Bottom’s Up or the Parching of the Valley…

All day I’ve faced the barren waste

Without a taste of water…

Cool, clear water.

Old Cowboy Western tune

Going into Fred Meyer’s the other day, I passed a man exiting the store, his cart heaped to the brim with cases of bottled water. Just inside the door two or three customers were lined up at the fresh water kiosk. I’ve since read that east of here one of the two wells that supplies water to the little town of Startup has gone dry. I cross the Skykomish River almost daily and these days it appears more bed than river. Where there used to be swimmers, there are now waders. Everett, Seattle, and Tacoma have issued voluntary water conservation measures, urging their customers to cut back on daily water usage ten percent. All this because our endless summer has been a rainless one, and with last winter’s snowpack less than ten percent of normal, our rivers will only dwindle, become creeks, trickles even.

I can only remember one similar summer in the forty years we’ve lived here, but I also recall more rain that season during the “dry months” and though the preceding winter’s snowpack was subnormal, it was not ninety percent below normal. Usually water issues here in the Valley stem from an excess of the stuff not a dearth of it, especially the late fall months when some years past during the night I’d rise hourly and cross the road, flashlight in hand, to see what Riley Slough was “up to.”

And crossing the lower Loop Road over the bridge just two days ago where I normally see a great blue heron, knobby knee deep, or a pair of ducks, (and last summer a busy beaver),… where usually the marsh grasses ebb and flow in the gentle current like a sea hag’s hair, and minnows dimple the surface, I glanced down and was shocked to see a strange sight: Riley’s bottom. Yes, a small gravel bar, surrounded by pools and puddles, is all that currently (or should that be “current less?”) remains of Riley Slough at the crossover. No fish crossing or spawning there this fall; scarcely enough water to wet a minnow.

When the waters are parted, or in Riley’s case, dried up, oftentimes long lost civilizations emerge. Lake Mead’s drought subsidence has yielded up three submerged ghost towns, allowing the ghostly residents to wring the water from their sheets for the first time in years. When our state’s Wanapum Dam on the Columbia was found to have a crack in its spillway, repairs required the reservoir to be drawn down twenty-six feet, a subsidence that left structures submerged for fifty-two years high and dry. (That old swing set the glider component of which nearly crushed my fingers must still be rusting away forty feet below the surface of reservoir behind Douglas County’s Wells Dam Hydroelectric Project.) Hoping to see some long submerged artifact, I peered over the railing at Riley’s bottom but instead of an ancient native firepit or moccasined footprint, I saw nothing but rocks and gravel.

Just last weekend I watched a segment about water on CBS’s “Sunday Morning.” The piece highlighted a Navajo Indian Reservation in New Mexico. None of the “rez” residents have running water in their homes. Within the reservation’s borders there is only one well with potable water. Navajo with vehicles drive upwards of fifty miles one way to fill five gallon buckets with water then drive the fifty miles back with their water ration.  Navajo who don’t own vehicles obtain their water from the Reservation’s sole water truck which because of the territory and families it serves delivers water once a month. That delivery of two to three fifty gallon barrels per stop must last a family until the next delivery. I saw a family of four—grandmother, mother, and two grandchildren—wash their hair in a plastic tub, each using the same water so as not to waste a drop. The reservation is not without other wells, but the Navajo who drank from them became ill from contaminated water, residue from uranium mining of the 40’s and 50’s. Hydrologists believe aquifers 600 feet underground are also rife with pollutants. Deeper wells are needed but there’s the cost (always the cost): the state and county believe it’s the Fed’s responsibility to foot the bill for deep wells; the Fed passes the buck back to the state…states’ rights, you know… the state's responsibility. I think of our great republic where the average American uses 100 gallons of water a day while on American soil descendants of our indigenous peoples—and the WWII Code talkers-- as if they were a 3rd World Country people, must share the same water to wash their hair.

