1. A June afternoon view from Fidalgo Island’s highest point, Mt. Erie, celebrates peaceful Campbell Lake and the dramatic cliff called Roger Bluff. Toward the middle of the frame is the blue sliver of Deception, beyond it is Whidbey Island. The Salish Sea is to the right (west) and Similk and Skagit Bays lie to the east, in the upper left of the frame.
2. Speaking of a celebration, let’s celebrate the last rainfall that I can remember – on June 6th.
3. This orchid flower, one of about a dozen on the stalk, is about the size of your fingernail. Spotted coralroot (Coralrhizza maculata) lacks chlorophyll – you’ll search in vain for a green leaf on this plant. Happiest in moderately moist woodlands, the odd flower depends on fungi mycellium (mushroom “roots”) for energy. A pure white lip like the one here is unusual; normally they have maroon spots. The flowers tend to hide in plain sight with their dark red color and preference for dappled shade; Robert Frost used that feature in the poem, “On Going Unnoticed.”
4. Wild roses were already shedding petals in early June.
5. Incoming tide at West Beach, Deception Pass State Park. Travel straight out over that water for a hundred miles and you’ll be in the Pacific Ocean. You can taste the salt here, too, and the water is perennially cold.
6. An Angelica flower grew a towering flower stalk at my house this year that’s taller than I am. There is so much of this plant that I didn’t mind allowing the slugs to have a nibble. And oops – I was wrong about the last rainfall – it must have been on this day, June 13th.
7. On the 19th I took a walk at Little Cranberry Lake, a favorite place to unwind. One of two or three patches of Maidenhair fern that I know of on our island grows there on a cliff by the water. Just as satisfying as revisiting the little Maidenhair fern colony was seeing this alder tree bend to caress the lake.
8. Weedy little Wall lettuce (Mycelis muralis), an officially noxious weed in Washington State, actually looked pretty that day, with all the blooms closed except one. Especially with spot metering.
9. It’s the Fourth of July weekend and I’m back at the beach, foolishly. Yes, it’s crowded but at least I came in the morning. The dunes beckoned and hardly anyone was back there. This portly pear of a rock and its friendly neighbors were probably tossed up here long ago. They were arranged as harmoniously as a chamber quartet, waiting to be discovered by a passing human, photographed, and now seen by you.
10. You can see them in the distance, the dog walkers, the compulsive driftwood shelter-builders, the beachcombers and stone skippers. Who am I to covet a lonely shoreline?
11. A week later we took a long, low-tide walk at Cornet Bay, on the bay side of the park. Fishing boats and tour boats plied the water and later we found out that orcas were seen right there, that afternoon. How I long to see them! But we were happy with the hulking, twisted driftwood logs, the strands of eelgrass that decorated driftwood branches like bizarre giant’s party hats, the clear views of snow-covered Mt. Baker, and the warm sun on our backs.
12. July is the month my beloved Rein orchids begin to bloom. This one was on a bald in the forest near Heart Lake, on protected land that the city of Anacortes (the only city on Fidalgo island) set aside long ago for community recreational use. This is probably Flat-spurred piperia, Platanthera transversa. These delicate orchids are often overlooked by trail-walkers.
13. On one of my walks that week I ran into a botanist looking for unusual plants with his dog at his side. He told me about a bald near a dead-end road, so the next day I pulled my car over to the side of the raod near the end, away from the “No Parking” signs, hoping I wouldn’t anger the homeowners. The bald wasn’t hard to find – just a short walk down an old dirt road behind a gate. I found a few beautiful Rein orchid specimens there, a lovely view, and this fortuitous arrangement of fallen Madrone (Arbutus menziesii) leaves and Reindeer lichen (Claytonia sp.).
