Wandering in the Rain Shadow

Larch Trees

Autumn in Oregon is a visual feast.  Maples, oaks and cottonwoods serve up a rich bounty of vibrant colors each year. Most of us learned as kids that these and other broad-leaved trees are deciduous—that is, they lose their leaves every fall—while conifers, the needle-leaved, cone-bearing trees, remain evergreen throughout the year. This is generally true—with one glorious exception in Oregon:  the western larch.  One of nature’s great paradoxes, the western larch is a conifer that loses its needles every fall. Before they drop, larch needles turn electric yellow and then drift to the ground to lie in a golden skirt at the base of each bare tree.  A bright November morning finds me on a quest for turning larch trees in the Metolius Preserve in central Oregon, only eight miles east of the Cascade Crest.

I have the forest all to myself as I start my hike around the Larch Trail loop. This is a companion to the Fir and Pine Trails in the Metolius Preserve, which is owned and maintained by the Deschutes Land Trust, a non-profit agency dedicated to conserving natural areas in central Oregon. Visitors are welcome year-round.

The sweet spice of ponderosa pine floats on the air as I enter the park-like forest. Ponderosa is the dominant tree in the forests east of the Cascades. The trees’ burnt-orange trunks have thick, flaky bark; their pear-sized, prickly cones decorate the forest floor. Deeper into the forest, low-angled autumn sunlight highlights a multicolored larch tree. The needles on some of its branches are still green, while others have turned a luminous gold and seem to glow from within.

Larch needles grow in tufts on the ends of small woody knobs that line each feathery branch. Unlike those of pine and fir, larch needles are soft and delicately slender. During the budburst of spring, their iridescent chartreuse contrasts with the deeper green of neighboring conifers. When fall arrives, the golden needles shine like beacons in the somber forest.

The trail leads me across a sturdy footbridge over the North Fork of Lake Creek. The water runs clear and cold and I search the shallow riffles for signs of migrating fish. No luck. Hiking on, I enter a stand of older larch trees that tower above me. The lowest branches on mature larches are often 50 to 75 feet above the ground. These trees are easily 150 feet tall. Their ramrod-straight trunks rise like the shafts of enormous arrows pointing skyward.

As I hike on in solitude through a series of open areas in the forest, the stillness is suddenly broken by a swoop of motion to my left. An enormous Great Gray Owl lifts off from a snag and crosses above the path in front of me with a couple of deep, slow wingbeats. It is a rare event to witness this elusive creature. I’ve only seen a Great Gray Owl once before, and that was with the benefit of several tips from seasoned birders. To stumble upon this one is a true gift.

The Great Gray Owl is the largest owl in Oregon. This individual stands at least two and a half feet tall and has a five-foot wingspan. Its head seems as big as a volleyball; its large facial discs are marked with dark concentric rings that spread out from fierce yellow eyes. The owl’s cryptic color pattern of gray and brown feathers allows it to vanish among the trees like a ghost melting through a wall. It disappears from my view as suddenly as it appeared. Known to favor open forest habitats and to hunt in the daytime, the Great Gray Owl is a magnificent predator. The voles and pocket gophers living here caught a lucky break when I walked by and disturbed the owl’s quest for prey.

Delighted with my good fortune, I finish the Larch Trail loop. As I drive back over Santiam Pass and return to the more familiar Douglas-fir forest on the wetter west side, I’m grateful for the diversity of our native forests. Oregonians are truly blessed.

 

 

 

   

 

 

 Wandering in the Rain Shadow

Fort Rock

Walking through a misty moss-covered forest feels as comfortable to me as relaxing with a good book in my favorite chair at home. Having lived my entire life on the west side of the Cascades, I feel a deep familiarity with nature as it expresses itself in moist verdancy. But now and then I long for the stark beauty and openness of Oregon’s desert country. Without lush growth cloaking this arid landscape, its unique geology is plainly visible. The land of little rain can hide no secrets: a treeless habitat allows observers to witness the intimate details of life in the desert.

Driving along a high desert road, I round a bend and am confronted with the unexpected immensity of Fort Rock. It rises above the sagebrush flats like a volcanic version of the Roman Colosseum. Waves from an ancient lake breached the porous lava and ash of the rocky rim’s south wall, creating an amphitheater filled with water. The lake dried up about 13,000 years ago, leaving a curving rampart towering 300 feet above the dusty lakebed.

