Mount Hood in Early June...Birds, Butterflies and the Mountain

    Caitlin LaBar had thrown down the gauntlet.  There were two rare ladies out there for the plucking.  and to see them, you needed to go to altitude.  

My new best friends.

     With that admonition to guide us, Sandra and I headed up to Mount Hood.  We picked the day that was supposed to be the best in a PNW spring of cool rainy weather.  We made it to Timberline Lodge in time to enjoy a cup of coffee while we watched the sunny day unfold on the snowcapped mountain.  Part of the fun is seeing who shows up for coffee.  That morning we were joined by a couple who sounded like they were from somewhere far away but claimed to be from Lake Oswego (the affluent suburb of Portland). 

   After I polished off two cups, it was time to take a walk outside.  My new best friends were there, and I talked them into letting me take their picture.  The gentleman introduced himself and it turned out they were originally from Mumbai.  I noted that (Bombay) was one of the world's great cities and he smiled and said that it was one of the world's biggest cities.  I guess that's why they moved to Oregon, where I suppose he works for Intel or maybe the university.  

   And, by the way, it isn't like Portland doesn't come with its own set of problems. Maybe Portland is the Bombay of the Pacific Northwest!  The Indians have Bollywood and we have Portlandia...the similarities go on and on.

Chipping Sparrows breed right up to the timberline.

    Having ascertained that the weather outside was delightful, I was able to talk my sweetie into a walk, get some of that fresh mountain air in her lowland lungs.  Almost immediately I spotted a small bird on the ground. He was working his way around fallen spruce boughs and some low-lying purple heather.  Through the binoculars I was pleased to see that this was a chipping sparrow.  Who knew this species would occur at 6,000 feet?  As we listened, I could hear its rapid trill.  What a treat.  

   We walked about a hundred yards up the trail, gaining maybe, 150 vertical feet.  From that vantage point we could look back down on Timberline Lodge with its iconic weathervane and Mt. Jefferson peaking over the roofline, less than 50 miles away as the sparrow flies.  It's a lot further by car.

   The day was getting warmer and it was time take the Caitlin LaBar challenge.  We boarded the faithful Mazda and descended half a mile and 500 vertical feet to the National Forest campground.  We made a u turn and parked outside the locked gate.  I immediately saw a butterfly, but he was gone by the time I hopped out and retrieved my net.  We plunged into action, wondering how many butterflies we would need to net before we found an American or West Coast Lady.  

An AI of West Coast Lady nectaring on Prostrate Speedwell

    While we were trooping around the emerging plants near the campground entrance, which should be a glorious aster meadow of asters in a couple weeks, I noted that the heather that I had seen above the lodge had been replaced by a low lying purple flower with light yellow centers.  I took its picture and then asked Goggle lens to identify it.  The ID came back Prostrate Speedwell.  I had to smile, in as much as this sounds like a favorable visit to the urologist.  

    Hee I am showing you one of my AI mash ups with a West Coat Lady nectaring on Protrate Speedwell.  If C. LaBar had only been correct, we could have showed you an original photo.  Quel dommage.

    Sadly, that solitary insect was a most cruel red herring.   As the gate was locked, we had the campground all to ourselves and we worked it diligently for over two hours.  In that time we saw one orange butterfly as it flew away.  We did see another chipping sparrow, but that was thin gruel when you hoped for a West Coast Lady.

A curious Gray Jay drops by for a look.

    About an hour into this futile pilgrimage, we sat on a picnic table in the shade of some spruce and Douglas Fir.  As we rested, we heard chipping Sparrows trilling and the curious call of numerous Varied Thrush.  You can imitate this call by simultaneously humming and whistling, so it's sort of a monotone melodious buzz.  The shade was nice, the warming air smelled of growing conifers, and it was just about perfect.  At that moment a pair of Gray Jays landed in the fir right by the table, 

   Is this heaven?  No, it's Oregon. (Field of Dreams, loosely)

    A bit later, Sandra decided she had had enough of this nonsense and retired to the car where a crossword puzzle and a comfy seat were preferable to futile searching.  I went across the highway to what I thought was my secret butterfly meadow up a fenced dirt road.  In what I had assumed to be my personal space, I found that the orcs had arrived and left two sawhorses and a couple large plastic pipes.  This can't be a good thing.  Are they going to drain heaven?

   Well, there were no orcs and there were just a few butterflies.  A potential lady that fled into the woods and a Sulphur, Western or Orange, that floated by ten yards away.  

Lupine Blue, Government Camp, June 2, 2026

   By the time I got back to the car, Sandra was ready for lunch.  As little was happening on the mountain we descended to Government Camp and took our picnic to the back porch of the ski school.  There, in the shade, we enjoyed the view, ham sandwiches, some apple slices and cookies. As we dined, a few small butterflies flew by, a blue and two small rufous.  

    After lunch we trooped the ski area cum meadow.  After half an hour we were about ready to give up when Sandra caught our one prize for the day.  Here you see a Lupine Blue, certified by the oracle of Longview.  We took one picture in the laboratory then moved outside where we let him crawl on a rhododendron leaf.  The outside light really improved the photo.  He opened up for about two seconds, revealing a pewter blue wing and the characteristic orange markings.  He then closed up and flew away.  

   Congrats to Sandra for saving us from a skunk. 

