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For the second year in a row (that I am aware of, anyway), the Brandt's cormorants (Urile penicillatus) have claimed the last remaining arch at Natural Bridges as a breeding rookery. I remember being so excited at "discovering" them in 2021. Anyway, they're back again, building piles of algae into nests.

Rock with dozens of black birds, some sitting on nests of algae
Brandt's cormorants (Urile penicillatus) on top of the arch at Natural Bridges
© Allison J. Gong

BTW, if you're keeping score at home, the genus name for the North Pacific cormorants has been changed from Phalacrocorax to Urile. A 2014 study showed this North Pacific group to be a sister clade to those in the genus Phalacrocorax, and in 2021 the International Ornithologists' Union formally adopted the genus Urile for them.

Adult cormorants with white breeding plumes on neck and back
Brandt's cormorant (Urile penicillatus)
© Allison J. Gong

During the breeding season the Brandt's cormorants develop long, wispy white plumes on the cheeks and in two smaller tufts over the shoulder blades. In my head I've been calling them Einstein plumes because although they probably do have a real name, I don't know what it is. When you see a face portrait of one of these birds, you'll know what I mean.

Male cormorant bringing algae to mate on top of rock
Brandt's cormorants (Urile penicillatus)
© Allison J. Gong

The color blue also features in the breeding phenotype of Brandt's cormorants. Cormorants are related to pelicans, which of course have that huge gular pouch that can hold gallons of water. The gular pouch of cormorants isn't nearly as large. For the Brandt's cormorants, the blue gular pouch indicates sexual maturity. And can you see the color of the eye of the bird that is bowing? The eye of a sexually mature bird turns a brilliant cobalt blue during the breeding season. Brandt's cormorants nest on rocks or cliffs, with the male gathering most of the nesting material. At Natural Bridges, the nests are made up mostly of algae, but I've seen a few birds flying by with surfgrass in their mouths. This male above has brought back a nice clump of red algae (a species of Cryptopleura, maybe?) to an appreciative mate.

So those are the Brandt's cormorants.

This year there is a second species of cormorant hanging out on the sides of the rock. These are pelagic cormorants (Urile pelagicus).

Three cormorants on rock cliff
Pelagic cormorants (Urile pelagicus) at Natural Bridges
© Allison J. Gong

I first noticed the pelagic cormorants early in March. I saw those white patches on the flanks and thought, "But that's not the right body shape for a pigeon guillemot!" I came home, looked them up, and sure enough, they are pelagic cormorants. The pelagic is a little smaller and more slender than the Brandt's, and has a red face and glossy black-green plumage with the white rump patches during the breeding season. These three pelagic cormorants are on small ledges on the side of the same rock where the Brandt's cormorants are nesting, providing a nice demonstration of resource partitioning.

So, are these pelagic cormorants really the new kids on the rock? Going by my photographs from 2021, I'd say yes. I looked back through the photos I took when I discovered the Brandt's cormorants, and did not see pelagic cormorants in any of them. Of course, absence of evidence is not necessarily evidence of absence, and it could very well be that the pelagics have been there all along with the Brandt's and I simply never noticed them. Given that my area of expertise is absolutely not birds, I'm quite prepared to learn that I am wrong about this. But the pelagic cormorants are new to me, and that's reason enough to be delighted by them.

Date/time: Saturday 2022-02-19, 08:00-09:30
Location: Natural Bridges State Park
Weather: Chilly (8.3C), as sun hadn't yet risen above the roofs of the houses nearby; very light breeze

For Day 2 of the 2022 Great Backyard Bird Count (GBBC) I went to Natural Bridges, not suspecting that I would be able to ID and count so many species literally just inside the park boundaries. I ended up dividing my observation period into three locations and spent about half an hour at each.

