Last Entry in this First Series

Within One Watershed:

Essays from Hackleman Creek

Part 3

The Lake

Fall

An autumn breeze gently lifts needled boughs as I follow a faint path through an old-growth forest just above the dry lakebed. My plan is to descend to the seasonal meadow and walk west until I reach water, where I hope to spot Hackleman cutthroat trout, the genetically isolated population that was cut off from its kin 3000 years ago when a lava flow blocked this valley. For now, though, I slow my pace to enjoy the silent company of conifers.

Moss carpets fallen logs and drapes over tree branches; splintered sunbeams illuminate the trail as it rounds a bend, creating a scene like a Renaissance master’s depiction of divine light. Walking past a fallen tree, I spy what looks like a handful of lavender Easter eggs on the forest floor. A second look reveals that they’re actually freshly sprouted mushrooms the color of lilacs. They’re called gassy webcaps, an unfortunate name for these beauties.

Kneeling near one of the fungi, I take a closer look. It stands about three inches tall, with a lustrous round cap whose surface is silky smooth. Using a hand mirror, I examine the cap’s underside, where the remains of a fragile cobwebby veil cover thin flap-like gills. These gills bear the mushroom’s tiny primitive seed-like structures, called spores. The veil protects the gills while they develop and then breaks as the webcap grows. When the time is right the gills will release the spores for the wind to disperse, spawning the next crop of webcaps.

These fungal fruiting bodies add more than color to the landscape; they are an integral part of the forest’s health. Each fungus grows from tiny rootlets in the soil. These thin hair-like filaments form part of a huge web of gauzy fibers that can spread for several acres underground. Some of the tiny threads wrap themselves around tree roots and form a bond that benefits both tree and fungus. The mushroom absorbs water and minerals from the soil and shares them with the tree via the roots. In return, the tree provides photosynthesized sugar as sustenance for the fungus; each organism helps its partner. Without each other, fungus and tree would struggle to survive. A single tree in this forest could have more than a dozen fungal partners; nutrients can even travel from one tree to several others through this underground network. I look up to a giant Douglas-fir that took root two centuries ago and then down to the purple webcap at its feet; scientists have only begun to understand their hidden connections within the last twenty years.

Bending to tie a loose bootlace, I notice a hard hoof-like growth on the end of a rapidly decomposing log. I’ve found a bracket fungus called a red-belted conk. It secretes tiny water droplets that hang like jewels from its rounded edge. Woody fungi like this are crucial recyclers in the forest. Their thin filaments grow into the log’s moist wood and release enzymes that break down organic material into simple compounds. As the log slowly crumbles into the duff, essential nutrients like nitrogen and phosphorous return to the soil to nourish newly sprouted plants and trees.

Stepping around an old tree snag, I spot what looks like a fossilized biscuit at eye-level on the trunk. Chalky white on top with tannish layers below, this fungus, called agarikon, is six inches long and three inches wide. The ancient Greeks used this species to treat tuberculosis, while Indigenous peoples of the Northwest prized it for its spiritual, supernatural and healing powers. Today, medical researchers study agarikon for its antibacterial and antiviral properties. It’s a treat to have such a close look at this mysterious life form, not often seen and rarely found growing this close to the ground. I gently tap it and then click a few photos.

Hiking on, I head down a gentle slope and wade into thick sedges mantling the dry lakebed; dew covers their wide leaf blades and soaks my pants up to the knees. Finding a waterless streambed, my boot prints join the two-toed tracks of deer and elk in the cindery channel; apparently, I’m not the only one who seeks the path of least resistance.

Basalt boulders at the lakebed’s edge bear a horizontal line showing the high-water mark like a bathtub ring. If I were standing here during spring’s full pool, the water’s surface would be just above my head. A leafy curtain of red and orange stands just above the jumbled lava rocks: vine maple bushes, named for their twisting tangled branches, have transformed the slope into a radiant watercolor painting. These brilliant hues appear each year as daylight hours decrease and the trees prepare to shed their leaves before becoming dormant for the winter.

The dry creek bed leads me to an elk trail that winds through a head-high thicket of willow trees. Near the willows I find trampled grass where the huge animals bedded down; I notice branches rubbed bare by antlers. Sidestepping fresh scat, I expect to run into the herd at any moment, but they’ve moved on.

Still following the elk trail, I near the head of the fjord-like meadow, where a still-flowing Hackleman Creek feeds the narrowed lakebed. Hopping from one cobbled side to the other, I make my way upstream. Deepening pools hold finger-length fish skittering to hide beneath undercut banks; they disappear too quickly for me to identify.

I clamber up a muddy embankment eroded by countless elk hooves to arrive above a quiet pool, about three feet deep; just upstream, the creek bounces over a pair of shallow riffles before it slips into the deeper water. Taking a seat on an old log, I study the stream. Movement draws my eyes to an eight-inch trout waiting near the bottom. Every few minutes it zips to the surface to catch an insect carried by the current. The pool, this trout’s place of refuge, will provide it with food and cover while it bides its time, waiting for the lake to fill again. Is it the species I seek – a Hackleman cutthroat trout? Watching it repeatedly rise to the surface and return to the deepest part of the pool, I notice its green skin speckled with small black dots. Each time it rises, I try to spot the two red slash marks on the lower jaw that are the telltale markings of all cutthroat trout. Finally, I give up and, instead of trying to identify exactly what it is, I simply admire who it is.

