British Columbia Beaver Ponds

December 19, 2014

Beavers have flooded the trail, diverting the waters of Stories Creek away from their dam. The western hemlocks in the background seem to be fairly flood-resistant.

I was born and raised on Vancouver Island, off the grey west coast of British Columbia. We seldom got snow and it seldom didn't rain. We called it a temperate rainforest, but it was far from tropical--mild winters and mild summers.

As a student in Florida, I missed the grey skies, wet forests, and short days. It was really made mandatory by my loving parents, but Christmas was always spent back home on the island. My siblings and I would fly up from Florida every December, just to be with family.

It proved to be precarious hiking over this trail-turned-creek. The deer ferns are evergreens that enjoy moist areas. Perhaps this is too moist.

I of course took this opportunity to get outside. My parents lived in a coastal fishing town called Campbell River and it rarely got snow. The forests surrounding the town were dark and wet, full of soggy, decaying wood and draped in mosses. Three colours predominated: brown, green, and grey. The grey sky sandwiched the green of the mosses and evergreens against the reddish-brown soil and tree trunks. I was looking for animal life, of course, but the forest was surprisingly quiet. It was late afternoon, but the sun was already setting somewhere behind the high, grey clouds. It made me feel alone, but not lonely. Rather, it was very peaceful. A quiet tit sound notified me of a thrush's presence. In the summer, it might be true that "birds of a feather flock together" but, in the winter, there is no prejudice. They seem to work together to flush up insects and watch for predators. This thrush was sending an early warning to someone about my presence. After several minutes of listening I could discern some other birds in the trees. Chestnut-backed chickadees, golden-crowned kinglets, varied thrushes, and even a few brown creepers. I walked another hundred meters up the trail and everything became silent again.

One of the Stories Creek beaver ponds as seen from the trail. It is amazing how much nostalgia can be associated with a place like this. Beavers and birds might be the only obvious critters here in December, but as early as January the long toed salamanders will be moving in to breed, superseded by a whole host of others, including northwestern salamanders, rough-skinned newts, red-legged frogs, and Pacific treefrogs.

The trail followed part of Woods Creek before taking an old, overgrown logging road across to Stories Creek. Both creeks were full and rushing from the latest rainfall. Some places on the island can get over three meters (ten feet) of rain a year. Soon, I was skirting the edges of the muddy trail to avoid getting anything past my ankles wet and leaning precariously over the trail to keep my scarf from catching on the wet shrubbery. The reason for the flooded trail had more to do with engineering than the water table. A beaver dam had grown out from one of the ponds and clogged the natural flow of water back to the creek. The trail made a fine spillway. I thanked God for my long legs and jumped over the obstacle.

Another one of the Stories Creek beaver ponds. Dusk had already arrived in the forest, it seemed, by 3pm.

There were several ponds up Stories Creek, all of them beaver-constructed. Originally, small dams and spillways were constructed along the stream to help salmon move and reproduce. It was originally part of the local gulf club's mitigation project but, now, the pressure-treated dams are in a sad state of decay. The club made up for the neglect by periodically smashing out sections of beaver dam. I hardly think that behavior is justified.

Sword ferns blanket the forest floor, under a stand of red alder. The ferns are evergreens and continue to grow tall until the first snowfall, which may never arrive.

As the forest became too dark to see the trail, I headed back toward home. My footsteps were the only sound and it made me uncomfortable. I found myself hurrying along, as if the growing darkness would only tolerate my disturbance for moments longer. Another thought comforts me: Rooibos tea. When I'm huddled by the wood stove, watching the lights on the Christmas tree, I'll have a cup of hot, rooibos tea.

West Coast Trail - Part VII: Thrasher Cove to Port Renfrew

The day began with this intimidating set of stairs, the larges on the whole trail.

Dad effectively summarizes day seven with this expression. After reaching the top of the stairs out of Thrasher Cove, we salvaged what was left of our lungs and staggered down the trail. We arrived at the first junction and met a worker surveying the trail for bridge repairs. Much to our chagrin, he mentioned that soon, the bridge would be out and we would never make it out before the construction crew was in with the new bridge and there would be no passing for at least an hour. After some griping and flailing of arms, we realized that he had been referencing the trail back toward Camper Cove. We began to rejoice prematurely. There would be another bridge coming in south of Thrasher, he told us. But we might make it if we move fast. And we certainly did. The bridge was still on its way when we crossed and the workmen informed us that we still had time to spare. We saw the first bridge pass over us on the trail.

Cables ran through the forest from past days under the influence of the logging industry. The trees continue to grow, engulfing the cables.

An old steam donkey rests in the forest were it stalled.

Ropes are rigged to make the steeper parts of the trail more manageable. Dad is again expressing his overall impression of the West Coast Trail.

