 I was focusing my camera on a tiny bird in an alder tree at Deer Lagoon when an old friend walked up. “What are you looking at?” she asked. “A chickadee.” I said. She laughed. “Add that to your life list.” In an effort to save some remnant of my reputation as a naturalist, I told her about my recent sighting of a capercaillie, a rare bird I'd seen in Scotland. I showed her a picture on my phone. She’d never heard of it before. Neither had I until that day. That may be my only sighting and it was thrilling, but I like my backyard birds, too. I love chickadees. They’re so chipper and chatty and striking with their black and white formal wear. I especially like the chestnut backed chickadees with their rust colored shoulders. They socialize with kinglets and juncos and other birds we often see. Different kinds of chickadees live across the country. I grew up with Carolina chickadees and I’ve seen Boreal Chickadees in Minnesota and Alaska. I’ve always been a fan. As she walked on, I heard loud splashing just beyond a thick hedge of brambles and could only guess what it was. Otter? Then a beautiful bird song rang out from the top of a bare tree. I strained to see it with my binoculars. Merlin said it was a house finch. As I listened I heard another distinct sound from the cattails nearby, a Virginia Rail! A walk at Deer Lagoon doesn’t always involve much walking. I stood and listened, pulled out my binoculars or my phone to use my Merlin app. It tells me what birds are calling. I see other people with spotting scopes and binoculars. At least half of those I saw were bird watching. There were also dog walkers, runners, one man on a bike, and some just out for a stroll. It’s an easy walk with great views of the water. And ducks. Lots of ducks. This time of year the American white pelicans that come here in the summer have flown south. But many ducks and geese winter here. I saw mallards, pintails, shovelers, green winged teal and wigeons. A great blue heron sailed over and adorable grebes paddled by. Gulls and shorebirds, yellow legs, sandpipers and dunlin, come to this marshy backwater with its abundant food and nesting sites. Low tide exposes ample food for avian foragers. While watching a group of ducks preening on a muddy point, a dark shadow glided over. A northern harrier made a pass and then settled behind a screen of stalks. It watched the ducks nearby, too big, I would think, to make a meal. But this young hawk seemed ambitious. After weighing his options, he glided off, perhaps eyeing something smaller in the blackberries along the trail. A flutter among the branches of the old apple tree got my attention. A song sparrow sang nearby. A golden crowned sparrow settled in among the brambles. After a moment it disappeared and a purple finch took its place. Now you see it, now you don’t. And that is the critical point here. There’s a sign at the trailhead just under the one saying “Sensitive Bird Habitat”. It cries out for a “Call to Action” and gives a website. Many threats are facing Deer Lagoon. People in boats, kite surfing or using drones are scaring off the nesting birds. Neighbors cutting trees and vegetation for a better view destroy habitat. Island County, the land owner, trimmed vegetation in the middle of nesting season. Dogs run off leash threatening young chicks and leaving pet waste. We can do better. We need to let the County know how important this habitat is to birds, fish, and people. The County is currently reviewing their comprehensive plan so please, take a moment to voice your concern and ask for protection of this prized habitat. For more info on Deer Lagoon and a link to the comment page on the County website click here. And thanks for doing your part. Maribeth Directions: From Highway 525 just south of Freeland, turn south on Double Bluff Road. In about a half a mile turn left onto Millman Road, then right on Deer Lagoon Road. Park at the end. Please don't block the driveways.
Bus and Bike: The Route 1 Island Transit bus stops at Double Bluff Road and Highway 525. It's just over a mile to Deer Lagoon on an almost level road with a wide shoulder. Two bikes fit on a bus bike rack. Please wear something bright when walking or riding bikes along the road. Mobility: This is a short trail, almost level, an easy stroll that's smooth enough for wheelchairs and strollers. There are no benches or restrooms.
