The soft-settling first flakes of the season turned in to an all-out winter storm shortly after my last post. At about 10pm on Monday night, this was the view out my front door:
The snow is sticking around for a few days, courtesy of a cold arctic air mass that has been sitting on us following the big winds, but even now the clouds are moving in and the temperatures are creeping back up toward freezing.
In weather like this, the overwintering Anna's hummingbirds are desperate for food to fight the cold temperatures. Since the feeders freeze regularly in this cold, keeping them fed is a small challenge. They prefer to start feeding around half an hour prior to sunrise, which even during the short days of this season is usually earlier than I want to venture out in the cold. But, that's part of the obligation of keeping a bird feeder. The birds depend on you, and you need to be dependable. So it's out in the cold, first thing in the morning, to set out a thawed feeder. If the feeder freezes and I bring it in to thaw, I can expect the dominant male hummer (who has officially claimed this feeder as his own) to hover expectantly outside the kitchen window in the spot the feeder usually hangs, waiting with understandable impatience for me to return it.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
First Snow
Snow in the lowlands of the Salish Sea is always a fascinating thing. First is the question of if the snow will come, and when, and how much. Given our position between two mountain ranges, next to salt water, at the point where the jet stream swings widely north or south, predicting any kind of weather here is challenging. But when the s-word occurs in the forecast, people want to know when and how much, and that varies wildly from zip code to zip code because there are so many variables, so many microclimates.
How people respond to local snow is interesting. In my observations, people who were raised here treat the snow as nature's excuse for a holiday, and if at all possible take the day off to stay cozy at home, or play outside. People from snowier places tend to ridicule the cautious locals, until they try to navigate the steep hills of downtown Seattle and realize that flat, midwestern snowscapes are quite a different animal than snow here. And those from warmer climates either wisely stay home, or venture forth under the mistaken impression that their large 4x4 or AWD vehicles will protect them from hazardous conditions. This is another reason that those of us who grew up here tend to stay home if we can!
I would like to describe the regional snow cycle, but the reality of global climate change is that all bets are off. When I was small, we would regularly get a little snow here before Thanksgiving and after Christmas, but rarely in between. A big "snow event" meant 4" at out house, maybe 6" up the hill away from the water. Living right beside the water, snow on my lawn virtually guarantees a lot more snow everywhere else. I have known many "snow events" in which my house got a lot of cold, slushy rain, but just 100' up the hill snow was sticking to the ground.
The year I began college, we had an unusual snow year that happened to coincide with me taking Atmospherics 101. During that class I became very familiar with the conditions necessary for a major "snow event" to happen here, because we had one on January 1, February 1, March 1, and even April 1. This was following a "normal" snow event the preceding December. Another big snow occurred in 1995, and then there was a long period of mild, warm winters. The only snow we got for several years is what I call frog snow--snow that occurs around the spring equinox, after the frogs have begun their spring song. It is usually a wet, slushy snow that doesn't last more than a few hours in the lowlands. I was beginning to think that climate change had taken snowy winters away from us forever, and that my children would not have a chance to experience snow days.
Fortunately, my fears were unfounded. A few snows that fit the pattern I remembered from my childhood occurred in 2007, and then 2008 brought what is referred to here as "Snowpocalypse." Never had I seen snow like that! It snowed for days and was a foot deep in our yard--unheard of! Even my dad could only remember one other snowfall of such proportion, some 60 years ago.
Last year was another snow-free winter. We had cold temperatures, but the specific combination of warm wet air in the south and cold dry air in the north converging over the Puget trough just didn't happen. So this year I am happy to welcome the snow again, and hopeful that this first fall is a sign of things to come.
It began yesterday in fits and starts, and still now is just dusting the yard, but the water and islands have all taken on a soft-focus, grey velvet look. There are still bright leaves and chyrsanthemum blooms in the garden, all contrasting beautifully with their snowy garnish. The winds are supposed to pick up later today, and more snow is expected with them, so if the forecast proves true we should see the water whipped up into a dark froth, wave edges like knapped obsidian rushing southward ahead of the cold arctic air that makes it all possible.
Snow doesn't usually linger here. It is, to me, a reminder to live in the present and enjoy the serendipitous blessings life brings from time to time. Whatever other plans I had for today will be set aside to enjoy the snow--gazing out the window at the falling flakes, and walking through the silent stillness that only comes from snow. It has been a strange autumn, with an early start but somehow without the full feel of the season. Although winter doesn't officially begin for several more weeks, the first snowfall always marks the first day of winter and a special holiday on my personal calendar.
