Having recovered from that upset, I’ve decided I shan’t deprive you of flowers. The major impetus to this decision is simple: I’ve spent my productive writing time tonight scouring the Oregon and Washington Geological Survey sites, along with the USGS, looking for publications to download. That’s the thing about this Kindle Fire: it requires constant feeding. It doesn’t matter how much I pour into it. I finish a book or paper or two, and no matter how many I have left, I feel desperate for more. It’s all about the choices. I now have a fat collection of delicious pdfs and no time left for writing substantial stuff. Therefore, flora. Besides, you all seem to enjoy it.

Today’s selection comes from Hurricane Ridge in the Olympics.

Mystery Hurricane Ridge Flowers 1

They remind me of working in the bookstore. We used to get herds of people in looking for books. “I don’t know the title, the author or what it’s about,” they’d say, “but it’s this big and blue.” That’s these flowers in a nutshell. This big and blue.

Mystery Hurricane Ridge Flowers 2

Hurricane Ridge in August is outstanding. I’m sure it’s outstanding any time of year, but in August, the wildflower meadows are full of enormous varieties of wildflowers and butterflies. Add in the fact you’ve got sweeping vistas of some remarkable, rugged mountain terrain, and you’ve got a spot you can spend pretty much the rest of eternity in.

Mystery Hurricane Ridge Flowers 3

If I had my life to live over again, I’d throw over the easy indoor work and become a naturalist. I can see why the gentlemen scientists of the 1700s and 1800s were so promiscuous in their scientific investigations. It’s kind of hard to settle. I mean, yes, geology is my first love, and you can easily lure me away from a flower by waving a rock at me, but biology is damned fascinating as well.

Mystery Hurricane Ridge Flowers 4

Very nearly the whole of science could be explored in these lovely little flowers. Geology, for the soils they grow in. Biology, for obvious reasons. Chemistry, for the chemicals that they’re composed of and give them their color. Physics could be worked in there, and meteorology easily, and I’ll bet if we really tried, we could tie any branch of science we wish to these blooms. Even astronomy, if we get creative. After all, they’re made of star stuff.

Mystery Hurricane Ridge Flowers 5

And, seeing as how it would be cruel to mention mountains and not show you any, thee shall have a view of the Hurricane Ridge Visitor’s Center with the Olympics in the background, and the rim of a glacial cirque in the foreground.

Hurricane Ridge

But I have got a different word associated with him now: “Geology.”

Darwin was one hell of a biologist. But he began and finished with geology, and geology is at the heart of The Origin.

Darwin's "Tree of Life" Sketch

“It is not too much to say that,” Cambridge geology professor John W. Judd said in his introduction to Darwin’s Geological Observations on South America, “had Darwin not been a geologist, the Origin of Species could never have been written by him.” Strong words, you say. Of course a geologist would be partial, but perhaps he overstates the case. Except. Except. Some of the most powerful arguments in The Origin are centered in geology. He understood the geological record, and what that meant for the fossil record. He understood how geology impacted species. There, in chapters IX and X, taking center stage, is geology. No geology, no Origin – not as we know it.

Or perhaps I should say, no Lyell, no Origin. Because it was Charles Lyell and his Principles of Geology that had the greatest influence on Darwin’s scientific thought. Darwin’s writings are liberally salted with paens to Lyell. In his Autobiography, he shows just how much influence Lyell had on his thinking, influence that led directly to the powerfully-organized arguments of The Origin: “After my return to England it appeared to me that by following the example of Lyell in Geology, and by collecting all facts which bore in any way on the variation of animals and plants under domestication and nature, some light might perhaps be thrown on the whole subject.”

