Summertime, and the livin’ is easy, goes the song. But for too many people it’s been hard this year. Heat domes, earthquakes, wars – the ease of summer must seem like a distant dream to millions of people. We’ve been luckier here in the Pacific Northwest because the weather hasn’t gone too far off the rails. Many people in the region, if not most, can still afford groceries and gas, in spite of the rise in prices resulting from our president’s narcissism. If we stop paying attention to the news and step outside, we have little to complain about.
I’m thoroughly enjoying the summer’s green profusion. My walks reassure me that all is not lost – and there have been exciting surprises. A nest in a rock crevice that belongs to a Pigeon guillemot (a coastal seabird with bright red legs and feet) had me enthralled. Another day an attractive, deep pink flower that I’d never seen before made me gasp. It usually grows a lot higher up than sea level. Speaking of sea level, we saw strange, intertidal molluscs called Gumboot chitons on back to back days at different beaches. Another surprise is Fidalgo Island’s famous, but still entirely wild Northern elephant seal, who is completing her annual molt without any of the drama and confusion of last summer’s haul-out. The Great blue herons that I study each year are having a successful breeding season, having escaped any of the disasters that could devastate the rookery. There’s a lot to be thankful for on the home front.
And it’s not just the outdoors that’s been pleasurable – I’ve enjoyed many hours with friends and family, too. When the rate of climate change is terrifying, AI breathes down our backs, and democracy seems to falter all across the globe, the simple pleasures we find close to home are all the more valuable.
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A Gumboot chiton, also known as the Giant Pacific chiton; Elsie Mae, the 8-yr-old Northern elephant seal, resting during her molt; a Bog, or Pink wintergreen flower (Pyrola asarifolia).
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Four Pigeon guillemots swimming around Bull kelp; a severely cropped photo of a Pigeon guillemot at its rock crevice nest; a screenshot of a remotely operated camera positioned toward a Great blue heron nest.
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And now here are scenes from my walks by a bay, around a few meadows, by a lake and in the woods, all on Fidalgo Island.
Note: By “Great Matter” I don’t refer to a turning point in English history, but rather to an essential Zen teaching on the non-duality of life and death, closely associated with Dogen, a thirteenth century Buddhist monk.
She’s back! Who? The Northern elephant seal by the name of “Elsie Mae” that hauls out annually on Fidalgo Island. I’ve written about her before but today I’m thinking about the wider issues that have emerged from my time with her. After watching Elsie last Monday, I went to Pelican Books and Cafe to have a macchiato and read the Sunday New York Times. A full-page article about the “Timmy debacle” (my words) had me engrossed in the story about a Humpback whale that’s been in the news. The young whale, named Timmy after where he was initially seen, was stuck in shallow water at Timmendorfer Strand in northern Germany. Reading the saga of the failed “rescue” I gasped and sighed at the idiocy, most of it well-meaning, that the poor, ailing whale endured. It’s another extreme example of what can go horribly wrong in the space called the human-nature interface. I’ve been mulling over this subject for years, and volunteering with our regional marine mammal stranding network gives me a front row seat in Human-Nature Interactions 101.
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One of the things that makes watching Elsie so compelling (aside from her unpredictable nature, her sweet face, and her big dark eyes) is observing how people relate to her. There’s such a range of reactions, everything from awe to delight to indifference. For me, this brings up the bigger subject of the human-wild nature interface. Broaden that all the way out and what I see is the essence of the anthropocene era dilemma – we’ve ruined our planet with our greed. Because of greed and short-sightedness, we put ourselves first before nature, be it animals, plants, earth, or water. The result is planet-wide destruction that has probably gone too far to dial back. To most of us this isn’t news – but it sure feels overwhelming when we allow ourselves to think about it.
When I see the excitement people feel because of one special animal far from its normal range, I wish the wonder could be translated into action. Using fewer resources and teaching kids to live in conscious, gentle relation to their surroundings, for example. But the connection isn’t made, the urgency isn’t felt. I’m as guilty as the rest, using my car when I don’t have to and buying what I don’t need.
