One Seacoast Mile

Summer 

A thin layer of scraggly summer clouds drifts overhead this morning as I stand next to a rock-ringed tidepool at the foot of Cape Tolowa. Just above me, the cape’s green slope rises steeply to meet a trio of velveted pinnacles halfway up the hillside; above these grassy points, the gradient eases until the flower-dotted incline finally reaches the summit. As I ponder the juxtaposition of lush meadow and rocky ocean shore, a quote from Rachel Carson, the scientist whose seminal writing sparked the environmental movement, comes to mind: The edge of the sea is a strange and beautiful place.

 I intend to dawdle the day away by examining both the strange and the beautiful, starting with the limpid pool at my feet. Six inches below the pool’s surface, froth the color of bubblegum covers the rocks. Dipping my hand in the cold water, I run my fingers over the pink surface: it’s hard as cement. Called coralline algae, this odd seaweed uses minerals from the saltwater to create a calcified lining within each of its cells, rendering the algae inedible to grazing snails and other herbivorous tidepool residents. Trying to ingest this organism would be like eating gravel.

In the neighboring tidepool another coralline species drapes its mass of pink feathery fronds down the side of a boulder exposed by low tide. Each branch has calcified segments alternating with tiny flexible hinges, allowing it to bend with the waves.

Coming upon a third tidepool, I kneel for a closer look. Kiwi-colored sea anemones extend their soft tentacles in hopes of stinging unsuspecting prey. Harmless to humans, an anemone can immobilize a small fish, crab or snail and then slowly shove the meal into its mouth.  Several pendulous anemones droop from a rock wall above the pool. Without the water’s support their limp bodies sag like flaccid bags. Next to them, three ochre sea stars hug the rock. A net-like pattern of stubby white spines covers each star’s orange skin. Microscopic gills at the base of each spine take in oxygen from the water. Five strong arms radiate from the central body like spokes on a wheel.  A sea star has no head, and its mouth is on the underside of its body. 

When the tide returns, a hungry sea star will slowly crawl on top of a mussel, wrap its arms around the bivalve’s shells and begin to pull. The helpless mussel will strain to keep its protective shells closed, but its fate is inescapable. Once the shells are open, the sea star pushes its stomach out through its mouth and inserts it between the shells. Digestive juices liquefy the mussel’s tissue into an easily absorbed meal. Gently touching the sea stars, I find each to be firm and healthy, unlike so many soft mushy specimens found along the coast a few years ago during the widespread occurrence of sea-star wasting disease.

Next, I find a small apron of sand separating two rock patches. A little crab, the size of a cucumber slice, pauses in the center of this miniature beach. Looking closely, I see a blue shell and flattened claws: it’s a flat porcelain crab. The glistening blue top on this creature’s shell brings back memories of childhood moments spent admiring the delicate blue teacups in my auntie’s china cabinet.

Without touching it, I count this crab’s legs and notice a total of six, two fewer than on most crab species.  Not true crabs at all, these creatures are crab-like crustaceans descended from a 200 million year-old ancestral line that includes lobsters. When the tide comes in, this would-be crab wedges itself in tight spaces between rocks, where it flutters its fluffy mouthparts to capture plankton brought in by the waves.

Turning away from the sea, I step up from the gritty surface of a wave-worn rock to the soft turf of the sloping meadow. I’m immediately ankle deep in green growth; the tidepool habitat a few feet behind me seems worlds away. As I begin to climb, I see a bright brigade of blue-eyed grass flowers marching up the hill. Purple and white varied lupines release their enticing perfume to the breeze; pollinating bees flock to the scent. A shallow depression in the terrain overflows with golden blossoms as five-petaled silverweed cinquefoil and daisy-shaped goldfields spill out of the bowl.

Just above, tall brown ears flick away flies; soon the moist nose and deep brown eyes of a black-tailed doe rise above the vegetation. She gives me a long look, then turns and vanishes into the tall grass. Seconds later I interrupt a brush rabbit’s foraging; it disappears below the tangle of a coyote bush.

Skirting the rabbit’s hiding place, I spot a series of neatly trimmed runways crisscrossing the slope. About the width of a garden hose, each route leads to a hole no wider than a golf ball. These narrow avenues are the work of meadow voles, mouse-like creatures with gray fur, a blunt snout and tiny black eyes. They dash back and forth on their well-maintained paths looking for food. Should the shadow of a hunting raptor darken its runway, a vole will scurry to the nearest hole. Each of these three mammals thrives on the bounty of lush vegetation growing here.

Catching my breath on the smooth summit gives me a chance to mentally trace my route from the tidepools far below up the verdant slope of Cape Tolowa. I reflect on the diversity of species that I’ve encountered today: each organism filling its own unique niche, each an integral part of the strange and beautiful life at the edge of the sea.