Here is an AI image of a Lupine Blue nectaring on a wild buckwheat flower.  Curiously, I saw this flower growing in the ski school field.  I had no idea what it was or that it might be important.  The Lupine Blue uses the buckwheat for nectaring and as a host plant.

  We had one more goal for this day.  In two weeks, we will be hosting our nephews at a condo in Welches, a resort community about ten miles down the mountain from Government Camp.  We wanted to check out the condo, so we pulled onto Welches Road and, thinking I knew the way, proceeded to drive deep into the forest.  I thought it was only going to be a mile or two, but we went much further than that.  The road got narrower and giant potholes appeared.  I felt like Frodo and his hobbit friends as they descended into the valley of the Withywindle.  I could almost hear the trees considering our doom.  Would Tom Bombadil come to save us?  

The Red-headed Sapsucker

    Finally, we reached a spot where a dozen cars were parked.  Just past this spot, an orange striped barrel indicated a pothole that extended almost all the way across the road.  We manage to get around the pothole, turn the car around and escape.  As we ascended from the valley I thought I could hear Goldberry singing, something about the master of the wood and you were lucky you didn't break an axel.  

   Back at U.S. 26, we stopped at a gas station where the attendant, who may well have been related to old Bombadil, told us that the condo, Shadowhawk, or something like that, was only a mile down the road.  We retraced our route, with only a modicum of trepidation, and found the condo.  As we parked. a red headed sapsucker flew onto the trunk of the tree right by the car.  This handsome beast is one of the three varieties of the Yellow Bellied Sapsucker and not particularly unusual in western Oregon.  Perhaps it was the shade, but this guy had a particularly red head.  

   We disembarked, found our condo-to-be and walked to the Salmon River where there is a gravel trail leading above the stream.  More adventures await.

jeff

     

     

Captain Clark Park, Butterflies, Birds and Bathers

    Yesterday Sandra and I wanted to go look for butterflies but didn't want to go for a long drive.  We chose an excursion to Captain Clark Park at Cottonwood Beach, which lies in front of the industrial area known as the Port of Washougal.  This might be a little confusing if you think of a port as the place where boats come and take stuff away.  In this instance, trucks and trains come and take stuff away, the only boats are little run abouts and jet skis that launch somewhere else and make it to the park. 

A male Yellowthroat sings for his supper.

 

     As one enters the park, he is obliged to walk on a trail that traverses a moist cottonwood forest.  So moist that until about the middle of May it is a swamp based on the level of the nearby Columbia River.   Beside the trail there are stands of stinging nettles, which theoretically might harbor Vanessa butterfly caterpillars.  We have never seen Red Admirals or Painted Ladies on these nettles, but it doesn't stop us from hoping.  

    Yesterday was no different, and we traversed the swamp without encountering any butterflies and found ourselves a picnic table in the shade of some river front cottonwoods.  A grassy strip with shelters for dining extends about a mile here, with the cottonwood swamp backing the land side and cottonwoods stretching along the Columbia.  And the Columbia rolls on, just like it says in the song. 

    It didn't take long before we saw some Tiger Swallowtails.  These magnificent, if common, butterflies nectar on blackberry blossoms and use cottonwood as one of their host plants.  They are ideally suited to Captain Clark Park.

   Having accomplished all the lepidoptery that was likely to brighten that afternoon, I walked across the greensward and had a pleasant conversation with a gentleman who was amusing himself by chipping golf balls into the blackberry vines.  This may seem like an odd way to pass the time, but I suppose people say the same thing about those of us who watch butterflies and birds.  Such odd ducks!

A very yellow Bullock's Oriole enjoys the spring sunshine.

   While I was in the vicinity of the woods, I heard a bird call that struck a primal chord.  Was it a Yellowthroat?  I pished at some marsh grass that was shaking suspiciously and out flew a tiny warbler, landing on a low branch of a maple tree that someone must have planted in the past.  The male Yellowthroat looked at me, gave a fine concert of chirps and then flew up into the tree.  

   I went to retrieve my beloved who was enjoying her lunch at the shaded table.  None of our tricks could lure the yellowthroat down for more viewing.  But while she was waiting for me to finish my pishing and squeaking and whistling like a demented screech owl, Sandra spotted a large yellow bird about 40 yards off in a bare alder.  We looked at it and discovered that it was a Bullock's Oriole.  Now, we know that the ornithologists have lumped the west and east coast birds, but the plumage is definitely different and Baltimore and Bullock's sound so much more interesting than Northern Oriole.  Don't you think?

Orange and black is the bomb.

    You will note that we said this was a yellow bird.  One tends to think of the male of this species as being orange.  If nothing else, think of the baseball cap worn by such greats as Cal Ripken and Jim Palmer.  Of course, in the case of Jim Palmer you would be forgiven if you remembered him modeling men's underwear.  But he was a great pitcher and regardless of what was underneath, he donned the orange and black when it came time to strike out Yankees and Red Soxes. And Elaine Benes!  She wore the cap in Steinbrenner's box, right?  I always had a thing for Elaine.  And that Oriole on her cap was orange. 

     Anyway, at first glance, it really looked to be on the yellow side.  No doubt about what he was, however.  Elaine's favorite bird. Eye line, white wing patches and all. 

A Yellow Warbler on a spring morning.

