One Seacoast Mile 

The Place

One Seacoast Mile

One mile: an elite runner covers the distance in about four minutes; cars going at freeway speeds travel it in less than 60 seconds. Many people think of a mile only in terms of how fast they can traverse it. As a naturalist, I don’t always view a mile as something to put behind me quickly. While hiking over captivating terrain, I consider one mile to be a distance to tarry over, to investigate, to savor – especially if it’s a seacoast mile.

The Oregon Coast, one of the most geologically complex and biologically diverse coastlines on the planet, spans more than 360 miles of beaches, capes, dunes and sea cliffs hugging the North Pacific. My chosen mile lies on the southern coast, not far from the California border. Bookended by meadow-covered capes, my little stretch of shoreline follows an irregular path between the two promontories. From Cape Tolowa at its southern end, the ribbon of shore curls around a jumble of dark rocks, caresses a small sandy beach, slides by an eroded sea stack still connected to the shore and crimps the rough edge of three bouldery coves, each backed by a tangle of driftwood logs. From there it traces the curving crescent of another tiny beach to arrive at the foot of Cape Sitka, where each wave rasps its erosive tongue against a rocky cliff.

My mile is part of a coastal stretch that owes its ruggedness to an ancient geological past. The rock formations in this area were once part of the ocean floor in a subtropical sea. Back then, as North America began to move westward, it slowly collided with the oceanic crustal plate, pushing up the mountain range known today as the Klamath Mountains. The collision between the plates folded and faulted the seafloor slab, then pushed it underneath the continental plate. Over time a succession of slabs descended below the edge of the continent, one under the other, like tilted slices of bread. Heat and pressure transformed these layers into rocks of varying hardness. Millions of years of wave and wind action removed the softer rock to reveal the resistant headlands, scoured inlets and ragged shore visible today.

This dramatic topography forms the setting in which coastal organisms of all kinds conduct the business of survival. Windblown thickets hugging the capes’ lower slopes shelter songbirds and black-tailed deer. Flattened headland summits support grasses and wildflowers that feed wary rodents who sustain raptorial hunters patrolling overhead. Seabirds nest on cliff-face ledges while seals and sea lions haul out to rest on nearshore rocks rising above the water. Where the ocean deepens, gray whales navigate by the sound of the waves hitting the shore as they swim by twice a year in the longest mammal migration on Earth, a round-trip journey of 10,000 miles.  

Though no longer than a quarter mile, each pocket beach within my chosen reach of shoreline hides countless invertebrates who spend their entire lives buried in the sand. Clumps of kelp and eelgrass stranded on the beach provide food and shelter to beach hoppers, tiny crustaceans resembling fleas. Shorebirds probe the sand and seaweed with long beaks in search of tasty morsels. Meanwhile, tidepools protected by erosion-resistant boulders harbor sea stars, anemones, crabs, sea slugs and numerous other creatures inhabiting the intertidal zone, a place where the ocean’s ebb and flow blur the boundary between terrestrial and marine habitats.

This single mile will keep me occupied a long while. I’ll explore it at an easy pace, investigating slowly and deeply. It’s only one mile, but it holds much that is measureless and vast.

Note: Cape Tolowa and Cape Sitka are fictitious names that I created to protect these infrequently visited sites from increased human impacts. Readers may recognize these places from photos, but I won't reveal any more about their actual locations.

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.

Within One Watershed:

Essays from Hackleman Creek 

Part 3

The Lake

Winter

Wet snow sticks to our snowshoes like clumps of mashed potatoes as my friend and I make our way south toward Fish Lake, the final destination for the waters of Hackleman Creek. Three days of February rain have saturated the snow, slowing our pace to a determined plod. Every few minutes I stop and bang my ski poles against the sides of my snowshoes to release the clinging white lumps; the clanging sound reverberates through the dripping forest. If today’s clear skies hold overnight, the temperature will drop and the snow will re-freeze, creating what many Northwest snow-lovers call Cascade concrete. For now, though, the surface is soft and sticky underfoot.

These rain-on-snow events are common in the Cascade Mountains thanks to the Pacific Ocean. Maritime mountains like the Cascades owe their snowpack to storms rolling in off the ocean. But the precipitation sent by the sea can be a mixed blessing, alternately falling as snow and rain as ocean-moderated temperatures fluctuate frequently.

Slowly moving farther into the forest, we spot the familiar pattern of snowshoe hare tracks. Our noisy approach probably startled the hare as it foraged on conifer twigs and needles. The hare’s front feet left two small tracks, one slightly ahead of the other, while the hind feet left two larger tracks, side by side, in a position ahead of the front tracks. As a snowshoe hare bounds across the snow, its front feet land first and then lift off while the larger hind feet swing forward to land ahead of the spot where the front feet touched the snow; the result is the instantly recognizable triangular pattern. The tracks cross our route and disappear into a thicket of young trees.

