Within One Watershed:

Essays From Hackleman Creek

Part 1

The Uplands

Meadow Communities

A trio of mountains flanks the north side of the Hackleman Valley: Cone Peak, South Peak and Echo Mountain. Neither stiletto point nor raw massif, each gently contoured summit rises in pastoral softness. Aligned west to east, the mountains stand shoulder to shoulder; a vast meadow drapes over their south-facing slopes like a swath of crushed velvet.

I stand alone at the foot of the meadow, having spent the last hour bushwhacking through a thick forest of Douglas-firs and snarled vine maples. Iron Mountain, the eroded remnant of a once-huge volcano formed six million years ago, looms at the western end of the valley. A narrow rock spire stands just left of the main body of the peak; together they look like the thumb and fist of a mittened hand thrusting out of the earth. A much-loved trail encircles Iron Mountain and climbs to its summit. Even at this early hour, it will be crawling with people: botanists, photographers and hikers, all eager to see the spectacular June wildflower show. Many will post selfies on social media, attracting even more visitors. I prefer the challenge and solitude of off-trail travel.

Above me a patchwork of meadow communities covers the open slopes, each with a unique assemblage of wildflowers, depending on moisture and soil type. Leaving the shadows, I step into the sunlight and skirt a rocky seep formed where solid rock lies beneath soil. Underground water from snowmelt flows above the bedrock and up to the surface before eventually drying out later in summer. 

Dozens of monkeyflowers look up at me from the wet ground. The color of egg yolks, their lip-like petals open to the sun; orange dots act as pointers directing hungry bumblebees to nectar deep within each blossom. Just above them, slim-leaf onions offer delicate clusters of star-shaped lavender flowers; a nose-to-ground investigation reveals their spicy aroma. Still higher, clumps of fool’s onion sway in the breeze like floral metronomes. Looking closely at an individual flower, I see six white petals, each with a dark green mid-rib, joined at the base to form an up-turned bell. Every plant in this soggy community will bloom, attract pollinators and produce seeds before the seasonally saturated soil dries out later in the summer. 

A few yards above the seep the ground changes abruptly: my boots scrape over the gritty surface of coarse particles. Called a xeric meadow, this porous ground loses its moisture immediately after snowmelt yet manages to foster a vibrant community of hardy flowers. Spikes of bright owl clover punctuate the transition zone between wet and dry with magenta exclamation points. A broad brushstroke of gold washes the slope above with miniature sunflowers called Oregon sunshine. Soft hairs fuzz their leaves in a dusty gray pubescence. The hairs help to conserve water by reflecting sunlight and reducing the effects of drying winds. 

Hiking on, I spot a black-tailed deer nibbling on trumpet-shaped scarlet gilia, another wildflower that prospers in xeric meadows. The young doe slowly turns her large ears to catch my sound, then cranes her neck to get a better look at me. I take another step; she snorts and bounds through the bushes and out of sight. Approaching the spot where she stood, I find severed shoots and fallen red petals scattered on the ground.

Deer can’t resist scarlet gilia and will munch it down to a nubbin. Although this much damage would kill most plants, the gilia has a unique defense. Instead of protecting itself with thorns or toxic compounds, it simply grows more flower stalks than it had before it was eaten. Grazing deer improve the plant’s reproduction rate. When very little grazing occurs, it will produce fewer flowers resulting in fewer seeds. The two species have evolved together so both can thrive.

Carefully winding my way through the blossoms, I climb a short distance to another plant community: a mesic (moist) meadow spreading across a broad terrace the length of two football fields. The flat terrain holds fine dirt particles and organic matter – the kind of soil that retains moisture; plants grow lush and tall here. Not wanting to crush any vegetation, I trace the edge of this huge mountain shelf.

Alpine knotweeds stand four feet high; loose floral clusters holding dozens of white blossoms bend with their own weight above long lance-shaped leaves. Bumblebees rumble from one flower to the next as tiny black beetles cling to round petals. Red and yellow columbine flowers hang like fairy lanterns among the dense growth, their nectar-filled spurs pointing straight up in anticipation of a hummingbird’s visit. Here and there the strange blossoms of coneflowers rise above the tangle, their bare heads resembling petal-plucked daisies.

Reaching the terrace’s east end, I glance upslope to a scene that stops me in my tracks: as far as I can see, the mountainside blushes brilliant red with thousands of scarlet gilia blooms. Immediately changing course, I aim for a rock formation a hundred yards above me, jutting like a ship’s prow into the morning sky. As I climb, the softly focused blur of red sharpens into crisp definition; individual scarlet gilia stems with multiple blossoms come into view. Five fused petals flare out into pointed lobes on each tubular flower.

