A Year of Birds

From the Pacific wren at first light on January 1 to the American dipper in the half-light of Porter Falls on December 12, this year proved itself a great one for my bird-watching.

In 2017, I logged 120 different bird species. That total surpassed my 2016 tally by 22, an increase of more than 20 percent.

One of the Clark's nutcrackers I saw in the
Mount Adams Wilderness on a July hike.

Besides boosting my yearly count, 2017 also brought me 22 new species for my life list. These included the American tree sparrow, bushtit, Clark's nutcracker, double-crested cormorant, dunlin, Franklin's gull, gray catbird, greater white-fronted goose, Le Conte's sparrow, redhead, rose-breasted grosbeak, semipalmated plover, and Virginia rail. In addition, I sighted three species of vireo that I had not seen before. These included the warbling vireo, red-eyed vireo, and yellow-throated vireo.

Happily, I also improved my birding skills by identifying five species of flycatcher that I had not been able to distinguish before. These included both the eastern and western wood-pewee, olive-sided flycatcher, willow flycatcher, and Pacific-slope flycatcher. Because of their subtle differences, flycatchers bring confounding challenges for bird-watchers, especially less experienced people like myself, so I am proud I could identify these birds this year.

Along with the new species, some old friends I had not seen in a few years showed up again in my sightings. These included the black-throated gray warbler, eastern kingbird, and golden-crowned sparrow. I have fond memories of the moments in which I first identified these species, and I am very glad I was able to see them again this year.

All in all, I'll remember 2017 as a wonderful year of birds. I look forward to what might fly my way in 2018.

Winning Gamble

You can't hit a jackpot worth more than the recent conservation victory at the Port Gamble Forest in Washington state.

Last summer, I blogged about the collective effort, led by conservation group Forterra, to protect the forest from development. Through a press release yesterday, Forterra announced the purchase of the final 1,500-acre parcel of forest. All told, the conservation project preserved 4,000 acres.



The risk in attempting to secure the Port Gamble Forest came from the possibility of losing it forever if the funds necessary to purchase it could not be collected. Once developed, the large parcel would lose its incalculable value as an ecosystem. However, the conservation coalition of groups and agencies came together so everyone in the region might benefit from the rewards of preserving that land. It's a major win with an amazing return on investment.

In the end, the Port Gamble acquisition resulted from hard work, generous donations, and a commitment to conservation, not from gambling, but it will certainly produce an environmental windfall for Washington state.

Life in the Half-Light

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.

A Place and Its Moment

Wind turbines churn out renewable
energy near Grayland, Washington.

American journalist Mignon McLaughlin wrote, "The only courage that matters is the kind that gets you from one moment to the next."

The state of Washington needs that courage now from its legislators and from its people. We stand on the edge of a transition from one moment to another, and that move asks us to take a major step.

During the past five years, Washington has seen major impacts of global warming but no legislative action to address it. Consequently, that half-decade did not contain the fondest moments for Washington's environmentalists. In November 2012, voters elected Governor Jay Inslee, a Democrat who has highlighted global warming as a key issue. That same year, two Democrats switched allegiance and began caucusing with Republicans, putting the state senate in GOP control. Every year since then, with major droughts, die-offs in sea life, and record-breaking fire seasons taking place, Inslee has called for climate legislation only to have Republicans block it.

Election results from a single race on Tuesday made possible a new and brighter moment in Washington government. Democrat Manka Dhingra won election to the senate in a district previously represented by a Republican, returning control of the chamber to Democrats. That means, no obstacles remain to prevent Inslee's desired legislation. As long as Democrats have the courage to make it happen, we can finally address this urgent issue.

This is the moment the state has waited for, and we must make the most of it. Our beloved region desperately needs action on global warming, and that work has to start at home. No excuses, no procrastinating. Whether the legislation comes in the form of a cap-and-trade system like the one Inslee proposed three years ago or a carbon tax like the one voters placed on the ballot in 2016, this legislation needs to get done, and needs to be done well.

Our moment is here, Washington, and we must be courageous. Contact your legislators and the governor, and tell them to seize this opportunity for a healthier planet.

Sold Outdoors

The United States National Parks Service (NPS) has proposed a massive entrance-fee hike that carries a cost far greater than its $70 price tag.

According to this news release from NPS, the peak rate at 17 heavily visited parks, including Washington state's Mount Rainier and Olympic, would jump from about $25 to $70 in 2018. NPS argues that the rate hike helps address maintenance costs for the parks.

Without a doubt, we must fully fund and maintain our parks. However, the approach taken by NPS exacts a much heavier toll than the money for an entrance pass. I would pay the $70 because I love these places and because I can afford it, but for many, the price will turn them away, and that's where the real cost emerges.

