Love Affair, Part IV

This is a short video I made from clips taken this summer, including the encounter with Ruffles mentioned in the last post.  I shot this with the video function on my Canon Powershot camera, which only takes 30 seconds of video at a time, so it may seem a bit choppy.  As you can see from the light in different segments, this video represents several different days and locations of shooting.

The first orcas in the video are members of L-pod, seen here in Haro Strait along the US-Canadian border.  Ruffles is shown closer to the west side of San Juan Island, also in Haro Strait.  A later sequence shows J-pod off of the "Coal Docks" at Tsawwassen, British Columbia, in the southern part of Georgia Strait.

Background music is "Song to the Siren" by This Mortal Coil, a longtime favorite of mine that seemed appropriate.  (Incidentally, the first time I ever heard it was during the reunion trip from the environmental studies camp mentioned in this post.)

I recommend watching the video in full-screen mode if it isn't too pixelated on your screen.  Especially during the Coal Docks sequence, you'll notice a lot more detail of the orca behavior, including spyhopping, tail lobbing, and breaches.

Looking over these last few posts I see a timeline more than the story I was really trying to tell, of the deep connection I feel with the SRKW and the many ways in which their lives have intersected with mine.  I guess that's part of the challenge of keeping a blog that isn't about being a mom while being a mom!  It has been very challenging, recently, to find the time and the right headspace to keep posting.  Headier stuff is on my mind for the next few posts, I hope I can do it justice.  Meantime, I think this video shows more what I feel about these animals than all the writing in the previous three posts on the subject.

Love Affair, Part II

(Continued from this post.)

After the trip to southern California, my focus on the orcas diminished somewhat but it was always there in the background.  In eighth grade, I did a project on John C. Lilly and his research into human-dolphin communication.  My parents were always passing along whatever news articles or books about cetaceans they thought might interest me, but as I turned my attentions to my adolescent peer group there was not so much passion for the orcas for several years.

My career aspirations changed; I decided I would be a veterinarian, and took a job working in a clinic to start down the long road to that goal.  In my junior year my high school biology teacher, an amazing woman to whom I will be forever grateful, insisted that I sign up for an environmental studies camp to be held in the wilderness of British Columbia.  Working part time, taking AP classes, and preparing for the upcoming SATs, the last thing in the world I wanted to do was spend a week in the wilderness falling behind.  I tried to fudge the application to sound like such a rabid environmentalist that they wouldn't accept me, but as fate would have it, I was accepted and went off to a life-changing week.

I was raised with a strong conservation ethic, but one that had not really encouraged activism beyond the odd letter writing campaign.  At this camp, secluded in the upper Skagit Valley and mentored by a set of phenomenal counselors, among them Thom Henley, I was inspired to become an environmental activist, to use my developing skills as a writer and educator to share information that would hopefully inspire others to act on behalf of this precious planet we all share.  I came home with hopes of a career in environmental law or journalism, began to write an environmentalist column for the school newspaper, and harried my parents about making sustainable buying choices around the house.

That fall, a group of the campers decided to have a reunion in Victoria, B.C., where Thom lived.  The Puget Sound contingent set sail aboard Princess Marguerite II on a beautiful Friday afternoon.  We were determined to stay in the passenger cabin and conquer our homework before arriving in Victoria, so we could enjoy a guilt-free weekend.  This plan worked well until, somewhere in Admiralty Inlet, one of my traveling companions spotted a dorsal fin alongside the ship.  He pointed, stammering in excitement, and went racing out to the deck.  Our homework completely forgotten, the rest of us raced out after him.

No, it wasn't an orca.  It was a pod of Dall's porpoise who stayed with the ship, weaving around and beneath the bow, for most of the rest of our voyage.  Another passenger claimed they were actually Chinook salmon (!), and upon reflection I think the phenomenal ignorance he displayed was another piece of inspiration for me to share (accurate) information about the natural world with other people.  (Dall's are often mistaken for baby orcas by people who don't realize that orcas that young would never be seen traveling alone under normal circumstances, but to mistake a bow-riding porpoise for a fish?)