Scrambling onto the rock outcrop, I find a flat surface for a seat and settle in for a long gaze; then I hear them – dozens of Rufous Hummingbirds zooming back and forth. Wings humming, they scold each other with warning chips and trills; midair skirmishes erupt all around. In between battles, each feisty little bird hovers in front of a scarlet gilia and inserts its thin beak into the elongated flower to sip nectar. Just three inches tall, males are the color of shiny copper, females a subdued green with copper shading. Two feet from my boot, a female methodically works her way up a stem, hovering at every one of the sixteen nectar-rich blossoms. Each time she pulls her beak out from a flower she actually flies backwards, something no other bird species can do. Exceptionally flexible shoulder joints and enlarged chest muscles enable this unique maneuvering.

After nearly twenty minutes of hummingbird-watching, I swivel on my rock to look at Echo Mountain. A thin ribbon of water slides down the crease between it and South Peak; grasses, sedges and herbaceous plants cover its slopes. Near Echo Mountain’s summit at 5600 feet, sprawling circular mats of dwarf juniper look from a distance like subalpine putting greens. Halfway down the mountain an elk trail, worn deep by the hooves of many generations, bisects the steep meadow. Elk favor open slopes like this for grazing; here, a 600-pound adult could easily consume ten to twelve pounds of succulent forage in a day.

An elk herd’s day starts with grazing at dawn; each animal fills the first chamber of its four-part stomach with food. Once all the members of the herd have eaten their fill for the morning, the group travels the well-trodden path to settle into daybeds on a cooler north-facing slope. While resting they regurgitate cud, chew and swallow again. The masticated food passes through the stomach’s other three chambers as each elk dozes periodically through the warmest part of the day. Come dusk, the herd heads for the open slope to feed again and then beds down for the night in a secluded spot under cover of vegetation.  

Sitting on this high perch I ponder the biological diversity I’ve seen today. Although not as large as the forest surrounding it, the meadowed landscape I’ve explored adds rich strands to the assemblage of communities that, woven together, make up the complex fabric of this watershed. 

Within One Watershed:

Essays From Hackleman Creek

Part 1

The Uplands

Echo Basin: In the Footprint of a Glacier

The shady trail climbs steeply at the start, leading me over rough, rocky ground. The rocks, some as large as watermelons, were once embedded in a glacier that pushed its way down this small valley about 15,000 years ago. As the ice age came to a close and the climate gradually warmed, the glacier retreated up into its box canyon and disappeared altogether, disgorging this rubble as it withdrew.

I stop to study the surrounding forest. Fir trees planted after a timber harvest thirty-five years ago stand straight and tall, shading Echo Creek as it tumbles over small riffles on its way southeast to join Hackleman Creek. A length of rusty cable lines the trail. Left over from logging days, it is composed of thin wires twisted into strands which are in turn bundled together to form a strong wire rope an inch and a half thick. In addition to chainsaws, the long-abandoned cable was one of the most crucial tools at this logging site.

The harvesting work began when fallers cut down trees, de-limbed them and bucked them into transportable logs. Then choker-setters wrapped a cable noose around each log and attached it to the thicker main cable, the remains of which I now hold in my hand. A radio-triggered whistle gave the yarder the go-ahead to mechanically drag the cable and attached logs to a landing site, where a chaser unhooked and readied them to be loaded onto trucks bound for a local sawmill. Running my fingers over the old cable, I imagine the growl of chainsaws, the smell of diesel and the roar of industrial machinery that once filled the air. This morning, the regenerating forest stands silent and soft with new growth.

Hiking on, I leave the plantation and enter an old-growth forest of mixed conifers. A lush layer of shade-loving plants spreads across the forest floor. Shiny heart-shaped leaves crowd each side of the trail. Kneeling down, I gently push aside the leaves until I find the deep brown blossom of the western wild ginger. The flower has three lobes, each tapering to a thread-thin point. Hidden under the leaves, the blooms go almost completely unnoticed by insects; they are scentless and harbor no enticing nectar. In fact, this species of wild ginger is only receptive to insect pollination for about six days. After that brief window of opportunity, each flower’s pollen-bearing stamens straighten up to join the pollen-receiving stigmas and the plant pollinates itself.

Once its flowers produce seeds, the western wild ginger enlists the aid of local ants to disperse them. Each seed has an oily sweet jacket, which ants find irresistible. The ants carry the seeds to their nests, where they eat the sweet substance and then discard the naked seeds in the nest chambers or nearby, where they may germinate.

The trail brings me to a narrow footbridge over Echo Creek. Crossing its wooden planks, I spot enormous devil’s club plants growing on the opposite bank. A lover of cool temperatures, deep shade and wet soil, devil’s club can grow to be nine feet tall. I examine the huge maple-like leaves without touching them; large, sharply barbed spines grow on nearly every exposed surface. Only the plant’s bright red berries, which will develop later in summer, are spine free.

