July 2020 - Trail Scholar

Hike with a Botanist

I don’t know what it is, but I love plants! You know, the ubiquitous, but easily overlooked green stuff. When plants arrived on the scene they literally changed the world! Nearly all life on the planet depends on plants for survival. And they are pretty, oh so pretty, What is not to love?

Visions of wildflowers danced in my head as I drove out to meet with Linda Hardison, Botanist, and director of OregonFlora, at the trailhead for Iron Mountain and Cone Peak. It was July 2nd—the perfect time of year to catch the wildflower show the area is known for. Set aside as a Special Interest Area for botany, Iron Mountain and Cone Peak attract the attention of many adventurers looking for botanical inspiration.

So I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when I pulled into the parking lot at Tombstone Pass to find it rather full for a Thursday morning. Unfazed, with sunscreen, hat, and face mask in hand, I found Linda at the other end of the parking lot. We quickly exchanged greetings, before hitting the trail.

All set for a riotous romp filled with botanical delights, I was not disappointed.

The Hike

Trailhead: Tombstone Pass Trailhead
Distance: 7+ miles
Elevation gain: approx. 1700 ft
Details: Amply parking and pit toilets at the trailhead. Trailhead is very accessible as it is right off Highway 20. You will need to cross the highway during the hike. Trails are well marked and maintained.

Plants Rule

Linda and I began our hike from the tombstone pass parking lot, heading down the trail toward Cone Peak. As we ducked down into the foliage and made our way along the trail that leads through some wet meadows, I immediately peppered Linda with questions: Why plants? Why study Botany? Why is botany important?

O.K. so I was a bit excited. Linda was gracious with her reply.

“Well, just look around—it is just so beautiful,” she said.

But in true scientist fashion, she elaborated, “Botany is at the core and foundation of everything. It’s what lets it all happen.” She went onto explain how flowers evolved this amazing ability to do photosynthesis—they capture sunlight and store it in organic molecules. These organic molecules are the basis of the entire food chain, feeding other living things, as well as enriching the soil for more plants to grow in.

“The whole planet depends on plants,” she stated. From a humanistic standpoint, we need them to breathe, eat, and build with. They are so fundamental and they are everywhere.

Plants are everywhere

This is the other amazing thing about plants! They are literally everywhere. “Plants have adapted to every condition on the planet,” explained Linda. Over millions of years, more and more species of plants have evolved and taken on different ecological niches, or roles, in the environment. We now have entire communities of plants that live in forests; others in meadows; some grow in valleys, and others on mountains. Each plant with its own way of surviving in these different conditions.

A Flora

A whole planet to cover, there are a lot of different species of plants on Earth. Too many for one blog post to focus on, but if we narrow it down to say— Oregon—the task goes from being impossible to overwhelmingly difficult O.K. still too much for a blog post, but not too much for Linda and her Colleagues who are taking on just that within the OregonFlora program.

Linda shared some background on the project. The Oregon Flora Project was founded in 1994 by botanist Scott Sundberg with the goal of creating a new flora—basically a plant identification and information manual—for the state of Oregon. At the time the most up to date manual on Oregon plants was nearly 50 years old, so it seemed like an update was in order. As Linda explained how plant populations change: “new plants are always being discovered; new species come in either as weeds or as climate changes and new habitats open up and they adapt to new places, and things go away, things get extirpated.”

So with access to Oregon State University’s herbarium the project got underway. Currently, Volumes 1 is available and Volumes 2 & 3 are in the works. OregonFlora also has a website chock full of botanical information (a massive overhaul is underway to make it more user friendly) and an application—Oregon Wildflowers App—that I personally love and use to identify plants while hiking.

As for the plants themselves, OregonFlora has captured information on 4,762 different plants in Oregon. Talk about biodiversity!

Ecoregions

The diversity of plants in the state makes a lot of sense when you think about the diversity of ecosystems and habitats that exist in Oregon. The state of Oregon is somewhat unusual in that it has many different ecoregions—large areas of the state with similar climate and vegetation. From the cool, wet Oregon Coast Range to the hot, dry Basin and Range—Oregon has been cut to shreds ecologically.

OregonFlora uses the ecoregion concept as a frame of reference as well—recognizing 11 different ecosystems that largely parallel the EPA designated ecoregions in Oregon. Plant communities can be organized within this framework and then further subdivided further into habitat preferences from there.

Linda told me that when she gives presentations about OregonFlora, she will put up a picture of open scrub and grasses and ask people where the picture was taken? “And people will say eastern Oregon,” said Linda. Then she will put another picture up and the audience is right again. “I think people really have a gestalt about this sort of stuff,” explained Linda. People recognize the combination of physical and biological attributes that make up a place. And OregonFlora is there to help them simply hone their awareness.

What’s in a name?

As the trail really started heading uphill, Linda brought up another botanical topic of importance—naming. One of the big jobs of OregonFlora, and a big part of botany as a whole, is figuring out what to call a species. Naming is important because 1) they allow scientists to be precise when they are talking about plants, and 2) because they reflect the evolutionary relationship between plants. As simple as this sounds things can get a bit complicated.

During the 18th century, Carl Linnaeus, often considered the father of taxonomy, first came up with the binomial, two name system that is, for the most part, used today. According to Linda, his system grouped organisms by morphological characteristics, especially reproductive features. At the time, these features were considered immutable because they were so important to the survival of a species. However, with the advent of DNA sequencing, we now have more complete information about how organisms are related. We can see in the DNA evolutionary relationships that don’t necessarily match up with the optics.

So names have changed. And scientists have had to adjust. “Botanists can take care of this,” said Linda by using synonyms. Botanists keep track of and acknowledge synonyms—old, out of date scientific names—as part of their records of each species.

Linda pointed out some false Solomon’s seal. Once Smilacina racemosa it is now part of the maianthemum genus with the scientific name: Maianthemum racemosum.

False Solomon’s seal (Maianthemum racemosum)

Not so Common

Then of course there are common names, like false Solomon’s seal. OregonFlora also keeps track of common names. Linda said they look for the most widespread names for each species in the region to include in the flora. Choosing regionally significant names of species is important as there can be great variability region to region. For example, OregonFlora’s emblem is what most Oregonians call a fawn lily, but in other parts of the country, the same species is known as a dogtooth violet. Though these names don’t provide precise information about the plant, they do provide regional and cultural context to the botanical world.

Taxonomic Concept

But the division of plants doesn’t start and end with a name (or two or three). As Linda puts it, “the isness of a plant” must be determined. The isness of a plant—its characteristic features and range—is what is known as a taxonomic concept. So considering our false Solomon’s seal the taxonomic concepts answer the questions- What is a false Solomon’s seal? It breaks it down and “puts a circle around it.” A name doesn’t mean a whole lot if it doesn’t have a specific plant associated with it.

Taxonomic concepts might be species specific or subdivided further into varieties or subspecies. Linda said, “We try and get down to as small a bucket as we can.” We talked about the example of the species Pinus contorta. The variety of this species that grows on the coast takes on a twisted, gnarled shape, but the variety that grows in montane environments is narrow and upright.

Determining a taxonomical concept for a plant is challenging because there is natural variation in plants as well. Genetic biodiversity that makes one member of a species different from another member of the same species can sometimes blur the lines and create some controversy or debate. Also, things are always in flux. Whether it is through scientific work or natural processes, taxonomic concepts can and do change.

Forest Habitat

By this point, Linda and I had hiked up out of the meadow and into the forest. Conifers dominated the overstory— Douglas-fir and hemlock primarily, but also some true fir and western red cedar. The understory was shaded, and the soil rich in organic matter and moisture captured by the trees and the fungal network below. Plants like vanilla leaf, wild rose, wild ginger, thimbleberry, bunchberry, and vine maple, took up residence in this protected understory.

It is the combination of physical and biological features that create “the magic mix” for a habitat, explained Linda. You can’t rely on physical features alone to determine what lives where. As important as factors such as light, temperature, and moisture are, the other plants, animals, and microbes that live in the same community are just as (if not more) important. That is why you can travel to places that share physical features, Linda explained, and find a completely different suite of organisms.

It takes a Community

I asked Linda to elaborate on the importance of community connections. She was clear—we still have a lot to learn when it comes to relationships between species. We have an inkling that these connections are important, but “we don’t know what makes everything work together,” she said.

In terms of the forest, for example, we are just starting to learn about the importance of fungal communities in communication and the exchange of nutrients. Linda said that she knows a landscaper who will save the “duff layer” of an area before it is bulldozed for development so he can reuse the material later.

