Fluff

Normally I avoid biking on trails; today's route with some friends included a stretch of the Los Gatos Creek Trail that I've rarely used.

What was going on with these trees? I doubled back later, not wanting my curiosity to interfere with our group's plans.

Fluffy white stuff drifting all around us; not snowflakes (of course), not bits of dust on the lens of my camera ...

Puffy balls hanging all over the tree ... could these be cottonwood trees? [Duh!]

I took note of another oddity that caught my eye, and managed to find it when I returned: white California poppies (a cultivar, as it turned out).

A social ride with a little extra exploring, 36 miles with about 1,000 feet of elevation gain along the way. No better way to spend a sunny spring day!

May Day Flowers

A docent-led hike, focused on wildflowers? Count me in!

First new fact: The pond is here because the water table is high at this spot. We were following the familiar Zinfandel trail at the Picchetti Ranch Open Space Preserve today, pausing only briefly to admire the pond and convince ourselves that the duck we saw at the far side was a female mallard.

While I recognized many of the flowers we found, the wind poppy was new to me (and, evidently, fairly uncommon).

Many flowers rely on pollinators—like this variable checkerspot butterfly visiting our native golden yarrow.

Having hiked this (wooded) trail in other seasons, I was honestly surprised to discover as many flowers as we did. Red larkspur and white globe lilies, columbine and smooth mule's ears, Fernald's iris and bluewitch nightshade, orange bush monkeyflower and blue-eyed grass (of course), and so much more.

A leisurely 4.4 mile walk, for the love of flowers.

Still Blooming

The signs are there: the green hills are fading softly to brown.

The trails in Santa Teresa County Park are exposed and best explored during our cooler months (which will soon be behind us, until late fall).

If you know where to look, there are flowers to be found. (And we do know where to look.)

Clear skies, a perfect spring day to share a challenging hike with friends old and new (7.5 miles, about 1,000 feet of elevation gain). Smiles, all around.

Feathering Nests

I was itching for a long bike ride. A long, slow bike ride, playing amateur naturalist along the way. I didn't intend to visit the rookery; it felt too early to find much activity there.

A great blue heron took flight, skimming across the water, when I stopped to snap a photo.

I was hungry by the time I reached Baylands Park, where I settled at a picnic table near the area where a few guys were flying their model aircraft. A perilous activity, given the wind, I thought. “Not if you're a good pilot,” one remarked.

Shorebirds are a reliable sight along the bayside trail. Pondering the route I'd take back home, visions of a fresh fruit tart clinched it. Onward, then, to the rookery!

Some nests were under construction; a few were well-established and occupied.

Big nests for big birds.

And a big ride for this old bird: 46 miles with about 1,300 feet of elevation gain. Powered, in part, by a luscious fruit tart.

In the Eyes of a Child

I'd never really considered spending an entire day (or close to it) at the Monterey Bay Aquarium—until today.

A good friend had family visitors from afar; thinking they would enjoy it, I invited them to join me.

It's fascinating to experience a familiar place from another's perspective. Years ago, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I'd explored galleries I'd never considered after asking friends what they'd like to see. Today I got a pint-sized view of the Aquarium's exhibits, and a solid appreciation for the play-centric areas where children can climb and slide and manipulate child-friendly features. [Kudos to those who designed the exhibits, including their durability.]

The little ones were too young, perhaps; will they remember anything from this day? [I will.]

Fields, Forest, and Flowers

One of our hiking buddies proposed a walk through an open space preserve that was unfamiliar to me: Glenwood.

It seemed that most of our regular hikers were out of town, leaving me to join two who were well-acquainted with this preserve.

Bisected by a busy road, I was surprised to discover how different the two sections were.

Leaving the sunny (inland) side of the Santa Cruz Mountains, I had also been surprised to ride into the fog as I headed toward the coast. The marine layer, of course, kept us cool (but not too chilled).

One hillside was gloriously covered with lupine and owl's clover in peak bloom. We meandered along more than five miles of trails, and yet left some areas unexplored. (Till next time!)

Up for the Count

Around this time of year, for many years, teams have assembled to survey the wildflowers blooming in particular sections of the Sierra Azul Open Space Preserve. I was excited to learn that I could sign up to help.

While normally we're admonished to stay on the trails, today we could venture afield (in the name of science). Our group included a ranger, a staff botanist, several additional experts and docents, interns, and a couple of people like me (curious amateurs.)

Equipped with little booklets featuring the top 100 flowers found in prior years (grouped by color), we could often figure out what we were seeing. (Tomcat clover, below.)

While the experts handled formal identifications and kept the official tally (for comparison with prior—and future—years), everyone had their eyes peeled for flowers. That's where I could be most helpful.

The ranger had hiked through the area a few days before and spotted a few rarities; would we find them?

We had paused for a closer look at a plant when something caught my eye. I definitely don't remember the name of every plant I've seen, but I have a good chance of realizing when I'm looking at something I've rarely (or never) seen before. I gently lifted the drooping stalk with the tip of my hiking pole. “What's this?” I asked. “You found it!” exclaimed the ranger. (Drops of gold..)

In the company of experts, I learned (as always) a lot—including the presence of tiny blooms underfoot that I would never have noticed. (Field madder, invasive.)

It turned out that we found 114 flowering species (and no, I didn't manage to see every one—around 65, for me).

Next year ... ?