                                                                                                                                                        …Where the water’s running free,

                                                                                                                                                       and it’s waiting there for you and me,

                                                                                                                                                      cool, clear water… (same old western tune)

 

As Gladys and I wobbled home, I saw the Valley under serious irrigation: the dairies’ big manure sprinklers spraying clear water on the hayfields, Willie Green’s acres of leaf crops drinking up the water from irrigation pipelines, sprinklers going in chard and kale fields (saving our food, my brother says), and Van Hulles’ pastures. I think about a conversation I had with Shay Hollander who floated the Sky from the first launch site on Ben Howard Road. Shay said it took his party nearly three hours to float to Monroe, twice the normal amount of time. I think about our shallow water table and drilled well which has delivered like “Old Faithful”for forty years—only twenty-seven feet deep. (Our old dairy farmer neighbor Herman Zylstra witched our well and when Rob Aurdal drilled it, Herman urged him to drill another four to five feet deeper. “Don’t need to,” Rob replied. “They’ll have all the water they need right here.” And with that, Rob packed up his drilling rig and drove off into the sunset. Old timers have told us we’ll not lack for water as long as there’s water in the Sky. But now waders are crossing the river at will and river bars used to rushing current bask exposed in the ninety degree heat. I’m not saying I want to be on flood watch hour on the hour. But I would like to wash my hair more than once a month. There’s not much of it left. Just a few drops of water is all I'd need… a few drops of cool, clear water.                                                                                                  

                                                                                                                                                     He’ll hear our prayer

                                                                                                                                                    And show us where there’s water,

                                                                                                                                                    Cool clear water

                                                                                                                                                                                  ( there’s that old tune again…)

…in the Cool of the Morning…

At six a.m. the world hasn’t had time to make trouble.

Sparrow, “Small Happiness,” The Sun magazine (July 2015)

Too many ninety degree plus days this summer and all this heat has certainly gone to my head. Case in point: I recall a dialogue between two acquaintances on the light-hearted subject of death. Party number one mused  sorrowfully that he’d miss certain things when he was dead. Party number two exclaimed: “What are you talking about? You won’t miss anything! You’ll be dead!” An abrupt end to that conversation.

Right about that, I thought, and at that point decided to take charge of their aborted exchange, redirect the tack of the subject, and set my compass to a more positive heading: “What are the those small things during the day I enjoy?”  In other words, “live in the moment.” I set myself the task of coming up with something that gave me a small happiness during the day. Day One: being able to awake, rise, and greet the new day. Day Two: Ahhhh, that first sip of morning coffee. Day three: sitting out in the evening, watching the commercial jetliners pass overhead en route to Sea-Tac, thinking about the passengers, the places they’ve been, their happy reunions at the airport with loved ones. (This small thing is a big deal to one who nearly lost the sight in his right eye twelve years ago). Day Four: continuing the vision thread, the garden these days is bursting with color, dahlias, zinnias, nasturtiums, morning glory; I see the colors through the eyes of an impressionist painter.

I’m up early, in the cool of the morning and cup of coffee in hand, have fed and watered the livestock (four chickens) and am now sauntering through the rows of garden produce. The day will be another scorcher, in the high 90’s, they’ve predicted. We’ve not had any measurable precipitation since June 1. At day’s end the cucumbers and squash vines are steamrollered by the weight of the sun. Ten minutes in the garden brings the handkerchief to the brow; the shirt clings to the skin, prelude to an afternoon shower.

But now I’m enjoying the gift of dew the night has left the Valley, and before Ol’ Sol wreaks its vengeance on the day, I wander the rows of beans and corn, sloshing coffee as I go. Dew: yes, the Valley does do dew; hardly a summer morning without droplets pendant from tips of leaves. Pearly teardrops pooled in the crowns of new corn remind me of my old friend Lester Broughton who was Valley-wise even though he lived in town. The first year we owned this slim acre, before our house was built, before the well was drilled, we planted our first garden, and I shared with Les the concern that we lacked means of irrigation. “Don’t need to worry about water,” he replied. “You get dew every night. That’s all the water the corn needs.” And he was right. Dew… I think about the naturalist Charles Darwin who observed that in the arid plains of Patagonia lizards and mice survive in substantial numbers without rain, subsisting on droplets of dew that collect during the night.

A month and a half without rain here in the Valley. Nearly a dozen days of ninety degree plus temps. But this morning the thirsty garden drinks. I have my coffee; the garden sips its dew.

