Within One Watershed:

Essays from Hackleman Creek

Part 2

The Valley 

Snowmelt

The gushing song of gathering snowmelt reverberates through the valley. Rushing streams surge down to swell Hackleman Creek as the snowpack gradually morphs from solid to liquid. Liberated from the weight of its winter burden, the forest floor releases the first growth of spring; fern fronds unfurl from tightly coiled fiddleheads and early wildflowers burst into bloom. My trail, softened by a cushion of conifer needles, leads me to a bridge over the creek. Mid-span I close my eyes and stand motionless, listening to moving water.

A dozen gleaming western trilliums greet me on the other side. These familiar three-leaved plants are slow bloomers, taking many years to produce flowers. The multi-stage process begins when a trillium seed germinates; the first summer it produces one tiny slender leaf-like growth that barely rises above the ground. The following spring an oval-shaped leaf no bigger than a thumbnail replaces its predecessor. After a year or two in the one-leaf stage, a whorl of three leaves emerges, but no flower develops. It remains flowerless through the next growing season until, finally, the plant is mature enough to produce a solitary flower above its leaves: a trio of white petals surrounds a cluster of six golden pollen-producing structures, called anthers. Two to three weeks later, the aging white petals turn deep rose, then drop to the ground.

Carefully stepping among the blossoms, I scan the forest floor for other wildflowers and find a treasure: the western fairy slipper, also known as Calypso orchid. Five slim magenta petals splay outward from atop a purple stem only two inches high. A white slipper-shaped pouch, speckled with pink dots, hangs below the petals. The interior of the slipper is dark red with thin white stripes. Tiny white hairs line the lip of the slipper’s opening.  

This little nymph never fails to take my breath away; on hands and knees I sniff the delicate scent of vanilla and study its intricate details. The small orchid is equipped with all the cues – bright colors, nectar guides, enticing scent – to attract insects to sample its sugary liquid, but it’s all an elaborate ruse to trick inexperienced pollinators. The fairy slipper actually has no nectar at all. When a naïve insect visits this orchid, it crawls all over the blossom searching for the sweet reward. Finding none, it will fly on to the next fairy slipper and search in vain for nectar. It might visit a third and fourth blossom before finally wising up to the deception, but by that time pollination has occurred and the fairy slippers have accomplished their mission.

Once the fairy slipper has produced seeds, it relies on another organism, a fungus, to help the seeds germinate and grow. Orchid seeds are the smallest of all flowering plants; each one is the size of a speck of dust. A seed this tiny has no room for stored food to sustain the developing plant. When an orchid seed hits the ground, it only has enough energy to send out a single miniscule root. If a compatible fungus exists in the soil, the fungus will connect its root-like filaments to the fairy slipper’s root to provide carbon, nitrogen, phosphorous and water to the embryonic orchid. Later, when the fairy slipper has grown strong, it will return the favor to the patient fungus by giving it carbohydrates produced by photosynthesis in its single leaf.

Back on my feet, I climb a slight rise. Over the next half mile, I find several piles of dark coyote scat deliberately placed at regular intervals in the middle of the wide path. The droppings are scent markers proclaiming a boundary between territories. Coyotes, like all canines, have anal scent glands that release chemicals indicating the identity, status and physical condition of an individual. Apparently, I’m following a well-traveled coyote highway this morning.

Soon I encounter another territorial proclamation: the sweet pensive song of a male Hermit Thrush staking his nesting claim. A single piping note precedes a fluty warble. His melody tells other males to stay away while simultaneously announcing his availability to prospective mates. His ethereal song fades into the forest as I hike on.

Heart Creek drops in frothy whitewater steps to flow beneath another bridge. After crossing it, I pass the lacy cascades of a tiny unnamed stream and stop to dip my hand in its flow; my fingers tingle with cold. The trail continues uphill and brings me to un-melted snow. At first, it’s only a few inches thick but, as I continue, it deepens to almost two feet. I walk over its still-crusted top; later today it will soften with warmth. Fallen conifer needles curl in green crescents on the old snow, defining melt patterns on its surface.

Snowpack melts from the top down as the upper layer absorbs daytime heat. Snow crystals change to water drops, which flow over the surface and percolate down to underlying soil. Absorbing water like a sponge, the soil releases liquid in an underground flow. Freezing temperatures stop the melting each night, but water continues to flow beneath the ground. Warmer spring temperatures eventually cause constant melting, both day and night. The ground becomes completely saturated and surface flow begins. Spring rain adds more water to the runoff and streams rise to deliver the increased volume down the valley.

My boot plunges through a weak spot in the snow, and I post-hole nearly to my knee. Struggling to extricate my foot, I notice that the snow around me is pink. Called watermelon snow, it’s colored by algae that thrive at low temperatures. The red pigment absorbs heat, which provides the short-lived algae with a small amount of meltwater for growth. These strange one-celled plants form the foundation of a little-known snowpack food chain. Snowfleas, tiny cold-loving invertebrates that aren’t really fleas at all, come up through the snow layers looking for food; watermelon snow makes a perfect meal. The snow fleas are eaten by early spring insects, which are, in turn, eaten by migratory birds. I look all over for the speck-sized snowfleas, but have no luck.

When a clearing appears on my right, I walk to its center; bright sunshine has softened the top layer of snow so much that it’s like slogging through a milkshake. Looking to the north above the surrounding trees, I see the open slope of Echo Mountain, already melted out thanks to its south-facing exposure. A small group of elk crosses the steep meadow, looking like a herd of Jersey cows grazing in a vertical pasture. As I lift my binoculars to watch them lower their heads to feed on lush greenery, I think about the melting snow beneath my feet.

Snowpack is the savings account that holds precipitation in solid form and then gradually releases it each spring to hydrate everything downstream. When winter snowfall is light, water savings dwindle and the watershed operates in a deficit the following summer. Every living thing I’ve chanced upon today depends on a plentiful snowpack for survival. What does a future impacted by climate change hold for them? Will the gushing song of gathering snowmelt still reverberate through this valley? I fervently hope so.