WW: Turtle boom

(Turtles have always been rare on the North Coast. Unlike the other three reptiles that manage to survive here [this one and this one and this one], they're egg layers, and the rotting wet and lack of spring sunshine makes that problematic. So it was that I, an inveterate turtle lover, had only ever found a single one in the lake I grew up on. On summer days I used row quite a distance to see him, hauled out on his log of choice.

In the intervening years the lake got severely over-developed and the swampy shore where our lone turtle lived turned into lawn. The very log he used to bask on was ripped out of the lake. Since that time, about when I was in college, I've only seen one other turtle here, in a nearby lake just a few years ago.

Then, while walking the dog near some containment ponds last week, I encountered six (!) of them, lined up on a log beneath the first real sun we've had this year. Sadly, they were too far away for a recognisable photograph, but as I rounded the corner, I found a small one, about the size of an adult's hand, close enough for my phone to steal a shot. Still too far for positive species identification, but the Western painted turtle [Chrysemys picta bellii] being functionally our only native, this is probably that.

This must be how it feels to bag a photo of Sasquatch.

Next day, a friend posted photos of a similar line of turtles in my childhood lake, about 6 miles away. Both events have blown my mind.

It's hard not to draw the conclusion that this is yet another symptom of climate disruption. Less rainfall and elevated temperatures have almost certainly raised the turtle fertility here. I'm delighted to see them, but it's one more indication that our unique North Coast environment is rapidly disappearing.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Hermit Habit

The wildlife of the North Pacific rainforest is famously reserved; where the East has its flashy cardinals, red efts, and indigo buntings, our own rubber boas, rough-skinned newts, and varied thrushes are modestly beautiful. The odd Steller's jay or goldfinch may be a pleasant change of pace, but we're satisfied to return to the brown and russet uniform of our understated nation when they've passed.

While sitting my 100 Days on the Mountain, I sometimes daydreamed about founding a North Coast-native order of forest monks. And should that fancy ever gel, we will sit in the forest of my forebears, wearing the habit of our Douglas squirrel hosts: a hooded robe of honest Cascade umber, over an ochre jersey.



(Text edited from the notes for my book, 100 Days on the Mountain. Photo of Tamiasciurus douglasii courtesy of Ivie Metzen, the US National Park Service, and Wikimedia Commons.)

WW: Large snake in the driveway

(Garter snake [Thamnophis, suspect sirtalis pickeringii], something short of 3 feet, recently awakened, and probably pregnant.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Local Boa Constrictor

So I'm breezing along a bike trail through rural country, feeling the exhilaration you get on a bike in Indian summer, when suddenly I find myself swerving hard to avoid a snake.

A large snake. Two feet plus, chocolate brown, mingled with the shadows.

Garter snakes routinely bask on that path, and what with the perfect climate and habitat, some grow quite large.

But not that large. Or that colour. And never in shade; Thamnophis is a sun-worshiper, intently keeping pace with her chosen beam as it crosses the pavement.

I hit the brakes and doubled back. And that's how I met my first wild rubber boa constrictor (Charina bottae).

Scion of an otherwise tropical family, the rubber boa lives farther from the Equator than any other. (As for the "rubber" bit, a glance at the photo here will cover that.) Thus Charina follows the pattern of North Coast reptiles: we have fewer species than other regions, but those exceptions are notably charismatic. A tradition this wayward constrictor further upholds by bearing its young live, like most other local reptiles, and then by being so uncommon, and so hyper-local, that though I grew up just 5 miles from that spot, I'd never encountered one before. The only specimen I'd ever seen, more than 40 years ago, was a captive juvenile taken in this self-same south-county microhabitat.

The heads of both were so small and sleek that telling one end from the other was initially difficult. This is part of an unorthodox defence strategy, as rubber boas hide their business end when frightened, and if the threat persists, lunge at the tormentor with their blunt head-like tail, to confuse it.

"

Those striking gold eyes, tiny for a boa, are the result not just of nocturnal habits but also the fact that rubber boas spend most of their lives – more than 50 years – beneath rotten logs and forest litter, where large corneas would be a medical liability.

But it's their disposition that's truly legendary. Charina is the Greek root of the English "charming", and likely the French câlin (cuddly, snuggly), both of which epitomise this disarmingly affable creature. When I knelt to pick it up – prudently, behind the jaws – he not only declined any attempt to bite, but even to escape. Instead he just rolled into a ball in the palm of my hand and buried his head beneath the coils.