Observation spot #1: Just inside the park boundary on Delaware Avenue (see map below)

  • Ruby-crowned kinglet (Corthylio calendula): 2
  • Anna's hummingbird (Calypte anna): 3
  • Lesser goldfinch: (Spinus psaltria): 4
  • Golden-crowned sparrow (Zonotrichia atricapilla): 14
  • Purple finch (Haemorhous purpureus): 2 (1 female + 1 male)
  • Spotted towhee (Pipilo maculatus): 1
  • Chestnut-backed chickadee (Poecile rufescens): 4
  • California towhee (Melozone crissalis): 1
  • Red-shouldered hawk (Buteo lineatus): 1
  • American crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos): 4
  • American robin (Turdus migratorius): 12
  • Bushtit (Psaltriparus minimus): 4
  • Song sparrow (Melospiza melodia): 1

TOTAL = 13 species

Observation spot #2: Along the boardwalk of the monarch butterfly sanctuary

  • Yellow-rumped warbler (Setophaga coronata): 4
  • California towhee: 1
  • Chestnut-backed chickadee: 2
  • Ruby-crowned kinglet: 3
  • American crow: 13
  • American robin: 10
  • Bewick's wren (Thryomanes bewickii): 3
  • Anna's hummingbird: 4
  • Song sparrow: 2
  • Downy woodpecker (Dryobates pubescens): 1
  • Spotted towhee: 4
  • Lesser goldfinch: 2
  • Dark-eyed junco (Junco hyemalis): 2
  • Red-shouldered hawk: 2

TOTAL = 4 new species

Observation spot 3#: Sandy beach

  • Mallard (Anas platyrhynchos): 13 (5 female + 8 male)
  • Snowy egret (Egretta thula): 12
  • Brown pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis) on water: 4
  • Western gull (Larus occidentalis): 4 (on the arch)
  • Snowy egret: 2 (on the arch)
  • Brandt's cormorant (Urile penicillatus): 46 (on the arch), starting to build nests
  • American crow: 4

TOTAL = 5 new species

For my nature journal I did more of a formal Grinnell-style entry, which works well for this kind of observation set.

Nature journal entry for 2022-02-19

I was enjoying myself so much that I honestly didn't realize how much time had passed. Super fun morning!


This weekend, 18-21 February 2022, are the four days of the Great Background Bird Count. This is a global community science project in which people go out and document bird life. The beauty of a project like this is that is available to anyone who has a window to the outside. Of course, anybody can look at birds any time. To participate in the official project, people need to add their observations to eBird, which is similar to iNaturalist only specific to birds.

Day 1

Date/time: Friday 2022-02-18, 09:00-10:00
Location: Younger Lagoon overlook
Weather: Sunny, with very slight overcast; no breeze at first, but light breeze after about 09:30

  • Canada goose (Branta canadensis): 6
  • Mallard (Anas platyrhynchos): 4 female, 4 male
  • Bufflehead (Bucephala albeola): 4 female
  • American wigeon (Mareca americana): 4 female, 5 male
  • American coot (Fulica americana): 12
  • Northern harrier (Circus hudsonius): 1
  • Red-tailed hawk (Buteo jamaicensis): 1
  • Red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus): hard to say, but at least 20 lekking away in the field across the lagoon
  • Osprey (Pandion haliaetus), carrying a fish!: 1
  • European starling (Sturnus vulgaris): murmuration of ~100
  • Bewick's wren (Thryomanes bewickii): 1
  • Song sparrow (Melospiza melodia): 2
  • Yellow-rumped warbler (Setophaga coronata): 2 male
  • Anna's hummingbird (Calypte anna): 2 male
  • Bushtit (Psaltriparus minimus): ~15
  • American crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos): 2
  • California quail (Callipepla californica): 1 male
  • California thrasher (Toxostoma redivivum): 1
  • Golden-crowned sparrow (Zonotrichia atricapilla): 1
  • Black phoebe (Sayornis nigricans): 1
  • Spotted towhee (Pipilo maculatus): 1
  • Common yelllowthroat (Geothlypis trichas): 1 male

