Sand, waves, and distant snow

Wandering idly on a sunny afternoon, I ended up on the sand at Saratoga Beach.

It keeps on snowing over on the mainland. Only the lower hills are blue.

That pale beige line on the horizon is Mitlenatch Island. Somehow, no matter the weather on either shore, the sun always shines on Mitlenatch.

In spite of the sun, the wind was chilly, and by the time I'd reached the water's edge, (with flying, icy spray) the sun had hidden itself behind the clouds. I walked to the rocks, turned over a few and tickled a couple of crabs, then hurried back; my hands had gone numb with the cold. It didn't help that I was carrying a collection of wet clam shells for identification practice at home.

A Skywatch post.

Under the wharf, it's spring.

The tide was low, the sun was shining, and there was no wind; the perfect time to visit the docks and peer underneath the floats again. The water was smooth and clear, exposing the communities clustered along pipes and logs.

This year, or maybe this time of year, the sea urchins were out in full force. I hadn't seen them here before.

Under a floating office. Green sea urchins, about a couple of inches across.

More urchins, several scallops encrusted with weeds and worms, barnacles and a feather-duster worm, on a plastic pipe under the ramp.

A rusty pipe and a rope underneath the ramp. Sea urchins again, purple and beige feather duster worms, a red sponge (on the whitish pipe on the left) and a larger, greyish sponge. On the far left, a mass of tubeworms. At the top right, a brilliant red feather duster.

There were several masses of jelly, probably egg masses. This one was on a piling partly exposed by the low tide. I touched it; it was soft, but firm, not sticky.

This was down on the bottom, underneath a float. It's about a hand's width across. An anemone, but not one I recognize.

I have visited the docks several times during the winter, peering down the gaps between pilings, squinting between logs. All I have seen in the water were fish, maybe because of the lack of light, or possibly some of the summer residents have retreated to more sheltered locations. I'm glad to see the crowds coming back.

Great blue heron

Down by the wharf, this heron spent the afternoon collecting goodies from the rocks at low tide.

And all the crabs were in hiding.

I passed by on the dock, stopped to watch him and take photos for a while, walked to the far end and returned. He was still in the same spot, very intent on cracks between the rocks.

A young man told me he'd been there long before I arrived.

Later, I approached from the path above the cliff. He ignored me, even as I climbed down the rocks towards him, knowing, I guess, that the last bit was impassible without ropes, slippery and steep. And he has wings! He caught something small while I watched, possibly a crab.

Note the long, dark feathers on the back of his head. Breeding adults, both male and female, develop these in the spring, as well as the extended "apron" at the breast.

Dauntless

"NEITHER RAIN NOR SNOW NOR GLOM OF NIT ..."* (Going Postal, Terry Pratchett)

... nothing fazes a yellow primula.

On a rainy afternoon. It's been buried under 2 feet of snow, blown about, snowed under again, and again. And kept on flowering. What's a bit of rain after that?

More snow is coming, they say.

*Terry Pratchett could spell, but some of the letters had been stolen.

The body in the woods

A startling discovery by the banks of the Campbell River ...

Body in a tree bark suit, abandoned among the dead leaves of last fall.

Maybe it's an alien from outer space; it has no hands, and there's something growing out of its upper chest area.

Or maybe I should step back and look at the whole complex.

Oh.

The bark on the roots looks like birch bark, but the trunk bark and the growth pattern says "willow".

Groupies and a murder

This flock of buffleheads was fishing in the Baikie Island lagoon. I took several photos, from different vantage points; in each one, almost all of the females were following along in the wake of the lone male.

Popular guy.

And overhead, there was a minor murder.

About one tenth of the murder, heading west for the evening. As they do.

These were crows; even if I hadn't seen them, their voices were clear. "Caw, caw, caw, caw!" But in the photo, with the afternoon sunlight shining sideways on them, they gleam, so that they look partly white.

In the absence of leaves

Lichens and moss decorate winter-bare branches.

A shrub lichen, and a few tiny leaf lichens and unidentifiable yellow speck lichens.

A bristle moss. These grow on deciduous trees.

The spring leaves are beginning to poke through the tips of buds; soon the lichens and mosses will be hidden under a mass of bright green.

Woo hoo!