Anyone who has read The Origin understands just how thorough Darwin was in collecting and marshaling his facts. One of the most critical facts was the immensity of the timescales involved. In Chapter IX, it becomes exquisitely clear that geology prepared Darwin’s mind for seeing those years in their uncountable millions. “It is hardly possible for me even to recall to the reader, who may not be a practical geologist, the facts leading the mind feebly to comprehend the lapse of time,” he wrote. “He who can read Sir Charles Lyell’s grand work on the Principles of Geology, which the future historian will recognise as having produced a revolution in natural science, yet does not admit how incomprehensibly vast have been the past periods of time, may at once close this volume.” Without an understanding of the age of the Earth, an understanding of evolution is impossible. We take it for granted now. Then, it was still a new idea, and without it, Darwin may have never been able to conceive of evolution as the engine of all the diversity of life.

Geology is intimately related to evolution. That is a fact that gets obscured; you don’t hear of Darwin as geologist in biology classes. He never got so much as a mention in my geology class; when I come across him in books on geology, it’s usually in reference to his work on evolution by way of explaining how fossils can be used for dating rocks. A person could be forgiven for thinking he was a biologist first and last. But his first passion was geology. Field observations on the geology he saw while sailing with the Beagle filled half his manuscript pages. Geology formed the subject for some of his first books: it comprises major portions of his Voyage of the Beagle; it helped build the foundation for The Origin; and in 1881, he returned to geology one again with his “The Formation of Vegetable Mould, through the Action of Worms” – a treatise on soils. He was a Fellow of the Geological Society of London. Geology was his first scientific love, and he returned to her again and again.

Without evolution, Darwin may not have achieved the same fame, but he wouldn’t have been forgotten. His contributions to geology were far from inconsequential. He laid some of the foundation stones for the young science. His work on coral reefs, his recognition that granitic rocks and lava rocks were essentially the same, his work on volcanic islands, and crustal movements in South America, would have ensured him a place among the giants of geology. Students may not have instantly recognized his name, and fundamentalist pastors may not have thundered against him, but he still would have been a recognized and respected scientist.

We’ll be exploring Darwin the Geologist in some depth. By the end of the voyage, it’s my fondest hope that the next time we play the Darwin Word Association Game, you’ll shout “Geology!” without a second’s hesitation.

Darwin's Sketch of St. Helena Coastline

Sources

Works by Charles Darwin:

Geological Observations on South America

The Origin of Species

Autobiography

The Voyage of the Beagle

Sir Archibald Giekie, Charles Darwin as geologist. The Rede lecture given at the Darwin centennial commemoration on 24 June 1909.

Tommy Stage Model. Photo by Craig Orsinger for Burien Little Theatre

To this:

Tommy Dress Rehersal. Photos by Craig Orsinger for Burien Little Theatre.

I’m still boggled. And I’m starting to believe Burien Little Theatre is going to have to strike the “little” from its name. Read the whole thing and see if you don’t agree with me.

Aside: I actually watched a concert recording of Tommy the other night. I must be of a youngish generation. It was bizarre seeing Roger Daltrey being the lead singer of The Who. The first time I’d seen him (as opposed to merely hearing him) was as Fitzcairn on the Highlander tv series. Bizarre, but I liked. His stage presence is awesome. I loves me some Roger Daltrey, whether dressed as an immortal or a rock star. He’s one of the most awesome people who’s ever lived.

But, and no offense to The Who, I actually liked BLT’s production better than the concert.

I know, I know. I’m an ungrateful young whippersnapper who don’t appreciate the greats of rock-n-roll properly and all that. But, damn it, BLT did one hell of a job. However, as I haven’t seen the actual movie, I can’t compare that to the theatre production. I still think BLT would come out on top. I’m probably a bit partial.

You can see for yourself every weekend through March 25th. And remember: discounted tix if you wear tie-dye!

Juanita Bay Tree

This tree was in full bloom in early June. There’s something wonderful about a tree with big trumpeting purple blossoms standing tall by a lake carved out by a continental ice sheet.

