Fall lasted for about two weeks in western Washington this year.
The summer weather of high temperatures and smoky air continued through October 20. By then, the land was bone dry and the vegetation ready to flame up like tinder. Coniferous trees had begun dying off due to a lack of water. As for the deciduous trees, unless their leaves had dried up or dropped because of the drought, they remained green far into October, giving few signs that the calendar had turned to fall.
On October 21, rain finally arrived. The temperatures slipped into the 50s, and the deciduous trees began to change into their autumn colors.
The fall feeling didn't last long though as temperatures declined abruptly. A November 2 storm even dropped snow at Lake Crescent (elevation 580 feet) near Port Angeles on the Olympic Peninsula less than three weeks after the October 16 record temperature of 87 hit Seattle.
Such a sudden shift from summer to winter has left many areas without green grass. In a normal year, fall rains would push up green shoots to replenish the grasses that go dormant and turn brown in the dry months of July and August. This year, the rain came so late that much of the grass had barely started growing again before the cold temperatures arrived to discourage further growth. Consequently, many fields and prairies remain brown.
I know where I am, but I don't recognize this place.
Never in my life have I seen an October in Washington state like this one. Summer will not let go, and hardly a hint of fall has presented itself. Seattle recorded its latest day of 85+ degrees on October 16 by reaching 88, one degree shy of breaking its all-time October high temperature, which was set on October 1, 1987, more than two full weeks closer to summer.
Perhaps the most disorienting factor comes from the constant presence of wildfire smoke. For the second time since September 2020, Seattle and Portland, Oregon, have the worst air quality in the world because of wildfires. Socked in for days on end, the smoke has defined this October as it had done to August and September in recent years. Today, even despite rain, the smoke would not relent.
Once one of my favorite months, the Pacific Northwest October has become an alien experience. It's hard to make sense of it.
Something's been lost here, and now, I am as well.
Just in time for fall migration, the National Audubon Society has unveiled a great tool for understanding the journeys and challenges migratory birds face twice each year.
Bird Migration Explorer shows where species can be found at certain times. It also allows people to make larger connections by revealing other places a species they have seen can be found. Additionally, the tool has the ability to support conservation initiatives by allowing people to plan ways of helping birds make the difficult journeys. For more information, watch the video from the National Audubon Society below:
Birds have always served as great ambassadors for wildlife and the environment because people tend to encounter them more frequently than other types of wildlife. By offering the Bird Migration Explorer, the National Audubon Society helps people expand the impact a bird sighting has on them. To access the tool, click here.
Through this tool, we can learn more about birds, the interconnectedness of our environment, and our environmental influence.
In the lowlands of western Washington, the signs of autumn (the smells, the cooler temperatures, the September rains, the greening grass, the mist on the spider webs, the coloring leaves) started appearing a few weeks ago. They have gradually built momentum in the temperate climate, and I have enjoyed watching their development. At the same time, I have kept an eye on the webcams at Mount Rainier, waiting for the chance to see the intense colors of the mountain's fall foliage in person. Those colors really began to pop this week, so my mom and I headed up for a hike on Thursday.
We received a few autumnal previews on the drive to the mountain. The morning fog sure suggested fall, and near the Ohop Valley, we started seeing trees dressed in golden leaves.
Inside Mount Rainier National Park, I could feel excitement welling up inside me. Pine scent hovered heavily at Longmire. The cliffs above the Nisqually River Valley revealed hints of the sights to come at the higher elevations. Bright reds and yellows flared on the gray rocks, and it soon became clear that we had timed the fall transformation of the mountain just about perfectly.
Fall painting a stunning scene at Mount Rainier.
We started the hike at the Reflection Lakes with the scenery above at Paradise our destination. On the trail, we saw increasing evidence of fall. The leaves of Cascade blueberries appeared in purples and reds, the nuthatches chattered joyously while spilling the contents of tree cones down around us, and the pine scent intensified. Near the halfway point, the meadows started to open up with patches of bright colors and views of the mountain. Each spot built on the beauty of the last. The fall grew more forceful the higher we went. Then came the radiant blast at Paradise. Fueled by the midday sun, the full reds, oranges, and yellows lit up the area around the Henry M. Jackson Visitor Center and the Paradise Inn and blazed across the slopes to the east.
Having gone up there in pursuit of this concentrated burst of fall, I felt almost staggered by happiness. Two of my most cherished things, the fall and Mount Rainier, came together in stunning perfection; and as those autumn colors washed over the side of that mountain, they took a hold on my heart so tight that I suspect they'll never relinquish it.
