Big picture, little camera

A full moon crests Cypress Island and casts across the gentle sea an orange beam of light, which progressively reaches further and further until it creeps across the bedroom deck, enters the sliding door and floods my toes, my legs and my eyes with light. “Get up” it beckons. “Look at me!”

I force open my eyes and – now propping my head on one elbow — stare out across the sea lit magnificently by the beam. I may be half asleep, but “I’m up. I’m up.”

In moments like this, I fight the urge to scurry out of bed and grab a camera. But I’ve learned it’s better for me to observe than capture. Besides the fact I am utterly helpless with even an automatic camera, look-at-me moments happen frequently here and quickly – very quickly. By the time I’ve grabbed the camera, (or found the camera,) adjusted a setting and flung myself to the nearest vantage point, the moon usually slips behind a cloud, an eagle passes, the seal dives, the rainbow softens.

While moments transition quickly here, I am certain of one thing: another look-at-me moment is just around the corner. If not tonight, then tomorrow, perhaps Tuesday — and often when I least expect it.

But the problem with these look-at-me moments is I’m constantly interrupted. It’s difficult to work, eat, sleep or watch a movie when an ooh-ahh something is transpiring. Nature, I’ve found, is very self-centered.

Recently, for example, S and I were barely 30 minutes into the movie “Bright Star,” a period piece, which certainly requires attention and deserves respect – it’s about Keats for goodness sakes – when it begins to rain. This of course produces a rainbow, which I happened to catch out of the corner of my eye. Without pausing the movie, I get up and walk to an adjacent window for a better view. (It’s worth the walk.) By the time I return to the movie, I notice the rainbow now forms a perfect arc spanning four miles toe-to-toe — from Lummi to Cypress — with both brightly-colored feet dipping into the sea. (See the rainbow.)

So, now I have to pause the movie, find the camera, adjust some settings, take a half-dozen photos, which do not in the least capture its magnitude. All the while cute little tugs and barges and seals fill the horizon, the sun dapples light on South Peapod and gulls with bright white underbellies fill the sky. Is it my imagination or did I hear a director say, “Cue the porpoises”?

In the end the two-hour movie takes us three hours to watch. See what I mean?

If it’s not a full moon or rainbow distracting me, then it’s the remnants of a sunset, the clouds gathering to storm or peaks of the North Cascades, which now pester me as I try to write. “Can you see our snow caps?” they ask. Showoffs! It’s hardly fair. How can I concentrate?

One of two orca whales which surfaced 40 feet from shore.
© Orcas Island Photos

Last week I’d barely finished making dinner — a delicious spread of chicken tacos, refried beans with fresh cilantro — when two orca whales surfaced not 40 feet from our shoreline. Thirty minutes earlier we’d watched them pass east of the Peapods, flanked with gawking boaters. We assumed they were heading south until we noticed the boaters — who by the way were illegally following the whales — had repositioned their boats west of the Peapods.

So, we oohed and aahed — until my arm grew stiff from holding the binoculars — then we retired to the kitchen, plated dinner and were about to settle in to the meal when we heard the spout of air and seawater emanating from the whale blowholes. I rushed off to the lower deck while S scurried down the hillside to the water’s edge, camera in tow.

By the time they’d passed and S returned, our tacos were stone cold. We spent the rest of the evening looking at the photos from the back of her camera. Who wanted tacos anyway?

I’M STANDING IN THE LIVING ROOM FACING THE PICTURE WINDOW when I see him heading straight toward me. “Look. Look,” I say, pointing quickly to the window, giving S just enough time to turn her head.

The bald eagle glides effortlessly toward us. We can see his eyes; he can see ours. Twenty feet from the window he turns left, flaps his wings twice and disappears beyond the trees. It’s like watching an IMAX movie in our own living room.

“Alright, that’s it,” S says. “We’ll just have to keep a camera strapped to our heads.”

She may be right. How else can we capture big?

© 2010 Susan Anderson and “Away here.” Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Photos © Orcas Island Photos.

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Drama at the birdfeeder

At 7 a.m. I switch on the coffee and walk over to the sliding door, which opens to the deck. Two birds — who’ve undoubtedly been monitoring the empty feeder since 5 a.m. — spy me and immediately fly off to alert the rest of bird world. “Tweet, tweet!” roughly translated, means “Seed, seed!”

