpoises from the shore, days spent exploring trails that wind through the woods and up and down the grassy balds, the surprise of mating Oystercatchers, and the peaceful times I’ve spent gazing across the water at vibrant sunsets. You can see why I don’t know where to begin, so I’ll let the pictures tell the story. Enjoy!
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3. The park abounds with fallen trees and branches. As they decompose, they become shelter and nourishment for the soil and for a variety of creatures.
4. Blue berries of Seaside juniper (Juniperus maritima) – actually modified cones – litter the ground in winter. The flavor of gin comes from juniper berries but gin makers use another species, Common juniper. The endemic Seaside juniper is limited to coastal bluffs here and in southwestern British Columbia, and a few spots across the strait in the Olympic Mountains. It thrives on Washington Park’s dry, rocky, southwestern-facing balds.
5. An aggregating anemone (Anthopleura elegantissima) spreads its tentacles in a tide pool. These sea creatures have a mutually beneficial relationship with photosynthetic algae that live in their body tissues. The algae photosynthesize in a complex, symbiotic association that includes the manufacture of amino acids which act as sunscreen for both partners. Nature always amazes me – the more you delve, the more wonders you find.
6. This little Townsend’s chipmunk (Tamais townsendii) has an injured ear but that doesn’t seem to slow him (or her?) down.
7. Madrone trees (Arbutus menziesii) are well adapted to the open, drier forest edges that ring the park. Their bark peels to a striking orange color and their deep green leaves persist year-round.
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9. Bark and rock textures found around the park.
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10. A ferry makes its way to the San Juan Islands. 11. A Great Blue heron seems to be contemplating the sky. 12. Fog
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13. Woodland star (Lithophragma parviflorum) and Shooting star (Primula herdersonii).
14. Small-flowered Blue-eyed Mary – what a big name for a diminutive flower. Here it’s growing in a bed of moss. (Collinsia parviflora).
15. A Checker lily bud (Fritillaria affinis), a Tiger lily (Lilium columbianum) and the fascinating Spotted Coralroot, an orchid without leaves or roots that pairs up with a fungus for nourishment (Corallorhiza maculata).
16. In Spring small wildflower meadows can be found in a few spots around the park. This one features blue-violet Small Camas (Camassia quamash), creamy white Meadow Deathcamas (Toxicoscordion venenosum) and pink Shortspur Seablush (Plectritis congesta). As you’d guess, Meadow deathcamas is very toxic. Its bulbs look like those of Small Camas, which was once an important tribal food source. After the flowers fall, there’s no way to tell the two bulbs apart. People used to mark the locations of the safe bulbs, to be dug later when they were bigger. The sweet bulbs were steamed in large pits for a day or more to make them digestible.
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17. January winds slam waves of Salish Sea water into the ancient rocks. Incoming tides draw ocean water from many miles away to this area, where it mixes vigorously with fresh river water in the tight channels. The mix of ocean and fresh water contributes to an ecosystem that is rich in biological activity.
18. Last May I went on a field trip to explore intertidal life in the park. These are just a few of the day’s finds.
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19. Typical for the southwest side of the park is this cozy group of Seaside junipers and Madrones nestled in a bed of Reindeer moss (Cladonia sp.). The junipers and Madrones knit together Douglas fir-dominant forest (glimpsed behind them) with the rocky, grassy bluffs that overlook the water. Both tree species enjoy the sharp drainage and abundant light here on the edge of the peninsula.
20. The soil starts with rock and moss.
21. In the forest, Western hemlocks (Tsugaheterophylla) often take root on old, logged stumps. Eventually the hemlocks may envelope the stump completely.
22. Black-tailed deer are plentiful in the park – and all around the island.
23. A Madrone tree leans over the one-way Loop Road.
24. Another foggy day on Fidalgo.
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Where do all those Latin names come from? Because common names vary from place to place, they can be confusing, imprecise and misleading. Latin names are a universal language. I try to include them often so that readers from other countries or other parts of North America can understand what plant I’m referring to.
The sources I use regularly include the internet (e.g. Wikipedia and iNaturalist), Daniel Mathews’ excellent reference book, Cascade-Olympic Natural History, Pojar & Mackinnon’s Plants of Coastal British Columbia, the Peterson Field Guide to Pacific States Wildflowers and Lyons’ Wildflowers of Washington. I actually enjoy searching through these books and online resources to figure out what I’ve seen, and then learning about it – it’s like detective work.