Upgrades Planned for the Tualco Valley Speedway…

As Gladys and I approached Riley Slough Bridge # 155 a couple mornings ago, I remembered a conversation I’d had with Kevin Olson at Fred Meyer’s the other day. After we exchanged a few routine pleasantries, Kevin blurted out the question: “Say, do you know where the County Sheriff’s office is located?” I didn’t. Such a strange question…right out of the blue. Kevin told me the office had moved to some other location. On these hot days, Kevin told me, kids are swimming at High Bridge and when they return, some do so at a high rate of speed, racing even, on the straight stretch approaching the bridge. Kevin lives on the northwest side of Bridge 155 and cars speeding across the bridge and past his doorstep puts his safety in jeopardy. He told me during one trip to the mail box his wife had to scramble out of the way of one of the racing vehicles, no easy thing to do since she’s nursing a sore knee. Kevin thought he’d drop by the sheriff’s office, let them know about the problem to urge law enforcement to do a little extra patrolling out in the Valley. I shared with him my incident on the Lower Loop bridge when a birder and I had to hug the rail to avoid being struck by a vehicle driven by a young male. He and his passenger breezed by us at fifty mph plus as if we weren’t even there. Yes: The Tualco Valley Speedway (TVS) where the posted thirty-five mph speed limit is not just a suggestion; it’s a joke…as is the fact there’s little or no enforcement of it.

That’s not likely to change. In fact it appears the County is trending more towards making the TVS less a Le Mans type course—one with fewer turns--and more an oval track configuration. “Want to hear a good story?” Kevin asked.  I nodded because there’s nothing The Ripple likes better than a good story. Kevin moved a step closer and shared some news that in the telling set his handlebar mustache a’ quiver.

Sometime in April Kevin noticed a couple County workers milling around Bridge 155. They were toting official-looking clipboards (Kevin didn’t say, but aren’t they always?). Now a government official carrying a clipboard can mean only one thing: change is in the wind. (I remember a few years back when I spied a couple clipboard toting WASDOT workers defacing our driveway with day-glo pink arrows, precursor to a turn lane project that disrupted our lives for six months). Kevin out went to investigate, to see which way the wind was about to blow, so to speak. “The County is going to replace the bridge,” Kevin exclaimed, “They plan to straighten out the blind corner and make the bridge approach a straight shot. You know what that means, don’t you? (I could see the static electricity building in that moustache.) I had hardly come to terms with Kevin’s news when he continued, “They’ll have to take the house and the outbuildings. That’s the only way they could do it!” I had to agree: the jog elbows east. To eliminate the curve, the County would have construct its replacement on the west side of the current bridge. I asked Kevin if the County would purchase the property at fair market value or impose imminent domain. Kevin didn’t know and said the County had yet to contact his landlord.

Kevin has lived in that rustic little cottage through three landlord changes. He survived the flood of 1990 when the slough lapped at his doorstep. In other words he has a history with the property and a new bridge would certainly rearrange his life for him. According to the County engineers the average daily traffic that crosses the bridge is 700 vehicles, a statistic that Kevin finds incredulous. As do I; the Frohnings don’t go for coffee that often. And even with me jumping up and down on that rubber snake across the road to make the little black box clickety–click wouldn’t account for much of an increase. During the ten minutes’ time it took me to take the attached photos only three vehicles crossed the bridge, one of them a farm ATV. “They’re going to spend 4.2 million of our dollars just to accommodate farm equipment and dairy cows?” By this time that moustache was sparking. “If seven hundred vehicles cross that bridge every day…well, they can…they can just…,” he spluttered and went on to suggest the County engineers do something I’m sure isn’t written in their job description. “And besides, the Slough is salmon habitat. What about that?” We both wondered how the County could have sidestepped that issue. I left Kevin fuming somewhere between the bananas and soft fruit sections and finished my shopping.

