Happy Mother's Day

“Have fun, honey! Don’t get dirty!” I knew plenty of little girls whose moms sent them outside to play with those parting words, and I was luckily not one of them. Once I changed into official play clothes, all bets were off. I could come home covered in oxide-red dirt, pockets full of rocks or anything else I found, and get a warm motherly welcome. Early days, “helping” my dad dig in the garden and climbing the cottonwood tree in the front yard were adventure enough. Then came a bike, and my radius increased. Then I was old enough to walk to school on my own, and the afternoon walk home took longer and longer as I found more detours through arroyos and open spaces. I came home with all kinds of grimy detritus, bugs, wilted wildflowers, and once a hand stuck full of cactus spines.

My mom let me explore on my own terms, appreciated the treasures I brought home, and generally let me have the run of the neighborhood. She taught me the usual things about staying safe, but she never made me fearful. In short, she gave me the freedom that most boys had. I remember one summer when she imposed a moratorium on shorts because my skinned knees kept getting re-skinned – I generally looked everywhere except where I was going. At the time, this seemed incredibly strict. However, a couple of years ago a bramble of blackberries saved me from a swim in the Green River when I was looking more at a bird than where my bike was pointed. In retrospect, I think Mom made the right call about shorts that summer.

My stepmom, who quickly became “Ma,” met my dad when I was sixteen. As a mother of four kids older than me, former Navy nurse, hospital nurse, then school nurse, she had seen pretty much everything. She wasn’t cynical; quite the reverse, but she was unflappable and always knew what to do. Strained back on a camping trip, sprained ankle on a trail run, allergy attack on a bike ride, bumped head, blistered sunburn – Ma was the person who could help. Teenage dramas, school, friends, boyfriends, first years of college – she saw me through all of it. She had taken her kids camping and fishing and was comfortable in the woods, which made me feel comfortable anytime she was there. She carried humor and calm with her in all situations, and helped me develop a sense of perspective. She also taught me something I always suspected as a little girl: wearing a nylon slip under a summer cotton dress is ridiculous. “People already know I have legs," she said, "it's too darn hot to wear a slip!"

I sprained my ankle last spring on the last day of a fishing trip; the night before heading home was spent with my dad and stepmom. I’ve sprained enough things over the years that I know pretty much what to do, but it felt great to have Ma take a look at it and give me some advice and TLC.

I’m fortunate in many ways, not least in feeling that the world around me is a good place, wide and welcoming, and that exploring it often requires one to come home a bit grubby. I’m fortunate to have been raised by these two wonderful women whose words and lessons to me complemented each other so well. And I'm deeply grateful that as the years have passed, we’ve become true friends. Mom and Ma, thanks, and Happy Mother’s Day.

198-Fish Night

The fish in question were kokanee salmon fry, recently hatched in Lewis Creek and making their way into Lake Sammamish. The Bellevue-Issaquah chapter of Trout Unlimited, along with other groups and agencies, is on a mission to save these native fish in the lake they've inhabited since the last ice age and restore their numbers to a self-sustaining population. Part of the work is counting the fry as they swim down to the lake and the adult fish as they return to spawn. The photos show the counting trap and some fry swimming in the pen before we gently scooped them out to count them and release them back into the stream. Dedicated TU members do this task three nights a week from 8:30 til midnight or later, for several weeks as the fish emerge and swim to the lake. The trap is lowered into the stream, "fished" for about 45 minutes, fry counted and released, then the process repeats until the count starts dropping, as the fish begin their journey downstream after sunset.

I've seen fry swimming in sheltered areas of rivers but never looked really closely; these tiny creatures, not much bigger than the fir needles floating in the pen with them, already look so much like the fish they'll become. Bright golden eyes, huge compared to the rest of the body, silver bellies, green backs with tiny dark speckles. Some, more recently hatched, still have pink yolk sacs attached to their bodies. Some are visibly more vigorous than others. It's amazing to think of something so tiny swimming straight from a shallow rocky little stream into a huge lake and making its life there, and yet carrying within itself the imprint of this particular place all its life and returning here to spawn.

Lewis Creek runs through a suburb of large lakeside homes; it's narrower than most of the dining rooms in these houses. It feels surreal to be wearing waders and a headlamp, counting tiny little fish, while standing in a thin strip of darkness cut into the land and surrounded by orange-lit streetlamps, glowing windows, and passing headlights. This small hidden piece of wilderness within a thoroughly domesticated landscape is the future of a wild fish striving to live in its native waters.

