Oregon coast Archives - Trail Scholar

Rising Waters: Hike with a Scientist in Seaside, OR

Views from Seaside toward Tillamook Head.

A few times a year the tides swell to levels much higher than are typical. These royally high tides are known as King Tides and occur over a few days period, typically in the months of November, December, and January.

With the King Tides, comes a whole host of changes to the coastline—local flooding, potentially increased erosion, and an overall increase in coastal hazard risk. However, King Tides are not necessarily something to run from. Many people flock to the coast to see the King Tides—the crashing waves and high surf are a definitive draw for many wave watchers.

King Tides also offers an opportunity to participate in some community science. Oregon King Tides Project, by the Oregon Coastal Management Program and CoastWatch, ask local Oregonians to snap some pictures of these extremely high tides and post them to their site. The goal of the project is to help coastal communities see their vulnerabilities, especially considering future climate change, so they can better adapt and prepare.

I wanted to learn more about sea level rise on Oregon’s Coast and experience the King Tides. So, I reached out to Alessandra Burgos of Cascadia CoPes Hub to see if she was open to a coastal ramble. She agreed.

It was time to head to the beach.

The Hike

Trailhead: No Official Trailhead (Start on Avenue U and end at 12^th Avenue)
Distance: 1.5 miles one way on the pavement; the trail is level.
Details: Park on the street or Public Parking at the North End of the Promenade. Public restrooms at North End. The promenade is open to hiking/running and biking. It is a popular spot and can be very busy.

Here Comes the King

It was a mostly sunny winter day during king tides week when Ali (Alessandra) and I met for a walk along the Seaside waterfront. If you want to talk about the ocean, it helps to have a clear view of it as you go.

Immediately, Ali’s dark brown eyes scanned the surf. The waves were coming in fast and there wasn’t much beach left uncovered. The tide was in, way in.

“I have never been here before,” Ali confessed, “but I would imagine the beach is usually much bigger.”

I tried to imagine what it might look like on a “normal” day. Even having been there, I couldn’t picture it.

“It would be nice to have a before and after,” I confessed.

Before and after picture aside, what we were seeing were king tides—unusually high-water levels at high tide that were expected to continue for the next few days. Begging the question—why?

Ebb and Flow

“What happens with tides is you have the gravitational pull of the moon, which is the strongest force,” Ali explained.

You may have heard that the moon creates tides—and this is mostly true. As the Earth rotates and the moon revolves around the Earth, its gravitational pull causes the ocean to bulge in the direction the moon is facing. This bulge is dragged around the Earth, like a magnet, as it rotates. There is also a bulge opposite the moon due to a lack of gravitational pull by the moon at this alignment.

However, that is not the entire story. As Ali explained: “Then you also have the gravitational pull of the sun, and even though the sun is bigger, it is further away so you don’t get as big a pull.”

However, when the sun, moon, and Earth are in alignment—you get a very high, high tide and a very low, low tide.

“For king tides, everything is in a perfect wonderful alignment,” Ali explained. “The moon is either a full moon or new moon… “ and is in line with the Earth and Sun. This causes a higher gravitational pull on the oceans causing these king tides.

At the time of our hike, it was a new moon. In a couple of days, the king tides would be at their peak.

“You can see over there it is higher than normal and those wonderful waves rolling in,” Ali pointed out toward the ocean waves again. They were really moving.

The water level at near high tide with waves rolling in.

1 Tide, 2 Tides, 4 Tides, More

“Why do we get two tides here?” I asked next as we sauntered our way down a path to the packed sandy beach.

“That [slightly] has to do with where you are in latitude [because of how the continents are spread out],” Ali responded. “And [mostly] it has to do with the shape of the ocean basin.”

She also reminded me that we have two bulges making their way around the Earth in a 24-hour period, so there are both two high tides, and two corresponding low tides.

If there were no continents there would be 2 equally proportioned high and low tides every lunar day. The land masses block the movement of the tidal bulge resulting in different tidal patterns. On the West coast, we experience mixed semidiurnal tides meaning “You have a high, high tide, low, high tide, low, low tide, and high, low tide… four tides,” Ali listed the different tides, but it came out more like a tongue twister.

We were walking the beach during our high, high tide.

Most places on the Earth experience two tidal cycles. However, there are some places that have only one high tide due to the shape of the ocean basin. The Gulf of Mexico, for example, has diurnal tides, experiencing one high tide and low tide on a lunar day.

A Rough Start

Ali and I headed north along the sandy beach—the waves rolled in a short distance away from us. I asked Ali to share a little about herself and how she ended up in her current position.

“I grew up on the East Coast in Philadelphia. Went to school at Rutgers in New Jersey where I was a meteorology major,” Ali began.

She always had an interest in the weather and was planning to be a broadcast meteorologist when she finished college. But her plans changed when Hurricane Sandy hit New Jersey during her Freshman year of college.

“You saw the destruction… you saw all the trees down, during the night transformers blowing up, huge lines at the gas station… so that really formed what I wanted to do with my life.”

After that Ali became more interested in flooding and the Oceans. She went on to study oceanography at Old Dominion University in Norfolk, VA where she earned a Master of Science.

“Norfolk, VA is home to the largest Navy base in the world,” Ali explained. “So, as you can imagine, they were very interested in mitigating against sea level rise.”

Rising to New Challenges

After that, Ali moved to Washington D.C. as a Sea Grant Knauss fellow and was introduced to policy and worked on coastal resiliency issues.

“Then the pandemic hit, and I lost my job at the time,” Ali went on. “My friend was moving to Portland, and I always wanted to visit the west coast, so I packed up and came here.”

Finally, after a short stint at UC Santa Barbara, Ali was hired by Oregon State University in her current position—program manager for the Cascadia Coastline Peoples Hazard Research Hub, or Cascadia CoPes Hub.

“I have been there a year,” said Ali. “It has been a whirlwind of information… There are over 90 people associated with the project now.”

That is a lot to manage.

Ali Burgos posing for a picture on the promenade.

Collaboration

We hiked on, the sun warming us and the sand firm under our feet. Ali told me more about Cascadia CoPes Hub in fits and starts as we walked along taking in the scenery.

“In a nutshell, It’s a 5-year funded project from the National Science Foundation. We are trying to help coastal communities in the Pacific Northwest increase their coastal resiliency,” explained Ali.

Cascadia CoPes Hub is a newer collaborative (it started only about 6 months before Ali was hired) with multiple teams working on different aspects of coastal hazards research and outreach. Ali outlined the focus of each team.

Team 1 is geohazards. This team deals with research around earthquakes, tsunamis, and landslides.

Team 2 is coastal inundation. This team is looking at sea level rise, erosion, flooding, and overall storminess.

Team 3 is community adaptation. Team 3 wants to know what coastal communities are thinking—what do people value? What do they perceive as threats? And how do they get that information?

“This is where the social scientists live,” said Ali.

Team 4 is the STEAM team. STEAM stands for science, technology, engineering, art, and math. And the goal of this team is to bring underrepresented students into STEAM through a fellowship program.

And finally, Team 5 is community engagement and co-production.

“Coproduction is kind of a buzzword in research right now,” Ali explained. “Coproduction is working outside your discipline or field to create new ideas, solutions, and knowledge.” It often involves working with communities, state agencies, as well as other academics.

“We keep growing… There were 60 people when I started, and now there are 90 plus.”

