Autumn along the eastern Olympic Peninsula

I’m presently in Washington for a research trip, but the weekend provides some non-work time to explore the magical Pacific Northwest. I drove up to Whidbey Island from southern Washington, but decided to travel along the eastern edge of the Olympic Peninsula instead of the usual route through Seattle. This afforded the chance for more scenic stops and a ride on the ferry, which I love.

Maples and conifer forest along Hood Canal.

Some jagged peaks in the Olympic range from the
Mt. Walker lookout point in the Olympic National
Forest.

The last few days have been sunny and relatively warm in the northwest, a pleasant and unpredictable occurrence this time of year. Autumn colors are in full glory, with bright yellow leaves of big leaf maples particularly abundant. Perhaps because the sun is lower on the horizon as the days shorten at these higher latitudes, colors seem rich and lighting is particularly attractive. The rain and clouds will return to dominate the winter and spring, but I’m fortunate to be up here during a brief window of pleasant weather.

Coastal marshes at the mouth of the Duckabush River
that empties into Hood Canal.

Mt. Rainier in the distance from the Olympic Peninsula.

Reflections of moonlight on water near Port Townsend.

Olympic National Forest.

Marin kayaking

There are few coastal areas along the west coast as urbanized as San Francisco Bay. But tied as our species is to land, the water of the Bay becomes the best place to experience open space. Sitting at essentially the water’s surface in a kayak, the Bay Area becomes more expansive and intimate at the same time. Water, salt and breeze are immediately present. The water is of course always in motion, so the kayaker cannot drift away in thought for too long. Constant awareness of ones’ surroundings is key.

I found a launch spot at a Marin County park on the Tiburon Peninsula and then proceeded to paddle south. The land along this part of the Bay is rocky and abrupt, leaving little easy room for development, so there is some semblance of naturalness on the peninsula. The elaborate coastal homes, some obscene in their size, are tacked onto hillsides or fill the small upland head of tiny beaches. San Francisco State’s marine science facility, converted from an old Navy installation, is located here too.

Looking across Raccoon Strait to the Golden Gate Bridge. Angel Island is to the
left and the Tiburon Peninsula is to the right.

The water enables views unattainable from land, especially along stretches of private land. With calm waters, I was able to row close to shore and observe the seaweeds on the inundated rocks, the lichens painted above the high tide line, and the trees that hang over the water.

A cruising pelican.

Pelicans passed by, some cruising at high speed just above the water surface. Still sporting a sort of dinosaurian vibe from their ancient ancestors, they are my favorite oceanic birds. I observed a dive or two during my time on the water. A diving bird descends rapidly from the sky and then hits the water in a sort of awkward splash. Some of these dives presumably end with a successful catch of fish. Every 20 minutes or so a harbor seal pokes up from under the water to peer at the visitors to his watery world, curious for a time before he dives back underwater. They probably don’t appreciate the boat traffic that criss-crosses the bay, but the smaller and quieter kayaks may be less intimidating to these animals.

North shore of Angel Island.

The Bay was reasonably calm and the main nuisance for a (non-oceanic) kayak was the motor boats that speed by quickly enough to leave wakes. Leaving the Marin mainland, I crossed Raccoon Strait (about 500 paddle strokes required) to arrive at the northern side of Angel Island. The entirety of the island is a state park. A tall island relative to its size, it has steep coastline like the Tiburon Peninsula to the north.

The island was vegetated with trees, shrubs and grasses. I found a narrow beach on the north shore, apparently inaccessible by foot, which would probably make a perfect secret picnic spot for someone arriving by small boat. I did not land on the island, but a visit ashore seems worth another trip to the island. Apparently one can camp at Angel Island too, probably an interesting camping experience in a less crowded oasis just miles away from millions of urban dwellers in all directions.

Curious harbor seal with the Richmond Bridge in the background.

Naturgemalde

Portrait of Alexander Humboldt by Mathew
Brady. Image source.

Alexander von Humboldt was one of the most pioneering naturalists to have lived since the reformation. Celebrated by his colleagues and contemporaries across the world, he was widely esteemed by other well-known global figures including Charles Darwin, President Thomas Jefferson, and the poet Goethe. His is honored in the naming of counties, a major oceanic current, and other geographic features worldwide, but in the United States he is less well known than his fame and accomplishments deserve.

Humboldt’s life was largely unknown to me too until reading Andrea Wulf’s recent biography of Humboldt, The Invention of Nature, published in 2015. Wulf walked in the footsteps of this remarkable man, following the intellectual journey of Humboldt and the other naturalists and thinkers he influenced over the last two centuries. Humboldt was a true “renaissance” individual, a student of an astounding diversity of intellectual disciplines including geology, botany, mining, anthropology, mountaineering, and poetry. Because of his prominence in the development of the fields of natural history and ecology, his life’s story alone would be compelling enough for me, but my appreciation for him deepened when Wolf’s biography enlightened me to his forward-looking social views (including a life-long contempt for colonialism, and slavery). That connection to Humboldt felt even more personal when surmising from his decades of particularly close friendships with men and his lack of marriage that he was probably gay as well¹. As a citizen of science, Humboldt was intensely restless and unendingly curious, traits that I share too, though surely in much less abundance and with much less profit than Humboldt.