Natural and wild places are just that important. “We don’t know what sort of glue some tiny little scrubby looking plant might serve in the big picture,” said Linda. “If we view things as a system, as a whole, I think there are much richer opportunities to learn and explore and benefit from than from looking at one isolated species.”

Botany Rocks

Eventually, Linda and I stepped out of the trees and out onto a rocky outcrop to be greeted by a gorgeous wildflower display—the first of many. Bright yellow Oregon sunshine, deep purple larkspur, and bright blue gilia were all at peak bloom! We gawked at the beauty of the place—bright spots of color and fragrant smells overwhelmed our senses.

First rocky outcrop we saw on the trail.

Adapt

However, perhaps even more fascinating, is that these plants exist here at all. Living in a harsh environment with little moisture, very little soil, and a lot of snow and sun—these plants were not here for our benefit, but because they had adapted over generations of time to these conditions.

Adaptations are characteristics that allow a species to survive and reproduce in their environment. Adaptations arise over multiple generations of time through the process of evolution by natural selection. Though it is impossible to observe this process on a hike, adaptations are readily observable.

Linda and I speculated on some of the adaptations observable on our rocky outcrop. We noted how stonecrop and a species of claytonia both had fat fleshy leaves used to retain moisture. Cat’s ear lily uses a bulb for storing resources for the long winter. Blue gilia was prolific—adapted by living an annual lifestyle—producing a lot of seeds before dying off. Rough paintbrush, a hemiparasite, takes advantage of the company of others, stealing water and nutrients from their neighbors. Then there were the bright colors and fragrant smells of many of the flowers—all adaptations for attracting pollinators quickly during a short growing season.

Blue gilia growing on the rocky outcrop along with larkspur and yellow monkey family.

Family Ties

As you can imagine, walking among the rocky outcrops the diversity of plants was captivating. We continued along the cone peak trail, stopping to admire, identify, and take photos along the way.

At one point while discussing a species of buckwheat (Polygonaceae), Linda shared with me her secret to identifying plants. She said that one of the best ways to learn (for her anyway) is to look at the relationships—the family of plants. “It gives you the start on what something is,” she said. “If you learn the characteristics of a family, it opens the first door.” Then you can use a field guide or an app to narrow things down.

The buckwheat family, for example, typically has lots of very small flowers and colored or no sepals. Asters (Asteraceae)—the largest family—tend to look like sunflowers with very open blooms that are attractive to pollinators. Oregon sunshine is a great example. Some relationships are surprising and a little more challenging. For example, Larkspur is in a subclass of the buttercup family (Ranunculaceae). Characteristic of this subgroup are the fruits or “follicles”— capsules that open along a single side. In general, one way to recognize buttercups is to look at the fruit.

Arrowleaf buckwheat (buckwheat family), Oregon sunshine (aster family), and purple larkspur (buttercup family).

Botanical Controversy

One “family” of plants that I personally enjoy are the penstemons. I asked Linda what characteristics are common among penstemon. She told me that they typically have “snapdragon looking flowers” and that the common name for the family actually used to be snapdragon (Scrophulariaceae). However, according to Linda, the “scroph” family is a classic example of “plant families gone amuk.” As botanists have grown to better understand evolutionary relationships, the family has actually been split into five different plant families! According to Linda, this change sparked a lot of frustration, as people had been trained (like herself) to identify these plants as “scrophs.” She admitted that she still often gets these plants mixed up. Botany is not without its challenges.

Deadly Problem

Identifying plants is not only a lot of fun, but really important if you spend any amount of time outside. Plants can act as irritants and toxins. Most people are aware of plants like poison oak and poison ivy, but there are many other plants that can cause problems. Giant hogweed, for example, can induce photosensitivity in people that touch it.

On our hike, Linda and I ran across several stands of death camas. Death camas is lily-like in the false-hellebore family (Melanthiaceae)—characterized by parts in groups of three—but many people confuse it with real camas, also a lily, and an edible plant. The problem arises from the fact that they can grow in similar environments and are harvested as bulbs that can be hard to tell apart. Being attuned to the differences between these two plants is literally life or death. “Plant families gone amuck”

Stand of mostly death camas with larkspur and paintbrush.

Microhabitat

As we finally reached the sloping top of Cone Peak, Linda and I noticed some areas of land that looked a bit different from the rest of the bloom area. The mix of species was a bit different, with certain species more abundant, while others less abundant—more moss and grass especially. Even the physical characteristics looked different—more rocky and dry; the site also looked like it might have been more recently disturbed.

Whatever the specific reasons, this was an excellent example of a microhabitat. Even within a defined habitat, there is small scale variability that can alter plant communities. According to Linda, understanding microhabitat is really critical for planting projects and restoration work. It is also something we still don’t know a lot about.

Honing our awareness for microhabitats is also a fun way to think about botany while on a trail, with the potential to contribute to a collective body of botanical knowledge.

Unusual section of Cone Peak bloom— rocky microhabitat.

Drawing Connections

Speaking of fun ways to interact with plants, one of the goals of OregonFlora is to encourage people to engage with botany. This is also one of my goals in writing this post. There are, of course, a lot of ways to do so (some already mentioned in this post), but as we hiked from Cone Peak to the Iron Mountain trail junction, I asked Linda what she thought someone might do to develop a botanical eye.

Linda’s advice was to first—“stop and look.” And second—draw! Drawing is a great way to pay attention and notice details that you might not notice from a glance or even a picture.

Take some time to stop and sit down with a plant, suggested Linda. Pay attention to the sites and sounds. Look at what is covering that ground and what makes up the overstory. “Understand this is a community: and who is a part of it, and who the big players are and who are the quiet voices,” said Linda.

Ethnobotany

At one point, as we headed down the trail, Linda noticed a nondescript plant, a biscuitroot (Lomatium). She pointed out that indigenous people in Oregon often collected biscuitroot tubers as a food source. The ethnobotanical aspect (or traditional use) of plants is another way people can relate to plants, Linda surmised.

The Summit

Finally, we reached the trail junction for the iron mountain summit and we decided to make the ascent. And after huffing and puffing our way by many more wildflowers, we reached the top and some amazing views of the Cascade Peaks.

But the mountains were not the only thing in view. Linda pointed out, as we looked out across the landscape, the diversity of the plant life that, though we couldn’t see the details of, blanketed all surfaces. Old and new forests, open meadows, riparian corridors, and landslides—the view was awash in greenery.

As we made our way back down, more quickly than we went up, we continued to chat about plants and education, equity, and web design, among other topics. Our conversation shifted from topic to topic, almost as quickly as the plant communities changed as we moved down the mountainside—a dizzying array of botany.

So what is the takeaway? What did I learn from my hike with a botanist? Well to sum up: we are just a single species living in a world dominated by plants. So, as the saying goes, take time to stop and smell the roses.

Linda Hardison is a research assistant professor in the Department of Botany and Plant Pathology at Oregon State University and is the director of OregonFlora. She received undergraduate degrees in botany and marine biology from the University of Texas, and a Ph.D. in botany from the University of Washington. She currently serves on the board of the Native Plant Society of Oregon.

Resources

http://www.oregonflora.org
Meyers, S.C., T. Jaster, K.E. Mitchell & L.K. Hardison. 2015. Flora of Oregon. Volume 1: Pteridophytes, Gymnosperms, and Monocots. Botanical Research Institute of Texas, Fort Worth, TX.

Hike with a Fish Biologist

Looking up at the forest in the Valley of the Giants.

When hiking along a forest trail, fish are probably not the first thing that comes to mind. What do fish have to do with forests? And forests with fish?

It may not be obvious, but the connection between land and water is deep—as deep as a pool scoured by the fast action of water cascading over a fallen log. So when I met with Tony Spitzack, Fish Biologist for BLM, at the Valley of the Giants Outstanding Natural Area for a short hike through a late-successional forest, I was excited to discuss these connections.

The Hike

Trailhead: Valley of the Giants Trailhead
Distance: 1.4 miles
Elevation Gain: about 500 feet
Details: Traveling to the Valley of the Giants trailhead requires patience. It is a long drive on logging roads. I recommend that you check with the district BLM office to check for closures and directions. However, the trailhead is well signed and there is a good amount of parking available.

Timber Time

The Valley of the Giants (VOG) Outstanding Natural Area lies just outside the deserted timber company town of Valsetz, west of Falls City in the Oregon Coast Range.

Small logging towns were once common in Oregon’s coastal mountains. As the logging industry of the late 19th and early 20th century boomed, and people were needed to support the growth. Then by the late 20th century, the industry changed, timber production declined, and the labor force required for logging was diminished. However, by this time, much of Oregon’s Coastal forests had already been logged.