I fill the feeder, then my coffee cup and settle in for the show. Sparrows, towees, juncos, finches and jays queue up in the bushes, on the ground, along tree limbs. They jockey for position. I hear the crackle of bark and watch a squirrel scamper to the edge of a branch. They’re all here for the same reason. Complete with deck seating and an ocean view, the local breakfast bar is now open!

The bird feeder, incidentally, was not my idea. Personally, I’ve never been much of a birdwatcher. Until we moved to the island, I could consistently identify by sight only common birds, like robins, pigeons and crows. Robins I assumed ate worms, pigeons bread crumbs and crows trash you forgot to seal tight.

But on the deck of the Codfish house is a bird feeder; inside a brown plastic barrel is a bag of seed; and in my household is S, who believes there is great synergy in putting things together. “It’ll be fun,” she said—or some such thing.

But what began as a kind act — for a handful of song sparrows — has grown into a full-time job as sentry, armed with hose and handle. Instead of being bird watchers – admiring plumage, song and fancy flight – we’ve become cafeteria monitors.

I believe the term birdwatcher is actually a derivative of the word birdfeeder, for the one who feeds the bird must now watch the bird to ensure said bird actually receives said food. Bird feeding is a vicious cycle with part-time rewards and full-time responsibility: fill the feeder, watch the feeder, scare the poachers, hide the seed, repeat.

The only “fun” I’ve had thus far is learning how to identify birds by their eating disorders.

FEEDER ETIQUETTE: A WHO’S WHO OF THE SEED BAR

In a rare moment, a helmet-head and song sparrow share the feeder.
Photo © Susan Anderson

The song sparrow likes to make a dramatic entrance at the feeder, usually running along the deck first with his tail pointed in the air. After a short fly-hop to the feeder, he bellies up to the seed bar with gusto, usually resting one foot on the ledge. In feeder pecking order, song sparrows trump juncos and finches.

The white-crowned sparrow – which we affectionately call “helmet-head.” prefers to dine alone – usually taking turns with other helmet-heads. They’re a grab-and-run eater, preferring take-out to eating-in. “Bigboy,” our favorite helmet-head is round and fat, probably still a baby though larger than most and possibly disabled in some way. (His beak doesn’t seem to close all the way.) His arrival and departure is usually monitored and flanked by two other helmet-heads. Helmet-heads trump other helmet-heads at the feeder.

Stellar jays are king of the feeder.
Photo © Susan Anderson

Stellar jays are big, fat bullies, who eat all the coveted sunflower seed. Despite their size, they will not typically feed if people are present. They will, however, make such a loud ruckus from the trees you might as well leave the deck and let them eat. Jays trump all other feeder birds.

Rufous hummingbirds – who could care less about the feeder or its seed – will attack any bird at the feeder or in the queue if they’re feeling particularly feisty. They are small but mighty. Hummingbirds trump stellar jays.

Squirrels also trump stellar jays. Squirrels will eat all the sunflower seed – unless S can catch them first. Before the squirrel became a nuisance, we actually thought he was cute has hell. “Isn’t he cute as hell?” we’d say as he’d scamper along the edge of the deck seating or peak out from the flower pot.

His big, brown eyes belied his intentions. S initiated behavioral modification with a spray bottle; it didn’t work. She now uses the hose set to killer-jet.

For the raccoon — who will suck down the entire contents of the feeder in minutes — she bangs a metal broom handle against the deck until he climbs headfirst down the deck post and disappears into the bushes. (The handle is now so beat up, it won’t hold the bristle end any longer; we now empty the feeder at dusk.)

FROM THE DOORWAY, S SEES THE SQUIRREL AT THE FEEDER; he seems unaware of her presence there. She eases the slider door open and quietly slips out unnoticed. Dropping one hand to her side, she turns the faucet knob then reaches slowly — ever-so-slowwwly — for the nozzle. Quiet as a cat, she tiptoes without a sound across the deck, aims and shoots a steady stream of water toward the poacher. Squirrel jumps behind the pot then leaps into the rose bushes below. Without breaking stream, she follows him to the edge and shoots steadily at the bushes. “Ha!” she says.

I look at her squarely. “What does it matter?” I ask. “He’ll be back before you know it. Let me build something.”

She ignores me. “Keep the hose nearer the door,” she says. “I have to be quicker.”

From what I’ve witnessed thus far, squirrel trumps S.

© 2010 Susan Anderson and “Away Here.” Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited.

