One Seacoast Mile

Fall 

Early fall has come to my seacoast mile. Alder trees release their umber leaves, each one blotched with faded green; tawny seed pods rise above dry hillsides replacing the pink, purple and yellow wildflower blossoms of the recently departed summer. Standing on Cape Sitka at the northern end of my chosen stretch of shore, I scan the pocket beaches and rocky coves along the border between land and sea. Cape Tolowa, its open slopes the color of baled hay, rises at the southern end of my mile. Just offshore, towering rocks stained white with guano hold deserted seabird rookeries waiting for winter rains to wash them clean.

Today I’ll walk my mile from one cape to the other, traversing the Sitka spruce forest just above the shore. Along the way I’ll search for the season’s first mushrooms and visit an old friend.

Departing the grassy cape, I follow a narrow trail into dense forest where thin beams of sunlight penetrate the canopy. Stopping to let my eyes adjust to the shade, I soak in the soft air sequestered by these spruce trees. Soon my eyes acclimate to the dim light and I leave the trail to move slowly among the trees, searching the forest floor for fungi. Almost immediately, a purple mushroom the size of a soup bowl catches my eye. Its curled-up cap reveals white gills on its underside; a rosy blush colors its stem. Kneeling, I pull a small chunk from its edge, crush it between my fingers and sniff – I detect no odor. Finding an older specimen, I try the crush-and-sniff test again – it smells like spoiled seafood. This stinky morsel confirms its identity: shrimp russula. Nearby, dozens more rise above the duff.

Moving on, I navigate through the shadows by keeping the muffled sound of breaking waves on my right and continue in a southerly direction. I find a brilliant mushroom the color of a lit Jack-o-Lantern. It’s a lobster mushroom, prized by gourmet cooks. Like others of its kind, this specimen has engulfed another fungus in lobster-tinted tissue.

Not far away, a gemmed amanita, its flesh the color of lemon custard, peeks out from between two exposed tree roots. Despite its pleasing appearance, this species is toxic and should never be eaten. Touching its firm stem just above the soil, I’m reminded that a mushroom is only a small part of a fungal body. The largest part grows below ground, completely unseen. There, a cobwebby lattice of thin root-like structures, called mycelia, spreads its way under the forest floor to form connections with trees by encasing their roots in gauzy sheaths.

Once fungus and tree are linked, a mutually beneficial relationship begins. The fungus delivers water and nutrients absorbed from the soil to the tree roots while the tree provides the fungal filaments with sugar to live on – a true partnership benefiting both parties. The fungal threads also connect each tree with many others in the forest, creating a vast interconnected web only inches beneath my feet.

Wandering back to the trail, I hear what sounds like raindrops slowly plopping on the ground. Puzzled, I pause to listen more closely: thud . . . thud . . . thud. Something is falling from the canopy, but it’s not rain. Raising my binoculars to my eyes, I find the sound’s source: the dark shape of a small body with a wildly twitching tail – a Douglas squirrel. Normally very vocal, this arboreal resident cuts spruce cones from the highest branches without uttering a sound. After about a dozen of the two-inch cones litter the forest floor, the squirrel descends a thick trunk to carry them, one at a time, to its larder under a mossy log. When winter arrives, the rodent will return daily to this food cache to extract edible seeds from the damp cones. Twisting a cone and pulling it apart, I find tiny winged seeds, each the size of a grape seed, under the papery scales. This squirrel has a lot of work ahead to fill its cache with enough seed-filled cones to sustain it until spring.

Leaving the squirrel to its autumn harvesting, I continue south on the trail. Breaks in the trees allow me needle-framed window views of breaking waves and circling gulls below. Trailside trees swell in girth as I enter the oldest part of this Sitka spruce forest. Ahead, I spy my old friend: five massive trunks rise from a single base; pendulous branches, each with a diameter greater than many of the surrounding trees, rest enormous elbows on the ground.

Reaching this venerable spruce, I step off the trail to touch its rough gray bark. Fallen patches reveal purple underneath; hundreds of cones lie at the tree’s feet. Since it’s probably two or three centuries old, the fungal network connected to this ancient one likely includes miles of interlacing root-like threads that link dozens of trees, many that began life as a sprout from one of its tiny seeds. Like any good parent, it protects its offspring by sending extra water to them in times of drought, additional minerals in times of stress and chemical warning signals when it’s under insect attack – all via the vast underground web.

Settling in on one of the tree’s huge exposed roots, I ponder the course of its life. How many nestlings has it sheltered? How many squirrels has it fed? How many young trees has it nourished and nurtured? My old friend is truly a wonder.

Soon I hike on, leaving the spruce forest and heading out across gentle open slopes to reach the tip of Cape Tolowa. Here, I find a spreading mat of dwarf shrubs reminiscent of mountain heather: crowberry. Its narrow evergreen leaves remind me of tiny needles on miniature conifer trees. Carefully parting the stems, I discover black berries the size of peas. Knowing these berries are nontoxic, I pop one in my mouth; its flavor is earthy and slightly bitter. Several hands full leave my fingers and tongue black with juice.

Resisting the rest of the crowberry bounty, I turn to face the sea. A squadron of Brown Pelicans glides by, barely twelve inches above the waves. Each one flies with its head held back over its shoulders and giant pouched bill resting on its chest. Two small boats bob on the waves, and the pelicans join them in a quest for fish. One by one the big birds plunge into the water head-first. Resurfacing, each floats on the surface and presses its pouch against its chest to drain the water, finally tipping its bill back to swallow its catch.

Watching this scene and thinking back to all that I’ve witnessed this year along my seacoast mile fills me with both a deep peace and a keen awareness that, as a human, I am only one part of life on this beautiful planet. Mystery, awe and universal connection coalesce here for me. I feel completely at home.