The clear fluting song of a western meadowlark rang out as I progressed slowly up the trail. It was a cold crisp winter evening and the sky was just beginning to darken as the sun slowly sank toward the horizon. The chill enlivened my cheeks and the heat radiating from my body turned my skin a rosy pink.
However, it wasn’t the call of the meadowlark or the cold winter air that held my attention. Rather, it was the twisted trunks and limbs of the bare white oaks reaching toward the sinking sun that captivated my mind. These perhaps centuries old sentinels dotted the open grasslands and congregated in the woodlands where I walked.
Natural History
Oak growth is often achingly slow, reaching heights of roughly 40 to 90 feet at maturity.
Yet, these hardy hardwoods seem to withstand the test of time, capable of living for centuries in harsh conditions, including through windstorms, drought and fire. In fact, Oregon White Oak are considered a fire dependent species, as they rely on fire to keep competing plants at bay.
Historically, natural wildfire and traditional burning practices of the indigenous Kalapuya maintained oak populations. However, with European colonization, fires were suppressed and the land was developed for other uses, like agriculture, eliminating as much as 99% of oak savanna in the Willamette Valley.
Now, many of the oaks that remain are found nestled between concrete and farmland. Even in the refuge, where I rambled, restored oak habitats sit alongside several large tracts of agriculture, supplying seed and grain to wintering geese.
Habitat
Rounding a bend, I entered denser woodland, the oak’s dry pinnately lobed leaves, long ago fallen, now crunched under feet. The trees grew straighter in the woods–their branches all reaching upwards toward the light. It was here that I noticed a small oak snag with a narrow open hollow. I wondered what occupied the space and drew in for a closer look.
In general, Oregon oak ecosystems are incredibly important wildlife habitat. Oaks themselves provide abundant food. Many birds, like the acorn woodpecker, and native squirrels feed on their acorns. The oak’s minute flowers also provide nectar to many insect pollinators, while their leaves are food for a variety of native caterpillars. The oak genus is known as a keystone host plant for caterpillars.
Then, of course, the cavities that form, especially in large trees that hollow out as they age, provide nesting habitat for birds, like the white breasted nuthatch, and bats. Though no one was home in my snag, it would not be surprising if at one point a northern pygmy owl or western gray squirrel had found refuge here.
Supporting over 200 species, oak habitats are considered biodiversity hotspots. These habitats are home to many rare and unusual species, such as purple Kincaid’s lupine and endangered Fender’s blue butterfly. In spring, oak prairies are decorated with these species among others, like the lemon-yellow golden paintbrush and cat’s ear lily, to name a few.
Sinking
The sun was now much lower on the horizon as I neared the end of my walk. Through the branches of the oak and the dense horizon, the golden colors of sunset began to work their magic as I traveled onward toward fading light. Soon, I left the woods and walked toward the edge of an oak prairie hilltop. Arriving at a viewpoint, a few oaks silhouetted against the sky, I stopped and watched the sunset through the gnarled limbs of these magnificent trees.
Then a few weeks ago, my heart sunk when I saw an article from OPB reporting a new threat to Oregon white oak trees. An invasive pest, the Mediterranean oak borer (MOB), has started wreaking havoc on the Willamette Valley’s Oregon white oak. Immediately, I thought about my experience walking among the oaks. Could the sun be setting on this important species permanently?
The MOB are reddish-brown beetles that are known to entomologists as ambrosia beetles–a type of beetle that bores into trees infecting them with a fungus that it uses as a food source. MOB are, in essence, farmers; however, the fungus being cultivated by the beetles ultimately kills the host tree.
Summer trapping for MOB found that these beetles are present in the northern Willamette valley and that Oregon white oaks are being affected–though the extent of the problem still remains to be seen. Anecdotally, it seems that larger, already stressed trees are being killed by MOB. And so far there are no major die-offs of Oregon white oak reported. Good news for now.
Heading Home
After the sun had dropped below the horizon, I walked down the hill and back to my car. As I descended, a flock of geese squawked a festive goodbye as they flew overhead. However, it was the silent farewell of the oak that I carried with me–a stoic silhouette against the ever darkening sky.
Today, as I contemplate the fate of these ever significant trees, I choose to remain hopeful. Despite mounting threats, Oregon white oak still has a lot going for it as a climate adapted species, with the potential to thrive in our changing climate. Plus there are a lot of folks on their side, working to understand and protect oak. So for now, I will look forward to a new dawn and another winter walk among the oak.
Rushing water. A shushing breeze. Rustling leaves. Chattering wildlife. These are the sounds of a forest in the foothills of the Willamette Valley. Soft, tranquil, quiet. Or at least in winter.
The forest awakens in spring. As flowers stretch out their petals and leaves unfurl to catch the sunlight, the tranquil chatter of the forest turns into an all-out symphony of sounds. Like the string section in the orchestra, it is the birds that draw the most attention.
I have always enjoyed bird song but have not yet mastered their melodious rhythms. This spring I am determined to take a closer listen.
Fortunately, Joan Hagar, a research wildlife biologist with USGS, agreed to meet with me to talk birds in a local forest.
The Hike
Trailhead: 720 Gate at the end of Sulpher Springs Road
Distance: approximately 2 miles
Details: Limited parking at the end of a well-maintained gravel road. No fee for parking. No restrooms. Park at gate 720 gate and head up Road 720. Look for a right turn-off on a user trail that takes you back to the gate. Map of area available on OSU College of Forestry website.
Introductions
I met Joan on a cool spring afternoon. It was overcast, but not raining. Would the birds be out?
We didn’t take but a moment before heading up the trail which rose along a riparian corridor next to a rushing creek.
I asked Joan to tell me more about herself and her career.
“The focus of my career has been to help forest managers incorporate wildlife habitat into their management plans,” she explained as we walked. “Remind them that they can accommodate wildlife at the same time as they are meeting their other goals.”
More specifically, she is all about the birds. Joan has spent her career studying birds and other wildlife in the Pacific Northwest.
As Joan explained it, she was born with it.
“My dad was a wildlife biologist and taught me the birds,” she explained, “and being able to hear them and know what species you are hearing it is like understanding a foreign language.”
A skill she would prove multiple times on our walk, but at least for the moment, the forest was rather quiet.
Indicators
As we continued our gradual climb up the forested hillside, I asked Joan “Why birds?”
“Birds, it turns out, are really great indicators for management and environmental change,” explained Joan.
Many species are only suited for a particular habitat or forest type. If the environment changes, so does the bird community. As a master’s student, Joan explained, she was able to see this firsthand.
Joan studied the impact of forest thinning on bird communities.
“I am going to show that harvesting is bad for wildlife,” Joan’s early scientist idealistic self-had thought, but she was mistaken.
“I found out that when the canopy of these dense conifer stands opened up and allowed the understory to develop… that meant more productivity—more flowers, fruits, seeds, and insects,” said Joan.
In essence, thinning increases resources birds relied on and as a result bird diversity also increased as birds that were attracted to the more open habitat arrived.
“Disturbances aren’t a bad thing,” Joan concluded.
Of course, “that is a bird perspective,” said Joan. “Amphibians might feel differently.”
Why birds?
In addition to birds’ ability to respond so quickly and clearly to environmental change, there are many other reasons birds are useful biological indicators.
“Birds are everywhere,” said Joan. “And they are fun to watch.”
Joan tried studying amphibians early in her career but found it more difficult.
“You have to turn over a lot of logs to find them,” Joan explained, “and in doing so you have to destroy their habitat.”
(Turns out, Kermit is right—It ain’t easy being green.)
Birds, on the other hand, can be counted by sight and/or sound.
For more detailed demographic data, mist nests may be used to capture the birds temporarily to study them. By using a method called “mark-recapture,” even the abundance of birds may be calculated.
Riparian Resident Birds
Deciduous trees, like bigleaf maple and red alder, having still not leafed out, offered views down towards the water as we walked.
“So, what kinds of birds would you find here?” I asked.
“Usually there are a lot of birds here,” Joan responded and pointed out the chattering call of the Pacific Wren.
“They [Pacific Wrens] start nesting this time of year,” she continued; “they like a lot of dead wood—stumps, logs—and they love the riparian area because of all the trees that fall in and it is damp and moist.”
Pacific wren is a resident species in Oregon’s western forests, along with Spotted Towhee, Song Sparrows, Canada Jays, and Steller’s Jay.
Barred owls and Pygmy owls are also common residents found nesting in snags.
“I have long suspected a Pygmy Owl nesting near here,” said Joan.
Riparian Breeding Birds
“In a normal year we would be hearing warblers,” Joan continued as we rose above the creek.
Orange-crowned Warblers usually arrive in April, with Hermit Warblers arriving a few weeks later.
“They [Hermit Warblers] are really cool because they only breed along the west coast here—from the coast to the Cascade Mountains,” said Joan excitedly.
Hermit warblers are what Joan called “endemic breeders.” Traveling to Central America during the non-breeding period and returning to their narrow breeding range in Pacific Northwest forests.
“Pacific-slope Flycatcher,” Joan recalled is another riparian migrant. “I am usually starting to hear those this time of year.”
Pacific-slope Flycatchers are especially fond of forests and woodlands near waterways where the canopy is dominated by deciduous foliage—often nesting on the slopes of forested canyons.
“They love these riparian trees, like maples and ash,” Joan remarked. Here the flycatchers catch insects below the canopy.
Woodpeckers
Early spring is also a great time to see woodpeckers in Oregon’s Willamette Valley forests.
“Hairy woodpecker, Downy woodpecker, red-bellied sapsucker…” Joan rattled off some examples.
It is nesting season and woodpeckers are out scouring the woods for the perfect tree to build a nest in.
“Woodpeckers are primary cavity nesters,” Joan accounted.
Primary means that they excavate their own cavity, as opposed to secondary cavity-nesters, like chickadees, bluebirds, and wrens, that depend on woodpeckers to provide cavities.
“They do the excavation of the cavities because they have strong bills,” Joan explained.
“Woodpeckers are funny because they do a lot of excavating before they settle,” she continued. “The male goes around and makes a cavity, then the female checks it out and goes ‘eh’ and so he makes another cavity.”
This process continues for a while until the female is satisfied. Fortunately, the result is several new unoccupied cavities produced each nesting season. This is great news for secondary cavity nesters, like chickadees and nuthatches, who are soft-billed and reliant on finding a home in already existing cavities.
“They [woodpeckers] are considered ecosystem engineers because they make habitat for so many other species,” explained Joan.
“So, if I see some sort of hole, it is likely something lives in there?” I asked.
“It’s likely,” Joan responded.
Preferences
Eventually, the trail bent and moved away from the creek, heading out on a slowly rising wooded ridge dominated by Douglas-fir.
Standing out in the mix of trees was the statuesque Pacific madrone, with its red shredded bark and green leathery broadleaves leaning out along the trail’s edge.
“In the fall, the madrones have a lot of berries and the band-tailed pigeons were feasting,” Joan reminisced. “They were covering the trees!”
Joan also noted how madrones tend to have cavities in live trees, unlike conifers that need to be dead or dying.
I asked Joan if certain species prefer certain trees.
In general, primary cavity nesters prefer hard snags. However, there also seem to be some preferences in terms of tree species.
“Pileated Woodpeckers like grand fir,” Joan offered as an example, speculating that perhaps it had to do with the decay process. And “Red-breasted Sapsuckers like maple trees,” frequently excavating a nest in a dead branch of a live maple.
Apparently, there is an entire branch of ecology that studies the relationship between primary and secondary cavity nesters and the trees they occupy. Joan mentioned “cavity-nest webs” as a way researchers aim to delineate and describe the complexity of these relationships.
In any event, there is one consistency—“good snags are scarce” and hard to come by.
Harvest Unit
Speaking of good snags, soon Joan and I crested the hill, we broke out of the forest into a clear-cut harvest unit littered with snags and potential snags.
“It is really nice to have something out here,” said Joan referring to all the trees that were left behind.
Joan has consulted on previous harvest projects and recommended that forest managers leave more snags and live trees than might be typical in a clear-cut.
Joan pointed to a large snag with twisted branches that had been left behind.
“That snag they left isn’t worth anything because it is gnarly,” said Joan referring to the potential timber value, “but for wildlife, it is worth a lot.”
Disturbance
Joan was also quick to point out that the clear-cut itself offered some benefits to wildlife.
“There are actually a lot of species that evolved with disturbance,” Joan remarked. “Disturbance is not a bad thing.”
Species like swallows, wrens, pigeons, Purple Martin, and a whole host of raptors benefit from the opening in the canopy.
“This is a phase of forest succession—early seral,” she continued. “When it is natural it is a very diverse stage.”
Unfortunately, it wasn’t all good news in the clear-cut, as many of the shrubs that come up during the early seral stage were sprayed with herbicide to give the next generation of conifers a competitive edge.
I was also struck by the small size of the clear-cut and asked Joan about it.
“Is it good to have smaller clear-cuts?”
“There is no one good size,” said Joan.
She explained that for a forest species having a small clear-cut makes the forests more permeable—a species that wants cover can go between trees. However, the larger the clear-cut, the more valuable the area is for a species that needs open areas.
“There is always a trade-off,” said Joan. Her advice for land managers—“be as variable as possible, and work with what is there.”
Ghost Forest
As we walked past the clear-cut with the intact forest on our right, it was easy to assume that the intact forest was in some way “natural” or “right.” But, as Joan reminded me, the conifer forest only exists on this hillside as a product of colonialism.
“Before the European settlers came,” explained Joan. “Native Americans burned this area—it was a bald with scattered oak and scattered Douglas-fir. It was very open.”
With colonialism came fire suppression and the conversion of oak woodlands and prairies into forests.
“If you look in this forest now, you can find old oak trees,” said Joan. “You can tell they are open grow with lateral limbs, but they are dead and decaying…”—overshadowed by Douglas-fir.
We looked deep into the thicket of forest for one of these “ghost oaks,” and found what looked like a mossy, dead limped giant of an oak tree.
“There used to be a bird species that used those,” remarked Joan. “Lewis’s woodpecker—iridescent green with a red breast—they valued the oak and ponderosa pine.”
She sighed, “Now, they don’t nest here. There is not the habitat for them.”