How people respond to local snow is interesting. In my observations, people who were raised here treat the snow as nature's excuse for a holiday, and if at all possible take the day off to stay cozy at home, or play outside. People from snowier places tend to ridicule the cautious locals, until they try to navigate the steep hills of downtown Seattle and realize that flat, midwestern snowscapes are quite a different animal than snow here. And those from warmer climates either wisely stay home, or venture forth under the mistaken impression that their large 4x4 or AWD vehicles will protect them from hazardous conditions. This is another reason that those of us who grew up here tend to stay home if we can!
I would like to describe the regional snow cycle, but the reality of global climate change is that all bets are off. When I was small, we would regularly get a little snow here before Thanksgiving and after Christmas, but rarely in between. A big "snow event" meant 4" at out house, maybe 6" up the hill away from the water. Living right beside the water, snow on my lawn virtually guarantees a lot more snow everywhere else. I have known many "snow events" in which my house got a lot of cold, slushy rain, but just 100' up the hill snow was sticking to the ground.
The year I began college, we had an unusual snow year that happened to coincide with me taking Atmospherics 101. During that class I became very familiar with the conditions necessary for a major "snow event" to happen here, because we had one on January 1, February 1, March 1, and even April 1. This was following a "normal" snow event the preceding December. Another big snow occurred in 1995, and then there was a long period of mild, warm winters. The only snow we got for several years is what I call frog snow--snow that occurs around the spring equinox, after the frogs have begun their spring song. It is usually a wet, slushy snow that doesn't last more than a few hours in the lowlands. I was beginning to think that climate change had taken snowy winters away from us forever, and that my children would not have a chance to experience snow days.
Fortunately, my fears were unfounded. A few snows that fit the pattern I remembered from my childhood occurred in 2007, and then 2008 brought what is referred to here as "Snowpocalypse." Never had I seen snow like that! It snowed for days and was a foot deep in our yard--unheard of! Even my dad could only remember one other snowfall of such proportion, some 60 years ago.
Last year was another snow-free winter. We had cold temperatures, but the specific combination of warm wet air in the south and cold dry air in the north converging over the Puget trough just didn't happen. So this year I am happy to welcome the snow again, and hopeful that this first fall is a sign of things to come.
It began yesterday in fits and starts, and still now is just dusting the yard, but the water and islands have all taken on a soft-focus, grey velvet look. There are still bright leaves and chyrsanthemum blooms in the garden, all contrasting beautifully with their snowy garnish. The winds are supposed to pick up later today, and more snow is expected with them, so if the forecast proves true we should see the water whipped up into a dark froth, wave edges like knapped obsidian rushing southward ahead of the cold arctic air that makes it all possible.
Snow doesn't usually linger here. It is, to me, a reminder to live in the present and enjoy the serendipitous blessings life brings from time to time. Whatever other plans I had for today will be set aside to enjoy the snow--gazing out the window at the falling flakes, and walking through the silent stillness that only comes from snow. It has been a strange autumn, with an early start but somehow without the full feel of the season. Although winter doesn't officially begin for several more weeks, the first snowfall always marks the first day of winter and a special holiday on my personal calendar.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Love Affair, Part I
My earliest memory of orcas is a children's picture book published by the National Geographic Society about Namu, a northern resident male who was accidentally caught in a fisher's net off of Namu, British Columbia, and became one of the first orcas in captivity. I remember that this book, a gift from my grandmother, came with several other books: one about bees, one about pandas, one about recovering sunken treasure. But it was the book about Namu that I wanted read to me over and over again, and it was the pictures of Namu swimming with his captor that enchanted me. I wanted to see Namu for myself, and was devastated to learn that he had died before I was even born.
I became obsessed with whales and dolphins. In first grade, during the ceramics portion of our art class, I made a pinch-pot with the clumsy image of an orca etched into the bowl. In second grade, we went to Alaska, taking a ferry boat up the Inside Passage. I was so excited, sure that I would finally be seeing live orcas in person! I spent nearly every minute of the 3-day trip glued to a window in search of fins or blows, and didn't see a single whale. I was, however, lucky enough to visit an elementary school in Juneau on the day they happened to have a Tlinget elder come to teach a dance to the students. I recall that he gave me a dance blanket with two orcas on it to wear while I learned the dance, and I was thrilled.