The Ripple decided to look into the County’s bold plans for Bridge 155. I found the entire project overview on line and will share some of the highlights from the twenty-nine pages of project application (search “Riley Slough Bridge Project” for specifics of the entire project). Timeline: preliminary study 4/’15 (Kevin’s County clipboard personnel); right-of way work starts 7/’16; bridge construction proper begins 8/’18; new bridge opens to traffic 11/’19. The replacement bridge will be a “3-span concrete girder structure on driven piles” (and all this in salmon habitat, mind). The length will stay at 200’ but an additional two feet will be added to the width (28’ to 30’). According to the overview the total cost of the project is 4.4 million, a figure that will no doubt budge taxpayers’ property taxes (and, fellow citizens, don’t forget you’ll soon be funding a new County Courthouse). The County expects bridge crossings to double in the future, from an average of 528 vehicles per day (10 % truck traffic) to over a 1,000. Where those projections come from, I have no idea. Given the jog in the bridge approach thus a blind corner, one might think safety could be a factor in replacing the bridge; however, according to the project stats there has been only one “collision” in the vicinity of the bridge since 2007. The solitary incident happened in  March 30, 2010…and 240’ south of the bridge. A vehicle struck a “tree or stump.” In broad daylight, too. No injuries reported.

Consider the TVS for a moment. If the kink in the road is straightened, Valley racers will have an extra quarter mile north of the bridge added to the straight stretch that begins at the intersection of the Upper and Lower Loop roads…a full half mile to “see what this baby’ll do.” County engineers cite their reason for adding an additional two feet to the bridge width as a consideration for “pedestrian safety.” In all the years Gladys and I have pedaled across Bridge 155 we have yet to see a single pedestrian hoofing his way across. However, if you unkink it, maybe they will come…from far and wide…to watch the races.

What is Rarer Than a Day in June?…

The answer? A monarch butterfly here in the Valley. The other day with hardly a flutter of wings, like an orange silk scarf loosed in the wind, one floated in on the afternoon breeze, glided about the garden, drifted from one patch of flowers to another. Choosing our aptly named “butterfly bush” (buddleia), it settled briefly to nectar… just long enough for me to snap a digital record of this highly unusual event. In forty years I’ve seen only one other monarch butterfly in the Valley and that was over twenty years ago.

There is no more iconic  North American butterfly than the monarch (Danaus plexippus). When people who can name or identify no other butterfly (even the cabbage white) hear the word “monarch,” the word “butterfly” immediately comes to mind. But for most laymen, that’s where the knowledge trail ends. From that point any large, colorful butterfly must be a “monarch.” Years ago a small local periodical—The Sky Valley News—or something to that effect printed its summer issue. The cover page featured a full page black and white photo of a “large” butterfly. Beneath its banner ran this headline: “You know it’s summer when the Sky Valley Monarchs are on the wing.” The featured butterfly is a harbinger of summer in the Sky Valley. True. But a monarch? Far from it. The cover page featured instead a western tiger swallowtail (Papilio rutulus), a large yellow butterfly with distinct black tiger stripes and a tail on the trailing end of each hind wing. The headline made me chuckle, and I’ve often shared the paper’s error with others more in tune with the natural world. They chuckle, too. Although the monarch is much in the news these days, most folks are not able to distinguish one large butterfly from another. Oftentimes when I’m afield with my insect net and meet hikers or passersby curious about my activity, once I tell them I’m questing for butterflies, they are quick to inform me they “saw a monarch the other day.” I politely inform them, no, what they most likely saw was an in season western tiger swallowtail.

The monarch’s markings are distinct: orange (not yellow) with black venation (not stripes), its thorax salted with white dots. The monarch is more a glider, a drifter than a flutterer (like the western tiger swallowtail); it uses air currents to good purpose, a trait that enables this unique butterfly to migrate great distances. One of the most memorable experiences in this butterfly fancier’s life was a warm September afternoon spent on my sister’s lawn in Omaha where the monarchs were on the wing. They slalomed through the trees, drifted with the breeze, and costumed in orange and black, they performed an aerial ballet. I was spellbound.

The backyard monarch magic I witnessed was just a small number of a great swarm of insects en route to the oyamel forests of Michoacan, Mexico. The true renown of the monarch is its annual trans-continent migration. The monarchs that entertained me in Omaha that September aftenoon would pass through countless backyards before they arrived at their mountain destination in Mexico where by the thousands they will cling to the mountain firs. There, draped from the branches like autumn leaves, they’ll winter. Come spring, the return trip--unlike spawning salmon—no monarch will complete. But their offspring and their offspring’s offspring will, as far north as—and some beyond—the Canadian border where they’ll summer until their genomic trigger sends them winging southward again.