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We relate to nature in a myriad of ways, some beneficial, some not. I’m lucky to stand on the front line of the human-nature interface where curiosity, awe, and even reverence for an unusual animal are palpable. The fate that befell TImmy the whale is unlikely to be repeated with Elsie but people will keep doing dumb things when they interact with nature. They’ll pave paradise, mine precious minerals, and build more infrastructure.
Last week an article in The Guardian had a headline with the words, “an equal and habitable world is possible.”* I hope so. Perhaps my grandsons William and Hudson will help to pull the planet back from the path it’s on now.Â
Every timeI walk on the beach, I look for designs at my feet. Whether they’re made of seaweed, shells, sticks, or the sand itself, the driver of these spontaneous arrangements is always the tides. What traces did the last high tide leave? How did gravity’s pull on the great bathtub of water that is Bowman Bay change the landscape’s details? Are there attractive arrangements that beg for the camera’s frame to encompass them? And wait, are there telltale little indentations in the sand signaling the presence of a person or a dog stepping into the composition? They can ruin the picture, in my opinion, and erasing them after the fact rarely works well. Maybe I’ll keep walking and looking. The best days are the ones when hardly anyone has been here before me. It’s all a fresh canvas – not blank, but already scattered with interesting arrangements, waiting to be seen.
Once in a while, deep, double thrusts in the sand tell me deer ran across the beach. Maybe someday a hoofprint or two will line up nicely with a shell or be centered in a swirl of eelgrass. That would be exciting. The randomness of what’s left on the beach after the last high tide makes the quest enjoyable. It’s impossible to predict whether there’ll be something interesting. Will I be disappointed? I might, but who cares? It’s fruitless to hook my walk onto desires or needs or to worry about being disappointed. What’s “good” is a subjective judgement that changes with mood or circumstance. Objects on the sand that I ignored last year may be fascinating today and vice versa. If I notice judgements interfering with the moment, I remind myself to keep an open mind, to loosen my expectations. If there’s nothing exciting at my feet, something else will pique my interest – a bird, a breeze, a chat with a stranger.
Here’s a series of memos from the beach I brought home this year.
Time. It never seems tomove according to the clock for me. I look at the clock, look away to do something, then look back and surprise! – the numbers have changed. I seem to have some kind of primitive expectation that what I see isn’t going to change. I expect the visual evidence of my experience to persist, like a photograph. Wrong! I know, believe me. This sense of time doesn’t correlate well with social norms. Sometimes though, I find a mirror of my experience in nature’s timing. Spring’s slides and skips are a good example. On the rocky island in the Pacific Northwest where I live, the first glimmers of spring are drawn out over the course of several months. It seems like nothing is happening. Then April arrives and the season bursts open, taking no prisoners as it careens across fields, woodlands, roadsides, and gardens. A battlefield metaphor for the gentlest season? It may not seem appropriate but this year the relentless speed of spring’s flowering was truly fierce.
The earliest months of the year might feel tedious and dull to a casual observer, but look closely and you’ll see that the winter rain is rejuvenating thick carpets of moss, whose emerald colors and soft textures foretell juicier times to come. I’ve come to love the way cold, drizzly days drape a soft haze on the air and swell the bodies of the strange and innumerable lichens that grow here. To be honest, I like that time of year for its promise of a future flowering, too. And finally it begins, in little, isolated bursts of pink and purple that pop against the lime green hues of true early spring. We can believe it: spring is at the front door.
The full flowering of spring ephemerals blew by so fast this year that I could barely keep up. High pressure settled into the region, bringing abnormally warm, sunshiny days. (You know there’s no “normal” weather any more, don’t you)? Pushing and pulling every leaf, petal, twig and stamen into its full expression, the energy of spring conceived a profusion of joyful blooms. People marveled at the streak of pleasant, dry weather and the abundance of flowers. If only a period of cool, rainy days had followed…but instead, warm, dry weather persisted. Before I knew it, the trees leafed out. Their branches hung over the sidewalks, just like summer. The spring ephemerals dropped their shriveled petals and south-facing meadows dried up. It all happened so fast. I can’t believe I have to wait until next year to feel the exhilaration of early spring again. But I’ll heave a sigh or two and get on with summer. Daisies, foxgloves, baby birds and long evenings are right around the corner.