Later that year, as my parents were packing our camper for a family vacation one morning, my mom came rushing into the house, calling my name. "The blackfish are out!" I remember her yelling, and I was out the door in a heartbeat, barefoot in my nightgown. There, right in front of our house, a superpod of orcas--almost certainly the SRKW--were swimming past. As I think of it now, it makes no sense that they would be there, then--it was late July or early August, a time when they are usually found about 100 miles north of here, and they were all very close to the eastern shore. I have never seen them come so close since, but I vividly remember watching them go by that morning.
I discovered a book about killer whales in the school library, and for the rest of my time at that elementary school mine was the only name on the check-out card. I had practically memorized the book before I left fifth grade. In third grade I begged my old first grade teacher to let me come back to class and teach her students about whales. That was my first stint as an environmental educator. I decided, once I knew there was a name for it, that I would grow up to be a cetologist. My tenth birthday gift was a trip to the Vancouver, BC aquarium to see Skana (who, although I didn't know it at the time, was a member of the SRKW population) and Hyak. Although Skana died in the year after I first saw her, a poster of her performing at the aquarium hung on my bedroom wall for years.
While I was in middle school, my family took a trip to southern California to visit the essential theme parks of a middle-class American childhood, including Sea World in San Diego. It was here I finally, after so many years of wishing, had the chance to interact with live dolphins at their petting tank. It's enormously hypocritical of me, and I realize that, but I am glad that I had that experience before I came to understand how awful it is to keep cetaceans in captivity. While in SoCal, we also visited Scripps Institution of Oceanography, which is where we figured I would end up going to college if I pursued my goal of becoming a cetologist. The hot, humid climate didn't agree with me, though. And I didn't want to study just any whales, I wanted to be with the SRKW. Those were the whales I had fallen in love with, but I didn't know what I could do with my life that would bring me closer to them.
I became obsessed with whales and dolphins. In first grade, during the ceramics portion of our art class, I made a pinch-pot with the clumsy image of an orca etched into the bowl. In second grade, we went to Alaska, taking a ferry boat up the Inside Passage. I was so excited, sure that I would finally be seeing live orcas in person! I spent nearly every minute of the 3-day trip glued to a window in search of fins or blows, and didn't see a single whale. I was, however, lucky enough to visit an elementary school in Juneau on the day they happened to have a Tlinget elder come to teach a dance to the students. I recall that he gave me a dance blanket with two orcas on it to wear while I learned the dance, and I was thrilled.
Later that year, as my parents were packing our camper for a family vacation one morning, my mom came rushing into the house, calling my name. "The blackfish are out!" I remember her yelling, and I was out the door in a heartbeat, barefoot in my nightgown. There, right in front of our house, a superpod of orcas--almost certainly the SRKW--were swimming past. As I think of it now, it makes no sense that they would be there, then--it was late July or early August, a time when they are usually found about 100 miles north of here, and they were all very close to the eastern shore. I have never seen them come so close since, but I vividly remember watching them go by that morning.
I discovered a book about killer whales in the school library, and for the rest of my time at that elementary school mine was the only name on the check-out card. I had practically memorized the book before I left fifth grade. In third grade I begged my old first grade teacher to let me come back to class and teach her students about whales. That was my first stint as an environmental educator. I decided, once I knew there was a name for it, that I would grow up to be a cetologist. My tenth birthday gift was a trip to the Vancouver, BC aquarium to see Skana (who, although I didn't know it at the time, was a member of the SRKW population) and Hyak. Although Skana died in the year after I first saw her, a poster of her performing at the aquarium hung on my bedroom wall for years.
While I was in middle school, my family took a trip to southern California to visit the essential theme parks of a middle-class American childhood, including Sea World in San Diego. It was here I finally, after so many years of wishing, had the chance to interact with live dolphins at their petting tank. It's enormously hypocritical of me, and I realize that, but I am glad that I had that experience before I came to understand how awful it is to keep cetaceans in captivity. While in SoCal, we also visited Scripps Institution of Oceanography, which is where we figured I would end up going to college if I pursued my goal of becoming a cetologist. The hot, humid climate didn't agree with me, though. And I didn't want to study just any whales, I wanted to be with the SRKW. Those were the whales I had fallen in love with, but I didn't know what I could do with my life that would bring me closer to them.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Finally, a SRKW sighting!
