Doug's Mountain Journal
A Chronicle of Natural History on San Bruno Mountain

Doug Allshouse has been writing his seasonal Mountain Journal for many years. It appears in the quarterly newsletters of the Yerba Buena Chapter of the California Native Plant Society (CNPS). We are very pleased to share his reflections on the natural history of the Mountain. Together with David Nelson, he is writing San Bruno Mountain: A Guide to the Flora and Fauna. The book will be published by Heyday Books in 2022.

There’s an old saw that exists for baseball, but really any sport for that matter that basically says, “Every day you go to the ballpark you’ll see something you’ve never seen before.” I bring this to your attention because it occasionally happens to me on my morning walks in the park.

There is a large patch of very old English ivy on the upper portion of the Bog Trail that has been left to resolve its own destiny. Like old grape vines in an ancient vineyard, this patch is mature with a south-facing exposure to the sun. They have no trees to climb but have managed to attain verticality through woody trunks to a height of 3-5 feet on their own, and that means they produce flowers and berries. It was a mild sunny morning and I noticed, at a distance, what appeared to be bees flying around the flowers. At close range I saw that they were small wasps, hundreds of them, resembling small yellow jackets flittering about like electrons in an atom smasher. Bees, on the other hand, would be working through the ivy’s umbels like grape pickers on a vine. These gals were mostly allergic to staying still much longer than a second before flying to another umbel. I knew they were wasps when one decided to take a breather, because the wings formed a V-shape over the body and their abdomens were striped black and yellow. They were obviously consuming nectar.

Just fifteen minutes later, and a good half-mile closer to home, I noticed that the same species of wasps were nectaring on the English ivy climbing the eucalyptus trees on the Old Guadalupe Trail near the Crocker Gate. And I’m thinking “Why am I just noticing these wasps doing this now?” Just like that last baseball game, I’m seeing something I’ve never seen before.

As I looked at my rainfall records, it appears that this season closely resembles the 2015-2016 season so far. July-October precipitation was entirely fog drip, November had a modest inch-plus of rain and December checked in around 5-plus inches. Six months into the season showed 7.30” for 2015-16 and 8.19” for 2019-20. In 2016 we had a decent January (6.92”), a sparse February (0.92”), but a respectable March (7.07”) for a total of 23.86”. We’ll have to get busier in January this year, but we got a boost on the 16th with 1.26” along with lightning and hail and we now stand at 10.72” for the season. The storms in December and January have been frequent but mostly stingy with the rain.

One of the anomalies of our developing climate crisis is news about diminishing populations of insects and a dearth of birds. It doesn’t take a study by Cornell University to notice that not only is the population down, but the species numbers are down. This phenomenon began over five years ago when I noticed that Olive-sided Flycatchers not only stopped nesting here but their catchy “wik-wee-beer” song ceased to be heard. It used to be that this time of the year was when I would be serenaded by Pacific (nee Winter) Wrens singing furiously to attract mates, but last winter and this winter—crickets—not a single wren. I haven’t seen either of the two species of kinglets the last two years. Western Meadowlarks are becoming a very rare compared to the 2-3 flocks that would be seen on the Saddle. The loss of grasslands explains this occurrence, but we still have working grasslands on the Saddle which is where they hang out. I recognize things are very different, even scary, when I think about the fact that no European Starlings have nested here the past couple of years. Starlings are repulsive, but when the avian equivalent of fennel or oxalis disappears from the scene, something crazy-bad is going on.

Winter is a time for flocks to form whether it is mixed flocks of sparrows and finches, warblers or meadowlarks. It’s also a time to see flocks of ravens, 20-50 strong flying around the radio towers at the summit or anywhere around the San Francisco skies. I have a pair of nesting ravens that have established their territory and my backyard hill is a piece of that. Generally, they would run any other ravens or crows out of their territory. In December about 20 ravens showed up on the hill and my pair was part of the party. They would sporadically come and go during the day and I got the impression that Mom and Pop were hosting family and friends for the Holidays. On Christmas day I mentioned this to my brother who lives in Aptos and he said he noticed the same thing in the glen behind his house. Coincidence, or not?

Winter is a very interesting season along coastal California. It is the season of rejuvenation. For most, if not all, of our perennial shrubs it is the season for growth, when most of the new green wood is added. It makes sense since this is the season of cool weather and constant moisture. The rest of the year is dry and hot in most places and our coastal scrub species have developed thick, tough leaves designed to conserve moisture. Our perennial wildflowers are waking from a deep dormancy and the annuals are germinating from seeds deposited last spring or summer. In some cases, such as a wildfire or some other disturbance, the seeds might be decades old and waiting for just the right conditions to spring to life. A few weeks after germination, identifying those undeveloped leaves hugging the ground is extremely difficult work.

I recently identified a bunch of hairy, greenish-gray leaves covering the ground and it made me think of a similar circumstance while out in the field with two fellow botanists last April. We were down on one knee looking at a tangle of small lacy pinnate leaves trying to figure out their identity. I pinched off a two-centimeter piece of leaf and noticed a peculiar odor that was strangely familiar. I brought the little bugger to my nose and took a good sniff. “Anthemis ” I blurted out. My two companions looked at me as if I had grown a third ear. “Mayweed, dog-fennel” I said. “How did you know that?” one asked. “Smell it”, I replied. “Do you always smell your leaves?” one shot back. “Most of the time,” was my reply, “It works for me.” It’s called dog-fennel for a good reason. It’s in the Sunflower Family but its young leaves somewhat resemble those in the Carrot Family, and it smells like a dog that needs a serious bath.

Back to my hairy, greenish-gray leaf, I gave it a good pinch and brought it to my nose, took a deep satisfying whiff and pronounced it to be wood mint, Stachys ajugoides. Now is a good time to get out between storms and start sniffing some leaves and scanning the ground for plants coming back to life. It won’t be long before they bloom, which will make it far easier for you to identify them.

...See you on the Mountain