The park at Juanita Bay is something special, and we’ll visit it again. It’s a naturalist’s urban paradise: glacial landforms, wetlands, birds, amphibians, reptiles, insects, fish, mammals, and a wild variety of plants. There’s scenery for any scientific philistines in your party. And in the late spring, there’s this magnificent tree, with its wonderful flowers.

Bird in tree

I’m claiming this tree in the name of En Tequila Es Verdad. Huge purple flowers, people. On an enormous tree. That’s all I’m sayin’.

Purple Flower Closeup

There’s a closeup that will hopefully help you in identifying said flowers. Down in the lower right, you can see where some of the trumpets have fallen, leaving behind the innards. Which I’m sure there’s a technical term for, but I’ve been studying geology, not botany, and I’m additionally watching Bombing Hitler’s Dams right now and trying to write this post without looking at it, much less looking up stuff on Wikipedia, so I’ll let a more knowledgeable reader tell us the proper terms for all the bits.

By the way, you could not pay me enough to fly a plane loaded with explosives 60 feet above a reservoir and then drop said explosive so it can bounce into the dam holding back said reservoir whilst hopefully not bouncing up and taking out the plane. There seriously wouldn’t be enough money in the world to make me do such a thing with nothing but moonlight lighting the way. But a squadron of British and other Allied pilots did this. This tells me two things: young men are insane, and war makes them more insane. But it’s actually pretty awesome: a gorgeous combination of engineering and flying skill. Too bad the dam they busted was so beautiful: a huge gravity dam, built of granite blocks. Lovely. Nice to see it’s been repaired.

Möhne Dam, image credit pandrcutts

Anyway. Where were we? Right. Flowers.

Flowers and Seed Pods

In the above photo, you can get a look at the seed pods as well as the flowers. Hopefully, this will assist in identification. If not, it’s still a bloody awesome photo, if I do say so meself. That Sony Cyber-shot was the best purchases I’ve ever made. Point it at something pretty, click, et voila – something eminently presentable to readers.

Now, my darling botanical gumshoes, I wish you luck in identifying this tree. I’m going to go back to sniveling over Geology of Oregon, which is making me want to return to all the places I’ve been and visit all the places I haven’t.

The Who's Tommy Poster, Courtesy Burien Little Theatre

My jaw aches. It’s been hanging open most of the night, dragging on the floor. Burien Little Theatre is known for pulling off productions that it shouldn’t be capable of, but this one takes them all.

The Who’s Tommy is a tremendously complicated show on all fronts, and they made it all come together. They built a new stage out into the middle of the auditorium, with the seats moved to either side, so you feel like you’re in the middle of the production rather than merely watching it. This sensation is justified as, at one point, the actors grabbed audience members and took them onstage to become part of the show. There’s a rock band, an excellent one, playing on the main stage – no canned music, this is all live. The whole place thunders with the music. And they found immensely talented people who could not only act, but sing. The Tommys are fabulous. The older Tommy, especially, has a fantastic voice and plays the role with just the right sense of gravitas. Lovely! And a little haunting.

Every piece of the set is on wheels, and there are no pauses to restage things – everything’s wheeled around as the music goes on, and it adds a dizzy sort of feel that’s perfect for a play about a catatonic kid who becomes a famous pinball wizard.

The costumes, too, evoke the time and place so well that an older audience member felt she was reliving the periods portrayed. My friend Craig’s hard work with the images and clips running on screens in the background enhances that. He did an amazing job, and I’m hoping he’ll come by to tell us about it, because it wasn’t easy. The poor man’s been a shadow of himself for weeks. But it was worth it. It came together beautifully.

A few trigger warnings: there’s sexual abuse, which, while not graphic or extensive, could still be uncomfortable for those who have been through it. Also, anyone who lived through World War II might find occasion to flash back a bit. With those caveats, though, I have no qualms about asking anyone in the Seattle area to please make time to see this musical. It’s one of the best things BLT has done, and they’ve done some pretty amazing things in the past.

