Should we call him Paddington? Black Butte 2026 Part One

     Sandra and I arrived at Black Butte two days ago.  We took the long route over Mount Hood, hoping to see some birds and butterflies along the way.  We made it to the lodge in time for coffee and caught the couch with the killer view of the mountain.

Mount Hood, July 2026

   Outside, and this was about 9:30 in the morning, we saw a California Tortoiseshell and a large blue, both too far away to identify.  There was a small pond created by glacial run off where we enjoyed some Red Breasted Nuthatches and Pine Siskins dipping into the water for a refreshing slurp on this dry mountain.  

    Down at Alpine Campground, now ungated with a few registered campers, we saw a few wilting asters, far removed from the purple and gold aster meadows we were hoping for.  Commensurately, there were very few butterflies and we departed without a single catch.  Mount Hood needs some rain and maybe the flowers will come out along with some butterflies. 

   It's a long drive from Timberline down through Madras and Redmond and on to Sisters.  As we left home, Sandra wondered what we would forget.  As we passed Cline Falls, about ten miles north of Sisters, which is unrelated to the nice people who produce delicious Zinfandel down south in Sonoma, we stumbled upon the answer...red wine and ranch dressing.

Ray's...your choice for groceries in Sisters

   So twenty minutes later we found ourselves in Ray's Food Place.  In the last thirty years this old west cow town has been decimated by progress.  The view of the iconic Three Sisters mountains has been obscured by high rise condominiums, The Gallery Restaurant, formerly a diner sporting antique weapons (like a Sharps Model 1874, "Old Reliable") has been turned into a plasticized bar and the Gallimaufry no longer sells liquor.  Progress is harsh.  But Ray's persists.  It still sports its Old West facade, not to mention its high prices.  Despite Sister's burgeoning population, a more competitive purveyor of comestibles remains 45 minutes away in Bend. 
 

    In short order Sandra and I found ourselves in line with our choices.  Just ahead of us were a happy young couple and as we waited in line, we made friends.   I guess these delightful thirty somethings weren't married, because they required separate registers.  The pretty young lady. (nice shorts, nice legs and a terrific smile) had some sort of sodas.  The gent had one of those "hard" drinks, where the manufacturer mixes lemonade and vodka and charges $15 for a four pack.  We settled for Robert Mondavi and Hidden Valley.

Time to turn around and head for Wizard Falls

   The following morning, we hit the road in high anticipation.  What would we find at the Metolius Preserve that had been so prolific in the past?  Leaving the Camp Sherman resorts behind, we made the turn onto the gravel road that leads to the preserve.  About a mile down the road, we encountered a fallen tree across the road.  The sucker must have been 100 feet tall and there was no way we could move it.  We walked on the road for five minutes, with Cali torts whipping by and then we gave up, heading for another known butterfly hang out, the Wizard Falls Fish Hatchery

    It was about an eight mile drive from the spot where we turned around, past the Camp Sherman trailer park, making a sharp left turn at the Camp Sherman General Store and then past a number of large campgrounds on the Metolius River.  Fly fishing on the Metolius is very popular and these campgrounds are all booked solid for the summer.  

    About three miles from the fish hatchery, we saw something on the edge of the road.  As we approached, we realized that this bundle of black fuzz was a bear cub. We got within twenty yards and stopped.  He got to his feet, gave us a quick look and ambled into the Ponderosa Pine forest.  We watched him as he strolled down a tree trunk, at one time looking back over his shoulder.  He eventually disappeared into the forest. 

Yearling bear cub on the road

    At no time did we see the mama bear, but she must have been there. Right?  Not only did we not see her, but we didn't hear her, either.  As far as we could tell, neither the cub nor the Mother Bear vocalized.  Sarah Palin, among many others, has characterized herself as a mother bear (or grizzly) but let's face it, the difference between a forty-year-old politician and a real honest to God bear is substantial! 

    And as we watched our Baby Bear disappear into the woods, a large SUV passed us at a respectably slow rate of speed.  

   In my narrative to this point, I may have made this seem a bit nonchalant.  But far from it.  Sandra and I were totally excited and for the next three miles we talked happily about what a wonderful sighting this was.  