   Before the male oriole could fly away, we saw a small yellow bird fly into a neighboring alder.  Now this was a very small bird and fairly far away, but with the binoculars Sandra and I both got a good look at a breeding male Yellow Warbler.  Realizing it could be a Wilson's Warbler, I made sure he didn't have a black cap.  And then I did my best to imagine the red streaks on his breast. 

    

     So here we had three fine feathered friends endemic to the swampy woodlands of the west.  Not too bad for standing virtually in the same spot for twenty minutes! 

    I hope you enjoy my AI renditions of these encounters.  As I'm not as skillful with a camera as some of my compatriots, I've found that I can recreate these avian encounters pairing good observations of the  plants and animals with accurate AI prompts. Its fun for me, that's for sure.  And it keeps me out of the bars.  In the case of actual photographs, the place and date will be noted/ 

Pats are nice, but a salami sandwich would hit the spot.

    The bird action came to an end, and we went back to our table to finish lunch.  A nice lady cane by with her stout pit bull mix named Thor.  Big dog with a powerful name and boy was he friendly.  I gave him a pat and his owner was kind enough to say we made his day.  And as we finished lunch, we observed a number of young adults making their way through the trees down to the river, where there was a yard or two of dry sand between the driftwood branches upon which to catch a few spring rays. 

     I doubt that Captain Clark had it so good.

jeff

Spring Comes to Southwest Washington

      It being the season, this week Sandra and I went butterfly watching three times.  The first excursion was to Dougan Falls.  Our daughter, Leslie, was kind enough to join us for the 45 minute drive up the Washougal.  We stopped to purchase a pass at the Washougal River Mercantile, only to find out that the state, in its wisdom, has eliminated the Merc, along with numerous other locations, as a place where a Discover Pass might be purchased.  

The Green Angelwing nee Comma, May 2026

   On we went, scofflaws to the core, stopping at our favorite locations and nabbing a total of nine species.  Compared to really good butterfly watchers, this isn't a remarkable total.  However, it may be a record for us.  The highlight was a Green Comma that Sandra nabbed at our first stop. You will note that our picture, which you see here, is only the lateral.  Through wanton stupidity, I let the beast escape while hoping for an al fresco  dorsal shot. So you let a butterfly wake up outside and seem surprised when it flies away.  Astonishing!  Anyway, Cait verified that it was a Green Anglewing.

    At our second stop, our beloved Weedy Car park on the banks of the Washougal, we were greeted with the welcoming aroma of woodsmoke.  The smell of burning wood is one of those remarkable atavistic pleasures, like feeding your dog at the table.  Homo sapiens has been enjoying these sensations for a very long time. (in fact, Homo erectus controlled fire over a million years ago.  By comparison, we've only been feeding our dogs scraps for 20,000 years.)   All that anthropology aside, in this day and age it's hard to imagine that one would run across a smoldering fire.  To quote that great bayou philosopher, Pogo the Possum, "What are you wearing for brains?  Yesterday's socks?"   

   We sacrificed one of our water bottles and polished it off with what the Big Lebowski would refer to as a micturation, and left the world a safer place.  While we weren't preventing forest fires, we caught a few butterflies.  We got Leslie to pose with the author along with a netted Pale Swallowtail. We also netted a worn out Echo  Azure and a tiny Mylitta Crescent.  Far from unusual butterflies, but new to this year's list.

     We finished off the day at our favorite spot on Dougan Creek.  Before we departed, Leslie and I took a walk up the road and met a nice lady in her SUV.  There is nothing like an old goat and a pretty young lady, both carrying butterfly nets, to excite curiosity.  We had a pleasant chat, talked about host plants and were pleased to inform our new friend that we had indeed captured a few butterflies.  She wondered if it wasn't too early for butterflies and I replied that, far from it, the butterfly season was well underway.  As you will see, I could have said that for the lowlands of Southwest Washington, it was already too late. 

    A few days later, Sandra and I made the trek up the Klickitat.  We got as far up as Wahkiahio, where we had had very good luck the previous year.  Wahkiahio is such a thriving metropolis that it is easy to miss, so we went a few miles past our turn off before Sandra convinced the driver to consult the Google map.  Soon enough we were back down to Pull Out Road.  Here, things were much drier than we had expected.  There were lots of Tiger Swallowtails and we were pleased to renew our acquaintance with the Ochre Ringlet.  

Lepidopterist Leslie and the Old Goat

    There was one bright orange butterfly which I captured briefly in the binoculars.  Butterflies are complex, frequently defying my ability to identify them under the best of circumstances.  We saw this orange critter two more times.  The last was on a rock wall with seeping water.  I approached him cautiously, got the net poised, and made my swipe.  The seep, aside from attracting butterflies, had watered some blackberry vines and as the butterfly entered the net, the net was snagged by a blackberry thorn.  Out flew the mystery butterfly.  Shazbatt!  

   Suffice it to say, I was unable with my ever too vague description, to coax a guess out of Ms. LaBarr.  In honor of this event, I present you with this bit of doggerel.  We went for the kill at Wahkiachio, but ended up at the business end of a Priapus. Do you remember Dianne Weist looking at plates in The Birdcage?  "I think they're playing leapfrog."    It was sort of like that.

    We had one more chance to redeem ourselves...FishOn Road.  this obscure turnout ten miles up from Hwy 14 and ten miles down from Wahkiachio, is Cait's secret spot.  Two years ago, I saw my first Indra Swallowtails there.  And we have seen other goodies.