The trail leaves the small parking lot and winds through a jumble of dark boulders fallen from the looming wall above. Bright orange crusts decorate the rocks. Called elegant sunburst lichens, they look like orange peels flattened on the hard surfaces. A lichen is not a single organism, but a partnership between a fungus and an alga. The alga photosynthesizes to provide food for itself and the fungus, while the fungus provides a protective structure to the alga. Scientists have recently discovered that, in some lichen species, a third organism joins the partnership: a yeast. It benefits the coalition by providing chemicals to ward off harmful microbes. This taxonomy-crossing alliance has enabled lichens to inhabit some of Earth’s harshest habitats for millions of years. Gently rubbing my finger over the sunburst lichen’s dry surface, I marvel at its ability to survive while patiently waiting for the desert’s next meager offering of rain.

Naturalists use sunburst lichens as clues in the search for small mammals and birds. The pumpkin-colored growths thrive on rocks coated with nitrogen from animal droppings. When I see patches of bright orange on rocky slopes high in the Cascades, I know marmots or pikas reside there. If I see a sunburst colony growing at the base of a rock wall, I immediately look up for long-established raptor nests on the cliff above. The scattered pattern of brilliant lichens here at Fort Rock indicates the location of sentry posts where chipmunks or ground squirrels survey their territory. Wanting to catch a glimpse of the resident nitrogen-providers, I settle on a flat rock and scan my surroundings. The breeze brings the musky spice of sagebrush; a crow calls in the distance. After several minutes a six-inch blur of fur darts across the path with its tiny tail held straight up in the air: the telltale sign of a least chipmunk. It pops up on a boulder, showing multiple dark stripes streaking the gray fur on its back and face. These little imps thrive in dry country where they forage in the sagebrush for seeds, buds, insects and bird eggs. They escape extreme desert temperatures, both hot and cold, by sheltering under the rocks.

Leaving my little friend behind, I climb to the top of a volcanic bench cut by long-vanished waves at the foot of the striated rock wall. A succession of steamy eruptions formed these layers of porous lava, gooey ash and boiled lakebed mud. The trail parallels the horseshoe shape of the curving wall. Stunted juniper trees dot the shrubland. Suddenly, a four-foot sagebrush quivers with the buzzy trill of a Brewer’s Sparrow: zreeee – zrrr – zrrr – zrrr. I watch the drab little bird, perfectly camouflaged in muted desert colors, as it searches for insects under the bushes. Its very survival hinges on the presence of sagebrush, where it eats, sleeps and nests.

After curling around to the west side of the amphitheater, the trail rises to a terrace above its open end. From this vantage point I see the entire volcanic ring and the vast sagebrush sea stretching for miles to the south. Motion catches my eye. Lifting my binoculars, I focus on a coyote about 300 yards away. It trots along at an intentional pace, looking as though it has important business to conduct. For the coyote, like all creatures out here, the business of survival is a continuous pursuit. Carrying its tail down in typical coyote fashion, it zig-zags through the sagebrush, a puff of dust trailing each footfall. Soon it leaves my range of sight and I lower my binoculars.

 Hiking back on the stretch of trail that closes the looping route, I think about how each component in this desert ecosystem connects to everything around it. The fallen rocks create shelter for the tiny least chipmunk, whose nitrogen-rich droppings nourish the growth of bright lichens. Those same droppings may contain sagebrush seeds that grow to provide nesting sites for the Brewer’s Sparrow. The hungry chipmunk may take eggs from the sparrow’s nest or it may become a one-bite meal for the coyote. The coyote’s presence benefits the sparrow by limiting the chipmunk population. Coyote – chipmunk – sparrow – sagebrush – lichen - rock: all are part of a complex ecological network. Oregon’s desert country may seem open but it is never simple. Its rich complexity draws me back again and again.

 

Wandering in the Rain Shadow

Deschutes River State Recreation Area

Although I’ve lived my whole life on the wet side of the Cascades, I’ve always been fascinated by the dry side. The parched country east of the mountains seems so exotic, so other. Trees and forests, my familiar frames of reference, evanesce here; distances look greater, air feels lighter and the sky reaches closer to the ground. 