   When we got to the fish hatchery, we crossed the old wooden bridge and parked in the shade, next to the SUV that had passed us only moments before.   Sandra bounded from the car and immediately engaged the passengers from the SUV, three attractive forty year old ladies and one guy., presumably the husband who drew the short straw, and ended up as the chauffer.  The ringleader of this group noted that she had bear spray at home but didn't bring it with her on this excursion.  Up to this point, I had thought that seeing this bear, be it cub or adult, was a very rare thing.  Now I had to rethink.  If she had bear spray, she must think it's more than a remote possibility.  But she didn't bring the bear spray, so what does that tell you?

    Always one to get my two cents worth in, I remarked that we didn't have any have any bear spray, but on the other hand we didn't get out of the car.  Obviously, I had not readjusted my thinking to the point where there were bears teaming in the surrounding forest and that maybe this wasn't a joke.  To be honest, I still don't know where the truth lies.  Should we all carry bear spray when we go hiking near the Metolius?  

Yearling Bear cub ambling into the forest. 

    During my childhood, with my father as guide, I saw bears twice, once on a river on Vancouver Island and once at a garbage dump where the guide had a hot tip and so brought the family out for the show. 

     As a teenager I had a much more exciting and intimate experience.  I was a counselor at a Boy Scout Camp on the back side of Mount Hood.  A mother bear was frequenting the garbage cans outside the mess hall, so the councilors decided to camp out in the mess hall and get a look.  Sure enough, the bear showed up.  As we watched through the windows, the camp archery instructor stepped out from who knows where, drew his bow, and as the bear rose on her hind legs, shot an arrow into her chest.  You may wonder what the fuck he was thinking about.  Well, he was the same age as me, 17 or so.  Therefore, we can assume that he was a stupid teenager and he wasn't thinking.  Obviously, he hadn't asked anyone else if they thought this was a good idea.  

    In short order the arrow fell out, the bear wandered off.  The archery instructor called his parents and he was gone before we woke up in the morning.  No one among the hundreds of camping scouts was injured, so it didn't make the evening news.  

    That is the end of my bear experiences. And it exhausted my knowledge of bear biology up to this point.  Here is a bit of information provided by the internet:  

Mount Jefferson and the Bear Shaman

    Cubs in the woods around Sisters are born in the winter while the mother hibernates.  They are tiny and helpless.  By July, they are the size of a small dog or raccoon.  They stay with their mother until the following June, when the mother enters her breeding cycle and discourages the yearling from following her.  These bears, now in the 50 pound range and the size of a medium sized dog, are on their own, doing their own foraging.  They are frequently mistaken for an abandoned cub.  

    It's pretty clear with this explanation that our bear was a yearling, recently out on his own.  So all of our mama bear philosophizing was off base. Teenagers out on their own for the first time don't always exhibit the best judgement. This holds for us, Homo sapiens, as well as many other mammalian species.  Who among didn't do something stupid while our parents were safely at home watching TV?   So, a teenage bear, like a teenage human, has a brain that is still developing and he may be prone to questionable choices. 

   Adult Black Bears avoid contact with humans.  While Ursus americanus has lived in Oregon for over a million years, it has shared the territory with humans for a mere 15,000 years.  This represents thousands of generations of natural selection during which bears that came near humans were in grave danger.  So, contact with an adult bear near Sisters is very rare and probably related to the careless handling of food and waste.  

    I'm hoping that our bear makes a bunch of good decisions, possibly starting with staying off the road. With any luck he will grow up to be a useful member of the bear community.  Perhaps he'll go to Cal and join the football team.  Go Bears!  Right?

 jeff

To commemorate this amazing experience, I spent an hour or so with my friend Gemini, attempting to recreate what Sandra and I saw.  Multiple prompts yielded the two images you see here.  My son, the AI artist, says they are not very good and he is probably correct.  I hope they at least give you an idea of what Sandra and I saw on our way to Wizard Falls.  

And in the Who Knew? department, bears are way more common in Western Oregon than east of the Cascades.  Hence all the bear sightings in places like Forest Park (Portland, etc.

jh

   

    

Dougan Falls in July...Checkerspots, a Cicada and a Grouse!

    One thing that separates the lepidopterist from others who venture into nature, and here I'm talking about birdwatchers and fishermen, is that they don't need to get up early.  Upon waking up in the morning, birds and fish need to eat.  So, if you want to catch a fish or find a bird, its best to be out there shortly after sunrise.  Butterflies require a nice, warm morning and so if one arrives after 10 AM, even on a warm summer day, things in the insect world are just beginning to hum.  Or flutter, as the case may be.