Purple Martin
Then we passed it—a white sci-fi-looking apparatus on the hillside to the left.
“Here is my Purple Martin gourd rack,” laughed Joan. “It is ugly as sin!”
However, what it lacks in aesthetics, it makes up for in function.
Joan explained that the rack is put up to provide a temporary nesting opportunity for Purple Martin—a threatened species here in the west. As insectivores, Purple Martin hunt insects on the wing, so in addition to needing natural cavities for nesting, they also need open space for hunting—a difficult combination to achieve these days.
“The public land has all the big snags but is too dense, and the private land has open areas but not the snags,” explained Joan.
The rack is meant to provide temporary housing until the woodpeckers can create the cavities in snags Purple Martin needs.
However, she cautions people from putting up their own gourd racks. The eastern population of Purple Martin are entirely dependent on people for nesting for this reason. She wants to avoid this in the West.
“Purple martins are the poster child for snags,” she proclaimed.
Across the clearing, I saw a small cavity in a Pacific Madrone. I asked Joan if that might work for the Purple Martin or some other species.
“It looks good for a pygmy owl,” she replied, “but I am not sure they would want to be out in the open. A flicker would love it,” she laughed.
What about Yew?
We were nearing our turn off into the woods when we happened past a shaggy-looking Pacific Yew.
“They always make me think of old forests,” Joan smiled.
“Does it do anything for wildlife?” I asked.
“I don’t know anything in particular,” Joan replied. “They are good for cover,” she offered.
What about Joan? We knew what the Yew was up to (being a really cool tree!), but what about Yew? I questioned Joan, pun intended.
“Right now, I am working on Purple Martin stuff,” she said—tracking them with GPS in collaboration with Klamath Bird Observatory and trying to figure out where they go in winter. So far, she has found that they spend some time in Baja—sounds pretty good to me.
“That is one thing,” she said. “I am trying to finish a bunch of projects,” Joan confessed in preparation for retirement before the end of the year—that also sounds pretty good to me. Maybe she will have to visit Baja?
“Another project is not birds,” she continued, but a carnivore survey using camera traps in the Klamath Network of National Parks.
“We are looking for Marten, Fisher, and Sierra Nevada Red Fox,” said Joan.
She explained that there is a lot of interest in carnivores. They are not only sensitive to environmental change and have been facing declining population rates, but they are also an important part of the food web.
Dense Woods
We were on the steep downhill return trail when I spotted a large patch of Oregon Grape out of the corner of my eye.
“Do they help birds?” I wondered out loud.
“I don’t know,” Joan responded thoughtfully. “The hummingbirds love the flowers.”
Soon we were considering the Oregon Grape fruits and species that might benefit from them as a food source as well.
In the distance, Joan heard the call of a Kinglet deep in the woods. Kinglets, she told me, were birds that responded negatively to thinning in her graduate research.
“They are beautiful little birds,” she described. “A bright gold crest with a scarlet, orange stripe down the middle.”
She heard the call again—“high and thin.” Whatever she was hearing, I didn’t register.
Learning Birds
“Is it hard to tell birds apart?” I asked.
“Not for me,” she laughed. “But yes.”
So how does one learn? Joan had a few tips.
First, “Come during the off-season,” she suggested. Learn the birds that are common year-round and learn them one at a time.
Second, she recommended using an app, like the Merlin App to help, as it identified with sound, and you can get the results often right away.
Finally, get a feeder. Feeders are an excellent way to meet several of the birds that are around all the time.
Some starter birds include song sparrows, dark-eyed junco, chickadees, nuthatches, and towhees.
It also doesn’t hurt to have a bird with a favorite song. Sometimes that is enough to draw one in.
“My favorite is the hermit thrush,” said Joan—a high-elevation bird with a song. “It sounds flute-like and ethereal.”
I recalled hearing the bird myself while hiking in the Jefferson Wilderness—singing its heart out well into the evening. Afterward, I had to find out what I was hearing!
Help the Birds
The trail continued down through the dense forest before dropping us back on the wide gravel road we had come up on—back in the riparian forest.
As we made our way back down to our cars, I asked Joan if she had any tips for helping birds.
“The biggest problems are hitting windows, lights during migration, and cats,” she continued.
So, to help with that, she suggests putting bird strike prevention on any windows that might fool birds, turning out the lights during migration, and keeping pet cats indoors.
Now, with advancements in bird tracking, you can find out when birds migrate through your area, so you know when dark skies are most important.
Pesticides are another concern she brought up.
“Anything that affects insects affects birds.”
Brown Creeper
“Well, we didn’t see very many birds,” Joan remarked when were just about at our cars.
Then, she spotted something up in the trees—a small brown bird hopping up the trunk. It was a Brown Creeper.
“They go way up and then they fly down to the base of the tree or their nest,” Joan noted.
I watched the Brown Creeper hop its way up a large Douglas-fir trunk before taking flight and landing on another tree nearby.
It was probably feeding on spiders hidden in the bark or collecting web for its nest—a common practice according to Joan.
The light was dimming as we stood and looked up at this small brown bird doing what it does best before we lost track of it.
Trills and Thrills
“That was fun!” proclaimed Joan.
And I too felt satisfied.
We have only heard or seen a few birds, but I was walking away with more bird knowledge than I could have imagined.
High-pitched trills spilled through the trees, like a tumbling stream, as we walked the last few feet to our cars.
And I knew it was the Pacific Wren singing us off.
Joan Hagar is a Research Wildlife Biologist with the U.S. Geological Survey. She has been studying birds and other wildlife professionally for the last 30 years.
A few times a year the tides swell to levels much higher than are typical. These royally high tides are known as King Tides and occur over a few days period, typically in the months of November, December, and January.
With the King Tides, comes a whole host of changes to the coastline—local flooding, potentially increased erosion, and an overall increase in coastal hazard risk. However, King Tides are not necessarily something to run from. Many people flock to the coast to see the King Tides—the crashing waves and high surf are a definitive draw for many wave watchers.
King Tides also offers an opportunity to participate in some community science. Oregon King Tides Project, by the Oregon Coastal Management Program and CoastWatch, ask local Oregonians to snap some pictures of these extremely high tides and post them to their site. The goal of the project is to help coastal communities see their vulnerabilities, especially considering future climate change, so they can better adapt and prepare.
I wanted to learn more about sea level rise on Oregon’s Coast and experience the King Tides. So, I reached out to Alessandra Burgos of Cascadia CoPes Hub to see if she was open to a coastal ramble. She agreed.
It was time to head to the beach.
The Hike
Trailhead: No Official Trailhead (Start on Avenue U and end at 12th Avenue)
Distance: 1.5 miles one way on the pavement; the trail is level.
Details: Park on the street or Public Parking at the North End of the Promenade. Public restrooms at North End. The promenade is open to hiking/running and biking. It is a popular spot and can be very busy.
Here Comes the King
It was a mostly sunny winter day during king tides week when Ali (Alessandra) and I met for a walk along the Seaside waterfront. If you want to talk about the ocean, it helps to have a clear view of it as you go.
Immediately, Ali’s dark brown eyes scanned the surf. The waves were coming in fast and there wasn’t much beach left uncovered. The tide was in, way in.
“I have never been here before,” Ali confessed, “but I would imagine the beach is usually much bigger.”
I tried to imagine what it might look like on a “normal” day. Even having been there, I couldn’t picture it.
“It would be nice to have a before and after,” I confessed.
Before and after picture aside, what we were seeing were king tides—unusually high-water levels at high tide that were expected to continue for the next few days. Begging the question—why?
Ebb and Flow
“What happens with tides is you have the gravitational pull of the moon, which is the strongest force,” Ali explained.
You may have heard that the moon creates tides—and this is mostly true. As the Earth rotates and the moon revolves around the Earth, its gravitational pull causes the ocean to bulge in the direction the moon is facing. This bulge is dragged around the Earth, like a magnet, as it rotates. There is also a bulge opposite the moon due to a lack of gravitational pull by the moon at this alignment.
However, that is not the entire story. As Ali explained: “Then you also have the gravitational pull of the sun, and even though the sun is bigger, it is further away so you don’t get as big a pull.”
However, when the sun, moon, and Earth are in alignment—you get a very high, high tide and a very low, low tide.
“For king tides, everything is in a perfect wonderful alignment,” Ali explained. “The moon is either a full moon or new moon… “ and is in line with the Earth and Sun. This causes a higher gravitational pull on the oceans causing these king tides.
At the time of our hike, it was a new moon. In a couple of days, the king tides would be at their peak.
“You can see over there it is higher than normal and those wonderful waves rolling in,” Ali pointed out toward the ocean waves again. They were really moving.
The water level at near high tide with waves rolling in.
1 Tide, 2 Tides, 4 Tides, More
“Why do we get two tides here?” I asked next as we sauntered our way down a path to the packed sandy beach.
“That [slightly] has to do with where you are in latitude [because of how the continents are spread out],” Ali responded. “And [mostly] it has to do with the shape of the ocean basin.”
She also reminded me that we have two bulges making their way around the Earth in a 24-hour period, so there are both two high tides, and two corresponding low tides.
If there were no continents there would be 2 equally proportioned high and low tides every lunar day. The land masses block the movement of the tidal bulge resulting in different tidal patterns. On the West coast, we experience mixed semidiurnal tides meaning “You have a high, high tide, low, high tide, low, low tide, and high, low tide… four tides,” Ali listed the different tides, but it came out more like a tongue twister.
We were walking the beach during our high, high tide.
Most places on the Earth experience two tidal cycles. However, there are some places that have only one high tide due to the shape of the ocean basin. The Gulf of Mexico, for example, has diurnal tides, experiencing one high tide and low tide on a lunar day.
A Rough Start
Ali and I headed north along the sandy beach—the waves rolled in a short distance away from us. I asked Ali to share a little about herself and how she ended up in her current position.
“I grew up on the East Coast in Philadelphia. Went to school at Rutgers in New Jersey where I was a meteorology major,” Ali began.
She always had an interest in the weather and was planning to be a broadcast meteorologist when she finished college. But her plans changed when Hurricane Sandy hit New Jersey during her Freshman year of college.
“You saw the destruction… you saw all the trees down, during the night transformers blowing up, huge lines at the gas station… so that really formed what I wanted to do with my life.”
After that Ali became more interested in flooding and the Oceans. She went on to study oceanography at Old Dominion University in Norfolk, VA where she earned a Master of Science.
“Norfolk, VA is home to the largest Navy base in the world,” Ali explained. “So, as you can imagine, they were very interested in mitigating against sea level rise.”
Rising to New Challenges
After that, Ali moved to Washington D.C. as a Sea Grant Knauss fellow and was introduced to policy and worked on coastal resiliency issues.
“Then the pandemic hit, and I lost my job at the time,” Ali went on. “My friend was moving to Portland, and I always wanted to visit the west coast, so I packed up and came here.”
Finally, after a short stint at UC Santa Barbara, Ali was hired by Oregon State University in her current position—program manager for the Cascadia Coastline Peoples Hazard Research Hub, or Cascadia CoPes Hub.
“I have been there a year,” said Ali. “It has been a whirlwind of information… There are over 90 people associated with the project now.”
That is a lot to manage.
Ali Burgos posing for a picture on the promenade.
Collaboration
We hiked on, the sun warming us and the sand firm under our feet. Ali told me more about Cascadia CoPes Hub in fits and starts as we walked along taking in the scenery.
“In a nutshell, It’s a 5-year funded project from the National Science Foundation. We are trying to help coastal communities in the Pacific Northwest increase their coastal resiliency,” explained Ali.
Cascadia CoPes Hub is a newer collaborative (it started only about 6 months before Ali was hired) with multiple teams working on different aspects of coastal hazards research and outreach. Ali outlined the focus of each team.
Team 1 is geohazards. This team deals with research around earthquakes, tsunamis, and landslides.
Team 2 is coastal inundation. This team is looking at sea level rise, erosion, flooding, and overall storminess.
Team 3 is community adaptation. Team 3 wants to know what coastal communities are thinking—what do people value? What do they perceive as threats? And how do they get that information?
“This is where the social scientists live,” said Ali.
Team 4 is the STEAM team. STEAM stands for science, technology, engineering, art, and math. And the goal of this team is to bring underrepresented students into STEAM through a fellowship program.
And finally, Team 5 is community engagement and co-production.
“Coproduction is kind of a buzzword in research right now,” Ali explained. “Coproduction is working outside your discipline or field to create new ideas, solutions, and knowledge.” It often involves working with communities, state agencies, as well as other academics.
“We keep growing… There were 60 people when I started, and now there are 90 plus.”
Fading from Gray to Green
As we hiked on the broad plain of sand, Ali pointed out just how low-lying the beach was.
“If you look at the beach here,” she remarked pointing about, “we are as flat as flat can be.” Not a good place to be if the water came up too high in a storm—not a lot of protection.
However, looking over toward the City of Seaside, a low wall wrapped along the promenade in front of all the buildings—wouldn’t that offer some protection?
“Over there we have some seawall,” Ali said, pointing to the structure.
Ali referred to the wall as a form of grey infrastructure—a manmade structure built for, in this case, protection from flooding and storms.
“I am not a fan, personally,” she went on. “It has its merits in certain situations, but seawalls can cause more erosion of the beach… And how tall do you make it?”
Seaside waterfront properties with seawall in front.
As if on cue, the open sand we were walking shifted—wide mounds of grassy sand dunes rose up in front of us.
“These are green infrastructure,” Ali explained. “This will help block wave energy during storms.”
Unlike seawalls, dunes collect sand, rather than letting it erode. As natural-based features, dunes can grow and change over time. “Plus, it can help with habitat,” Ali added.
“Natural and nature-based features are what people are going more towards,” said Ali.
Ali also mentioned cobble revetments as another example of grey-green infrastructure. Essentially, a berm made of pebbles or cobbles mimics natural rocky beaches—water can move through the rocks, while sand can still build up.
“This is a great dune system,” Ali smiled as we headed through the dunes on what little beach was left.
Low dunes along the northern stretch of the promenade.
On Shaky Ground
Soon the beach was all but gone and Ali and I decided to move to the pavement. We took some stone steps up and onto the Seaside promenade and continued our walk north.
