Singer, the Whale, swims again, Part 1

    When I arrived at the Vashon Center for the Arts three days before the inauguration of my son, Ela Lamblin's, sculpture—skeleton, steel-outlined body, and suspension structure—of Singer, the gray whale (see post on November 5, 2025), the bones were still on the floor. I entered the ribs and walked through them, like Jonah, who, if he was my height, would have been walking almost upright.

I am in front, Ela in back.             Photo by Michelle Bates

I caressed the bones for the last time. The whale was going up, to hang from the ceiling of the Art Center and to imply, by swimming through the air, how Singer had once swum through the sea.

    Now I had a better idea of the scale of the project, from the tiniest, most intricate creating of beautiful, spliced (not knotted) cables 

Kevin Flick splicing the cables that will hold up the sculpture

to the joining of the bones and the sculpting and building of the steel framework; from the immense size and weight of the skull to the delicacy of the jugal, the smallest bone in the whale's body; from the millions of years during which the whale evolved its complicated mechanisms of structure and movement that allowed it to cease being a land creature and return to the sea—to the centuries of math and science that resulted in the mechanism, beautiful in itself, that Ela and his team of brilliant engineers devised to allow the tail to move in graceful, up-and-down sweeps.  

Each wheel turns a different set of vertebrae to make the tail move.

The entire length of the tail moves in a swimming motion.

    It took a long day for the tail to go up. The intricacies were unimaginable. The data on the computer was checked and rechecked. Skeleton and distances were measured and remeasured with various methods: tape measures, laser, pacing. Once the tail was up, would it be in the right place? Was the space for the skull and ribs correct? Did a whole whate really fit in the building? More than one person on the crew told me his neck was sore from looking up so much. 

    And then, at last, the tail went up.

This whole assembly will be lifted to the ceiling.

    I didn't see the skull go up a couple of days later because I was hosting the party Ela had planned to hold at his house before the inauguration ceremony, scheduled for 6:30 that evening. Ela wasn't at the party because he was still helping install the skull. He told me at midday that he didn't think it would happen in time, but just before 6:00 it looked like all preparations were ready. There was a count-down, and the skull was raised to join the tail at the ceiling. 

    I left the party for the Art Center at 6:10. The guests would have to see themselves out. 

Singer with some of the rigging still attached and
missing the flippers, but in place at the art center.

   

Next post: The inauguration ceremony

(All photos by Diana Coogle unless otherwise noted.)

Tree Trimming

 I live in an area with an unusual preponderance of beautiful California live oaks.

These tall evergreen trees provide a wealth of shade with branch after bushy branch of tiny, serrated leaves. Several of these oaks grow just off my front deck. One in particular is a beloved tree. It shades the deck and provides habitat for birds and acorns for the red squirrel that bops along my deck every now and then. 

    But when I first moved into this house, that same tree was a tangled mess blocking the view of the mountain from my bed. So I called a tree expert, my friend Chuck Dahl, who came, climbed, cut, and sawed until I had a beautifully shaped tree through which I could see Humpy Mountain from my bed.

    Ten years later, that tree's limbs were again blocking my view, and the limbs of other live oaks were cluttering the gutters with leaves. So I called Chuck again. The overhanging limbs were an obvious fix, but he went into my bedroom to see what I wanted there. He tucked his chin onto my bed, said, "Hm. I see," then went outside, geared up, and started climbing.

    For Chuck a tree is not an adversary to fight but a partner to dance with. In his heavy work boots, he dances up the tree en pointe.

 He bows horizontal to saw a limb. He pirouettes to a different position to use his chain saw on another one.

He manipulates a ten-foot pole to clip another one. He clips and saws and cuts; he hangs and swings and dances. If ballon refers to the smooth and elastic quality of the jumps performed in ballet, Chuck is a ballon-ist in a tree.

    When it was over, I had a beautifully shaped tree as well as an extended view from my bed. I had gutters unhindered by leaves. And I had wagonload after wagonload of branches to haul away.

Chuck went home, and I got to work.

    It didn't take long, though, and now, every morning when I wake up, I look out the window at the oak tree that danced with Chuck and beyond it to the music of the mountain I can see from my bed.

Mothing

     Butterflies are like prom queens. They're beautiful and showy and get all the attention. Moths are like the other girls—get to know them, and you'll see how special they are!