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 After spending a month hiking across England and then exploring parts of the Scottish Highlands, I felt a change in the air. Summer is over, the equinox has passed. Rains return, temperatures cool and it's time to hibernate. I clicked my ruby slippers (or muddy hiking shoes) and returned to the Pacific Northwet. After throwing my quick dry clothes in the washer, I embraced my cotton jeans and wool sweaters. I just got home so I'm posting my Hike of the Week a day late, sorry. Thanks to Jack for covering for me while I was gone. And happy new home to Jack, Kath and Murphy! When I arrived I found a vine maple in my yard turning bright yellow, gold and red. I love the fall colors so I went in search of more. At the Waterman Shoreline Preserve the change was subtle. Bracken are turning, as they are in Scotland, in hues of gold and brown. Salmonberry and elderberry turn a few leaves at a time, a contrast with the summer green, and rosehips are bright red. As I start out, I'm struck by the sweeping canopy, like a cathedral overhead, with alders and maples still mostly green. I came upon a bench turned toward the forest and could hear water falling but could not see it. Perhaps, I thought, this was like the forest bathing benches I'd seen on a trail in the Lakes District. You're supposed to sit down, relax and let the sounds and sensations wash over you. My journey to the UK revealed how far our trees have traveled. I saw a Western Red Cedar and a Douglas Fir in a churchyard in Stirling, Scotland that must have been planted about 200 years ago. In the 1820's a Scottish Botanist, David Douglas, was hired by the Royal Botanical Society to travel here and gather seeds, cones and bulbs to send back for British gardens. I read about his efforts in a fascinating book called The Collector, by Jack Nesbit. He hitched a ride with early explorers, fur traders, Native Americans, and sometimes traveled alone, over challenging terrain in miserable weather. His obsession led to some impressive examples of Northwest flora on those far flung isles. I also sprouted from transplants. My ancestors journeyed from the British Isles to North America a few hundred years ago settling on the east coast. Then I moved west like a wind-blown seed, and took hold here, a fine place to put down roots and grow a garden. Searching for color in this quiet corner of the forest, I also found a few friends, both human and canine. Gracie was excited to be out for a walk. Maggie took her time exploring with Mia who was wearing her warm sweater. Their people live nearby and were out for a stroll. We chatted as we passed, then I went back to looking and listening for birds. In the UK, I identified unfamiliar birds with the help of the Merlin app on my phone. It listens to the bird’s call, determines your location, and then posts their conclusion. Every morning as I set out, I'd hear a beautiful bird call. Each time I'd asked Merlin, it said it was a European Robin. They aren’t like our robins. Their song is much more melodic and enchanting. I found over 35 species of birds that were new to me on my travels, but it was nice to find my old friends here. The chickadees and golden crowned kinglets were flitting across my path with a buzz of kinetic energy. A nuthatch was sounding to a friend nearby. There were gulls on the shoreline and crows flying overhead. Just as I was leaving, a flock of bush tits moved through the wild roses by the gate. Their cheery chatter arrested me. One posed for my camera, turning this way and that to make sure I got her best side. As I left, rain began to fall. I went home feeling the pull of the hearth on my heart strings. It’s time to harvest the pumpkins and squash, pick the apples and pears, make cider and applesauce, and cozy up to a woodstove with a good book. It’s nice to be hiking close to home again. Maribeth For more about the Waterman Shoreline Preserve and the Whidbey Camano Land Trust click here. Directions: There are 3 roads that lead to the Waterman Shoreline Preserve. From Clinton, turn at the Dairy Queen onto Bob Galbreath Road and drive 2.4 miles. From Langley take Wilkinson Road for 3.5 miles, or from Hwy 525 at Ken's Korner, take Surface Road and turn left to find the parking area just around the corner on the right.