I said time doesn’t proceed according to the clock for me, which is why I’ve struggled with lateness most of my life. In keeping with doing things my way even if it’s illogical, these photographs are not in perfect chronological order. I’ve started with scenes from “pre-spring” and then worked to create a visual unfolding from image to image. I hope you enjoy a slow slide – I mean scroll.
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9. A Yellow-faced bumblebee, one of our most important native pollinators.
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10. Two views (here and below) of a small but stunning orchid, Spotted coralroot (Corallorhiza maculata).
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12. A top-down view of the deep, violet-blue flowers of Puget Sound larkspur rising under raindrop-studded leaves of dwarf Oregon-grape in April. (Delphinium menziesii & Berberis nervosa)
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14. Scattered along trails like this one in a local park, I found bright displays of native flowers.
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17. After the camas, buttercups, and all the others have finished flowering they’re replaced by tall grasses. Over the winter the grasses collapse like so many pick-up sticks. All the pretty flowers have to grow up through them. I’m trying to appreciate all the straight lines that litter the composition.
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20. This is the kind of steep, south-facing slope that many of the flowers above and below like. Thin soil prevents trees from crowding the meadows but conditions can be harsh, especially in summer, when there’s little rain and lots of sunlight.
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23. The old apple tree in my backyard bore more blossoms than ever this spring.
Grass widow, Gumweed, Foothill Desert-parsley, Red dead-nettle – the descriptive common names of wildflowers are a sort of local poetry. On a cold, early February day, I went searching for Grass widows and was surprised to find my favorite first flower of spring accompanied by three more, already in bloom. It was official: my favorite annual event had begun. The wildflower season here starts slowly and takes a good month to build up steam, but a hint of hope was all I needed to feel energized that winter day. By now, the calendar has moved ahead almost three months. Longer days and warmer air are working in synch, awakening thousands of spring flowers in our meadows, along the shores, and in the woods. Our unseasonably warm weather has doubled the pleasure of wandering along old trails and new paths. My pace could hardly be slower – there is so much beauty to appreciate.
I love photographing the exquisite little beauties that make 48°44’N, 122°60’W home, but just being alive among them is my definition of joy. Birds sing, the air is impossibly fresh, the green machine is churning, and expectancy brightens my face. The photographs here represent many hours of walks. The emphasis is on native flowers, but “scenes sans fleurs” are scattered throughout so you can see a little context. No doubt some of you will recognize a few of these flowers from years past. Forgive me. I can’t keep myself from dropping onto the ground once again and peering up at some utterly innocent face. The blush is on the bloom, for now.
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1. Smallflower Woodland star (Lithophragma parviflorum).
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2. Dark-throated Shooting star (Primula pauciflora).
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3. Foothill Desert-parsley (Lomatium utriculatum). I like to peep through the grass sometimes and get a rabbit’s-eye view.
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4. Swamp lantern, or Western skunk cabbage (Lisichiton americanus).
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6. Swamp lanterns glow under the branches of a downed Western Redcedar tree.
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7. Osoberry (Oemleria cerasiformis), a Western woodland shrub, is one of the first plants to flower in spring. After the flowers are finished, the leaves open and reach for the light.
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8. Menzies’ Larkspur (Delphinium menziesii).
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9. Foothill Desert-parsley, Shortspur Seablush (Plectritis congesta), and Small-flowered Blue-eyed Mary (Colinsia parviflora).
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10. Grass widow, or Satin flower (Olsynium douglasii).
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11. A Seaside juniper (Juniperus maritima) by the rocky shores of Washington Park, where many of these flowers were photographed.
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12. Sweet Vernal grass (Anthoxanthum odoratum). Identification questionable, my fault.
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13. Giant White Fawn lily (Erythronium oregonum). Don’t be deceived – these plants are not very large. What they lack in size, they make up in gracefulness.
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14. Giant White Fawn lilies.
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15. A Checker lily bud (Fritillaria affinis).
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16. A Douglas fir (Pseudotsuga menziesii) and Western hemlock (Tsuga heterophylla) forest in early spring.
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17. Fringe Cups (Tellima grandiflora). Why is it called grandiflora, I ask, because these flowers are very, very small.