In an effort to combat my impulse to hide in the house through the dark winter days, I packed the toddler up this morning for a trip to the local zoo. I was just unloading the stroller from the parked car when I got a call from another member of the household, reporting orcas swimming past the house, twelve miles away. Figures! But, learning that they were southbound, I went about my day as planned, knowing that they would more than likely turn north and pass by again before sunset. Read the toddler a book, scan the water with the binoculars. Fold a load of laundry, scan the water with the binoculars. Etc.
Sure enough, around 3:30 I spotted some blows in the distance, and was able to watch them pass for about an hour. They were far away, I could only spot the occasional tall male's fin, but saw lots of blows and there was a fair amount of breaching and cartwheeling going on too. I knew I'd loose sight of them when the sun set, but just before the sun went down it broke from behind the clouds and turned the water a peachy-pink color. The sunlight hit the orcas' blows so that they glowed a deeper pink, and it became very easy to see that there were an awful lot of them out there. Beautiful! I later heard reports that members of all three resident family pods had been identified.
This video shows some footage of the orcas taken today from a news helicopter. The lower whale of the first pair you see swimming together is young male L-87 Onyx. At about 2:04 left in the video, the male in the top of the frame is J-1 Ruffles, oldest male in the SRKW community and my very favorite. It is likely (although I can't identify her for certain in this footage) that the female swimming with him is J-2 Granny, believed to be Ruffle's mother and also believed to be 99 years old this year. The two are rarely seen apart from each other.
Sure enough, around 3:30 I spotted some blows in the distance, and was able to watch them pass for about an hour. They were far away, I could only spot the occasional tall male's fin, but saw lots of blows and there was a fair amount of breaching and cartwheeling going on too. I knew I'd loose sight of them when the sun set, but just before the sun went down it broke from behind the clouds and turned the water a peachy-pink color. The sunlight hit the orcas' blows so that they glowed a deeper pink, and it became very easy to see that there were an awful lot of them out there. Beautiful! I later heard reports that members of all three resident family pods had been identified.
This video shows some footage of the orcas taken today from a news helicopter. The lower whale of the first pair you see swimming together is young male L-87 Onyx. At about 2:04 left in the video, the male in the top of the frame is J-1 Ruffles, oldest male in the SRKW community and my very favorite. It is likely (although I can't identify her for certain in this footage) that the female swimming with him is J-2 Granny, believed to be Ruffle's mother and also believed to be 99 years old this year. The two are rarely seen apart from each other.
Monday, November 15, 2010
'Tis the Season
Signs of the season: harlequin ducks joining the mixed flock in front of the house, increased traffic from the Anna's hummingbirds at our kitchen window feeder, chickadees flitting amongst the trees and shrubs on the block, fresh snow on the Olympic Mountains...and holiday displays in all the stores.
I find the "Holiday Season" to be very simple and incredibly complicated at the same time. Simple, because what's going on here, whatever the name or trimmings, is a simple celebration that here in the northern hemisphere the days that have been getting shorter and darker will start to get longer and lighter again. Simple because here in the milder maritime Pacific Northwest, there is an almost instant visible response to the increasing light from the natural world--within just a couple weeks of winter solstice, there will be bulbs peeking up somewhere, ambitious primroses or camellias blooming in the garden, ornamental plums fringed with fragile pale blossoms. All these plants with origins in colder climates find the maritime winter to be equivalent to the early spring in their DNA.
But then we monkeys come along and complicate things. On a social level, in our deeply divided country it is now a matter of some consideration whether it is more appropriate to say "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Holidays." Personally, I much prefer the latter, more inclusive phrase, although I know that it has just become code for Merry Christmas. Since my family celebrates the winter solstice as a religious holiday, and we have close Jewish friends, I am maybe a bit more sensitive to this issue than most, but it really does bother me that people of any faith would try to claim ownership over this time of year with one single holiday instead of sharing good wishes in the real spirit of the season. Celebrations surrounding the winter solstice are some of the oldest recorded, long before Christianity. Alas, there seem to be many of my countryfolk who don't allow themselves to be troubled by historical fact when they are being carried on waves of fanaticism.
The other driving force here, though, is commercialism. My older daughter and I went in search of some last-minute costume pieces three days before Halloween this year, and found the costume and candy displays already being shoved aside for Holiday (read: Christmas, since neither Yule nor Chanukah, contrary to popular belief, are gift-giving holidays on the order that secular Christmas has become) decorations. Local stations are already playing Holiday (again, read Christmas, with the possible exception of Adam Sandler's Chanukah Song) music. It won't even be Thanksgiving here for another week and a half! But more rides on Holiday shopping than any tradition's religious observance.