14. The road to the bald is set with Bigleaf maples (Acer macrophyllum).
15. Last Sunday the clouds were busy.
16. Clear skies have been the rule this month and Monday was no exception. With a group of five friends, we hired a boat to take us to Cypress Island, a large, mostly state-owned island that is only reachable by boat. What a day it was! Here, two members of our group look across the Salish Sea at Orcas Island and beyond to Canadian waters. This is Eagle Cliff, a 1.3 mile hike through the woods from Pelican bay, where we were dropped off. We climbed 752 feet in that 1.3 miles and I was panting. There is no water on the island so you have to carry all you’ll need for the day. Oh, and the food, too! Having lunch up here was beyond relaxing.
17. We arrived at our pick-up spot in plenty of time. Two of us took of our shoes and socks and stood in the cold water – brr! But refreshing! – while one wandered the beach and the rest of the party sat on the driftwood and talked as the sun sank behind us.
18. The ride back to Fidalgo was delightful, with warm sun, spectacular views of Mt. Baker, the wake curving behind us, and thoughts of dinner in town…
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The Pacific Northwest is known for rain and beautiful scenery but the rain has been scarce the last few months. We are normally dry in summer but not this dry, not this early (there was precious little rain in June and May wasn’t as wet as it should have been). Most of our state, as well as the rest of the American West, is in a state of drought. For me, it means adjusting my expectations and finding beauty in a different world. I can do that. And we’ll get through this.
About thirty years ago I read a novel – I can’t remember the name or author – which presented the idea that events occur mostly on the edges of things. The story followed a man whose life careened from event to event in a kind of pinball fashion. The idea that it’s all happening on the edges made sense to me. I knew that plants, birds and animals are more abundant where different habitats meet. Most ocean life exists in the narrow band where continents meet the sea, not far out in the middle. Explore the middle of a field, a forest, or a large body of water, then follow the edge where a field borders a forest. Walk the seashore, where land meets water and spend time at an estuary, where salt and fresh water mix. You’ll find an increase in biodiversity along all of those edges.
I suspect this principle can be applied to many phenomena, not just ecosystems. Think about the importance of interdisciplinary studies, or the uptick in traffic accidents at intersections. The word “liminal” comes to mind. Here are some definitions:
“relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process.”
“occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.”
“of, relating to, or situated at a sensory threshold : barely perceptible or capable of eliciting a response.”
Two years ago I began a post about this idea of activity on the edges of things and liminal states, a concept that felt close to home. In the post, which I’ve unearthed from the drafts folder, I wrote, “I feel I’m in a liminal state these days…I’m entering new waters, with memories of another life still fresh and hovering just below consciousness.”
I had been taking photos at parks and preserves along the water’s edge and wondered if I was drawn to those liminal spaces because I felt I was on a threshold, too. I wrote, “It’s a loose place to be, this liminal space. The knots are undone, the ropes frayed, the anchor up. I’m not yet fully here, nor am I where I used to be. Maybe it’s a little like this”:
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It felt like the photo below: “The leaves are green and the vine looks healthy, but many leaves have fallen off. They litter the pavement with the rest of the detritus; their usefulness is past. Perhaps there’s a sorting process going on with me, too, a shedding of the old skin in preparation for a new state of being.”
The picture below resonated too. “Everything looks like it has been discarded but the objects are still kept under the roof of a roadside shed. The old wood, the tarp, and the rope no longer serve their original functions but the rope appears to be fastened under that musty shroud, anchoring into the dark unknown. Likewise, parts of my life seem to be changing their functions. I’m not sure if I’ll need them or not.”
I thought, “This liminal state is like being inside an old barn full of forgotten tools, looking at the lush, vibrant greenery just outside the door. The focus is on growing the future while I’m standing in the dim shadows of the past.”
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I included one more image in that post, writing, “I’m taking a picture of a photograph on display at an art festival. There are too many reflections to make a good likeness of the work but I take the picture anyway, because as the integrity of the original image disappears a new, in-between image gels – a liminal one. Perhaps it’s even more interesting. Will the figure on the left disappear into that mystical light at the end of the track?”
