Tag: Hiking Oregon

Hike with a Dendroecologist in the Willamette National Forest

What constitutes a forest?

We often think of forests as static collections of trees, along with some shrubs, ferns, fungi, and other “foresty” organisms.

But forests are more than an array of cool critters and plant life. They are dynamic ecosystems that are constantly changing. Sometimes dramatically. As a result, there are times a forest may not look much like a forest at all.

Storms, pests and disease, landslides, and floods are parts of a forest ecosystem—interacting with the organisms that reside there and shaping forest development. Disturbances, such as these, are not only natural, but essential to many forest species—sending forests through complex paths of community change.

In Pacific Northwest forests, fires are an especially important example of these essential forces of disturbance. Forests in the Pacific Northwest evolved with fire and have adapted to the presence of fire on the landscape in a variety of ways.

Andrew Merchel, a dendroecologist from Oregon State University, knows the importance of forest fire to the region all too well. For the past several years, Andrew has been studying Pacific Northwest forests to better understand the patterns in fire frequency and, more recently, how these patterns might ultimately influence forest development.

I was fortunate to get invited along with his crew to a couple of his field sites this summer to see their research in action.

The Long Road to Site 87

It was a warm, sunny morning as I waited for Andrew at our designated pullout. I was parked just off the Santaim Hwy near Longbow Camp. Standing along the road, I passed the time watching the South Santiam River’s ripples catch the light and flash white below me.

Soon, Andrew arrived with his crew of young students, and we headed out to what would be the first of two sites.

As we traveled down the narrow, overgrown forest service roads, Andrew told me a bit about the site.

He explained that the site has had two relatively recent mixed-severity fires—one in 1848 and one in 1868, but before that, the only other fire they found evidence of was in 1535.”

“So, we had a fire a really long time ago, and three hundred or so years without fire,” Andrew emphasized, “and then two fires in the 1800s.”

As we got nearer to “site 87”, Andrew pointed out patches of thinning that had been done around the middle-aged Douglas-fir—an unusually recent occurrence on national forest land for the time—but helpful to us in our fieldwork for the day.

Records in the Rings

And then we were there—site 87.  It was time to get to work.  Andrew’s field crew made up of college students headed to collect forest development data on one side of the road, while Andrew and I went in search of the perfect stump on the opposite side.

As mentioned earlier, Andrew is a dendroecologist—which basically means he uses tree growth rings to better understand how forest ecosystems have changed over time. As part of that research, Andrew has been using crosscuts from dead trees and stumps to reconstruct fire records for a variety of forests in the West. 

The tree rings on each crosscut provide a record of time that can be compared with other crosscut tree records to establish a timeline that goes beyond the lifespan of one tree.

Dendrochronologists can date each annual ring sampled from crosscuts even if a sample is collected from a snag or log that has been dead for centuries.

They date annual rings with a technique called cross-dating, which uses the sensitivity of annual tree rings to climate. Hot, dry years result in thin rings with narrow latewood and moist years result in years with wide rings with thick latewood in the Pacific Northwest. 

Each decade has a unique pattern of thin and thick years that can be used like a fingerprint to precisely match a series of tree rings to the exact calendar years when they grew on the tree.  

In this way, tree-ring records tell you a lot about the environmental conditions of each forest, including climate, over the recorded years. Most importantly for Andrew’s research, the rings also record fires as scars in the tree rings—providing information about the year, season, frequency, size, and sometimes severity of fires that occurred outside of modern records.

More Frequent

Research at the Forest Service’s PNW Research Station and the tree ring lab at Oregon State University has really shed light on the frequency of fire in Westside forests.

Before, ecologists thought that westside forests experienced fire as a function of lightning; and that fire was historically infrequent in much of the western Cascades and Oregon Coast Range—with forests going 100s of years between fires.

Now, hundreds of fire scars collected from dead trees have shown there are many ways fire exists in westside forests. Fire regimes (patterns of fire) are variable in frequency and in how they shaped forest conditions over time. For example, some westside forests record fire in nearly every decade, while others go centuries without fire.  The role of fire historically varied with forest age, Indigenous burning, lightning, topography, and microclimate.

Searching for Scars

Chainsaw in hand, Andrew and I headed down the road and trampled our way uphill through the underbrush to check out some of the thinned areas for stumps to cut into. The goal is to find stumps that show fire scars—a blackened resinous area along a ring.

Andrew and his crew had already sampled the area, but he was hoping to get more samples from older trees. Looking at the age classes of trees in the forest, Andrew suspects there may have been another large fire in the 1820s yet to be discovered.

Not all Stumps are Like the Others

“There are clues about which stumps to cut into,” Andrew explained as we carefully picked our way over the bramble and down woody material. “Trees that scar when they are young, for example, will often scar again with the next fire.” 

Oddly shaped stumps that are oblong tend to be good candidates. And of course, the stump needs to be solid without too much decay.

Another factor that affects scarring is that each tree species has its own resistance to scaring and the ability to preserve long records of past fires.

“Many Douglas-fir are not good recorders of historical fires,” Andrew remarked “The initial burn needs to be severe enough to form a first scar on a tree before it develops thick bark that prevents fire damage and the formation of a fire scar.”

Andrew leaned over one large stump and wiped away the smut that had accumulated on top of it with a brush with metal bristles.

“You can see an injury right there,” he said pointing to a white resin-filled gap between a couple of growth rings—a scab around the wound. “That looks like mechanical damage,” and probably not a fire scar, he concluded.  Mechanical scars often go across rings, while fire scars form neatly along a single row of cells.

The search continued.

Making the Cut

We moved out of the thinned area and into the denser forest for a bit, looking for promising-looking stumps.

Soon we came across another with sampling potential.

“There is some rock-solid wood right there,” he remarked as he examined the stump—perhaps the product of resin released as the tree scarred.

It was time to make some cuts. Andrew and I put on our earplugs, and he began slicing horizontally through the stump several inches below the original cut. The whorl of the chainsaw and fine woody dust filled the air space.

It was over in just a few minutes.

Andrew removed the top he cut off and began sweeping away at the newly cut surface.

Nothing.

Just a few old branch whorls. No scars.

How to Scar a Tree

The fact of the matter is that trees don’t always scar. 

Contrary to what you might think, fire scars form from heat, not flames. 

“It is heat transmitting through the bark for a long enough period of time to kill the cambium locally,” explained Andrew. “It is more burn residence time and the ability to transmit heat for long enough that records the fire.”

Perhaps for this reason, if a tree scars when it is young, it will often continue to scar on the same line.  They also tend to occur really low on the trunk near the ground where heat is transmitted to the tree bole from surface fuels.

Patterns of Variability

As we searched for another crosscut stump to sample, I asked Andrew to tell me more about his research findings. After all, this was not his first rodeo. Andrew and his team, at the time, had sampled up to 50 sites in Westside forest with 15-20 cross-sections from each one.