    On the fifteen-minute walk from the car to the famous sand bank, we saw lots of Tiger Swallowtails, a number of Lorquin's Admirals, and too many Ocher Ringlets.  They invariably look like they might be something special and we waste a lot of time taking pictures of them.

The Klickitat Puddle Party

    Finally, we made it to the sandbar and, as we hoped, there was a puddle party in progress.  As a final treat I present you with our best picture which should include a butter yellow Tiger Swallowtail, numerous elegant Pale Swallowtails, some drab Pascivius Duskywings, and a few Echo Azures.  

    Imagine, if you will, an Ochre Ringlet on a nearby bush saying. "If you don't take my picture, I won't let you go home."  What an annoying butterfly!

jeff

PS  After we sent her our pictures and field notes, Cait notified us that she had just received a message from her senior author, Bob Pyle.  He had just visited the area described above and said it was all dried out and not worth a visit.  She advised us to look at higher altitudes.  So.  Stay tuned.  jh

     

Sunday at Ridgefield NWR

     The weather in Vancouver has turned cold with intermittent rain.  It's been that way for three days in a row.  With the highs topping out at below 60 degrees F., this is not the sort of weather conducive to butterfly hunting.  But boys and girls still need to get outside, so with the chance of morning rain at a mere 20 %, Sandra and I decided to take a chance and go to the wildlife refuge.  Being warm blooded and requiring daily sustenance, birds were much more likely to be active, especially as it is spring and they have chicks to feed.  Right?

The Cinnamon Teal appears to be breeding at Ridgefield

     We got to the refuge a little after 8 AM, the weather was cool and there was water in the puddles, but it wasn't raining.  We filled out our pass, and checked the white board for recent sightings.  Two days before, someone had seen an avocet.  We noted the approximate location, given as area 6, and headed out.  

   Immediately, in the first pond, we saw a pair of cinnamon teal.  I haven't seen a bunch of these handsome little ducks in my life, so even though we had now seen them here two out of three times, the thrill and pleasure was still there.  We watched these beauties for a minute or so, and headed down the causeway.  

   A bit further on there was a lady in a car who tried to tell me something as I inched by.  I didn't quite get it, so I stopped and went back.  "There is a mother redwing blackbird feeding her young." she said.  Blackbirds are possibly better mothers than their human counterparts, so this was not exactly surprising...we pushed on.

A pair of Barn Swallows greet Sandra in the Blind  skg photo

   We passed spot six, where there was a trio of Lesser Yellowlegs and avocets were plying their trade in the shallows.  It was just a bit further to the parking area for the blind, which was our prime objective for the day. 

    On the asphalt trail to the blind, I noted that the stinging nettles, which grow profusely in many parts of the refuge, looked undisturbed.  Having seen one Painted Lady on the edge of that trail, I was hopeful that the nettles would be in tatters and we would have a plethora of Vanessa caterpillars with which to amuse ourselves.  The nettles look fine and we made no effort to look under the leaves for caterpillars.  

Marty saw as many snipe as we did.

    On the auditory side, as we walked along I heard the unmistakable sound, known as winnowing, produced by male snipes as part of their courtship display. The snipe, which is fat little wading bird, flies way up in the air and then dives.  Specialized tail feathers catch the wind and produce a woo, woo, woo which I suppose might suffice for the noise made by ghosts in a haunted house.  Sadly, the noise was coming from the area we had traversed on entering the refuge, about a mile back to the north.  

   Suffice it to say, we didn't see any snipes.

  Are you old enough (as ancient is your faithful correspondent?) to remember Spin and Marty.  You had to be watching the Mickey Mouse Club back in the late 50s to see Marty sent out at night holding a burlap sack and making peculiar noises to attract a snipe.  Perhaps I should have retained more important information like the various lung volumes, the Krebs Cycle or the finer points of Calculus, but that stuff got seriously unshelved, while Marty and his burlap sack remain.  Sad to say, despite all the winnowing, which went on for at least twenty minutes, Sandra and I saw no more snipes than the Walt Disney camper. 

Long-billed Marsh Wren hunting among the grass below the blind 

   Finally, we made it to the blind.  I was desperate to see the Virginia Rail with her chicks and we gave it lots of time, but none appeared.  Our time in the blind was shared with a few barn swallows that were nesting there.  I took a short video of a single swallow just a few feet away, singing his heart out.  Sandra got a great shot of a pair in one of the blind's windows. 

   But we did not see any rails despite putting in plenty of time at the marshy spot where we had spotted them a few weeks ago.  However, towards the end of this vigil I got a very good look at a Lon-billed Marsh Wren.  This is not a particularly rare bird, but in the past I have seen this tiny fellow at a significant distance.  It is dependable in cattail marshes and can be induced to show himself briefly before dodging back into cover,

   This morning I saw movement in the grass (where the family of rails ought to have been) and focused on the spot.  There the marsh wren made a couple brief appearances.  Although they didn't last long, these were superb looks, close with excellent lighting, allowing me to appreciate the barring on the shoulder and back and the delicate face pattern and eye line.  

The Green Spot next to Rest Lake

   So here it was Sunday and God provided.  

