About the Free Quark
Nature and wild things are the objects of my affection and passion -- but I skew occasionally urban, too. This blog is part observation, part contemplation, mostly documentation - in an unbound element of experience that is a Free Quark.
The Quark Philosophy
1. Comments: Feel free to comment, disagree, to challenge - I'm a believer in the First Amendment.
2. On the Topic of Anthropomorphism: I don't believe in stripping an animal of its individuality and personality simply because he or she is not human. Human and non-human animals share common traits, and I respect that similarity as well as an animal's unique and rightful entitlement on this planet.
3. "Entertain the Possibility" ... My three favorite words. I come at my subjects from the perspective of an observer and voyeur, so it's all subjective, it's all interpretation. But so is most of life.
Bull kelp, the ocean’s mammoth seaweed, is an annual speed grower. It can sprout 10 inches in a day and reach lengths of more than 100 feet. On the Sonoma and Mendocino Coast where these shots were taken, beaches, pounded by incessant surf, are often strewn with the remnants of these vital kelp forests.
Kelp provides shelter for sea creatures and a haven for water birds — and for the sea otters you’ll find farther south near Monterey and Morro Bay. Carbon monoxide is one component of the bulbs that float on the ends of the long bull whips.
The translucence of the stipe (stem) makes for amber renditions in golden-hour light.
Bountiful bull kelp, although a critical component of the oceanic ecosystem, can be a hazard for human abalone divers who are required by law to dive without air tanks. There have been incidents where abalone divers drowned as a result of this entanglement.
According to the Ad Council, the full Keep America Beautiful campaign helped to reduce litter by as much as 88% in 300 communities, 38 states, and several countries.
Although I was living in Europe at the time the ad first aired in the States, it was infused in our cultural paradigm, even as ex-pats. Perhaps especially as ex-pats since we were imbued with a sense of sentimentality for the home country.
The “please don’t litter” axiom, enhanced by the Iron Eyes visuals, made throwing anything on the pavement, from a car, or on the beach simply inconceivable. These days, I’ve actually watched families arise from their beach blankets, slough off the chaff, and leave behind a minor landfill in personal refuse.
I’d love to see an ad campaign like this recycled today. All garbage all ends up somewhere. Iron Eyes Cody rightfully sheds a tear over it.
California Beach Hopper or Orchestoidea californiana
As fleas go, they’re giants. Not giants in the sense of Bikini-Atoll-nuclear-mutant-gone-bad giants. But by flea standards, they’re positively huge. That’s probably because they’re not parasitic dog or cat fleas, but rather, amphipods — shrimp-like creatures who dine on organic matter at the outer limits of the tideline.
This was our first face-to-face with a beach flea, also known as the California Beach Hopper. It was sunrise on a Mendocino Beach with a -2.1 tide — a beach surprisingly devoid of abalone divers along a coastline literally trampled by them.
In our solitude, we had the time and space to look between our toes. And for the squeamish, what we saw was squirm worthy: hundreds of translucent flea-like figures hopping and falling in the sand around us.
Shrimp people don’t make me squirm. My weak point is when a reptile gapes in such a way as to emulate venomous snake. I genuinely appreciate (and wouldn’t harm) a reptile, but my own reptilian brain hasn’t caught up with my more enlightened 21st century brain. I once rescued a harmless fence lizard from a swimming pool. As I put him down, to recover from his near-drowning, he turned in my hand, looked me in the eye, and gaped the widest gape I’d ever seen on a lizard. My heart said “lizard, lizard” but my old brain said “snake, snake!” My parasympathetic reflexes kicked in and I accidentally dropped him — fortunately, from just inches above the grass. He survived.