For one thing, those who watch economic health are always anxious to see how much money is spent by consumers this time of year. Some predict this year will be the same as last year, which is lower than the year before, which for some is troublesome. Far more troublesome, I think, is that something that started as a religious tradition is now something that a large part of our economy relies upon to be successful in any given year.
Often overlooked by the mainstream in all this is the vast amounts of environmental degradation and waste created by the "traditional" (in quotes because the idea of Christmas as a Santa-driven consumer orgy only dates back about 80 years or so) celebration of Christmas. Creating and shipping merchandise from far points of the globe to stores in the United States creates a stream of impacts for each individual item, beginning with the extraction of the natural resources used to make it and ending with its disposal. Many if not most items purchased as gifts come with gross amounts of overpackaging that can't be (or simply isn't) recycled. Add to that the tradition of wrapping gifts in an additional layer of paper and plastic ribbon and you've added another layer of waste to the picture. And then there are the meaningless gifts given out of a sense of guilt, that by themselves generate huge amounts of waste. Call me unpatriotic, but if the economic downturn leads to less of this environmentally destructive nonsense during the holiday season, that is really something to celebrate.
I find the "Holiday Season" to be very simple and incredibly complicated at the same time. Simple, because what's going on here, whatever the name or trimmings, is a simple celebration that here in the northern hemisphere the days that have been getting shorter and darker will start to get longer and lighter again. Simple because here in the milder maritime Pacific Northwest, there is an almost instant visible response to the increasing light from the natural world--within just a couple weeks of winter solstice, there will be bulbs peeking up somewhere, ambitious primroses or camellias blooming in the garden, ornamental plums fringed with fragile pale blossoms. All these plants with origins in colder climates find the maritime winter to be equivalent to the early spring in their DNA.
But then we monkeys come along and complicate things. On a social level, in our deeply divided country it is now a matter of some consideration whether it is more appropriate to say "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Holidays." Personally, I much prefer the latter, more inclusive phrase, although I know that it has just become code for Merry Christmas. Since my family celebrates the winter solstice as a religious holiday, and we have close Jewish friends, I am maybe a bit more sensitive to this issue than most, but it really does bother me that people of any faith would try to claim ownership over this time of year with one single holiday instead of sharing good wishes in the real spirit of the season. Celebrations surrounding the winter solstice are some of the oldest recorded, long before Christianity. Alas, there seem to be many of my countryfolk who don't allow themselves to be troubled by historical fact when they are being carried on waves of fanaticism.
The other driving force here, though, is commercialism. My older daughter and I went in search of some last-minute costume pieces three days before Halloween this year, and found the costume and candy displays already being shoved aside for Holiday (read: Christmas, since neither Yule nor Chanukah, contrary to popular belief, are gift-giving holidays on the order that secular Christmas has become) decorations. Local stations are already playing Holiday (again, read Christmas, with the possible exception of Adam Sandler's Chanukah Song) music. It won't even be Thanksgiving here for another week and a half! But more rides on Holiday shopping than any tradition's religious observance.
For one thing, those who watch economic health are always anxious to see how much money is spent by consumers this time of year. Some predict this year will be the same as last year, which is lower than the year before, which for some is troublesome. Far more troublesome, I think, is that something that started as a religious tradition is now something that a large part of our economy relies upon to be successful in any given year.
Often overlooked by the mainstream in all this is the vast amounts of environmental degradation and waste created by the "traditional" (in quotes because the idea of Christmas as a Santa-driven consumer orgy only dates back about 80 years or so) celebration of Christmas. Creating and shipping merchandise from far points of the globe to stores in the United States creates a stream of impacts for each individual item, beginning with the extraction of the natural resources used to make it and ending with its disposal. Many if not most items purchased as gifts come with gross amounts of overpackaging that can't be (or simply isn't) recycled. Add to that the tradition of wrapping gifts in an additional layer of paper and plastic ribbon and you've added another layer of waste to the picture. And then there are the meaningless gifts given out of a sense of guilt, that by themselves generate huge amounts of waste. Call me unpatriotic, but if the economic downturn leads to less of this environmentally destructive nonsense during the holiday season, that is really something to celebrate.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Us and Them
Up early this morning to get a jump start on things before the rest of the house woke up. I took the garbage out, noticing that the weather was clear and the stars huge and bright in the pre-dawn sky. I also heard some suspicious rustling in the shrubs behind the chicken coop, but it was too dark to see what made the sound. I have my suspicions.
