The clear fluting song of a western meadowlark rang out as I progressed slowly up the trail. It was a cold crisp winter evening and the sky was just beginning to darken as the sun slowly sank toward the horizon. The chill enlivened my cheeks and the heat radiating from my body turned my skin a rosy pink.
However, it wasn’t the call of the meadowlark or the cold winter air that held my attention. Rather, it was the twisted trunks and limbs of the bare white oaks reaching toward the sinking sun that captivated my mind. These perhaps centuries old sentinels dotted the open grasslands and congregated in the woodlands where I walked.
Natural History
Oak growth is often achingly slow, reaching heights of roughly 40 to 90 feet at maturity.
Yet, these hardy hardwoods seem to withstand the test of time, capable of living for centuries in harsh conditions, including through windstorms, drought and fire. In fact, Oregon White Oak are considered a fire dependent species, as they rely on fire to keep competing plants at bay.
Historically, natural wildfire and traditional burning practices of the indigenous Kalapuya maintained oak populations. However, with European colonization, fires were suppressed and the land was developed for other uses, like agriculture, eliminating as much as 99% of oak savanna in the Willamette Valley.
Now, many of the oaks that remain are found nestled between concrete and farmland. Even in the refuge, where I rambled, restored oak habitats sit alongside several large tracts of agriculture, supplying seed and grain to wintering geese.
Habitat
Rounding a bend, I entered denser woodland, the oak’s dry pinnately lobed leaves, long ago fallen, now crunched under feet. The trees grew straighter in the woods–their branches all reaching upwards toward the light. It was here that I noticed a small oak snag with a narrow open hollow. I wondered what occupied the space and drew in for a closer look.
In general, Oregon oak ecosystems are incredibly important wildlife habitat. Oaks themselves provide abundant food. Many birds, like the acorn woodpecker, and native squirrels feed on their acorns. The oak’s minute flowers also provide nectar to many insect pollinators, while their leaves are food for a variety of native caterpillars. The oak genus is known as a keystone host plant for caterpillars.
Then, of course, the cavities that form, especially in large trees that hollow out as they age, provide nesting habitat for birds, like the white breasted nuthatch, and bats. Though no one was home in my snag, it would not be surprising if at one point a northern pygmy owl or western gray squirrel had found refuge here.
Supporting over 200 species, oak habitats are considered biodiversity hotspots. These habitats are home to many rare and unusual species, such as purple Kincaid’s lupine and endangered Fender’s blue butterfly. In spring, oak prairies are decorated with these species among others, like the lemon-yellow golden paintbrush and cat’s ear lily, to name a few.
Sinking
The sun was now much lower on the horizon as I neared the end of my walk. Through the branches of the oak and the dense horizon, the golden colors of sunset began to work their magic as I traveled onward toward fading light. Soon, I left the woods and walked toward the edge of an oak prairie hilltop. Arriving at a viewpoint, a few oaks silhouetted against the sky, I stopped and watched the sunset through the gnarled limbs of these magnificent trees.
Then a few weeks ago, my heart sunk when I saw an article from OPB reporting a new threat to Oregon white oak trees. An invasive pest, the Mediterranean oak borer (MOB), has started wreaking havoc on the Willamette Valley’s Oregon white oak. Immediately, I thought about my experience walking among the oaks. Could the sun be setting on this important species permanently?
The MOB are reddish-brown beetles that are known to entomologists as ambrosia beetles–a type of beetle that bores into trees infecting them with a fungus that it uses as a food source. MOB are, in essence, farmers; however, the fungus being cultivated by the beetles ultimately kills the host tree.
Summer trapping for MOB found that these beetles are present in the northern Willamette valley and that Oregon white oaks are being affected–though the extent of the problem still remains to be seen. Anecdotally, it seems that larger, already stressed trees are being killed by MOB. And so far there are no major die-offs of Oregon white oak reported. Good news for now.
Heading Home
After the sun had dropped below the horizon, I walked down the hill and back to my car. As I descended, a flock of geese squawked a festive goodbye as they flew overhead. However, it was the silent farewell of the oak that I carried with me–a stoic silhouette against the ever darkening sky.
Today, as I contemplate the fate of these ever significant trees, I choose to remain hopeful. Despite mounting threats, Oregon white oak still has a lot going for it as a climate adapted species, with the potential to thrive in our changing climate. Plus there are a lot of folks on their side, working to understand and protect oak. So for now, I will look forward to a new dawn and another winter walk among the oak.
‘Tis the season for fragrant evergreens. Fresh, woody, crisp, sharp or earthy–evergreen trees and boughs bring olfactory bliss to anyone who dares take a sniff. Each conifer has its own unique smell derived from chemical compounds in their needles and bark. Collectively these chemicals are called terpenes (based on 5-carbon units known as isoprenes) and are usually produced as part of the tree’s defense mechanism–warding off potential pests and disease–among a range of other functions. For humans, however, there is mounting evidence that forest scents may also have many potential therapeutic benefits; making a walk in the forest (a.k.a. forest bathing), just that much more appealing
As for me, the health benefits of terpenes is– like the frost on a cold winter morning– a welcome bonus! Thus, this winter I have set out to not only visually observe the many different species of conifer in my local forests, but smell them–crushing needles all the way. Today, I give you my findings thus far:
Douglas-fir
Douglas-fir can be identified by its soft, flat, 1-1.5 inch needles that spiral around each branch with two white bloom lines on the underside. When pinched or crushed, Douglas-fir needles have a mild sweet lemon and woody scent. Look for their distinct cones pointing downward with three-pronged bracts that stick out from beneath each scale or their dark pointed buds to help confirm identification.
Western redcedar
Tiny, flat-scale like leaves, often with a butterfly shaped bloom on the underside, arrange onto droopy sprays of foliage that fall opposite each other on each branch. This moisture-loving conifer’s leaves are delightfully sugary-sweet smelling with perhaps a hint of pineapple or pear. If you are lucky, you may find some of its rose-bud shaped cones hanging in clusters from the branches.
Western hemlock
Short, flat soft needles of variable length (no longer than ¾ an inch), arrange themselves irregularly around each branch, creating what I like to call the “bedhead” effect. This shade-tolerant conifer’s needles smell faintly like grapefruit when crushed. On a nice day, watch the sunrays scatter through the hemlock canopy; look up and find its drooping leader–a telltale hemlock trait.
Ponderosa pine
Very long, fairly stiff needles (5-10 inches) grow from the ponderosa in bundles of three. When crushed these needles smell woody and sharp, like turpentine (unsurprisingly). Notice the thick puzzle-piece shaped bark of the ponderosa pine–a helpful adaptation to low-intensity fire. If you find a mature tree, take a whiff of the bark, as well, as it is known to give off a sweet vanilla or caramel scent, especially when warmed by the sun.
Grand fir
Two-ranked shiny, dark green needles, with two-white stomatal bands below, splay out like the keys of a grand piano. As for the smell, well this one is a favorite–warm and citrusy, like tangerines. Their stiff branches give the grand fir a stately more structural appearance, similar to other firs, with cones that face upwards high in the branches.
So, go on a walk in your local forest and bask in the many sights and smells it offers. Enjoy the complexity that nature offers as you roam. Stop and smell an evergreen.
Grab some binocs the next time you head out for a hike or walk—the birds are on the move. In spring and early summer, thousands of birds hit the skies for their biannual migration.
The Willamette Valley is part of the Pacific Flyway—a superhighway for bird migration. Birds travel from as far south as Patagonia, making their way north toward Alaska. For those that live, work, or play en route, viewing these birds is a delight of the season.
Josée Rousseau—an ecologist at the Cornell Lab of Ornithology —takes it a step further by tracking bird migration and the different habitats birds occupy. Ornithologist extraordinaire, I met Josée at Luckiamute Landing State Natural Area for a hike and interview. I figured, if anyone knows where the birds are at, it would be Josée.
Binoculars in hand, Josée and I met at the park entry road to begin our hike. It had been cool, breezy, and overcast and moisture hung in the air—not ideal conditions for looking for birds, but we remained optimistic as we started down the wide path. Besides, I had seen a group of turkey vultures on the road on the way in feeding on an animal carcass—was this a sign of good things to come or some bad juju?
Seeing Birds
However, almost immediately, we started seeing and hearing birds—first, a Song Sparrow trilling in the distance. Then moments later we spotted a bushtit nest hanging in the trees.
“The cool thing about them [bushtit],” Josée smiled, “is they are sort of a cooperative species.”
She explained how juvenile birds from a pair’s first clutch will sometimes “hang around” to help with a second clutch—creating these large family units. You don’t generally see Bushtit alone for this reason. Rather, these stout little gray birds flit about in energetic flocks.
“Another cool thing,” Josée added, “the male and female have different colored eyes. The males and the young have black eyes and the adult females’ eyes are yellowish.”
A Closer Look
We soon reached a junction where the road ended at a parking lot and the trail began. We headed right, following a line of trees and shrubs, including holly-leaved Oregon Grape.
I asked Josée to share a bit about her background, and as if one cue—an American Robin, with its distinct song, made an appearance perched in some nearby trees.
“Robin was the bird that got me into birds,” Josée explained. “I study birds, I love birds, “but I didn’t always like birds.”
She explained how she needed someone to teach her “to see birds” before she could appreciate them. To stop and look at birds—to look at their plumage, shape, and size, for example.
And for Josée, as commonplace as they are, the American Robin was the first bird she took the time to really observe and appreciate.
Robin sent out the occasional twittering song as we talked before it flew back among the trees.
As we continued down the muddy trail, heading toward the Willamette, Josée told me how she started her research studying urban birds in Montreal.
“Birds are amazing creatures with diverse habits and habitats,” said Josée. Even in a city environment, there are resources available that attract birds.
Just then a couple of small birds caught our attention as they danced among the branches of a small broadleaf tree along the forest edge. Josée grabbed her binocs.
At least one was a Yellow-rumped Warbler with black, white, and yellow plumage. A larger bird for a warbler, it reminded me of a chickadee in size. The others flew off before they could be identified.
Big Bird Data
Josée and I flew on down the trail as well, heading into the denser woods.
As we walked, Josée told me about her move to the west coast and Ph.D. work studying large-scale patterns in bird distribution and habitat.
She explained how her research looked at both the distribution of bird species across North America, as well as the habitats that each species selected in different regions and throughout its life cycle.
“I found there were actually differences!” exclaimed Josée—particularly when comparing across regions, but even across the lifecycle Josée found slight differences in habitat use.
Josée’s research relied heavily on large data sets, including banding data, breeding surveys, and ebird—a citizen science program.
“It allowed me to use big data to ask large-scale questions,” she explained. “It involved a lot of computer work,” she laughed.
Bird Banding
However, there is one way that Josée still gets out among the birds. She and her colleague, Joan Hagar, have a bird banding station set up in the park.
Bird banding is the process of temporarily capturing birds, usually with a mist net, so that scientists and volunteers can gather data on the birds.
“When you capture a bird, you can determine their age and sex; you can determine their health…” Josée explained, “You are getting information about survival and reproduction.”
All this information can then be used to better understand changes in bird populations.
Other tools, like ebird or other more general surveys, can tell you some information about abundance, but they can’t tell you why the abundance of a bird changes.
“They are complementary tools,” according to Josée. We need a variety of data sets to answer a variety of questions.
Restoring the Floodplain
As we rounded a bend in the trail, the Willamette River came into view through the trees. A few user trails led closer to its edge for a better view. We stuck to the main trail and entered a dense, shady conifer forest.
“This site is cool because it is along the Willamette River,” Josée said, “It is actually at the confluence of three rivers—the Luckiamute, the Santiam, and the Willamette.”
Luckiamute Landing State Natural Area has one of the largest remaining natural floodplain forests, according to Josée. Though previously cleared for agriculture, much of the site has since been restored to a more natural state through a succession of plantings.
“I think the first planting was around 2013,” said Josée. “They planted the whole west section. The last section, the middle part, was planted just last winter.”
In fact, one of the main purposes of the bird banding project is to see if the restoration is working.
“And is the restoration working?” I asked.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Josée responded. “We have five years of data to support it.”
Superlative Birds
We continued along the wide path, scrubby conifers surrounding us on both sides and the river hidden to our right, hoping to spot some birds among the trees.
I asked Josée what birds she had seen coming through her bird banding station at Luckiamute. Were there any that are especially common? Any rare or unique birds?
“Fifty-nine species,” Josée responded. That is the minimum number of songbird species that visit Luckiamute at some point during the year—some as migrants or breeders, others as year-round resident species.
“The most common is definitely the Swainson’s Thrush,” Josée continued. “They arrive in May and stay until September.”
Swainson’s Thrush is in the same family as the American Robin and has “amazing vocals,” according to Josée. However, they are not talkative birds after the breeding season and often go unnoticed for that reason.
So how does she know they are here? Mist nets of course! Another benefit of bird banding stations.
There were two birds that Josée said fit under the “whoa!” category.
First, she showed me a picture of a gorgeous, fluffy juvenile Saw-whet Owl. Those big yellow eyes! It was a surprise to catch in the net, as they hadn’t heard one here before.