Born and raised in Prussia in the late 1700s in relative wealth and comfort, Alexander and his older brother were eased into the intellectual life. At a young age both brothers began to associate with local intellectual figures including Goethe. Humboldt’s formal education and training included university studies and eventually turned to mining as a specialization. Soon he embarked on his first major scientific employment as a mining inspector, traveling throughout northern Europe. He worked hard at his new career, and used his spare time in the evenings to conduct experiments. Nevertheless his true love was exploration and natural history, topics that fueled grand ambitions to travel widely. Departure from Europe to realize his dream wasn’t possible immediately however, because he felt an obligation to family expectations and because Europe was embroiled in an unfavorable political environment at the time.

Two of Humboldt’s scientific publications: Essay on the Geography of Plants (left) and a later edition of Views of Nature (right). Images from the Biodiversity Heritage Library.

After several years waiting to leave what felt like the stifling confines of Europe, a unique opportunity finally befell the young adventurer. Humboldt was given extraordinary freedom by the King of Spain to travel to and explore the vast Spanish territories of Central and South America. With a young French botanist Aimé Bonpland, he sailed from Spain in 1799 to cross the Atlantic. Humboldt was 30 years old at the time, beginning a five year journey that would transform both the individual and the field of natural history itself.

Humboldt and Bonpland’s famous South American expedition brought them through thick tropical jungles, to hot savannas, and to the towering icy volcanic peaks of the Andes. Along the way, the two mapped the landscape and explored. In one excursion, they confirmed the existence of a river rumored to connect the great tropical rivers of the South American rain forest, the Orinoco and Amazon. Heading further south, the team climbed many of the Andean peaks – active volcanoes included – and made almost a full ascent of Mt. Chimborazo, an imposing Andean peak which was then believed to be the tallest mountain in the world.

After extensive travels in the northwestern region of South America, the two explorers also spent time in Mexico, Cuba, and the United States. Along their remarkable journey, Humboldt and Bonpland collected thousands of plant and animal specimens and made meticulous meteorological observations with instruments they brought over from Europe. Humboldt studied ancient indigenous cultures, observed agricultural practices, discovered that the magnetic equator was some six degrees south of the geographic equator, met famous and ordinary people alike, and grew to know more about South America than any other Europeans alive at the time.

Humboldt and Bonpland’s diagram of the distribution of plants with elevation at Mt. Chimborazo in the Andes which appeared in Essay on the Geography of Plants. This detailed figure – which includes data on altitude, climate data, and even the heights to which previous mountaineers had ascended – may be ecology’s first infographic. Image source.

Humboldt returned to Europe and began to publish extensively on his travels, beginning an extensive writing career that would eventually cover a remarkably broad array of scientific topics. The South American journey would turn out to be the most significant expedition that Humboldt took in his life. His desire to travel didn’t wane after returning to Europe from South America, and though he would be denied his deep desire to journey to India, he traveled widely within Europe over the next few decades of life. During this period of his middle age, he lived most of the time in Paris, Berlin, and London, supported in part by a royal stipend granted to him by the King of Prussia that funded his living expenses and publications. Humboldt notoriously failed to manage his finances well, concerning himself much more with science, travel, and publications. He lectured, wrote and received thousands of letters, met and conversed with the leading European scientists of the day, and was generous in supporting young scientists. He was an incessant talker and brash on occasion.

Detailed sections of Humboldt and Bonpland’s figure on the distribution of plants with altitude. The image includes hundreds of species and genus names including the Ericaceous shrub Vaccinium and grass Andropogon (at left), and, to my delight as an enthusiast of algae, the aquatic green algal genus Ulva (at right). Images from publications in Biodiversity Heritage Library.

The fruits of his travels in the Americas were bountiful, enabling many publications and advancing Humboldt to the highest intellectual circles in Europe. But he still wanted to see more. With India inaccessible (it was controlled by the Britian’s East India Company which probably didn’t like Humboldt’s outspokenly unfavorable disposition towards colonialism), he settled on a different adventure that would allow him to continue his study of mountains and confirm the patterns he had already observed in South America and Europe. At about age 60, decades after his South American travels, he embarked on a remarkable loop though Russia on a relatively speedy 8 month journey that covered over 10,000 miles. Relative to his South America expedition, he traveled in greater physical comfort, and with a larger crew of fellow scientists. This trip to the Urals, across Siberia, and to the Altai Mountains in central Asia provided confirmatory evidence for many of the scientific ideas he developed earlier. Though fruitful, in terms of length, biota, and intellectual freedom it could not overshadow the South American journey.

Humboldt’s wide ranging interests and tremendous intellectual capacity manifest throughout his life resulted in accomplishments in an astonishing array of fields. For instance, he wrote about the evolution of species, predating Darwin’s “Origin of Species” by decades (Darwin’s great accomplishment, aided by Wallace, was to piece together disparate lines of evidence to posit natural selection as the mechanism of evolution). He mused about a potential ancient connection between Africa and South America, hinting at the idea of the movement of crustal plates across the earth (plate tectonics), a key principle of modern geology that would not be widely accepted scientifically until 150 years later.