They’re about an inch in length and they might as well be drunk the way they hop and stumble. I know this because I was flat on the sand, watching them through my telephoto as they jumped, then tumbled, jumped then tumbled. And as they fell, invariably, another Beach Hopper would arrive to challenge the fallen flea. A scuffle of sorts would ensue, and then each beach flea would move on. The Beach Hoppers with burrows weren’t immune from intrusion either, as this photo establishes:
I confess that I can’t distinguish between amiable and antagonistic actions of beach fleas, but my understanding is that mating occurs in the burrow, and that what I was seeing outside probably constituted territorial exploration and arguments over burrows.
Beach Hoppers were at this spot because it happened to be on the cusp of the high-tide seaweed line. They dine upon elements of seaweed. They’re normally out and about at night — sometimes in the early morning hours. They themselves become food for animals like shorebirds, so the acquisition of a burrow is undoubtedly high on the priority list.
Hugh and I had another knucklehead-versus-wildlife encounter this past week with a family on the Mendocino coast. We hiked over an unpopulated bluff and saw a mom and kids chasing a young sea lion across the rocks for a photo op. Their actions were forcing the young animal away from her resting spot, as she struggled to climb over each obstacle in her way.
It took me five minutes to descend to the spot where dad was waiting behind, all the while watching mom chase the frightened animal farther and farther toward the water. I finally reached him and let him know there’s a recognized recommended distance for marine mammal viewing — 100 yards and at bare minimum, 50 yards. Thankfully, he reeled mom in but not before she’d effectively spooked this sea lion back into the water.
I took this from the bluff with my long lens, just before she disappeared.
Sea Lion Harassed by Tourists
A few months ago, we were near a known Harbor Seal nursery in Sonoma County. Watching from the cliff-side overlook, we saw a couple approaching the seals on the beach — again, for a photo op — scaring young seals into the water. The couple was just a few yards from the animals. At this particular beach a large sign at the trail head expressly cautions visitors to keep their distance from this sensitive area where the Harbor Seals nurse their young.
Harbor Seal Nursery Guidelines
We watched as they did their best impersonations of seals, lying in the sand, snapping images. There’s nothing you can do from that distant cliff but watch and hope someone on the beach knocks some sense into them. Luckily, another visitor did apparently say something because the couple backed off.
I suppose all of this should be common sense, but Hugh and I are increasingly (and reluctantly) in the position of having to say a thing or two on behalf of the wild things among us. Most of the time, there’s no malice involved. People simply want to interact, not realizing what appropriate boundaries are for human-wildlife interactions. With respect to marine mammals, NOAA has a good overview of Marine Wildlife Viewing Guidelines. For all wild animals, I refer back to my biologist friend who suggests that if you’re close enough to change the animal’s behavior, you’re too close. Wild animals deserve space and respect. Binoculars, scopes and telephoto lenses are still the best way to appreciate them.
“Is it Okay to Pet a Sea Lion?”
We were watching KRON 4 one morning after a young sea lion had been rescued from a freeway in the Bay Area. The morning weather person asked if it’s okay to “pet a sea lion.” Aside from the perfunctory, morning-show ridicule, the anchors didn’t use it as an opportunity to cite what the law really is regarding marine mammals. In case regulation isn’t enough to dissuade prospective sea lion petters, take a look at this image. There’s a reason sea lion rescuers use this gear. If provoked, sea lions will bite. And contact with humans is a significant stressor for any wild animal. The best policy comes from a 2006 Marine Mammal Center campaign which states simply “Leave Seals Be.”
If you find a marine mammal you suspect is ill or in trouble, don’t try to take care of the animal yourself. Call the Marine Mammal Center’s hotline: (415) 289-SEAL.
Truth is subjective but here’s one of my truths: Almost every outing in the natural world creates a bittersweet juxtaposition. On a planet now populated by six billion plus humans, there’s barely a stretch of beach, forest or wilderness that isn’t marred in some way by a trail of refuse.
I hang out on the shores of San Francisco Bay. I love San Francisco Bay. But like the sandpiper improvising around a discarded surgical glove, my brain has to improvise around the deluge of trash that invariably marks any walk along the shoreline.