Fading from Gray to Green

As we hiked on the broad plain of sand, Ali pointed out just how low-lying the beach was.

“If you look at the beach here,” she remarked pointing about, “we are as flat as flat can be.” Not a good place to be if the water came up too high in a storm—not a lot of protection.

However, looking over toward the City of Seaside, a low wall wrapped along the promenade in front of all the buildings—wouldn’t that offer some protection?

“Over there we have some seawall,” Ali said, pointing to the structure.

Ali referred to the wall as a form of grey infrastructure—a manmade structure built for, in this case, protection from flooding and storms.

“I am not a fan, personally,” she went on. “It has its merits in certain situations, but seawalls can cause more erosion of the beach… And how tall do you make it?”

Seaside waterfront properties with seawall in front.

As if on cue, the open sand we were walking shifted—wide mounds of grassy sand dunes rose up in front of us.

“These are green infrastructure,” Ali explained. “This will help block wave energy during storms.”

Unlike seawalls, dunes collect sand, rather than letting it erode. As natural-based features, dunes can grow and change over time. “Plus, it can help with habitat,” Ali added.

“Natural and nature-based features are what people are going more towards,” said Ali.

Ali also mentioned cobble revetments as another example of grey-green infrastructure. Essentially, a berm made of pebbles or cobbles mimics natural rocky beaches—water can move through the rocks, while sand can still build up.

“This is a great dune system,” Ali smiled as we headed through the dunes on what little beach was left.

Low dunes along the northern stretch of the promenade.

On Shaky Ground

Soon the beach was all but gone and Ali and I decided to move to the pavement. We took some stone steps up and onto the Seaside promenade and continued our walk north.

As we walked, I asked Ali how she felt about the earthquake and tsunami hazards in the Pacific Northwest.

“It is definitely something I grapple with moving here,” Ali responded.

For those that haven’t heard, the Pacific Northwest is predicted to experience a high magnitude (possibly 9+) megathrust earthquake in the next 50 years. Current predictions estimate a 37% chance of a 7.1+ in the next 50 years according to oregon.gov. This will also result in huge tsunamis up and down the coast.

“What is most interesting about that is human perspectives—trying to understand how people see their vulnerability,” Ali continued. “It is easy to go day by day, especially if you don’t have past experience, to become very complacent.”

Sign at the end of the promenade marking the tsunami evacuation route.

Keeping Perspective

I asked Ali what she thought people should be doing considering the megathrust and tsunami risk in Oregon.

She suggested keeping things in perspective. Yes, there is a risk associated with visiting and living on the coast, but it is still very small.

“Even on my drive down this morning, I get anxiety about coming over here,” she confessed.

However, she also knows that the odds are in her favor.

“I am more likely to get injured in my drive,” she added.

So, what should people visiting or living on the coast focus on? Being prepared. That is what her research cooperative is trying to do—help people know how best to do this on a place-by-place basis.

“What is the most important thing to know to prepare?” I asked.

“I think the biggest thing is to know your evacuation route,” Ali suggested. “Many people don’t know which way to go, especially if you’re visiting.”

Whenever the Cascadia megathrust earthquake hits, there will be little time to move to high ground—perhaps as little as 10-20 minutes at best. So, look at the evacuation maps ahead of time and have a plan A and a plan B.

On cue, Ali and I reached the end of the promenade trail, where a tsunami evacuation map was prominently posted.

“Moving here, I learned a lot more about earthquakes and tsunamis than maybe I want to know,” Ali laughed nervously.

I hear that, Ali.

Map of the tsunami evacuation route was posted at the end of the promenade.

Winter is Coming

Upon reaching the end of the trail, Ali and I about-faced for a return journey. This time we stuck to the paved walk that took us past the waterfront buildings—just a seawall in some spots for protection. Our conversation pivoted back to issues with high water. Ali was going to be speaking for the King Tides Community Science Initiative the following day about sea level rise, and with King Tides rolling in, it seemed important that we return to coastal inundation. Plus, I had a lot of questions.

On the top of my mind was winter—why were king tides so notable in the winter? I asked Ali.

“They are worse in the winter,” she responded, “because of the Earth’s orbit around the sun. We are closer to the sun in the winter so the gravitational pull is stronger… winter king tides are going to be stronger.”

One of the biggest Earth Science misconceptions is that the Earth is farther from the sun in the Northern Hemisphere winter, resulting in a change in seasons, but the opposite is true. Fun fact, seasonal shifts have more to do with the tilt of the Earth in relation to the sun. (You have just been scienced!)

Additives

Then of course there are the potential additive effects of storms which are more common on the Oregon coast in winter. I asked Ali to explain how storm surge and waves play a role in water levels.

“Storm surge is basically when you have a storm coming up the coast. You have low atmospheric pressure… with a lot more wind. The winds and pressure are forcing the water up—that is basically your storm surge. This can be coupled with high tides, which could make flooding worse.”

Ali explained how the wind is a result of pressure differences along the Earth, which are greater in the winter. And high winds equal bigger waves, which have harmful effects.

“Winter storms come through and produce a lot more wave energy,” Ali explained. “Those big waves can move sand around, cause erosion, and bring in a lot of debris.”

Both storm surges and big waves happen all the time, but with high tides, the consequences are magnified.

Rise Up

So, what about sea level rise, overall? What can we expect there?

There are two major contributors to sea level rise, according to Ali: 1) melting glaciers from Greenland and Antarctica, and 2) warming oceans.

How melting glaciers contribute to sea level rise is straightforward: glaciers add water from the land into the ocean, literally filling up the global bathtub, as it were.

Warming oceans affect sea level in a different way—causing the same amount of water to take up more space. As the water warms, the water molecules move apart in their higher energy state, taking up more space—something called thermal expansion.

Variability

Of course, there is some variability.

“Thermal expansion and ice melt aren’t uniform,” explained Ali.

Plus, there are other factors having an effect including changes in currents due to climate change and differences in vertical land movement.

There are sea level rise hot spots, as well as places that aren’t seeing any sea level rise at all.

Luckily, sea level rise has been slower along the Oregon coast overall—mostly because the land is rising too, counteracting sea level rise in some locations.

“Global mean sea level rise is 3.4 mm,” said Ali. “Oregon is not anywhere near that.”

Another El Niño

Then there is natural variability related to whether we are in a La Niña or El Niño year.

“ We have been in a La Niña for the past three years,” explained Ali.

La Niña brings colder weather and more precipitation to the Pacific Northwest.

“Which is great for skiing,” she chimed.

In an El Niño year, the oceans will warm—which could lead to greater thermal expansion and other issues associated with a warmer climate.

“And with climate change,” Ali added, “they may become more frequent and more severe.

“The biggest thing with sea level rise is your basic water gets higher—everything is happening on a higher base,” Ali explained.

In other words, a higher sea level means a higher storm surge and high wave energy eroding places it never reached before. King tides would be higher than they are now, and the next El Niño year, more severe.

Act Now

“What should we do?” I asked Ali.

“Our oceans are rising, that is fact,” Ali responded. “How much and when, is the biggest thing to think about, and what do emergency managers need to think about.”

More specifically, Ali recommended creating more natural and nature-based features on the coast as the first line of defense against inundation.

Another option—is managed retreat. Managed retreat is a planned process of moving buildings and people further inland to avoid hazards and risks.

