Poops?

On a recent low-tide walk at Boundary Bay, walking in ankle-deep water, we came across a small area (about 3 m square) in which there were deposits of brown stuff in the dips between sand ripples.  I first thought they were diatoms, which are single-celled algae that have delicate, siliceous walls.

But, on a closer look, these things were too big. Diatoms are tiny, a large one being less than a quarter of a millimetre in length or diameter.  These particles were a millimetre or larger,of varying lengths.

Here is the previous image enlarged. Sure look like poops.  But whose?  And why, amid acres of submerged sand ripples, were they deposited in a very limited space?  Doesn't make sense.

Stumped. I don't know what they are.

I'm on a horse.

Today was meteorologically glorious, first 10-out-of-10 of the year.  We were all off work/school, so decided to make the most of things.  We went to Steveston, hoping for fish and chips at Pajo's, but too many people seemed to have had the same idea.  Rather than wait in line for half an hour and then have nowhere to sit to eat, we headed back to one of the restaurants on the wharf. Pricey, but worth it.  I had a seafood hotpot, amply seasoned with Sriracha sauce.  It hurt real good.

Our table was on a patio next to the marina where the fishing boats pull in to sell dockside.  Beyond the jetty, a car transport ship, Texas Highway, drifted seaward.  Everyone on the patio stopped talking.

Thar she goes, seen through the masts and poles of fishing boats.

After lunch, we went golfing. Well, pitch-and-putting, because the kids had free pitch-and-putt tickets included with their report cards.  I have never golfed before, but somehow I know how to hold a golf club.  It turns out I have excellent pitch-and putt skills, and I was starting to take the exercise seriously when, fortunately, a Cooper's Hawk squawked and bird-watching broke out.

 Post pitch-and-putt, we drove to a berry farm, but had to stop on the road for a distracted horse-rider.

Who was texting.

Boundary Bay Plan B (It may be Plan A).

Some treat a low tide mud walk at Boundary Bay as a challenge. Must get to the water, no matter how far it has receded. 2, 3, 4 kilometers out, it must be found, to make sure it's still there.

Oh, it is.  And if you spend too much time getting there, it may do an end run around the low-lying ridges, and you will end up wetter than you expected.

Unless you expected to get wet, lashed in a cold soup of eelgrass fronds (which is actually very refreshing and somewhat pleasing on a hot, cloudless day).

Or perhaps your goal was to catch some edible sea life, legally or not, what these fellows seem to have been doing:

Whether or not we make it to the surf, there is always Plan B for me.  All I have to do to feel the walk has been a success is to reach the colder, deeper tide pools about a mile out, the pools that hold the bleached remains of sand dollars.  If you want to know a bit about the functional morphology of sand dollars, I have written of them previously.

Sand dollars are simply beautiful, perhaps moreso in death--after the thousands of tiny spines have fallen--than in life.  I cannot resist picking them up, feeling their lack of heft, flipping them over and back, over and back.

On land, it's horse chestnuts, gleaming in their splitting husks.  I cannot resist them either, and in October usually have one or two in my pockets.

Whenever I find a sand dollar, I marvel at how beautiful it is, and I want to find an even more beautiful one.  I have a hard time discarding one favourite for another.  It's like deleting multiple images of the same loved bird or plant or person. What if I delete the wrong one?

I try to limit myself.  They break apart in your pocket or pack if you take too many.

You really shouldn't take them at all.  The ocean needs all the calcium carbonate it can get.

7.

Border Collie.

Today was tremendous, sunny and warm, and, day two of a national holiday long weekend, we certainly weren't going to waste it.   Where to go?  Boundary Bay!  On top of meteorological excellence, there was a mid-day very low tide, the kind of tide where the bay drains and you can walk halfway to Mount Baker.  Look at all the blips above.

The nearby blips are the casts of lugworms.  Every day is a holiday for lugworms.  A working holiday.

But then farther out, more blips. Vertically oriented blips.  Those are people, a human barcode, alongside and interrupted by a steeple that is a border marker, marking the end of this part of Canada and the beginning of a small, otherwise unattached part of the United States, Point Roberts. Point Roberts is where Canadians from these parts purchase gasoline and cheese.

It's party time for all, both sides of the line.  This is one of those years in which the start of the long weekend is Canada Day, and the end is the Fourth of July.  Party party party.

Kaboom!

Everybody! Wade out onto the mudflat.  The tide is way out, and not coming back any time soon. Lose your shoes! Lose your land-lubbery selves! Lose your sunglasses and then find someone else's!

Make sure you bring your dog!

Throw the ball already.

Sugar maple.

In The Crescent, downtown Vancouver, there are sugar maples.  It's good to see them.  In the eastern forests where I spent my childhood summers, they were a dominant tree, component of both canopy and understory.  They are shade tolerant, and young trees grow quickly, straining to find their place among the giants.  At some point, my friends and I discovered that if you shinnied up one of the hopeful candidates, those with trunks 3 or 4 inches in diameter, eventually the tree would start to bend.  The goal was for it to bend enough that you could let go with your legs and gently be deposited back on the ground, standing.  You would let go of the tree, and it would spring back up, little harm done. However, if the tree were less pliable than predicted, bending slightly but refusing to bow, you could find yourself up high enough that letting go would not end in a healthy result, and, arms aching, you had to decide whether to keep going higher--hoping the tree would eventually bend sufficiently--or ignominiously inch back down. The worst predicament was when the tree bent enough for you to lose your leghold, but not to the point that you were dangling close enough to earth to guarantee a safe landing when you, inevitably, let go.

I don't recall anyone getting hurt. Much.

The leaf of the sugar maple is the closest to that of the Canadian flag. 11 points.  Count 'em. In autumn, they can turn flag-red too.

Happy Canada Day.

Oh, and Canada 144 = Festival of the Trees 5 (Edition 61).   The theme is "New Discoveries," and this installment is a rich, geographically diverse read, seamlessly assembled by FOTT co-founder Dave Bonta. Go see, enjoy the trees.