Edith's Checkerspot, Scout Creek July 26

    Yesterday, Sandra and I arrived at our usual first spot at 10 AM.  The little wooden bridge at Scout Creek spans a seasonal flow, a charming little stream that meanders between moss covered rocks and a variety of lush plants.  This morning we did not have time to watch the stream, for on stepping out of the car we were deluged with butterflies.  There were Clodius Parnassians by the bucketful and a number of Pale Tiger Swallowtails.  As I readied my net, a light-colored blue fluttered in the weeds by the car.

    As soon as we were armed with our nets, I spotted a checkerspot fifteen feet ahead.  I got a good look with binoculars and then started following him up the gravel road.  After about thirty yards he took a Roscoe and headed up the slope into the woods.  As I wandered back to the car, what should I see but Schmoopie holding her net in the familiar "I've got a butterfly!" position.  

    She thought she had a checkerspot and she was right.  We collaborated on transferring her prize into a vegetable bag and popped it onto the back seat.  As I closed the car door, I was standing right where I saw the blue butterfly a few minutes before.  Scanning the nearby weeds, my eye picked out something that looked like a very big fly perched on a thimbleberry leaf.  In general, we don't collect large flies, so I got out my phone, readied the camera and started sneaking up on him.  In my dotage, I am not getting better at taking pictures or sneaking up on things.  As I got close enough, my finger poised above that white spot on the camera, the fly took wing, audibly flapping its way up into the trees.

Mountain Cicada on Thimbleberry, c/o The Bug Guide and AI

   Luckily, I got an excellent look.  the body was big and black, and the wings were broad and long. It took me about an hour to remember where I had seen wings like that before, for this was certainly not a fly.  It was a cicada.  

   As events conspired, it wasn't until this morning that I had a chance to peruse Daniel Rubinoff's book, California Insects.  This particular cicada was not in the book, so I took to the internet and between AI and Google images we identified the critter as a Mountain Cicada, Okanagana bella.   It occurs in the area around the Cascades and Sierras from B.C. to northern California.  That it wasn't in my mentor's book can be explained by the fact that there are literally a gazillion insects.  You'll have to ask George Bush how many a gazillion is, but it's a lot.  More than you can fit in a book. Dr. Rubinoff tells us that there are 65 species of cicadas in California, alone.  

Acmon Blue on a Thimbleberry Leaf AI

    That is a plethora of singing bugs, for noise making is what cicadas are best known for.  The males have strong wings which they rub together to make noise.  Some make a clicking sound.  O. bella makes a shrill buzz lasting up to two minutes.  We heard nothing, but maybe it was too early in the day, and the orchestra was just getting warmed up, as it were.

   The other thing cicadas are known for is their curious life pattern. Many species stay under ground as nymphs, emerge all at the same time and make a hell of a racket.  This species, O. bella, is asynchronous; its nymphs live three to eight years underground and some emerge every year in June and early July.  They create a more solitary buzzing...not nearly so annoying as a multitude might, and therefore, they are easy to ignore.  

     After I failed to take a picture of the cicada, I wandered back up the road.  Near the spot where I lost track of the checkerspot, Sandra was pointing and making "be quiet" gestures. In the depression adjacent to the road, she had a small blue perched in wings up position on a thimbleberry leaf.  Apparently these soft, broad leaves make a fantastic place for excellent insects to hang out.  If one took a step off the road, he was only five feet away.  He had a buffy gray wing, and I could make out the orange band on the trailing edge of his wing.  I extended the net, took my swipe and twisted, trapping our treasure.  Voila!

Ruffed Grouse, SKG July 26

   I had a bag in my pocket, so the two of us were soon engaged in transferring this small animal.  As Sandra removed the bag, we got an excellent look at the brilliant orange on the wing, which goes to show that the insect was not entirely in the bag, both literally and figuratively.  She claims that the net hit her hand, but in an instant the butterfly was loose, flying into the alders that border Scout Creek.  "Oh my Precious!  Gollum, Gollum." I lamented.  for this was certainly an Acmon Blue.  We saw one in the nearby brush just out of reach two or three years ago.  I had desponded of seeing another and here was our chance to photograph this rare beauty, now flown away.  Gollum.