As we walked, I asked Ali how she felt about the earthquake and tsunami hazards in the Pacific Northwest.
“It is definitely something I grapple with moving here,” Ali responded.
For those that haven’t heard, the Pacific Northwest is predicted to experience a high magnitude (possibly 9+) megathrust earthquake in the next 50 years. Current predictions estimate a 37% chance of a 7.1+ in the next 50 years according to oregon.gov. This will also result in huge tsunamis up and down the coast.
“What is most interesting about that is human perspectives—trying to understand how people see their vulnerability,” Ali continued. “It is easy to go day by day, especially if you don’t have past experience, to become very complacent.”
Sign at the end of the promenade marking the tsunami evacuation route.
Keeping Perspective
I asked Ali what she thought people should be doing considering the megathrust and tsunami risk in Oregon.
She suggested keeping things in perspective. Yes, there is a risk associated with visiting and living on the coast, but it is still very small.
“Even on my drive down this morning, I get anxiety about coming over here,” she confessed.
However, she also knows that the odds are in her favor.
“I am more likely to get injured in my drive,” she added.
So, what should people visiting or living on the coast focus on? Being prepared. That is what her research cooperative is trying to do—help people know how best to do this on a place-by-place basis.
“What is the most important thing to know to prepare?” I asked.
“I think the biggest thing is to know your evacuation route,” Ali suggested. “Many people don’t know which way to go, especially if you’re visiting.”
Whenever the Cascadia megathrust earthquake hits, there will be little time to move to high ground—perhaps as little as 10-20 minutes at best. So, look at the evacuation maps ahead of time and have a plan A and a plan B.
On cue, Ali and I reached the end of the promenade trail, where a tsunami evacuation map was prominently posted.
“Moving here, I learned a lot more about earthquakes and tsunamis than maybe I want to know,” Ali laughed nervously.
I hear that, Ali.
Map of the tsunami evacuation route was posted at the end of the promenade.
Winter is Coming
Upon reaching the end of the trail, Ali and I about-faced for a return journey. This time we stuck to the paved walk that took us past the waterfront buildings—just a seawall in some spots for protection. Our conversation pivoted back to issues with high water. Ali was going to be speaking for the King Tides Community Science Initiative the following day about sea level rise, and with King Tides rolling in, it seemed important that we return to coastal inundation. Plus, I had a lot of questions.
On the top of my mind was winter—why were king tides so notable in the winter? I asked Ali.
“They are worse in the winter,” she responded, “because of the Earth’s orbit around the sun. We are closer to the sun in the winter so the gravitational pull is stronger… winter king tides are going to be stronger.”
One of the biggest Earth Science misconceptions is that the Earth is farther from the sun in the Northern Hemisphere winter, resulting in a change in seasons, but the opposite is true. Fun fact, seasonal shifts have more to do with the tilt of the Earth in relation to the sun. (You have just been scienced!)
Additives
Then of course there are the potential additive effects of storms which are more common on the Oregon coast in winter. I asked Ali to explain how storm surge and waves play a role in water levels.
“Storm surge is basically when you have a storm coming up the coast. You have low atmospheric pressure… with a lot more wind. The winds and pressure are forcing the water up—that is basically your storm surge. This can be coupled with high tides, which could make flooding worse.”
Ali explained how the wind is a result of pressure differences along the Earth, which are greater in the winter. And high winds equal bigger waves, which have harmful effects.
“Winter storms come through and produce a lot more wave energy,” Ali explained. “Those big waves can move sand around, cause erosion, and bring in a lot of debris.”
Both storm surges and big waves happen all the time, but with high tides, the consequences are magnified.
Rise Up
So, what about sea level rise, overall? What can we expect there?
There are two major contributors to sea level rise, according to Ali: 1) melting glaciers from Greenland and Antarctica, and 2) warming oceans.
How melting glaciers contribute to sea level rise is straightforward: glaciers add water from the land into the ocean, literally filling up the global bathtub, as it were.
Warming oceans affect sea level in a different way—causing the same amount of water to take up more space. As the water warms, the water molecules move apart in their higher energy state, taking up more space—something called thermal expansion.
Variability
Of course, there is some variability.
“Thermal expansion and ice melt aren’t uniform,” explained Ali.
Plus, there are other factors having an effect including changes in currents due to climate change and differences in vertical land movement.
There are sea level rise hot spots, as well as places that aren’t seeing any sea level rise at all.
Luckily, sea level rise has been slower along the Oregon coast overall—mostly because the land is rising too, counteracting sea level rise in some locations.
“Global mean sea level rise is 3.4 mm,” said Ali. “Oregon is not anywhere near that.”
Another El Niño
Then there is natural variability related to whether we are in a La Niña or El Niño year.
“ We have been in a La Niña for the past three years,” explained Ali.
La Niña brings colder weather and more precipitation to the Pacific Northwest.
“Which is great for skiing,” she chimed.
In an El Niño year, the oceans will warm—which could lead to greater thermal expansion and other issues associated with a warmer climate.
“And with climate change,” Ali added, “they may become more frequent and more severe.
“The biggest thing with sea level rise is your basic water gets higher—everything is happening on a higher base,” Ali explained.
In other words, a higher sea level means a higher storm surge and high wave energy eroding places it never reached before. King tides would be higher than they are now, and the next El Niño year, more severe.
Act Now
“What should we do?” I asked Ali.
“Our oceans are rising, that is fact,” Ali responded. “How much and when, is the biggest thing to think about, and what do emergency managers need to think about.”
More specifically, Ali recommended creating more natural and nature-based features on the coast as the first line of defense against inundation.
Another option—is managed retreat. Managed retreat is a planned process of moving buildings and people further inland to avoid hazards and risks.
“Managed retreat isn’t popular, but something to think about,” said Ali.
Ali was quick to add that, managed retreat isn’t something that she is in a rush to see happen in Oregon. Oregon isn’t facing a sea level rise crisis currently, so it probably isn’t as important a strategy right now. However, in the broad scheme of things, Ali was clear that managed retreat is important to adapt to sea level rise.
Predicting the Future
We were nearing our starting point on the promenade when we passed by a decorated tree or bush opposite the seawall. I snapped a picture. It seemed important for some reason. An emblem of the community perhaps?
Considering the community, what is the future of sea level rise?
“Sea level rise is exponential right now,” Ali told me as we walked. “Not on a linear increase. The rate is getting faster.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Warming and melt is on a lag, “ Ali explained. “Even if we stopped emissions right now, the oceans will continue to rise.”
And continue to rise, in theory, indefinitely.
“It is hard sometimes,” Ali paused. “People say ‘you are just doom and gloom’… There is a fine balance to walk—understanding the risks but knowing there is something we can do.”
Holiday “tree” along the promenade.
Incoming Storm
Ali and I were still discussing sea level rise when we got to the point where we could see the waves and an access point to the beach.
“The water is straight up to the edge,” Ali proclaimed referring to our coastal view. “High tide today is about 8-9 feet. It is normally 2-4 feet.”
We headed down to check out the waves from a better vantage point.
As we walked out toward the pounding waves, Ali told me more about ocean waves and how they are generated.
“The wave energy is coming from the wind,” she began. The longer the fetch (the length of water that the wind can blow without being blocked) the more energy can be imparted into the ocean allowing waves to grow larger.
She went on to explain how the low-pressure system that generates the storm also has a small effect by pushing water up due to the inverted barometer effect.
“If you have low pressure the water is going up. High pressure it gets pushed down,” Ali described.
All that said, it was clear to Ali that a storm system was on its way. Waves were rushing up fast, breaking quickly, and curving ferociously—all signs of an incoming storm.
“They [the waves] are definitely stronger,” she remarked as we stopped and stared. “And it’s happening pretty far offshore… and getting those nice curves to them.”
I looked out toward the ocean to try and see what Ali was seeing. I hadn’t considered this idea before—that I could look at the ocean and predict the future.
Staring out at the rhythmic movement of the incoming waves—it all started falling into place.
Reflections
Our oceans are sending us warning signals. They warn us of storm systems coming through hours to days in advance. But more than that, they warn us of impending changes to our planet that we can’t afford to ignore.
Visiting the coast during king tides can be a lot of fun—people flock to the coast to see the massive waves and enjoy the pounding surf—but they are also a reminder that our planet is changing.
Our oceans are warming quickly, and the global sea level is rising, resulting in a multitude of changes to Earth and human systems.
The signs are there. We just need to learn how to see them.
Alessandra (Ali) Burgos a project manager for Cascadia Coastlines and Peoples Hazards Research Hub with Oregon State University. Ali earned a Bachelor of Science in Meteorology at Rutgers University and a Master of Science in oceanography at Old Dominion University.
About 15 million years ago basaltic lava released from fissures in northeast Oregon and southwest Washington poured through the Columbia River basin, traveling across the Pacific Northwest. Collectively these flows are known as the Columbia River Basalts.
What is perhaps most intriguing is just how far some Columbia River Basalts traveled. Flows can be found in locations as far afield as Silver Falls State Park, for example. Other flows traveled hundreds of miles from their origin through the Coast Range mountains to the Pacific Ocean.
Seal Rock State Park is the site of one such flow—making it a premier location for geology enthusiasts.
So, when I reached out to Sheila Alfsen from the Geological Society of Oregon Country for a hike and interview and she suggested we visit Seal Rock, it was met with a resounding “yes! “
Circuitous routes
I met Sheila in Philomath so we could drive to the coast together and talk geology along the way. As we headed out, she told me a bit about her background.
Sheila’s path to geology was a circuitous one.
She started out as a volunteer and teacher’s assistant at her own children’s schools where she realized she had an interest in and a knack for teaching.
Then, when state requirements insisted she go back to school for her job, her mind and life path were changed.
“My first class was oceanography,” Sheila gushed, “and the first thing we talked about was plate tectonics…This was everything I wanted to know. I was hooked on geology after that.”
Soon enough, Sheila had earned an associate degree, and later a Bachelor’s in Geology and Spanish, and a Master of Arts in Teaching (MAT).
She started teaching high school science and eventually moved on to teaching college courses, some with her mentor, Bill (William) Orr.
Sheila found her passion—teaching geology.
“In Geology, you aren’t just talking about the rocks, but what they tell us about the history, and therefore, future of the planet. In Earth Science, you also talk about the oceans and atmosphere,” Sheila explained—It is all the Earth Systems.
“I can teach basic principles of physical science within the context of earth science.” Everything has a geology connection.
Highway 20
Our first stop on the way to the coast was Ellmaker State Wayside off Highway 20. Here, Sheila laid out a plan for the day and gave a bit of background on the road we would be following to reach Newport.
Several decades ago, the State Department of Transportation attempted to reroute the highway. Back then, the highway was routed through Eddyville where it followed the Yaquina River on windy roads that not only made the drive to the coast longer but more hazardous.
So, the State hired a construction company to cut a new route through the coast range. But problems ensued. The land was unstable, and landslides became a huge issue.
“Basically, they didn’t consider or understand the geology until they already had a lot of problems,” Sheila explained.
Their oversight came at a high cost. By that time, the first company hired had gone broke and a new construction company was brought in with more geological expertise.
“It took 10 years later and over double the budget to get it done,” said Sheila.
Ellmaker State Wayside off of Highway 20
Structure
Sheila and I hit the road again to see just what exactly had thwarted the project. Turns out you can see the problem in the rocks.
As we drove up the highway, Sheila pointed out roadcuts, as we passed. The rocks in the roadcuts were light colored and dipped to the east as we headed up the pass. Later, a bit further up the road, the layers were arranged nearly horizontally. Then, we reached a spot where the rock layers had turned—dipping westward toward the ocean.
Here we pulled over to take a closer look.
Sheila explained that the reason that the highway road project didn’t succeed is that from the start they didn’t pay attention to the geology—specifically, the structure of the rocks.
“When we say structure in geology,” Sheila explained, “we are talking about how the rocks are folded and how they are positioned.”
She went on “Geological structure is how the rocks are put together. It makes a big difference.”
The structure we were observing as we came over the Coast Range on highway 20 is what is called an anticline.
“An anticline is an arch,” said Sheila “and this is one limb of the anticline,” she pointed westward, “and the other way is the other arm.”
Sheila went on to explain that this giant arch was also plunging—dipping to the north.
“Pressure from this direction,” she pointed west again, “from the Juan de Fuca plate, creates the anticline.”
The Juan de Fuca plate is the current tectonic plate that is subducting (going under) the North American Plate just off Oregon’s coast. However, according to Sheila, there is also pressure from the Klamath Mountains to the south that has resulted in a “rotation of the whole coast range”—this is what makes the anticline tilt to the North. This is why pieces of rock were breaking off and sliding onto the road, inhibiting the progress of the construction.
Sheila demonstrates the shape of an anticline.
Tyee Formation
We got out of the car to get a closer look at the rock layers themselves.
As we stood there talking, a police car pulled up to see if we were okay.
Sheila laughed, “Just a little geology lesson,” she told them, before inviting them to join us. They declined, but I got the sense that this was not the first time Sheila has made such an invite.
“This rock is the Tyee Formation,” Sheila described as we looked across the highway at the tilted layers.“This layer of rock is famous,” she went on, “It goes all the way down to the Klamath Mountains.”
The Tyee Formation is comprised of sandstone and shale, formed from sediment that was deposited in a large underwater delta some 45 million years ago. There was no Willamette Valley or Coast Range at the time, just a gigantic bay. The Klamath Mountains were already in existence and shedding sediments into the bay to form the delta.
“The delta was huge and went all the way out northward to about Dallas,” described Sheila. I tried to imagine Oregon 45 million years ago, missing a good quarter of its landmass.
Eventually, the delta turned to rock and was folded and lifted into the Coast Range, powered by the subduction of the Juna de Fuca plate—a process that continues even today.
Turbidity Currents
Sheila suggested we walk closer to the roadcut to look at the rocks of the Tyee more closely.
She explained that when the sediments from the Klamath Mountains would fall into the bay, this resulted in “turbidity currents”— a sudden flush of sediment and water rushing off the continental shelf before settling into distinct layers.