Eastern Oregon owes its arid beauty to the fact that it lies in the rain shadow of the Cascade Range. As water-laden clouds from the Pacific Ocean move up the west slope of the Cascades they cool and condense, allowing the mountains to wring out most of their moisture. Very little rainfall is left for the leeward side to the east. One of my favorite places to explore this harsh landscape is at Deschutes River State Recreation Area, east of The Dalles.

The riverside trail leads me south from the picnic area’s irrigated lawn past several pocket-sized, sandy beaches bordering the water. Soon the dirt path rises slightly as it crosses alternating patches of grassland and sagebrush steppe. The wind numbs my face as I stop to study the rolling  hills clad in autumn-dry grasses on either side of the valley.

Suddenly, a shadow sweeps across the hard-packed trail in front of me. Looking up, I see a Red-tailed Hawk riding the blustery current. Working the wind like an airborne sailor, it tacks hard left and glides low toward me. Cocoa-brown wings make one slow flap. As the hawk flies directly overhead, I notice that its pale underside is the color of a coffee-stained napkin. It tosses a raspy scream to the wind: a fitting welcome to the Deschutes Canyon.

Hiking on, I meet a steelhead fisherman getting ready to cast his line into the Deschutes. The slate-gray river rushes by us in swirling currents. Below the surface, steelhead—anadromous rainbow trout—swim by unseen, having recently returned from the sea. They will stay in the main stem of the river or its tributaries for several months and then spawn next spring. Afterwards, most will die but a few stalwarts will survive to migrate back to the ocean. In a year or two they will return to the river of their birth and spawn again. If my new acquaintance hooks a steelhead, he can keep it only if it’s a hatchery fish, identifiable by a clipped fin in front of the tail. Those with fins intact are wild fish and must be released.

After walking for a little more than a mile along the riverbank, I take an unsigned side trail east; it switchbacks once as it climbs above the river. Soon it crosses an old railroad bed and climbs still higher. Short stalks of desiccated grass, dried to a stark bone-white, rustle in the wind. Across the river, waterless creek beds crease the hills, their canyons in full shadow.

The trail makes a steep ascent and rounds a curving contour. Pausing to catch my breath, I jump at the sight of a three-foot gopher snake soaking up the weak warmth of autumn sunshine. Dark skin blotches on a yellowish background remind me of a western rattlesnake, but this snake’s tail tapers to a point instead of ending with a rattle. I watch as it slowly crawls into deeper grass and disappears. It probably has already located a winter den, called a hibernaculum, but has ventured out to bask. When the cold truly sets in it may share its den with several other snakes, who all enter a state of winter dormancy similar to hibernation.

My trail reaches its highest point and then dips to cross the tiny flow of Ferry Springs. Swinging north, it traces the rocky route of a nineteenth-century wagon road. Layered basalt cliffs loom on my right like a giant stack of hardened, dark pancakes. Bisected by the bleached chute of a dry waterfall, this lava wall was created by numerous basalt flows that poured from distant cracks in the ground and traveled down the Columbia Gorge sixteen million years ago. The molten rock oozed along at about fifteen miles per hour; layer after layer formed over millions of years.

The wind picks up; I pull my cap low, hunch my shoulders and finish the last stretch of trail back to the picnic area. My cheeks sting with the cold and my gloved fingers have lost all feeling, but I’ll never forget the desolate, raw beauty of this morning’s hike in the Deschutes River Canyon.

 

 

One Seacoast Mile

Fall 

Early fall has come to my seacoast mile. Alder trees release their umber leaves, each one blotched with faded green; tawny seed pods rise above dry hillsides replacing the pink, purple and yellow wildflower blossoms of the recently departed summer. Standing on Cape Sitka at the northern end of my chosen stretch of shore, I scan the pocket beaches and rocky coves along the border between land and sea. Cape Tolowa, its open slopes the color of baled hay, rises at the southern end of my mile. Just offshore, towering rocks stained white with guano hold deserted seabird rookeries waiting for winter rains to wash them clean.

Today I’ll walk my mile from one cape to the other, traversing the Sitka spruce forest just above the shore. Along the way I’ll search for the season’s first mushrooms and visit an old friend.