Spring proceeds on its own schedule, without effort or hindrance. It may be wetter or slower or colder than we think it should be, but those notions are just concepts that we layer onto our experience. Spring doesn’t listen to that. Without considering our opinions or preferences, buds open, birds sing, frogs lay eggs, insects buzz…
…and the flowers, the flowers. Lately one in particular enchants me: the Fawn lily, Erythronium oregonum.
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Clean and delicate, the elegant, six-petaled lilies appear in early to mid-spring, in moist woodlands or prairies from northwest California to British Columbia. About two dozen other species of Erythronium occur in the United States, Japan, China, Russia, Iran and the Caucasus. Like tulips, they are members of the Lily family. Generally, lilies have flower parts arranged in threes, grow from bulbs and flourish in temperate regions. Their simplicity of form is very appealing.
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The Fawn lilies here on Fidalgo Island have been beautiful. Last April I was away almost all month and the April before that, I didn’t live here, so this is my first April on Fidalgo Island. It’s been a month of discoveries and finding dozens of graceful Fawn lilies in parks and preserves near home has been thrilling.
The flowers I admire today have taken years to come into bloom; they’re nothing like the sprouts you might grow at home or grass seed that greens up a lawn in a matter of days. I could begin the cycle anywhere but I’ll start with January, when the winds of winter have their way with branches, leaves, bark chunks, needles, cones and lichen scraps, sending them all raining down onto the forest floor where they slowly decompose. In March the ground is still a chaotic tangle of broken fragments holding little promise. But deep under the soil, Fawn lily seeds are busy growing. The first visible effort isn’t very dramatic – just one small leaf will emerge, probably during the wet weather of autumn. But the leaf will grow, and so will the bulb.
The next year another leaf will emerge, this time a little bigger. Below the leaf, the seed will have fattened into a small corm or bulb, which gradually pushes downward to a deeper, safer place where it’s less likely to be dug up and eaten or dry out in the summer. That downward motion is accomplished with specialized contractile roots that pull the bulb down into the soil instead of taking up water and minerals. As this cycle repeats the result is a bigger leaf, a bigger bulb, and a stronger plant each year.
Finally, the plant gathers sufficient energy to produce a flower. If the flower survives it may be pollinated, most likely by a bee. Successful pollination will lead to seed formation and dispersal and with their work done, the leaves will wither in the summer heat, releasing their nutrients back into the soil. Some of the seeds will land in just the right places to begin the cycle anew.
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6. The name “Fawn lily” supposedly derives from the resemblance of the leaf patterns to a fawn’s coat. An intriguing theory about why the leaves are mottled brown and green states that the darker (brown) areas may help absorb more heat from low, late-winter sunlight.
7. The leaves are lovely but the prize is the flower and eventually, it appears.
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Spending time among the Fawn lilies, photographing them and working out different ways to process the images deepens my appreciation for them. They won’t be in flower much longer. Like many Spring ephemerals, they take advantage of the light on the forest floor that is present before many plants leaf out. They flower before the light is reduced, fading away over the summer and coming alive again in the cool, wet, early months of the year. Late next winter I’ll search for those distinctively mottled leaves in anticipation of enjoying the delicate white stars of the forest again.
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In saying that spring follows its own schedule and pays no attention to what we might be thinking, I don’t mean to imply that our actions have no impact on the climate, the environment, and thus on spring itself. What we do and how we are involved with life on earth matters.
The pandemic has turned the world upside down for many of us, smashing routines to bits and making fear and anxiety our daily companions. Normally I like the unexpected – it perks me up and keeps me engaged. But a world-wide crisis in which countless people suffer isn’t what I have in mind when I consider the benefits of change. People across the globe have been forced way out of their comfort zones. We’re all doing whatever we can to cope with the consequences of a situation that would have sounded like science fiction a year ago.
For many people that means getting outdoors as much as possible, trying to gain a little distance from the news and relieve the restlessness that comes with quarantine restrictions. Unfortunately, the ability to go outdoors is only a dream for some people. I’m lucky – access to nature is not difficult where I live and I’m healthy enough to get myself out the door. Being outside has always been my salvation, so lately, I get out almost every day.
