Hike with a Geologist at Seal Rock

About 15 million years ago basaltic lava released from fissures in northeast Oregon and southwest Washington poured through the Columbia River basin, traveling across the Pacific Northwest. Collectively these flows are known as the Columbia River Basalts.

What is perhaps most intriguing is just how far some Columbia River Basalts traveled. Flows can be found in locations as far afield as Silver Falls State Park, for example. Other flows traveled hundreds of miles from their origin through the Coast Range mountains to the Pacific Ocean.

Seal Rock State Park is the site of one such flow—making it a premier location for geology enthusiasts.

So, when I reached out to Sheila Alfsen from the Geological Society of Oregon Country for a hike and interview and she suggested we visit Seal Rock, it was met with a resounding “yes! “

Circuitous routes

I met Sheila in Philomath so we could drive to the coast together and talk geology along the way. As we headed out, she told me a bit about her background.

Sheila’s path to geology was a circuitous one.

She started out as a volunteer and teacher’s assistant at her own children’s schools where she realized she had an interest in and a knack for teaching.

Then, when state requirements insisted she go back to school for her job, her mind and life path were changed.

“My first class was oceanography,” Sheila gushed, “and the first thing we talked about was plate tectonics…This was everything I wanted to know. I was hooked on geology after that.”

Soon enough, Sheila had earned an associate degree, and later a Bachelor’s in Geology and Spanish, and a Master of Arts in Teaching (MAT).

She started teaching high school science and eventually moved on to teaching college courses, some with her mentor, Bill (William) Orr. 

Sheila found her passion—teaching geology.

“In Geology, you aren’t just talking about the rocks, but what they tell us about the history, and therefore, future of the planet. In Earth Science, you also talk about the oceans and atmosphere,” Sheila explained—It is all the Earth Systems. 

“I can teach basic principles of physical science within the context of earth science.”  Everything has a geology connection.

Highway 20

Our first stop on the way to the coast was Ellmaker State Wayside off Highway 20.  Here, Sheila laid out a plan for the day and gave a bit of background on the road we would be following to reach Newport. 

Several decades ago, the State Department of Transportation attempted to reroute the highway. Back then, the highway was routed through Eddyville where it followed the Yaquina River on windy roads that not only made the drive to the coast longer but more hazardous.

So, the State hired a construction company to cut a new route through the coast range. But problems ensued. The land was unstable, and landslides became a  huge issue.

“Basically, they didn’t consider or understand the geology until they already had a lot of problems,” Sheila explained.

Their oversight came at a high cost. By that time, the first company hired had gone broke and a new construction company was brought in with more geological expertise.

“It took 10 years later and over double the budget to get it done,” said Sheila.

Ellmaker State Wayside off of Highway 20

Structure

Sheila and I hit the road again to see just what exactly had thwarted the project. Turns out you can see the problem in the rocks.

As we drove up the highway, Sheila pointed out roadcuts, as we passed. The rocks in the roadcuts were light colored and dipped to the east as we headed up the pass.  Later, a bit further up the road, the layers were arranged nearly horizontally. Then, we reached a spot where the rock layers had turned—dipping westward toward the ocean.

Here we pulled over to take a closer look. 

Sheila explained that the reason that the highway road project didn’t succeed is that from the start they didn’t pay attention to the geology—specifically, the structure of the rocks.

“When we say structure in geology,” Sheila explained, “we are talking about how the rocks are folded and how they are positioned.” 

She went on “Geological structure is how the rocks are put together. It makes a big difference.”

The structure we were observing as we came over the Coast Range on highway 20 is what is called an anticline.

“An anticline is an arch,” said Sheila “and this is one limb of the anticline,” she pointed westward, “and the other way is the other arm.”

Sheila went on to explain that this giant arch was also plunging—dipping to the north.

“Pressure from this direction,” she pointed west again, “from the Juan de Fuca plate, creates the anticline.”

The Juan de Fuca plate is the current tectonic plate that is subducting (going under) the North American Plate just off Oregon’s coast. However, according to Sheila, there is also pressure from the Klamath Mountains to the south that has resulted in a “rotation of the whole coast range”—this is what makes the anticline tilt to the North. This is why pieces of rock were breaking off and sliding onto the road, inhibiting the progress of the construction.

Sheila demonstrates the shape of an anticline.

 Tyee Formation

We got out of the car to get a closer look at the rock layers themselves.

As we stood there talking, a police car pulled up to see if we were okay.

Sheila laughed, “Just a little geology lesson,” she told them, before inviting them to join us. They declined, but I got the sense that this was not the first time Sheila has made such an invite.

“This rock is the Tyee Formation,” Sheila described as we looked across the highway at the tilted layers.“This layer of rock is famous,” she went on, “It goes all the way down to the Klamath Mountains.”

The Tyee Formation is comprised of sandstone and shale, formed from sediment that was deposited in a large underwater delta some 45 million years ago.  There was no Willamette Valley or Coast Range at the time, just a gigantic bay. The Klamath Mountains were already in existence and shedding sediments into the bay to form the delta.

“The delta was huge and went all the way out northward to about Dallas,” described Sheila. I tried to imagine Oregon 45 million years ago, missing a good quarter of its landmass.

Eventually, the delta turned to rock and was folded and lifted into the Coast Range, powered by the subduction of the Juna de Fuca plate—a process that continues even today.

Turbidity Currents

 Sheila suggested we walk closer to the roadcut to look at the rocks of the Tyee more closely.

She explained that when the sediments from the Klamath Mountains would fall into the bay, this resulted in “turbidity currents”— a sudden flush of sediment and water rushing off the continental shelf before settling into distinct layers.

These fast flushes of sediment became the layers of rock that make up the shale and sandstone of the Tyee formation. The sandstone layers in the rock formed from quickly settling sand, and turned into thick, light brown colored layers of sandstone.  Clay, on the other hand, “takes a long time to settle out.” These clay layers presented themselves as dark gray, incised bands in the roadcut.

“One layer of sand and one layer of clay above it is one event,” Sheila pointed out. “This is what the Coast Range is made of.”

Sheila pointed out the shiny flecks that glittered in the sandstone layers. “Muscovite,” she called them, “from the Idaho batholiths”—a clue that when the Klamath Mountains were first accreted, they were near the Idaho border.

The Tyee formation up close.

A Closer Look

Sheila soon began to poke around, digging into the roadcut rocks.

“If we are lucky,” said Sheila, as she pulled a rock from the base of the loose shale layer, “we will find little trails of marine organisms.”

You see, between each turbidity current, the organisms that are living and feeding on the sediment before they are wiped out by the thick sequence of sand that suddenly gets dumped on them. Their fossil remains can often be observed as trails in the sandstone and can be used to date the layers.

Sheila and I continued to pick at the roadcut and examine any loose pieces of rock that came away easily. The shale broke off in thin layers, while the sandstone felt gritty and rough.

I held a piece of rock up to my eye with a hand lens to see the shiny flat muscovite mineral amongst the grains of tan-colored quartz and feldspars.

“A geologist sees things. When you learn about the geology you look at the world differently and it is beautiful.”

Tyee sandstone with fossil trails of marine organisms.

The Road to Jump-off Joe

Sheila and I hit the road again. We were going to make one more stop before heading to Seal Rock—a place called Jump-off-Joe.

After another 30 minutes of driving through the Coast Range, we reached Newport and the Pacific Ocean.  We drove North a bit on Highway 101 before veering off onto a side street and pulling over in front of a roadblock and a parking lot with an oceanfront view.

Just past the cliff edge, you could see an old building foundation in disrepair, as the land around it had subsided and begun the process of crumbling into the sea.

As we stepped out of our cars for a closer look, Sheila laughed at a sign on the adjacent hotel that boasted about its “ocean views.”

“This building was a football field away from the edge,” said Sheila, thinking back to her last visit. “The view is getting more and more exciting,” she snickered.

“Coastlines are unstable,” said Sheila. A lot of the rock on the coast is layered sedimentary rock and “some are inherently unstable.”

The fact that someone tried to build in this location was ludicrous to Sheila.

“Immediately it started slipping,” said Sheila. “Yaquina Head in the north, to the opening of the estuary is all landslide area.”

Time and the elements had really taken a toll on the abandoned structure. Graffiti covered large portions of the dilapidated foundation. Signs warned people to stay back.   

It was all a bit ominous. We kept our distance from the edge.

Derelict abandoned building at Jump-off Joe

Sandstone Arch

Then, Sheila pointed to the right of the crumbling foundation, a small sandstone mound stood just below on the beach. Another sign of erodibility and instability of the rocks that make up much of this part of the coast.

“Back in the late 1800s or 1920s that was an arch,” said Sheila pointing to the small, but visible sea stack. “It has been eroded.”

The location of the arch was once referred to as “Jump-off Joe,” apparently because the cliff down to it was steep. It was quite the site to see back in the day, as evidenced by a quick google search.

Now, it was hardly an attraction, having been weathered down to a remnant of its former self.

Of course, not all the rocks on the coast are as suspectable to erosion and weathering as much of Newport Bay. Yaquina head, for example, just visible to the north is made of basalt—a much more resistant rock.

“That is why those are points out there,” reasoned Sheila. In fact, basalt rocks make up much of the Oregon Coasts’ headlands.

But where did all this basalt come from?

I was about to find out.

View of the remnants of Jump-off Joe

Sea Stacks

Sheila and I took off again for our final destination—Seal Rock State Recreation Site.

We arrived around lunchtime and stopped for a quick picnic lunch at a table just behind the bathrooms.

After lunch, we followed the paved trail back up through the twisted shore pines that led out to the Seal Rock viewpoint. From here, sea stacks of various sizes jet out of the ocean in a curved line.

“We call this a ringed dike because it forms a ring shape,” said Sheila. “What used to be a low space fill with lava, and the stuff around it erodes away,” she explained.

Elephant Rock

The largest of the rocks—a massive rock towering structure—is known as elephant rock.

“Elephant rock is what we call a sill,” said Sheila, “in igneous geology, a layer of lava that squeezes between two layers of rock.”

“In this case, the lava didn’t intrude between the layers, it just fell into the soft sediments of the coast and re-erupted,” Sheila backtracked,  So, “not technically an igneous sill…but it is basalt.”

Basalt—a hard and resistant rock. Waves “eat away at sandstone,” but basalt, not so easily. 

“You can see the cave under the rock, to the right,” said Sheila as we started further down the trail that leads to the beach. “It is sandstone. It is easier to eat away.”  A small cave carved into sandstone cliffs to our right.

Just like at Jump-off Joe there are signs that warn people not to walk on these cliffs. Just like Jump-off Joe, the area is unstable.

Sandstone to the right with basalt to the left in the distance at Seal Rock State Park

Cobbles

The trail eventually petered out as we neared the beach. We carefully clambered over rounded rock cobbles that had been turned by the waves.

“This is nicely polished basalt,” said Sheila as she picked her way down.

Basalt, Sheila explained has cracks in it that develop when the lava cools. The columns of elephant rock are a great example.

“It is easy for the waves to break it up,” remarked Sheila.

Basalt cobbles.

Magnetite

After some careful maneuvering, we reached the beach and headed south, following the ocean’s edge where the sand is firm. Soft gray-colored sand lay underfoot, but Sheila was on the hunt for something darker.

“If you look at the beach, have you seen areas with dark sand?” asked Sheila. “That is magnetite.”

Magnetite, she explained comes from weathered basalt.  Magnetite is a dark-colored mineral made of iron and magnesium—making it magnetic. It is heavy and often accumulates in areas.

“Near stream you see it,” Sheila advised.  She had seen a thick layer of it on previous visits to the beach and was curious to see it again.

“Here is magnetite,” said Sheila a few moments later—though not the band of magnetite she was hoping to find.  Black sand lay in a rippled pattern on the otherwise pale-colored sand.

Magnetite on sand.

Dynamic

“Here we are watching the pattern that develops in the sediments,” said Sheila.

She went on to explain how sediments are pushed up on the beach at an angle by the surf and then fall straight back down the beach so that they constantly are moving along the shoreline.

“A coast is a dynamic place, always changing,” she affirmed.

The magnetite pattern was just one sign of constant coastal change.

A Lava Story

Sills, dikes, cobbles, and magnetite… we headed toward the far shore and crossed a small creek. It was time to get to the main event. Where did the lava come from?

“This is the southernmost extent of the Columbia River Basalt,” said Sheila.

The Columbia River Basalt, as mentioned earlier, are lava flows that originated from fissures in eastern Oregon and Washington some 15 million years ago.

“They made their way through the Cascades, down the Willamette Valley, and as far south as Salem Hills,” said Sheila.

In fact, the Salem Hills are Columbia River Basalts—“they are just coved with vegetation,” explained Sheila. 

“A typical flow was 100 ft thick,” Sheila described. “Imagine a wall of lava that is one hundred feet thick and flows like syrup.” 

Remarkably the flow stayed liquid as it traveled all the way to the coast. This is different than one might expect especially if you have seen a Hawaiian eruption. Sheila described seeing a lava flow in Hawaii cool right before her eyes.

In the case of the Columbia River Basalts, there is “so much lava, the outside will crust over, and it will break through its own crust and keep going,” Sheila described. “It could advance 3-4 miles per day.”

According to Sheila, the basalt rocks we were seeing were Wanapum basalt, the youngest of the Columbia River Basalts, specifically the Gingko flow.

Final Contact

By now we had made our way over to the sandstone and basalt cliffs opposite the ocean. Here, we passed by what looked like a small black stone wall jetting out of lighter-colored sandstone.

“It was probably soft sand when the dark lava intruded but now it is sandstone,” explained Sheila.

“This is part of the ring dike,” said Sheila, “a crack that is filled with lava.”

Dark basalt lava intruding on sandstone.

 We saw more cobbles of polished rock before reaching the far end of the ring dike.

“Basalt is here,” said Sheila pointing up at some heavily fractured black rock overhead.  “And the contact between the basalt and the soft sediments,” she pointed to a deeply eroded area below the rocks where thin ribbons of rock layered together.

“Looks as fresh as it did when it cooled 15 million years ago,” she exclaimed with a smile.

The far end of the ring dike.

Tracking Flood Basalts

At this point, Sheila and I turned to retrace our steps. But before we made it back very far, we stopped for a quick geology lesson and big-picture discussion on the basalt flows. 

“Coastal provinces are kind of a collage of everything that has happened inland,” said Sheila, as she traced a sketch of Oregon into the sand.

She began pointing out important landmarks… “the Columbia River, Cape Blanco…”

“Cracks opened over here and issued lava,” she pointed up to the northeastern part of the state. “Most of it came down the Columbia River.”

The Columbia River used to be further south in what is now known as the Columbia Plateau, she explained, but it got pushed up north as the lava flowed through.

“Then when it comes to Portland and the Willamette Valley,” we moved further down the map, “it makes up the Amity Hills, Eola hills, and Salem Hills.”  Again, these would have been low points, or depressions at the time.

“We find it in the Molalla River in what used to be river valleys,” she continued, and in places like “Silver Falls State Park.”

“Then we see it out here and in the Capes all the way as far south as Seal Rock,” she concluded.

Sheila drawing Oregon in the sand.

A Gap

But there is a problem—a gap if you will. There is not a clear sign of Columbia River Basalt flows through the Coast Range Mountains. How did they make it all the way to Coast near Newport?

This is where Sheila comes in. She has made it her mission to find Columbia River Basalts in the Coast Range Mountains—to trace its path to the Ocean.

Now there is a lot of basalt in the Coast Range Mountains, but the problem is “the chemistry doesn’t match up.”

“A lot of it is Siletz River Basalt,” Sheila said as we restarted our walk back.

Siletz River Basalts are part of a massive igneous province that formed in the Pacific Ocean before accreting to North America beginning about 50 million years ago known as Siletzia or the Siletzia Terrane. This exotic terrane became the foundation for the Coast Range but is also visible in various locations in the Coast Range.

According to Sheila, Columbia River Basalts have “higher silica than most basalt”  and each flow or unit has a specific chemistry. She has collected samples at various promising locations in the Coast Range but has yet to find a match.

Perpetual Teaching and Learning

Sheila and I soon recrossed the creek we had waded over earlier. 

After we crossed, I asked Sheila to tell me about one of her favorite places on the Oregon Coast. She had mentioned Cape Perpetua earlier and I wanted to know the story.

“Cape Perpetua was a personal thing,” started Shiela. “ I was studying oceanography and looking out at the ocean.”

She could see the waves breaking below her and she realized she could calculate how far apart each wave from another using known distances, like the road. The distance of one wave to another where they start to break tells you the depth of the water at that location.

“It came to me,” she went on. “I really love this. I want to do this.”

Sheila paused.

“That was 25 years ago. I haven’t tired of it.”  

We continued our conversation passing through the creek, back up the basalt cobble, and up the paved path to our cars—and Sheila never tired.

And you know what? Neither did I.

Sheila Alfsen is a geology instructor at Chemeketa Community College, Linn-Benton Community College, and Portland State University. She is also a past president and program director of the Geological Society of Oregon Country in Portland. Sheila earned d Bachelor of Arts from Western Oregon University for Geology and Spanish before going on to get an MAT from Western Oregon University.

Hike with a Geologist to Triple Falls in the Columbia River Gorge

View of Triple Falls flowing over basalt.

Oregon’s side of the Columbia River Gorge is known for its steep cliffsides with cascading waterfalls, including touristy Multnomah falls. Hike up any of the creeks and rivers from the Columbia and you are sure to encounter a waterfall or two or three. Lush forests, gorgeous views of the Columbia and nearby mountains, and heart-pumping climbs, make a visit to the region a popular choice for Portland area hikers. 

However, there is more to the region than stunning scenery. The Columbia River Gorge is geologically unique. It cuts through one of only a relatively few flood basalt provinces in the world. In addition, the area has been sculpted by the Columbia, and, most profoundly, by the Missoula Flood events—also relatively rare glacial outburst flood events that help define the region.

To better appreciate the unusual geological history of “the gorge,” I met up with Jim O’Connor from US Geological Survey at the Horsetail Falls Trailhead for a short hike up to Triple Falls.

Quadrangle by Quadrangle

Having not visited Triple Falls in a long while, when I arrived at the trailhead to meet Jim, I was more than ready to explore the trail through his fresh geological eyes. After gathering our gear, we headed across the Columbia Gorge Highway to the Oneonta trailhead to begin our climb up to the falls. As we got started, I asked Jim to tell me about where we were.

Jim explained that the USGS  has been mapping the Columbia River Gorge for the past 10 years—quadrangle by quadrangle. A quadrangle is roughly an eight-by-fifteen-mile area.

“In the Gorge, from the Sandy River to the Deschutes River there are probably about twenty-five quadrangles that touch the Columbia River… Right now, we are in the Multnomah Falls quadrangle.”

Most of the mapping has been done, but only a few quadrangle maps have been published so far. The Multnomah Falls quadrangle was mostly mapped about six years ago but publication awaits final review and layout.

I asked Jim why there was such a push to map out the Columbia River Gorge Corridor.

“There are a bunch of reasons for that,” he responded.

One reason, Jim suggested, was to simply tell the history of the place. The Columbia River Gorge, as mentioned early, is a relatively young flood basalt province—built up layer by layer of thin, fluid basaltic lava flows, as you see in a Hawaiian style of eruption. 

“There are probably some 50-individual basalt flows as part of a major eruptive episode that occurred mainly around 16 million years ago,” Jim described.

“Originating from fissures in SE Washington, NE Oregon, and Idaho,” he continued,  “these flows covered 200,000 square kilometers. Covering much of Eastern Oregon and Washington; flowed through the Cascades, and many flows made it even to the Pacific.”

Other reasons include understanding “the causes and consequences of a large igneous province” and “the history of the Columbia River,” along with the paleogeography and topography.

This Rock is Not Like the Other

One goal of the mapping is to distinguish the different flows apart and track their individual extents.

“They all look the same,” explained Jim. “If we bang on the rocks, we look at fresh faces, sometimes you can see minerals that help tell them apart, but really the only reliable way to tell them apart is geochemically.”

That means heading out into the field and collecting samples of rock.

Jim described hiking up and down the trails and in between with a rock hammer and sampling rocks, being sure to mark each rock’s location. The samples are then sent in for chemical analysis and lines are drawn on the map that traces each flow.

The work is very physically taxing, but the best way to get the job done. Hazards, regulations, and other limitations make it difficult to collect samples during much of the year, so much of the fieldwork is limited to September and October.

With all that in mind, Jim suggested that this sort of mapping would be mostly phased out—probably in the next few decades.