The Who’s Tommy’s running through March 25th. Wear tie-dye, and you can get $5 off your ticket. Sit within a few rows of the stage, and you could become part of the show for a time. If you like community theatre, if you like musicals, if you like classic rock, if you like productions that make you wonder just how the hell they did what they did with a tiny budget and an even smaller theatre, this is a show you shouldn’t miss. Go. Now. And have fun!

These shouldn’t be difficult, anyway. If I wasn’t looking for something to brighten up your night twenty minutes before I have to go see Tommy, and if I wasn’t alternating between turn-of-the-last-century mystery literature and Geology of Oregon in my free time, I could probably manage these myself. They were snapped on the Trail of the Molten Land at Lava Butte, Lava Lands Visitor Center.

Mystery Lava Flowers

Aren’t they bonza? Something in the sage family, I should think. Totally fearless on baking hot, black, blasted terrain.

Mystery Flowers and Mountains

Here we have an utterly marvelous view of our mystery flowers across the lava flow toward some fine examples of Cascades volcanoes. The Sisters are in there, and I believe the one standing off by hisself is Bachelor, although I wouldn’t swear to it. Lockwood can specify for us.

The views from Bend, Oregon are, quite frankly, spectacular enough to make me want to move there. Sweeping vistas of lava fields and forests, with peaks in the background, and ponderosa forests giving the whole place that dry-land pine savor that makes you breathe deep and stand tall. It’s gorgeous. And I’d wax lyrical about it, only I’ve got a musical to get my arse to, now that the cat’s decided to make her own way out of my lap rather than make me court death getting free.

Enjoy, my darlings, and I shall return to regale you with tales of Tommy.

Mount Hood Pussypaws, image credit Walter Siegmund, Wikimedia Commons

That is indubitably it. Excellent job, my botanical detectives! I’ll be keeping a special eye out for specimens this summer: it’s become our flower, and your triumph.

The question now becomes, do I show you a kindness and only post stuff I’ve (roughly) identified? Or was this exercise in botanical mystery solving something you care to repeat again in the future?

As a fake excuse for why I haven’t yet written about Darwin and geology, I present photographic evidence that my help was hindering:

Mother's Little Helper

You see that nice, fresh, shiny white notebook she’s lying on? I’d put that down not two seconds before, preparatory to picking up the Kindle and furiously taking notes. I know you can take notes on the Kindle, but it’s slow. Not quite as slow, though, as trying to take notes upon a notebook the cat has claimed.

Knowledge Makes Kitteh Sleepy

Of course, there was another notebook available, so I defeated her nefarious schemes in the end.

Sleeping With Darwin

She’s as helpful with researching Darwin’s geological research as some kittehs are with theses.

Reading Charles Darwin’s Geological Observations on South America would be a lot more fun if I knew more than bugger-all about South American geology. But it’s been instructive going in to this knowing next to nothing. Granted, I have more knowledge than he did: plate tectonics wasn’t a gleam in anybody’s eye (Wegener wouldn’t be born for nearly another 50 years, and his cogitations on continental drift for nearly 80). Geology was in its infancy; Lyell’s brilliant Principles of Geology was hot off the shelf, and Hutton’s Theory of the Earth had laid the kindling that sparked the whole revolution in thinking in 1785.

I find it fascinating to watch how the early geologists and naturalists wrestled sense out of the silent rocks. Continents rose and fell; they knew this much, that mountains became sea became mountains again. But it was all vertical. Horizontal movement, continents sailing along slowly, embedded in their rigid plates, hadn’t occurred to them. You get the sense of land bobbing in place, popping up and down like a giant whack-a-mole game, or possibly Riverdancers. It’s a funhouse mirror of geology. The images are there, they’re recognizable, but distorted. It’s amazing how clear the picture becomes when you add plate tectonics. The things that confounded the intrepid geologists exploring brave new worlds and systematizing the old one make exquisite sense once you know that not only the Earth moves, but its skin crawls.