And I never know what I’m going to see next.
How about having sky overhead jam-packed with thousands of honking, flapping geese frantically flying back and forth? That was certainly an unexpected sight, and I loved it. Or how about a tiny, glittering pink gem rising out of the rough detritus of the forest floor? Finding dainty Calypso orchids in the woods made my heart pound. Startling sights above my head and at my feet – these are interruptions in the routine that I welcome.
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1. This is a fraction of the immense flock of Snow geese (Chen caerulescens) that we came upon in the fields of Skagit County, after a trip to the bakery one afternoon.
2. We reveled in the deafening noise. 3. Most Snow geese that spend winters in Skagit county breed on Russia’s Wrangel Island, far to the northwest. Many farmers leave crops (like potatoes and corn) in the ground for the geese and for Trumpeter swans, which also winter here.
4. Handsome birds! 5. Photographers like this man are thrilled to be in the midst of a whirling flock of Snow geese. I didn’t see them all winter. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time (they cover a wide area, moving from field to field). I thought they would leave before I could see them this year, but the day we saw this flock proved me wrong.
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You can experience the deafening noise of Snow geese yourself here. My own amateurish video didn’t upload but the second video in the link looks a lot like what we experienced, except it’s far louder in person. Three Bald eagles were harassing the geese that afternoon. People walking their dogs may also have disturbed them. I don’t like seeing the geese unsettled for too long (we watched for at least 20 minutes). They need their energy. But I trust they are healthy and most will make it back to their breeding grounds.
Many of you know the poem, “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver. She also wrote this poem, about an encounter with Snow geese.
Snow Geese
Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last! What a task To ask Of anything, or anyone, Yet it is ours, And not by the century or the year, but by the hours. One fall day I heard Above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was A flock of snow geese, winging it Faster than the ones we usually see, And, being the color of snow, catching the sun So they were, in part at least, golden. I Held my breath As we do Sometimes To stop time When something wonderful Has touched us As with a match, Which is lit, and bright, But does not hurt In the common way, But delightfully, As if delight Were the most serious thing You ever felt. The geese Flew on, I have never seen them again. Maybe I will, someday, somewhere. Maybe I won’t. It doesn’t matter. What matters Is that, when I saw them, I saw them As through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.
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Another startling sight I experienced recently is the glorious vision of small, delicate magenta orchids growing on the forest floor. The little Calypso orchid (Calyso bulbosa) grows mainly in undisturbed northern forests, all around the globe. I saw my first Calypso last year and since then I’ve found them in three different parks here on the island. They are an astonishing sight, a real anomaly. Shaped and colored like miniature corsage orchids, you would expect to find them in a greenhouse, or growing in the luxurious warmth and humidity of a tropical country. As if someone dropped an earring made of brilliantly colored stones on the floor of a dusty old factory, the orchids push straight out of the dim forest floor, with just a single leaf pressed close to the earth. They’re a delight for anyone sharp-eyed enough to notice them – but only for a few weeks.
Wikipedia says, “The etymology of Calypso’s name is from καλύπτω (kalyptō), meaning “to cover”, “to conceal”, “to hide”, or “to deceive.” I think the name works on several levels for this plant: the flower contrasts sharply with its surroundings but is so small that it’s often hidden in the previous season’s detritus. The most intricately patterned parts of the flower are concealed below the upper petals (actually they are sepals, petals and a bract). Finally, the plant deceives potential pollinators by appearing to be source of nectar, which it is not.
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6. I was serious when I said these orchids are small and like to come up through all the branches, twigs, leaves and other detritus on the forest floor.
7. I found this younger specimen growing under a cedar log on the side of a trail in the forest.
8. I’ve read that these little gems smell sweet but the chilly, early spring air makes my nose stuffy; though I scrunched down to smell the flower I couldn’t discern any fragrance. The sight is reward enough for me.
9. The flowers look enticing to insects (and to me!) but in fact, they don’t have nectar. Bees learn there’s no reward for them after a few visits, but apparently even just a few visits to different Calypso orchids will get the pollination job done.