This small aquatic being is perfectly designed for its fluvial life. Its streamlined body and mucous-covered skin enable it to move through the water with ease. A stiff tail and pectoral fins provide it with momentum, lift, and the ability to steer and stop its body. Eyes positioned high on its head allow it to spot predators approaching from above, while color vision enables it to recognize prey drifting in the flow. Sensory neurons within lateral lines running along each side of its body detect the smallest vibrations in the water emanating from either predator or prey.

I sit transfixed as the little trout slowly moves its tail from side to side to remain stationary in the gentle current. When something of interest floats above, a quick thrust of the tail propels the fish to the surface, where it engulfs the tidbit in its mouth, then turns and descends again to deeper water.

Eventually the amber light of late afternoon signals that it’s time to head back. As I return the way I came, my thoughts turn to everything I’ve seen in twelve months of exploring the Hackleman watershed. Having witnessed the rich complexity of the watershed’s uplands, valley and seasonal lake, I feel fiercely protective of this place.  My Hackleman year has forged a much stronger commitment to educating others about the fragility of all watersheds.

Next: It’s time to explore new environs as I travel to the Oregon Coast to focus on one mile of its magnificent shoreline. 

 

 Within One Watershed:

Essays from Hackleman Creek

Part 3

The Lake

Summer

For three millennia the waters of Hackleman Creek have followed a slow rhythm of pooling and draining in Fish Lake: filling the lakebed in April and emptying it to reveal a verdant meadow in early July. But now the pattern has changed; the undeniable evidence lies before our trio of hikers. The second week of June has just ended, August-like temperatures bear down on us and the lake is completely gone. Unusually warm spring temperatures depleted a snowpack already diminished by less-than-normal winter snowfall; the meltwater briefly filled the lake, but the porous lava sucked it dry sooner than ever before.

Grass-like sedges have sprouted in thick bunches on the lakebed. As their underground stems, called rhizomes, spread and produce new shoots, the clumps will thicken and join to carpet the ground in green, creating cover and forage for terrestrial insects, mammals and birds.

For some organisms, however, the meadow’s premature birth brings early death. As we follow a dry channel that curves across the lakebed between sedge-lined banks, in lieu of the usual shallow flow or lingering puddles we see dried mud cracking in the sun and countless dead case-maker caddisfly larvae. After hatching in water, these macroinvertebrates become miniscule stonemasons, each constructing a rigid case around itself made of tiny rocks bonded by silk excreted from glands near its mouth. On the dried-up lakebed, these cases no longer protect the soft larvae as they were intended; instead, they’ve become pebbly caskets holding desiccated corpses. The creatures’ aquatic habitat vanished way too early, depriving them of a chance to grow, pupate underwater and emerge as free-flying adults.

We follow the dry watercourse west, hoping to find moisture. After 200 yards we see the stagnant remains of a stream. Hundreds of caddisfly and mayfly larvae crowd the small pools, packed together like New Year’s revelers in Times Square. But these little creatures aren’t celebrating; caddisfly larvae pile atop one another in the confined space while the mayfly nymphs dart back and forth, bumping into each other as they frantically search for deeper, cooler water. Cramming into these shrinking pools bought these creatures a little time but, ultimately, they face the same fate as the dead ones we saw earlier.

Moving farther upstream, we eventually find a flowing creek bisecting the wide meadow. Crayfish patrol the bottom and a garter snake slithers through sedges, emerging in the shallows, a bright yellow dorsal stripe running down the length of its black body. Here, young caddisfly and mayfly larvae appear to be thriving in uncrowded conditions.

Working our way slowly along the water’s edge, we spot a large salamander, about eight inches long, lolling in the stream. Its marbled brown skin, thick legs and wide head indicate it’s a pacific giant salamander. Creeping closer, we see its vertically flattened tail and notice short fuzzy gills extending from each side of its head.

Unusual creatures, pacific giant salamanders can grow to be a foot long, and have been known to bark when disturbed. A juvenile will spend two to three years in its  aquatic form, then metamorphose into a terrestrial adult with internal lungs replacing its external gills. Each secretive adult spends most of its time hidden under logs or rocks within 200 yards of its natal stream.

In a strange evolutionary twist, some pacific giant salamanders remain in their juvenile aquatic form their entire lives. This baby-like appearance is misleading, though, as they are able to mate and reproduce.

Resisting the urge to catch this creature, I kneel in the hot sun and ponder its fate. If it’s the type that develops into a terrestrial adult, will the water linger long enough for it to complete its metamorphosis? If it keeps its gilled aquatic form into adulthood, will it be able to move upstream when this part of the creek runs dry? The odds seem stacked against it.

