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.