The first time I visited Heart Lake was a warm summer afternoon in 2018, shortly after we moved to Fidalgo Island. I had just learned about Heart Lake and the Anacortes Community Forest Lands: 2800 acres of forests, wetlands, and lakes right here on the island, with 50 miles of trails for hikers. As if the presence of Deception Pass State Park wasn’t enough, the island also enjoys a fine complex of forest, wetlands, bogs and lakes that sprawl across its middle. Near the shore of one of the lakes a grove of very special trees has thrived for hundreds of years. It’s one of the few remaining stands of old growth trees in the Puget Sound lowland ecoregion, and once I heard about it you can bet I was eager to see it.
That August afternoon I parked at the bottom of Mount Erie, a 1273-foot promontory that identifies Fidalgo Island from miles away. Trails wind up and down Mt. Erie but that’s a story for another day – I was more interested in what lies at the bottom of the mountain. As I crossed the road and entered the forest a striking sight stopped me in my tracks: a sleek but massive Western Redcedar tree with a hollowed-out base big enough for a child to crawl into. The tree stood there like an ancient guardian spirit, wounded but unyielding. Apparently a fire gutted the tree’s core long ago, but gazing upward I could see a dense canopy of healthy branches, far above my head.
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1. The base of the old Redcedar tree (Thuja plicata).
It was an appropriate way to begin the walk – with wonder. I’ve been back fifteen times since then, through every season. Sometimes it’s just to pause near the edge of the woods and photograph the placid lake. Once, last May, I joined a group of botany enthusiasts from the Washington Native Plant Society for a field trip through the Heart Lake woods. But mostly I go simply to tread the trails and commune with the giants.
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2. A path through old growth Douglas fir (Pseudotsuga menziesii). This trail is designated for walking only; bikes and horses can use other trails.
3. The tree canopy.
4. Western redcedars thrive near the lake, to the right of the trail.
5. The distant shore is thick with Douglas fir trees.
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A little history: In 1919 Fidalgo Island’s only city, Anacortes, purchased a large parcel of property from the Washington Power, Light and Water Company. The goal was to preserve the lakes and the land around them so the island would have a backup source of clean water. That purchase prevented development and protected the forest to a degree but for decades, the city logged sections of the forest for revenue. At one point in the tangled history of Heart Lake, it was managed by the State Department of Natural Resources, which actually proposed a condominium development along the shore! That proposal prompted citizens to mobilize in order to prevent any development at Heart Lake. For a time, Heart Lake was designated a state park. Ultimately the city of Anacortes purchased the land from the state, in 2002. Then Heart Lake and the surrounding forest became part of the Anacortes Community Forest Lands.
But people care deeply for this land and soon, a conservation easement plan was created to add more protection for the land. Acre by acre, forest land is purchased by private citizens or entities from the city and set aside for perpetuity. Easement land can never be used for any commercial purpose. No logging, no mining (yes, there are a few old gold mines in these woods), no leasing or selling the land for any reason. Easement land is safe from the buzz of the saw, thanks to the organizing power of tree huggers!
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6. After this couple passed me I quickly photographed them to show the size of the trees. Mild winters in our region encourage fast growth.
7. Fishing on Heart Lake in October. Mount Erie rises in the background. The lake is stocked each year with trout for recreational fishing, either from the shoreline or from non-motorized small boats.
8. Leaves of the Yellow pond lily (Nuphar polysepala) in October.
9. Cattails (Typha latifolia) at the edge of the lake in November.
10. I found this strange mushroom called Witch’s butter (Tremella mesenterica) in January. Note the spiderwebs! The common name comes from Europe, where the appearance of the mushroom at one’s home signified that a spell had been cast. This odd mushroom is found on most every continent and it may have medicinal properties.
11. This winter has been a good one for moss. February saw abundant rainfall and by March, mosses were overtaking small obstacles everywhere I looked. This clump made its way up a bare stick. I think it’s Oregon beaked moss (Eurhynchium oreganum).
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The walk around Heart Lake doesn’t feature many expansive water vistas. Vegetation grows right down to the shore, as it would without human intervention and the trails are mostly set back from the shoreline. Exploring these trails is an up-close and personal experience, with countless fascinating life forms to examine. At the same time, the immensity of the trees puts you in your place, a feeling that isn’t always easy to come by. I think it’s worth spending time in places where humans are dwarfed. Lingering under these great trees, I stretch and strain my neck to discern their distant tops, then I bend down to peer at odd mushrooms and delicate wildflowers. I listen for the croak of a tree frog or the piercing “kireee” of an eagle, and I breathe in peace.