These fast flushes of sediment became the layers of rock that make up the shale and sandstone of the Tyee formation. The sandstone layers in the rock formed from quickly settling sand, and turned into thick, light brown colored layers of sandstone. Clay, on the other hand, “takes a long time to settle out.” These clay layers presented themselves as dark gray, incised bands in the roadcut.
“One layer of sand and one layer of clay above it is one event,” Sheila pointed out. “This is what the Coast Range is made of.”
Sheila pointed out the shiny flecks that glittered in the sandstone layers. “Muscovite,” she called them, “from the Idaho batholiths”—a clue that when the Klamath Mountains were first accreted, they were near the Idaho border.
The Tyee formation up close.
A Closer Look
Sheila soon began to poke around, digging into the roadcut rocks.
“If we are lucky,” said Sheila, as she pulled a rock from the base of the loose shale layer, “we will find little trails of marine organisms.”
You see, between each turbidity current, the organisms that are living and feeding on the sediment before they are wiped out by the thick sequence of sand that suddenly gets dumped on them. Their fossil remains can often be observed as trails in the sandstone and can be used to date the layers.
Sheila and I continued to pick at the roadcut and examine any loose pieces of rock that came away easily. The shale broke off in thin layers, while the sandstone felt gritty and rough.
I held a piece of rock up to my eye with a hand lens to see the shiny flat muscovite mineral amongst the grains of tan-colored quartz and feldspars.
“A geologist sees things. When you learn about the geology you look at the world differently and it is beautiful.”
Tyee sandstone with fossil trails of marine organisms.
The Road to Jump-off Joe
Sheila and I hit the road again. We were going to make one more stop before heading to Seal Rock—a place called Jump-off-Joe.
After another 30 minutes of driving through the Coast Range, we reached Newport and the Pacific Ocean. We drove North a bit on Highway 101 before veering off onto a side street and pulling over in front of a roadblock and a parking lot with an oceanfront view.
Just past the cliff edge, you could see an old building foundation in disrepair, as the land around it had subsided and begun the process of crumbling into the sea.
As we stepped out of our cars for a closer look, Sheila laughed at a sign on the adjacent hotel that boasted about its “ocean views.”
“This building was a football field away from the edge,” said Sheila, thinking back to her last visit. “The view is getting more and more exciting,” she snickered.
“Coastlines are unstable,” said Sheila. A lot of the rock on the coast is layered sedimentary rock and “some are inherently unstable.”
The fact that someone tried to build in this location was ludicrous to Sheila.
“Immediately it started slipping,” said Sheila. “Yaquina Head in the north, to the opening of the estuary is all landslide area.”
Time and the elements had really taken a toll on the abandoned structure. Graffiti covered large portions of the dilapidated foundation. Signs warned people to stay back.
It was all a bit ominous. We kept our distance from the edge.
Derelict abandoned building at Jump-off Joe
Sandstone Arch
Then, Sheila pointed to the right of the crumbling foundation, a small sandstone mound stood just below on the beach. Another sign of erodibility and instability of the rocks that make up much of this part of the coast.
“Back in the late 1800s or 1920s that was an arch,” said Sheila pointing to the small, but visible sea stack. “It has been eroded.”
The location of the arch was once referred to as “Jump-off Joe,” apparently because the cliff down to it was steep. It was quite the site to see back in the day, as evidenced by a quick google search.
Now, it was hardly an attraction, having been weathered down to a remnant of its former self.
Of course, not all the rocks on the coast are as suspectable to erosion and weathering as much of Newport Bay. Yaquina head, for example, just visible to the north is made of basalt—a much more resistant rock.
“That is why those are points out there,” reasoned Sheila. In fact, basalt rocks make up much of the Oregon Coasts’ headlands.
But where did all this basalt come from?
I was about to find out.
View of the remnants of Jump-off Joe
Sea Stacks
Sheila and I took off again for our final destination—Seal Rock State Recreation Site.
We arrived around lunchtime and stopped for a quick picnic lunch at a table just behind the bathrooms.
After lunch, we followed the paved trail back up through the twisted shore pines that led out to the Seal Rock viewpoint. From here, sea stacks of various sizes jet out of the ocean in a curved line.
“We call this a ringed dike because it forms a ring shape,” said Sheila. “What used to be a low space fill with lava, and the stuff around it erodes away,” she explained.
Elephant Rock
The largest of the rocks—a massive rock towering structure—is known as elephant rock.
“Elephant rock is what we call a sill,” said Sheila, “in igneous geology, a layer of lava that squeezes between two layers of rock.”
“In this case, the lava didn’t intrude between the layers, it just fell into the soft sediments of the coast and re-erupted,” Sheila backtracked, So, “not technically an igneous sill…but it is basalt.”
Basalt—a hard and resistant rock. Waves “eat away at sandstone,” but basalt, not so easily.
“You can see the cave under the rock, to the right,” said Sheila as we started further down the trail that leads to the beach. “It is sandstone. It is easier to eat away.” A small cave carved into sandstone cliffs to our right.
Just like at Jump-off Joe there are signs that warn people not to walk on these cliffs. Just like Jump-off Joe, the area is unstable.
Sandstone to the right with basalt to the left in the distance at Seal Rock State Park
Cobbles
The trail eventually petered out as we neared the beach. We carefully clambered over rounded rock cobbles that had been turned by the waves.
“This is nicely polished basalt,” said Sheila as she picked her way down.
Basalt, Sheila explained has cracks in it that develop when the lava cools. The columns of elephant rock are a great example.
“It is easy for the waves to break it up,” remarked Sheila.
Basalt cobbles.
Magnetite
After some careful maneuvering, we reached the beach and headed south, following the ocean’s edge where the sand is firm. Soft gray-colored sand lay underfoot, but Sheila was on the hunt for something darker.
“If you look at the beach, have you seen areas with dark sand?” asked Sheila. “That is magnetite.”
Magnetite, she explained comes from weathered basalt. Magnetite is a dark-colored mineral made of iron and magnesium—making it magnetic. It is heavy and often accumulates in areas.
“Near stream you see it,” Sheila advised. She had seen a thick layer of it on previous visits to the beach and was curious to see it again.
“Here is magnetite,” said Sheila a few moments later—though not the band of magnetite she was hoping to find. Black sand lay in a rippled pattern on the otherwise pale-colored sand.
Magnetite on sand.
Dynamic
“Here we are watching the pattern that develops in the sediments,” said Sheila.
She went on to explain how sediments are pushed up on the beach at an angle by the surf and then fall straight back down the beach so that they constantly are moving along the shoreline.
“A coast is a dynamic place, always changing,” she affirmed.
The magnetite pattern was just one sign of constant coastal change.
A Lava Story
Sills, dikes, cobbles, and magnetite… we headed toward the far shore and crossed a small creek. It was time to get to the main event. Where did the lava come from?
“This is the southernmost extent of the Columbia River Basalt,” said Sheila.
The Columbia River Basalt, as mentioned earlier, are lava flows that originated from fissures in eastern Oregon and Washington some 15 million years ago.
“They made their way through the Cascades, down the Willamette Valley, and as far south as Salem Hills,” said Sheila.
In fact, the Salem Hills are Columbia River Basalts—“they are just coved with vegetation,” explained Sheila.
“A typical flow was 100 ft thick,” Sheila described. “Imagine a wall of lava that is one hundred feet thick and flows like syrup.”
Remarkably the flow stayed liquid as it traveled all the way to the coast. This is different than one might expect especially if you have seen a Hawaiian eruption. Sheila described seeing a lava flow in Hawaii cool right before her eyes.
In the case of the Columbia River Basalts, there is “so much lava, the outside will crust over, and it will break through its own crust and keep going,” Sheila described. “It could advance 3-4 miles per day.”
According to Sheila, the basalt rocks we were seeing were Wanapum basalt, the youngest of the Columbia River Basalts, specifically the Gingko flow.
Final Contact
By now we had made our way over to the sandstone and basalt cliffs opposite the ocean. Here, we passed by what looked like a small black stone wall jetting out of lighter-colored sandstone.
“It was probably soft sand when the dark lava intruded but now it is sandstone,” explained Sheila.
“This is part of the ring dike,” said Sheila, “a crack that is filled with lava.”
Dark basalt lava intruding on sandstone.
We saw more cobbles of polished rock before reaching the far end of the ring dike.
“Basalt is here,” said Sheila pointing up at some heavily fractured black rock overhead. “And the contact between the basalt and the soft sediments,” she pointed to a deeply eroded area below the rocks where thin ribbons of rock layered together.
“Looks as fresh as it did when it cooled 15 million years ago,” she exclaimed with a smile.
The far end of the ring dike.
Tracking Flood Basalts
At this point, Sheila and I turned to retrace our steps. But before we made it back very far, we stopped for a quick geology lesson and big-picture discussion on the basalt flows.
“Coastal provinces are kind of a collage of everything that has happened inland,” said Sheila, as she traced a sketch of Oregon into the sand.
She began pointing out important landmarks… “the Columbia River, Cape Blanco…”
“Cracks opened over here and issued lava,” she pointed up to the northeastern part of the state. “Most of it came down the Columbia River.”
The Columbia River used to be further south in what is now known as the Columbia Plateau, she explained, but it got pushed up north as the lava flowed through.
“Then when it comes to Portland and the Willamette Valley,” we moved further down the map, “it makes up the Amity Hills, Eola hills, and Salem Hills.” Again, these would have been low points, or depressions at the time.
“We find it in the Molalla River in what used to be river valleys,” she continued, and in places like “Silver Falls State Park.”
“Then we see it out here and in the Capes all the way as far south as Seal Rock,” she concluded.
Sheila drawing Oregon in the sand.
A Gap
But there is a problem—a gap if you will. There is not a clear sign of Columbia River Basalt flows through the Coast Range Mountains. How did they make it all the way to Coast near Newport?
This is where Sheila comes in. She has made it her mission to find Columbia River Basalts in the Coast Range Mountains—to trace its path to the Ocean.
Now there is a lot of basalt in the Coast Range Mountains, but the problem is “the chemistry doesn’t match up.”
“A lot of it is Siletz River Basalt,” Sheila said as we restarted our walk back.
Siletz River Basalts are part of a massive igneous province that formed in the Pacific Ocean before accreting to North America beginning about 50 million years ago known as Siletzia or the Siletzia Terrane. This exotic terrane became the foundation for the Coast Range but is also visible in various locations in the Coast Range.
According to Sheila, Columbia River Basalts have “higher silica than most basalt” and each flow or unit has a specific chemistry. She has collected samples at various promising locations in the Coast Range but has yet to find a match.
Perpetual Teaching and Learning
Sheila and I soon recrossed the creek we had waded over earlier.
After we crossed, I asked Sheila to tell me about one of her favorite places on the Oregon Coast. She had mentioned Cape Perpetua earlier and I wanted to know the story.
“Cape Perpetua was a personal thing,” started Shiela. “ I was studying oceanography and looking out at the ocean.”
She could see the waves breaking below her and she realized she could calculate how far apart each wave from another using known distances, like the road. The distance of one wave to another where they start to break tells you the depth of the water at that location.
“It came to me,” she went on. “I really love this. I want to do this.”
Sheila paused.
“That was 25 years ago. I haven’t tired of it.”
We continued our conversation passing through the creek, back up the basalt cobble, and up the paved path to our cars—and Sheila never tired.
And you know what? Neither did I.
Sheila Alfsen is a geology instructor at Chemeketa Community College, Linn-Benton Community College, and Portland State University. She is also a past president and program director of the Geological Society of Oregon Country in Portland. Sheila earned d Bachelor of Arts from Western Oregon University for Geology and Spanish before going on to get an MAT from Western Oregon University.
Birds sing, bees buzz, and plants burst—life rebounds in the spring with such vigor it awakens the senses—as well as one’s seasonal allergies. It is worth it though! To me, watching the changes of spring through itchy, watery eyes is the bees-knees (oh, how we love those pollinators).
Spring is one of the best times to get outside and hike in Oregon. While warmer temperatures are inviting, longer daylight hours mean there is more time to hike. So, get out there and enjoy all the many hallmarks of spring. But don’t forget to read about them too.
1) Calloway Creek Trail
Oregon grapefawn lily western trillium
Enjoy a gentle ramble through Douglas-fir, Oregon white oak, and riparian forest in this short accessible loop. Calloway Creek is a favorite spring hike of mine—partly because of its proximity and partly because of the diversity of plants on the trail. There is so much to see in just a few miles, especially come spring.
At the beginning of March, or even February, some of the early spring arrivals show up—purple snow queen, oaks toothwort, and yellow stream violet add small splashes of color to the forest floor. Skinny stemmed Indian plum blooms—its white flowers dangle like earrings from the tips of droopy branches. And the long silky cream catkins of beaked hazelnut dance in the breeze.
By mid-April, giant while fawn lilies emerge and showstopping western Trillium are abundant on the trail, along with purple irises growing near the oak woodlands. Both salmonberry and Oregon grape bloom in technicolor—bright pink and yellow, respectively—while skinny striped trunks of the bitter cherry shoot our clusters of white popcorn blossoms with abandon. Some flowers are more difficult to spot. Play hunt-and-seek for dainty pink fairy slippers on the forest floor. Of course, these are just a few of the many wildflowers to see on this classic forest trail!
Location or Nearest Town: Corvallis, OR
Distance: 2.3 miles with about 200 feet of elevation gain
Difficulty: Easy
When to go: Year-round. April is best.
Why go? Shaded forests, wildflowers, and easy access.
Trail Curiosity: Phenology
Phenology is the study of the cyclical changes in living populations of organisms through the seasons. The phenomenon is something we are all familiar with—leaves turn color and fall in autumn and flowers blossom in spring, for instance. Annual migrations and hatchings are other examples.
These changes are predictable and are triggered by environmental cues, like temperature or humidity. Therefore, if a cue changes, the predictable behavior of the population will be affected too.
A change in the phenology, or timing of an event, is problematic—putting species ahead or behind schedule. For migratory animals, this could mean less food availability during a long journey. For plants, this could mean missing an important pollinator. As the climate changes, the study of phenology will help us understand the extent of all this decoupling.
You can get involved in the study of phenology by joining Oregon Season Trackers or other phenology programs in their area.