Western trillium.

A large cedar that somehow avoided getting logged before the trail was a national park. The smaller trees growing around it are primarily western hemlock.

We arrived at the Gordon River early and chatted idly with the other backpackers about the marathon trip we'd completed. It was close to an hour before the ferry arrived.

Snorkelers string out a wire for some sort of survey at the mouth of the Gordon River.

A merganser passes overhead.

A chopper heads back into the forest after we arrived on the Port Renfrew side of
Port San Juan Bay. 

Epilog: Pacheedaht Campground

With our trip along the West Coast Trail coming to a close, we dropped into the campground on the Pacheedaht Indian Reserve. With time to spare, we set up camp and noted the wonderful sign at the entrance to the campground that read: QUIET HOURS: 10PM TO 8AM. Then we left for Port Renfrew. Overall impressions of the port were, sad to say, somewhat negative. People were friendly, sure. But they all swore like sailors and had the manners of pirates. I admit that most people wouldn't be bothered by these sorts of things but when your waitress bares her breasts to feed a four year old child that isn't even hers, well, it's awkward to say the least. Our taxi driver (an old, bearded man with tattoos and a missing front tooth) told us not to wear our seat belts because, as he put it, the law is non existent in Port Renfrew. We should have taken his words to heart but, hey! He was driving an ancient, rusty minivan with no seats that he parked at the local general store. We didn't think he was the best representative of the town. We would later realize that he was one of the elite.

Back at the campground, our neighbours across the bush from us began sharing music from their stereos with the neighbourhood. No problem, we thought, it's only eight anyways. Knowing we had to get up early to catch a bus the next morning, we cashed in without a fire and read a little until the music was off. NOT! At 12:30am, the music was going steady and, this time, the site across the road had begun a teenager party that was soon very out of proportion. By 2am, the teen's music was so loud that we couldn't even hear our neighbour's music anymore.The teens also decided to have a contest to see who could say the most offensive things to one another until a girl fled the bonfire screaming and crying as the loudest drunk was carried off to the beach yelling out profanity. They weren't any quieter over there and the smell of marijuana wafted into our tent. I was addicted by the time 3am rolled around. And surprisingly happy in spite of the involuntary insomnia. Dope has that affect on people. Just when we thought sleep was inevitable simply from sheer exhaustion, a lovely couple a few blocks away decided to finalize their divorce publicly at 5am. The music dragged on and so did the screaming. I have no idea when it finally stopped.

Two zombies rode the bus home that day. It is impossible to truly express myself without overstepping my personal moral standards. However, I can tell you this: If you value sleep and any form of peace that does not involve drugs and dope, DO NOT STAY AT PACHEEDAHT! They're subsidized by the government anyways so they don't need your patronization. However, if your a drunk, you might like Port Renfrew.

Memory Lane: Welcome to My New Backyard

Spring time on northern Vancouver Island can be described with one word: green. And the greens are so bright that, after a long grey winter, I feel like my own soul is sprouting new hope for the world. Beaver pond, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. June 19, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 0. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/100.

The story behind this photo is interesting. I was actually looking for bears (a thrilling spring pastime) as I balanced my way along the natural path of the beaver's dam. As I neared about the center of the dam, I stopped to snap some pictures of these pink grass flowers. Following the picture, I suddenly lost my balance and went flailing all over the dam, ending with part of my body hanging over the back side of the dam and my feet kicking around in the water. Needless to say, I began to think what the local bear (which liked to hang on the other side of the pond) would have thought had he seen me (and he might have). I must have looked ridiculously vulnerable. Tempting, perhaps. I jumped back to my feet, posturing and brushing mud off my chest, and then strutted on as if I were the epitome of fitness. Grass, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. June 19, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 200. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/500.

Red alder, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. April 10, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 100. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/80.

The forests of the northwest are characterized by a reddish brown colour that contrasts with the yellow-green of the new growth and mosses. Even the water is reddish brown, tainted by the decomposing leaf litter. Woods Creek, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. April 12, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 0. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/30.

Droplet, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. May 2, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 100. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/125.

Salmonberry flower, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. May 2, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 100. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/100.

I didn't realize that these plants are actually sold as garden flowers in other parts of the world. Not surprising, realy, considering how beautiful they are. Bleeding heart flowers, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. May 2, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 100. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/25.