North America has two populations of monarchs: those east of the Rocky Mountain Divide and the enclave west of the Rockies. The latter population migrates to the eucalyptus groves of coastal California, Pacific Grove, Monterey County. Both eastern and western populations journey thousands of miles annually to reach their respective wintering grounds. Monarchs belong to subfamily Danidae or milkweed butterflies. As the larvae feed on their milkweed host plant, they extract toxins which are stored in their tissues and render them as adults unpalatable to avian predators (unlike the western tiger whose wings by season’s end are shredded by bird strikes).

Monarch populations are dwindling in North America. The biggest cause is habitat destruction. As agriculture, industry and housing projects increase, stands of milkweed disappear. Pesticides and herbicides used to control roadside vegetation kill both monarch larvae and their host plant. Because of extensive logging of the oyamel forests, monarchs’ wintering grounds have been reduced to mere acres. West coast populations are imperiled by the same factors. Monarch conservationists have mounted extensive campaigns to educate Americans to the plight of this truly American icon. Dr. Chip Taylor of Kansas University has founded The Monarch Watch project, a program to study monarch migration patterns and behaviors and educate people on the natural history of this beautiful but imperiled butterfly. Taylor and volunteers tag monarchs and release them in hopes whoever finds them will respond to the contact information on the tags and provide valuable data to help better understand and sustain the species. Some mid-west farmers are setting aside acreage to allow milkweed to flourish and backyard gardeners are encouraged to add milkweed to their landscaping—and avoid pesticide applications. In fact if it weren’t for our backyard butterfly bush, the rare appearance of our monarch here in the Valley may well have gone unnoticed.

(An added note on this topic. From time to time around town I see the van of a local pest control company. The rig is painted a tasteful green but plastered across the rear panels of the van where one might expect to see a giant mosquito, wasp, or whiskered rat with its ropey tail curling across the back doors is painted instead a large, beautiful monarch butterfly as if to say: “One call and your monarch problems are over.”)

Hinchliffe’s A Butterfly Atlas of Washington State gives only one Snohomish County record for Danaus plexippus. The site is near the border of Snohomish and Skagit Counties. In my collection of Washington State butterflies I have only one monarch from the state, a male I collected in 1989 in Douglas County (a county record according to Hinchliffe’s 1996 Atlas). As for our backyard beauty, “she” has appeared six times in the last two weeks. Day before yesterday she bullied a western tiger from the buddleia; yesterday afternoon she was unwilling to share the bush with an American Painted Lady (Vanessa cardui). If she returns—and I hope she does, I have no intention of including her in my collection. Not only did she lift my spirits, she was gracious enough to allow me three photos and gift me with a special memory. Besides, I’ve been to Pacific Grove and Monterey, loved both places. And though her journey will be long, in no way would I deprive her of the experience.

A Tisket, A Tasket, a Nest in a Basket: a Lesson in Natural History from the Backyard…

For some reason the backyard birds believe our fuschia baskets are hung  there for their nesting convenience. A few years back a robin nested in one, laid a clutch of eggs, and fledged them out. Last year a pair of dark-eyed juncos (Junco hyemalis) appropriated a basket and we enjoyed watching the nesting cycle, didn’t mind the least sharing our blooming basket with them. Compared to the conspicuous nesting routines of robins (we usually have a pair nest in our woodshed each year), juncos are subtle nesters; if one weren’t a careful observer of his yard and landscaping, juncos could go through an entire nesting cycle unnoticed. If it weren’t for the fact the baskets hung from the soffits above our deck and needed frequent watering, I doubt we’d have discovered the nest.

The dark-eyed junco, generally referred to as a “snowbird,” is one Little Brown Bird easily identified: the male with his dark chocolate head, that of the missus more milk chocolate. In flight, going away, both flash white tail feathers. During the winter months juncos frequent our backyard feed station in abundance, perhaps the explanation of why so many pairs nest here in the summer. On those rare winters when snow fell on our deck we’d throw out a handful of birdseed for the juncos’ repast—and the cat’s amusement.