He dabbled in an astounding breadth of disciplines and never failed to impress even the most esteemed scientists of his day. One of his greatest talents was the ability to forge connections between disciplines and ideas, a holistic approach to science that was becoming increasingly rare even in his day when the tendency of scientists was to specialize and pursue reductionist approaches to studying the natural world. To Humboldt, everything in nature and human society was interconnected; mere catalogues of facts or collections of specimens inadequately captured that complexity and relationships.

Humboldt made profound advances in natural history, laying a solid foundation for the field of ecology that would more formally develop from natural history a century later. One of his greatest contributions was “naturgemälde”, a German concept that Wulf explains would roughly translate as “painting of nature”. Naturgemälde was Humboldt’s revolutionary way of depicting nature, a view that emphasized connection and unity between all of life and between life and the abiotic world. He saw the world as non-static and evolving, a key idea that underpins our modern understanding of astronomy, geology, evolution, and ecology.

One of the pivotal moments in the development of the holistic perspective of nature came to Humboldt as he scaled Chimborazo in the Andes. As he passed from the hot tropical forests that occurred at lower elevations to the cooler climate at greater heights, he observed how the flora changed with the ascent. From tropical species at the base of the mountain, the flora changed to finally consist of only lichens in the high alpine. As he climbed, he stopped periodically to make measurements of air pressure, temperature, and other variables. He thought of climate gradients throughout the world and what he knew of plant distributions in other geographic areas. Linking all of these facts, he made the connection between plant distributions and climate gradients, not just for Chimborazo but on a global scale. He would confirm his observations about the link between plants and climate in the Andes with observations in the Altai Mountains made during his travels of central Asia decades later.

Humboldt was the father of biogeography, inspiring the travels of other great naturalists including Charles Darwin and John Muir, both of whom traveled extensively prior to their literary accomplishments. Darwin and Muir both read Humboldt, the former marking his books with meticulous notes aboard the Beagle, and each longed to travel to South America in Humboldt’s footsteps.

A figure by William Woodbridge in 1823 dividing the world into climate zones based on temperature using isotherms. Humboldt invented isoclines, the concept of depicting data in two dimensions (e.g., a map) with lines that denote equal values of a parameter. Isoclines are used to show gradients of temperature (isotherms), barometric pressure (isobars), etc. Woodbridge used global temperature data gathered by Humboldt and others in his figure. Image source.

Humboldt made the connection between forests and ecosystem function, and he noted that a single species could affect an array of other species in an ecosystem. This insight came from observing that the palm trees that dominated the hot plains of the Llanos in Venezuela “spread life around it in the desert”. Humboldt was hinting at concepts that would later be termed “foundation species”, or “ecosystem engineer” by modern ecologists, the idea that one species provides the basis for an entire ecosystem (Dayton 1972, Jones et al. 1997).

In Humboldt’s worldview, humankind was also part of the fabric of nature, but often in negative ways. In both South America and in Russia, he saw the impact of poor agricultural practices on local ecosystems. He noted that deforestation raised local temperatures and decreased soil water capacity, making the vital connection between human effects on ecosystem and subsequent changes in climate at the local scale. He even presciently made this connection more generally, suggesting that the pollution humankind was emitting into the atmosphere could affect temperatures globally. The connections between climate, human activity, and ecosystems is of course one of the most profound environmental issues we face today.

Thanks to Wulf’s excellent biography, Humboldt is my newest intellectual hero and I’m eager to read some of his published work and to walk in his intellectual footsteps. He’s an excellent role model for thinking holistically, and of the ambition and creativity that move science forward.

Notes

1. As a social construct, “gay” or “lesbian” identities probably did not exist in the 18^th or 19^th century western world, but as a sexual and romantic orientation, non-heterosexuality has existed for thousands of years among diverse cultures worldwide. 

2. All images in this post are in the public domain.

References

Dayton PK. 1972. Toward an understanding of community resilience and the potential effects of enrichment to the benthos at McMurdo Sound, Antarctica. In: Proceedings of the Colloquium on Conservation Problems in Antarctica.

Jones CG, Lawton JH, Shachak M. 1997 Positive and negative effects of organisms as physical ecosystem engineers. Ecology 78:1946-1957.

Quammen D. 1996. The Song of the Dodo. Scribner, New York.

Wulf A. 2015. The Invention of Nature. Alexander von Humboldt’s New World. Vintage Books, New York.

Carson-Iceberg Wilderness

Folger Peak from the Carson-Iceberg Wilderness.

After a hot California summer (one for which I was admittedly away for a decent portion), fall appears to finally be here. There are cooler temperatures in the Central Valley and day length is noticeably shorter.