    There are about 750 species of butterflies in North America—and about 12,000 moth species. How many species of moths live on the Siskiyou Crest? No one knows, but the Siskiyou Crest Coalition has invited "citizen scientists" to join lepidopterist Dana Ross to try to find out.

    That's why I was setting up a tent at 7000-foot Observation Gap at dusk last week.

    It was cold and windy. Mt. Shasta rose majestically on the horizon, snowy in twilight. In the opposite direction the sun was setting with scarlet brilliance behind the forest. On two places on Observation Gap double sets of large white sheets, billowing in the wind, gleamed in the beam of strong, battery-powered black lights. 

As dark descended, the four citizen scientists and one learned scientist gathered at the sheets, waiting, glass vials in hand, for the moths.

  And the moths came, flying into the sheets. Soon we were all busy scooping moths into vials.

 Then we would show the captured moth to Dana, who would say, "Oh, it's a [such-and-such] moth. That's great!" or, sometimes, "Oh, I don't know that one!" All went in a cooler to take back to the lab to be identified and labeled as one of the moth species found on the Siskiyou Crest. 

    In only a few hours we had 50 or 60 moths in the cooler. Some were thumb-sized. Some were a quarter-inch long, as thin as pencil lead, and so insignificant I thought they wouldn't be worth the catch. But no moth was beneath Dana's consideration. He likes them all, whether tiny or large, dull or beautifully patterned.

    By midnight I was yawning and ready to retire. Soon the others followed me to their tents. Dana suggested we could get up before daylight and see what was still flying around, but when predawn came, I decided I was pleased enough with my contribution to scientific knowledge of the Siskiyou Crest that I didn't have to catch more moths. I snuggled deeper into my sleeping bag and let images of moths flit again through my dreams.

All photos by Suzie Savoie.

Birding on the East ART

     Last week I went on an early-morning bird walk on the East ART (Applegate Ridge Trail). The light was soft and beautiful over the mountains and through the woods; the open hillsides were lushly green. We saw, or heard, many birds: gnatcatchers, vireos, grosbeaks, woodpeckers, a kestrel sailing over the hills, wren tits, warblers…I couldn't keep track of them all. 

    The most thrilling moment was to watch, even through my pitifully inadequate binoculars, several pairs of brilliantly blue birds flying from bush to bush in the dense buckbrush on the steep hillside, one pair chasing others out of their nesting site. Their brilliant blue heads flashed in the sun. They were lazuli buntings. 

https://marinaudubon.org/jrbird/level-6/Lazuli-Bunting.php

    But they were not, as I had thought, "la-ZOO-lee" buntings, as in the rock—"LAP-is la-ZOO-lee," because the bird, I learned, is the "LAZ-oo-lee bunting." No one could tell me why. Later I learned from Partridge's etymological dictionary that the word comes from a Persian word meaning "a blue stone," so "lapis," meaning "stone," is tautological. The bird, then, must be named after the stone, for its similarly scintillating blue color. "Lapis," however, is "o.o.o.," in Partridge's terminology—of obscure origin—and there was no help in understanding pronunciation differences. Such are the mysteries of words. Isn't that beautiful?

    Nor, I also learned, were the the lazuli buntings (did you pronounce it correctly?) blue. The shining, eye-catching, luminescent blue on the head of the birds as they flew from bush to bush was, I'm sorry to say, an illusion. Birds can't make blue feathers.

    Not only did the bird experts on my walk tell me this, but so does Scott Sillett, a wildlife biologist at the Smithsonian Migratory Bird Center, who says, on the Smithsonian website, "No bird can make blue from pigments." Apparently, they can make red and yellow feathers but not blue ones. What I was experiencing when I saw that flash of brilliant blue on the lazuli bunting was "light waves interact[ing] with the feathers and their arrangement of protein molecules" to make me think I was seeing blue.

    Wait. I was seeing blue. So was everyone else. "Look at that brilliant blue!" we exclaimed, binoculars at eye level.

    I could almost accept that what I was seeing was a trick of light when I watched the bird fly, but it makes no sense whatsoever when I hold a single blue feather in my hand. I turn it over and over. I put it in shade and in sunlight, and it is still blue. I put it next to a red feather. This one is red. This one is blue. How can you tell me there is no such thing as a blue feather?

