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A Sendoutcards Kind of Weekend at Burney Falls

Burney Falls in the Fall of '08

Hello everybody!  I am thrilled to the bone!  How about them Democrats! It was such a sweet victory that blogging seemed lackluster by comparison, so I skipped a couple of weeks (times two).  I even bought a vintage coat on ebay to commemorate the purpling of our nation.  Yes, folks, the coat is very purple–purple mohair to be exact!

The savoring period is over, though, and now I’m back on track (ahem). But I just can’t seem to shake the feeling that some serious celebrating is still due me and my kind.  I mean it’s been 8 years since adults occupied the White House.  I am trying so hard to ignore Bush’s last stand and keeping my fingers crossed that he won’t do anything undoable.  Thank god for the (“Congressional Review Act of 1996”) a glorious tidbit sponsored by Congressman Bill Archer.

Pushing all that out of our minds for a day, my partner (Chris) and I drove to Burney Falls, which is about 60 miles east of where we live.  What a gorgeous day on the Modoc Plateau–home to the McArthur-Burney Memorial Falls State Park and the eighth wonder of the world, (reportedly designated so by President Teddy Roosevelt).

Photo: Section M261G

Eighth wonder or not (’cause there is a bit of controversy), here are a few pics and links with info on how to get to the magnificent falls, what to wear and some neat walking trails.  I say ‘walking’  because the paths are certainly on the hospitable side. Even your grannie could walk the 75 feet from the parking lot to the viewing area. And have I mentioned the fine steps down to the mist filled basin?

love-eagles

This northern Cal State Park is within the Cascade Range and includes 910 acres of forest, plus five miles of streamside and lakeshore, as well as a portion of the man-made Lake Britton, itself.

While walking along the shore, Chris and I were privileged to spot two mature bald eagles in flight and at rest. Follow the link for a pdf file on the subject.  I didn’t know this, but the Lake Britton/Pit River area is home to one of the largest populations of bald eagles in the contiguous United States.  At least seven pairs nest here, and it is a winter home, as well.

We sat for twenty minutes and watched these creatures on a conifer branch, hanging out side-by-side like lovebirds. One sang to the other. It was truly amazing!   Follow this link for a very short less complex version. I choose to think we heard the male serenading his mate, but it’s my romantic nature.  Maybe the boy eagle was just calling to a fish or two below.

The whole Burney Falls area is a fisherperson’s paradise. With his eagle-eye, Chris spotted some fine fellows swimming close to the shore.  He offered them vanilla Power Bar (for which I scolded him) but they weren’t biting.  A sixteen incher, however, did go for a bit of bagel.

Back to Lake Britton.  Formed by damming the Pit River, it’s fed by four (count ‘em) active creeks full of trout: Cayton, Clark, Hat and Burney.

The park’s centerpiece, however, is the 129-foot Burney Falls–not the highest or largest waterfall in our state, mind you, but often regarded as the most beautiful and definitely worthy of a sendoutcard. Not having seen all of the falls, I am reserving my opinion.  I did delight in the mist filled basin as you can see from the picture below.

About the park’s landscape:  It all began with volcanic activity. Throw in a little erosion–say millions of years worth and Voila! Everywhere you look there is black volcanic rock or basalt. This layered, porous matter holds a ton of rainwater and snow melt, which in turn feeds a very very large underground reservoir.  The basalt also hosts a ton of green moss, as you can see from this pic Chris took along Burney Creek. The bottom of the falls

Not enough can be said about Burney Falls–but how about these two items:  It releases 100 million gallons every single day and was named after pioneer settler Samuel Burney, a southerner whose offspring are credited with saving the entire area from dreaded commercial development.  Let’s hear it for the McArthurs! They bought the property and gave it freely to the state in the 1920s. it took two years for the state to accept the gift. Now those were some generous, persistent and farsighted folks!

Speaking of which…

How to Shrink the National Debt

Nothing sneaks up on this pair.

Speaking of which, Winter snuck up on us, folks—without much warning, too.  Our four-way irrigation thingy froze this weekend while we were out of town.  Water spewed around the well for three days and two nights. I think there’s some irony here.  What if I told you the seminar’s focus was on energy conservation?

Say this ain’t so, too.  Old news now, but another $140 billion of porky stuff had to be included in that bailout plan before lawmakers could bring themselves to approve it.  Hey, what’s another 100 bill when the National Debt is topping 10 trillion as we speak (10.2 trillion).

http://www.afn.org/~afn15301/pics/catnhat2.gif

How many billions are there in ten trillion (10,000,000,000,000)?  Sad to say, I think my brain needs more place holders.  Just like the National Debt Clock in New York City, both of us done run out of space.