“Managed retreat isn’t popular, but something to think about,” said Ali.

Ali was quick to add that, managed retreat isn’t something that she is in a rush to see happen in Oregon. Oregon isn’t facing a sea level rise crisis currently, so it probably isn’t as important a strategy right now. However, in the broad scheme of things, Ali was clear that managed retreat is important to adapt to sea level rise.

Predicting the Future

We were nearing our starting point on the promenade when we passed by a decorated tree or bush opposite the seawall. I snapped a picture. It seemed important for some reason. An emblem of the community perhaps?

Considering the community, what is the future of sea level rise?

“Sea level rise is exponential right now,” Ali told me as we walked. “Not on a linear increase. The rate is getting faster.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Warming and melt is on a lag, “ Ali explained. “Even if we stopped emissions right now, the oceans will continue to rise.”

And continue to rise, in theory, indefinitely.

“It is hard sometimes,” Ali paused. “People say ‘you are just doom and gloom’… There is a fine balance to walk—understanding the risks but knowing there is something we can do.”

Incoming Storm

Ali and I were still discussing sea level rise when we got to the point where we could see the waves and an access point to the beach.

“The water is straight up to the edge,” Ali proclaimed referring to our coastal view. “High tide today is about 8-9 feet. It is normally 2-4 feet.”

We headed down to check out the waves from a better vantage point.

As we walked out toward the pounding waves, Ali told me more about ocean waves and how they are generated.

“The wave energy is coming from the wind,” she began. The longer the fetch (the length of water that the wind can blow without being blocked) the more energy can be imparted into the ocean allowing waves to grow larger.

She went on to explain how the low-pressure system that generates the storm also has a small effect by pushing water up due to the inverted barometer effect.

“If you have low pressure the water is going up. High pressure it gets pushed down,” Ali described.

All that said, it was clear to Ali that a storm system was on its way. Waves were rushing up fast, breaking quickly, and curving ferociously—all signs of an incoming storm.

“They [the waves] are definitely stronger,” she remarked as we stopped and stared. “And it’s happening pretty far offshore… and getting those nice curves to them.”

I looked out toward the ocean to try and see what Ali was seeing. I hadn’t considered this idea before—that I could look at the ocean and predict the future.

Staring out at the rhythmic movement of the incoming waves—it all started falling into place.

Reflections

Our oceans are sending us warning signals. They warn us of storm systems coming through hours to days in advance. But more than that, they warn us of impending changes to our planet that we can’t afford to ignore.

Visiting the coast during king tides can be a lot of fun—people flock to the coast to see the massive waves and enjoy the pounding surf—but they are also a reminder that our planet is changing.

Our oceans are warming quickly, and the global sea level is rising, resulting in a multitude of changes to Earth and human systems.

The signs are there. We just need to learn how to see them.

Alessandra (Ali) Burgos a project manager for Cascadia Coastlines and Peoples Hazards Research Hub with Oregon State University. Ali earned a Bachelor of Science in Meteorology at Rutgers University and a Master of Science in oceanography at Old Dominion University.

Hike with a Geologist at Seal Rock

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

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

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

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

Circuitous routes

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

Sheila’s path to geology was a circuitous one.

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

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

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

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

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

Sheila found her passion—teaching geology.

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

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

Highway 20

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ellmaker State Wayside off of Highway 20

Structure

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

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

Here we pulled over to take a closer look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sheila demonstrates the shape of an anticline.

Tyee Formation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turbidity Currents

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

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

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

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

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

A Closer Look

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tyee sandstone with fossil trails of marine organisms.

The Road to Jump-off Joe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Derelict abandoned building at Jump-off Joe

Sandstone Arch

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

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

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

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

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

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

But where did all this basalt come from?

I was about to find out.

Sea Stacks

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

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

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

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

Elephant Rock

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cobbles

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

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

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

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

Magnetite

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

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

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

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

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

Dynamic

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

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

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

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

A Lava Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Final Contact

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

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

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

Dark basalt lava intruding on sandstone.

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

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

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

Tracking Flood Basalts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Gap

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perpetual Teaching and Learning

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

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

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

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

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

Sheila paused.

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

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

And you know what? Neither did I.

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

Hike with a Scientist at South Slough National Estuarine Research Reserve

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

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

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

The Hike

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

Upland Forest

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

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

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

Port-Orford-cedar branches hang over the trail

Resistant

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

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

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

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

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

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

Getting Wild

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take Flight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swamped

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s Not Complex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skiny trees in a dense section of forest

Estuary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, of course, are the tides.

Changing tides

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tunnel Forest

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

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

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

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

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

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

Viewing an Estuary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Volunteers

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

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

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

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

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

Not too Tough

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skunk cabbage flower blooming on the trail

Riparian Way

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sensitive in South Slough

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Signal

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hike with a Marine Ecologist

Ocean breakers offshore at South Beach State Park

There is something mythical about whales. Stories of whales show up repeatedly in folklore—represented as otherworldly and wise. Whales live in a different realm— mammals like us, whales breathe air, but somehow make a living in the Ocean. Their lives are cloaked in mystery—behaving in ways we are only beginning to understand.

One person who is trying to unlock their secrets is Leigh Torres, principal investigator of The Geospatial Ecology of Marine Megafauna Laboratory at OSU’s Marine Mammal Institute. So, on an exceptionally warm day in winter, we met up at South Beach State Park to hike and talk whales.

Her dog, Pepper, in tow, we headed out along the path that follows the south jetty out to the Pacific. The sky was bright blue overhead. Hordes of people were out enjoying the sunshine.

The Hike

Trailhead: Yaquina Bay South Jetty Trailhead.
Distance: Approximately 1 mile for beach walk. Additional options available.
Elevation: Minimal
Details: Plenty of paved parking at trailhead. No fee for parking. Pit toilet at trailhead. Follow a gravel trail that parallels the jetty over the sandy dunes to get to the beach.

Finding a Passion

As we walked, I asked Leigh to tell me a bit about her background.

“I grew up loving animals,” Leigh responded, “especially big animals.” Admittedly a common interest of many kids.

That, coupled with a childhood growing up in Miami connected to the ocean, and her love for science, the stage was set.

So, though Leigh began her studies at American University as a soccer player and photography major, it didn’t take long for her path to take a bit of a U-turn. Through a study abroad in Australia working with marine mammals, she found her passion for marine research. “I want to do that,” she recalled thinking at the time.

Leigh ended up double-majoring in photography and environmental science before pursuing advanced degrees at Duke University. There, she began her work with marine mammals studying dolphin behavior and foraging.

Now she is a marine ecologist at OSU studying the spatial and behavioral ecology of marine megafauna—how they behave, where they go, etc.

As we walked up next to the dark rocks of the south jetty, Leigh pointed out a couple of heavy orange-billed rhinoceros auklets swimming in the navigation channel. We could also see the dark rounded heads of sea lions bobbing above the water.

“Well, there is a couple of marine mammals right there!” she exclaimed.

Looking out into the navigation channel as we headed to the beach.

Whale Habitat

Continuing over the foredune and onto the ocean beach, the sights, and sounds of breaking waves immediately captivate the senses. Here, Leigh and I got down to the business of talking whales—specifically gray whales.

“We are actually looking at one of their main habitats,” Leigh began as she pointed out toward the breakers. The Newport coastline is a major feeding ground for a group of resident whales that stop here to feed during the summer and fall months, rather than migrating further north to the arctic.