    As we drove back down the hill, we agreed that the escape was a rare occurrence, so we would buck up.  No more remorse.  The gravel road dropped down and turned to the left. At this point things flatten out, with Douglas fir forest on either side of the road.  Scout Creek is much reduced, now barely a trickle with its course marked by a few alders s and shrubs.  The flow is directed through a culvert beneath the road without the need for a bridge.

Ruffed Grouse on Gravel AI

     Just after we made the turn, in the middle of this shaded road, was a rufous bird, much like a small chicken, but with a crest.  I knew immediately that this was a Ruffed Grouse.  I hadn't seen one in years, of course, and this guy was showing us why.  Despite years of the bucolic types, riding around the hills in their pick-ups and running across a grouse, stepping into the road and blasting it with a shotgun (ostensibly for the small amount of meat it might provide) these birds remain relatively unafraid.  One might have thought that a century of experience and natural selection would have created a more furtive bird.  But this guy provided evidence to the contrary.

    We watched the grouse walk back and forth in front of the car for about three minutes.  This was long enough for Sandra to get the shot you see through the windshield and for me to turn the car cattywampus, receive the camera from Sandra and fail to get the grouse in the frame.  Once again, my prowess with a cell phone camera was manifest.  Eventually the grouse tired of our shenanigans and flew off in the direction of the Washougal.  She was just lucky we didn't have a gun rack in the Mazda.

Echo Azure, Dougan Falls, July 26

    A wonderful bird sighting was enough to boost our spirits, and we soon found ourselves at the Weedy Car Park, fifty feet above the Washougal.  There were butterflies aplenty here.   After a bit, I caught a small blue nectaring on a daisy.  And a bit later Sandra caught another checkerspot.  We looked at her new catch and considered letting it go.  But something about it looked ever so slightly different, so it was successfully bagged and put in the back seat.   

    At this point, Sandra retired to the air-conditioned comfort of the front seat to work on her cross-word puzzle.   As the day got warmer, I persisted in my search and captured a very small butterfly, which was cruising at high speed just over the tops of the weeds.  He landed eventually and was captured.  A Mylitta Crescent was added to the day's bag.  Although tinier than the Acmon Blue, he did not escape Sandra's delicate, but purposeful, technique.

    We found a shady spot on Dougan Creek for our lunch and then had an encounter with three larger orange butterflies that circled me in a quick pass and then flew into the woods.  Great Spangled or Hydaspe frits?  WTF knows. 

   Back at the laboratory we took our captives in turn.  The blue, as you can see, was a really nice Echo Azure.  He didn't give us any trouble and was soon taking flight from our door side Rhododendron.

   Next came the tiny Mylitta Crescent.  He was active, so he got a few seconds in the freezer which rendered him cooperative.  He opened his wings and we got a nice photo.  Following this, he awakened and dashed towards the window.  We were unable to find him and suspect that the small butterfly made it to the top of the window, well behind the blinds.  Perhaps we will see him on the windowsill in a day or two. 

  Last came the two crescents, which were cooperative enough.  The first opened his wings and we got a dorsal picture.  The second was more cooperative and provided us the opportunity for both dorsal and ventral shots, which you see here.  

    It was easy to tell from the photographs that they looked a little different, so we sent the pictures to Caitlin, along with the sad story of the Acmon Blue.  She was very excited about the Acmon Blue, redoubling our regret at the escape.  But she also told us that we had pictures of both the Edith and the Snowberry Checkerspot.  

    These butterflies are ridiculously similar.  The Edith has slightly shorter and more rounded wings.  And it has bands across its abdomen.  The Snowberry Checkerspot has dots on the side of the abdomen.  There is something about an "Edith line" on the ventral surface, but like certain proofs in calculus, this eludes me.

    All I have to say is, Thank God for Caitlin LaBar.  And Happy fourth of July!"

jeff

If you can find the Edith Line, you're a better man than me. Snowberry 26

Mount Hood Part Two Birds, Butterflies and Fine Dining

    When we went to Mount Hood in early June, it was in part a scouting trip for when my nephew and his husband would come two weeks later.  Andrew and Shawn live in the Oakland Hills, a pretty good place to look for birds and butterflies.  They make a yearly pilgrimage in the summer to see my brother and his wife on Camano Island ,which is very beautiful, but a terrible place to look for butterflies.  This year they stopped for two nights with us in a condo at Welches, a small resort community about ten miles downhill from Timberline.

