 Look closer... It started as a simple walk that turned into a shocking awareness of an invasion occurring in our presence, a diverse local environment being turned into a monoculture desert. After several days of gray and wet, Kath and I found a two-hour window of non-rain, of less-than-gray clouds, of little wind, and almost warmth. The parking lot at the south end of the Padilla Bay Shore Trail had room for one more car. We gratefully took it. And truly it was windless and warm. Expecting the cold temperatures of the past week, we had overdressed with puffies and parkas. After a quarter mile, the parkas were in our packs. After a half mile, the puffies were off too, and soon I was down to just a long-sleeved shirt. The dike trail was warm, abuzz with insects, and songbirds serenading us as we walked along. The joy of spring filled the air with exuberance! The tide was low, approaching zero feet. Padilla Bay was nothing but mud and shallow channels here; green-winged teals dug into the surface industriously. Getting to the halfway point, the muddy channels gave way to the wide-open flats of Padilla Bay itself. Offshore, the expansive blue water was a flat mirror of the sky all the way to Lummi and beyond.  I have walked this trail a dozen times or more, but usually at higher tides. This time, with mudflats extending a couple of miles, an invasion was obvious. Virtually every square inch of the mud had a bump of some kind. I had to see what this was. I clambered down the dike wall to the mud and saw what caused a million bumps on the sea bed: corkscrew-shaped snails, about two inches long. If you were to walk on the mud, you would crunch a dozen or more with each step. And the bumps of snails stretched as far as I could see, out to sea. I found a dead snail shell and tucked it in my pocket. I walked the rest of the way to the north end, where Kath met me with the car. But instead of driving back home, I suggested we go to the Padilla Bay Interpretive Center just up the road. Two friendly folks behind the counter greeted us. I pulled the snail shell from my pocket and asked "What is it?" They nodded their heads knowingly. “Yes, the mud snail,” one of them said sadly. I said there must be a million of them. They said it’s more like 15 billion. That’s with a B. And that’s just in Padilla Bay. She explained that the Japanese mud snail arrived on the West Coast in the 1920s after hitchhiking on Pacific oysters transported from Japan to save the Puget Sound native oyster industry, which was collapsing from pollution and overharvesting. The bay serves as a perfect habitat for Japanese oysters, and for these snails. And with no natural predators, the snail population exploded. They feed on microscopic algae called diatoms, an important food source for native species such as crabs and birds. These intruders are not just consuming vital nutrients; they are also eroding the sediments of the tidal flats, with each snail acting like a tiny but relentless excavator. As water temperatures rise, the metabolism of the snails increases, allowing them to reproduce at even higher rates. Their populations continue to multiply exponentially. There is currently no eradication plan for the Japanese mud snails in Padilla Bay. Still, the trail is a delight on a day like today, watching hawks float above the farm fields, herons fishing at the tideline, and greeting joggers, hikers, bicyclists, parents pushing youngsters in strollers, teenagers walking with their eyes glued to their phones, and oldsters like us amazed just to be alive and a part of the panoply of life and beauty. And a quiet invasion. jack Padilla Bay Interpretive Center, and more .... ecology.wa.gov/water-shorelines/shoreline-coastal-management/padilla-bay-reserve Trail Conditions: the dike gives a firm, flat, graveled ten-foot wide trail for over 2 miles each way, dry in nearly all kinds of weather, but expose to the elements, so come prepared for whatever those elements are.
Directions: From Highway 20 between Burlington and Anacortes, turn north at the La Conner--Whitney intersection (at the O'Donnell's restaurant) and drive north about a mile to the south parking lot, or find the lot at the north end of the trailhead in Bay View. Mobility: Flat, firm, graveled, dry, free of obstructions other than getting from the parking lot to the trail, which can be done.
