Enjoy a short hike through shaded Douglas-fir and riparian forests to two delightful waterfalls along the South Fork of the Alsea River and Peak Creek.
Difficulty: Easy
Distance: 2.4 miles
Terrane: 300 elevation gain
Open: All year. Best in winter and spring for more dramatic flows.
Waterfalls; river and creek access; wildlife potential; shaded forest.
Need to Know
Roads to the trailhead are gravel, but passable with a regular passenger vehicle. Park in the day-use area. There is amply parking here. It costs $3 for day use which is payable by cash or check. A pit toilet is available. Be prepared for little to no cell service during the drive and on the trail.
Hike Description
Alsea Falls
The hike begins at the Alsea Falls Recreation Area. As you make your way toward the river, almost immediately you hit a junction. Take a left here to follow a short path that follows the South Fork to Alsea Falls.
Stop at the first viewpoint along the trail for an up-close look at Alsea. The riverbed has been scoured clear of sediments, exposing slabs of solid bedrock that you can walk out if the flow is low enough.
Exposed bedrock at Alsea Falls
Continue downstream for a second look at Alsea at a distance. Look for a large log jam just downstream of the viewpoint and falls. Alsea Falls is a natural barrier for fish passage—the large woody debris acts as a marker for the end of salmonid-bearing waters.
A huge log jam below Alsea Falls
Notice the trees and shrubs along the riverbank as you make your way back upstream to where you started. In the fall, look for splashes of color along the shore where deciduous trees and shrubs are more plentiful. Bigleaf maple and vine maple both reach over the banks near Alsea Falls—framing it in bright green or yellow depending on the season.
Turn left when you get to the junction and head over the bridge that spans the South Fork of the Alsea River. Enjoy the unique perspective of the river water as it glides toward the falls as you cross. Shrubs like salmonberry and vine maple, hang over the banks offering forage for beaver and fodder for the aquatic insects and other invertebrates that call the river home. Tall skinny red alder trunks also crowd the banks.
South Fork of the Alsea River from the bridge
Green Peak Falls
On the other side of the bridge take a left at a junction, following the trail into a shaded Douglas-fir Forest toward Green Peak Falls. Mature second-growth Douglas-fir trees can be seen at intervals, while mossy arms of Bigleaf maple reach across the trail from above. Look for large old stumps—a sign of the bygone days of logging in the area.
The trail angles up along a ridge just above the South Fork of the Alsea. Young, scaley-leaved western red cedars grow tucked away among the larger trees. Sword fern and Oregon grape make up much of the understory plants.
A mature Douglas-fir tree on the trail.
A grove of red alder surrounds the boulder-strewn stream at a small turn-off along the trail that leads to the river edge.
A grove of red alder trees along the river
Eventually, the dirt path widens at a campsite with a gravel road heading left. Follow the alder shaded gravel road, watching for trail markers that confirm you are going the correct way. Keep right past two turnoffs, threatening to get you off track.
Soon you will reach a trail junction near a large (often occupied) gravel camping spot on your right. Continue right past the site to rejoin the trail for Green Peak falls on the other side.
Follow the dirt trail that borders Peak Creek, a tributary of the South Fork of the Alsea River, through a stretch of floodplain forest and younger secondary forest.
There are a few spots where hikers can drop down by the creek to enjoy the cool rush of water or look for signs of wildlife. Beaver are known to visit the area, foraging on the cambium of branches of western redcedar and alder that line the banks—a snack shack for beaver. Look for their trademark incisor marks on branches hanging over the water.
Beaver incisor marks on a western redcedar
Next, hike through a section of mature forest, before reaching 50-foot Green Peak Falls as it rushes down a convex rock face. Take the steps down to the base of the falls to get a better look. On a hot summer day, enjoy the cooling effect of the water spray.
Green Peak Falls at trail’s end
If the water is low enough, explore the rocky shores. You may be lucky enough to find a pile of chewed sticks scattered from upstream beaver colonies. Look for macroinvertebrates, like caddisfly, clinging to the rocks.
Having fully explored the stream habitat, return as you came.
Walk up a ridge through massive old-growth Sitka spruce to a Douglas-fir forest, before gradually descending alongside rushing Gwynn Creek and looping back on the Oregon Coast Trail. This loop highlights the majesty of Oregon’s coastal forests.
Distance: 6.4 miles
Terrane: 1250 elevation gain. Steady incline
Difficulty: Moderate
Open: All year. Best in the winter, spring, fall.
Trailhead: Gwynn Creek/Forest Trails at Cape Perpetua Scenic Area Visitor Center (44.28048, -124.10745)
Dynamic Old-growth forest; lush diverse vegetation; mushroom and wildflowers; well-maintained trail.
Need to Know
Trailhead is located in the Cape Perpetua Scenic Areas Visitor Center parking area (not the day use or campground). USFS Forest Recreation Pass required for parking or equivalent. Restrooms are available at the trailhead with flush toilets. Usage is high near the visitor center. Trailheads and junctions are well marked.
Hike Description
Begin at the trailhead marked “Forested Trails.” Start by following an old logging road .4 miles through Sitka spruce forest with a sword fern and salal understory. Cross over a bridge with alder trees and salmonberry growing in the drainage below before entering an old plantation stand of Sitka spruce.
Many of the trees lean or are overturned from recent storm damage along the path. Search among the forest litter and on decaying logs and stumps for mushrooms that grow abundantly here even in winter.
The start of the Cook’s Ridge Trail
Discovery Loop
Arrive at a junction for the “Discovery Loop.” Take a right to follow the trail uphill. Notice the forest change as you walk through this short .3-mile section of trail.
Larger Sitka spruce trees begin to make an appearance, along with large western hemlock. Look for trees “on stilts”—their bases sitting above the soil—the result of a starting life on a decaying log or stump that has long since broken down.
A mature western hemlock tree growing on “stilts” next to a Sitka spruce.
Cook’s Ridge
At a well-marked junction, take a right onto Cook’s Ridge Trail toward Gwynn Creek. This 1.7-mile section starts out flat before climbing steeply along a rolling ridgetop.
Marvel at the stature of large-diameter Sitka spruce trees with their “paint chip” bark found near the junction. Explore the rotting logs and jagged stumps with new growth sprouting like unruly hair. Shelf mushrooms create ladders up dead, standing trees (aka snags). A mat of moss envelops the ground and the shallow roots of spruce trees.
Moss on Sitka spruce tree roots.
As you continue up the steepening trail, observe how the forest transforms from a Sitka spruce forest to one dominated by Douglas-fir. Western redcedar trees join in the mix. Salal and patches of evergreen huckleberry become more prevalent. While trailing blackberry and redwood violet enchant the ground.
Western redcedar and Douglas-fir opposite each other on Cook’s Ridge Trail.
Gwenn Creek
Another well-signed intersection directs you right onto the Gwenn Creek Trail for a 2.6-mile descent along the south side of the ridge with Gwynn Creek below.
Again, the Douglas-fir forest is lush and multistoried. Massive Douglas-fir—some with blackened fire-scarred trunks—loom tall. Swooping branches of western hemlock with their droopy tops hang over the trail, requiring one to swoop down to stay clear. A patch of Cascade Oregon grape stands out amongst the shrub layer of sword fern, huckleberry, and salal. Clumps of deer fern run along sections of the path. Fuzzy leaf piggyback plant and more redwood violet shimmer in patches on the moist forest floor.
The trail undulates up and down through several drainages with creeks that empty into Gwynn creek below, leveling off for about a half mile before reaching the next junction. Gwynn creek is lined with alder trees that hug its banks. Fallen trees create habitat for fish and other wildlife.
Douglas-fir forest along Gwynn Creek.
Oregon Coast Trail
The final mile of the hike follows the Oregon Coast Trail through a shorter, wind-warped stand of Sitka Spruce. Take a left at a signed junction to follow the trail along the oceanfront. There are several peek-a-boo views to the Ocean and Highway-101. Feel the cool air and listen to ocean waves crashing against the rocky shores—a sure sign the Pacific is near.
To end the hike, cross the road you came in on and follow a paved path to the right up to the visitor center. There is also an option to turn left for a short detour to the rocky shore and tidepools if you are so inclined.
Rocky shores along the Oregon Coast Trail.
Mini Field Guide
Evergreen HuckleberryDeer fernRedwood violet
Fire-scarred Douglas-firSitka spruce conesYoung western redcedarShelf mushroom (conk)Nurse stumpDown log
Winter can be a difficult time for hikers—it is colder and wetter, the days are shorter, and there are a lot more logistical challenges to consider before going outside. However, winter is also a fabulous time to experience the outdoors. Snow and ice can make travel more challenging, but also brings beauty to the landscape. Gloomy days may be shorter, but they often provide opportunities for solitude and introspection on the trail. Besides, winter is long in the Pacific Northwest and who wants to stay cooped up indoors until spring? So, bundle up and head out the door. There is much to discover on winter trails for the curious hiker.
1) Cape Perpetua Scenic Area
Cape Perpetua’s Spouting Horn (left) and Sitka Spruce Tree (right)
A forested headland with sweeping views, dramatic ocean waves erupting onto rocky shores, and tide pools filled with intertidal life—a visit to Cape Perpetua’s hiking trails is a must any time of year. But visiting in the winter has its’s perks. Aside from a reduction in crowds, many of Cape Perpetua’s features are otherwise enhanced during the winter. For instance, increased winter’s wave action makes viewing Cape Perpetua’s show-stopping—Devils Churn, Cook’s Chasm, Thor’s Well, and Spouting Horn—much more dramatic.
In addition, some of the highest and lowest tides of the year can also be experienced in the winter, making a visit to the tide pools an enjoyable option. Take the Captain Cook Trail from the visitor center to access the tidepools. Just watch out for those sneaker waves!
Climb up to the top of Cape Perpetuas’s scenic headland —the remains of an ancient shield volcano — via the St. Perpetua trail for some of the best views on the Coast. Also, if you visit between mid-December and mid-January keep your eyes peeled for some of the nearly 25,000 grey whales that migrate along Oregon’s Coast each winter.
On a foggy day, a hike along Cooks Ridge and Gwynn Creek is well worth the trip alone. Both take you through some beautiful old-growth forests. Notice the rough”chipped paint” bark of the Sitka Spruce and the deeply furrowed bark of the Douglas-fir as you marvel at the size of the trees.
Location or Nearest Town: Yachats, OR
Distance: Varies from less than 1 mile to up to a 9-mile loop. Check out the forest service trail map and choose your adventure
Explaining tides is as easy as explaining gravity. Okay, so not that easy. But it doesn’t require a master’s in geophysics to understand the basics of why we have tides in Oregon, and across the globe.
All objects are drawn to each other by the force of gravity, with more massive and closer objects having a stronger pull. The moon is the closest massive object to the Earth and exerts the largest influence. The moon’s gravity distorts the shape of the Earth’s mass, creating watery bulges which follow the moon’s orbit around the Earth, resulting in high tides on the sides of Earth closest and farthest from the moon.
The sun—due to its mass—also has an influence on tides, but to a smaller extent. During a new moon or full moon—when the Earth, Moon, and Sun are aligned—tides are higher than when the moon is perpendicular to the sun.
Simple, right? Not exactly, there are of course other factors that influence tides, like local wind and weather patterns.
In addition, because the orbit of the moon around the Earth is an ellipse, there are times when the moon is closer to the Earth than others. When these times, align closely with a full moon or new moon, this can result in what is known as “king tides.”
In Oregon, king tides occur during the winter and can add several feet to the average tide! On a heavy surf day, this can mean dramatic waves for winter storm watchers.
2) Ray Benson Sno-Park
Brandenburg Shelter (left) and View of Mt. Washington (right)
Located at the top of Santiam Pass, Ray Benson Sno-Park provides ample opportunities for winter recreation. For hikers willing to strap into snowshoes or cross-country skis for the day, Ray Benson Sno-Park has many options for trails and loops of various lengths. Of course, shorter or longer options are also possible. Though the Sno-Park is the largest on the Santiam Pass, you will be surprised at how much solitude you can find at this accessible, beginner-friendly snowshoe destination.
The South Loop with the Brandenburg Shelter Loop add-on is a favorite of mine—offering views of Hayrick Butte, Black Butte, Mount Washington, and Three-fingered Jack at different points throughout. You can also take a short diversion over to Trail #3 (though please note this is a groomed snowmobile trail/road) that leads to Big Lake Campground and an opportunity to see Big Lake with Mount Washington encased in snow, just overhead.
Many of the trails travel through forests of stately conifers, covered in snow. However, the North Loop provides a unique view of forest recovery, as it passes through a part of the forest burned by the B&B Complex fires of 2003—ghostly snags and young regrowth line the trail.
Whatever route you choose, make sure to stop by one of the rustic warming shelters scattered across the backcountry. These three-sided shelters are a great stopping point for a snack and rest. Each one has a couple of benches and a wood stove with firewood for days when you need to warm up.
Another reason to visit Ray-Benson Sno-Park is the snow! The fact that it is situated along the Cascade Crest makes the snow at Ray Benson phenomenal.
Due to its proximity to the Pacific Ocean, Oregon has a maritime snow climate. Relatively warm, moist air from the ocean travels inland over the Cascades where it is forced upward, cools, condenses, and becomes rain or snow—a process known as orographic lift. As a result, snow in the west is wetter and heavier compared to the continental interior—creating a deeper, denser snowpack that sticks around well in the summer months.
All that snow is good news for recreators in the winter, but even better news for Oregonians come summer. Many of Oregon’s watersheds depend on snow, especially in dry summer months when many rivers are fed primarily by snowmelt.
Unfortunately, the news isn’t all good. Climate models predict a future with much less snow in Oregon—as warming causes historically snowy areas to become rainier. Snowpack levels are already declining. According to the Fifth Oregon Climate Assessment, spring snowpack has decreased by 15-30% since the 1950s—leaving many communities and ecosystems dry during the hottest part of the year.
Views from the Rail Trail at Ankeny National Wildlife Refuge
Ankeny National Wildlife Refuge is a convenient gem in the heart of the Willamette Valley. Just south of Salem, near the confluence of the Santiam and Willamette Rivers, Ankeny is an accessible escape from the urban environment.
The refuge offers a mixture of habitats—from marshy bottomlands and agricultural fields to oak woodlands and riparian forest—making Ankeny exceptional for wildlife viewing. Winter is a great time to visit as waterfowl and raptors are abundant.
With a variety of trails and viewing areas to choose from, Ankeny Wildlife Refuge is a great place for families and individuals of all ages to experience.
Location or Nearest Town: South of Salem, OR
Distance: 0.75 miles on the Rail Trail to Observation Blind (longer hikes possible from April 1st – Sept. 30th). Pintail & Egret Marsh Boardwalk is .25 miles. Stop at Eagle Marsh for zero miles, but with amazing views! Read more about options on the USFWS website to plan your trip.
Difficulty: Easy
When to go: Gees arrive in October/Nov and leave in April. Winter Sanctuary Season starts October 1st to March 31st
Why go: Wildlife viewing, especially birds.
Trail Curiosity: Winter Flocks
During the winter, Ankeny Wildlife Refuge becomes a haven for thousands of waterfowl that flock to the area. The Refuge lies in the Pacific Flyway—one of four major migratory routes for birds that extends from Alaska to South America. Migratory birds arrive in search of more abundant food resources and a place to rest—some species will stay out the winter in Oregon, for others, it is a pit stop on their way further south. Northern Pintail, American Wigeon, Ruddy Duck, Tundra Swan, and Northern Shoveler, are a few of the many winter visitors to the Refuge. Also, be to look for the Dusky Canada Goose, a shorter, dark-colored cousin to the cackling Canada goose, that winters exclusively in the Willamette Valley.
It is not hard to spot wintering waterfowl and year-round residents of the refuge as they tend to congregate in fields and ponds where food is plentiful. Many of the species are large enough to see, even without binoculars, and have distinct markings, making Ankeny in the winter a wonderful place for beginning birders to practice their hand at identification.
Keep in mind, wintering waterfowl are not the only birds to see. Year-round resident wading birds, like Great Blue Herons, are also fun to spot, along with songbirds hiding in the brush. But don’t forget to look up! Raptors are also spotted at higher frequency in the refuge in the winter.
4) Ona Beach to Seal Rock
Concretions in the sand (left), basalt sea stacks (middle), Castle Rock (right)
Ona Beach is one of my favorite walks along the Oregon Coast. And winter, in my opinion, is the best time to visit! There is so much to see and appreciate on this short 2-mile stretch of beach!
The hike starts at the back of the Ona Beach picnic area where you cross over meandering Beaver Creek on a wooden bridge heading toward the ocean. Once on the beach, the hike continues south, following the coastline.
The geology lesson begins here. The hike takes you over a wavecut platform of sedimentary rock from the Yaquina Formation—25-22 million-year-old bedrock formed from river deposits when western Oregon was under a shallow sea. Rounded rocks known as concretions stick up from the sand, like toadstools or pedestals, atop the platform. Other rocks of various shapes and forms provide additional sculptural elements to the hike.