Yet, despite all the sampling, it was still difficult for Andrew to identify any environmental patterns.

“We don’t have enough to relate patterns of fire to different environmental settings still,” says Andrew with a sigh, “because there is so much variability.”

Consistently Inconsistent

However, Andrew admits there are some consistencies.

For example, low-elevation sites near major rivers, like the McKenzie and Clackamas, that are hotter and dryer tend to have more frequent fires. These also may be sites where Indigenous People used fire stewardship to produce vital cultural resources.

“Some sites are shocking—the amount of fire they have.”

On the flip side, there are higher elevation sites in the Silver Fir Zone, like Gordon Lakes, where fire is very infrequent. These places will record one high-severity burn, followed by one or two reburns, and then go more than a century without fire. Rinse and repeat.

 It is at mid-elevation around 3,000 feet where it gets really challenging to predict.

The hope is to eventually look at the variation in topography, elevation, and other site factors in combination with fire histories to try and understand how forests develop in different ways based on their specific context.

Catface

Andrew and I moved back into the open with fewer trees and shrubby underbrush.

“Come on guys,” he says, leading the charge. “Where are the fire scars?”

As we search, we come across a burnt-out western redcedar with a charred opening in the lower trunk—a catface. A catface forms when the cambium on the tree is killed by fire, and in the next 10 or 15 years the bark falls off, leaving the tree susceptible to future fires.

“The earlier scars are burnt off by the later scars in there,” Andrew explains.

Cedars are interesting trees in fire. They get consumed by fire a lot.

“Cedars really do chimney,” explains Andrew, “Fire gets in there and burns them out on the inside.”

At the same time, “It doesn’t necessarily die,” said Andrew, “or rot” for that matter—instead cedars tend to stand as ghosts of fires past.

Fool Me Again

The stumps were easier to spot in the more open forest and Andrew found a couple more promising candidates. He was really hoping to find an older stump that might provide evidence of a 1759 fire he was fairly certain had occurred.

The chainsaw ablaze, Andrew sliced into another stump and then another, but to no avail. 

One of the stumps was massive and took a lot of effort and some careful wedging to remove the cut surface. He cut a couple of cross-sections from the large stump.

“This one is going to frustrate us,” he declared before making this final attempt.

Unfortunately, it ended in sweat and sawdust, but luckily no tears.

Is it Severe?

At this point, we were low on gas and Andrew decided it would be best to start heading back down to the road to meet up with the crew.

As we made our way through the salal, ferns, and other shrubby species—a product of the thinning that occurred here—I asked Andrew about how fire severity fits into his research.

Fire severity is a measure of the magnitude of the immediate impacts of fire on the vegetation and living soil. In forest ecology, it is typically based on tree mortality—about 0-30% tree mortality for low severity, 30-70% mortality for moderate severity, and anything above that is high severity.

“Anything killing the fire-resistant trees is moderate [or high] to me,” Andrew suggested.

When it comes to fire severity, like frequency, Andrew has found that it too is not so easy to predict.

“I would agree that 2020 fires are nothing new,” explained Andrew, “We have always had big blowups, but we are missing fire events outside of these conditions all over the West Cascades that poke holes  and do very different types of burning.”

In other words, though large high-severity fires do occur in the West, it would be a mistake to forget that there are many other types of fires that have shaped this forest type historically—fires that vary in both frequency and severity.

These differences in fire severity also occur on a much finer scale, according to Andrew.

“Here is an old-growth tree next to an early seral shrub,” he illustrated, “and they exist right next to each other—and that is normal.”

It is patchy. And that matters because that patchiness increases variety and biodiversity.

Forest Development Implications

Andrew told me about a paper out of Oregon State University by Chris Dunn that looked at the implications of fire severity for forest development in the Willamette and Umpqua National Forests. 

In general, Dunn found that the severity of fire results in very different trajectories of forest development.

A low-severity fire may not result in a new cohort of trees, or it will result in shade-tolerant species including western hemlock developing on the site. In a high-severity fire, grasses and shrubs will make up the post-fire community with Douglas-fir the primary cohort of trees able to establish.

Then, there is moderate severity. This is where it gets interesting. It is in moderately burned forests that you can end up with the most biodiversity post-fire—with sites that have up to 17 different tree species established after fire in Southern Oregon. Having both canopy gaps and live trees remaining post-fire allows for greater variability in the forest community as different species find their ecological niche.

“One thing this project is going to do is we are going to core all these hemlocks and true firs and see if they actually link to fire,” explained Andrew, referring to the coring work his field crew is working on. “If they do, then I think we will interpret that low-severity fire was really important to the development of these species in westside forests.”

Forest Management Implications

Andrew spoke strongly about what this means in terms of forest management. If fire is variable, the way we manage the structure of forests should also be variable.

“We can’t just do one thing in plantations where we are trying to restore heterogeneity and biodiversity,” said Andrew. “We should be doing everything from removing 10% of trees to 90% of trees. That is historically probably what happened—creating a lot of variability.”

The result would be real; and probably pretty messy.

“Instead of distinct edges, you would have a constant mosaic,” Andrew described.

What we are doing now in plantation settings is not natural.

“The plantation is completely artificial… cut at 40 years or so and planted uniformly at a high density—this is not one of the development trajectories. It is not mimicking historical disturbance processes or stand development.” Looking ahead, the ecosystem that develops from a plantation will be much different than the ecosystem it replaced.

Making the Cut

We were just about back to the road when Andrew noticed another stump that had been cut the last time he visited. Having not found any stumps with fire scars yet, he led me over to this one—hopeful that I might observe the scarring up close. 

After wiping away needles and other debris, we got down to stump level. There we could see two scars—one from the 1868 fire sitting just above the other from 1848. “Which is sort of classic,” remarked Andrew, as far as fire scars go.

The scars showed up as what looked like a break in the annual rings (cambial necrosis) with resin separating the blackened tissue from the wood wound put down during the healing process.

Much of the cut area was also covered with a white rot—the forest ecosystem eager to restart the decay process. 

Back on the Road

Soon we were back on the road to meet up with the rest of the field crew. After checking out one last stump on the opposite side of the road, we all piled back in the vehicles for another long twisty ride to field site number two for the day. 

Forest ecosystems are dynamic. But they change on timescales that are often outside of human experience. Understanding fire as an agent of change in our forests requires long-range data sets, like what Andrew has tirelessly been collecting—helping fill in our knowledge gaps.

We may not have succeeded in finding a fire-scarred tree that day, but I am grateful to have experienced the forest through Andrew’s eyes—to understand its wonderful complexity and the secrets it retains deep beneath the bark

Andrew Merschel is an ORISE postdoctoral fellow working with the USFS PNW Research Station and he leads the tree ring lab at Oregon State University. Andrew uses tree rings to develop a shared understanding of how different forest ecosystems function over time. He is particularly interested in how disturbances (mostly fire) and forest management have shaped and will continue to shape forest ecosystems in the Pacific Northwest.  Andrew lives with his family (Vanessa, Aldo, and Sawyer) in Corvallis, Oregon and they enjoy a mixture of fishing, hiking, wildlife ecology, and chainsaw repair in their spare time.