It’s not my fault. Numbers once reserved for the distance between heavenly bodies are now part of our daily lingo.  I think it’s high time we went to scientific notation.  Follow the link for a refresher course or better yet, here’s a quickie:

To write a number in scientific notation, put a decimal point behind the first digit, drop all those place holding zeroes, count up the dropped amount and put that number up in the air real small behind ‘x ten’.

The National Debt would look like this:  10.2 x 10″   Hmmm, still looks a bit unwieldy.  Maybe we need Astronomical Units.

An Astronomical Unit (AU) is the distance from the Earth’s center to the Sun’s center or 92,955,807 miles.  In other words, just one Astronmical Unit equals 92,955,807. If we divide our National Debt by this number, we should get the debt in Astronomical Units.   Drum roll….the National Debt is 107,578 or let’s just say 108,000 AU.  By the way, don’t try this with your hand-helds or adding machines. I found out the hard way that they don’t go up to ten trillion. (error error error)

Happy to say, at 108,000 AU our National Debt gets us out of the solar system and a bit beyond. From Mercury, it’s less than 1AU to Earth, from Venus a little over 1, and from Mars about 2.5.  Jupiter clocks in around 5 and Saturn a little over 10.  Uranus shoots above 19 with Neptune at 30 and Pluto 31.

No worries. We’ll just go to light-years. One light-year equals 5.88 million million miles or ten trillion kilometers. I’m a kilometer hater, folks, but there it is—the exact number we need, ten trillion.  The National Debt is just a little over one light-year.

I don’t know about ya’ll, but I’m feeling a lot better about a National Debt of only one light-year. Our closest star friend, Proxima Centauri, is 4.3 light-years from the Sun.  The Canis Major dwarf Galaxy is the nearest to our solar system and it’s 25,000 light-years away.  Astronomers who hazard a guess say that the whole universe is a whopping 79 billion light-years across.  I think I’ll stop there.  (a joke)

By the way, folks, one of the things I was supposed to learn at the seminar was how to change my perception.  And judging from this calculated discourse on the National Debt, I do believe that idea took.

Fog Drip, Winter Storms and Sequoia Sempevirens

Caltrans to the rescue

What a wild weekend!  Chris and I rode out the first winter storm of the 2008 season on the southern Oregon coast, Brookings to be exact.  Don’t get me wrong, we had a plan.

The plan was to ignore the nasty political climate while lolling about three stories above the beach and listening to the wind howl.

The hardest part was getting there, though—you know, driving in the pouring rain, dodging boulders and safety challenged motorists.  I’m serious. Rocks were pelting Highway 199 from thirty to fifty feet above and cars were flying.

If you’ve ever seen those signs, Watch for Rocks, they ain’t lying.  Though I don’t know what good looking up in the air does.  I think they mean we should be watching for them on the roadway.  Duh!

Speaking of which, we were lucky enough to get right behind this scooping vehicle for about five miles.  Watching it zig-zag all over the road like a rock-eating bug was kind of thrilling. Unbeknownst to us, though, we were headed for a mini-boulder pile strung across both lanes.

So everybody waited for a spell, while the scooper did its thing—very ably, I might add.  Bored and looking for something else to photograph, I happened to glance up and see this huge mass towering above our heads, ready to fall at any minute, I expect.  No pictures did our danger justice, but here’s one anyway.

You see, folks, the first rain of the season finds all these little cracks and fissures that are just waiting for that last thread of rocky togetherness to dissolve; which in turn causes rock slides on the roadway below— where we, the humble motorists, scurry about minding our own business.

It’s always a mess after the first storm, or, so I was told by a local lady, and I have no reason to doubt her small-town veracityUnlike one female politician we all have come to know, her word had a ring of truth.

There were also curve improvement and bridge replacement delays on Highway 199, not to mention a nasty looking crash that our sure-footed Subaru just missed participating in.

By the looks of things, somebody had lost control of his car, rolling and gouging a trench in the highway for about 25 feet before smashing against the side of the mountain wall. Better to end up there, though, than the rocky Smith River bed a hundred feet below on the other side.

The ragged vehicle was pretty near the rock slide, but I do not know if the obstruction caused the crash or not. The slick roads were dangerous enough without falling rocks.