As for Valsetz, In 1984, it was shut down and many of the buildings removed. It is now a tree farm.

Out with the Old

The impacts of this era of logging can still be seen today—the forests were altered and so were the rivers. Most of Oregon’s coastal old-growth was removed during that time. Coastal streams were channelized and disconnected from flood plains. Logs and natural barriers were removed and streams were cleared for transportation. According to Tony, splash dams were commonly used back then. A splash dam is a temporary wooden dam built to raise water levels enough to float timber downstream to sawmills. Few places remain in the Oregon Coast Range that didn’t experience these impacts.

The Valley of the Giants (VOG) is one of these few places. The VOG is a 51-acre piece of land that has never been logged. There is also no record of splash damming on the North Fork of the Siletz that runs through the VOG either (though it is unlikely that it has been untouched). Making the VOG a special place— a functional late-successional forest in a sea of mostly secondary growth.

More primary growth trees standing tall in the Valley of the Giants.

Something Fishy

As we started along the trail, Tony told me a bit about the fish populations that inhabit the area. The trail crosses over the North Fork of the Siletz River, which supports chinook, summer steelhead, and cutthroat trout, among other fish species.

Each species of fish found in the Siletz has a unique ecological niche. This means that they have different habits and take advantage of different habitats within the stream. For example, some species (or variants of species) of fish migrate to the ocean, like Chinook and Steelhead, while others will take up residence in freshwater streams or migrate to estuaries, like most cutthroat trout.

According to Tony, the summer steelhead run is really unique. He said, “the North Fork of the Siletz River is the only native summer steelhead run within the Oregon Coastal steelhead population.” The reason being that downstream a boulder cascade waterfall, Siletz Falls, blocks the passage of steelhead during high winter flows. So the steelhead adapted to a summer run, creating a genetically unique population from winter steelhead.

Cutthroat trout also distinguish themselves from other fish by their home range. One of Tony’s jobs is to determine upper fish limits for streams. Compared to other species, he finds cutthroat very high upstream. Making use of upper reaches of streams allows cutthroat to avoid competition with other fish and take advantage of this otherwise unreachable habitat. However, cutthroat populations sometimes move so high upstream that they become isolated when flows become low in these upper reaches. Tony has even found cutthroat trout that have permanently lost connectivity with their home stream. What happens to these populations is still being studied.

Looking down at the North Fork of the Siletz River.

Riparian Feast

Gradually Tony and I made our way through the forest and closer to the stream edge. The corridor of vegetation along the stream is known as the Riparian area. Besides large conifer trees, deciduous trees and shrubs dominated the area.

Here, Tony reached out for a salmonberry to munch on.

Besides providing delicious berries to eat, salmonberry and other deciduous trees and shrubs provide food to fish. No, fish don’t eat the plants or berries, but leaves in various states of decay provide food for the insects and other invertebrates that feed fish. A large amount of energy is supplied by the riparian area through leaf fall to the aquatic food web in this way.

An dark red salmonberry ready to be eaten.

Heterogeneity

Tony also talked about how the riparian area also influences light availability and stream productivity. He mentioned a study that showed that when riparian plants are removed, productivity increases, making more energy available to the stream food web. However, the result is only temporary. In the years that follow, fast-growing riparian plants grow and shade out the stream reducing productivity significantly. [1]

According to Tony, patchy cover that you get in a natural forest cycle is best. Tree fall creates patches of light to increase productivity, while other trees provide shade and other habitat needs to fish. A dynamic system is a resilient system, as change is a natural part of the ebb and flow of the ecosystem.

Riparian trees and shrubs along the North Fork of the Siletz River.

Sort It Out

Shortly after crossing a bridge over the N. Fork of the Siletz, Tony and I reached the junction for the lollipop loop. We followed the trail to the right and soon reached a short spur that led to a small side channel.

Tony told me that he had scouted out the area earlier and decided the small channel was a great place to look at sediment sorting. The velocity of water in a stream determines how sediments sort. Smaller sediments, like sand, will move even in low velocity conditions, while gravel requires a higher velocity. Boulders are often found in the highest reaches of a stream system because they require higher velocity flows.

Even in our small side channel, you could see sorting take place. Bigger rocks remained in the center, or thalweg, of the straight channel where the water traveled fastest. While smaller sediments collected along the edges where the water was moving slower.

The way that sediments sort themselves within a channel of water is really important to fish. In particular, salmonid species rely on gravel beds for spawning habitat. Fish need complex streams with sediments that are sorted to create these gravel beds and other features, like pools, where sediments are scoured away.

The small side-channel with sorted sediments.

Falling Logs

Tony placed a stick in the small channel to block the flow. He explained that as water poured over the stick it would start to wear away sediment creating a pool below it. He then moved the stick so that it entered the stream at 45 degrees. In this case, Tony said, “water hits the stick and turns perpendicular to the stick,” such that it will be directed toward the opposite bank and may undercut the bank.

These same processes occur on a larger scale in big streams and rivers as well and are important to fish. Undercut banks provide excellent cover for fish, while pools are for resting and keeping cool. In addition, logjams trap sediments and aid in the formation of gravel beds needed for spawning. “The more you put wood in, the more dynamic the system is,” said Tony. And the more dynamic the system, the greater the complexity and availability of different habitat features for fish.

Networking

As we continued around the forested loop, I looked around at all the trees, shrubs, and forbs, and at the down logs with new growth sprouting from their rotting bodies— and I felt admiration. These trees supplied so many benefits to fish—shelter, food, and rearing habitat—was there any reciprocation?

Tony pointed at one of the larger down logs with shrubs and seedlings growing out it. He explained how the trees of the forest are connected by a mycorrhizal fungi network. Fungi gather nutrients and water from the soil and pass it to trees in exchange for carbon-rich sugars produced by trees through photosynthesis.

This network reaches anywhere the forest grows, even into the nursery log before us. There are studies that show, shared Tony, that the mycorrhizal network is vast and far-reaching and fungi will carry nutrients and water over large distances in order to get the carbon they need. So even though we were a good distance from the river’s edge, our seedlings could benefit from the water and nutrients carried through the network— from the stream to the riparian area to our rotting log to our seedling.

Shrubs and seedlings growing out of a nurse log.

Fish Feed Forests

As mentioned earlier, many of the fish that live in Oregon’s rivers migrate to the ocean to grow. Later, they return to their natal stream to spawn and die. Consequently, anadromous fish end up supplying marine nutrients to their freshwater home—a benefit to the ecosystem overall.

This may seem like a small contribution, but when you consider the extent of Oregon’s native salmon runs—historically numbering in the 10s of millions— the magnitude of the transfer of nutrients is substantial.

And don’t forget the mycorrhizae! The effects of these nutrients are far-reaching. Tony told me, “some people have suggested trees will grow three times as fast on a stream that has salmon coming back to it.” Clearly, fish do help trees.

Lost Fish

However, as we dammed and altered our river systems during the 20th century, salmonid populations plummeted. And the nutrient connection between marine and freshwater ecosystems was diminished greatly.

Of course, that only counts fish that western culture historically paid any attention to. Tony told me about recent efforts to study Pacific Lamprey— a parasitic species with a tube-like body and round suctioning mouth-part—that has largely been ignored by western science. He has been using eDNA methodology to better understand the distribution of Lamprey in the Marys Peak Field Office. This non-invasive technique allows researchers to gather water samples from a body of water and run tests to see if the DNA of a fish is present in the water.

We don’t know what Pacific Lamprey fish populations were historically. We don’t even know what they are now. But we do know that Pacific Lamprey were probably just as important, if not more important ecologically, as other anadromous fish. Pacific Lamprey have high-fat content and are easier to prey on than salmonids. Tony suggested, “by biomass, they are probably more important.”

Either way, when considering the loss of salmonid and lamprey populations— “the amount of nutrients we have lost from the riparian area is astronomical,” said Tony.

Disturbed

As we finished the loop, crossed over the river and made our way back to our cars, I asked Tony what he thought were the biggest issues when it comes to fish. He was quick to respond: “The biggest thing humans have an issue with is that resilience depends on disturbance and not stability.”

I asked him to elaborate. He explained that humans want things to be neat and tidy—we don’t want ecosystems to change. We often see it as a bad thing. For example, landslides or forest fires are often seen as purely negative forces on an ecosystem. But the truth is, though perhaps destructive locally, the changes that result are overall positive.

Tony mentioned a study that looked at landslide-prone areas. At first glance, you might think that landslides would be bad for fish. However, in this study, it was found that these areas not only had three important habitat types (spawning, summer -earing, and winter-refuge habitat) but connectivity between the habitat types. [2] Why? Because the landslides likely provide new materials, like sediment and wood to the stream, developing all the different habitat requirements Coho need, and in close proximity.