In addition to this tally of species, which is fine in and of itself but not all that interesting, I did get to see some interactions. The northern harrier is a perennial resident, and I often see it either perched on a fence post across the lagoon or soaring low over the fields. Today the red-tailed hawk was perched on a fence post, and I didn't see the harrier until it flew in several minutes later. The harrier crossed in front of the hawk, flying low, and flushed out a murmuration of starlings. It chased the starlings around for a little while, obviously not hunting them. And as much as I wish starlings hadn't been introduced to North America, the flow of a murmuration is fascinating to watch. Even a small one of about 100 birds is rather impressive. Anyway, the hawk on the fence post watched all this activity for a few minutes and seemed to be rather peeved by all the kerfuffle. It ruffled its feathers and flew off. The harrier flew away later, and the starlings kept up their murmuration until I left.

At ~05:00h UTC on 15 January 2022, the Hunga Tonga Hunga Ha'apai undersea volcano erupted. The eruption was probably followed by a massive undersea landslide, which set tsunami waves out across the Pacific Ocean. This time translates to ~21:00h PST on Friday 14 January, and for the rest of this entry all times and dates will be reported in California time. The eruption and landslide happened in the early morning in Tonga, which was the previous evening here in California.

I woke up on Saturday 15 January (yesterday, as I write this on the 16th) to reports of tsunami warnings for the entire Pacific coast of North America. The first waves were expected to hit the Monterey Bay area around 07:30h. Knowing that we are in spring tides now and that the low low tide (LLT) would be at 15:35h, I back-calculated the preceding high tide (the high high tide, or HHT, for the day) to be around 08:30h. Hmm. High tide plus tsunami surge could equal interesting things to see! And yes, as we were warned not to go down to the ocean, I planned to remain above it all and observe from the bluffs.

What the instruments measured

The volcano erupted first, and caused the landslide. When the massive displacement of water occurred in the ocean, it sent pressure waves through both the ocean and the atmosphere. But before that, the volcanic explosion itself created a pressure wave in the atmosphere. And it happens that the barometer in our weather station caught the pressure anomaly! At 04:04h on 15 January, about seven hours after the eruption, the weather station measured a spike in atmospheric pressure (circled in red in the bottom panel). Our weather station records pressure only every five minutes, so the actual spike may be a bit higher than what was recorded.

Spike in atmospheric pressure, measured by home weather station
Spike in atmospheric pressure, measured by our weather station in Santa Cruz, CA

The National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) has tsunami stations established on the entire coast of the U.S., as well as earthquake monitoring stations elsewhere along the Pacific ring of fire. The tsunami station at Monterey measured sea level anomalies due to the tsunami waves striking the coast, starting at about 07:00h, as seen below.

This kind of chart is a little different from what you're probably used to, so let me explain what it shows. You have time and date along the X-axis. The blue line, which is hard to see because it is mostly obscured by the red line, is the predicted sea level; note that it follows the usual trajectory for the tides we have in this area, with two high tides and two low tides every day. The jagged red line is the interesting part. It shows the anomalies, or how the actual sea level deviates from the predicted sea level. There are both positive and negative anomalies. These anomalies are the tsunami surges that hit the monitoring buoy. Positive anomalies are the pressure waves striking the buoy (i.e., the crests of the wave), and negative anomalies are the pauses between surges, or the troughs of the wave. The first large anomaly was about 0.7 meters above the predicted sea level.

Imagine tossing a pebble into a calm pond. When the rock hits the water it sets up a series of pressure waves that emanate in all directions from the point of impact. If you watch those waves, or ripples, you notice that over time they diminish in size until eventually you don't see them anymore.

A tsunami is a similar phenomenon, only ginormously magnified. The underwater landslide displaces a huge amount of water, which then surges away in all directions. These tsunamis travel across thousands of kilometers of open ocean, where they may not make much difference in sea level. But as they approach land they behave like other waves do: they slow down and get taller. When they hit the continental shelf, they surge up coastal waterways and flood any low-lying land they encounter.