A snowshoe hare can spread the toes on its hind feet up to four inches wide, making them like furry snowshoes that keep it atop the snow, much like our aluminum and plastic snowshoes keep us on the surface. While snowshoes allow winter recreation for humans, they can mean the difference between life and death for a hare. This adaptation enables it to flee pursuing predators like coyotes or bobcats, who sink into the snow. Once the hare finds cover, its snow-colored fur blends in with the surroundings, rendering it nearly invisible. Come summer, tannish-brown fur replaces its winter white coat.

Deeper in the forest, we stop to soak in the stillness. Thousands of water droplets sparkle on the trees. I focus on a single liquid pendant clinging to a Douglas-fir needle; it’s in no hurry to meet the ground. As I watch the drop finally give in to gravity and fall to the snow, I think about how it got here.

Its freefall from a mid-level cloud took no more than four minutes. Before that it may have spent years sloshing around in the sea. Maybe it passed through the gaping mouth of a basking shark or rinsed the salty rim of an orca’s blowhole. Solar heating lifted it into the atmosphere where it condensed into a cloud; warm ocean wind pushed the freighted cloud, along with others, a hundred miles east to the windward slope of the Cascades, turning raindrops loose to drench this forest. Tonight, it will likely become an ice crystal consolidated in the snowpack. Later, spring’s warmth will send it on a short trip to Fish Lake in snowmelt currents. There, it may trickle through porous volcanic soil to enter the neighboring Clear Lake basin via underground passage or evaporate from the lake in summer’s heat. This one raindrop is on an eternal journey in the endless cycle of all water on this wet planet.

Moving on, we hear a pair of honking Canada Geese flying above the trees, signaling our proximity to the lake, which drains annually to lie as a meadow for part of the year. Will it be a full lake now or a snow-covered clearing? In a few hundred yards, we have our answer.

Descending an easy slope, we pass through an opening in an old split-rail fence left over from cattle grazing days; ahead lies the lakebed covered neither with water nor snow. Instead, a slow stream winds silently through an expanse of brown grass and dried sedges. In spots, the water spills over the streambanks to form shallow ponds before returning to its narrow course. Foot-wide holes in the dry parts of the lakebed reveal the faint gurgle of water flowing underground. On the lake’s south side, slushy water stretches to meet the shore where a thin layer of snow covers the ground. Not cold enough to freeze solid or hold a deep mantle of snow, not warm enough to fill to full pool, the lakebed lies in an in-between state, waiting.

Tall cottonwoods stand in quiescence along the north shore; their branches point to the sky like naked fingers, having dropped their heart-shaped leaves last autumn to prevent damage from foliar frostbite. They, too, are waiting. Deep beneath their furrowed bark, a complex process moves water from inside living cells to the tiny spaces surrounding them. Concentrated sugars fill the cells to act as antifreeze during this time of dormancy. For this part-time lake and its bordering cottonwood trees, life has been put on hold for now. In a few short months, spring will return - and so will I. 

Within One Watershed:

Essays from Hackleman Creek

Part 2

The Valley

Knee-deep in Hackleman Creek

Despite its name, Tombstone Prairie pulses with life this morning. As my friends and I skirt this small meadow near the headwaters of Hackleman Creek, bees buzz from one flower to the next, grasshoppers leap across the path and an Evening Grosbeak forages for insects near the top of a tree, its bold yellow plumage standing in vivid contrast to the conifer’s deep green.

Named for the stone monument that marked the spot where a teenaged boy died in an accidental shooting in 1871, the clearing was a popular camp spot for European-American settlers traveling between the Willamette Valley and eastern Oregon. Prior to that the meadow was a traditional stopover for countless generations of Indigenous peoples on their seasonal rounds of hunting and gathering. Back then, this open area was much larger thanks to the Native American practice of regular burning to promote huckleberry growth and grazing areas for game animals. A century and a half of fire suppression has allowed many trees to encroach on the meadow. Some huddle in small groups among the bracken ferns and grasses; others stand alone, casting solitary shadows on the peach-colored Jacob’s ladder blossoms covering the ground.

Enticing as it is, Tombstone Prairie is not the object of our focus today. Wearing old tennis shoes and rubber boots, our trio is here to investigate the creek, knee-deep if necessary. We’re in search of tiny aquatic creatures that form the foundation of a stream’s food chain. They’re called macroinvertebrates: they lack backbones and are small, but not small enough to require a microscope for viewing. We hope to find mayfly, stonefly and caddisfly larvae, the species most sensitive to pollution; their presence in a stream indicates good water quality and a healthy aquatic ecosystem.