As you near the end of the beach, tall basalt sea stacks rise out of the ocean. Castle Rock is one of the most notable. These rocks are remnants of an approximately 15-million-year-old basalt lava flow that traveled hundreds of miles from where they originate in Eastern Oregon before touching the sea. A few small tidepools can be seen here at low tide.
Location or Nearest Town: Right off 101; south of Newport, OR.
Distance: 4.2 miles with minimal elevation gain. To extend the hike, there is a connector trail to Seal Rock State Recreation Site that can be found at the final creek crossing.
Difficulty: Easy to Moderate
When to go: Dec-March when tides are moving out.
Why go: Beach access, interesting rock formations and geology, fossil and agate collecting. Some tidepools (with more at nearby Seal Rock).
Trail Curiosity: Marine Fossils.
Tens of millions of years ago, what is now the Oregon coast was under a shallow ancient sea crawling with marine life. These marine creatures lived out their days, ultimately falling to the ocean floor where sediment from Oregon’s rivers would settle on top of their dead bodies. Over time, the sediments compacted into sandstones, shales, and other sedimentary rocks, entombing the remains of these ancient marine creatures as they decomposed. The animals’ soft tissues would rot away, leaving calcified parts, like shells behind. These calcified remains would slowly become inundated with dissolved minerals from the sea that would harden into rock becoming fossilized.
Later still, these fossil-rich sedimentary rocks were uplifted by the action of plate tectonics creating the Oregon Coast Range and Coastal plain as we know it today. Now, clam and snail fossils are common along the coast anywhere the fossil-bearing sedimentary rocks are exposed and subject to weathering and erosion. Winter storms knock loose many bivalve fossils for enthusiasts to collect and enjoy.
A short drive from Corvallis in the foothills of the Oregon Coast Range, the McDonald Dunn Forest provides many miles of trails that are open year-round. Maintained by Oregon State University for research and education, forest stands are managed with a variety of objectives in mind, resulting in varied forest structures—from young even-aged stands of Douglas-fir to mature forest reserves.
Even though the forest type is primarily Douglas-fir, it is surprising how many different unique habitat types you encounter on the trails—including sections of oak woodland and riparian buffers. There is even a small area near Soap Creek where western hemlock and western redcedar occur along with Douglas-fir. Grand fir is also present as a naturally regenerating understory throughout the forest. Other common plants to discover include: sword fern, vine maple, salal, trailing blackberry, Hooker’s fairy bells, and western meadowrue. In the spring Trillium and fairy slipper orchids are fun to look for along the trail.
Location or Nearest Town: Corvallis, OR
Distance: Varies depending on the route. Online maps are available for free for you to plan your route.
Difficulty: Easy to Difficult
When to go: Anytime!
Why go: Variety of forest structures and habitats (Douglas-fir forests, Oak woodlands, Riparian). Plus, views of the coastal mountains, hills, and forests.
Trail Curiosity: Lichen
Winters in the Pacific Northwest can be wet and dreary. Sometimes it can seem as though spring can’t come soon enough. However, as the days turn gray, an often-overlooked group of living things takes center stage—lichen.
Lichen are composite organisms—made up of two or more organisms—in this case, a fungus, algae and/or cyanobacteria. The algae or cyanobacteria is known as a photobiont—producing food via photosynthesis—and the fungus is known as the mycobiont—capturing and absorbing nutrients as fungi do. It is in this partnership that lichen succeed, living hundreds, even thousands of years growing on rocks, trees, and on the ground.
When it comes to wandering through the winter woods in the Pacific Northwest, lichen become the showstoppers.
Lichens love the rain. As other organisms wait in dormancy for better times to come, lichens come alive in the winter. When wet, their thallus (or body) is more vibrantly colored and pliable, as photosynthesis and growth is activated.
In addition, winter winds bring down a lot of lichen-covered branches to fertilize the forest floor. An added benefit of “lichen fall” is it makes lichen that grow higher in the canopy more accessible for viewing.
Tiny unidentified mushrooms growing on a stump near the start of the hike.
Tucked in the duff on the forest floor or growing on the stump of a dead tree—mushrooms captivate the imaginations of many, while others rarely give heed. The beauty and variety of mushrooms, as well as their reputations as delicious edibles, sparks interest for many.
Mushrooms are the fruiting bodies of fungi—a diverse group of organisms, best known for their ability to decompose organic matter. An entire kingdom of life, fungi are mostly unknown (all except a few favorites).
Personally, I have long been fascinated with mushrooms. Their colors, textures, and earthy scents have long drawn my attention. The result— a phone camera full of photos of mushrooms and a lot of fungi-focused questions.
Driven by my fungal ineptitude. I reached out to the Willamette Valley Mushroom Society to see if someone there might be willing to help enlighten me. And to my great fortune, Autumn Anglin, Treasurer for WVMS, answered my call.
Autumn has also fallen under the spell of mushrooms, and by her own admission, fallen hard. Ever since her first encounter with the mushroom hunting world in 2016, Autumn has thrown herself into discovering and understanding them. Today she leads a mushroom study group and is an active citizen scientist, gathering mushrooms for careful study and genetic analysis.
Autumn suggested we meet at Lewisburg Saddle Trailhead, not far from where I live, where she promised to share with me the scientific side of mushrooms. I emphatically agreed.
The Hike
Trailhead: Lewisburg Saddle Trailhead
Distance: approximately 1.5 miles
Elevation gain: approximately 250 feet
Details: Ample parking at trailhead with overflow parking a bit futher down the road. Pit toilet available. No parking pass required. Roads to trailhead are paved.
A Cold Day in November
It was a chilly day in November. A freeze set in the night before and a dense white fog shrouded the air like a mystery. The Douglas-fir forest lay still in the mist when I arrived at the trailhead.
Autumn was there ready. Armed with a wicker basket and, as I would soon find out, an unmatched enthusiasm for all things mushroom.
We quickly made a start down the gravel trail in the direction of the new growth trail cutoff. As we walked along, Autumn told me about her start with WVMS, and how her involvement has grown over the last couple of years. From joining mushroom forays to leading study groups, to her most recent work —a nearly complete at-home genetics lab.
Stump Stop
It didn’t take long, however, before something caught Autumn’s eye. She motioned me over to a stump on the side of the trail.
“There is a lot of mushrooms on this little log right here,” she noted as we both knelt to get a closer look. She pointed out “a little jelly type” mushroom next to another completely different species, just a few inches away. Larger mushrooms grew from the side of the log.
Autumn pointing to one of the many mushrooms we found growing on a tree stump.
The hunt was on. We started looking for mushrooms everywhere. We looked along the side of the gravel road that sloped upward for black cups, a favorite of Autumn’s. Despite our efforts, we didn’t see any black cups. We did, however, see a few gilled mushrooms, including one with a tan, umbrella-shaped cap that smells like sperm.
Autumn holding the sperm-scented mushroom.
Clavulina Rugosa
Next, we saw a small white coral fungus—Clavulina rugosa or wrinkled coral fungus—growing straight up from the forest floor. C. rugosa is short, only about 3 inches tall, with branches that end in blunt tips. It isn’t the most glamorous mushroom, but what it lacks in showiness, it makes up for in reliability.
Growing near Douglas-fir, often in rings, C. rugosa is a common mycorrhizal fungus in Oregon. As mycorrhizal fungi do, C. rugosa provides nutrients and water from the soil to Douglas-fir trees in exchange for the sugars the trees exude from their roots—a symbiotic relationship essential to a healthy forest.
“Our study group calls it our friend,” Autumn remarked. “We have seen it every time we go out in the winter.”
Clavulina rugosa growing amongst the Douglas-fir needles and moss on the forest floor.
How to Know a Mushroom
At this point, we dropped down onto the new growth trail and headed deeper into the forest where we would see even more Clavulina rugosa among the trees.
The distinct characteristic of the C. rugosa made it easy to tell apart from others, but this is not the case for many mushrooms you encounter in the Pacific Northwest. As Autumn put it when asked how many different species there are in Oregon, “We have a lot!”
Thus, identifying mushrooms is a real challenge.
“My background is I am an artist,” said Autumn. “My observation skills being an artist has helped by a lot.”
To know a mushroom, you must look at the details the way an artist does. Look from all angles. Use your senses! Look, feel, and smell mushrooms. Just don’t taste.
“Run your finger over the stem and gill.,” Autumn suggested. “We can’t tell anything just by seeing a cap.”
The underside of a Russula, showing off the gills and stipe.
Mushroom Anatomy
Another thing helpful when working on mushroom identification is to know something about mushrooms anatomy. Autumn taught me a few terms on our hike together.
“Stems are stipes.” The top layer, or “skin,” is called the pileus layer. “Flesh is everything on the inside, but not the gills.” Gills sit below the cap of some fungi and aid in spore dispersal.
Then there are all the terms used to describe gilled mushrooms—the group most difficult to identify. Words like notched, decurrent, forked, tiered—tumbled out of Autumn’s mouth, as we turned over mushroom after mushroom to look at the gills.
Indistinguishable
However, even with careful study of a mushroom in the field, it can still be impossible to tell with certainty some mushrooms apart just by looking at them.
Autumn explained that even the first level of division in Kingdom Fungi, which splits fungi into two main phyla—Basidiomycete and Ascomycete—requires microscopy to distinguish. Basidiomycetes are identified under the microscope by their balloon-shaped reproductive cells called basidia, with spores that develop outside of the cell on small projections. While Ascomycete cells look more like “sausages with circles inside them,” Autumn described; the circles being the spores that develop internally in reproductive cells called asci.
Luckily, a lot of microscopy work has already been done, so breaking up fungi into phyla is more a matter of looking it up in a reference book.
But it still takes a lot of work to identify a mushroom, and microscopy is still needed in some cases to tell similar mushrooms apart.
Spore prints—spore deposits on paper—is another helpful tool for identification.
Autumn recommends getting a variety of mushroom reference books to aid in identification. Just make sure they work for the region you are interested in studying. A couple of her favorites are “Mushrooms of the Redwood Coast” by Noah Seigel and Christian Schwarz, and “Mushrooms Demystified,” by David Arora.
Blackfoot Polypore and Xylaria Hypoxylon, Oh My!
It was at about this time that Autumn really became animated, as we started spotting one cool mushroom after another. Eyes bright, a cheerful inflection to her voice, Autumn talked about her mushrooms with the tenderness reserved for old friends and loved ones.
“Blackfoot polypore,” Autumn sang out, reaching down to pick up a branch with a caramel-colored mushroom attached. “They only grow on sticks and dead things,” she went on, turning over the mushroom cap to reveal a porous undersurface and its “black foot,” a dark region where the stipe (or stem) touches the Earth.
The underside of a Blackfoot polypore.
Then, moments later she spotted another.
“This is one of my favorites!” Autumn exclaimed, pointing out a cluster of thin antler-shaped mushrooms, black in color with white tips growing on some rotting wood. “Xylaria hypoxylon.”
“They are really cool,” Autumn explained. “Feel it!” she suggested, “They are rubbery and tough.” I pulled at the dark strips with my chilled fingers—the wiry body of the mushroom held together firmly.
The white tips are covered with spores, Autumn explained. In the winter, X. hypoxylon, also called “candle-snuff fungus,” produces asexual spores that coat the mushroom.
Xylaria hypoxylon with tips coated in white spores.
Decomposers
“The amazing thing about Xylariaceae,” Autumn continued, is that “they decompose more than any other group of mushrooms.” Xylaria hypoxylon is one of the thousands of mushrooms in this group. It is our local decomposing superhero.
Fungi in general are known for their role as decomposers. When I asked Autumn why she thought fungi were important, decomposition was her simple answer. “Fungi and lichen end up making our soil. They are the foundation of our soil,” Autumn elaborated. From death springs life.
Wood Wide Web
Upon reflection, Autumn added in response to my question regarding fungi importance—”They help communicate.”
Scientific understanding of the “wood wide web” has taken off in recent years, as more research has shown just how important fungi are to a forest. Mycelia extend and spread below the ground creating connections between individual tree root systems. Water and nutrients are provided across this network to trees by the fungi, while trees supply sugar and carbon to the fungi and, at least in some cases, to other trees in the network.
“It’s a symbiotic relationship,” Autumn stated. “It is amazing.”Forests are not just a collection of trees. Rather, they are entire ecosystems—plants, animals, insects, microbes, fungi, etc.—connected by interdependence, as well as competition.
“We should be thinking of forests as whole living beings,” Autumn remarked. We need to see the forest through the trees.
“And we are part of that ecosystem too.”
Be afraid, Be very afraid
As Autumn turned over one of many brown gilled mushrooms we spotted on the forest floor, she spoke:
“People are afraid of fungi,” she said, “but picking mushrooms is okay.”
She went on to explain that most of the fungi, the important bits, are underground. When you pick a mushroom, it is analogous to picking an apple off an apple tree. Heck, if done right, you might even help spread its progeny.
“Use a basket or bag with holes to spread spores,” Autumn suggested.
Of course, there are some limitations. “Don’t rake up the forest,” Autumn instructed. But if you find something edible or want to study it, picking a mushroom is acceptable.
Gear
Autumn carried her own beautiful wicker basket on her arm, while we hiked.
She stopped to show me the contents: pen, notebook, UV flashlight, whistle, paper lunch bags, wax bags, and a tackle box.
Autumn explained that in order to do a scientific study of a mushroom, she tries to get multiple samples at different ages. The tackle box allows her to separate out smaller samples, while the wax bags and paper bags are for larger specimens. “Never use plastic bags,” she cautioned. “They will turn to goop.”
Autumn’s mushroom gear sitting next to a blackfoot polypore.
Poison
Still off-trail, we noticed a tall, white shaggy stemmed mushroom. The edges of the cap were also jagged, remnants of a veil — a thin membrane that covers some mushrooms before they are fully grown.
“Lepiota,” said Autumn. “Poisonous.”
All members of the Lepiota genus are poisonous. Many mushrooms are poisonous, even deadly, another reason people often steer clear.
But, according to Autumn, “all mushrooms are fine to touch.” You just need to wash your hands before eating or touching your mouth, she advised.
“Chemical compounds in fungi need to be metabolized to be dangerous, Autumn explained.
This shaggy species of Lepiota is poisonous.
Russulas
Autumn and I headed to the other side of the tree-lined path. We kicked at a few of what looked like “mush humps”—areas where mushrooms have raised the soil as they begin to come up—but didn’t see anything growing underneath
However, one type (or genus) of mushroom we saw a lot during our ramble, and are often found hidden in a mush hump, are Russulas.
“They are one of the most common, prolific mushrooms,” said Autumn. They are also “under-identified and misidentified,” despite their commonality. Not a lot of DNA analysis has been done on the group.
The ones we saw had shiny, soft pink caps, but this is not true of all Russulas. Russulas come in a variety of bright colors. Autumn picked one to point out the identifying features. “The main thing is there,” Autumn pointed to the bottom of the mushroom, “gills are attached right to the stem.” This is the signature of a Russula.
Other features include white or yellow stipes (stems) or gills, and a “skin” on the cap that peels back. Another interesting feature of russulas is their unique flesh—spongy rather than stringy. Their stems “snap like a piece of chalk.” And apparently, if you throw a russula against a tree or similar surface, they “explode.”
One of the many Russela’s seen growing on the forest floor.
Unknown
Autumn and I continued our off-trail adventure in the area of the forest where she discovered a new mushroom just last year.
The fungus itself was first cataloged genetically from a soil sample in the 1970s and 80s but was never described further. Autumn had seen and documented the fungi’s fruiting body for the first time!
As exciting as the discovery was, however, there was still more work to be done. The fungi would need to be found again, Autumn explained, “five or six more times” before it can be named.
Our eyes scanned the duff, sweeping the area slowly as our feet sunk into the spongy earth.
More to Discover
Surprisingly, very few of the mushrooms on the planet have been identified, so discoveries like Autumn’s are not all that unusual. Experts estimate that as much as 90% of mushrooms out there are waiting to be discovered and given names.
“Most of our mushrooms are European,” Autumn said, “the U.S. doesn’t have that many named species.”
This is problematic because it is likely that the North American version of what we think is a “European mushroom” is probably genetically different from its European counterpart. Work needs to be done to find these differences and, thus, discoveries to be made.
Look Closely
And discover we did! Not anything new to science, but plenty more striking and fascinating mushrooms.
We saw “stunning” Marasmius plicatulus with their velvety, chestnut orange caps and thin, dark mahogany colored stipes. “They are really sturdy mushrooms,” Autumn noted as she picked one for closer examination, revealing its widely spaced gills.
The “stunning” Marasmius plicatulus.
Then there was the small, understated Inocybe geophylla mushroom —with its mostly lilac-colored cap — a yellow spot at the center. Inocybe mushrooms have gills that are detached from the stipe.
Silky smooth Inocybe geophylla.