Snoqualmie Point Trail

A favorite close-to-city trail, which winds through the woods along a ridgeline and feels more foresty than other trails near Seattle. There are moments where the trees open up, framing views of the Snoqualmie River valley on the north side of the ridge and Mount Rainier on the south side, and moments when the trees enclose you in a mossy, ferny, quiet space. First photo is from a hike in April, after a welcome late-spring snow dump. The snow turned slushy by mid-morning, but it's a pleasure to slog through Gore-Tex-defeating wet snow on a sunny spring day when you're on your way back down the trail with dry shoes and socks back in the car. Second photo is from February, when ice crystals like blades of grass formed at the side of the trail where water collects. Each little stone and piece of soil had its own miniature column of ice suspending it, and the whole phenomenon was completely camouflaged until you stepped to the side of the trail and heard the most delicate crunching sound. I also like this trail because it's a little quieter and less traveled than others on the I-90 corridor. Much as I enjoy my fellow humans in general, any hike on an empty trail is delicious.

Picnic Point, Lynnwood WA

There are a lot of spots around Seattle where little streams enter Puget Sound, including this one. Sketch is from a photo I took in December; air temps in the high 20's, windy, generally a toe-freezer, and not a sea-run cutthroat to be found. I tried to capture the wintry blue-ness. Apparently in the winter the fish are either in or out, and they were out. Repeat a few times in January and February. Now I've seen this water in different moods and different tides, and watched this stream meet the currents of the Sound in different conditions. Now the fickle Northwest spring advances, the stream will swell, and the cutthroat will be in.

Trout-icure

Spring! Sandal weather's almost here!

Steelhead Water

Queets River, 7 am, about 38 degrees, utterly quiet spring morning. A deep breath and a silent moment of gratitude for being right there, right then. The Queets is a nameless veiled color, blue and brown at the same time, suspended glacial silt clouds the water but also gives it a backlit intensity.

This was my first time fishing for steelhead, so I was glad to be with a guide, as well as a fellow angler who'd fished here before. Our guide specializes in this river, and he knows it like a you know your favorite story. Every run, slot, and riffle has a memory attached to it -- who's caught fish and when and how in every spot. He was unfailingly patient with a steelhead rookie -- fish behavior, fly choice, how to cast an 8-weight with sink tip, how to cover the water.

We waded on the bar side of the river and our guide rowed us over to the bank side, at the edges of the faster current, deep slots boiling slowly, the spots where you know in the bones of your feet there's a fish.

One steelhead rolled in front of the boat, but couldn't be tempted with anything. We tried swinging a fly and drifting an indicator setup; my indicator took a two-foot sideways journey once, but I saw and didn't feel the take, so didn't react quickly enough. "One grab is a good day," several veteran steelheaders told me, so by definition it was a good day. I briefly hooked a couple of small non-steelhead, and that was it for nearly 10 hours of solid fishing.

Veterans also warned me it would be better not to catch a steelhead my first time, because the unlikely (and even undeserved!) success would only lead to later grief. I haven't yet earned the "fish of a thousand casts," so I'm content. There are many experiences available immediately and easily in our world; the older I get, the more I appreciate the ones that are rare and difficult.

Schlitz Streamer

If you've been fly-fishing and/or tying flies longer than 2 weeks, you've heard the expression "There are flies that catch fish, and flies that catch fishermen." This, I believe, is one of the latter.

Happy New Year

Here at 47 degrees north latitude, the equinox feels more like the start of a new year than the calendar new year does. Seattle isn't all that cold, and the snow generally stays politely in the mountains all winter. But January first falls within the dark period of the year, and the long nights continue untroubled by humans changing their calendars. The sun at noontime continues anemic and watery on the few days it isn't shrouded in fog or clouds. I start longing for snow in October, I start longing for sun in January, and to me all of winter belongs in the previous year. This photo is from the last snowshoe of the year, mid-March. The sun was a burning pearl, turning the fresh snow slushy by early afternoon, and the clouds waved and circled all day. Beautiful day to say goodbye to winter and hello to spring.

The equinox also seems like an auspicious time to start this blog about being outdoors (mostly) in the Northwest. It's the official changing of the gear, when the snowshoes are put in their box, and the bike gets a tune-up. So, happy new year. See you outside!