Needless to say, Chris slowed down, after so many reminders of death and destruction.  For my part, I kept looking overhead for more of that falling rock stuff.

Here is the view of the Smith River gorge from the rock slide area where we had to wait for passage.  As you can see, it was very misty.

Speaking of which, we took a hike in the redwoods along the side of a tall hill near Brookings.  To get there, I had to drive on a sometimes muddy, birch lined, one-lane road for 4 miles, winding higher and higher into the heavenly mists.  No falling rocks or oncoming, thankfully.

The hike was steep in places, as the sign had warned us, but not really difficult. Gigantic redwoods were here and there, some of them still standing as they had for centuries, some in big pieces, some burned out but still green at the top.

This wasn’t the prettiest redwood hiking trail I’ve ever seen, but it was the only one where we encountered nothing but plant life and one, single, humongous, shiny black bug or spider. ( I couldn’t tell which.)  Such quietude was unusual for a redwood grove. Most of them are packed with foreigners in search of the esteemed ‘forever green’ Sequoia.

Sequoia Sempervirens or the coastal redwoods that we saw along the trail are the only representatives of their kind living so far north. They like to hang close to the ocean for the moisturizing effect but don’t want to breathe a lot of salt—hence the need to be a bit inland.  It’s the moderate temperatures and the coastal fog drip that’s necessary for their well being.  Fog drip….sounds exotic, doesn’t it.

For a question and answer format, You can follow this link to Ask the Redwood Doctor, Chris Brinegar (retired biology professor) for more info.  Dr. Brinegar has a unique perspective for offsetting your personal production of carbon dioxide, which he calculates at about 1600 tons per person, by the way.  If you have other burning redwood questions, he’s the man.

For a dryer approach, here’s a bit of what Wikipedia has to say: Sequoia sempervirens is the sole living species of the genus Sequoia in the cypress family Cupressaceae. Common names include Coast Redwood and California Redwood. It is a monoecious evergreen, meaning there are separate male and female reproductive organs on the same tree.  The life span is most impressive—multi millenniums (over 2000 years).

Coast Redwoods are the tallest trees in the world, reaching up to almost 400 feet in height.  Also impressive is the roundness factor, scientifically known as diameter at breast height —clocking in at 26 ft for the biggest ones.

The quietude of our hike was more eerie than relaxing.  Heavy mist and fog drip added to the other worldliness.  Once, we stopped to watch a few huge, sparklers start hundreds of feet above our heads and fall from the tree tops.

Perhaps you can imagine our faces pointed straight to the sky waiting for drips to make landfall.  Whole seconds would elapse.  Chris tried to catch a couple in his mouth. He also took this proverbial looking-up-view of tall timber.  Nice, huh.

Meanwhile, back in our motel on the beach the sky was clearing up. Patchy sun was replacing the storm, and there were many seagulls for Chris to play with.

All in all, the winter storm turned out to be not as intense as predicted.  I have this link you can follow for an update of what’s next for the West Coast.  Weather is getting easier to predict than anything else these days, especially the stock market.

Mount Shasta got its first topping in a while.  See how pretty the mountain looks!  if you’d like a greeting card (sendoutcard) with this pic on the front, just say so.  Chris (opportunityreviewer.com) can handle it.


Spaceship Visits Mount Shasta

What do those ET's want with our Mount Shasta?

What do those ET's want with our mountain?

What a monster!  My wide-angle lens just couldn’t get wide enough.

This lenticular cloud blew in with last night’s sunset, folks—the biggest one in some time.  If it was a spaceship, we’re all in trouble.

Technically speaking, weather people call these clouds altocumulus standing lenticularis or ACSL.  I can’t figure out why the weather-namers mix an English word with two Latin ones.

Moving on.  Wave clouds form when the wind hits a topographic feature, such as a mountain, and get deflected up and over the peak, thereby creating a gravity wave downwind of the obstruction, i.e. mountain.  The clouds only materialize when sufficient moisture is in the air, but the wave pattern in the atmosphere may still be there.

That’s why you don’t see airplane pilots (unless they’re gliders) buzzing around tall topographic features like mountains.  The downdraft could suck them under.  Here’s the thing, folks, lenticular clouds may look like they’re standing still, but they ain’t.  These clouds are constantly forming in the updraft and dissipating in the downdraft and sometimes contain winds of 50 knots or more.

So let this be a lesson to you. Don’t fly your motorized vehicle near a mountain. If you’re a glider pilot, though, be my guest.