Second, is the Red-eyed Vireo. A lovely little bird with an olive-colored complexion and red eyes as an adult.
“Not a species that is abundant in Oregon,” Josée explained, “we have caught maybe three to four.”
“They breed here in the gallery forest north,” she went on, “but during post-breeding, they come down into the shrubby area where there are berries, and that is when we catch them.”
Coniferous
We were nearing the end of the shaded coniferous forest. We passed what looked to me like a woodrat’s nest up in a tree and several piles of woody debris.
“They have flooding here,” Josée explained.
Before we exited the habitat, I asked Josée what birds might frequent the area we were walking in. What sort of birds like conifer forests like this?
Josée rattled off a few species—”chickadees, kinglets, Steller’s jay, a few species like that.”
Conifer forests provide shelter for birds but do not have as abundant food resources.
“Very soon we will get into the shrubs,” said Josée. “They have more birds because they have more insects. And they tend to have flowers and berries which attract fruit-eating birds.”
Gallery of the Giants
And she was right, soon we rounded a bend and soon we were face to face with a tall deciduous forest and a trail bordered by shrubs.
A sign offered some details about the forest and restoration process—which indeed started in 2013. We stopped at the sign for a moment and looked out on the gallery of what was mostly large Black Cottonwood with many Bigleaf trees in front of us.
I asked Josée what she thought the benefit of this habitat was to birds.
“Big trees,” she began, “There is more vertical habitat for one thing.”
She also mentioned the formation of snags in older forests which brings in woodpeckers, which create cavities that can be used by a variety of cavity-nesting birds.
“There is a lot of complexity in an older forest that you don’t get in a younger one. By having that vertical structure, these older trees, by having snags and dead wood—this adds a variety of habitats and resources that more species because they all use a different part of it,” explained Josée.”
Water Ways
Of course, different birds need different habitats. Many require old-growth forests, but others need young forests, grasslands, or some other habitat type.
“There is no good or bad habitat,” Josée reminded me. “Even cities aren’t necessarily bad habitats because there are some species that thrive in them.”
I asked Josée if there was any special benefit of being near water.
“We don’t have a lot of rain from June to September and birds rely on fruits and nuts to fatten up in the fall,” explained Josée. “So, these riparian corridors are very important for these birds to find food and be able to survive migration, at least for the west coast.”
Shrubby
We continued following a corridor of planted deciduous trees and shrubs—part of the restoration project.
Among the shrubs were osoberry, common snowberry, and red-flowering currant—all of which can provide food resources for different bird species.
“What is great about Luckiamute is they restored habitat by planting native species of plants, which is amazing to me,” Josée shared, “AND to the birds,” she added with a smile.
To better understand how birds are using these flowering plants as resources, Josée told me how they are providing data to a research project led by Carolyn Coyle, through sampling the beak of warblers they net for pollen. Each sample is tested to identify plant species the warblers visited.
Preliminary pollen testing last year showed promising results.
“Warblers used these flowers,” said Josée, “and other flowers in the park.”
The next phase of the project is to try and understand why.
Early Seral Station
Josée pulled off to the side of the trail toward a tree tied with bright pink flagging.
“See that little flag,” she proclaimed, “We have a bird banding net right here.”
As she headed into the brush, Josée explained the components of a banding station. Here is the gist–each station has about 10 12-meter-long nets that stand 2 meters high. The nets are put up during a collection day and checked frequently. Birds caught in the net are carried to a banding location where a federal Bird Banding Lab tag with a unique number is attached to their leg.
“And we are going to get age, sex, species of course, look at weight, wing length, and other measurements such as breeding condition, and release it,” said Josée.
We were standing at net 10—one of a total of 30 set up around the park. Net 10 is considered an early seral habitat station, though the forest was a lot thicker since last she visited—it had since been thinned.
Reasons
“Surveying these birds is not part of my regular job,” she explained but is done on a volunteer basis for three main reasons.
Besides, helping provide feedback on the restoration efforts (reason number one), the bird banding station offers young biologists training in the safe handling of birds and how to take accurate measurements.
And thirdly, “We are doing some research,” said Josée. “We are studying this area as a migration corridor.”
Migratory Path
“Do most birds fly in riparian corridors during migration?” I asked.
“We suspect that they do and that is what we are trying to find out,” Josée replied.
Joan Hagar, Josee’s colleague, did some surveys in 2014 and found some evidence to suggest birds were following the Willamette during migration. Essentially, she found the same birds visiting another banding station along the route, suggesting they were sticking to the water.
“So, another tool we are starting to take advantage of is MOTUS,” said Josée.
MOTUS is an international collaboration network that uses radio telemetry to track the movement of a variety of species including birds. Each bird is outfitted with a radio transmitter. Josée described it as looking like “a little backpack.” Then when a bird flies by a MOTUS station, the bird’s signal is picked up and recorded with a time stamp.
“Ankeny [Wildlife Refuge] just got a MOTUS station,” said Josée. Both Joan and she are hoping to see more come online along the Willamette.
Return to Sender
“Do you capture some of the same birds?” I questioned.
“We have caught the same Swanson’s thrush 3-4 years in a row in the same net!” was Josée’s enthusiastic response.
She explained how Swanson’s thrush migrate as far south as Bolivia and Argentina, only to return to the exact same spot they began—so exactly that they end up caught in the same mist net.
“They have migrated thousands of miles,” she was bubbling over with energy. “Image you were flying to Argentina every year!”
I’m impressed.
Indicators
By now the trail opened with a field to the left. We were almost back to our loop and the sky was starting to darken. I asked Joséee about her current research as we walked the final leg back to the loop junction.
“I’m a postdoc for the Cornell Lab of Ornithology,” said Josée. “And my project, which I think is really cool, is to see if we can use birds as an indicator of pollinators.”
As Josée explained, pollinators are declining at alarming rates, and at the same time, we have limited data on pollinators, so the extent of the problem is hard to nail down.
Josée’s project is designed to take advantage of the extensive data we have on birds to see if it correlates with the presence of native bee species.
“I am using eBird,” said Josée, “and publicly available bee data sets. I am using locations with both bird and bee data. There are only a few locations, maybe up to 4,000 in the eastern half of the U.S.”
The research is based on the premise that bees and some bird species use similar habitats and environments and are affected by similar land management practices.
“So, we can see if whenever some bird species are abundant, we have more bee species,” she explained.
Ultimately, Josée hopes that by using birds as indicators of bee richness, they can guide land management practices to improve bee conservation.
Spring Showers
Then, (almost suddenly) the leaves rustled, and the grey ominous clouds shifted in the sky, letting out a soft but thorough downpour.
Despite the change in weather, Josée heard a call out in the field next to us—a white-crowned sparrow. I could see it shifting in the grasses, a dark silhouette against an equally dreary backdrop.
Josée handed me her binoculars to see if I could get a better look, but the rain had dampened the eyepieces. It was like looking through a rain-soaked windshield with no wipers.
Grassland species
“What species would like this area?” I asked, as we moved swiftly back to the junction and road we walked up at the start of the hike.
As usual, Josée had an answer—“White-crowned Sparrow, Common Yellowthroat, Robins…”All of these birds use these open habitats.
However, the area was already in the process of change. If you looked more closely, small saplings were planted among the grasses that dominated the field.
“They planted last winter,” she said. “And as these little trees are growing, we are hoping to add nets here and monitor their impact on bird communities.”
Energy
We hurried our way back to the cars. The rain, only letting up a little. Not an ideal situation for looking for birds. They too were probably seeking shelter.
Back at the cars, I thanked Josée for meeting with me, but I couldn’t help but comment on her relentless energy. She was not shy about acknowledging that she is a go-getter.
It was fun talking to Josée. Like the birds she studies, she had figured out a way to successfully navigate through a career in science—and with gusto!
I have no doubt she could make the thousands of miles-long journey her birds take if she needed to.
Josée is a postdoctoral fellow at the Cornell Lab of Ornithology where she is studying the potential role of birds as indicators of pollinators.
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:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Beaver! A surprisingly loaded word. The largest rodent in North America. Oregon’s state animal. The American Beaver is touted for its remarkable ability to engineer waterways. While simultaneously villainized as a nuisance species. Trapped for its fur well into the 19th century, this activity still occurs today, though not to the levels seen during the fur trade.
There are a lot of strong opinions about beaver. They are both beloved and hated. Removed and reintroduced. Marveled at and frowned upon. Yet, for all the attention they get, there is a lot we still don’t know about them.
This is why, after a long day of teaching high schoolers, I met up with Vanessa Petro, who has been studying the American Beaver for over 10 years, to walk and talk about these surprisingly enigmatic, charismatic creatures.
The Hike
Trailhead: Alsea Falls Trailhead
Distance: 2.4 miles (w/shorter and longer options available)
Elevation Gain: 300 ft
Details: Ample parking and pit toilet available at trailhead. Drive to trailhead is on well-maintained gravel roads. $2 for parking or use National Forest or other Recreation pass.
The Drive
Vanessa and I drove out to the trailhead together. As we rode along, we chatted about various aspects of our lives—from childhood to career to motherhood.
Vanessa spent her childhood in Pennsylvania, surrounded by nature and the outdoors. “I grew up going out the backdoor and disappearing into the woods,” said Vanessa, much to the chagrin of her parents.
But it wasn’t until she encountered a magazine article featuring Dr. Gary Alt, a renowned black bear biologist, that she initially got hooked on wildlife. Vanessa saw what Dr. Gary Alt was doing, and as she put it, she “wanted to do something like that.”
Vanessa’s passion for wildlife and the outdoors continued into high school. She was active in hunting during her teen years. And she enjoyed classes in the biological sciences. In particular, Vanessa mentioned an ecology teacher that inspired her and also invited her to compete in a state-wide natural resources competition called Envirothon.
College and Career
Vanessa’s was on a path. After high school, she attended Sterling College, “the smallest accredited college in the United States.” The college only offers environmental study-based majors. Vanessa studied conservation ecology.
“I lucked out while I was there,” Vanessa explained, “There is a large emphasis on hands-on experience. “By the time she graduated from Sterling, Vanessa had already completed several seasons of summer and winter field work, including an internship with Sequoia National Forest working on a forest carnivore monitoring project.
After graduation she bounced around the U.S., living in 11 different states, as she continued to find seasonal wildlife work where she could. “I have no regrets,” Vanessa smiled, “except for maybe a few men.”
Eventually, Vanessa settled at Oregon State University to conduct graduate research. And once graduated, continued her research work at OSU, which is where she is today.
Now, married with one child and another on the way, Vanessa spoke adamantly about the challenge of balancing a career with family. “In natural resources, you can’t really get married and have children at the start of your career,” she said pointedly. “I had to wait.” Even today, with a supportive boss and colleagues, Vanessa spoke of the difficulty. “There is a high attrition rate for women in STEM fields,” she noted.
Vanessa posing at the upper Alsea Falls viewpoint.
Why beaver?
Before long we pulled into the parking lot for Alsea Falls and our trailhead. And after a quick restroom break, Vanessa and I headed down the muddy path to Alsea Falls.
Vanessa has been studying Beaver in the Alsea River Watershed for over 10 years. So, as we began our descent, I needed to ask— “Why beaver?”
“For me, I am definitely split between terrestrial and aquatic systems,” Vanessa responded. “And they are in between.” Beaver are semiaquatic—spending part of their time and on land and part of their time in water—taking advantage of resources in both environments.
In addition, many people care about beaver. “There is a lot of conservation interest in beaver in our area,” Vanessa went on. “And there is a lot we don’t know about them.”
Unknowable
Despite their dominating presence in the Pacific Northwest’s history, we don’t even know the most basic information about beaver in this region. “No one can tell you long they live or how many there are in our state,” explained Vanessa. Their ecology is a mystery.
So, what is happening? Most studies center around using beaver in restoration and/or the relocation of beaver. Questions are very specific and very limiting. For example, “we don’t know the average home range sizes of beaver throughout our state,” but we have movement data for relocated beavers. Yet, beavers that are relocated do not behave the same as naturalized beavers, so it would be like comparing apples to oranges. Thus, there is a gap in knowledge.
Alsea Falls
Vanessa and I continued until we reached the first Alsea falls viewpoint. We stepped out onto the bedrock ledge to get a view of Alsea Falls and snap a few pictures. The ground was slick, but that didn’t stop Vanessa from clambering up closer to the falls for a photo when I asked.
We continued down to the lower viewpoint for another view of the falls from a wider angle. I noticed how the autumn leaves opposite the river were striking against the dark greens and greys of the forest. We looked out at the rushing water.
Dammed if you do, dammed if you don’t
“Do you know what is cool about where we are standing?” Vanessa started, looking upstream, just above the waterfall. “This waterfall is a known barrier for salmonid fish.” But that isn’t the interesting part. Vanessa went on to explain that not too far upstream there is a two-mile stretch of river that beaver have colonized, building dams and creating the perfect habitat for fish.