This is how nature works. Fish (and other wildlife) thrive in dynamic, heterogeneous environments.

A bridge over the North Fork of the Siletz River.

Lessening Our Impact

Of course, not all disturbances are positive. Too much change can throw natural systems out of balance. So before we parted ways, I asked Tony what he thought about human disturbances in the lives of fish and forests.

Tony offered a hopeful stance. He talked about how we have learned a lot about how to lessen our impacts on ecosystems over the years, while still benefiting from the products and services they provide. He used the example of roads. We need roads, he explained, to access timber, recreation areas like the VOC, and other natural resources. But roads are going to impact the environment. However, not all roads are equal. Roads are now built with cross drains to divert runoff before reaching the stream, allowing sediment to settle in vegetated side-slopes. Also, new road construction now incorporates large culverts that allow streams to freely flow and fish to move up and downstream. Roads are necessary if we want access, according to Tony, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a lot we can do to improve them and mitigate their impact.

Driving Home

As I drove the many miles of gravel roads back to civilization, I thought a lot about what Tony said.

It is apparent that humans are connected by a complex transportation network— we can easily see and experience this connection, as I did on the dusty, bumpy ride home. But there is another complex network that we are a part of that often remains hidden—the web of life. Like fish and trees in a forest—we too are dependent on the natural world—ecosystems provide us with clean air, water, food, medicine, and many more products and services.

So what do we do? We lay bare these connections. We study them and respect them. And by doing so, we build better roads—and perhaps a better world.

Tony Spitzack is a Fish Biologist with the Bureau of Land Management in the Northwest Oregon District. Tony has also worked as a Natural Resource Technician for the Forest Service. He has a Masters Degree from Eastern New Mexico University and studied marine ecology at Washington State University Vancouver.

References

Warren, D.R., Keeton, W.S., Bechtold, H.A. et al. Comparing streambed light availability and canopy cover in streams with old-growth versus early-mature riparian forests in western Oregon. Aquat Sci 75, 547–558 (2013). https://doi.org/10.1007/s00027-013-0299-2
Beeson, Helen & Flitcroft, Rebecca & Fonstad, Mark & Roering, Josh. (2018). Deep‐Seated Landslides Drive Variability in Valley Width and Increase Connectivity of Salmon Habitat in the Oregon Coast Range. JAWRA Journal of the American Water Resources Association. 10.1111/1752-1688.12693.

Hike with a Terrestrial Wildlife Biologist

The soft, spongy earth sinks and swells beneath my feet. Branches and needles tower overhead from trunks of various sizes and shapes, diffusing the light and casting shadows. The edges of grasses and herbs slip past my ankles, while shrubs tickle my things and hips. All the while an orchestra of whistles and sing-song sounds float on the wind, and a bouquet of sweet and musty smells rise and fall from the ground. Step, climb, dip, and try not to trip—this is what it is like to hike through a forest.

When I met up with Corbin Murphy, BLM Wildlife Biologist, at the Crabtree Lake Trailhead, I knew that I was in for an adventure. The plan was to follow a trail down into the Crabtree Lake Valley, and then bushwack into the woods to reset some camera traps that needed tending to. We would eventually make it down to Crabtree Lake to one of the oldest forests in Oregon. I knew that walking would be a bit rough, but the payoff was worth it. I was right.

Corbin Murphy checks on his Beaver Dam Analog in the meadow.

The Hike

Trailhead: Crabtree Valley Trailhead
Distance: 4-5 miles
Elevation Gain: about 900 ft
Details: Roads to the trailhead are gravel but in decent condition. The last half mile of road is rough, but I made it with my Honda Civic. The usual route for this hike follows a decommissioned road down. Take a sharp right once you reach a road and follow it up to Crabtree Lake.

Diverse Species

Entering a forest should be a rich, multisensory experience—an orchestra of sights, sounds, and scents. It should be a tangled web of life! Complex ecosystems are not only more aesthetically pleasing, but they also tend to be resilient and functional.

Paying attention to the diversity of species in an ecosystem is an important part of being a wildlife biologist. So, as Corbin and I began our hike along an old decommissioned road heading down toward Crabtree Valley, he was on high alert for the sights and sounds of the forest. It didn’t take long before we started talking about the different plants and animals we were seeing and hearing on the trail.

Sounds of Life

Listening for birds was of particular interest to Corbin. He pointed out the high pitched electronic sounding whistle of a varied thrush and two-note chirp-chirp of a flycatcher. Because many birds are shy and difficult to spot in a forest, wildlife biologists often use bird calls to count birds instead of relying on visual identification.

As part of his work, Corbin shared how he has been participating in breeding bird point-count surveys recently. To conduct this kind of survey you drive along a transect an hour before dawn, stopping every half-mile for two minutes to listen, and identify bird calls. Point-counts are useful for biologists because they give us a better idea of what species are present in an ecosystem, and over time can see declines in specific species populations as well.

Green Stuff

In addition to birds, the variety of plant life also attracted our attention. Corbin pointed out several species of wildflowers, shrubs, and trees—you know, all the pretty green stuff.

It is easy to appreciate the importance of green stuff (a.k.a. plants) to an ecosystem. From an early age, we learn that plants provide oxygen to breathe and food to eat. But not all plants are equal. Like animal species, each species of plant has its own role to fulfill in the ecosystem. In some cases, providing special benefits to select species. Thus, we need a diversity of plant life to support the diversity of life in an ecosystem.

When it comes to conifer forests, less abundant deciduous trees and shrubs play a disproportionately large role in supporting the ecosystem. According to Corbin, conifer needles are generally not very nutritious. They have a low energy density, making them unable to support many invertebrate species. In contrast, deciduous trees and shrubs make a lot more energy available to support an abundance of species.

Biological Desert

According to Corbin, a forest is more than just trees. A forest should have an understory of shrubs and forbs. In a natural system, stochastic disturbances, like forest fires, allow for the establishments of an understory. High-density tree plantations do not. Corbin explained, “shrubs and forbs compete with seedlings. So they will establish, and they can dominate a site for anywhere from 30 to 300 years.” This stage of the forest is called “early seral” and is an important stage of forest development.

However, in a tree plantation, this long period of competition is undesirable. Instead, a more profitable high-density forest is established, and the early seral stage of forest development is shortened or eliminated. This creates “a biological desert,” said Corbin, “You have conifer trees and hardly any understory—any vegetation at all. You can literally count the number of plants and animals on one hand.”

That is why managing forests, like that surrounding Crabtree Lake, requires an eye for biodiversity. Forest density and early seral species should be considered. We don’t just need a bunch of any kind of plant, but we need an assortment of plants.

Look-Alike

Of course, even between deciduous understory trees, diversity of species is important. When hiking through a forest, it is easy to be blind to plant diversity. Everything can seem nondescript in a wash of greenery. But with a keen eye, even close look-alike species can be distinguished from one another.

As we walked through a tunnel of deciduous trees and shrubs, Corbin pointed out a couple of look-alike pairs of species hidden in the foliage.

One of the pairs that sat side-by-side was the Vine Maple and Rocky Mountain Maple also called Douglas Maple. Though very similar looking in size and general shape, vine maples tend to have more lobes, usually nine, than Rocky Mountain Maple, usually three. Also, the Rocky Mountain Maple’s leaves have sharply toothed margins, while the Vine Maple’s leaves’ margins are doubly toothed.

Red Alder and Sitka Alder were another pair of look-alikes found on the trail. Again, though similar looking at first glance, the growth form of the Red Alder is straighter and taller, while the Sitka Alder is shorter and more shrubby. Also, if you look closely at the leaves, the Red Alders’ leaf margins roll under slightly, while the Sitka Alders’ leaf margins are sharply toothed.

All this to say, there are a lot of different kinds of green-stuff in a forest.

Rocky Mountain Maple leaf overlaid with Vine Maple Leaf.

A Special Place

Before dropping down toward the lake, Corbin and I stopped to look down at where we were headed. Corbin explained that we were about to enter a really special place. Perhaps one of the oldest forests in Oregon, the Crabtree Lake Valley, and surrounding areas, are all part of the Crabtree Valley Complex—“An Area of Critical Environmental Concern (ACEC) due to its outstanding geological, recreational, and ecological value.”

Crabtree Valley was created during the last ice age. Glaciers carved out large amphitheater-like valleys, called cirques, which protected much of the forest from fire for perhaps 1,000 years. Later, for whatever reason, it remained unlogged. Making it a perfect example of a late-successional forest and refuge for species, like the Northern Spotted Owl.