Last weekend I ventured to the crest of the Sierra for a short excursion into the Carson-Iceberg Wilderness, one of the more northerly of the string of wilderness areas, national parks, and national monuments that protect much of the Sierra Nevada. The Carson is south of the Mokelumne Wilderness and north of Emigrant Wilderness and Yosemite National Park. It straddles the crest of the mountains that Muir called the “Range of Light”, incorporating part of the Humboldt-Toiyabe National Forest to the east and the Stanislaus National Forest to the west. The name of the wilderness derives from an early California settler (Kit Carson) and a unique rock formation within the wilderness (named Iceberg).

Map of wilderness areas in the Sierra Nevada
range. Map from sierrawild.gov.

I hiked into the wilderness with B from the Tryon Meadow trailhead. The trail was not very distinct in places, and therefore probably not frequently used, but obvious enough to not get steered too far off course. It passed through lightly dense forests of pine and firs, crossing a few very tiny streams. Some remnant patches of snow lingered on the western flank of Folger Peak, but the evidence of the very wet 2016-2017 California winter was otherwise gone.

We ended the hike at Milk Ranch Meadow, a lovely expanse of sedge-dominated wetlands occupying a broad valley. The lush yellow-green Carex swayed with the mild gusts of wind. The air was cool, but there was a clear sky full of warming sun. Open water in the form of a small lake and even smaller ponds occurred within the Carex meadow, and the wetland itself had standing water.

I spent about an hour trying to photograph dragonflies busy with activity over the wetland. I walked out on to the white skeleton branches of a fallen tree that penetrated into the wetland like a decaying pier. There appeared to be three dragonfly species: a rarer black form, a smaller red species, and a larger blue species that occupied much of my time. The red species was relatively easy to photograph because it would land patiently on the tree branches. The blue species, however, was constantly in motion, hovering above the sedges for a second and then descending into the vegetation, then pairing with a friend (or competitor) to dash off to a new spot above the meadow. They moved nearly constantly, seldom landed, and often mid-flight took a sharp turn to move in a different direction, all aspects of behavior that made them a keen challenge to capture by camera.

The blue dragonfly species.

Wetland at Milk Ranch Meadow.

The wilderness and adjacent national forest had a variety of flowers in bloom, including a very abundant species of pink Sidalcea, blue lupines with large palmate leaves, Spiraea splendens, and yellow and blue asters. Ipomopsis aggregata showed off its flame red flowers, with a long floral tube and five sharp pointed petals.

The high Sierra had some signs of the approaching fall season like a few hints of yellowing branches on the otherwise green aspens. The abundant corn lilies (Veratrum californicum) with their poisonous leaves, growing in patches in open areas, were well on their way to senescence too. Snow apparently returned to the Sierra over the past few days, and while the initial dusting may melt, soon the high peaks will be blanketed again. In the fluctuating annual precipitation regimes of California, and the longer-term pressure of a changing climate, will this year being a return of drought conditions, another wet year, or something closer to the long-term average?

References

Wenk E. 2015. Wildflowers of the High Sierra and John Muir Trail. Wilderness Press, Birmingham, AL.

Wilson L, Wilson J, Nicholas J. 1987. Wildflowers of Yosemite. Sunrise Productions, Yosemite, CA.

The red dragonfly species.

Ipomopsis aggregata (Polemoniaceae) at left and Sidalcea sp. (Malvaceae) at right.

Incredible plants: ocotillo

A flowering ocotillo in the western Arizona desert,
April 2017.

Primary productivity in desert environments is low. Water is the limiting resource for desert vegetation, whereas sunlight is available in overabundance. Desert plants generally only attain relatively short stature, and either flourish in annual bursts of growth (when rains come) or grow slowly over years and decades, responding opportunistically to rainfall availability over the longer term. Plants like cacti or the iconic Joshua Tree (Yucca brevifolia) of the southwest follow the latter strategy. In the life cycle of the ocotillo, one of my favorite desert plants, this species sort of embodies a bit of both strategies.

Ocotillo (Fouquieria splendens) is indicative of the Sonoran Desert, the hot low-elevation deserts of southeast California, eastern Arizona, and northwest Mexico. In terms of growth habit, the plants are one of the larger of the woody desert species in the southwestern US, reaching up to 10 m in height. They may live a century or two.

Germination of a young ocotillo requires a significant summer rainfall event of several centimeters. Most young seedlings will succumb to drought, frost or herbivores. Survivors become larger and woody. The stems of adult plants have a mottled grey and black surface with furrows. Sharp grey foreboding spines are abundant all over the stems.

Ocotillo leaves are short, spoon-shaped, and of two types. The primary leaves emerge from a petiole (which when dried, becomes the numerous spines lining the stems), while secondary leaves emerge in clusters directly from the base of the spines of the primary leaves and don’t have associated spines of their own. Secondary leaves are produced episodically and gorw in profusion very shortly after a good rain soaks the soil. The plant doesn’t invest for the long-term in these secondary leaves, rather they are produced without a cuticle (allowing easy CO₂ uptake but making them susceptible to water loss). After a few weeks mining the soil for water, the plant sheds its temporary leaves and will go physiologically dormant during a subsequent period of drought. Dormant plants retain living cells internally, but shallow roots die off and secondary leaves are lost.

