Among the benefits of early rising is the gorgeous sunrises we get here: always different—
On the particular morning of this photo, the patterns of light and colour in the cloud captivated me and inspired this work of 'photo art'.
This pattern of wrinkled humps of seaweed on the rising tide is relatively unusual. It takes several different weather and tide conditions conspiring together to create it.
It goes something like this: First, a southeast wind must blow at low enough tide to accumulate a build up of copious amounts of sea lettuce on the beach. Then, the further receding tide must distribute that sea lettuce over a large patch of the shallow sloping sand, a few inches thick. Then, day must be hot enough to dry the surface of the sea lettuce while the tide has ebbed. The third requirement is that the wind drop, allowing a calm windless period while the tide rises. The result is that the thick layer of sea lettuce is moved slowly from beneath, while the baked-dry surface of the sea lettuce layer is more resistant to movement, and makes for these extraordinary folds.
To me it looks something like colourful elephant skin. Or perhaps a satellite photo of mountain ridges. Or the flowing of some strange green river flowing from the distant rocks... What do you think??
Finlay Lake Conservation Area - Click on image for a larger view
We'd wanted to walk in to Finlay Lake for a while, so with the sun shining brilliantly, it seemed a good day to set out for this quiet spot.
The path leading through the forest was bursting with spring shoots, and the birds were singing in the canopy above us, and the winter wrens and towhees rustling in the ferns and salal.
When the path opened to the lake there were a few Buffleheads on the far side, but otherwise all was still. Occasionally a raven's call echoed through the trees, and an eagle flew past. Otherwise, simply stillness— but a stillness that is burgeoning with life.
Clearly I have an affinity to the deep mystery of rainforest beauty. The moody grey weather invited another walk along the lower trails of Bluff Park. Its impossible for me to walk these paths without thinking of stories and fairy tales, and of Ents and Hobbits— I have yet to see one of those, but doesn't this scene make you wonder if maybe... if we waited very quietly ... ?
This afternoon for a change of pace, I'll go and hunt for some early spring buds, but for now, its deep forest that I want to share.
It looks like the forecast is matching what we saw as the sun rose this morning. Heavy rain and wind are in the offing. Meanwhile —there was a blaze of glory in the early light.
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I’ve added a few adjustments to this iPhone photo with Photoshop and Topaz Simplify get the image closer to what my 'eye' saw.
Its such a stunning change from the drought of summer to the soaking forest creeks of this season. This is one of several creeks that run to the NE shore of the island, from small lakes in the hills, tumbling down onto the sandstone beaches and into the Salish Sea. This creek has widened its path with the fresh rains of this past week, dividing into two streams around an island of ragged fern and moss and logs. The mosses are luminous green today, and the lichens on the trunks in the background give a grey-blue hue to the stand of young trees. Everywhere, life burgeoning.
When we set out for our walking expedition today, to one of our favourite island spots, I had no idea I’d see it differently from any other of the many times I’d walked that trail.
The rain was falling steadily but slowed to a sort of misty drizzle by the time we hit the trail. The clouds were hanging low on the hills, draping them with varying shades of gray. The islands up the channel were a faded gray green, the water calm and so still that the rings of each raindrop was discernible til its rings blended with those around. It was all very lovely in a wintry desolate way— not a person in sight or a voice to be heard. Even the ducks were in hiding. The only wildlife we saw was a pair of otters playing on the rocks. But they too scooted away, surprised to see us, thinking perhaps the weather was providing them freedom from interlopers.
But it was the extraordinary sheen of the arbutus, its smooth bark glistening in the rain that was the greatest delight. It looked as though someone had spent hours polishing it with wax or painted it with high gloss shellac, and the effect was to show every bend and twist of the trunk and branches —each tree we came upon unique in how the years and circumstance had shaped them.
The rain’s gift was to show me those trees in a different way than I’d ever noted before. It was the detail, the strange beauty of the contortions and adaptations to weather, breakage, erosion, and all of it, beautiful— washed clean and gleaming even on such a day as this.
These last three days have provided spectacular wave watching as the strong North East outflow wind crossed the Salish Sea whipping the waves to a fury of 'white horses'. The collision of water and rock made great sprays and splashes, as the rollers moved in steadily.
The light of the rising sun through the cresting waves was a beautiful green and to me it seemed a jubilant dance of light and water.
This afternoon the wind's dropped, the sea has calmed and life returns to a semblance of 'normal', though definitely with a more wintry chill.
Last week we ventured out to Salamanca Point. The access path opened to a stunning view— the open strait, from NW to SE— but it was the tafoni that was particularly awesome. Galiano's sandstone shores are a great place to study tafoni — the intriguing shapes sculpted in the sandstone— but I think this particular spot is one of the best on the island.
The slant of the afternoon sun called attention to the variety of shapes with patterns of shadow and light, gentle curves and straight lines, the regular pitting and the random swoops and hollows.
Watch for further photos of tafoni in later posts. Its one of my favourite 'subjects'.
