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.