Reaching the midpoint along the northern margin of Tombstone Prairie, we meet the creek. At this point the spirited current carries water newly issued from the spot where it gurgles out of the mountainside, a few hundred yards upstream. Shallow and narrow enough to step across, the creek will gain depth and width as it receives the flow from several side streams along its course down the valley. Here, the newborn stream splashes over a four-foot waterfall, slides between tree roots and bounces gently over bagel-sized cobbles.

Resting my palms on the rocky creekbed, I let the chilly water wash over my hands; goosebumps rise on my arms. Looking into the creek, I notice small pebbly cylinders, no more than an inch long, speckling the submerged rocks; they are the protective coverings of case-maker caddisfly larvae. In its larval stage, a caddisfly is a caterpillar-like creature that scrapes algae from rocks in the stream. Each larva gathers tiny pebbles and sand grains from the bottom and glues them to its body with silk from glands near its mouth. It then crawls slowly over rocks to search for sustenance, safely cloaked in armor. The caddisfly spends up to two years in this larval form, then seals both ends of its case and pupates in an underwater cocoon. After two to three weeks, it emerges from its casement, rises to the surface and flies away as a moth-like adult.

In fact, caddisflies are closely related to butterflies and moths. I think of their butterfly cousins flitting 1,200 feet above us in search of mates and wildflower nectar atop Browder Ridge. I look down at a caddisfly case and think of the butterfly chrysalis I found not long ago hanging in a tiny cleft high on the ridgecrest. These larval creatures, one bound to the streambed and the other to the rocky heights, evolved from the same ancestor in the distant past. Each took a different route to their present ecological niche; their presence in the watershed is the sign of an untainted ecosystem.

Moving downstream, one of my companions finds another type of macroinvertebrate – a mayfly nymph. As she holds the rock upon which it squirms, I see a slim body separated into three parts: a flattened head, a dark thorax and a long, segmented abdomen. Three filamentous tails extend from its back end. Each of its six legs ends in a tiny hook for clinging to rocks in rushing water.

Seconds later, my other friend finds an adult mayfly resting on a boulder and gently guides it onto her thumb. Holding its fragile wings in an upright position above its slender body, it lifts its elongated abdomen and head like a winged ballerina performing a perfect arabesque. All six legs are the same length, indicating this delicate dancer is a female. Males have extremely long front legs for grasping females while mating.

As a nymph this female shed her skin dozens of times, emerging a little larger with each molt. She spent over a year crawling underwater in search of algae to eat, using her brush-like lower lip to scour it off of rocks. Eventually, she rose to the surface and molted again, this time emerging as a sexually immature subadult. Hours later, one last molt released the mature female mayfly. Her adult life will only last for 24 hours: she won’t even be able to eat, as she has no functional mouthparts; her sole purpose is to reproduce. Later today, as afternoon fades into evening, she will join a swarm of other adult mayflies for a communal courtship dance in the sky. After mating, she will lay hundreds of eggs and die, her mission accomplished. My friend carefully returns the little female to her boulder so she can carry out her short but intense adult life.

We head downstream to find a stretch where the water runs deeper. As my friends climb down below a footbridge, I wade up to my knees. A thin layer of biofilm covers each melon-sized rock like slippery mucus; this organic slime sustains hungry macroinvertebrates and makes each step a challenge for me. I carefully wedge each foot in a flat spot between rocks and lower my hands into the current. An American Dipper flies low over the water and lands on a midstream rock. The gray robin-sized bird bobs up and down as it eyes the flow. Suddenly it plunges in and walks upstream completely submerged, resurfacing with a beakful of mayfly nymphs. As the stream-dwelling songbird flies to the bank to enjoy its meal, an adult mayfly flutters above the surface, repeatedly dipping her abdomen into the water to release a small batch of eggs each time. Fortunate to have evaded predators, she gives the next mayfly generation its start.

Joining my friends below the bridge, I see they have two more discoveries to share: stonefly and dobsonfly larvae. The stonefly larva looks like a flattened cricket with a three-part body, widely separated eyes, long antennae, six sprawling legs and two thin tails. The finger-sized dobsonfly larva resembles an aquatic centipede. Thread-like gills line each side of its abdomen; its reddish head sports two strong pincers for capturing prey. Both these species are highly sensitive to pollution. Our discoveries today confirm that the Hackleman watershed, my watershed, flows clean and pure, supporting a robust assemblage of underwater inhabitants. May its purity continue to sustain this richly complex community for generations to come.

Next time: We leave the valley and explore Fish Lake.

 

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.