Ice Comet?

 Last Tuesday, November 2, I stopped by the City of Olympia Public Works complex to return the Zero Waste Event containers I had borrowed and, because there is a pocket park at the edge of the parking lot where I pulled in, decided to stroll through the park, whip out my cell phone, and call my mom on the East Coast.  Luckily, she was in the mood for a good chin wag, so the call went on for quite a while. Thanks to Washington State's new cell phone laws, I could not get back in my car and drive home while talking, so I just kept strolling around the park among the dwarfish statues of construction workers set among the picnic tables.
  And, while I was strolling and chatting and admiring the gorgeous blue sky and fall foliage, a lone cloud appeared (above) to the south at 3:38 p.m. It was a cirrus cloud impersonating a comet--a very slow comet that seemed to not actually be moving. But I kept watching. And watching. And chatting, listening, strolling, and taking pictures of what was happening: as the tufts of this cloud moved across the sky apparently from west to east, the tail, called a fallstreak, changed its orientation to the tufts--from the 2 o'clock position in the photo at top, counterclockwise to the 11 o'clock position in the photo below, and then  to 10 o'clock in the bottom photo.

   It's easy to stroll, and chat, snap a few photos, post them here, and say "cool clouds!" It's much harder to explain exactly what was happening.  I studied this photo sequence and other cirrus clouds from my field guides to try to tell the story here. Here is what I know: Cirrus are the highest clouds, forming most often at altitudes of 16,500-45,000 feet. They are composed of ice crystals. They will form in a clear sky, as they did here. As I understand them, the ice crystals that form in the fast high winds descend into slower, warmer air and lag behind the "front" tuft of the cloud. If the fallstreaks descend through drier/warmer air, they evaporate and decay. If they descend through moister/cooler air, the crystals grow and the streak expands.
   The more I looked at my photos and recalled the movements of the tufts and the streaks, the dizzier I got trying to understand which way was up. From where I was standing near the dwarf with a manhole cover perched jauntily on his yellow hardhat, it appeared that the tuft was moving west to east (right to left in this photo) and that the streaks were moving counterclockwise around the tufts. But I am not sure. The streaks do not look like they are falling--but rising on some invisible current of air.
  I went to the Cloud Appreciation Society Cloud Appreciation Society and looked through 719 photographs of cirrus clouds. All were spectacular, none matched my photos.

   And then I search for images on the Internet. Part way through the 4,160 photos, I came across a cloud that was close to mine on WeatherOnline (below). It captured the spirit of my cloud, but not its singularity,elegance, or cometesque-ness.

    Was my cloud unique or was my perspective "off" somehow? I needed help from my friends at the Cloud Appreciation Society.  Stayed tuned (as we used to say and some still do) for an explanation.

The Subtle Clouds

The day dawned foggy on Tuesday. These are steaming rooftops of homes just off Boulevard Road. Fog is a type of stratus cloud and morning fog in Olympia usually portends a clear day. While billowing culumus clouds capture our attention most often, the lowly stratus clouds and the very high icy cirrus clouds often get neglected. Some clouds are fun to spot, these types are fun to watch over a longer period of time. They are quite dynamic, but you have to sit still to enjoy them.

  

This is also fog (above) rising as the sun warms the air around them. I couldn't resist an end-of-season ride in the row boat. Here's a lingering bit of fog at midday on Budd Inlet (below).

                                     
 

And then, in the western sky, a dazzling show of cirrus (below). These are high-altitude clouds (16,500 to 45,000 feet up) and are composed of ice crystals.

 These are cirrus uncinus--small clumps of ice crystals being blow about by winds aloft. The heavier ice crystals fall behind and leave a trail like a comet's behind the main cloud.

How Much Time to Give a Cloud

   What a glorious day in the sky. I started the morning with a walk (camera and dog in tow) to enjoy the clouds that were not rain clouds (nimbostratus or cumulonimbus) but the lighter more effervescent varieties of stratus, stratocumulus, and later--as the afternoon air warmed--a progression of steadily building cumulus clouds--fractus, humilis, mediocris, and congestus.