And there isn't only one surge. As you can see in the NOAA chart, surges and relaxations occurred throughout the entire day. The purple line indicates the same anomalies as the red line, only they are shown on a single horizontal line instead of on the wave of the blue line. This makes it easier to see how the magnitude of the deviations decreases over time.

What I saw

Double-checking the NOAA tide chart for Santa Cruz, I saw that the HHT would be +1.7 meters at 07:59h. I managed to get myself down to the marine lab, do my chores, and scurry out to Younger Lagoon at about 08:45h. Don't worry, I didn't have time to go down onto the beach, but watched events from the bluff, where I had a better view anyway. Remember, we had a high tide coinciding with the oncoming tsunami surge, so the potential was there for something interesting to happen. Now, a +1.7 meter (= 5.5 feet) isn't an extremely high tide. But combined with a tsunami surge, maybe that would be enough to flow over the sand berm into the lagoon.

And that's what happened. From my position on the bluff I recorded this video:

And here's my nature journal entry:

© Allison J. Gong

Things were pretty exciting at the Santa Cruz Small Craft Harbor, too. All day, people were recording the tsunami surges as they rushed up the harbor from Monterey Bay. Unlike the tsunami in 2011, which tore up both docks and boats, causing extensive damage, yesterday's tsunami was quite mild. I had already made plans for the day and didn't get down to the harbor to check out the action until late in the afternoon. My friend, Murray, built a little boat, Scherzo, who lives in the upper harbor. Scherzo didn't exist in 2011 so we don't know how she would have weathered things. She was floating happily when we went to see her yesterday, although she did seem to be sitting rather low in the water. She probably took on water over her transom during the biggest tsunami surges.

Scherzo is the sleek little craft on the near side of this dock. She is blue with a white cover.

Murray's little boat, Scherzo, in her slip at the Santa Cruz Small Craft Harbor
© Allison J. Gong

The harbor patrol had blocked access to the docks so they could inspect them for structural damage. I assume, but don't know for sure, that slip renters were able to check on their boats today.

We were at the harbor at 16:30h yesterday. Sea level was still noticeably rising and falling, and even a minute of watching was rewarded with fairly drastic changes. Since we were not allowed onto the docks I was unable to record good footage of how quickly water was moving in the main channel. However, in the side channel where Scherzo is tied up we could watch the water drain. In this video, keep an eye on that rock that looks like a shark fin, near the middle of the frame.

What other people saw

In one of those inevitable consequences of any public safety announcement, the effect of a tsunami warning is to attract people to the beach. I know that many surfers headed out to surf the tsunami, and a lot of people recorded the tsunami from bridges and other places. Here are just a few of the YouTube videos showing the tsunami in the Santa Cruz area.

Video #1: Drone footage of the tsunami pushing into the mouth of the harbor and up the main channel. You can clearly see the green water from Monterey Bay pushing its way through the muddier water of the harbor itself. And the poor dredge sure did take a beating!

Video #2: Tsunami waves heading up Soquel Creek, which opens to Monterey Bay

Video #3: Cars floating at the upper harbor parking lot. I think a lot of this water came up through the storm drains, rather than flowing from the harbor onto the sidewalk and roadway.

Video #4: This video was shot from the Murray Street bridge, looking south at the lower harbor.

Video #5: This footage was shot at the upper harbor, near the dock where Scherzo lives.

So yeah, things were pretty exciting here. But the important thing to remember is that what was a source of entertainment and mild concern here in California, caused tremendous damage in Tonga and neighboring islands. Volcanic ash is settling over the island to the depth of several centimeters, fouling fresh water supplies. The ash is also clouding the air and darkening the sky. Communications have been disrupted, and it is unknown how many casualties resulted from the eruption and ensuing tsunami. Australia and New Zealand have begun deploying aircraft to assess the damage, but it will be a while before we know how bad things really are. Drinking water does seem to be the most pressing need for Tongans and inhabitants of other affected islands.