   We made our way back, not seeing much.  At the ranger's hut we stropped to note our Long-billed Marsh Wren sighting.  The docent, a stout lady a bit younger than myself, told me that she had seen the Virginia Rails that morning.  It had been at a spot where there were cars stopped, but we didn't know why or see anything.  Bad Birdwathchers!  She pulled out a map which she claimed to be inadequate, but is way better than nothing, and was induced to make a little green spot where the family of rails is to be seen.  Its between to mall groves of cottonwoods. See you there, 

jeff

    

The Virginia Rail Part Two

    OK.  I didn't actually meet Col. Frank Slade on a muddy trail in Ridgefield.  But there is a rumor that Charlie Simms graduated from Harvard, made a quick killing in the stock market and is now retired to one of those luxury condominiums in Easst Vancouver.  His condo, so they say, is perched on the ridge at 192nd, where he not only has a drop-dead view of the Columbia River, but of Gresham Oregon, where his mother and step dad (who never liked Charlie very much) pushed corn nuts in their convenience store. 

     Its not clear what happened to the step father, but Charlie's mom, or so it is rumored, can be seen driving her Tesla along Rodeo Drive.

     Sandra and I are retired to a pedestrian condo hard by the 205 bridge over the Columbia.  The one Pete Buttigieg wanted to put a toll on.  One small reason for us Vancouverites to celebrate the current regime...there will be no bridge toll as long as the Epstein files occupy the mind of our fearless leader.  86 205, that's what I say.

     Yesterday was Sunday and Sandra and I were left with a decision. It is just about the same gas guzzling distance from our humble abode to our church in Camas and the Ridgefield NWR. What with our ecclesiastical friends on the road to far flung family reunions, it was an easy choice to skip the wine and bit of bread and take communion with the critters St Francis spoke with on the trail above Assisi.  

     So around 9 AM we found ourselves entering the refuge.  Sunday is apparently free and there was a docent sitting on the tiny porch of the ranger hut. The first thing I noted was that someone else had seen the Virginia Rail.  The docent, who was a pleasant country fork sort of middle aged lady,  noted that the white board had been wiped clean that morning, so these were fresh observations.  And someone else, they had used a different color of magic marker, had registered the Black Phoebe.  The same observer had noted Soras near the yellowhead, which is to say in the cattails.   The sora, a small dark rail, is just as furtive as the Virginia Rail. 

A Black Phoebe pair.  

    I asked about little white, orange spotted butterflies and she was interested but thought it was too early for butterflies.   So we were on our own.  Not an uncommon position for a butterfly hunter.

    We found a few yellowheads in the cattail marsh, but no Soras.  I might have been insufficiently patient.  We did not see the teal or canvasbacks that were present earlier in the week and soon we were at the parking area for the blind.  On the trail, we dallied by the stinging nettles and were rewarded with a single painted lady, who landed on the edge of the trail long enough for both of us to get a good look.  

    Out at the blind, we got a definitive look at the Black Phoebe.  While this species has a special place in my heart, this observation is really significant regarding climate change.  In 1970 the northern boundary for the range was around Redding, so a couple hundred miles north of Okland, where I saw them flycatching over Jewell Lake.  Since then, I had seen this bird as far south as Ecuador and I associated it with a southern range.

      The first iNaturalist record for Black Phoebe in SW Washington was in 2008 and it was a recognized summer resident by 2010.  Until a few days ago, I was unaware of any of this, so Sandra and I took a good long look at this pair as they foraged over the pond.  Watching them gave me warm neo-tropical vibe.  

   While we watched, a phoebe caught a large bug, maybe a yellowjacket and sat on a branch about thirty feet away, apparently contemplating what to do with his prize. 

A dutiful parent bringing home the bacon

   Tiring of all these phoebes, I took up a position on the edge of the blind.  there was a couple of 40 ish photographers hogging the blind, so I got a good position on the steps with a good view of the patch of marsh where we had seen the rail a few days before.  We waited for only a few minutes when I saw some motion and out he came.  Sandra also had a good position and we watched this rare bird step out in the shallow water, robing this way and that.  We were only fifty feet away at the most and this seemed to go on forever, although it was in reality only two or three minutes.  the sun was shining and we got some excellent looks.  

    As I said in the previous blog, the Virginia Rail is common but it spends its life in hiding.  Perhaps I need to get out more or maybe I just need to thank my lucky stars.

     The drive back to headquarters was fairly unremarkable.   Once there, we spoke with the docent and she encouraged us to post our Painted Lady.  Most significantly, between the time we arrived and this exit, someone had posted on the Virginia Rail: breeding pair with chicks, 2+2.  Well, isn't that enticing?  Certainly, birds raising a clutch are more active, foraging and feeding their chicks. 

    So stay tuned, there may be a Virginaia Rail part three in our future.

jeff

The Stromboli, the Ridgefield NWR and the Virginia Rail

    Last week we met Sandra's son, Douglas, and his lovely wife for lunch.  We got to pick the place and since neither of my boys are in Portland and Leslie (Sandra's daughter) is on a gluten free diet, Douglas and Diane got stuck at Flying Pie on Stark.  There are many Flying Pies scattered over the PNW, but this is the first of the bunch, the flagship, as it were, and they make the best damn pie anywhere.  In my humble opinion.  

One large Stromboli, please!

