Rain or Shine

            I was supposed to work today at one of my seasonal jobs, but the materials we were scheduled to work on, didn’t come in. My husband was invited to a work-related function, and asked me if I’d like to tag-along. It was being held on one of the inlets of the Puget Sound. I’d get to see one of the projects he’s been working on to help restore the Puget Sound, plus there’d be a free lunch, so I was happy to join him.

            Choosing what to wear was baffling. I wavered between work attire and something more casual that would keep me warm, since we’d be outside. I settled on khakis, a corduroy shirt, a pair of low-cut cowboy boots, and my northwest staple, polar fleece jacket. When we left Puyallup, it was a little overcast.

            By the time we got to Lacey, our windshield wipers were getting a workout. Did we bring raincoats? No. Fortunately, I keep two fold-up, water-proof windbreakers in my trunk , just in case. I dug them out and we pulled them over our polar fleece. Then we headed to the welcome table and slapped our nametags on. Our hosts offered us rubber boots. I gladly swapped my cowboy boots for them along with a pair of leather gardening gloves.

            Down at the water on the mudflats, they showed us how to harvest oysters. While John and I worked on a few long rows, the showers eased up. The oysters were enclosed in heavy net bags strung on ropes that were anchored down in the mud. We stood facing each other. I picked up each bag, and flipped it over to John’s side of the rope. He lifted it, and shook it to loosen up the oysters.

We also checked for drills, tiny conch shells about one inch long. An invasive species, these mollusks wearing ornate shells, drill lethal holes in the oysters' shells. The drills don’t have any natural enemies here, and apparently aren’t good eating either. If we saw any drills, or their egg masses, we picked them off, and then moved onto the next bag. The hardest part was trying to get my feet to follow my body as we moved down the line. The mud loved those bulky, black rubber boots so much, it was determined to suck them off my feet.

            Up on the grassy area, we joined those who were cleaning oysters. Standing at tables with built-in grates, we scraped mussels and barnacles off the oysters, and then dunked them in water to wash the mud off. Nobody else knew what they were, but John and I found a few opihi stuck on the oysters. They are cone-shaped limpets that are considered a delicacy in Hawaii. The clouds had parted and the sun smiled on us as we worked, continuing to play its springtime game of peek-a-boo.

Throughout the day, I kept thinking of a book I’d read a few years ago: The Highest Tide, by Jim Lynch.  The story takes place on the shores of Puget Sound near Olympia with its unique marine life playing a key part in the main character’s life. Soaking in the landscape around me, I appreciated Lynch‘s accurate, well written descriptions in the novel. It's easy to tell he grew up by these waters.

As we scraped and cleaned, we could smell oysters and salmon grilling behind us. Of course there were oysters on the half shell for appetizers.  John couldn’t convince me to slurp them, but he made up for my reluctance. Lunch was served at just the right moment: geoduck soup, clam chowder, salad, grilled oysters, salmon sliders, and crab cakes. What is it about being on or near the water that always makes me hungrier than usual?

            The rain started up again while we ate under the cover of a tent. Speakers talked about the importance of restoring and protecting the Puget Sound.  At one point the podium had to be moved further into the shelter of the tent because the wind and rain were whipping up so strongly.

            As things wrapped up, I looked out over the water.  The tide had come in covering the oyster bags that John and I had worked on. Whether it’s stirred up by a spring rain squall or glistening serenely in the sun, the Puget Sound has always been a vital part of Western Washington and it's definitely worth saving.

Laura Keolanui Stark is putting her hood up, and then pulling it down, over and over again through Western Washington’s typical spring weather. She can be reached at stark.laura.k.@gmail.com.

              

Spring Babies!

When Johnny and Sarah were little, every six weeks or so I’d pull a kitchen chair out onto the deck, wrap a towel around their necks and clamp it on with a clothespin. Then I’d cut their hair, telling them to hold still. Afterwards, I’d shake the towel out and leave the cuttings on the deck explaining that the birds would use their hair to build nests with. They always smiled at that thought.

We’re living in a different house now, and our two chicks have grown up, and are testing their wings, returning to the nest only for a few weekends and summer vacation.

Last week as I washed dishes, out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a bird zoom into the hanging basket of dead fuchsias that I failed to take down last fall. I got excited thinking maybe it was a hummingbird because we have a feeder right next to the hanging basket.

I sneaked up to the window as quietly as I could. It wasn’t a hummingbird. It was another kind of bird, and all I could see were her tail feathers poking up from the center of the basket. Throughout the day, her tail feathers remained there, so I figured she was sitting on eggs, and only leaving occasionally to grab a bite to eat.

All week I checked on her. Her tail feathers were constantly there. Sometimes they’d quiver in the breeze, but she was a devoted mother. On Friday, John and I drove over to Pullman for Mom’s Weekend to spend some time with our brood. Every once in awhile, in the midst of our family time over there, I wondered if the eggs had hatched.

I didn’t get home until almost 10:00 Sunday night, so I couldn’t check on the little nesting mother until Monday morning. As I ate my breakfast, I peered up and ever faithful, she was still sitting on her eggs. I was glad that I hadn’t missed the big moment.

It’s Wednesday now and early this morning I noticed a lot of activity around the hanging basket framed in the window. Mom and Dad were taking turns feeding their babies. Between their comings and goings, I set a chair by the hanging basket, climbed up, and peered into the nest. At first it seemed empty, but when I tipped the basket a little more, two scrawny heads with wide-open mouths popped up, eager to be fed.  I snapped a picture, and softly retreated indoors to give the new family a little privacy.

My next mission was to figure out what kind of birds they were. It was impossible to get a picture of either of the parents as they zoomed in and out to feed their babies. I pulled out our bird books and thumbed through the pages, narrowing it down to three or four possibilities. John would know what they were. He’s the animal expert in our family.