So when the BLM acquired the land in the 1980s, it fell under ACEC status and a management plan was put in place in order to protect its values. Which brings us to today where it is still under a resources management plan as a late-successional reserve.

View into the meadow with protective rock.

Management to Protect

One of the ways the BLM has been working to meet the goals of the resource management plan is by reducing roadways in the area. Though some areas within the Crabtree Lake Complex were never logged, logging was still rampant in the region. In fact, the first part of our hike was on an old logging road through an area that was probably logged in the 70s or 80s.

So in order to enhance and restore what we might expect from a late-successional reserve, the BLM decommissioned most of the roads, ripped them up, put in waterbars, and took out culverts—all efforts to restore the natural functions of the forest.

Give a Hoot

Eventually, we made our way down to the lower valley floor and into the late-successional forest reserve. Here we took a sharp left onto another road Corbin said he usually uses to access the property. He also told me that the road is where the BLM does surveys for Northern Spotted Owl. Every half-mile along the road is a survey station where a biologist will stop for 10 minutes to call and listen for spotted owls.

There are two pairs of spotted owls reported within the watershed, Corbin said, because “the habitat is so great in this area.” This is unusual because spotted owls usually need a 1.2 mile home range in the Cascades, but these nesting pairs are only about a half-mile apart. Not only that, but last year the pairs each had two juveniles. Which is remarkable because, as Corbin explained, “other than that, there was zero reproduction in spotted owls from Sweet Home in the BLM up to the Columbia River.”

Wear Layers

Continuing down the road, the dynamics of the forest opened up— there were tall douglas-fir trees and hemlock; open areas with shrubs and smaller trees; and snags and down logs.

“One of the big things about late-successional forests too is the structure,” said Corbin. You want to see “horizontal and vertical heterogeneity” in a late-successional forest.

Basically, a forest like the one we were observing, starts with a lot of Douglas-fir, but then over the next hundred years, holes open up in the canopy that allows shrubs and shade-tolerant trees, like hemlock, to grow and fill in gaps.

This development of structure is important because it creates habitat for wildlife. A forest that lacks diverse forest structure is simply not conducive to the wildlife that needs late-successional forest.

Corbin told me about a transect study that looked at how flying squirrels fared when there were big trees, but no holes for shrubs and smaller trees available for the development of an understory. The squirrels had the big trees they needed for food and nesting, but there was not enough cover for them to avoid predation. Needless to say, the outcome wasn’t great for the squirrels

Highly structured forest observed along the road.

A Rotten Heart

At one point, Corbin and I came across a down tree with heart rot. Which brings me to another component of late-successional forest that adds to its complexity— dead stuff.

If the down tree with heart rot was actually standing, or a snag, it would provide habitat for cavity nesters like woodpeckers. As a large down log, it creates habitat for hundreds of invertebrates, bacteria, and fungi, as well as amphibians.

The importance of dead trees cannot be overemphasized. In fact, often land managers create snags by girdling trees in an attempt to mimic the natural process of snag formation. Unfortunately, according to Corbin, it generally doesn’t work very well. The natural process is slow, possibly taking a couple of hundred years for a snag to form. There really isn’t a quick way to recreate that.

In addition, Oregon slender salamanders, a species of concern, rely on the late-successional forest for large down wood. This species is endemic to Oregon and is doing O.K. right now, but as timber harvesting continues to produce young 20-30 years old forests, things could get dicey. Less large down wood means less of an important microhabitat that Oregon slender salamanders need to survive.

This is why on federal public lands, Corbin explained, “we are trying to institute measures to have leave trees, and these are the legacy trees from the previous cohort, and those are the ones that have all the lichens and bryophytes—create a little refugium—and those eventually become snags and fall over.”

Downed Log with heart rot as seen on the trail.

Leave it to Beaver

Not long after passing the downed log, Corbin and I headed off-trail to check on a beaver dam analog (BDA) that was put in last fall. As we climbed through the underbrush, Corbin explained that beavers were historically present in the wet meadow we were about to visit, pooling the water and creating a much larger lake. We even some old beaver sign to confirm it.

However, when roads were constructed in the area, the beavers disappeared. Corbin hypothesized that they could have been trapped. Since then, trees have started to encroach into the wet meadow, altering the historically flooded area and shrinking the lake.

Then, a couple of years ago, Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife and BLM joined forces in an effort to reintroduce beavers into the area. Several beavers were released into the watershed. But they didn’t stay.

Now, the BLM is working on a soft release program in the hopes that the next group of beavers they introduce won’t go away. That is why the BLM constructed the BDA—in an effort to make the meadow homier. Once established, beavers, a keystone species, will naturally alter the ecosystem; hopefully, restoring the meadow to historical conditions.

A Beaver Dam Analog (a.k.a—fake beaver dam) in the wet meadow.

Fishing for Fishers

After visiting the BDA, Corbin and I continued a bit further down the road before making our way back into the woods again. This time we bushwacked our way to one of the camera-traps Corbin needed to reset. The camera traps were set up as part of a Forest Carnivore Research Project started by Katie Moriarty from Oregon State University. The BLM adopted a project grid area, and are working on tracking the carnivores that visit each camera trap site.

The overall goal of the projects is to determine if Pacific Fishers are present in the Western Cascades. Historically, Corbin shared, Pacific Fishers ranged from California up through British Columbia. But their range has shrunk in Oregon over the years and now there is no record of Pacific Fishers anywhere north of Eugene. Later, as part of the carnivore project, Fishers will hopefully be reintroduced into areas like the Crabtree Lake Valley.

As Corbin worked to reset the camera trap and bait it, I asked him about why the reintroduction of Fishers is important. He explained that Fishers are candidate species for ESA listing, which makes them important in the eyes of the government. Candidate species are in danger of extinction in at least part of their range.

Species extinction is a concern because, as mentioned earlier, each species has a role in the ecosystem. Pacific Fishers are top predators. They help regulate populations of organisms that sit below them in the food chain. They are also opportunistic feeders and primarily prey on small mammals, including squirrels and even porcupines. Thus the loss of Fishers could have ripple effects on the forest food web—allowing porcupine populations to increase, for example, which could lead to excessive damage to trees they feed on.

Carnivore Project bate opposite camera trap.

Forest Walking

After resetting the first camera trap, we did some serious bushwhacking up to the next one before heading down to crabtree lake. As we made our way to the lake, I was taken aback by the grandeur of the forest. I felt small beside the mammoth-sized trees, but at the same time, perfectly natural walking across a huge moss-covered log. We were really in the thick of the forest.

Here we did the forest dance—climbing, ducking, and trying not to trip. We saw more life, including a small salamander hiding amongst a pile of old deadwood. We talked about huckleberries that would ripen in late summer. And craned our necks looking up at the tallest trees in the forest.

During the last leg of our hike, the biodiversity of habitat and species was all around us—the promise of spotted owls, flying squirrels, and future fisher. This is what hiking in a forest is all about!

Corbin doing the “forest dance” as we bushwhacked our way to Crabtree Lake.

Corbin Murphy is a Wildlife Biologist for the Salem District of Bureau of Land Management. He has been with the BLM for 11 years and currently works in the Cascades Field Office. He has also worked for the U.S. Forest Service.

Hike with a Forest Hydrologist

Views from the Table Rock Wilderness Trail

“All life depends on it.”

This was the response I got when I asked Jonas Parker, Bureau of Land Management hydrologist, why anyone should care about hydrology. A no brainer, right? Well, sort of—Jonas elaborated, “hydrology needs to be functional. It needs to be in balance with the ecosystem it flows through.”

A System in Balance

We don’t just depend on water to live, but we depend on the regulatory processes that sustain a healthy water system.

Consider the human body—we need to take in a certain amount of water to be healthy. Too little water and you risk dehydration. Too much water and you risk overwhelming your body tissues. Our body systems help keep the body in balance, even when our choices may not. Overwhelm or abuse these systems and the consequence is death.

In the case of an ecosystem, like a forest, the same principles hold true. Too much or too little water can be devastating for an ecosystem. Natural processes and cycles help stabilize and regulate the hydrological cycle. Overwhelm or abuse these systems and we could be looking at ecological and societal collapse.

In either case, it is the system that needs looking after, not just the water flowing through it.

Land Management

As a district hydrologist for the BLM, Jonas’ job is to look after hydrological systems on our public lands. One of these lands is the Table Rock Wilderness area—which is where I met up with Jonas for our hike.

Jonas begins his descent from the meadows near Rooster Rock.