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18. Giant White Fawn lily
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19. Common camas (Camassia quamash) and Foothill Desert-parsley spread across a meadow by the Salish Sea. In the distance, a large Pacific Madrone (Arbutus menziesii) tree is in full flower.
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There are so many more photos! I will probably post another group of spring wildflowers soon. Meanwhile, it’s time for an espresso. After walking up to Sugarloaf Mountain this morning and then checking branch tips of Douglas fir and Western hemlock trees for a citizen science research project, I think it’s time to chill. Thank you for being here.
Did you know that tulips grow wild in the mountains of Central Asia? Or you may have heard they came from the Mediterranean, and that’s right too. There are several species we call tulips that predate the garden tulips we’re familiar with. Smaller and less striking than the tulips we buy at the grocery store or plant in our gardens, wild tulips have their own charm. It’s no wonder that they have been cultivated, selected, and hybridized for many centuries. In fact, the world’s first stock market bubble was caused by Tulip Mania, the craze of the Dutch Golden Age, when people grew desperate to display their wealth by owning tulip bulbs and drove up prices to astronmical levels.
It’s fascinating history, but what about the tulips that preceded hybridization? I first learned about them years ago, when I worked at a New York City public garden and cultural center. Wave Hill is an estate set high over the Hudson River, anchored by two historic houses that flank a series of beautiful garden spaces. Back then, a man named Marco Polo Stufano was in charge of the well-regarded gardens. He must have been the one who chose modest “wild” tulips to plant in the wild garden on a gently sloping hillside. Each spring I would look for them, just like I look for native spring flowers now.
But what would spring be without cultivated tulips, too? The tulips I photographed above came from a field near Fidalgo Island. Local stores sell bunches at reasonable prices every spring when the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival is running. During the festival a million bulbs bloom in straight-edged fields, tourists jam the narrow roads, and store windows brighten with tulip displays. I think I had the best of both worlds this year – a sweet bunch of tulips on the table and a plethora of wildflowers outside. A new post with photographs of our native flowers is coming soon.
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On a cloudy day in March before the flower buds had opened, I snapped this phone photo while driving through the tulip fields.
Please note that this post may be difficult and upsetting to read for some people. Rest assured that I haven’t abandoned Local Walks, I am just expanding the purview of this blog.
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Classmates. New York, New York; 1971.
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It’s not Joni’s river that I was skating away on, it was
my own skid into oblivion, away from the day
that shattered sweet innocence.
It began with a casual conversation
in Tompkins Square Park,
heart of New York’s counter culture,
leafy and calm
on that mid-August afternoon in 1967.
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The talk evolved. There was an invitation
she was too polite to refuse. Was she unwilling? Yes
but too polite to refuse, and
too innocent to know what might happen.
The brick wall – (“What should I do with my brick wall?” he asked,
“Won’t you come look?”) – if only there hadn’t been a brick wall
but there would have been another ruse so up she went
oblivious in her innocence, polite, curious, open.
Too open. On the kitchen counter
a row of knives, nothing else.
Many locks on the old wooden door
a radio, a mattress on the floor.
Perhaps a light?
I don’t remember. She didn’t register that.
He insisted that she dance with him
by the brick wall to forgotten music
on a cheap radio.
(Did you notice that she became I
and I became she? Pieces, that’s what was left
after that day in August).
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The atmosphere changes abruptly –
he has her where he wants her and
now her memory is tearing away from itself
the dark clods of it shoved into a dark corner.
I do remember floating
above myself, watching him hurt her.
The split complete: me/her.
There are no bandaids
for that desperate, unconscious break
from the terror as one part is thinking
do whatever is required.
Get out alive.
I do remember pure, wordless fear
a torn dress, my bodymind in shock,
tightly frozen as I leave
because after he had what he wanted
he carefully controlled my exit, walked me down the stairs
and out onto the street. The terror
finally lowered by a hair
once I was far down the block
merging with people on the sidewalk
yet completely
utterly apart.
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By then oblivion had taken hold,
seeping into the nooks and crannies
of my young brain eager to discover
a new life in the city, away from home,
without any concept of safety or how to say
“No
I won’t go to your apartment.”
“No!”