Departing the grassy cape, I follow a narrow trail into dense forest where thin beams of sunlight penetrate the canopy. Stopping to let my eyes adjust to the shade, I soak in the soft air sequestered by these spruce trees. Soon my eyes acclimate to the dim light and I leave the trail to move slowly among the trees, searching the forest floor for fungi. Almost immediately, a purple mushroom the size of a soup bowl catches my eye. Its curled-up cap reveals white gills on its underside; a rosy blush colors its stem. Kneeling, I pull a small chunk from its edge, crush it between my fingers and sniff – I detect no odor. Finding an older specimen, I try the crush-and-sniff test again – it smells like spoiled seafood. This stinky morsel confirms its identity: shrimp russula. Nearby, dozens more rise above the duff.

Moving on, I navigate through the shadows by keeping the muffled sound of breaking waves on my right and continue in a southerly direction. I find a brilliant mushroom the color of a lit Jack-o-Lantern. It’s a lobster mushroom, prized by gourmet cooks. Like others of its kind, this specimen has engulfed another fungus in lobster-tinted tissue.

Not far away, a gemmed amanita, its flesh the color of lemon custard, peeks out from between two exposed tree roots. Despite its pleasing appearance, this species is toxic and should never be eaten. Touching its firm stem just above the soil, I’m reminded that a mushroom is only a small part of a fungal body. The largest part grows below ground, completely unseen. There, a cobwebby lattice of thin root-like structures, called mycelia, spreads its way under the forest floor to form connections with trees by encasing their roots in gauzy sheaths.

Once fungus and tree are linked, a mutually beneficial relationship begins. The fungus delivers water and nutrients absorbed from the soil to the tree roots while the tree provides the fungal filaments with sugar to live on – a true partnership benefiting both parties. The fungal threads also connect each tree with many others in the forest, creating a vast interconnected web only inches beneath my feet.

Wandering back to the trail, I hear what sounds like raindrops slowly plopping on the ground. Puzzled, I pause to listen more closely: thud . . . thud . . . thud. Something is falling from the canopy, but it’s not rain. Raising my binoculars to my eyes, I find the sound’s source: the dark shape of a small body with a wildly twitching tail – a Douglas squirrel. Normally very vocal, this arboreal resident cuts spruce cones from the highest branches without uttering a sound. After about a dozen of the two-inch cones litter the forest floor, the squirrel descends a thick trunk to carry them, one at a time, to its larder under a mossy log. When winter arrives, the rodent will return daily to this food cache to extract edible seeds from the damp cones. Twisting a cone and pulling it apart, I find tiny winged seeds, each the size of a grape seed, under the papery scales. This squirrel has a lot of work ahead to fill its cache with enough seed-filled cones to sustain it until spring.

Leaving the squirrel to its autumn harvesting, I continue south on the trail. Breaks in the trees allow me needle-framed window views of breaking waves and circling gulls below. Trailside trees swell in girth as I enter the oldest part of this Sitka spruce forest. Ahead, I spy my old friend: five massive trunks rise from a single base; pendulous branches, each with a diameter greater than many of the surrounding trees, rest enormous elbows on the ground.

Reaching this venerable spruce, I step off the trail to touch its rough gray bark. Fallen patches reveal purple underneath; hundreds of cones lie at the tree’s feet. Since it’s probably two or three centuries old, the fungal network connected to this ancient one likely includes miles of interlacing root-like threads that link dozens of trees, many that began life as a sprout from one of its tiny seeds. Like any good parent, it protects its offspring by sending extra water to them in times of drought, additional minerals in times of stress and chemical warning signals when it’s under insect attack – all via the vast underground web.

Settling in on one of the tree’s huge exposed roots, I ponder the course of its life. How many nestlings has it sheltered? How many squirrels has it fed? How many young trees has it nourished and nurtured? My old friend is truly a wonder.

Soon I hike on, leaving the spruce forest and heading out across gentle open slopes to reach the tip of Cape Tolowa. Here, I find a spreading mat of dwarf shrubs reminiscent of mountain heather: crowberry. Its narrow evergreen leaves remind me of tiny needles on miniature conifer trees. Carefully parting the stems, I discover black berries the size of peas. Knowing these berries are nontoxic, I pop one in my mouth; its flavor is earthy and slightly bitter. Several hands full leave my fingers and tongue black with juice.

Resisting the rest of the crowberry bounty, I turn to face the sea. A squadron of Brown Pelicans glides by, barely twelve inches above the waves. Each one flies with its head held back over its shoulders and giant pouched bill resting on its chest. Two small boats bob on the waves, and the pelicans join them in a quest for fish. One by one the big birds plunge into the water head-first. Resurfacing, each floats on the surface and presses its pouch against its chest to drain the water, finally tipping its bill back to swallow its catch.