The frugal gardener that I am, I cut back the fuschia plants in the hanging baskets and winter them over where they hang during the summer months. During periods of below freezing temps, I move them into the garage or shed until the weather moderates. Usually I can sustain the baskets two or three years, saving the expense of replacing them every spring. When I trimmed the baskets last fall, I was careful to leave the junco nest intact, hoping to have our lodgers return again come summer.

Summer came; the robins nested; white-crowned sparrows; and juncos. But our fuschia nest remained empty. When I saw the first junco fledglings about the place, I thought for sure we were destined to be empty nesters for the summer. I wasn’t aware of a “second settin,’”however; juncos, I learned, have two broods a season, a fact confirmed when the other day I saw flash of brown dart from the maple tree, touch down on the roof, and dive into the fuschia leaves. An inspection of the basket next day told me renovation of last year’s nest was underway. My next inspection two days later showed a complete overhaul of the nest, fresh straw and grass perfectly cupped to junco size.

Tuesday this week I gently removed the basket and discovered the nest held a tidy freckled egg. Even though Ms. junco was nowhere to be seen, I knew she was watching nearby, wondering what business I had fussing with her nest. I learned from last year’s nest cycle that the female leaves the nest unattended during the day, returns at night and sometime before dawn lays another egg. Sure enough, Wednesday morning a pair of eggs lay in the nest. Thursday, three. Yesterday morning the female didn’t leave the nest. I knew she had laid the fourth egg earlier and had begun to incubate the clutch of four. A gentle shake of the basket dislodged her and off she flew, allowing me to inspect her nest, which, as last year contained the fourth and final egg. I hated to disturb her, was certain another egg was added to clutch, but having a “loaded” bird nest in a hanging basket that required frequent watering presented a problem. Before mama settled into her two week incubation period, I wanted to give the basket a thorough watering. I rehung the dripping basket and in less than five minutes with a flash of brown, a rustling of leaves, Missus returned.

She stayed there all day. And this morning when I checked the nest through the window, I could see her jaunty little tail among the leaves. For two weeks she’ll set the nest. Except for a watering or two I’ll try not disturb her.

Two weeks from now when the feeding routine begins, we’ll enjoy watching the male and female “sneak” their way in and out of the nest. It’s local entertainment. And it’s free. These days it doesn’t take much excitement to keep us entertained .

Ding Dong, the Queen is Dead, The Wicked Queen is Dead…

The honeybee is wicked, boss,

Wicked as a weasel,

And when she sits down on you, boss,

She leaves a little measle.

Don Marquis/Archie and Mehitabel

“Mom can’t pick a flower that grows in this yard without getting a bee sting,” I said. “We can’t play in this yard without our gettin’ five or six stings apiece. We have to go to the woods to play. The bees have not only the yard but part of the upstairs.”

Jesse Stuart “The Battle with the Bees”

We’ve had our own battle with the bees here this summer, and unlike Pa in Jesse Stuart’s folktale  “The Battle with the bees,” our goal was never to have one thousand beehives on the place. As it turns out, however, we did have one hive too many. The colony at issue was one beekeepers call a “hot” hive. Just plain nasty this one was, aggressive and hot-tempered. Working in the garden, the yard…anywhere on the place we were harassed by over protective guard bees. Whenever I inspected the hive, the bees resented my intrusion and for three days afterwards they were quick to seek me out whenever I was outside. Several times they drove my wife to the house. I would look up just in time to see her making a beeline across the yard, her arms flailing away at the air around her head as she swatted her way to safety. Then, finding the object of their disaffection gone, I became her proxy.  Gardening is not an easy task with two or three angry bees constantly circling your head like satellites, a diversion unpleasant, one no gardener needs. Pulling weeds is difficult enough without worrying about a bee flying up your nose each time you stooped. Over the course of a month I think we shared a half dozen stings from “hive nasty.” I’ve been around honeybees nearly all my life and am usually not intimidated by my bees or another beekeeper’s, but this hive was something else. Sometimes I would stop work, take off my ball cap, and say: “Ok, lady, if that’s the way you want it, you and me are going to tangle,” and using my cap as a swatter, I’d try to dash the offender from the air, knock her to the ground and stomp her. Seldom did our battle end in a draw; I’m proud to admit I did quite a bit of stomping. Once, however, one angry little missus executed a perfect aerial feint, slipped under the slap and nailed me inside my left ear. For the next two nights I slept on my right side.

