#refuge tree

[chillydownhere2]

The rains have done well. All streams & lakes are full.

Wichita Mountain Wildlife Refuge

SW Oklahoma

Source Me laf@ilyF 🥰

[rebeccathenaturalist]

I led a lovely afternoon guided nature tour at the Cutthroat Climb and Teal Slough trails at Willapa National Wildlife Refuge! It was a nice break from the mayhem of packing the moving truck with my furniture and whatever else we can fit in there. There's still a lot to be done, but we're making good progress, and will haul things to Portland Sunday. Wish us luck!

Also, I'd love to make some plans for some tours once I get settled in in PDX, so if you've been wanting to book me for a private tour, drop me a PM!

[orofeaiel]

Autumn Morning Walk

[roadtrippinlilly]

Sunset

Source Me laf@ilyF ❤️

[warmteaandcrunchyleaves]

It was a nice little touch meeting an artist on my walk yesterday.

[bookish-bi-mormon]

thinking about compiling and list of song artists who were raised mormon and their lyrics that make me (a mormon) go absolutely batshit

[middleland]

April Spring Green (2) by Tim Hoeflich

Via Flickr:

The fresh landscape greens and wildflowers of mid April at Broughtons Wildlife area outside Marietta, Ohio.         

[rhvpsodos-fr]

Was having trouble finding a nice G1 hatched on my bday, and I really wanted one to gene up as an Auraboa gal this year. Well, I finally thought to post on the forums and someone pretty quickly sold me this girl…

Kinda blacked out, gened and skinned her immediately. I think i’m in love. Her name is Equinox.

(Skin is Marigold Hierophant by Xaotician)

[code31-onthedancefloor]

you know what im just putting it in a separate post. this is my own ulixes backstory - content warning for parental+familial abuse/neglect.

Another stupid mistake.

Ulixes had forgotten to wash and put away the dishes. This had the immediate effect of enraging his father - who was hitherto consumed in a bad mood - and the expulsion of Ulixes from the family home for the night. Moronic of himself, Ulixes thought, to provoke him so thoughtlessly. Muffled in the kitchen and its yellowing white tiles with that awful, guttural shout, until Ulixes turned and ran - ran out the back door, to where his father would not follow under the siren call of another pyrholidon from the fridge. 

And so he sat, looking up at the house and the pale sky above it. An entire wooden thing slumping dauntless before him. It rotted and shook and groaned through stormy nights, as if aware of its absurd and depressing existence. Embarrassed by the silence of its residents. Apathetic to the omen of another hard winter. On the little porch around the back that nobody ever used - where it wouldn’t dampen his trousers - Ulixes wondered into the thrice-unread pages of his book: why doesn’t it just fall? 

Yet, the clocks kept turning, and the mice wouldn’t stop running through the pantry. Little scampering-scratching in the walls beside his bed. The pigeons that nested in the chimney each Summer. Ulixes Bücher, tucked away where no-one would try to find him. Empty pantries. Cold bed. Crumbling chimney. Ulixes, tucking himself away. That was the way of things. That was how nature was slowly reclaiming the Bücher household. Day by day. Night by night. 

Especially those long, long nights which were as black as pitch and twice as humid. Where he as a little boy would toss and turn and dream of the entire wretched house collapsing. In those dreams, he would wake up in the morning, surrounded by and buried in rubble - the mounted deer head, the ripped clothes, the four-poster bed in his parent’s room, the fine china that was never used - and Ulixes, sole survivor, a tiny dot in the wreckage, emerging. Fifteen tumbling steps to the left, and he would happen upon the remains of the family jewels. In this childish fantasy, Ulixes would sell the jewels and move far, far away. It didn’t matter where. The house just needed to fall. So why didn’t it? 

In a fit of frustration, he snapped his book shut. Wind tousled his hair as he meandered through the overgrown garden: through the long furs of grass - the deadnettle, which his older brothers would pick the flowers off to jokingly whip at him - past the old pine trees, all the way to the back. Here, a shed almost as old as the house itself stands vigil against the elements. A slightly brighter shade of wood, still dulled by years of use and disuse. A musky hint of rainy evenings past, warping the walls. Windowless. 