Beaver are considered ecosystem engineers—they create habitat other species, like salmon, rely on. Birds, amphibians, and invertebrates all take advantage of the engineered wetlands, pools, and other habitats built by beaver. The list of beneficiaries is long.
The site upstream of Alsea Falls is so ideal for salmon that at one point multiple stakeholders wanted to build a fish ladder to provide the fish access to it. The idea eventually lost steam, but just the fact it was considered, says a bit about the quality of fish habitat beaver have the potential to provide.
However, it is important to note that not all beavers make dams. They often don’t need to. And without dam building the ecological benefit of beaver is non-existent.
If water around their dens and foraging areas is deep enough to protect them from predators, a beaver won’t build a dam. Beaver innately rely on these cues to know when to build. Below Alsea Falls dam making isn’t as frequent and “habitat is patchy,” said Vanessa. The cues aren’t there.
The two-mile stretch of beaver dam habitat above Alsea Falls that everyone desires, well, “that doesn’t occur frequently on the landscape,” said Vanessa.
“Salmonid habitat ends right here,” stated Vanessa, matter-of-factly. But beaver habitat, well that is another story. We followed the trail back upstream with beaver in mind.
Looking down from Alsea Falls toward a log jam.
Beaver Forage
Back at the top of the trail, we took a sharp left onto a bridge that crosses the Alsea River. I looked down at the flowing reflective waters. Vanessa looked out toward the greenery lining its edges with an eye out for beaver sign.
Beaver are herbivores—they eat plants. More specifically, they snip off smaller diameter branches of trees and shrubs, eat the leafy greens and outer layer of bark where the cambium is.
They are picky eaters though. “They will cut salmonberry, red alder branches, willow, and vine maples… but they won’t touch Pacific ninebark,” said Vanessa. “They will eat lady fern,” but avoid stink currant.
Beaver generally stay close to the water and often sit along its edge while consuming the forage they collected. “They will forage on average about 30 meters (~100 feet) from the waterline,” stated Vanessa, “but will go further out if they have to.”
“They look for the best of the best,” Vanessa told me later during our hike. Though the Alsea Falls watershed provides several examples of suitable beaver habitat, you won’t find them everywhere. “There are still patches of unpalatable vegetation and undesirable habitat that occur throughout the area.” When it comes to establishing a new home, they look for something equivalent to what they had in the past or better.
“There are no beaver here,” said Vanessa, having fully assessed the area and we continued up the trail.
Looking out over the Alsea River bridge.
Forest Diversions
We headed deeper into the woods, following the muddied trail along a ridge above the creek. The trail weaved through the Douglas-fir trees whose branches caught the late-day sunlight in a bright burst of gold.
Seeing the stately Douglas-fir trees reminded Vanessa of her husband, Andrew Merschel, a forest ecologist. “He just defended his Ph.D.,” she said proudly.
Through his research, Andrew reconstructed the fire history of Douglas-fir forests west of the Cascades, similar to the one we were hiking in. “The assumed fire return intervals are wrong,” said Vanessa. The actual fire history in this region, she explained, demonstrates a more complex reality than what has been traditionally taught.
It was fun talking to Vanessa about her husband’s forest research. It was a wonderful diversion. But we were there to talk beaver! “I want to know more about your research,” I said, as we moved slowly up the path.
Trees filtered the light as we walked through the forest.
Unsuitable
We hiked past another unsuitable spot for beaver—a site heavily forested with desirable alder trees but that was also laced with undesirable stinking currant. No sign of beaver.
Then the trail widened, curving away from the South Fork Alsea River, and began following the bank of Peak Creek. Here our luck changed.
Much of Vanessa’s research centered around identifying beaver activity, so as we neared an access point on Peak Creek, Vanessa led me down to the water’s edge to look for beaver sign.
Grove of alder. No sign of beaver here.
Beaver Sign
Vanessa explained that many people assume that if they don’t see dams, there are no beaver present. But, as Vanessa made clear early on, not all beavers make dams. A lot of them don’t need to. So, to assess beaver activity we need to look for other signs of their presence.
Vanessa climbed down to the water balancing on logs to reach out into the creek where some branches of western redcedar hung over the water. She pulled at the branches, inspecting the tips of each branch until she found what she was looking for.
She directed me to come take a look. The end of the branch she held in her hand was clipped with clear beaver incisor marks. Looking at the branch I imagined a beaver grasping at the branch and snipping it off with its big front teeth, then eating the outer layer of the branch, as Vanessa put it, like eating corn on the cob.
Vanessa noted that clipped branches can be found up and down creeks where beaver reside, but they can be tricky to spot if you don’t know what you are looking for. People often make the mistake of just looking near the waterline, Vanessa explained, but water levels change all the time, so what is unreachable one day for a beaver might be perfect during high flows.
Feeding stations, a collection of cut limbs along a shoreline or in a protected area, and food rafts, a bunch of clippings floating in the water, are other signs of beaver foraging.
Peak Creek access point. Beaver sign! Beaver incisor marks found at the end of a western redcedar branch.
Smelly Stuff
Foraging sign is just one clue or indicator of beaver activity. I asked Vanessa if there is anything else to look out for. “Scat and scent mounds,” she replied.
Scent mounds are territorial markers beavers create out of mud and detritus. They essentially pile up these materials along the shoreline or island in the water and deposit castor, or castoreum, a strong-smelling substance released from specialized glands.
“What does it smell like?” I asked.
“BBQ sauce and vanilla,” Vanessa said. She explained that she often brings castor with her to outreach events and asks people what they think it smells like. BBQ sauce and vanilla are the most common responses. “Castor glands are used to provide ‘natural’ vanilla flavor to ice cream,” Vanessa remarked. Later, a quick google search reveals that beaver butt secretions are used for flavoring in many different food products.
Beaver scat, on the other hand, is less smelly. “Imagine little cylindrical balls of sawdust…sitting in a pool of water,” said Vanessa. It is rare to find beaver scat because of their semi-aquatic nature. “You only see it where they are active,” Vanessa remarked.
We didn’t see any scat or scent mounds during our hike.
Beaver Dens
However, a commonplace to find scat, if you find it at all, is near a beaver den. A beaver den is essentially the home of the beaver. Beavers use their dens to rest, hide from predators, and raise their young
Beaver den structures in the Pacific Northwest are not usually lodges—dome-shaped structures built with sticks and mud—like are seen on nature shows. Rather, beavers in Oregon, and neighboring states, often dig into the banks of a stream or river—creating a “bank den”—often choosing sites under trees with roots that provide an extra element of structure and protection. This is a more practical configuration in constrained waterways in Oregon than a lodge. Fluctuating water levels also means that “most colonies will have multiple dens.”
Vanessa and I looked to see if we could find a den under the cedar tree that had been munched on, but there wasn’t any clear opening.
I asked Vanessa about the size of the den, as we prodded around the riverbank. “They are about a foot wide” at the entrance, said Vanessa; and “chambers are actually small.” To find the dens, she usually uses a meter stick to wiggle underneath a bank. “The tunnel will go into the bank and then will cut up at an angle,” explained Vanessa.
Aging Sign
Having sufficiently checked the area for beaver sign, Vanessa and I decided to continue on the trail. We were hoping to reach Green Peak Falls, the turnaround point for our hike before dark and we were losing light fast.
As we clambered our way up, Vanessa told me more about her research. “Right now, I am conducting a 5-year beaver dam ecology study in this basin,” she said. “We visit the same sites every year to census of all the dams and beaver activity.”
“We will note all the different types of activity,” Vanessa went on… and “give an age status based on the newest sign identified.” She noted how the clipped cedar branch we had inspected earlier had a lot of “black spotting.” This suggests that the clipping was at least a year old. On the other hand, “it if is clear white,” explained Vanessa, which indicates “they are actively there.”
Chatter
As we walked, I noticed a medium-sized log on the trail that had been “chewed into.” Beaver? I thought. No. Upon closer inspection, the markings had no incisor imprints. The tree wound was human-inflected, Vanessa assured me.
Having seen similar markings before, I asked Vanessa what was going on. The markings are called “chatter,” she told me. Beaver will sometimes girdle a tree to wear down their incisors that continue to grow throughout their lives, or possibly to bring down a tree to access more food. In this case, the beaver is doing a lot of “chewing and spitting” and “a huge pile of woodchips” will build up at the base of the tree being cut down.
Vanessa and I “chattered” on.
Should I Stay or Should I go
Before long we reached the stairs that lead to the base of Green Peak Falls. We could hear the rushing waters and paused to finish our conversation before heading down.
“There is another thing with beaver,” Vanessa stated, “just because they occupy a site doesn’t mean they will remain there.”
The duration beaver typically occupy a stream reach and why remains uncertain. “They are all over the map on how long they stay at a site,” Vanessa explained.
The movement of beaver within a watershed is something Vanessa is hoping to find out with her future research. “We have some short-term studies,” she explained, but not enough to really understand what is happening in the bigger picture.
Part of the issue is that beaver dams in Oregon tend to be ephemeral. “By springtime, only 20-45% remain intact from the previous fall,” Vanessa remarked about her study in the Coast Range. And “they only rebuild 7-30% of the time.” More often beaver choose to build a new dam in a new location.
For her study area, “The total number of dams has been consistent at the landscape level over time,” said Vanessa. But much of beaver colonization patterns remains a mystery in response to dam failures. Will they stay? If they stay, will they rebuild? Or will they go and come back later in the year? There is much still to figure out.
Vanessa told me about a year when she surveyed her sites, and all the dams failed at one of them, but the beavers remained and didn’t rebuild. But a tributary or two over, another group of beavers constructed 16 new dams. Why? “I don’t know,” Vanessa responded.
But she hopes to find out!
Green Peak Falls.
Waterfall Mischief
Green Peak Falls was raging when we finally made our way down. The light of day was nearly gone, but I attempted to capture a photo of the falls anyway.
“I like Green Peak Falls better than Alsea Falls,” Vanessa remarked. Then turned and wandered over to the water’s edge. Vanessa was in her element as she balanced on rocks and logs in search of beaver sign. “Sometimes you see chewsticks that came down the waterfall,” she sighed.
After a few minutes of searching to no avail, Vanessa joined me, and we stared up at the cascading falls.
“The pool right above us…” began Vanessa, “I relocated a few beavers to a small tributary above it” She went on to tell me how the male of the pair (the female had died) would leave the release site and come down to the pool just above the falls. “He would hang out for days and then go all the way back up,” Vanessa reminisced. He never headed any further downstream. “Maybe he was too chicken to go around the waterfall,” Vanessa speculated.
I asked Vanessa how beaver typically handled waterfalls. “They do go around them,” she said. “Most of the time they will figure out a way to navigate around them.” However, she mentioned hearing about an unsuccessful beaver relocation where the beavers went over the waterfalls and died. “I have never seen the problem,” she said; “Maybe we have a better batch of beaver…”
Hopes for the Future
Darkness was really setting in now, so we decided to turn around and head back. As we walked, Vanessa talked more about her beaver dam ecology study and her goals for the future.
“We are in season four of data collection,” she said. After year five it will be intensive number crunching and analysis. The goal of the study is to help land and resource managers better understand the realized beaver dam capacity of a watershed and the factors that influence dam longevity at the individual dam and beaver site scales. According to Vanessa, the current popular model used to predict dam capacity tends to overestimate, making it seem like problems exist even when there isn’t one.
“No one knows how to best manage watersheds to promote beaver,” she continued. Our headlamps were now on guiding our way over roots and over puddles as we headed back to our cars. But more recently, Vanessa told me, there is money and interest in solving that problem. After the Labor Day fires, federal, state, and private land managers, in coordination with Vanessa’s lab, discussed the need to implement a landscape-level beaver study in western Oregon. The study will ultimately include three replicate regions—the Western Cascades, the Coast Range, and Southwest Oregon—and use beaver activity surveys to document their distribution throughout these areas, in addition to other methods like radio-telemetry to track beaver movement and colonization responses to forest disturbances.
Ultimately, through this study, Vanessa hopes that some of the most basic questions about beaver may be answered, like what they need to survive, and how fire and land management may affect them.
Beaver Believer
Vanessa and I continued to talk as we walked in darkness. And before long, we were back at the trailhead and heading home.
Having spent the evening with Vanessa, I really got a sense for her passion for her work, as well as her ability to be discerning when it comes to beaver science. Many people make the false assumption that if we can just get beaver back everywhere on the landscape, we will be okay. They will fix our problems—from habitat destruction to water conservation to even climate change.
But as amazing as beaver are they can’t fix the damage humans have done to the planet. They aren’t superheroes. Though they probably would look cute in a cape. And just like the rest of the planet, beaver have and will be affected by the dramatic changes in our climate and forests throughout the Pacific Northwest.
So, as nice as it is to sing beavers’ praises, it misses the mark. To truly appreciate beaver, we need to understand them. That is the first step. And we aren’t there yet. But with the help of people like Vanessa, we might finally learn to walk the beaver walk.
Vanessa Petro is a senior faculty research assistant at Oregon State University. Vanessa earned her B.A. in Conservation Ecology from Sterling College in Vermont and her M.S. in Forest Science from Oregon State University.