“The mapping we are doing now is probably the last being done ‘boots on the ground’ because it is hard and time-consuming,” said Jim. “Technology is going to develop and remote detection will happen”

In fact, a lot of the technology necessary already exists. Most topographic lines are already drawn using remote sensing, for example. There are even devices (currently used on Martian rovers) that can analyze rocks on the spot. Though Jim said that Columbia River Basalts’ differences are too subtle for the current iteration to work. 

“Probably next century [mapping work will be done] with drones,” laughed Jim.

Jointing/Patterns in the Rocks

Once across the road and started hiking up the trail, we were able to get a closer view of the thick layer of rock with a jagged, angular texture.

“What we can see here is one thick massive flow,” Jim explained pointing at the massive rock walk. Jim described the fracture pattern as “Hackly” or “brick bat”—terms that I had not heard but essentially described the sharp and even pattern in the rocks. He also called the area an “entablature” zone—the name for a zone of basaltic lava with this sort of irregular fracture pattern, or ‘jointing’.  

“Sometimes the jointing will be in columns,” Jim added—another typical jointing pattern of basalt that reminds me a bit of a bundle of pillars.

He went on to explain how the different jointing patterns develop while the lava cools in place. Jim used the analogy of mud cracks—like mud, it cools (or dries) from the outside in, shrinking and breaking into often beautiful formations.

“Some flows have distinct jointing,” Jim went on, allowing an astute geologist to tell flows apart.

“This is the Downey Gulch flow,” Jim said pointing back up the large rock face. “It commonly has this thick entablature zone.”

Thick entablature zones like this are often where you find waterfalls, Jim explained—“they hang together better than the columnar zones.” They are also “associated with cliff bands,” he added—the resistant tops or layers found in rocks.

An entablature zone with its irregular fracture pattern.

Other Lavas

I asked  Jim if other lavas had jointing patterns as you see with basalt.

“You will see jointing patterns in all lava flows,” he responded. “Even stickier flows you associate with Hood or Helens have all sorts of cooling fractures.”

“…But in basalt flows,” he went on “the jointing patterns are bolder and more distinctive because they flow farther.”

Columns and College

As we continued along the trail—tracing the contours of the cliffside, we passed by a nice-looking column of basalt laying on its side.

As we walked, Jim told me briefly about how he got started in his career in geology and how long he has been working.

“I got my undergraduate degree 40 years ago,” he shook his head disbelievingly.

Graduate school followed as it was difficult to find a job without it, and eventually, he landed a job with USGS.

“Look,” I pointed to another column laying on its side.

 “A perfect hexagonal cross-section,” Jim noted as I snapped a picture.

One of the columns found along the trail.

Making Contact

Jim and I continued up the trail—zig zagging through a rocky cliffside and into the burnt forest. An assortment of shrubs and herbaceous plants lined the path—my favorite, the red thimbleberry, ripe and ready to taste.

However, Jim’s eyes were focused on the rock as we made our way up. He was looking for a particular feature in the rocks we were walking on—a flow contact. An important part of mapping out the area requires knowing when one flow starts and another begins—this is the flow contact.

“It is probably a flow contact up there,” Jim pointed up the trail.

Jim explained that there are many clues to finding a flow contact.

As you reach a flow contact, the rocks look different because the tops and bottoms of flows—as they interact with the surface get gas bubbles trapped in them. This creates a “vesicular” or “bubbly texture,” in the contact zone.

It wasn’t long before we reached the flow contact Jim had suspected from below.

He pointed to the cliff face.

“You can see there is an entablature zone, flow contact, and then columns,” He remarked. “It looks like two flows.”

Jim gestured to the vesicles observed in the rocks where they met in the flow contact zone, as well as a thin layer of weathered rock that lay in between.

This layer is known as a “weathering horizon,” and is another feature of flow contacts.

The tops of many of these basalt flows were weathered during the many thousands of years before the next flow—rain, sun, fire, vegetation growth, and soil formation breakdown the flow top, leaving distinct weathering horizons that were later buried by the next lava flow.

Vesicular rock found near a flow contact.

Geological Unit

Looking at the map, Jim hypothesized that we were at the base of the Downey Gulch flow and moving into Grouse Creek—the name given to a younger basalt flow in the overall sequence.

“What makes a unit?” I asked Jim.

Jim explained that each geological unit shares a similar chemistry and are thought to be close together in time.

“Originally, these flows were defined by their magnetic orientation,” Jim continued.

Basically, he explained, the magnetic field has switched at various points during the emplacement of the lava flows. A magnetometer was used to determine the direction of the magnetic field when the flow was emplaced—during a normal orientation or reversal—the sequence of orientations helped to correlate individual flows from place to place as well as to deduce their timing. These correlated flows were then defined as a sequence of geological units.

“We are walking through a magnetic field right now,” Jim proclaimed.

Unstable

As we hiked, it was hard to ignore the blackened trees standing along the trail. The Oneonta Trail is one of many trails in the gorge that was heavily impacted by the Eagle Creek Fire of 2017.

In general, the gorge is an area “susceptible to rock slides,” according to Jim—only the fire has made it “even worse.”

Fires are impactful, especially a couple of years after the fire. The fire kills the trees that normally stabilize the upper part of the soil. As the roots of the trees begin to lose their integrity over the years, that is when rocks and other debris can come loose and fall.

“We have done a bit of work on how the fire has affected the slope processes in the gorge,” Jim remarked. “It really is important work.”

“In January 2021, a woman was killed at the Ainsworth exit by a debris flow,” Jim confided. “That area has been a constant source of debris flow.”

Signs have been erected throughout the burn area for this reason. When entering a burn area, one should prepare for hazards and know the risks.

Burnt trails along the forested trail heading toward Ponytail Falls.

Columbia River Course

Speaking of water, as Jim and I headed around a bend in the trail, Ponytail Falls came into view. The small falls poured over the basalt cliff into a deep pool below.

The trail took us behind the falls into a cavern where we could get a look at some sediment that was probably present before the lava flow poured through.

“Looks like some sort of floodplain or silty or maybe even a bog,” Jim speculated as he scraped at the baked sediments. 

Sediment deposit below Ponytail Falls.

“It is pretty cool to see exposures like this,” he proclaimed. “Paleogeography is what I am interested in… the area between the flows.”

Jim explained how looking between flow deposits can tell you a lot about landscapes of the past. Gravel, for example, indicates a river flowed through—the different sizes of clasts, details about the flow. 

One of Jim’s projects is to map out the course of the Columbia River over time by studying these sorts of sediments.

“The Columbia has been roughly in the same place the last 50 million years,” Jim said. But it has wiggled around a bit. Over the last 16 million years the river has been displaced North. In fact, Columbia River Basalt Flows through Silver Falls show that the river came through near Salem during the early phase of the Columbia River basalt flows. 

Because the Columbia River system starts at the Continental Divide in the Rocky Mountains, there are a lot more exotic rocks from the east that can be found in the sediments of the Columbia. Mica flakes, mainly from older rocks to the east, are a distinctive component of Columbia River sediment deposits.

The small grain size of the sediment found in the waterfall alcove didn’t show any signs of mica. Whatever stream systems were attached to the body of water that was here in the past must have been more localized.

View looking out of the alcove behind Ponytail Falls.

It’s My Fault

As we walked away from the waterfall, I noticed a large crack in the lava cliff the water flowed over. I asked Jim about it. 

“Those could just be from downcutting,” said Jim. As the stream cuts down on the rock, the material is eroded away, and the land is decompressed enough that it may lift and crack.

However, though not likely in this case, cracks can also be formed through faulting. And in the Columbia River Gorge, there are a lot of them.

Jim explained how the state of Oregon is essentially rotating clockwise. The Columbia River is bounded by North trending faults that through rotation are offset laterally, resulting in a collection of strike-slip faults that move land to the west northward. 

“Everyone knows about the subduction zones,” said Jim, “but these younger faults are a seismic hazard.”

“One of the main motivations [for mapping the Gorge],” Jim continued, “is to better understand the seismic and other hazards.”

Jim told me about a fault scarp that was discovered just east of Cascade Locks recently. The scarp here is large—five to six feet tall by Jim’s estimation—and would have been the result of a significant earthquake event.

“One idea is that the shaking might have triggered the Bonneville landslide,” said Jim. A landslide that was large enough that it blocked the Columbia River Valley, creating the legendary Bridge of the Gods and the Cascade Rapids.

“We know from tree ring work and carbon dating that the landslide occurred in the 1440s,” said Jim.

With more faults being discovered all the time in the Gorge, the question is when will the next earthquake (and possibly a major slide) occur.

Finding Fault

As we continued away from the falls, I asked Jim how geologists usually identify a fault—are they easy to find?

“There has been a revolution in topographic resolution,” Jim responded. “We can see the landscapes with what we call LiDAR.”

LiDAR works by shooting a laser down from an aircraft that can pick up on the subtle variations in the Earth’s surface.

“More and more of Oregon has been flown for its topography,” said Jim. Now there is imagery of about two-thirds of Oregon, according to Jim.

“It’s like crack for geologists,” he smirked.

Jim also mentioned that it may not always be possible to identify scarps/faults on such steep topography as you find at the Gorge.

“The terrain is so steep,” said Jim, “so scarps don’t last long; things get chopped up.”

Either way, Jim is certain of at least some faults—the nearest being at the Ainsworth exit.

A Room with a View

Jim and I passed by another striking entablature zone, before reaching a junction to the right towards a viewpoint. We decided to stop for a quick detour. 

At the end of the short trail are a memorial and a nice view looking to the northeast.

“Well, you can see the toe of the Bonneville landslide,” Jim noted, pointing to a hummocky peninsula jetting out a bit into the Columbia.

“In this area…the uplift has been the greatest,” Jim explained looking out toward the Columbia River. “Everything has arched up 3,000 feet between the Portland Basin and the Dalles.” 

Yet, “The river has been at or above sea level the whole time,” continued Jim. “It has been cutting through the whole time… as it cuts through, it undermines the sides.”

Additionally, below the lava flows is the Eagle Creek Formation—a mixture of volcanic sediment from Western Cascade eruptions 20 to 30 million years ago (mya). This underlying material also tilts to the south—giving the Washington side of the Gorge its more gradual slopes compared to Oregon’s steep terrain.

The combination of uplift and a weak, incoherent underlying geology that tilts make the area landslide prone.

“All of that terrain is landslide terrain,” proclaimed Jim, the powerful Columbia rolling past as we spoke.

Columbia River viewpoint with Beacon Rock to the left and other peaks in the distance.

Beacon to the Past

As we looked out at the scenery, Jim pointed out other features from the viewpoint. One of the most prominent being Beacon Rock.

Long after the flood basalts spread across much of Oregon and Washington, volcanism returned to the region in the form of a large volcanic field about 3.6 mya—reaching from the West Hills of Portland all the way to the Deschutes. Cinder cones, lava flows, and shield volcanoes have been identified in the volcanic field, including Larch Mountain in the Columbia River Gorge Scenic Area and Mount Scott in Portland.  Though Jim couldn’t point to an exact source of the volcanism, he was fairly certain it was in part related to subduction.

“Beacon Rock is the youngest in the basin,” said Jim—erupting about 60,000 years ago. Once a small cinder cone, much of the unconsolidated material that surrounded its volcanic neck has been washed away by massive ice age floods.

Now a bare rock sits along the northern shores of the Columbia. 

Missoula Floods

This brings us to one of the most recent installments of the Columbia River Gorge’s geological story, the Missoula Floods.

Around 20,000 to 15,000 years ago, Glacial Lake Missoula would form as the Cordilleran ice sheet flowed south from Canada creating an ice dam that blocked the Clark Fork River drainage in Montana. Periodically, this ice dam would fail, and flood waters would pour out of Glacial Lake Missoula through Washington and Oregon as it followed the Columbia River drainage.

The effects were dramatic. Scablands were created through much of eastern Washington, as the water tore up the soil and carried it downstream where much of it settled in the Willamette River Valley or was carried out to the Ocean.  The gorge played a significant role in controlling the flood flows.

“The Gorge was a constriction or nozzle the floods were forced through,” Jim explained. “It was mainly erosive through here.

Inverted Topography

After enjoying the views and trying our best to identify the peaks on the horizon—is that Defiance or…?—we turned back to the main trail leading deep into the basalt cliffs that make up the Oneonta Gorge.

As we looked up at the steep cliffs, we could see another entablature, as well as a couple of flows. Jim referred to his geological map to see if we had moved into a different flow unit.

“Nope, still Grouse Creek,” he concluded.

However, looking back and up to the top of the canyon walls, Jim pointed out a lava-capped ridge—Franklin ridge, he called it.  

Franklin Ridge is the result of a local volcanic center, Jim explained, erupting somewhere around 1-3 million years ago. At that time, the lava flow was down a valley that led to the Columbia River. But since the lava flow was uplifted and the surrounding rock eroded away, the lava-filled valley bottom “is now a ridge.”

“A topography reversal,” Jim called it, or inverted topography—essentially the low points become the new high points.

“Kind of cool,” Jim remarked.

Franklin Ridge is an example of inverted topography.

Water

Jim and I continued to make our way on the dry dusty trail.  Soon we passed by a moss-covered basalt rock face dripping with water—not an unusual sight to see.

I asked Jim about what we were seeing.

“It is probably emerging at the top of this flow,” said Jim—at a flow contact.

“Water moves slowly through solid flows,” Jim explained, “seeping through the cooling joints. It moves more rapidly between flows.”

This is visible as wet stripes in the contact zones between basalt flows, especially in the arid east where the moisture contrasts well against the dry rock. You can literally see where the moisture is in the rock, according to Jim.

Transportation of water through the Columbia River Basalts varies a lot but can be rather slow—sometimes taking thousands of years to emerge at a contact zone.

“Some of the water in the layered basalt, especially in the east, certainly dates from the last ice age,” said Jim.

Understanding the basalt stratigraphy for the purposes of managing water resources is another reason mapping the Columbia River Gorge is important work. Knowing the flow contacts and the connections to each local aquifer system, are all part of ensuring water use is sustainable over time. 

Lower Falls

Jim and I cruised past another flow top—“See how vesicular it is?” he questioned.

Then, we passed an entablature holding up the cliffs before passing over a deep gorge and reaching the lower falls.

Water ran smoothly down a narrow slide of lava littered with tree trunks—the water cut deeply into the erosion-resistant basalt to form a V-shaped valley.

The Lower Falls reminded me of just how powerful water is as an erosive agent. The canyon walls were high above us. Oneonta Creek had done a fine job cutting down.

Lower Falls careening over basalt rocks.

Ortley Flow

After climbing a bit deeper into the canyon, we passed by a wilderness sign and an unusual-looking rock face. Jim checked his map and sure enough, we had reached the base of the Ortley flow. 

Jim pointed out the differences in morphology that were clues that we were entering a different flow unit. 

“One thing that is our first hint is it is oriented sideways,” said Jim.  “Cooling fronts are coming from the sides.”

Jim explained that some of the Ortley lava flow must have been locally channelized—flowing through an old river or creek bed.

Vertical columns form slowly as they cool from the bottom and top.  These sideways columns were the result of multiple cooling fronts on the sides of the channel.

Columns oriented sideways; part of the Ortley flow.

The bottom of the flow also looked different. Rounded blobs of broken glassy rock were visible, a.k.a. pillow basalt. As Jim explained, when lava encounters water it will either brecciate (break apart into angular fragments) and may form “pillows.”

“Hyaloclastites,” said Jim, referring to the glassy rocks. “The pillows are direct water features.”

Pillow basalt on the trail. A result of the interaction between lava and water.

Interflow Zone

We walked on up the trail. Only we hadn’t made it far when Jim stopped suddenly.

“I am just noticing some rounded clasts,” he said. “It is making me think there is probably an interflow zone with gravel coming out of it.”

This was Jim’s bread and butter. He started digging through the rocks with intense focus.

“Is there anything other than basalt?” he wondered. “Any hint of the Columbia?”

The rocks were large and rounded, embedded in a “really weathered matrix.”

Interflow zone with a really weathered matrix.

Jim speculated that the interflow zone was probably a steeper tributary to the Columbia that was back flooded when lava came pouring through the Columbia River drainage.

“This might be related to the pillows we saw earlier,” Jim hypothesized.

He continued poking around in the matrix for loose material until he found a rock that he thought “looked different.”

He picked it up with the thought of cracking it open for further examination.

“Why did you pick that one up?” I asked, curious about what he was seeing.

“It is light colored,” he said with a smile.

It was as simple as that.

Jim and his light colored rock.

Triple Falls

Eventually, we reached Triple Falls—a three-pronged falls flowing over Columbia River Basalts—and our destination for the day. We wondered at the strange flow pattern of Triple Falls and marveled at its beauty.

Triple Falls is classified as a segmented waterfall with flows that drop vertically into a large plunge pool below. Each of the segments flows between bulbous volcanic rock barriers. Were these rocks more resistant than the rocks the water poured over?

Just past the falls, we crossed a bridge and stopped for a short lunch break before heading back to our cars.

Boot Prints in the Sand

On our way back Jim and I talked about all sorts of things—from travel to hiking adventures and pet projects—as we retraced our steps.

Eventually, though, the conversation turned back to the geology of the Columbia River Gorge as something shiny caught Jim’s eye.

“This is interesting,” he said reaching down toward the dusty ground. “This is Columbia River sand.”

The light tan color of the earth faintly shimmered as mica flecks in the sediment caught the sun’s rays, Jim explained that the Columbia River mica flakes are large and platy in structure.  When light hits them just right, they shimmer. 

“Not sure how it got here,” Jim said quizzically. “It could have blown in…or been brought in by the Missoula floods… or it could be coming out between flows.” There was no way of knowing.

Columbia River sand on the trail.

Puzzle

The rest of the hike back went by quickly. Time seems to slip by when you are heading downhill. And before I knew it, we were back at the trailhead saying our goodbyes.

Jim was a lot of fun to hike with. Every time we ran across something new, it was like finding another piece of a geology puzzle.

There is a lot we know about the Columbia River Gorge. Its unique geological history means it has attracted a lot of attention over the years.  Yet, there are still a lot of pieces to the puzzle to be found.

Finding those pieces and fitting them together is what geologists, like Jim, do. Offering a glimmer of understanding to folks like me—to help us see the mica through the sand.  

Jim O’Connor is a research geologist with USGS. He earned a Bachelor of Science degree in Geology at the University of Washington before going on to earn an M.S. and Ph.D. at the University of Arizona. Jim has been with USGS since 1991 where he has focused his efforts on understanding the processes and events that have shaped the Pacific Northwest.

Hike with a Botanist at Rough and Ready Botanical Wayside 

Rough and Ready Creek near the start of the trail.

Hiking along the dry, dusty trail that leads out onto the Rough and Ready Flat on a hot summer day, it is hard to fathom how ecologically significant it is. Strewn with rocks and sparse vegetation, including a few straggly-looking trees, it is no Amazonian rainforest. Yet, it hosts a spectacular array of botanical delights that deserve a closer look.

Rough and Ready is one of only about 200 biologically outstanding areas in the United States and is home to the greatest amount of plant biodiversity in the State of Oregon. So, though it may appear desolate, it is a botanist’s dreamscape—full of a variety of native and endemic species!

Of course, I had to check it out! This is what brings me back to that dry dusty trail, where I met with BLM Botanist, Amanda Snodgrass, to learn more about Rough and Ready Botanical Wayside near Cave Junction, OR, and what it is like to be a botanist.

The Hike

  • Trailhead: Rough and Ready Botanical Wayside
  • Distance: 0.3 mile interpretive trail with the option to extend the hike by following established road tracks.
  • Details: Ample parking at trailhead. Covered picnic table is available at the trailhead with another table near the end of the trail. No restroom.

On Being a Field Botanist

It was early morning but already warm as Amanda and I strode across Rough and Ready, taking the only trail out onto the flat lands.

Energy high, Amanda told me a bit about her background as a Botanist.

Originally from Iowa, Amanda moved to the area in 2018 and only recently, about eight months ago, took up her post as a Field Office Botanist for the BLM Medford District. She had become fascinated by plants at a young age during a trip to Hawaii and has enjoyed studying and learning about them ever since.

“I like plants. I am a plant person,” Amanda remarked. “They are pretty and resilient, and they don’t talk back.”

Zingers, like this one, seemed to tumble out of Amanda. For a self-professed plant person, she was rather personable. Even though she claimed, “plant people usually aren’t people, people.”

I asked Amanda to explain more about what it is like to be a “plant person,” or more professionally speaking, a field botanist.