And no lock, of course - nobody would just let themselves into here, not in the East. Not where you were picked off the street and sent back across the canal for the most minor of public infractions. Except, nobody in the Bücher household has repeatedly accessed this little hovel either. Perhaps since his grandfather, as far as Ulixes knows. He did woodwork, or something to that effect, in his spare time. Back when they employed house-servants, this place could possibly have gone over the rusting equipment with a dust-rag. Now, all the erstwhile sawdust has simply blown away; a blessing for the jacket on Ulixes’ back which is quickly going to become a mattress under the dented, discoloured workbench - one of the only things nailed to the floor. 

He doesn’t know how many hours his grandfather spent here. By all accounts, he was a silent old man, praised by Ulixes’ siblings for scoring a once-in-a-lifetime engineering commission from a previously blossoming city. In fact, the Bücher household seem to have a thing for dying before Ulixes ever meets them. Apart from those who still remain in the house, he knows of one cousin who moved away to Jamrock, never to be heard of again. Every other member is locked in an eternal, poisonous game of one-upmanship over dinner, concerning wage brackets and managerial positions. Quoting the spiteful rants of his oldest brother - there used to be openings. And now there aren’t. Honest, skilled workers like he are forced back across the canal for work, where the jobs are cheap and the turnover is cheaper. His Aunt, spitting into a wine glass about mingling with the lower people, how the trickle-down up-swing has faded, how stagnancy has strangled her aspiration of a nice car and the subsequent respect that would blossom on everyone’s faces when she turns up in that. 

They have made it abundantly clear that whatever blessed the Bücher family three generations ago is never doubling back. The repairs the home direly needs will never be happening. Even if they did, the resounding result would simply be putting a plaster on a stab-wound. It doesn’t matter how much junk his father sells to put him through a return-on-investment education. So, why doesn’t the house fall? 

He breathes the afternoon light, perched in the doorframe; leaning. In contrast to the opulence of his grandparents’ tailor-made mansion, the shed is a utilitarian thing. Cuboid and sturdy, with its thick walls and insulated door - telling the tale of a person who would be complained away from the porch by neighbours or would not be dissuaded from partaking in outdoor hobbies in Winter. A floor softened by work boots. Flecks of paint and glue and oil staining in intervals. The whisper of pine needles reverberating around. So much wood, he thinks, like a little hole in a tree. A bird’s nest, from which he is watching the grey bulb of the sky grow dimmer and dimmer. Until the trees and the too-tall fence and the grasses turn into a shadow-puppet show. Until all Ulixes can hear is the wind. Until Ulixes can no longer read his book - only able to see a vague outline of his hands, and the stars still somehow shining through the city smog. Until he whistles, and the air stops whistling that jaunty little tune back into his ears, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. That is when he shuts the door to the shed. 

It is warm, Ulixes’ little nest. Thrumming with that insulation, that warp-curved geometry. It does something comforting to your brain, such like a reinforcing example does for a belief you already hold. He parts his chapped lips, and pushes his tongue to the back of his throat. A little click of sound is released. A pushing of a particularly satisfying button - or the trigger pulled on an empty gun-barrel? 

The click bounces off the walls. It is an instantaneous cacophony, finished in less than a second. But it reels back his mind from wandering back to earlier, where the dishes were stacked and dirty and his father’s face was… 

Click. Click. Click. 

Echo. Echo. It never fails. Nothing is used against him, here - where no one will look for him. 

Ulixes opens his book to the middle before resting his head on it. He knows by experience the floor will mercifully not hurt his body come morning. A jacket, brown, coming apart at the seams, slung over his thin frame. 

Tonight, he dreams again of the house falling down. The wind; terrible and exacting, will extricate the foundations from the tumour of Revachol East and tumble it in a chef-swirl across the street. Miraculously, it would ignore The Shed, just as Ulixes would awake the next day to ruins, only to completely disregard its contents in favour of walking into the encroaching Pale. As if there was something in there for him. In there, where the air whistles back at him. 