   Such are the mysteries of nature.

    And isn't that beautiful? "The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious," Einstein tells us—in words, I say, as much as in birds.

My Sister Laura

     I have recently faced up to and admitted: I'm not a good gardener, and, although I love gardens, I don't love gardening.

    "That's all right," a friend said, comfortingly. "You can't be good at everything." 

    That was consoling, with its implication that I was good at some things. 

    Then I thought of my sister Laura.

    Laura is good at writing. She has published more than twenty books—about gardening, crafts, folklore, wildflowers, etc., etc.

One of Laura's many books, with her illustrations

    She is good at art. Her book about endangered plants of the Southeast, illustrated with her paintings, is being published by the University of Georgia. 

A proposed cover for Laura's upcoming book

    She is good at sewing. She's also a weaver. Her intricate and beautiful quilts have been in several shows.

Shown at the Siskiyou Crest Arts and Science Festival in Williams, Oregon

    She is a classical pianist. Beethoven, Mozart, and "Rhapsody in Blue" are pretty up there for skill.

    She is an excellent cook and hostess, creating beautiful flower arrangements and table settings. She makes tediously formed hors d'oeuvres for fancy parties, pizzas in her wood-fired patio oven for family get-togethers, and cookies with her grandchildren. She published a cookbook. 

    She is a skilled botanist. And she hikes.

Identifying wildflowers in the Siskiyous  photo by Margaret della Santina

    She started a nonprofit of sewing-crafts for women in Haiti.

   She dotes on and gives abundant energy to her grandchildren, from doing crafts with them to giving them piano lessons to going to their soccer and basketball games.

    And guess what? She's also a superb gardener. Her front garden stops people as they walk by; her back garden is lush with flowers and landscaping. 

Laura's back yard

        

Maybe there really are people who are good at everything—because, to top it off, she is also a wonderful sister whom I love.

This picture was taken 10 years ago, but isn't it sweet?

    

No Kings, 2026

    As in places all around the country, and in the world, large numbers of No Kings protestors showed up in Grants Pass last Saturday. I was one.

    That means I was one of eight million Americans in 3,300 US cities and towns at a rally. It felt both noble and exciting to participate in what apparently was the largest demonstration, nationwide, since the first Earth Day. The mood was upbeat. The signs were clever and encouraging: "No faux-king way," "No kings in America since 1776," "Melt ICE."  I didn't take any pictures, but you've seen photos from other cities, the massive crowds in Minneapolis-St. Paul, Atlanta, New York, Washington, DC. Mind-boggling. 

    Grants Pass is a small town. I liked seeing the few black people who were there—the ex-military in their uniforms—young people with "Trans rights are human rights" signs. I liked seeing such a large crowd in this staunchly conservative area.

    Protests around the country were mostly nonviolent, though apparently there were some arrests in Portland, LA, and Dallas. 

    Does it do any good? Well, Trump didn't call an end to the war in Iran the next day, but you know he was pissed—if he was paying attention, if his aides gave him more than complimentary news, if he didn't sincerely believe the real reports were fake news. 

    Does it do any good? Well, the Center for American Progress reports that the numbers from last Saturday put us close to the crucial 3.5 percent figure—the proportion of the population it takes to make government officials pay attention.

    Does it do any good? Well, in the first two No Kings rallies in Grants Pass, counter-protestors stood with their own signs in front of the Republican headquarters, which is directly across the street from the courthouse, where the rallies are centered. This time there was one lone Jesus-hawker with his megaphone. The other counter-protestors stayed away. Did they feel outnumbered? Or do they feel they can no longer support Trump?

    Either way….

        I hope you'll go to the next No Kings protest to help swell the numbers to the 3.5-percent point. It is good for your soul and good for your country.

In the White Mountains of New Hampshire—Part II: Skiing, Snowshoeing, and Snowstorms

    The skiing was great—not always easy, but that was part of the fun. Skiing through the woods was lovely on the easy ups and downs and where the sun threw long shadows of thin-trunked trees onto the snow—so different from the big trees of the Pacific Northwest! 

                                                        photo by Jeanne Blauner

The trails were often packed hard by previous snowshoers and skiers into narrow passages through deep snow on either side.