Audubon's Warbler, Timberline Lodge   June 2026  AI

   In the middle of last week, Sandra and I made a leisurely drive up to Timberline.  It was a little cloudy, which for us was unusual, as we are usually able to pick our day, so we make it a perfect one.  Despite the clouds, by 10 AM it was warm enough for butterflies. 

   We enjoyed our simple breakfast on the fireplace level of the lodge, which is rustic in a very nice way, with big windows facing the mountain.  Following our snack, we walked up the mountain about 100 vertical feet, not seeing anything special.  As we approached the lodge on our way down we saw a male Audubon's Warbler singing in one of the scraggly White Bark Pines growing by the trail.  He was resplendent in breeding plumage and singing his heart out.  "Ahh," I said, "that was what we were hearing down at Alpine Campground."  I used to be so much better at the spring warbler calls; we have this again.

Blue eye, Brown eye, throw the stick!

    It's interesting that Audubon's warbler, which should be an overwintering bird in Vancouver, where we live, has eluded us.  But we haven't seen one for years.  Must be because we don't get out enough.  Anyway, it was really nice to get this beauty.  And who knew that their range extended up to 6,000 feet in Oregon?

    As we walked out the front of the lodge to our car, we saw a pair of raucous Clark's Nutcrackers in the treetops across the lot.

   Finally, we were down at Alpine Campground.  The road into the campground was still gated, but someone had set up a large blue tent in one of the campsites near the road.  As I got out, I was greeted by a pair of bucolic treasure hunters with their friendly dog.  They said he was a short haired border collie, with one blue eye and one brown.  As we walked into the campground together, these guys with their metal detectors told me that when they shine a light at the dog at night the eyes glow different colors.  Is that spooky or awesome?  As we walked, the dog brought me a stick, so we played fetch a little bit until he was called away, presumably to join in the hunt for lost treasure. 

Clodius Parnassian,  Alpine Campground,  June 26

    Almost immediately I captured a California Tortoiseshell.  There were a million of them and I thought it might be fun for my nephew to get indoctrinated to butterfly photography.  A bit later I caught a Clodius Parnassian, which we kept as it was the first one we had seen at that elevation.

   Like Audubon's Warbler, I had regarded the clodius as a sub-alpine species.  We see it in large numbers on the banks of the Washougal, up to 1000 feet.  And we saw it two weeks earlier on the Withywindle, where we were saved by Tom Bombadil. No one is going to mistake the moist forests of Middle Earth for Timberline on Mount Hood.   

    Not only had we not seen clodius at Alpine before, but unless I am mistaken (and what are the odds of that?) when Ms. LaBar was assisting me in the assemblage of a list for the Butterflies of Mount Hood exhibit, Clodius Parnassian did not make the cut.  So now he is on the record, if anyone is listening.  As we were on the mountain, I hoped it might be a Mountain Parnassian.   This was a vain hope.  We checked the book and the mountains look a lot different...there is a lot more red, not confined to those discrete dots.  And the range is significantly to the north.

The California Tort just wouldn't wake up.

      That was it for the campground and Government Camp yielded nothing, as well.

   Back at the lab, which we had the movers transport from Vancouver to the condo in Welches, we collected our laboratory assistants, renamed them Igor 1 and Igor 2, and set about taking photographs of our victims.  While we were doing this, Igor 2, aka Shawn Barile, was fixing dinner.  He is Italian, having grown up in a transplanted Neapolitan community in San Pedro. So as we took that cracker jack photo of the clodius we were happily sipping a California red suitable for the soon to be presented penne in Bolognesi sauce.  

   The parnassian photography went well and then it was time to get a picture of the California tort, which I believe is what Gavin Newsome is filing against our beloved commander in chief.  May the Dear Good Lord bless his pointed fucked up head.

    As Sandra and I had discovered in a motel room in Bend a year or two before, Clodius Parnassian is cold sensitive.  We put the catch of the day on the birch log we were using as a photographic prop and he promptly fell over.  Sandra breathed the warm breath of life on him and he regained a bit of balance but was still not sufficiently recovered. 