I imagine that in the coming days there will be opportunities for us to help those who need it. If you can contribute, please do so.

On this winter solstice, as we anticipate the return of light, I thought I'd write about a different kind of light.

Merriam-Webster defines fluorescence as "luminescence that is caused by the absorption of radiation at one wavelength followed by nearly immediate reradiation usually at a different wavelength and that ceases almost at once when the incident radiation stops". It is a type of luminescence that occurs in both biological and non-biological objects. For example, mushrooms and scorpions are notably fluorescent, as are several minerals. Technically, to qualify as "fluorescent" an object can absorb any wavelength of radiation and re-radiate any other, although the re-radiated wavelength is usually longer than the absorbed wavelength.

We humans, with our three (and occasionally four) color photoreceptor types, can see only the tiny fraction of the electromagnetic spectrum that we call visible light. The visible light range (approximately 400-700nm) is bounded by UV on the short end and infrared on the long end. Other organisms have very different light perception capabilities. We know, for example, that insects can see in UV and pit vipers can see in infrared. And as for mantis shrimps, which have as many as 12 types of photoreceptors, we don't yet understand how they see the world, but you can bet it's nothing like the way we do. For practical purposes, fluorescence is most easily seen when an object absorbs UV light and re-radiates light of a longer wavelength that falls into the visible light range.

When you shine a UV light on one of these fluorescent objects, you see an apparent color change from whatever it looked like under visible light. This color change is most striking in the dark, because the fluorescent object will appear to glow. The same thing happens in daylight, but is obviously more difficult to see.

Here, let me show you. A few weeks ago I went to Natural Bridges to photograph the anemones, first under normal daylight conditions and then under UV light. I have a pretty wimpy UV flashlight, it turns out, but you can still see the fluorescence.

Here's Anemone #1, under daylight:

Sea anemone in daylight
Sunburst anemone #1 (Anthopleura sola) at Natural Bridges
© Allison J. Gong

And here's Anemone #1 under UV light:

Sea anemone under UV light
Sunburst anemone #1 (Anthopleura sola) at Natural Bridges, under weak UV light
© Allison J. Gong

Striking difference, isn't it?

This is Anemone #2. It was getting dark by then, but this photo was also taken without flash and I did not increase exposure of the image.

Sea anemone
Sunburst anemone #2 (Anthopleura sola) at Natural Bridges
© Allison J. Gong

And, under UV light:

Sea anemone under UV light
Sunburst anemone #2 (Anthopleura sola) at Natural Bridges, under weak UV light
© Allison J. Gong

Here's what's going on. Pigment molecules in the anemones' tissues are absorbing the UV radiation and re-radiating light in the visible range. It's easier to see the fluorescence in Anemone #2 because it was much darker when I took that set of photos. Fluorescence still occurs during the day, but we can't see it as well in the daylight. This is why our local bowling alley does their Atomic Bowling at night! They can dim the overhead lights, crank up the black lights, and let the tunes roll.

Incidentally, if you've ever wondered why so-called black lights are purple, there's a reason for it. A true black light emits only UV light. UV light is invisible to us, hence the term "black", as in pure darkness. UV lights that ordinary folks like us can buy are tinged purple so that we can see it. The purple isn't UV, of course, but seeing the purple light keeps people from looking into the beam and frying their retinas from the actual UV radiation.

Sea anemones, of course, do not celebrate the solstice, but they do perceive it. They, and just about every other living thing, can sense the cyclical changes in day length as the year progresses. After tonight the days will start getting longer as we move through winter and towards spring. Personally, I cannot wait until we get the early morning low tides in the spring.

In the meantime, happy solstice, everyone!