Having an immediate experience with wild cetaceans reminded me how much I loved them.  But I didn't consider returning to my original idea of pursuing cetacean science as a career.  By that time, I had come to realize that a lot of the jobs available would be either in marine parks or in the military, neither of which held any appeal for me.  Somehow, living just a hundred miles away, I missed connecting with the Whale Museum or the Center for Whale Research.

I continued on to university, and continued to be an active activist, without connecting this childhood love with my current reality.  In my final year at school, I took an internship with a non-profit that worked on regional water quality and marine habitat issues.  That internship turned into a full-time job as an environmental educator, and gave me the opportunity to share my knowledge of and love for the place I live with thousands of people of all ages over the next decade.  And as part of that job, I got to go whale watching once in a while.

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.

Bird Party

Blustery weather has made sighting conditions challenging in recent days, but today the rain is light and the waters calm.  Today will be mostly a day of indoor domestic tasks, so it's fortunate that the window over the kitchen sink affords a fantastic view of central Puget Sound, some islands, the Kitsap Peninsula, and, gods willing, the Olympic Mountains. No mountains today, though.

This morning has been good for sightings so far.  No SRKW, who so far are spending most of their time farther north in Admiralty Inlet this fall, but lots of birds, and I was lucky enough to spot a pair of Dall's porpoises (also called "broken back" or "spray" porpoises) cruising south at one point.  Flat water is ideal for spotting porpoises, whose dorsal fins are so small that they are easily hidden by any chop.

I haven't yet determined why, but there is Something about the water just offshore, framed by the kitchen window, that is very attractive to a lot of waterfowl.  That particular spot is currently gathering a small flock of horned grebes and another of surf scoters, beyond which I also spotted a Pacific loon earlier.  There's a bufflehead and a few common mergansers in the mix out there today too.  Rounding out the view as I gazed over the water this morning, a bald eagle flew over the waterfowl, who did not seem appropriately nervous given that the local eagles actively hunt the migratory brants that will be gathering here over the next few months.  Maybe those birds out there today know that the salmon will keep the eagles busy for a while.

Sightings

The weather guessers are predicting that the long clear spell we've been enjoying will be ending this weekend, so the toddler and I took advantage of the nice day with a quick trip to the beach.

Heading out the door we received a barrage of criticism from the male Anna's hummingbird who is aggressively defending his winter territory from others in the neighborhood.  The squeaky-hinge call of these birds is everywhere when you know what you're hearing, even if the birds themselves are so tiny and fast that you don't always see them.  Even knowing our resident Mr. Anna's is perched in his usual lookout at the top of the red elder tree next to the front porch, it can be tough to spot him.  We feed any hummers who make it to our kitchen window feeder throughout the winter and well into spring.  The Anna's have been overwintering here in the Puget Sound basin for at least fifteen years now, although historically their overwintering habitat range didn't extend this far north.  Climate change, or some other factor in the environment?

At the beach we spotted a cormorant fishing just offshore, but still too far out to determine exactly what kind it was. (Someday I'll learn to bring my binoculars with me everywhere I go!)  The toddler is currently obsessed with water in all its forms, and made a staggering bee line across the bands of seaweed covering the cobbles to get to the waves.  Keeping her from a full-body experience with Puget Sound diverted a lot of concentration from my usual fin search, but it was great fun watching her exploring the shoreline with both hands and no apparent concern for the cold water.  The tide wasn't out too far, but far enough to find a purple shore crab under a rock near the water's edge.  The toddler isn't quite old enough yet to be as fascinated with non-mammalian life forms as I am, but she gave it more than a passing glance before I carefully replaced the rock.