On Samhain night, as is our family custom, we left out a plate of food to share with the Ancestors and Beloved Dead. (Unlike leaving something unharvested in the garden, I have yet to figure out an ecological benefit to this practice, but we do it anyway for the sake of tradition and in memory of those we have lost in our lives.) And around midnight, some shuffling and clinking and the occasional squeaky protest let us know that the "ancestors" had arrived in the guise of a family of raccoons.
When I was small, raccoons here were shyer. My dad, leaving for work very early in the dark winter mornings, would sometimes report that he had seen a few crossing the road, and on rare snowy days we might find some tracks. When I was a bit older, I would find the tracks in the mud near the beach, evidence that the raccoons were taking advantage of the all the food resources available in their environment by hunting for tidepool critters during evening low tides. But of late, they have become quite bold and there have even been some reports of them acting aggressively toward humans.
Raccoons are a good example of wildlife who have embraced humans with open arms, like crows, pigeons, Canada geese, rats, gulls, and in some cases coyotes and deer, and the humans have been unintentionally welcoming. In the suburban borderlands between the city and the wide open spaces, these critters thrive on manicured lawns, home-grown fruits and vegetables, unsecured garbage, pet food left out on porches, and sometimes the pets themselves. What's interesting to me is the attitude of humans toward these animals, and how it changes as they grow more adapted to the environments we have changed the most.
My own attitude toward raccoons has changed a lot. I still enjoy their presence, but I'm a lot less enthusiastic about them after they halved the population of chickens in our backyard croft. To be fair, we had not done an adequate job of providing the chickens with a maximum security facility, and the raccoons, true to their nature, were simply taking advantage of that. I am also now aware that raccoons carry a stunning array of diseases, some of which are transmissible to humans with potentially lethal effects, so I'm not too keen on the notion of a family of raccoons living (and pooping) in my yard.
Bald eagles still enjoy reverence and respect as wildlife here, although I have heard that in southeast Alaska the birds are so common that no one gives them another thought, and some tourists who want to see the eagles are told to go to the garbage dump to watch them scavenge. In the Salish Sea we are still happy to see the eagles around, because as recently as 30 years ago they were still quite rare here. As the local population has recovered and nesting pairs have moved in to urban greenbelts, they have become a much more common sight. I frequently hear them calling when I'm working in the garden, or see them flying over the house or perching in the taller trees nearby. Their population increase has, however, been detrimental to the local great blue heron population. Several heron rookeries have been attacked by bald eagles. As a great blue heron fan, I'm not happy about this, even while I am grateful that the eagle population is doing so well.
River otters are another example. It happens that around here, river otters use the salt water environment as long as there's a source of fresh water nearby. And it happens that in an area as rainsoaked as this, there is almost always a river, creek, storm drain, or some other source of fresh water nearby. Coincidentally, river otters really like riprap shorelines, which are a relatively easy and inexpensive way to address shoreline erosion, especially around marinas where riprap is also used to build breakwaters. So as humans have created more riprap shorelines, the river otters have moved in, and it seems they also enjoy hanging around on docks and the boats moored nearby, where they do completely unreasonable things like poop. A lot. All in the same place. Because for river otters, poop is like Facebook--a quick way for them to get updates from all the other otters in the area. If your boat is the spot they have chosen for one of these fecal information kiosks, that's no fun and in fact causes great frustration among the owners of such chosen vessels. I recently saw a news article about a dog who ate poison intended for river otters at a marina (note that the reporter's explanation of why the otters "mark their territory" in this article is completely wrong, but it was Fox News, after all).
It seems that the more successful another species is and the better it is able to adapt to the same environments we have changed to make ourselves comfortable, the less we tend to like it. Basically, the more they become like us, the more we start to feel like they don't belong close to us. Which is curious, really. If you look at how the human population has scattered over the planet and become successful in wildly divergent environments, is it really possible that we might feel threatened by animals who take advantage of the changes we've made? Why don't we just domesticate them into pets or working animals, like our ancestors did? Or is this contact with wildlife who aren't backing down triggering an old instinct forgotten as we have largely cut ourselves off from the natural world--the instinct that reminds us we're not at the top of the food chain after all?