Yesterday I had some time to kill before getting a COVID test, and, as usual, wandered down to the ocean. This time I was at Seacliff State Beach. It was pretty crowded, so I walked onto the pier to see if the fishermen were having any luck. They weren't, really. One man kept catching jack silversides (Atherinopsis californiensis) that were too small to keep. There was a lot of banter about sharks and bait and crabs, but what I witnessed yesterday confirms my hypothesis that a lot of what people call "fishing" is merely an excuse to get outside for a few hours. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

As for me, I have nowhere near enough patience to make a decent fisherman. I did, however keep myself amused by eavesdropping on their conversations and writing snippets in my nature journal. I did also find myself mesmerized by the anchovies. Watch for yourself.

Northern anchovies (Engraulis mordax) at Seacliff State Beach
© Allison J. Gong

Like sardines, anchovies are planktivorous filter feeders. If you watch the video again and can focus on an individual fish for a while, you'll see that as it swims forward, the front end becomes white and bulbous for a few seconds. That's sunlight reflecting off the fish's jaws. Anchovies have metallic silver coloring, which is a defense against predators. For fish that live in surface waters that are brightly lit, all of those glinting flashes of light make it difficult for a predator to zero in on a single fish to pursue. There is safety in numbers, and for anchovies the silvery coloring combined with schooling behavior means that if a predator manages to catch some of the fish in the baitball, most will avoid being eaten. This works against predators such as larger fish, squid, and birds, which generally capture one or a few fish at a time. But if the predator happens to be a humpback whale, which is capable of engulfing the entire school, then the anchovies are SOL. Think about it, though. For any anchovy, the probability of encountering a larger fish, squid, or bird is much higher than encountering a humpback or blue whale. Thus the selective advantage of schooling!

Okay, now back to the feeding. Anchovies have really long jaws for their size and can, like snakes, open their mouths very wide. This allows them to filter as much water as possible as they swim. Food, mostly plankton, is caught on the gill rakers, which are bony or cartilaginous structures projecting forward (i.e., towards the mouth) from the gill arches. Some fishes' gill rakers are nothing more than short nubs. Filter feeding fishes such as anchovies have long thin gill rakers. Water enters the mouth as the fish swims forward, and plankton is caught on the array of gill rakers. The water then passes over the gill filaments, where respiratory exchange occurs, and then out from underneath the operculum. Anchovies cannot suck water into their mouths, and thus can feed only while swimming forward, or ramming water into the mouth. This is a type of feeding called ram feeding.

These anchovies were very close to shore. They were feeding, so obviously there was plankton in the water. I haven't done a plankton tow in a while, as I generally assume that fall/winter plankton isn't as interesting as spring/summer plankton. However, given the presence of feeding anchovies inshore, it might be time to test that assumption.

I go to Natural Bridges quite often, to play in and study the rocky intertidal. But at this time of year, before the low tides really get useful, there is another reason to visit Natural Bridges—to see the monarch butterflies (Danaus plexippus). Natural Bridges State Park is a butterfly sanctuary, providing a safe overwintering spot for migrating monarchs.

Yesterday morning, while it was still cool enough for the butterflies to be hanging in clusters, I went out and photographed them. Last year's count was only 550 for the winter, but I'd heard that there were more butterflies this year and it was definitely worthwhile going out and looking for them.

Monarch butterflies clustered in eucalyptus tree
Monarch butterflies (Danaus plexippus) at Natural Bridges State Park
© Allison J. Gong

The butterflies rest with their wings up, so when they are hanging like this you see the duller underside of the wings. A few of them were starting to warm up their flight muscles and showing off the more brilliant orange of the dorsal wing surface.

Monarch butterflies clustered in eucalyptus tree
Monarch butterflies (Danaus plexippus) at Natural Bridges State Park
© Allison J. Gong
Monarch butterflies clustered in eucalyptus tree
Monarch butterflies (Danaus plexippus) at Natural Bridges State Park
© Allison J. Gong

I am really not good at counting things like this, but my guess is that there were hundreds of butterflies, all told. Based on the 2020 season, when I didn't see any monarchs at all at my house and only a few scattered individuals at Natural Bridges, this year's population seems to be doing much better. 2020 was an awful year in California in general, and in the Santa Cruz region in particular. The CZU August Lightning Complex fire put air quality into the unhealthy-for-everybody range for several weeks. Much of the rest of the western U.S. also burned, with much habitat loss for nature. Maybe that's part of why there were so few monarchs last winter in Santa Cruz. Of course, the monarchs' populations have been declining for years, so last year's population crash may be only a dip in the grand scheme of things.