Watching this scene and thinking back to all that I’ve witnessed this year along my seacoast mile fills me with both a deep peace and a keen awareness that, as a human, I am only one part of life on this beautiful planet. Mystery, awe and universal connection coalesce here for me. I feel completely at home.

One Seacoast Mile

Summer 

A thin layer of scraggly summer clouds drifts overhead this morning as I stand next to a rock-ringed tidepool at the foot of Cape Tolowa. Just above me, the cape’s green slope rises steeply to meet a trio of velveted pinnacles halfway up the hillside; above these grassy points, the gradient eases until the flower-dotted incline finally reaches the summit. As I ponder the juxtaposition of lush meadow and rocky ocean shore, a quote from Rachel Carson, the scientist whose seminal writing sparked the environmental movement, comes to mind: The edge of the sea is a strange and beautiful place.

 I intend to dawdle the day away by examining both the strange and the beautiful, starting with the limpid pool at my feet. Six inches below the pool’s surface, froth the color of bubblegum covers the rocks. Dipping my hand in the cold water, I run my fingers over the pink surface: it’s hard as cement. Called coralline algae, this odd seaweed uses minerals from the saltwater to create a calcified lining within each of its cells, rendering the algae inedible to grazing snails and other herbivorous tidepool residents. Trying to ingest this organism would be like eating gravel.

In the neighboring tidepool another coralline species drapes its mass of pink feathery fronds down the side of a boulder exposed by low tide. Each branch has calcified segments alternating with tiny flexible hinges, allowing it to bend with the waves.

Coming upon a third tidepool, I kneel for a closer look. Kiwi-colored sea anemones extend their soft tentacles in hopes of stinging unsuspecting prey. Harmless to humans, an anemone can immobilize a small fish, crab or snail and then slowly shove the meal into its mouth.  Several pendulous anemones droop from a rock wall above the pool. Without the water’s support their limp bodies sag like flaccid bags. Next to them, three ochre sea stars hug the rock. A net-like pattern of stubby white spines covers each star’s orange skin. Microscopic gills at the base of each spine take in oxygen from the water. Five strong arms radiate from the central body like spokes on a wheel.  A sea star has no head, and its mouth is on the underside of its body. 

When the tide returns, a hungry sea star will slowly crawl on top of a mussel, wrap its arms around the bivalve’s shells and begin to pull. The helpless mussel will strain to keep its protective shells closed, but its fate is inescapable. Once the shells are open, the sea star pushes its stomach out through its mouth and inserts it between the shells. Digestive juices liquefy the mussel’s tissue into an easily absorbed meal. Gently touching the sea stars, I find each to be firm and healthy, unlike so many soft mushy specimens found along the coast a few years ago during the widespread occurrence of sea-star wasting disease.

Next, I find a small apron of sand separating two rock patches. A little crab, the size of a cucumber slice, pauses in the center of this miniature beach. Looking closely, I see a blue shell and flattened claws: it’s a flat porcelain crab. The glistening blue top on this creature’s shell brings back memories of childhood moments spent admiring the delicate blue teacups in my auntie’s china cabinet.

Without touching it, I count this crab’s legs and notice a total of six, two fewer than on most crab species.  Not true crabs at all, these creatures are crab-like crustaceans descended from a 200 million year-old ancestral line that includes lobsters. When the tide comes in, this would-be crab wedges itself in tight spaces between rocks, where it flutters its fluffy mouthparts to capture plankton brought in by the waves.

Turning away from the sea, I step up from the gritty surface of a wave-worn rock to the soft turf of the sloping meadow. I’m immediately ankle deep in green growth; the tidepool habitat a few feet behind me seems worlds away. As I begin to climb, I see a bright brigade of blue-eyed grass flowers marching up the hill. Purple and white varied lupines release their enticing perfume to the breeze; pollinating bees flock to the scent. A shallow depression in the terrain overflows with golden blossoms as five-petaled silverweed cinquefoil and daisy-shaped goldfields spill out of the bowl.