                                        photo by Tomas Dundzilla
Snowshoers on the narrow trail
Front to back: Sandra, Lisa, Jeanne 

At places the trail went steeply down and then suddenly up, making V-gullies that were sometimes difficult and sometimes impossible to ski: too narrow to herringbone, too steep to stomp up, with snow so deep on the sides there was no push from ski poles. I managed the less steep ones, but pretty soon so many of the skiers were falling so often that the best thing to do was take off our skis and walk. Then we would put the skis back on for more of the lovely bits before we had to take them off again.

    The second day's ski had a lot of V-gullies and one long, wind-swept traverse on a steep hillside, a delightful crossing. 

Me on the traverse             photo by Tomas Dundzila

    At one point, on the return to the trailhead, I took off my skis to walk up a hill and then couldn't get one boot to click back into the binding. The mechanism seemed broken. The snowshoers were way ahead of the three skiers—Jeanne, Lisa, and me. Neither Jeanne nor Lisa could make the binding work. I would have to walk, carrying my skis, the last mile and a half. Carrying skis is awkward, but walking the hard-packed trail wasn't difficult—until my foot hit soft snow and I would fall up to my knee. Jeanne took off her skis, too, suggesting that following her footsteps would keep me out of the holes, though I suspect she was mostly acting out of sympathy for my difficulty. 

    After walking like that for more than a mile, falling in holes and hauling myself back to the trail, I was happy to see Tomas returning to check on us. I gratefully accepted his offer to carry my skis. Once back at the hut, Tomas examined my broken ski, then took it to the sink, ran hot water over the binding to thaw the frozen mechanism, and handed it back to me, fixed.

     Another day we all put on snowshoes to climb to the Zeacliff outlook (1.5 miles, 1300-foot elevation gain). It was my first time on showshoes.

l-r: Sandra, Lisa, me.      photo by Tomas Dundzila  

I look happy enough, but I am not a convert. I prefer the graceful movement and silent glide of skiing—and the challenge of skills, too. But it took snowshoes to get to the overlook, where the view was stupendous, with panoramic views of the Pemigewasset Wilderness and snow-capped Mt. Washington. 

    The last day I was skiing along, happily and easily,

                                                    photo by Lisa Fleischer

back to the parking lot and our cars when Tomas, who was pulling the sled, stopped as I skied up to him. "Hop on," he said. "I'll pull you on the sled." I demurred (slightly), but he was serious. He wanted to see if it could be done; he would pull me until we got to the bottom of the uphill slope ahead. So I gleefully sat down atop the bundles, hung my feet over the front edge, set my skis on either side of me, and away we went, Tomas pulling, me clutching the sides of the sled as we bumped along.

    It was a barrel of fun.

    The whole trip was a barrel of fun—the wonderful people I met, the adventurous Zealand Falls hut, the climbs (even on snowshoes) to vistas, and the wonderful, challenging, beautiful skiing through deep, white, quiet snow. I came home with a healthy respect for the beauty and ruggedness of the White Mountains and warm feelings for my fellow snow-adventurers.

   Sallie (in front), Eugenia, Nancy, Jeanne.   photo by Tomas Dundzila

   That might have been the end of the story except for getting caught in a snowstorm the evening the official trip was over. Eugenia and I (Eugenia driving) were headed to the Boston airport when dark fell, along with the snow. The backcountry New Hampshire roads quickly became treacherous. When we saw the lights of a Dunkin Donuts gleaming in the emptiness, we gratefully pulled into the parking lot, went inside for a bite to eat, then came back to the car, pulled out our sleeping bags, and arranged ourselves for a night in the car. 

    In the wee hours of the morning we were awakened by a snowplow clearing the parking lot. When we got out of the car that morning, we found it blocked in with a two-foot wall of snow. I went inside to ask for a shovel while Eugenia tried to dig us out with the car's ice scraper ("Like using a toothpick to stir cake batter," she said) until she realized the four-wheel-drive rental car could probably crunch right through the snow, which it did. 

    We both missed planned visits with friends in Boston that evening, and I was sorry to miss a night in the Embassy Suites (with its shower), but both Eugenia and I got to the airport safely the next day and, later, to our respective homes, in Ohio and Oregon. I drove home from the airport in the dark, but not in the snow.

    Driving through the Rogue Valley the next day, I was surprised to see daffodils in bloom. It was another world from where I had been.

                                               photo by Lisa Fleischer