2) Trestle Creek Falls Loop
Upper Trestle Creek Falls
Hike under a canopy of Douglas-fir and western hemlock to two-tiered 65-foot Upper Trestle Creek Falls before looping down to a view of the less dramatic, log-choked Lower Trestle Creek Falls. The upper falls features an impressive rocky grotto that hikers access behind the falls to continue the loop. Moss, ferns, salal, and woodland sorrel blanket much of the forest. Leaning and down logs are also common. Look for western redcedar and madrone that spring up along the forest path. Rocky outcrops and peak-a-boo views of surrounding hillsides make the high interesting. Be ready for mud and some poison oak on the eastern part of the trail.
Spring is the best time to visit Trestle Creek Falls—waterfall flows are at their peak as the snow melts off the mountains and the forest is reinvigorated. Lush greenery really makes the forest feel magical and woodland wildflowers add whimsy to a spring day. Sitting at a low enough elevation, Trestle Creek does not generally have any snow remaining during the spring months.
Location or Nearest Town: Dorena, Oregon; upper trestle creek falls trailhead
Distance: 3.7 miles with about 1,200 feet elevation gain.
Difficulty: Moderate
When to go? Year-round with exception of winter storms. Spring is best.
Why go? Waterfalls and lush green forest.
Trail Curiosity: Streamflow
You may remember from elementary school that water is constantly recycled—the water cycle makes certain of that. Precipitation, evaporation, and condensation move water around from land to atmosphere to land again. Runoff, infiltration, subsurface flow, and groundwater flow move water above and below Earth’s surface. Water is cleaned and transported through these processes.
Streamflow is a measure of how much water is flowing in a stream or river at a time—often measured in cubic meters per second. In spring, streamflow values for rainfed streams in the Pacific Northwest often decline as rainfall declines across the state. However, in some parts of the region, the presence of mountains has resulted in a different story. Many of Oregon’s streams and rivers are snow-fed—meaning the water that feeds these streams comes primarily from melting snowpack that hangs around late into the summer. Snow-fed streams have more consistent streamflow—peaking in late spring, rather than winter. This is good news for anyone that needs water year-round, and all of us do.
However, there is concern about the future of the Pacific Northwest’s streamflow. Surface water, despite being extremely important, is extremely limited—streamflow accounts for only .006% of freshwater on the planet. As snowpack levels are threatened by a changing climate, peak streamflow timing is destined to change.
3) William L Finley National Wildlife Refuge
Views out across oak savanna.
The variety of habitats in this 5,325-acre refuge makes it a fascinating place to visit. Upland prairie, oak savanna, wetlands, and mixed coniferous forests abound with different plant species and wildlife. Some of the habitats are rare, having been all but wiped off the map due to human development in the Willamette Valley. For example, wet prairie can only be seen in a few places on the planet—the refuge being one of them. Roosevelt Elk, black-tailed deer, bobcat, coyote, waterfowl, songbirds, raptors, and beaver all occupy the refuge at one time or another.
With the onset of spring, activity in the refuge intensifies—movement, color, and sounds. Listen for Northern Flicker’s frequent drumming as they search out a mate. Watch the skies for barn swallows dipping and diving with the air currents. Then, of course, are the wildflowers—filling the meadows with color and decorating the forest floor. Rare flowers like Kincaid’s lupine and Golden paintbrush bloom here in the grassland habitats, along with Nelson’s checkermallow and Bradshaw’s lomatium. Buzzing about the wildflowers is a whole host of invertebrate visitors, like bees and beetles—many of which are pollinators. Look for the California bumblebee, yellow-faced bumble bee, Silvery Blue butterfly, Western Tiger Swallowtail, and Common Wood Nymph in the springtime fray.
Location or Nearest Town: South of Corvallis, OR
Distance: Varies; 8.4 for a mega loop; 455 feet elevation gain.
Difficulty: Moderate
When to go: May for wildflowers and pollinators. The full loop is open from April 1 to October 31st.
Why go? Wildlife viewing; unique habitats; wildflowers and their visitors.
Trail Curiosity: Pollinators
Seed plant reproduction starts with pollen. Unpleasant in the way it makes eyes itch and/or your nose run, the dispersal of pollen is an absolute must when it comes to plant reproduction. In flowering plants, male reproductive organs, known as stamen, produce pollen at their tips—the anther. From here the pollen is transported—by wind, water, insects, etc.—until it reaches the flower of a plant of the same species and is captured by the female reproductive organ, known as a pistil, on a structure called the stigma. Pollen’s movement from anther to stigma is known as pollination. Achoo!
Not surprisingly, as seed plant reproduction gets going, spring brings on the thrum and hum of pollinators—ready for a feast! Native pollinators in Oregon include bumblebees, leaf-cutting and mason bees, wasps, beetles, butterflies, moths, hummingbirds, and bats. Oregon Bee Atlas has counted 650 different species of bees in Oregon! That is a lot of pollinators, rubbing elbows with the flowers.
Unfortunately, many pollinator populations are declining, and some are at risk of extinction. Endangered Fender’s blue butterfly with its fuzzy purple-blue wings is one such species. An obligate to Kincaid’s lupine—adults must lay their eggs on the underside of their leaves—Fender’s blue occurs in scattered populations across its limited range in the Willamette Valley of Oregon. Habitat loss and degradation is the main threat to the species. Look for Fender’s Blue at Finley in late May when they emerge as adults.
4) Tom McCall Point
Balsamroot on the Tom McCall Point trail.
Nothing harkens to the wildflower season better than a hike on Tom McCall Point trail. As early as February, drooping grass widows and lacy-leaved desert parsleys emerge in the eastern Columbia River Gorge. By late April and into May, these give way to fields of golden balsamroot and purple lupine with a smattering of red paintbrush. Other less conspicuous delights include beautiful white-stem frasera, bicolored cluster lily, and popcorn flower. Seed pods of early blooming Columbia desert parsley are also common.
The trail system here takes you through channeled scablands left behind from glacial floods that scoured the area toward the end of the last ice age—about 18,000 to 15,000 years ago. Rocky outcrops and small ponds remain from the tumultuous period.
Escape the lingering clouds and rain in exchange for blue skies by heading east. Take in views of the Columbia River and its environs. A hike to Tom McCall point offers views of Mt. Adams to the east and Mr. Hood to the west.
Location or Nearest Town: Mosier, OR
Distance: 3.4 miles; approximately 1070 elevation gain
Difficulty: Moderate
When to go: February to May. Peak blooms are usually in late April/May
Why go?: Interesting geology, wildflowers, and blue skies
Trail Curiosity: Desert Blooms Adaptations
Wide-open spaces bring a bounty of spring color to Oregon’s dry sagebrush steep and grassland habitats. There is something alluring about these landscapes at this time of year. Everything is steeped in golden sunlight—a soft desert blush. Balsamroot blooms—rays of sun themselves—grow in stretches across the high plateaus of Eastern Oregon.
Desert flowers are not only beautiful, but they possess an inventive ruggedness that comes from spending all one’s days in such a harsh environment. High winds and low moisture are common challenges, but desert plants are well adapted to their home and can not only survive but thrive.
Arrowleaf balsamroot is a favorite desert wildflower for many. Showy and profuse with a bright yellow flowerhead, it attracts countless visitors to trails in April or May when the bloom reaches its peak. With a long taproot, it anchors to the ground, stabilizing the earth and holding the plant in often blustering winds. Above ground, balsamroot is about 2 feet tall, but below ground, it may grow to 3 or more feet long—reaching for water not available at the surface. Their long, heart-shaped leaves are sage green with thick hairs that act as a windbreaker, preventing desiccation.
5) Beazell Memorial Forest
Views of Marys Peak from the meadow.
Hike along rushing Plunkett Creek, past dozens of forest wildflowers before traversing up a slope to a grassy bald hillside with views of Marys Peak in the distance. Flowers color the bald and butterflies flutter in all directions in, looking for a sweet drink. Continue down the trail past second-growth Douglas-fir—a few older wolf trees with arms that reach out in all directions stand at attention as you begin your descent.
In early spring, the forest floor is lush and green and the water in the creek swells. As you hike past the mossy bigleaf maple just beginning to leaf out, make sure to look down—rough-skinned newts crawl along the path in droves in early spring. These toxic, yet amiable creatures migrate to breeding ponds in mass once a year. If you are lucky
Location or Nearest Town: Beazell Memorial Forest County Park; Kings Valley, OR
Distance: 4 miles; about 885 elevation gain.
Difficulty: Easy /Moderate
When to go: April to May
Why go? Shaded riparian forest, upland prairie, wildflowers, gorgeous stream, and Newts (if you get the timing right!)
Trail Curiosity: Newt Spring Migration and Breeding
With the onset of spring in the western valleys of Oregon, rough-skinned newts (Taricha granulosa) are on the move. Breeding season for these charismatic creatures is usually March to May for Oregon’s bottomlands. During this time, Newts will migrate—sometimes in droves—to breeding ponds. Males are the first to arrive, followed by a smaller number of females.
Rough-skinned Newts engage in a series of mating rituals underwater, including pre and post insemination “cuddling”—where the male grips the female from the back—a position known as amplexus. Competition between males vying for female attention can result in the formation of a mating ball—where several males lock with one or two females.
Watch for newts along the forest trail and in slow-moving water in spring to get in on the action.
There is something mythical about whales. Stories of whales show up repeatedly in folklore—represented as otherworldly and wise. Whales live in a different realm— mammals like us, whales breathe air, but somehow make a living in the Ocean. Their lives are cloaked in mystery—behaving in ways we are only beginning to understand.
One person who is trying to unlock their secrets is Leigh Torres, principal investigator of The Geospatial Ecology of Marine Megafauna Laboratory at OSU’s Marine Mammal Institute. So, on an exceptionally warm day in winter, we met up at South Beach State Park to hike and talk whales.
Her dog, Pepper, in tow, we headed out along the path that follows the south jetty out to the Pacific. The sky was bright blue overhead. Hordes of people were out enjoying the sunshine.
The Hike
Trailhead: Yaquina Bay South Jetty Trailhead.
Distance: Approximately 1 mile for beach walk. Additional options available.
Elevation: Minimal
Details: Plenty of paved parking at trailhead. No fee for parking. Pit toilet at trailhead. Follow a gravel trail that parallels the jetty over the sandy dunes to get to the beach.
Finding a Passion
As we walked, I asked Leigh to tell me a bit about her background.
“I grew up loving animals,” Leigh responded, “especially big animals.” Admittedly a common interest of many kids.
That, coupled with a childhood growing up in Miami connected to the ocean, and her love for science, the stage was set.
So, though Leigh began her studies at American University as a soccer player and photography major, it didn’t take long for her path to take a bit of a U-turn. Through a study abroad in Australia working with marine mammals, she found her passion for marine research. “I want to do that,” she recalled thinking at the time.
Leigh ended up double-majoring in photography and environmental science before pursuing advanced degrees at Duke University. There, she began her work with marine mammals studying dolphin behavior and foraging.
Now she is a marine ecologist at OSU studying the spatial and behavioral ecology of marine megafauna—how they behave, where they go, etc.
As we walked up next to the dark rocks of the south jetty, Leigh pointed out a couple of heavy orange-billed rhinoceros auklets swimming in the navigation channel. We could also see the dark rounded heads of sea lions bobbing above the water.
“Well, there is a couple of marine mammals right there!” she exclaimed.
Looking out into the navigation channel as we headed to the beach.
Whale Habitat
Continuing over the foredune and onto the ocean beach, the sights, and sounds of breaking waves immediately captivate the senses. Here, Leigh and I got down to the business of talking whales—specifically gray whales.
“We are actually looking at one of their main habitats,” Leigh began as she pointed out toward the breakers. The Newport coastline is a major feeding ground for a group of resident whales that stop here to feed during the summer and fall months, rather than migrating further north to the arctic.
“They feed close to shore,” said Leigh, “They feed on really shallow reefs often covered in kelp.” These areas are highly productive habitats—hosting many species that whales need to survive. In particular, mysid—shrimp-like zooplankton—swarm these areas, providing a staple food source for gray whales to dine on.
Squinting out toward the white-capped waves—I tried to imagine what lay below the surface, an entire rocky ecosystem with thick green kelp beds, fish, invertebrates, urchins, starfish, and, of course, whales. All of which depend on each other to maintain a healthy system.
Walking down off the foredune onto the beach.
Feeding
How gray whales feed is something else entirely!
As we walked along Leigh told me how gray whales use a variety of foraging tactics to feed, including “head standing”, “sucking benthos”, and something called “bubble blast.”
What? Bubble blast? I asked Leigh how this works.
She explained that the whales will blast bubbles through their blowhole underwater to create a cloud of bubbles a couple of meters wide. They will then chomp their jaws near the blast to feed.
“Bubble blast is a mystery,” Leigh proclaimed. No one knows why they do it. Leigh speculated that it could be related to buoyancy. Whatever the reason, these foraging strategies seem to be culturally shared.
Leigh laughed as she recalled some bubble blast footage her lab caught on tape of an older, 30-year-old male whale named, Peak, feeding with a younger 7-year-old male, Pacman on a reef. Peak bubble blasted and Pacman followed suit. Just two peas in a whale pod.
According to Leigh, this feeding time is vital, especially for females. “They are capital breeders,” she explained. This means that the food they consume during five to six months at their feeding grounds needs to sustain them for the remainder of the year, as they engage in costly activities, like breeding and migrating.
Migration
Speaking of migrating—after feeding for several months, gray whales migrate south for the winter—most traveling 5,000-6,000 miles to Baja California.
Toward the end of the feeding season, whales start to feed less and socialize more. Leigh has observed courting actives in the whales she studies. Males and females will surface synchronously together. Males will jockey for position next to a female. “Sometimes you see some penis’ flying in the air.” Ah, the life of a whale researcher.
“They all go to Baja,” Leigh remarked. Mating often occurs in route, but gestation lasts about 12-14 months—the end of the following year’s migration.
Once in the warm waters of Baja, the whales engage in social behaviors, and the pregnant females, if they haven’t already, give birth to a single calf. Mothers nurse their calves in the tropical waters until they build up enough blubber reserves to survive colder waters to the north.
Then, in the spring, gray whales make a return trip north—again traveling 5,000-6,000 miles to feeding grounds, usually in the Arctic or sub-Arctic regions of Alaska.