0 Comments
 'After consulting the weather forecast, the tide chart and the bus schedule, I made my way on the Route 1 to Main Street in Coupeville and hopped off at the County Courthouse. It’s just a few blocks walk to Captain Thomas Coupe Park where I admired the blooming cherry trees and then slipped down to the beach. The tide was going out. I imagined it sweeping through Deception Pass and recalled reading how Thomas Coupe, a bold sailor, was the only Captain known to have taken his square rigged tall ship through the pass. He found this harbor and made it his home back in 1852. Several houses in Coupeville, the second oldest town in the State, were built by shipwrights and have stood the test of time. Time and tides were on my mind as I took in the view and estimated how long it might take me to walk to Long Point and back, to catch the bus home, before the tide changed. The house with the cupula makes a distinctive landmark hanging out over the water. Its red cap topped by a weathervane with a salmon swimming against the wind. Daffodils bloomed on the hillside nearby shivering in the spring breeze. Mussels and barnacles crunched underfoot as I rounded the cove heading east. Rusty iron struts protruded from the sand, some old supports that eventually failed under the onslaught of wind and saltwater. A high bluff, crowned with trees, and the logs on the beach below, told of the movement of sand sliding away over the centuries. Change is constant, but lately, it seems accelerated. I began to notice how desperately life holds on. Kelp grips a rock with a hold fast. Tree roots cling to the cliff as the bluff erodes beneath them. Mussels and barnacles attach to rocks, piers, anchors of any kind, until they’re pried loose by a human hand or a birds’ beak. Stopping for a moment, a jet of water shot up out of the sand where a clam lay hidden, tucked in tight. I watched a crow picking at the shells on the beach. A little way down the shore a gull rose up and dropped a clam. The bird dropped after it and rose again. The clam dropped and this time it broke with a sharp crack and dinner was served. A raft of common mergansers and a few goldeneyes sailed by like a parade. The females' red heads and bright white-sided males caught the sun. I sat to eat a muffin I’d brought from home as a sharp-eyed crow approached. The clean up crew. Passing old fishing cabins, I heard a skill saw and noticed a crew at work. These beach homes right on the water must find a way to hold fast, too, with tides encroaching and wind unabated. Some looked as if they’d been there for generations. Others, sparkling and new. Tucked in under the bluff were Oregon Grape with bright yellow blooms. Red flowering currant attracted hummingbirds. On Long Point, I stepped from log to log crossing to the east side where a heron had landed. It stood and struck a pose. Then, with its long legs, keen eyes and sharp beak, it strolled along the sandy spit. The sun was warm, but a cool breeze blew. Like the turning tide, it was time for me to reverse my route. I walked back, more briskly now to meet my bus, but was stopped by the call of eagles. Looking up to the tallest tree, I saw two, side by side. And later a kingfisher perched on a rock covered with mussels, a seal popping up for a look around, and then three herons together next to Captain Thomas Coupe Park. I made my bus with time to spare, my heart full of the sea and sand, bluff and bay, birds and shells. Hold fast to all you love and cherish. Change is inevitable, but some things are meant to last. Hold fast. Maribeth To find the tide for your next beach walk, click here. For an Island Transit bus schedule, click here. Directions: From the stoplight at Highway 20 and Main Street in Coupeville, turn north to 9th Street and turn right. Look for Captain Coup Park on the left. OR drive 2.7 miles south of Coupeville and turn left on Morris Road, followed by a quick left on Parker Road. Drive 1.3 miles and turn right on Portal Place. Drive a short distance to Marine Drive and turn left. Follow it to Long Point.
 Close your eyes. Listen. Wind in the trees. Birdsong. A gurgling stream. A rooster? A truck I can't see rumbles by sounding too close. But here we are tucked between a farmstead and Maxwelton Road, just a few acres of wooded wetland and a meandering creek. Still, it seems a world unto itself. A friend and I took a walk around the trails at the Outdoor Classroom this week just after a big wind storm. Someone had already raked the trails clean. It is early spring, and things are stirring to life, waking after winter. We saw budding elderberry and blossoming oso berry. Soon the skunk cabbage and salmonberry will be blooming, too, attracting hummingbirds and insects. There will be a carpet of wild lily of the valley erupting from last winters' duff. The sound of migrating warblers will sing along with our familiar chickadees and kinglets. And soon, too, will be the sound of children exiting the school bus excitedly walking, skipping, teasing down the trail to the covered shelter and settling down at picnic tables. The Outdoor Classroom will be busy with students from surrounding schools for the next few months. And then summer camp will bring some back for more. But for now, this is a quiet loop trail with a boardwalk over the bog. Our footsteps sounded hollow as we turned toward the deck overlooking the creek. We sat listening to the gurgling water as it wrapped around the bend. We watched birds flit through the thickets. A chestnut-backed chickadee came through the railing to study us. Golden crowned kinglets hopped from limb to limb. At the edge of the water a red breasted nuthatch climbed a tree trunk. A Pacific wren called a warning from the brush. On the creekbank, a bag of rocks collects macroinvertebrates, caddisfly, mayfly, stonefly larvae, who will be investigated closely by curious young learners. A measuring stick across the creek showed the water level of this year-round stream. Some called this Pepsi Cola Creek, dark brown and foaming from passing through a peat bog upstream. We walked the loop passing alder snags full of fungi and licorice ferns sprouting from the maples. Benches are arranged as learning stations where small groups of students will gather in a few weeks. The gurgling stream escorts us toward the classroom moving at about the same pace. We pass between large fir trees and come around to the picnic shelter. The classroom building is adorned with colorful ceramic fish swimming for decades through the trees. Each one represents a gift from a supportive community that helped fund this structure, build the complex, and start this program. A small handprint in the cement reminds us who this effort serves. We round the building and visit the grandmother maple behind it. Long benches await the next class that will sit beneath it's boughs. This huge tree, like a wise teacher with arms outstretched, overlooks the growth of young minds and hearts. As we leave the classroom and stroll down the narrow trail toward the car, we pass the rock, dedicated to volunteer, Wendy Visconty, that says Do Your Part. And the entire trail, the building, the benches, the boardwalk, the deck, are all there because we did our part, as donors, as workers, as volunteer instructors, staff and board members. I take a few more steps out to the road to view the amazing carved cedar log sign that welcomes you to the Outdoor Classroom. This work of art, carved by Pat McVay, shows one small hand releasing the tiny fish that will grow into adults. Much like the students, who will grow into strong people, leaping through life, over many obstacles, into their future. The Whidbey Watershed Stewards will soon be training volunteer educators to help with the spring programs for elementary school students. They also offer marine science programs for middle schoolers based in Langley. And they’re stewards of the Freeland Wetland Preserve. See more about them and the many opportunities to volunteer here. Maribeth Directions: From Highway 525, 4 miles from the Clinton ferry, take Maxwelton Road 3.3 miles south. Just beyond Erickson Road look for the sign and parking on the left. (French Road is just beyond the turn.)