Bleeding heart seeds, which are encased in small been-like pods when the flowers mature, don't have any frills, propellers, or fronds to help them blow through the breeze. Neither are they spiked, prickled, or burred to attach to passing animals for transportation. You might think the bleeding heart never spreads anywhere and, indeed, they are usually found in little clumps. But that is not because they cannot spread their seeds effectively (it is because they also reproduce asexually by sending out shoots from the parent flower). Rather, they have a rather unconventional way of distributing their progeny. At the end of each seed pod is a dark, fleshing blob on the end of an extension. Amazingly, ants find this tasty little blip irresistible. It is the ants that the flower depends on to spread its seeds as they drag the pods to their colonies. Bleeding heart flowers, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. May 2, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 0. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/40.

Bleeding heart flowers, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. May 2, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 135. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/60.

This is one of my favourite pictures. Interestingly, this flower is protected by law in BC because of its relative rarity. Western trillium flower, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. May 2, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 100. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/160.

It's an unfortunate name for such a beautiful plant. I've never thought they smelled anything like a skunk, which I have had the opportunity to smell--for hours. I rather like the smell of skunk cabbage, though. Skunk cabbage, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. April 5, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 0. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/100.

The white trunks of the hemlock contrast well with the yellow-green moss and the sword fern. The huckleberry and salmonberry which normal grow thick here haven't got their leaves back yet, hence why the forest looks so open. Western hemlock, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. April 10, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 0. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/80.

Here, the hemlock bark is nearly completely covered in moss. It is a different sort of beautiful from the above photograph. Western hemlock, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. April 10, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 0. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/25.

Willow buds, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. April 13, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 100. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/80.

The roots of skunk cabbage are edible and actually quite good, from what I hear. And it's not just people who eat them. Once, while wandering around the creek bed looking for red-legged frogs, I noticed a skunk cabbage plant that had been pulled up and the roots devoured, leaving only the large green leaves. It was quite a hole that the devourer had left in the ground but I couldn't imagine what had done it. Beaver was a thought. But I wasn't sure how an animal like that would scoop out so much soil. Not to mention I'd never heard of beavers eating skunk cabbage. I walked farther and soon found another hole. Then another. Every plant on the bar had been dug up and devoured. Suddenly, a crashing sound in the salmonberries ahead notified me to something big near by. Movement up on the ridge across the stream got my attention. At first I thought it was a dog, but the galloping hulk was too large for that. It was the first black bear I'd seen at Woods/Stories Creek trails and the combined sensation of fear and enthral gripped my mind. It wasn't running away from me, it was just running by, along the ridge. Why was an animal, that could probably kill me if it wanted to, afraid of me? For the rest of the summer, I would spend much of my spare time and dreams chasing bears through the underbrush. Kind of a foolhardy pastime, but the thrill was too much to pass up. Skunk cabbage, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. April 5, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 0. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/100.

Compare this photo to the one above. That's just five days difference, but the leaves have really started to grow. Skunk cabbage, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. April 10, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 0. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/160.

Moss on western hemlock, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. April 10, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 0. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/40.

Willow bud, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. April 13, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 100. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/80.

Sometimes when I type titles like "Woods Creek Trail," I look into the future for the places that I loved as a child. This is where I spent my teen years. It was a place of escape and solitude during one of the darkest times of my life. The moments when I've felt closest to God have been right here. But a decade or so down the road, this will be suburban. Houses and humans, and few of them will have any interest in maintaining harmony with nature. Every wild place, near to human habitation and unprotected, will one day be only a memory. Woods Creek Trail, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. June 2, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 0. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/20.

I don't know what species of flower this is off hand. Perhaps some kind of lilly. If you know, please leave a comment. Flower, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. June 2, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 200. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/60.

Fungus on a red alder, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. June 16, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 0. 11.84mm. 0 EV. f/4. 1/50.

All these leaves may belong to the same plant. The stem runs under the leaf litter. They are only 10 or 12 inches tall and often go unnoticed. However, they were of some importance to the first natives of the forest who would dry the leaves out and hang them in their huts to ward off the mosquitos. The English name was suggested because the leaves apparently smell like vanilla. Vanilla leaf, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, BC. May 2, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430. ISO 0. 5.4mm. 0 EV. f/2.8. 1/30.

December, 2013 - Pensacola, Florida to Campbell River, British Columbia

Yes, this month saw a transfer; I moved from Pensacola to Campbell River, leaving college in Florida to come to the northwest of Canada for Christmas break. Near the beginning of the month, on the Pensacola Christian College campus, winter, as far as Florida is concerned, was in full swing. Yet, given a cold spell, there were still reptiles about. Of particular interest were the little green anoles (Anolis carolinensis) which seemed to appreciate sleeping higher up off the ground, weather permitting. The tennis courts near the men's dorm was a great place to witness this. Surrounding the courts was wire fencing and, sleeping on the links, were several anoles. Why they sleep higher off the ground like this, I don't know, but it could be that they are trying to avoid predators. It is also interesting that anoles change their colour in different situations and, while sleeping, they become very pale. These lizards were observed within the first couple weeks of December.

