VIEW FROM ON HIGH

A view from on high. The Stawamus Chief, the second largest freestanding piece of granite in the world, has made Squamish one of the top rock climbing destinations in North America.

This majestic peak is said to have been one of the last areas of dry ground during a time of tremendous flooding in the Squamish basin.

Many cultures have a flood myth in their oral history and the Coast Salish people of Squamish are no exception. They tell of a time when all the world save the highest peaks were submerged and only one of their nation survived. Warned in a vision, a warrior of the Squamish nation escaped to safety atop Mount Chuckigh (Mount Garibaldi) as the waters rose.

After the flood, a majestic eagle came to him with a gift of salmon to tell him that the world below was again hospitable and ready for his return. He climbed down the mountain and returned to find his village covered by a layer of silt.

All his people had perished, but the gods gave him another gift, a second survivor of the flood, a beautiful woman who became his wife. For their gift of generosity, they had shown, the couple took the eagle as their chief totem and have honored it through generations of Coast Salish people.

BLUE JAY: KWAS'KWAS

If you live in North American, there is a high probability that you have seen or heard the bird song of the Blue jay, Cyanocitta cristata (Linnaeus, 1758).

Blue Jays are in the family Corvidae — along with crows, ravens, rooks, magpies and jackdaws. They belong to a lineage of birds first seen in the Miocene — 25 million years ago. 

These beautifully plumed, blue, black and white birds can be found across southern Canada down to Florida. The distinctive blue you see in their feathers is a trick of the light. Their pigment, melanin, is actually a rather dull brown. The blue you see is caused by scattering light through modified cells on the surface of the feather as wee barbs.

Blue jays like to dine on nuts, seeds, suet, arthropods and some small vertebrates. 

If you are attempting to lure them to your yard with a bird feeder, they prefer those mounted on trays or posts versus hanging feeders. They will eat most anything you have on offer but sunflower seeds and peanuts are their favourites. 

They have a fondness for acorns and have been credited with helping expand the range of oak trees as the ice melted after the last glacial period.  

Their Binomial name, Cyanocitta cristata means, crested, blue chattering bird. I might have amended that to something less flattering, working in a Latin word or two for shrieks and screams — voce et gemitu or ululo et quiritor. While their plumage is a visual feast, their bird chatter leaves something to be desired. 

In the Kwak̓wala language of the Kwakiutl or Kwakwaka'wakw, speakers of Kwak'wala, of the Pacific Northwest and my family, a Blue Jay is known as kwa̱skwa̱s. 

The Kwak’wala word for blue is dzasa and cry is ḵ̕was'id. For interest, the word for bird song in Kwak'wala is t̕sa̱sḵwana. Both their songs and cries are quite helpful if you are an animal living nearby and concerned about predators. 

BOBBING IN THE BRINE

JEWELS OF THE FORESHORE: TIDEPOOL ANEMONES

Pale green anemones with soft pink tips cling to the foreshore rocks like living jewels, their tentacles swaying gently in the wash of each passing wave. 

At low tide, they look almost floral—tight little bundles waiting for the sea to return. But once submerged, they blossom into delicate, waving crowns.

These are aggregating anemones, Anthopleura elegantissima, some of the most charismatic tide-pool residents on the Pacific coast. 

They’re tough little cnidarians, built to withstand pounding surf, shifting sands, hungry gulls, and long hours exposed to sun and air. 

Their soft colors come from a partnership with symbiotic algae—tiny photosynthetic tenants that lend their host those luminous greens and subtle pink notes.

Despite their beauty, they are fierce predators. Each tentacle is armed with nematocysts—microscopic harpoons—that can stun passing plankton and small crustaceans. 

And while they often occur in dense carpets, they’re not above defending their turf. Neighboring colonies wage slow-motion border skirmishes, using specialized stinging tentacles to push rivals back.

So the next time you spot those mint-and-rose anemones dotting a rock, take a moment to admire their quiet resilience. In the ever-changing rhythm of the tide, they’re tiny, steadfast anchor points—equal parts garden, animal, and battleground.