Bare stem (left) on a plant from Joshua Tree National Park, CA, Feb 2012 and secondary leaves (right) on a plant from Arizona, April 2017. 

Inflorescence, western Arizona, April 2017.

Ocotillo are placed in their own plant family, the Fouquieriaceae, a small group of woody species endemic to Mexico and the southwestern US. The family is believed to have evolved in the subtropics during the Miocene (5-24 mya). The species grows below 2500 ft and occurs from California and Baja California eastward to Texas. The species is not tolerant of freezing temperatures which may be one factor limiting its occurrence in the Mojave and Great Basin deserts to the north where winter-time frost is likely.

Flowers are produced on branch tips. From a distance they appear as red flames. Flower petals are up to 2.5 cm long and are fused into a trumpet-shaped tube. A tuft of red stamens emerges beyond the corolla extending the length of the flower. Hummingbirds enjoy the nectar produced by the flowers.

References

Baldwin BG et al. (eds). 2012. The Jepson Manual. Higher Plants of California. 2^nd ed. University of California Press, Berkeley, CA.

Munz PA. 1962. California Desert Wildflowers. University of California Press, Berkeley CA.

Pavlik BM. 2008. The California Deserts. An Ecological Rediscovery. University of California Press, Berkeley, CA.

Leaf-less ocotillo in the Sonoran desert portion of Joshua
Tree National Park, Feb 2012.

The Fiery Furnace

The Fiery Furnace, Arches National Park, April 2017.

Arches National Park in eastern Utah does not have any designated wilderness areas, but the Fiery Furnace is one specially regulated area that is accessible by permit only. It is located in the central region of the park near the main road that winds from south to north. Should one describe the Furnace succinctly, it might be called a labyrinth of rocky pillars.

Upon the suggestion of an acquaintance I met on the trail during my first day at Arches this past April, I checked in at the park’s visitor’s center to see if a permit for the Furnace was available. In fact, a permit could be had for the following day which was to be my last morning in Moab. Because I had plans to be in Mesa Verde NP by that afternoon, it had to be a quick visit of necessity.

Recent NAIP imagery of the Fiery Furnace area (from 2017
USGS topographic map). The parking lot and access trail to
the labyrinth of fins can be seen in the lower left corner.

The morning was calm and quiet with only a car or two in the parking lot of the Fiery Furnace. I entered the area via a short trail that led northward. Beyond that, permitted hikers were free to explore as they pleased, but regulations required visitors to walk only in sandy washes and on rocks to protect the more delicate geologic features such as soil crusts and sand dunes. Because I was unfamiliar with the area, I had no detailed map, and my schedule couldn’t afford the possibility of getting lost for any length of time, I decided that I would not wander too deeply into the maze.

The labyrinth of rocky fins at the Fiery Furnace formed from the same geologic processes that led to the creation of the iconic stone arches present elsewhere in the park. The fins resulted from ancient uplift of sandstone slabs that were underlain and pushed up by salt-infused mounds, followed by erosion of the uplifted rock along seams. The outcome: a series of parallel rusty red stone blocks set above the rest of the terrain. In the Furnace, the fins are oriented from northwest to southeast and have sandy gullies in between them.

At the start of my hike, I followed a wash at the western edge of the Furnace that was relatively open. It narrowed in places where one had to squeeze between rocks. Next I ventured a little deeper into the labyrinth, following a few small passages that meandered to the east and the north. I found a handful of markers for a self-guided loop trail that the Park Service had set up to guide visitors through the area. Along one of these shaded passages I passed under a small stone arch. The passage continued for a ways longer until it reached a terminus, boxed in by tall fins. At this dead end, a hole in the rock above created a natural sunroof.

Among the fins. At left a small sunroof in the sandstone rock can be seen in the top of a small alcove. At right: an arch I traveled under. 

Temporary sand sculptures crafted by light rainfall at night.

A light rain had fallen the night before my visit. In the sandy washes of the Furnace, there were little shallow saucers of coalesced sand gains on the otherwise smooth sand, the temporary sculptures of single rain drops. The other lovely sand features, as yet undisturbed from the footprints of human visitors, were animal tracks. Several types of fauna appeared to be involved in creating these, among them birds and lizards.

Vegetation wasn’t uncommon in the Fiery Furnace and it included pinyon pine and juniper, the common large woody species of the southwestern deserts. There were also other woody plants including two species of oaks and flowering shrubs of the rose family.

The narrow passages between the tall rock fins were shaded and cool and many probably seldom saw direct sunlight during the course of the day. In some of the more open areas of the Furnace, the crusts were more developed on the soil surface. These biological crusts (also called “cryptogamic crusts”) are a dark biological coating of living and dead organisms at the soil surface. Their biotic composition includes cyanobacteria, fungi, and algae (Pavlik 2008). The crusts provide stability to the surface soils, reducing erosion. Their other functions in the desert include storing nutrients and enhancing seed germination of vascular plants (Pavlik 2008).