It's snowing again all over the Lower Mainland, but WE've got sunshine. And distant robins!

"Cheer up!" they shout.

'bout time, too!

(I might be cheering too soon; the weather people are promising us more snow later in the week. In March already!)

Icy lakes

The snow was gone here in Campbell River. I drove inland, crossing the island to see what it was like away from the warmth of the coastal waters. The snow still lay deep and frozen hard on the ground. Small ponds were frozen over; running water, in the ditches and creeks was still liquid.

And the lakes were  half and half.

Echo Lake. Snow on ice, melting at the edges under a warm sun.

Snakehead Lake.

I could walk on top of the frozen snow, but I don't think I'd try walking on that ice. It looks thin, somehow.

And it snowed again last night, covering my primulas again. Will winter never end? This time last year, I had forsythia blooming by my window, and the parks were bright with crocuses and snowdrops.

Gull on a cold piling

It used to be, all the pilings holding down the docks were wood, straight logs about two hand-widths across. They rotted, eventually. Now, many have been replaced by fatter, colder, metal posts. They'll rot eventually, too, just not as quickly.

But they must be cold underfoot.

Gull poop turns orange with rust.

Moody skies

Looking west over water on a winter afternoon, the view is rendered in blue, black, and grey, with sometimes a touch of orange. 

Jan. 29, 3:10 PM. Campbell River estuary.

Nov. 31, 2:53 PM, same location, with heavy rain on the way.

And the same location in a snowstorm. Feb. 3, 2:52 PM

Feb. 17. Sundown comes later now, and the light is warmer. 6:07 PM, over Oyster Bay.

A Skywatch post.

The cormorants

On a pair of rocks near the shore at the 50th parallel, a small flock of double-crested cormorants perches every day, whatever the weather. This Tuesday morning, the flock had doubled in size, and a couple had to make do with a smaller rock, just a stone's throw off the beach. I walked down, taking a couple of photos, a couple of steps, a couple of photos, a couple of careful steps ... I was quite close before they started to worry.

"Okay, that's close enough!"

And they're off.

From the street, where I see the cormorants daily as I pass by, they all look a dull crow black, but from the edge of the water, and with the sun shining, suddenly some of them acquire beautiful colours, shining purple and green.

Two are smaller, more brightly coloured, and have black faces and dark bills. Visiting Pelagics, over from Mitlenatch Island?

The double-crested cormorants have no crests at the moment. In breeding season (surely soon now?) they will develop two tufted clumps of feathers on their heads.

Red eye diver

Western grebe.

Lone grebe, fishing off the end of the wharf.

Back end.

I see few of these grebes around here; I used to notice them more often back on the mainland, near Richmond. Cornell says their populations may be declining.

Around 1900, Western Grebes were extensively hunted for their silky white breast and belly feathers, which were used in clothing and hats. This aquatic species is also sensitive to pesticides, to other causes of poor water quality, and entanglement in fishing line. Western Grebes nest in colonies and can be flushed by boaters that approach too closely, leaving their nests vulnerable to gulls and other predators. On their coastal wintering grounds they are vulnerable to oil spills and are caught in gill nets. According to NatureServe, their status is of particular concern near the edges of their range, in Kansas, Oklahoma, Wisconsin, and British Columbia, Canada. (Cornell, western grebe) (my emphasis)

Update: This article was posted in a comment: Declines in marine birds trouble scientists. It adds lack of food sources to the causes of disappearance of the birds.

Excuses

Early morning: joined Trumpeter swan counters, walked 3+ km. Saw California sea lions swimming up the channel. On the way home, saw cormorants by the shore. Went home, grabbed camera, went to stalk cormorants down the beach until they flew away. Saw raft of sea lions, 20 or more; chased them up the channel on foot and by car. Drove to pier, walked to end, hoping to see the lions arrive. Beat them, waited. No sea lions, but saw a grebe.

Came home, booted up, fell asleep at the computer. Heading out again in a bit.

So no post today.

Well, maybe one photo.

Thatched acorn barnacles, Oyster Bay.

Lousy birding

I am a lousy birder. I love to watch them; I attempt, mostly unproductively, to photograph them; and I can't tell them apart without a book in hand. Oh, gulls are gulls, peeps are peeps, lbbs are lbbs. And bald eagles are bald eagles; those I know, even when they're a speck on the horizon. And I can find a coot halfway across the marsh in a flock of mallards. But a peep dashing about on a tide flat, or chasing the waves? They're peeps. No-name brand peeps.