Hike with a Dune Scientist

Counting Carbon at South Beach State Park, Oregon

View down to the ocean from the crest of a dune

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

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

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

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

So, how should we feel about this takeover? 

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

The Hike 

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

Meet and Greet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forested Dune Ecosystem

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charting the Dunes 

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

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

We moved forward—in space and time. 

Heading up the dune heel

The Heel

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

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

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

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

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

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

Evergreen huckleberry and sword fern hidden in the beach grass

The Crest

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

John explained:

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

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

John’s dog standing at the crest of the dune

The Toe

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

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

View looking up at the dune toe

Storing Carbon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Counting Carbon

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

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

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

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

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

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

Findings

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

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

In general, not a lot. 

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

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

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

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

Hiking along the beach at South Beach State Park

Patterns

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

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

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

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

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

Ecosystem Services 

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

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

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

The short answer is no. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carbon Stores

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looping back 

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

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

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

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

Uncertain Future

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

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

The future is a tough thing to peg down. 

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

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

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

Hike with a Bee Scientist

Creek running through Kingston Prairie

Nothing heralds spring and summer better than the vibrating hum of bees on the wing. Bees are a group of winged insects probably best known for their role as pollinators. We praise bees for their important role in our food systems. We depend on them.

However, if you ask Andony Melathopoulos, coordinator for Oregon Bee Project and OSU Pollinator Health Extension Specialist, there is more to bees than pollination.

There are estimated to be about 700 different species of bees in Oregon, each one with a unique life history. There are solitary bees and social bees; bees that nest in trees or on the ground; bees that are very reluctant to sting and those that will get you crying to your mother—the diversity is incredible. So incredible, in fact, that it has inspired a statewide movement to document all of Oregon’s bees.

The Bee Atlas program is a community science effort to inventory Oregon’s native bees, track populations, and educate Oregonians about bee biodiversity. Andony is part of that effort—helping coordinate events, including Bee School for those interested in becoming part of the project.

I met Andony at Kingston Prairie Preserve just outside of Stayton to go on a bee hunt and learn more about his work around bees. 

Preserve

It was late afternoon when I arrived just ahead of Andony and wandered out onto the mounds of soft wet soil. The ground was patchy with wildflowers and shrubs growing among the hummocks of grass.  A small babbling creek ran across the nearly flat open terrain. I walked tentatively toward the creek to look around before circling back, as there is no trail system at Kingston Prairie Preserve.

Soon Andony pulled up and we continued our journey deeper into the preserve together.

“This is my favorite one,” Andony stated, referring to the collection of properties managed by Green Belt Land Trust, a conservation non-profit based in Corvallis.

Though we missed peak bloom, the prairie was still quite beautiful in the afternoon light. We walked by some purple camas and shooting stars. Tall white saxifrage and yellow monkeyflower were also in bloom. 

A sign and wire fence marks the location of the Kingston Prairie Preserve

Honey, Honey

“I’ve worked with bees my entire professional life,” Andony told me, by way of an introduction. “I worked for years on one species of bee—the honey bee.”

Most people know honey bees. Veracious pollinators and producers of honey—their small fuzzy black and amber striped bodies are well recognized. You might call them celebrities of the bee world. (I mean there are at least a couple of movies made about them—I’m looking at you Bee Movie.)

Though fascinating creatures, Andony’s love for honey bees primarily stems from the community of people that work with honey bees. In college, he got involved in beekeeper organizations and really enjoyed it.

This hive mentality has carried him forward to his work now with the Oregon Bee Atlas. Seeing other groups, like native plant societies, motivated him to do the same for bees.

“It gave me the impetus to have people constantly tugging at me,” Andony remarked, “Asking questions…’ what is this?’ Is it weird?’”

Honey bees remain Andony’s favorite bee to date. Oddly, the first bee we saw on our hunt was a small honey bee.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” asked Andony, as it flew off.

Our State is the Best

Andony and I followed the creek, looking for interesting flowers and bees that might be visiting them. As mentioned earlier, there are a lot of species of bees in Oregon.

“We think we have about 700 species,” said Andony. As a comparison, “there are only about 500 species east of the Mississippi.”

Of course, this begs the question—why?

Andony highlighted two main reasons for bee biodiversity in the state.

One: geographic zones. Oregon has a lot of geographic zones with unique climatic characteristics. From the wet coastal regions to mountains to high deserts—the ecology varies border to border. Because of this, flower and bee species have radiated—evolved to fit each climatic zone.

Two: desert bees. Much of Oregon’s bee diversity is owed to the diversity of bees that survived the last ice age in Mesoamerica.  These desert-loving bees traveled North as conditions warmed providing an input of biodiversity into the region.

“Bees love the desert,” said Andony.

Not a Bee

At this point, we had not had much luck finding any bees. Maybe it was already getting too cool out. Bees tend to be more active when temperatures are warm.  Whatever the case, Andony and I decided to look for a place to hop over the creek.

Before we made the hop, I saw something moving among the flowers.

“A hoverfly,” stated Andony. “Lots of people mix up flies and bees.”

Standing there, I was pretty sure I was one of those people.

“How can you tell them apart?” I asked

“Both are insects,” he began, and “Most insects have two pairs of wings. The difference is that a fly’s second pair of wings have been reduced to what is called a halter—a little gyroscope that allows it to suspend itself in midair.”

In other words, flies hover.

Flies can also be carnivorous or parasitic, feeding on other insects. Bees on the other hand are unique in that they get all their protein from pollen.

Shortly, another fly hovered by saxifrage. Not a bee.

Then out of the corner of my eye—more movement. Andony got out his net and swoop, he caught whatever had flown by.

“Looks like some parasitic wasp,” said Andony, getting a better look. “Its antennae are very low and vibrating—looking for prey.” They, like flies, rely on other insects as a protein source. 

According to Andony bees are actually specialized wasps. While wasps paralyze and store prey in holes in the ground, bees do the same but with balls of pollen.

Wasps can also be distinguished from bees by their form.

“They have a tight waist between the thorax and abdomen,” described Andony. Not a bee.

Andony put the wasp on ice in hopes that we could get a picture of it later. It flew away before I could get the shot.

A curious fly hovered around the saxifrage. Fly not pictured.

Long-horned on Ice

“This place is like a gas station,” said Andony, as we watched everything, but bees fly by. “There are a lot of things that like nectar.”

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Andony spotted a small flying insect alight on a geranium. And with a quick flick of the wrist, he had the insect in his net.

“You’ve got yourself a male spring long-horned bee!” he exclaimed. “You will love it!”