The words, the idea – not in my vocabulary.
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And afterward language wasn’t enough
couldn’t encompass the event
couldn’t touch it.
My body still there on that floor
my mind
uneasy with itself
living a pretense that
none of it ever happened.
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I see her baby face in photographs taken four years
after the Forgetting.
Pieces of her are squeezed into a dark, firmly closed box
so she’s a part of things, and
she’s apart from things.
They are all friends and lovers intermingling
and shining alone,
taboo-breakers, art-makers,
alive in a lucky moment of time
where freedom reigns
except for her the present
bears the unbearable weight of the past,
a past that as a poet has said* was
a living, breathing, hindering beast
a beast that unbeknownst to her
was cramming her life into destructive patterns
in random meetings with people kind and unkind.
Some very unkind.
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But that’s another story. In this moment
her taboo-breaking,
art-making circle,
with their cigarettes and beer, their bodies
and inchoate dreams shared freely,
in this moment
she is actually safe.
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* “I had in mind a sense of time in which the past is not past, but a living, breathing, hindering beast.“ Grace Yee: 5 Questions with Grace Yee; Liminal Magazine, 06/15/25.
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So who are the people in the photos?
In the top picture Kitty’s on the left and my head is in her lap. She paints abstracts now. We were once lovers but it didn’t last long. We separated gently, easily. In the middle is Sybil, a serious thinker who was older than the rest of us. Her husband was a lawyer, a good man. He died of cancer and later she did, too. The last I heard about her, she was working with a Tibetan Buddhist teacher. And then there’s Terry, a larger-than-life man with a generous heart who died far too young from AIDS in 1985. In 1986 I received a postcard from him on Valentine’s Day. I was shocked. How could this be? It was impossible. I later learned that for his final artwork, he made paintings on postcards and gave his partner a list of people to mail them to. It was deeply moving.
In the bottom picture Kitty’s still on the left. Sibyl has her arms around Terry in the back. In the front is Andrius, the son of two Lithuanian immigrant doctors. He taught me how to count in Lithuanian. He and Kitty supposedly got married even though she was gay and he was rumored to be bisexual. They didn’t really get married but that’s a story for another time. Andrius made big paintings of outer space. We were lovers, too, for a while. Now he lives in a big, old house in the French countryside with his artist wife. Then there’s Carl. Sweet, funny, and slightly removed, he always seemed driven by an ineffable, existential quest. I think he’s living on a farm in New Jersey now.
Who’s behind the camera? David, a shy Midwesterner whose comfort behind a camera led him to a successful career photographing expensive jewelry for top New York City auction houses. One of his kids, his daughter Z, is an artist. David prefers making things by hand now, like paintings of scenes that express intense emotions. On 9/11 David’s downtown loft filled with the fine gray dust of thousands of pieces of paper and bodies. The family moved out until their home was clean and habitable again. Now they live in a bucolic house with a barn, two hours north of the city.
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As you have probably guessed, this text recalls a rape that happened over 50 years ago. One consequence of that incident is that I’m very uncomfortable with that word; I don’t like to hear it, say it, or even type it. I was young, innocent, and virginal when I was tricked into going to that stranger’s apartment. There was no Women’s Movement and certainly no Me Too movement then. Sexual assault was understood to be the victim’s fault. For all those reasons and more, I didn’t tell my parents. I tried calling the NYPD (New York City Police) but that was useless – I didn’t have full name of the perpetrator and I didn’t know the address.
I went on with my life as if that day didn’t happen because there didn’t seem to be any other path forward. Like other victims of violent sexual assault, I was numb and confused and unable to make good choices in relationships. The hindering beast of dissociated memory didn’t disappear. But in spite of my emotional vulnerability, the friends in these photographs never took advantage of me. I felt safe with them and I thank them for that.
1. Spring greens color the ground under an old Seaside juniper on a chilly day in March.
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What does it mean to lose yourself in the woods? For me it’s a gift that I receive every time I’m outdoors in nature. Outside, the atmosphere is alive in a way that’s never duplicated indoors. The weather may be uncomfortable – cold, windy, hot, rainy – but it still feels enlivening. Except on rare occasions when stillness feels oppressive, the air outdoors doesn’t feel dull or dead to me. Even when the weather doesn’t cooperate, the possibility of change is always there and keeps me going.
