The other morning, Kate was headed out for the early-morning walk with The Dog, then came back in to tell me I should come and see a moth on the front porch. I was editing a story and grunted that I was busy. After the walk, she came back and showed me a picture of the creature hanging on the wall near the front door. Yeah, it was striking. So I grabbed my camera to go take a look.
What we didn't know was what sort of moth it might be. Thanks to the amazing World Wide Web, I found a site that included a species identifier that, after four or five clicks, drilled down to five candidate species. No. 4 on that list was Hyles lineata, or the white-lined sphinx. I don't recall ever seeing one before, though I readily find a reference to a recent appearance in Alameda, less than 10 miles from here.
According to one of the links above, this species is a fairly benign presence in our environment (especially when compared to the more widely distributed Homo sapiens).
And unless their numbers are excessive, they're unlikely to pose a significant worry for gardeners or orchardists. "Sometimes they might nibble a little bit along the way, but they will have little effect on those plants," he says. The caterpillars have fed on a wide range of plants — purslane, portulaca, wild grape, and a host of weeds and various desert shrubs; they tend to stick with low, shrubby plants.
In an uncertain world, there's one thing you can count on in Berkeley every late winter and spring: Oxalis pes-caprae, also known around town as oxalis, Bermuda buttercup, yellow wood sorrel, "some kind of shamrock," and sourgrass. "Sourgrass" because the stems are edible and tart, and both our kids, as well as lots of their friends, occasionally picked the grass and ate it when they were little.
On one hand, the plant is not unattractive--the blooms are almost iridescent in the right light--and was once something that gardeners planted ornamentally. I have a neighbor who says he likes to let the plant have its day, seeing how pretty it is for a few weeks every year.
On the other hand, the damned thing's a nuisance. It's ubiquitous, showing up in garden beds far and wide. Once it arrives, it's virtually to get rid of. Pulling it up, you discover it has little white translucent tubers that seem to have something to do with how it spreads. You also occasionally find miniature bulbs from which the plant grows in the fall. Since it's an alien (it's native to South Africa) and invasive, it's more than a headache for gardeners. Here's what the University of California's Integrated Pest Management site says about Oxalis pes-caprae:
Bermuda buttercup was first noted in California in the San Francisco Bay region and has since spread throughout most coastal counties, the coastal range, and into the Central Valley. In the last 10 years, this plant has invaded native coastal dunes and natural areas along the coast, leading to the demise of native plants. It is a troublesome weed that is more competitive than is assumed from its general appearance.
Due to its extensive occurrence in yards and gardens, Bermuda buttercup has the potential to rapidly spread via the production of bulbs and the movement of contaminated soils into adjacent natural areas. Because it is practically impossible to eradicate infested soils of this weed, take care to prevent Bermuda buttercup from invading wild lands.
And here's what the site says you're in for if you're really dedicated to the cause of eradicating your personal patch of oxalis:
The best control method for this pernicious weed is prevention. If new infestations are spotted and controlled early, it is possible to eradicate small populations. Large populations are difficult to control and will require multiple years of diligent control efforts.
Small infestations can be controlled by repeated manual removal of the entire plant. Repeated pulling of the tops will deplete the bulb’s carbohydrate reserves, but these efforts will take years to be successful. Repeated mowing also will eventually deplete the bulb. Cut Bermuda buttercup before it flowers and forms new bulbs. Repeated cutting or cultivation is necessary to reduce plant numbers. The soil from which plants are removed should be carefully examined or sifted to remove bulbs and bulblets, an extremely time- and labor-intensive process. Before planting in an infested area, use soil solarization to further reduce Bermuda buttercup populations.
The way things shook out last night, we would have had to rush to the Oakland ferry slip for our usual Friday night round-trip. So we decided to take it easy and do something else. "Something else" turned out to be going down to Cesar Chavez Park, the former Berkeley garbage dump, down on the bay. The Dog was so excited when he realized where we were going that he climbed into Kate's lap in the front seat of the car when we got close to our destination. We parked right before the sun set, and took a long walk that looped down to the edge of the park, where the landfill ends and the bay sweeps out toward the Golden Gate, Angel Island and Marin County. A single sailboat was tacking along the waterfront, zigzagging its way back toward a berth in the Berkeley Marina.
Exotic fauna of Sutter County: a zebroid on the hoof (click for larger images).
We're in the bittersweet last day or so of our joint spring break (Kate from the demanding world of public education, me from the somewhat less demanding world of public broadcasting). At the beginning of the week, we went on a mini road trip to see a relatively little-visited natural wonder I'd read about in the paper a few weeks (Feather Falls--more on that later). We wound up spending a day driving up to one of the state's big reservoirs, Lake Oroville, a day hiking, then another day winding our way back down to the Bay Area.