The Hike

Trailhead: Table Rock Trailhead
Distance: 7+ miles
Elevation Gain: approx 2500 feet
Details: We hiked from the Table Rock Trailhead to Rooster Rock Trailhead. Roads to both trailheads are gravel but in decent condition. Road to Rooster Rock Trailhead is a bit rough; high clearance recommended. Ample parking available. Pit toilet available at the Table Rock Trailhead.

Views of a Patchwork Forests

Ironically, our wilderness hike started out on an old road that maybe 30 years ago was used to haul away timber. So, even though our intention was to experience wilderness, we found ourselves face-to-face with industrial timber production.

The Table Rock Wilderness is a 6,028-acre swath of mostly hundred-year-old uncut forested land. It was established in the 1980s as part of an effort to protect what little remained of unharvested forests in western Oregon. However, the Table Rock wilderness is almost completely surrounded by industrial timberlands, both public and private. Therefore, when views opened up along the trail, we found ourselves looking down on a patchwork pattern of forest in various stages of production.

Beyond the Horizon

Looking beyond the horizon, the patchwork of Oregon’s forests become even more complicated. Almost half of Oregon is forested. About a ⅓ of is owned by private forest owners, while the remaining ⅔ are public forests, managed by government agencies like the BLM and USFS. A majority of the timber harvest is done on private land, where economics is often the primary driving factor. While the remaining timber harvest on public lands works to meet multiple objectives.

The BLM’s Northwest Oregon District alone manages about 800,000 acres of land, much of it secondary growth from clear-cuts in the mid-1900s. A time period when timber production and economic gains was the priority. Now, our public lands are managed for multiple uses, including timber production, but with ecological and social considerations to balance. To accomplish these goals which may seem to be in conflict with one another, much of the land that the BLM manages are held in reserve, including the Table Rock Wilderness.

In other words, much of Oregon’s forests are the product of out-of-date forest management practices that don’t necessarily jive with our current goals.

Modifying the Land

Pretty quickly, Jonas and I made our way off the road and deep into the douglas-fir/western hemlock forest. “Look at this chunk of land,” said Jonas, “diversity of species and canopy layers, appropriate spacing and correct vegetation. It doesn’t need anything.” The hydrology of this forest is functional. However, “most of the lands [in western Oregon] don’t look like this.” Most of our forest lands have been modified at one point or another. And modification changes the hydrology.

Jonas explained—”Whatever and however you modify the landscape there are going to be consequences.” For example, when a forest is clearcut, the amount of water that trees transport from the soil to the air, a process called transpiration, will decrease, as there are fewer trees to do the work.

However, if that same area becomes overgrown with lots of shrubs, or is replanted at a high density with trees, transpiration will increase again.

Each of these modifications changes the amount of water in the system which may lead to problems. For example, too much water added to the system when transpiration decreases may result in more runoff, higher stream flows, and erosion. Too little water and you may be looking at a dry streambed.

“It’s this balance of modifying the landscape to accommodate different objectives,” said Jonas, which makes his work fun.

Looking toward the Table Rock Wilderness Area.

Quality and Quantity

So when we are talking about changing the hydrology, what does that really mean?

I asked Jonas how he defined hydrology. He said, “The grade school answer is it is the study of water.” But, he added, hydrology can really be “broken down into two measurements—water quality and water quantity.” If water quality and quantity are good, then you are looking at a healthy system. However, in a modified forest, maintaining water quality and quantity can be a challenge.

Clean, Clear Water

According to Jonas, when it comes to water quality in a modified forest ecosystem, there are two factors that should always be considered in order to ensure good water quality.

The first is turbidity. Turbidity is the cloudiness of the water. In most forested ecosystems, the turbidity should be low most of the time—that is the natural state of a forest stream unless there is a rainstorm or snowmelt which naturally induces erosion and thereby increases turbidity. However, any human activity that disturbs the soil, like building roads or harvesting timber, can also mobilize sediment so that it may enter a body of water. This is a huge problem especially for aquatic organisms— it can clog fish gills and smother eggs; reduces stream visibility; and it can absorb heat. It can also make drinking water treatment more difficult.

Second is the water temperature. Most rivers in Oregon are inhabited by cold-water adapted species. However, with climate change, early snowpack melt, and the removal of forest from along rivers or streams, high water temperatures are becoming a more frequent problem. High temperatures are problematic because they can reduce the amount of dissolved oxygen a stream can hold. Warm temperatures can also lead to the growth of algae. Algae can throw the ecosystem off balance by reducing oxygen concentration as they decompose, as well as producing cytotoxins.

Keeping it Clean

However, Jonas explained, proper management can help mitigate turbidity and temperature problems. For example, maintaining a vegetative corridor along rivers and streams can provide shade that prevents water from heating up, as well as help filter out sediments. According to Jonas, the primary shade zone is about 85 ft—this is where 95% of shading occurs. These “riparian areas or buffers” are prescribed by the fish biologists and hydrologists and, in the case of BLM land, a 120 feet buffer is maintained on perennial streams where stream temperature is a concern just to be on the safe side.

In addition, to reduce the risk of damage from road construction, road use, and road work, waterbars can be placed along logging roads at regular intervals. These redirect water and sediments into the forest where it can settle out, rather than allowing it to flow directly to the stream. Jonas pointed out one of these waterbars on the road we walked in on.

Too much or Too Little of a Good thing

On the water quantity side of things, the discharge, or rate, of freshwater flowing through an area is important. Or in the case of a lake, the volume of water. And since most of the water Oregonians consume comes from forested land, modifications to forestland that changes the amount of discharge of a stream is not acceptable.

Some of the mitigation measures used to reduce pollution can also help with efforts to protect water availability. For example, directing water flowing in ditches toward the forest (as opposed to directly into the stream) can help slow its flow. A good riparian area can do the same thing. However, much of BLM land has been managed since the 1930s with a goal of intensive timber production, so they are stocked at levels that may be too dense for balanced water quantity. Remember too many trees can mean less water available to the system.

Hard Decisions

As the focus of the BLM has shifted more towards a balance between resource protection and resource production in recent years, Jonas says, “The struggle is always there to balance the economic, the ecological, and the social.” Sometimes you have to make management decisions that aren’t popular, like thinning a riparian area, in order to reduce transpiration and bring the hydrology into balance. And though it would be nice to leave things alone and let cycles restore on their own, it takes a lot of time.

“We also have threatened and endangered species—fish, owls, you name it—and their survival depends on a healthy functional riparian area. The question I would ask is, ‘Can they wait two to three hundred years?’”

A Spring!

Early on in our hike, Jonas and I found ourselves startled by a rare find—a spring right in the middle of the trail! Coldwater was bubbling right up from the ground! Jonas pointed out that the geology around us is responsible for the formation of a spring.

Geology Brief

The Table Rock Wilderness has a volcanic geological history. The basement rock in the area is a volcanic rock called andesite, probably remnants of an old stratovolcano that existed 17-10 million years ago. Layered on top of the andesite, is a different type of volcanic rock called basalt. The basalt probably formed from lava that flowed into the area and cooled about 4 million years ago from a nearby Cascade volcanic eruption.

At one point during the hike, you skirt around basalt pillars—called columnar basalt—that makeup Table Rock’s summit. One of the many cool geological sights on the hike.

Columnar basalt on the base of Table Rock.

Hidden Water

All that being said, it is the volcanic nature of the Table Rock Wilderness that influences a part of hydrology that is often overlooked—groundwater. About ⅓ of water on Earth does not flow on the surface but exists underground. In comparison, surface water—lakes, rivers, etc—makes up only about 1% of all freshwater.

In the case of the Table Rock Wilderness, much of the water that lands in the forest will infiltrate into the ground and recharge “deep, deep basaltic aquifers”—huge groundwater storage zones.

Because basalts tend to fracture, Basalt rock aquifers tend to be very permeable and porous making them ideal for supplying water to springs and seeps.

“Springs regulate themselves and fluctuate very little,” said Jonas. The Table Rock Wilderness hydrological system is in balance in part because “water that enters the aquifer is equal to the water that leaves.” He went on, “Shallow aquifers are more prone to weather and drought. But that is not what we got here. Here we are 4,000 feet up on a basalt mountain! If there is that much water coming out of the ground, that amount is going to fluctuate very little throughout the year.”

Let it Snow

After a couple of miles of hiking in the woods, the trail opens up to views of Table Rock. It was here—while hiking through a rockfall that supposedly is inhabited with Pika—I saw a glimmer of white at the base of table rock. It was snow!

Water in its many solid forms makes up about 2/3rds of freshwater on the planet—by far the biggest chunk. O.K. so most of that is probably accounted for in the polar regions. But still, glaciers and snowpack are incredibly important water reservoirs in the Pacific Northwest.

