900,000 clams and 800 bags of oyster spat

This past week I volunteered to help Washington's Department of Fish and Wildlife seed baby Manilla Clams and Pacific Oysters in two local parks. If there is one thing I've learned after spending hours of time on the beach every week all winter long, it is that I don't know a damn thing about our local beach ecosystems or the ocean as a whole. Since hands-on experiences seemed the best type of education for me, I signed up.

On Monday, I, along with about 12 other volunteers and two folks from the Dept. seeded 900,000 baby Manilla Clams at a beach on the south end of Indian Island. On Wednesday, about 50 people showed up to spread 800 bags of "spat" on a 5-acre site near Shine Tidelands State Park.

Indeed I did learn quite a bit, but learning always come easy at the beginning of any new subject. It will take about 2 years for both of these species to become harvestable, and this re-seeding is an annual event.

The clams especially seemed to have had a long journey to arrive at this site in large coolers. If I remember correctly, they were born on the west coast of California, then spent about 4 months quickly growing in size in Hawaii, then spend another few months back on the west coast, possibly of Washington. These little guys were about 9 months old.

And so my confusion with the whole process began. If these little buggers grow here naturally (though neither species we were seeding are actually native), why are the harvests large enough to warrant the need for reseeding allowed every year? Why aren't fewer just harvested, allowing a natural re-population?


I have a feeling this is highly political. If I understood correctly, it is the fees and possibly the taxes that the commercial fisherman pay that directly pay for this reseeding effort. Perhaps there is a trade-off there? "If you will allow me to take x million dollars more of catch, I'll toss a few million your way for reseeding." That is my more cynical thinking. On the other hand, people hold what they can see, feel, and eat at a higher value. So, since the areas we were seeding are for sport shellfish diggers and not commercial, perhaps it is part of a bigger plan for getting the public involved in caring about the ecosystem. And then there is the revenue of individual shellfish licenses, which must add up to a pretty penny every year also. Shortening the season or reducing the allowable number of clams and oysters to be harvested would probably cut into the number of people forking out money for the privilege.

Environmentally, it is possibly a net gain. These baby clams (at least the 25% estimated to survive to a harvest-able size) will go on to have more than a year of time that they will be cleaning and filtering their foster-home waters before they are harvest-able. Now that sounds nice, especially since Puget Sound is not known for being a pristine waterway, but remember, these clams have already been shipped across the ocean twice. And believe me, they are HEAVY. That doesn't sound so great for the level of carbon in our atmosphere. It would probably take a fair amount of scientific calculation to see if the Earth as a whole comes out ahead.

And still I am left wondering why we are not seeding native species instead of non-native (though seemingly benign and non-invasive) species. One Dept. guy did have an answer for the oysters: the native and highly endangered Olympia Oysters are not legal to harvest, though there is one commercial fishery that can legally take them. The purposes of these oysters is mainly for recreation. I would imagine the other reason is economic. With more than a million (yes MILLION) dollars shelled out for this combined crop of shellfish, I imagine they are looking for the cheapest species to use.

One thing that I imagine is a net gain are the clams that decide to migrate out of the park they are planted in, and the oysters whose larvae end up farther down the beach. On the whole, I would imagine it works out to a net gain of overall shellfish in the region. I think I will need to have a much greater understanding of all of it, from biological to political, for it to become coherent in my own head. In the meantime, I'll plan to keep learning!

~M

A day for random events

The weather station in Port Townsend, across the bay shows gusts to 27 knots, but the wind is out of the north and they are somewhat sheltered by the lay of the peninsula there. The Smith Island station is showing gusts near storm force, 42 knots, and if we're not getting that here in Hadlock, it's gotta be pretty close. Tree limbs and detritus have been smacking the windows all day, and limbs are coming down in the driveway. Apparently they are coming down elsewhere, as well, because a couple hours ago the power went out, and stayed out until just now.

The wind is causing havoc out on the water. I've had the scanner on most of the morning, and now again that I have power for it, and Channel 16 is busy with warnings and calls for assistance. A vessel off Camano Island had the mast come down. As I listen, they have not been able to cut it free, and it's damaging the hull as they creep along toward shore.