Long-horned bees are known for their long antennae—hence the name. Male long-horned have extra-long antennae and a “little yellow nose.”

According to Andony, male bees in general have an extra antennae segment—which is helpful for sex identification. And as male bees do not have stingers, this information can be valuable for someone who studies bees for a living. Most long-horned bee species emerge in the summer.

“It is always on a sunflower,” Andony mused.

Our fuzzy friend was an early spring species. We carefully put him in a makeshift cooler to slow him down for a photo. This time we were successful!

Male long-horned bee chilling on Andony’s palm

It’s all about the Plants

Andony and I continued scanning the prairie in the hopes of finding more bees.

“I like the color over there,” said Andony pointing towards a cluster of wildflowers nearby.

And that is just it, isn’t it? Flowers. Flowers are the key to finding bees, so I asked Andony what sort of flowers bees prefer?

The answer turned out to be more complicated than I imagined.

First, “You find the strangest and weirdest bees in the weirdest plant communities,” Andony said. In places like “the Siskiyou’s, Steens, Alvord desert, and Wallowa’s.”

“All the cool places,” I remarked.

“Any cool place in the state,” Andony agreed. Where the plants are weird so are the bees.

Specialists

Second, “Bees specialize,” said Andony.

As plants evolved with greater complexity some 100 million years ago, bee evolution also took off.

“Bees are in competition,” Andony explained. Competition with each other for pollen.

Specializing for a specific flower or group of flowers, reduced competition by giving a bee specialist a leg up.

“The one plant I was really hoping would be in bloom popcorn flowers,” Andony mentioned wistfully, “They have a number of really specialist bees in them.”

Third, not all bees are specialists. Many are generalists, like honey bees and bumble bees, and are happy to eat pollen from many different sources.

“Bumble bees like monkeyflower,” said Andony, but they also like a whole host of other plants. No monkeyflower around? No problem. How about some lavender?

So, when it comes to flower preferences, it really depends on the natural history of the bee.  A rare bee will only be in a rare environment on a rare flower, but a generalist bee will be attracted to many different flowers.

Abundant monkeyflowers growing along the creek

Gardening for Bees

Andony did offer some general tips, however, for attracting bees to the home garden.

“If I was going to snazz up my garden. I would definitely go for anything in the composite family,” he remarked. “Black-eyed Susan, echinacea, and also golden rod,” Andony suggested, “Golden rod is one that I really love… and it attracts a lot of bees.”

Other plants Andony mentioned during our walk are Oregon Grape, sunflowers, and lavender.

Cinderella Bee

Andony and I continued to meander along the creek until we found a good place to cross. We made the leap across the small divide, landing with a thud on the soft earth.

As we walked amongst the tall grasses and shrubs, I asked Andony what else bees require, besides flowers?

“They nest in a lot of ways,” said Andony—some nest in the ground, others in trees or other woody plants, and some build their nests, for example. Others still will take up “rent” in already formed nests.

One nest-building tale is that of the small carpenter bee.

Andony began, “Here is a pithy stem,” grabbing at a nearby plant and holding the stem up for inspection. “It if was later in the year, you might see some holes in the end here.”

Carpenter bees will take the pith and grind it up into sawdust, hollowing out the stem and creating a chamber. Once complete, they will crawl into the chamber, mound up some pollen inside and lay an egg. They will then use the sawdust to create a partition and repeat.

Here is where the story turns into a Brother’s Grimm fairytale.

“They have Cinderella daughters,” Andony states. “The first offspring they raise, they don’t feed very much.” He paused for dramatic effect. “But what she can do is block the door with her head.”

Again, one of the strategies bees, wasps, flies, and other insects employ is to use the nest of others to lay their eggs.

Cinderella is there to protect the nest from these intruders, ensuring her brothers’ and sisters’ survival at her own expense.

Community Science

Andony led the way, as we continued to wander the meadows looking for bees, but we weren’t having any luck. After a few starts and stops, we leaped back across the creek in search of some more suitable shrubs and trees.

Even though we weren’t finding many bees today, clearly there are a lot of bees out there. In 2019, 25,022 specimens were submitted to the Oregon Bee Atlas, raising unique species estimates to 650.

“About 190 volunteers contribute to the Atlas,” said Andony. And they are just getting started.

“It is ongoing,” Andony explained, “There is so much environmental change. It is a dynamic process.”

Anyone interested in volunteering for Bee Atlas must first complete the Master Melittologist program offered by OSU extension. The program includes online training, a field course, microscope training, and group collection outings.

“Then they become someone that can enter data for the state,” said Andony.

Of course, to get to the next level, the Journey level, requires a test.

“You get a box of bees and must identify to genus, and for bumble bees to species,” Andony described. There are 25 or so species of bumble bee.

I would most definitely fail that test. 

Getting Hooked

Still struggling to capture any new bee species, we beelined it over to a flowering tree on the other side of the property. It was a beautiful serviceberry tree, or Saskatoon, with the white petals of the flower open and welcoming. The area was a hum with activity—though most of it unreachable above our heads.

As we watched various insects cruise by, Andony told me how we got hooked on bees, and why others might care too.

Of course, the easy answer as to why we feel we should care about bees, according to Andony is that they help feed us. “Agricultural food systems depend on pollinators,” and what are bees if not excellent pollinators.

But pollination isn’t a complete answer. In fact, most of our native bees do not contribute to food production.

For Andony bees are about more than the services they provide. His love for bees stems from just how cool they are.

“They have crazy, weird natural histories,” he gushed— “there are bees that are cuckoos on other bees, specialists on certain plants, iridescent green bees, jet black bees, bees that build little tunnels…and bees that stay in diapause and may not emerge during a drought year.”

Then of course there is the “complicated, fascinating interplay between regions, flora, and bee genera.”

What is there not to love?

“I think most people love things first but are bashful about it, and need to try to justify their feelings,” said Andony. Hence, the need to find an “easy answer.”

Andony argues that the first feeling of love is all the justification anyone needs and hopes to encourage others to follow their passion as he has.

The Bee Atlas and Master Mellitologist program are his way of giving structure to those that love bees and want to really get to know them. He hopes to provide just enough guidance to “ignite their curiosity.”

Andony stops for a quick photo op at my request

Getting to Know you

After lingering for a while at the serviceberry tree, we decided to make our way back toward the entrance to the preserve.

As we walked, I asked Andony for a list of beginner bees. I was going to need a lot of structure, indeed!