The woods where I lose myself may be filled with tall, dark, evergreens or it may be more open. It may not even be the woods, it could be a field, a seashore, a garden. In any case, I always find something that ignites a spark in my mind. Something draws me in, attracts me. A pattern, a shape, a play of light – it doesn’t matter, it’s bound to happen. Whether it’s sound, scent, touch, or sight, the senses are the locus of losing myself. The world calls me in, my senses engage, and my mulling, circling, self-preoccupied mind takes a back seat. That’s the precious loss of self.
I often celebrate that loss here on the screen. This time I have photographs to show you of trees and the ground around them. On two recent walks that I took in a local park, the trees, spring flowers, and even the humble grass all encouraged me to be free of self-absorption, at least for a little while. What a gift that is!
I’ll start with a favorite tree, the Seaside juniper:
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2. Weathered into sinews.
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3. Twists and tangles.
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4. Juniper generosity.
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The living ain’t easy on the edges of the park, where sun and salt and wind all bring challenges. But the rock-strewn bluffs on the south side of the park where the light is strong support a rugged group of green beings that rise to the test. The twists and turns of the Seaside junipers above speak of years of weathering. They thrive here despite a harsh environment; some of them are over three hundred years old. They’re native to a very circumscribed area. You won’t find them in Mississippi, you won’t find them in Maine and you won’t even find them in Oregon. They are restricted to the shores of the Salish Sea – just a small chunk of northwest Washington State and southwest British Columbia.
Another tree that pulls me close is the Pacific Madrone, which often shares space with Seaside junipers. Madrones’ deep green, glossy leaves stay on the tree all winter and contrast elegantly with its warm, multi-hued bark. If that’s not enough, the bark peels to reveal a revelation of color. The freshest bark, like a smooth skin on the tree’s trunk, is yellow-green and can actually photosynthesize. Older bark shreds off in late summer, a trait that helps the tree remain free of pests and diseases. Lucky madrone, its skin can absorb nourishment from the sun, a continuous process of renewal.
6. Last year’s madrone leaves.
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7. Rocks and madrones, friends for life and beyond.
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8. Junipers and madrones are often companions for life, too. The juniper branch and madrone trunk on the left are truly bonded.
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9. Fragments of charred bark cling to a madrone branch long after a fire raced through the park.
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Let’s pause and look down. In the first photo, a rock is colonized by fist-sized cushions of moss and a slow-growing lichen. In the second, tiny Smallflower Blue-eyed Mary’s, one of the earliest spring ephemerals, vie for position with clover, moss, and Wallace’s selaginella, the spiky plant on the right. The third photo is a beetle’s eye view of a bed of moss and the fourth is another beetle’s eye view of the ground singing spring songs of sprouting leaves.
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11. Here’s a close view of a favorite trail. When dry, these rocks provide an excellent grip but in rainy weather they’re terribly slippery. Without the rain, all the little growing things in different shades of green wouldn’t find homes in the crevices – and wouldn’t delight my eyes.
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12. Beside a steep, short drop in the trail just ahead, junipers and madrones provide convenient handholds. This open, rocky bluff supports spring wildflowers. Different species grow up ahead in the dense patch of Douglas fir forest. The madrones and junipers here at the transitional edge are almost absent in the darker woods.
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13. This impressionistic image was cropped from a larger photograph. One lone Pacific madrone stands out in a patch of forest that’s too dense for it to spread. It reaches up and up, looking for light.
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14. Ducking under a Pacific madrone on the right and a Douglas fir on the left, we’re following the red rock road to a sloping bluff. Late winter is a good time to wander these trails. Moss and lichens are lush and plentiful, madrones provide more color, and you’ll probably have the trail to yourself. Yourself? Yes, that pesky but necessary self that’s likely to fade away in the presence of nature, especially when you’re alone.
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Certain trails call me back in every season: quiet winters, spring wildflowers, the comforts of summer and autumn textures make even short walks worthwhile, as long as you really look. In no hurry, I drive into the park and turn off the narrow, one way road around the park at a pull-out where I’ll find a trail meandering through varied terrain. Water is always nearby but it isn’t the goal. I just like to wander down the wavering paths where old trees litter the ground and the sky might be graced by anything from a buzzing hummingbird to a soaring eagle. Thanks for coming with me.