I’ve seen: four-foot, mangy teddy bears nested in cord grass at high tide; an endangered Clapper Rail preening in a pile plastic bottles and corn chip bags; helium balloons tangled in seaweed, 100 yards out in the bog of low tide; plovers foraging around cigarette butts; fishing line and plastic loops just waiting to entangle the next curious gull.
At least 267 different species are known to have suffered from entanglement or ingestion of marine debris. That means seabirds, turtles, seals, sea lions, whales and fish.
The estimate is that around 80% of marine debris is from land-based sources. These sources include beach and tourism litter, fishing debris/lines/nets, sewage and storm drain overflow.
The highest concentrations of shoreline debris recorded were in Indonesia (up to 29.1 items per meter2) and Sicily (up to 231 items per meter2).
Plastics consistently make up 60 to 80 percent of marine debris.
Animals die from encountering marine debris. They get entangled, are inhibited from moving or feeding, lose limbs, are strangled, drown, die from ingestion when plastics lodge in their system or toxics leach from ingested items.
As broad and sobering as is this Greenpeace report, on the topic of garbage, it is — sadly — just a primer. For a broad and accessible perspective on the impact of our “stuff,” check out Annie Leonard’s The Story of Stuff. It’s a video you can view online which documents, literally, the story of our stuff as it’s produced, used and then discarded into the environment. It deals with the whole breadth of issues associated with our appetite for consumption.
So, in an effort to document the end result of our discards on our beautiful Bay, here’s the first in the ongoing series entitled Bay and Beach Flotsam.
** My mate and I pick up the trash we see wherever possible. Sometimes, the amount is overwhelming and way beyond the work of four hands.
I didn’t see it this way through the viewfinder — the aquarelle tone and texture of this wasp nest, clutching the painted boards. (Just as I didn’t see the pixie face of a blue damselfly I’d been shooting over a pond — until I offloaded those giant orbs-for-eyes onto my Mac.)
I once worked with a woman who rationalized her purchase of a fur coat by suggesting that a fox would never write a best-selling novel. Never mind that she couldn’t, in a million years, string two clauses together. So the question becomes: would it change your opinion of wasps if you knew they were channeling Cezanne?
There’s photographic magic in the sun rising over a super-low tide. At the point where dawn meets a -2.0, the strange, the stunning, the predictable and the chaotic all converge on that plane of tide pools, mudflats, and beach flea burrows.
One of my favorite coastal spots for tide pool exploration is Fitzgerald Marine Reserve on the San Mateo Coast. At low tide, the receding surf reveals an expanse of intertidal habitat. Fitzgerald is at once a testament to our coastal bounty, and an advisory against our exploitation of that coast. When you visit the reserve, you agree to a strict code of respect for the marine life which is hopelessly fragile under our feet. Among the guidelines: no collecting, no touching, no trampling.
The reasons for the admonition become clear as each step reveals something crawling, digging, or simply breathing in stillness beneath a veil of seaweed. Whether at Fitzgerald or a less regulated stretch of coastline, the best policy is to never tread on anything but a bare rock — where you can clearly see what might be underfoot. This green anemone was one of several clustered in one of the pools:
Along the Sonoma and Mendocino Coasts, the quest for abalone renders the tide pools less sacred. During a recent -2.1 at sunrise, we witnessed hundreds upon hundreds of abalone divers swarming the tide pools in wetsuits, with the unmistakeable, neon donuts on their backs — their abalone floats.
Beyond the trampling that occurs when this crush of humans pounds the habitat, abalone poaching is a real and distressing problem on the Mendocino Coast . . . one which engaged the passions of a number of locals who were kind enough to fill us in on the history of legitimate abalone diving and acquisition in the area. Unless you’re sporting those khaki Fish and Game credentials, there’s no way to assess how many of the divers are abiding by the three-abalone limit or the 24-per-year sport abalone ceiling. Commercial abalone diving in California is illegal, as is the purchase of wild abalone.