Here is what he suggested:

  1. The honey bee (Apis mellifera – 1 species). Fuzzy, with tan banding, they are easy to pick out. Most people are sort of familiar with honey bees, so it is a good place to start.
  2. The bumble bee (Bombus spp – 25 species). Also, distinct—their large girth and extra hairiness are a dead giveaway. Bumble bees are also a lot of fun to observe because you can track them through the season. In early spring, queen bees hover over the ground looking for a nest. A bit later, tiny worker bees emerge to forage. Finally, the males are kicked out of the hive and left to roam the countryside. Look for them on Lavender where they often congregate.
  3.  Longhorn bees (Eucera spp – spring longhorn ~ 10 species; Melissoides spp. – summer longhorn ~ 40 species). With their extra-long antennae, perhaps among the cutest groups of bees. Look for summer longhorn species on sunflowers.
  4. Small carpenter bees (Ceratina spp. ~ 5 species). Andony describes them as “little ants with wings.” Small carpenter bees can be found nesting in raspberry cane and spirea.  
  5. And finally, mason bees (Osmia spp. ~ 75 species). Mason bees are in a family of their own. Besides their often dark or metallic color, mason bees can be distinguished from other bees by the way they carry pollen on their bellies and nest in holes in the ground. Look for mason bees on Oregon grape.

And with that, “You got the bare surface of bee biodiversity in your mind,” Andony proclaimed.

If that isn’t enough, Andony also recommended the book, Bees in your Backyard by Joseph Wilson and Olivia Messenger-Carril. Go ahead and feed your bee obsession.

Bee are Family

We didn’t catch any more bees that day. The sun was dropping too low, and the energy of the afternoon was waning. But I found myself far from disappointed as I headed for home.

Andony had invited me into his hive—shared his passion for his work. It was invigorating and just plain fun.

There are five bee families in the state of Oregon—Andony shared this fact with me as our visit was ending. But he was forgetting one—a family of people that love bees and have put in the time and study to observe them.

One of the things that Andony really emphasized during our visit is the value of the bee-person community.

“The thing that I love the most about bees…” started Andony… “the people.”

Andony Melathopoulos is a coordinator for Oregon Bee Project and OSU Pollinator Health Extension Specialist. He also hosts a weekly podcast called PolliNation.

Hike with a Scientist at South Slough National Estuarine Research Reserve

View of the estuary

Where the river meets the ocean—estuaries are a point of intersection, a mixing. They are ecologically unique, biodiverse, and incredibly productive. Estuaries are safe havens for many species. As borderlands, they function as a barrier that protects the coastline from storms. They are also beautiful places to visit and explore. In short, estuaries matter.

Estuaries are also relatively rare ecosystems—heavily impacted by human development. As dynamic as these places are, they are sensitive to change in a changing world. To better understand these changes, the National Estuarine Research Reserve (NERR) system was established in 1972 as part of the Coastal Zone Management Act (CZMA). Now a network of 30 reserves along the United States Coastline is protected for long-term research, education, and stewardship.

The South Slough NERR near Coos Bay is Oregon’s only estuarine reserve. With nearly 7,000 acres of natural areas, including upland forests, streams, wetland marshes, islands, sand, and mudflats, South Slough offers a wide array of habitats suitable for study and exploration. Alice Yeates, stewardship coordinator, along with Jeanne Standley, retired BLM botanist and board member for the Friends of South Slough, took me on a journey through the estuarine reserve to discover some of these habitats for myself.

The Hike

  • Trailhead: South Slough Trailhead
  • Distance: 3.4 miles
  • Elevation Gain: approximately 350 feet
  • Details: Ample parking at trailhead. Visitor Center at trailhead is open every Tuesday – Saturday, 10 a.m. – 4 p.m. Public bathrooms are available Monday – Saturday, 8 a.m. – 4 p.m.

Upland Forest

Alice, Jeanne, and I started our adventure at the visitor center, before quickly taking off onto the Ten-minute Trail, and then onto the North Creek Trail. Immediately, we found ourselves hiking downhill into a mixed-Sitka spruce/Douglas-fir Forest typical of much of Oregon’s coast range. Sword fern, huckleberry, and salal made up the shrub layer, and western hemlock, the lower canopy.

In addition, Port-Orford-cedar—with its scaley, evergreen branches drooping across the trail—joined the mix. I was excited to see the tree and look for the tiny white Xs on the underside of its leaves because, though not necessarily rare, Port-Orford-cedar doesn’t grow naturally in the Willamette Valley where I live. 

“It has a really limited range,” Alice shared, growing only in the southern coast range of Oregon into the northern end of California. It is a local endemic. “We are near its northern extent,” she told me.

Port-Orford-cedar branches hang over the trail

Resistant

Unfortunately, many of the Port-Orford-cedars we saw on the trail had orange-colored leaves, especially at the tips of their long branches—a sure sign of illness.

“A lot of them are dying from a root rot disease,” Alice offered.

Jeanne went on to explain how the disease is caused by a non-native Phytophthora fungus—Phytophthora lateralis, to be more specific.

Though new to me, Phytophthora lateralis has been around for at least 25 years—infecting Oregon’s populations of Port-Orford-cedar trees at an alarming rate. The disease is passed between trees in moist conditions, Jeannie told me, with roadway trees seeming to be most affected.

“Phytophthora fungi are responsible for many root diseases, like sudden oak death. And the disease that caused the Irish potato famine is a phytophthora,” said Jeanne. Clearly, some Phytophthora species are seriously problematic.

Fortunately, genetic resistance has been identified in individual trees, and selective breeding programs for Port-Orford-cedar are underway. South Slough is involved in one such program and has been planting resistant trees in place of those that are dying. Several of these trees can be seen on the ten-minute trail—the future of the upland forest.

Getting Wild

We continued downhill, crossing several numbered bridges, and losing elevation rapidly. Salmonberry shrubs proliferated in the drainages, along with elderberry, while evergreen huckleberry grew tucked into the shaded understory.

Bird song filled the air as we hiked, and a rough-skinned newt pattered across the trail.

“We called them water dogs when I was a kid,” exclaimed Jeanne, referring to the newt, as we tip-toed around it.

I asked Alice and Jeanne what other wildlife they have encountered in the reserve.

Racoon, skunk, weasel, river otter, beaver, elk, and deer were all mentioned. And birds.

“There is a lot of bird watching in this area,” said Jeanne.

Take Flight

“There is an interesting story about the Purple Martin,” Alice chimed in.

Purple martin are large swallows with beautiful, sometimes iridescent, bluish-purple plumage.  You can often see them flying rapidly high above the water with their tapered, aerodynamic wings—catching insects in flight.

In the past, purple martin would nest in forested areas, in the cavities of dead standing trees, like those created by woodpeckers. However, as humans have encroached on purple martin habitat, things changed. Now, most purple martin populations use nest boxes or other human-made structures for their nests.

At South Slough, this is also the case, with pilings in the estuary as the primary source of nesting location. The problem is that many of these pilings are now decaying to the point they are not useable. In addition, other purple martin forest habitat needs have also been reduced over time. The result? Population decline.

“They used to be a larger population…but they lost their nesting space,” Alice remarked. “The purple martin were pretty much gone 30 years ago.”

Fortunately, Audubon volunteers have since put in more nest boxes in new locations, including the North Spit.