So I take photos and compare them, point by point, against the photos in my bird book, and then against Cornell's All About Birds descriptions. "Ah," I say, "so those were sanderlings!"

But next time, against an impossible background, with little brown specks fleeing me and my camera, I can't distinguish them again. Just peeps.

These, after having gone through the slow process of identification, I think are black turnstones.

Black turnstones, Oyster Bay. They've seen me before I saw them, and are already running away.

And they're off!

A turnstone against the brown and black mud of Oyster Bay is a different bird altogether than a turnstone in the air. On the ground, they blend in, except for the flash of white belly. In flight, they show a dramatic white/brown/black pattern.

Zooming in, with the background faded out.

Bold wing pattern visible in flight, produced by white feathers at the base of the leading edge of the wing, a white wing stripe, and a white lower back.
White tail with black terminal band. (Cornell)

The black terminal band on the tail is visible while they're on foot; flying, the white tail is longer, and shows as a white terminal band.

Location helps for id purposes; the black turnstones are supposed to prefer noisy beaches.

In winter, found along high-energy rocky shorelines, on beaches near rocky coasts, and on jetties and piers. (Cornell)

Oyster Bay is anything but high-energy, but just across the rock breakwater, waves pound the stones. And in here, in the lagoon at low tide, they find a banquet prepared with their favourite treats: barnacles, mussels, crustaceans, with a side dressing of rotting plant material. Once the water comes back, they'll go back to the open coast, leaving the bay to the mallards, geese, and wigeons.

Stranded Melibe

It looked like just a blob of faintly pinkish jelly abandoned on the sand, but when I bent to look, I saw that it was moving. Sluggishly, slower than sluggishly, but moving. When I touched it, it shrunk back into itself. Alive, and responding.

Looks like a nudibranch, Melibe leonina. Oyster Bay, near the low tide line.

This was the largest lion's mane nudibranch (aka hooded nudibranch) I've seen so far, almost 5 inches long. Wikipedia gives their length as up to 4 inches, but my encyclopedia says they may reach 7. So this is a mature nudibranch, but not necessarily near the end of its life.

Transferred (with a stick, because of the smell* of the sand) to a nearby pool, Melibe rested a moment, then started to stretch out, expanding its cerata.

The sun was just setting. I couldn't wait to watch it turn from a blob to an active nudi; I had a long walk over the treacherous sand/mud interface before the light faded. But the tide was coming in; Melibe would survive until it did.

* Melibe leonina has a distinctive fruity smell when out of water, but here in Oyster Bay, the rotted mud stink overpowers everything. I didn't notice the fruit.

Immigrant stones.

It was low tide at Oyster Bay. And I looked at the ground under my feet.

Big rocks, small rocks, stones. Looking east, across to the mainland.

The rocks are rip-rap, brought in years ago to protect the bay, forming the outer leg of a U, and creating bird habitat. On the far side, the "outside", the remains of derelict ships poke through the sand below the usual low tide line.

When we first saw it, eight years ago, the fourth side of the lagoon was just a short strip of gravel, just a little serif on the U. Now, as the currents have brought around sand and even stones from the outer coast, it reaches most of the way across the entrance, apparently aiming to close off the lagoon entirely some day.

This is an old photo we took from the tip of the rocks at mid-tide, 2009. Facing the bottom of the U.

July, 2009, again. Geese  on the tip of the gravel bar.

And now, I walk where before there was only water.

Out near the new tip of the gravel bar. Barnacles and mussels cover the stones; underneath I found crabs and snails.

And on the inner edge of the bar, clean sand. Water running down as the tide retreats leaves sharply cut channels in the sand.

Snow. Just snow.

Slogging through snow, I stopped to look at it. Just the snow, not the scenery.

This is snow that has been rained on, smushed down, and then frozen hard.

I thought the purplish colour I'd seen in previous photos would have been an aberration of my lens, so I looked more carefully at the blue shadows. And yes, they looked purple in the afternoon light, at 5:14 PM, half an hour or so before sundown.

Snow with pine needles. The snow is crunchy on top, soft underneath. 3:25 PM.

