I'd never seen a Stellar's Jay before, having grown up and lived most of my life in the eastern United States where the Blue Jay is the most common jay. The Stellar's all-black head and nape blew my mind the first time I spotted a pair of them at our feeder. The pair, I believe, is nesting over in the fir about 150 meters behind our house, or at least that's where I hear them squawking most of the time. Still, even after seeing them many times now, whenever I catch sight of one or both of them, I can't look away.
How many months has it been? Thirteen? Fourteen? The pandemic's over a year old now. My weekly periodical is at best a monthly one. My wife and I are both vaccinated, minor or nonexistent side effects. They're starting trials on children and our hope is that our son, Alder, can be vaccinated this fall or early winter. He's signed up for daycare now and, judging by the way he approaches people walking by or at the playground, he'll enjoy playing with other kids and other adults.He's a go-getter, a hi-how-ya-doing toddler, wants to point at every new person and every truck that comes down the pike and shout "Uck! Uck!" at it—the trucks, not the people, he just waves hi at the people. He's certainly a get-up-and-go kid. Soon as he's rubbed the sleepies out of his eyes he's pointing out the window and wanting to "Go! Go!" and we must go into the yard right then and there, at the very least.
So I think he'll adjust back to daycare just fine, by and by.
This past weekend, the trails were thronging with people and the trailheads were overflowing with parking. Everyone wants to get out.
On the plateau trail, here in the Gorge, we went wildflower hunting and found the fields flushing with balsamroot, biscuitroot, lupins and desert parsley. We sighted one special little flower, a white and blue one, which my wife identified later as naked broomrape. Quite a name, and quite a parasitic little specimen. The broomrape has no chlorophyll of its own and thereby can make none of its own food. Its seeds lie dormant in the soil, often for years, until the roots from a host plant stimulate it to germinate, then the broomrape grabs hold and sucks the life out of its host. Beautiful flower.
There also were many tiny blue delphiniums poking through the grass, called larkspur, and as coincidence would have it, we thought we heard a meadow lark out there on the plateau. Could swear it was following us around, but, most likely, calling from a nest, hidden in the grass somewhere.
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| Balsamroot |
In town, the daffodils and tulips are out, and the ornamental cherry and pear blossoms are already blowing their petals about. Whereas the orchard cherry blossoms are just starting to come in, along with the orchard pears; when an orchard tree blooms depends upon the precise type of pear or cherry and its own microclimate of where it's planted.
Speaking of microclimates, virtually all of Hood River Valley is an undulating land of hills and creek beds and folds, not to mention the wadi of carved-out earth cradling the Hood River itself. Shade and cold air is common in one area, whereas the area just on the other side of the hill gets almost too much sun. Orchard fans and smudge pots are common sights. Over the last few nights it's been getting down to near freezing and somewhere around 2 AM you half-wakeup to the sound of a squadron of helicopters landing in your lawn. It's, of course, just the orchard fans spinning into action and going till dawn, to move the air and keep the frost from spoiling the fragile new flower buds of the pears and cherries. The fans create a droning white noise, however, and soon you're back to sleep.
But drive 20 minutes south towards Mt. Hood, roundabout Parkdale, and up in elevation, and many a daffodil or ornamental pear have not even bloomed yet. It's only 10 miles south, of all directions, and yet you're one to two weeks behind in the change of seasons.
That's how much where you are—what direction your land, and plants, face, your elevation, nearness to the Gorge itself, with its winds, or to Mt. Hood, with its glaciers—really matters here.
We're lucky enough to live in The Heights. Most of Hood River, the town, js crammed on the north-facing slope leading down to the Columbia. It gets shady earlier and you're lucky to have a view of either nearby volcanoes. But up on the The Heights, at the top of the slope, you get sun galore and views to both the north and the south, trees and neighbors permitting. The front of our house faces south and up above the 45th parallel that's where the sun will be, throughout winter—in the southern half of the sky.
The birds do enjoy the sunlight—and the sunflower seeds we have out for them. Just in the past few weeks, we've had finches of all types arriving. Red and house finches came first, then goldfinches and pine siskins. Golden-crowned sparrows arrived as well and I could swear, for just a split-second, I spotted a house sparrow, an implant from England, checking out the feeder. But it was gone in the next and I haven't seen one since.
Another somewhat rarity at our feeder is an orange-variant house finch. Whereas the other male finches blush redder in the cheeks and brow and chest feathers, and a little bit in the crotch of their tail, the orange-variant turns into a viable traffic cone he stands out so. He's a nice one to just stand at the window and look at a while.
The roses are pruned and fed, the garden weeded and ready for mulching, old shrubs torn out and new native shrubs sunken in. Sunflower seeds bought. The earth is good and brown, here, in this patch of earth squeezed between rows of cherries and pears. The irises like it. I had a hell of a time tearing them out. They had grown so thick their bulbs were like a bag of whole walnuts all jammed in about the bigleaf maple's roots. (Have you ever seen monkey cake? That's what the iris bulbs looked like when I pulled them out.) I sliced and dug at them mercilessly, then tore them apart as you're supposed to do and planted the full wheelbarrow of them out around the side. Still, a few iris-blades have sprung up out of the scouring. There's no getting them all out when they go unmanaged like that for years on end.
Anyways, I could meander and mumble on about plants and birds and the weather for another thousand words or so, but I'll spare both you and myself the drollery. Thanks for sticking with me as long you have. I hope it's been worth it.
That's all from the end of the river that drains into another this perhaps weekly. The pandemic's not over yet, even with everything bursting in the hope and glory of spring, the sweet taste of chocolate still on our tongues from all that Easter candy, and god knows covid's not done with us either.
But the season's only just started and there's a lot to look forward to, yet.
Bub-bye for now.