On Samhain night, as is our family custom, we left out a plate of food to share with the Ancestors and Beloved Dead. (Unlike leaving something unharvested in the garden, I have yet to figure out an ecological benefit to this practice, but we do it anyway for the sake of tradition and in memory of those we have lost in our lives.) And around midnight, some shuffling and clinking and the occasional squeaky protest let us know that the "ancestors" had arrived in the guise of a family of raccoons.
When I was small, raccoons here were shyer. My dad, leaving for work very early in the dark winter mornings, would sometimes report that he had seen a few crossing the road, and on rare snowy days we might find some tracks. When I was a bit older, I would find the tracks in the mud near the beach, evidence that the raccoons were taking advantage of the all the food resources available in their environment by hunting for tidepool critters during evening low tides. But of late, they have become quite bold and there have even been some reports of them acting aggressively toward humans.
Raccoons are a good example of wildlife who have embraced humans with open arms, like crows, pigeons, Canada geese, rats, gulls, and in some cases coyotes and deer, and the humans have been unintentionally welcoming. In the suburban borderlands between the city and the wide open spaces, these critters thrive on manicured lawns, home-grown fruits and vegetables, unsecured garbage, pet food left out on porches, and sometimes the pets themselves. What's interesting to me is the attitude of humans toward these animals, and how it changes as they grow more adapted to the environments we have changed the most.
My own attitude toward raccoons has changed a lot. I still enjoy their presence, but I'm a lot less enthusiastic about them after they halved the population of chickens in our backyard croft. To be fair, we had not done an adequate job of providing the chickens with a maximum security facility, and the raccoons, true to their nature, were simply taking advantage of that. I am also now aware that raccoons carry a stunning array of diseases, some of which are transmissible to humans with potentially lethal effects, so I'm not too keen on the notion of a family of raccoons living (and pooping) in my yard.
Bald eagles still enjoy reverence and respect as wildlife here, although I have heard that in southeast Alaska the birds are so common that no one gives them another thought, and some tourists who want to see the eagles are told to go to the garbage dump to watch them scavenge. In the Salish Sea we are still happy to see the eagles around, because as recently as 30 years ago they were still quite rare here. As the local population has recovered and nesting pairs have moved in to urban greenbelts, they have become a much more common sight. I frequently hear them calling when I'm working in the garden, or see them flying over the house or perching in the taller trees nearby. Their population increase has, however, been detrimental to the local great blue heron population. Several heron rookeries have been attacked by bald eagles. As a great blue heron fan, I'm not happy about this, even while I am grateful that the eagle population is doing so well.
River otters are another example. It happens that around here, river otters use the salt water environment as long as there's a source of fresh water nearby. And it happens that in an area as rainsoaked as this, there is almost always a river, creek, storm drain, or some other source of fresh water nearby. Coincidentally, river otters really like riprap shorelines, which are a relatively easy and inexpensive way to address shoreline erosion, especially around marinas where riprap is also used to build breakwaters. So as humans have created more riprap shorelines, the river otters have moved in, and it seems they also enjoy hanging around on docks and the boats moored nearby, where they do completely unreasonable things like poop. A lot. All in the same place. Because for river otters, poop is like Facebook--a quick way for them to get updates from all the other otters in the area. If your boat is the spot they have chosen for one of these fecal information kiosks, that's no fun and in fact causes great frustration among the owners of such chosen vessels. I recently saw a news article about a dog who ate poison intended for river otters at a marina (note that the reporter's explanation of why the otters "mark their territory" in this article is completely wrong, but it was Fox News, after all).
It seems that the more successful another species is and the better it is able to adapt to the same environments we have changed to make ourselves comfortable, the less we tend to like it. Basically, the more they become like us, the more we start to feel like they don't belong close to us. Which is curious, really. If you look at how the human population has scattered over the planet and become successful in wildly divergent environments, is it really possible that we might feel threatened by animals who take advantage of the changes we've made? Why don't we just domesticate them into pets or working animals, like our ancestors did? Or is this contact with wildlife who aren't backing down triggering an old instinct forgotten as we have largely cut ourselves off from the natural world--the instinct that reminds us we're not at the top of the food chain after all?