By Bus or Bike: The closest bus stop is at the corner of Maxwelton Road and Highway 525. There is a wide shoulder and gentle grade on Maxwelton Road. Two bikes fit on a bus bike rack. Please wear bright clothes and use a light while riding on the road shoulder or walking to the bus. Mobility: This is a short, level, but sometimes narrow trail with a few roots. The boardwalk is smooth but can be slippery when wet. Several benches provide places to sit and relax.  Mitten Pond in a golden evening So there we were, lying in bed at 5 a.m. on Monday, a gentle, quiet morning, when I heard what sounded like a huge windstorm rising, or a freight train coming through our basement – and then the bed and the whole house started shaking. In five seconds the earthquake had stopped. It was a reminder that we live on a constantly changing planet, where the life of a human is but a blip in the eons of time that created and continues to evolve our lands. The sun rose, this star burning bright that gives us light, warmth, and energy for life. It’s only one star in our galaxy of 100 billion stars. And our galaxy is only one of – how many? Have you heard of the Ultra Deep Field study by the Hubble telescope? For ten years, it photographed a starless patch of sky the size of a pinhead held at arm’s length. Gathering distant light, it found that tiny dark patch had over 10,000 galaxies! Estimates show there are at least 100 billion galaxies within the observable universe. To see a world in a grain of sand And heaven in a wildflower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand And eternity in an hour. -- Blake I’m not changing the subject when I say that I had the chance to be a substitute bird observer in the ACFL this week. Transition Fidalgo has volunteers who count the birds along specific trails at specific times each month. One of the volunteers was out of town this month, so I covered for him as best I could. This winter afternoon was quiet, the skies sunny, the winds light, the air cool. I started at A Avenue. The traffic noise faded the farther I walked. I followed Trail 10 to Trail 108, paused at the huge beaver dam on Big Beaver Pond, then alongside the pond on Trail 123. For a bird hike, I walk slowly, deliberately, listening and looking, almost like a hunter tracking prey. Siskens chattered away above me, becoming a backdrop for much of the hike. A bald eagle pounded the water with its wings to take off; a mate called out high above. Two joggers ran past me, talking loudly and nonstop as they ran. I waited for the forest and pond life to settle back down. A raft of buffleheads splashed and chased each other out in the middle. A pair of mallards swam by just an arm’s length away from me. Behind me, a woodpecker drilled on a tree. Nuthatches called plaintively. Kinglets chittered high above; chickadees flittered down lower. Turning south at Little Cranberry, I picked up Trail 10 and followed the western shore of Big Beaver. I saw two ducks at the far southern bay, too far away to identify. I took a long-distance picture with my telephoto lens to identify them later. A sparrow’s body lay on the trail. It looked fully intact, but lifeless. How did it die? I pictured myself living out here as a duck, or a sparrow, coming out of a cold winter to see spring emerging, always looking for food, a home, a mate, and for danger: an owl, an eagle, a coyote, or a Cooper’s. Trail 10 loops around Mitten Pond. Evening light grew. One frog, then several, then a thousand sang of life and love. Eventually I was back to where I started. It took me two hours to walk two miles. But each flower, each bird, each sighting and song, is the world we share. Each plant and animal is the intricate web of life that connects every one of these living species. Each one of these, of us, is so tiny, so fragile, on this tiny planet in this universe. And because of that, each one of these, of us, is so rare, so precious. Want to know what birds I found?
Bufflehead 24 Chickadee, chestnut backed 11 Creeper, Brown 3 Duck, Wood 2 Eagle, Bald 2 Flicker, Northern 2 Goose, Canada 4 Junco, dark eyed 5 Kinglet, Golden-crowned 4 Mallard 4 Nuthatch, Red-breasted 8 Raven 2 Siskin, Pine 9 Sparrow, Song 2 Towhee, Spotted 1 Vireo, Huttons 1 Woodpecker, Hairy 2 Woodpecker spp 2 Wren, Pacific 5 Directions: Big Beaver Pond and Mitten Pond are south of Little Cranberry Lake. From downtown Anacortes, take D Avenue south past a roundabout to where it turns west and then south again, which is now A Avenue. Parking is immediately on your right if you are southbound. Trail 10 begins right here. By bike: D Avenue has one large hill southbound from 12th Street, but is otherwise gently rolling with limited shoulders and some traffic. Taking 32nd Street would be easier. Mobility: Trail 10 is wide as a road, mostly dirt or mud, and gently rolling. Other trails are narrow, sometimes muddy, filled with rocks, roots, and occasional trees across the trail. |
Authors
Archives by date
September 2026
Categories
All
|
RSS Feed