The parking lot below, taken on Highway 1, was a scene replicated at almost each coastal entrance that morning at low tide, just minutes after sunrise.
Cars of Abalone Divers on Mendocino Coast
And then there’s this, an unfortunate but unsurprising souvenir of the morning:
Cigarette in Tide Pool
Among the marine life in Mendocino — waiting out the low tide until the ocean reclaims it to safety — is a variety of mollusk species, like this Black Turban (Tegula funebralis). It’s a seaweed-eating creature which, according to my copy of the Beachcomber’s Guide to California can live up to 100 years.
One of my best low-tide experiences happened closer to home at Emeryville Crescent. During the winter months, when migrating birds turn San Francisco Bay into an avian party — and when a sudden stream of advection fog creates instant spook and atmosphere — shots like this come to characterize the taciturn thickness. The myriad dots in the photo are diving ducks, Scaup. In the silence of this scene, the lapping of their bills against the water — and the occasional cry of an egret are the only sounds breaking that atmospheric wall.
Egret and Bay Bridge in Fog
As the tide recedes, throngs of shorebirds follow the moving shoreline in search of the crustaceans and organisms now laid bare and ripe for the picking. I snapped this egret turf battle as both Great Egrets and Snowys staked out their pools of marine dining.
Until the esteemed Brewer’s Blackbird Sir Swoops made a name for himself by dive-bombing pedestrians, there’s a good chance he was just one of many birds in black, hopping along the sidewalks of San Francisco without much notice.
Many people perceive blackbirds to be ordinary and boring. But closer inspection always renders a more lively characterization.
Brewer’s Blackbird
The Brewer’s Blackbird below is one species of blackbird commonly found in the Bay Area (Swoops is a male Brewer’s). You’ll find them mingling with urban pigeons, sparrows and Starlings for human handouts, bathing in city fountains, and nesting in parks. If you’re not a bird watcher or nature photographer, you may not have noticed his citrine eyes — or the purple, blue and green iridescence that ripples across his feathers when light strikes.
Red-winged Blackbirds, another species, produce a distinctive song — a call that’s not quite a whistle, not quite dual toned or atonal, not quite a song. You can’t miss it once you know it. I hear it most commonly across fields where the males perch (like this one) calling out across their domain. Until you see him launch across the field, the crimson (or red and yellow) patches on his shoulders aren’t always visible. (Females lack this coloration.)
American Crows are so common they don’t inspire much interest from the average person — except, maybe, for those who perceive crows to be a nuisance. And those, like me, who love and respect these brilliant animals.
A huge flock of crows has driven a neighbor down my street to near madness with the sound fest they bring a few nights a week. It’s not that bad. The guy’s at the tipping point of neurosis.
Thankfully, the Migratory Bird Treaty Act helps protect wild birds like crows in regulating if and when anyone can legally harass or hunt a bird. Legally, he can’t harm them. But he’s out there like Ruprecht, banging his pots and pans in an effort to drive the flock away. I like hearing their crow conversation during happy hour. And they settle in once dusk descends. I’m actually more annoyed by that determined nut banging his pans.
He wouldn’t know nor would he care that baby crows have vivid blue eyes. Until I fed the young birds at the hospital, I didn’t realize the youngsters’ eye color is a true baby blue. The eyes morph into a darker brown as the crow ages.
Corvids (crows, jays, ravens) are among the most clever birds. They are known to use tools. They also analyze tactics and outcomes of their actions. I’ve watched a neighborhood jays steal nuts from a neighborhood squirrel. She watches where the squirrel stashes food and when the squirrel leaves, the jay grabs the nut and stuffs it in a tree branch or on a telephone pole. The crows will outsmart even the jays, hopping from telephone pole to tree, grabbing the jay’s stolen goods.