We saw (and I later tasted) a jelly fungus with the common name “cat’s tongue,” a member of the Pseudohydnum genus. The mushroom was translucent with the texture of a gummy. It also had small teeth on the bottom of the cap, giving it a tongue-like look. Autumn offered me a bag to collect some in. I washed them off the best I could before taking them home to prepare and eat.
The edible “cat’s tongue” mushroom.
Finally, growing on a Douglas-fir cone, a new favorite—the small, but stately earpick fungus, Auriscalpium vulgare. Itty-bitty and brown, with teeth that look like fuzz on the bottom, the earpick fungus immediately stole my heart. How have I never seen these! Autumn told me that they grow exclusively on Douglas-fir cones. I will never look at a cone the same way again.
Auriscalpium vulgare growing from a douglas-fir cone in the duff.
Mycologist Pace
At this point, Autumn and I had probably hiked about a quarter-mile on the forested trail.
I learned quickly — you can’t really “hike” with a mycologist. It is more like a focused crawl. You bend over a lot.
We laughed at our slow progress, as we headed back onto the main trail to pick up the pace (only slightly).
For Every Season
Autumn and I followed the trail through the young forest, the mist contrasted against the unpruned trunks of the skinny trees and large stumps. A chill hung in the air.
As we walked, we talked, keeping a watchful eye out for more mushroom gems. Autumn had hoped to find one of her favorite groups of mushrooms, black cups. But today they eluded her.
“It must be too early for black cups,” she remarked.
Too early. Too late. Mushrooms are picky. Some more than others. They pop up when conditions are right, and just as quickly, they disappear. Then again, they may not come up at all.
Morels are particularly challenging weather watchers.
“Morels need three weeks at 50 degrees before they fruit,” explained Autumn. “If it gets too warm too fast or stays colder longer…” she trailed off, but her face said it all. “Morels are temperamental. They can sit underground for 50 years.”
The misty trail through the “New Growth” forest.
For Every Habitat
We walked past a tree with some cool shelf mushrooms growing on it. I snapped a picture and Autumn grabbed a sample, placing it in one of the compartments of her tackle box.
An unidentified shelf mushroom.
On a dead tree next door, we saw an orange jelly mushroom growing. “Probably not Naematelia aurantia,” said Autumn—a.k.a witches butter.
Witches butter grows on decaying hardwood. This orange jelly was affixed to a conifer. “Dacrymyces chrysospermus—a basidiomycete with two, as opposed to the typical four, spores at the tips of its reproductive cells—doesn’t grow on hardwoods. It grows exclusively on conifers.
An orange jelly mushroom growing on a douglas-fir tree.
Just like other forms of life, fungi have habitat requirements. Knowing where a mushroom will grow can help you tell mushrooms that might otherwise be indistinguishable (or at least without a microscope) from each other.
Planting Biodiversity
We continued down the path. Stopping occasionally to check out a mushroom or two along the way.
Even though we were hiking through a plantation—a forest replanted for timber and not necessarily known for its biodiversity—Autumn noted just how many different types of mushrooms we were seeing.
“Inside plantations, I find that the diversity seems to be a lot more,” she commented.
Biodiversity is important. Biodiversity produces functional ecosystems that are resilient and produce many natural products and provide services humans, among other organisms, rely on.
One of the goals of Autumn and her WVMS Fungi group is to document mushroom biodiversity at each of the study sites. Using an app called iNaturalist, her group has recorded over 700 observations of mushrooms of a variety of types over a one-year period.
“I feel a sense of urgency due to the climate crisis to get out here,” Autumn went on. She wants to make sure we know what is there!
“It is really important that we preserve this,” she stated empathically.
Chemical Signals
At the end of the new growth section of the trail is a small log bridge that you step through before entering old growth. Here Autumn and I noticed a lot of different mushrooms growing on and around the structure.
“Careful of tan, yellow mushrooms,” warned Autumn pointing to a cluster growing on a decaying stump. “They can be really poisonous.”
Each species of fungi produces its own chemical suite designed to attract, deter, and sometimes kill other organisms. As sessile beings, chemistry is how fungi communicate.
While the chemistry of mushrooms can be deadly, it can also be a benefit to society. Humans have harnessed compounds extracted from fungi and other sessile organisms as medicines and supplements. Most of the commonly prescribed drugs in the United States, and at least 1/3 of medicines globally, are based on naturally sourced chemicals.
“I never eat white gilled mushrooms,” Autumn confessed. The chemistry is just too risky.
Waxy Caps
Stepping over the bridge, Autumn and I were met with clusters of orange-capped mushrooms.
“Waxy caps,” Autumn exclaimed, “one of the most stunning mushroom genera.”
Waxy caps, or Hygrocybe, are visually stunning. Autumn pointed out how the vibrant cap color contrasted with white, widely spaced gills.
Hygrocybe is also mycorrhizal with Douglas-fir—networking with the roots of trees. However, from where we still the nearest Douglas-fir tree was maybe 100 yards away.
“Does the network go all the way out here?” Autumn wondered out loud.
We were baffled. And impressed. Why not?
A vibrant cluster of waxy caps.
Old Growth Delights
Walking through the old growth forest, was like entering a different world compared to the plantation we had hiked through earlier. The trees were larger and more varied in age and species—including Douglas-fir, Western Hemlock, Big Leaf Maple, and Pacific Yew. Leaf litter covered much of the soil, and shrubs, ferns, and small trees added vertical structure to the scenery.
The trail through the old growth forests.
And then there were the mushrooms!
Bird nest mushrooms with their spores tucked away inside little cups, only to come loose with the splash of rain. A Marasmius mushroom with its bell-shaped cap and fragile stem. And a cluster of brightly colored Hypholoma with black spores and gills that turn green under UV light, as demonstrated by Autumn.
Hypholoma glowing green under Autumn’s UV light.
The List
We continued hiking the muddied path, stopping to look at mushrooms as we discovered them. I couldn’t believe how much we were seeing. A mushroom newbie, I asked Autumn if she had a recommendation for mushrooms to learn first.
“I would say try not to get overwhelmed,” Autumn replied. “You will see a lot of things you won’t be able to identify…try and identify to family and genus to start.”
So, what are the top groups of mushrooms Autumn recommends learning first? Here they are in the order mentioned.
First on the list, Red-banded polypore, or conks. Widespread wood-eating decomposers, red-banded conks are identified by the orange to red stripe that runs between the darker inner and lighter outer edge.
Red-banded polypore found along the trail.
Next, is Mycena—small in stature but large in group size. Mycena is a genus of tiny mushrooms with translucent, fibrous stipes and white gills “you see everywhere,” according to Autumn,
Agaricus is a common urban mushroom. These white to brownish mushrooms with “super tiny, closely spaced gills.”
Stereum is another—a genus of mushrooms that grows on decaying wood. Autumn and I found some growing on hardwood log next to the trail. These thin shelf mushroom clusters are decorated in wavy bands of greens, yellows, and browns.
Russulas made the list; along with Xylaria hypoxylon and bird nests.
Colorful bands of Stereum growing on a decaying log along the trail
Perfection
As Autumn contemplated what else to include on “the list,” we walked and observed. We saw a cluster of mushrooms (too non-descript to identify), followed by a large single mushroom coated in white (it had been parasitized).
A parasitized mushroom.
Suddenly, Autumn and I were stopped dead in our tracks. In front of us was a large amanita.
“A perfect specimen,” Autumn spoke, her eyes sparkling.
I took a few pictures before Autumn pulled the Amanita vaginata, or Grisette,from the earth, revealing its true height.
Amanitas are mycorrhizal species—again, part of the wood wide web. The mushrooms vary in size from small to large. They have white spores, and their stipes and caps are usually decorated with veil remnants.
As mentioned earlier, veils enclose some mushrooms when they first emerge, later expanding and breaking apart. In Amanita, this means patches or warts on the older caps, and skirts or scales on the stipe.
Amanita can be dully or brightly colored, like the well-known Amanita muscaria, and their caps flatten with age. The Amanita cap has a distinct margin and bell shape with a “nipple” or umbo at its center.
“That is gorgeous!” Autumn exclaimed, overcome with the beauty of it.
We added amanitas to the list. After all, Amanita muscaria is “the poster child of mushrooms,” said Autumn.
The perfect specimen of Amanita vaginata!
Puffballs
After our Amanita discovery, the trail veered back onto a gravel forest road that would take us back to the trailhead.
Autumn’s head swerved around looking for earth star mushrooms along the road—a type of puffball mushroom with a round “puffball” center in the middle of star-shaped rays.
We didn’t find any earth stars, but we did find a few puffballs further down the road hiding in the grass. Though difficult to tell apart. Puffballs are wildly entertaining. Poking a puffball will send out clouds of small brown spores.
Puffballs were also added to the list.
Puffballs found hidden in the grass.
Ascomycetes
We still had some more searching to do as we neared the trailhead.
Autumn was determined to find Helvella vespertina.
“Ascomycetes are my favorite,” Autumn told me, and Helvella vespertina is one of the largest mushrooms in the phylum. (Most ascomycetes are very small and usually lichenized, partnering with algae or cyanobacteria.)
It didn’t take long before we ran across the structural beauty of Helvella vespertina. The first ones we found were parasitized with a white fungus, hiding its black cap, but not its unique shape. Later we found an untouched sample.
It is hard to describe Helvella verspertina—the stipe and cap are wrinkled and folded making it look almost “brainy.” Autumn called them “bizarre and consistent,” an equally apt description.
Morels are the other large ascomycete mushroom with a similar vibe. We added both to our ever-growing mushroom list.
The sculptural Helvella vespertin mushroom.
Mycology on the Mind
Still with several hundred feet to make it back to our car, Autumn and I continued to hunt mushrooms.
We found several more interesting specimens including a Lactarius, or milkcap mushroom that when you break the cap oozes out a white milk-like substance.
While we hunted, we also chatted more about Autumn’s citizen science work. Thanks to her passion for mushroom biodiversity documentation, her research group earned a grant to send in 50 species this year for DNA analysis to FunDiS, or Fungal Diversity Survey, a nonprofit focused on fungi conservation.
Now, she plans to continue her work by doing her own DNA analysis of fungi she finds, and by collaborating with researchers and interested groups. With a shoulder shrug, she even hinted at the prospect of going back to school to study fungi.
Mycology Matters
After spending the morning hiking with Autumn, it was clear to me just how much mushrooms and fungi are a part of her life. Her interest and enthusiasm were infectious, and I couldn’t help but smile every time we ran across another mushroom that caught her attention.
I have always enjoyed mushrooms, but Autumn reminded me of just how much fungi matter. It is easy to forget the work fungi are doing in the soil, to take them for granted, but when mushrooms appear they serve as a reminder of the important role fungi have on the planet.
Seeing mushrooms is like seeing into an otherwise hidden world. So, take the time to get to know a mushroom or two. Perhaps, learn their names. And give thanks that there are those out there, like Autumn, ensuring their conservation.
Autumn Anglin is a mixed-media artist and vice president of the Willamette Valley Mushroom Society. She is also a “mushroom” citizen scientist, contributing to various mycology studies, including the Fungal Diversity Survey (FunDiS).
Beaver! A surprisingly loaded word. The largest rodent in North America. Oregon’s state animal. The American Beaver is touted for its remarkable ability to engineer waterways. While simultaneously villainized as a nuisance species. Trapped for its fur well into the 19th century, this activity still occurs today, though not to the levels seen during the fur trade.
There are a lot of strong opinions about beaver. They are both beloved and hated. Removed and reintroduced. Marveled at and frowned upon. Yet, for all the attention they get, there is a lot we still don’t know about them.
This is why, after a long day of teaching high schoolers, I met up with Vanessa Petro, who has been studying the American Beaver for over 10 years, to walk and talk about these surprisingly enigmatic, charismatic creatures.
The Hike
Trailhead: Alsea Falls Trailhead
Distance: 2.4 miles (w/shorter and longer options available)
Elevation Gain: 300 ft
Details: Ample parking and pit toilet available at trailhead. Drive to trailhead is on well-maintained gravel roads. $2 for parking or use National Forest or other Recreation pass.
The Drive
Vanessa and I drove out to the trailhead together. As we rode along, we chatted about various aspects of our lives—from childhood to career to motherhood.
Vanessa spent her childhood in Pennsylvania, surrounded by nature and the outdoors. “I grew up going out the backdoor and disappearing into the woods,” said Vanessa, much to the chagrin of her parents.
But it wasn’t until she encountered a magazine article featuring Dr. Gary Alt, a renowned black bear biologist, that she initially got hooked on wildlife. Vanessa saw what Dr. Gary Alt was doing, and as she put it, she “wanted to do something like that.”
Vanessa’s passion for wildlife and the outdoors continued into high school. She was active in hunting during her teen years. And she enjoyed classes in the biological sciences. In particular, Vanessa mentioned an ecology teacher that inspired her and also invited her to compete in a state-wide natural resources competition called Envirothon.
College and Career
Vanessa’s was on a path. After high school, she attended Sterling College, “the smallest accredited college in the United States.” The college only offers environmental study-based majors. Vanessa studied conservation ecology.
“I lucked out while I was there,” Vanessa explained, “There is a large emphasis on hands-on experience. “By the time she graduated from Sterling, Vanessa had already completed several seasons of summer and winter field work, including an internship with Sequoia National Forest working on a forest carnivore monitoring project.
After graduation she bounced around the U.S., living in 11 different states, as she continued to find seasonal wildlife work where she could. “I have no regrets,” Vanessa smiled, “except for maybe a few men.”
Eventually, Vanessa settled at Oregon State University to conduct graduate research. And once graduated, continued her research work at OSU, which is where she is today.
Now, married with one child and another on the way, Vanessa spoke adamantly about the challenge of balancing a career with family. “In natural resources, you can’t really get married and have children at the start of your career,” she said pointedly. “I had to wait.” Even today, with a supportive boss and colleagues, Vanessa spoke of the difficulty. “There is a high attrition rate for women in STEM fields,” she noted.
Vanessa posing at the upper Alsea Falls viewpoint.
Why beaver?
Before long we pulled into the parking lot for Alsea Falls and our trailhead. And after a quick restroom break, Vanessa and I headed down the muddy path to Alsea Falls.
Vanessa has been studying Beaver in the Alsea River Watershed for over 10 years. So, as we began our descent, I needed to ask— “Why beaver?”
“For me, I am definitely split between terrestrial and aquatic systems,” Vanessa responded. “And they are in between.” Beaver are semiaquatic—spending part of their time and on land and part of their time in water—taking advantage of resources in both environments.
In addition, many people care about beaver. “There is a lot of conservation interest in beaver in our area,” Vanessa went on. “And there is a lot we don’t know about them.”
Unknowable
Despite their dominating presence in the Pacific Northwest’s history, we don’t even know the most basic information about beaver in this region. “No one can tell you long they live or how many there are in our state,” explained Vanessa. Their ecology is a mystery.
So, what is happening? Most studies center around using beaver in restoration and/or the relocation of beaver. Questions are very specific and very limiting. For example, “we don’t know the average home range sizes of beaver throughout our state,” but we have movement data for relocated beavers. Yet, beavers that are relocated do not behave the same as naturalized beavers, so it would be like comparing apples to oranges. Thus, there is a gap in knowledge.
Alsea Falls
Vanessa and I continued until we reached the first Alsea falls viewpoint. We stepped out onto the bedrock ledge to get a view of Alsea Falls and snap a few pictures. The ground was slick, but that didn’t stop Vanessa from clambering up closer to the falls for a photo when I asked.
We continued down to the lower viewpoint for another view of the falls from a wider angle. I noticed how the autumn leaves opposite the river were striking against the dark greens and greys of the forest. We looked out at the rushing water.
Dammed if you do, dammed if you don’t
“Do you know what is cool about where we are standing?” Vanessa started, looking upstream, just above the waterfall. “This waterfall is a known barrier for salmonid fish.” But that isn’t the interesting part. Vanessa went on to explain that not too far upstream there is a two-mile stretch of river that beaver have colonized, building dams and creating the perfect habitat for fish.
Beaver are considered ecosystem engineers—they create habitat other species, like salmon, rely on. Birds, amphibians, and invertebrates all take advantage of the engineered wetlands, pools, and other habitats built by beaver. The list of beneficiaries is long.
The site upstream of Alsea Falls is so ideal for salmon that at one point multiple stakeholders wanted to build a fish ladder to provide the fish access to it. The idea eventually lost steam, but just the fact it was considered, says a bit about the quality of fish habitat beaver have the potential to provide.
However, it is important to note that not all beavers make dams. They often don’t need to. And without dam building the ecological benefit of beaver is non-existent.
If water around their dens and foraging areas is deep enough to protect them from predators, a beaver won’t build a dam. Beaver innately rely on these cues to know when to build. Below Alsea Falls dam making isn’t as frequent and “habitat is patchy,” said Vanessa. The cues aren’t there.
The two-mile stretch of beaver dam habitat above Alsea Falls that everyone desires, well, “that doesn’t occur frequently on the landscape,” said Vanessa.