 My problem was I didn't know how best to enjoy them today. Should I get out in the rowboat? Should I climb onto my roof? Should I bike to the park near the water tower? Throw and air mattress onto the lawn and just stare and stare? Would I enjoy the clouds more if  were still or rowing, biking,  or walking?

    And for how long? All day would be nice and a suitable time to dedicate to such beauty. What about an hour? Or what about ten minutes every hour all day long?  Today, a lifetime would not have been enough. Look at them! Look at the free show they put on! We all should have left our homes, schools, and offices today and gone outside to watch them, to give them a round of applause, and a standing ovation. Our hands should be raw and stinging from all the clapping the clouds deserved this day. And they were not yet pink or orange. Just white and gray. But what lovely, scrumptious whites and grays.

   I grateful, in awe, and apparently living inside a Mary Oliver poem.

  I am not sure what I thought was going to happen with a full day of cloud worship. Could I love the clouds more than I already do? Will I be uplifted or transformed somehow if I say they beautiful and marvelous over and over like a mantra? Will I get into heaven?
    I knew by noon today that whatever I did today was not going to be enough. The clouds would not get the attention or praise they deserved from me. Of course, the clouds couldn't care less about me or my crush on them. So, resigned, I gave them as much time as I could on a busy day (of doing things not as important as praising clouds.)
   Here is the problem: I cannot give back to the clouds what they give to me. I cannot reciprocate. This is not a two-way street. So, I will gather in their glory, breathe in their beauty, and give it to you.

Clouds by Bus

  Determined to kick the car habit, I decided to take the Intercity Transit bus to Tacoma Tuesday to meet a friend at the Tacoma Art Museum and have lunch. I knew the bus would double the transportation time, but I was looking forward to reading on the bus...and looking at clouds without endangering the lives of other motorists.

  I left my house at 9:35 a.m. in the pouring rain to catch a bus downtown where I had a half-hour layover before catching the #603 to Tacoma. I spent it at the Bread Peddler eating a piece of marionberry pie. Everything was going really well so far.

  The bus left at 10:30 and I started reading the very wonderful and engrossing Generosity by Richard Powers. I was happy not to be driving--the rain and the spray from cars and trucks would have been nerve-wracking. About 20 minutes into the ride, I realized I didn't know exactly how close the bus stopped to the museum. In fact, I wasn't really sure where the museum was, but knew it was downtown. I could either get off at one of the downtown stops, or confess to the bus driver that I had left home that morning without figuring out exactly where I was going. It sounded like an existential crisis moment, so I just kept reading. I'd wing it in Tacoma.

   I got off on Commerce Street and ducked into a coffee shop to ask where the museum was. The barista pointed north. I arrived one half block later only to discover the museum was closed on Tuesdays. I called my friend to tell her to meet me at the Museum of Glass instead. I crossed the fabulous Chihuly bridge (my umbrella getting blown inside out) and down the spiral stairs (my feet getting soaked)...only to find that museum closed on Tuesdays as well. Another phone call, another crossing of the bridge to the Museum of Washington State History where I had never been. Guess what? 

   My friend picked me up in her car and we found ourselves in a cozy Mexican restaurant across town. After a wonderful three-hour conversation, I returned to Commerce Street to pick up the Olympia bound bus at 2:54. At 2:53, I watched my bus pull up to the stop and then pull away without every stopping.

   "You've got to be really aggressive," someone suggested.

    The next bus was due in 15 minutes. While I waited I made plans to stand in the street in my bright-orange raincoat in 10 minutes. So what if my foot got run over.

    It did not. Luckily there was a crowd of aggressive bus riders at the stop with me.

    I had about an hour's ride home, so I folded up my umbrella and took out my book. Around Fort Lewis, the sun came out. And then my camera. The I-5 is a really great vantage point for cloud watching because there are no trees and no telephone poles. But there is the issue of shooting through a window and being in motion...which is how come I only have one good photo to post (below).

   I returned home, approximately 8 hours after I left..and then I was back out to catch the sunset in downtown Olympia (below). This red sky at night did in fact portend a delightful day on Wednesday.

  NOTE: Should you want to duplicate my fabulous bus experience, click here Intercity Transit for routes and schedules. But remember, the three museums in Tacoma are closed Mondays and Tuesdays.