Our walk ended with a quick spin through a grassy lawn area in a nearby park, where we spotted an invasive eastern gray squirrel rooting among the fallen sweet chestnuts (also non-native) and checked out the lichens growing on the bark of an oak tree.  I suspect this particular tree is a Garry oak or Oregon White Oak given the timing of its spring leafing and autumn colors, but I'm not sure.  It certainly doesn't follow the same habits as the non-native oaks planted nearby.

Later in the day I learned that the SRKW spent the day in Admiralty Inlet.  Maybe the coming rains will lure them further south after the local coho runs.

Seeing the Forest for the Fins

A clear October day is a gift in the Salish Sea, one that pulls people out of their houses and into the brisk air, the sun and the wind.  The stable high-pressure weather systems that bring these lovely clear days usually also bring with them winds from the north, teasing with a hint of colder days to come as we enjoy the fleeting sun, and reminding those who know of the Duwamish legend of the battling winds.  The days here are short enough now that we savor sunlight, ignoring sunscreen to eke out whatever little vitamin D content we can, feeling the warmth on our faces that feels nurturing in the face of the long winter ahead.

With luck, walking the shores of central Puget Sound will grant other gifts:  here a baby harbor seal, newly weaned and just striking out on her own, is hauled out on the cobbles on the lee side of a point.  There a small flock of harlequin ducks rides on the rippling water.  And in the distance, the supreme gift:  the three pods of southern resident killer whales who call the Salish Sea their home, following the late fall salmon runs through Admiralty Inlet as far south as Point Defiance, entrancing those lucky enough to see their tall fins parting the water, their gleaming black and white bodies leaping clear of the waves and crashing back down again.

They are here to eat salmon, adult salmon who gather in the estuaries and wait for the rains to call them upstream, where the whales will not follow.  The salmon will fight the current, swim through a toxic soup of stormwater runoff from streets, yards, and rooftops, struggle past dams, and search silted streambeds for a patch of gravel where they can lay their eggs before they give up and give their bodies back to the water that bore them.  Their bodies are eaten by creatures of every size and type; microscopic decomposers who in turn feed the insects that the newly-hatched baby salmon will seek for food the following year, and terrestrial vertebrates--raccoons, otters, coyotes, eagles, others--who will drag their bodies out of the streambeds, or pass their post-salmon-eating waste in the surrounding forests, nourishing the soaring fir and cedar trees with nutrients from the deep oceans.

The trees grow tall and strong, shading the rivers, keeping the streams cool and fresh with oxygen, so the salmon eggs live, grow, and hatch.  The baby salmon make their way downstream, eating the insects that fed upon their parents' bodies, down to the eelgrass meadows that sway beneath the waves in the shallow estuaries, down to the graveled shorelines where the sand lance and surf smelt spawn, down to the salt water where they can feed and grow large, down to the Salish Sea where the orcas wait for them.  Every piece of this ecological web fits together neatly, supporting the SRKW population who, unlike other orca populations around the world, prefers salmon as their primary food.  

Of course, over the years the web has been stretched and damaged as humans try to find their place within it, often not aware that we are a critical part of it ourselves.  The magic of the Salish Sea is that it is, still, a functioning ecosystem in many ways.  The system described above does still work, more or less.  In recent years, more human effort has been made to protect and restore some of the habitats critical to the salmon, and therefore to the orcas, and this year the salmon are returning to some local rivers in unprecedented high numbers.

Growing up on the shores of the Salish Sea, watching the seasons change and the simple miracles of seeds growing, migrations happening, the tide answering the moon and the leaves answering the sun, even as I learned the science of these things I learned the magic of them too.  As an environmental educator, a naturalist, a mother, a priestess,  a homemaker, and a person yearning for reason, compassion, justice, and equality to prevail in the world, this magic sustains me, informs me, inspires me.  

The web of life that surrounds me here is also a metaphor for the wider world.  All things are connected; acting on one, we act on all.  The connections might not be obvious, but the changes become obvious the closer we look.  Does it seem like a stretch?  Stick with me, hopefully I'll make it clear here, with honor and humility, reverence and mirth.