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Whale Writer, the unexpected chapter

“Oh my God. That was a huge splash,” S says frantically, reaching for the binoculars on the windowsill. “It has to be a whale.”

With binoculars in hand, she focuses in on the spot more than a mile away — south of the Peapod Rocks along the northeast edge of Blakely Island. She doesn’t need to say anything more; I can see with my own eyes now an extension of black form leaping from the water; an orca whale is breaching.

The half-dozen orcas head west toward Obstruction Pass, a narrow channel between Blakely and Orcas islands. For the next 10 minutes we trade the binoculars back-and-forth, following the bobbing of black dorsal fins, oohing the acrobatics of a 6-ton whale.

It’s like a Thanksgiving Day Parade, Fourth of July fireworks and the Christmas lighting ceremony all rolled into one. “Wow, wow, wow,” are the only words I can muster, the only words that fit the moment. “Wow, wow, wow.”

An orca whale breaches near the Peapod Rocks.
Photo © Orcas Island Photos

We watch until they disappear from view then call in our “sighting” to the Orcas Network, which captures movements of the Salish Sea orcas. Based on Whidbey Island near the Washington mainland, the Network strives to raise awareness of the whales in the Pacific Northwest to underline the importance of providing them healthy and safe habitats.

The orca — also known as the killer whale — is not really a whale at all; it is actually the largest member of the dolphin family and an endangered species in the U.S. and Canada.

Contaminants in the food chain, depletion of chinook salmon — their meal of choice — and noise pollution are believed to affect the orca populations. Orcas locate their prey by echolocation, a form of sonar. Researchers believe the noise of both commercial and recreational boats, Navy sonar and seismic exploration in the region put orca survival at risk.

The southern resident orcas, which reside year-round in the Salish Sea, are comprised of 89 whales in three pods, J, K and L. J Pod is based in the San Juan Islands, K Pod in the Strait of Juan de Fuca and L Pod off the coast. Their numbers climbed to 99 in 1995, then plummeted to 79 six years later.

Southern resident orcas are considered genetically and behaviorally distinct from other killer whales. They eat predominately fish, communicate in a unique dialect, mate within their own community, stick to the region and gather annually in a “super pod” to socialize.

The southern resident orcas have been studied for more than 30 years. They have very distinct personalities and markings — not to mention names, like DoubleStuf, Slick, Cookie and Hy’Shqa, whose name in Coastal Salish/Samish means blessing or thank you and was given to her during a traditional potlatch ceremony held by the Samish Nation.

Similar to IMDb, The Internet Movie Database, The Whale Museum posts individual whale biographies, which include his/her film biographies. (Many have appeared in the “Free Willy” movies.)

The site also notes interesting characteristics of individual whales. Ruffles, for example, is easily identified by his the trailing edge of his 6-foot wavy dorsal fin. And Spieden makes such a distinctive wheezing sound when she breathes through her blowhole that researchers can identify J Pod even at night or in a deep fog.

Orcas are the pride of the Pacific Northwest community — but because of their immediate connection to the ocean — islanders are hypersensitive to the effects toxins, over-fishing and boating have on whale habitat. Learn of a missing orca, the community mourns; learn of a birth, the community celebrates. The sighting of a new orca calf offers promise that cleanup efforts, changes in human activity can make a difference.

We were very lucky to spot the whales. Even some lifetime islanders lament they’ve never seen them. “I think I’m the antiorca,” one islander told me. “Every time I leave the island for the day, they’re spotted here. It’s frustrating.”

Conversely, S and I have seen the orcas three times together. From the deck of a vacation home on Vancouver Island eight years ago, we counted more than 20 orcas moving lackadaisically through the Strait. They were close enough for us to hear and see their blowholes. A second time, we serendipitously boarded the wrong ferry, which ended up in the path of a passing pod. By federal law, the ferry captain had to stop the vessel to allow the passage. The unscheduled show was better than any SeaWorld theatrics.

S and I predicted we’d see orca whales from the Codfish Lane house in September when the salmon run north to the Frasier River in British Columbia. This will provide the best opportunity to see them closer and with more predictability. But we’re not about to look a gift whale in the mouth!

WE GET ONLINE TO SEE IF OUR SIGHTING HAS BEEN POSTED by the Network. We’re excited to connect to the community in a direct way. Sure enough, there it is — for all the world to see — our first recorded sighting.