Cryptogamic soil crust in the Fiery Furnace.

Having now seen enough to know that the Furnace is one of the gems of Arches, I hope to someday return for a time to get lost in the labyrinth of fins and alluring passages.

References

Morris TH, Ritter SM, Laycock DP. 2012. Geology Unfolded. An Illustrated Guide to the Geology of Utah’s National Parks. BYU Press.

Pavlik BM. 2008. The California Deserts. An Ecological Rediscovery. University of California Press, Berkeley, CA.

Fiery Furnace and with the La Sal Mountains in the background.

Animal tracks in the sand.

Solar eclipse 2017

I was fortunate to have a work trip to Oregon this month, and to be able to extend my visit by a few days to see the eclipse courtesy of an inexpensive room rental followed by the generous provision of a couch by a friend and colleague. Also in my favor, the skies of Corvallis – one of the Oregon cities along the North American path of totality – were clear this morning.

The full event lasted some two hours, commencing with the moon taking a small bite out of the upper right corner of the sun. As the un-obscured portion of the sun grew smaller to a narrower crescent, little dancing flecks of light appeared through the trees on the street and sidewalk. The light dimmed, but not considerably until the sun was almost completely obscured by the full moon. A few planets or stars appeared in the sky.

Two exposures of the sun's corona at totality, Corvallis, OR.

Then, quickly we plunged into relative darkness and the burning halo of the sun’s corona appeared in the sky. Totality lasted less than 2 minutes and I fumbled in my excitement to snap a few photos on my camera mounted to a tripod. Just focusing and changing exposure was a challenge.

A shot right at the end of totality when the sun's disk begins to re-appear.

Equally quickly, the eclipse’s totality was gone and a thin strip of light appeared on the other side of the sun. Daylight returned and I wish totality had lasted longer!

The video above shows the projection of crescents of light onto the street when the eclipse was nearing totality.

Wilderness: An enduring resource

Three Sisters Wilderness, Cascade Range, Oregon, 2012.

Over the course of working on this blog for the last six years, I have shared thoughts and photos about the natural history of the western US. I have touched on science here and there, and tried to describe my natural history experiences in a way that educates and inspires. With “wilderness” the operative word in the title of this journal, I’ve wanted to discuss the broader meanings of the concept and offer some additional thoughts about what the idea and experience of wilderness mean to me. In short, it is past time to offer a preface to the central theme of this blog.

Wilderness refers to specific places, an idea intimately tied to space. These are areas of land (usually) or volumes of ocean that are distinguished for their intrinsic “naturalness”. That naturalness is a matter of degree as much as kind in the modern world, because every geographic place is simultaneously somewhat natural and somewhat unnatural in character.

Most of us have an intuitive sense about the difference between natural and unnatural, but what about wilderness? Is it something more than simply a natural area, perhaps a manifestation of nature in a unique state? Does it include areas where human beings infrequently reside such as rural areas or parks? In the 21^st century with near total human dominance of the planet, does wilderness even exist?

The Wilderness Act of 1964, enacted to preserve specific US federal lands as wilderness, offers a starting point in terms of understanding how wilderness might refer to something more specific than simply “nature”. With preservation as a focus, the Act defined wilderness as “an area where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain”.  In its quality, wilderness is meant to be “unimpaired” and in its scope it is intended to be an “enduring resource”, even if specific areas are rather limited in their geographic extent.

Joshua Tree in Death Valley National Park, 2016.
Most of the park is designated wilderness.

While the practical application of the Wilderness Act was to set aside certain land areas in the United States as wilderness, the Act also lays out wilderness as a concept. That notion did not just suddenly appear 50 years ago, but was almost certainly the evolution of many years of thought about the interaction between humans and nature stretching back to Muir and beyond. Conceptually wilderness touches on science, law, and aesthetics. On a personal level, it also embodies certain values for me, in much the same way that liberty and knowledge are cognitive and emotional guideposts which center and structure my life.

The Act’s brief definition of wilderness pivots on the presence and impact of humankind, for example, prohibiting roads or permanent structures in designated wilderness areas. The absence of human-kind and our infrastructure could be the simple criterion for wilderness. However, our activities are important too, and the Act suggests (or is at least consistent with the notion) that the predominance of natural processes distinguishes wilderness from non-wilderness areas. A farm, for instance cannot be wilderness, because the processes affecting the area’s hydrology, vegetation, and soil are all dominated by humankind.

Another way to think of wilderness, admittedly from a biologically-centered perspective, is as a collection of organisms in an ecosystem that in their composition and abundance are relatively unaltered by human activity. This definition allows for the recognition that virtually every ecosystem today has at least some non-native species present. But if species composition in an area is predominantly native (i.e., non-endemic species are a minor and unobtrusive component), we might capture some of the sense of what constitutes wilderness. Non-native species are of course natural, but they are not present outside their endemic range without human activity as a vector. By this definition, a farm fails too because its plant species are non-native, its native fauna is consequently altered by the change in vegetation, and its soil microbial community would be expected to deviate too from natural composition by farming practices.