Butterfly Gothic

    At this moment I had a stroke of genius.  We took the butterfly out to our sunny lanai and placed him on the table.  Then I went to the kitchen and found a small glass casserole pan that Shawn didn't need for the penne Bolognesi.  I covered the butterfly with the glass pan, figuring I would come back in a few minutes and he would be basking in the afternoon sun with his wings spread in solar collecting position.  Va molto bene.

   I went back in to finish my delicious vino and returned to find that I had made one small miscalculation.  The table was comprised of slats separated by slits almost a centimeter in width.  As he had warmed, Mr. Tortoiseshell had crept off his slat and escaped through a slit. Che peccato!

   Dinner was delicious and, as you will see, we would live to fight another day.

   The following morning we went up to the lodge and the four of us took a walk up the slope.  On the way we had a wonderful view of the nutcrackers cavorting in the top of a Sub Alpine Fir.  That alone was worth the price of admission.

It's a lucky Mariposa Lily at Alpine Campground

    Back at Alpine Campground, we encountered a lovely wildflower that I had photographed the day before.  I showed my guests how to use Google Photos Lens to identify it and, lo and behold, it was a Mariposa Lily.  Is that a good omen or what?

   The bunch of us strolled past the blue tent and I soon netted another California Tortoiseshell, all the while muttering in my best Wicked Witch of the West voice, "You won't escape this time , my pretty."

   We had seen deeper colored blues the day before and there were several blues around.  I netted one and shortly after that I netted another.  Snadra had transferred the first to the next to the last bag in my pocket,  In an act of skill previously unknown in the western world, she got the second tiny blue butterfly into the same bag.  That's why they call her Sandra Gray!

    On we walked, made our turn and on the way back I saw a small orange butterfly on the edge of the rod.  Using Sandra's flop the net on him technique I trapped it, and the four of us coaxed him up into the net.    We could tell right away that this was a checkerspot and we were hoping that it would be a Hoffman's for the second year in the row.

   We stopped at Government Camp on the way down the mountain so I could show Shawn and Andrew a stand of Bear Grass way up the ski slope.  There were no butterflies to speak of so they used the binoculars to look at the tall white flowers 150 yards uphill.

Next thing you know you have Salade Niçoise!

    Back at the condo we had guinea grinders for lunch.  This is an old Hill family recipe.  I know it's only sandwiches, but you have to do it right or it just doesn't cut the mustard...which is not one of the ingredients.  You start with a nice long roll, or a section of a baguette, apply olive oil to the bread and then layers of salami, provolone cheese, tomatoes, dill pickles, green peppers and onion.  Our off-recipe addition is a slice of ham.  Serve with an ice cold beer.  Castle Foulis Ablaze!  That's our clan motto and the family toast.  Not very Italian, but then you can't have everything, can you?

    As an aside, I didn't know until I was going to school in Boston that Guinea is a racial slur against Italians.  Shawn is a consummate good sport and finds the name amusing.  I think.

   After lunch, Shawn started working on dinner while the rest of us started taking pictures of our new batch of butterflies.  "What's for dinner?" you ask.  Well, its Salade Niçoise.  I had never had this tres French dish.  Earlier that morning I was explaining it over the phone to my son, Charles in Scottsdale.   Modern telecommunications being what they are, I sent him a picture of the ingredients artfully arranged in a basket.  Now I'm sending it to you.  Assuming that you haven't had Salade Niçoise, take a look at the picture and see if you can guess what Shawn is up to.

Boisduval's Blue, Alpine Campground, June 26

    Well, we started out with the blues, In as much as they were refrigerated, they were easy for Savvy Sandra to remove them individually.  The first was a silvery, with dark spots of equal size on the ventral surface of both the front and back wings.  We saw that one last week and so we knew it right away.  This butterfly is ostensibly paired with Sara's Orangetip...they emerge at the same time and in the same location.  The orangetip is still a life butterfly for me and I've seen a fair run of silveries, so I think this bit of lore de mariposas may be caca de toro. 

   You saw the silvery last week, but look at a picture of the second butterfly Sandra pulled out of her bag of tricks.  Note that the spots on the hind wing are basically white...there may be a tiny black speck in the middle.  This is Boiduval's Blue.  Not a terribly uncommon butterfly and one that made Caitlin's list, but its new for this year's list, so Castail Foulis na Thena.   That, supposedly is how you say our clan motto in Gaelic, Raise the clan and let them start identifying butterflies!  That will teach the damn English a lesson they shan't forget!  It is a little known fact that Robbie the Bruce bore a butterfly on his shield when he defeated Edward the Second at Bannockburn.  Ach aye, laddie.  It was a bonnie day with a host of wee butterflies overwhelming the bloody English.  