Darwin stood on a subduction zone, and never knew it; visited passive margins and hotspots, and didn’t know what made them what they were. In light of how little was known, it’s amazing how much he came to know. Early geologists like him had to piece it together, rock by rock, fossil by fossil, patiently sampling and mapping and spinning possibilities that were often wrong but were sometimes, gloriously, right. Sometimes so right that other, older scientists didn’t believe them. Darwin’s theory of evolution wasn’t the only correct insight that was thoroughly disbelieved. Some of his geological revelations were scoffed at, too – until the evidence became overwhelming that he was, in fact, absolutely correct.

That’s one of the things I love about Darwin. In reading his geological books, I see the same methodical, patient collecting and collating and arranging of different bits of evidence. Darwin wasn’t one of those people who has a flash of brilliant insight and leaves it to others to find the proof he’s right. He didn’t seem to like to say anything until he had investigated thoroughly. He seemed obsessed by the tiny details others may have glossed over. You’ll see how obsessed when I write about his final geological work, which exemplifies the man’s attention to detail. But that obsession served him in good stead. It meant that when people called what they thought was his bluff, he could lay out a royal flush he’d spent a long time building, bit by bit.

He wasn’t always right. The science was too young, and the tools too crude, for him to get it all. But nearly two hundred years later, some of his discoveries still stand. Not bad for a man who once proclaimed he’d never so much as touch a book on geology, much less engage in its study.

But I’m going to turn away from Darwin for the moment – I’ve just received my long-desired copy of Geology of Oregon by Elizabeth and William Orr. It’s been incredibly hard to find a copy for under $50, but I did it, and it’s in excellent condition, too. And it is sitting beside me now, saying, “Put down the musty old mysteries. Turn from gentlemen on boats landing to scramble around South America’s geological wonders in a long-vanished age. READ ME DAMN IT.” I’m afraid I have no other choice but to obey.

Here goes:

Mystery Flower 1

I hope no one’s expecting witty, clever and insightful commentary from me on these photos. What can I say, really? It’s a flower. It’s this big and it’s pink. I’m not even sure it’s properly a flower, because from what little I know about botany, the flower heads look like modified bracts to me. But what the hell do I know? I can’t even identify the damned thing, and it’s stumped some of my most resourceful readers.

Mystery Flower 2

Also, I have cramps. And my computer has taken a pathological dislike to the idea of uploading lots of photos. I tried shaming it by showing it how the Kindle Fire was playing Pandora and loading web pages with zip and zing, but it wasn’t impressed, so I rebooted its arse. I wish I could reboot my uterus, or even just boot it, but it’s hard to get at without medical help. Right now, flowers are making me think about reproduction, and reproduction reminds me that I hate my reproductive system. Perhaps my computer has picked up on this mood.

Mystery Flower 3

It seems that as these flowers age, they get whiter, sort of like my cat. My cat has got a lot of gray, where she’s not going bald. She is, however, still spry enough to shove her dear face in mine in the ay-em and wail like a banshee until she’s started me awake believing there’s some terrible calamity. Upon investigation, I discover her food bowl’s full, her water likewise, and her litter box accessible. She’s just decided to wake me early on a morning when I’m trying to sleep in. So the next day, as she’s snoring on the pillow beside me, I retaliate by tickling her nose and crooning “You’re so cute!” until she’s wide awake.  There follows a state of truce for one day, and then she gets her vengeance by shitting on the sofa.

I love my cat. I love my cat. I love my cat.…

Mystery Flower 4

There you go. Nice up-close view of the aged flower head. Speaking of aged, did I mention what I’m listening to on Pandora? New Wave. I’m living the 80s, baby, yeah. And contemplating how certain eras have a certain sound. In the 80s, it was synthesizers and lisps. I have uneasy flashbacks to leg warmers and poofy hair. I remember taping songs off the radio and hoping that eventually the DJ would tell me what they were, but he almost never did. The DJ was a 13 year-old with a fantastic radio voice, total geek, one of my favorite friends. I could have asked him, I suppose, but he was always vaguely embarrassed about his job, so we tried not to mention it. I have no idea why.