“They feed close to shore,” said Leigh, “They feed on really shallow reefs often covered in kelp.” These areas are highly productive habitats—hosting many species that whales need to survive. In particular, mysid—shrimp-like zooplankton—swarm these areas, providing a staple food source for gray whales to dine on.

Squinting out toward the white-capped waves—I tried to imagine what lay below the surface, an entire rocky ecosystem with thick green kelp beds, fish, invertebrates, urchins, starfish, and, of course, whales. All of which depend on each other to maintain a healthy system.

Walking down off the foredune onto the beach.

Feeding

How gray whales feed is something else entirely!

As we walked along Leigh told me how gray whales use a variety of foraging tactics to feed, including “head standing”, “sucking benthos”, and something called “bubble blast.”

What? Bubble blast? I asked Leigh how this works.

She explained that the whales will blast bubbles through their blowhole underwater to create a cloud of bubbles a couple of meters wide. They will then chomp their jaws near the blast to feed.

“Bubble blast is a mystery,” Leigh proclaimed. No one knows why they do it. Leigh speculated that it could be related to buoyancy. Whatever the reason, these foraging strategies seem to be culturally shared.

Leigh laughed as she recalled some bubble blast footage her lab caught on tape of an older, 30-year-old male whale named, Peak, feeding with a younger 7-year-old male, Pacman on a reef. Peak bubble blasted and Pacman followed suit. Just two peas in a whale pod.

According to Leigh, this feeding time is vital, especially for females. “They are capital breeders,” she explained. This means that the food they consume during five to six months at their feeding grounds needs to sustain them for the remainder of the year, as they engage in costly activities, like breeding and migrating.

Migration

Speaking of migrating—after feeding for several months, gray whales migrate south for the winter—most traveling 5,000-6,000 miles to Baja California.

Toward the end of the feeding season, whales start to feed less and socialize more. Leigh has observed courting actives in the whales she studies. Males and females will surface synchronously together. Males will jockey for position next to a female. “Sometimes you see some penis’ flying in the air.” Ah, the life of a whale researcher.

“They all go to Baja,” Leigh remarked. Mating often occurs in route, but gestation lasts about 12-14 months—the end of the following year’s migration.

Once in the warm waters of Baja, the whales engage in social behaviors, and the pregnant females, if they haven’t already, give birth to a single calf. Mothers nurse their calves in the tropical waters until they build up enough blubber reserves to survive colder waters to the north.

Then, in the spring, gray whales make a return trip north—again traveling 5,000-6,000 miles to feeding grounds, usually in the Arctic or sub-Arctic regions of Alaska.

This costly migration occurs over and over throughout the long lives of these whales. Though we don’t know exactly how old gray whales get, it is probably something like 60-80 years, according to Leigh. That is a lot of migration.

Subgroup

As we migrated along the beach—contemplating the immensity of a 6,000-mile journey—Leigh clued me into the whales she studies in Oregon.

“These whales don’t make a full migration,” she explained. “They are what is called a subgroup.” More specifically, the Pacific Coast Feeding Group (PCFG). There are about 250 members of this group that arrive at Oregon’s rocky shores in about June and stick around until around October—feeding along the kelp beds that grow here.

It is these gray whales that Leigh watches bubble blast and suck benthos. It is also these whales that she knows by name and personality.

One of the objectives of her lab is to understand how this subgroup of whales is different from whales that make the full migration. For example, one of the graduate students in her lab looked at the caloric content of prey found in Oregon versus the arctic. Eventually finding them to be equivalent or higher.

“We are still piece-by-piece trying to solve the mystery of the PCFGs,” said Leigh. Why do they stop? What is their unique culture? Their challenges? This is the crux of Leigh and her team’s research.

A couple of other subgroups exists. For example, a group of about twelve whales stops in Puget Sound in March to feed off ghost shrimp. Another larger endangered population of gray whales—the western gray whale population—migrates all the way to Russia.

Sunlight reflects off the water on the beach.

Whale Research

We walked along the wet, compacted sand, moving south along the coastline at an easy pace. Pepper chased ahead following her joy and the surf.

“We study their behavior and body conditions,” Leigh explained, keeping a close eye on Pepper as she talked.

Studying whales is not an easy undertaking. Leigh’s lab uses different methods and technologies to help gather the data they need to better understand how the gray whales that reside on the Oregon Coast are doing.

“When we are with the whales, the first thing we do is get out the cameras and do photo ID,” explained Leigh. “Everything we do is linked to an individual whale.”

Next, the drones come out. Drones allow Leigh and her team to really see what they are doing. Body condition and behavior are two essential measurements taken from drone footage.

A Gold Mine

Then there is the poop!

“We are looking for poop the entire time,” Leigh stated with a grin.

According to Leigh, capturing whale poop is not too difficult—you just need a lot of patience and a “really good boat driver.” Whales typically poop during their last fluke-out dive—called the terminal dive. After three or four blows in a row, the whale takes a final breath, dives, and out comes the poop (well, some of the time).

As soon as someone spots a reddish-brown plume in the water, they yell “poop!” And the team jumps into action. Using mesh nets, they scoop up as much poop as possible for testing. You usually only have about 30 seconds before it sinks into the abyss. Whale poops can be as large as 4 by 4 meters. Yep, I asked (your whalecome).

You might be asking yourself, why in the world would anyone want to collect whale poop?

“Poop from whales is a biological gold mine,” explained Leigh. It can be used to determine a lot about the whale’s health and biology. Plus, it is a non-invasive method!

“We look at the hormones, what it is eating, and the microbiome of the animal,” Leigh went on. “We are looking at microplastic loads,” she also specified. Truly, a gold mine.

Unique Personalities or Discoveries

We continued along the flat glistening sand, sun on our backs. I asked Leigh how long she has been studying Oregon’s subgroup of whales.

“Six years now,” Leigh replied. She went on, “My hope is to continue for a long time. “

“These are long-lived animals,” Leigh explained. “To really understand their ecology, we need long-term studies.”

Leigh and her team hope to better understand what affects their reproduction and survival.

So far, the lab has established “baseline knowledge.” Overall, it seems that how much gray whales respond to stressors varies greatly from whale-to-whale, year-to-year, and even day-to-day within an individual whale. Lactating whales, for example, will be generally very skinny. Stress hormones increase following a stressful event, like a propellor strike.

The goal now is to figure out what the drivers are—or, in other words, what is at the heart of the variation in responses observed in whales?

Ripples in the sand at South Beach State Park

Hard-knock Life

Eventually, Leigh and I reached a small creek crossing—not wanting to get our feet wet, we turned around and headed north. It was nearly lunchtime, so getting back to our feeding grounds, I mean er, cars, made sense.

As we headed back, Leigh and I talked about the changes she is seeing in Oregon’s resident whales and what she sees as the potential drivers of these changes.

“The number of whales is lowering,” Leigh told me. Though she doesn’t know what exactly is happening to the whales, she knows they are not coming back. “There has been an unusual mortality event,” Leigh went on, “lots of emaciated whales on the coast lately.”

According to Leigh, kelp is also on the decline along the coast probably due to marine heatwaves and increases in urchins. This is a significant problem as gray whales feed a lot in these kelp beds.