This costly migration occurs over and over throughout the long lives of these whales. Though we don’t know exactly how old gray whales get, it is probably something like 60-80 years, according to Leigh. That is a lot of migration.
Subgroup
As we migrated along the beach—contemplating the immensity of a 6,000-mile journey—Leigh clued me into the whales she studies in Oregon.
“These whales don’t make a full migration,” she explained. “They are what is called a subgroup.” More specifically, the Pacific Coast Feeding Group (PCFG). There are about 250 members of this group that arrive at Oregon’s rocky shores in about June and stick around until around October—feeding along the kelp beds that grow here.
It is these gray whales that Leigh watches bubble blast and suck benthos. It is also these whales that she knows by name and personality.
One of the objectives of her lab is to understand how this subgroup of whales is different from whales that make the full migration. For example, one of the graduate students in her lab looked at the caloric content of prey found in Oregon versus the arctic. Eventually finding them to be equivalent or higher.
“We are still piece-by-piece trying to solve the mystery of the PCFGs,” said Leigh. Why do they stop? What is their unique culture? Their challenges? This is the crux of Leigh and her team’s research.
A couple of other subgroups exists. For example, a group of about twelve whales stops in Puget Sound in March to feed off ghost shrimp. Another larger endangered population of gray whales—the western gray whale population—migrates all the way to Russia.
Sunlight reflects off the water on the beach.
Whale Research
We walked along the wet, compacted sand, moving south along the coastline at an easy pace. Pepper chased ahead following her joy and the surf.
“We study their behavior and body conditions,” Leigh explained, keeping a close eye on Pepper as she talked.
Studying whales is not an easy undertaking. Leigh’s lab uses different methods and technologies to help gather the data they need to better understand how the gray whales that reside on the Oregon Coast are doing.
“When we are with the whales, the first thing we do is get out the cameras and do photo ID,” explained Leigh. “Everything we do is linked to an individual whale.”
Next, the drones come out. Drones allow Leigh and her team to really see what they are doing. Body condition and behavior are two essential measurements taken from drone footage.
A Gold Mine
Then there is the poop!
“We are looking for poop the entire time,” Leigh stated with a grin.
According to Leigh, capturing whale poop is not too difficult—you just need a lot of patience and a “really good boat driver.” Whales typically poop during their last fluke-out dive—called the terminal dive. After three or four blows in a row, the whale takes a final breath, dives, and out comes the poop (well, some of the time).
As soon as someone spots a reddish-brown plume in the water, they yell “poop!” And the team jumps into action. Using mesh nets, they scoop up as much poop as possible for testing. You usually only have about 30 seconds before it sinks into the abyss. Whale poops can be as large as 4 by 4 meters. Yep, I asked (your whalecome).
You might be asking yourself, why in the world would anyone want to collect whale poop?
“Poop from whales is a biological gold mine,” explained Leigh. It can be used to determine a lot about the whale’s health and biology. Plus, it is a non-invasive method!
“We look at the hormones, what it is eating, and the microbiome of the animal,” Leigh went on. “We are looking at microplastic loads,” she also specified. Truly, a gold mine.
Unique Personalities or Discoveries
We continued along the flat glistening sand, sun on our backs. I asked Leigh how long she has been studying Oregon’s subgroup of whales.
“Six years now,” Leigh replied. She went on, “My hope is to continue for a long time. “
“These are long-lived animals,” Leigh explained. “To really understand their ecology, we need long-term studies.”
Leigh and her team hope to better understand what affects their reproduction and survival.
So far, the lab has established “baseline knowledge.” Overall, it seems that how much gray whales respond to stressors varies greatly from whale-to-whale, year-to-year, and even day-to-day within an individual whale. Lactating whales, for example, will be generally very skinny. Stress hormones increase following a stressful event, like a propellor strike.
The goal now is to figure out what the drivers are—or, in other words, what is at the heart of the variation in responses observed in whales?
Ripples in the sand at South Beach State Park
Hard-knock Life
Eventually, Leigh and I reached a small creek crossing—not wanting to get our feet wet, we turned around and headed north. It was nearly lunchtime, so getting back to our feeding grounds, I mean er, cars, made sense.
As we headed back, Leigh and I talked about the changes she is seeing in Oregon’s resident whales and what she sees as the potential drivers of these changes.
“The number of whales is lowering,” Leigh told me. Though she doesn’t know what exactly is happening to the whales, she knows they are not coming back. “There has been an unusual mortality event,” Leigh went on, “lots of emaciated whales on the coast lately.”
According to Leigh, kelp is also on the decline along the coast probably due to marine heatwaves and increases in urchins. This is a significant problem as gray whales feed a lot in these kelp beds.
She recalled the warm blob event of 2014 to 2016 and its impact on the marine system. “It changed the oceanography,” she explained, and both the kelp and whales were impacted. Prey availability reduction was measured, as well as a decline in the whales’ body conditions.
Along the same vein, urchin populations have increased as their predators, like sea otters and sunflower sea stars, have become less abundant. Because urchins eat kelp, a larger urchin population is bad news for kelp.
Entangled in Strikes
Then there are the vessel strikes and the fisheries entanglements.
“One particular project I am interested in is noise pollution,” Leigh mentioned early on in our hike together.
Oceans are becoming noisy places. “90% of shipping is overseas,” according to Leigh. That means a lot of fast and loud ships that whales, and other marine life, must contend with. Leigh wants to understand how whales respond to all the noise.
To study the phenomenon, Leigh and her research team place hydrophones in two locations during the summer—one near the South Jetty where we were walking and another, near the much quieter, Otter Rock Marine Reserve. The goal is to monitor both sites for noise and to track the gray whales’ responses.
Listening is an important part of whale behavior. “The ocean is very dark,” Leigh explained, “you can’t see very far for navigation.” Whale communication relies on sound. Finding food, mating, and avoiding predators are all affected by a noise-filled ocean.
Leigh told me about a pilot project where her team tagged whales using suction cups. Each tag had a camera and accelerometer to track the activity of the whale over about a 24-hour period.
During one of these tagging events, they were able to observe one of the whales, Peak, move through the navigation channel. What they found was compelling.
Peak dropped from about 2 meters below the surface to 5 meters during the traverse. He also took fewer breathes during his crossing.
It is easy to speculate regarding his behavior—Was Peak experiencing “fear?” Exercising caution? More research will need to be done.
How to Save Whales
So, what can we do?
As Leigh and I neared our exit from the beach, I asked her that very question.
“First, simple things that reduce the role of climate change,” was her initial response. “Drive less, fly less, eat less meat.”
For people that recreate in the ocean, her recommendation was more direct—“pick up your fishing gear” and “slow down.”
Leaving crab pots or other fishing gear in the water for extended periods of time can increase the likelihood that whales become entangled.
Driving too fast and not watching for whales in areas that they occupy results in more strikes. “A lot of whales have propeller strikes.”
Finally, there are the less tangible things we can do. We can be informed about marine life and the changes occurring in our oceans.
“Educate, connect, and monitor our environment”—that is what Leigh and her team are working tirelessly to achieve.
If we can get on board and show similar interest in the ocean—perhaps through our own connections to marine life—then we are getting somewhere. After all, human activity and gray whales overlap.
Whether you are fishing on a reef or purchasing something on Amazon, you are party to a human-whale interaction.
A boar returning from the Ocean through the navigation channel.
Whale Connections
Fortunately, Leigh and her research team have made connecting with Oregon’s whales easier than ever. They developed a website (individuwhale.com) where anyone can learn about the Pacific Coast Feeding Group on an intimate level.
“We profiled eight whales,” Leigh explained, “Talk about their lives and show them as individuals.”
By visiting the site, you can learn about each whales’ behaviors and habits—”are they homebodies or roamers?”—for example. Information about research methods and whale threats is also discussed on the site.
The site shows you how to use markings to distinguish between individual whales. You can even play a fun game to test your knowledge. And the best part—you can then use what you learned to identify whales in the wild.
Finding Whales
Let’s go wild—wild about whales! Where can we find these magnificent creatures?
Well, when it comes to the Oregon Coast, it depends on who and what you want to see.
Leigh told me that she has been doing helicopter surveys four times a month with the coast guard since 2019—with flights out of North Bend, Newport, and Warrenton. The main goal of the survey is to determine the distribution of whales over time and space in order to better manage entanglement risk.
With this data, however, Leigh was also able to tell me a bit about where and when recreators might want to look for whales.
The migrating gray whales come through in February and March and November and December, making these months a great time to look for whales off Oregon’s rocky shores.
However, Oregon’s part-time resident whales are around all summer—from June to October, with August being the peak month to see them. For the best views of these whales, head to Depoe Bay or Yaquina Head, according to Leigh.
But gray whales aren’t the only cetaceans that visit Oregon. Harbor porpoise is a year-round resident, though hard to see unless the water is exceptionally calm. Humpbacks and blue whales hang out for the summer, though farther offshore, with blue whales the closer of the pair. For humpbacks, July is a peak month, but for blue whales, it is closer to September or October. Then, Fin whales arrive in the winter.
Heading Home
Leigh and I continued to chat as we walked over the sandy dunes that separated us from the parking lot.
Though we didn’t see one whale during our hike together, spending time with Leigh was like getting a peek behind the curtain. Though the mystery of whales is not resolved, we are closer than we have ever been to understanding these sentinels of the sea. And with drones, poop, and Leigh and her team, we will only get closer. And that is something to get whaley excited about.
Leigh Torres in the principal investigator of The Geospatial Ecology of Marine Megafauna Laboratory at OSU’s Marine Mammal Insti
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.
The sky was crying out large splattering raindrops quicker than my windshield wipers could sweep them away. Traffic was usual for a Sunday morning in Portland, Oregon, as I headed north on I-205, and eventually into Washington state. My destination: Hamilton Mountain Trailhead. My purpose: to meet up with meteorologist and fair weather hiker, Steve Pierce, for an afternoon hike and interview.
But the rain was hammering and I was beginning to wonder if this thing would happen. Steve had told me straight-out-of-the-gate that he didn’t hike in the rain, so he probably wouldn’t be up for a downpour.
What is up with the Weather?
Weather: atmospheric conditions present at any given time, on any given point on Earth. Such a simple definition for such a complex, life-altering phenomenon. The weather can turn a good day into a bad one, build up our snowpack, exacerbate forest fires, leave us exposed, fearful even. And in my case, possibly defer a hike?
The weather was doing its thing. So I drove and crossed my fingers (figuratively), tracing the path of the Columbia River to my right as I headed east on Highway 14. By the time, I reached the trailhead, conditions weren’t looking much better. By the time Steve pulled up in his little red convertible, we were still in the thick of it.
Windows rolled down and raindrops falling all around, I met Steve Pierce for the first time, sitting side by side in our vehicles. After some quick introductions, he pulled out his phone to check the weather radar. “Another 15 minutes or so and the rain would pass,” Steve told me with confidence.
A Career
The hike was on. We just needed to wait out the rain for a bit. So Steve slid into my car and told me how he got started in the world of weather.
Beginnings
Inspired by events like the 1980 Mount Saint Helens eruptions, from a young age Steve was interested in weather. “I was fascinated with which way the ash clouds were going,” said Steve. When ash fell in the Vancouver-Portland, Steve was only seven but he remembers the experience vividly. In particular, he recalled spending time with his brother sliding around on their bikes on a slurry of ash and water that felt akin to snowfall. Coupled with a couple of major snowfall events earlier that same year, the appeal of meteorology hung heavy in Steve’s young mind, like (dare I say) rain in a cloud-ready to fall.
Self Taught
Throughout his youth, Steve studied the weather on his own. He read every book he could get his hands on, including every meteorology book at his local library. Later, when the internet was a thing his studies continued.
Early on he also tried his hand at forecasting. In 5th grade, he started writing a weekly weather forecast for his elementary school’s parent bulletin. At home, Steve would broadcast the weather from the family fireplace hearth through his Mr. Microphone. He also had a weather station and was a devoted weather spotter for Channel 8. By 9th grade, he found himself on the cover of the regional paper (The Columbian) in an article titled: “Teens Career Forecast is Clear.”
You’re Hired
Fast forward to 2014, after attending Mt. Hood Community College (1994) and Washington State University, Vancouver (2001), a family, a prior communications career, and“fever” for investing in real estate, Steve finds himself at a crossroad in his life. At this point, Steve is an active member and President of the Oregon Chapter of the American Meteorological Society (AMS), but otherwise had made his career outside of meteorology, when he gets “the call.” It was local news anchor, Jeff Gianola, who remembered him from 20 years prior, when Steve was a college intern, with a job opportunity: Meteorologist for KOIN 6 News. Steve is instructed to: “get on a suit and come to the station” if he is interested in this rare opportunity. Adorned in basically the only formal suit Steve owned at the time, he goes into the station for a mock-up weather forecast. He is hired on the spot!
Time to Hit the Trail
This brings us to today. Steve and I had been talking for several minutes in the car at this point so that the windows were fogged up and the air a bit warm and humid. The rain, on the other hand, had finally stopped. I suggested that we hit the trail.
Steve Pierce at the Trailhead
The Hike
Trailhead: Hamilton Mountain Trailhead
Distance: approximately 2.5 miles round trip to Rodney Falls
Elevation Gain: approx. 450 feet elevation gain
Details: The trail to Rodney Falls is an easy out and back hike. Those that want more of an adventure may continue to the top of Hamilton Mountain for a total of 7+ miles and 2100+ feet elevation gain . There is ample parking at the trailhead and restroom facilities available. Parking requires a WA Discover Pass.
Basic Science
Steve and I started our hike with a couple of photos before making our way up the forested trail. The sun was coming out and the only water falling around us was from the surrounding vegetation.
“See I promised it was going to be good,” Steve smiled.
As we moved at a quick pace, I asked Steve to tell me about what it takes to understand the weather. What does it take to forecast the weather? He said two things: 1) basic science and 2) interpreting computer models.
“Anyone can be a weather enthusiast,” replied Steve, “but sort of where-the-rubber-meets-the-road is really understanding meteorology on a scientific level. How are weather patterns created? How do they evolve?”