“Salmonid habitat ends right here,” stated Vanessa, matter-of-factly. But beaver habitat, well that is another story. We followed the trail back upstream with beaver in mind.
Looking down from Alsea Falls toward a log jam.
Beaver Forage
Back at the top of the trail, we took a sharp left onto a bridge that crosses the Alsea River. I looked down at the flowing reflective waters. Vanessa looked out toward the greenery lining its edges with an eye out for beaver sign.
Beaver are herbivores—they eat plants. More specifically, they snip off smaller diameter branches of trees and shrubs, eat the leafy greens and outer layer of bark where the cambium is.
They are picky eaters though. “They will cut salmonberry, red alder branches, willow, and vine maples… but they won’t touch Pacific ninebark,” said Vanessa. “They will eat lady fern,” but avoid stink currant.
Beaver generally stay close to the water and often sit along its edge while consuming the forage they collected. “They will forage on average about 30 meters (~100 feet) from the waterline,” stated Vanessa, “but will go further out if they have to.”
“They look for the best of the best,” Vanessa told me later during our hike. Though the Alsea Falls watershed provides several examples of suitable beaver habitat, you won’t find them everywhere. “There are still patches of unpalatable vegetation and undesirable habitat that occur throughout the area.” When it comes to establishing a new home, they look for something equivalent to what they had in the past or better.
“There are no beaver here,” said Vanessa, having fully assessed the area and we continued up the trail.
Looking out over the Alsea River bridge.
Forest Diversions
We headed deeper into the woods, following the muddied trail along a ridge above the creek. The trail weaved through the Douglas-fir trees whose branches caught the late-day sunlight in a bright burst of gold.
Seeing the stately Douglas-fir trees reminded Vanessa of her husband, Andrew Merschel, a forest ecologist. “He just defended his Ph.D.,” she said proudly.
Through his research, Andrew reconstructed the fire history of Douglas-fir forests west of the Cascades, similar to the one we were hiking in. “The assumed fire return intervals are wrong,” said Vanessa. The actual fire history in this region, she explained, demonstrates a more complex reality than what has been traditionally taught.
It was fun talking to Vanessa about her husband’s forest research. It was a wonderful diversion. But we were there to talk beaver! “I want to know more about your research,” I said, as we moved slowly up the path.
Trees filtered the light as we walked through the forest.
Unsuitable
We hiked past another unsuitable spot for beaver—a site heavily forested with desirable alder trees but that was also laced with undesirable stinking currant. No sign of beaver.
Then the trail widened, curving away from the South Fork Alsea River, and began following the bank of Peak Creek. Here our luck changed.
Much of Vanessa’s research centered around identifying beaver activity, so as we neared an access point on Peak Creek, Vanessa led me down to the water’s edge to look for beaver sign.
Grove of alder. No sign of beaver here.
Beaver Sign
Vanessa explained that many people assume that if they don’t see dams, there are no beaver present. But, as Vanessa made clear early on, not all beavers make dams. A lot of them don’t need to. So, to assess beaver activity we need to look for other signs of their presence.
Vanessa climbed down to the water balancing on logs to reach out into the creek where some branches of western redcedar hung over the water. She pulled at the branches, inspecting the tips of each branch until she found what she was looking for.
She directed me to come take a look. The end of the branch she held in her hand was clipped with clear beaver incisor marks. Looking at the branch I imagined a beaver grasping at the branch and snipping it off with its big front teeth, then eating the outer layer of the branch, as Vanessa put it, like eating corn on the cob.
Vanessa noted that clipped branches can be found up and down creeks where beaver reside, but they can be tricky to spot if you don’t know what you are looking for. People often make the mistake of just looking near the waterline, Vanessa explained, but water levels change all the time, so what is unreachable one day for a beaver might be perfect during high flows.
Feeding stations, a collection of cut limbs along a shoreline or in a protected area, and food rafts, a bunch of clippings floating in the water, are other signs of beaver foraging.
Peak Creek access point. Beaver sign! Beaver incisor marks found at the end of a western redcedar branch.
Smelly Stuff
Foraging sign is just one clue or indicator of beaver activity. I asked Vanessa if there is anything else to look out for. “Scat and scent mounds,” she replied.
Scent mounds are territorial markers beavers create out of mud and detritus. They essentially pile up these materials along the shoreline or island in the water and deposit castor, or castoreum, a strong-smelling substance released from specialized glands.
“What does it smell like?” I asked.
“BBQ sauce and vanilla,” Vanessa said. She explained that she often brings castor with her to outreach events and asks people what they think it smells like. BBQ sauce and vanilla are the most common responses. “Castor glands are used to provide ‘natural’ vanilla flavor to ice cream,” Vanessa remarked. Later, a quick google search reveals that beaver butt secretions are used for flavoring in many different food products.
Beaver scat, on the other hand, is less smelly. “Imagine little cylindrical balls of sawdust…sitting in a pool of water,” said Vanessa. It is rare to find beaver scat because of their semi-aquatic nature. “You only see it where they are active,” Vanessa remarked.
We didn’t see any scat or scent mounds during our hike.
Beaver Dens
However, a commonplace to find scat, if you find it at all, is near a beaver den. A beaver den is essentially the home of the beaver. Beavers use their dens to rest, hide from predators, and raise their young
Beaver den structures in the Pacific Northwest are not usually lodges—dome-shaped structures built with sticks and mud—like are seen on nature shows. Rather, beavers in Oregon, and neighboring states, often dig into the banks of a stream or river—creating a “bank den”—often choosing sites under trees with roots that provide an extra element of structure and protection. This is a more practical configuration in constrained waterways in Oregon than a lodge. Fluctuating water levels also means that “most colonies will have multiple dens.”
Vanessa and I looked to see if we could find a den under the cedar tree that had been munched on, but there wasn’t any clear opening.
I asked Vanessa about the size of the den, as we prodded around the riverbank. “They are about a foot wide” at the entrance, said Vanessa; and “chambers are actually small.” To find the dens, she usually uses a meter stick to wiggle underneath a bank. “The tunnel will go into the bank and then will cut up at an angle,” explained Vanessa.
Aging Sign
Having sufficiently checked the area for beaver sign, Vanessa and I decided to continue on the trail. We were hoping to reach Green Peak Falls, the turnaround point for our hike before dark and we were losing light fast.
As we clambered our way up, Vanessa told me more about her research. “Right now, I am conducting a 5-year beaver dam ecology study in this basin,” she said. “We visit the same sites every year to census of all the dams and beaver activity.”
“We will note all the different types of activity,” Vanessa went on… and “give an age status based on the newest sign identified.” She noted how the clipped cedar branch we had inspected earlier had a lot of “black spotting.” This suggests that the clipping was at least a year old. On the other hand, “it if is clear white,” explained Vanessa, which indicates “they are actively there.”
Chatter
As we walked, I noticed a medium-sized log on the trail that had been “chewed into.” Beaver? I thought. No. Upon closer inspection, the markings had no incisor imprints. The tree wound was human-inflected, Vanessa assured me.
Having seen similar markings before, I asked Vanessa what was going on. The markings are called “chatter,” she told me. Beaver will sometimes girdle a tree to wear down their incisors that continue to grow throughout their lives, or possibly to bring down a tree to access more food. In this case, the beaver is doing a lot of “chewing and spitting” and “a huge pile of woodchips” will build up at the base of the tree being cut down.
Vanessa and I “chattered” on.
Should I Stay or Should I go
Before long we reached the stairs that lead to the base of Green Peak Falls. We could hear the rushing waters and paused to finish our conversation before heading down.
“There is another thing with beaver,” Vanessa stated, “just because they occupy a site doesn’t mean they will remain there.”
The duration beaver typically occupy a stream reach and why remains uncertain. “They are all over the map on how long they stay at a site,” Vanessa explained.
The movement of beaver within a watershed is something Vanessa is hoping to find out with her future research. “We have some short-term studies,” she explained, but not enough to really understand what is happening in the bigger picture.
Part of the issue is that beaver dams in Oregon tend to be ephemeral. “By springtime, only 20-45% remain intact from the previous fall,” Vanessa remarked about her study in the Coast Range. And “they only rebuild 7-30% of the time.” More often beaver choose to build a new dam in a new location.
For her study area, “The total number of dams has been consistent at the landscape level over time,” said Vanessa. But much of beaver colonization patterns remains a mystery in response to dam failures. Will they stay? If they stay, will they rebuild? Or will they go and come back later in the year? There is much still to figure out.
Vanessa told me about a year when she surveyed her sites, and all the dams failed at one of them, but the beavers remained and didn’t rebuild. But a tributary or two over, another group of beavers constructed 16 new dams. Why? “I don’t know,” Vanessa responded.
But she hopes to find out!
Green Peak Falls.
Waterfall Mischief
Green Peak Falls was raging when we finally made our way down. The light of day was nearly gone, but I attempted to capture a photo of the falls anyway.
“I like Green Peak Falls better than Alsea Falls,” Vanessa remarked. Then turned and wandered over to the water’s edge. Vanessa was in her element as she balanced on rocks and logs in search of beaver sign. “Sometimes you see chewsticks that came down the waterfall,” she sighed.
After a few minutes of searching to no avail, Vanessa joined me, and we stared up at the cascading falls.
“The pool right above us…” began Vanessa, “I relocated a few beavers to a small tributary above it” She went on to tell me how the male of the pair (the female had died) would leave the release site and come down to the pool just above the falls. “He would hang out for days and then go all the way back up,” Vanessa reminisced. He never headed any further downstream. “Maybe he was too chicken to go around the waterfall,” Vanessa speculated.
I asked Vanessa how beaver typically handled waterfalls. “They do go around them,” she said. “Most of the time they will figure out a way to navigate around them.” However, she mentioned hearing about an unsuccessful beaver relocation where the beavers went over the waterfalls and died. “I have never seen the problem,” she said; “Maybe we have a better batch of beaver…”
Hopes for the Future
Darkness was really setting in now, so we decided to turn around and head back. As we walked, Vanessa talked more about her beaver dam ecology study and her goals for the future.
“We are in season four of data collection,” she said. After year five it will be intensive number crunching and analysis. The goal of the study is to help land and resource managers better understand the realized beaver dam capacity of a watershed and the factors that influence dam longevity at the individual dam and beaver site scales. According to Vanessa, the current popular model used to predict dam capacity tends to overestimate, making it seem like problems exist even when there isn’t one.
“No one knows how to best manage watersheds to promote beaver,” she continued. Our headlamps were now on guiding our way over roots and over puddles as we headed back to our cars. But more recently, Vanessa told me, there is money and interest in solving that problem. After the Labor Day fires, federal, state, and private land managers, in coordination with Vanessa’s lab, discussed the need to implement a landscape-level beaver study in western Oregon. The study will ultimately include three replicate regions—the Western Cascades, the Coast Range, and Southwest Oregon—and use beaver activity surveys to document their distribution throughout these areas, in addition to other methods like radio-telemetry to track beaver movement and colonization responses to forest disturbances.
Ultimately, through this study, Vanessa hopes that some of the most basic questions about beaver may be answered, like what they need to survive, and how fire and land management may affect them.
Beaver Believer
Vanessa and I continued to talk as we walked in darkness. And before long, we were back at the trailhead and heading home.
Having spent the evening with Vanessa, I really got a sense for her passion for her work, as well as her ability to be discerning when it comes to beaver science. Many people make the false assumption that if we can just get beaver back everywhere on the landscape, we will be okay. They will fix our problems—from habitat destruction to water conservation to even climate change.
But as amazing as beaver are they can’t fix the damage humans have done to the planet. They aren’t superheroes. Though they probably would look cute in a cape. And just like the rest of the planet, beaver have and will be affected by the dramatic changes in our climate and forests throughout the Pacific Northwest.
So, as nice as it is to sing beavers’ praises, it misses the mark. To truly appreciate beaver, we need to understand them. That is the first step. And we aren’t there yet. But with the help of people like Vanessa, we might finally learn to walk the beaver walk.
Vanessa Petro is a senior faculty research assistant at Oregon State University. Vanessa earned her B.A. in Conservation Ecology from Sterling College in Vermont and her M.S. in Forest Science from Oregon State University.
I am constantly amazed by the power of water to sculpt the landscape. From glacially carved canyons and deep V-shaped ravines to massive floods capable of eroding and depositing sediment over 100s of miles—water in its various forms has shaped the Earth in profound ways. The impact of water on the landscape can be seen all around us. If we know where to look.
Luckily for me, I arranged to meet up with Hal Wershow, a geologist and expert on reading the landscape, to help me better see and understand water’s influence in the Pacific Northwest.
Naturally, we headed to the Cascades to a popular hiking spot in Three Sisters Wilderness called Green Lakes.
Hal in his element, enjoying the views and excellent geology!
The Hike
Trailhead: Green Lakes Trailhead
Distance: 9 miles round trip to first two Green Lakes
Elevation Gain: 1,100 ft
Details: This trail is very popular and was heavily trafficked until permits were put in place in 2021. A Central Oregon Cascades Wilderness is required from May to September. The trailhead is easily accessible and there is ample parking. A pit toilet is available at the trailhead.
Opening the Flood Gates
The path hastens along next to a fresh flowing creek lined with conifers and dotted with colorful wildflowers. A few puffy white clouds floated past us overhead as Hal and I began our hike from the Green Lakes Trailhead.
The ground was level with baseball-sized pieces of pumice and other volcanic rocks scattered between bunches of vegetation. “Fluvial is the term we use for sediment moved by water,” explained Hal. The rounded rock and flat ground are signs that water flooded the area in the past.
This, of course, begs the question—what happened? Short answer—No Name Lake.
You see, No Name Lake was formed by a glacial moraine, or an accumulation of unconsolidated rock, that was carried in and left behind by a receding glacier from the “Little Ice Age” of the 1800s. Then in the 1960s, an unexplained breach in the moraine occurred resulting in a flood. Perhaps some ice or rock had fallen in the lake generating waves that overtopped the dam causing it to fail.
Interestingly, the source of the flood was reported by Bruce Nolf, a geology professor at COCC at the time—a position Hal now occupies.
The waters from that flood would have washed into the area, Hal explained, carrying sediments and debris all the way across the highway we had just driven in on.
Fall Creek flowing through the flat floodplain at the start of the hike.
Snow Going
It wasn’t long before Hal and I, following the creek-side path, entered a more densely wooded area still blanked in snow. It was early summer and winter snow still lingered in large patches on the trail.
Snow accumulation in the Cascades is incredibly important in the Pacific Northwest. As snow melts it seeps into the ground slowly through pores in rock, becoming part of the groundwater. This water eventually escapes back to the surface through springs that feed our streams and rivers. The lag time between precipitation, snowmelt, and water resurfacing is important helping ensure water supply even in the drier parts of the year.
Snow fields were abundant along the trail.
Spring Forward
Hal told me about a project he is doing with his students at CCOC where they are studying the time water spends underground—also called residence time. Referred to as the “Spring Monitoring Project,” Hal’s students are locating and gathering samples of water from springs in the Central Cascades near Bend. Then they are sending the samples to a lab for stable isotope dating to determine the residence time of each spring.
Stable isotope dating is used for a lot of applications—to date the age of fossils, archeological artifacts, etc. Elements, like carbon and hydrogen, have a different ratio of their respective isotopes depending on conditions and can change over time. For example, all living things contain a ratio of C-12 to C-14 that is constant, but once an organism dies, C-14 will decay predictably, changing the ratio. This change in ratio allows scientists to determine the age of tissue containing artifacts.
Spring water works in much the same way but uses different isotope tracers to figure out how long water has been underground. The time spent underground varies a lot. Water can remain underground for minutes to thousands of years.
“This research is important, especially in the light of climate change,” Hal explained. With increased drought conditions coupled with increasing demands on water resources, it is important that we understand how much water will be available each water year. Springs with long residence times may be more resilient to climate change.
Rushing Waters
Hal and I continued to crunch over frozen hills of snow, watching out for snow bridges, as we continued to pick our way alongside Fall Creek under a canopy of mountain hemlock and fir.
Eventually, we passed by Fall Creek Falls in just a little over half a mile and took a moment to appreciate the raging white waters as they rushed down a short rockface. Fall Creek and its falls are fed by the same waters that fill Green Lakes which, in turn, are fed by glacial and snowmelt from South Sister.
Waterfalls are another example of the force of water on the landscape. Water is an agent of erosion, but not all materials erode equally. For example, most sedimentary rock erodes easily, while others, like igneous rock, granite, are more resistant. Waterfalls, like Fall Creek Falls, form when there is a difference between the materials that make up the streambed. Essentially, the material below the waterfall eroded more easily than the material above it.
We continued to trace Fall Creek’s flow further upstream, the trail trending uphill through some switchbacks, eventually crossing the creek on a narrow log bridge.
Fall Creek Falls as seen from the trail.
Walk on, Rock On
As we walked along the path, Hal pointed out some of the different rocks found along the trail. All the rocks we saw were igneous rocks—formed from cooled magma.