   The pie in question is a Stromboli, named for a small volcanic island just off Sicilia's northeast corner.  This is a pie to die for, with big, manly crust, veritable chunks of spicy Italian Sausage and pepperoni, onions and green peppers.  Yummity,yummity ,yum.   Damn!  I just love a Stromboli washed down with a slurp or two of my favorite beverage.  Beer may be one of the few things that Brett Kavanagh and I agree on!  

  During our mid-day feast, Dianne told us about a recent trip they had taken to the Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge.  In Ridgefield.  I may have mentioned this place before.  It's about fifteen minutes north of our hacienda, once you get on the 205.  It used to be a tiny burg with a slough and the refuge, where my father taught my brother and I to hunt ducks.  Not to worry, my father was no Rollo Kuse.  Not only did he not get his deer, but he rarely got his duck.  But I guess we had fun putting out decoys, sitting in a blind and imitating mallards with our duck call. Quack, quack, quack.  

    Something happened.  Clark County exploded and now Ridgefield, fifteen minutes north of the 205 bridge, next stop Portland Airport, is a sprawling bedroom community all built in the last fifteen years.  As you will see, it now has not only countless citizens, but a Costco, a Starbuck's and an In and Out Burger.  I tell ya, they took a fair piece of marginal agricultural land and Californicated it.  

No matter how many Wood ducks, I refuse to call them dirt birds.

   So anyway, Dianne was telling us that they enjoyed a loop road ride through the refuge, and she saw a Great Blue Heron.  I wasn't so much interested in the GBH, but the last time Sandra and I tried to visit, my old hunting grounds had been under remodlement, if you can twist your imagination in such a way that you can grasp remodeling a swamp. They wouldn't let us drive in and they were going to charge us 5 bucks a head to walk.  If you know me and my sweetie, you know they would have had to pay us the five clams to get us to walk.  

    That was two years ago, and this is now. Ridgefield is on the razor-sharp cutting edge of a brave new world and Dianne was telling us that they had the wildlife refuge to prove it.  A visit was clearly in order...

    So last Tuesday Sandra and I made the 20 minute drive north to the refuge.  If you don't have one of a variety of passes, you have to pay three dollars to drive in.   Sandra has a pass!  It's a 4.2 mile one way driving loop around the refuge.  Stop where ever you want, multiple signs encourage you to stay in the car, using it as a blind.  And indeed, the birds were closer to the car. than one might have expected. On that day we started out with Blue-winged and Cinnamon Teal , Canvasbacks, a pair of Wood Ducks and some Canada geese.  And, of course, the Great Blue Heron. 

English Chickie buckin' for birder, you call her Daphne.

    At the halfway mark, the refuge lets you get out of your car and visit a blind.  The trail to the blind is a little soggy and there is a wonderful patch of stinging nettles on the way.  Knowing that Vanessa butterflies use nettles for a host plant, Sandra couldn't resist checking out the leaves for caterpillars.  As a consequence, she spent the rest of the day researching remedies for nettle stings.    Poor Sandra!

    On the way to the blind, we met an enthusiastic young man who told us he had spent the last 45 minutes taking pictures of the Tree Swallows.  One assumes he spent the next 45 minutes taking pictures of Great Blue Herons.

   At the blind, we met a nicely dressed lady with a big camera and an English accent. On questioning, it turned out that she wanted to become a bird watcher and so she had purchased a $5000 camera and an app for her phone that tells her, if she is clever enough to record the song, what bird she is looking at, or, I suppose, listening to.  She was really precious, so I tried not to give her too much of a hard time.

   At this point we were joined by Al Pacino in the character of Lt. Colonel Frank Slade.  The colonel was still accompanied by Charlie, late of the Baird School.  The colonel was nicely dressed in green cammo.  A pair of expensive binoculars hung from his neck inexplicably.  As you will recall, he is blind, following an unfortunate incident at Fort Benning where he was juggling live grenades. 

    The colonel sidled up to me and whispered, "English chickie buckin' for birdwatcher, you call her Daphne.  Hoo ahh."

Daphne got a good shot of the Yellow headed Blackbird

   While we were chatting with Daphne, I noted a pair of Black Phoebe's in the alders next to the blind.  This is the bird that turned me into a bird watcher, on the marge of Jewell Lake in Berkeley, way back in 1970.  So if you want to know who to blame, there's your answer...the Black Phoebe.  

    Daphne shared a passable picture of a Yellow-headed Blackbird, which we had missed on the way in, but her effort at the phoebe was blurry.  I'm sure she'll get better and we'll see her work in Audubon magazine in no time.

    For a few minutes, we watched the phoebes fly catching over the pond and then we moved up into the blind.  At first, there was nothing to see. Suddenly (isn't it always suddenly?) I saw movement in the marsh plants near the base of the blind.  Sandra was on it and we watched a Virginia Rail walk into the weeds.  It was a good ten second look at close range What a treat.

The Virginia Rail sneaks back into the swamp.

    The rail didn't make any noise, so Daphne wasn't able to use her app.  And she wondered, me not having an app, how I know what bird it was.  I patiently explained that as a bird watcher, I once had the entire bird book firmly ensconced in my brain.  And luckily, lo these many years later, the Viginia Rail had not yet escaped the friendly confines of my gooey gray matter.  

   We left Daphne to contemplate bird books and after checking out the nettles again, made it back to the car.  From the blind, on back the only thing of note was another pair of Wood Ducks.   I told my sweetie that no matter how many wood ducks we see, I refuse to call them Dirt Birds.