Monday, November 1, 2010
Inside Voice
Waking up this morning to the rattling of rain in the downspouts outside the bedroom window makes me feel like it's time to start hibernating. This feels like the first real rain of autumn, in that it isn't accompanied by gusty winds, and is heavy and constant. I'm writing this about seven hours after I woke up, and in that time the rain has not slackened in the least. It is this kind of rain that gives the Salish Sea its reputation as such a wet place, even though it is much wetter on the west side of the Olympics and in fact areas of the Salish Sea are relatively dry due to rain shadow effects. There is even a native cactus here, believe it or not.
The rain is so thick that I can't see more than about a mile out into the water. The eared grebes and scoters made an appearance in their usual patch of water earlier this morning, but mostly it is just dark gray, and my attention turns toward making my nest a cozy retreat from the wet outside. It isn't especially cold yet; temperatures are in the mid-50s today, and will be in the 40s tonight, perfectly normal for this time of year. But the humidity is high--94% as of this writing--so even sheltered outdoor space feels clammy. The creature comforts of my indoor nest become very appealing: curling up in an armchair with my knitting and a hot mug of cocoa or cup of tea, the slow cooker full of a hearty stew, the sweet smell of baking filling the house.
On the agenda today is rendering down last night's Jack o' Lanterns into pumpkin puree, some of which will be made into these:
WhaleHo's Pumpkin Oat Scones
1 cup unbleached white flour
1 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1 1/2 cups rolled oats
1/4 cup sugar, dried cane juice, or preferred sweetener
2 1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
3/4 tsp salt
1/4 cup firm butter cut into small pieces
3/4 cup chopped currants or raisins (optional)
3/4 cup chopped nuts (optional)
1 Tbsp dried orange rind, powdered (or grated rind of 1 small fresh orange)
1 cup milk
1/2 cup pumpkin puree
Preheat the oven to 425 F. In a large bowl, mix dry ingredients except oats. Cut in butter. Add oats, currants or raisins and nuts; blend together. Mix the milk and pumpkin puree together in a small bowl. Make a well in the center of the dry mixture and add wet ingredients all at once. Mix until the dough mostly cleans the sides of the bowl (some oats might be left behind; dough will be quite sticky). Divide the dough into two equal parts. Pat each part into a 1/2"-1" thick circle on a lightly greased baking sheet. Sprinkle with maple sugar or a cinnamon-sugar mixture, and bake for 15-20 minutes or until top is lightly browned. While still warm, cut each circle into wedges with a sharp knife (it helps to wipe the blade clean between each slice). Serve warm. Makes about 16.
The rain is so thick that I can't see more than about a mile out into the water. The eared grebes and scoters made an appearance in their usual patch of water earlier this morning, but mostly it is just dark gray, and my attention turns toward making my nest a cozy retreat from the wet outside. It isn't especially cold yet; temperatures are in the mid-50s today, and will be in the 40s tonight, perfectly normal for this time of year. But the humidity is high--94% as of this writing--so even sheltered outdoor space feels clammy. The creature comforts of my indoor nest become very appealing: curling up in an armchair with my knitting and a hot mug of cocoa or cup of tea, the slow cooker full of a hearty stew, the sweet smell of baking filling the house.
On the agenda today is rendering down last night's Jack o' Lanterns into pumpkin puree, some of which will be made into these:
WhaleHo's Pumpkin Oat Scones
1 cup unbleached white flour
1 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1 1/2 cups rolled oats
1/4 cup sugar, dried cane juice, or preferred sweetener
2 1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
3/4 tsp salt
1/4 cup firm butter cut into small pieces
3/4 cup chopped currants or raisins (optional)
3/4 cup chopped nuts (optional)
1 Tbsp dried orange rind, powdered (or grated rind of 1 small fresh orange)
1 cup milk
1/2 cup pumpkin puree
Preheat the oven to 425 F. In a large bowl, mix dry ingredients except oats. Cut in butter. Add oats, currants or raisins and nuts; blend together. Mix the milk and pumpkin puree together in a small bowl. Make a well in the center of the dry mixture and add wet ingredients all at once. Mix until the dough mostly cleans the sides of the bowl (some oats might be left behind; dough will be quite sticky). Divide the dough into two equal parts. Pat each part into a 1/2"-1" thick circle on a lightly greased baking sheet. Sprinkle with maple sugar or a cinnamon-sugar mixture, and bake for 15-20 minutes or until top is lightly browned. While still warm, cut each circle into wedges with a sharp knife (it helps to wipe the blade clean between each slice). Serve warm. Makes about 16.
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