Just above, tall brown ears flick away flies; soon the moist nose and deep brown eyes of a black-tailed doe rise above the vegetation. She gives me a long look, then turns and vanishes into the tall grass. Seconds later I interrupt a brush rabbit’s foraging; it disappears below the tangle of a coyote bush.

Skirting the rabbit’s hiding place, I spot a series of neatly trimmed runways crisscrossing the slope. About the width of a garden hose, each route leads to a hole no wider than a golf ball. These narrow avenues are the work of meadow voles, mouse-like creatures with gray fur, a blunt snout and tiny black eyes. They dash back and forth on their well-maintained paths looking for food. Should the shadow of a hunting raptor darken its runway, a vole will scurry to the nearest hole. Each of these three mammals thrives on the bounty of lush vegetation growing here.

Catching my breath on the smooth summit gives me a chance to mentally trace my route from the tidepools far below up the verdant slope of Cape Tolowa. I reflect on the diversity of species that I’ve encountered today: each organism filling its own unique niche, each an integral part of the strange and beautiful life at the edge of the sea.

One Seacoast Mile 

Spring

A sprinkling of yellow footprints brightens the grassy slope leading to the tip of Cape Sitka, the northernmost point of my chosen mile. Not actually footprints at all, these matted patches are native wildflowers. Called footsteps of spring, they have yellow maple-shaped leaves that lie flat beneath clusters of half-inch-high canary-colored flowers. Keeping a low profile helps this species to survive the strong winds that buffet the cape.

Stretching out to lie prone on the hillside, I become part of this plant’s ground-hugging world. Just downslope, I see another group of blossoms peeking above the grass: Menzies’ baby blue eyes. As the name suggests, these flowers are usually blue, but sometimes, like the ones growing below me, the plants produce bright white petals lined with purple dots.

Nearby, a tiny fish skeleton no more than two inches long lies in the lee of a small rock, the remains of some seabird’s sardine or anchovy catch. The hungry bird unknowingly gifted the cape’s shallow soil with a miniscule dose of growth-boosting nutrients from the sea. Dropped from the bird’s bill as it flew above the cape, the tiny fish’s flesh decomposed into the soil, where shallow roots absorbed the minerals transported from the saltwater below.

Plants with ocean-derived minerals in their cells can grow up to three times faster than those without. As this nourishment delivered on the wing accumulates bit by bit over time, organic material builds up, creating rich soil. Slowly, the rocky cape becomes meadowed and wildflowers spangle its slopes.

The water where the fish spent its brief life is part of a highly productive coastal ecosystem that owes its existence to one phenomenon: wind-driven ocean upwelling. In spring and summer, the prevailing winds come from the north and drive surface water offshore. Scientists have discovered that, in the northern hemisphere, surface waters always move to the right (west) of winds blowing in a southerly direction; this phenomenon is known as the Coriolis Effect.

Winds blow down the coast, forcing the top layers of water westward, away from the shore. Deep nutrient-rich water moves up to replace the dissipated surface water, bringing seafloor sediments enriched with nitrogen and phosphorus to the top. Here, the infusion of nutrients fuels an explosive growth of plankton and seaweed, the foundation of a marine food web that feeds tidepool creatures, schooling fish, salmon, seabirds, seals, whales and humans. Looking out to sea, I witness an upwelling in progress: a mass of brownish-green water meets the blue as the winds bestow their life-giving gifts on the nearshore waters.

Leaving the blustery cape behind, I hike down toward the rarely-visited beach at its foot. Descending along a faint trail, I find myself at the top of an extremely steep sand chute only twenty feet wide. Looking around for another route, I conclude that this precipitous slope is, indeed, the main access. Gazing downhill, I notice something else: a meandering course of animal tracks descending the narrow opening. A thicket of conifers edging the sand prevents the wind from erasing the footprints. Closer examination reveals each round track to be about two inches wide with four toes, no claw marks and three lobes on the back edge of the heel pad – a bobcat! This reclusive cat normally hunts at night but occasionally sneaks out in daylight, too. The tracks reveal nothing about the hour in which this creature prowled, but their condition indicates that they’re several days old.

Still curious about the secluded beach below, I plunge my heels in the soft sand and make a slow glissade down the unstable slope, obliterating the cat tracks as I go. Safely reaching the bottom, I scramble over driftwood pushed up by last winter’s storms and step onto firm sand several yards from the surf. No footprints blemish this wild strand; I have it all to myself, or so I think.