Wilderness also evokes a sense of pristine, primitive, and pre-historic, each of these qualities being the antithesis of the presence of humankind. When nature exists in such a state, we might learn about how organisms interact in ecosystems prior to, or absent from, pressures added by human activity. In theory, such examples might be windows into how prehistoric ecosystems functioned. In reality, our influence is pervasive and even the most extensive tracks of wilderness cannot be completely regarded as independent of our activities, past and present. Wilderness areas may lack current human intervention, yet they may deviate from their prehistoric condition because they have been altered by past activities such as removal of top predators across large geographic areas.

Madrone in the Ventana Wilderness, central California, 2015.

I’m not partisan to any of these ways of considering wilderness. I think both the functional (processes) and structural (native biota) definitions have merit (and probably would usually point to the same conclusions about whether an area is wilderness or not). They highlight that humankind affects nature in different ways – from alteration of local natural processes (hydrology, productivity), to changes in regional species composition (species invasions), to diffuse but widespread impacts (climate change, chemical and light pollution). The preservation of wilderness as an “enduring resource” hinges on minimization of these impacts at a range of scales.

For the rest of this essay, I turn to an exploration of the ways in which wilderness helps articulate some of my personal values and outlook.

First, wilderness exemplifies what I feel is the proper relationship between our species and the other millions of species that occupy Earth. True, as a species we need wood for timber, land for habitation, and farms for food, but the scale of that exploitation is in our hands to determine through choices about our population size and the relative care with which we use and recycle resources. Wilderness reminds us, for our own sake and the eventual destiny of other species, to step back, and to eschew overindulgence. It reminds us that our species can and should have other objectives besides complete dominance of the biosphere. While no other species exists with any specific raison d’etre inherent in its existence, our relative consciousness and awareness places us in a unique position of self-reflection and regulation, one which can be employed for our own long-term well being. On a personal level, wilderness reminds me to balance the impulses of competition and exploitation, with an ethic of limiting impact, respecting life, and eschewing waste.

John Muir Wilderness, Sierra Nevada Range, CA, 2017.

Wilderness reestablishes a proper sense of scale for us as a species. It invites us to correct the flattery we heap upon ourselves with regard to our power, influence, and importance. A marvelous, ingenious, and conquering species we are. But next to a bristlecone pine, we are but a brief acquaintance; next to a microbe that can fashion its own food in a boiling sulfur spring, we are metabolically feeble; next to the efficiency of social insects, we are a disorganized and discordant lot. In scale, no human engineering feat compares to the tidal forces that shape coastlines, or the oxygenation of the entire atmosphere by the microscopic ancestors of cyanobacteria two billion years ago. There are other organisms that run faster, swim better, endure harsher temperatures, or exhibit enviable self-sufficiency by unfurling a leaf towards the sun to make their own food. Our species is not less impressive than the other millions inhabiting Earth, but it is not more marvelous either. In wilderness we can be reminded of that humbling perspective and adjust our conscious feelings toward, and interactions with, nature accordingly.

Vine maple in the Menagerie Wilderness, OR, 2012.

Next, wilderness embodies perhaps the most fundamental aesthetic by which our artistic proclivities are enlightened. Isn’t art built in large measure from the harmonies, shapes, forms, and colors nature has already invented? Imagine the painting made by the light streaming through a vine maple growing in the forest understory, its delicate sprays of palmate leaves dancing lightly with the breeze, and leaves glowing the most vibrant green. Each such vine maple painting in each forest is transitory and unique, evoking our aesthetic wonder. Each day such forests change slightly in composition, and in a generation, a vine maple seed will start the process of painting a whole new sculpture of lignin and chlorophyll.

Wilderness invites simplicity which can be one of the most powerful expressions of art, like those embodied in the Zen aesthetic. While in nature, I’m often drawn to the complexity of a beautiful landscape – the collective view of clouds, mountains, forest, snow, and flowers – but perhaps I’m inspired even more so by the simpler patterns in nature such as a dark mineral seam coursing through the surface of granite bedrock, or a repeating pattern in nature (coupled with just a touch of random organization) in the clouds, snow, or water surface.

The inhabitants of wild places model simplicity for us too – their simplicity is one of purpose. An organism’s basic programming is only essentially to survive, grow, and reproduce. But to our good fortune, nature succeeds in accomplishing these simple purposes with great beauty. Few would find interest keenly observing a friend eating, but how we would readily watch a herbivore graze on delicate meadow plants or a predator adeptly approach its prey in perfect stillness.

Third, wilderness reminds us of renewal and impermanence. It shows us that new life and new composition inevitably follow death and decomposition. As a species, our spirits are renewed in the wild. We are re-encouraged, reinvigorated, and rejoice. Continuity of life is manifest in this cycle of renewal, not in any one organism, mountain, or river, but in the collective. Nature teaches that impermanence is the most consistent attribute of life at any scale. The closest that nature may come to impermanence may be the constancy of her change, the relentlessness with which she shapes and reshapes rocks and mountains and the ever evolving web of life. As humans, we all participate in this relentless change, and whatever barriers we might construct between each other or between our species and the rest of living earth, we are inexorably united as participants in change, in being subject to the ever-changing flow of matter and energy through nature.