She recalled the warm blob event of 2014 to 2016 and its impact on the marine system. “It changed the oceanography,” she explained, and both the kelp and whales were impacted. Prey availability reduction was measured, as well as a decline in the whales’ body conditions.

Along the same vein, urchin populations have increased as their predators, like sea otters and sunflower sea stars, have become less abundant. Because urchins eat kelp, a larger urchin population is bad news for kelp.

Entangled in Strikes

Then there are the vessel strikes and the fisheries entanglements.

“One particular project I am interested in is noise pollution,” Leigh mentioned early on in our hike together.

Oceans are becoming noisy places. “90% of shipping is overseas,” according to Leigh. That means a lot of fast and loud ships that whales, and other marine life, must contend with. Leigh wants to understand how whales respond to all the noise.

To study the phenomenon, Leigh and her research team place hydrophones in two locations during the summer—one near the South Jetty where we were walking and another, near the much quieter, Otter Rock Marine Reserve. The goal is to monitor both sites for noise and to track the gray whales’ responses.

Listening is an important part of whale behavior. “The ocean is very dark,” Leigh explained, “you can’t see very far for navigation.” Whale communication relies on sound. Finding food, mating, and avoiding predators are all affected by a noise-filled ocean.

Leigh told me about a pilot project where her team tagged whales using suction cups. Each tag had a camera and accelerometer to track the activity of the whale over about a 24-hour period.

During one of these tagging events, they were able to observe one of the whales, Peak, move through the navigation channel. What they found was compelling.

Peak dropped from about 2 meters below the surface to 5 meters during the traverse. He also took fewer breathes during his crossing.

It is easy to speculate regarding his behavior—Was Peak experiencing “fear?” Exercising caution? More research will need to be done.

How to Save Whales

So, what can we do?

As Leigh and I neared our exit from the beach, I asked her that very question.

“First, simple things that reduce the role of climate change,” was her initial response. “Drive less, fly less, eat less meat.”

For people that recreate in the ocean, her recommendation was more direct—“pick up your fishing gear” and “slow down.”

Leaving crab pots or other fishing gear in the water for extended periods of time can increase the likelihood that whales become entangled.

Driving too fast and not watching for whales in areas that they occupy results in more strikes. “A lot of whales have propeller strikes.”

Finally, there are the less tangible things we can do. We can be informed about marine life and the changes occurring in our oceans.

“Educate, connect, and monitor our environment”—that is what Leigh and her team are working tirelessly to achieve.

If we can get on board and show similar interest in the ocean—perhaps through our own connections to marine life—then we are getting somewhere. After all, human activity and gray whales overlap.

Whether you are fishing on a reef or purchasing something on Amazon, you are party to a human-whale interaction.

A boar returning from the Ocean through the navigation channel.

Whale Connections

Fortunately, Leigh and her research team have made connecting with Oregon’s whales easier than ever. They developed a website (individuwhale.com) where anyone can learn about the Pacific Coast Feeding Group on an intimate level.

“We profiled eight whales,” Leigh explained, “Talk about their lives and show them as individuals.”

By visiting the site, you can learn about each whales’ behaviors and habits—”are they homebodies or roamers?”—for example. Information about research methods and whale threats is also discussed on the site.

The site shows you how to use markings to distinguish between individual whales. You can even play a fun game to test your knowledge. And the best part—you can then use what you learned to identify whales in the wild.

Finding Whales

Let’s go wild—wild about whales! Where can we find these magnificent creatures?

Well, when it comes to the Oregon Coast, it depends on who and what you want to see.

Leigh told me that she has been doing helicopter surveys four times a month with the coast guard since 2019—with flights out of North Bend, Newport, and Warrenton. The main goal of the survey is to determine the distribution of whales over time and space in order to better manage entanglement risk.

With this data, however, Leigh was also able to tell me a bit about where and when recreators might want to look for whales.

The migrating gray whales come through in February and March and November and December, making these months a great time to look for whales off Oregon’s rocky shores.

However, Oregon’s part-time resident whales are around all summer—from June to October, with August being the peak month to see them. For the best views of these whales, head to Depoe Bay or Yaquina Head, according to Leigh.

But gray whales aren’t the only cetaceans that visit Oregon. Harbor porpoise is a year-round resident, though hard to see unless the water is exceptionally calm. Humpbacks and blue whales hang out for the summer, though farther offshore, with blue whales the closer of the pair. For humpbacks, July is a peak month, but for blue whales, it is closer to September or October. Then, Fin whales arrive in the winter.

Heading Home

Leigh and I continued to chat as we walked over the sandy dunes that separated us from the parking lot.

Though we didn’t see one whale during our hike together, spending time with Leigh was like getting a peek behind the curtain. Though the mystery of whales is not resolved, we are closer than we have ever been to understanding these sentinels of the sea. And with drones, poop, and Leigh and her team, we will only get closer. And that is something to get whaley excited about.

Leigh Torres in the principal investigator of The Geospatial Ecology of Marine Megafauna Laboratory at OSU’s Marine Mammal Insti

Curious Hiker: Cook’s Ridge and Gwynn Creek Loop

Trees scattering the light on Gwenn Creek Trail

Overview

Walk up a ridge through massive old-growth Sitka spruce to a Douglas-fir forest, before gradually descending alongside rushing Gwynn Creek and looping back on the Oregon Coast Trail. This loop highlights the majesty of Oregon’s coastal forests.

Distance: 6.4 miles
Terrane: 1250 elevation gain. Steady incline
Difficulty: Moderate
Open: All year. Best in the winter, spring, fall.
Trailhead: Gwynn Creek/Forest Trails at Cape Perpetua Scenic Area Visitor Center (44.28048, -124.10745)
Contact: U.S. Forest Service, Siuslaw National Forest

Highlights

Dynamic Old-growth forest; lush diverse vegetation; mushroom and wildflowers; well-maintained trail.

Need to Know

Trailhead is located in the Cape Perpetua Scenic Areas Visitor Center parking area (not the day use or campground). USFS Forest Recreation Pass required for parking or equivalent. Restrooms are available at the trailhead with flush toilets. Usage is high near the visitor center. Trailheads and junctions are well marked.

Hike Description

Begin at the trailhead marked “Forested Trails.” Start by following an old logging road .4 miles through Sitka spruce forest with a sword fern and salal understory. Cross over a bridge with alder trees and salmonberry growing in the drainage below before entering an old plantation stand of Sitka spruce.

Many of the trees lean or are overturned from recent storm damage along the path. Search among the forest litter and on decaying logs and stumps for mushrooms that grow abundantly here even in winter.

Discovery Loop

Arrive at a junction for the “Discovery Loop.” Take a right to follow the trail uphill. Notice the forest change as you walk through this short .3-mile section of trail.

Larger Sitka spruce trees begin to make an appearance, along with large western hemlock. Look for trees “on stilts”—their bases sitting above the soil—the result of a starting life on a decaying log or stump that has long since broken down.

A mature western hemlock tree growing on “stilts” next to a Sitka spruce.

Cook’s Ridge

At a well-marked junction, take a right onto Cook’s Ridge Trail toward Gwynn Creek. This 1.7-mile section starts out flat before climbing steeply along a rolling ridgetop.

Marvel at the stature of large-diameter Sitka spruce trees with their “paint chip” bark found near the junction. Explore the rotting logs and jagged stumps with new growth sprouting like unruly hair. Shelf mushrooms create ladders up dead, standing trees (aka snags). A mat of moss envelops the ground and the shallow roots of spruce trees.