One of many cyanolichen found near the creek during the hike.
Equally unassuming and complex—lichen often go undeservedly unnoticed. Open your eyes to these delightful organisms, and an entire world unfolds before you. And here’s a shock, this world has been there all along hiding in plain sight. On the branch of a tree, or on the ground, or attached to a rock—lichen are everywhere.
Heck, spend enough time in the “world of lichen,” and they may even change your life. At least that is what happened to lichenologist Joseph (Joe) R D Meglio, whom I met on a cold, wet morning in January to hike and talk lichen.
Details: This is one of many trailhead in the McDonald Forest, which offers a variety of hiking options on trails and logging roads. Limited parking is available.
Joe’s Story
Our hike began as we walked across a bridge and onto a wooded logging road, with cold pelts of mixed snow and rain falling on our heads and shoulders. Joe and I slogged up the gravel path making small talk along the way.
After a few minute’s time, I asked: “Why lichen? How did you end up here— with a career in lichen?”
Here is Joe’s story:
The Early Years
Despite being fascinated with living things from a young age, and an early interest in fungi and lichen, Joe didn’t become a lichenologist straight out of high school. He went to college for a term, and as he put it, “I flunked out.”
College “wasn’t an expectation in my family,” explained Joe. So it wasn’t a big deal when Joe dropped his academic pursuits, opting instead to learn a trade. Joe worked as a mechanic for a few years, and later as a high rigger for a logging company.
Epiphany
Then one day while on a break from rigging up cables, Joe found himself amongst the branches of a Douglas-fir tree in the Mckenzie River Valley. Looking around, he noticed two contrasting worlds—a clearcut landscape in the distance, a product of the logging industry of which he was a part, juxtaposed against the miraculous biodiversity of lichen dripping off the trees in the surrounding forest. He knew at that moment he needed a change.
Joe immediately climbed down from his perch and told his boss—“I don’t want to do this anymore. I am leaving.”
And he did. Right then and there.
A Whole New World
Not long after, Joe enrolled at the local community college and eventually made his way to Oregon State University to work with lichenologist extraordinaire, Bruce McCune.
Joe still works in the McCune lab on lichen taxonomy, and contracts with the U.S. Forest Service on Lichen related projects. He even married a lichenologist, whom we met up with later in the hike. So, yeah, Joe is really into lichen.
Joe with a tree branch coated in lichen
Pairing up
As we followed the road uphill, we continued to chat about Joe’s work and lichen-filled life. Then I asked him the all-important question, “What exactly is a lichen?”
Joe explained, “Lichen are composite organisms” containing a mycobiont (fungal component) and photobiont (photosynthetic partner) or two. The most common photobiont is green algae, followed by cyanobacteria. A tripartite lichen will contain both, like Lobaria pulmonaria (sometimes referred to as lung lichen), commonly found in lowland to mid-elevation forests of the Pacific Northwest.
Whatever the pairing, a “symbiotic” relationship, or cooperation, exists between the bionts. The photobiont provides food for the fungus due to its ability to photosynthesize. While the mycobiont provides shelter for the photosynthetic partner.
Pairing up also means physiological, chemical, and reproductive changes from the original forms of the individual bionts. Nearly nothing of the individual remains.
Hello Lichen
At this point, Joe stopped at the side of the road, grabbed a tree branch, and pulled it down to eye-level. It was time to take a look.
Joe began to point out all the different lichen species. “Stuff like this usnea is a chlorolichen,” he said pointing out a light green, stringy-looking lichen, “and this leafy species, Platismatia glauca is also a chlorolichen,” he continued.
On just a single branch, Joe pointed out at least a handful of different species— each with a unique color, shape, and form.
Several species of lichen growing on one tree branch.
Growth Forms
Which begs the question— how does one even begin to keep all the different lichen straight? I asked Joe to provide some beginner tips.
One way to start to narrow things down, Joe explained, is by becoming familiar with the different growth forms lichen exhibit. There are three basic growth forms for lichen: fruticose (shrubby), foliose (leafy), and crustose (crust). Most species will exhibit only one growth form, and even within a genus, species typically share forms. Though there are exceptions.
When it comes to fruticose and foliose lichen (aka macrolichen), the bodies (or thalli) are organized internally into layers. Joe demonstrated this stratification by plucking up a Platismatia stenophylla species (a foliose lichen) off the ground and showing me how its ventral cortex (top side) and dorsal cortex (bottom side) differed. Sandwiched in-between, the photobionts are housed, just below the upper cortex amongst the loosely packed hyphae that make up the medulla.
In tripartite lichen, additional structures are needed, called cephalodia. Often wart-like in appearance, cephalodia create an anaerobic environment that cyanobacteria require “to fix atmospheric nitrogen, an important part of the forest ecosystem nitrogen cycle.”
Platismatia stenophylla
Identifying Features
Of course, growth form will only get you so far when it comes to identifying lichen. Other characteristics that are helpful include the size, shape, and color of the thallus (the main body of the lichen) and lobes (branches), as well as the shape, position, and color of reproductive structures. There are also many specialized features, like cilia and pores (and the cephalodia mentioned earlier), that can help one distinguish between species and genera.
One of my personal favorites is that of the Usnea genus. Usnea has an inner cortex that when you pull on it, stretches like an elastic band. But beware, the band easily breaks.
Usnea longissima
This One is Not Like the Others
However, according to Joe, even members of the same species can exhibit a great deal of variability depending on the environment in which they reside.
He picked up a Platismatia from the trail and pointed to its frilly edges. Joe explained lichen will often exhibit “extreme dimorphism,” with fringed edges, dieback, and red spots, for example.
Even normal seasonal changes and variability in light exposure will alter the appearance of lichen thalli. Exposure to light often darkens the color, while shaded individuals may appear pale.
Plastismatia species with “frilly edges”
Cryptic Organisms
However, even lichen that superficially appear to be the same species, may vary substantially in other ways. As Joe described it—within the same fungal genus you might find individuals with different secondary chemistry, or an entirely different genome than you might expect. Lichen “are very variable, very adaptable,” Joe stated. “The closer you get the more you discover.”
In fact, looking into the less obvious differences between lichen is a big part of Joe’s work. By looking really close and comparing the genomes of different lichens that appear similar, he can parse out different species and determine who is related to whom.
A Closer Look
Currently, he is working on reevaluating the Sticta genus, a group of lichen that are distinguished by having cyphellae, “little windows,” usually found on the bottom of the lichen. Through his work, Joe has found that what was thought to be one species, Sticta fuliginosa s. l., is really three distinct species with different traits. “One has these really interesting lobules that are digitate,” for example.
We took a closer look at one of the new Sticta species Joe is describing—a small brown, unassuming lichen—with the proposed name: Sticta gretae sp. nov. Using a hand lens, Joe showed me the little white dots on its lower cortex, its cyphellae.
“a brown, unassuming lichen” soon to be named Sticta gretae sp. nov.
Biodiversity of Lichen
Walking along the trail it was not difficult to find lichen. Hanging from a branch or trunk of a tree, attached to a rock, or growing on the forest floor—no matter where we looked, there was plenty of lichen to look at.
Lichen are adapted to nearly every habitat on Earth, providing a symphony of biodiversity and plenty of eye candy. With our temperate rainforest and a diversity of habitats, it is no wonder that the Pacific Northwest is “the center for diversity for fungi in North America.” According to Joe, “there are approximately 580 genera and over 1400 species” of lichen in the region—a biodiversity hotspot.
Every Niche
However, every lichen species present in the Pacific Northwest isn’t going to be found in every location. Each lichen species is specialized for a particular niche, a particular home, and a way of life in the environment.
Joe pointed out a Peltigera species growing on the forest floor. “These are terricolous,” he said, “their medium is soil.” He went on to explain how each terricolous species needs specific soil chemistry, a certain acidity.
The same is true of species that depend on other substrates for a home. Lobaria oregana (Oregon lung lichen), for example, grows best in mid-elevation middle-aged to old-growth forests west of the Cascades. Conifer trees in these forests provide the perfect habitat for this species.
In addition, cyanolichen and tripartite lichen are limited by water and light requirements. They will “fall out at certain elevations,” explained Joe, as the environment is too harsh and dry. They also tend to be found where more light is present. In contrast, they can often be very abundant in riparian areas, where water and light are readily available
A Peltigera species growing in the soil
Dispersal, Growth, and Reproduction.
Despite their abundance, lichen still are relatively slow-growing organisms and don’t disperse or reproduce easily.
Though growth is pretty variable. According to Joe, crustose lichen typically grow only a few mm or ½ cm per year. Foliose or fruticose lichen may grow several cm, depending on conditions.
When it comes to reproduction and dispersal things don’t get much easier. Sexual reproduction is one possibility and is performed by the fungi. “A high percentage of our lichenized fungi are Ascomycota,” said Joe, when I asked about lichen reproduction. This sort of fungi produces disc-like fruiting structures called apothecia from which asci (spore-containing cells) can be found and lichen spores (ascospores) are released.
However, sexual reproduction can be challenging for lichenized-fungi that need to not only find a mate but a photobiont. Therefore, asexual reproduction is also common as it has a better chance of success. In the case of asexual reproduction, packaged “dispersal units” are released that contain all the parts of a functioning lichen. Isidia and soredia are the names of these dispersal units, both having some different characters, but function in a similar way. In addition, both isidia and soredia (and patches of soredia called sorelia) are observable, especially with a hand lens, making them also useful for identification.
What’s not to Lichen?
The snow was turning to a chilling rain when Joe and I decided to turn around. Joe’s wife and son were supposed to be meeting up with us soon. It was at this point that I asked Joe the all-important question—why should I care? For all their “good looks,” is there something more a person might appreciate about lichen?
“Lichens really tell you about the health of the ecosystem and the health of you and all the animals and all the plants,” Joe responded. “The more diverse the ecosystem and the healthier you will be…. without these organisms we wouldn’t exist.”
This might seem like an extreme view to some, but our dependence on the natural world (as part of the natural world) is well established. And when it comes to the mysterious world of lichen, the value that they provide is as diverse as the species themselves.
The trail (or road) as we turned to head back down.
Fix it
One of the many benefits of lichen Joe shared with me early in the hike is their “important role in the nitrogen cycle.” The cyanobacteria in cyanolichen (including tripartite lichen) are capable of chemically changing nitrogen gas in the air (N2) into a form that is biologically available to plants and algae. This process is known as nitrogen fixation. Then as lichen fall to the ground and decompose, the nitrogen stored in their tissues becomes available to other life forms that need it.
In certain environments, this input of nitrogen may prove to be significant. Though more research is needed to better understand the extent of their contribution.
Lichen also plays a role in the hydrological cycle, and other mineral cycles, intercepting and storing water and atmospheric inputs of various nutrients—like with nitrogen, providing a catch basin and distribution system for these inputs.
Food and Fiber
Lichens also provide food and fiber to other living things. Deer, elk, and caribou feed on lichen, depending on it for winter forage. Squirrels, chipmunks, mice, and bats also take advantage of lichen for food and nesting material. Joe specifically mentioned flying squirrels, which rely on the lichen Bryoria sp. for food and nesting material during certain parts of the year. Flying squirrels are a major food staple for Spotted Owls; without lichen, the entire food chain would collapse.
Biological Indicators
Then there is their importance as biological indicators. The presence, and more often the absence, of biological indicator organisms, acts as an alarm system for environmental change. Like a canary in a coal mine, sensitive lichen will die off in areas where there is too much air pollution, while others may move in. Similar responses may occur with changes in precipitation and temperatures. Therefore the species composition in a location can tell you a lot about the health of the ecosystem and the stressors it may be facing.
Understanding lichen community composition and tracking it over time has been another large part of Joe’s work with the Forest Service. With over 3,000 plots scattered throughout forest service land, The National Forest Inventory and Analysis (FIA) Program tracks a plethora of forest-related data, including lichen community data.
Using this data, scientists are able to see which lichen species are present in various climate and air quality conditions. One of the startling patterns that emerged from this research is the changes in species composition as you move toward urban centers. “ A large number of species are dropping out,” said Joe, due to human impacts like poor air quality.
Changing Climate
In addition, Joe hopes that by observing changes in lichen communities, we might also be able to gain a better understanding of climate change. We know that lichens are sensitive to climate conditions, so it is likely that they will respond to climate change, especially in sensitive alpine and subalpine environments.
The arctic is already seeing a decline in lichen species as a result of climate change, so the question is how will this translate into other ecosystems? “Timelines for noticing the rate of change is gradual.” explained Joe, but “we have over 30 years of FIA plot community data” to work with.
Lichens to Know
As we continued our chat about climate change, Joe and I ventured our way back down the hill, eventually reaching a bridged creek crossing and an abundance of cyanolichen.
Bridge Crossing
Joe held up a beautiful, deep brown colored lichen with ridges that ran along the upper cortex that reminded me of a river system and its tributary. Joe told me that the eruptions were soralia, soredia (asexual propogules) yielding structures and that the lichen was a Lobaria anomala (netted lungwort lichen).