Clearly something had to be done. At least twice after inspecting the hive I cautioned our neighbor about working in her garden, told her perhaps she might want to postpone her weeding until the evening. I was most afraid my three-year old grandson would fall victim to their wrath, and the last thing I wanted was for him to be, as Jesse Stuart would phrase it, “skeered” of bees. I knew the problem lay not with my combatants in the field but their mistress. Our hostile insects simply were following the genetic design laid out for them by Queen Mother’s genome. Yes, it’s the queen bee that sets the temperament of the colony. Somewhere on her chromosomal blueprint was a dominate gene for nastiness, a genetic callout to her minions to go out and spread her evil.

My friend Jim at the Beez Neez Apiary Supply has the twenty foot rule: if guard bees pursue the beekeeper that distance from their hive, it’s time to deal with the queen. When I inspected hive nasty, the vigilantes followed me to another colony over one hundred feet away. It was as if I had a Perseid meteor shower of bees ricocheting off my veil and helmet the entire distance. (One characteristic of Africanized bees is their tenacious pursuit of an intruder for nearly a quarter mile from their nest.) Without question her royal nastiness had to go. Her replacement cost me thirty-thee dollars (long gone the days of a penny slice of bread, thirty-five cent a gallon gas, and five dollar queens). I had found my nemesis queen a few days before, plucked her off the comb and put her beneath a shallow comb super with undrawn comb following the rule of thumb a queen will not cross undrawn foundation to access drawn comb above. Sprained that thumb as I found new eggs laid in the super above the shallow. I thought I had her corralled, easy to find, but when I purchased a new thirty-three dollar Carniolan queen, the reigning monarch was nowhere to be found. I overnighted the queen regent successor on a queen excluder, went into the hive the next day and finally found her royal nastiness hiding out on a pollen frame. I pinched her swiftly, execution style, and installed the new queen only to find her dead in the cage two days later. Back to the Beez Neez  and thirty-three dollars later brought home the second replacement. Two days later her new subjects had yet to release her, so I pulled the candy plug and watched her rush out and scramble into the hive.

Jim said the hive will maintain its nastiness for at least six weeks, the amount of time for the new genetics to kick in and new field workers to take flight . After losing the first queen, I was uncertain if this recalcitrant colony would accept any queen at all. A week passed before I inspected the colony. I found the new queen and she was running the operation, showing a nice egg pattern and cells brimming with new larvae. My sense of relief was somewhat tempered by five stings but that’s nothing compared to the pain of another thirty-three bucks. So “the queen is dead. Long live the queen.” Since the old monarch was deposed, my pugnacious colony seems a kinder and gentler bunch of bees, and although I haven’t bothered them in over two weeks and the summer honey flow is now a diversion for them, I’m cautiously optimistic the new queen has squelched the anger management issues.

Perhaps pinching a queen to death seems a bit harsh to you. I suppose I could have thrown a pail of water on her, but I doubt very much she’d have melted.

LBB…

is the birders’ generic term for any “little brown bird” that flits through the underbrush, from branch to branch, in and out of foliage so quickly identification is impossible. LBBs make up a large portion of the avian world  (one-third of the color plates in my Birds of Washington field guide are coded with a brown half moon), so whether that flash of brown in the bush is a sparrow, thrush, or wren usually leads to an animated discussion among a flock of birders.

I had an LBB sighting of another sort the other day. My wife and I were sitting in the living room taking a breather from chores, making small talk when a floppy fluttering movement entered my peripheral vision. I looked out the deck door just in time to see a leathery dark form flop against the screen door and cling there. Sure enough we were having an LBB visitation. A little brown bat now clung to our backdoor screen. Bats are creatures of the night, nocturnal death to mosquitoes and other night flying bugs. “So,” I wondered, “why is this LBB flying about at midday and a bright, sunny one at that?” I stepped out on the deck to get a closer look.