Are we willing to pay the price for losing our connection
to places like Paradise in Mount Rainier National Park?

We preserved national parks as part of a social, cultural, and environmental trust. They were and continue to be places where we can go and connect with nature and other people more closely. Instituting a prohibitive entrance fee destroys that connection, cutting people off from important human and environmental relationships. Once severed, those bonds wither and fade, leaving our planet and ourselves at risk and opening the door for the possibility of privatized national parks (a great and devastating oxymoron). Violating a sacred trust like our national parks with a privatization scheme would threaten our deepest values.

As I said above, the national parks need full funding, but satisfying their budgets calls for more collective commitment, not less. Consequently, we must reexamine our priorities. Do we want tax cuts, particularly for the richest individuals, at any price, or do we want to have a society that makes us proud and nourishes us by returning the investment we make in it?

Whatever we choose, we'll pay something, but I doubt we can afford the first option.

Race to the Last

When I drove through the Columbia River Gorge on my way to Multnomah Falls in summer 2016, I couldn't imagine having to write this blog post.

I have blogged before about the feeling of losing what was the Pacific Northwest to global warming. Although many of the changes brought to the region by the warming climate, including the staggering heat of July 2015, the shrinking glaciers at Mount Rainier, and the die-offs off starfish, birds, and other species along the cost, helped me realize that the PNW had already become something different from the place of my youth, they didn't prepare me to see the gorge consumed in the red flames of wildfire. So last week, when fireworks set ablaze the gorge's tinder-dry forest, which had been parched by months of relentless heat and rainless skies, I realized with new sadness and urgency the magnitude of our increasingly hot situation. Seeing the flames close in around Multnomah Falls, I felt a powerlessness akin to watching time slip away. To gain a sense of the awful scene still developing in the gorge, watch the video from The Oregonian below:



In recent years, I have increased my efforts to see places in the PNW precisely because I felt the need to race the changes that would alter them forever. In spite of the changes they've already seen, most of those places retain part of their essence and a good amount of their iconic beauty. For this reason, the trip to Multnomah Falls last year left a satisfying impression. I was glad I had taken the time to know and appreciate that place better; I felt at home below the high walls of the gorge; and I considered it a place I would hold in my heart despite any of the changes I imagined coming to it.

As it turns out, I haven't been racing change; I've been racing erasure. I will always have the memory of the 2016 gorge trip. Still, until last week, I didn't think the situation so dire that the drive would stand as my last time seeing the gorge in that state of beauty. Firefighters protected some of the area around Multnomah Falls, including the historic lodge, but much of that stretch of the gorge on the Oregon side went up in flames. The smoke and ash from that fire combined with the output from numerous fires throughout the region to blanket and choke the PNW in a hazy, red hellscape so alien I hurt to even think it the same place I once knew.

Nearly beyond our imagining but definitely beyond any doubt, we find ourselves in a race to the last and quickly disappearing remnants of something special.

The Sight of Silence

Birds make so many beautiful sounds, but they make one sound all bird lovers hate to hear: thud!

View of CollidEscape applied to the outside of a window.
The side panes have screens between the birds and the
glass, so we didn't apply the film over them.

Birds cannot see the glass in house windows. All they see is an opening through which they think they can fly. That's when they make that thud, slamming into the window (often at full speed). At best, they receive a bump on the head, but a familiar and unpleasant sight often follows the thud. Many times, I've rushed outside after hearing that dreaded sound to find a bird laid out beneath the window it struck. Sometimes, the birds just knock themselves unconscious. Other times, they die from the collision. Either way, I feel horrible each time I hear that unmistakeable sound.

Fortunately, other people hate hearing birds thud into windows as much as I do. The American Bird Conservancy, which prioritizes bird protection, offers recommendations for products and strategies to limit bird collisions with windows. One of the products the organization recommends comes from a company called CollidEscape, which makes several types of film window covers that allow birds to see the solid surface of the glass.

Looking outside through the CollidEscape film.

Last month, my mom and I finally heard enough thuds and installed the white version of the CollidEscape film on the house windows. It was pretty easy to apply. Also, as you can see from the pictures, it provides a privacy screen from the outside while allowing people inside to see out. Additionally, the film helps keep the house cooler on hot days by tinting the windows. Most importantly, since the installation of CollidEscape, the birds have gone silent (at least, as far as their thudding is concerned).

From the looks of the early results, we have reason to hope the birds will now make only the sounds they're supposed to make.

Web of Memories

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.