“They need open water in order to compete against other species,” Alice explained, and “they like dune habitat.”

Forest restoration is also underway to improve the habitat for purple martin, among other reasons, at South Slough. Purple martins need open space to be successful. 

“We recently created a gap in the forest,” said Alice, “girdled trees and installed nesting boxes” near the visitor center. In addition, other forest locations, like near Wasson Creek, have been thinned and more gaps put in.

“The hope is purple martin will use these spaces,” said Alice—and that their populations will soar, like a bird in flight.

Swamped

The trail continued down through the forest, leveling off as we neared a swampy bottomland flooded by North Creek. Down logs lay across the waterway. Skinny stemmed alder trees grew along the mucky edges. The yellow flowers of skunk cabbage peered out from the green-colored waters. You could just make out the sandy bottom where the water flowed clear through a narrow channel. We were nearing the estuary.

Looking out on the flooded forest, reminded Alice of another ecosystem found in the refuge, but only in small quantity—the Sitka spruce swamp.

“The spruce forests around the estuary are critically important for carbon storage,” said Jeanne.

Sitka spruce swamps store more carbon per unit area than most places on the planet. In addition, they provide important habitat for salmonid species.

However, since human settlement, almost all (95% by some estimates) have been lost. “It is easy to cut trees down in swamp areas and rivers,” Alice suggested, “easy to fell the tree and transport it.”

Now, the primary threat to this critical habitat is saltwater intrusion. Though Sitka spruce can tolerate some salt, too much can be problematic for the forest.

“And with climate change, we are expecting saltwater intrusion,” Alice stated with solemnity.

The Wasson Creek restoration is an attempt to expand the Sitka spruce swamp. Most Sitka spruce trees get their start on nurse logs and can grow quickly from there. So, to encourage their growth, a lot of down wood is left on the ground resulting in the formation of hummocks—the perfect nursery for spruce trees.

North Creek with skunk cabbage

It’s Not Complex

We continued along past the creek and through a dark, dense area of forest—thick with trees and not much else, other than a scattering of sticks and a few small shrubs.

“Look into the forest here,” said Alice, directing her gaze at the skinny trees. “They were planted really close together.”

The trees grew so close to each other that their narrow crowns were touching. Alice pointed to the lack of understory shrubs below—a sign that not enough light was hitting the forest floor.  It was clear that competition for resources was high.

Dense forests like this one, Alice explained, grow tall and straight trees—good for timber production, but not good for wildlife.

“Some of our healthy forests have more of the sword ferns,” Alice remarked. Looking around, nary a sword fern could be found.

Wildlife do best in forests that are complex, Alice explained, with a variety of sizes and ages of trees, as well as ground cover and understory to provide shelter and food.

Unfortunately, almost all the forest at South Slough has been logged and regenerated at one time or another. The result is a lot of high-density, low-complexity forests.

Fortunately, Alice and her team are slowly working to return complexity to the forest through thinning and selectively cutting. As well as adding biodiversity, by planting disease-resistant, less common, and culturally important species, like the western redcedar.

Complexity isn’t complicated, but it takes a long time to establish naturally. According to Alice, there are only a few remnants of old-growth forest remaining in the reserve. Restoration is a way of speeding up the process to recreate, to an extent, what was lost.

Skiny trees in a dense section of forest

Estuary

We continued through the forest under a low arc of big leaf rhododendron, before reaching a large wooden bridge that stretched across a shallow stream—ah, the estuary.

It was low tide when we made it down to the estuary. Ribbony impressions in the thick mud meandered in the tidal channels. Light from the overcast sky glinted off the thin watery surfaces of each mud slick. Marsh flats of brown grass weaved through and around the edges of the slough. 

“In a few months it will be very green,” said Jeanne as we stepped onto the long bridge. We passed by evergreen huckleberry just beginning to flower.

After crossing the bridge, we took the Slough Side Trail for a better view out onto the estuary. The trail led out onto a narrow peninsula with patches of grass and a couple of trees coated with lichen.  Canada geese flew over our head—honking as they passed.

You could see some rotting pilings sticking out of an adjacent strip of land.

“This is where the nest boxes were,” remarked Alice.

Alice pointed out some of the features of the area, including Long Island and Valino Island set further back in the distance.

“Winchester Creek is the main freshwater source in South Slough,” Alice shared, along with some smaller tributaries, including those that feed the second arm of the slough.

Then, of course, are the tides.

Bridge leading into the estuary

Changing tides

One of the best ways to experience the estuary, Alice suggested as we made our way back onto the main trail system, was to go on a paddle tour and ride the tide.

One of the most important features of an estuary is its tides. In fact, estuaries are often classified by the degree of mixing of saltwater with freshwater in the estuarian system. This is important, as different organisms that live in the estuary have different tolerances for salinity, or how much salt is dissolved in water. Increased salinity also reduces the amount of oxygen dissolved in the water that aquatic organisms require to breathe. Again, different species have different levels of tolerance.

I asked Alice if she was worried about the state of the tides at South Slough. How would climate change impact estuarian systems?

“We are doing a lot of research and monitoring,” she replied. South Slough is part of a sentinel site program to monitor climate change impacts on estuarian systems. 

“We monitor our eelgrass beds… marsh habitat… track changes in elevation… and plant communities,” Alice went on. All in an effort to better understand how species and habitats are responding to climate change.

Marsh migration modeling is also being done to see if the marshes are gaining elevation at a rate that can sustain sea level rise.

“Marsh can move up or out,” explained Alice, depending on the space available. “We have really steep banks so there isn’t a lot of space for the marsh to move.”

In some areas on the reserve, marsh sediment accretion is occurring faster than sea-level rise. In other areas, the rate is lower. Currently, South Slough is part of a nationwide study to see just how much communities have shifted in response to changes in sea level.

“We are getting increased tidal amplitude activity further up the estuary,” Alice said. “Part of restoration is accounting for changing conditions.”

Tidal channels and marsh in the estuary

Tunnel Forest

Returning to the forest, we headed south on Tunnel Trail, passing by a massive Sitka spruce and Port-Orford-cedar, before diving into a forest of feathery-leaved western hemlock.

Alice, Jeannie, and I talked mushrooms as we walked beneath the shaded canopy.

Alice also told me of the little blue polypore (Neoalbatrellus) uncommon to the area that can be found only in this section of the forest. “It is one of the largest patched found in the distribution of the species,” Alice remarked, “probably associate with the hemlock.”

Jeannie listed off some of the other mushrooms common to South Slough: coral mushroom, oysters, hedgehogs, king boletes, and golden chanterelles.

Visitors can harvest mushrooms in the reserve for personal use, confirmed Alice.

Soon the trail narrowed and took on the formation of its namesake—a tunnel of vegetation formed by green shrubs rounding above our heads. We walked through the tunnel until we once again reached a more open canopy.