Bats are not the stuff beauty pageants are made of; they’re sinister creatures perhaps best described by the adjective “creepy”: translucent, veiny wings that fold up like an oriental fan, hook-like claws, squat, mousy bodies with fur that seems to say “home sweet home to fleas” ears perky like a cat’s and a face only a bat mother could love (“blind as a bat” is surely mama bat’s blessing), a nose like plastic surgery gone wrong, and a miniature set of fangs no finger should tangle with.

Over the years here in the Valley we have had many batty experiences: being buzzed by them summer eves in our alcove; watching their twilight exodus from Bach’s barn, entire squadrons of flying mammals winging their way through the fading colors of a Valley sunset, silhouetted against the glow of evening like Halloween construction paper cutouts; up too close and personal when one squeezed its way between chimney and drywall and began swooping back and forth along the ceiling, sending the wife scurrying on all fours to crouch under the nearest piece of furniture. The intruder darted out to our sunroom where it adhered itself to a skylight well. I scooped it up in my insect net and released it outside. Nothing too unique about these encounters…bats, like moles, just a part of the Valley experience….

Until one winter evening during the Christmas season. Against the winter’s chill, we decided to build a cheery fire in the fireplace. Later that night the comforting warmth of crackling hemlock gave way to a smell so caustic it singed our Christmas spirit. It was then I remembered the living room bat experience: one bat, I reasoned, couldn’t have raised such a stink: it must belong to a colony. I investigated further and discovered bats were hibernating in the dead air space between the chimney and the inner wall, (thus the living room intruder).The stench? Bat urine and guano, the summer’s accumulation, warmed by the evening’s fire, which understandably was our last of the season.

One evening next spring I staked out our chimney and sure enough around dusk a number of bats exited the chimney flashing and took flight. The next day I called the County Extension Office (back in those friendlier pre-budget cut days) and jokingly asked if they had a batman I could talk to. My call was promptly transferred to their batcave. I was connected to the Extension’s bat expert, an enthusiastic fellow brimming with bat facts. We must have talked for half an hour. I shared our bat issues, told batman: nothing personal against bats but I would prefer not sharing the same living space with them. “I’m not surprised, he replied, “Bats seek out warm, sheltered places to winter…like your chimney space,” he chuckled and continued. “ A fellow in Goldbar called me to his home where I discovered a colony of seventy-five bats living in his attic. “Here’s what you do,” he advised me, “Go out this evening, count the bats as they come out, and note their exit point. The next evening count them again and when your recount matches the previous number, climb up and plug the access hole.” At dusk the next evening remove the plug to allow any stragglers to exit and replug the opening.”

The stakeout at dusk. First one bat took flight, then another, followed by a third, a fourth…. They shot out of the flashing like winged fireballs from a roman candle. Thirty-two I counted before the activity ceased.  Thirty-two; now I didn’t quite know what to do. That guy in Goldbar had seventy-five. Should I try for a record? Just a fleeting thought. As per batman’s instructions, the next night I noted the exit of thirty-two leathery creatures, then climbed the ladder and plugged their access. If memory serves, the next day a brace of bats, probably juveniles, puzzled over being displaced, clung on the siding by their old nest. Another wriggled its way under a bamboo shade on one of the sunroom windows. The follow-up unplugging, I recall, yielded no more bats, and except for a re-roofing project which uncovered and scattered two more small colonies living beneath the old shakes, our LBB issues disappeared.

Until the other day when our little visitor came out of nowhere and fastened itself to our screen door which leads back to the question: “What brought this creature of the night to our screen door at midday?” Unless its colony is disturbed, a bat flying in daytime is highly unusual and though no cause for undue alarm, warrants caution. Bats are among the few warm-blooded mammals known to be carriers of rabies, and strange bat behavior may indicate the animal has health issues. The County Extension’s batman told me he could not recall a rabid bat being found in Snohomish County; regardless bats should not be handled barehanded dead or alive (remember the tiny mouth with tiny fangs?). Bearing all this in mind, I brought out the insect net, scooped the LBB gently from the screen, carried it to the back of the property, and carefully shook it out in the tall grass. I was careful not to touch it.

Note: if you have bat issues, questions about Pacific Northwest LBBs, or are just plain batty, you’ll find the website batsnorthwest. org helpful.