It’s difficult not to be upset, angry, and despairing about what’s happening in the world now. Taking time out when the news or personal concerns are too disturbing is essential. I’m sure you have ways to calm down or let off steam when you need to. This post is offered as another way to pause from the too-muchness of the world. Just a series of photographs to enjoy. Simple.
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These photographs were made in 2025 and 2026, on the hills and beaches of Fidalgo Island, where I live. The first photo is from last September. It was a morning when the fog held on for hours, chilling the air and veiling the landscape. On an outcrop to my left, Pacific Madrones reached for the sun. Long, uprooted stalks of Bull kelp floated freely on the water’s surface, their work done for the season. Next year fresh stalks, technically called stipes, will rise from their holdfasts on the rocky bottom and quickly grow tall enough for their wavy, ribbon-like blades to photosynthesize near the water’s surface. Diving birds, fish, seals, crabs and other creatures will hide and forage in the forest of kelp that grows here, as long as the water remains cool and clean.
The second photo is a closeup of a Pacific Madrone tree that survived a fire.
The third photo shows some broken reeds and a partly-buried feather I noticed on a winter beach walk last month.
Number 4 was not taken on Fidalgo. I was at a Whidbey Island beach just across the water. A bridge that connects the two islands is barely visible in the first photo. I like the designs evaporating water makes on rocks. It’s all about timing – I happened to be there when tide, wind and sun worked together to create patterns that disappeared almost as fast as I saw them.
Number 5 is a window sill at home. I don’t remember where I found those pieces of wood. There are times when I want to sweep away all the collections of things from every surface in the house. Maybe I could think better then, without all the clutter around. But I like seeing interesting and beautiful natural objects so I try to find a balance between spare minimalism (never going to happen!) and excess clutter.
Number 6, the dark photo, shows a tree slowly collapsing in the woods at Washington Park. No one will clean up this wild “garden” because our city doesn’t tidy up the woods. Trees are left where they fall unless they land on a road or trail, or are a hazard. Their decomposition nourishes the ecosystem, keeping it whole and healthy.
Number 7 is from last June, when meadow grasses were ripe with seeds.
In the eighth photo, Madrones are reflected in the still, shallow water of a wetland. Powerful storms and rising ocean levels are submerging the smaller Madrone. An older one that grows higher is safe for now but the small tree will probably die in the next 5 or 10 years. The first time I saw the destruction wrought from an intense winter storm at this location, I was upset. The next time, I was still upset, and sad. Then came the third and fourth times. Now I’m getting used to it. The landscape I fell in love with when I moved here was a moment in time and space, it was not static. Life is change.
Number 9 is from a few days ago. Spring is here!
Number 10 shows a cliff roughly opposite the wetland pictured in #8. It’s September and the leaves have turned orange and brown. The tips of some branches that hang down are furred with lichens, probably because they’re frequently exposed to mist on the bay and spray from wind blowing over the waves of incoming tides.
Number 11 is – you guessed it- another Madrone. It’s normal for the bark to peel, which results in endlessly interesting patterns.
Number 12 is from a September afternoon when I hiked up the second-highest hill on the island and stopped below the top to photograph this field. At over 1000 feet (305m), Sugarloaf has fine views of islands and mountains. It’s a favorite little walk of mine. I can park beside a road and follow a half mile long trail to the top with just enough elevation gain to give a sense of accomplishment. Wildflowers line the narrow trail from spring to summer and after the flowers are gone, the grassy meadow still pleases the eye.
Number 13 shows a Madrone above the wetland shown earlier. This tree seems to have carved out a little niche for itself on a hillside full of Douglas fir trees. The Madrone will keep leaning out to gather all the sun it can. Douglas firs grow fast and I think the Madrone is struggling to get out of their shade. The dead bottom branches fairly drip with lichens, creating another layer in the forest ecosystem.
The last photo is another fallen tree in the same park as the sixth photo. It was just after sunset, on New Year’s Eve, 2025.