Frequently secretive and always precious, the Pacific Northwest's December light holds surprising colors and wondrous activity for those who seek it out in places like southwest Washington's Porter Falls.
I visited the falls on a short hike last Tuesday afternoon and discovered a place half lit and full of life. Whether on the forest trail, covered by trees of varying ages, or standing beside Porter Creek in the shadow of the surrounding hills, I found comfortable and picture-perfect light.
The lower section of Porter Falls.
The birds, including varied thrushes, hermit thrushes, golden-crowned kinglets, and a melodious American dipper, must have felt the same way. They moved through the area with a flourish of activity, taking advantage of the traces of sunlight for foraging and the shadows for concealment.
Along the falls, the subtle reds and greens of late autumn glowed in the light permitted by the gully walls and the trees overhead. A light mist rose up from the rushing, tumbling water, adding a hazy quality to the place. It all made for great photography opportunities, and I happily captured as many as I could. When my mom and I left the creek to the bubbly sound of that dipper, I felt completely satisfied with the results of the hike.
Not everyone can see the special qualities of the PNW's wintry light, but people who look closely into its shadows find pieces of life the sunniest summer day could never reveal.
The female and male yellow garden spiders I found two weeks ago.
Eight legs and 22 years ago, I saw my first yellow garden spider. I didn't see another until two weeks ago, but the two events share an unbreakable link in my mind.
In 1995, my parents built a house. I remember that event clearly enough in and of itself. However, I also remember that a yellow garden spider spun its web on the new deck rail that fall. The spider made a spectacular adornment for the front porch. Its large size and vivid colors stamped themselves into my memory, becoming part of an autumn that seemed especially fresh and alive.
The chilly morning I found the spider lifeless in its web also occupies a place in my memory. I recall feeling sad to see it dead (like something special had passed beyond me). As if to prove the point about the specialness of that spider, I didn't see another of its kind until two weeks ago, a length of time that further secured that 1995 specimen's place in my mind. A long-disappointed yet ever-fresh hope of seeing another helped keep the memory of the first undimmed.
Apparently, the long wait between sightings and my fond memories for the first spider also set the stage for the second sighting to leave a memorable and lasting impression. The night before I left Washington state for South Dakota and the fall semester, I went for a walk in a field. As I moved through the tall grass, rays from the setting sun worked between the trees and scattered to my left. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a ball of yellow gleaming in the sunlight. I probably knew what it was even before I had fully focused on the sight as a spider. At least, it seemed like a rush of memories pushed the realization that I was seeing a garden spider into my mind before I achieved full consciousness of the moment. After 22 years, I had my second visit from the species, and I set out to capture the moment, returning to the house for my camera.
As I took pictures on that cool night in the brown grass with the smell of fresh rainfall in the air, old memories and a vivid, new experience wound together in a perfect, strong form. I noticed the spider's web actually contained two spiders, the second and smaller of which turned out to be the male. The next morning, I found a sack of eggs near the web. Now, I had many yellow garden spiders to remember and a continuation of a story at once old and ageless.
In the webs of our minds, some memories, though separated by time, still manage to intertwine themselves in the most natural and certain ways.
In the face of a warming planet, we should all embrace our inner Daphne Blake from Scooby-Doo.
I'll explain later, but first, watch this video from Cracked:
To sum up the video, it argues that quartets from popular culture represent four enduring personality types. For example, Fred from Scooby Doo, like Leonardo from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, is a duty-bound leader. Scooby and Shaggy, representing two pieces of one personality, echo the recklessness and playfulness of the turtle Michelangelo. Meanwhile, Velma parallels her studious and practical reptilian counterpart, Donatello. Daphne, on the other hand, resembles the sensitive and rebellious Raphael.
Although the Cracked video sticks to connections in pop culture, we can extend the discussion to the seasons. The clothing worn by the Scooby-Doo characters supports this contention. Velma, wearing a heavy sweater, represents winter. Shaggy is clearly dressed for summer. Both Fred and Daphne choose clothes for various types of weather. Their clothing is lighter than Velma's, but both have scarves, suggesting they are ready for the chance of cooler temperatures. That means, they are spring and fall. Fred, with his light hair and brighter-colored clothes, is spring, and Daphne's rich, red hair and purple dress speak of fall.
