Eye on Nature With Wally Shriner

30 January 2024 

After the big freeze, came the thaw, and then the big rain. Yesterday we finally got the big warm up and the sun emerged, albeit briefly, to remind us that cold and gray is not a forever state. Of course, we had already emerged from our houses after the storm-imposed “staycation” to survey the full results of the fury of strong winds paired with Arctic air. The grounds crew has done a fabulous job of clearing parking lots and sidewalks of treefall and debris, but a walk along the eastern ring road or along the trail behind the arts complex reveals a scene full of fallen branches, a forest floor littered with the cuttings of Douglas fir, cedar, maple, and ash. The canopy, already thinned after the autumnal dropping of deciduous leaves, is now even more dramatically open. The large patches of blue sky have me wondering, come spring, which will be the stronger influence on the growth of the understory, increased sunlight or heavier  than  normal ground cover? Will a January storm bring a parade of flowers in April and May? Will the still- standing trees show a burst of growth into the space now theirs for sun- seeking limbs? 

I know for certain that the two campus creeks are already in full “bloom.” If you can make an opportunity to take a walk to the pond (or to my favorite viewpoint, the “dump” behind Fisheries that overlooks Beaver Creek), I recommend it. The width of the creek is easily three times as wide as its summer span, cutting new banks and establishing new paths. The creek that we will see when the waters recede will be a very different one from the one we last saw in 2023. I like to think that the beavers and salmon have been given a new slate on which to write their natural histories. 

Time will tell these budding stories, and we’ll have to wait a few weeks or months to read the first chapters, but already there are new songs in the air to hear. Inspired by the lengthening days, or stimulated by the accompaniment of the sun, both song and white-crowned sparrows sing quietly from the cover of brush. A scouter’s bird box was being inspected by no fewer than three species – northern flicker, European starling, and black-capped chickadees. The entrance is really only big enough for the smallest of the three, but the fact that all three are shopping for nest -sites tells us that the breeding season is mere weeks away. And the “snap” or “bark” of a diving Anna’s Hummingbird proclaims that for this species, courtship has already begun. Every spring I stand in awe that the smallest, and seemingly most tropical of our resident birds, is the first to court, and nest and raise their young. After the ice of early January, but well before the last snow falls on the lower slopes of the mountain we call ours, with or without sunshine to light their emerald- covered heads, these tiny jewels make acrobatic dives that signal their quality as a mate. Soon, hidden from all but the most careful observers, their partners will weave a nest of spider webs and lichen and lay tiny eggs that hold the future in their shells. 

Ice, wind, rain and sun. Destruction, rebirth, and the promise of the future. January has it all. 

With an eye on nature, 

Wally Shriner 

Science Faculty, retired