Whatever the cause, it really was good to see even this many butterflies at Natural Bridges.

Oh, and before starting my butterfly hunt in earnest, I spent about an hour watching and listening for birds. I wanted to get the birdwatching in before human activity drowned out the birdsong. Unfortunately, most of what there was to hear was the cawing of crows.

Nature journal page of birds seen and heard
Page from my nature journal

Next time I'm at Natural Bridges, I'll try to remember to check in with the visitor center to see what the official count for monarchs is. Fingers crossed the number is a lot higher than 550!

Over the weekend the atmospheric river slammed into Northern California and settled over us for a few days. Our weather station at home, roughly at sea level, measured 4.5 inches of rain. On Sunday afternoon it was extremely windy, and I think the rain wasn't falling vertically enough to be captured by the rain gauge, and my guess is that another half-inch or so fell but wasn't measured. A total of about 5 inches of rain feels right.

This storm was a very big deal for us, for a couple of reasons. The most obvious is that California is in the midst of another severe drought. There wasn't much rain or snowfall at all in the 2020-2021 rain season, reservoirs are drier than I remember seeing them, and the governor has asked residents to reduce water consumption statewide by 15%. We are woefully short of that conservation mark. So yeah, the amount of water available to all consumers is (or should be) of concern to all of us.

A second reason why we all paid so much attention to this storm was the fact that much of the rain was forecast to fall on areas that had burnt recently, including the 2020 CZU Lightning Complex fire burn scar. Both the 2020 and 2021 fire seasons were horrendous, leaving many acres of previously forested land bare and prone to mudslides, or "debris flows" in modern parlance. Residents in the Santa Cruz Mountains were warned to prepare for evacuation, just in case. And everyone was prepared to deal with power outages, which, oddly enough, didn't happen.

On Friday the 22nd, before the major storm blew in, I went to Younger Lagoon to record some video clips for my Marine Biology class. One smaller storm had already blown through and it was very windy. I encountered two birders who were looking for pelagic birds that had been swept into the lagoon or were seeking shelter from the elements.

This is what the lagoon looked like on Friday:

North end of Younger Lagoon
Younger Lagoon
© Allison J. Gong

In fact, here's the video I put together for the students:

So that was Friday. On Saturday we went hiking at Moore Creek Preserve with our god-daughter and family. We all wanted some quality outdoors time before the major storm event on Sunday/Monday.

Yesterday (Monday) I went back to Younger Lagoon to see how much it had changed with all the rainfall. I could tell from the smell that the sand berm hadn't been breached yet. We can always tell when the lagoon breaks through, because all of the hydrogen sulfide buried in the sediment gets into the air. It's a smell that, once known, is difficult to forget. Anyway, I took a photo of the top of the lagoon from the same spot as on Friday. And see how much difference one big rain event can make:

Younger Lagoon
© Allison J. Gong

To make the comparison easier, let's look at those photos side-by-side:

We had a high surf advisory yesterday, so I wandered down into Younger Lagoon to check out the ocean conditions. I could hear that the surf was really big. It was still windy, too.

Just to make sure my intuition was correct, I stopped to check out the sand berm. And yes, it was still there.

Sand berm between the Pacific Ocean and Younger Lagoon
© Allison J. Gong

The waves were big and the sets were coming in fast. I shot this video at about low tide yesterday morning. We're in neap tides right now so the low wasn't very low.