As you continue up the steepening trail, observe how the forest transforms from a Sitka spruce forest to one dominated by Douglas-fir. Western redcedar trees join in the mix. Salal and patches of evergreen huckleberry become more prevalent. While trailing blackberry and redwood violet enchant the ground.

Western redcedar and Douglas-fir opposite each other on Cook’s Ridge Trail.

Gwenn Creek

Another well-signed intersection directs you right onto the Gwenn Creek Trail for a 2.6-mile descent along the south side of the ridge with Gwynn Creek below.

Again, the Douglas-fir forest is lush and multistoried. Massive Douglas-fir—some with blackened fire-scarred trunks—loom tall. Swooping branches of western hemlock with their droopy tops hang over the trail, requiring one to swoop down to stay clear. A patch of Cascade Oregon grape stands out amongst the shrub layer of sword fern, huckleberry, and salal. Clumps of deer fern run along sections of the path. Fuzzy leaf piggyback plant and more redwood violet shimmer in patches on the moist forest floor.

The trail undulates up and down through several drainages with creeks that empty into Gwynn creek below, leveling off for about a half mile before reaching the next junction. Gwynn creek is lined with alder trees that hug its banks. Fallen trees create habitat for fish and other wildlife.

Oregon Coast Trail

The final mile of the hike follows the Oregon Coast Trail through a shorter, wind-warped stand of Sitka Spruce. Take a left at a signed junction to follow the trail along the oceanfront. There are several peek-a-boo views to the Ocean and Highway-101. Feel the cool air and listen to ocean waves crashing against the rocky shores—a sure sign the Pacific is near.

To end the hike, cross the road you came in on and follow a paved path to the right up to the visitor center. There is also an option to turn left for a short detour to the rocky shore and tidepools if you are so inclined.

Rocky shores along the Oregon Coast Trail.

Mini Field Guide

Hike with a Dune Ecologist

View from one of the dunes in Pacific City, Oregon

There is something otherworldly about walking among the dunes on Oregon’s Coast. Walking from crest to crest of these rolling hills of sand feels akin to walking atop ocean waves. With each step the sand shifts underfoot, and you wonder if you just might comfortably fall into a deep crystalline sea.

Despite the strangeness of the sand dune landscape, dune ecosystems are common along Oregon’s Coastline (though not so much elsewhere). Formed following the last Ice Age by the erosion of the sedimentary rocks of Oregon’s coastal mountain range, Oregon’s dunes are sculpted and shaped by the seasonal influences of water and wind and the surrounding terrain. The result is a menagerie of dunes of varied shape, size, and expansiveness; some only a few hundred feet long, hedged in by headlands and other obstructions, while others stretch 10s-of-miles along the coast creating places like the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area near Florence.

Given the ubiquitous and curious nature of dunes, it is no surprise that these large sandy masses, have been, and continue to be, influenced by people.

When European settlers flocked to the Oregon coast to establish communities in the late 1800s, they were immediately met with the challenge of living in a dynamic sand-swept environment. Rather than retreating, settlers managed the sand with what they considered the best weapon in their arsenal—European beachgrass. European beachgrass has been used extensively throughout the world for erosion control. Oregon is no exception. European beachgrass is now a defining character of Oregon’s Coastal Dunes, influencing not only dune formation but also dune ecology.

To better understand the story of dunes in the Pacific Northwest and the ecological significance of European beachgrass and another non-native grass, American beachgrass, I met up with Rebecca Mostow, dune ecologist, at Bob Straub State Park near Pacific City for an interview and hike.

The Hike

Trailhead: Bob Straub State Park Trailhead
Distance: approximately 1 mile
Elevation: minimal
Details: Plenty of paved parking at trailhead. No fee for parking. There is also bathroom with flushing toilets. There are signs and a map posted at the trailhead.

It was a cool spring day when I met up with Rebecca for our hike and interview. A marine layer of clouds hung low in the sky, threatening drizzle, but the weather remained mild and dry. After some brief introductions, Rebecca and I headed out along the back dune trail, or Marsh Trail, at Bob Straub Park with plans to eventually cut down to the beach.

Rebecca Mostow standing on the crest of one of the vegetative dunes along the trail.

Rich and Varied

As we made our way down an alley of shrubs and trees that line the entire back dune trail, Rebecca told me a bit about her background.

Rebecca’s undergraduate work was at Oberlin College, where she studied biology and plant systematics. She also got involved in a variety of different research projects, from an HIV vaccine research internship to an invasive snail survey. Her work continued to be rich and varied after graduation as well. She even spent some time on a tiny island with half a million sea birds and only two people for company.

However, it didn’t take long before Rebecca’s passion for plants drew her back. Even during her time watching sea birds, she admitted that she couldn’t help but notice the plants. “I made a baby flora of the island,” she remarked. She also worked for the BLM in Nevada, Carson City district, on plant conservation before ultimately ended up in graduate school at Oregon State University in Sally Hacker’s Lab.

Intentional Introductions

Even now, walking along the trail, Rebecca was drawn to the plants surrounding us. She admired the new shoots of the spruce trees that grew along the trail, impressed by their symmetry. “See the little pattern,” Rebecca exclaimed, “a Fibonacci spiral!”

As we continued along, however, another pattern became apparent, at least to Rebecca’s trained eyes. “All of the plants we are looking at were intentionally planted altogether,” she explained. European beachgrass was planted to help stabilize and build dunes, Shore Pine to provide native habitat, and invasive Scotch Broom as a nitrogen fixer.

“They were trying to engineer a coastal forest,” offered Rebecca, as an explanation.

Shore Pine, Scotch Broom, and European beachgrass growing together along the trail.

Unstable

As mentioned previously, sand does not make the development of permanent human settlement easy, or in some cases possible. By vegetating the dynamic, shifting sand system that was once present in the area, it was converted into a more stable system. But at a cost.

Rebecca explained that many species rely on open sand for habitat. Species, like the Western Snowy Plover, require open sand for nesting. The Streaked Horned Lark is another species reliant on open sandy areas.

So, though sand stability is great for human habitation, it does result in a substantial loss in habitat for other species. Both the Western Snowy Plover and the Streaked Horned Lark are threatened species under the Endangered Species Act mainly due to habitat loss.

This Grass is not like the Others

I have never been very good at identifying grasses and grass-like plants. Beyond remembering the saying: “sedges have edges, reeds are round, and grasses bend their knees to the ground,” I have very little experience with grasses and couldn’t begin to tell species apart.

However, walking with Rebecca along the dune trail, literally lined with beach grass, it wasn’t long before I received an education.

“This is our native dune grass,” Rebecca chimed, pointing to a blue-twinged blade. She went on to explain that in addition to the color of the blade, there are many other characteristics that help distinguish American Dune grass, Leymus mollis, from the European beachgrass, Ammophila arenaria, that was brought in to build and stabilize dunes.

“The leaf blades are so much wider, and it has a more prominent midrib” than European beachgrass, said Rebecca.

Rebecca examining a patch of beach grass.