Lobaria anomala
Beautiful, bright green Lobaria pulmonaria (lungwort or lettuce lichen) littered the area, coating the bark of Ash and other riparian trees. And long strands of Usnea longissima (beard lichen) draped across the branches like a garland; a species common to the area, but rare globally. We even saw Joe’s “baby”—Sticta gretae sp. nov. growing on a tree branch.
With so many lichen around, I asked Joe for a shortlist of “ones to know” for the region. He suggested the following based on their abundance and distinctiveness: Platismatia glauca (ragged lichen), Parmelia sulcata (wax paper lichen), any Lobarias, and Caldonias. And almost instinctively, he continued to point each beauty in the vicinity out.
A tree festooned in Usnea longissima
Cooperation
At this point, Joe and I caught up with his wife, Elisa and their young son. We were only a few minutes from the trailhead, but we took our time getting back, chatting about life and lichen along the way.
It was fun to watch the happy family together, harmoniously moving through life together as we walked along the trail.
It also reminded me of what interested me in lichen in the first place—the symbiotic relationship. The world of lichen is “rooted” (while not having actual roots) in cooperation; in give-and-take; in shared goals.
This sort of relationship might seem baffling at first—isn’t nature a battlefield? A competition with winners and losers?
Perhaps, or perhaps this view is too narrow. Lichen remind me that cooperation is natural—as natural as a family walking together through a lichen-filled forest.
What do you think? What’s not to lichen?
Joseph R Di Meglio is a Mycologist for MICROTERRA Analytical and Pathology Laboratories llc. and Molecular Lichenologist at Oregon State University. He also contracts with the U.S. Forest Service on lichen related projects. Joe studied mycology and lichenology at Oregon State University.
I met up with Chris on a drizzly cold morning in November at the top of Lewisburg Saddle in Corvallis before sunrise. Moisture hung in the air and a veil of darkness shadowed our view into the forest. At this point, you might be thinking—why? What possible purpose might Chris and I have for hitting the trail so early?
The answer is simple—to look for beetles, of course.
The Hike
Trailhead: Lewisburg Saddle Trailhead
Distance: Variable (our hike was probably 2-3 miles)
Elevation Gain: Variable, but plenty of low elevation gain options
Details: Popular trailhead with plenty of parking. Information kiosk at the trailhead. Several trails and logging roads to hike in the area.
A Beetle Guy
An entomologist and curator for Oregon State University insect collection for the last 15 years, Chris is passionate about insects and their taxonomic relationships. In particular, he is a beetle guy. When I asked: why beetles? His reply was simple: self-preservation. Chris started his insect collection at a young age but soon became overwhelmed by the sheer volume of insects on the planet. There are a lot of insects out there numbering in the 100,00s of thousands to millions. So to simplify things he decided just to focus on beetles. Of course with nearly 400,000 known beetle species on the planet, it is easy to see how his passion morphed into a life-long career.
Now, net in one hand and the leash of his pupMaera—an Italian truffle dog he hopes to train to detect beetles—in the other, Chris was ready for the hunt! I, on the other hand, a wide-eyed amateur, had no idea what I was doing.
Chris Marshall ready to catch some rain beetles.
An Enigma
It was 6:30 a.m. and still dark when we entered the forest. Headlamps on, we crunched down a gravel road, working our way deeper into the woods. Ears and eyes open. Our objective: rain beetles.
Rain beetles (Pleocomidae or Pleocoma) are a unique family of beetles that are only known in Oregon, California, and Washington. When first discovered, rain beetles were considered an enigma. “A chimera of characters,” as Chris put it. They didn’t fit into any known groups of beetles. Brown bodied, hairy around the edges, with a dark, flathead and uniquely forked antenna—rain beetles are standouts in the beetle world. So at the time, scientists lumped them into their own family and that is where they still stand today.
In the Dark
Rain beetles’ underground lifestyle only adds to its mystique. Rain beetles spend a majority of their lives underground as larvae, feeding off the young roots of trees and other forest vegetation. They dig deep into the soil’s root zone to forage. A fact discovered when a group of graduate students attempted to unearth the secrets of the rain beetle by digging them up and following their trails. “Six feet, eight feet, even 12 feet down” they had to dig to reach the beetles, said Chris. It was not an easy task with little reward.
Surprisingly, rain beetles live a long time underground before they emerge, and the number of years is strikingly variable. “It appears that they can go through seven to fourteen years before they pupate into an adult,” said Chris. “They need at least seven instars,” or seven developmental stages between molts. Then they might turn into an adult or they might not.
“This is not the standard model you are taught in school,” explained Chris— that the stages are fixed (3-5 molts is typical for winged-insects). However, “It does appear that it is more common than we thought.” Chris told me examples of wood-boring beetles that emerged from antique furniture! Much to the chagrin of the owners, I’m sure.
End of Days
But Chris and I weren’t out at the crack of dawn to dig up grubs! This was the rain beetles’ mating season. We were here to find full-grown adults.
“Usually I hear them before I see them,” said Chris as we scanned the area. “They buzz like a bumblebee.”
Both male and female rain beetles “tunnel up when the soil is wet from rain,” explained Chris. The males take flight to search for a female partner. While the females stay near the hole they dug up, and release pheromones to attract mates. Once they have mated, the female returns to her hole lays her eggs (over a couple weeks) and eventually dies. While the male will most likely be lost to predation within a day or two. Neither have working mouthparts as adults, to their days are numbered.
Strange to think about it, but these are the end of days for these beetles. Seven years under the earth, a whole life. Then a brief passage into the light—a day or two. Then death.
How to (try) and Catch a Beetle
“Males are easy to catch,” Chris explained. They sort of bumble around until they catch a whiff of something attractive. “They are not great fliers,” said Chris. You can scoop them up in a net with little effort.
However, females are much more difficult to find and catch. Females can’t fly and rarely leave their burrow. Instead, we would need to spot a swarm of males if we were to have any hope of seeing a female. “A bunch of males fighting for a female—” typical male behavior in the animal kingdom.
However, dawn was approaching and so far we hadn’t heard or seen one male. Let alone a swarm of them.
A Geographic Mystery
As the day began to grey with pale morning light, we continued our search following the gravel road downslope. Despite our lack of success, our spirits were high and there was still a lot to talk about.
Chris’ research on rain beetles has mainly been focused on understanding their geographic range—where they are and how they got there.
“The species can only expand its range at the speed at which larvae can move around,” explained Chris—which is not very fast. And they are also limited by barriers, like rivers and mountain ranges. So the question is: “How did they become distributed on the west coast? This is the heart of my interest,” said Chris.
Islands of Beetles
Our “trail” lined with great rain beetle habitat
Chris has been deeply involved in collecting and studying the genetics of different populations of rain beetles in order to begin to piece together their story.
“Historically they were one big species,” said Chris. Or at least that is where the evidence seems to suggest so far. As physical barriers have formed and shifted, the “one big species” has been split into many—a process known as vicariance. “They (the beetles) were there first, and the river or mountain range came second,” explained Chris. When considering changes over time in physical geography, “there is a nice pattern,” to the distribution of species of rain beetles.
New Species
Recently, Chris put in the painstaking work of describing a new species of rain beetle on the north side of the Columbia River that separates Oregon and Washington. An impressive accomplishment marked by many challenges. Chris hopes to add the new species to a chapter he is writing on rain beetles for an upcoming edition of a general beetle reference book.
Continuing with this work—Chris is interested in visiting many of the known Oregon populations across the state and getting material. Many of them haven’t been sampled since the 1950s!
Flooded
The population of rain beetles we were searching for is one of many isolated “island” populations found in the Willamette Valley. We were hiking at around 800 to 900 feet above sea level for a reason. Rain beetles are “not found on the Willamette Valley floor, only at higher elevations,” said Chris. Why? Chris’ hypothesis is that the Missoula Floods may have wiped out any lower elevation populations and separated the upper elevation populations from each other.
The Missoula Floods were a series of massive ice-age floods that scoured the landscape of eastern Washington, ripped through the Columbia River Gorge, and carried water and sediment into Oregon’s Willamette Valley as far as Eugene. Water levels in the valley are estimated around 400 feet in Portland and 350 feet in Eugene—plenty high enough to drown out the beetles.
“Did you know they were proposed to be the state insect?” asked Chis. I hadn’t. They lost out to the Oregon Swallowtail—a butterfly. “Not a species, a subspecies,” said Chris. Apparently, colorful, charismatic butterflies are also enough to drown out elusive brown beetles.
Predawn
At this point, the sky had changed from a dark grey to a lighter grey. Still too early to see clearly. “We are not giving up,” exclaimed Chris, “they fly as late as 10 a.m.”
Rain beetles are crepuscular—meaning they are active at dawn or sunset. “Their eyes have cones and sensors that are good at seeing at low light levels,” explained Chris. This is an advantage to the beetles and a disadvantage to the beetles’ predators. “Most vertebrate hunters are nocturnal or diurnal,” said Chris. Meaning they either see really good at night or during the day. Flying at this time means rain beetles are less likely to be eaten before getting a chance to mate.
Flying at this time also means rain beetles are less likely to be seen by us. Wait, I think I saw something buzz by and fly up into the forest. I must be seeing things.
Ghost Beetles
After about 40 minutes of hiking, Chris and I decided to turn around to see if we might catch some beetles on the way back.
Then, before long, we see it! A ghostly creature bumbles by, greyed by the paleness of the day. Chris springs into action but is too late. We see it again, but still no luck. We even try climbing up the steep embankment of the road cut to try and catch one, but the ground is slick and the route is steep. I slide down on feet and hands, turning the palms of my hands a clayey-brown.
Chris assures me. There will be others.
We keep to the area pacing a bit, catching glimpses of “ghost beetles,” before continuing our route upwards in the direction of our cars.
Describing Science
As we walked, Chris shared with me some of his concerns about the direction science is headed. “In the last 50 years, science has been reduced to this experimentalism,” he said. It has become mostly about repeating controlled experiments. Experiments are all well and good, but by limiting our focus we “cut out a hugely important part of science,” Chris said.
“Science has a descriptive component,” he explained, “that is heavily embedded in the exploration and discovery phase.” He went on: “At the end of the day, I am trying to show you that this thing exists. If I can show you one, then you will know.”
This is also why pinned specimens and research museums are so important. “Museum specimens…provide empirical observation. They serve as an archive for scientists to describe the northwest, country, and even the world.” They show us what is out there.
In addition, “tests can be run on specimens,” to determine taxonomic relationships. This is what Chris’ work is all about. Describing new species. “So we can say that this is X and this is Y.”
“There is so much to discover!” he exclaimed. As Chris puts it—descriptive science is “how we know what is on planet Earth.” And—how can we care if we don’t know?
Associations
It was now getting to be much lighter out. We had “seen” several ghostly rain beetles, but were yet to catch one.
Out of the blue, Chris B-lined it toward a cluster of orange fungi on the side of the road—possibly toxic“Jack-o-lantern fungi.” He picked it up and looked under it to see if he could spot any beetles. He explained that many beetles live in and on mushrooms. Many are “fungivores”— consuming mushrooms or other parts of the fungi.
This got Chris reminiscing. “Thought I would study beetle-fungi coevolution,” he said. “But it was tough to get funding.” Then it was ants and beetles. But the fieldwork was hard and he didn’t want to be an “ant biologist.” At the same time, he was fascinated by associations between beetles and other living things. So when he found a relatively abundant beetle was covered with mites— he changed his project again.
“What did you learn?” I asked
“I learned PhDs take a long time,” was Chris’ curt response. “You can quickly bite off more than you can chew. You have to learn to spit some out.” Ultimately, though he completed the project, he didn’t end up getting into the mite-beetle specifics as he had hoped. Does he regret it? Yes and no. “I have a full life of other things I like to do too,” he said. And that is also important.
Orange mushrooms, possibly Jack-o-Lanterns.
How to (finally) Catch a Beetle
Just then, something caught Chris’ eye! One of our ghostly friends came flying down out of the forest. Only, this time Chris was quick to action, swooping his net in a well-choreographed flip of the wrist and he caught it!
Chris pulled the rain beetle from his net and held it out in his hand. “There he is in all his glory,” he said.
I looked down at this scruffy, male beetle with his shiny nearly-black exoskeleton fringed with golden brown fur. He was both glamor and gruff. At least that is my take; granted I am no entomologist.
Chris passed him off for me to hold. But in my hands he squirmed so much that I soon passed him back.
It was a fleeting moment for both of us.
Our first catch! Chris holding a rain beetle.
The Beetles Go On
After catching one, Chris ended up scooping up a couple more rain beetles before we made it back to the trailhead. We walked and talked and caught beetles—Chris sharing funny anecdotes, and thoughts on career paths not taken.
Toward the end of the hike, I asked Chris what else he could tell me about finding beetles. He responded with a litany of places to look: under rocks and logs, in flowers, under driftwood in dunes, on plants, and swimming in water. “There are a ton of different ones,” he said. “A lot are small too,” he explained, and “need a hand lens to see them in detail.”