The fog just makes the moss covered branches that much more pronounced and captivating.

This photo illustrates how the fog infiltrates the forest. It is also obvious that the forest is very wet; characteristic of the west coast temperate rainforest.

The two pictures above are my sister and some snow
berries. The snow berries bear evidence of a spider's past
presence. The moisture in the air makes the spider web
bellow very well pronounced. Clearly this web as been
abandoned for some time. The lack of maintenance
demonstrates this, but it certainly does not detract from the
beauty of the web. 

Arriving home on Vancouver Island found it unchanged; cold, wet, and dark. Nevertheless, I did miss this sort of climate and the family decided to go for a walk in the dark foggy rainforest. There wasn't much wildlife out, but there was some sign of animal life. I think I enjoyed it more simply because the fog, floating through the forest, made for beautiful photographs.
As some of the above photos illustrate, it had a beautiful layering effect on the scenery. Enabling focus on certain features that normally wouldn't be so noticeable or pronounced in nature. For example, a little spider's web would normally go unnoticed. However, the moister in the air gave the web's silk a damp, grey, beaded effect. This alone would have helped pronounce the web better against any backdrop, but the fog created a natural blur, a hazing, to the background. Thus, the web is far more pronounced than it otherwise would have been.
It was a good walk, even if the family did speed off without their dear photographer. That was on the sixteenth of December.

Later on, on the twenty-seventh, I went for another walk alone. I had plans to explore one of the beaver ponds up Woods Creek, but it turned out to be mostly dry (I think the stewards of the creek break the dams so that the coho salmon can get up the creek adequately). I was also going to take a winter sample of the mud on the ponds bottom, but I had to take it from the creek bottom instead. I couldn't see any life under the microscope.

The moss, growing up the edges of
these bushes, look like they are
framed in gold, being backlit by the
warm evening sunlight.

The second purpose of my hike out was to do a warm-up birdwatching trip. Why? You remember my old post on the homepage (back in November I think)? I talked about the book The Big Year. Well this is going to be my own little "big year." Starting on January first, I'm going to start counting all the birds I see.

I have an attraction to moss on rocks
and trees, if you haven't noticed.

Bewick's wren, lower right hand
corner, feeding on a spider egg case
or something like that.

I'd have to say that my preliminary exploits were a great success in December; a total of seventeen species were counted. I also saw a few squirrels and a surprising amount of invertebrates.
I think my great success was due to a number of successive factors. First, the sun came out. Those golden shafts of light, streaking through the moss covered bows of hemlock and maple awakened the insects. At least three different species of little flying insect were seen (perhaps some gnats and others which I did not identify) and a small spider hung from the rim of my hat. These bugs brought out the birds.

Golden-crowned kinglet, lower
right hand corner.

Golden-crowned kinglet, lower right
hand corner.

Varied thrush standing in the
dappled light of the red alders.

Many flocks of kinglets and chickadees were seen along with a pleasant variety of wrens (including Bewick's). Larger birds, such as varied thrushes, whistling low and tranquil through the quiet wood, were also present in flocks. It was one of those rare winter days when everyone seems to be out.

This little guy was dangling from the
rim of my hat. I've no idea what
species he is.

It was very enjoyable, and got me hyped up for next month. I am concerned however, given that I will only be in Canada another two weeks, that I will not be able to make some of the birds I saw in my practice run. The Bewick's wren and the red-breasted nuthatch may be hard to get again.

I'm feeling squirrelly! There were a
few of these little red squirrels in the
woods. Too bad they can't be
counted as birds!

Bird photography is a hard thing for me. First, I only have a two-hundred millimetre zoom maximum. That means, when the bird is small or distant, most of the photos come out as barely identifiable specks. It works if your sole purpose is merely identify the bird, but if you want a really good shot to show friends, it amounts to about nothing. Oh, well. I'll post the very best of the specks here (see the kinglet, wren, and varied thrush photos above.

A very cool fungus.

Certainly the most common were the golden crowned kinglets. They especially enjoyed feeding in the moss-draped bows of the western hemlocks. It had the potential to be a beautiful picture but, alas, my zoom has a low success rate for capturing very small birds. The varied thrushes were much larger birds (about four times the size of a kinglet), but they are much more shy- the same problem was encountered for them.
Originally I had plans to try and photograph every species I encountered, but this preliminary birding trip has illustrated that, without the proper gear, such a task is next to impossible.

This was kind of an "artsy-fartsy" kind of photograph. The blurring around the edges of the stump (created by zooming out at a lower shutter speed) almost cary a time machine sort of feeling. Like high speed into the future sort of thing. Perhaps it is suitable for the last picture of 2013. Here we go into the future.