[zoeflake]

Woodland trail: In the thick(et) of it.  

(pls. retain text if rb’ing, ty)

[marcholasmoth]

OSRR: 3717

wednesday at work was bad.

thursday at work was worse than wednesday.

today though?

worse than BOTH.

i had a panic attack, cried at three separate times, felt like a failure, and got called out in the group chat on something that i genuinely forgot about. so i'm not happy. it was a genuinely terrible time.

i wrote a report that i had to figure out the high-level briefing template for. it got changed recently and the new template made no sense to me and i couldn't read it anyway. and then there was a data breach that we got notification from less than two minutes before everyone else in the staff went onto a meeting, leaving me with a cyber incident that i have never touched before in my life as well as changing tracks instantly, being frustrated that i already apparently didn't focus on the topic tom wanted back from the report i wrote. there was a vishing attempt last week and i took down the incident report but i didn't make an IT ticket because i forgot. plus the SOPs are a pain in the ass and i can't fucking read them, and you get someone who's upset because they can't read. so i got called out on that in the group chat.

i'm so tired of this. all of it.

but the good news is that i've gotten to see leo today.

i told him about my day and about my panic attack and the times i cried and it was so nice to have him with me at the end of the day.

and then we played mario kart and smash brothers and it was genuinely a lot of fun.

and at the end of a long day?

today was satisfying to kiss him goodnight, too.

[chillydownhere2]

Source Me laf@ilyF ❤️

[rebeccathenaturalist]

Farewell to an Old Cedar–and Hello to a New One

Originally posted to my blog at https://rebeccalexa.com/farewell-to-an-old-cedar-and-hello-to-a-new-one/

Last Wednesday I had the opportunity to do some volunteering with Willapa National Wildlife Refuge. As the weather has finally turned better, with some warm, sunny days mixed in with the rain, it’s made conditions more favorable to getting outside. So when I got the email asking if I wanted to help plant some cedar trees, I jumped at the chance.

Western red cedar (Thuja plicata) is my very favorite tree. It’s not a true cedar, instead being a member of the cypress family Cupressaceae. But there’s something about the red-tinted bark powdered with Cladonia lichens, and the flat, scaly green needles that appeals to me. Maybe it’s because it’s some of the best of the coloration of Pacific Northwest forests all wrapped in one tree. Or perhaps it’s because I loved eastern red cedar (Juniperus virginiana) so much as a child, and I’ve just developed a fondness for cedars that aren’t actually cedars.

We have only a few tiny patches of old-growth forest here in the extreme southwest corner of Washington, mostly populated with ancient cedars and a few very old Sitka spruce (Picea sitchensis). My first real look at old-growth forest here was Teal Slough, a section of Willapa NWR that protects 140 acres. These ancient trees very nearly ended up logged a few decades ago, but for the heroic efforts of historian Rex Ziak. In the pre-internet times he spent months tracking down the then-corporate owners of this tract of land, and managed to convince them to cease logging with a letter, a photograph, and a rope loop the same circumference as one of these massive old cedars. (It’s a pretty incredible story that I got to hear him tell in person at Wings Over Willapa a few years ago.)

It really was at the eleventh hour, though. One of the first things an astute naturalist will notice when arriving at Teal Slough is that almost all of the trees are either very old–or very young. That’s because the undergrowth had been bulldozed in preparation for chopping down the couple dozen big trees left. It’s rebounded in recent years, but there are tons of scrawny young western hemlock trees (Tsuga heterophylla) along with a scattering of young cedars.

Adding more cedars was our original goal for that morning, which was cool but sunny. We brought ten young trees with us, but stopped at the old Refuge headquarters just down the road from Teal Slough. It turned out that the place we were originally going to plant them was where the old logging road cut through, and the heavy gravel made digging by hand impossible. So we planted eight to create a windbreak at the old HQ, which is itself going through a slow metamorphosis, and tucked the other two back into the truck.