The Pits

And then there are the pits. Okay, so they aren’t exactly “pits,” but if you look at the point where the leaf and stem meet, you can see something called a ligule, a thin translucent-white tissue growth found at this junction. “The ligule is the armpit hair of the grass,” said Rebecca partly in jest, as she bent back a leaf. But it is also one of the most surefire ways to differentiate between beach grasses. American dune grass has a ligule that is short and flat. European beachgrass has a ligule that is much longer. When you need to tell grasses apart, “Just look at the pit hair!” Rebecca exclaimed.

Growing Underground

After my ligule tutorial, I asked Rebecca why European settlers on the coast planted European beachgrass instead of our native Dune grass.

“It is our native grass,” responded Rebecca, “but it does not build dunes.” She pointed to a patch of American dune grass growing just along the trail. “It doesn’t grow very densely,” she explained. Each stem of American dune grass was spaced out a bit from the others. In contrast, European beachgrass is “super dense” allowing it to better capture sand and trap it in place.

“Look, these three stems are all the same plant,” Rebecca pointed out.

“It is amazing when you start to dig down,” explained Rebecca, referring the propagation of beach grasses. Even the native “dune” grass spreads via underground stems called rhizomes; they just send shoots up at longer intervals. It is the underground growth that truly makes European beachgrass a great dune builder.

Not Exactly Invasive

“Would it be considered invasive?” I asked at one point as we walked along, referring to the European beachgrass’ ability to spread and compete.

To be considered invasive, Rebecca explained, a species needs to meet certain criteria. “It has to do significant damage to the environment, human health, or the economy.” For example, “Scotch broom is a listed invasive weed,” said Rebecca. “It is causing a lot of economic damage.”

European beachgrass is not listed, because though it has some of the traits of an invasive species, including negative ecological impacts, it doesn’t meet the criteria. It benefits people in many ways, so it is difficult to say it is “causing harm,” even when some native species are being impacted.

Structure of a Dune

At this point, Rebecca and I hit a junction, and we agreed to cut down to the beach. But before we headed down, Rebecca explained a bit about the structure of dunes.

“We are on the crest of the foredune; the dune closest to the ocean,” said Rebecca standing at the highest point of the dune we had been walking behind. Behind us is the backdune and looking out toward the ocean is the toe, which slopes down toward the ocean. There can be many waves of dunes behind the foredune, rising and falling just like the ocean, “and they are all covered in grass.”

Views looking out over the backdune to the ocean

Varied Vegetation

“Backdune to toe, the density of grasses will change,” said Rebecca. And you can see other differences in other vegetation as well. Where we stood near the crest of the dune, we could see pearly everlasting, beach pea, native strawberry, and what was dubbed a “fun little thistle-y thing” growing between the blades of grass on the sand.

Not only that but, the species of beachgrass growing in an area also influences plant biodiversity. You see, in addition, to European beachgrass, American beachgrass was also introduced to the Pacific Northwest Coast to stabilize and protect coastal communities. However, for whatever reason, European beachgrass was introduced in the south and American beachgrass in the north, creating different beach grass ecosystems.

The differences in biodiversity between the American and European beachgrass systems is something that Sally Hacker’s Lab has studied in the past. When the lab compared the biodiversity of these dune systems, it was found that European beachgrass supports greater plant biodiversity than American beachgrass.

Two Ammophila Species

There are many additional differences between American beachgrass (Ammophila breviligulata) and European beachgrass (Ammophila arenaria) that make each type unique.

A. arenaria also has stems that are skinnier, leaves that are thinner, and a long ligule. The grass blades grow densely together; instead of sending out lots of lateral shoots, A. arenaria grows more vertically. In addition, A. arenaria “like to be in one clump together,” said Rebecca, allowing them to “accrete more sand” and build tall, steep dunes.

On the other hand, A. breviligulata has thicker leaves and stems and a short ligule. The grass blades grow further apart; instead of growing tall, A. breviligulata sends out lateral shoots and grows horizontally. According to Rebecca, a dune field of A. breviligulata is large and “hummocky.”

Hybridization

Though historically European beachgrass was dominant primarily in the South and American beachgrass in the North, on the Central Oregon Coast, where Rebecca and I were hiking, there is a point of overlap between the grass’s ranges. And, thus, an opportunity for hybridization, or the production of a genetic cross, between the two species.

“Part of my research is about the hybrid between these two beachgrasses,” said Rebecca, as she directed me down the toe and onto the sandy beach below in search of the first little hybrid patch she has been tracking. Rebecca explained that the first time the hybrid was “discovered” was in 2012.

“Discovered is a confusing word,” proclaimed Rebecca. “Some people from my lab were doing a survey and they found grass that looked sort of weird,” but it wasn’t until later, after finding more patches of the “weird” grass before it drew much interest. And later still before Rebecca was able to do the genetic work to confirm that what was discovered was a hybrid.

Taken for a Ride

We combed the beach looking for the “weird” hybrid. However, instead of finding it. we noticed many signs of storm damage—large swaths of sand torn from along the toe of the dune.

Rebecca walked over to one of the dunes and brushed away the sand from the base of one of the clusters of beachgrass. “Look here! You can see what it looks like under the sand,” she remarked holding a dense cluster of fibrous roots that branched out in all directions, connecting to other clusters of roots by underground stems.

“They erode from the beaches,” she said, “and it gets picked up by a wave and then gets spread from one beach to another.”

Rebecca removing sand to expose the underground root and stem system beach grass uses to propagate

The Path Back

We continued looking along the beach, passing by the spot Rebecca recalled finding the hybrid in the past. The patch had since been washed away, perhaps to start up someplace new.

We headed inland toward another area Rebecca had GPS coordinates for, chatting along the way about her love of plants and how curiosity regarding invasive species led her to her work today. “Why do some plants get introduced and nothing happens?” Rebecca wondered aloud, reminiscing.

Rebecca’s passion for research was evident as we talked further. She told me how she got into genetic work in order to obtain higher resolution data that would allow her work to have a larger impact than in the past. “Genetic work is 100s to 1000s of data points,” she marveled.

Ultimately, Rebecca’s careful consideration of her interests and skills landed her in Sally Hacker’s Lab.

The Hybrid Problem

And then we were there, standing in front of a large path of hybrid beachgrass. “Here is its sweet little intermediate ligule,” Rebecca smiled as she pulled the leaf down on one of the grasses to reveal its “pit” tissue. “This is one of our wonderful patches,” she remarked, her gaze sweeping down at the bunches of grass that grew at our feet.

It was at this point that I asked Rebecca about the implication of the hybrid. “Is the hybrid a problem?” I questioned.

Even though they are not native to Oregon, explained Rebecca, beachgrasses are providing a service to people that live in coastal areas by protecting them from storm surges and erosion. However, “the two species produce different shaped dunes that have different value,” Rebecca explained. If the dominant species changes, that could mean a higher risk of storm surge to overtop the dunes, or it might not. She cited a 2010 or 2012 study that conversion to American beachgrass in areas where European dominates would create “a three-fold increase in overtopping risk.”

When it comes to the hybrid, there are a lot of questions to answer.

“What are its impacts going to be on the dunes? Is it going to build different shaped dunes? Is it going to take over areas of parent species?” Rebecca listed. “It’s kind of a dash to figure out the impact.”

A close-up of the short ligule of the American beachgrass.

More Invasive

There are also questions about how the hybridization might increase the invasiveness of the beachgrass species, potentially harming native species to a greater extent than the parent species.

“Hybridization can jump-start evolution in plants,” explained Rebecca. When separate species are put together you get something brand new— “a completely novel genotype!”