Arriving at a meadow bursting with knee-high bracken ferns, I get a glimpse of the valley’s headwall and then spot something much closer. Twenty-five yards away, a young black bear wades through the lacy fronds and stops. Ears pricked and nostrils flared, it looks my way. About the size of a Labrador retriever, it’s probably a yearling female. The mature sow who lives in this valley has raised at least two sets of cubs here. She will allow her young daughter to establish a territory partially overlapping her own, while her sons will travel miles from their natal grounds to claim their territories. This youngster’s muzzle is cocoa-brown and the sleek black fur on her head is slicked down; she looks like a diver who just climbed out of a swimming pool. Perhaps she took an early dip in the small lake just over the ridge in the neighboring watershed.

Black bears have keen memories about food; this bear may be revisiting some of the feeding spots her mother showed her last summer. It’s possible she has spent the morning on the high slopes above the valley digging up the roots of Hall’s lomatium, a plant with delicate yellow flowers and parsley-like leaves. She may be on her way to raid an ant nest for nutritious larvae --unknowingly ingesting wild ginger seeds, too. She could be checking on the ripeness of the devil’s club berries, always prized by black bears. She’ll spread the seeds of numerous plants in her scat, or droppings, as she forages across this valley. New plants will sprout one day to feed her and her future offspring in a food web that connects wild ginger, ant, devil’s club and black bear. She and I make eye contact; instantly she pivots and sprints into the bushes, crashing loudly through the vegetation. I wait several minutes and then continue up the trail in the opposite direction.

Climbing a small rise, I find myself in the presence of giants: several mammoth Alaska yellow cedars surround the trail, each easily six or seven feet in diameter. My hiking poles look like toothpicks leaning against one gigantic trunk. I slowly circle the buttressed base of each tree, touching the shaggy gray bark as I go. Peeling back a strip, I inhale the starchy aroma of the inner bark; it smells like raw potatoes. Blue-green scaly needles hang from droopy branches above my head. A little farther on, two cedars are joined at the base, each trunk at least eight feet wide. The Pleistocene glacier that carved this bowl-shaped valley created a basin where cool air pools, fostering a moist, chilly habitat perfect for Alaska yellow cedars; these ancients, growing at the southernmost end of their range, have thrived here for at least six centuries. Leaning into one of the huge twins, I ponder the brevity of my own time on this planet. Shafts of soft light angle down through the canopy to bathe the forest floor in a cathedral glow.

The trail pulls me onward. After a quarter mile, it leaves the shadowy forest to enter a meadowed amphitheater, the abrupt change akin to stepping from a dark lodge onto a bright balcony. High rocky walls encircle the sunlit meadow on three sides. Spring-fed streamlets gurgle under boardwalks built to keep boots from damaging delicate plants. Bright wildflowers called Jeffrey’s shooting stars punctuate the meadow like neon-pink exclamation points. Each rocket-like blossom has five magenta petals streaming straight back from a yellow tube with a purplish-black tip. Favored by bumblebees, each flower’s downward facing tip will point up once these pollinating insects do their job and the seed capsule begins to form.

Looking beyond the shooting stars, I notice another group of bright pink blooms. Known as elephant’s head, this flower has erect stems topped with clusters of miniature flowers that do look exactly like the heads of tiny elephants. Each individual blossom sports a curving spur that forms the elephant’s trunk flanked by two lateral petals resembling pachyderm ears.

Stopping to take a photo, I hear the rapid buzz of a bumblebee procuring protein-rich pollen from one of the flowers. Its whining buzz has a much higher pitch than that of flight. In a process called buzz pollination, a hungry bumblebee lands on a blossom and holds on tight. As the bee clings to the flower, it moves its wing muscles rapidly, causing the flower to vibrate. The vibration shakes loose a puff of pollen, which sticks to the insect’s hairy body. After the bumblebee releases the flower, it uses its front legs to brush its haul into basket-like structures on its back legs. Not being very tidy, the bee can never manage to scrape all the pollen into its baskets. Flying on, it will unknowingly transfer the leftover pollen from its back to the next flower it visits. If that flower is the same species as the one it just left, pollination occurs and seeds will eventually form. Elephant’s head and Jeffrey’s shooting star both rely on the bumblebee’s buzz pollination for reproduction.

As I sit on the edge of a boardwalk encircled by wildflowers, a rock suddenly dislodges from an outcrop on the steep slope above. It tumbles from its high perch, reminding me that I’m sitting in the footprint of a long-vanished glacier. Fifteen thousand years ago, thick ice covered this idyllic spot. Hundreds of feet below the top layer of this frozen mass, the enormous weight of slow-moving ice scoured and quarried the bedrock into a cirque open on the downhill side. The ice, studded with rocks plucked from the steep walls that held it, deepened the bowl’s concave floor and then slowly flowed out of its circular basin to move downslope. A warming climate eventually halted the glacier’s advance, causing its retreat and ultimate disappearance. Although the glacier is gone, this sculpted valley with its varied collection of wildflowers, insects, trees and animals testifies to its immense power and ongoing legacy.