“I oversee the botanist program for the Grants Pass field office,” Amanda explained. “I do a lot of fieldwork, but I also do a lot of paperwork.”

Most of that paperwork is around managing botanical resources in terms of NEPA (National Environmental Policy Act). BLM land is managed for multiple uses, so that means it may be used for a variety of activities, like recreation, mining, or extracting forest products. Amanda’s job is to ensure important botanical resources are protected while still allowing for these activities.

“I still get to do a lot of fun stuff, too,” said Amanda, “like plant surveys, monitoring, restoration work, and a lot of invasive species management.”

According to Amanda, the job is “50/50,” about half of her day-to-day is paperwork and the other half is with the plants. It was clear what part is her favorite. 

Amanda posing for a picture at Eight Dollar Mountain.

Meandering

As we meandered down the trail, Amanda described some of what goes into surveys and monitoring for a field botanist.

One of the hallmark surveys she conducts is a “clearance survey.” These are done whenever there is going to be a disturbance in the areas to check for rare species, as well as gather basic information on habitat type and species associations to measure overall ecosystem health.

Long-term monitoring, revisits, plots, and transects… all of these are part of a botanist day to day fieldwork.

Perhaps most intriguing was Amanda’s mention of a “meandering survey.” “It is intuitively controlled,” she explained. Essentially, you are looking at the habitat and predicting what species may be present, and then wander around to see if you can find said species.

“It’s a botany special,” smirked Amanda.

Rough and Ready

We ambled further into Rough and Ready.

I began to take notes of the ecosystem around us.  We passed by a view down to wide and braided, Rough and Ready Creek rushing over a bed of cobbles. Low shrubs, mostly ceanothus ran in clumps along the trail with wide sections of open ground where grasses and herbaceous plants grew in scarce quantities. A few pine trees marked the canopy, separated by 10s-of-feet. Flashes of color came from a few wildflowers. The ground itself was gritty, and rocky, appearing less than hospitable to the vegetation—yet stuff was growing.

According to Amanda, Rough and Ready is a part of the Klamath-Siskiyou ecoregion known as the Illinois River Valley. To start, these ecoregions are known for their botanical diversity. But when you add in the unique characteristics of Rough and Ready, the biodiversity is even more amplified.

“It is one of the most botanically biodiverse ecosystems in North America,” said Amanda. While in Oregon, is considered the most botanically diverse. That is nothing to snuff at.

So, I asked Amanda, “Why?” What is it about Rough and Ready?

“It has its own special characteristics,” Amanda responded.

She went on to explain how it is the unique geology, hydrology, and climate that help provide opportunities for diversity to flourish. 

Geologically speaking it has serpentine soils—“aged metamorphic soil, high in minerals like magnesium and nickel.”

Heavily mineralized, ultramafic soil is difficult for most plants—making important nutrients like calcium and nitrogen unavailable, while subjecting plants to heavy metals at toxic levels. 

“Many plants can’t grow in it and the ones that do often can only grow on it,” Amanda elaborated. 

Additionally, Rough and Ready is unique hydrologically, receiving more rainfall compared to adjacent areas.

“It can get over 100 inches of rain a year!” Amanda exclaimed.

Water is carried down from the mountains and distributed onto a broad alluvial floodplain and alluvial bench which hosts a variety of species.

The climate at Rough and Ready is also variable throughout the watershed.

“It has several elevations,” stated Amanda.

With influences from the Pacific Ocean, Coast Ranges, Cascade peaks, and the deserts of the Great Basin, the area has a variety of habitat zones, determined by the physiology and changes in precipitation levels that shift with elevation.

All in all, this makes Rough and Ready “second in North America for endemism,” according to Amanda. In other words, there are a lot of unique species here that you wouldn’t find anywhere outside the region.   

“Are we going to find any of them?” I asked.

 “Yes, they are all around!” exclaimed Amanda jubilantly.

Pining for Pines

At this point, we reached a tall berm of ultramafic, heavily mineralized soil.

“Well, the trail work must have stopped here,” smiled Amanda, as we climbed over the barrier.

After successfully navigating over the dry sluff of soil, it was time to get down to business—the business of plants.

Are these all Jeffery Pines?” I asked Amanda, pointing to the nearest tree that stood a few feet off the trail.

“Yes,” she responded, “we have a really high percentage of Jefferey Pines. Though in this spot they tend to be straggly.”

Again, the soil was doing its thing—binding the nutrients and stunting growth.

Amanda was a bit surprised by my enthusiasm for the trees, but she was willing to humor me.

Jefferey Pine (Pinus jeffreyi) is one of only two species of pine that has needles bundled in groups of three in Oregon. The other species, Ponderosa Pine (Pinus ponderosa), is much more common and also found at Rough and Ready. So, how can one distinguish between these two look-alikes?

“Gentle Jeffery,” Amanda mused… “and Poky Ponderosa.”

She went on to explain that one of the best ways to tell these two pines apart is by their cones. Ponderosa Pine’s cones tend to be larger, at least 6 inches with more pronounced sharp prickles on their scales; while Jeffery Pine’s cones are usually smaller than 6 inches, with scales that point inward. The needle colors can also be a distinguishing factor—Jeffrey Pines have greenish gray needles and Ponderosa have bright green to yellow needles.

“Sometimes you can smell them,” she added. Ponderosa Pine usually has a sweet scent like pineapple or vanilla.

Of course, this is one place where relying on all your senses might come in especially handy.

“A lot of places there is only one type of pine,” Amanda extolled. But, “Oregon is home to roughly 30 species of conifers, and the Klamath-Siskiyou Ecoregion is home to 36 species of conifer across Southern Oregon and Northern California.

Ah, for the love of conifers! This is my sort of place.

Jeffrey Pines are common at Rough and Ready

Keying in on Family Ties

Head out of the trees, Amanda soon directed my attention downward. Colorful puffs of yellow and bright white grew from long stems along the trail.

“Buckwheat,” Amanda confirmed.

But how can you tell? It isn’t easy. For the buckwheat family, in particular, you may even need a microscope to get down to the species level.

“It can take hours to key out a plant,” Amanda explained. “One thing that happens in this ACEC (area of critical environmental concern) is there is a lot of hybridization.” In other words, a lot of mixing of genes between species that can make keying out a species even more difficult.

However, with the right tools, including a good identification book or app, it can be done. Amanda recommended the “Oregon Wildflowers” App put out by Oregon Flora, as well as several regional books, including A Flora of California by Munz and The Jepson Desert Manual by Baldwin, et al. 

Amanda pulled out a species list to help narrow things down, and after some careful study and using the wildflower app, was able to identify the yellow buckwheat as ternate buckwheat (Eriogonum ternatum) and the white as sulfur buckwheat (Eriogonum umbellatum).

Okay, so getting down to species may at times become challenging, especially in biodiverse areas. There is at least eight known buckwheat in Rough and Ready, for example. But there is something to be said for identifying to family-level as well. 

Family groups often share some common characteristics. This is true of the buckwheat family as well.

“A lot of the times buckwheat have a basal rosette and then bare stems that come up with these puffs of flowers that turn color over time,” Amanda described. “The leaves are also often spoon-shaped,” she added.

“Spoon leaves,” I let it roll off the tongue. What a way to keep things straight!

“There is all the formal terminology,” continued Amanda, “but I think it is helpful” to use your own terms as well to help distinguish and remember individual plants.

Other families share other characteristics. A few of the families found at Rough and Ready Amanda described include: The Allium Family with their clusters of flowers and pungent linear leaves. The Asparagus family with lance-shaped leaves and parallel venation and often bell-shaped flowers. And the Lily family with 6 petals with three to 6 stamen and leaves often arising from low to the ground.

Ternate buckwheat (Eriogonum ternatum)

Spring Flowers

Amanda and I continued to note the various wildflower species along the trail as we hiked—lavender, spiky-looking ookow (Dichelostemma congestum) and purple with sharp, curved petals, Harvest Brodiaea (Brodiaea elegans). We also discovered a small rock fern called Indian’s dream (Aspidotis densa)—what a name!

Eventually, we reached a junction and headed left, following the powerlines on an old roadbed toward the river.

Speaking of colorful wildflowers, I asked Amanda when should people visit Rough and Ready for the best wildflower show.

Though there was plenty to see in these early summer months, Amanda recommended returning in spring.

“Spring is nice because you get the first wildflower blush,” she said. “Early spring wildflowers have a high percentage of endemic species.”

Many of the Irises and Calochortus (including mariposas) show up in spring—both of which have endemic species.

However, according to Amanda, any time is a good time to visit.

“What is cool about this site is it changes throughout the year and as you head up in elevation.”

Indian’s dream (Aspidotis densa).

Shrubs

However, there are some species that can be seen year-round. In addition to the conifer species, hardwood trees and shrubs are also year-round residents of Rough and Ready.  And we saw a lot of them on the trail! So many that, of course, I asked Amanda about it.

She patiently humorous me as we walked along noting species, like deer brush (Ceanothus integerrimus), birchleaf mountain mahogany (Cercocarpus betuloides), and spicy-smelling California Yerba Santa (Eriodictyon californicum).

“It is known as ‘holy weed’ or ‘holy herb’ and is the borage family,” shared Amanda regarding the California Yerba Santa.

We walked past an unusual-looking oak. 

Whipping out the plant list, Amanda stated: “We have seven oaks here in Rough and Ready.”

She then pulled open her Oregon Wildflower App to see if she could narrow things down.

“I think it is Brewer’s oak,” said Amanda after some deliberation. “The Brewer’s Oak is a hybrid of the Oregon White Oak.”

It looked Oregon White Oaky to me.

Possible Brewer’s oak leaves.

Amanda admitted she rarely spends much time on shrubs, as we ran across a myriad of manzanita.

“There are three types of Manzanitas here,” said Amanda.

Again, she worked to narrow down the ones surrounding us. “I think it is hoary manzanita,” she proclaimed, noting the wooly twigs and branches.

 We didn’t attempt to identify any of the others. Apparently, manzanita are known to hybridize, making identification even more complicated. Those darn shrubs!

Waters Edge

We continued down the “powerline trail,” passing a cluster of California poppies (Eschscholzia californica). Soon, we reached the rocky shores of Rough and Ready Creek.

Here we decided it was best to loop back. So, we carefully, balanced along the rocky creek edge, passing by a camas lily as we went.

Following the water’s edge, our garden of flowers was even more sparse. We focused on the rocks under our feet as we hopped along.

“So, these are all very serpentine rocks,” remarked Amanda as she picked up a rock to show me. “See the green color. There is asbestos in these rocks.”

There were also a lot of reddish rocks—another serpentine rock, only derived from peridotite, instead of serpentinite which yield the more dazzling green colors. 

All these rocks weather to a reddish-colored soil characteristic of serpentine geology.

Rough and Ready Creek with a cobble bank.

Adaptations

We carefully clambered over the colorful rocks, careful to avoid the delicate desert soil. It was hot with the sun and only a few clouds dancing overhead.

Which brings us right back to the question: how do species adapt to this harsh environment? How do they deal with, as Amanda called them “asbestos rocks,” among the many other challenges?

Amanda and I discussed the problem throughout our hike—touching on the various challenges of the region.

As discussed earlier, serpentine rocks are characteristically high in certain minerals, like heavy metals. To overcome this, many species of plants might exclude heavy metals, reduce their transfer through the plant, or concentrate it in certain tissues at unusually high levels. 

When it comes to living in a relatively dry, sunny environment—where evapotranspiration is high—plants take different approaches to reduce water loss and protect from the sun.

“Many of them have leathery leaves or coatings…” said Amanda, and/or “different types of furry leaves and stems.”

Leathery or coated leaves help reduce water loss by reducing evaporation, as well as provide insulation from the sun and cold. While the hairs of furry leaves are helpful for reflecting sunlight and reducing airflow and drying. 

Wildfire

Wildfire is another challenge for species in the Klamath-Siskiyou ecoregion.

“There are three kinds of species—species that tolerate wildfire, those that don’t, and those that require it,” said Amanda. “Here, many require it.”

Those that require fire might need it for a variety of reasons. Some conifer species have serotinous cones—cones that require fire to open and release seeds. Many herbs and forbs have seeds with hard seed coats that need fire, or some other harsh environment, to break that coat to germinate.

“A lot of plants are adapted to fire because it makes nutrients available,” Amanda continued. “After a burn, big blooms of vegetative growth often occur.”

Other species, like oaks, will resist fire. Oaks have thick bark that protects them from lower-intensity fires. While, manzanita, on the other hand, burns fast and hot, but can regenerate easily—resprouting from burls at the base of the shrubs.

However, Amanda warned that changes in the fire interval—the amount of time between fires—could have negative effects on some species and their ability to tolerate fire.

“Burn too frequently, nothing reestablishes,” she said, “not enough, and there is too much competition.”

Non-native species also often arrive following a fire which can complicate things further. Non-native grasses, for example, often come in following fire. The problem is that these grasses create an ecosystem prone to more fire. More fire means more grasses, and on and on.

To sum up, native species are adapted, not only to fire, but to a specific fire regime and a very specific plant community. Changes in either of these can lead to native ecosystem loss. 

Why Plants Matter

As we continued to traverse the cobbles, having seen some of the diversity of species to discover at Rough and Ready, I asked Amanda why we should care about all these plants anyway? Do plants really matter?

This was her response:

“Plants are foundational components in high-functioning systems that support other species and the human population. They are the fundamental backbone. All our materials come from plants, they are the source of food, clothes, drugs, material, and they are also an indicator of ecosystem health.”

She went on:

“Diversity is stability. It is easy to overlook plants because they don’t make any noise. But, they are all around us and necessary for the survival of all species. I like them because they are quiet underdogs. But really, they are important and we need to preserve the diversity of different species.”

Amanda continued to explain how, despite their immense value to the ecosystem and our human societies, plant populations are being threatened by climate change, habitat loss, and many other stressors.

“We need people to speak for them,” proclaimed Amanda. “It is important to have people that care and are willing to support the plants and their communities because we all depend on them for survival.”

You could really hear the passion and concern behind Amanda’s words.

“Cheese-fest?” she smiled, then shrugged. “It’s just how I feel.”

I smiled and kept on rock hopping. Did I just hear a mic hit the floor? 

Keep a Close Watch

Looking out for the botanical resources on BLM is a big part of Amanda’s job, but this has proven difficult as threats are often mounting.

Amanda expressed concern for the plants at the Rough and Ready.

“The other thing about plants is because they are slower at migrating, it is easier for them to just be gone.”

She used several examples of how species tend to be closely connected to their environments. Again, she reminded me how serpentine species need serpentine soils to survive. Then there are saprophytic plants, like snow plants and ground cones, that need specific trees with a specific microbiome to be happy.

“Everyone loves the calypso orchids,” she expounded, “but you can’t pick them up and move them…they are connected with the mycorrhiza of the soil.”

Then, there are threats from “their own kind”—invasive species take up a lot of Amanda’s time.

“They are a major threat to the integrity of the ecosystem and it takes a lot of time and energy to make progress on it,” she explained regarding her efforts.

“What else?” I asked. “What are the biggest threats to the plants here?”

Amanda spoke of the challenges that her district specifically faces, including illegal marijuana grows, offroad recreation, and illegal dumping.

“French flat is one of our highest intact pieces of habitat for Lomatium cookii, a federally listed species,” said Amanda. “And we are constantly having trouble with off-road vehicles.  There are a lot of burned-out cars there, ”she sighed.

As if on cue, we crossed by some trash on the trail. 

“I lose faith in humans sometimes,” she remarked as she bent down to pick it up.

Enjoy Plants

At this point, we decided to begin veering back to the normal trail, but before we made it over the rocky rise, I asked Amanda for advice—how can people enjoy plants?

She had a lot of ideas, but her main message was simple—leave a place better than you found it. Care about plants and share how your care with others.

She also suggested making small goals to help plants.

“Think of your own yard. Do you have some native flowering plants?  That is your base. There is a food chain that connects all the way up from there.”

And, of course, spending time with plants, was her last piece of advice.

“Visit a local park or somewhere nearby and instead of just walking, stop in a spot and look around. Count how many different plants you think you see.”

Amanda recommended reaching out to organizations, like a local native plant society, to learn more about the plants. 

“Peak curiosity… “ After all, once you have truly seen a plant “you can’t unsee it!”

Species List

Amanda and I carefully made our way up the hill and back to the main path. As we walked, I asked Amanda if she could give me a short list of species for the area that she “can’t unsee.” What species could someone visiting the Klamath-Siskiyou learn to appreciate first?

This proved to be the most difficult question of the day—she came up with a few, but later sent me her complete list.

First, the trees. Pacific Madrone (Arbutus menziesii), Brewer’s Spruce(Picea breweriana), Port Orford Cedar(Chamaecyparis lawsoniana), and Pacific Yew (Taxus brevifolia) were Amanda’s picks. 

“They are easily recognizable, native, and all have some personality or rich history,” said Amanda.

Pacific Madrone, for example, has a hard, dense wood with “eucalyptus-like bark,” both smooth and peeling.

Later she added knobcone pine (Pinus tuberculata) to the list—as it is one that is especially dense at the Oregon/California border.

Next, shrubs. Oregon Grape (Mahonia aquifolium) was her first pick.

“It is an indicator of a native ecosystem,” said Amanda of the Oregon Grape. “It’s fruits edible, roots medicinal, and pollinators love it!”

Later she added: Huckleberry Oak (Quercus vacciniifolia), Deer Oak (Quercus sadleriana), and Hupa Gooseberry (Ribes marshallii).

Finally, the flowers!

Originally, Amanda suggested beargrass (Xerophylllum tenax) and Cobra Lily (Darlingtonia californica) to add to the list. Both are unique enough to identify easily and have unique life histories and/or cultural significance.

“Beargrass has a unique flower stalk,” said Amanda. “It is culturally significant to a number of native tribes and is an indicator of the Pacific Northwest Coast Region.”

Later she added: Clustered Lady Slipper (Cypripedium californicum), Gentner’s Fritillary (Fritillaria gentneri), Howell’s Camas (Camassia howellii), Siskiyou Iris (Iris bracteata), and Splithair Indian Paintbrush (Castilleja schizotricha)

Botanical Discoveries

It was still morning when we made it back to the trailhead, so we decided we would check out the Eight Dollar Mountain site just a short drive away before taking parting ways.

At Eight Dollar Mountain, we found a lot of other interesting species, including an amazing view of a Darlingtonia fen in bloom, and many endemics. 

However, my favorite moment on this pit stop was when we first arrived and headed up the road to the boardwalk. Amanda suddenly made a beeline off the side of the road. I followed.

A scattered patch of beautiful large white blooms with hairy petals and pink stamen ringed in a reddish brown grew there from their tall thin green stems. Neither of us had seen these flowers before. The excitement was palpable.

Giddy with our new find, Amanda dove into her reference materials and shortly was able to identify it as Howell’s Mariposa Lily (Calochortus howelii)—a local endemic. We would soon find out it was very common to the site—a lot of it grew along the boardwalk trail—but at that moment, it was new, fresh, and exciting.

And there it was—botany in action, the joy of discovery.

Howell’s Mariposa Lily (Calochortus howelii).

I discovered a lot on my hike with Amanda.

Though, I started out the day loving botany (Yes, I am a plant nerd). Experiencing Amanda’s passion and persistence was both heartening and renewing—like seeing a new plant for the first time. Seriously, it doesn’t get better than that!

Amanda Snodgrass is a Field Office Botanist for the Bureau of Land Management, Medford District. She earned a Master of Science from Iowa State University in Horticulture in 2012. She has worked for U.S. Forest Service and National Park Service as a Botanist and Horticulturalist.

Hike with a Geologist at Tam McArthur Rim

View of Three Creek Lake from Tam McCarthur Rim Trail

Hiking up Tam McArthur Rim toward Broken Top is one of my absolute favorite hikes. With its mountain views, lakes, and windswept ridges frosted in wildflowers—it is the perfect hike for anyone that likes, well, perfect hikes.

It is also a hike chock full of geological curiosities!  Lava rocks, volcanic cones, glacial lakes, and bisected mountains are all visible along the 5.6-mile trail. Each item offering a clue to the past, as well as the future, of the High Cascades of Central Oregon.

To help me understand the geological mystery of the region, I asked Derek Loeb—retired petroleum geologist, president of the Central Oregon Geoscience Society, and Sherlock Holmes of the Central Oregon Cascades—if he would meet with me to try and crack the case. Luckily, he agreed, and we headed up one late summer morning to the Tam McArthur Rim Trailhead for some good old-fashioned geological detective work.

