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.