The fact that Fred and Daphne represent spring and fall gains added support when examining the roles of the individual seasons. Summer and winter are about high-pressure weather systems with more stable patterns of heat and cold and stagnant air. Fall and spring are the forces that move the action in the weather game. In the universe of ninja turtles, Leonardo (Fred's counterpart) and Raphael (Daphne's) are also the ones who produce action. Leonardo does it through leadership, and Raphael makes it happen by questioning the direction of the group. Additionally, Leonardo's mask is blue and Raphael's is red, both primary colors--the strongest chromatic forces, and of course, Fred wears blue and Daphne is a redhead.
Daphne's role as fall supplies the connection to global warming. A warming planet is an environment more in line with the forces of summer and winter with their intractable systems, particularly summer because of the heat. What is more, a reckless approach to life similar to that connected with the goofy Scooby and Shaggy and the carelessness of summer has led us to produce global warming. Fall, meanwhile, is in danger because of global warming. As summer expands, the transition to winter shortens. According to her Wikipedia profile, the nickname "Danger-Prone Daphne" came about because in early Scooby-Doo episodes, Daphne was the damsel in distress. As the strength of global warming grows, we, like Daphne and fall, are in distress.
Still, we should look to Daphne for guidance in this scary time. Daphne's Wikipedia page also notes that as Scooby-Doo progressed and over its numerous incarnations, Daphne changed. These changes culminated in a karate-kicking portrayal by Sarah Michelle Gellar in the live-action films. While retaining her sensitivity and even vulnerability, Daphne became capable of taking care of herself. Consequently, we learned that she was danger prone not because she was a damsel in distress but because she ventured out and exhibited bravery when faced with scary situations (and as I wrote in my last post, when it comes to global warming, we should "walk unafraid"). Scooby and Shaggy, who supposedly represent a carefree lifestyle, are the ones who are constantly afraid.
We can't be Scooby or Shaggy or the summer they represent now. That's what got us here. The truth of the matter is that we, like Daphne, are fall, and we must own that and the precarious position it currently occupies. We must have the bravery to look directly at our situation, step outside of the path we know, and take the actions necessary to address global warming.
Daphne and the other pop culture figures who share her personality have already shown us the way.
Contrary to modern custom, leaves don't fall in autumn to give people something to rake up.
I admire how the "waste" trees shed in the fall returns to nourish the ground. It took humans to come around for those leaves to be considered waste, and now, the nourishment leaves might provide often gets sacked up and thrown away.
This year, the National Wildlife Federation is encouraging people with trees to leave the fallen foliage. NWF provides a list of reasons why this practice is beneficial. Among other benefits, letting leaves lie provides habitat for animals, creates less waste, and, of course, keeps those nutrients in the area. The list also points out that clean-up equipment like leaf blowers pollutes (to say nothing of the awful noise it makes).
When it comes to leaves, their remains are best left to nature. However, if you absolutely have to rake them up, compost them instead of putting them in the trash.
I really do consider Halloween my holiday, meaning it's my favorite and the one that best fits me. However, when I started seeing decorations come out at the beginning of October, it troubled me a little.
As much as I love Halloween, a whole month of celebrating it seems like a lot. On top of that, I really don't care for the big displays that some people put up. Despite their exuberant celebration of the holiday, the displays have never quite spoken to me.
In contrast, the do-it-yourself decoration tips I found on TreeHugger this morning captured my attention. As I looked through the ideas, memories flooded back to me, creating a closer connection to my Halloween than any of the many manufactured decorations I have seen recently.
I even remembered making faces out of apples in third grade. Also, it occurred to me that the costume I wore most in my life was a black cat outfit my mom sewed for me. It was warm and well-made, and I used it for years.
Above all, the Halloween things that mean the most to me are the experiences and creations that my family and I made. That's what I really mean when I say Halloween is my holiday.
It just feels better when I have ownership over my experiences rather than turning them over to someone else's manufacturing processes.
The fall weather is here, the colors of the leaves are gorgeous, and the nights are coming earlier. All that remains to top off the season is for Halloween to come.
Halloween is my favorite holiday. I've always found a special energy in it, and not all of that energy is related to candy. For example, my mom says I took the idea of becoming something else for Halloween literally. I'm usually very reserved, but around Halloween, I became so excited, I was like some other person.
Even now, I get a little extra burst of excitement as October 31 approaches and the memories of past Halloweens spring back to life.
I really started to get in the Halloween mood when I checked out the Go Explore Nature site a few days ago, so I thought I would share the tips I saw there for making Halloween great. Hopefully, they help you and/or your children make some of the special memories I had a chance to create when I was young.
For tips on exploring pumpkin patches, click here, and for some nature-related Halloween fun, click here.
Turning away from a discussion about language and the environment is always difficult for me, but if the conversation also includes talk about fall, I would have no chance of resisting it.