By Bike and Bus: Take the Route 1 to Ken's Korner and then ride a bike, or walk, 1.4 miles on Surface Road. Turn left at the end and just around the corner you'll find the gate on the right. Surface Road has a gentle grade through a beautiful forest and makes a nice extension to the experience. Mobility: This is a short walk on an old paved road that's closed to cars. Bikes, strollers or wheelchairs work well here unless the leaves are wet and then it can be slippery. There are some gentle hills. Some wheelchairs may have trouble getting through the gates.  The bench at the western end of the trail How many places have you lived? It counts if you moved everything with you and never moved back to the same house. And what is the longest time you have ever lived in one community? Some people never leave the community where they were raised. Some wander frequently. Some are driven from their home, a sadness I hope to never experience. I lived the life of a ranger, a nomad of sorts, but always at home wherever we went. I’ll share at the end how many fingers I had to use to answer both of these questions. I am discussing “moving” because we are moving this week, across town. We have loved living in Skyline, with Washington Park a block away, the beach two blocks to the south, or three blocks going north. It is such a blessing to walk out your door and in two minutes be in ancient forests; to listen to resident eagles, owls, and osprey as we lay in bed; to walk on the beach in a slashing rain (but not for long!), or across the juniper balds in a blanket of snow; to feel spring warming the rock faces and encouraging flowers to rise up and sing; to sense the coolness of the deep woods on an almost-hot summer day; and to meet dozens of neighbors out doing the same thing. We took one last walk around Washington Park as if we were saying goodbye to a close neighbor, because we were. Oh, we know, we can visit again any time we wish. The park will always be here, just a short bike, bus, or car ride away. That is the treasure of any park – their permanence. It has been a privilege to have it as one of our neighbors. We walked up into the woods on Lea Place, where Janet, another wonderful neighbor, provides a colorful grassy entrance into the park. From here we climbed southwest. The deep woods with gigantic cedars and firs quickly changed over into grassy meadows and rocky knobs sprinkled with crinkly junipers. Here is where we found Havekost’s tomb. After a word of thanks, we went up and down the southern trails, basking in the warmth of this late summer day, the rocks reflecting the heat and encouraging us to shed some layers. Our destination was the far western tip, a half mile west as the raven flies, where a simple bench offers magnificent views over Burrows Channel and Rosario Strait, with Mount Erie, the San Juans, and the Olympics seemingly just beyond arm’s reach. From there to the north, the scenery and weather change quickly and dramatically from dry meadows, sunshine, and warmth – to cool, moist, deep-shadowed woods. Our layers came back on as we descended through the forest to the campground emptying its campers on this late Sunday afternoon. We walked a graveled backroad east, then caught Trail 501 to get us back to where we started. Back to ferns, firs, mushrooms, nettles, and elderberry. Back to filtered sunlight and shade. Back to the side trail that took us back to Lea Avenue, down the hill, and up the stairs back at our place. Home again, our home for just one more day. But this place, this land, this island we call home, will always flow through our lifeblood in our dreams, our joys, and our once and future travels. Speaking of homes, we acknowledge the first peoples to live on this land, who continue to treasure their homeland and share it with us and all living beings. jack So, how many places have I lived? 20. Yikes, that’s a big number. My kids have trouble identifying where they are from because they are from so many places. The entire state of Washington is our home. And how long have you lived in one community? Twenty-one years in Anacortes for me, as of this coming November. This is truly my hometown; I have lived here longer than any of my other homes. They have all been in Washington. How about you? Directions: from our current home, walk one block west. From downtown Anacortes, take 12th Street west four miles to the entrance to Washington Park. The street changes names twice, but stay with it.