“We have an incredible native fauna,” said Chris. And to experience it all requires incredible effort—learning habitats, timing, etc. of the beetles. In short, to “be an insect collector,” you need to know your insects.
Individual Style
Chris is all about studying the individual and species levels in biology. He was firm on that point. “I am not an ecologist,” he stated frankly early on in the hike. Not that he doesn’t enjoy ecology, it is just that Chris uses a different scientific lens.
Chris used the example of a tree in a forest to explain his perspective. “An ecologist has to reduce the tree to a primary source of photosynthesis… a carbon sink.” At the same time, a reductionist might see the tree as just a “physiological unit of cells.” This is not complete either.
While both these perspectives are important and valid, they miss another equally important and valid way of studying nature. “Sitting in between those two things. The thing that links those things—the individual and species level.”
“That’s an individual,” said Chris as he pointed to one of the trees in the forest. And that individual comes from a pedigree of individuals… That’s the realm of systematics and taxonomists.”
Caught
Chris extended his thinking to human societies as well. If we are “so focused on how the bigger system works,” he argued “what does one persons life matter?”
As a systems thinker myself, I often think a lot about big picture ideas, so I was refreshed by Chris’ ideas. To consider the individual—whether it be a human or another life form—makes a lot of sense.
Every human, tree, or beetle has its own unique biology and its own unique life history. And as helpful as it can be to see the forest through the trees—generalizing can also be a dangerous game. You lose out on important details. Diversity is lost. Judgments and decisions are made without all the information. And that has the potential to be catastrophic.
By the end of our hike, Chris had caught three beetles. But I caught something as well, perhaps even more valuable—a fresh perspective.
Dr. Chris Marshall is the curator for the Oregon State Arthropod Collection. He earned his bachelor’s degree at Reed College before studying entomology as a graduate student at Cornell University.
In my experience, relationships with places are not all that different from relationships with people. You have to spend time with a place to get to know it. Ask it questions. Become familiar with its moods and seasons. Learn what makes it tick. Before long, an intimacy may develop and you may even find yourself saying the L-word—love. It takes time. Sure there are those love-at-first-sight moments—but those are fleeting. A deep relationship to the land is more than a few moments on a clifftop view watching the sunset.
When it comes to Whychus Canyon Preserve, few people have a deeper relationship with the land as Sarah Mowry. As a staff member at the Deschutes Land Trust for the last 15 years, Sarah has been with the property since it was first established in 2010, and in 2014 when an additional 480 acres were added. With that in mind, I met Sarah at the Whychus Canyon Preserve trailhead on a cool autumn afternoon to explore the place for the first time.
Sarah Mowry making her way along the trail.
The Hike
Trailhead: Whychus Canyon Preserve Trailhead
Distance: about 4 miles
Elevation Gain: approximately 500 feet
Details: Directions and details are found at the Deschutes Land Trust website.
Welcome to Whychus
Before hitting the trail, Sarah gave me a bit of background on the Whychus Watershed. Whychus Creek is a glacier-fed stream. The creek begins up near the Three Sisters, tears downhill until it reaches Alders Springs and its confluence with the Deschutes River.
Most of the river’s path is marked by deep canyons, but there are some places where the land opens up and meadow habitat is possible. According to Sarah, Whychus Canyon Preserve, the property we were about to explore, has some of the best meadow habitats. These meadows are “biological hotspots,” Sarah explained.
In addition, Whychus Canyon Preserve provides habitat features for Chinook salmon and steelhead, which are being reintroduced into the Deschutes River Basin. “There has been a huge collaborative effort to bring them back led by the Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs and Portland General Electric,” explained Sarah.
The preserve also provides migratory routes for terrestrial species, like deer and elk, as they move down into their winter range. “The habitat connection the Preserve provides to adjacent public land is huge,” said Sarah,. And at 930 acres, the Whychus Canyon Preserve extended the habitat substantially.
Plus, Whychus Canyon Preserve has an extensive trail system with 7 miles of established trail for people to explore.
All this to say, Whychus Canyon Preserve has a lot going for it.
Trailhead kiosk provides background information about Whychus Canyon Preserve
Restore
After several minutes discussing the property, Sarah and I realized we better hit the trail if we were going to finish our hike before sunset. We had decided on a 4-mile loop down to the river and we immediately began our descent.
As we tripped downhill past dried bunchgrass and sagebrush and past juniper and pine, Sarah told me about the Land Trust’s forest restoration work. She explained that when the Land Trust first acquired the property, the forested canyon was thick with small juniper and pine. So in order to restore the land, some of the trees were thinned out by hand.
Restore. Restore is a tricky word. It means to return to its former state. But how far back do you go? Can cutting down trees really be considered restorative?
The short answer is—it depends! Restoration work, as Sarah explained it, all depends on the location, local ecology, and the project goals. For the Whychus Canyon Preserve, cutting down a few trees made sense. It helped with fire protection and opened up the forest for larger pines and junipers while promoting healthier habitat for all sorts of other plants and animals.
Jumpstart
One of the Land Trust’s goals for Whychus Canyon Preserve, is to “restore a natural functioning system,” said Sarah. And, sometimes, a hands off approach won’t get you there. Past hands have already had an impact, so expecting nature to bring it back just isn’t going to happen. Healing the relationship between the land and people requires time and work. “You need to jumpstart the system,” said Sarah, “Give it a leg up so it can get itself back to a healthy place.”
Of course, the way you do so can be tricky. For example, in Whychus Creek at nearby Camp Polk Meadow Preserve, another Land Trust restoration site, the stream was restored by digging out historic channels and adding curves and other features for habitat complexity. Fast forward four years and the Land Trust is working with partners to restore Whychus Creek at Whychus Canyon Preserve using more process-oriented methods. “We are learning things all of the time,” Sarah said, “The kind of restoration work we were doing now has evolved from what we did 10 years ago.”
Canyon Bottom
Before long, Sarah and I had made it down to the bottom of the canyon and the crystal clear waters of Whychus Creek. Trees and shrubs line much of its banks, as it continues cutting its way down deepening the canyon.
“We haven’t done any stream restoration in this part of the Preserve yet,” said Sarah. Eventually, she explained, a detailed plan is currently being created that will lay out everything—stream structure, plantings, habitat features, etc. Thousands of native plants will be brought in to fill in the gaps. And logs—lots and lots of whole trees are needed. “Large woody debris,” as it is often called, provides cover for fish and aids in the development of stream habitat diversity.
Whychus Creek at the canyon bottom.
Free
As we hiked along the bottomlands, Sarah pointed to areas where strips of land had clearly been raised adjacent to the creek; probably dug by the Army Corps of Engineers with good intent to reduce flooding. Instead, these berms disconnected the stream channel from its floodplain, limiting the ability of Whychus Creek to spread out. Thus giving the creek access to its floodplain will also be an important part of the restoration plan.
However, this doesn’t mean the creek will simply be rechanneled—directed by the will of people. Instead, a process-based restoration is being implemented throughout the Whychus Canyon Preserve. With this sort of plan, the Whychus Creek will be free to find its own path, or paths, as it were.
The Land Trust has already begun using this sort of methodology on the northernmost mile of recent creek restoration efforts at the Preserve. Left to find its own path, Whychus Creek has created several new channels and water is beginning to saturate the surrounding landscape. In fact, some of the pines in the floodplain are dying off because the soils are now too wet to support them. “It’s a little hard to watch,” said Sarah, but it’s all part of the process. Those trees will become homes for other animals as snags or provide cover for fish.”
The newly wet floodplain also meant a different planting plan for the restoration. When you let the creek choose where it will go, you can’t choose where to put the water-loving plants or the plants that prefer dryer conditions, so you plant a little of everything everywhere, explained Sarah.
Berms along Whychus Creek disconnect the stream channel from its floodplain.
Healing
Restoration isn’t hands-off, but all hands on deck. It is work. The land comes with “baggage” from past human relationships—sometimes scars. Restoration is providing the opportunity for renewal, a starting point. Then knowing when to back off and let nature heal itself.
Watching the land heal is a huge perk of Sarah’s 15 years with the trust. “It is awesome because I get to see the positive changes we can make over time.”
Land Trust
Earlier on during our hike, Sarah pointed out several houses built along the rimrock on the opposite side of Whychus Creek from the land trust’s property. Now, as we began to make our ascent back up the canyon, more houses came into view perched above us.
“Development is a challenge to nature,” explained Sarah. “A lot of good habitat is on private land. What can you do when it is covered over?”
That is why land trusts are an important part of the land conservation equation. Land trusts fill in the gaps where public lands can’t by strategically purchasing lands, or establishing land protection agreements called conservation easements, with a focus on the future.
The Deschutes Land Trust was first established in 1995 for this very reason. Central Oregon was developing at a rapid pace and many community members were concerned about the loss of wild areas and vital habitats. So when a well-beloved parcel of land went up for sale and was threatened with development, community members came together, and the Deschutes Land Trust got started, by protecting their first property—the 63 acre Indian Ford Meadow Preserve just outside of Sisters, OR.
Now the Deschutes Land Trust manages over 17,000 acres of land.
View across Whychus Creek where houses line the rimrock.
Easements
Nearly half of the Land Trust’s lands are protected through land protection agreements called conservation easements. Conservation easements are agreements with landowners to protect or restrict certain activities on their private property in perpetuity. Each agreement is unique to the land and the owner.
Why would a landowner want to put an easement on their property? “Most of our landowners have done it because they have a conservation vision,” said Sarah.
View at the Top
The trail steepened as Sarah and I climbed some rock steps, sweating our way to the top of the canyon and a sweeping view looking out over the preserve. Sarah told me that the trail builder that put in the steps we were climbing was all about “the journey instead of the destination.” But I have to admit, the destination, in this case, was sort of the point.
Looking out across the canyon, layers of rim rock were imbued with a golden hue, and stately pine trees mixed with juniper dotted the landscape all the way down to the fall-colored leaves of deciduous trees that lined Whychus Creek. In the distance, you could just make out the meadow that Sarah had talked about earlier. This was one of those moments—a beginning—a connection to the land.
We paused here to take in the scenery and experience the preserve from a different vantage point. Sarah pulled out a map of the area that showed a conceptual rendition of the new stream channels that were forming and reforming as the meadow has been restored with an influx of water. And we talked at some length about restoration monitoring methods and the wonders of lidar imagery.
But the sun was getting lower and we had families to get home to, so we made the difficult decision to continue onward, following the trail along the canyon rim to our cars.
View looking out across the canyon.
Time for Change
As we walked along patches of old growth juniper and sagebrush steppe, Sarah and I talked about the people in our lives and the changes we have been dealing with lately. We discussed the challenges of having kids in distance learning, changing job responsibilities, and just a general sense of loss that life has taken lately.
One of Sarah’s responsibilities as outreach director is to coordinate events that bring people to the preserves to learn more about it. People need to “learn about a place to care about a place,” Sarah explained. And for the time being, these sorts of events are just not possible.
Renewal
Looking around at the dried out sagebrush and bunchgrass along the path, it is difficult to imagine anything else. But each spring the brown earth is renewed with bright fields of green and colorful spring wildflowers. “Gold stars blanket the floor,” Sarah said in remembrance. The “star” of the show are dime-sized goldfield daisies that bloom in early spring, enveloping the land in a warm yellow profusion of color.
The winter we are facing right now makes it seem like we will never see spring. But barren landscapes can be returned to beauty and function whether through changing season, or, at times, through restoration.
This makes me think, perhaps that is what is really needed—a restoration. To be brought back to an ancient connection with the land, and with the people that inhabit it. We need to turn to one another and turn to the land. Nurture relationships. Listen and learn. It will take work—hard work—and a good deal of patience, but if we can get things moving in the right direction, perhaps nature will kick in and bring us back to something better.
Now that is a change I would love to observe.
Sarah Mowry is the Deschutes Land Trust’s Outreach Director. Sarah has been with the trust for the past 15 years. She has a Bachelor’s Degree in Environmental Studies from Middlebury College and a Masters Degree from the University of Montana.
This was the response I got when I asked Jonas Parker, Bureau of Land Management hydrologist, why anyone should care about hydrology. A no brainer, right? Well, sort of—Jonas elaborated, “hydrology needs to be functional. It needs to be in balance with the ecosystem it flows through.”
A System in Balance
We don’t just depend on water to live, but we depend on the regulatory processes that sustain a healthy water system.
Consider the human body—we need to take in a certain amount of water to be healthy. Too little water and you risk dehydration. Too much water and you risk overwhelming your body tissues. Our body systems help keep the body in balance, even when our choices may not. Overwhelm or abuse these systems and the consequence is death.
In the case of an ecosystem, like a forest, the same principles hold true. Too much or too little water can be devastating for an ecosystem. Natural processes and cycles help stabilize and regulate the hydrological cycle. Overwhelm or abuse these systems and we could be looking at ecological and societal collapse.
In either case, it is the system that needs looking after, not just the water flowing through it.