Hoffman's Checkerspot, Alpine Campground June 26

      Next out of the refrigerator was the checkerspot.  As you can see, this was a natty checkerspot...perhaps he injured that wing fighting against the bag.  At any rate, enough of this beautiful male remains to identify him as Hoffman's. ID confirmed by the Wizard of Longview herself.  Those of us at the blog are humble, but very proud. 

     In the last year I have learned how to us iNaturalist, but probably not as well as Peter Krottje or Bob Hillis.  For sure not as well as Cait.   Nevertheless, I can tell you that multiple contributors have posted this butterfly on Mount Hood, but none of these are in the Alpine Campground.  This is curious because the campground is easily accessible and if you can believe the posts, those other guys went to dramatically more trouble in the way of hiking and such, than Schmoopie and I would ever engage in.  More power to 'em, I say.  But the Schmoops and I should get credit for doing it the American way...by car.

Hoffman's Checkerspot male Alpine Canpground June 26

     This left the Tortoiseshell.  Knowing that he was cold sensitive, we had not refrigerated him, and he was fluttering about in his bag.  Sandra and I decided to refrigerate him just a little bit.  Fifteen seconds in the ice box did render him still, but in the wings up position. As he warmed he took flight, but we weren't so stupid, this time, to let him out of doors. 

    Despite many suggestions from the peanut gallery we were unable to get him to open his wings indoors without taking off and ending up against the glass slider.  We took multiple pictures of him on the floor or against the window, but none were very good.

    Finally, all the sand had run out of the giant hourglass, Andrew threw some water on me and I melted.  So much for all my wonderful wickedness. 

    In actuality, Sandra suggested that we put a glass over the butterfly and take his picture through the tumbler, which our Airbnb hostess generously provided So we did this and took several pictures of him looking forlornly out into the world that he knew and loved.  Or in this case our condo which he could not wait to be rid of.  So what I'm presenting is Cali Tort under glass.  It's the best we could do and words don't begin to express our regret.  I guess we'll score this a tie and be satisfied with the result.

California Tortoiseshell under glass.

    Dinner was a triumph, with ahi tuna, boiled new potatoes, red pepper and cauliflower all on a bed of lettuce in Italian dressing...Salade Niçoise.  And we had carrot cake for dessert, so there was a sweet ending to this overly long butterfly tale.

   Sandra and I hope you are enjoying the World Cup and somehow finding time to search for butterflies which pose cooperatively in a sunlit meadow. 

jeff

Skirl your pipes and beat your drums, the best butterflies are yet to come!

The Goldenrod Crab Spider and the best of Bob Hillis

     Sometimes I feel like Professor Boisduval, who in my mind's eye is a chubby academic sitting in his museum in Paris and receiving specimens from his ace collector, Pierre Lorquin.  In the United States, Lorquin is most famous for his collecting work during the California gold rush, but he travelled widely and sent butterflies and beetles back to Paris from places like darkest Africa and Malaysia.  What a guy.

Double Tail Swallowtail near St George, Utah, June 2026

   In fact, Boisduval was a private collector, but his collection went on to become the Musee National d'Historie Naturelle.  Sacre bleu! As for Pierre Lorquin, his latter day avatar in this fantasy is my bon ami, Bob Hillis.  This spring, despite his complaints (everybody wants to see more, right?) this spring, Bob has sent me some excellent pictures of remarkable butterflies.  

   Most recently, he sent the picture you see here of an Arizona Double Tail, more correctly designated as the Two Tail Swallowtail, Papilio multicaudata.  He found this large swallowtail lying stunned on a gravel road at 7,000 feet in the Utah Rockies.  

   What you see here is this unusual butterfly cradled in Bob's hands.  The picture was taken by his lovely wife, Kim. Bob says Kim deserves full credit as she drives him nightly back to the memory care facility.  It seems that if you want to look at Bob's butterflies, you have to put up with his apocryphal tales.