Dinner Plate Andesite

It was a warm breezy morning when Derek and I started out on the trail— climbing up through pine trees and mountain hemlock with Three Creek Lake just below us. Derek and I hadn’t made it very far when we reached our first stop.

What do we have here? A platy outcropping of gray rock ran across the trail and along the hillside.

“You know the naming of volcanic rocks is based on chemical composition?” Derek inquired, as I puzzled over the fragmented rock.

You see, volcanic rocks are classified by their silica content, he explained. In general, the breakdown is as follows: basalts are 48-52% silica, andesites are 52-63%, Dacite 63-66%, and Rhyolite 68-77%. 

Of course, silica is not something you can easily measure in the field. So, without a silica meter (does such a thing exist?), can one distinguish between the different types?

“Hard to tell just looking at [a rock],” Derek explained, but there are clues. “One of the clues you can use is how [the rocks] present themselves.”

Derek pointed to the fine fractures in the rock before us. “This is very typical of andesite,” he proclaimed. The “thinly bedded fracture pattern” is probably due to exposure to a local stress regime while cooling, Derek hypothesized—giving the rock shale-like appearance.

According to Derek, the shale-like fracture pattern in andesite is so prolific, that there are several lakes along the PCT called “Shale Lake”—despite the fact that shale is a sedimentary rock and has no business on the Cascade Crest.

“I assure you there is no shale on the crest of the Cascades,” Derek said. It is all andesite.

“I call it dinner plate andesite,” said Derek, picking up a piece.

“Stand back,” he called out and gently tossed the rock toward the outcropping where it pinged against the rocky face.

That ‘tink, tink’ seems to be a dead giveaway,” Derek mused.

Dinner plate Andesite outcropping on the trail

Time Travel

Derek and I hiked past a few more outcroppings of dinner plate andesite, as we continued to climb up the dusty path through clusters of mountain hemlock trees. As we walked, Derek spoke about his interest in geology.

“You get to do time travel in the past and in the future,” he spoke adamantly. “A basic tenant of geology is the present is the key to the past, but the past is also the key to the future.”

For example, we might see dinner plate andesite and surmise that a lava flow came through the area sometime in the past—we can even date it and identify its source. At the same time, the andesite offers a window into what the area might look like in the future.

The job of a geologist is to look in both directions—understanding the past to predict the future.

Active, Dormant, Extinct

I considered this. Then, peering ahead of us up the trail, I asked Derek if the Central Cascade Volcanoes would erupt again.

His short answer was “yes,” but it is complicated.

Though most of the central Oregon Cascade volcanoes are considered extinct—meaning that they haven’t erupted in the last 10,000 years—recent eruptions have occurred in the vicinity. 

For example, North Sister was constructed from 120,000 to 45,000 years ago—definelty extinct.

However, just north of it’s edifice is McKenzie Pass—“which has been very active as recently as 1600 years ago.” Not to mention the “recent” eruptions of South Sister 2,000 years ago.

So though North and Middle Sister, as well as Broken Top, are considered “extinct” by way of the 10,000-year-eruption rule, the Three Sisters as a region is volcanically active.

In addition, Derek pointed out, the distinction between active, dormant, and extinct isn’t all that useful taken alone. Assessing volcanic threats requires a closer look at the volcanic hazards, as well as the risk of exposure to the hazard.

“Not all volcanic eruptions are a problem hazard-wise,” said Derek. He used the examples of a small cinder cone eruption in Newberry National Volcanic Monument.

“There might be some local impact,” he remarked, but being a moderately hazardous eruption type and in a remote location means the threat of this sort of eruption would be quite low.

“However, a large cinder cone eruption closer to Bend could be a big problem,” said Derek. “Cinder cones will frequently produce a late-stage lava flow as the gas is depleted. Most of the east side of Bend was ‘paved’ by lava flows produced by Newberry cinder cone eruptions about 70,000 years ago,” he added.

Similarly, a small rhyolite flow from South Sister might block the Cascade Lake Highway and disrupt recreation. But a more gas-rich, violent rhyolitic eruption that produces pyroclastic flows that travel toward the basin—like the series of eruptions dating back to somewhere between 200,000 and 600,000 years—that would be catastrophic!

Either way, Derek and I agreed, the Instagram threat assessment for any eruption would be off the charts.

A small cinder cone on a section of unmaintained trail.

What Lies Beneath

Still winding our way up the trail over eruptive material from the past, I questioned Derek about how we know volcanic activity is occurring. Can we see what lies beneath the earth’s surface?

As it turns out, we can, and geoscientists do so in a variety of different ways.

The first way Derek mentioned was using what is called seismic tomography—essentially using the patterns of seismic wave return patterns during earthquakes to interpret Earth’s internal structures, including potentially active magma chambers.

“Think of it like a CT scan” Derek suggested. “Hotter, more plastic rock is slower than solid, cold rock,” he explained, “producing an anomaly that you can map.”

The use of GPS stations and tiltmeters is another method used to monitor surface topography changes. 

“GPS is now accurate enough you can measure small changes,” said Derek.

Of course, satellites can be used to detect change using a technique called interferometry. Derek explained how repeat satellite passes can use a type of radar wave to measure topography and detect changes. Repeated passes for the same location constructively stack up when the Earth is static. A little movement will change that and cause the waves to interfere.  

“If things are changing, the travel time will change and the waves won’t stack,” explained Derek. “That is how they first detected the bulge on South Sister,” he went on.

“The fourth way is to go to local lakes and streams and sample gases,” said Derek. “Picking up increasing gasses associated with magma can start to raise the alarm.”

Whatever the methods used, volcanologists are good at using the data to warn of pending eruptions. Unfortunately, the timeline of the eruption is, as Derek put it, “nebulous.”

From the time of the warning, it could take an unpredictable amount of time before the eruption will occur. “It may not happen in a week, month, or year…” Derek speculated. “It is hard to get people to pay attention.”

Luckily for us, there was no eruption warning in place, as we were probably only about three miles from Broken Top and six miles from South Sister.

Where did you come from?

At this point, the steep grade of the trail leveled off a bit and the rocks we were passing by no longer resembled dinnerware. Instead, clusters of large rocks of varying shapes and colors lay scattered next to the trail.

Many rocks were in shades of red, black, or gray; some smaller rocks were nearly white. Many of the rocks were massive, but others had large or small vesicles in them. One interesting specimen was a large, maroon-colored rock swimming with dark blogs of grey. As I would later find out, this separation of color was probably due to slight differences in the chemistry.

I needed to know what was going on! Were these new rock forms indicative of anything?

“The question you need to ask,” Derek pulled me back, “is this [rock] in place, or was it transported?”

In other words, do the rocks actually describe the subsurface geology? Or did they get washed in by water, blown in by the wind, or fell from somewhere higher up by gravity?

The surest sign that a rock is from the place where you found is if you can find it’s nearby source.

Otherwise, you must rely on clues. Does it look like it’s been moved? Does its orientation make sense? Is its original structure intact or has it been reshaped through transport?

Colorful rock found in the quaternary rhyodacite geological unit

Quaternary Rhyodacite

Of course, another surefire way to know if the rocks match the subsurface is to bring Derek along.

Derek whipped out his phone and pulled up a georeferenced map from USGS for the Bend Quadrangle—a rectangular area of land that is equivalent to roughly about 41 to 71 square miles, or 7.5-min longitude by 7.5-min latitude.

“We are now in the QRD unit,” said Derek looking down at his phone. “That is a quaternary rhyodacite.”

The underlying geology had changed from the less silica-rich andesite to more silica-rich rhyolite and dacite rocks.

The Many Faces of Rhyolite

Now as you may recall, rhyolite and dacite rocks have a higher silica content than other volcanic rocks, like andesite or basalt—a measurement that can only be determined through chemical analysis. However, just like with andesite, there are clues that can help to tell them apart!

“Rhyolites are some of the most interesting of the volcanic rocks because they are the shapeshifters,” Derek explained.

Derek picked up a small piece of white pumice from the ground. We had seen several of these small, pieces of volcanic rock, earlier as we hiked through a few of what Derek called pumice flats.

Pumice, he explained, can have the exact same chemical composition as obsidian—a black, shiny rock that has no gas bubbles in it, and, in fact, no crystalline structure. Pumice and obsidian couldn’t be more different, yet they are both rhyolites.

The Physics of Color

These are not the only forms of rhyolite either.  “Rhyolite can be black, gray, purple, maroon…,” Derek went on. “It really covers the bases.”

As for dacite, it too is variable in color, though not as much as rhyolite, and is often a paler, bluish grey. Basalt and andesite are also usually grey—though often on the darker side.

“Color,” Derek explained, “comes from the physics of light.”

Mineral Mayhem

We continued up the trail, observing the rocks along the way. At one point, Derek noticed a clean face on a piece of grey rock—perhaps an andesite based on the color.

For example, pumice is rhyolite from an eruption high in gases that expanded the rock creating millions of gas bubbles that can scatter light in all directions, sort of like a cloud might—giving it whitish colors. In contrast, obsidian contains a lot of micro inclusions of iron oxide minerals, like magnetite, that absorbs rather than scatters light—hence the deep blackish colors.    

Derek took a closer look at the broken face of the rock.

“Probably plagioclase feldspar,” he declared.

Plagioclase is a term used to describe a group of feldspar minerals that are chemically very similar, only varying in their percentage of sodium and calcium.  Feldspar minerals in general follow the chemical formula AT4O8 (where A is potassium, sodium, or calcium, and T is Si or Al).

“Feldspar is the most common mineral in the Earth’s crust,” Derek told me, but it also comes in many forms. It is often the trace elements that fill in the crystal lattice that give it its characteristics.

For example, rubies and sapphires are both the same mineral (corundum), but ruby has chromium as an impurity and sapphire has titanium and iron.

In the case of feldspars, they can range in color from white or pink to very dark grey. One of the most important plagioclase feldspars to Oregon is the Oregon sunstone—a labradorite that, like other sunstones, contains small inclusions of copper or iron oxide (either hematite or gothite) giving the gemstone an orange color.

You won’t find any rubies or sapphires in Oregon, or sunstones, for that matter, in the Central Cascades.

“The Three Sisters Wilderness is mineral poor in terms of classic rock hounding,” said Derek.

But that doesn’t mean it isn’t fun to look closer at the less “classic rock hounding” minerals in the rocks. And a fresh face is a great place to do so. 

“Which is why our [geologists’] favorite investigation tool and anger management tool is a rock hammer,” laughed Derek.

Broken rock face (probably andesite) with plagioclase feldspar minerals

Particulars on Vesicular

We continued past the open-faced rock, toward the rim. We were getting closer to the final push to the top.  In the meaning time, it seemed like there was an endless supply of rocks to examine as we wandered along.

At one point, Derek picked up a massive rock from the trail and handed it to me.

 “Feel how dense it is,” he said encouraging me to feel the weightiness of the rock. “This would indicate that it is flow and not a gas-heavy eruption.”

He then picked up a smaller rock, riddled with small vesicles (holes), and handed it to me. It felt much lighter.

This second rock would have been from a heavy gas eruption, he explained. “Scoria,”  Derek called it, “usually associated with cinder cones.”

You see, vesicles are a good indicator of the presence of gas, but the particulars for each type of vesicular rock depends on conditions.

For instance, scoria is usually formed from low silica lava, high in gases that expand as they rise during an eruption and the lava cools usually in flight. Pumice, on the other hand, forms from high silica lava that is thicker and stickier resulting in frothy lava that erupts violently and cools quickly in the air.

“Pumice can rise thousands, even ten thousand feet high,” said Derek. “It is a cold ash flow. It isn’t molten when it hits the ground.”

Flow Boundaries

However, vesicles are not reserved for high gas eruptions. Many flows also contain vesicles.

At one point, Derek and I stopped at a collection of rhyolite-dacite rocks with large vesicles to discuss what was going on.

“Rhyolite and dacite are very viscous, so gas cannot escape in a controlled way,” he went on. So, “while it cools, it [the gas] will migrate upward, and might accumulate into bigger vesicles.”

In short, vesicles in flows of lava are generally found near the top. This can be useful for a couple of reasons.

For one, they tell you where the flow boundaries are. “The cooling interfaces are the ground and atmosphere,” explained Derek. And vesicular rocks, as well as rugosity, or roughness, occur at these boundaries.

Second, they help geologists determine which way is up. “I would look at the vesicles and orientation of the vesicles,” said Derek, “this should be related to the free surface.”

One of many highly vesicular rocks found along the trail, probabaly from a flow boundary

Geology meets Botany in the Pumice Flat

As we walked over another small rise, the trees faded behind us and we entered a large, flat open space, hemmed in by a large hill just ahead. Again, we had entered a pumice plain.

Though devoid of any large trees, like the mountain hemlocks we had been walking through for most of the hike, pumice plains are often inhabited by a few different wildflowers. We saw a couple of species of buckwheat, along with purple lupine, and a low-growing Newberry’s knotweed. 

Earlier I had asked Derek about the connection between botany and geology—and here on the pumice plain, seemed like the perfect opportunity to discuss.

“Different plants will seek out different geological environments,” Derek said.

The pumice plain is not an ideal environment for most plants. Pumice creates soil that drains quickly and doesn’t hold onto nutrients well. Cold temperatures and low moisture are also challenging. Few plants can tolerate this environment.

“[In the pumice plain] it comes down to austerity and competition—there are not a lot of resources in the pumice plain, little water, and nutrients… but that also discourages competition.”

It takes a special sort of plant to survive the harsh conditions and set the stage for other plants to come in. One example of a species that does this is lupine.

“Lupine is a member of the pea family and can convert nitrogen from the air to a useable from at its roots and therefore make its own fertilizer,” Derek explained. “This gives it an advantage, so it is frequently the pioneer species that then enables other hardy plants to grow in the vicinity.”

Hiking through the pumice field.

Layers of Lava

After climbing over a couple of steep hills we reached a viewpoint. Looking down you could see Three Cree Lake again and the steep cliffside that we had walked up. 

The underlying architecture of the lava flows that made up the cliff was exposed in all its many layers. There was the andesite layer, with its platy structures, and many rhyodacite layers with looser pyroclastic layers in-between layers of ash and pumice. It was a magnificent edifice built from a variety of rock types, built from a variety of lavas.

Looking at the layers, I tried to imagine just how each lava flow would have moved across the land so many years ago.

View of the rock layers and lakes below from near the rop of the rim

Flow with It

If you recall, volcanic rocks can be classified by their chemistry—specifically their silica content—with basalt and andesites being lower in silica than dacite and rhyolite. This not only affects their form as rocks but more importantly it affects their flow.

“If it has more silica products, it isn’t going to flow far,” Derek explained, “It is thicker and will build up vertically.”

According to Derek, a high silica flow might travel a few miles, maybe 10 miles at most, and at an almost imperceptibly slow pace.

“The big obsidian flow in Newberry National Volcanic Monument is a classic example of a rhyolite flow,” Derek suggested. “Or if you go to Wickiup Plain, you can see Rock Mesa,” another great example.

In comparison, basalt or andesite will erupt as a fluid stream of lava that flows over top of each other—“like many coats of varnish,” Derek described. Also, “Basalt flows can flow much, much further,” Derek went on, “especially if they form lava tubes.”

McKenzie Pass is a good place to see basalt flows.

Even better, Derek suggested watching videos of a Kilauea eruption to truly appreciate the movement of lava in general.

Of course, it should be kept in mind that not all high silica volcanic products are released in lava flows. Pyroclastic flows—best described as a rushing flow of hot volcanic rocks, ash and gas can also travel far. “Perhaps even 100s of miles,” estimated Derek.

Banded

As we walked the last hundered or so feet to the top, several colorful red and black colored rocks caught my attention.

“This looks cool,” I said, pointing to one of them.

It was another rhyolite or dacite specimen, like we had seen before—only it had thick bands of black running through it.

“Rhyolite and dacites are very viscous,” Derek explained, “As they cool, any variation in silica will change the melting point and it will tend to start segregating by silica content forming these bands.” This process, Derek explained, is called flow banding.

“Reminds me of petrified wood,” said Derek.

It was gorgeous.

A flow banded rock along the trail

The Sculptor’s Hand

Finally, we reached the high point on the rim—and the end of the “maintained path.” We stood on the cliff’s edge looking down at a rocky face that dropped down steeply into a basin.

At this point, Derek asked me what I thought about what we were seeing.

“What would you call this type of topography?” He queried.

I must have looked apprehensive to answer because offered a subtle hint—pointing out the “near semi-amphitheater” shape.

“A glacial cirque?” I responded questioningly.

“Yes, a glacial cirque!” replied Derek in a congratulatory tone. “A classic glacial cirque. There is another one over there too,” he remarked referring to the Three Creek Lake Basin area. “It is not an isolated phenomenon…

“And…” he went on pointing to the east toward the lakes, “dollars to donuts, there is some glacial till, moraine material, creating the lumpy topography.”

Glacial cirques are bowl-shaped valleys formed by glacial erosion—the removal of rock and sediment as the glacier flows downslope.  When this material is deposited a moraine forms—an accumulation of this debris known as glacial till. Finally, when a glacier retreats and the depression left behind fills with water, a lake can form—a “moraine lake”

Mystery solved. Tam-McArthur Rim is a glacial cirque. And Three Creek Lake is a moraine lake. It isn’t all about the lava, but the ice!

“Glacial processes in the Cascades tend to be underappreciated by the general public,” Derek sighed. Yet, glaciation is just as responsible as volcanism for creating what we see today in the High Cascades

“The volcanic processes provided the raw material,” explained Derek, “the glacial processes provided the sculptor’s hand.”

Derek gestering toward the glacial cirque with Broken Top and the Three Sisters in the background

Geometry of Volcanoes

Of course, standing at the top of the rim, it was hard to ignore the many voluminous peaks filling up the skyline. Broken Top and the Three Sisters were most prominent, but you could also see out toward Mount Washington, Three-Fingered Jack, and Jefferson, as well as Black Butte and Mt. Bachelor.

Volcanoes are often grouped into three major types distinguished by the geometry of the cone—stratovolcano, shield, and cinder cone.

Stratovolcanoes are often the tallest with steep sides; some during a catastrophic eruption may lose their top, like Mt. St. Helen’s, for example. Shield volcanoes are large with shallowly sloping sides, often formed from low silica lava that flows. Cinder cones small and conical, built up by pyroclastic fragments of a single eruptive event. 

Changing Geometry

The problem is geometry changes.

“Broken-Top is a generally misunderstood peak,” said Derek pointing to its ragged open maw. 

According to Derek, many people assume, based on its shape, that Broken Top catastrophically erupted. “But it is mainly because it has been through a couple of glacial cycles…” explained Derek, that it looks like its top was blown off.

Glaciation has sculpted all the peaks to some degree in the Cascades.  Only, volcanoes like Broken Top (active 300,000-150,000 years ago) and Three-Finger Jack (active 500,000-250,000 years ago) were built much earlier than Three Sisters (North Sister, the oldest, active 120,000-45,000 years ago) so they have experienced a lot more glacial erosion. 

Derek pulled out a diagram that showed some of the Cascades Volcanoes’ building phases alongside a graph of time vs. temperature data taken from ice cores from Greenland. From the diagram, you could see how long each volcano was in a building phase compared to the number of glacial cycles it experienced.

“Broken Top has been through two glacial cycles,” Derek said pointing to the graph. While “South Sister’s ice cream scoop shape is because it was active during the last glacial period while it was still forming.”

The pointed top of Mt. Washington was visible on the horizon. “Mount Washington is another one that people make assumptions about,” said Derek—“One-fingered George, I call it.”

With its spire-shaped top a lot of people might mistake Washington for a stratovolcano, but, in fact, it is a shield volcano.

“Imagine what the original shield geometry is,” Derek suggested. We traced the line of the slopes that slanted down gently away towards what remained of its top. “What you see left is the central magma conduit,” glaciation took the rest.

I asked about Back Butte, as I remembered it was older than Mt. Washington, but still retained more of its shape.

“Black Butte is an oddball,” Derek replied, “It is the oldest of the Cascade volcanoes—1.4 million years old…It wasn’t heavily glaciated because it is lower elevation and far enough east,” Derek explained.

I tried to imagine what Black Butte (a stratovolcano by the way) would look like if it had been heavily glaciated.  Would it even be here now if glaciers had carved it all those 1.4 million years?

Who knew? Ice. Impressive.

View of some of the Cascade peaks incluidng Mount Washington and Black Butte in the distance.

Non-Maintained

After exploring the rim, Derek and I decided to continue along the well-used, but non-maintained trail toward Broken Top. The terrain was mostly flat, at first, clumps of whitebark pine bowed over next to the path. Broken Top was striking in the near distance.