He went on with an example. “We live in a part of the country where the Columbia River Gorge is huge in determining our weather. Without the Gorge, we would rarely get snow in Portland.” He explained that the Cascade mountains create a barrier that separates the cold, dry continental air mass that sits over the continent during the winter. The Gorge is a gap in that barrier. “The gap is how we tap into that cold air.”
And this is where we get into some of the basic science of meteorology. Cold air is dense and tends to sink, and warm air rises and expands. Air also moves from low to high pressure.
So, if we look at the science, it makes sense that in the winter, the cold air from the east would be more than happy to rush through the Columbia River Gorge following the pressure gradient, on its way to the relatively warmer ocean. Then, if there is some moisture on top of that, bring on the snow!
Computer Models
In addition to knowing the basic science, “interpreting computer weather models” is essential to meteorology, especially in modern times.
Computer weather models take observations from weather stations and weather satellites and assimilate them into a 3-D grid. They then use mathematical equations that describe the physics of atmospheric variables, like pressure, temperature, wind, and moisture, to make predictions about future atmospheric conditions. Thus, weather models depend on both the equations used and the observation. The better both of these play together the more accurate the forecast.
Steve shared that the models he prefers are a set found at the University of Washington, developed by “long-standing atmospheric science professor, Dr. Cliff Mass.” NOAA also has some high-resolution models too.
Computer models have truly revolutionized weather forecasting, making accurate forecasting possible. This is the “leading-edge technology” we are talking about. Available to all, these models make forecasting the weather a breeze (pun intended) compared to the past. The Labor Day winds and forest fires, for example, were forecasted to the hour by weather models.
Again, most of these models are available for those who are interested.
Why Weather?
And who isn’t interested?
The weather has always been kind of a big deal—affecting our past, present, and future.
As Steve puts it, “Weather affects everybody. It affects your everyday life, your job if you work outside—agriculture, for instance.” The weather today can also affect the future.
For example, the amount of winter snow in the Pacific Northwest, predicts future water supply in the region. All that snow that dumped down in the valley and mountains a few weeks ago wasn’t just weather for now, but water for later. We even saw remnants of the snowfall during our hike along the trail.
“I just saw the latest snowpack for Mt. Hood,” said Steve, “and we are at 100-110% of normal.” And that is good news for the upcoming summer water needs across the Pacific Northwest.
Snow on the trail!
A Tale of Two Clouds
The forested trail continued into a short clearing where I could feel the sun warming my skin. In his cavalier way, Steve noted this change in weather. He had promised it would be nice.
To the right, there was a bit of a view out toward the river and a basalt cliffside, but my attention was drawn to the clouds overhead. I asked Steve, “What kind of clouds are these?”
“These are cumulous,” replied Steve.
Clouds are a personal favorite of mine. And growing up in Oregon, there never seems to be a shortage of clouds to look up at. So of course, I needed to know more, so I asked Steve to elaborate.
As he explained it, there are many types of clouds, but two of them are the most interesting to him: cumulus and stratus.
Cumulus
Cumulus clouds, like much of what we saw during our hike, are convective. What does that mean? It means that the droplets of moisture that make up the cloud are heated up by the surface of the Earth and rise up. Just like a pot of boiling water, cumulus clouds “puff-up” as they rise, like bubbles breaking the surface. Cumulus clouds are also a sign of an unstable atmosphere and that severe weather may be on its way.
Stratus
Stratus clouds on the other hand are low to the ground. Unlike cumulus clouds, stratus clouds are stable and flood in from coastal areas in thick layers of moisture.
According to Steve, “Stratus are unique to the west coast.” During the summers, the air above the ocean is colder and denser than inland. This colder air can be held at bay during the day, but by 6 p.m., as Steve puts it, “mother nature’s air conditioning kicks in,” and the cooler coastal air drifts inland through gaps in the coast range, including the Columbia River Gorge. Oftentimes, this cool onshore flow will also bring in stratus clouds, filling-in the valley overnight.
Viewpoint with some “dissipating” cumulus clouds
Clashing Air
While cumulus clouds continued to drift east through the Gorge, Steve and I continued our hike in the same direction, leaving the cloudy peek-a-boo view behind.
Moving swiftly up the trail now, my mind was racing, as I attempted to assimilate all that was being said. One word stuck in my mind: “unstable.” Steve had thrown this word around a bit. If today was “a bit unstable,” as Steve suggested, what does that mean? So, of course, I asked.
“An unstable air mass, simply put, is very buoyant air,” Steve replied. “Unstable air is usually what follows a cold front. And a front is the clash of two air masses, warm air ahead and cold air behind.” The clash between the cold and warm air builds up clouds as the colder, denser air mass replaces the warmer, less dense air mass, resulting in cooling and condensing of water droplets that form clouds and can produce rain.
A Big Difference
Steve further explained that the bigger the difference in temperature between the air masses, the more unstable the air mass can become. And the greater the instability, the bigger the potential for convective storms.
In the Pacific Northwest, the biggest storms tend to occur in the spring as there is more heating of the Earth by the Sun, creating more frequent and larger temperature differences between air masses and in between the different layers of the lower atmosphere, say below 25,000ft.
Extreme Weather
However, despite the Pacific Northwest’s reputation for weather in the form of rain, we do not have the extreme weather that you might see, in say, the midwest.
In the midwest, supercell thunderstorms develop and spin up tornadoes because of the clash between cold continental air from Canada and warm air from the Gulf of Mexico. In the Pacific Northwest, this sort of instability just doesn’t happen often. The differences in temperatures over the Pacific Ocean land are just not that significant. As Steve put it: “We just have relatively cold” air.
Cold to the Core
Instead, the Pacific Northwest’s version of a twister is a much calmer cousin—the cold-core funnel cloud. A cold-core funnel (while also sounding like a new exercise routine) is the Pacific Northwest version of a tornado. Simply put, it is a vertical “rotating” column of air in the atmosphere that is especially cold, unstable, and almost always trails just behind the recent passage of a cold front.
“After a front has passed, we typically have westerly flow at the upper level of the atmosphere, and a southerly or southwesterly flow up the Willamette Valley”, Steve explained. “Just enough wind sheer between the two, along with geographic enhancements in the valley, and you can spin up a horizontal column of unstable air and then turn that column vertical due to the wind sheer present.” Hence, a tornado.
If these cold-core funnel clouds touch down, though rare, they can cause EF-0 or EF-1 tornado damage.
In fact, according to Steve, the deadliest tornado west of the Rockies hit Vancouver, WA on April 5, 1972. Rated as an EF-3 (F-3 back then) tornado, winds were 165-210 miles per hour. Six people died that day in Vancouver when a supermarket and bowling alley roof collapsed. The roof and walls of near-by Peter S. Ogden Elementary School were also damaged.
Large Bodies of Water
However, deadly storms are anomalies in the Pacific Northwest. “We don’t really have that kind of volatile weather,” explained Steve, “because we have the Ocean.” The Pacific Ocean, as is the case with any large body of water, is slow to heat up and slow to cool down, making it an excellent moderator of climate.
In the summer, when the inland starts to heat up, the Ocean lags behind. In the winter, temperatures drop inland, but the Ocean retains its heat. The result is cooler summers on the coast and warmer winters.
The moderating effect keeps Portland and other Willamette Valley temperatures from reaching extremes as well. Hiking in the Gorge, even in early March, is pleasant and cool, but not too cold (at least relatively), all thanks to the Ocean to the west.
Weather Patterns
One of the first things Steve talked about when I asked him about his interest in meteorology was the importance of weather patterns.
Here is what he said:
“What I am most passionate about with meteorology is I know things happen in cycles. In other words, when we saw the big snow event coming just a few weeks ago, I thought back to previous events where I knew this happened in the past… I remembered I have seen this pattern before. Weather is a set of different patterns that come and go.”
In Oregon, typical patterns of weather result in a climate that is warm and dry in the summer and cool and wet in the winter, and overall pretty moderate. But, on the other hand, we can also predict deviations from the norm, like the winter storm Steve explained earlier.
Much too Hot
Another example of these patterns of predictable deviations occurs in the summer.
Typically during the summer in Oregon, there is a ridge of high pressure over the ocean that blocks storms between June and October, while prevailing winds from the northwest, carry cooler ocean air onshore as a high-pressure system spins clockwise in the northern hemisphere. This is the norm.
However, there are also usually a few days of 90+ degree days, where things don’t cool down. In Oregon, you can expect a couple of brushes with high-temperature days in the summer—it’s a pattern. This occurs when a low-pressure system from the Southwestern United States creates a thermal heat trough that moves into western Oregon. This turns the airflow counterclockwise, directing the winds offshore toward the coast. Not only that, but the downslope flow of air of the Cascade mountains results in “compressional heating,” a thermodynamic process that heats up the Willamette Valley of Oregon even more.
A Numbers Guy
Now one thing that became pretty obvious early on is that Steve is a numbers guy. He is self-professed “good with numbers” and bad with names. I am not great at either so I was impressed how easily he rattled off dates when I can barely remember my own kids’ birthdays.
“Hottest temperature in Portland: 107o F on August 10th, 1981,” Steve rattled off as we marched along. “Coldest temperature in Portland: -3o F on February 2nd 1950.”
After tip-toeing our way through a mud patch, he went on:
“Average temperature in Portland is about 53o F… about the same temperature as the Pacific Ocean… It balances out.”
Superlatives
Steve continued with the superlatives:
Wettest months: November & December (a near “tie” at 5.60” and 5.40” respectively).
Most active weather (thunderstorms): March through May
Foggiest month: October
Biggest change in temperatures: Also October. “With an average range of high’s from 71o F on the 1st to 58 o F on the last day of the month.”
Best Month: October (in Steve’s opinion, due to the change of season and falling of leaves)
Chasing Waterfalls
As Steve and I waxed poetic about the beauty of fall foliage in the Pacific Northwest, the rushing sound of water filled our senses. We were nearing the base of the middle of Rodney Falls located on Hardey Creek. Here, we decided to stop the interview for a bit to check out this fun natural feature.
Steve and I first took an upper trail to the left to get a close view of one of the tiers of the multi-tiered waterfall, before heading down to the base of the fall where you cross over Hardey Creek to continue the hike. With so much snow and rainfall recently, nature’s tap was on full blast and the falls were spectacular.
Rodney Falls
A Cliffside View
Just beyond the falls, Steve and I continued our hike a few hundred feet up to a viewpoint looking out at the Columbia River Gorge. From here you could see the north-facing wall of the canyon rising up on the Oregon side of the Gorge, still covered in snow.
Looking out at the basalt rock cliffs, Steve and I shifted our discussion toward the landscape. (Literally, as we faced the canyon wall.)
“Geographic features have an effect on weather patterns,” Steve said. The Gorge plays a part in shaping weather patterns in the valley. The Pacific Ocean moderates temperatures all along the western margin of the country and beyond.
View of the Columbia River Gorge just above Rodney Falls on the trail
Rain Shadow
There are many geographic features that influence the weather in any location, but one that is particularly important to the Pacific Northwest is our mountain ranges. The Coast Range and the Cascade Range both run north-to-south in the region, creating barriers for winds and weather.
Mountain ranges, like those in Oregon, create what is called a rain shadow—a dry landmass on the opposite side of the mountains from which the air is flowing. As cool, moisture-rich air from the coast travels up each mountain range’s western flanks (also known as the windward side), the air cools and moisture condenses forming clouds and precipitation. Once the air makes it to the eastside (also known as the leeward side), the air has been wrung out like a sponge. As the air descends further it also heats up and evaporation increases.
In Oregon, this means that it gets drier as you head east across the state. According to Steve, the coast averages 60 inches of precipitation, Portland 37, and Bend less than 10.
This also means that in the east you experience a very different ecology than in the west. Instead of the shaded, wet Douglas-fir forest, we were hiking through, hiking the east would take you through open, dry shrub-steppe habitat, or perhaps a Ponderosa Pine forest. Hiking in the east means applying a lot more sunscreen and packing more water.
Douglas-fir trees line the muddy trail.
Sunrise & Sunset
After sufficient time at the viewpoint, Steve and I decided it was time to turn around and head back. And as the sun was setting on our time together, I couldn’t help but ask Steve about literal sunsets—can we use the weather to predict the best sunrises and sunsets?
Yes you can!
“The first thing I would do is look at satellite imagery,” said Steve, “…nothing coming off the coast is a good sign.” If there is a ridge of high pressure over us that shuts down the onshore flow that equals a good sunrise or sunset.
Steve also recommended winter, as the best time to see sunsets. “The atmosphere is more mixed up,” he explained, “so you get really clear air.”
He also warned that sunrises can be more tricky though because of the morning stratus clouds that move off the coast and through the valley at night. These clouds can put a damper on a good sunrise. Of course, when in doubt you can always head east. The clouds can’t make it inland that far.
The Road Home
After Steve and I finished our hike, I climbed back into my car and began the long drive home west through “the Gorge” and south into “the Valley.”
On my way home the pleasant weather turned from partly cloudy to stormy in what felt like an instant. Hail fell from the cumulus clouds overhead and I am pretty sure I saw a flash of lightning off in the distance. Steve was also stuck in Washougal, WA. by a torrential downpour, thunder, and lightning.
The stormy weather was short-lived, however; and as I pulled into my neighborhood the sun was setting, turning the clouds a soft shade of pink. Seeing the painted sky brought me a sense of calm following the chaos of the weather-filled day. I thought, “How very appropriate; this is what it is like to hike with a meteorologist.”
Steve Pierce is a part-time meteorologist at KOIN 6 News based in Portland, Oregon. He grew up in Vancouver, WA where he first developed a passion for weather. Steve studied Television Production at Mount Hood Community College and Business and Communications from Washington State University, Vancouver. He is also the President of the Oregon Chapter of the American Meteorological Society since 2012.
One of many cyanolichen found near the creek during the hike.
Equally unassuming and complex—lichen often go undeservedly unnoticed. Open your eyes to these delightful organisms, and an entire world unfolds before you. And here’s a shock, this world has been there all along hiding in plain sight. On the branch of a tree, or on the ground, or attached to a rock—lichen are everywhere.
Heck, spend enough time in the “world of lichen,” and they may even change your life. At least that is what happened to lichenologist Joseph (Joe) R D Meglio, whom I met on a cold, wet morning in January to hike and talk lichen.