In general, igneous rocks can be divided into two major groups based on their silica content—mafic rock and felsic rock. Mafic rock is low in silica (45-55% silica) and is generally darker in color. The lava is less viscous (due to its low silica content) and erupts smoothly, as gases readily escape and don’t build up generating the pressure needed for an explosive eruption. Dark grey basalt is a classic example of mafic rock.
Felsic rock on the other hand is high in silica (65% or higher silica) and tends to be lighter in color. The lava is much more viscous and stickier making it difficult for water and gases to escape. The result is a buildup of pressure and more explosive, violent eruptions. Pale tan or pink rhyolite is a classic example of felsic rock.
Light grey andesite is an intermediary (55-65% silica) between mafic and felsic. Andesite rock has enough silica to produce quartz crystals, so it often has a “salt and pepper” appearance.
Disorganized
However, the chemical composition of igneous rocks is not the only thing that determines their final structure. For example, rocks exposed to oxygen may become redder; rocks that form under the Earth’s surface grow larger crystals; and rocks formed during explosive eruptions may be more fragmented.
One of the most common rocks Hal pointed out on the trail was pumice. Chemically, pumice is like any other rhyolite rock, but because of the conditions it formed in, pumice has some unique qualities.
Pumice is formed during violent eruptions of very viscous rhyolite lava that is very high in water and gases. When ejected, the gases escape rapidly and the water evaporates and expands, causing the lava to become frothy. Pumice is a disorganized rock—formed so quickly that there was no time for it to crystalize. Hal called it “volcanic glass.”
The resulting rock is an incredibly light, vesicular rock with the reputation of being able to float in water.
Slow your Flow
However, one of the most striking rocks seen on the trail isn’t pumice, but obsidian—a shiny, (usually) black rock, generally known for its use in arrowheads and other edged tools. The cutting edge of an obsidian tool is sharper than a surgeon’s steel scalpel.
Not too long after crossing Fall Creek, part of the 2,000-year-old Newberry lava flow comes into view—a massive wall of rhyolite—much of it in the form of obsidian. The wall is a spectacular feature for the next few miles, hemming in Fall Creek on the opposite bank from the trail.
The wall of rhyolite starting to come into view.
Hal explained that obsidian, like pumice, is also rhyolite. However, unlike pumice, obsidian is not the result of explosive eruptions, but rather viscous lava that exudes slowly from volcanic vents. Just like pumice and volcanic ash, obsidian has no crystalline structure and is also “volcanic glass.”
Hal described the lava flow as being so slow that the movement would have been imperceptible to the human eye—we are talking less than a few meters per hour. The flow would have also been cooler and not like the red-hot magma seen erupting from volcanos in Hawaii that tend to be mafic lava flows.
More views of the rhyolite lave flow. The dark, shiny rocks are obsidian.
Lakes O’ Plenty
Hal and I continued to hike uphill through the forest, crossing several smaller creeks as we went. Eventually, we reached a sign with a map indicating we were about to enter the Green Lakes Basin.
Early in the hike, Hal told me that there were several ways lakes can form. A glacial moraine is one way, like the one that formed Broken Top’s No Name Lake. A lava flow dam is another. Green Lakes is an example of a lava-dammed lake. From the map you could see where the lava flow displaced the creek and cut off most of the area above, creating the basin.
Hal also pointed out the areas where water is flowing into Green Lakes. Not just water, but sediment too. They are being filled up, Hal explained. The addition of sediment means that Green Lakes will not be around forever.
“Another 1,000 years and they won’t be here,” Hal stated emphatically.
Stopping to check out the Green Lakes map and sign.
Composite
Past the sign, the first of the Green Lakes comes into view. Flanking the blue-green waters are two massive peaks—South Sister and Broken Top. Like sentinels, they tower above Hal and me. While at the same time, seemingly close enough to touch.
Both South Sister and Broken Top are stratovolcanoes, also called composite volcanoes—named for the varying nature of erupted materials that build their steep cones—anything from lava to ash. The formation of a stratovolcano is a process of building up and tearing down. They are known for violent eruptions where large amounts of their mass may be ejected into the air—sometimes leaving a large crater. Mount St. Helen’s is a composite volcano. Mt. Mazama, where Crater Lake now stands, is also a composite volcano that blew its top over 7,000 years ago.
South Sister, a relatively young composite volcano.
Fire and Ice
However, as Hal reminded me, volcanism is not the only powerful force at work in the High Cascades. Ice—in the form of glaciers—is also a powerful agent of change in this volcanic landscape.
South Sister, with her tall dome shape retained, is still active—with recent eruptions dating back only a couple thousand years. In contrast, Broken Top is a long-extinct volcano—last active over 150,000 years ago. Since then, Broken Top has been roughly hewn by glaciers leaving its summit a jagged pile of rock and eruption crater exposed. Glaciers are moving ice, capable of abrading and polishing down rock, creating steep-sided hollows, and leaving behind sharp peaks and ridges. Hal pointed out some of the features formed by glaciers on Broken Top, including a cirque, horn, and arete.
Glaciers can still be seen on both Broken Top and South Sister—though they are much smaller and fewer than just a hundred years ago due to anthropogenic climate change. Staring up at South Sister, I asked Hal how to identify a glacier well enough to tell it apart from snowpack. “Crevasses—deep breaks in the ice formed as different parts of a glacier travel at different speeds—are one key difference,” Hal responded.
But Hal also noted that Glaciers can be very difficult to spot. So difficult, in fact, that only a month earlier, a “new” glacier was discovered on South Sister by Oregon Glacier Institute, an organization with the goal of identifying and monitoring Oregon’s glaciers. And by “new,” I mean new to science. “Glaciers tend to be in areas that aren’t very visible,” Hal warned, “making them difficult to locate.”
Heavily eroded Broken Top
Alluvial Fans
Continuing our hike, Hal and I followed a trail that put us closer to the base of South Sister. Here we reached a deep water crossing and a view of one of the alluvial fans that South Sister’s meltwaters created stretching out in front of us.
An alluvial fan forms when terrain suddenly becomes less steep, like at the base of a mountain, and the water flow less restricted. As the gradient is lowered, the water flow slows and spreads out, dropping sediment in a fan or cone shape.
Earlier in the hike, Hal pointed out a “mini-version” of an alluvial fan where steep flowing drainage of water slowed near the trail as the path of the water flattened and the water was unconstrained. Though perhaps not as dramatic as the large alluvial fan in front of us, the principals are the same. When water slows, sediment drops out.
Hal and I considered crossing the creek to get a better look at the first fan, Hal even attempting to balance his way across some unstable logs, but instead opted for an adventure around the second Green Lake and past the third to the alluvial fan on the far side of Green Lakes.
Hal with a mini-alluvial fan on the trail. The first water crossing looking out toward an alluvial fan
Round We Go
As Hal and I made our way around the largest of the Green Lakes, we kept a lookout for more geological treasures.
The snow continued to be a bit challenging at times, but we treaded carefully along the narrow trail.
Before long we spotted signs of an ephemeral spring. Though no water was rushing forth from the Earth, Hal pointed out the eroded channels, changes in vegetation, and exposed roots—all indicators that water had flown forth at some point during the year.
Hal pointing out signs of an ephemeral spring
A bit later, Hal spotted a perfect example of high silica, rhyolite, and low silica, basalt sitting side by side on the trail.
Rhyolite to the left with basalt to the right.
Breach
Eventually, we made it to the bottom of the alluvial fan. Hal explained that there was evidence, at least in part, that the fan was a result of a breach in a moraine-dammed lake further up the mountain. The plan was to head off-trail and follow the alluvium up to see if we could reach the moraine lake.
Almost immediately after heading off-trail, Hal started pointing out the changes in terrain. Like a kid-in-a-candy-store he had me looking at the rock that now littered the ground. “No pumice!” he exclaimed.
Instead of pumice, the area was filled with volcanic rock that looked speckled—with larger crystals embedded in a finer grain. A “porphyritic texture,” stated Hal—formed from lava that cooled slowly below the surface before rapidly cooling above the surface.
The “fresh rock” signaled to Hal that the lava bed we were walking in was from a different eruption than the pumice and lava flow from earlier.
Fresh volcanic rock!
Signs of a Flood
Hal’s excitement continued as we picked our way up the drainage—the area was literally awash in signs of past flooding.
For one, the size of the rocks changed—smaller rocks gave way to larger rocks—as we moved up. Hal explained that this was expected, as smaller rocks can be carried by the floodwaters farther than larger rocks, which would have been dropped closer to the breach.
Larger rocks also piled up along the edges of the now-empty flood channel—forming natural levees. Again, Hal explained how the energy of the floodwaters would have dissipated toward the edges, dropping these boulders into place.
Hal also noted how the forest looked different in the flood zone. Looking beyond, you could see a lot of taller trees, but within the flood zone, there were only small trees. Trees in the area would have been toppled by the floodwaters. The smaller trees, Hal explained, would have sprouted after the last big flood.
Natural rock levees at the start of our off-trail climb.
Flow Banding and Glacial Polish
Hal and I continued to pick our way over larger and larger rocks. Along the way, we saw some more fun geological features in the rock.
One such feature was a large rock near the edge of our flood channel that looked striped or banded. Hal explained that each band was really the result of different flow rates in the lava that cooled to form the rock—a phenomenon known as flow banding. Flow banding occurs because there is the shearing force between the layers of lava causing them to flow differently relative to one another.
Hal’s geologist mini-figure sitting atop a flow banded rock.
A bit later, Hal pointed out another rock. This one was smooth with some well-defined grooves. Unlike the flow-banded rock, the lines in this rock were formed from a glacier. When glaciers pass over rock, Hal explained, they carry gritty sediments that will abrade the rock, polishing the rock smooth. If a larger rock is stuck in the glacier, it will carve deeper grooves in the rock as well. The overall effect is called glacial polish. Hal suggested thinking of it like sandpaper—different parts of the glacier may have a different grit resulting in differences in the polish.
Hal pointing out the glacial polish on one of the many boulders along the trail.
Survivor
We continued heading up the rocky drainage, crossing several snowfields. The rock levees are now as much as 10 feet tall in places. Looking back, beautiful views of the Green Lakes Basin periodically caught my attention.
Apart from the snow, boulders made up most of the ground surface as we trekked upward. The young forest seen toward the base of the washout was nonexistent. But what we did find were remnants of a vegetative past.
At one point, Hal and I saw a log stuck in the sediment that sparked some interest. Organic material, like the log, can be dated using either radiocarbon dating or dendrochronology. Radiocarbon dating would provide the apparent age of the tree, a decent estimate of age as far as geological events go.
Hal recording video of a log stuck in the sediment.
However, one of my favorite spots on our hike was where we passed a live tree that had somehow survived the floods. Though a bit disheveled, broken and stripped of bark on one side, it was beautiful in its own way. We stopped for a while by this tree, breaking for water. Standing there looking up at its worn trunk I was drawn to its ruggedness. It’s history. It’s story.
A Story
Hal and I never made it to the glacial lake to see the breach. Logistics didn’t allow for it. We did, however, see its effects.
The story of the Earth is one of constant change—often slow but punctuated by quick, sometimes devastating, alternations. Hiking with Hal reminded me of this.
Powerful natural forces that shape the planet, like water, make change inevitable, but also knowable. The story of our planet unfolds as we read the geology. And, like a tree battered by floodwaters, it is one of beauty and resilience.
The survivor!
Hal Wershow is an Assistant Professor of Geology at Central Oregon Community College. His prior experience includes work in the environmental services industry and geoscience education. Hal earned a Master’s in Geology from Western Washington University.
Autumn is one of the best times of the year to explore the Pacific Northwest. The air turns crisp and cool, mosquito season is over (a big win in my book!), mushroom hunting season ramps up, and the deciduous leaves of our native shrubs and trees brighten as they change colors. It is absolutely a favorite time of year for me to hit the trail! But where to go?
Though it is difficult to go wrong when selecting an autumn hike in Oregon, there are several hikes that I have found especially welcoming this time of year. Here are a few of my top picks for my home state to be curious about .
1) Silver Fall State Park
Silver Falls is a classic Oregon hike. It is beautiful any time of year, but fall is one of my favorite times to visit, especially on a drizzly day. Giant bigleaf maple trees turn a bright yellow in the fall and litter the ground along with a myriad of other deciduous leaves of various colors and shapes. When the wind picks up, leaves fly down from overhead before finding their way onto the soft earth or dancing along in the waters of Silver Creek. The smell of the Earth is richer in the rain and who doesn’t love a bit of mud or a good splash-able puddle?
Location or Nearest Town: Near Silverton, OR. Trail of Ten Falls starts at South Falls; parking permit is required.
Distance: 7.2 Miles for the Trail of Ten Falls (highly recommend). There are many shorter options as well. Check out the Oregon State Park’s Silver Falls Map to learn more.
Difficulty: Moderate.
When to go: Mid to Late October is typically best for fall colors. I also recommend visiting when there is a bit of rain in the forecast.
Why go? Fall colors juxtaposed against dark green conifers. Silver Falls is also a great place to look for a diverse array of mushrooms. Oh, and then there are the waterfalls!
Trail Curiosity: Fall Leaves!
Leaves in the spring and summer are rich in chlorophyll, an important mixture of compounds that, not only make leaves green but is essential for plants to perform photosynthesis—the light-requiring process they use to produce food. During the fall, with less light available, some plants will halt photosynthesis and, instead, break down their chlorophyll in preparation for winter dormancy—a process known as senescence. During senescence, nutrients are redistributed away from leaves to seeds and buds for the following spring.
Without chlorophyll around, other pigments in leaves become visible. Classes of compounds, like carotenoids and flavonoids, which give leaves an orange or yellow hue respectively, are unmasked in the fall, while others, like red inducing anthocyanins, may even ramp up production in years with a lot of sun. And voila! We have a forest of eye candy!
Because the timing of foliage color change is triggered by changes in day length and decreased temperatures, the timing of color change is predictable. A tourism site called Smoky Mountains publishes a fall foliage prediction map each year to help tourists get the timing right. Other factors, like, sunny days, nighttime temps, as well as moisture conditions can also affect the vibrancy of the fall show.
2) Ramona Falls
The hike to Ramona Falls near Mount Hood is a Portland favorite. The trail features a mossy green forest and mountain views, culminating with access to the lovely Ramona Falls—her water tendrils cascading down a basalt cliff at trails end. Though the hike is accessible much of the year, except for winter, fall is an especially enjoyable time to visit. Why? Because relentlessly pushing up from the duff are countless mushrooms of spectacular variety. Tall or short, symmetrical or irregular, purple or brown—there is much to admire about the biodiversity of mushrooms in the area. In short, fall is mushroom season.
Location or Nearest Town: Mount Hood Wilderness area. Near Rhododendron, OR. Start at the Ramona Falls Trailhead.
Distance: 7.1 miles with additional miles possible.
Difficulty: Moderate (Caution: do not cross the Sandy River when water runs at dangerous levels).
When to go: October to early November.
Why go? Mountain views, a crystal-clear creek, and, of course, Ramona Falls. And in the fall so many mushrooms!
Trail Curiosity: Mushrooms!
Fungi are ubiquitous. Especially in a forest. Creating massive networks of mycelium, growing on and inside plants and their tissues, floating in the air as spores—fungi are all around us. They are found in nearly every ecosystem on the planet, and we are more closely related to kingdom fungi than kingdom plants. Despite this, we hardly give notice. That is until they mushroom.
Mushrooms are the fruiting bodies of fungi—releasing spores that are carried by wind, or by other means, to a final resting place. If conditions are suitable, a new fungus will begin to grow. Fungi hedge their bets by producing a lot of spores—sometimes numbering in the trillions.
The spores of a fungi can also be used to help identify a mushroom. Many people create spore prints for this purpose. Others make prints as a form of art. Making a spore print involves placing a mushroom cap gill side down on paper, usually half black and half white, and covering it with a glass cup for 24 hours. When time is up and the cap is removed, a ghostly image of the top of the mushroom cap is left behind.
Besides performing an essential function for the fungi, mushrooms are magnificent to behold. From behemoth king boletes to the dainty (and illegal) liberty caps, the biodiversity of mushrooms in Oregon’s forests is spectacular. There are the popular edible mushrooms, like honey-colored Chanterelles and the fleshy white or brown Matsutake to forage for. Poisonous mushrooms, like the bright-white destroying angel and the greenish and white gilled death caps, to avoid. And many more mushrooms to admire.
3) Old Salmon River Trail
The Old Salmon River Trail is a blissfully easy river walk. With a gentle grade it is appropriate for all ages and most ability levels. The trail runs along the Salmon River on one side and the hardly used Salmon River Road on the other. The path is flanked by mossy, green vegetation, and towering old growth trees that gives a sense of being more remote than it is. The rush of the river near the trail adds to the tranquility, as does the wildlife that call the watery corridor home. In the fall, Chinook Salmon may be seen spawning in the rushing waters of the wild and scenic Salmon River.
Distance: 5 miles round-trip or arrange a shuttle for a shorter walk.