As we hiked, we walked through an area littered with what looked like andesite rocks, suggesting a flow in the vicinity, though we never identified the source.

What looks like andesite scattered along the trail heading toward Broken Top

Little Broken Top

However, soon the geology shifted toward a less definable area that contained a mixture of different rock types. Hidden among the varied rocks was a ragged piece with red and black bands that caught Derek’s eye.

“It looks like a miniature Broken Top,” he claimed.

When you look at Broken Top you can see thick bands of color following its slopes on a diagonal—each band of color is a different lava flow, according to Derek.

“Color almost always has to do with the oxidation state of the iron,” explained Derek.

Though not completely understood, fluids that form the magmas and ascend as lavas are oxidized—meaning (in this case) iron is being stripped of electrons as it chemically bonds with oxygen. The different combinations of iron with oxygen are what is responsible for the different colors.

“You can get hematite [Fe2O3] which is red, limonite [FeO (OH) *nH2O] is yellow, and magnetite [FeO] is black,” said Derek.

I snapped a picture of the miniature Broken Top with its bands of color before continuing up the trail toward the true Broken Top—its oxidized lava rock bands almost glimmering in the distance.

“Little Broken Top” in all its glory!

Volcanic Bombs

The trail steepened, as we reached a nice viewpoint, and stopped for lunch. After lunch, we decided to take the trail just a little bit further—Derek had one more artifact to show me.

“These are volcanic bombs,” said Derek, pointing to a large, elongated reddish volcanic rock, “some of the best examples, as they are relatively intact.” 

The rock was slightly pointed on one end and looked pulled or stretched—lines ran through the rock parallel to its lengthier side—like pulled taffy.

“If you have cohesive blobs of lava ejected, in flight they will adapt an aerodynamic teardrop shape,” Derek explained.

We continued up the trail in pursuit of a few more bombs that Derek had seen on a previous visit.

The trail wound up a red pile of cinders—the rocks oxidized to red hematite—before reaching a narrow ridge with several massive volcanic bombs.

These bombs were huge—the size of a large dog.  One lay open—its guts exposed for us to see—probably broken from the impact.

“Probably from basalt or low silica lava,” Derek decided as we examined its innards—this is typical of lava bombs. 

A large volcanic bomb broken on the trail

All of It

I was struck by the beauty of the place—the arc of volcanoes, the sparse vegetation, the open expanse, and these amazing rocks that made an impact some 10s-100s of thousand years ago. All of it.

“It is what Central Oregon has to offer,” said Derek.

Breathtaking geology.

And with one last look, we headed back.

Final view looking out toward Broken Top

Hike with a Dune Scientist

Counting Carbon at South Beach State Park, Oregon

View down to the ocean from the crest of a dune

When you visit Oregon’s coast you may have noticed that it takes some effort to get down to the beach. Much of Oregon’s coast is characterized by large grass-covered dunes that separate inland areas from the sandy shoreline environment. So, getting to the beach often takes a little bit of a climb. This was not the case some 100 years ago. 

Before European colonization on the Pacific Northwest coastline, much of what is now a dune system would have looked very different. Instead of walls of sand 15 meters high, a hummocky sand sheet would have stretched to the shoreline. 

The dune landscape was created by people. In 1910, European beach grass (Ammophila arenaria) was introduced to the Oregon coast to stabilize and control areas of sand near human habitation. Later, in the 1930s, American Beach grass was also introduced.  

These grasses are really good at capturing sand and building dunes. They are also really good at spreading via seed dispersal and rhizomatic growth. The result is the grass-covered dunes you see stretching down the coastline today. 

So, how should we feel about this takeover? 

I met up with John Stepanek, biologist, and Ph.D. candidate in Sally Hacker’s Lab at Oregon State University, at South Beach State Park to discuss these built dunes and what they mean for Oregonians now and in the future.   

The Hike 

  • Trailhead: South Beach State Park Day Use Area (South Jetty Trailhead)
  • Distance: varies (approx. 2 miles)
  • Elevation Gain: minimal
  • Details: No parking pass required. Ample parking at the trailhead. Restrooms are available. Access roads to the trailhead are paved. South Jetty Trail is a paved path.
Forested dune ecosystem on South Jetty Trail

Meet and Greet

The day was bright and warm when I met John in the parking lot at South Beach State Park. John had his dog with him, and both were friendly and welcoming, as we made our introduction and started down the paved South Jetty trail. 

John told me how he grew up in California not really knowing what he wanted to study. He enjoyed biology in high school, and the outdoors, but it took him a while to find his path. 

“I thought I would like to be a wildland firefighter,” John reminisced.

However, his love for biology, and specifically plants, grew while attending Cal Poly for his undergraduate degree. And eventually, he changed his major from Forestry to Biology. 

Despite his love for plants, John’s early involvement in research was focused on reptiles. 

“I studied rattlesnakes and blue-bellied lizards for three years,” said John.  

It wouldn’t be until he came to OSU and joined Sally Hacker’s Lab that his attention would be drawn back to his love for plants, as well as a new focus of study—dunes.    

Forested Dune Ecosystem

John and I continued down the wide path. On either side of us was a wall of trees and shrubs. I asked John with his expert eye to describe what we were seeing. 

“We are in a forested dune ecosystem,” said John, his love for botany radiating forth. 

 “The main canopy is shore pine,” he went on, pointing to a rough-barked tree with long needles and a bent stature. “It is one of the only pines with two needles in each bundle.” 

John went on to explain how shore pine is just a subspecies of a conifer that typically grows in the mountains, called the lodgepole pine.  Grown on the coast it tends to be shorter and more gnarled, while in the mountains it grows straight and tall. 

But shore pine is not the only canopy tree in the dune forest. Sharp-needled Sitka spruce is also often present. I noticed a few growing alongside the shore pine. 

Soon John and I got to botanizing—noticing and pointing out all the plants on the trail. 

“Ferns and grasses grow out here,” John stated. “Salal as well.” He pointed to the thick, large-leaved plant with an angular alternate arrangement.

Native plants, like evergreen huckleberry, twinberry, and our native beach grass were all identified, as well as non-native scotch broom and European beach grass. 

“It is not super complex, at least not in the state it is in… the grasses have reduced the native biodiversity,” John explained. “There are a lot of different plants but there is low abundance.” 

John showed me how to tell the native beach grass from the non-native varieties: “See how it has a bluish wax that you can rub off, and how wide it is with a prominent midrib?” 

Charting the Dunes 

It didn’t take long before John and I reached a trail heading left toward the beach. We decided to take it, to see what lay beyond the forested back dune (also known as the hind-dune).

John described the transition from the back dune heading toward the coast as being a bit like walking forward in time with the forested back dune being the oldest and the beach the youngest—a study in succession. 

We moved forward—in space and time. 

Heading up the dune heel

The Heel

As we entered the dune heel—the area just behind the dune closest to the ocean—the vegetation transitioned from forest to grass. Though European beach grass was dominant, many shrubs and small herbaceous species grew in this more sunlit environment.

John pointed out some young yarrow with its lacy leaves and beach strawberry trailing along the path edges. We also saw the radiating leaves of the seashore lupine (Lupinus littoralis). 

“Pearly everlasting is common in summer,” John added.  

Even sword fern, typically a forest plant, seemed to be surviving the harsh conditions—though its fronds were a bit battered and curled inward.  

“How does it grow so many places?” John enthused—impressed by its adaptability.

Overall, it seemed the backside of the dune had a rich assortment of plant life. “This area is cut off from new sand deposits,” John explained, so “there is more biodiversity back here.” 

Evergreen huckleberry and sword fern hidden in the beach grass

The Crest

However, as we trudged up the steep foredune, the dune closest to the ocean, all of that changed. As we reached the crest—the highest point of the foredune—we faced a near uniform sea of European beach grass. 

John explained:

“There is low diversity on the face of the foredune, where it is really only the grasses. The grasses build up a dune tall enough that it buries the other plants trying to grow and eventually creates a wall that prevents the sand from being blown further back.”

In short, European beach grass is too good at building dunes—nothing else can really keep up with the rate at which they collect sand. 

John’s dog standing at the crest of the dune

The Toe

Coming down off the face of the dune, some biodiversity may be regained. Certain plants become more common on the toe of the dune—the far front end of the dune facing the water. 

Though we didn’t see any on our hike, John sent me a list of these species common to the toe: yellow sand verbena (Abronia latifolia), pink sand verbena (Abronia umbellata), American sea rocket (Cakile edentula), sea rocket (Cakile maritima) and seaside sandwort (Honckenya peploides). 

View looking up at the dune toe

Storing Carbon

John and I hiked down the face of the dune to the beach to continue our walk. 

As we walked the beach, John told me about his part in researching the dunes. You see, John doesn’t just study the plants in the dune ecosystem, he studies the carbon. 

“Coastal ecosystems like salt marshes, estuaries, and mangroves are really good at storing carbon,” said John. 

He went on to explain how carbon is stored through “two mechanisms.”

First, the vegetation in these ecosystems stores carbon via photosynthesis—essentially removing carbon from the atmosphere and storing it in their tissues, and later the organic matter in the soil after they die. 

Second, is the storage of carbon in sediment that is washed in and settles in these tidal areas, building up a layer of organic matter. This organic matter sticks around, decaying very slowly—effectively storing carbon for the long term. 

The problem is that though estuaries, tidal marshes, and mangroves are excellent carbon stores, they only make up a tiny fraction of the world’s coast—“up to 6%” according to John. While dune ecosystems, whose carbon storage potential has largely been overlooked, make up one-third. 

Admittedly, dunes don’t seem at first glance likely candidates for the world’s greatest carbon sinks. The fact that they are mostly sand isn’t particularly encouraging. But that didn’t deter John from researching dune carbon—work he has been engaged in over the last four years. 

Counting Carbon

This of course raises the question: How does one go about measuring carbon? 

“We do a transect from the water back to the trees and shrubs,” John answered when I asked him that very question. A transect is simply a measured line from which data is gathered. 

Then using a quadrat—a square made of PVC pipe that’s used to measure things in a certain area—the abundance and density of plants are measured at points along the transect, and samples of plants are collected. This data will be used to determine the “above ground carbon.”

Then, using a 4-inch PVC pipe and a sledgehammer, John takes cores along the transect as well. These cores go down 1 meter and are used to collect samples of “below-ground carbon.”

Once in the lab, samples are dried,  weighed, and then burned at 550 degrees Celsius. Before and after weights of the samples are used to get a crude measure of organic matter—a decent proxy for carbon. Later, elemental analysis is done on some subsamples, as well, to determine the organic matter to carbon relationship. 

The goal is to get an estimate of “the actual carbon stocks” found in dune ecosystems. 

Findings

The sun reflected white puffy clouds as John and I hiked on the wetter, firmer sand on the beach, closer to the ocean’s edge. 

I asked John what he has discovered so far. Was there any carbon in the sand below our feet?

In general, not a lot. 

“Sand is mostly inorganic tiny rocks,” said John. “They don’t trap organic matter very well and there is a quicker rate of decomposition relative to materials like silt or clay.”

The highest value John has found in any of his sand samples is 10% organic matter. On average 4.4 kg of organic carbon per meter squared. These values are higher than desert sand and even higher than conventional agriculture, but on the low end compared to salt marshes and terrestrial grasslands, according to John. 

“The highest in some other systems could be 80%,” stated John as a comparison. John mentioned mangroves and coast range forests—these would be many magnitudes more. 

Of course, these values are per volume and per unit mass, and there is a lot of sand in the dune ecosystem. Therefore, despite the low percentage, the dunes are still providing a substantial carbon store.  I mean, 10% of a lot is still a lot.  

Hiking along the beach at South Beach State Park

Patterns

Having gathered data from nearly fifty transects up and down the coast, John has also observed other patterns. 

There are differences depending on latitude, type of dominant beach grass, distance from the shore, as well as vertically within core samples. 

“There is more (carbon) near the surface,” John remarked, “—the organic horizon of the soil.”

Carbon also varies as you move through a transect—increasing as you move toward the back dune where the vegetation is more biodiverse and complex.  The intertidal area is also typically a bit higher, around 1%, and the toe of the dune at something like 0.5%. 

“Plants are the main driver of organic matter,” John explained. Thus, the further you move back from the ocean, the more carbon.

Ecosystem Services 

I glanced up at the dunes to our right as we strode across the “mostly inorganic tiny rocks”—measuring the mass mentally, assessing the carbon. 

Could these dunes help solve our climate crisis? Should we be building more dunes?

I didn’t ask John these questions. These are questions that John said that he commonly gets asked about his research.  

The short answer is no. 

He continued, “We don’t have all our results, but we expect that today’s dunes store more carbon than native systems would have done and trap more sediment,” but “the reason there is too much carbon in the atmosphere isn’t because we dug up the dunes.”  

The dunes were not historically here. Though they provide some benefits, like storm and erosion protection, and even a little carbon storage, the pre-dune environment would have had its own set of benefits. 

“Before these grasses were introduced, lots of native plants and animals were able to live here, and many Indigenous peoples would have managed this environment for ecosystem services important to them.”

Also, we do know that the dune ecosystems, as they exist now, have at least some drawbacks to wildlife. 

John was adamant about balancing the services of the past and future. 

“They do a great job protecting coastal development, but not so great when it comes to the flora and fauna,” John said. “It is about the collective good.  Coastal protection is only valuable for those living right on the coast.” Does that mean it is best for everyone?

Carbon Stores

By now, John and I had reached the South Beach Jetty and turned inland, hiking up to the parking area to where we could loop back to our cars. 

 I asked John as we reentered the most carbon-rich back dune environment and eventually the forest: What ecosystems we should be looking out for, if not dunes?  

“The temperate rainforests in the northwest coast range and west cascades,” was his unhesitating reply.  Though he corrected himself a little—“old growth forests.” 

John explained how carbon is sequestered in the mass of the old-growth trees, both above and below ground.  He also made clear that high-density forests, like might be found on a tree plantation, are by no means comparable. 

“Fewer large trees have more carbon than a bunch of small young trees,” John said. 

He mentioned the work of Dr. Bev Law from the College of Forestry at Oregon State University as a source for these findings.

“Her work is showing the effects of the logging industry,” he continued. 

Mangroves are another ecosystem John mentioned for carbon storage. Again, much of the carbon found in mangroves is stored in the tissue of the trees. In the case of mangroves, mostly below ground. 

“Even in coastal ecosystems,” said John, “mangroves are an arm and leg above the others.”

Looping back 

After meandering a while in the tall dune grasses, once again, we found our way back to the forested paved path. As we walked, we talked forward about the future—both in research and in life. 

There are still many questions to be investigated when it comes to dune research. John mentioned being able to study the forested dune environment as being a good next step, though admitted he would not likely be the one to do the work. 

He also described a strong curiosity to understand more fully the structure of the foredune—what it looks like several meters down. John rattled off several questions for starters:

“What does the root system look like? Are those roots and rhizomes all from the same plants? How has the water table changed? Is the carbon density the same deeper than a meter?” 

Uncertain Future

John doesn’t know what he wants to do when he finishes his Ph.D.—though he expressed an interest in teaching, perhaps at a small 4-year school or community college. 

But as he put it, “I haven’t taken other options off the table.”

The future is a tough thing to peg down. 

The Pacific Northwest dunes and coastal environments also face an uncertain future. Climate change and human encroachment threaten these ecosystems and their functioning.  

John hopes his research can help inform coastal ecosystem management. By understanding what we have now—perhaps we can mitigate against these threats and create a future worth preserving. 

John Stepanek is a  biologist and PhD candidate in Sally Hacker’s Lab at Oregon State University. He earned his Bachelor of Science from California Polytechnic State University where he majored in Biology.

Hike with a Sports Product Designer

Looking down the Wildwood Trail near the Newberry Trailhead

One thing that I love about hiking is its simplicity. You don’t have to invest in a bunch of gear to become a hiker—although some people do. All you need are a good pair of shoes and a pack filled with necessities, and you are off to the races.

At the same time, the sport of hiking is ripe for product innovation. Hikers are ready for products that improve performance, safety, and overall function. I mean, honestly, a good pair of shoes can be difficult to come by.

Which begs the question, how do hiking products come to market? What is the design process for a hiking shoe or pack?

On a cool spring day, I met with Susan Sokolowski, director of the Sports Product Design Program at the University of Oregon, and Henry Gilbert, one of her students enrolled in the program, for a hike on the Wildwood trail to find out.

The Hike

  • Trailhead: Newberry Road Trailhead (45.605640, -122.823430)
  • Distance: 5.1 miles out and back with longer options
  • Elevation Gain: approximately 531 feet
  • Details: Limited parking at the trailhead which is a pullout on the side of the road. No restrooms are available. Roads to the trailhead are paved making access easy. This is the northern terminus of the 31.1-mile Wildwood trail.

It was raining hard right just a few minutes before I pulled up to the trailhead. The trees still glistened with fresh drops clinging to the tips of the branches. I found Susan and Henry just down the road a bit from where I parked, and we got started. A trail running event looked to be coming to an end as we arrived, and a table of volunteers welcomed us to the forest.

We took off at a moderate pace down the trail.  The green conifer forests promising some level of protection if the sky decided to open again.

What it takes

We started with introductions.

Henry introduced himself as a student, originally from Salt Lake City, in his first year in the Sports Product Design program at UO. His background is in electrical engineering.

“I heard about this program, and I was super excited about it,” said Henry, “I have a passion for hiking.”

Susan introduced herself as the professor and director of the sports product design program. Her background is in design, as well as human factors engineering and kinesiology. She earned her master’s degree at Cornell University under Susan Watkins, the mother of functional design, and from there entered the sports design space at the University of Minnesota, co-majoring in biomechanics and design.

“When I went to school, I was definitely an oddball student,” Susan laughed.

Susan (left) and Henry (right) after walking through some mud on the trail.

The Design Process

We continued along the well-worn path under the canopy of Douglas-fir and western redcedar. Sword fern dominated the understory along with a myriad of herbaceous forest plants, including vanilla leaf and yellow stream violet. 

As we hiked, I asked Susan for an overview of what she does as a sports product designer.

She began her explanation with a mission statement:

“Our mission is to push the field with game-changing solutions for athletes that push performance and society.” She continued, “we are looking at performance, but also in the sports industry, especially sports products, there is a large movement to look into equity in sport—and that is part of it as well.”

This is what sports product design—at least how she does it—aims for. But how does it get there?

“We use a design process that it similar to the scientific process,” entertained Susan.

As Susan explained, the process starts with a line of inquiry based on “how could we” or “how might we” statements—something akin to a hypothesis of sorts. From there ideation begins and the process of prototyping.

“Our program really values creating concepts and physical prototypes,” Susan expounded.

Once the prototypes are built, they are tested. This usually involves athletes or users trying the product and giving feedback.

Of course, just like in science, testing doesn’t always lead directly to the production and marketing of a product. Often the results of testing may require a step back or two. The design process is not linear. 

Product Testing

We soon crossed over a small wooden footbridge as we made our way further into the forest.

I asked Susan to elaborate more on the product testing side of things.

“There are infinite ways to test products,” Susan replied. “We could be testing for ease of use, regulation, impact protection, a feeling, accuracy… anything you can want an athlete to do, or have a better experience with, you can be testing for.”

On the practical side of things, the most common method used for testing is calling in a focus group. Asking people to experience the product and give feedback is the minimum expected for testing.

Then there are more complex methods using equipment, like thermistors or environmental chambers, for example.

Things get even more complicated if you are making a claim or in the business of making products that are more dangerous, like helmets. It is in these instances that, according to Susan, “testing becomes very important.”

“Companies have been shut down,” said Susan, “when testing wasn’t up to snuff.”

So, depending on the product, testing could take a long time, even years.

Views of the footbridge crossing on the trail

Hiking Shoes

At this point, we were beginning to encounter a good deal of mud on the trail. I could feel the traction of my hiking shoes failing as the slick clayey mud started to gum things up.

“What about hiking shoes?” I asked, “Let’s say you want to design hiking shoes.”

Susan was quick to admit that hiking shoes are not only a challenge for people to shop for but also a challenge to design. On top of that, there hasn’t been the level of effort put into hiking shoes as there has been for other products, like running shoes.

“Hiking is complicated,” said Susan, “because, like we are hiking on mud today which is different than hiking on something like snow or ice…”

In general, certain features should be considered to deal with the all-terrain use of hiking shoes, including traction performance, flexibility, water migration, waterproofness, and stability.