According to Jonas, snow is still the largest reservoir of water in Oregon. And in the Table Rock Wilderness, this is also the case. Though most (well, basically all) of the snow had melted by the time we hit the trail, it was still working its way through the hydrological system underground, ultimately bubbling up to the surface through springs and seeps.

Looking out to my right from the base of Table Rock, I could also see Mount Hood in the distance. Similar to how Table Rock supplies water to its creeks, Mt. Hood and the rest of the Cascades, supply water to some of Oregon’s largest rivers and most populous areas. For example, the McKenzie River is a spring-fed system—supplied by a mountain snowpack that melted, infiltrated, and has been traveling underground for several years!

Table rock sitting just above a rock fall. Can you spot the snow?

Wondering about Watersheds

After returning to the woods and circling Table Rock, Jonas and I eventually hit the switchbacks that take you to the top of the rock. Though Jonas opted to hang back, I had heard the views were too spectacular to miss, so I made the ascent alone.

It was worth it! Looking out across the landscape at the mountains, ridges, and valleys, was spectacular. It also brought me back to discussion Jonas and I had earlier regarding watersheds.

Anytime you are standing on the planet Earth, you are standing in a watershed. A watershed is simply an area of land that drains to a common body of water. For the Table Rock Wilderness this common body of water is the Molalla River.

A Drop at the Top

As Jonas described it—if you take a drop of water and place it on the top of Table Rock it will travel a number of different ways—it might travel to Image Creek to the north or Bull Creek to the south—but ultimately it will end up in the Molalla River. That is because the Table Rock Wilderness sits in the middle of the Molalla River Watershed. The Mollala River and Table Rock Wilderness are connected, even though the river never flows within the wilderness boundaries. This connection extends to the Willamette River as well. The Molalla River is the largest undammed tributary to the Willamette River.

So standing on the top of Table Rock, I was standing in the Mollala River Watershed, the Willamette River Watershed, and the Columbia River Watershed, as well as probably one or two smaller watersheds nested within.

Though I didn’t spill any water at the top (other than sweat), it was still fun to trace the journey of a drop in my mind. A practice I recommend trying next time you are on a ridge.

One of many views from the top of Table Rock.

An Uncut Forest

After visiting the Table Rock summit, Jonas and I continued along the Saddle Trail and High Ridge Trail toward Rooster Rock. These trails led us back into the forest and through some gorgeous wildflower meadows.

Taking in all the unique features of the area, Mine and Jonas’ conversion came back to a topic we touched on earlier—change. Change is part of the cycle of a healthy functioning ecosystem. In fact, the Table Rock Wilderness formed following a forest fire about 100 years ago.

View of a wildflower meadow looking up at Rooster Rock.

Things are Changing

But, Jonas asked, “What will it look like in 100 years? 200 years?” With climate change creating hotter, dryer conditions, will we see a shift away from the Douglas-fir/ Hemlock forest to one filled with Pine and Madrone? As wildfires become more frequent and severe, how will that change the dynamics of the landscape? And, perhaps most importantly, should we step in?

Wilderness areas are for the most part “untouched,” but with global crises like climate change and biodiversity loss, we need to start considering our impact on these untouched places, and whether or not we should do anything in response. “We need to acknowledge no management is management,” said Jonas.

Neither Jonas nor I had the answer, but we need to keep asking the question—How do we best protect our public lands?

Sweat Worthy

After several hours of sweating it out on the trail, Jonas and I followed the Rooster Rock Trail down to the trailhead where we had staged our return vehicle.

Overall, the hike was long and challenging, but the scenery was worth every bead of sweat. I definitely recommend hiking the Table Rock Wilderness. Just make sure you pack enough water!

Jonas Parker is a Hydrologist for the BLM Northwest Oregon District. He received his B.S. in Fisheries and Aquatic Science at Utah State University and Masters in Natural Resources Management from the University of Idaho.

Hike with a Hydrologist

The Zigzag River flowing through the forest.

Flaming clouds of airborne gases, ash, and fine sediment rush down Mount Hood at 100 miles per hour, like an incinerator in flight. A slurry of hot water and sediment, in some cases 100 meters high, and the consistency of cement, follow—crashing down Mount Hood’s rivers and valleys; rocking and rolling between ridges; decimating everything.

This is Mount Hood 1,500 years ago. This is Mount Hood at various points during its geological history. Heck! As an active volcano, this is Mount Hood in the future.

Massive amounts of sediments were redistributed down the mountainside with each eruptive period. Sediments filled in valleys and creating an eerie lifeless landscape—in effect, a clean slate.

The Beginning

Which brings me to where our story begins…

I met up with hydrologist James (Dar) Crammond at the junction of Road 39 and Highway 26 to explore the Zigzag River Valleys.

Little Zigzag River and Big Zigzag River are fed by a glacier near the base of Mt. Hood’s crater, converging to become the Zigzag River further down the mountainside. They also sit precariously in the path of destruction described above.

However, despite this, Dar and I did not find ourselves hiking through a dry, flat moonscape, but a deep valley and forested oasis. The clean slate from 1,500 years ago was not clean anymore. It had been written upon by the very substance we had met up to talk about—water!

James “Dar” Crammond standing next to a logjam in the Zigzag River.

The Hike

Trailhead: Unmarked trailhead off of Road 39 at the gate for Forest Service Road 2639-021 where Paradise Park Trail Begins.
Distance: 2.5 miles
Details: Recreation Pass for US Forest Service Trails may be required. Limited parking and no parking at the trailhead. Little Zigzag Falls Trailhead is at the end of Road 39 and is a great add on to this hike.

A Giant Reset

Before we hit the trail, Dar took me to an overlook of Mount Hood a little further east up 26 from our meeting point. As I stood there marveling at Mount Hood, Oregon’s tallest and most well-known stratovolcano, Dar explained Mt. Hood’s recent eruptive history.

In addition to the eruptive event 1,500 years ago (the Timberline eruptive period), the Zigzag episode (500 years ago) and the “Old Maid” episode (200 years ago) also sent pyroclastic flows (airborne debris flows) and lahars (water and sediment flows) down Mount Hood. In fact, in 1804-05 Lewis and Clark observed the remnants of debris flows in rivers coming from the Mountain into the Columbia. Consequently, this is how the Sandy River got its name.

The Sequence

Dar also pointed to the horseshoe-shaped crater on Mount Hood with a tooth in the middle, called crater rock. He explained that each time an eruption would occur the dome would collapse leaving a crater, but then the dome would grow and the volcano would erupt again. Crater rock is a remnant of one of these collapsed domes. Hot spots around crater rock signify the potential for a new dome to build.

In addition, the heat energy from each eruption would liquefy all of the ice, snow, and glaciers on Mount Hood. The superheated water would flow down the mountain at high speed, collecting material along the way. This “mudflow” is what is known as a lahar. Unlike pyroclastic flows, which are airborne, lahars flow down the mountainsides a bit slower, but much farther. This is why Lewis and Clark were able to observe debris from Mount Hood in the Columbia River many years ago. There is even evidence that the Columbia was temporarily dammed by lahar debris at least once following an eruptive episode.

Dar called this whole sequence “a giant reset”— as it flattens the terrain with loose sandy material and rocks—setting the stage for a new force to come in and shape the landscape—water!

Loose Landscapes

Leaving the viewpoint, Dar and I headed back to our meeting spot and drove up Road 39. At the end of the road is a parking lot and trailhead, as well a section of old Route 26 that was decommissioned in the 1960s. However, that is not why we stopped here. Instead, Dar wanted to show me an exposure that would provide some insight into the aftermath of Mt. Hood’s eruptions.

The exposure was probably 25 to 30 meters high and made up of fine textured sand. Growing along the exposure were red alder trees. Dar said, “Alders love loose landscapes” When you see red alders in an area it suggests disturbance.

Dar explained that during the 1550 eruption that a big lahar, with a peak 30% to 50% higher than what we could see, dropped down into the area where it would have been constrained as it moved down the canyon, causing it to ricochet from cliff to cliff. Eventually, the slurry of water and sediment would meet a constriction point downstream where the Little and Big Zigzag meet– blocking sediment transport and causing loose sediment to pile up. Hence, the alder trees.

Sediment Stratigraphy

This exposure was one of many Dar and I observed, as we moved downstream along road 39 to begin our hike through the woods.

Another exposure that was particularly interesting was near the pinch point where the Zigzag River tributaries meet and the canyon narrows (just above the trailhead on road 39). Here you could see horizons, or layers, of sediment from different eruptive events.