Hiking on tunnel trail

Viewing an Estuary

After about a half a mile, we reached a viewpoint that looked out on the estuary from its forested margin. Marsh grasses covered much of the land in front of us with open water in the distance.

As we were soon to turn away back into the forest, I asked Alice to tell me more about the research that is done at South Slough.

“There is a lot of different research that goes on out there,” Alice replied. “We collaborate a lot!”

In addition to sentinel site data, research projects include: the study of blue carbon sequestration in salt marshes and freshwater wetlands, increasing populations of invasive European green crabs, and decreasing eelgrass populations.

Often the research is coupled with restoration projects, like in the case of eelgrass, a replanting program is underway.

According to Alice, the loss of eelgrass is complicated but seems to be correlated with warm water and air conditions, along with lower amounts of precipitation, with turbidity as a possible secondary driver.

“Standing here it is hard to image we in the middle of a drought, and have been for several years,” Jeannie remarked.

Water quality, temperature, salinity, and turbidity are also all measured at various spots in the reserve through South Sough’s System Wide Monitoring Program (SWAMP). Weather station data is also collected. SWMP is another way South Slough provides data on estuaries.

“We have a lot of research to draw from,” said Alice. “And we use it in a lot of different ways.”  From assessing restoration potential inside the reserve to informing change outside the reserve, South Slough is a data hub for all things estuaries.

View of the estuary from viewpoint

Volunteers

At this point, Alice took us on a cut-off trail to one of the parking lots to look for a tagged tree she needed to locate.

One our way, I remarked how few invasive species I had seen at the reserve. Invasive species can be a huge problem in many natural areas. Invasive species are non-native species that outcompete native species for resources, taking over areas and harming the ecosystem. They can also be costly to manage.

“We have a lot of volunteers that help,” responded Alice. “We set up a program for stewards to get together once a month to remove invasive species.”

These volunteers were doing a great job from what I could tell.

Having hiked with Alice and Jeanne for a while now, I was beginning to understand one thing—South Slough values volunteers. In fact, Jeannie is now retired and volunteers her time with Friends of South Slough—a non-profit that facilitates many different projects in the estuary and helps others get involved.

Alice and Jeanne pose on the trail

Not too Tough

After the short parking lot diversion, we headed down onto the Hidden Creek Trail and onto a long winding boardwalk. As we walked across the expansive marsh with its dry brown grass, patches of bright yellow and green stood out on the landscape—skunk cabbage!

Hidden Creek trail boardwalk

“I can’t think of skunk cabbage without thinking of my nephew,” Jeannie related. “Show me that frog spinach again, Aunt Jeannie,” had been his child like remembrance of a very memorable plant.

“He knew it was a vegetable and an animal,” she laughed.

Western skunk cabbage (Lysichiton americanus) with its almost prehistoric looking leaves and flowers, is a personal favorite of many. Its foul odor gives it its name, as well as acts like an attractant to scavenger beetles and flies.

“It is also good browse for elk in the winter,” Alice shared. “And you can eat the tuber.”

Many Northwest indigenous tribes considered skunk cabbage a starvation food—eaten primarily when other food sources are scarce. Traditionally, the roots were cooked underground to break down calcium oxalate compounds found in the plant that would otherwise damage or irritate the alimentary canal.

According to Alice and Jeannie skunk cabbage is also high in silica which is abrasive and wears down teeth quickly.

In a “science is really cool moment,” Alice told me about some studies that are being done using teeth to track plant community changes based on the age and micro-abrasions of animal teeth. I wonder what mark a skunk cabbage would leave on my teeth. Does anyone have an underground oven?

Skunk cabbage flower blooming on the trail

Riparian Way

Winding our way along the boardwalk and across another bridge, we found ourselves leaving the marsh and entering a forested riparian area. The trail followed a sandy-bottomed creek that spilled along through a narrow alleyway of grey barked alder—yellow catkins dangling from its limbs.

“I love these little springs,” remarked Alice. “Ripple, pool, ripple, pool,” her words flowed, like the tumbling water.

Looking out on the water, Alice told me about another research project happening in the reserve’s waterways—a lamprey study.

“Lamprey have a very old lineage,” said Alice, having been around 100s of million years—before the dinosaurs. Yet, there is a lot still unknown about the lamprey family, including basic information, like where they can be found.

This is where the lamprey research project comes in.  Essentially, Alice explained, the project involves collecting environmental DNA samples in the water at various sites in Oregon, like South Slough, to look for lamprey. Citizen scientists collect the water samples, and researchers complete the DNA analysis for two of Oregon’s lamprey species—Pacific book lamprey and western brook lamprey.

Both Pacific brook lamprey and western brook Lamprey are present in South Slough. In fact, they have been monitored by ODFW for years. However, in the last 20 years, their populations have declined. They are now listed as Oregon Conservation Strategy Species of greatest concern and need.

Understanding more about where we find lamprey will hopefully help scientists figure out how best to conserve this group of mysterious species.

Trail along forested riparian area

Sensitive in South Slough

After following the creek for a bit, we reached a junction with Middle Creek Trail. Taking a right onto Middle Creek, we headed uphill back into the mixed-conifer forest and away from the estuary.

As we walked, I asked Alice and Jeanne about other species of concern that might be found in the park.

Alice told me about the endangered western lily—a crimson-colored flower with downward-pointing stamen, and petals that swoop upward.

“It only exists in a certain soil type,” said Alice, making the flower uncommon in the reserve and only viewable in a few undisclosed locations.

Like the western lily, many species face limitations and habitat requirements that restrict their growth. Ensuring the success of these populations takes careful planning.

“It is part of our restoration project to look at the soils, aspect, and slope to think about where we want to plant different species, where they would be most successful,” Alice explained.

Other sensitive species include the less-conspicuous, red or purple-tinged, cream-colored Point Reyes bird’s-beak—a coastal marsh plant threatened by habitat loss, as well as the carnivorous Cobra lily (Darlingtonia californica)—with a naturally limited range.

The Signal

We continued our climb upwards until we reconnected with the Ten-minute Loop Trail that would take us back to the visitor center and our vehicles.

Along the trail, a gap was cut into the forest. Alice explained that there was a lot of dying Port-Orford-cedar and other species that they removed to create the gap. Flowering shrubs, like Oregon grape, were planted in the open space. Bird boxes were put in place on a few tall snags to attract wildlife.  Benches built from the felled trees were placed along the edges of the opening.

Forest gap with bird boxes

Of course, my favorite feature was a massive bat box with the outline of a bat painted in white across the dark surface—a literal bat signal. Though no bats occupied their new home yet—“give it a couple of years,” Jeanne suggested—eventually they will find their way home.

“Appropriate,” I thought to myself—South Slough National Estuarine Research Reserve is a signal to the world regarding the state of our planet. As the Earth faces many challenges, like climate change, biodiversity loss, and invasive species, studying the impacts and efforts to mitigate and adapt to these changes is of paramount importance.  South Slough is doing that good work—helping us understand and protect the planet—the place we call home.