High surf advisory at Younger Lagoon
© Allison J. Gong

Storms and tidal surge, when combined, can wreak havoc on nearshore coastal habitats. One of the obvious victims of the recent violence is the kelp bed. The kelps have been on their seasonal decline for weeks now, and the storm-strengthened swell tore up a lot of kelp and deposited it on the beach. Thousands of detached pneumatocysts (floats) of Macrocystis pyrifera had been blown into windrows. The lighter colored pneumatocysts are the ones that were washed up earlier, probably in the second-most-recent high tide; the darker ones were deposited during the most recent high tide, about six hours earlier.

Kelp debris, mostly Macrocystis pyrifera, on the beach at Younger Lagoon
© Allison J. Gong

I expected to see dead animals on the beach, too, and was surprised that there weren't any carcasses in sight. Then I looked across the beach with binoculars and saw a couple of turkey vultures (Cathartes aura) on the sand, and a third on the fence above. Vultures eat carrion, so there must be a corpse over there after all. Sure enough, there was a dead bird. As I approached I saw a black body with a smaller reddish part, and my first thought was, "Are turkey vultures cannibals? Will they eat their own dead?" because turkey vultures have unfeathered red heads. But when I got closer I could see that this corpse had webbed feet. It was, in fact, a cormorant.

Dead cormorant at Younger Lagoon
© Allison J. Gong

The scavenging turkey vultures flew away as I approached. I didn't want to interrupt their brunch any longer than necessary, so stuck around just long enough to snap a few photos. By the time I had crossed back to the near side of the beach, they had returned to their feeding.

All told, this storm was a good start to the rain season. It put an end to the fire season, which is a huge relief to all of us living in California. We have a long way to go to return to normal rain levels, whatever they are in this era of anthropogenic climate change, and it irks me to hear people saying that we've had a lot of rain now, so the drought must be over. Too bad it doesn't work that way, or we would all be rejoicing big time.

Climate change models predict, among other things, oscillation between extreme rain events and extreme drought in California. Just in the past handful of years we've had drought plus the Blob (2015), a wet winter in 2016-2017, and a return to dry conditions from 2018-2020. And we all remember the extreme fire seasons of 2020 and 2021. So what is "normal" these days? I think it's impossible to know. We are experiencing climate change as it happens, and we don't know how or when things will begin to stabilize. I suspect it won't be within the lifetime of anyone reading this blog.

Still, after having about zilch in the way of rain last year, it's good to see that Mother Nature can still throw an atmospheric river at us. Fingers crossed for more rain as the season continues.

Over the weekend we had dinner with some family members down in Monterey, and my niece gave me a leaf. She had collected it somewhere and carried it around for a while, and I never did get a clear answer about where it came from. To me it looks like a magnolia leaf. When I said it looked like a fun leaf to paint, she told me I could take it home.

December's leaf

The next day I sat at my desk and studied the leaf for a while. And, as most things do, the leaf became more complicated the longer I looked at it. The shape wouldn't be difficult to get on paper, but I wanted to work with the colors. I always think that getting the right color is easier with colored pencils than watercolors, so I started with what I assumed would be the greater challenge.

As anticipated, I had real difficulties with the highlights. I still haven't figured out how to paint shine. And in retrospect it might have been better to paint wet-on-wet instead of letting the paint dry before adding more color.

And that shape, which I thought would be a slam-dunk? I was so wrong about that! The paper in my sketchbook isn't heavy watercolor paper at all, and with all the erasing I had to do to get that foreground curve right I was afraid I'd remove too much of the texture. I like the overall effect, and I did kind of get the perspective right, which is always hard for me. I stopped before experimenting more with the bright highlights because I didn't want to overwork this sketch. I still don't know what to do about those.

Now, onto the pencil version.

As I noted in the sketchbook, what I thought would be easier ended up being not. I do like the color rendition here, and I think the toned paper works well. And as an aside, the Prismacolor Black Grape pencil does make pretty shadows. In this sketch I positioned the highlights with too much symmetry, and as a result this leaf looks like a feather. It might look better if I made the veins more visible. I can still do that.

Looking at both of these sketches, I think I like the watercolor version better. What do you think?

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