An AI House Wren in the moist Ridgefield Woods

    When Bob told me his story, I curbed my jealousy and replied that the following day we were going to take Sandra's daughter, Leslie, birdwatching in Ridgefield and I was counting on a Lazuli Bunting lying stunned on the road. 

   We arrived at the Ridgefield refuge around 10 AM.  The first thing we noticed, was that in the intervening few weeks, the water level had dropped dramatically.  We still saw the Gadwalls and Cinnamon Teal, but long legged waders like the Yellowlegs were nowhere to be found.

   We made the obligatory stop at the blind.  Perhaps because it was cold and with a chance of rain, our friends the Black Phoebes weren't around.   On the bright side, the snipe were still making their winnowing sounds

Cascade Beard Tongue

    The Barn Swallows were now feeding their nestlings; four chicks nestled into their mud nest, inside the blind. Wheen an adult would swoop in, and the nestlings would stretch their necks and open their gaping mouths in hopes of getting the first bite. 

   We watched the area outside the blind for a while.  I was rewarded with a quick look, maybe ten seconds, of a small black bird with fluffy feathers as it scuttled from one patch of marsh grass to another.  I assume this was a Virginia Rail chick. 

   On our way back to the car, I pished the moist woods and drew a house wren in addition to the song sparrows, which are the dependable sentinels of the moist woods in the northwest.  The wren looked down at us from a mossy branch before flying away.   

     Yesterday Sandra and I tried to keep up with the Hillises...we went butterfly watching at Dougan Falls.  We made it to our first stop at a mere 1000 feet around 10 AM.  The sky was blue, at a crisp 60 degrees, and the nearby stream burbled merrily.  Cool, clear water, just what the Son's of the Pioneers had in mind.

Goldenrod Crab Spider with buttercups.

    We were early enough that we got to watch the butterflies emerge as the day warmed up.  First came the small, orange Western Meadow Frits, which was the butterfly that first attracted us to this area.  The larger fritillaries tend to emerge later in the season.  This little guy, as elegant as his bigger brothers, must produce brood after brood, as it appears in early May and is present all summer.   Sandra netted one and we  released it after confirming the ID.   Next came a Pale Tiger Swallowtail to be followed by a half dozen more.  They cruised up and down the road, chasing one another and nectaring on a small purple flower that was blooming on the slope. Google lens identifies it as Cascade Beard Tongue, also known as Penstemon serrulatus.  But why would you want to call it a penstemon when you have a common name that excites erotic fantasies among young lady sasquatches?

   I got a picture of the Pale Swallowtail having its way with the Beard Tongue...sadly there were no lady sasquatches to be found.

    The pale swallowtails were followed by Clodius Parnassian.  Sandra netted one of those, as well, and he was duly released to go find a lady Parnassian and entice her with his beard tongue.   It's that time of year!

Goldenrod Crab Spider, June 2026

   We then moved down to the Weedy Car Park, our most trusted spot.  The same butterflies were there, and we took note of a fine crop of thistles that should attract the larger frits in a month or so.  Sandra netted a Silver Spot Skipper that was nectaring among a patch of buttercups.  After we confirmed the ID and the skipper was released, Sandra noted that she had a tiny, bright yellow bug remaining on her net.  Soon this little yellow fellow was photographed and released.  

    We had never seen anything quite like it before and wondered if it was a tick or a small spider.  This led to some terrible jokes as we negotiated the bumpy road out of the forest.  If it was a yellow tick, would it carry Lemon's disease as opposed to Lime's Disease?  If I can't keep up with Bob Hillis in finding rare animals and excellent photography, perhaps I can give him a run for his money in bad puns.

    When we regained the internet, we found that this was a Goldenrod Crab Spider, Misumena vatia.  Only the females are bright yellow, and they are the vicious ones.  They live on yellow flowers (note that I included a picture in which you can see the similarly yellow buttercups behind the net).  When an insect, like a bee or butterfly comes to nectar on the flower, the spider leaps, grabs its prey with those powerful front legs and injects the unsuspecting insect with a powerful neurotoxin.  

   Sandra was very careful handling the spider, but she need not have worried.  While the toxin is fatal to pollinators, it is only mildly irritating to humans.  Sort of like Bob Hillis!  And me, too, I suppose.

jeff

Mormon Metalmark, Bob Hillis, May 2026, St George, Utah 

    

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