And I’m thinking of Suzanne, who had her surgery today.  Successful, thankfully, done by a top-notch surgeon. I’m thinking of my other friend, whose news I haven’t heard yet. It’s the wait-and-see-how-bad-it-is game. I hope it ends up being the least worst news.

Think happy thoughts. Think of flowers and butterflies and rocks with wonderful inclusions and phenocrysts and suchlike. Happily, we can end with a photo that has got all three.

Mystery Flower Finale

Hopefully, one of these photos will lead through a breakthrough. If not, there’s always Oregon park rangers and the Kindle Fire. I shall pull up these posts and shove these photos in faces until an identification is accomplished, for the sake of F and Adrian.

Love and hugs, my darlings. I’m off to bury myself in New Wave and 19th century mystery novels again, but I’ll be popping up to post more photos (probably not of unidentified flowers so much, because one mystery at a time is enough), and there’s the super-late Darwin Day post, and possibly a new trip to Oregon if we don’t get rained out…

I’ve meant to read it for a long time, ever since I saw it mentioned by John Douglas in Mindhunter. It’s one of the first – arguably the first – English-language detective novel. Its Sergent Cuff, brilliant member of the Detective Police, is based on Inspector Jonathan Whicher, a Scotland Yard detective whose obsession over a nightgown seems to have made something in Wilkie’s imagination go ping.

I figured it would be worth reading for strictly historical interest. If I’d known I’d become as obsessed by the story as Wilkie was over nightgowns, I’d have waited until after Darwin Day.

It’s a sign of genius when, although the narrators either annoy or infuriate you, you still can’t stop reading. Between the Robinson Crusoe addict who couldn’t stay on topic and the religious fanatic who made me wish fervently for a handy murderer, there should have been plenty of reason to put the book down and do up Darwin. This was, alas, impossible. I wanted to strangle certain characters too much, for one, and got too involved with the puzzle, for another. Then came folks I genuinely liked, some I even came to love. And, every time it seemed Wilkie was gonna weasel and do something weak, lame or both, he’d do something brilliant instead. The constant threat of the paranormal, amnesia and sleepwalking hang over your head. But he’s not a crude writer. He doesn’t choose the easy way out. He’s clever. I like that in a writer, especially a Victorian-era one.

In the end, I finished satisfied, if a bit stunned by the lack of bodies – I’ve read so much Agatha Christie that I automatically assume that the morgue should be filled to bursting by the end of the book, and winced every time someone delayed in telling somebody something, sure this meant their imminent demise. Wilkie however, manages a ripping good tale with few fatalities. It’s a refreshing change.

Anyway. I swear to you, I’ll have ye olde belated Darwin Day post up soonish. In the meantime, if you’re desperate for something to read, go hunt up a copy of The Moonstone. It’s free at the Kindle store, or available through Project Gutenberg. There’s even some geology in it – very nice use of some suspect sand on the Yorkshire coast. Not to mention an enormous chunk of carbon at the heart of everything. It’s amazing the shenanigans people get up to when enormous chunks of crystalized carbon are involved. Atheists in the audience will appreciate the treatment of the above-mentioned religious fanatic and other sundry fanatics. Writers will thrill to the fancy literary footwork in which, even in the first person, the author manages to get across things about the narrator that the narrator doesn’t realize about him-or-herself, allowing the audience to snigger behind their hands without feeling ill-used. And fans of Robinson Crusoe will find their adoration shared by a venerable old gentleman who swears that book holds all the answers one could ever need in life.

I’m not willing to go quite that far with The Moonstone. But I will avow it’s a book that any person interested in detective fiction or the art of writing should certainly read at least once. Even if it does mean that some prior obligations must be punked off due to the unfortunate fact that the bloody thing’s impossible to put down once fairly underway.