Walking south, I find evidence that I’m not alone: multiple pointy impressions in the sand border each side of a pencil-thin drag mark. The tracks lead me closer to the water and soon I find their maker: a northern kelp crab brought in by the waves. About three inches wide, the top of its slick brown shell forms the shape of a small shield with a large point in the front and a smaller point tipping each forward corner.

As the crab slowly ambles sideways, I watch its eight legs and two claws emboss the sand with tiny tracks while the posterior end of its shell inscribes a shallow furrow. Kelp crabs are seasonal carnivores, eating small clams and barnacles each winter and switching to an herbivorous diet of kelp and other seaweeds during the warmer months. I resist the urge to pick this one up, knowing from painful experience how hard they can pinch.

Gentle waves part around barnacled boulders as I continue south. Thousands of clam-like blue mussels wait for high tide, their shells snapped shut like calcified coin purses. Rocky towers and turrets rise above gardens of shiny seaweed. Picking my way through a stretch of basketball-sized rocks, I come upon one of the most bizarre creatures inhabiting the intertidal zone: a Pacific giant chiton. Resembling a partially deflated football, this mollusk has thick leathery skin and can grow up to a foot long. Lacking a head and eyes, it uses its muscular foot to clamp onto rocks. A flattened mouth on its underside contains tiny teeth for scraping algae from hard surfaces. To resist abrasion, the teeth are capped with magnetite, a mineral thought to be produced by some animals (sea turtles, birds, whales) to help them navigate using the Earth’s magnetic field. Although the chiton’s mineralized teeth are magnetic, it does not use this adaptation to find its way; it’s simply reinforcement for the tools needed to obtain its slimy meal.

Reaching down to touch its pebbly skin, I find that this chiton has been knocked loose from its rock, likely by a strong wave. Turning it over, I see the cantaloupe-colored foot flanked by a groove on either side, each filled with a row of rounded gills. Tucked safely in one of the grooves, a skinny white scale worm moves its head, but will not harm its slow-moving host. Instead, it forages for tube worms and organic debris as the chiton carries it around. 

Returning the chiton and its wriggling passenger to the spot where I found them, I look back to the sand chute I must scale to return to the car. It promises to be a slow breathless climb, but it’s a small price to pay for today’s exploration of the wildest part of my seacoast mile.

 

 

One Seacoast Mile

Winter

January along the Oregon Coast can be brutal. High winds slam storm after storm against the shore; pelting raindrops sting one’s face like tiny projectiles launched from afar. Calmer days bring chilly fingers of fog that reach through layers of clothing to grip one’s bones. This miserable weather torments the length of Oregon’s coastline – except for the one location where a jumble of peaks (the Klamath Mountains) stretches from 80 miles inland to meet the sea.

Here, mild spring-like weather occurs anytime high pressure builds east of the Klamaths and low pressure settles off the coast. Winds from the east blow over the mountains, where the peaks funnel them into the deep gorge holding the Chetco River. As the narrow canyon walls compress the air mass, the molecules of nitrogen, oxygen and carbon dioxide bounce off each other, creating heat. Arriving at the sea, the balmy wind pushes cooler marine air offshore and bathes the local coastline, including my chosen mile, with warmth.

Leaving the car, I hike north along an elevated trail in shirtsleeves and jeans, happy to be free of confining sweaters and raingear. A wall of close-growing Sitka spruce trees borders the uphill side of the trail. Spiky needles brush my arm as I step on reddish-colored cones littering the ground. Below me, a moorland cloaked in low shrubs and coarse grasses sweeps 300 yards down to the shore. To the south, Cape Tolowa’s mesa-like profile stretches seaward to dip and then rise again to a rounded hump hunching above the surf. 

At the north end of my chosen mile, Cape Sitka towers above a narrow strip of dark sand. Just offshore, jagged sea stacks rise from the water like a giant carnivore’s canine teeth; gentle waves break around them.

One hundred yards beyond the outermost sea stack, a heart-shaped plume of steam rises a dozen feet above the ocean’s surface, the tell-tale silhouette of a gray whale’s spout. As the whale exhales air through twin blowholes on its head, its warm breath condenses to create a misty heart that vanishes almost immediately. I glance at my watch, timing the rhythm of its breathing. It disappears underwater for 30 seconds, then surfaces to exhale and quickly draw in its next breath. The whale repeats the pattern three times before arching its knuckled back and thrusting its tail flukes above water to propel it into a deeper dive.