Details: This is one of many trailhead in the McDonald Forest, which offers a variety of hiking options on trails and logging roads. Limited parking is available.
Joe’s Story
Our hike began as we walked across a bridge and onto a wooded logging road, with cold pelts of mixed snow and rain falling on our heads and shoulders. Joe and I slogged up the gravel path making small talk along the way.
After a few minute’s time, I asked: “Why lichen? How did you end up here— with a career in lichen?”
Here is Joe’s story:
The Early Years
Despite being fascinated with living things from a young age, and an early interest in fungi and lichen, Joe didn’t become a lichenologist straight out of high school. He went to college for a term, and as he put it, “I flunked out.”
College “wasn’t an expectation in my family,” explained Joe. So it wasn’t a big deal when Joe dropped his academic pursuits, opting instead to learn a trade. Joe worked as a mechanic for a few years, and later as a high rigger for a logging company.
Epiphany
Then one day while on a break from rigging up cables, Joe found himself amongst the branches of a Douglas-fir tree in the Mckenzie River Valley. Looking around, he noticed two contrasting worlds—a clearcut landscape in the distance, a product of the logging industry of which he was a part, juxtaposed against the miraculous biodiversity of lichen dripping off the trees in the surrounding forest. He knew at that moment he needed a change.
Joe immediately climbed down from his perch and told his boss—“I don’t want to do this anymore. I am leaving.”
And he did. Right then and there.
A Whole New World
Not long after, Joe enrolled at the local community college and eventually made his way to Oregon State University to work with lichenologist extraordinaire, Bruce McCune.
Joe still works in the McCune lab on lichen taxonomy, and contracts with the U.S. Forest Service on Lichen related projects. He even married a lichenologist, whom we met up with later in the hike. So, yeah, Joe is really into lichen.
Joe with a tree branch coated in lichen
Pairing up
As we followed the road uphill, we continued to chat about Joe’s work and lichen-filled life. Then I asked him the all-important question, “What exactly is a lichen?”
Joe explained, “Lichen are composite organisms” containing a mycobiont (fungal component) and photobiont (photosynthetic partner) or two. The most common photobiont is green algae, followed by cyanobacteria. A tripartite lichen will contain both, like Lobaria pulmonaria (sometimes referred to as lung lichen), commonly found in lowland to mid-elevation forests of the Pacific Northwest.
Whatever the pairing, a “symbiotic” relationship, or cooperation, exists between the bionts. The photobiont provides food for the fungus due to its ability to photosynthesize. While the mycobiont provides shelter for the photosynthetic partner.
Pairing up also means physiological, chemical, and reproductive changes from the original forms of the individual bionts. Nearly nothing of the individual remains.
Hello Lichen
At this point, Joe stopped at the side of the road, grabbed a tree branch, and pulled it down to eye-level. It was time to take a look.
Joe began to point out all the different lichen species. “Stuff like this usnea is a chlorolichen,” he said pointing out a light green, stringy-looking lichen, “and this leafy species, Platismatia glauca is also a chlorolichen,” he continued.
On just a single branch, Joe pointed out at least a handful of different species— each with a unique color, shape, and form.
Several species of lichen growing on one tree branch.
Growth Forms
Which begs the question— how does one even begin to keep all the different lichen straight? I asked Joe to provide some beginner tips.
One way to start to narrow things down, Joe explained, is by becoming familiar with the different growth forms lichen exhibit. There are three basic growth forms for lichen: fruticose (shrubby), foliose (leafy), and crustose (crust). Most species will exhibit only one growth form, and even within a genus, species typically share forms. Though there are exceptions.
When it comes to fruticose and foliose lichen (aka macrolichen), the bodies (or thalli) are organized internally into layers. Joe demonstrated this stratification by plucking up a Platismatia stenophylla species (a foliose lichen) off the ground and showing me how its ventral cortex (top side) and dorsal cortex (bottom side) differed. Sandwiched in-between, the photobionts are housed, just below the upper cortex amongst the loosely packed hyphae that make up the medulla.
In tripartite lichen, additional structures are needed, called cephalodia. Often wart-like in appearance, cephalodia create an anaerobic environment that cyanobacteria require “to fix atmospheric nitrogen, an important part of the forest ecosystem nitrogen cycle.”
Platismatia stenophylla
Identifying Features
Of course, growth form will only get you so far when it comes to identifying lichen. Other characteristics that are helpful include the size, shape, and color of the thallus (the main body of the lichen) and lobes (branches), as well as the shape, position, and color of reproductive structures. There are also many specialized features, like cilia and pores (and the cephalodia mentioned earlier), that can help one distinguish between species and genera.
One of my personal favorites is that of the Usnea genus. Usnea has an inner cortex that when you pull on it, stretches like an elastic band. But beware, the band easily breaks.
Usnea longissima
This One is Not Like the Others
However, according to Joe, even members of the same species can exhibit a great deal of variability depending on the environment in which they reside.
He picked up a Platismatia from the trail and pointed to its frilly edges. Joe explained lichen will often exhibit “extreme dimorphism,” with fringed edges, dieback, and red spots, for example.
Even normal seasonal changes and variability in light exposure will alter the appearance of lichen thalli. Exposure to light often darkens the color, while shaded individuals may appear pale.
Plastismatia species with “frilly edges”
Cryptic Organisms
However, even lichen that superficially appear to be the same species, may vary substantially in other ways. As Joe described it—within the same fungal genus you might find individuals with different secondary chemistry, or an entirely different genome than you might expect. Lichen “are very variable, very adaptable,” Joe stated. “The closer you get the more you discover.”
In fact, looking into the less obvious differences between lichen is a big part of Joe’s work. By looking really close and comparing the genomes of different lichens that appear similar, he can parse out different species and determine who is related to whom.
A Closer Look
Currently, he is working on reevaluating the Sticta genus, a group of lichen that are distinguished by having cyphellae, “little windows,” usually found on the bottom of the lichen. Through his work, Joe has found that what was thought to be one species, Sticta fuliginosa s. l., is really three distinct species with different traits. “One has these really interesting lobules that are digitate,” for example.
We took a closer look at one of the new Sticta species Joe is describing—a small brown, unassuming lichen—with the proposed name: Sticta gretae sp. nov. Using a hand lens, Joe showed me the little white dots on its lower cortex, its cyphellae.
“a brown, unassuming lichen” soon to be named Sticta gretae sp. nov.
Biodiversity of Lichen
Walking along the trail it was not difficult to find lichen. Hanging from a branch or trunk of a tree, attached to a rock, or growing on the forest floor—no matter where we looked, there was plenty of lichen to look at.
Lichen are adapted to nearly every habitat on Earth, providing a symphony of biodiversity and plenty of eye candy. With our temperate rainforest and a diversity of habitats, it is no wonder that the Pacific Northwest is “the center for diversity for fungi in North America.” According to Joe, “there are approximately 580 genera and over 1400 species” of lichen in the region—a biodiversity hotspot.
Every Niche
However, every lichen species present in the Pacific Northwest isn’t going to be found in every location. Each lichen species is specialized for a particular niche, a particular home, and a way of life in the environment.
Joe pointed out a Peltigera species growing on the forest floor. “These are terricolous,” he said, “their medium is soil.” He went on to explain how each terricolous species needs specific soil chemistry, a certain acidity.
The same is true of species that depend on other substrates for a home. Lobaria oregana (Oregon lung lichen), for example, grows best in mid-elevation middle-aged to old-growth forests west of the Cascades. Conifer trees in these forests provide the perfect habitat for this species.
In addition, cyanolichen and tripartite lichen are limited by water and light requirements. They will “fall out at certain elevations,” explained Joe, as the environment is too harsh and dry. They also tend to be found where more light is present. In contrast, they can often be very abundant in riparian areas, where water and light are readily available
A Peltigera species growing in the soil
Dispersal, Growth, and Reproduction.
Despite their abundance, lichen still are relatively slow-growing organisms and don’t disperse or reproduce easily.
Though growth is pretty variable. According to Joe, crustose lichen typically grow only a few mm or ½ cm per year. Foliose or fruticose lichen may grow several cm, depending on conditions.
When it comes to reproduction and dispersal things don’t get much easier. Sexual reproduction is one possibility and is performed by the fungi. “A high percentage of our lichenized fungi are Ascomycota,” said Joe, when I asked about lichen reproduction. This sort of fungi produces disc-like fruiting structures called apothecia from which asci (spore-containing cells) can be found and lichen spores (ascospores) are released.
However, sexual reproduction can be challenging for lichenized-fungi that need to not only find a mate but a photobiont. Therefore, asexual reproduction is also common as it has a better chance of success. In the case of asexual reproduction, packaged “dispersal units” are released that contain all the parts of a functioning lichen. Isidia and soredia are the names of these dispersal units, both having some different characters, but function in a similar way. In addition, both isidia and soredia (and patches of soredia called sorelia) are observable, especially with a hand lens, making them also useful for identification.
What’s not to Lichen?
The snow was turning to a chilling rain when Joe and I decided to turn around. Joe’s wife and son were supposed to be meeting up with us soon. It was at this point that I asked Joe the all-important question—why should I care? For all their “good looks,” is there something more a person might appreciate about lichen?
“Lichens really tell you about the health of the ecosystem and the health of you and all the animals and all the plants,” Joe responded. “The more diverse the ecosystem and the healthier you will be…. without these organisms we wouldn’t exist.”
This might seem like an extreme view to some, but our dependence on the natural world (as part of the natural world) is well established. And when it comes to the mysterious world of lichen, the value that they provide is as diverse as the species themselves.
The trail (or road) as we turned to head back down.
Fix it
One of the many benefits of lichen Joe shared with me early in the hike is their “important role in the nitrogen cycle.” The cyanobacteria in cyanolichen (including tripartite lichen) are capable of chemically changing nitrogen gas in the air (N2) into a form that is biologically available to plants and algae. This process is known as nitrogen fixation. Then as lichen fall to the ground and decompose, the nitrogen stored in their tissues becomes available to other life forms that need it.
In certain environments, this input of nitrogen may prove to be significant. Though more research is needed to better understand the extent of their contribution.
Lichen also plays a role in the hydrological cycle, and other mineral cycles, intercepting and storing water and atmospheric inputs of various nutrients—like with nitrogen, providing a catch basin and distribution system for these inputs.
Food and Fiber
Lichens also provide food and fiber to other living things. Deer, elk, and caribou feed on lichen, depending on it for winter forage. Squirrels, chipmunks, mice, and bats also take advantage of lichen for food and nesting material. Joe specifically mentioned flying squirrels, which rely on the lichen Bryoria sp. for food and nesting material during certain parts of the year. Flying squirrels are a major food staple for Spotted Owls; without lichen, the entire food chain would collapse.
Biological Indicators
Then there is their importance as biological indicators. The presence, and more often the absence, of biological indicator organisms, acts as an alarm system for environmental change. Like a canary in a coal mine, sensitive lichen will die off in areas where there is too much air pollution, while others may move in. Similar responses may occur with changes in precipitation and temperatures. Therefore the species composition in a location can tell you a lot about the health of the ecosystem and the stressors it may be facing.
Understanding lichen community composition and tracking it over time has been another large part of Joe’s work with the Forest Service. With over 3,000 plots scattered throughout forest service land, The National Forest Inventory and Analysis (FIA) Program tracks a plethora of forest-related data, including lichen community data.
Using this data, scientists are able to see which lichen species are present in various climate and air quality conditions. One of the startling patterns that emerged from this research is the changes in species composition as you move toward urban centers. “ A large number of species are dropping out,” said Joe, due to human impacts like poor air quality.
Changing Climate
In addition, Joe hopes that by observing changes in lichen communities, we might also be able to gain a better understanding of climate change. We know that lichens are sensitive to climate conditions, so it is likely that they will respond to climate change, especially in sensitive alpine and subalpine environments.
The arctic is already seeing a decline in lichen species as a result of climate change, so the question is how will this translate into other ecosystems? “Timelines for noticing the rate of change is gradual.” explained Joe, but “we have over 30 years of FIA plot community data” to work with.
Lichens to Know
As we continued our chat about climate change, Joe and I ventured our way back down the hill, eventually reaching a bridged creek crossing and an abundance of cyanolichen.
Bridge Crossing
Joe held up a beautiful, deep brown colored lichen with ridges that ran along the upper cortex that reminded me of a river system and its tributary. Joe told me that the eruptions were soralia, soredia (asexual propogules) yielding structures and that the lichen was a Lobaria anomala (netted lungwort lichen).
Lobaria anomala
Beautiful, bright green Lobaria pulmonaria (lungwort or lettuce lichen) littered the area, coating the bark of Ash and other riparian trees. And long strands of Usnea longissima (beard lichen) draped across the branches like a garland; a species common to the area, but rare globally. We even saw Joe’s “baby”—Sticta gretae sp. nov. growing on a tree branch.
With so many lichen around, I asked Joe for a shortlist of “ones to know” for the region. He suggested the following based on their abundance and distinctiveness: Platismatia glauca (ragged lichen), Parmelia sulcata (wax paper lichen), any Lobarias, and Caldonias. And almost instinctively, he continued to point each beauty in the vicinity out.
A tree festooned in Usnea longissima
Cooperation
At this point, Joe and I caught up with his wife, Elisa and their young son. We were only a few minutes from the trailhead, but we took our time getting back, chatting about life and lichen along the way.
It was fun to watch the happy family together, harmoniously moving through life together as we walked along the trail.
It also reminded me of what interested me in lichen in the first place—the symbiotic relationship. The world of lichen is “rooted” (while not having actual roots) in cooperation; in give-and-take; in shared goals.
This sort of relationship might seem baffling at first—isn’t nature a battlefield? A competition with winners and losers?
Perhaps, or perhaps this view is too narrow. Lichen remind me that cooperation is natural—as natural as a family walking together through a lichen-filled forest.
What do you think? What’s not to lichen?
Joseph R Di Meglio is a Mycologist for MICROTERRA Analytical and Pathology Laboratories llc. and Molecular Lichenologist at Oregon State University. He also contracts with the U.S. Forest Service on lichen related projects. Joe studied mycology and lichenology at Oregon State University.