Land Management
As a district hydrologist for the BLM, Jonas’ job is to look after hydrological systems on our public lands. One of these lands is the Table Rock Wilderness area—which is where I met up with Jonas for our hike.
Jonas begins his descent from the meadows near Rooster Rock.
The Hike
Trailhead: Table Rock Trailhead
Distance: 7+ miles
Elevation Gain: approx 2500 feet
Details: We hiked from the Table Rock Trailhead to Rooster Rock Trailhead. Roads to both trailheads are gravel but in decent condition. Road to Rooster Rock Trailhead is a bit rough; high clearance recommended. Ample parking available. Pit toilet available at the Table Rock Trailhead.
Views of a Patchwork Forests
Ironically, our wilderness hike started out on an old road that maybe 30 years ago was used to haul away timber. So, even though our intention was to experience wilderness, we found ourselves face-to-face with industrial timber production.
The Table Rock Wilderness is a 6,028-acre swath of mostly hundred-year-old uncut forested land. It was established in the 1980s as part of an effort to protect what little remained of unharvested forests in western Oregon. However, the Table Rock wilderness is almost completely surrounded by industrial timberlands, both public and private. Therefore, when views opened up along the trail, we found ourselves looking down on a patchwork pattern of forest in various stages of production.
Beyond the Horizon
Looking beyond the horizon, the patchwork of Oregon’s forests become even more complicated. Almost half of Oregon is forested. About a ⅓ of is owned by private forest owners, while the remaining ⅔ are public forests, managed by government agencies like the BLM and USFS. A majority of the timber harvest is done on private land, where economics is often the primary driving factor. While the remaining timber harvest on public lands works to meet multiple objectives.
The BLM’s Northwest Oregon District alone manages about 800,000 acres of land, much of it secondary growth from clear-cuts in the mid-1900s. A time period when timber production and economic gains was the priority. Now, our public lands are managed for multiple uses, including timber production, but with ecological and social considerations to balance. To accomplish these goals which may seem to be in conflict with one another, much of the land that the BLM manages are held in reserve, including the Table Rock Wilderness.
In other words, much of Oregon’s forests are the product of out-of-date forest management practices that don’t necessarily jive with our current goals.
Views of a patchwork forest.
Modifying the Land
Pretty quickly, Jonas and I made our way off the road and deep into the douglas-fir/western hemlock forest. “Look at this chunk of land,” said Jonas, “diversity of species and canopy layers, appropriate spacing and correct vegetation. It doesn’t need anything.” The hydrology of this forest is functional. However, “most of the lands [in western Oregon] don’t look like this.” Most of our forest lands have been modified at one point or another. And modification changes the hydrology.
Jonas explained—”Whatever and however you modify the landscape there are going to be consequences.” For example, when a forest is clearcut, the amount of water that trees transport from the soil to the air, a process called transpiration, will decrease, as there are fewer trees to do the work.
However, if that same area becomes overgrown with lots of shrubs, or is replanted at a high density with trees, transpiration will increase again.
Each of these modifications changes the amount of water in the system which may lead to problems. For example, too much water added to the system when transpiration decreases may result in more runoff, higher stream flows, and erosion. Too little water and you may be looking at a dry streambed.
“It’s this balance of modifying the landscape to accommodate different objectives,” said Jonas, which makes his work fun.
Looking toward the Table Rock Wilderness Area.
Quality and Quantity
So when we are talking about changing the hydrology, what does that really mean?
I asked Jonas how he defined hydrology. He said, “The grade school answer is it is the study of water.” But, he added, hydrology can really be “broken down into two measurements—water quality and water quantity.” If water quality and quantity are good, then you are looking at a healthy system. However, in a modified forest, maintaining water quality and quantity can be a challenge.
Clean, Clear Water
According to Jonas, when it comes to water quality in a modified forest ecosystem, there are two factors that should always be considered in order to ensure good water quality.
The first is turbidity. Turbidity is the cloudiness of the water. In most forested ecosystems, the turbidity should be low most of the time—that is the natural state of a forest stream unless there is a rainstorm or snowmelt which naturally induces erosion and thereby increases turbidity. However, any human activity that disturbs the soil, like building roads or harvesting timber, can also mobilize sediment so that it may enter a body of water. This is a huge problem especially for aquatic organisms— it can clog fish gills and smother eggs; reduces stream visibility; and it can absorb heat. It can also make drinking water treatment more difficult.
Second is the water temperature. Most rivers in Oregon are inhabited by cold-water adapted species. However, with climate change, early snowpack melt, and the removal of forest from along rivers or streams, high water temperatures are becoming a more frequent problem. High temperatures are problematic because they can reduce the amount of dissolved oxygen a stream can hold. Warm temperatures can also lead to the growth of algae. Algae can throw the ecosystem off balance by reducing oxygen concentration as they decompose, as well as producing cytotoxins.
Keeping it Clean
However, Jonas explained, proper management can help mitigate turbidity and temperature problems. For example, maintaining a vegetative corridor along rivers and streams can provide shade that prevents water from heating up, as well as help filter out sediments. According to Jonas, the primary shade zone is about 85 ft—this is where 95% of shading occurs. These “riparian areas or buffers” are prescribed by the fish biologists and hydrologists and, in the case of BLM land, a 120 feet buffer is maintained on perennial streams where stream temperature is a concern just to be on the safe side.
In addition, to reduce the risk of damage from road construction, road use, and road work, waterbars can be placed along logging roads at regular intervals. These redirect water and sediments into the forest where it can settle out, rather than allowing it to flow directly to the stream. Jonas pointed out one of these waterbars on the road we walked in on.
A waterbar from our road walk.
Too much or Too Little of a Good thing
On the water quantity side of things, the discharge, or rate, of freshwater flowing through an area is important. Or in the case of a lake, the volume of water. And since most of the water Oregonians consume comes from forested land, modifications to forestland that changes the amount of discharge of a stream is not acceptable.
Some of the mitigation measures used to reduce pollution can also help with efforts to protect water availability. For example, directing water flowing in ditches toward the forest (as opposed to directly into the stream) can help slow its flow. A good riparian area can do the same thing. However, much of BLM land has been managed since the 1930s with a goal of intensive timber production, so they are stocked at levels that may be too dense for balanced water quantity. Remember too many trees can mean less water available to the system.
Hard Decisions
As the focus of the BLM has shifted more towards a balance between resource protection and resource production in recent years, Jonas says, “The struggle is always there to balance the economic, the ecological, and the social.” Sometimes you have to make management decisions that aren’t popular, like thinning a riparian area, in order to reduce transpiration and bring the hydrology into balance. And though it would be nice to leave things alone and let cycles restore on their own, it takes a lot of time.
“We also have threatened and endangered species—fish, owls, you name it—and their survival depends on a healthy functional riparian area. The question I would ask is, ‘Can they wait two to three hundred years?’”
A Spring!
Early on in our hike, Jonas and I found ourselves startled by a rare find—a spring right in the middle of the trail! Coldwater was bubbling right up from the ground! Jonas pointed out that the geology around us is responsible for the formation of a spring.
A spring right in the middle of the trail.
Geology Brief
The Table Rock Wilderness has a volcanic geological history. The basement rock in the area is a volcanic rock called andesite, probably remnants of an old stratovolcano that existed 17-10 million years ago. Layered on top of the andesite, is a different type of volcanic rock called basalt. The basalt probably formed from lava that flowed into the area and cooled about 4 million years ago from a nearby Cascade volcanic eruption.
At one point during the hike, you skirt around basalt pillars—called columnar basalt—that makeup Table Rock’s summit. One of the many cool geological sights on the hike.
Columnar basalt on the base of Table Rock.
Hidden Water
All that being said, it is the volcanic nature of the Table Rock Wilderness that influences a part of hydrology that is often overlooked—groundwater. About ⅓ of water on Earth does not flow on the surface but exists underground. In comparison, surface water—lakes, rivers, etc—makes up only about 1% of all freshwater.
In the case of the Table Rock Wilderness, much of the water that lands in the forest will infiltrate into the ground and recharge “deep, deep basaltic aquifers”—huge groundwater storage zones.
Because basalts tend to fracture, Basalt rock aquifers tend to be very permeable and porous making them ideal for supplying water to springs and seeps.
“Springs regulate themselves and fluctuate very little,” said Jonas. The Table Rock Wilderness hydrological system is in balance in part because “water that enters the aquifer is equal to the water that leaves.” He went on, “Shallow aquifers are more prone to weather and drought. But that is not what we got here. Here we are 4,000 feet up on a basalt mountain! If there is that much water coming out of the ground, that amount is going to fluctuate very little throughout the year.”
Let it Snow
After a couple of miles of hiking in the woods, the trail opens up to views of Table Rock. It was here—while hiking through a rockfall that supposedly is inhabited with Pika—I saw a glimmer of white at the base of table rock. It was snow!
Water in its many solid forms makes up about 2/3rds of freshwater on the planet—by far the biggest chunk. O.K. so most of that is probably accounted for in the polar regions. But still, glaciers and snowpack are incredibly important water reservoirs in the Pacific Northwest.
According to Jonas, snow is still the largest reservoir of water in Oregon. And in the Table Rock Wilderness, this is also the case. Though most (well, basically all) of the snow had melted by the time we hit the trail, it was still working its way through the hydrological system underground, ultimately bubbling up to the surface through springs and seeps.
Looking out to my right from the base of Table Rock, I could also see Mount Hood in the distance. Similar to how Table Rock supplies water to its creeks, Mt. Hood and the rest of the Cascades, supply water to some of Oregon’s largest rivers and most populous areas. For example, the McKenzie River is a spring-fed system—supplied by a mountain snowpack that melted, infiltrated, and has been traveling underground for several years!
Table rock sitting just above a rock fall. Can you spot the snow?
Wondering about Watersheds
After returning to the woods and circling Table Rock, Jonas and I eventually hit the switchbacks that take you to the top of the rock. Though Jonas opted to hang back, I had heard the views were too spectacular to miss, so I made the ascent alone.
It was worth it! Looking out across the landscape at the mountains, ridges, and valleys, was spectacular. It also brought me back to discussion Jonas and I had earlier regarding watersheds.
Anytime you are standing on the planet Earth, you are standing in a watershed. A watershed is simply an area of land that drains to a common body of water. For the Table Rock Wilderness this common body of water is the Molalla River.
A Drop at the Top
As Jonas described it—if you take a drop of water and place it on the top of Table Rock it will travel a number of different ways—it might travel to Image Creek to the north or Bull Creek to the south—but ultimately it will end up in the Molalla River. That is because the Table Rock Wilderness sits in the middle of the Molalla River Watershed. The Mollala River and Table Rock Wilderness are connected, even though the river never flows within the wilderness boundaries. This connection extends to the Willamette River as well. The Molalla River is the largest undammed tributary to the Willamette River.
So standing on the top of Table Rock, I was standing in the Mollala River Watershed, the Willamette River Watershed, and the Columbia River Watershed, as well as probably one or two smaller watersheds nested within.
Though I didn’t spill any water at the top (other than sweat), it was still fun to trace the journey of a drop in my mind. A practice I recommend trying next time you are on a ridge.
One of many views from the top of Table Rock.
An Uncut Forest
After visiting the Table Rock summit, Jonas and I continued along the Saddle Trail and High Ridge Trail toward Rooster Rock. These trails led us back into the forest and through some gorgeous wildflower meadows.
Taking in all the unique features of the area, Mine and Jonas’ conversion came back to a topic we touched on earlier—change. Change is part of the cycle of a healthy functioning ecosystem. In fact, the Table Rock Wilderness formed following a forest fire about 100 years ago.
View of a wildflower meadow looking up at Rooster Rock.
Things are Changing
But, Jonas asked, “What will it look like in 100 years? 200 years?” With climate change creating hotter, dryer conditions, will we see a shift away from the Douglas-fir/ Hemlock forest to one filled with Pine and Madrone? As wildfires become more frequent and severe, how will that change the dynamics of the landscape? And, perhaps most importantly, should we step in?
Wilderness areas are for the most part “untouched,” but with global crises like climate change and biodiversity loss, we need to start considering our impact on these untouched places, and whether or not we should do anything in response. “We need to acknowledge no management is management,” said Jonas.
Neither Jonas nor I had the answer, but we need to keep asking the question—How do we best protect our public lands?
Sweat Worthy
After several hours of sweating it out on the trail, Jonas and I followed the Rooster Rock Trail down to the trailhead where we had staged our return vehicle.
Overall, the hike was long and challenging, but the scenery was worth every bead of sweat. I definitely recommend hiking the Table Rock Wilderness. Just make sure you pack enough water!
Jonas Parker is a Hydrologist for the BLM Northwest Oregon District. He received his B.S. in Fisheries and Aquatic Science at Utah State University and Masters in Natural Resources Management from the University of Idaho.
Flaming clouds of airborne gases, ash, and fine sediment rush down Mount Hood at 100 miles per hour, like an incinerator in flight. A slurry of hot water and sediment, in some cases 100 meters high, and the consistency of cement, follow—crashing down Mount Hood’s rivers and valleys; rocking and rolling between ridges; decimating everything.
