Within One Watershed:

Essays from Hackleman Creek

Part 2

The Valley

The Quarry

The map in my hands, dog-eared and splitting at the folds, is forty years old. I’ve brought along this paper relic, borrowed from a friend, because of one tiny symbol: a pair of crossed mining picks, the cartographic mark for a quarry. Missing from current maps and GPS devices, this little insignia could lead me to one of my favorite mountain mammals – the American pika. Potato-sized denizens of rocky slopes, these diminutive creatures frequently colonize quarries after the digging ceases. The boulders and rocky debris left behind provide a ready-made habitat for the charismatic little animals. Heat sensitive, pikas need the cool sanctuaries under rockpiles to survive. Throughout most of the western U.S. pikas are restricted to high elevation alpine areas. Here in Oregon, though, they frequently live below 1,000 feet. Ongoing scientific studies seek to determine how pikas can survive the warmer temperatures at this low elevation and how climate change will affect them. Carefully handling the fragile map, I slip it into my back pocket and head out on a pika quest.

The trail leads me west at the foot of the valley’s north slope. Hackleman Creek lies a half-mile away, the sound of its flow absorbed by dense forest. A luxuriant mat of ground dogwoods spills over disintegrating logs on either side of the path. Resembling a miniature version of its cousin the dogwood tree, the ground species is only three inches high. Each blossom displays creamy petal-like bracts surrounding a cluster of miniscule purplish flowers. Bright red berries, favored by squirrels and birds, will replace the flowers come fall.

Rounding a bend, I spot a dollop of white foam stuck to the stem of a spindly baldhip rose bush. Most people think the frothy mass is the work of a spitbug, but that name is misleading: it’s not spit at all, but rather a protective nest of bubbles made by an insect called a froghopper. Each autumn, female froghoppers lay dozens of eggs on plant stems. Pale green nymphs, looking like tiny frogs an eighth of an inch long, hatch the following spring. Each baby then finds a stem of its own, turns upside down and begins to suck the plant’s juices, which serve as food and shelter. The nymph ingests some of the juice and excretes the rest; a pump-like structure on its underside then blows air into the liquid, creating a blob of bubbles that cascades down over its inverted body. I gingerly remove the froth from between the rosebush’s thin thorns and separate the bubbles to find the infant froghopper inside. Two dark eyes the size of pin pricks stare out from a round head; six stubby legs carry the creature down my finger. I gently return the nymph to its stem and hike on.

A quick check of the dilapidated map shows that it’s time to leave the trail and strike out through the dark woods. The thick canopy here allows very little light to penetrate; the forest floor holds no green growth. Up ahead, I spot an apparition rising ten inches above the needle-covered duff: a solitary coralroot orchid. A dozen small flowers climb its milky pink stem, each bloom featuring three filmy pink petals hovering around a tiny lipped pouch. The subdued light and decaying tree limbs around it give this orchid the look of an otherworldly visitant. Its habit of parasitizing underground fungi rather than relying on its own photosynthesis adds to its creepy aura. I quickly decide to put this eerie spot behind me and move on.

An open space in the forest ahead suggests that I’m nearing the quarry. I wend my way around tree trunks to arrive at the foot of a sloping collection of big rocks. Clambering up the mossy boulders, I arrive at the top and walk to the edge of a 25-foot cliff curving around an open pit. Trees and shrubs cover the old entrance road, nearly erasing it from existence. Barrel-sized boulders and pumpkin-sized rocks lie scattered below me on the floor of the abandoned quarry. Excavations like this dot the western Cascades. Dug years ago, they were the source of the raw material used in road building; the basalt fragments extracted from this site probably formed the base layer for several local roads.

Following the edge of the cliff to its northern end, I find a spot where I can make my way down through the jumble. Testing each rock before I put my full weight on it, I find firm footing as I descend. Halfway down I hear a muffled cry from a crevice deep within the rocks . . . meep . . . I immediately freeze in place . . . meep . . . a long silence follows . . . meep. It’s a pika! Once safely at the bottom, I choose an angular slab for a seat and settle in to watch for the furry little creatures. 

The smallest members of the rabbit family, pikas have lots more personality than their long-eared cousins. Each little scamp has gray-brown fur, wide round ears, a rabbit nose and no tail. A pika stakes out a territory amid the rocks and guards it diligently. Trespassing neighbors are met with a loud squeak and chased away. When it’s not protecting its domain, a pika repeatedly scurries from the rocks to the adjoining vegetation where it gathers plants in its mouth and carries them back to a hay pile in the rocks to dry for winter. These low haystacks are usually built under the shelter of overhanging boulders for protection from rain.

I scan the rocks nearest me and spot the remains of a hay pile from last year; the leftovers are old and brown. I see no evidence of fresh green haystacks nor any movement in the habitat. I take a sip from my water bottle while a Steller’s Jay chatters in a nearby tree. Fifteen minutes go by; I wait and watch. Finally, a blur of fur zips over a boulder and ducks behind a rock. Meep! It announces its presence, then climbs to its sentry post ten yards away and stares right at me. Irritated at my presence, this grizzled old pika lets loose with another cry: meeep! Its scarred ears and patchy fur tell the story of a life filled with territorial battles. It continues to stand its ground; I defer to the ragged warrior by retreating several yards back. Satisfied, the pika responds by disappearing between the rocks.

My gaze falls upon a miniature cavern just ten feet to my right and, as if on cue, another pika silently creeps out onto its front porch. I hold my breath as it takes a few tentative steps out into the open. Much smaller than the previous one, this little pika licks its front paws and rubs them over its smooth perfect ears; it’s one of this year’s young. I wonder how it’s managing to avoid the wounds of battle as it grooms its glossy coat. Perhaps the ragged elder is its mother, tolerating her offspring’s proximity to give it a good start in life. The little one retreats into the rockpile, signaling an end to my viewing session.