Methods for testing will often vary by company. Though there is some standard testing. A wear test—where a group of people wears and compares the product to a baseline is another possible method.  Wear tests can be as short as trying a product for an hour of exercise, for as long as a few weeks or even a month. Longer than that and designers can’t meet product timelines that very much rely on a season product launch cycle.

According to Susan, the sizing and fit of hiking shoes are also important to test.

Even though shoes are often built to a particular size model, the materials and how they respond to wear vary a lot.  Thicker material might make the size envelope a bit smaller.  Stretchy material may make it larger.

Duct Tape

We walked further down the trail.

Henry chimed in regarding his experience with product testing shoes. “It was interesting to see what they (the designers) were looking for,” he said.

One such “look for” were hot points and blisters—a common ailment among hikers, especially in certain conditions.

Susan told me about a time she did a hiking race on hot asphalt.  “My feet were burning!” She exclaimed. “I had to wrap them in duct tape.”

I told the group about a backpacking trip on sand that had a similar effect.

The good news?

“I learned duct tape is amazing,” said Susan.

I mean duct tape does fix everything. And in the design world what better tool can you turn to in a time of crisis?

“We aren’t afraid of duct tape,” Susan agreed.

Testing Woes

The weather continued to hold up as we walked along. Thought the mud only seemed to pick up. I told Susan and Henry we could go as far as they wanted.

“We won’t go 30 miles,” was Susan’s comical reply. These two were just plain fun to hike with.

Henry is not the only design student to be recruited for product testing.

“Companies know that they (her students) understand product,” confided Susan. “It is hard to get good product feedback,” she went on. 

If one thing is “wrong” with the product, often time feedback will come back negative, and the positive qualities of a product will be lost. Susan told me how countless times she has had testers come back with comments about the color of a product.

“I didn’t like the purple ones,” Susan mimicked a difficult tester. “It can be really polarizing.”

If even there is a more substantial complaint, like an uncomfortable high top on a boot, often all other feedback is lost on this one major complaint.

Research

Of course, before product testing, comes a different type of feedback—research.

“If the research isn’t there, then the design is completely invalid,” Henry confessed.

Research usually comes in the form of interviews with potential users and looking at existing products on the market. Science also supports and informs product design.

Henry shared a project he worked on designing a base layer for visually impaired skiers using haptic technology to communicate with their guides. He interviewed several visually impaired skiers to determine where best to place the haptics.

Research is imperfect though.

“Sometimes you will design something fully based on science,” said Susan, “but then someone will put it on, and it can nullify the invention.”

Looking uphill on the forested Wildwood Trail

Synergy

Soon we reached a large, upended tree—its roots sticking out at us onto the trail and a sticky, thick mud bath below. As we carefully picked our way around it, or in some cases slid our way, I asked Susan to tell me more about how science informs product design.

She laughed because in a lot of ways it doesn’t.

“There is a lot of research that happens in the lab that never gets applied,” said Susan. “In the pure sciences, you get a finding and move on.”

Pure sciences are often funded that way. Scientists are supported for the initial body of work—to answer a specific question. Once that knowledge is obtained the funding dries up.

However, at least at the University of Oregon, Susan is seeing a change—a shift to more collaboration between pure and applied science that seems to really be paying off.

Susan is part of the Wu Tsai Alliance—a group comprised of scientists from a variety of backgrounds with the common goal of understanding human performance.

“The group formed last year, but we are already seeing the synergies,” said Susan. “For example, a biomedical engineer designed and sensor, and one of my students is taking the sensor and putting it into footwear for their thesis project,” she elaborated.

Fighting for Women

Like the obstacles to collaboration, the Wildwood trail continued to throw log hops in our way. As we clambered over another one, I asked Susan to share a bit about the projects she is involved in.

“I have my fingers in a lot of different things,” was her unsurprising response. She didn’t seem the type to take life sitting down.

“I am finishing some research on size and fit issues for women firefighters,” Susan shared one of her projects.

“Gear for women isn’t really designed for women,” she explained. As a result, women firefighters are getting hurt. A fact that has been known for over a decade but hasn’t been acted on until now.

Susan hopes to change all that by identifying important knowledge gaps.

As a next step, she is also working with another scientist that does machine learning to analyze 3-dimensional body scans of athletes.  The goal is to understand geometries beyond the basic chest-waist-hip measurements and interpret findings into better product performance.

Runners High

Susan is also using machine learning and body scans to better understand women’s running. She plans to survey thousands of runners and pair that data with scans to look for unknown patterns that relate to running performance. She hopes to tease out what is talked about in the common press when it comes to performance—to identify what works and what is just hype.

Innovate

At this point, Susan, Henry, and I reached a trail sign near a fire lane. Having gone a few miles, we decided to turn around. Thankfully the rain continued to hold off as we retraced our steps back.

Then I asked Henry, what he wanted to do with his career. His answer boiled down to one word—innovate.

“In our field, there is true athletic product innovation,” said Susan.

However, the focus of that innovation has shifted over the years, leaving many sports neglected. According to Susan, outdoor sports, like skiing and climbing, are ripe for innovation.

Hiking is another one.

“Running shoes are designed for environmental and biomechanical needs,” Susan explained. “Hiking shoes haven’t really gotten there yet….that is why people go to trail running shoes.”

Environmental Wear

Another area ripe for innovation is waterproofing.

Though there are some products that work better than others, waterproofing than be challenging. For one, it doesn’t last. And secondly, the chemistry is bad for the environment.

“It is part of the Teflon family of chemicals,” said Susan.

So, companies turn to more environmentally friendly alternatives, but at a cost—a loss in product quality.

Walking through a beautiful green Douglas-fir Forest, it is hard not to want to protect it. So, I asked Susan, how we are doing in the sports industry with making environmentally safe products?

“We are not doing well,” was her blunt response. As the sports product industry shifted from cotton and wool materials to synthetics in the 1960s and 1970s, sustainability went out the window.

“It is concerning when you learn more about it,” said Henry.

However, there is some hope for the future. According to Susan, natural fiber companies are working on innovating to create more biobased products.

In addition, there has been an uptick in transparency regarding the sustainability of products. For example, Marmot now ranks products for their sustainability versus performance.

“Companies are going to be held accountable, “Susan commented. She mentioned a panel she was on in Europe where there was a discussion on taxing people for purchasing unsustainable products. “I think we may see things like that in the future,” she continued.

Recycle, Reduce, Reuse

A few other ways companies are combating the issues of sustainability and durability are through the reuse and recycling of products. Companies like Patagonia will buy back products and repair them for resale. Other companies will recycle products to make something new.

Repair is another major movement. Susan mentioned Fjallraven in Portland’s Pearl District providing repair and waxing stations for waterproofing.

Keep it Simple

We continued working our way back to our cars, climbing the logs and sliding over the same mud slicks we encountered on our way in.  As we were nearing the trailhead, I asked Susan and Henry for some consumer tips for buying products.

“For me, it is not to overdo it,” said Susan. She recommended choosing clothing that is comfortable, fits well, and allows for mobility. It isn’t necessary to have high-tech gear on a day hike. Even jeans may be acceptable in most conditions.

“There is a lot of discussion around equity in sport,” Susan said, “especially hiking.” According to Susan, people see it as a “white sport” and only for the “affluent,” but hiking is for everyone.

By keeping things simple, she hopes more people will see themselves on the trail. 

Wear and Tear

Another tip Susan emphasized was wear.

“If you haven’t fully worn in something, you can have a really bad experience,” said Susan.

“Your body changes when you are hiking,” she continued. “Feet and hands can swell, for example.”

Taking the time to try out gear in a low stakes environment and wear it in is key to an enjoyable outdoor experience.

Luckily, some companies are creating return policies that allow consumers to really try out products before they fully commit to purchasing.

Functional Innovation

Innovative products that improve functionality is something else to look out for and consider when purchasing items.

Susan mentioned innovation in hydration as another example. Camelback and other bladder systems allow for a hands-free experience, while filters allow for longer and safer outdoor experiences. Both innovations have revolutionized outdoor sports.

Even something as simple as having the right size or style of pockets can make or break a product.

Keep Improving

As we neared the trailhead, I asked Susan one more question—Why does sports design matter?

According to Susan, sports product design is about maximizing human potential. It is also about the benefits of engaging in sport –  like health and happiness, available to everyone.

“There are an infinite number of problems to solve,” said Susan, referring to the sports product industry.

Fortunately, the process of product design is iterative. And with new tools for design, products are improving.

Body scanning and machine learning are changing how products can be made. It may be that mass production changes in the future and more personalized sizing will become available to everyone.

“The tech is already there,” Susan remarked. “I know scientists that can look at your Facebook picture and tell what your body scan looks like.”

Hike Happy

In the meantime, consumers and hikers have a lot of options to choose from when it comes to sports product design. There are still some problems to solve. But, by keeping it simple and choosing products that function and wear well, you can still enjoy the benefits.

So, take a hike through the woods. Climb a mountain if you will. Paddle or float. Whatever sport you engage in, keep it simple and wear what works for you.

Perhaps Henry’s advice is most apt and to the point: “You got to wear what makes you happy.”

Susan Sokolowski, Ph.D., is the director of the Sports Product Design Program and the University of Oregon. She has over 25 years of experience in the sports product industry.

Hike at McCully Mountain with a Wildlife Biologist

View of the McCully Mountain meadows

Open prairie grasslands, hummocky wet meadows, meandering rivers, and magnificent branching oak woodlands—before European settlement, Oregon’s Willamette Valley was a very different place. A place blackened by fire and awash in waves of wildflowers. A sea of purple camas covered the hillsides, along with irises, cat’s ear lily, golden paintbrush, and more. Grand Oregon white oaks, with their spreading branches, grew singly or in woodland patches, completing the look.

Now, very little of these habitats remain in the Willamette Valley—lost to human development. It is a place dug up by plows and awash in pavement. A sea of houses covers the hillsides with agricultural fields everywhere in-between.

In recent years, as scarcity has increased, oak habitats in Oregon have been given more attention. Even sites on the edge of the valley are being considered for restoration by conservation groups and land management agencies.

McCully Mountain, just east of Salem, is one such site. A parcel of BLM land with a bit of oak on a wet meadow surrounded by private lands, and in need of a little elbow grease. 

So, with the help of volunteers and other staff, Corbin Murphy, BLM wildlife biologist, has been working for the last few years to restore the parcel. Or as he put it, “create some habitat on the landscape.”

I met with Corbin on a wet spring day to take a look at the progress. 

The Hike

  • Trailhead: No official trailhead.
  • Distance: varies
  • Details: Park at the pullout on East McCully Mountain Road. No trailhead or signage. There are no amenities at this site.

Classic BLM

Corbin and I carpooled out to the McCully site along some backcountry roads, before reaching a small pullout. A faint trail led us through a Douglas-fir Forest a short distance.

“This is kind of classic BLM,” said Corbin. In other words, a parcel of public land, abutted by private lands.

You see, in the late 1800s, as part of a settlement plan for the west, the federal government granted every other square mile swatch of land to the Oregon and California Railroad Company to fund the building of public transportation through the state, the other half was to be sold and distributed to settlers.

Unfortunately, fraudulent sales led to the reinvestment of the O&C lands where they were put under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Department of the Interior, General land Office (GLO). Today these lands are now managed by the Bureau of Land Management (BLM).

The problem is this “checkerboard pattern” of land ownership is a “nightmare for management.” Though there has been some consolidation of ownership, public and private lands still share extensive boundaries.

“Access and road problems are reoccurring,” Corbin explained. And McCully is no exception. “Folks can walk down the spur road to get to the BLM, it is public access,” despite warnings from signs posted on the gate.

ACEC

Eventually, the conifer forest peters out along a grassy ridge with views onto the surrounding hillside.

“This is the property line right here,” said Corbin.

Oregon white oak grow in huddled bunches along the ridge—mostly smaller trees trying to get a foothold. A soggy meadow lays quietly below.

“For the BLM this is one of our Areas of Critical Environmental Concern—an ACEC,” said Corbin. As such, McCully receives special management attention to protect its natural resources.

ACECs are established for a variety of reasons. Some are established for geology; others for their cultural or scenic value; and others for habitat, for example.

McCully was designated an ACEC for its scenic value, natural systems, and wildlife value.

“Special habs,” as Corbin put it—McCully is “not just some conifer forest… it is 80 acres of oak meadow.”

Views from the grassy ridge at McCully Mountain

Inverts

As we continued down the ridge, Corbin and I were cognizant of the wildlife all around us.

A Northern pigmy owl called out in the distance. Deer and elk scat lay in darkened clumps on the bed of green grasses and herbaceous plants at our feet. I nearly trip over a mountain beaver burrow entry hidden on the ground.

However, it was the smaller, less conspicuous critters that Corbin is really jazzed about.

“There has been a lot of work on megafauna, and especially rare species,” Corbin explained, “but there are a lot of critters that are new to science and not studied. A lot of these are inverts.”

Invertebrates—animals without a backbone, like insects, spiders, and worms—play many important ecological roles. Many are pollinators; others are decomposers, for example. And all are key parts of food webs—supporting vertebrate species, like birds.

Thus, studying invertebrates can tell us a lot about the functioning of an ecosystem.

Moths

One group of invertebrates that hasn’t recieved a lot of attention are the moths. Which is why Corbin was thrilled to have McCully Peak included in a moth study organized by researchers at Oregon State’s Arthropod Collection.

The study was intensive with survey data collected every two weeks from light traps set up at four different points acrooss the meadow.

“Guess how many species we found?” asked Corbin, a twinkle in his eye.

“I don’t know, twenty,” I guessed reluctantly.

“Two hundred!” Corbin exclaimed. “And a bunch were for the first time documented in this county in Oregon,” he went on gleefully.

Of course, these results were collected before restoration work got underway.

“We will come back and do some post-treatment monitoring,” Corbin assured me.

Competition

Corbin and I continued to circle the forested meadow’s edge. Douglas-fir logs lay abandoned near their stumps along the ridge. Other conifers have been girdled—a strip of bark removed in a ring around their trunks.

“The down wood and snags are important for wildlife,” Corbin explains. Offering habitat for many species, including many of Corbin’s beloved invertebrates.

Perhaps even more importantly, Oregon white oaks are slow-growing species and can easily be shaded out by fast-growing conifers. So, a big part of oak restoration involves getting rid of the competition—in this case, Douglas-fir. But rather than simply harvesting the Douglas-fir trees and hauling them off, the trees are left in place to decay.

Corbin was also quick to note that, though the Douglas-fir have a foothold now, the shallow soils in the meadows make it difficult for the trees to succeed long term.

“Many are dying,” Corbin points out, but while they live, they make it more difficult for the oak.

Down logs and girdled Douglas-fir trees

Invasive Species

In addition to competing with conifers, oak habitats face encroachment from alien invaders—a.k.a. invasive species.

“This was all ringed with scotch broom,” Corbin shared as we cut along the meadow’s edge, dodging poison oak as we went. Shiny geranium, another invasive species, grew in large uniform patches at our feet.

“We pulled and cut all the scotch broom about 2 years ago,” said Corbin.

As Corbin and I headed down the hillside, we spotted a few new scotch broom sprouts. When it comes to invasive species, the work never really ends.

“It is going to be a constant battle,” resigned Corbin.

Dead Scotch broom along the trail

Volunteers

A lot of the restoration work, including removing invasive species, was done by volunteers using clippers and machetes.  At McCully, several volunteer groups came out to help with the restoration work, including Northwest Youth Corps and Linn County Juvenile corrections, as well as a group from Backcountry Hunters and Anglers.

Volunteers also helped with basketing oaks—encircling young oak with netting to protect against browse.

“Deer are funny,” Corbin chuckled, “they love oak.”  At one point, Corbin pointed out an oak that had been heavily browsed—nary a leaf could be seen.

Thanks to volunteers, more of the oaks can escape these pressures and have a chance to make it to maturity.

“I do love the opportunity to get the volunteers out,”  said Corbin. “Something like this is really fun too,” he went on.

Corbin reminisced about the time the Backcountry Hunters and Anglers visited. Elk ran through the meadow and they saw a ton of wild turkey.

“We are coming back!” they told Corbin after a long day of volunteering.

“Good! This is your public lands, enjoy it!” was Corbin’s reply.

One of the basketed Oregon white oaks

Suspected Species

The sky is gray, threatening rain. Corbin and I continued past more young oak and patches of scotch broom toward the meadow below. 

Tracking down the hill, we followed a wide muddy path littered with deer and elk hoof impressions.

At the bottom of the hill is a wet meadow where yellow monkey flower grows in a wet seep. Fist-sized rocks lay scattered on the meadow that has been heavily grazed. The vegetation is clipped close to the ground in most areas. The scenery is beautiful, and wildlife clearly abundant.

Transfixed by the open, rocky expanse, I asked Corbin what sort of wildlife might use the space?

Well apart from the usual deer, elk, and other generalist species, Corbin mentioned several “suspected” species that he is hoping to find in the space. Streaked Horned Lark and Fender’s Blue butterflies, for instance—are two species associated with oak prairie in the Willamette Valley.

“We say ‘suspected,’” said Corbin, “If it is within the range and habitat requirements are all there.”

Boulder-strewn meadow

Desert Life

Another suspected species Corbin is excited about finding is the pallid bat.

“The pallid bat is a desert species that used to exist in the Willamette Valley,” explained Corbin. Other desert species, like ponderosa pine, jackrabbits, Northern Pacific rattlesnake, and burrowing owls were also once present in the Valley. But, like the pallid ba, these have all but been eliminated.

According to Corbin, the pallid bat is unique from other bats in that they don’t typically use echolocation but forage for ground-dwelling insects, like scorpions by sound. This can make them trickier to identify in the wild using passive acoustic recording units since they are not making ultrasonic calls to locate food.

“This is part of its historic range,” Corbin noted, so they could be here, or move here, even if they haven’t been identified yet.

Woodpeckers

The rhythmic thumping of a Northern Flicker sounded against the high-pitched songs of other bird species as we continued toward the forested edge of the meadow.

“What about woodpeckers?” I asked.

“It should be a feeding frenzy,” said Corbin, looking out on all the girdled conifers. “There are a lot of downy and hair woodpeckers, flickers, and pileated woodpeckers.”

Woodpeckers forage in dead and decaying trees, making the wooded edges of the meadow with newly developing snags, a great place to feast.

Lewis’s Woodpecker is another suspected species for the area, though none have been spotted yet. They were once widespread however due to habitat loss of mostly snags in oak, pine, and cottonwood woodlands their numbers are low. However, for all these species, Corbin is hopeful.

“If we create the habitat, they will come,” he tells me.

Making Habitat

Dark clouds continued to gather, as Corbin and I walked adjacent to the forest, looking up at more girdled conifers. Corbin admitted that girdling is not the ideal way to create snags but it is quicker and cheaper than topping them.

“It is expensive to top them,” he said, but “it creates an opportunity for spores to land on top and heart rot to enter.”

Ultimately, cavities form, making the tree not only an excellent foraging site for woodpeckers but useful for nesting as well.

Legacy Tree

Soon a large snag came into view. This was no restoration project tree—it’s open-top reached toward the sky.

“That is what we call a legacy tree,” said Corbin. “It was probably part of a previous cohort,” he speculated. “A stand-replacing fire came through and that was the only one that lived.”

Snags are excellent habitat for many species. Legacy trees are even more exceptional. Their large girth can support species that depend on a larger diameter tree.

“Those are great for bats,” Corbin exclaimed. “We have another bat that is out here,” he went on, “the fringed myotis.” Named for the fringes of hairs that can be found between their back legs.

“It loves snags,” said Corbin. “It roosts in the sloughing bark,” he continued.

However, in this case, size does matter. They need a larger diameter snag—”61 inches on average,” according to Corbin for roosting. “It is one of the limiting factors for fringed myotis.”

Large Down Wood

The life or death, as it were, of a legacy tree does not end there. When snags eventually fall to the ground, they continue to support species dependent on larger trees for survival. For example, Oregon slender salamander, an endemic to the Cascades, has only been found in large down wood.

Corbin expressed concern about these species. “Maybe around the turn of the century there were really big trees,” but… “fast forward and much of our forests are on a 30-to-40-year rotation.”

Large trees begat large snags begat large down wood. If we don’t have enough large trees, where does that leave us?

So, perhaps it is not surprising that Corbin called legacy trees “gems on the landscape.” They are both valuable and rare.

Legacy tree

Intersection

We continued to follow the forest down to the property line, where BLM land abuts private. As we reached the fence, we could see another clear cut could be seen through the trees.

“Well, I guess there is more meadow now,” Corbin smirked.