Difficulty: Easy.
When to go: September to October to see Chinook Salmon spawn in the river.
Why go? Old growth trees, mushrooms, and fall color. This hike really has it all, including the chance to see Chinook Salmon spawning in the fall.
Trail Curiosity: Spawning Salmon!
Chinook Salmon, like other salmonid species, are anadromous fish—born in freshwater, but spending most of their lives in the Ocean, before returning to their natal stream to spawn. They are also called “king salmon” due to their massive size—sometimes reaching up to 50 pounds. With spotted purple backs and silver sides, they are distinguishable from other salmon by a darkened gum line.
The migration of a Chinook to and from the Ocean is full of challenges—from predators to pollution to dams—very few make it back. Those that do return, bodies darkened with a deep red underbelly and fins—are ready to spawn.
The female prepares a redd, or “nest”, by flipping her body sideways and slapping her tail against pebble sized rocks. Her silvery sides shimmering, as she cleans out a depression in the gravel. She lays thousands of eggs into the redd while, simultaneously, a male release his milt—a sperm containing fluid—fertilizing the eggs. Their purpose complete, both parents will die within a couple weeks of spawning. Several weeks later the eggs will hatch, and the cycle will begin again.
4) Scott Mountain Loop
The Scott Mountain Loop begins at scenic Scott Lake. It is worth walking down to the lake before beginning the loop to view the Three Sisters above Scott Lake’s glassy waters. Once on the trail there is much to appreciate, including a subalpine forest of fir and mountain hemlock, several large swimmable lakes, and excellent views of the surrounding mountains.
In the fall, patches of huckleberry shrubs turn a vibrant red along the trail, contrasting against the greens and yellows of the forest. The trail starts at over 5,000 feet of elevation, so as you move up trail to even higher altitudes be prepared to find early snow lingering on the trail. Upon reaching the open meadow summit of Scott Mountain, you will encounter views of many of the nearby Cascade volcanoes, including Mt. Jefferson, Three Fingered Jack, Mt. Washington, and the Three Sisters—with any luck, freshly capped in white.
Location or Nearest Town: Off the McKenzie Highway; Near Sisters, OR. Start at the Benson/Tenas Trailhead.
Distance: 7.7 miles for an out and back to Mount Scott summit or 9.7 miles for the loop. A shorter easier hike to Benson Lake or Tenas Lakes is also possible. Please note you must have a Central Oregon Cascades Permit to hike here.
Difficulty: Difficult with Easy shorter options.
When to go: Late September to Early October after the first snow in the mountains.
Why go? Swimmable lakes, green subalpine forest, and mountain views!
Trail Curiosity: Weather Transitions!
Autumn is a time of transition—it is fleeting, sometimes bittersweet. The heat of summer wanes in favor of cool temperatures, clouds, and even some snow showers in the mountains. For many it is the best time of year to be outdoors in the Pacific Northwest, claiming that “the weather is perfect!”
One of the major factors that influences climate and weather patterns on the planet is sunlight. The Earth orbits around the sun at a tilt, such that at different times of year, depending on where you live, you may be facing the sun or turned away from it. The Fall Equinox, usually around the 22nd of September, marks the day where the Northern Hemisphere starts to tilt away from the sun as it gradually changes in its position in orbit. Without the direct sunrays of summer, the days grow shorter, and the temperatures start to drop—sometimes rather sharply. This leads to the first freeze and mountain snowfall. Winter is on the way, especially in the mountains.
View from one of the dunes in Pacific City, Oregon
There is something otherworldly about walking among the dunes on Oregon’s Coast. Walking from crest to crest of these rolling hills of sand feels akin to walking atop ocean waves. With each step the sand shifts underfoot, and you wonder if you just might comfortably fall into a deep crystalline sea.
Despite the strangeness of the sand dune landscape, dune ecosystems are common along Oregon’s Coastline (though not so much elsewhere). Formed following the last Ice Age by the erosion of the sedimentary rocks of Oregon’s coastal mountain range, Oregon’s dunes are sculpted and shaped by the seasonal influences of water and wind and the surrounding terrain. The result is a menagerie of dunes of varied shape, size, and expansiveness; some only a few hundred feet long, hedged in by headlands and other obstructions, while others stretch 10s-of-miles along the coast creating places like the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area near Florence.
Given the ubiquitous and curious nature of dunes, it is no surprise that these large sandy masses, have been, and continue to be, influenced by people.
When European settlers flocked to the Oregon coast to establish communities in the late 1800s, they were immediately met with the challenge of living in a dynamic sand-swept environment. Rather than retreating, settlers managed the sand with what they considered the best weapon in their arsenal—European beachgrass. European beachgrass has been used extensively throughout the world for erosion control. Oregon is no exception. European beachgrass is now a defining character of Oregon’s Coastal Dunes, influencing not only dune formation but also dune ecology.
To better understand the story of dunes in the Pacific Northwest and the ecological significance of European beachgrass and another non-native grass, American beachgrass, I met up with Rebecca Mostow, dune ecologist, at Bob Straub State Park near Pacific City for an interview and hike.
The Hike
Trailhead: Bob Straub State Park Trailhead
Distance: approximately 1 mile
Elevation: minimal
Details: Plenty of paved parking at trailhead. No fee for parking. There is also bathroom with flushing toilets. There are signs and a map posted at the trailhead.
It was a cool spring day when I met up with Rebecca for our hike and interview. A marine layer of clouds hung low in the sky, threatening drizzle, but the weather remained mild and dry. After some brief introductions, Rebecca and I headed out along the back dune trail, or Marsh Trail, at Bob Straub Park with plans to eventually cut down to the beach.
Rebecca Mostow standing on the crest of one of the vegetative dunes along the trail.
Rich and Varied
As we made our way down an alley of shrubs and trees that line the entire back dune trail, Rebecca told me a bit about her background.
Rebecca’s undergraduate work was at Oberlin College, where she studied biology and plant systematics. She also got involved in a variety of different research projects, from an HIV vaccine research internship to an invasive snail survey. Her work continued to be rich and varied after graduation as well. She even spent some time on a tiny island with half a million sea birds and only two people for company.
However, it didn’t take long before Rebecca’s passion for plants drew her back. Even during her time watching sea birds, she admitted that she couldn’t help but notice the plants. “I made a baby flora of the island,” she remarked. She also worked for the BLM in Nevada, Carson City district, on plant conservation before ultimately ended up in graduate school at Oregon State University in Sally Hacker’s Lab.
Intentional Introductions
Even now, walking along the trail, Rebecca was drawn to the plants surrounding us. She admired the new shoots of the spruce trees that grew along the trail, impressed by their symmetry. “See the little pattern,” Rebecca exclaimed, “a Fibonacci spiral!”
As we continued along, however, another pattern became apparent, at least to Rebecca’s trained eyes. “All of the plants we are looking at were intentionally planted altogether,” she explained. European beachgrass was planted to help stabilize and build dunes, Shore Pine to provide native habitat, and invasive Scotch Broom as a nitrogen fixer.
“They were trying to engineer a coastal forest,” offered Rebecca, as an explanation.
Shore Pine, Scotch Broom, and European beachgrass growing together along the trail.
Unstable
As mentioned previously, sand does not make the development of permanent human settlement easy, or in some cases possible. By vegetating the dynamic, shifting sand system that was once present in the area, it was converted into a more stable system. But at a cost.
Rebecca explained that many species rely on open sand for habitat. Species, like the Western Snowy Plover, require open sand for nesting. The Streaked Horned Lark is another species reliant on open sandy areas.
So, though sand stability is great for human habitation, it does result in a substantial loss in habitat for other species. Both the Western Snowy Plover and the Streaked Horned Lark are threatened species under the Endangered Species Act mainly due to habitat loss.
This Grass is not like the Others
I have never been very good at identifying grasses and grass-like plants. Beyond remembering the saying: “sedges have edges, reeds are round, and grasses bend their knees to the ground,” I have very little experience with grasses and couldn’t begin to tell species apart.
However, walking with Rebecca along the dune trail, literally lined with beach grass, it wasn’t long before I received an education.
“This is our native dune grass,” Rebecca chimed, pointing to a blue-twinged blade. She went on to explain that in addition to the color of the blade, there are many other characteristics that help distinguish American Dune grass, Leymus mollis, from the European beachgrass, Ammophila arenaria, that was brought in to build and stabilize dunes.
“The leaf blades are so much wider, and it has a more prominent midrib” than European beachgrass, said Rebecca.
Rebecca examining a patch of beach grass.
The Pits
And then there are the pits. Okay, so they aren’t exactly “pits,” but if you look at the point where the leaf and stem meet, you can see something called a ligule, a thin translucent-white tissue growth found at this junction. “The ligule is the armpit hair of the grass,” said Rebecca partly in jest, as she bent back a leaf. But it is also one of the most surefire ways to differentiate between beach grasses. American dune grass has a ligule that is short and flat. European beachgrass has a ligule that is much longer. When you need to tell grasses apart, “Just look at the pit hair!” Rebecca exclaimed.
Growing Underground
After my ligule tutorial, I asked Rebecca why European settlers on the coast planted European beachgrass instead of our native Dune grass.
“It is our native grass,” responded Rebecca, “but it does not build dunes.” She pointed to a patch of American dune grass growing just along the trail. “It doesn’t grow very densely,” she explained. Each stem of American dune grass was spaced out a bit from the others. In contrast, European beachgrass is “super dense” allowing it to better capture sand and trap it in place.
“Look, these three stems are all the same plant,” Rebecca pointed out.
“It is amazing when you start to dig down,” explained Rebecca, referring the propagation of beach grasses. Even the native “dune” grass spreads via underground stems called rhizomes; they just send shoots up at longer intervals. It is the underground growth that truly makes European beachgrass a great dune builder.
Not Exactly Invasive
“Would it be considered invasive?” I asked at one point as we walked along, referring to the European beachgrass’ ability to spread and compete.
To be considered invasive, Rebecca explained, a species needs to meet certain criteria. “It has to do significant damage to the environment, human health, or the economy.” For example, “Scotch broom is a listed invasive weed,” said Rebecca. “It is causing a lot of economic damage.”
European beachgrass is not listed, because though it has some of the traits of an invasive species, including negative ecological impacts, it doesn’t meet the criteria. It benefits people in many ways, so it is difficult to say it is “causing harm,” even when some native species are being impacted.
Structure of a Dune
At this point, Rebecca and I hit a junction, and we agreed to cut down to the beach. But before we headed down, Rebecca explained a bit about the structure of dunes.
“We are on the crest of the foredune; the dune closest to the ocean,” said Rebecca standing at the highest point of the dune we had been walking behind. Behind us is the backdune and looking out toward the ocean is the toe, which slopes down toward the ocean. There can be many waves of dunes behind the foredune, rising and falling just like the ocean, “and they are all covered in grass.”
Views looking out over the backdune to the ocean
Varied Vegetation
“Backdune to toe, the density of grasses will change,” said Rebecca. And you can see other differences in other vegetation as well. Where we stood near the crest of the dune, we could see pearly everlasting, beach pea, native strawberry, and what was dubbed a “fun little thistle-y thing” growing between the blades of grass on the sand.
Not only that but, the species of beachgrass growing in an area also influences plant biodiversity. You see, in addition, to European beachgrass, American beachgrass was also introduced to the Pacific Northwest Coast to stabilize and protect coastal communities. However, for whatever reason, European beachgrass was introduced in the south and American beachgrass in the north, creating different beach grass ecosystems.
The differences in biodiversity between the American and European beachgrass systems is something that Sally Hacker’s Lab has studied in the past. When the lab compared the biodiversity of these dune systems, it was found that European beachgrass supports greater plant biodiversity than American beachgrass.
Two Ammophila Species
There are many additional differences between American beachgrass (Ammophila breviligulata) and European beachgrass (Ammophila arenaria) that make each type unique.
A. arenaria also has stems that are skinnier, leaves that are thinner, and a long ligule. The grass blades grow densely together; instead of sending out lots of lateral shoots, A. arenaria grows more vertically. In addition, A. arenaria “like to be in one clump together,” said Rebecca, allowing them to “accrete more sand” and build tall, steep dunes.
On the other hand, A. breviligulata has thicker leaves and stems and a short ligule. The grass blades grow further apart; instead of growing tall, A. breviligulata sends out lateral shoots and grows horizontally. According to Rebecca, a dune field of A. breviligulata is large and “hummocky.”
Hybridization
Though historically European beachgrass was dominant primarily in the South and American beachgrass in the North, on the Central Oregon Coast, where Rebecca and I were hiking, there is a point of overlap between the grass’s ranges. And, thus, an opportunity for hybridization, or the production of a genetic cross, between the two species.
“Part of my research is about the hybrid between these two beachgrasses,” said Rebecca, as she directed me down the toe and onto the sandy beach below in search of the first little hybrid patch she has been tracking. Rebecca explained that the first time the hybrid was “discovered” was in 2012.
“Discovered is a confusing word,” proclaimed Rebecca. “Some people from my lab were doing a survey and they found grass that looked sort of weird,” but it wasn’t until later, after finding more patches of the “weird” grass before it drew much interest. And later still before Rebecca was able to do the genetic work to confirm that what was discovered was a hybrid.
A patch of European beach grass
Taken for a Ride
We combed the beach looking for the “weird” hybrid. However, instead of finding it. we noticed many signs of storm damage—large swaths of sand torn from along the toe of the dune.
Rebecca walked over to one of the dunes and brushed away the sand from the base of one of the clusters of beachgrass. “Look here! You can see what it looks like under the sand,” she remarked holding a dense cluster of fibrous roots that branched out in all directions, connecting to other clusters of roots by underground stems.
“They erode from the beaches,” she said, “and it gets picked up by a wave and then gets spread from one beach to another.”
Rebecca removing sand to expose the underground root and stem system beach grass uses to propagate
The Path Back
We continued looking along the beach, passing by the spot Rebecca recalled finding the hybrid in the past. The patch had since been washed away, perhaps to start up someplace new.
We headed inland toward another area Rebecca had GPS coordinates for, chatting along the way about her love of plants and how curiosity regarding invasive species led her to her work today. “Why do some plants get introduced and nothing happens?” Rebecca wondered aloud, reminiscing.
Rebecca’s passion for research was evident as we talked further. She told me how she got into genetic work in order to obtain higher resolution data that would allow her work to have a larger impact than in the past. “Genetic work is 100s to 1000s of data points,” she marveled.
Ultimately, Rebecca’s careful consideration of her interests and skills landed her in Sally Hacker’s Lab.
The Hybrid Problem
And then we were there, standing in front of a large path of hybrid beachgrass. “Here is its sweet little intermediate ligule,” Rebecca smiled as she pulled the leaf down on one of the grasses to reveal its “pit” tissue. “This is one of our wonderful patches,” she remarked, her gaze sweeping down at the bunches of grass that grew at our feet.
It was at this point that I asked Rebecca about the implication of the hybrid. “Is the hybrid a problem?” I questioned.
Even though they are not native to Oregon, explained Rebecca, beachgrasses are providing a service to people that live in coastal areas by protecting them from storm surges and erosion. However, “the two species produce different shaped dunes that have different value,” Rebecca explained. If the dominant species changes, that could mean a higher risk of storm surge to overtop the dunes, or it might not. She cited a 2010 or 2012 study that conversion to American beachgrass in areas where European dominates would create “a three-fold increase in overtopping risk.”
When it comes to the hybrid, there are a lot of questions to answer.
“What are its impacts going to be on the dunes? Is it going to build different shaped dunes? Is it going to take over areas of parent species?” Rebecca listed. “It’s kind of a dash to figure out the impact.”
A close-up of the short ligule of the American beachgrass.
More Invasive
There are also questions about how the hybridization might increase the invasiveness of the beachgrass species, potentially harming native species to a greater extent than the parent species.
“Hybridization can jump-start evolution in plants,” explained Rebecca. When separate species are put together you get something brand new— “a completely novel genotype!”
In addition, there is some evidence that the hybrid may be able to produce viable offspring, allowing for even more crossing of populations, increasing genetic biodiversity further. “Increasing genetic variation in invasive plants has been shown to increases their invasiveness,” said Rebecca.
To be Done
So, what can be done? “Can we stop or prevent the spread of invasive species?” I asked Rebecca, as we stood considering the potential impacts of her newly identified cross.
“There are a lot of layers to think about,” Rebecca suggested. Questions regarding who is being impacted and how will help determine an appropriate course of action. She used the example of cheatgrass, pervasive invasive grass in rangeland environments. The impacts of cheatgrass affect ranches and those that depend on the work the ranchers are doing, as well as the native plants and animals that live in the ecosystem. Thus, figuring out how to prevent the spread of cheatgrass is a high priority in the west.
With beachgrasses, it is a bit different. Again, despite some of the ecological ramifications, the presence of the grasses is needed in human-inhabited coastal areas as protection.