The gentle shyness, along with the velvet softness of his liquid body, had me talking baby talk immediately.

"Funny snake," I chided, stroking his silky back. "You can't s'eep here; you'll get runned over."

As I struggled to bag a one-handed photo of his face, he eased into lazy loops and tentatively explored my gloved hand. I snapped away best I could (whatever advantages this newfangled phone photography offers, ergonomics ain't one), and shortly he relaxed, wrapping himself around my hand and wrist with real warmth.

Comparison to a long, linear cat would not be unwarranted.

I was sorely tempted to keep him, but didn't, of course. That their diet is made up almost entirely of new-born mice, and they won't even eat that half the year, was just another reason.

So I walked wistfully a ways into the trees and carefully deposited the sweet little guy on the forest floor. He edged away reluctantly, as if he'd've happily come along if asked.

How the pet industry missed this one is beyond me, but I'm glad these magical beings endure in my native forest.

WW: Hibernating snake

(Found this garter snake [Thamnophis sirtalis] asleep under a tarp that had been pulled over a stack of gardening supplies sometime last year. He didn't even flinch when I lifted the tarp, put it back, or lifted it again later to get the photo. So the dude's out for the duration.

I'll look for him out and about after things warm up.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

WW: Festive Christmas snake

(I have no idea why this garter snake is afoot – so to speak – on 23 December, in the midst of a typical cold, wet, and grey North Coast Christmas. Seen him "sunning" by the trail [in the complete absence of sun] two days in a row. Perhaps he's too excited to sleep.

Happy Holidays to all my Wordless Wednesday droogies.)

Fair Warning To Parents

I was out to the zendo a few weeks back, doing some grounds work on a beautiful spring day with no-one around but the warm sun and the cold wind. The place was alive with waking wildlife, and when I'd finished my task, I took a stroll in the woods. Near an old stump I watched a knot of electric-blue garter snakes, shiny-clean and freshly painted, untangle like a film run backwards and glide off in all directions.

By the time I got back from the truck with my camera they'd melted to untraceable rustlings, but as I searched, the groggy girl in the photo fell from a cedar onto the trail at my feet.

Meet Pseudacris regilla, the Pacific tree frog. At an inch and change, this is a big one. In this instance she was cedar green, but her race possess the ability to shift shades, and even whole colours, so she may be avocado or vibrant beryl or even tan or grey by now. But her signature mask, somewhat hard to see in this light, will remain black.

Also slightly discernible are her "garden gloves", the adhesive toe pads that allow her to climb and cling just about anywhere. I've found her ilk under my tent fly on summer mornings; stuck to my glass door at midnight, gobbing insects drawn to the light; and tucked almond-shaped between the sod and foundation of the primary school I attended. Inveterate hobos, Pacific tree frogs have been collared as far afield as Guam, having stowed away in shipments of Christmas trees.

This particular individual was well aware the place was literally crawling with her most rapacious predator, hungry and hunting after a long winter fast, and scrambled desperately up a nearby maple the instant her belly smacked the ground. I took her in hand to further ensure her survival, though as you can see from her expression, she hadn't requested assistance and was uncertain she needed any.

I grew up between a big bog and a larger lake, where each April the Biblical roar of these little prophets foretold a new millenium. (Thus their other common name, the Pacific chorus frog.) The bog has since "developed" into the Alder Terrace Mountain Valley Sherwood Forest Tree Frog Manor Kitchen Sink Estates, and with most of the lakeshore similarly McManaged, the kids in those houses know nothing of the primal thrill of a hundred thousand tiny war cries, raised in unbroken, night-filling forewarning to Grup Nation that school is about to end, love it or lump it. And in fact, the whole tribe were recently knighted Washington's official amphibian, following a petition by students at my nephew's own elementary, most of whom live in still-rural, not-yet-redeemed country.

I kept a few of these frogs on my desk for a time when I was a boy. They were fun to feed, being lively and unparticular, but their habit of croaking in chorus at sunrise elicited yawning grumbles from the family. For such morsels of mortality they can really belt it out, especially when you're in the same room. On the other hand I've had few alarm clocks as charming.

So I was glad this one lived to sing another day.