    At the kiosk where one might pay, we parked and ate our sandwich.  After lunch. I got out of the car and wandered over to the tiny hut that might be occupied by a ranger, had El Presidente not eliminated that unnecessary position. I noted a white board with recorded observations.  Snipe and Sandhill Crane had been noted by worthy observers.  However, no one had recorded the Virginia Rail.  I took up a blue marker and wrote it down.  Virginia Rail!  That exclamation mark was well deserved.  

To be continued, jeff

The Painted Ladies of Spring and a Grand Canyon Sequel

    This tale begins on the south rim of the Grand Canyon, towards the end of our Arizona holiday.  Neither my son, Chuck, nor Sandra had been to the Grand Canyon.  As we were in Flagstaff, a mere two hours away, this was a must.  Like so many national parks, a geologic feature, e.g. Mt. Rainier, Crater Lake or the Grand Canyon, provide the major draw for one's visit.  However, National Parks, perhaps more than any other federal endeavor, protect natural plants.  I didn't appreciate the importance of this until I started watching butterflies. 

The Dreaded Rock Squirrel

   So, on a sunny morning in mid-April, we arrived at Mather Point, a short walk from the parking lot that services Grand Canyon Village.  This is one of the iconic looks at the canyon, certainly the easiest at the beginning of your park experience.  

    There were a number of Turkey Vultures soaring just overhead, which I was eager to turn into California Condors.  As far as I know, there were no actual condors. California Condors have been reintroduced into Grand Canyon National Park to the tune of 98 individuals living in the wild. What a success story!

  

 And there were a number of Rock Squirrels.  Deemed the most dangerous animal in the park, due to the number of finger bites they inflict on well-intentioned tourists, they were ubiquitous and exceedingly friendly.  Sycophantic, even.   I was satisfied with a photograph of a squirrel.  After filling our eyes with the splendor of the rocks, we headed out.  

    Soon we achieved the Grand View canyon look out.  Indeed, like several other stops along the way, the views were grand.  Here there were a few more trees, bushes and good old dirt, upon which, for no reason that is obvious to me, we find many a butterfly.  In the park-like area, Ponderosas dispersed among various scrubby plants and bare earth,  we all spotted a medium sized yellow butterfly winging through among the trees. 

Desert Black Swallowtail

   The three of us gave chase and we were rewarded with a good look, 5 seconds or so, through the close focus binoculars of less than ten feet.  

   This was a swallowtail, with a wing pattern much like the Anise we see in the PNW.  This is to say, that opposed to the stripes that one would see on tiger Swallowtails, he had a black cell leading his front wings. 

   

   At this point I repaired to my friend Gemini.  All the AI programs are up front about the possibility of bad information... they are basically programmed to engage you in conversation, I have been impressed that they seem to give better information than a plain old Google search.  Gemini suggested that this was a Baird's swallowtail.  Later, comparing iNaturalist posts with Google images, it was easy to see that this was a Desert Black Swallowtail, a well-documented resident, per iNaturalist, of the south rim of the Grand Canyon. 

Rocky Mountain Duskywing, Charles Hill, photo

    We made our way south, stopping at Duck Rock and Moran Point to look at the rocks.  A bit further we stopped at a parking area that gave access to dry woodlands with no canyon access.  Sandra stayed in the car.  (The south rim is higher than Mexico City, and she needed to take it easy. ) We strolled through live oaks and Ponderosa Pines and found two butterflies close together in some weeds.  Such is my botanical expertise that I can't be more specific.  

   One of the butterflies was a Painted Lady.  The other might have been a Variegated Fritillary.  The quality of our look was insufficient to make an identification.  It had spots, it was dust brown and iNaturalist puts this species on the south rim.   

   We walked up hill to the car park, and there, right next to our car, we found a duskywing,   It was fairly still and Charles and I both got pictures.  He has the better camera and the picture you see is the one he took. 

     Gemini thought this was a Funereal Duskywing.  Certainly, all duskywings are well dressed for a postmortem service.  This individual had a prominent white band on the hind wing, a feature of the funereal.  iNaturalist only lists the Rocky Mountain  Duskywing on the south rim, so I submitted this observation to them.  The panel from Arthropods of the Southwest responded with an identification: Rocky Mountain Duskywing, Erynnis telemachus.  What with all the creepy hinged animals in that part of the country, from scorpions to tarantulas, the guys at Arthropods of the Southwest must have found this dingy skipper pretty tame fare. 

Butterfly excitement on the south rim.

  As an aside, it was fun to see my son's enthusiasm for butterfly catching, photographing, and identification once we were engaged in the enterprise.   In addition to a picture of the dark hued skipper, I'm showing you a picture that Sandra nabbed of Charles and I from the front seat as we crested the hill in hot pursuit.

   On to Boise

      Before we could return home, we flew from Phoenix to Boise to see our grandchildren and their parents.  Like Flagstaff, Boise was cold and windy.  This is not perfect weather for butterflies or aging lepidopterists.  We were privileged to watch one kid football game, in which our younger grandson scored two of his team's three touchdowns and four baseball games in less than 48 hours. 

 Chorispora tenella., the Russian Blue Mustard, Meridien ID.

    Once you get away from the Boise River and its trickling tributaries, the area is basically a desert. This is good for butterflies, if you have time to seek out that bit of water.  With the sports, we were reduced to looking for butterflies on the less groomed edges of large parks and in a suburban back yard that backed on to a bleak desert. 