Old is New

For my previous post, I discussed how the new things I've purchased in the last few years have improved my hiking, but I also had help on this year's hikes from an old friend with a new look.

In 1996, I purchased a pair of Bollé sunglasses for $40. They came with attachments that fit around their arms to keep out more rays. I've worn them for the last 21 years, but I never used the attachments until this summer's hiking season.

During my Mount St. Helens hike last year, I found myself wishing my sunglasses let in a little less light on sunny days in the mountains. Then, I remember the arm attachments, which I had kept despite never using, and decided to try them out on the next bright hiking day. However, cloudy weather delayed my chance to use them until this summer.

The Mount Adams hike in July provided the perfect test for my sunglasses to, after all these years, show their full potential. On a bright, cloudless day with snow reflecting the light back up at me, the sunglasses joined with my newer UV-protective clothing to shade me from the sun and make the hike more enjoyable.

I love my sunglasses like an old friend, and I appreciate that they're still helping me out in new ways.

Stumbling Toward Ecstasy

Those first steps in that 1,000-mile journey might lead to stumbles, but if we learn and accumulate the tools we need along the way, we'll arrive at somewhere special.

People like to quote Lao-Tzu and tell us that, "The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step." Inspiring words to be sure. The quote leaves out the fact that we tend to wobble, stagger, and even fall in our first steps, but that's okay because we can recover and find what we need to walk steadily toward our destination.

My first real hiking trip two years ago brought a few setbacks. In 2015, I decided to take up hiking. I'd spent a lot of time outdoors before that, fishing and exploring nature, but I hadn't formally committed to hiking. That July, I hiked the Skyline Loop Trail at Mount Rainier National Park. The mountain held a special place in my heart because I grew up with it in the distance, so it made sense to take my first hiking steps there. For the most part, the experience met my expectations, but crossing a snowy section on the trail activated my fear of heights, and I left with a sunburn on a spot I'd missed with sunscreen.

Even though the snowy heights and the sunburn didn't ruin the hike, they stuck with me as challenges to overcome. To address the latter, I bought a UV-protective pullover from Patagonia to go along with the UV-protective Patagonia shorts I already had. I also purchased a pair of Merrell Capra Sport hiking shoes to replace the jogging shoes I'd worn to Mount Rainier, a pair of REI hiking socks, and a Patagonia backpack, the latter of which I blogged about last year. It was time to get serious about the steps I wanted to take, but I still didn't know how to deal with the issue of heights. After all, having a fear of heights and a desire to hike in the mountains presents a substantial dilemma.

Some of the gear that has improved my hiking.

Last year, my phobia triggered another stumble. On a hike at Mount St. Helens, I had to turn back because walking the side of Johnston Ridge bothered me too much. The trail was far from treacherous, and the heights I encountered should not have overwhelmed me. Upset at myself for having to end the hike for no good reason, I resolved to fix the problem. One of my cousins suggested the idea of using trekking polls, so this spring, I bought a pair of Black Diamond Distance Carbon Z trekking polls from REI. The REI purchase also included a second pair of hiking socks (this one from Darn Tough) because I like to double up on socks and a pair of UV-protective gloves from Outdoor Research.

Following the spring shopping, I felt ready to take my next steps in the hiking adventure. Those steps brought the kind of exhilaration and satisfaction I had hope for from the beginning. First, I hiked in the Mount Adams Wilderness, an experience I blogged about last month. As I wrote at the time, the trekking polls helped make the hike a nearly perfect outing. They gave me extra stability and allowed me to focus on the simple task of taking the next step instead of imagining unlikely pitfalls. Even on snowy terrain similar to that at Mount Rainier in 2015, I felt relaxed and in control. Meanwhile, the light, UV-protective clothes and gloves kept me cool and protected from the bright sun, and the gloves held up to the challenge of gripping the trekking polls. Ecstatic about the hike, especially with the performance of the trekking polls, I knew my new tools had already paid for themselves, and for the first time, I felt completely at home in hiking.

Besides providing the desired control, the trekking polls yielded another major benefit. As with my backpack last year, the polls helped better distribute the strain of hiking. Rather than having my legs do all the work, I used the polls to climb and cushion against the impact of sloping terrain. Consequently, I could enjoy the whole trip more and feel better about it in the end. After noticing the difference on the Mount Adams hike, I appreciated it even more a week later when I returned to Mount Rainier for a 12-mile hike from Longmire to the Reflection Lakes. Despite the distance, my legs felt better than they had following the 2015 Mount Rainier hike.

We can complete our journey a step at a time, but if that journey also includes growth and some accumulation of equipment for living (as Kenneth Burke would say), the destination will elate us.