Leaving the pikas to their secret lives, I depart. Once back in the forest I pull out my tattered map and eye it one last time, happy that it carries the obscure symbol that led me to this forgotten quarry.          

 

Within One Watershed:

Essays from Hackleman Creek

Part 2

The Valley

Wetland Secrets 

The creek murmurs softly a hundred yards in the distance. Shafts of gentle morning light angle down through the tree canopy to bathe the forest floor in a cathedral glow. With no particular destination in mind, I walk the woods without benefit or need of a trail. Wandering westward through the middle portion of the Hackleman Valley, I am greeted by a loud chorus of rib-it, rib-it, rib-it: the familiar song of Pacific tree frogs.

The two-inch males are advertising their desirability to the slightly larger females, who remain quiet. To make his amorous call, each male frog shuts his nostrils and inflates his throat sacs, amplifying the sound of air rushing over his vocal cords. When a female hears a call to her liking, she follows the sound until she finds her chosen mate waiting in shallow water.

I’m drawn to the sounds, too, and soon find myself approaching an opening beyond the trees where they seem to resonate most loudly - but when I step out from the woods at the fringes of a wide wetland, the frog chorus stops immediately; apparently the males have sensed my intrusion.

A heavy sweet musk hangs in the air: the scent of skunk cabbage. The flowers, each a club-shaped stalk cloaked by a bright yellow hood, dot the saturated ground. Huge waxy leaves, each two feet long and a foot wide, look like something a stegosaurus would have relished millions of years ago. The scent these plants release mimics the smell of rotting meat to attract pollinating flies and beetles. Carefully picking my way from one dry spot to the next along the spongy ground, I nearly step in an enormous pile of coal-black bear scat filled with green chunks: partially digested skunk cabbage.

Beetles and flies aren’t the only ones attracted to the fetid aroma of this plant; black bears seek it out for its laxative properties after they awaken from hibernation. The last thing a bear ingests before denning up for winter is a combination of hair, dirt and conifer needles; this clump forms a fecal plug in the bear’s intestine. The bear will not defecate or urinate during hibernation, but when it wakes up in spring, it needs to unplug itself before it can begin feeding on fresh spring grasses and forbs. A large helping of skunk cabbage does the trick.

My next step sends a tiny Pacific tree frog leaping out of the way. After a minute of artful frog hunting, I have it in my hand. Its dark throat tells me he’s a male. He sports the black eye stripe typical of his species and his skin color is a gorgeous mix of bright spring green and coppery brown. This pattern may only be temporary, as these frogs have the ability to change their body colors in response to environmental conditions. Tomorrow he could be completely brown or green or an entirely new palette of earthy tones. I gently put him back and push deeper into the marsh.

 Parting a snarl of willow branches with my hands, I get a view across an open expanse of still water; then I notice it: a ridge of sticks and mud about three feet high stretches at least 100 yards along the edge of the flooded clearing, impounding the water. This pond is the work of beavers! Grasses, forbs and willows growing on the dam indicate that it’s been here for many years, harboring multiple generations of the aquatic mammals.

I slosh back to dry ground and walk along the bank to reach one end of the dam. Cut branches mantled with a criss-crossing of smaller sticks protrude from the mud. Gnawed tips point skyward; rocks and gobs of gooey vegetation plug the weak spots, making the dam nearly watertight.  In damming this tributary of Hackleman Creek, the beavers have engineered a deep-water haven for themselves and created a biologically rich wetland habitat that benefits multiple species.

As water pools in the pond, it gradually soaks into the soil, where it cools down and flows underground below the dam into Hackleman Creek, chilling the water downstream. The dam traps and holds sediments, creating clear water and clean gravel beds necessary for aquatic insect larvae and spawning fish downstream. Water impounded behind the dam inundates and kills trees, creating nesting sites for ducks, woodpeckers and other cavity-dwelling birds. Willows felled by hungry beavers re-sprout even bushier the following spring, providing excellent cover for songbirds. The pond’s rich insect life feeds fish, which in turn sustain Belted Kingfishers, Great Blue Herons, Bald Eagles and other piscivores. Occasional breaks in the dam offer fattened fish a chance to escape and join their kin in the main stem of the creek. Pond plants absorb phosphorus and nitrogen carried in runoff, slowly releasing the vital nutrients into the watershed over time.

Pondering the gifts that beavers bestow upon a watershed, I amble close to the water’s edge. Several sticks, stripped bare of their bark to expose the sweet cambium layer that makes up the bulk of the beaver diet, rest below the glassy surface: the remains of a recent meal. Looking closer, I see an underwater opening leading into the bank below me. Further investigation reveals countless sticks, gnawed on both ends, plastered with mud over a gap between exposed tree roots under my feet. Lost in thought, I’ve unknowingly wandered onto the roof of the beavers’ house. Instead of building the classic mounded beaver lodge in the middle of the pond, these animals have burrowed into the bank beneath the interlacing root system of an old tree to create a predator-proof home. Within its dark interior, adults tend to their infants with help from the kits born last year. The two-year-old kits left the family to strike out on their own when this spring’s newborns arrived. I quickly step away from the beavers’ home, hoping I haven’t disturbed any of the residents.

Afternoon shadows grow long, signaling the time to head back. I leave the pond and its skunk-cabbage perfume. My departure prompts the all-male frog choir to resume its performance. As I retreat deeper into the forest, the ardent sounds soon fade, replaced by the creek’s soft singing. I head for the car, thankful for the revealing of more Hackleman secrets and another day to witness the workings of this watershed.