    At one park I found blooming a member of the mustard family, supposedly good for Orangetip Butterflies, which were not present, perhaps due to the cold wind.  It took a bit of hunting, during the innings when my player was neither batting nor in the field, to find and cross Tenmile Creek that bordered the large park with its multiple playing fields.  Here, on the other side of a dirt bridge that covered a culvert, I found plain old dirt, which we know is a good butterfly finding substrate and the aforementioned mustard.

    Being a poor botanist, I was gratified when Google lens reported that I had identified Chorispora tenella.  This plant is commonly known as Russian Blue Mustard and it is, as the name suggests, introduced from Asia. However, as us Hawaiians (or whatever the hell we haolies are) know, even a non-native plant can serve as a host if it has the mustard.  Take Crown Milkweed, which has the alkaloids to satisfy the Pacific race of the Monarch.

Nothing worse than pitching in front of a cold defense.

    Our friends at Genesis confirm that there are four species of the genus Anthocharis in Russia and China, and they use Chorispora tenella as a host plant.  You can only imagine how proud I was when Genesi said, "It is fascinating that you connected these two!  Russian Blue Mustard is indeed the host plant for butterflies in the genus Anthocharis in their native ranges across Russia and Central Asia."  Next thing you know, I will be visited by an attractive young chatbot, feigning interest in butterflies while convincing me that I would make a delightful assassin.

    In this case, the Russian Blue Mustard, with its delicate lilac colored flowers, has the oils essential to satisfy an orange spot caterpillar.  Not only that, but it blooms in the early spring when these butterflies are active.  The problem was that, despite my excellent sleuthing and botanizing, was that the little white butterflies with their charming orange spots were not present on that cold, windy afternoon.  Not only that, but Colsen was getting hit hard and at the end of a double header his defense sucked.  You may ask, "Who in God's green earth makes ten-year-olds play a double header?"  Any normal person might also wonder at a septuagenarian looking for butterflies on a cold day in the desert.  

Painted Lady, Eagle Id. April 2026  Photo Tara Hill

    The good news is that if you are reading this blog, you most likely aren't normal.  Lucky for you, that is not necessarily a bad thing.

    We ate late and were back for one more game the following afternoon.  Reid's team trounced the opposition, and the game was called on a mercy rule, in time for us to make it to the suburban back yard in time for some butterflies.  There weren't a lot of them, but one landed on a large stone at the corner of their lanai (which has a killer view if you like bleak desert) and I was able to identify it with bare eyes as a Painted Lady.  Of course, there are three species of ladies, the painted being by far the most common.  The differences are subtle and it requires more than bare eyes to make an accurate identification.  

     Two months ago, James, the father of the young sportsmen, had texted us a picture of a fox on the other side of his back fence.  That night, after dinner, a small fox appeared.  James speculates that they have a den on the steep slope that drops from their back yard.  He was overjoyed that I got to see one.   This fox wasn't large and it didn't look particularly red to me, so I wondered if it might be a Kit Fox, which is an animal of the desert.  James picture, seemingly of a different animal in the same family, confirms that these are red foxes, Vulpes vulpes.

Red Fox, February 2026, Eagle Id. Photo James Hill

     Finally, it was time to come home to Vancouver.  It was nice when we arrived, but by the next morning, we were suffering with cold rain that persisted for two days.   On that first day, my daughter in law texted me with the picture you see here.  The day we left, Eagle was festooned with Painted Ladies.  Being a veritable Nimrod, Tara got hers. 

    

    Two days ago, the weather broke, and by Saturday we were enjoying a sunny day and a high temperature over 60.

   Sandra and I drove east on the 14 to Steigerwald National Wildlife Refuge.  The first warm day , and a Saturday to boot, had attracted a full parking lot of visitors.  Virtually all of them had made the half mile trek along the dike into the heart of the refuge.  We, on the other hand, readied our nets and began patrolling the weedy acres adjacent to the car park.  

 

    A stand of blooming lupine didn't yield anything, so we began working the weeds.  Soon a brownish butterfly flew and I chased him.  Landing every now and then, he kept ten feet ahead of me and I never got a good look.  He flew off, but in a few minutes we spotted another, this lime on the gravel path.  I got close enough to identify him as a lady, but I was unable to net him.

 

    Finally, Sandra called out that she had one secure in her net.  What a woman!  

Painted Lady, Steigerwald NWR, April 2026  Photo SKG

   We took him home, refrigerated him and took some pictures.  We were really hoping for a look at the dorsal back wing, with the diagnostic lager blue spots.  We got the ventral wings that you see here, but despite trying the wet sink trick that we pioneered in Prescott, we could not get a good photo of the dorsal hind wing.  Maybe next time we should use something stickier, Elmer's glue or Karo syrup.  I took him out to the rhododendron in front where a bit of persuasion yielded me a quick look at four dark blue spots. Painted Lady confirmed.

    This was a good start to the 2026 butterfly season.  We got a few life butterflies in Arizona and saw, in just over a week, Painted Ladies at 7000 feet at the Grand Canyon, at 3500 feet in Eagle Idaho and at a few hundred feet west of the Cascades in Washougal.  

     Lucky for me, I'm the sort of guy who likes ladies.

jeff