Also, just coming across now, another vessel has activated its EPIRB somewhere nearby. No contact has been made; it may have just gone overboard from a boat at anchor. But maybe not.

The Coast Guard has been busy reporting vessels adrift, and the Port Townsend ferry has sat firmly at the dock in town, checking in with passing vessels for conditions in mid-channel from time to time. They haven't heard any reports yet they have been happy with, because there they still sit.

Out front, a vessel that has anchored out all winter here in the bay, a big forty-something footer called the Fram, is dragging down toward the beach. Another, smaller boat is dragging in right along with her, but it started further out and isn't as close in yet. I tried calling the marina nearby, where I think the owner keeps his dinghy, but there was no answer... I suspect the power outage may have done in their phone system. I looked up the boat in the national vessel registry, which has several Frams, but the most likely candidate didn't show a name for the current owner. Finally, I gave in and called Port Angeles, where I got a very harried duty officer who took down what information I had on the vessel but didn't seem too optimistic that they could locate the owner. If she comes ashore, it'll be a much bigger mess than the little 27 footer that washed up in the last storm.

There may be hope, though. The tide is out, and as she comes in shallower, the effective scope on the anchor rode increases, providing more holding power. She has been catching off and on as she drifts, and it may dig in here close enough that the scope provides an effective grip for the wind and wave strength. If that happened at high water, she might still go aground when the tide receded, but if she catches, and if the wind lets up before high tide, then she may just be okay. A lot of ifs... but it's a pretty nasty blow.

Since the power was out when I was doing all this research and calling, I had to tromp up to the shop and get our generator down to charge my phone and get some Internet service back. Back in the woods, if one can put out of one's mind the possibility of being squashed by a falling tree limb for a moment, it's actually quite a pleasant day. The wind is all overhead, the sun is shining brightly, and it's pretty warm out. I didn't linger to sunbathe, however.

My folks will be back soon and so I spent yesterday making sure their bathroom, little used in the back part of the house while they are away, was spic and span. Today I went back there and found some splotches of what look suspiciously like bird poo, blood, and a scattering of very tiny little feathers on the tile. I can't, however, find the culprit, which leads me to believe that somehow, the cat, who is confined to the house and to a very small netted run outside it, somehow contrived to lure in, catch, and eat a bird in the house. That she managed to accomplish this never-before-attempted feat the very day after I clean the part of the house she chose as a dining area is not, I think, coincidence.

The chickens seem to be coping well with the weather, but then, they are chickens; I'm not certain they understand anything that is going on outside the coop. Branches keep clattering down on the roof but they take no notice. They seemed very displeased I didn't have any of their favorite corn feed for them when I stopped in to collect eggs on the way back from the shop.

This morning, the UPS guy stopped by the place for the first time ever. It wasn't for me, but the package was of interest for other reasons, none of which are worth going into here.

And, I found out the my buddy Loyd passed the Washington State bar. He'll be sworn in by next week.

Got a text from another friend I hadn't heard from for almost a year.

So that's it. So far just a bunch of random stuff happening with no real narrative line. Some days are like that.

Those chickens are up to summat, Mrs. Tweedy

I used to watch our neighbor's chickens when I was a kid, so I don't come to chicken-sitting this winter as a complete novice. The old biddies my folks keep are past their prime, outside their laying years, and pretty low maintenance as birds go. But lately, strange things have been afoot in the chicken coop.

It started a month ago, when I noticed that a trench of sorts had been dug in along the fence perimeter near the door. I thought that perhaps Mandy had been up there doing some gardening, but she denied all responsibility, and on reflection, it was a bit closer to the fence than she would have chosen to plant anything, anyway; the chicken-wire is buried down several inches on all sides to prevent predators from digging in under it and getting a free chicken dinner.

So I assumed that was what it had been, some hungry coyote (they've been coming down close to the houses this year) or raccoon which had smelled chicken, decided to try their luck, and been frustrated by the wire. It puzzled me that it wasn't so much a hole as a trench, and a pretty neatly dug trench at that, but I filled it back in again and gave it no more thought.