In addition, there is some evidence that the hybrid may be able to produce viable offspring, allowing for even more crossing of populations, increasing genetic biodiversity further. “Increasing genetic variation in invasive plants has been shown to increases their invasiveness,” said Rebecca.

To be Done

So, what can be done? “Can we stop or prevent the spread of invasive species?” I asked Rebecca, as we stood considering the potential impacts of her newly identified cross.

“There are a lot of layers to think about,” Rebecca suggested. Questions regarding who is being impacted and how will help determine an appropriate course of action. She used the example of cheatgrass, pervasive invasive grass in rangeland environments. The impacts of cheatgrass affect ranches and those that depend on the work the ranchers are doing, as well as the native plants and animals that live in the ecosystem. Thus, figuring out how to prevent the spread of cheatgrass is a high priority in the west.

With beachgrasses, it is a bit different. Again, despite some of the ecological ramifications, the presence of the grasses is needed in human-inhabited coastal areas as protection.

However, there are some efforts to remove the beachgrasses and restore some of the native habitats that have been virtually eliminated on the Pacific Northwest Coast with the introduction of the grasses. In fact, Rebecca shared how her advisor, Sally Hacker, is involved in some research looking into how to best restore some areas of the dunes that aren’t critical to coastal protection.

“When you think about the impact,” said Rebecca, “we should all be on board to keep invasive species in their lane.”

Three of a Kind

At this point, Rebecca and I headed back down the path toward our vehicles. Then, looking out in the distance, Rebecca pointed out a large dune that sat just in front of a line of houses.

“It is covered in hybrid,” she said, “and has all three species.”

Rebecca went on to explain how, instead of a natural system, the dunes in the area are actively managed—built up and planted by people—and suggested that we take a quick look. So, when we got back to the trailhead, a short walk later, we both hopped in our vehicles, and I followed her over to see what the fuss was about.

Upon arrival, we were able to find our first sample of American beachgrass with its short ligule. We also saw more European beachgrass, some American dune grass, and, of course, a lot of the hybrid.

Rebecca told me that so far, they have found more than 27 patches of the hybrid at 17 different sites heading North from Pacific City. The site we were visiting was the southern terminus of its extent so far.

And there was a lot of it! Rebecca pointed out the patches as we walked back onto the dune and looked around. There is so much of it, that Rebecca told me that they were in the process of training people to identify the hybrid as part of a Citizen Science Project.

We didn’t stay long on the managed dune, but Rebecca helped me gather a sample of the European beachgrass, American beachgrass, and the Hybrid. We lined them up and snapped a picture of all three for comparison.

A Bleak or Bright Future?

Looking at the photo now, with the hybrid placed alongside its parent species, I feel a bit like I am looking at a photo of a high school graduate with their proud parents.

We know a good deal about the European beachgrass and American beachgrass, they are settled in the habits of building dunes in the same way they always have, but the hybrid is something new—a fresh mix of genes with so much potential. The future of the hybrid could very well change the Pacific Northwest Coastline, for better or worse. Many questions remain. And a lot of opportunities await. Fortunately, we have people like Rebecca here to help us understand its future.

Rebecca Mostow is a Graduate Fellow at Oregon State University in Sally Hackers Lab studying dune ecology. She has also worked as an environmental educator and research technician. She earned a Bachelor of Arts in Biology from Oberlin College in 2013.

Sea foam: Life or Death?

Winter time on the Oregon Coast

One of my favorite times to visit the Oregon Coast is during the winter. With incredible whale watching opportunities, winter wind storms, and King Tides bringing huge waves- there is lot of drama on the Oregon Coast to enjoy in the winter.

Winter also brings increased amounts of white (sometimes brownish), billowing suds from the ocean to collect on our sandy beaches. Sea foam is not just a winter phenomenon, but it is the time of year that it does seem to pile up. So, a couple weekends ago, when I found myself on a hike on the beach enjoying the sun and waves (yes! Sun in February), I found myself face to face with a lot of this surf riding fluff.

The Hike

View from Hobbit Beach Trail heading toward Heceta Head

The Hike at a Glance

Trailhead: Hobbit Trail Trailhead (turnout on Highway 101 a little north of Heceta Head)

Miles: 1 mile round trip to the beach. 4 miles round trip to Heceta Head

Elevation Gain: almost 1000 ft

Notes: Trailhead can fill up easily on a nice day. There is no restroom at the trailhead. Trail is well signed and easy to follow.

Foam Fairy Tales

I grew up a Disney kid. I saw all of the movies, including The Little Mermaid. In fact, it was one of my favorites. I loved to sing the songs and dream of adventure, just like Ariel. Of course as an adult, I can see a lot of flaws in the timeless tale, but I digress. Anyway, later in my childhood, I was also exposed to the original story of The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Anderson. A much darker tail where Ariel is rejected by the prince, dies, and turns into sea foam. Though Hans, when he wrote The Little Mermaid didn’t know it, his depiction of the death of sea life turning into foam is not terribly inaccurate.

Good Foam

Sea foam is dissolved organic matter that has been churned up by the sea creating suds much, like washing detergent suds up when agitated. More agitation means more bubbles. Thus, in the winter, when there is more churning of the ocean, we often see more sea foam. But where did all these organics come from?

The dissolved organic matter that creates sea foam is mostly natural occurring. Ocean water is made of a lot of materials- salts, fats, proteins, and all sorts of particulates. All of these things have the potential to create bubbles when you shake them up. However, according to NOAA, one of the most common causes of thick piles of sea foam is dead algae.

When algae growth is high in the ocean, a lot more of it dies and ends up washed up on the beaches in sea foam. This is a good sign. Algae are producers – the base of the ocean food web- they transform sunlight and inorganic chemicals (carbon dioxide and water) through a fancy biochemical reaction into food and oxygen. A lot of dead algae means a lot of living algae available as food for ocean life.

Not So Good Foam

Of course it should be noted that algae blooms have the potential to be harmful. They can form toxins and other compounds that may be bad for people and wildlife. For example, in 2007 a harmful foam formed from algae called Akashiwo sanguinea on the west coast. The protein surfactants from the algae, in this case, stripped the natural waterproofing off the feathers of sea birds leading to hypothermia and death. Will we see more cases like this in the future? It is hard to tell.

It seems there is still much to learn about the foamy stuff. There are even some ideas floating around about using sea foam to increase the albedo (reflectivity of sunlight) of the ocean in order to limit global warming.

Pretty Good Foam

So for now, just enjoy watching sea foam pile up creating a beach wide winter bubble bath. Despite the fact that it contains the remains of living creatures, it is a better indicator of life than death. Besides, it sure is pretty to look at.

“What is sea foam? – NOAA’s National Ocean Service.” https://oceanservice.noaa.gov/facts/seafoam.html. Accessed 23 Feb. 2020.
“Mass Stranding of Marine Birds Caused by a Surfactant ….” 23 Feb. 2009, https://journals.plos.org/plosone/article?id=10.1371/journal.pone.0004550. Accessed 23 Feb. 2020.
[PDF] Can oceanic foams limit global warming | Semantic ….” https://www.semanticscholar.org/paper/Can-oceanic-foams-limit-global-warming-Evans-Stride/9efe53da9911cc80de2333184bbb13933d366926. Accessed 23 Feb. 2020.