Within One Watershed:

Essays from Hackleman Creek

Part 1

The Uplands

Hilltopping on Browder Ridge

 

Hundreds of butterflies flit above me, heading upslope. They look like rising confetti against the brilliant blue sky. Standing shoulder deep in a tangle of lacy bracken ferns and orange tiger lilies, I crane my neck to watch this elevated migration. The butterflies and I share the same goal: the top of Browder Ridge.

In a behavior called hilltopping, many species of butterflies head to the highest point in their world to find mates. The high ground serves as a rendezvous point where potential mates mingle and pair off. Mated females then lay their eggs just downslope on specific host plants that will later provide food for their hatching young. Males continue to cruise the highland, pursuing additional partners.

I seek the ridgetop for an entirely different reason: to stand on the high divide separating the Hackleman watershed from its neighboring watershed to the south. I wish to walk the prominence that determines the directional fate of each drop of precipitation this upland receives.

My pace slows as I follow the trail’s unspooling thread in switchbacks up the steep south-facing slope. The gradient and the morning sun combine to soak my shirt with perspiration. After a mile, the trail tops out and contours eastward two hundred feet below the ridgecrest. I leave the trail, climbing toward the high divide. Butterflies by the dozen float on the breeze, spiraling around me. A warm updraft from the Hackleman side of the ridge brings countless more to swirl in a descending pool toward me. I notice the bright orange and dark brown on the upper sides of California tortoiseshells; one lands on a rock and raises its wings to the upright resting position, revealing its mottled brown-and-gray underside. Hoffman’s checkerspots, blue coppers and a handful of Lorquin’s admirals join the tortoiseshells. Each checkerspot is a mosaic of orange and black, while the coppers are silky silver-blue. The dark admirals flash their white wing bands. I step on a flat boulder and a startled mass of butterflies takes wing in a whirling kaleidoscope of color. I feel as if I’ve walked into an artist’s rendition of light, color and motion.

Arriving at the ridge’s crest, I turn in a slow circle to take in the panorama. To the north the meadowed slopes of Cone Peak, South Peak and Echo Mountain rise above the Hackleman Creek valley. South of me, a sea of green peaks stretches to the horizon under the commanding presence of the Three Sisters, each rising over 10,000 feet. Browder Ridge runs westward in a series of rocky steps that narrows to resemble the edge of an enormous serrated knife. To the east, the ridge broadens into a much wider tree-covered crest.

As I head west toward the jagged rocks, the ground below the outcrop feels gritty and rough underfoot, reminding me that soil-building begins right here. Freezing and thawing fractures this sharply angled bedrock, dropping small fragments that slowly disintegrate into rudimentary soil at the rock’s base.

Long horizontal rows of succulent plants line the barren ground like snow fences placed in a ski area to prevent avalanches. These are sedum plants, commonly found in this harsh habitat. Sedums reproduce by sending out runners whose tips sprout clones. The resulting bands of fleshy plants strung out above and below me could all be clones of parent plants that colonized this area up to a century ago. Each row is spaced about five feet from the next, creating a series of narrow terraces that form the first line of defense against erosion in the watershed.

And it’s a much-needed defense. Taken one at a time, raindrops seem soft and refreshing. Each dampens, cleanses and revitalizes the land. But collectively raindrops are a force. If left unchecked, rain washes soil downslope, eroding the mountainside and dumping loads of sediment into the watershed’s largest stream. The sedum terraces hold small amounts of soil—helping stabilize the ridge despite their tiny size. Retained soil promotes the growth of additional wildflowers necessary for the survival of butterflies and other mountain-dwelling insects. These tiny creatures spur more plant growth through pollination and the resulting seed production. An expanding latticework of roots retains even more soil, protecting the forest downslope with a slow release of water that eventually reaches Hackleman Creek 1,700 feet below.

I step carefully over a row of tiny green sedums and stop to examine one closely. Its waxy leaves are swollen with water, the perfect survival mechanism for life in an environment that provides little protection against desiccating sunlight and wind. Sedums also avoid drying by absorbing and releasing gases through tiny pores in their leaves, called stomata, that close up during the day to prevent water loss. At night, when the absence of sunlight keeps evaporation to a minimum, they open to collect carbon dioxide and release oxygen. I gently squeeze a fat leaf and cup the custard-colored flowers in my hand before moving on.

Reaching the outcrop, I begin to climb. Carefully watching each foot placement, I notice a tiny white pouch stuck in a small crevice. Looking closer, I realize it’s an inch-long butterfly chrysalis. It hangs from a small patch of silk, cemented to one wall of the cleft. Brown and black spots speckle the white casement; one orange band and one black band encircle its upper end. The pouch’s coloration helps me identify the butterfly species that made it: Edith’s checkerspot. I sit down on the warm bedrock to look even closer; the chrysalis remains motionless, its inhabitant not yet ready to emerge.

One year ago, this tiny creature hatched from a miniscule egg that was one of hundreds its mother laid somewhere on this slope. Traveling on orange wings with black, red and cream-colored checkerboard markings, the female searched for a proper place to deposit her eggs. For this checkerspot, the only suitable location is the underside of a leaf on one of a small number of plant species that the young will consume after hatching: a penstemon, owl’s clover or valerian. This female used chemical receptors on her feet to taste the leaves of one plant after another.  Finally finding the desired plant, she laid a mass of tiny green eggs.

Two weeks later my little friend hatched from its egg as a hairy black caterpillar with orange spots; it ate voraciously to prepare for the energy-draining process of metamorphosis. As the host plants died back in late summer, the caterpillar crawled upslope to this rocky outcrop and crept under a stone to enter a dormancy that lasted through the fall and winter. Waking up with the arrival of spring, it devoured freshly sprouted leaves nearby, then found this secret spot and swaddled itself in its protective chrysalis. Within two weeks it will emerge as a wet wrinkly adult butterfly. After hanging upside down from the split chrysalis to straighten and dry its wings, the checkerspot will fly away and find a mate, and the year-long cycle will begin again.

My mountain stairway steepens and I decide to skirt below the crags on the grassy southern slope. Regaining the ridge in a gravelly saddle, I find myself in a sea of purple larkspur flowers bending in the breeze. A swarm of California tortoiseshells mobs me, landing on my sweaty arms and legs. My sweat-seeking guests are most likely all males, who transfer large amounts of bodily salts to females when mating. This nutrient boost helps to ensure that the female’s eggs will be healthy. Feeling like a human salt lick, I stand still as each butterfly extends its proboscis to tickle my skin and drink its fill.

After ascending a six-foot-wide catwalk along the narrow crest, I reach the mile-high summit of Browder Ridge. Looking east along the ridgeline is like looking along a giant partition with each rocky point resembling a post in a fence. Left of the barrier is my watershed, the Hackleman. The butterflies, hardy plants and thin soil up here are each as integral to the watershed as the deep forest, lush valley floor and rushing creek far below. Everything flows together in a stream of connected being. Water unifies all.

Next time: Witnessing A Reclamation