A turkey sounded in the distance. Surprisingly, Corbin called back. The turkey gave no response. It remained silent, even after I gave a half-hearted gobble-gobble.

We passed a girdled tree that had fallen over. A few purple calypso orchids grew near its base. Then a bit later, Corbin spotted invasive mullein that gave him pause.

Eventually, we began to edge our way back through the meadow at the back end of the property. It was at this point, that it began to shower.

We had reached a point of intersection—between forest and meadow, public and private, and wet and dry—a confluence in more ways than one.

“Anytime you have the confluence of conifer forest, oak woodland, and prairie,” Corbin stated, “that is where you are getting cover, forage, and nesting opportunity.”

That is where you find wildlife.

Secret Garden

We soldiered on over the soft hummocks of grass and herbaceous plants. Rocky outcroppings and undulating hills gave the walk dimension. Prairie stars and rosy plectritis also made an appearance in these lower meadows.

 “There is a lot of BLM ground like that that people just never really get to,” Corbin remarked as we passed by a patch of popcorn flower. “A fun part of my job is getting to explore these areas.”

This certainly rang true for McCully. There was no one around but us… and the deer.

Looking up from the lower meadows

Boundaries

As the rain picked up, Corbin and I decided to turn and loop back up to our vehicles. Corbin led the way—following the path of least resistance and least poison oak.

I was really starting to feel an affinity for the place—wildflowers have a way of doing that to me. Inspired by the unique landscape, I wondered just how much land BLM has designated as areas of critical environmental concern (ACEC). So, I asked Corbin.

“It is hard to tell,” he responded, “different field offices have different amounts of ACEC.”

For the Cascades field office, running from the Columbia River Gorge to Sweet Home, where Corbin works, he estimated a figure—“there are roughly fifteen thousand acres out of one-hundred-seventy thousand acres, about 8 percent in the Cascades Field office and about 2 percent across Western Oregon BLM.”

In short—there is not a lot.

Each ACEC is specifically delineated to encompass just the small area of land that contains a unique feature, like a rock garden or bog. ACECs are by definition scarce. Anything that isn’t unique makes up BLM timber reserves, some of which are open to timber sales and sustainably harvested.  

Heading Home

We continued up the hill, passing by deer beds… “1, 2, 3, 4, 5…” Corbin counted as we walked by. We followed a creek bed that looked more like a slip and slide where you could see just how shallow the soil was above the exposed bedrock.

“Not even a couple of inches of soil on that,” Corbin exclaimed.

Eventually, we re-entered the familiar forest that we had walked through at the beginning of our hike—back into the ordinary.

Looking back through the trees at the oak meadow, it appeared almost magic against the grey sky—a secret tucked away in the west hills of the Cascades.

But McCully Peak isn’t a secret. It is one of many unique places scattered throughout our public lands—welcoming a visit.

Corbin Murphy is a Wildlife Biologist for the Salem District of Bureau of Land Management. He has been with the BLM for 13 years and currently works in the Cascades Field Office. He has also worked for the U.S. Forest Service.

Hike with a Bee Scientist

Creek running through Kingston Prairie

Nothing heralds spring and summer better than the vibrating hum of bees on the wing. Bees are a group of winged insects probably best known for their role as pollinators. We praise bees for their important role in our food systems. We depend on them.

However, if you ask Andony Melathopoulos, coordinator for Oregon Bee Project and OSU Pollinator Health Extension Specialist, there is more to bees than pollination.

There are estimated to be about 700 different species of bees in Oregon, each one with a unique life history. There are solitary bees and social bees; bees that nest in trees or on the ground; bees that are very reluctant to sting and those that will get you crying to your mother—the diversity is incredible. So incredible, in fact, that it has inspired a statewide movement to document all of Oregon’s bees.

The Bee Atlas program is a community science effort to inventory Oregon’s native bees, track populations, and educate Oregonians about bee biodiversity. Andony is part of that effort—helping coordinate events, including Bee School for those interested in becoming part of the project.

I met Andony at Kingston Prairie Preserve just outside of Stayton to go on a bee hunt and learn more about his work around bees. 

Preserve

It was late afternoon when I arrived just ahead of Andony and wandered out onto the mounds of soft wet soil. The ground was patchy with wildflowers and shrubs growing among the hummocks of grass.  A small babbling creek ran across the nearly flat open terrain. I walked tentatively toward the creek to look around before circling back, as there is no trail system at Kingston Prairie Preserve.

Soon Andony pulled up and we continued our journey deeper into the preserve together.

“This is my favorite one,” Andony stated, referring to the collection of properties managed by Green Belt Land Trust, a conservation non-profit based in Corvallis.

Though we missed peak bloom, the prairie was still quite beautiful in the afternoon light. We walked by some purple camas and shooting stars. Tall white saxifrage and yellow monkeyflower were also in bloom. 

A sign and wire fence marks the location of the Kingston Prairie Preserve

Honey, Honey

“I’ve worked with bees my entire professional life,” Andony told me, by way of an introduction. “I worked for years on one species of bee—the honey bee.”

Most people know honey bees. Veracious pollinators and producers of honey—their small fuzzy black and amber striped bodies are well recognized. You might call them celebrities of the bee world. (I mean there are at least a couple of movies made about them—I’m looking at you Bee Movie.)

Though fascinating creatures, Andony’s love for honey bees primarily stems from the community of people that work with honey bees. In college, he got involved in beekeeper organizations and really enjoyed it.

This hive mentality has carried him forward to his work now with the Oregon Bee Atlas. Seeing other groups, like native plant societies, motivated him to do the same for bees.

“It gave me the impetus to have people constantly tugging at me,” Andony remarked, “Asking questions…’ what is this?’ Is it weird?’”

Honey bees remain Andony’s favorite bee to date. Oddly, the first bee we saw on our hunt was a small honey bee.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” asked Andony, as it flew off.

Our State is the Best

Andony and I followed the creek, looking for interesting flowers and bees that might be visiting them. As mentioned earlier, there are a lot of species of bees in Oregon.

“We think we have about 700 species,” said Andony. As a comparison, “there are only about 500 species east of the Mississippi.”

Of course, this begs the question—why?

Andony highlighted two main reasons for bee biodiversity in the state.

One: geographic zones. Oregon has a lot of geographic zones with unique climatic characteristics. From the wet coastal regions to mountains to high deserts—the ecology varies border to border. Because of this, flower and bee species have radiated—evolved to fit each climatic zone.

Two: desert bees. Much of Oregon’s bee diversity is owed to the diversity of bees that survived the last ice age in Mesoamerica.  These desert-loving bees traveled North as conditions warmed providing an input of biodiversity into the region.

“Bees love the desert,” said Andony.

Not a Bee

At this point, we had not had much luck finding any bees. Maybe it was already getting too cool out. Bees tend to be more active when temperatures are warm.  Whatever the case, Andony and I decided to look for a place to hop over the creek.

Before we made the hop, I saw something moving among the flowers.

“A hoverfly,” stated Andony. “Lots of people mix up flies and bees.”

Standing there, I was pretty sure I was one of those people.

“How can you tell them apart?” I asked

“Both are insects,” he began, and “Most insects have two pairs of wings. The difference is that a fly’s second pair of wings have been reduced to what is called a halter—a little gyroscope that allows it to suspend itself in midair.”

In other words, flies hover.

Flies can also be carnivorous or parasitic, feeding on other insects. Bees on the other hand are unique in that they get all their protein from pollen.

Shortly, another fly hovered by saxifrage. Not a bee.

Then out of the corner of my eye—more movement. Andony got out his net and swoop, he caught whatever had flown by.

“Looks like some parasitic wasp,” said Andony, getting a better look. “Its antennae are very low and vibrating—looking for prey.” They, like flies, rely on other insects as a protein source. 

According to Andony bees are actually specialized wasps. While wasps paralyze and store prey in holes in the ground, bees do the same but with balls of pollen.

Wasps can also be distinguished from bees by their form.

“They have a tight waist between the thorax and abdomen,” described Andony. Not a bee.

Andony put the wasp on ice in hopes that we could get a picture of it later. It flew away before I could get the shot.

A curious fly hovered around the saxifrage. Fly not pictured.

Long-horned on Ice

“This place is like a gas station,” said Andony, as we watched everything, but bees fly by. “There are a lot of things that like nectar.”

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Andony spotted a small flying insect alight on a geranium. And with a quick flick of the wrist, he had the insect in his net.

“You’ve got yourself a male spring long-horned bee!” he exclaimed. “You will love it!”

Long-horned bees are known for their long antennae—hence the name. Male long-horned have extra-long antennae and a “little yellow nose.”

According to Andony, male bees in general have an extra antennae segment—which is helpful for sex identification. And as male bees do not have stingers, this information can be valuable for someone who studies bees for a living. Most long-horned bee species emerge in the summer.

“It is always on a sunflower,” Andony mused.

Our fuzzy friend was an early spring species. We carefully put him in a makeshift cooler to slow him down for a photo. This time we were successful!

Male long-horned bee chilling on Andony’s palm

It’s all about the Plants

Andony and I continued scanning the prairie in the hopes of finding more bees.

“I like the color over there,” said Andony pointing towards a cluster of wildflowers nearby.

And that is just it, isn’t it? Flowers. Flowers are the key to finding bees, so I asked Andony what sort of flowers bees prefer?

The answer turned out to be more complicated than I imagined.

First, “You find the strangest and weirdest bees in the weirdest plant communities,” Andony said. In places like “the Siskiyou’s, Steens, Alvord desert, and Wallowa’s.”

“All the cool places,” I remarked.

“Any cool place in the state,” Andony agreed. Where the plants are weird so are the bees.

Specialists

Second, “Bees specialize,” said Andony.

As plants evolved with greater complexity some 100 million years ago, bee evolution also took off.

“Bees are in competition,” Andony explained. Competition with each other for pollen.

Specializing for a specific flower or group of flowers, reduced competition by giving a bee specialist a leg up.

“The one plant I was really hoping would be in bloom popcorn flowers,” Andony mentioned wistfully, “They have a number of really specialist bees in them.”

Third, not all bees are specialists. Many are generalists, like honey bees and bumble bees, and are happy to eat pollen from many different sources.

“Bumble bees like monkeyflower,” said Andony, but they also like a whole host of other plants. No monkeyflower around? No problem. How about some lavender?

So, when it comes to flower preferences, it really depends on the natural history of the bee.  A rare bee will only be in a rare environment on a rare flower, but a generalist bee will be attracted to many different flowers.

Abundant monkeyflowers growing along the creek

Gardening for Bees

Andony did offer some general tips, however, for attracting bees to the home garden.

“If I was going to snazz up my garden. I would definitely go for anything in the composite family,” he remarked. “Black-eyed Susan, echinacea, and also golden rod,” Andony suggested, “Golden rod is one that I really love… and it attracts a lot of bees.”

Other plants Andony mentioned during our walk are Oregon Grape, sunflowers, and lavender.

Cinderella Bee

Andony and I continued to meander along the creek until we found a good place to cross. We made the leap across the small divide, landing with a thud on the soft earth.

As we walked amongst the tall grasses and shrubs, I asked Andony what else bees require, besides flowers?

“They nest in a lot of ways,” said Andony—some nest in the ground, others in trees or other woody plants, and some build their nests, for example. Others still will take up “rent” in already formed nests.

One nest-building tale is that of the small carpenter bee.

Andony began, “Here is a pithy stem,” grabbing at a nearby plant and holding the stem up for inspection. “It if was later in the year, you might see some holes in the end here.”

Carpenter bees will take the pith and grind it up into sawdust, hollowing out the stem and creating a chamber. Once complete, they will crawl into the chamber, mound up some pollen inside and lay an egg. They will then use the sawdust to create a partition and repeat.

Here is where the story turns into a Brother’s Grimm fairytale.

“They have Cinderella daughters,” Andony states. “The first offspring they raise, they don’t feed very much.” He paused for dramatic effect. “But what she can do is block the door with her head.”

Again, one of the strategies bees, wasps, flies, and other insects employ is to use the nest of others to lay their eggs.

Cinderella is there to protect the nest from these intruders, ensuring her brothers’ and sisters’ survival at her own expense.

Community Science

Andony led the way, as we continued to wander the meadows looking for bees, but we weren’t having any luck. After a few starts and stops, we leaped back across the creek in search of some more suitable shrubs and trees.

Even though we weren’t finding many bees today, clearly there are a lot of bees out there. In 2019, 25,022 specimens were submitted to the Oregon Bee Atlas, raising unique species estimates to 650.

“About 190 volunteers contribute to the Atlas,” said Andony. And they are just getting started.

“It is ongoing,” Andony explained, “There is so much environmental change. It is a dynamic process.”

Anyone interested in volunteering for Bee Atlas must first complete the Master Melittologist program offered by OSU extension. The program includes online training, a field course, microscope training, and group collection outings.

“Then they become someone that can enter data for the state,” said Andony.

Of course, to get to the next level, the Journey level, requires a test.

“You get a box of bees and must identify to genus, and for bumble bees to species,” Andony described. There are 25 or so species of bumble bee.

I would most definitely fail that test. 

Getting Hooked

Still struggling to capture any new bee species, we beelined it over to a flowering tree on the other side of the property. It was a beautiful serviceberry tree, or Saskatoon, with the white petals of the flower open and welcoming. The area was a hum with activity—though most of it unreachable above our heads.

As we watched various insects cruise by, Andony told me how we got hooked on bees, and why others might care too.

Of course, the easy answer as to why we feel we should care about bees, according to Andony is that they help feed us. “Agricultural food systems depend on pollinators,” and what are bees if not excellent pollinators.

But pollination isn’t a complete answer. In fact, most of our native bees do not contribute to food production.

For Andony bees are about more than the services they provide. His love for bees stems from just how cool they are.

“They have crazy, weird natural histories,” he gushed— “there are bees that are cuckoos on other bees, specialists on certain plants, iridescent green bees, jet black bees, bees that build little tunnels…and bees that stay in diapause and may not emerge during a drought year.”

Then of course there is the “complicated, fascinating interplay between regions, flora, and bee genera.”

What is there not to love?

“I think most people love things first but are bashful about it, and need to try to justify their feelings,” said Andony. Hence, the need to find an “easy answer.”

Andony argues that the first feeling of love is all the justification anyone needs and hopes to encourage others to follow their passion as he has.

The Bee Atlas and Master Mellitologist program are his way of giving structure to those that love bees and want to really get to know them. He hopes to provide just enough guidance to “ignite their curiosity.”

Andony stops for a quick photo op at my request

Getting to Know you

After lingering for a while at the serviceberry tree, we decided to make our way back toward the entrance to the preserve.

As we walked, I asked Andony for a list of beginner bees. I was going to need a lot of structure, indeed!

Here is what he suggested:

  1. The honey bee (Apis mellifera – 1 species). Fuzzy, with tan banding, they are easy to pick out. Most people are sort of familiar with honey bees, so it is a good place to start.
  2. The bumble bee (Bombus spp – 25 species). Also, distinct—their large girth and extra hairiness are a dead giveaway. Bumble bees are also a lot of fun to observe because you can track them through the season. In early spring, queen bees hover over the ground looking for a nest. A bit later, tiny worker bees emerge to forage. Finally, the males are kicked out of the hive and left to roam the countryside. Look for them on Lavender where they often congregate.
  3.  Longhorn bees (Eucera spp – spring longhorn ~ 10 species; Melissoides spp. – summer longhorn ~ 40 species). With their extra-long antennae, perhaps among the cutest groups of bees. Look for summer longhorn species on sunflowers.
  4. Small carpenter bees (Ceratina spp. ~ 5 species). Andony describes them as “little ants with wings.” Small carpenter bees can be found nesting in raspberry cane and spirea.  
  5. And finally, mason bees (Osmia spp. ~ 75 species). Mason bees are in a family of their own. Besides their often dark or metallic color, mason bees can be distinguished from other bees by the way they carry pollen on their bellies and nest in holes in the ground. Look for mason bees on Oregon grape.

And with that, “You got the bare surface of bee biodiversity in your mind,” Andony proclaimed.

If that isn’t enough, Andony also recommended the book, Bees in your Backyard by Joseph Wilson and Olivia Messenger-Carril. Go ahead and feed your bee obsession.

Bee are Family

We didn’t catch any more bees that day. The sun was dropping too low, and the energy of the afternoon was waning. But I found myself far from disappointed as I headed for home.

Andony had invited me into his hive—shared his passion for his work. It was invigorating and just plain fun.

There are five bee families in the state of Oregon—Andony shared this fact with me as our visit was ending. But he was forgetting one—a family of people that love bees and have put in the time and study to observe them.

One of the things that Andony really emphasized during our visit is the value of the bee-person community.

“The thing that I love the most about bees…” started Andony… “the people.”

Andony Melathopoulos is a coordinator for Oregon Bee Project and OSU Pollinator Health Extension Specialist. He also hosts a weekly podcast called PolliNation.

Hike with a Scientist at South Slough National Estuarine Research Reserve

View of the estuary

Where the river meets the ocean—estuaries are a point of intersection, a mixing. They are ecologically unique, biodiverse, and incredibly productive. Estuaries are safe havens for many species. As borderlands, they function as a barrier that protects the coastline from storms. They are also beautiful places to visit and explore. In short, estuaries matter.

Estuaries are also relatively rare ecosystems—heavily impacted by human development. As dynamic as these places are, they are sensitive to change in a changing world. To better understand these changes, the National Estuarine Research Reserve (NERR) system was established in 1972 as part of the Coastal Zone Management Act (CZMA). Now a network of 30 reserves along the United States Coastline is protected for long-term research, education, and stewardship.

The South Slough NERR near Coos Bay is Oregon’s only estuarine reserve. With nearly 7,000 acres of natural areas, including upland forests, streams, wetland marshes, islands, sand, and mudflats, South Slough offers a wide array of habitats suitable for study and exploration. Alice Yeates, stewardship coordinator, along with Jeanne Standley, retired BLM botanist and board member for the Friends of South Slough, took me on a journey through the estuarine reserve to discover some of these habitats for myself.

The Hike

  • Trailhead: South Slough Trailhead
  • Distance: 3.4 miles
  • Elevation Gain: approximately 350 feet
  • Details: Ample parking at trailhead. Visitor Center at trailhead is open every Tuesday – Saturday, 10 a.m. – 4 p.m. Public bathrooms are available Monday – Saturday, 8 a.m. – 4 p.m.

Upland Forest

Alice, Jeanne, and I started our adventure at the visitor center, before quickly taking off onto the Ten-minute Trail, and then onto the North Creek Trail. Immediately, we found ourselves hiking downhill into a mixed-Sitka spruce/Douglas-fir Forest typical of much of Oregon’s coast range. Sword fern, huckleberry, and salal made up the shrub layer, and western hemlock, the lower canopy.

In addition, Port-Orford-cedar—with its scaley, evergreen branches drooping across the trail—joined the mix. I was excited to see the tree and look for the tiny white Xs on the underside of its leaves because, though not necessarily rare, Port-Orford-cedar doesn’t grow naturally in the Willamette Valley where I live. 

“It has a really limited range,” Alice shared, growing only in the southern coast range of Oregon into the northern end of California. It is a local endemic. “We are near its northern extent,” she told me.

Port-Orford-cedar branches hang over the trail

Resistant

Unfortunately, many of the Port-Orford-cedars we saw on the trail had orange-colored leaves, especially at the tips of their long branches—a sure sign of illness.

“A lot of them are dying from a root rot disease,” Alice offered.

Jeanne went on to explain how the disease is caused by a non-native Phytophthora fungus—Phytophthora lateralis, to be more specific.

Though new to me, Phytophthora lateralis has been around for at least 25 years—infecting Oregon’s populations of Port-Orford-cedar trees at an alarming rate. The disease is passed between trees in moist conditions, Jeannie told me, with roadway trees seeming to be most affected.

“Phytophthora fungi are responsible for many root diseases, like sudden oak death. And the disease that caused the Irish potato famine is a phytophthora,” said Jeanne. Clearly, some Phytophthora species are seriously problematic.

Fortunately, genetic resistance has been identified in individual trees, and selective breeding programs for Port-Orford-cedar are underway. South Slough is involved in one such program and has been planting resistant trees in place of those that are dying. Several of these trees can be seen on the ten-minute trail—the future of the upland forest.

Getting Wild

We continued downhill, crossing several numbered bridges, and losing elevation rapidly. Salmonberry shrubs proliferated in the drainages, along with elderberry, while evergreen huckleberry grew tucked into the shaded understory.