This is Mount Hood 1,500 years ago. This is Mount Hood at various points during its geological history. Heck! As an active volcano, this is Mount Hood in the future.
Massive amounts of sediments were redistributed down the mountainside with each eruptive period. Sediments filled in valleys and creating an eerie lifeless landscape—in effect, a clean slate.
Mount Hood from Highway 26.
The Beginning
Which brings me to where our story begins…
I met up with hydrologist James (Dar) Crammond at the junction of Road 39 and Highway 26 to explore the Zigzag River Valleys.
Little Zigzag River and Big Zigzag River are fed by a glacier near the base of Mt. Hood’s crater, converging to become the Zigzag River further down the mountainside. They also sit precariously in the path of destruction described above.
However, despite this, Dar and I did not find ourselves hiking through a dry, flat moonscape, but a deep valley and forested oasis. The clean slate from 1,500 years ago was not clean anymore. It had been written upon by the very substance we had met up to talk about—water!
James “Dar” Crammond standing next to a logjam in the Zigzag River.
The Hike
Trailhead: Unmarked trailhead off of Road 39 at the gate for Forest Service Road 2639-021 where Paradise Park Trail Begins.
Distance: 2.5 miles
Details: Recreation Pass for US Forest Service Trails may be required. Limited parking and no parking at the trailhead. Little Zigzag Falls Trailhead is at the end of Road 39 and is a great add on to this hike.
A Giant Reset
Before we hit the trail, Dar took me to an overlook of Mount Hood a little further east up 26 from our meeting point. As I stood there marveling at Mount Hood, Oregon’s tallest and most well-known stratovolcano, Dar explained Mt. Hood’s recent eruptive history.
In addition to the eruptive event 1,500 years ago (the Timberline eruptive period), the Zigzag episode (500 years ago) and the “Old Maid” episode (200 years ago) also sent pyroclastic flows (airborne debris flows) and lahars (water and sediment flows) down Mount Hood. In fact, in 1804-05 Lewis and Clark observed the remnants of debris flows in rivers coming from the Mountain into the Columbia. Consequently, this is how the Sandy River got its name.
The Sequence
Dar also pointed to the horseshoe-shaped crater on Mount Hood with a tooth in the middle, called crater rock. He explained that each time an eruption would occur the dome would collapse leaving a crater, but then the dome would grow and the volcano would erupt again. Crater rock is a remnant of one of these collapsed domes. Hot spots around crater rock signify the potential for a new dome to build.
In addition, the heat energy from each eruption would liquefy all of the ice, snow, and glaciers on Mount Hood. The superheated water would flow down the mountain at high speed, collecting material along the way. This “mudflow” is what is known as a lahar. Unlike pyroclastic flows, which are airborne, lahars flow down the mountainsides a bit slower, but much farther. This is why Lewis and Clark were able to observe debris from Mount Hood in the Columbia River many years ago. There is even evidence that the Columbia was temporarily dammed by lahar debris at least once following an eruptive episode.
Dar called this whole sequence “a giant reset”— as it flattens the terrain with loose sandy material and rocks—setting the stage for a new force to come in and shape the landscape—water!
Exposure at the end of Road 39.
Loose Landscapes
Leaving the viewpoint, Dar and I headed back to our meeting spot and drove up Road 39. At the end of the road is a parking lot and trailhead, as well a section of old Route 26 that was decommissioned in the 1960s. However, that is not why we stopped here. Instead, Dar wanted to show me an exposure that would provide some insight into the aftermath of Mt. Hood’s eruptions.
The exposure was probably 25 to 30 meters high and made up of fine textured sand. Growing along the exposure were red alder trees. Dar said, “Alders love loose landscapes” When you see red alders in an area it suggests disturbance.
Dar explained that during the 1550 eruption that a big lahar, with a peak 30% to 50% higher than what we could see, dropped down into the area where it would have been constrained as it moved down the canyon, causing it to ricochet from cliff to cliff. Eventually, the slurry of water and sediment would meet a constriction point downstream where the Little and Big Zigzag meet– blocking sediment transport and causing loose sediment to pile up. Hence, the alder trees.
Red Alders growing along exposure.
Sediment Stratigraphy
This exposure was one of many Dar and I observed, as we moved downstream along road 39 to begin our hike through the woods.
Another exposure that was particularly interesting was near the pinch point where the Zigzag River tributaries meet and the canyon narrows (just above the trailhead on road 39). Here you could see horizons, or layers, of sediment from different eruptive events.
Dar explained how scientists can use organic bits found in the horizons, like a fragment of charred wood, to date each layer.
He also explained how sediment size and mixing within a horizon, is evidence for the origin of each layer. Fine, consistently sized grains of sediments signal the normal hydrology of rain and snow. While jumbled sediments of variable size and shape are characteristic of lahar deposition.
Of course, even between different eruptive events, lahar depositional characteristics will differ depending on the stage of dome-building in which the eruption occurred. Fine material is more predominant in layers from early-stage eruptions, while large angular rocks are found in late-stage eruptions that follow dome-building.
Sediment stratigraphy near the confluence of Little Zigzag and Big Zigzag.
A Reckoning
Either way, we are talking about a lot of loose sediment! This is where hydrology comes into play, explained Dar. The powerful forces of big disasters often capture the imagination, but it is during the aftermath of these moments, where the real work begins. It is with the power of a raindrop and the force of a river that water reshapes the landscape—tearing down what plate tectonics builds up. In this case, a forested canyon just waiting to be explored.
A Giant Sandbox
When I was a kid I loved playing in the sand at the beach—digging holes, building sandcastles, and watching the waves wash it all away. Now that I have my own children—I am fascinated by how many hours they can spend playing in the sand.
For hydrologists, this fascination doesn’t stop at childhood. Hydrologists “play in the sand” all the time. In fact, many hydrologists work with small-scale “sandbox” models. Provided enough sediment and a continuous supply of water, these models help hydrologists better understand the large-scale ways water shapes the Earth.
The Zigzag River system is important to hydrologists because like a sandbox model, it too has a continuous supply of water and plenty of sediment—but it can be studied on a real-world scale. As Dar put it—it is a “giant sandbox.”
Let’s go play!
Hydrology Basics
Just a little past the confluence of Big Zigzag and Little Zigzag, Dar and I headed into the woods near the Paradise Park Trailhead. Here we followed the Zigzag River downstream along a lovely forested trail.
Stream morphology is influenced by a lot of different factors which makes interpreting a river’s path challenging for hydrologists. Unless you can directly observe the river as it takes shape, you must rely a lot on inferences.
However, according to Dar, there are still some basic principles and observations that offer a good starting point for understanding river dynamics.
Gradient
The first of these being steepness. Steep rivers tend to be more straight—water energy is directed downward resulting in deep, narrow channels. Flat rivers tend to meander or curve—water energy is directed unevenly, cutting one bank, while slowing and dropping sediment on the opposite bank.
Streamflow
The second principle involves streamflow. Streamflow or discharge is a measure of the volume of water flowing through a channel at a given point and at a given moment. Dar explained to understand streamflow you want to consider its velocity, or speed, as well as the cross-sectional area of the river. Knowing streamflow is important because, it not only tells you how much water is available, but it correlates with the kinetic energy of the stream. High flows will have a greater amount of energy, than low flows.
Streamflow is also dynamic. Thus, depending on how much the discharge fluctuates during a day or a year, the energy of the flow and the morphology of a stream may depend heavily on the time of day and/or seasonality. Even within a channel, streamflow can vary as water tends to follow the path of least resistance- resulting in more complex stream channels, with features like meanders, pools, gravel bars, etc.
Play Pooh Sticks
So next time you pass by a river or stream, take some mental measurements of all of that water rushing by—is the terrain steep? How much water is there? Throw a couple of leaves or sticks in the water and see how long it takes them to get from point A to point B. A quick game of “Pooh Sticks” and you can consider yourself an honorary hydrologist.
Riffle-riffle-riffle
Walking in the shade of the forest, we passed a turbulent section of the Zigzag River with impressive white water. While I was admiring it and snapping pictures, Dar explained what was going on.
“This is a riffle-riffle-riffle morphology,” he said. “It is fast because of the high gradient.” In a youthful stream, like the Zigzag River, water tends to follow the quickest path downhill. This generates a lot of erosive power and downcutting. Therefore, even though it was hard to see through all the white water, the loose sediment that makes up the Zigzag river bed was moving—transported downstream.
In contrast, streams with different flow regimes or sediment supplies have very different morphologies. For instance, if we were looking at a stream with no sediment load or an older stream where the stream bed was eroded to bedrock, we would be looking at a “pool-drop-pool-drop” morphology. Or if we were looking at the Zigzag River when the eruptions smoothed everything out, a single channel would have yet to be established. Instead many small, braided channels would make up the landscape.
Riffle-riffle-riffle morphology on the Zigzag River.
Wood is a Wildcard
As important as gradient, streamflow, and sediment supply are to the morphology of a river, there is another factor of often equal importance. Dar described it as “a wildcard” when it comes to morphology—and that is wood!
As we continued following the trail downstream, we began to notice places where wood had fallen in the Zigzag River and altered its morphology.
Small Jam
One of the first examples we took note of was a small log jam. One end of a log had fallen into the stream and was still sticking out of the water on the other end—what Dar called a subhorizontal arrangement.
“There are only four or five ways a tree can interact in the water,” explained Dar. It can stick straight up and down, stick out from the bank, create a perfect dam across, or be subhorizontal in the water. Each of these creates different eddy patterns that accelerate the water in some places, scouring away sediments; while slowing down water in others, allowing sediments to accumulate creating bars or other depositional features.
With our small log jam, it was easy to see this lopsided pattern of stream erosion and deposition—there was erosion on the bank nearest to us and deposition on the opposite bank. In fact, some of the small boulders on the depositional side had been sitting in place long enough for moss to grow.
Small logjam on the Zigzag River.
Big Jam
As we walked further along the tree-lined trail, we saw more examples of how wood was altering the morphology of the Zigzag River, changing it from a narrow, straight channel to one with increasing complexity.
Eventually, we ran into what Dar described as a “classic logjam.” The logjam was elaborate with two piers produced from tree fall on each bank. These piers slowed the water upstream, allowing for some pooling and deposition especially during high flows. In addition, the piers constricted the current—sending it through the middle of the river. The energy from the constriction was enough to scour the bottom of the stream, removing sediment, and creating a large scoop pool in the middle of the jam.
Dar also explained how logjams—like the one in front of us—form and are naturally maintained. When trees growing along a bank are undercut, they will fall into the river where they will collect sediment. If enough sediment is collected, another tree may grow in the sediment and eventually fall. So it is the repeated falling in of trees that creates and perpetuates logjams in a river.
Big logjam on the Zigzag River.
Restoration in Reverse
Of course, one might wonder why logjams even matter. According to Dar, “wood is critical” in the Pacific Northwest. Wood naturally alters forested streams and has been doing do so long before humans arrived on the scene. Fish and other aquatic life have evolved in these wood enhanced streams. Thus, complex stream systems are essential for the survival of many of our culturally and ecologically important species, like salmon.
Unfortunately, when Europeans arrived on the scene, rivers were seen as a resource for commerce and transport. So wood, which interfered with these goals, was cleared out. Dar talked about how rivers like the Alsea and Nestucca were once wood-choked. However, with the removal of wood, they lost their complexity and their gravel. Now they are armored streams with hard rock and boulder bottoms. Dar called it, “restoration in reverse.”
Now, we know better. And we have been trying to get wood back in the rivers to restore their lost functions. The Zigzag River serves as an important model for how a forested stream develops without human intervention; providing information for restoration work now and in the future.
Lost in Time
As the trail directed us away from the Zigzag River and back toward road 39, Dar’s and my conversation began to meander. I brought up a topic that seemed important to the Zigzag River story and hydrology in general—the concept of time.
“Time is the 4th dimension of hydrology,” Dar said, “it is as big a parameter as anything else.” Even 100s of years of stream data and observation only provides a snapshot of the “life of a stream.”
In hydrology, change is relatively slow. It takes time for rocks to weather and erosion to occur; for banks to undercut and trees to fall; and for sediment to accumulate. Even faster processes like streamflow are restricted by time-bound processes like snowmelt and groundwater flow. Just like it is difficult to deduce the plot of a movie from one scene, our understanding of hydrology is time-bound and limited.
As Dar and I ended our hike on the Zigzag River, I reflected on all of this.
In only a few hours, Dar shared with me a fascinating story of a river—a story fashioned from a science that is only about 100 years old. Yet it is a story that has been playing for literally thousands of years and will play for thousands more. We are just getting started.
James “Dar” Crammond is the director of the USGS Water Science Center in Portland, Oregon. He also worked as the Chief of the Water Research Branch for USFWS and began his career with the Bureau of Reclamation in 1997, where he was a water rights expert. Dar has a B.S. in hydrology and J.D. from the University of Arizona, and is a member of the Arizona and Oregon State Bar Associations.