This huge creature, 45 feet long at maturity, is taking part in the longest mammal migration on Earth. Each winter, thousands of its kind swim from Alaska to Baja, Mexico, to mate or give birth in lagoons along the peninsula’s Pacific shore. Come spring, gray whales return to their nutrient-rich Arctic feeding grounds, completing a 10,000-mile round trip. Thrilled by my luck in witnessing the whale’s brief appearance, I hike on.

An unmarked side path leads me down the open slope toward a tiny beach curving below Cape Tolowa. I wade through waist-high grasses crowding the path; coyote bush, an evergreen shrub with gray-green leaves above a skeleton of bare branches, dots the open hillside. One of the bushes erupts in a rattling chirrrr as I pass by. I freeze in my tracks, scanning the twiggy maze for the call’s source. Chirrrr – a second call emanates from a neighboring bush. Standing perfectly still for several minutes, I finally spot a pair of Wrentits – tiny gray-brown birds with rounded wings and upturned tails. They hop from branch to branch, foraging for insects and spiders, while concealed from the view of hungry raptors by the cover of leaves crowning each bush.

Wrentit pairs stay together year-round, uncommon behavior for songbirds. Mates for life, they pair up shortly after learning to fly and establish their territory within 1200 feet of the nests from which each bird fledged.

Standing motionless in the birds’ tiny world, I can’t help but compare them with the gray whale that I saw just a few minutes ago. One creature fits in a teacup, the other is as long as a school bus. One spends its entire life within a territory no larger than a city block, the other travels 10,000 miles every year. Despite vast differences between coastal bird and marine mammal, each must do two things to survive: eat and reproduce. Eating ensures survival as an individual, reproducing ensures survival as a species. I leave the little birds to their thicket and scramble down to the beach.

A weathered 20-foot western red cedar log rests on cobbles covering the landward side of the beach. Two feet in diameter at its widest, this stranded tree once graced the banks of a coastal stream. Likely toppled in a storm, it began its tortuous journey downstream to the sea, where waves bashed it against boulders, fuzzing its fibrous bark and splintering its brick-colored heartwood. I lean down and sniff the moist log; the spice of cedar and the tang of saltwater mix in a rich distillation of forest and sea.

Boulders exposed by low tide shelter bunches of red and green seaweed in small pools. I linger near a knotted heap of slimy vegetation on the sand. Ripped from seafloor rocks by powerful waves, these thick strands of kelp bring to mind a giant helping of briny spaghetti. Until very recently they were part of the vast underwater kelp forest growing just offshore. Beach-bound humans can only glimpse its canopy; hidden below the surface, countless creatures seek food and shelter in this undersea jungle.

Continuing south on the beach, I find a white finger-sized tube lying on the sand; one end of the tube is open and the other closed. Called a sea pickle, it’s a bizarre lifeform normally found off tropical shores in the South Pacific. Dozens of  bumps cover its rubbery surface, each a small organism in a tightly joined colony of multiple individuals. Free floaters, these colonies, also called pyrosomes, feed by filtering plankton in deep water of the open ocean. Southern storms occasionally push them thousands of miles north to wash up along the west coast of North America.

As I study this strange pickle-shaped creature in my hand, I think about where I am. I’m not just standing on a small beach on the Oregon Coast; I’m at the edge of a biome that covers 70% of our planet. Geographers recognize five distinct oceans on Earth: Pacific, Atlantic, Indian, Southern and Arctic. In reality there are no rigid boundaries: strong currents swirl, stir and share the waters between all oceans, creating a continuous body of water across the globe. The liquid connectedness of the ocean biome makes neighbors of all of its inhabitants, each residing in a worldwide saltwater community. The seemingly alien sea pickle washed ashore on my tiny beach is really no foreigner at all, but rather just another resident in a constantly moving global ocean.

Reaching the foot of Cape Tolowa, I scramble up an embankment and follow a deer trail that joins the main trail at the top. There, a wooden post lets hikers know they’re on the long-distance route called the Oregon Coast Trail, which traces the entire length of our coastline. I’ll leave a trek like that to more ambitious hikers and be content to explore my single mile slowly, one intimate step at a time, witnessing the wonders of everything from Wrentits to whales along the way.