However, there are some efforts to remove the beachgrasses and restore some of the native habitats that have been virtually eliminated on the Pacific Northwest Coast with the introduction of the grasses. In fact, Rebecca shared how her advisor, Sally Hacker, is involved in some research looking into how to best restore some areas of the dunes that aren’t critical to coastal protection.
“When you think about the impact,” said Rebecca, “we should all be on board to keep invasive species in their lane.”
Three of a Kind
At this point, Rebecca and I headed back down the path toward our vehicles. Then, looking out in the distance, Rebecca pointed out a large dune that sat just in front of a line of houses.
“It is covered in hybrid,” she said, “and has all three species.”
Rebecca went on to explain how, instead of a natural system, the dunes in the area are actively managed—built up and planted by people—and suggested that we take a quick look. So, when we got back to the trailhead, a short walk later, we both hopped in our vehicles, and I followed her over to see what the fuss was about.
Upon arrival, we were able to find our first sample of American beachgrass with its short ligule. We also saw more European beachgrass, some American dune grass, and, of course, a lot of the hybrid.
Rebecca told me that so far, they have found more than 27 patches of the hybrid at 17 different sites heading North from Pacific City. The site we were visiting was the southern terminus of its extent so far.
And there was a lot of it! Rebecca pointed out the patches as we walked back onto the dune and looked around. There is so much of it, that Rebecca told me that they were in the process of training people to identify the hybrid as part of a Citizen Science Project.
We didn’t stay long on the managed dune, but Rebecca helped me gather a sample of the European beachgrass, American beachgrass, and the Hybrid. We lined them up and snapped a picture of all three for comparison.
European beachgrass, American beachgrass, and the Hybrid
A Bleak or Bright Future?
Looking at the photo now, with the hybrid placed alongside its parent species, I feel a bit like I am looking at a photo of a high school graduate with their proud parents.
We know a good deal about the European beachgrass and American beachgrass, they are settled in the habits of building dunes in the same way they always have, but the hybrid is something new—a fresh mix of genes with so much potential. The future of the hybrid could very well change the Pacific Northwest Coastline, for better or worse. Many questions remain. And a lot of opportunities await. Fortunately, we have people like Rebecca here to help us understand its future.
Rebecca Mostow is a Graduate Fellow at Oregon State University in Sally Hackers Lab studying dune ecology. She has also worked as an environmental educator and research technician. She earned a Bachelor of Arts in Biology from Oberlin College in 2013.
Views from the open ridge top on Sterling Mine Ditch trail.
Fire. Red, hot whirls of gases set ablaze in the presence of oxygen. It is beautiful. It is dramatic. And it is dangerous. Right?
When I think about fire in my own life, phrases like “don’t play with matches” and “only you can prevent forest fires” spring to mind. I imagine firefighters battling blazes, blackened trees, and billows of smoke filling the sky— in short, destruction.
This view of the fire is not uncommon. Over the years, fire has developed a bad rap. Fires have wreaked havoc on millions of acres of forests in the west. Thousands of people are displaced and even die each year as a result of fire. It has been suppressed and fought against for a good part of the last century.
We fight fire. But should we?
After spending the afternoon talking and exploring the hillsides of Southwest Oregon with Chris Adlam, OSU extension forester, I am inclined to say “no.” Or at least, “not always” and “it’s complicated.”
Distance: Approximately 4.7 miles loop with longer options.
Elevation Gain: Approximately 690 ft
Details: No restroom at the trailhead and limited parking.
Welcome to California
I met up with Chris on a warm spring afternoon at the Bear Gulch trailhead. Moisture hung in the air teasing us with the prospect of rain, but except for a sprinkle or two, we stayed dry. Dry is a common condition in the part of Oregon, which, as Chris expressed, is “much more common in California.” He described the place we were hiking as “oak woodland,” an ecosystem characterized by its hot, dry summers and little rain.
“As far as the ecology is concerned,” said Chris, “we are in California.”
Oak woodland ecosystem at the start of the hike.
It’s Complicated
Of course, there is one more thing that defines an oak ecosystem—fire! “This is a landscape that was made this way by fire,” explained Chris. But, as we started up the trail, it became evident that this defining characteristic had not been present on the landscape for a long time.
“It looks messy,” said Chris pointing to patches of dead manzanita with new growth on top. There were also a lot of trees, including conifers crowded together along the path. “It looks terrible to my eyes,” Chris exclaimed.
Chris told me how he had found an old snag not to far from where we were hiking that showed “17 fire scars.” He explained that these scars mark the frequency of fire in the area. “It would have burned every 3-5 years,” said Chris. But that was the past. Looking around at the crowded hillside, Chris frowned. “This place hasn’t seen fire in decades.”
An Education
We moved up the trail slowly, taking in the scenery and flowers. Both of us botany nerds, we paused frequently during the hike to marvel at the rich plant diversity we encountered. After attempting to take photos of Henderson’s Shooting Star, I asked Chris to tell me a bit about his background.
“Well, my family growing up spent a lot of time outdoors,” Chris began. He recalled going birding and visiting the mountains. But “I never thought that much about it,” said Chris. Later, he became interested in sustainability and ecological restoration. “You can help fix them,” Chris said, referring to ecologically damaged areas, “And I thought that was very powerful.”
Mindshift
Chris grew up in France and moved to Canada when he was 19 years old. His earliest understandings of Native people had come from John Wayne movies. It was not until he moved to Canada, where “the tribes were very visible,” that he has his first encounters with Native people. He saw Native people fishing in rivers and interacting with the landscape. He was intrigued by their connection to the land.
Chris, like many from a western culture, had the perception that people are separate from nature. That you “go to nature,” rather than being a part of it. Stemming from this is the idea, he was of the mindset that “people necessarily hurt nature”—a contentious relationship.
However, Chris learned during his time in Canada and later in the United States, this does not have to be the case.
“There are many cultures that live sustainability not by separating themselves from nature but taking responsibility for their role as caretakers of their ecosystem.” It was this shift in thinking that really got Chris interested in fire ecology.
Cultural Problem
As we gradually reached the ridgetop, Chris spoke more about fire and how his interactions with Native people taught him to appreciate fire.
“I have been fortunate to learn from many tribes—the Karuk, Yurok Tribe, and Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde…” began Chris.
“What have you learned?” I asked.
“I think about it a lot,” was his response. “Most important to me,” he concluded after much consideration, “is understanding how Native people treat fire differently.”
“We tried to fight fire; we tried to prevent it,” said Chris, but “you can’t control fire!”Chris went on to explain that the “fire crisis,” as he put it, “is a cultural issue.” “It is not a lack of science or knowledge. Not a policy support problem. It is a culture problem.”
“For Native people, fire is a sentient living thing.” While in the United States, it is legally considered a nuisance if it is not controlled.
FireKeepers
For centuries Indigenous people worked alongside fire to actively manage the land. Fires were set regularly before European settlement to maintain an open landscape ideal for hunting and foraging.
Walking along the ridgetop now, though, overgrown with vegetation and littered with deadwood, it was hard to imagine the open prairie ecosystems of yore. The views would have been incredible!
Botanizing
Despite the overgrowth, there were still some lovely remnants of the past landscape to admire, though I think Chris had a hard time getting past the devastation.
In particular, Chris and I admired the native wildflowers along the trail. Chris had a knack for identifying plant species
Many of the plants we observed were used by Indigenous people as food, fuel, or fiber. I asked Chris to point some out. He pointed to a fuzzy white flower with rounded petals that pointed at the tip—the Cat’s Ears Lily. “These have an edible root,” said Chris. Traditionally, they would have been used by a lot of tribes as a food source, he explained.
We also saw several examples of yellow Lomatia or biscuitroot. I had heard of the use of Lomatium to produce a flour that was shaped into transportable cakes. In addition to having edible roots, Lomatium has edible leaves and flowers, Chris told me.
“And then, of course, are the oaks!” exclaimed Chris. The acorns of the oaks were staple foods for many tribes who, at the time, lived in an oak-dominated environment. Once the dominant tree across the landscape, many tribes depended on and managed for, oaks and their associated species.
And what was used to manage the land for these plants? You guessed it. Fire.
A Cat’s Ear Lily. One of many wildflowers found on the trail.
Fire Dependent
Manzanita is another species used by Indigenous people found on our hike. “They made the berries into a drink,” said Chris.
At this point, we walked past a tall manzanita tree. Though beautiful to the eye, “ecologically they are an aberration,” said Chris.
Like other important indigenous plants, manzanita is a fire-dependent species. They need hot fire for seeds to germinate and plants to grow. Looking around the area, there was no young manzanita to be found. Instead, the shrubs were old and dying.
Manzanita was found all along the trail.
Ceremonies with Fire
Fire was also used in many tribal ceremonies. Unfortunately, a lot of ceremonies were made illegal, Chris told me, “even until the nineties!” So, ceremonies were practiced in small groups or families. I asked Chris if he was able to observe any of these practices. He said that there are some you can go to but didn’t speak to his own participation.
Instead, Chris told me about one of the ceremonies observed by Indigenous people in Northern California until the early 1900s. The ceremony took place at the landscape level. One mountainside was set ablaze, and then another, and another. Eventually, the signal reaches the medicine man who is waiting in the valley bottom to “call the salmon” home.
At the same time, the landscape responds. As the shrubs and grasses burn on the mountainside, the water level is raised in the river. The smoke from the burn fills the valley, blocking the sun’s rays and cooling the water. All of these help the salmon return. “It is more than a lot of symbolism,” Chris proclaimed.
Prescribed Burn
With all this in mind, Chris made the argument that we need to burn. And a lot more than we are doing right now. By doing this, we will not only revive the landscape but learn to appreciate fire and dismantle our need to control it.
“The most important thing to me is to do more prescribed burns. If we can figure out how to do that, then we will be good,” Chris stated.
A prescribed burn is a controlled process where landscapes are set on fire systematically. Prescribed burns are started from the top down. The landscape is lit with torches in lines and allowed to burn downslope until the fire burns out, then another line is placed below it and allowed to burn.
The whole process is easy according to Chris. “Regular people do prescribed burns,” explained Chris. “That is how we have done it over this last century.”
And prescribed burning has been used virtually everywhere across the globe. “You can go anywhere, people use fire.”
It wasn’t until recently that prescribed burning has, as Chris put it, “been given to the professional elite.” This change in responsibility is a mistake, according to Chris who has made it a goal to get people who live in fire-adapted landscapes involved in the process. “Everyone who lives in a place like this should get a chance to go to a prescribed burn,” he stated. It is part of our history and needs to be part of our future.
In Favor
We passed by another area filled with dead and down wood. I started wondering why we were not burning more landscapes and I asked Chris about it.
“For a long time, we thought we could stop fire,” suggested Chris, but recently, “I think it is changing.” People are beginning to understand that prescribed burns are okay. In fact, according to Chris, eight out of ten people nationwide are in favor of the practice. People are getting it. They are understanding we need it. “It is not controversial,” said Chris, as some might make you think.
Overall, “we need to get people together to talk about it,” Chris suggested. “We need to agree. We can’t fight about this.” Being flexible and looking at the management options available, including prescribed burns, is key.
Several areas next to the trail were covered with dead and down wood.
Doing Nothing is Deadly
Chris and I reached a viewpoint or at least a partial one. For the first time in a while, we could see out onto the adjacent hillsides. “This place should be oaks and a few madrones,” said Chris. “We should see all the way out.” Instead, spindly orange conifers, sick from bark beetle infestation, dotted the crowded hillside.
A partial viewpoint. Looking out we would see many dying conifer trees in the distance.
“ These trees are a bunch of garbage and are doing to die !” Chris exclaimed looking around us. He pointed to a sickly sapling that was losing foliage and a tall Douglas-fir riddled with cones. “That one is dying,” he stated matter-of-factly. Both losses in upper crown foliage and producing a lot of cones are signs of stress, Chris explained.
“If a wildfire came through it would do great things ecologically,” Chris continued. The area would be cleared of much of the sickly Douglas-firs, which would allow the oak tree to flourish. The fire would help any remaining trees better able to fend off insect attracts. The manzanita and ceanothus would be able to go to seed. Grasslands would be reestablished.
As I walked the ridgeline, I tried to imagine it—this place 100 years ago. I tried to see through Chris’ eyes what was lost and what one day may be found.
A stressed Douglas-fir tree with many cones.
Fire Scars
Eventually, we passed an old snag, cracked and open so you could see inside. Chris later called it a “cat-face.”
“This one had fire,” said Chris as he crouched down to get a closer look. Tracing his fingers across the black markings that punctuated its open face. “There are at least six here,” said Chris, referring to the multiple fire scars found on this one tree.
Each time a tree is burned it leaves a blackened mark. Given time, the tree will try to grow over the blackened area. However, like in the snag we found, it does not necessarily heal completely over, so that sometimes fire scars remain exposed for years to come.
The fire scars on this tree were close together, Chris estimated that the tree had been scared 3-4 times over a 20-year period. “Not to mention those that didn’t make a mark!” Chris clarified.
A fire-scarred snag, evidence of fires in the past.
Legacy of Fire
As we continue along, Chris pointed out more examples of the legacy of fire on the landscape:
We saw another “cat-faced” tree—an oak—but this time its face was completely healed over so you could not see inside.
There was a notable area that was mostly clear of trees and underbrush, except for a few oaks with spreading branches. Though it was difficult to say for certain what had cleared the area, Chris had a sneaking suspicion it was fire. “I would guess 1987,” said Chris, as a fire had been in the area that year.
“The oaks are doing great,” Chris pointed out as a testimony to the efficacy of fire. An understory of roamers fescue, a native bunch grass, punctuated scene.
An area cleared of underbrush and native grasses growing.
We also saw countless madrone on the trail, some that were huge having survived the fires of the past. Others with multiple stems, creating a tentacle-like effect that was mesmerizing. Chris explained that almost all broadleaf trees, including madrone, will send out multiple shoots following a burn. Though some trees, like oaks, will thin themselves out, madrones keep their multiple stems. These octopus-like trees were a result of fire!
Madrone tree with many trunks.
Legacy in the Landscape
Chris also noted how different areas within an ecosystem will have different legacies of fire. “South facing slopes tend to burn hotter and will have more oaks and fewer conifers, while cooler north-facing slopes will not burn as hot and have more conifers, Chris explained. In general, all areas “burn more severely on the upper part of slopes,” said Chris.
As we walked down into a stream drainage, Chris continued to ruminate on the topic. He speculated that the drainage would offer a different outcome when it comes to fire, perhaps acting as a fire stop and protecting the area from a severe burn. However, he prefaced that the steepness of the slope could also help spread the fire more quickly if it got started lower in the drainage.
Essentially, by looking at the contours of the land and the ecosystems that exist there, you can start to piece together a fire story.
Oh, the Plant Biodiversity!
Okay, so we talked a lot about fire on your hike! But another topic that came up time and time again was plants! “I aspire to know every plant where I live,” he admitted at one point.
Considering I also have a strong affinity for plants, Chris and I spent a good amount of time distracted by the botany all around us.
We saw everything from milk vetch with its fuzzy seedpods to balsamroot with its bright yellow flowers. We saw paintbrush, wild carrot, sweet cicely, fern leaf biscuit root, nine leaf biscuit root, Henderson’s fawn lily, and larkspur, to name a few. Fragile fern was another hit along the trail. The biodiversity was amazing!
And the enthusiasm of Chris equally so. At one point, Chris charged off the trail to check out what he thought might be a cypress tree, only to find out it was a juniper. We were seeing species that you find in western Oregon, co-mingling with species from eastern Oregon.
It seemed like around every bend, was always another fantastic botanical find!
Of course, Chris could not help himself. “People don’t always think about it,” he said as we passed by another patch of manzanita, “It is fire that creates all this diversity.”
A Ceanothus bush in bloom.
Not Clear Cut
As we came back up from the drainage, our views out became less obstructed than earlier in the hike. We could see hillsides of grasslands with ceanothus patches rising all around us. However, that is not all we could see. Off in the distance was a large patch of open ground—a clear cut.
Chris stopped in his tracks. You could tell he was not happy about what he was seeing. Though he admitted that timber harvesting was not his area of expertise, he saw some huge issues with how it was being done in Oregon. “Oregon has the least restrictive laws,” he started in on the issue. “You can clear cut 120 acres and if you throw a stick back in, you are all good.”
You could sense Chris’ frustration, which he tempered quickly. “There is a place for it,” he admitted, referring to Oregon’s coast range. It can provide “important habitat for bird species,” he went on, but this was not the place for it. “Dry forest is not good for this.”
Then there is the concern for fire. “Plantations burn more severely than older forest,” Chris said. Once the trees start to regenerate, all the benefit of fire protection that might come immediately following a clear cut is gone. “5 years you don’t have to worry, but once it is tall again, it will carry fire.”
Out in the Open
As we moved further along the trail and our views continued to improve until ultimately, we found ourselves in an open prairie ecosystem—face to face with the past. “I think this is a lot more what the landscape would have looked like,” said Chris.
Stately Black Oaks were spaced out at irregular intervals on the windswept hillside. It was beautiful. And it was the result of centuries-long practices of using fire.
