A Winter Drive, Part 1

 I delivered a Christmas package on the other side of the mountain yesterday.  The other side of Mt. Hough, that is.  To get there, I drove around 10 miles on Hwy. 70 north of Quincy and another 6 or 7 on Hwy. 89 north of the Greenville Y.  I brought the camera along just in case.  This first set of photos got more and more interesting to me a day after I took them because they provide a nice comparison between two micro-habitats that are only about a quarter mile apart.  The first set of four photos was taken at my "milkweed place."  Followers of this blog may remember that I have several such places around Plumas County, but this was the first one so designated.  Less than a half mile north of the Y there's a turnoff (not an official one) on the north side of the highway where I've been photographing milkweeds in spring, summer and fall for several years.  Within a few yards of where I park, I've found all five members of this family that I'm aware of.  The most prominent, shown in these photos,

 is the Showy Milkweed, Asclepias speciosa.  The others I've photographed during the summer are the Purple Milkweed, the Narrow-leaf Milkweed, Spreading Dogbane, and Indian Hemp.  I couldn't find any stalks of the latter four still standing, but there were quite a few standing stalks of the Showy Milkweed with empty seed pods. It was fun taking photos with different backgrounds.  As you can see, there's still snow on the ground and the area is quite shady.  It's facing West and is shaded by a mountain ridge to the South as well as by some tall Douglas-firs right above the milkweeds.  What made

 this outing more special on further review was its contrast with an East-facing turnout only another half mile up Hwy. 89.  This second spot catches early morning sun, and is in the sun for more than half the day at this time of year.  Thus, all the snow is melted, and it actually felt at least 10 to 15 degrees warmer when I was strolling around with my camera.  In fact it was  warm enough that I

 started imagining that I'd find active bugs beneath the scattered pieces of tree bark and slabs of shale on the ground.  No such luck, though.  The hard freezes here for many nights in a row have driven the smart ones deep below the frost line and killed the stupid ones.  In terms of photography, the most

 interesting subject was the Cat-o-nine-tails still standing.  Some had seed heads still intact with their familiar hot-dog appearance, and others were already burst apart and  disseminating their seeds in the wind.

The key to enjoying this outing, as is usually the case. was having the time and patience to stop and walk around.  While walking I reminisced on winter days as a child in New England where I thought of all the vegetation (mainly trees and shrubs) in the winter as dead.  Now, as a trained biologist, when I see all these shades of brown, I know there is still plenty of life around.  Some of it above ground, but a great deal of it below the surface.  I have been partial all my life to living in places with four seasons, but I sometimes wonder what it's like to live in a place that does not.  I think of Chico, for instance, as a place with no winter, and the top of Mt. Shasta as a place with no summer.  Neither of these impressions is true, of course, but I realize how deeply imbedded my emotional response to seasons is.  In a lot of my late summer blogging, I expressed some sadness about the end of the season, and in my winter blogging, I've frequently focused on anticipation of spring.  Now I'm getting better at slowing down and enjoying the present, no matter what season I'm experiencing.  The two stops mentioned above launched an exploration that almost made me late for my appointment in Taylorsville.  More photos to come.