There's a certain part of the Sacramento Valley I've gotten to know from riding a bicycle through it--generally the area on the southern half or so of the valley, from the state capital up to about Chico. The most striking visual feature of that part of the state, almost everyone would agree, is the volcanic remnant rising up from the floor of the valley, known now as the Sutter Buttes. Someone sometime in the distant past--probably Ripley's Believe-It-or-Not, probably in the 1940s--designated the buttes, which rise to a maximum elevation of just over 2,100 feet and cover about 75 square miles, "the smallest mountain range in the world."
One thing about the buttes: though a piece of the central buttes is now public land, access is across private land and thus only possible by appointment--either on a pre-arranged tour or with researchers (a public-radio colleague, Molly Samuel, got in a while back with some biologists studying an animal I had never heard of before: the ringtail). So what the public gets to do, generally, is drive around the perimeter. So Wednesday, that's what we did, retracing a path I've ridden a few times in the past. West of Yuba City, just outside the little town of Sutter, we had our own exotic animal encounter.
Passing a farmyard, Kate called out, "Is that a zebra?" I missed whatever she had seen, but when I looked over, I saw a couple of llamas (more and more common on ranches here) and, very uncommon, a camel. A camel? A zebra? I turned around to take a look.
The "zebra" was pretty clearly a hybrid of some kind--probably a cross between a zebra and a donkey. She, or perhaps he, certainly looked like a donkey and had the docile, inquisitive nature of a donkey, coming right over to the fence to check out Scout (a.k.a The Dog). We checked out some of the other animals on the premises--some odd-looking goats, a pygmy donkey of some sort, the llamas, a few horses, the aforementioned camel, and a pack of furious dogs that seemed to contain at least one labradoodle.
Wikipedia says zebra/equine hybrids--known generally as zebroids--have a long history and even drew Darwin's attention. The names for the crosses are many, including zonkey, donkra, zedonk, zebonkey, zebronkey, zebrinny, zebrula, zebrass, and zebadonk. I came up with my own term: variegated ass.
A few years ago, my sister Ann came out from Chicago about this time of year with Dan, my bro-in-law, and her kids, Soren and Ingrid. I don't think it was a particularly storm winter for them, but there's no mistaking the "spring" equinox in Chicago for actual spring. You may have a few balmy days under your belt by now, but you also know that winter can come back and dump on you any time (as it isright now well downstate from Chicago).
Anyway, when brother-in-law Dan is a gardener, and I remember how amazed he was to come out from the Midwest, where green stuff is still mostly cowering under cover, waiting for some signal that it's safe to come out, and see everything that was in bloom at the same time here in our Mediterranean climate. It's way too easy to get used to: we have a profusion of blossoms, fruit trees galore, odd and exotic species of many sorts, and most of the time I see all that only on the edge of what I'm really looking at--whether there's a car bearing down on me as I cross the street or where the dog is headed next.
I think I've mentioned sometime since Christmas that my kids gave me a macro lens for Christmas. Its fine points are still a mystery to me, but it is a way of looking closer at a lot of the stuff (and flowers and foliage) I stroll past every day.
A couple summers ago, when our minivan was still part of the family, we spent a few days on a car camping trip up in the Sierra. The experience was pleasing enough that we resolved that eventually we'd replace our trusty but musty little four-person tent with something grander. Last year, feeling flush with a big tax refund in hand, we bought a really big car-camping tent from L.L. Bean (I think you'd characterize it as a car-camping tent; if you were going to backpack with it, you'd probably want a Sherpa just to lug the tent).
The tent came in a big box. It sat and sat and sat in that box, all the way through last summer and the car-camping season. Eventually, I opened the box, removed the contents, which were packed up in a nice nylon duffel bag, and stowed them in a closet. And there they sat through the fall and winter.
Now, Kate and I are off for the next week--I schedule my vacations according to the Oakland school district calendar. And we're thinking we'll drive up to the northern Sierra foothills, where it's still pretty cold at night, to hike out to a waterfall we read about recently. But first, we had to break out the tent and pitch it so we know what the heck we're doing when we reach our campground. So, in our Berkeley flatlands backyard today, we put it up.
Wow--it really is big. I think we're going to camp out tonight.