“Am I famous now?” I ask.

“They misspelled your name,” S says.

Call me Suzan.

© 2010 Susan Anderson and “Away Here.” Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. © Photos Orcas Island Photos

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Felling trees

On the northeast edge of our property, a 40-foot Lodgepole pine slouches half-hazardly. Supported by the outstretched boughs of a neighboring pine, it’s not yet uprooted but certainly progressing that way. S and I agree it must come down before we can build the studio, but — despite all the work we’ve already done on the property — this tree will be our first to fell. We’re apprehensive with good reason.

We have a lot of experience clearing and sawing – not felling. Since we’ve owned the land, we’ve cut a half-dozen cords of firewood and chipped and burned a great deal of brush and limb from dozens of trees downed long before we owned it. We’ve cleaned several sections through hard work— first reducing trunks to manageable pieces, then hauling the logs and debris out of the woods and up to a centralized work site.

Except for a long, winding drive and one cleared building site, our remaining landscape is heavily forested with more than 200 pines and firs of varying sizes and ages. Some of these trees are hundreds of years old and still bear the scars of past fires, lightning strikes or both.

Lodgepole pines can grow to 115 feet, Douglas firs to 150. Fortunately – though still regrettably — we don’t have Western Red cedar, which reach more than 200 feet in height with 10-foot trunks. Cedars grow throughout the island and are prevalent in Moran State Park just a few miles from the property. They are magnificent to look at, highly prized and often older than Jesus. But a downed red cedar would be beastly to manage by ourselves; firs are challenging enough.

More than 200 pines and firs dot the property. Turnaround, building and work site from cleared section.
© Orcas Island Photos

During a weekend trip to our property three years ago, we were surprised to find a downed fir; it straddled the upper drive, part of the building site and our turnaround – not to mention 60 feet of forest. That year, winter storms damaged or downed hundreds of trees across Orcas, including this one. The weight of snow and ice on its boughs uprooted the fir, whose trunk easily measured 4 feet. For spite, it brought down a few other mature pines with it. The scene looked like a tornado had ripped through.

S and I are not very strong, but we’re resourceful. Using only a lopper, bow saw and chainsaw, we methodically trimmed and removed the branches one-by-one until only the trunks remained. We cut those into lengths of five to six feet, then using two fulcrums — fashioned from 6-foot lengths of green limb — rolled them to the edges of the drive. We’ve used this method many times since to reposition sizable trunks into neat stacks.

Until today, however, we have not brought down a standing tree.

WE STUDY THE LAZY PINE SUPPORTED BY ITS FRIEND, DISCUSS ANGLES AND UNDERCUTS and which way we need it to fall — and which way it could fall regardless. It could ricochet off other tree limbs and bounce back; it could jump its stump and smash a foot. At the very least, this tree will most likely wedge its base into the ground first; it will take a cut or two to free it from the outstretched arms of the other pine.

S revs the chainsaw, undercuts a notch and begins a downward cut. I stand back — way back. Soon the weight of the trunk collapses, pinching the bar. I go over, lift some pressure off the bar, shove a piece of wood into the wedge and step back again — way back. S continues cutting until this time the chain exits, the tree lunges forward and — as anticipated — wedges its base into the ground,  still supported by the adjacent pine.

We start again; after a third cut, the tree falls with a crash — louder than expected — but precisely where we planned. “Don’t get cocky,” I say to S, who is now smiling.

I walk down the hill, slide a large log 10 feet from the trunk base and pantomime, “Cut here, here, here.” As she cuts, I reposition the log over and over again until there is nothing left of the leaning pine but 25 pieces of firewood and brush for burning.

I sit on a folding chair 20-feet from the fire, which S now pokes with a shovel. Her face is covered with sweat, my pants with sawdust;  I undoubtedly stink and my fingernails are caked with dirt, which seems to find its way into the best of work gloves.

I hold up a bottle of beer and a tuna sandwich. “Come on,” I say. “Rest a minute.” She sits on an upside-down water bucket; we eat lunch and compare boo-boos.

There are days of exhausting work — times when I believe even my bruises have bruises — but there is something incredibly fulfilling about working on your own island property. Tree by tree I’m shaping its character — as much as it is shaping mine.

© 2010 Susan Anderson and “Away here.” Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Photos © Orcas Island Photos.