As we slowly head back, I realize that in our search for water, we’ve been looking down all afternoon. Lifting my gaze, I take in the larger scene: the peaked roof of a century-old Forest Service cabin rises above a hill overlooking the meadow. A winged shadow skims across the green as a warm updraft carries a soaring Turkey Vulture in slow circles. Old cottonwoods stand sentinel in the east as the breeze flips each individual leaf, alternately revealing dark green on the upper side and shimmering silver below. Hidden in this idyllic scene is the sad truth that, for some aquatic creatures, summer has come too soon. Their demise is a somber prelude to what may lie ahead for this small watershed and the planet as a whole.

 

Within One Watershed:

Essays from Hackleman Creek 

Part 3

The Lake

Spring

Newly leafed cottonwood trees tower overhead as small waves lap at my feet. A warm mid-May breeze ripples Fish Lake, brimming with spring runoff. Its main pool, at least a half mile wide, narrows to a slender fjord and curves around a bend out of sight. Snow melting from the Hackleman watershed’s uplands has once again filled the lake, but not for long.

Three thousand years ago, lava oozed out of Nash Crater and flowed three and a half miles to block the ancestral valley of Hackleman Creek. This basalt barrier now briefly impounds the creek’s flow each year. Gradually, as spring gives way to summer, the inrush of snowmelt will slow and the remaining water will seep through the porous lakebed, shrinking the lake until it vanishes altogether.

Walking along the eastern shore, I spot two chartreuse heart-shaped leaves floating on the water’s surface; they seem to glow with green energy. These new leaves fell, perhaps in a strong gust this morning, from one of the cottonwood limbs hanging over the lake. Below them, curling and clumping on the soil beneath the shallow water, are last season’s fallen brown leaves. This layer of decomposing foliage will nourish meadow plants when they sprout after the meltwater disappears.

Turning away from the shore, I head into the narrow cottonwood forest hugging this end of the lake. The breeze carries a honeyed aroma, reminiscent of a sun-warmed beehive, emanating from thousands of freshly unfurled leaves above me.

Each newly emerged cottonwood leaf is covered with a sweet tacky resin that protects the tender leaves from hungry bugs. Honeybees collect this cottonwood glue and use it in the hive to seal out insect invaders and disease-causing microbes. Solitary bees use it to line small cavities where they lay eggs. I look down to see my boots adorned with resinous leaf bud scales that have fallen after bud burst.

The sweet-smelling leaves fluttering all around me formed as tightly-packed buds last summer and spent the cold winter months wrapped inside protective bud scales like those gummed to the soles of my boots. After the appropriate amount of time chilling in dormancy (which varies by tree species), growth inhibitors within the nascent leaves’ inactive cells began to break down. As temperatures rose and daylight lengthened, hormones kick-started photosynthesis, resulting in the riot of green above me.

Moving on, I come to several huge cottonwoods, each about four feet in diameter. A burly root reaches up from beneath the moist soil, reminding me that most of a tree’s workings take place out of sight. Beneath my feet countless tree roots draw in vast volumes of water from the soil. I lean against a gray trunk, furrowed with age. As this cottonwood’s roots soak up moisture, the vascular tissue in its inner bark pulls as much as 200 gallons of water up through the tree to its leaves each day. The leaves use most of the water to convert sunlight into food for the tree. Microscopic pores on each leaf transpire the remaining water as vapor into the atmosphere. This process hastens the annual drawdown of Fish Lake. When the last of the lake’s water disappears, cottonwood tap roots will strain to reach water trapped in underground pockets within the volcanic bedrock.

Paralleling the south shore, I watch two kayakers glide across the lake, floating above an area where, in a manner of weeks, black-tailed deer will leave pointed tracks in the mud as they nibble fresh grasses covering the lakebed.

Stopping for a sip from my water bottle, I sit on a large rock at the edge of the trees above the lakeshore. Looking out across the water, I notice my sole companion: a chubby little duck floating in the middle of the lake. Its chocolate-brown head, gray back and steep forehead confirm that it’s a female Barrow’s Goldeneye. I watch as she swims in small circles, repeatedly diving and surfacing. Each dive launches a new set of concentric ripples across the surface. Her hungry search for aquatic tidbits creates a moving piece of monochromatic line art on a liquid canvas.

Soon another bird paddles into view beyond the circling goldeneye. Looking through binoculars, I notice a dagger-sharp bill, smooth black head, black and white necklace and checkered back – it’s a migrating Common Loon pausing for a break on its journey to Canadian breeding grounds. As it slowly turns to show its profile, I see water beading up on the sleek dark feathers surrounding a ruby-colored eye. Scientists disagree about the purpose of the brilliantly colored eyes: some say it helps the loon see underwater when diving for fish, others maintain the coloration is a visual display for attracting a mate.

The loon floats low in the water as the goldeneye continues to circle and dive. These avian companions are transients on an ephemeral lake slowly draining away beneath them. I wonder how soon the lake will vanish this year . . . and the next . . . and the year after that. Because of the changing climate, it may eventually disappear forever.