Reservoir Canyon

I get distracted easily and tend to jump on exciting ideas that pop into my head with an "I'll figure it out when I get there" mentality. So when I thought it'd be fun to explore parts of the canyon I haven't seen, too excited to look at a map or think about time, a quick morning hike turned into a 12-mile hike (which may be quick for some people, but not me) and all I had was an irresponsible amount of water and half a granola bar.

At least I saw cool plants.

A lot of the plants that immediately caught my eye, I already knew, but made observations of some, anyway. It wasn't until I dropped down into the canyon from the ridge that I found plants I wasn't at least familiar with. One of these plants was the Pellaea mucronata. I hardly noticed it because it was so small and delicate. I also thought it was interesting seeing a single Clarkia amongst stands of other species. I'm still not sure what the specific epithet is but I didn't find another one throughout the rest of the hike.

I thought it was pretty neat seeing different developmental stages within the same species as I dropped and rose again in elevation and explored along different aspects of the mountain (hill?...berm?). For example, on the Lizzie St. side of the hill, there was a plant with a head that looked gummy and gross. When I crossed over the ridge and dropped down lower into the canyon, I saw the same gross, gummy center surrounded by small purple petals. I also noticed that some of the blue-eyed grass was white on the northern face, which I'd never seen before. I'm still not sure why that is, but I'm guessing it has to do with sun availability or maturity.

Now for a note about turkey vultures: I used to think they were nothing but gangly, disgusting creeps of nature. Especially after being actively intimidated by one as I passed it one day, sitting on a fence post. However, after sitting and watching a flock(? ... herd?...pod?) of 4, flying northeast through the canyon, I saw something else. As they glided and followed the canyon, dropping and rising above the ridgeline, they never flapped their long wings. I lost count of the seconds between flaps because I started counting mid-glide and never saw a flap at all. I watched them paint long ovals in the heat of the sky, moving independently but always circling back to a close proximity between themselves that made it seem like they were checking in, making sure they were all together. I thought it was a really beautiful blend of independence and unity. I could be wrong. Maybe they are just gross and weird.

Posted on April 28, 2020 02:28 AM by alexmichel