For example, I'm already enjoying the sights, feels, and smells of fall, but when I saw this article from the Mother Nature Network, it pretty much enchanted me. The article looks at the linguistic history that explains why we call this third season of the year either fall or autumn. It is one those little bits of trivia that is not so trivial, especially for a lover of fall, language, and the environment.
Interestingly, as the article shows, the development of language about nature is dependent on our connection with the environment. That's exciting stuff.
To conclude, I should mention that I think autumn is a cooler word but that I usually use fall.
With fall starting to make its presence felt, it might seem like an odd time to discuss gardening. However, I want to share a Web site that puts gardening at the center of life regardless of the season.
A Way to Garden is a blog from Margaret Roach, who provides tips on gardening, cooking, canning, and other issues related to home and food.
Lately, she has been talking about how to deal with the onset of fall. She had an interesting take on it, suggesting that this is when she makes her gardening resolutions for next year.
Above all, the site serves a great guide for how to put the power of the garden to work for you. Check it out by clicking here.
Last night, less than 24 hours after completing a World Series Game 6 comeback that served as a microcosm for the team's season and provided an ultimate example of perseverance, the Cardinals prevailed in Game 7 to win their 11th world championship.
The victory capped an incomparable run to first get into and then progress through the playoffs. In two months of work that seemed more like play, the team created something special; and right in the middle of that special experience, you'll find a real-life squirrel, name Rally Squirrel by the St. Louis fans.
Even after the real squirrel was caught in a live trap and relocated to a wooded area away from the ballpark, St. Louis embraced it: Fans dressed up as squirrels, relief pitcher Octavio Dotel carried a toy squirrel with him, and a squirrel mascot was hired to accompany the Cardinals' usual mascot, Fredbird. Major League Baseball even created a commercial that tied the playoff theme "Legends are Born in October" to the squirrel's runs around the field.
Sports aren't always all they're cracked up to be, but I'll treasure the experiences the Cardinals and Rally Squirrel gave me this fall. It was something more than playing a game and winning. For just this once, it was the stuff of life.
No season makes me happier than fall, and this fall has been an awfully fine one. This evening, it achieved perfection.
For the last two weeks, I have been enjoying the coolness in the air, the glowing reds, oranges, and yellows in the trees, and the occasional whiff of wood smoke on the wind. It's getting dark earlier, the rain is coming more often, and Halloween draws near. I love it all.
Today, I was feeling particularly fallish, so after I finished an important piece of work, which left me quite satisfied, I decided to go for a walk. The wind was blowing, but it wasn't nasty. In fact, it's been a pleasant wind all fall. It was great to look around and appreciate all the trees and plants showing off their autumnal attire.
I decided to walk up by a small stand of pine trees because I have always thought they looked perfect for a fall scene. On the outside edge of the stand, the limbs are green and full all the way to the ground, giving the place a closed-in feel, and on the inside, the limbs are dead and boney, so it's both dark and a little eerie. The floor of the small forest is carpeted with pine needles, which lend a slight touch of their perfume to the ambiance.
As I walked past, I suddenly decided to follow one of the trails inside. Concealed in the trees, I found fall everywhere. The forest stood on the edge of some grassland, which ended at a barbed-wire fence. The fence was old and the grass dry and blond. It was as if the forest were a keeper of fall. I stayed and soaked in the coziness.
While I looked out over the field, I heard something behind me. I turned my head and saw a great horned owl flapping its wings in a tree. Owls are silent fliers, so I was fortunate that the bird had hit a branch with its wing. Otherwise, I might never have had the experience that ensued. Slowly and quietly, I turned around to get a better look. On occasion it looked right at me, but it seemed unconcerned about my presence. I watched it listen to every little sound and walk carefully along the limbs as if it were testing a tub of hot water with its toes. After some time, it flew to another tree, and a few minutes later, it hooted. That brought a smile. It listened some more, bobbed its head, and remained in that tree for a while longer. Then, it hooted again and flew to another tree farther way, giving me a chance to leave without driving it from the forest.
An owl hooting at night in a dimly lit stand of pines. Surely, that is fall in its most concentrated form.
Perfection is possible in certain moments. Those moments are a mixture of hope, decisions, and the right circumstances. When they happen and you let them touch you, you realize that you are experiencing something special--the pinnacle of life. I had one of those moments tonight. Other experiences may equal it by achieving perfection in their own right, but for what it is, nothing can ever improve or top my time in that grove of pines on this fall evening.
Note: The owl in this entry's picture is not the one I saw tonight.