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Adventures in a powder-blue pickup

I turn the ignition, pump the clutch until it’s firm, then — after two attempts and spewing gravel — spin backwards uphill until I reach a flat piece of ground above the house. I shift out of reverse and cautiously into first, then in the rain wind my way along the muddy driveway to the intersection where S waits to follow me. I use my hand to clear the fog from the windshield, realizing for the first time I have no idea how to work the heat in this old truck. In fact, I hope there is heat.

Accompanied by the whop, whop, whop of tiny wipers, the putter of the engine and a duet of rattling windows, I shift my way to the repair shop on Crescent Beach. The smell of gasoline and engine grease permeates the cab and probably now my clothes. I am thankful the island is small, the speed limit is minimal and I once owned a Datsun 510, which has given me the confidence to make a 30-minute drive in a truck with a bum clutch and poor brakes.

I think it’s still too early to say that buying a 1971 Datsun pickup was a bad decision. But I suppose its open for discussion. Why would two women without repair skills and limited financial resources buy an old truck they couldn’t fix themselves?

For reasons somewhere between utility, nostalgia and island character, I took a leap of faith, wrote a check for $750 and bought “Dotty” from an islander.

UTILITY

One of the main reasons S and I moved to Orcas was to work on our own property. We wanted to clear brush and downed trees from two acres of forested area and build a small studio shed there. We agreed a truck will help us more easily move brush to burn piles and haul lumber and building supplies. We figured we could always sell the old truck once the work is done.

Before we bought it, however, I asked the owner to drive it to the top of our property. The driveway to the top is good but begins steeply and has a switchback 300 feet from the entrance. I needed to be sure the Datsun could make it.

Over the nine years we’ve owned the property, we’ve never had trouble getting to the top. Any front- or 4-wheel drive vehicle can manage it; even the Mazda Miata makes it with some initial oomph. But I suspected it could be a problem for an older 4-cylinder vehicle; there isn’t a lot of room to build initial speed. A four-speed, 1971 Datsun pickup would need some initial speed.

It took some effort, a bit of spinning, (and frazzled the owner considerably,) but he drove all the way to the top. We both agreed that with added weight in the bed and my own experience with the driveway, the old Datsun would make it again more easily in the future.

NOSTALGIA

When I went away to college in my junior year, my parents bought me a four-door 1971 Datsun 510. It was well-used and hideous orange, but it never failed to get me home safely time and time again. After graduation, I drove that car from the Midwest to New York City, to Dallas and over a dozen road trips in-between. My father and friends repaired it many times – including the clutch. Eventually, I gave it back to my father who continued to use it several more years.

This pickup reminds me of simpler times, of my father and college friends and the promise of new beginnings.

ISLAND CHARACTER

The San Juan Islands certainly have their share of colorful characters who drive hand-painted VW buses and old Volvos. But there are just as many islanders who drive new Subarus and Hondas.

Dotty on the slope above Codfish Lane.
Photo © Orcas Island Photos

Still, there’s something distinctive about old things here.  The fact is islanders are by nature practical and resourceful — maybe because they have to be. They seem to know how to make things work — or maybe just work longer.

The powder-blue 1971 Datsun pickup is the epitome of this reuse-repair-recycle philosophy and island culture. At 40 years of age, Dotty certainly has some wear, but she still turns heads. And she characterizes what I’m trying to achieve now in my own life here, which is to live simply, take only what I need.

I SIGN THE REPAIR RECEIPT FOR THE CLUTCH, LOAD TWO 50 lb. bags of sand into the bed and — followed again by S — head for the property. At the entrance, I shift into first and gun the engine, hitting the first two curves easily, spinning out on the third. I back carefully down again, stalling the engine. I can see S watching me from the car. I get out, reposition the sandbags, start the truck and try again.

“Come on Dotty,” I say encouragingly. “We can do this.” But I’m wrong. Despite two attempts and the added weight, Dotty can’t be pushed beyond the first switchback.

I look down the hill at S — who has now what I would call a look of disgust on her face. I shake my head. “I can’t do it,” I say.” I drive Dotty back to Codfish Lane.

Better tires? More weight? Grade support? I don’t know yet how I’ll do it, but I believe I will do it. If island living makes you more resourceful, perhaps too it makes you more confident, certainly more instinctive.

Here I have the feeling that anything is possible – even if isn’t possible today. Everything moves in island time.

© 2010 Susan Anderson and “Away here.” Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Photos © Orcas Island Photos.

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