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These five photographs tell stories that I interpreted a certain way back then. Chances are good that a few of them could tell you other stories. I don’t remember what happened with my story – how were those feelings of being in-between resolved? At the time I was in the midst of planning a three-week trip through four countries, none of which I’d been to before. Part of me was home at my desk, solidifying plans while another part of me was already roaming abroad. I was on the edge. That trip sent me across it!
There’s an old therapist’s technique of replying “Why now?” when a patient brings up an event that occurred long ago. I’m asking myself why a post that sat in the drafts folder for two years resonates now. Maybe it’s not as much a personal feeling as a universal one. There’s something about the nebulous, adrift feeling we have when major transitions occur that might resonate with most of us right now, simply because of the state of the world. The assumptions about the world we live in have been turned inside out in the last year and a half. We thought we’d be “over it” by now, or at least well into the normalcy we recall from pre-Covid-19 days, but that seems to be a distant dream. Instead of returning to the solid ground of life-as-usual, we have the Delta variant, millions of people who won’t or can’t get vaccinated, virus flare-ups and up-ticks, and foreboding, all layered on top of the daily stew of melancholy news. Nothing seems certain. The rug has been pulled out from under us, only to be replaced with a tipsy magic carpet hurtling us into unknown territory.
I don’t know if there are photographs in my catalog that depict this uncertain state and right now I’m not looking for any. I think I’d rather photograph what nourishes me. Maybe you feel that way, too.
As much as I like novelty, there is something deeply satisfying about the act of retracing my steps through familiar landscapes. Walking the same trails repeatedly can slowly turn a place into a sanctuary. I may say to myself that I’m going out to see what has changed since the last walk but in fact, I’m nourished as much by following my usual pathways as I am by discovering a new flower. Every path has a rhythm: ups and downs, bends and straightaways, enclosed and open spaces. These rhythms sink into the grooves of my soul, digging pathway echos that support me in some obscure way.
Walking the trails, I pick my way over rough rocks and twisted roots, my feet turning just so to fit the dirt-filled pockets where countless feet went before me. I sniff the air, inhaling the warm scent of sun-baked fir needles or wrinkling my nose at the pungent odor of rotting piles of sea lettuce left by the tide. Casting my eyes from side to side as I walk, I listen as Song sparrows throw bright melodies across fields and eagles pierce the air with sharp, quickly tumbling whistles. My knee twinges as I climb a steep section, trying to keep my weight centered. My eyes alight on visual anomalies: “Hmm, is that interesting? No, not really. Yes – there!” I try to keep my intentions loose and inchoate so I can welcome everything. There’s no reason to narrow my experience by adhering to an agenda. It’s enough to simply be here. Again.
Here’s a collection of photos from a few familiar places that I frequent.
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4. March storm clouds brew up some drama over the Salish Sea.
5. The bark of the Madrona or Arbutus tree makes sunset colors.
6. Obstacles on the trails: one day a fallen Douglas fir requires a careful climb-over. The next day it’s in pieces at the side of the trail. Insects, mushrooms, lichens and other forest life will make good use of the wood.
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7. Winter is a good time to focus on mosses and lichens. The ropy moss at the top is probably a Seliginella, the black-spotted lichen is a Peltigera and the pale, branched lichens are Reindeer lichen, a kind of Cladonia.
8. Wildflowers: Dark-throated shooting star (Primula pauciflora), Failry slipper (Calypso bulbosa), Columbia lily (Lilium columbianum), Common camas (Camassia quamash) and Small-flowered Blue-eyed Mary (Collinsia parviflora).
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10. Someone is lucky to live there, on the edge of the Park. What a view!
11. A colorful rock, sand patterns, a rusty piling cap, and half-buried branches in the sand, seen this year around Bowman Bay.
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13. The picnic tables are bare on a Tuesday afternoon in June.
14. Another Madrona tree.
15. Quiet skies over Bowman Bay on an early May morning.
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17. Straight reality – nothing augmented or artificial about it. Good stuff.
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It’s the Fourth of July in America, a day to mark the independent thinking and action of a group of idealistic people that led to this country’s freedom. As we celebrate, let’s not forget our interdependence with one another and with earth.
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