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12. Buttercups (Ranunculus sp.) along a Heart Lake trail.
13. Simple Forget-me-nots (Myosotis sylvatica) always delight me, even though they’re not native plants here.
14. My backpack rests against the massive trunk of an old growth Douglas fir tree.
15. And now my phone.
16. A section of bark on an old growth Douglas fir reveals woodpecker damage, fire damage, spider webs, lichens and moss. With a hand lens we would see more life forms. The Heart Lake old growth trees grow where moisture is abundant and fires are infrequent. Severe damage from fires and windstorms historically happens only every few hundred years but we can still see the “biological legacy” of charred bark on the old trees.
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What is “old growth?” As a definition, old growth varies – the term doesn’t indicate a particular age or species of tree. Here in the Puget Sound lowlands the small amount of old growth that remains is made up of Douglas fir (Pseudotsuga menziesii), Western Redcedar (Thuja plicata) and Western hemlock (Tsuga heterophylla). One quality common to any old growth stand is structural diversity: there are trees of different ages and sizes, there are logs, snags, and clearings where trees have fallen. Look in any direction and you’ll find trees in a variety of conditions: small saplings reach for the light, some sprouting from moss-covered logs, mid-sized, straight-trunked trees are common, older trees appear like sentinels and a host of “dead” wood – snags, stumps, logs, and broken branches is scattered everywhere. The snags and logs may look dead, but they are fully engaged in the life of the forest. All manner of plants and animals take advantage of the changes that follow downed and broken trees: increased light means opportunities to grow more quickly, dead wood provides nesting spots, and insects, arthropods and their predators busily maintain the critical rhythms of decomposition and nutrient recycling.
Old growth is about age but it’s also about the complexity of an ecosystem that has evolved over time. In forests west of the Cascades it can be 175 – 250 years before the intricate layers of ecosystem diversity begin to emerge. After a century or two the forest looks more and more “spacially patchy” as ecologists say. An old growth forest looks nothing like a neat, even-rowed, managed forest. Irregular patches of growth support a community of wildlife, invertebrates, fungi, understory plants, mycorrhizal fungi and microbes, all living in concert with the tree layer. Here in the Pacific northwest, more than half the forests were in the old growth phase when Europeans arrived. Now perhaps 10 – 18% can be considered old growth, so even small remnants like the 20 acres of old growth around Heart Lake are precious.
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17. Rattlesnake plantain (Goodyera oblongifolia) leaves spring up from a bed of moss on the forest floor. Flower stalks will bear tiny orchids in the summer.
18. A fern leaf casts a shadow on a fallen log.
19. In June, the Black Cottonwood (Populus trichocarpa) trees drop their catkins.
20. It’s November and the Red huckleberry (Vaccinium parvifolium) bushes are shedding their leaves.
21. Believe it or not, this was taken a few days before Christmas. The evergreen understory of Salal (Gaultheria shallon) and Sword fern (Polystichum munitum) blends seamlessly with the graceful, feathery branches of Western Redcedar.
22. Wetlands border the lake; this one has Swamp lanterns, aka Skunk cabbage (Lysichiton americanus) blooming in late March.
23. Even at 1pm on a summer afternoon, the light is subdued.
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The forest and wetlands around Heart Lake seem almost pristine now, after decades of protection. The single road that passes the lake isn’t busy; traffic noise doesn’t invade the forest. We need these quiet, outdoor places more than ever. For many people, spending time immersed in nature is very difficult right now. So far we’re lucky in Washington State – the governor said getting exercise outdoors is fine as long as we maintain a distance of six feet between ourselves and others. People are still going to the parks. In my experience, they respect boundaries by stepping off the trails to let others pass. Everyone is polite, almost painfully so. As nourishing as time spent outdoors is for body and soul, it can feel fraught in the moments when we encounter other people.
We wait and see, each of us dealing with restrictions and anxieties in our own way. This post is an offering of a brief respite.
bluebrightly 