By Bus: Take the Route 410 bus from downtown Anacortes to Skyline Way, a quarter mile east of the park entrance. By Bike: Use the above directions. Twelfth Street is busy, very busy, with narrow shoulders and some minor hills in places, but it's the only real option. Local riders know some side streets to bypass some of the highway. Mobility: The park has options for traveling by car to some good view points. Some of the trails are wide and suitable for various mobility styles; some are tough for any kind of hiker.  Healthy cedar needles In 2015, Governor Jay Inslee declared a statewide drought emergency, citing low snowpack – just 16% of average – and low river flows. The following two years exhibited a similar lack of winter snowfall and spring and summer rainfall, extending the drought and stressing our forests. The Anacortes Community Forest Lands managers raised alarms in 2018 at how many cedars were dying in the ACFL. They showed me trees along Trail 201, a non-descript trail in the Whistle Lake area. The needles on dozens of once-healthy cedars of all ages had turned brown or were completely gone, the trees dead.  Scientists and ACFL staff in 2019 looking at cedars dying along trail 201 Transition Fidalgo initiated studies in the ACFL to document what we were seeing, and to establish long-term monitoring of the forest health to document future changes. I got involved in 2019, helping organize and lead volunteers in these studies. We chose to monitor a half-dozen trails through a variety of habitats. One of the trails we focused on was Trail 201. I chose that one as my personal responsibility. Since then, Kath and I have walked the trail frequently, recording measurements of the visible health of every cedar close to the trail from the Whistle Lake parking area up to the flats at the top of the ridge, a hundred cedars in all. When I began, the trail seemed plain to me, with no views and of little particular interest. It’s three-quarters of a mile long, of moderate difficulty as it climbs a ridge rather quickly then descends back down to meet Trail 21 near Whistle Lake. Getting to know each cedar along the trail, and the neighboring trees of other species, has opened my eyes to the beauty, the astonishing singularity of each tree, and to the forest community, sharing ground even as they compete for the limited resources of light, water, and soil.  Kath recording data about a cedar along trail 201 last year Kath and I walked the trail once again this week, starting shortly after sunrise. A hazy orange sun filtered through the trees, a reminder of forest fires burning in Oregon and Washington this summer, the hottest summer on record – on the heels of 2023, the hottest summer ever until this year. We took time to look at each tree, trees we are beginning to know through our studies each year. Trees that were dying a few years ago now stand bare, some having fallen. A few others show signs of their leaves now browning. Most, though, seem content. The weather since 2017 has moderated somewhat. Yes, the world is getting warmer, and we have even had a couple of heat domes here, but the spring rains have been adequate so far, enough for the trees to get through our typical low-rainfall summers. We walked slowly, in reverence for the life all around us on this trail. As we hiked, we could hear a muffled hum from Highway 20 as cars motored along, reminding us that our dependence on oil still fuels the climate crisis. The refineries on March Point still belch their smoke and steam as they support our habits. Apart from that, we only heard Pac wrens, red crossbills, incessant nuthatches, and a few other songbirds. Frogs greeted the day and each other with their quiet serenades. A Hairy drilled into a cottonwood for breakfast. This trail that I had once thought of as non-descript now feels like the pathway leading to so many of our friends and neighbors. I write this on Patriot Day. Patriots care for their homeland. Our homeland is under assault from our lifestyles, our disregard of what it means to live together with all life on a spaceship that has finite resources. And yet I celebrate a growing awareness in our country and around the world, a heightened sense of responsibility to change our ways, to slow the warming, and to restore the health of our planet. The cedars along Trail 201 will appreciate that. jack To see what Transition Fidalgo's research is finding in the ACFL, read its latest annual report here Directions: Go south from the Commercial Avenue roundabout in Anacortes. Take a left at the T onto Fidalgo Avenue, left again at Hillcrest and then right onto Whistle Lake Road; follow the signs as the road twists and turns to the parking area at the end of a short dirt road.
By Bike: Whistle Lake Road is gently rolling and fairly quiet for traffic. Getting up there from downtown Anacortes is a bit of a climb. Mobility: Trail 201 is narrow, steep in places, rocky, root-filled, and muddy in the rainy season. |
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Maribeth Crandell has been a hiking guide in the Pacific NW for over 20 years. She's lived on Whidbey and Fidalgo Island for decades. As a frequent bus rider she easily makes connections between trails and transit. Archives by date
October 2024
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