The same combination of winds and updrafts that allows the cloud to form also provides a rapid lift and a long flight in a glider.  Glider pilots spend long hours trying to catch the wave or be the wave.

All Clear for Landing

lenticular cloud headed for Mount Shasta

Spaceship headed for Mount Shasta

Here it is, folks, the only evidence that the weather forecasters knew what they were talking about.  Our 20% chance of thunderstorms all boiled down to this one cloud yesterday.  But what a cloud it was!  My pic doesn’t begin to do it justice.

As a ‘know-nothing’, I’d call it a lenticular cloud riding a  little thunderhead, but there are many names for lens shaped clouds: Cap or pileus clouds, Lenticular, orographic and banner clouds, not to mention spaceships.  Any one of these refers to the round, stationary, atmospheric formations of condensed water vapor or ice crystals that most often hang out above or near high geographic formations such as mountains.  (My very own definition!)

Mount Shasta creates many beautiful cloud types and formations of water. Follow the link for more photos and copious cloud talk.

Back to lenticulars. For some reason, they fall into one of three categories—altocumulus, stratocumulus or cirrocumulus depending on something or other that I was too lazy to figure out.

If you’re feeling mentally spry, click to the AMS* or American Meteorological Society. For my present mental state, I found their definitions too long winded and circular.  (Get it?)  Just the statement of purpose was a bit on the dense or cumulus side: “The American Meteorological Society promotes the development and dissemination of information and education on the atmospheric and related oceanic and hydrologic sciences and the advancement of their professional applications.”

When it comes to cap clouds, or lenticulars sitting atop a mountain peak, I think the Brits say it best:

Cap cloud

Cap cloud or cloud cap is a stratiform, orographic cloud that hovers above or over an isolated mountain peak, formed by the cooling and condensation of moist air forced up and over the peak and lenticularly shaped by horizontal upper level winds. The cloud appears to remain essentially stationary.

The term is also occasionally used for pileus (Latin for cap) cloud. Unlike the mountain cap cloud the pileus is essentially an accessory cloud, that appears as a smooth cap, or hood above a cumulus or cumulonimbus cloud. The cap forms when a humid layer is lifted to its dew point above a rising thermal. This may later penetrate the pileus, which will eventually be absorbed into the main cloud body. Sometimes several layers of pileus form above one another.

“Take Me to Your Leader, or else…

I'll bite your head off.

Did you know that the name ‘mantis’ comes form the Greek ‘mantis’, meaning prophet or diviner? Did you know that the praying mantis is named for its humble folded claw position and not its ability to prey on creatures five times its size?

European mantis demonstrating its ability to hang sideways

Chris and I found this formidable looking insect on our screen door.  No doubt it was looking for crickets or other juicy tidbits. There are times, though, when the chosen tidbits do seem rather ambitious. I don’t know if this particular 2-3 inch predator could wrestle down and bite the head off a lizard, mouse, snake, hornet, tarantula or hummingbird, but the bigger ones can.

Before you decide to keep a praying mantis as a pet, think on that and know this: In some states it’s illegal to make a pet of a praying mantis, unless the mantis is foreign, i.e. Chinese or European. Both were introduced into the Northeastern U.S. about 80 years ago in the hopes of controlling crop-eating insects.

Back to the law: How can you know when you’re committing the crime of imprisoning a native?  The Chinese mantis is more brownish and has a green lateral stripe down the front wing, while the European sports a black ring on its leg like the one we found (see above).  As usual, Wikipedia puts it more scientifically: The Euro mantis is easily distinguished  by a black-ringed spot beneath the fore coxae.

Since there are at least 20 species native to the U.S., if you see one, best not try to domesticate it. When I was a kid, someone (might have been my mother) encouraged my little brother to keep a praying mantis trapped between the glass and the screen of his bedroom window—supposedly the perfect open air environment, i.e. cage, though some swear you can keep them without bars.

Occasionally, I watched my little brother fiddle with the odd looking creature, feed it live crickets, flies and spiders, hoping for some bonding.  I think it was supposed to earn him a merit badge, too—you know, the kind that Boy Scouts get.  If you’re hot to know more about scouting badges and insects, follow this link to Insect Life Merit Badge.

Speaking of which, the praying mantis is the only insect in the known world that can swivel its head from side to side in a 180 degree radius. If you want to see some very cool detailed shots of the mantis, click here.  Did I say shots? What I meant was brilliant new photographic techniques pioneered by David Yager, an associate professor of psychology and neuroscience at the University of Maryland.