And then it was time to head to Teal Slough itself. While we couldn’t plant trees, we could still pick up debris from the storms that came through. The bigger branches and fallen saplings made good material for outlining the trails, making them more visible to visitors. While the old logging road is pretty obvious, some of the footpaths that diverge off the main trail to showcase big trees further back in the woods were getting tougher to discern. So we spent some time lining them with some of the windfallen materials.

But I also want to touch on the original reason we were slated to go out there that day. See, those young cedars were originally going to be used to help start to close off the last hundred feet or so of the trail. This last bit leads down to one of the biggest of the cedars at Teal Slough, and–to be quite honest–my favorite.

As it turns out, she’s not doing so well. She’s been rotted out inside for some time; this is normal, of course; in many cases an old tree can survive its heartwood rotting away completely, since that wood is dead. But this old cedar has been beginning to lean noticeably toward the northwest in recent months. There’s no disruption at ground level yet, no cracks in the earth or roots bursting forth to the surface. A Refuge employee was on the trail a few months ago during one of the vicious windstorms we’ve had over the winter, and he noticed this tree swaying more than usual.

We don’t know when she’ll fall. It might be later this year; it might not be for another century. But it was decided that the trail to her should be closed off just in case she came down when there were people around. A massive tree of this size would be quite a danger indeed; the day after our volunteering a logger was killed in the Willapa Hills after being hit by a much smaller tree. Even a section of this tree coming down at the wrong time could be disastrous. And beyond a certain size there’s really no way to buttress such an enormous thing, especially when it’s located on a slope of super-saturated soil.

We walked down the trail to where she still stood with her much younger hemlock “buddy tree” growing out of her side; many of the old cedars have similar hemlock companions. It was apparent she was listing more than I had seen her in the past, and there seemed to be a little more space between her and her hemlock. We all spoke of how magnificent she was, and how sad that it seemed she was nearing her end.

I lingered behind for a moment while everyone else moved the “End of Trail” sign back up to where the path would be cut off. It was my last moment to be up close and personal to this beautiful old cedar. While technically, yes, I could still steal up the path before it was completely planted or fenced or however the Refuge will eventually close it, I respect their decision and decided this would be my farewell. I told the tree how much I had enjoyed visiting her, and thanked her young hemlock as well. I touched the lichens that adorned her furrowed bark, and looked up at the broken crown of branches at her top.

Then I turned, with many glances backwards at a Eurydice I would never be able to bring home. I dragged with me a young alder that had fallen in a storm, and added it to the small pile of branches placed across the trail as a temporary barrier. And we headed back down to the road, with the sound of a pileated woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus) rapping high overhead, and a rough-skinned newt (Taricha granulosa) waiting for us at the trailhead.

I don’t know when the old cedar will finally fall over, but when she does her death will not be in vain. Like all fallen trees, the countless molecules she accumulated over a millennium of life will slowly start to disperse throughout the forest through the actions of detritivores and decomposers. She will feed bacteria and fungi, insects that then become food for birds, and a whole host of plants that will make use of the vast stores of nutrients she holds, and the sunlight that her passing will reveal to the forest floor. Nothing ever goes to waste in a forest, not least of all a fallen tree.

As we drove back down 101 toward the new headquarters, I gave a glance to where we had planted the young cedars. I would never live to see them achieve that great stature; in fact, not all of them may even make it to maturity, especially if cedar die-back continues in our too-hot summers. But it is hope that allows me to continue to plant new things amid loss. I cannot help but try, even against the odds. And I can do two things at once: I can mourn the eldest of the trees as she makes her literal last stand, and I can also loosen the soil for one of her relatives to set roots and grow.

Did you enjoy this post? Consider taking one of my online foraging and natural history classes or hiring me for a guided nature tour, checking out my other articles, or picking up a paperback or ebook I’ve written! You can even buy me a coffee here!

[orofeaiel]

Boardwalk After the Rain

[roadtrippinlilly]

The Scratching Post...

This tree has been through many elements of nature and still lives to tell the tales. Whenever it's seen, stories begin to flow. I'm very glad to see it still standing.

Source Me laf@ilyF 🥰

[warmteaandcrunchyleaves]

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