Bird song filled the air as we hiked, and a rough-skinned newt pattered across the trail.

“We called them water dogs when I was a kid,” exclaimed Jeanne, referring to the newt, as we tip-toed around it.

I asked Alice and Jeanne what other wildlife they have encountered in the reserve.

Racoon, skunk, weasel, river otter, beaver, elk, and deer were all mentioned. And birds.

“There is a lot of bird watching in this area,” said Jeanne.

Take Flight

“There is an interesting story about the Purple Martin,” Alice chimed in.

Purple martin are large swallows with beautiful, sometimes iridescent, bluish-purple plumage.  You can often see them flying rapidly high above the water with their tapered, aerodynamic wings—catching insects in flight.

In the past, purple martin would nest in forested areas, in the cavities of dead standing trees, like those created by woodpeckers. However, as humans have encroached on purple martin habitat, things changed. Now, most purple martin populations use nest boxes or other human-made structures for their nests.

At South Slough, this is also the case, with pilings in the estuary as the primary source of nesting location. The problem is that many of these pilings are now decaying to the point they are not useable. In addition, other purple martin forest habitat needs have also been reduced over time. The result? Population decline.

“They used to be a larger population…but they lost their nesting space,” Alice remarked. “The purple martin were pretty much gone 30 years ago.”

Fortunately, Audubon volunteers have since put in more nest boxes in new locations, including the North Spit.

“They need open water in order to compete against other species,” Alice explained, and “they like dune habitat.”

Forest restoration is also underway to improve the habitat for purple martin, among other reasons, at South Slough. Purple martins need open space to be successful. 

“We recently created a gap in the forest,” said Alice, “girdled trees and installed nesting boxes” near the visitor center. In addition, other forest locations, like near Wasson Creek, have been thinned and more gaps put in.

“The hope is purple martin will use these spaces,” said Alice—and that their populations will soar, like a bird in flight.

Swamped

The trail continued down through the forest, leveling off as we neared a swampy bottomland flooded by North Creek. Down logs lay across the waterway. Skinny stemmed alder trees grew along the mucky edges. The yellow flowers of skunk cabbage peered out from the green-colored waters. You could just make out the sandy bottom where the water flowed clear through a narrow channel. We were nearing the estuary.

Looking out on the flooded forest, reminded Alice of another ecosystem found in the refuge, but only in small quantity—the Sitka spruce swamp.

“The spruce forests around the estuary are critically important for carbon storage,” said Jeanne.

Sitka spruce swamps store more carbon per unit area than most places on the planet. In addition, they provide important habitat for salmonid species.

However, since human settlement, almost all (95% by some estimates) have been lost. “It is easy to cut trees down in swamp areas and rivers,” Alice suggested, “easy to fell the tree and transport it.”

Now, the primary threat to this critical habitat is saltwater intrusion. Though Sitka spruce can tolerate some salt, too much can be problematic for the forest.

“And with climate change, we are expecting saltwater intrusion,” Alice stated with solemnity.

The Wasson Creek restoration is an attempt to expand the Sitka spruce swamp. Most Sitka spruce trees get their start on nurse logs and can grow quickly from there. So, to encourage their growth, a lot of down wood is left on the ground resulting in the formation of hummocks—the perfect nursery for spruce trees.

North Creek with skunk cabbage

It’s Not Complex

We continued along past the creek and through a dark, dense area of forest—thick with trees and not much else, other than a scattering of sticks and a few small shrubs.

“Look into the forest here,” said Alice, directing her gaze at the skinny trees. “They were planted really close together.”

The trees grew so close to each other that their narrow crowns were touching. Alice pointed to the lack of understory shrubs below—a sign that not enough light was hitting the forest floor.  It was clear that competition for resources was high.

Dense forests like this one, Alice explained, grow tall and straight trees—good for timber production, but not good for wildlife.

“Some of our healthy forests have more of the sword ferns,” Alice remarked. Looking around, nary a sword fern could be found.

Wildlife do best in forests that are complex, Alice explained, with a variety of sizes and ages of trees, as well as ground cover and understory to provide shelter and food.

Unfortunately, almost all the forest at South Slough has been logged and regenerated at one time or another. The result is a lot of high-density, low-complexity forests.

Fortunately, Alice and her team are slowly working to return complexity to the forest through thinning and selectively cutting. As well as adding biodiversity, by planting disease-resistant, less common, and culturally important species, like the western redcedar.

Complexity isn’t complicated, but it takes a long time to establish naturally. According to Alice, there are only a few remnants of old-growth forest remaining in the reserve. Restoration is a way of speeding up the process to recreate, to an extent, what was lost.

Skiny trees in a dense section of forest

Estuary

We continued through the forest under a low arc of big leaf rhododendron, before reaching a large wooden bridge that stretched across a shallow stream—ah, the estuary.

It was low tide when we made it down to the estuary. Ribbony impressions in the thick mud meandered in the tidal channels. Light from the overcast sky glinted off the thin watery surfaces of each mud slick. Marsh flats of brown grass weaved through and around the edges of the slough. 

“In a few months it will be very green,” said Jeanne as we stepped onto the long bridge. We passed by evergreen huckleberry just beginning to flower.

After crossing the bridge, we took the Slough Side Trail for a better view out onto the estuary. The trail led out onto a narrow peninsula with patches of grass and a couple of trees coated with lichen.  Canada geese flew over our head—honking as they passed.

You could see some rotting pilings sticking out of an adjacent strip of land.

“This is where the nest boxes were,” remarked Alice.

Alice pointed out some of the features of the area, including Long Island and Valino Island set further back in the distance.

“Winchester Creek is the main freshwater source in South Slough,” Alice shared, along with some smaller tributaries, including those that feed the second arm of the slough.

Then, of course, are the tides.

Bridge leading into the estuary

Changing tides

One of the best ways to experience the estuary, Alice suggested as we made our way back onto the main trail system, was to go on a paddle tour and ride the tide.

One of the most important features of an estuary is its tides. In fact, estuaries are often classified by the degree of mixing of saltwater with freshwater in the estuarian system. This is important, as different organisms that live in the estuary have different tolerances for salinity, or how much salt is dissolved in water. Increased salinity also reduces the amount of oxygen dissolved in the water that aquatic organisms require to breathe. Again, different species have different levels of tolerance.

I asked Alice if she was worried about the state of the tides at South Slough. How would climate change impact estuarian systems?

“We are doing a lot of research and monitoring,” she replied. South Slough is part of a sentinel site program to monitor climate change impacts on estuarian systems. 

“We monitor our eelgrass beds… marsh habitat… track changes in elevation… and plant communities,” Alice went on. All in an effort to better understand how species and habitats are responding to climate change.

Marsh migration modeling is also being done to see if the marshes are gaining elevation at a rate that can sustain sea level rise.

“Marsh can move up or out,” explained Alice, depending on the space available. “We have really steep banks so there isn’t a lot of space for the marsh to move.”

In some areas on the reserve, marsh sediment accretion is occurring faster than sea-level rise. In other areas, the rate is lower. Currently, South Slough is part of a nationwide study to see just how much communities have shifted in response to changes in sea level.

“We are getting increased tidal amplitude activity further up the estuary,” Alice said. “Part of restoration is accounting for changing conditions.”

Tidal channels and marsh in the estuary

Tunnel Forest

Returning to the forest, we headed south on Tunnel Trail, passing by a massive Sitka spruce and Port-Orford-cedar, before diving into a forest of feathery-leaved western hemlock.

Alice, Jeannie, and I talked mushrooms as we walked beneath the shaded canopy.

Alice also told me of the little blue polypore (Neoalbatrellus) uncommon to the area that can be found only in this section of the forest. “It is one of the largest patched found in the distribution of the species,” Alice remarked, “probably associate with the hemlock.”

Jeannie listed off some of the other mushrooms common to South Slough: coral mushroom, oysters, hedgehogs, king boletes, and golden chanterelles.

Visitors can harvest mushrooms in the reserve for personal use, confirmed Alice.

Soon the trail narrowed and took on the formation of its namesake—a tunnel of vegetation formed by green shrubs rounding above our heads. We walked through the tunnel until we once again reached a more open canopy.

Hiking on tunnel trail

Viewing an Estuary

After about a half a mile, we reached a viewpoint that looked out on the estuary from its forested margin. Marsh grasses covered much of the land in front of us with open water in the distance.

As we were soon to turn away back into the forest, I asked Alice to tell me more about the research that is done at South Slough.

“There is a lot of different research that goes on out there,” Alice replied. “We collaborate a lot!”

In addition to sentinel site data, research projects include: the study of blue carbon sequestration in salt marshes and freshwater wetlands, increasing populations of invasive European green crabs, and decreasing eelgrass populations.

Often the research is coupled with restoration projects, like in the case of eelgrass, a replanting program is underway.

According to Alice, the loss of eelgrass is complicated but seems to be correlated with warm water and air conditions, along with lower amounts of precipitation, with turbidity as a possible secondary driver.

“Standing here it is hard to image we in the middle of a drought, and have been for several years,” Jeannie remarked.

Water quality, temperature, salinity, and turbidity are also all measured at various spots in the reserve through South Sough’s System Wide Monitoring Program (SWAMP). Weather station data is also collected. SWMP is another way South Slough provides data on estuaries.

“We have a lot of research to draw from,” said Alice. “And we use it in a lot of different ways.”  From assessing restoration potential inside the reserve to informing change outside the reserve, South Slough is a data hub for all things estuaries.

View of the estuary from viewpoint

Volunteers

At this point, Alice took us on a cut-off trail to one of the parking lots to look for a tagged tree she needed to locate.

One our way, I remarked how few invasive species I had seen at the reserve. Invasive species can be a huge problem in many natural areas. Invasive species are non-native species that outcompete native species for resources, taking over areas and harming the ecosystem. They can also be costly to manage.

“We have a lot of volunteers that help,” responded Alice. “We set up a program for stewards to get together once a month to remove invasive species.”

These volunteers were doing a great job from what I could tell.

Having hiked with Alice and Jeanne for a while now, I was beginning to understand one thing—South Slough values volunteers. In fact, Jeannie is now retired and volunteers her time with Friends of South Slough—a non-profit that facilitates many different projects in the estuary and helps others get involved.

Alice and Jeanne pose on the trail

Not too Tough

After the short parking lot diversion, we headed down onto the Hidden Creek Trail and onto a long winding boardwalk. As we walked across the expansive marsh with its dry brown grass, patches of bright yellow and green stood out on the landscape—skunk cabbage!

Hidden Creek trail boardwalk

“I can’t think of skunk cabbage without thinking of my nephew,” Jeannie related. “Show me that frog spinach again, Aunt Jeannie,” had been his child like remembrance of a very memorable plant.

“He knew it was a vegetable and an animal,” she laughed.

Western skunk cabbage (Lysichiton americanus) with its almost prehistoric looking leaves and flowers, is a personal favorite of many. Its foul odor gives it its name, as well as acts like an attractant to scavenger beetles and flies.

“It is also good browse for elk in the winter,” Alice shared. “And you can eat the tuber.”

Many Northwest indigenous tribes considered skunk cabbage a starvation food—eaten primarily when other food sources are scarce. Traditionally, the roots were cooked underground to break down calcium oxalate compounds found in the plant that would otherwise damage or irritate the alimentary canal.

According to Alice and Jeannie skunk cabbage is also high in silica which is abrasive and wears down teeth quickly.

In a “science is really cool moment,” Alice told me about some studies that are being done using teeth to track plant community changes based on the age and micro-abrasions of animal teeth. I wonder what mark a skunk cabbage would leave on my teeth. Does anyone have an underground oven?

Skunk cabbage flower blooming on the trail

Riparian Way

Winding our way along the boardwalk and across another bridge, we found ourselves leaving the marsh and entering a forested riparian area. The trail followed a sandy-bottomed creek that spilled along through a narrow alleyway of grey barked alder—yellow catkins dangling from its limbs.

“I love these little springs,” remarked Alice. “Ripple, pool, ripple, pool,” her words flowed, like the tumbling water.

Looking out on the water, Alice told me about another research project happening in the reserve’s waterways—a lamprey study.

“Lamprey have a very old lineage,” said Alice, having been around 100s of million years—before the dinosaurs. Yet, there is a lot still unknown about the lamprey family, including basic information, like where they can be found.

This is where the lamprey research project comes in.  Essentially, Alice explained, the project involves collecting environmental DNA samples in the water at various sites in Oregon, like South Slough, to look for lamprey. Citizen scientists collect the water samples, and researchers complete the DNA analysis for two of Oregon’s lamprey species—Pacific book lamprey and western brook lamprey.

Both Pacific brook lamprey and western brook Lamprey are present in South Slough. In fact, they have been monitored by ODFW for years. However, in the last 20 years, their populations have declined. They are now listed as Oregon Conservation Strategy Species of greatest concern and need.

Understanding more about where we find lamprey will hopefully help scientists figure out how best to conserve this group of mysterious species.

Trail along forested riparian area

Sensitive in South Slough

After following the creek for a bit, we reached a junction with Middle Creek Trail. Taking a right onto Middle Creek, we headed uphill back into the mixed-conifer forest and away from the estuary.

As we walked, I asked Alice and Jeanne about other species of concern that might be found in the park.

Alice told me about the endangered western lily—a crimson-colored flower with downward-pointing stamen, and petals that swoop upward.

“It only exists in a certain soil type,” said Alice, making the flower uncommon in the reserve and only viewable in a few undisclosed locations.

Like the western lily, many species face limitations and habitat requirements that restrict their growth. Ensuring the success of these populations takes careful planning.

“It is part of our restoration project to look at the soils, aspect, and slope to think about where we want to plant different species, where they would be most successful,” Alice explained.

Other sensitive species include the less-conspicuous, red or purple-tinged, cream-colored Point Reyes bird’s-beak—a coastal marsh plant threatened by habitat loss, as well as the carnivorous Cobra lily (Darlingtonia californica)—with a naturally limited range.

The Signal

We continued our climb upwards until we reconnected with the Ten-minute Loop Trail that would take us back to the visitor center and our vehicles.

Along the trail, a gap was cut into the forest. Alice explained that there was a lot of dying Port-Orford-cedar and other species that they removed to create the gap. Flowering shrubs, like Oregon grape, were planted in the open space. Bird boxes were put in place on a few tall snags to attract wildlife.  Benches built from the felled trees were placed along the edges of the opening.

Forest gap with bird boxes

Of course, my favorite feature was a massive bat box with the outline of a bat painted in white across the dark surface—a literal bat signal. Though no bats occupied their new home yet—“give it a couple of years,” Jeanne suggested—eventually they will find their way home.

“Appropriate,” I thought to myself—South Slough National Estuarine Research Reserve is a signal to the world regarding the state of our planet. As the Earth faces many challenges, like climate change, biodiversity loss, and invasive species, studying the impacts and efforts to mitigate and adapt to these changes is of paramount importance.  South Slough is doing that good work—helping us understand and protect the planet—the place we call home.

Bat box along trail

Alice Yeates is the stewardship coordinator at South Slough National Estuarine Research Reserve. She studied ecology and conservation at Griffith University for her undergraduate work before earning a Ph.D. in Ecology at the University of Queensland. She has been at South Slough Reserve for the past 3 years and before that was a lecturer at the University of Wisconsin-Superior and a researcher at the University of Minnesota’s Natural Resources Research Institute. Alice has a passion for plants because their function and importance are often overlooked and not always understood.   

Jeanne Standley worked as a Botanist for the Bureau of Land Management in Oregon and Alaska for 28 years before retiring as the Coos Bay District Noxious Weed Coordinator. Before that, she graduated from Oregon State University with a Bachelor of Science in Rangeland Resources. She is now on the board of the Friends of South Slough

Curious Hiker: William L Finely National Wildlife Refuge

Views of golden paintbrush along Refuge Road

Overview

William L. Finley National Wildlife refuge is the largest of the three refuges that make up the Willamette Valley Complex. Offering many miles of trails, the refuge showcases the diversity of habitats once prevalent in the Willamette Valley region of Oregon. Habitats featured at the refuge include, both permanent and season wetlands, oak woodland and savannah, and wet prairie. Riparian and mixed forests, as well as agricultural lands, make up much of the remaining land.  

  • Difficulty: Easy
  • Distance: 3.8 miles
  • Terrane: 680 feet elevation gain
  • Open: All year. Best late April to May.  Fender’s blue in late mid to late May, early may for wildflowers.  
  • Trailhead: Woodpecker Loop Trail Head (44.41266,-123.33221)
  • Contact: Willamette Valley National Wildlife Refuge Complex (541) 757-7236

Highlights

Wildlife viewing; birdwatching; diverse and unique habitats; fabulous wildflower displays

Need to Know

Roads to the trailhead are accessible, but gravel once you enter the refuge; No pass is required for parking; Restrooms are available on-site; Open dawn to dusk; Winter sanctuary closes some trails in winter; No running or jogging is allowed in the Refuge; No pets allowed.

Hike Description

Start your adventure on Finley Road right off 99W. Drive along slowly, taking time to look at the top of the trees for raptors.  Upon reaching the entrance to the refuge, turn left onto Finley Refuge Road and follow it to the first pullout and viewpoint.

As you look out on the expanse of land, notice its mounded topography.  This is a feature of wet prairie habitat—a habitat type that has been nearly wiped out with European habitation.  Less than 1% of wet prairie remains in the Willamette Valley from historical levels, and William L. Finley is home to the largest example of it.

Water pools in the shallow depressions in winter and spring, creating a unique environment for species to inhabit. Tufted hair grass, one-sided sedge, and dense sedge make up much of the ground cover. In the spring, common camas blooms here, turning the ground a soft purple hue. Insect’s buzz

Camas lily and insect visitors found in the wet prairie

Woodpecker Loop

Continue down the road slowly, stopping to look at the waterfowl in ponds along the gravel road. The refuge system was established primarily as a wintering ground for a subspecies of Canada geese, the Dusky, in 1954. It is now home to many wintering and year-round residents.

To get to the hiking trail, turn right at a signed junction for the Woodpecker Loop Trail. The trail gradually ascends a slope passing through oak woodland and prairie habitat. Keeping right at the junction, cross a wooden bridge and boardwalk and enter a thicket of Oregon White Oaks. Lichen coats the branches of hardwood trees.

Soon the woodland opens to the prairie. Spreading branches of the Oregon White Oak punctuate the landscape. Rounded bobbles of mistletoes haunt their upper branches.  Steller’s Jays warn others of your approach.  Enjoy the views out across the valley as you climb to an overlook. On a clear day look for the tops of the Cascade volcanoes in the distance.

The trail continues downhill passing a small pond before crossing over a swale on a boardwalk. Ash trees and sedge grow here—taking advantage of the wet ground. 

Intertie

Continue into a mixed forest habitat, where Douglas-fir and Big Leaf Maple make up much of the canopy overhead before reaching the junction for the woodpecker loop trail. Here, you can take a left to get back to the trailhead if your time is short. Otherwise, continue straight toward Mill Hill on the intertie trail.

Stay right at the next three junctions, observing the transition from mixed forest to oak savannah and woodland. Watch and listen for acorn woodpeckers and white-breasted nuthatch. In the spring, oak toothwort, and blooms along the muddy trail.

Mill Hill Loop

Reach a four-way junction and head right to begin the Mill Hill Loop. As you move further uphill Douglas-fir trees become more commonplace, competing with oak for valuable space. Eventually, you leave the oaks altogether for a forest of Douglas-fir and Big Leaf Maple, with sword fern as understory.  Stream violets, wild carrot, and bittercress grow on the shaded forest floor.

The trail bends as you reach a high point on the trail—opening to views of restored oak savanna, planted with native wildflowers, like Kincaid’s lupine, Nelson’s checkermallow, and golden paintbrush. This grass-dominated ecosystem, rich in grasses and forbs, is important to many insect species, including the endangered Fender’s blue butterfly. Birds swoop in to enjoy the feast. Elk or deer may be spotted at the forest edges. A bench situated on the trail provides an excellent vantage point to take a rest and watch the show.

Head downhill above swampy Gray Creek. Beavers occupy the site during the year and, in summer, wood ducks may be spotted. Look for moisture-loving plants nearby, including large patches of Pacific bleeding heart with their pink heart-shaped flowers and delicate intricate leaves. On the forested bank opposite the creek, Oregon grape thrives in the understory. Candy flower, giant fawn lilies, and Oregon Iris bloom here in the spring.

Bleeding heart growing on Mill Hill Trail

Continue the trail until you reach the main junction. From here, return the way you came. When you arrive at the Woodpecker Loop junction, take a right to finish that loop as well.