Bat box along trail

Alice Yeates is the stewardship coordinator at South Slough National Estuarine Research Reserve. She studied ecology and conservation at Griffith University for her undergraduate work before earning a Ph.D. in Ecology at the University of Queensland. She has been at South Slough Reserve for the past 3 years and before that was a lecturer at the University of Wisconsin-Superior and a researcher at the University of Minnesota’s Natural Resources Research Institute. Alice has a passion for plants because their function and importance are often overlooked and not always understood.   

Jeanne Standley worked as a Botanist for the Bureau of Land Management in Oregon and Alaska for 28 years before retiring as the Coos Bay District Noxious Weed Coordinator. Before that, she graduated from Oregon State University with a Bachelor of Science in Rangeland Resources. She is now on the board of the Friends of South Slough

Curious Hiker: William L Finely National Wildlife Refuge

Views of golden paintbrush along Refuge Road

Overview

William L. Finley National Wildlife refuge is the largest of the three refuges that make up the Willamette Valley Complex. Offering many miles of trails, the refuge showcases the diversity of habitats once prevalent in the Willamette Valley region of Oregon. Habitats featured at the refuge include, both permanent and season wetlands, oak woodland and savannah, and wet prairie. Riparian and mixed forests, as well as agricultural lands, make up much of the remaining land.  

  • Difficulty: Easy
  • Distance: 3.8 miles
  • Terrane: 680 feet elevation gain
  • Open: All year. Best late April to May.  Fender’s blue in late mid to late May, early may for wildflowers.  
  • Trailhead: Woodpecker Loop Trail Head (44.41266,-123.33221)
  • Contact: Willamette Valley National Wildlife Refuge Complex (541) 757-7236

Highlights

Wildlife viewing; birdwatching; diverse and unique habitats; fabulous wildflower displays

Need to Know

Roads to the trailhead are accessible, but gravel once you enter the refuge; No pass is required for parking; Restrooms are available on-site; Open dawn to dusk; Winter sanctuary closes some trails in winter; No running or jogging is allowed in the Refuge; No pets allowed.

Hike Description

Start your adventure on Finley Road right off 99W. Drive along slowly, taking time to look at the top of the trees for raptors.  Upon reaching the entrance to the refuge, turn left onto Finley Refuge Road and follow it to the first pullout and viewpoint.

As you look out on the expanse of land, notice its mounded topography.  This is a feature of wet prairie habitat—a habitat type that has been nearly wiped out with European habitation.  Less than 1% of wet prairie remains in the Willamette Valley from historical levels, and William L. Finley is home to the largest example of it.

Water pools in the shallow depressions in winter and spring, creating a unique environment for species to inhabit. Tufted hair grass, one-sided sedge, and dense sedge make up much of the ground cover. In the spring, common camas blooms here, turning the ground a soft purple hue. Insect’s buzz

Camas lily and insect visitors found in the wet prairie

Woodpecker Loop

Continue down the road slowly, stopping to look at the waterfowl in ponds along the gravel road. The refuge system was established primarily as a wintering ground for a subspecies of Canada geese, the Dusky, in 1954. It is now home to many wintering and year-round residents.

To get to the hiking trail, turn right at a signed junction for the Woodpecker Loop Trail. The trail gradually ascends a slope passing through oak woodland and prairie habitat. Keeping right at the junction, cross a wooden bridge and boardwalk and enter a thicket of Oregon White Oaks. Lichen coats the branches of hardwood trees.

Soon the woodland opens to the prairie. Spreading branches of the Oregon White Oak punctuate the landscape. Rounded bobbles of mistletoes haunt their upper branches.  Steller’s Jays warn others of your approach.  Enjoy the views out across the valley as you climb to an overlook. On a clear day look for the tops of the Cascade volcanoes in the distance.

The trail continues downhill passing a small pond before crossing over a swale on a boardwalk. Ash trees and sedge grow here—taking advantage of the wet ground. 

Intertie

Continue into a mixed forest habitat, where Douglas-fir and Big Leaf Maple make up much of the canopy overhead before reaching the junction for the woodpecker loop trail. Here, you can take a left to get back to the trailhead if your time is short. Otherwise, continue straight toward Mill Hill on the intertie trail.

Stay right at the next three junctions, observing the transition from mixed forest to oak savannah and woodland. Watch and listen for acorn woodpeckers and white-breasted nuthatch. In the spring, oak toothwort, and blooms along the muddy trail.

Mill Hill Loop

Reach a four-way junction and head right to begin the Mill Hill Loop. As you move further uphill Douglas-fir trees become more commonplace, competing with oak for valuable space. Eventually, you leave the oaks altogether for a forest of Douglas-fir and Big Leaf Maple, with sword fern as understory.  Stream violets, wild carrot, and bittercress grow on the shaded forest floor.

The trail bends as you reach a high point on the trail—opening to views of restored oak savanna, planted with native wildflowers, like Kincaid’s lupine, Nelson’s checkermallow, and golden paintbrush. This grass-dominated ecosystem, rich in grasses and forbs, is important to many insect species, including the endangered Fender’s blue butterfly. Birds swoop in to enjoy the feast. Elk or deer may be spotted at the forest edges. A bench situated on the trail provides an excellent vantage point to take a rest and watch the show.

Head downhill above swampy Gray Creek. Beavers occupy the site during the year and, in summer, wood ducks may be spotted. Look for moisture-loving plants nearby, including large patches of Pacific bleeding heart with their pink heart-shaped flowers and delicate intricate leaves. On the forested bank opposite the creek, Oregon grape thrives in the understory. Candy flower, giant fawn lilies, and Oregon Iris bloom here in the spring.

Bleeding heart growing on Mill Hill Trail

Continue the trail until you reach the main junction. From here, return the way you came. When you arrive at the Woodpecker Loop junction, take a right to finish that loop as well. 

Hike with a Terrestrial Wildlife Biologist

Looking onto Crabtree Lake.

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

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

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

The Hike

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

Diverse Species 

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

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

Sounds of Life

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

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

Green Stuff

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

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

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

Deciduous trees along the trail.

Biological Desert

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

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

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

Look-Alike

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

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

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

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

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

Rocky Mountain Maple leaf overlaid with Vine Maple Leaf.

A Special Place

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

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

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

View into the meadow with protective rock.

Management to Protect

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

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

Give a Hoot

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

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

Wear Layers 

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

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

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

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

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

Highly structured forest observed along the road.

A Rotten Heart

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

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

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

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

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

Downed Log with heart rot as seen on the trail.

Leave it to Beaver

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

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

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

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

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

Fishing for Fishers

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

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

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

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

Carnivore Project bate opposite camera trap.

Forest Walking

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

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

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

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

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