When he got home, he was excited to hear that the babies had hatched. We got only fleeting glimpses of mom and dad. He didn’t want to disturb the nest, but I convinced him to get up on the chair to look at the chicks. I’m not sure why the sight of such ugly babies makes us smile, but it does.

We kept searching through the bird books. The dad has a shiny black head and a distinctive yellow beak with pinstripes on his tail. Was it a Black-capped Chickadee? A Vireo? We’re not absolutely positive, but we narrowed it down and we’re pretty sure that the happy couple are Dark-Eyed Oregon Juncos.

They chose an excellent starter home to for their family, dry under the eaves of our house, too high for cats to reach, and camouflaged from predators by dead fuchsias and assorted weeds with plenty of insects available as a food source. Our house was great for raising our children. I’m sure it will serve them well too. After their babies are grown and the nest is empty, I’m going to look closely at that nest to see if there are any strands of brown hair woven into it.

Laura Keolanui Stark is keeping an eye on the chicks’ progress and glad she didn’t clean up the hanging baskets when she was supposed to. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

Snowshoeing on Mt. Rainier

              Exactly one week after we were soaking up the warmth on a Hawaiian beach, John and I stood 5400 feet above sea level, enjoying the sunshine again, but this time it was reflected by snow. Time had slid by so quickly, that suddenly it was Spring, and we hadn’t broken in the snowshoes we’d gotten for Christmas. We figured we’d better get up to Mt. Rainier before the snow melted and the wildflowers bloomed. 

               After a morning spent running errands, we rummaged through our winter gear and loaded the car.  I cut the tags off the snowboard pants and jacket that I’d gotten on sale and rooted around for gloves and a hat. It would be ridiculous to snowshoe with my purse, so I stuck my driver’s license, cell phone, I-pod, and some cash into a Vera Bradley wristlet, a quilted wallet, and tossed it into the backpack we were taking. We filled up water bottles, and since we were in a hurry, decided against packing a meal, we’d buy lunch along the way. And, we were off like a herd of turtles!

               There’s a quaint inn and restaurant fairly close to the gate at Mt. Rainier, in Ashford, that we usually stop at on the way home. But since we’d gotten off to such a late start, John suggested we stop and eat on the way up instead. I agreed. We were both hungry, and would need fuel for snowshoeing. I sent the kids a text message that we were eating at the Copper Creek Inn on our way up the mountain. Sarah answered that she was jealous.

The food was excellent as usual, proven by the fact that when the waitress put a Calzone and French Dip sandwich in front of us, we were both sure that we’d only be able to eat half of what was there. Then we cleaned our plates. Our waitress asked if we wanted some of their famous pie. Our bellies were so full we told her that maybe we’d stop on the way down.

               Our Camry climbed up Mt. Rainier non-stop to Paradise. That’s where we suited up and strapped the snowshoes on. It was a glorious, clear, bright, sunny day. Good thing we remembered to bring our sunglasses. We headed up the trail. The new snowshoes were great, much better than the ones we used to rent from G.I. Joes. It didn’t take long for it to become obvious that I didn’t really need the snow pants and jacket, after all, it was about 50 degrees, and I was getting a good work out.  

               Although we should’ve guessed it, we were surprised at how crowded it was up there. The gorgeous weather had attracted lots of others enjoying what could be a last shot at winter. We snowshoed past a Boy Scout troop busy pelting each other with snowballs. They ceased fire to let us through. On a ridge above us a group practiced sliding down the slope, rolling, and using their pick axes to stop. A German couple asked us to take their picture. We chatted with a friendly group from Louisiana.

We didn’t get as far as we’d gone on previous treks. After about a half a mile, we turned around and trudged back. Other than trying to figure out how to lock the telescoping poles that came with the snowshoes, and a few blisters, it was a perfect day.

Back in the car, coasting down the mountain over wild rivers and through brooding forests, we decided to skip the pie at The Copper Creek Inn. We whizzed on by.

Twenty minutes later, I Iooked for my I-pod in that compact, wristlet wallet. It wasn’t in the backpack or any jacket pockets.  I didn’t remember putting it in the trunk, but we pulled over and John called my phone while I listened with my head hovering over the trunk. Silence.

The last time I remembered seeing it was when I texted Sarah. We backtracked to the Copper Creek Inn, hoping that’s where it was, hoping it wasn’t up at Paradise in the snow somewhere. In my mind I tried to remember exactly what I’d jammed in the wristlet when we left home. How much cash had I taken? Was my debit card in there?

               When we walked back into the restaurant, the waitresses greeted me with big smiles. “Hey, we found your phone! And we really like your wallet, it’s so cute!” I thanked them, relieved that they’d found it with nothing missing, and glad that we hadn’t gotten all the way home before we realized it was lost.  

               Then one of the twenty-somethings said, “Yeah, we looked at your contacts and called ‘Home,’ and ‘Mom and Dad.’ You always call the parents because they’ll know how to find you.”

               I bit my lip, “You know, my parents are in Hawaii.”

               She smiled, “Well, we thought so, because their answer machine said, ‘Aloha!’” Then she asked, “Hey, would you like some pie after all?”

               We asked her to box up two slices to take home, but when she told us it was still warm, we parked ourselves on stools at the counter. Freshly baked, warm blackberry pie and cold vanilla ice cream after a day snowshoeing—it doesn’t get much better than that!

               When we got home, I called my parents and explained. It’s been a very long time since someone called them about me. They were glad that there was a happy ending, and amazed that in the space of one week we’d gone from the balmy beaches of Hawaii to the snowy mountaintops of Washington.

Laura Keolanui Stark is planning the next field trip. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.