Starlings, about whom I recently posted, are much maligned, often harmed, not necessarily appreciated. People might confuse Starlings with blackbirds and vice versa. The distinction is important beyond personal interest (again, provisions of the Migratory Bird Treaty Act).
Related to mynas, Starlings are excellent mimics and they can learn numerous songs and sounds. They are quick studies and one research program found they are adept at understanding human facial cues.
They are also beautiful. If people can put aside their sometimes-negative perceptions of Starlings, they will find extraordinary color iridescence like Brewer’s Blackbirds . . . and plumage variations throughout the year as with most birds (juvenile, molting, breeding, etc.).
All photos taken at a respectful distance with a 300mm Zuiko lens: effective reach, 600mm.
I was meandering toward Market in San Francisco when I saw them in my peripheral vision. It was cluster of rambunctious humans, a large family with children. It shouldn’t have seemed out of the ordinary on a San Francisco summer day. But something was wrong — I got that familiar coil of nerves in my gut. I decided I’d better trust my instincts.
I detoured to the characteristic sound of the squawking parrot flock — one of my favorite San Francisco melodies. As I approached the area where the Red-masked Parakeets clustered and cawed, it became apparent that my gut feeling was correct: these people, not yet spotting me as I came around the corner, were trying to nab themselves a parrot. Ineptly, if truth be told. They were motly and unruly, and although I didn’t think they really had a chance, well — I didn’t want to take that chance.
I asked them what they were doing. They knew I was on to them. They went demur on me, adopting an indignant “what? me? huh?” stance for the most part. I sat for a moment with my camera, snapped their license plate (just in case), then meandered away. I suspected they’d be at it again once I was out of sight. So, I rounded a corner where I was still able to see them — and sure enough, they were chasing the birds. I grabbed my mate, who was ambling my way, and we headed back over together.
They had their arms outstretched with food for the birds - a violation of the San Francisco “no feeding” ordinance but a breach that tourists sometimes unknowingly commit. These weren’t ordinary tourists, so I told them of the city rule. They turned bellicose and told me to “get lost and mind my own business.” The truth is, this is our business, whether we choose to engage it or not. If someone’s intent is to harass or harm, it’s valid to speak up.
Illegal Feeding of Parrots in SF
The family members behaved and did nothing untoward for my camera while we were around. So, we decided that being around was the only option. We stayed underneath the murmuring parrot trees until the people drove away with their out-of-state super van. Until after dark — just to make sure they didn’t come back. And then we notified a few sources we knew would keep a keen eye on the parrots for the next few days — to be certain these jokers didn’t try it again.
Most Bay Area residents will recall the controversy that arose over the feeding prohibition. One of the arguments for prohibiting parrot feeding spoke to this very type of situation. Habituated wild animals of any kind — although admired and respected by the majority of people — are always in danger from those unscrupulous few. If I hadn’t seen these boneheads with my own eyes and camera lens, I would be far less distressed about the familiarity I know these magical birds have with most humans.
What do you do if you happen to witness something like this? Give San Francisco Animal Care and Control a call and let them know what’s going on. If there’s a local law enforcement officer nearby, see if they might be able to help. If you’re comfortable approaching people and it seems safe to do so, you can let them know it’s against the ordinance to feed the birds — which might help.
These types of things tend to happen in unguarded moments and hours. Even these greasy, belligerent souls knew enough to stop their nefarious activity when someone else was watching — me, a relatively non-threatening presence, if you must know. It was an odd coincidence that it was just me and them in as populated a city as San Francisco, but it does happen. I’m just glad I happened to be passing by in a moment where even one moment of my presence became of use.
If you haven’t yet seen the brilliant documentary about San Francisco’s parrot flocks you’re probably not from San Francisco. Even if you are from SF and somehow missed this now classic city gem, get yourself over to the Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill website and grab a copy. Or read Mark Bittner’s detailed account of the parrots in the book by the same title.
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