Lumps and shadows. 5:00 PM. Baikie Island.

Sunset now is at 5:42 PM.

A hint of pink

The snow is gone. Rain pounded down all day yesterday, cleaning the streets, the lawn, my steep, slippery driveway (Yay!). All that is left are the mounds of muddy snow in the corners of store parking lots and beside the driveways of neighbours more ambitious than I was.

Before the end, though, I shuffled through boot-top snow to the tip of Baikie Island.

Someone had made a trail here, too. Much appreciated.

At this time of year, the bare alders seem to take on a pinkish tinge towards the tips of the trees; a slight hint of redness against the insipid browns of the winter bush. Looking closely at a branch, I can see why.

Red alder, Alnus rubra. The long, greenish-yellow catkins appear before the leaves do; male catkins have a touch of red now, and will be quite red when they mature. The dark brown cones are last year's fruit.

Look at the very tips of the branches. See the new leaf buds appearing? They all have that bit of red, too.

Another branch, with cones, new catkins, and the pinkish leaf buds.

At this time of year, when the landscape is painted in grey, grey-brown, grey-blue, and grey-green, this glimmer of warmer colours is welcome. Summer is coming, believe it or not, it tells us.

Gone fishing

And another mini-video, this time of one of the tubeworms, Spiochaetopterus sp., installed in the edge of a piece of bark, fishing for dinner.

These little guys dig in all over the tank; in the sand, in holes in the hermits' shells, in knots of larger worm coatings, in oyster and clam shells; anything more or less solid or mineral-based. I haven't seen any on seaweed or anemone stalks.

Here's a good photo of a typical "Spio", taken out of its tube.

Eagles for Valentine's Day

One eagle, calling, calling. (Well, squeaking, squeaking.)

Lonely on Baikie Island.

Two eagles. Happy now.

Brave little crab

A crab in the aquarium tries to steal food from the anemone. Trouble is, the anemone fights back.

The anemone tolerates hermit crabs crawling all over her, stealing food, scratching at her sides, just resting. But crabs are not allowed. Her stinging cells (nematocysts) react to the touch of a crab and attempt to trap or poison the invader.

Each nematocyst contains a small venom vesicle filled with actinotoxins, an inner filament, and an external sensory hair. A touch to the hair mechanically triggers a cell explosion, which launches a harpoon-like structure that attaches to the organism that triggered it, and injects a dose of venom in the flesh of the aggressor or prey. This gives the anemone its characteristic sticky feeling. (Wikipedia)

When the crab is large, it is seen as an agressor. A small crab is prey; if caught it is quickly swallowed. The next day, the anemone spits out a clean crab carapace.

Feet in mouths

While I've been snowed in, I've been combing through my hard drive, looking for forgotten projects, and I found a folder full of unprocessed segments for videos, some old, some very old, a few newish. Some, with minimal processing, are worth sharing.

Here's one; a look at barnacles feeding, combining a new clip with a very old one:

(I've skipped the musical accompaniment, which is time-consuming and probably adds little to the video, anyhow.)

And the snow has begun to melt, it's raining, and the snowplow has come down my street. I'm outta here!

Cloning is easy!

There were four pink-tipped green anemones in my aquarium. Now there are five.

Two anemones, January 22

Same two, February 5th. The one in focus is stretching out.

February 6. Starting the split.

February 7. Two half-mouths.

February 8. Now each half has a complete circle of tentacles.

February 9. Just holding hands now.

And they've stayed that way, just touching, for the last two days. Each one feeds on its own, and reacts to stimulus (like a poke from a hermit's foot) independently.

Aggregating anemones live on rocks in tide pools and crevices, either alone or in dense masses. Each mass is a group of clones that are genetically identical and of the same sex. To clone themselves, anemones split in half—literally tearing themselves apart (asexual reproduction). Asexual reproduction spreads new animals rapidly over rocks. Aggregating anemones also reproduce sexually by broadcasting eggs and sperm. Sexual reproduction results in new combinations of genes, and larvae that establish new colonies in other locations. (From Monterey Bay Aquarium)

Clones can live jammed tightly together; when they meet another anemone with a different genetic makeup, they fight with poisoned darts, even if they originated from the same parents. Sibling rivalry at it's worst!