Until last week. After we got back from the Olympics, I went up to check in on the birds and tell them about the trip while dishing out their feed. Once there, though, I noticed a new trench... this one dug inside the coop. Something trying to get out after a chicken feast? Could it still be in there? The hole didn't go all the way out, or even close... what would get in, forget how to get back out, then try to dig out and give up before escaping?

I did a quick head count and all chickens were present and accounted for. I checked the rest of the perimeter and found no holes, nothing that could have admitted any predator to the coop, and no signs of attack. The chickens are pretty elderly, anyway, and it strained credulity to imagine that some hungry animal might have worked hard enough to enter the henhouse and been repelled by the girls before having its lunch. So, I reasoned, it must have been an inside job. It's become apparent that "Chicken Run" was actually a documentary.

Like Mr. Tweedy in that worthy tale, though, I felt certain that no one would believe me if I made outlandish claims about chickens trying for a jail break, so I kept the whole thing under my hat. Today, though, I am proud to say that I have obtained photographic evidence catching the culprit red-handed:

That's right... the chicken ringleader is trying to dig her way out under the wire. Looks like it's time to throw her in the cooler for a spell of solitary confinement. I'll sweat her for a while to get the co-conspirators. Someone on the outside was clearly in on it, and I doubt it was the cat.

I haven't decided what to do yet with the rest of the culprits, but I will say that it's been a long time since I have had a nice, steaming chicken pot pie.

Scary noises

Mandy was all freaking out last night because of "scary noises." These amounted to our fenders squeaking and lines shifting in some heavy winds, accompanying the usual rocking and bobbing boat motion that happens in such situations. I made fun of her; after all, we've heard all those noises a hundred times, and frankly I find them somewhat reassuring... it means everything is where it should be, doing what it is supposed to do.

It's calm and quiet this morning, and I got up to go up to the bathroom. For a change of pace (exciting life I lead here) I walked down to the bathrooms at the head of the R/S docks. Along the way, I heard a seal barking out near the breakwater. The sounds echoed off the high bluff to shoreward in the morning gloom. It was spooky. Halloween is almost here.

Herbert the Heron

Mandy has decided that the Q dock heron here at Shilshole is named Herbert. I was thinking Henry, but whatever. He's a wily one, in his own way, so I haven't managed to snag a picture of him yet. At the same time, he's remarkably tame, and seemingly curious about us people and our strange ways. A couple days ago he scared the heck out of me as he blasted off with a godawful squawk from the next finger dock outboard of us when I was clambering out of our hatch early one morning bound for the restrooms. Coming back, he got me again, this time by perching atop a radome on a stern rail mast right next to a wind generator... in the half light, the silhouettes are remarkably similar and my mind just registered two generators there (as unlikely as that may be) until he blasted off.

Even when he isn't trying to scare you, Herbert is a little bit spooky. Last night I was coming back down to the boat after dark, and saw someone walking ahead of me down the float. Lighting along the floats here is from little lamps installed in the utility stations at the head of each slip pair, resulting in little twin puddles of light marching down the float in regular order. It's kind of dim and cool and hits people about waist level, allowing you to see them as a set of sort of disembodied legs either approaching or receding along the float ahead of you. So people look a little strange anyway, and it didn't hit me until I was within 60 feet or so that the guy walking down the float ahead of me was actually Herbert.

I slowed down a little bit, thinking I might get the drop on him and even up the score in the scaring the heck out of people game, but he knew right where I was. When I got within about twenty feet of him, he calmly turned off onto a finger pier and wandered down to where two neighbors were kicking back over beers, probably to try and bum a Coors off of them. He didn't say anything as I went past and I didn't either, and as I was packing my stuff down the companionway I saw him stalk past on the main float continuing his casual inspection out toward the end of the dock, sans beer. He didn't seem too put out, though, probably understanding it was always a longshot and that he would have had trouble carrying it anyway.

Lately he's been surprising me less often, as I am on to most of his hiding spots, but what with him being a bird and all, there's always the vertical option, and he can relocate from mast to mast in near-silence. Still, he hasn't been blasting me with that terrible noise even when he does get the jump on me, and I take it as a sign that we are now known and welcome inhabitants of his dock.

Whoop... he's squawking about something outside right now. Did Timmy fall down the well? I'd better go check.