My brother John and I were standing on the platform of the MacArthur BART station in Oakland once, years ago. The platform is set in the midst of a big freeway interchange. It's got a nice view of towering overpasses in one direction. Since it's elevated and bounced by four lanes or so of traffic on each side, it actually has an open view to the Oakland Hills on one side and out toward San Francisco Bay on the other. With all the traffic, the soaring, gracefully curved highway structures, the trains coming and going, you're really conscious of how much industry and energy goes into what we build. And more than that, too. Standing there, John said, "These are out cathedrals." Not that we build our highways to give expression to our understanding of the divine, but these structures somehow embody both a creative urge and give voice to how we see our connection with the world.
Anyway, yesterday, I was out on a short bike ride (to pick up the A's tickets featured in another post), and took a bike lane that skirts the Maze, the huge tangle of overpasses and ramps that distribute eastbound traffic from the Bay Bridge south toward San Jose, east and south toward Livermore and Stockton and Walnut Creek and Concord, and north toward Berkeley, Richmond, Vallejo and Sacramento. It was a beautiful early afternoon, and what was most striking was the way the highway structures framed the hills and mountains of Marin County.
I have come to that time of life--or maybe it's a passing phase--where I really like the apparent extra hour of sleep you get when you turn the clocks back in the autumn. Those sixty extra minutes in bed seem like forever, the luxury coming when you finally climb out of the sack and it's still kind of early (or at least not noon). The business of turning the clock ahead and "losing" that time--gee, whoever said the forty-seven-hour weekend was a good idea. Yeah, I know it all balances out, and that an hour is an hour, and that the seasonal turning of clocks ahead and back doesn't add a single minute to our time on Earth, and it doesn't take a single minute away. (The foregoing rumination is probably triggered by the feeling that, man, do I have a hard time getting the prescribed x number of hours of sleep that researchers say I need to be a healthy, happy, organism.)
Here's another sign of the turning of the seasons: baseball. Last year, we got kind of involved with the A's again after years of distance born partly the team's indifferent performance on the field and partly from disgust with an owner who seemed to be doing everything possible to alienate the team's fans in advance of moving the team to somewhere else. But last year was really fun. The team dragged along below .500 for the first couple of months of the season, and then with a bunch of rookie pitchers and an unbelievable run of clutching hitting, they started winning and didn't stop until they ran into the Tigers in the playoffs.
Our enthusiasm was such that we sprung for partial season tickets this year. The team sent them this week. When you buy tickets that way, you generally get a specially printed batch that features pictures of the team's stars. We got those this year, packaged in a little bit of extra swag--a very cool A's lunch box. We're ready for opening day.
I'm trying to do a little project before the year gets too old: publish my dad's 1930 diary, which his mom forced him to keep when the family traveled out to California, alongside my journal of my first trip out West, including California, in 1973. (When I say "publish," I'm mostly talking about uploading scans to this here blog.)
Anyway, I started to look at what I was writing 40 years ago as I hitch-hiked down the coast in February from Vancouver. One thing I had kind of forgotten: I'd gotten it into my head that I ought to try to write down notable conversations I had with people along the way. And I see stuff in there now featuring rides and people I honestly don't recall. There's a good example near the beginning of my trip.
On January 31, I took the ferry from Vancouver to Victoria to Port Angeles, Washington. On February 1, I headed down the coast via U.S.101 West. Here's part of the entry at the end of that day (and yes, this is just how I wrote it down):
"I met some interesting people today while hitch-hiking. A logging truck driver who picked me up in Port Angeles, a Washington State geology grad, a mother of two from Quinault who related the details of relatives' mill accidents:
" 'My husband got his hand caught in a chain, and it ground his fingers up good; he lost one, and has to hold his hand like this (she held her hand up in a clawed position)
" 'And my brother in law, he was sawing shakers at a mill and cut right up the middle of his index finger--to the second joint--but his hand is perfectly all right.
" 'He's only 18, but last year, he crashed his car down a thousand foot embankment. The car, it was a brand new Super Bee, hit the embankment twenty times on the way. And he got a bruise on his forehead.' "
"One of her little girls said: 'Daddy's finger is growing back.'
" 'No, Shelley,' the mother replied. 'Once you lose a finger, it doesn't grow back.'
" 'But I don't want daddy's finger to look like that forever,' Shelley said (she was about five).
" 'But the bones in it were too smashed up honey, and they couldn't fix it.' "
Those folks dropped me off somewhere along the road. I can't say where, exactly. What I do remember is how wet it was on the coast of the Olympic Peninsula and how dense the forests seemed. And banana slugs--I think I saw one that day for the first time. I remember ending up the day in a little state park in the southwestern corner of the state, how gray it seemed, how early darkness came, and how much I missed being at home with my family and friends close by.
So, here I am in 2013. What I'm wondering to myself is whether I listen as carefully now as I did for a few minutes back then.
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