Chris talked about how Indigenous tribes not only burned to maintain the open meadows ideal for hunting deer but how it was also used for pest management. For example, burnings occurred at night so moths that infest acorns would be attracted to the light and burn up.
A black oak tree in the open prarie.
Invasive Grasses
Amongst the fields of native grasses, there were also many invasive grasses, like medusahead, vying for space on our green hillside. Chris explained that a lot of the invasive grasses are annuals that go to seed each year, repopulate, and spread. The native grasses, on the other hand, are perennials that don’t seed every year, and thus are better adapted to frequent fire.
Without frequent fire, the invasive grasses were encroaching on the lands of the native grasses—an all too familiar tale. But, as ever, Chris had the remedy—fire. He explained that the annuals could be killed off with a well-timed prescribed burn, leaving the perennial natives to thrive.
The trail winding its way through the open prairie.
Working toward Change
Despite the presence of invasives, Chris was in his “happy place” as we walked along the rolling hillside.
Chris and I talked about his work as we went. “So far I am working with landowners,” he said, helping them go through the steps of doing a prescribed burn. He also hopes to work with tribes in the area to bring fire back to the landscape.
Eventually, we reached the opening to a tunnel and a sign that read “Turning Water into Gold.” It was the opening to the Sterling Mine Ditch Tunnel—a hand-dug, 26.5-mile tunnel used to divert water for gold mining. After poking around for a few minutes, we continued our conversation.
Sterling mine Ditch Tunnel
Changing Minds
“I want to bring people to more burn areas too,” remarked Chris, we began descending the trail through some oak woodlands and back to the road. He explained how people that experience fire are often traumatized. They cannot imagine the burned area ever being beautiful again. Chris wants to break that cycle of trauma by bringing people to a burn site so they can see “that not all is lost.”
Following a fire, life remains. There are still many live trees. Water flows through the streams. An entire seed bank of herbaceous plants, including brightly colored wildflowers, awaken and bloom. Animals, like woodpeckers, reptiles, deer, elk, and bears thrive in a burnt landscape.
Chris talked about using nature journaling as a tool for self-reflection on the burnt landscape. “It is a project I am working on,” he said. Nature journaling involved getting people to record what they notice in pictures, words, and numbers, generating questions, and reflecting on their own experiences.
By experiencing firsthand, the resiliency of the landscape to fire, Chris hopes to get people in touch with their own resilience. Experiencing “hard things” does not necessarily equate to a diminished existence, Chris explained. “You can come up all the better.”
Slow Burn
Chris and I continued to chat as we descended downhill through the woodlands to the gravel road and then back to our cars. Upon reaching the road, we said our goodbyes.
I really enjoyed my time talking and walking with Chris. His passion for his work with fire and its ecological and cultural significance was evident throughout our time together.
Since then, the idea that fire is a force to be valued and respected has been slowly burning in my consciousness. To think of fire as something vital is a paradigm shift, but one that makes a lot of sense both ecologically and socially. It is easy to become alarmed by the fires that burn through the west each summer, but if we can start to see fire differently, we can learn to respond to fire more appropriately and learn to adapt.
Chris Adlam is the Regional Wildland Fire Specialist for Jacksonville County Oregon State University Extension. Chris completed his Ph.D. in Ecology with a focus on revitalizing the use of fire in managing the land with northern California tribes.
It was an unusually sunny spring day in Seattle when I arrived at Discovery Park to hike with Sam and Yasmine—two energetic, young urban wildlife ecologists from the University of Washington. I was a bit early for our meeting, so I decided to wander down one of the many trails and do a little exploring.
Native trees and shrubs lined the trail, wildflowers were in bloom, and bird song filled the air. I watched a white-crowned sparrow hop from shrub to shrub and branch to branch, as light filtered through the canopy. It was a peaceful and pleasant ramble. You could almost get lost in nature’s spectacle if it were not for the other visitors that shuffled by at regular intervals.
That is the thing with urban parks, they are sort of a mixed bag—both a respite for wildlife and a central hub of activity for the populous. Often, they are the only way many people can access wild space. But just how wild are these spaces? And what becomes of the wildlife that call the “urban jungle” home?
Shortly after returning to our meeting spot in front of the visitor center, Sam joined me with her dog Sequoia, in tow. Yasmine arrived only a few minutes later. Quick introductions and an exchange of M&Ms between friends, and we were off on the trail.
The Hike
Trailhead: Discovery Park Visitor Center
Distance: approximately 3 miles (12 miles of trails)
Elevation Gain: unknown (varies)
Details: There is ample parking at the trailhead and several routes to choose from. When the visitor center is open it has restrooms, informational displays, and maps.
Youthful Indiscretions
Both Sam and Yasmine grew up in urban areas—Sam outside of San Francisco and Yasmine just outside of DC. During their youth they also both spent a lot of time outdoors.
“I was always obsessed with animals and being outside,” said Sam about her childhood. “I was that nerdy kid in the classroom reading animal encyclopedias….” she went on.
“I got lyme disease a couple of times because I was always running out into the woods,” Yasmine shared.
Urban Wildlife Ecologist
Both were also pulled toward urban wildlife.
Sam recalled the area she grew up— “I was amazed by how much wildlife is there.” This realization coupled with opportunities to get involved in research at the undergraduate level helped direct her academic future.
Now Sam is in her first year as a Ph.D. student at the University of Washington studying Seattle’s coyote population.
“I look for coyote scat,” she said bluntly. “There are supposedly coyotes all over Seattle, but I have yet to see one. I have found their poop in some places through.”
Yasmine, on the other hand, started her academic career pursuing vet school. Like Sam, however, she got involved in undergraduate research—studying invasive fish in the Chesapeake watershed. She worked on a variety of projects but ultimately kept coming back to urban wildlife.
Yasmine is now in the early stages of her Ph.D. program. “I am still figuring it out,” she explained. “I am going to be collecting carcasses to look at urban wildlife health,” she went on—to look for parasites, viruses, and assess their overall condition. She plans to source coyote carcasses from the USDA and Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife’s Control Operations. As she put it—she will be “recycling” carcasses—giving them a new purpose.
Human Discovery
I followed Sam and Yasmine along a well-established trail, passing by both native plantings, grassy knolls, and large swaths of invasive species. While we walked, Yasmine shared a bit about Discovery Park’s history.
“It was used by a lot of tribes for thousands of years,” she began.
“And then it became a military base, and all of this became raised for horse pastures and hundreds of buildings at its prime, like 80 years ago,” Yasmine gestured around. Finally, in the 1970s it was repurposed as a park and restoration work became.
It is an “earlier succession park,” according to Yasmine, as it was planted only in the last 50 years and it is still undergoing active restoration.
Sam piped in with the size of the park—”534 acres.” That is a nice chunk of real estate for urban wildlife.
Lots of invasive species and native planting at Discovery Park
Scoop the Poop
As we continued past a few buildings and through pockets of forest along the trail, I asked Sam to elaborate on the scat project.
“I have only collected a couple of scat,” said Sam. “Our main push for scat collection will be this summer.” She explained how there was some concern about the quality of scat collected in the winter with all the rainfall in Seattle. But she was able to get some good quality data from the few she collected.
Now you might be thinking, why scat? Why study excrement? Choosing to study something like scat, begs the question— “Why?” I asked Sam
Sam explained how her work is in collaboration with Woodland Park Zoo and Robert Long who is a proponent for non-invasive carnivore survey techniques. You don’t have to handle an animal to learn all about it. The idea of non-invasive techniques is that you can learn a lot without interacting directly with the animals you are studying, thus reducing potential unintended stress or harm. “I think it is really cool,” Sam exclaimed.
Plus, there is a lot to learn! Sam swabs the outside of the scat to “identify the coyote that pooped the poop,” as she put it most eloquently. Then the inside of the scat sample is swabbed and analyzed to determine what it consumed. “I will be doing everything genetically,” said Sam. However, according to Sam, you can determine a lot about the animals’ diet by manually going through it and looking at the hairs embedded in the undigested remains.
Why care?
Our eyes peeled to the ground, Sam, Yasmine, and I continued to scout the area, dreams of big piles of poo dancing through our heads. As we walked, I asked Sam and Yasmine to tell me more about urban wildlife and why someone should care about keeping tabs on the urban jungle.
Yasmine spoke up first “It is beneficial for us and to them to learn how to coexist,” she stated because “they are here anyway.”
If we understand urban wildlife better, we can learn how to respond to their presence and develop management techniques that make sense.
She went onto discuss, as she put it, “the disease angle.” “A lot of these animals are vectors for disease,” she explained. “How can we ensure they have enough space, so they don’t end up in human spaces?” Therefore, it is important to understand what makes urban wildlife tick; “so, they don’t pass a disease on to our pets or kids or something.”
Clever Coyotes
Even if people wanted to eliminate coyotes from urban environments, which I believe Sam and Yasmine would argue is a mistake, it would be very difficult to accomplish.
“They are very adaptable,” shared Sam. “When you remove coyotes it creates a vacuum that coyotes will go fill… They have density-dependent fecundity.” Meaning, if you reduce the populations, coyotes simply produce more offspring.
Yasmine agreed in Sam’s assessment. “They really thrive in so many different cities in ways other animals don’t,” said Yasmine. Sharing how during the first coyote project she worked on she found coyote using railroads and living in trainyards. It “blew my mind,” said Yasmine.
Cool Coyotes
After walking past several viewpoints along the trail, I asked Sam and Yasmine if they knew of any other “cool coyote facts?”
“They are the top predator in Seattle,” responded Yasmine. They suppress many other meso-carnivore species, like skunks, raccoons, opossum, and foxes. This can, in turn, boost overall biodiversity and ecosystem functioning by allowing prey of smaller predatory species to survive.
And what about people? The jury is still out. Yasmine explained that you will find papers saying opposite things when it comes to how coyotes respond to people. “It seems to vary by city,” said Yasmine. In some places, it seems they avoid people spatially, while others say they don’t mind being in the same space but will avoid people temporally. Either way, they don’t like us very much.
Of course, there is still much to learn about coyote and how they interact within their community. They are part of a “messy web,” said Yasmine.
A nice viewpoint next to an area being restored
Coyote Threats
So, with everything seemingly going well for coyote in urban environments, I asked Sam and Yasmine if there are any threats that coyote face. Yasmine had mentioned parasites and diseases as part of her research project. Is there something out there wiping out coyote populations?
The short answer seems to be no. But Yasmine did share a few threats that coyotes face.
“The first thing that comes to mind is mange,” responded Yasmine. Caused by parasitic mites, mange is a problem for coyotes that live in colder climates. Infected animals will scratch themselves too much, so that they lose their fur, leaving them susceptible to the elements.
Environmental toxins are another challenge. Led and arsenic are also potentially problematic to coyotes. As well as anticoagulant rodenticides. These chemicals have the potential to bioaccumulate or build-up, in the tissue of animals. They can also be biomagnified (increase) through the food chain, such that predators, like coyotes, face the brunt of the toxic effects as they consume prey riddled with toxins.
Food for Thought
At this point, we followed the road down to the beach. We passed by stands of stinging nettle and Yasmine shared her favorite ways to harvest and prepare stinging nettle by blanching and sautéing it. All this talk of food, of course, got me interested in learning more about Sam’s project.
“What do coyote eat?” I asked.
Though DNA analysis of the collected scat has not started, Sam told me that there is a lot that can be discovered by simply looking at the scat. As far as Sam has seen from samples found at one site, coyotes are eating rabbits and snakes, but also candy bars. Just like bone and fur are preserved in the scat of coyotes, so are wrappers and other pieces of plastic.
Additionally, a good deal of research has already been done on the coyote diet. And findings are incredibly variable. Sam explained that what coyote eat “depends on where you are and the time of year.” At one location in the North East, for example, the coyote diet was “80% berries at one point,” said Sam. Cities teeming with black rats, roof rats, and eastern cottontail are prevalent sources of food—all invasive species.
Finally, Sam said that household cats do not appear to be a regular part of coyote diets, despite what some would believe. Though one site in Los Angeles may be an exception.
Scoop the Poop Reprise
I was not “dung” with this line of questioning, however, and I asked Sam if she knew from her research how many coyotes inhabit the Seattle area?
Though she didn’t know offhand, Sam shared how the scat she was gathering—using a technique called “mark and recapture”—could also be used to determine population size.
The outer coating on each sample of scat contains epithelial gut cells that can be genetically identified down to an individual. As Sam put it, we know “exactly which individual pooped the poop.” With enough sampling, some individuals are likely to be “recaptured,” or identified a second time. It is the recapture data along with the initial captures that allow scientists to estimate population size.
This begs the question—how hard is it to collect samples? According to Sam, it is as easy as picking up your own pet’s waste—only she uses two Ziplock bags while collecting.
Down by the Sea
As we marveled at the amazing advancements in DNA analysis, Sam, Yasmine, and I made our way down to the beach. Sam’s dog Sequoia led the way down to the water. The tide was unusually low, so we decided to walk the shoreline for a while, dodging sea anemone and other critters that lie underfoot.
We talked about grad school, tutoring, and hiking in the Pacific Northwest, among other topics, including scat, as we walked the beach.
“One of the coolest coyote scats I have ever seen was on the Strait of Juan de Fuca on the Olympic peninsula,” shared Yasmine at one point. “There was one on the rocks in the tidepool. There were crabs and mussel shells in the scat!”
Unfortunately, our beach adventure did not turn up any such gems.
Low tide at Discovery Park
Social Structure
It did, however, turn up some juicy gossip on coyote social structure. Coyotes, according to Sam, live in family groups, but often act independently. “It is thought to be one of the reasons for their success,” explained Sam. The flexible groupings allow them to hunt in groups when it is advantageous, or head out on solo or couple adventures.
In addition, coyotes maintain territories that vary in size depending on how much food is available. Territories are defended by members of the family groups or packs.
Coyote Careers
After soaking in some sun, Sam, Yasmine, and I headed back uphill to continue our search for scat. We entered a large field/lawn area that looked promising. But sadly, our efforts were not rewarded. Still, no sign of coyote, though we did hear sea lions barking in the distance.
Feeling a bit defeated, but still hopeful, we continued uphill, our senses on high alert. I wondered what Sam and Yasmine felt about their chosen line of research. I asked what advice they might give to the next generation of wildlife ecologists.
Sam was first to respond. She explained how working in wildlife ecology is “not like what you see in National Geographic.” A lot of opportunities to study wildlife ecology are non-invasive and local. Many international jobs can be exploitive and/or very competitive. She recommended: “Know what you are interested in ecologically.”
Yasmine added, “You need to be flexible…build your own way.”
“More and more the field is becoming collaborative,” added Sam. “Getting involved in projects is a good start.”
Yasmin and Sam pose for the camera with Sam’s dog Sequoia
Citizen Science
Getting involved does not have to start with graduate school! Citizen science projects in urban wildlife and other sciences are becoming more popular. Since our hike, Sam and her collaborators have launched the Seattle Coyote Study website where people can sign up to help collect coyote scat for the project. Volunteering is easy, fun, and flexible, as participants choose when they go out and how often. Check it out at seattlecoyotestudy.wix.com/seattlecoyotestudy.
Eyes on the Prize
Around this point, we saw a used dog poop bag plopped on the side of the path. Not the sign of life we were looking for, even if it was technically scat.
Our hunt turning up nothing but domestic dog poo, I asked the duo what other signs of wildlife might be fun to look for in an urban setting. There has got to be something better than this!
“Deer sign is one the easiest things to look for,” said Yasmine. In some places, you can see a clear browse line. In other places, it is harder to detect but are still able to find signs of browse on individual plants.
Sam and Yasmine both agreed that tracks are also a lot of fun to look for, especially in the mud or snow. “When mud has that glaze,” said Sam, “it preserved prints perfectly!”
“And then if you are into birds, listening and looking for birds,” said Yasmine is a great way to connect with urban wildlife. She admitted she has never been that “into birds,” but has grown a greater appreciation for the birds in her neighborhood recently.
“It is amazing the diversity of birds in an urban area,” added Sam. “I was walking around my neighborhood and there was a pileated woodpecker on a telephone pole!” A rare site indeed!
Leaving a Mark
Eventually, Sam, Yasmine, and I made it back to the parking lot. Having completed our loop, we had not turned up a single sample of scat for Sam’s research. Defeated but not down, we said our energetic goodbyes and parted ways.
Upon reflection, though I did not find what I was looking for per se, I found something far greater. Spending time with Sam and Yasmine—their young enthusiasm for research and science—was hopeful and invigorating. There is a lot of good, thoughtful science happening, right now! It might go undetected much of the time. It might even be ignored. But like coyotes in Seattle, the signs are there. You just got to keep looking.
Samantha (Sam) Kreling and Yasmine Hentanti are both Ph.D. students studying urban wildlife at the University of Washington. Sam has a B.S. in Molecular Environmental Biology from the University of California Berkeley and Yasmine has a B.S. in Wildlife Ecology & Management from the University of Maryland.