Dar explained how scientists can use organic bits found in the horizons, like a fragment of charred wood, to date each layer.

He also explained how sediment size and mixing within a horizon, is evidence for the origin of each layer. Fine, consistently sized grains of sediments signal the normal hydrology of rain and snow. While jumbled sediments of variable size and shape are characteristic of lahar deposition.

Of course, even between different eruptive events, lahar depositional characteristics will differ depending on the stage of dome-building in which the eruption occurred. Fine material is more predominant in layers from early-stage eruptions, while large angular rocks are found in late-stage eruptions that follow dome-building.

Sediment stratigraphy near the confluence of Little Zigzag and Big Zigzag.

A Reckoning

Either way, we are talking about a lot of loose sediment! This is where hydrology comes into play, explained Dar. The powerful forces of big disasters often capture the imagination, but it is during the aftermath of these moments, where the real work begins. It is with the power of a raindrop and the force of a river that water reshapes the landscape—tearing down what plate tectonics builds up. In this case, a forested canyon just waiting to be explored.

A Giant Sandbox

When I was a kid I loved playing in the sand at the beach—digging holes, building sandcastles, and watching the waves wash it all away. Now that I have my own children—I am fascinated by how many hours they can spend playing in the sand.

For hydrologists, this fascination doesn’t stop at childhood. Hydrologists “play in the sand” all the time. In fact, many hydrologists work with small-scale “sandbox” models. Provided enough sediment and a continuous supply of water, these models help hydrologists better understand the large-scale ways water shapes the Earth.

The Zigzag River system is important to hydrologists because like a sandbox model, it too has a continuous supply of water and plenty of sediment—but it can be studied on a real-world scale. As Dar put it—it is a “giant sandbox.”

Let’s go play!

Hydrology Basics

Just a little past the confluence of Big Zigzag and Little Zigzag, Dar and I headed into the woods near the Paradise Park Trailhead. Here we followed the Zigzag River downstream along a lovely forested trail.

Stream morphology is influenced by a lot of different factors which makes interpreting a river’s path challenging for hydrologists. Unless you can directly observe the river as it takes shape, you must rely a lot on inferences.

However, according to Dar, there are still some basic principles and observations that offer a good starting point for understanding river dynamics.

Gradient

The first of these being steepness. Steep rivers tend to be more straight—water energy is directed downward resulting in deep, narrow channels. Flat rivers tend to meander or curve—water energy is directed unevenly, cutting one bank, while slowing and dropping sediment on the opposite bank.

Streamflow

The second principle involves streamflow. Streamflow or discharge is a measure of the volume of water flowing through a channel at a given point and at a given moment. Dar explained to understand streamflow you want to consider its velocity, or speed, as well as the cross-sectional area of the river. Knowing streamflow is important because, it not only tells you how much water is available, but it correlates with the kinetic energy of the stream. High flows will have a greater amount of energy, than low flows.

Streamflow is also dynamic. Thus, depending on how much the discharge fluctuates during a day or a year, the energy of the flow and the morphology of a stream may depend heavily on the time of day and/or seasonality. Even within a channel, streamflow can vary as water tends to follow the path of least resistance- resulting in more complex stream channels, with features like meanders, pools, gravel bars, etc.

Play Pooh Sticks

So next time you pass by a river or stream, take some mental measurements of all of that water rushing by—is the terrain steep? How much water is there? Throw a couple of leaves or sticks in the water and see how long it takes them to get from point A to point B. A quick game of “Pooh Sticks” and you can consider yourself an honorary hydrologist.

Riffle-riffle-riffle

Walking in the shade of the forest, we passed a turbulent section of the Zigzag River with impressive white water. While I was admiring it and snapping pictures, Dar explained what was going on.

“This is a riffle-riffle-riffle morphology,” he said. “It is fast because of the high gradient.” In a youthful stream, like the Zigzag River, water tends to follow the quickest path downhill. This generates a lot of erosive power and downcutting. Therefore, even though it was hard to see through all the white water, the loose sediment that makes up the Zigzag river bed was moving—transported downstream.

In contrast, streams with different flow regimes or sediment supplies have very different morphologies. For instance, if we were looking at a stream with no sediment load or an older stream where the stream bed was eroded to bedrock, we would be looking at a “pool-drop-pool-drop” morphology. Or if we were looking at the Zigzag River when the eruptions smoothed everything out, a single channel would have yet to be established. Instead many small, braided channels would make up the landscape.

Riffle-riffle-riffle morphology on the Zigzag River.

Wood is a Wildcard

As important as gradient, streamflow, and sediment supply are to the morphology of a river, there is another factor of often equal importance. Dar described it as “a wildcard” when it comes to morphology—and that is wood!

As we continued following the trail downstream, we began to notice places where wood had fallen in the Zigzag River and altered its morphology.

Small Jam

One of the first examples we took note of was a small log jam. One end of a log had fallen into the stream and was still sticking out of the water on the other end—what Dar called a subhorizontal arrangement.

“There are only four or five ways a tree can interact in the water,” explained Dar. It can stick straight up and down, stick out from the bank, create a perfect dam across, or be subhorizontal in the water. Each of these creates different eddy patterns that accelerate the water in some places, scouring away sediments; while slowing down water in others, allowing sediments to accumulate creating bars or other depositional features.

With our small log jam, it was easy to see this lopsided pattern of stream erosion and deposition—there was erosion on the bank nearest to us and deposition on the opposite bank. In fact, some of the small boulders on the depositional side had been sitting in place long enough for moss to grow.

Big Jam

As we walked further along the tree-lined trail, we saw more examples of how wood was altering the morphology of the Zigzag River, changing it from a narrow, straight channel to one with increasing complexity.

Eventually, we ran into what Dar described as a “classic logjam.” The logjam was elaborate with two piers produced from tree fall on each bank. These piers slowed the water upstream, allowing for some pooling and deposition especially during high flows. In addition, the piers constricted the current—sending it through the middle of the river. The energy from the constriction was enough to scour the bottom of the stream, removing sediment, and creating a large scoop pool in the middle of the jam.

Dar also explained how logjams—like the one in front of us—form and are naturally maintained. When trees growing along a bank are undercut, they will fall into the river where they will collect sediment. If enough sediment is collected, another tree may grow in the sediment and eventually fall. So it is the repeated falling in of trees that creates and perpetuates logjams in a river.

Restoration in Reverse

Of course, one might wonder why logjams even matter. According to Dar, “wood is critical” in the Pacific Northwest. Wood naturally alters forested streams and has been doing do so long before humans arrived on the scene. Fish and other aquatic life have evolved in these wood enhanced streams. Thus, complex stream systems are essential for the survival of many of our culturally and ecologically important species, like salmon.

Unfortunately, when Europeans arrived on the scene, rivers were seen as a resource for commerce and transport. So wood, which interfered with these goals, was cleared out. Dar talked about how rivers like the Alsea and Nestucca were once wood-choked. However, with the removal of wood, they lost their complexity and their gravel. Now they are armored streams with hard rock and boulder bottoms. Dar called it, “restoration in reverse.”

Now, we know better. And we have been trying to get wood back in the rivers to restore their lost functions. The Zigzag River serves as an important model for how a forested stream develops without human intervention; providing information for restoration work now and in the future.

Lost in Time

As the trail directed us away from the Zigzag River and back toward road 39, Dar’s and my conversation began to meander. I brought up a topic that seemed important to the Zigzag River story and hydrology in general—the concept of time.

“Time is the 4th dimension of hydrology,” Dar said, “it is as big a parameter as anything else.” Even 100s of years of stream data and observation only provides a snapshot of the “life of a stream.”

In hydrology, change is relatively slow. It takes time for rocks to weather and erosion to occur; for banks to undercut and trees to fall; and for sediment to accumulate. Even faster processes like streamflow are restricted by time-bound processes like snowmelt and groundwater flow. Just like it is difficult to deduce the plot of a movie from one scene, our understanding of hydrology is time-bound and limited.

As Dar and I ended our hike on the Zigzag River, I reflected on all of this.

In only a few hours, Dar shared with me a fascinating story of a river—a story fashioned from a science that is only about 100 years old. Yet it is a story that has been playing for literally thousands of years and will play for thousands more. We are just getting started.

James “Dar” Crammond is the director of the USGS Water Science Center in Portland, Oregon. He also worked as the Chief of the Water Research Branch for USFWS and began his career with the Bureau of Reclamation in 1997, where he was a water rights expert. Dar has a B.S. in hydrology and J.D. from the University of Arizona, and is a member of the Arizona and Oregon State Bar Associations.