Yager photographs his mantids (praying mantises) dozens of times, “each shot focused a few ten-thousandths of an inch deeper than the last.  A computer melds those views into a single image that is simultaneously focused throughout the insect.”

Why does Yager do this?  So his students can explore the mantids’ inner ear. What’s so neat about an inner ear?  Of the 2300 different species of mantids, most share the highly peculiar trait of having just one ear, located smack dab in the middle of the chest.

Moving on.  The praying mantis is one of those insects that gives women a bad name:  That’s because the female is known to bite the head off her mate, but only during copulation. This doesn’t deter the male in any way, so they say; in fact, it speeds up his ejaculation process.  And how do we know that the sperm gets a healthy boost just as the male is decapitated?  Because male researchers find this sexual cannibalism so fascinating that they have devoted many hours to watching it happen.

Sad to say, the watching might be what causes it, though.  In confined laboratory conditions with bright lights in her face, the female is more likely to eat the male, possibly as a means of survival, possibly because the dude was not an adequate lover. Who knows? I choose to think she is killing the male out of the goodness of her heart, saving him from the degrading hopelessness of life long imprisonment.

Back to the mating process: Like many other females, the mantis secretes a pheromone to attract the male and let him know she’s ready.  Sometimes he approaches from the front and other times he makes a flying leap from behind, depending on his preference. During one experiment, a mantis couple was observed copulating for six hours.  Afterwards, her lover was allowed to fly away, its head unscathed, thereby proving my point that females let the good lovers live on.  If you want to see a mating pair of Chinese mantises, follow the link.  Don’t worry, I searched long and hard to find the happy ending; but I warn you, it was at the expense of a cricket.

Although the praying mantis is known for its cannibalistic mating process, there is good evidence that it only occurs 5-31% of the time. Dan Feldman, mantis voyeur extraordinaire, says this occurs most often because the female is hungry and a mate’s head provides an instant source of energy for her.  Why didn’t I think of that!

But there are other explanations: As we all know, natural mating takes place without a camera and bright lights, so rather than leaning over the tank to study their every move, one group of researchers left the two love-mantises alone and videotaped what happened.

By their own accounts, they were amazed. Out of thirty private matings, there was not one instance of decapitation. Instead, the camera filmed an elaborate courtship display, with both sexes performing a ritual dance, stroking each other with their antennae before finally uniting in ecstasy. “It really was a lovely display”, one fellow reported, leading to his conclusion that sexual cannibalism occurs most often only if the female is hungry.

Still another researcher, thinks the head eating also benefits the male, since he serves as a kind of vitamin injection for his offspring who will now be strong in a world where survival of the species is everything. Plus, he gets to pass on his own genes. Whoopee! The fact of the matter is, sexual cannibalism isn’t unheard of in nature. The male redback and orbweb spiders fall prey to their lovers, not to mention the infamous black widow.

Despite its mating habits or maybe because of, the praying mantis has historically been quite the star of mythology and folklore. More recently, it starred in the Hollywood production of the sci-fi thriller, The Deadly Mantis (1957), a giant female that hatched after a volcanic eruption melted its Arctic ootheca (encasement).  Hmmm, does anyone see a remake using global warming?

Back to the old folk tales: French people believed a praying mantis would point a lost child home and help wandering lovers. Lost Muslims looked for a mantis to point them towards Mecca.  Some Africans tribes thought it could raise the dead. Americans thought mantis juices blinded men and killed horses.  But the Chinese had it down: Nothing cured bedwetting better than roasted mantis eggs.  I don’t know exactly what they did what those eggs, but knowing the Chinese, they ate them pickled or in a stir-fry.

Speaking of eggs, after mating, the female lays up to 400 in batches that are enclosed in a tough, spongy encasement called an ootheca. You can find oothecas attached to fence posts, twigs and stems, or buried in the ground.  No matter what size the mantis is, the eggs are all the same size. Some vigilant females stand guard over their eggs until the nymphs (young) emerge, unless it takes all winter.

Generally speaking, though, the eggs hatch in 3 weeks to 6 months depending on the temperature and humidity. The young finally emerge from tiny holes in the casing, looking exactly like their parents, only smaller. Because the nymphs grow quickly, they molt (shed their skin) while maturing into adults—adults like the European mantis Chris and I found.

We’ve come full circle, folks. If you would like a greeting card to have and to hold, of the green praying mantis on a red Maple leaf, just ask. I have access to the Great Printer in Salt Lake City—you know, the one that works for Sendoutcards.

Happy tales,

Laura signing off