Recognizing the inevitability of impermanence, wilderness helps set a sustainable pace and tempo. So much of our modern society is too frantic, too focused on the inane. True, the twists and turns of our lives are just as transitory as the flow of water through a creek or the birth and death of deciduous leaves, but how often do we mistakenly view the mundane details of our lives with a level of importance they do not merit? We can humbly dedicate the small acts of our lives towards a greater human ecosystem.

The paradox of wilderness is that it excludes humans by definition, but we of course are the product of nature too, formed by the same evolutionary forces that have shaped other millions of species over billions of years of Earth’s history. Our natural origins notwithstanding, wilderness warns us of the danger we pose to ourselves and to the rest of life. We can be destructive, violent, impetuous, and perverse, propensities which are unlikely to end all of life on Earth, but which could certainly end our own geologic tenure as a species or make continued existence a lot less pleasant for our descendents. Wilderness is threatened by our ever expanding global reach, and we stand to lose not only nature’s evolutionary treasures but the values they model for us. Let’s recognize the irreplaceable value of wilderness and preserve it as an enduring resource.

- Summer 2017. Mt. Rainier National Park, WA; John Muir Wilderness, CA; Portland OR.

Bandelier Wilderness, Bandelier National Monument, NM, 2017.

John Muir Wilderness III

Mt. Humphreys, John Muir Wilderness.

Monday, 31 July 2017.

Morning, Piute Lake. Clouds 0%. Last evening’s storm and clouds have given way to a warm, calm, sunny morning. The sun, still relatively low in the sky to the east, at the left of the canyon, highlights the numerous flat granite slabs that were worn smooth by past glacial action. They are shining in the sun. In fact, the rock on which we’ve been cooking meals near the tent is one such stone, polished by past glacial scouring.

The busy cascade of water feeding into the west end of Piute Lake provides a constant backdrop of singing, but the morning melodies of birds that so often accompany camping and hiking trips, seem mostly muted here. The consistent nuisance is mosquitoes, which are out at all times of the day. Though not terribly abundant at most times, one wastes time swatting at them, trying to ensure that if they do bite, you are their last meal. One wonders how these parasitic creatures can be so numerous here. Potential victims do not seem abundant themselves, whether that is backpackers or other mammals. During the trip I have seem some marmots, a hare, and a few other small mammals, but no wildlife in abundance. I like almost all forms of life, but have a hard time appreciating the likes of mosquitoes, tapeworms, and ridiculously shaved poodles.

Meadow of shooting stars and valley to the west.

Late morning, Humphrey’s Lakes area. Clouds 15%. We climbed over Piute Pass to the west again, and this time veered in a more northerly direction into the extensive fields of granite south of Mt. Humphreys. MWS’s map indicated that numerous lakes were present in the area, mostly small, and from a little bit of a high vantage point I can already seen ten of them.

Afternoon, Piute Pass. Clouds 70%. We wandered back towards the pass through the tree-less granite fields passing more snowfields and a tiny lovely meadow that was populated with many pink blooms of shooting stars (Primula fragrans). Looping over the ridge just north of Piute Pass we found a delightful area of alpine gardens full of shrubby pines, pink mountain heath (Phyllodoce breweri), other flowers, and abundant water flowing in creeklets merrily to the east. One major creeklet is almost a stream, forming cascades and mini-waterfalls before plunging beneath a snowfield creating a snow cave! I squatted below the fragile lip of the snow cave, getting sprayed by the creek and observing again streaks of red algae in the firm snow. Also in this area we found a “peeing rock”, literally a fine stream of water shooting out two feet horizontally from a vertical rock face which had a small hole in it.

A small mountain stream plunging into a snow cave near Piute Pass.

MWS pretending to drink from the "peeing"
rock near Piute Pass.

After heading down from Piute Pass back towards camp, we rambled again off trial for a time, observing a collection of creeklets that meandered through beautiful meadows. There were more water cascades and small waterfalls. I also found a new delightful shrub (Rosaceae probably) with white petaled flowers and a lovely fragrance. Back at camp I took an exceedingly brief plunge into Piute Lake, lasting just a few seconds in the very cold water. The mosquitoes have been less bothersome today.

Evening, Piute Lake. Clouds 60%. On a rocky ledge a short distance WNW of the campsite, I discovered a small grove of quaking aspen, mixed with some pines. The plants graded in size from small shrubs to very small trees, some with their heart-shaped leaves dutifully fluttering in the evening wind. The woody stems of the plants vary in color from silver to orange and the leaf petioles are red, feeding into the green leaves. This is the highest elevation population of aspens I have seen on the trip. There are grey clouds to the east and west ends of the valley, but no rain as of yet, though I can see vertical streaks in the sky towards Owens Valley where there are probably showers. The half moon, bright in the sky to the south, is about 45 degrees above the horizon. The lake is rippling gently with the evening breeze and is a dark green color to the south, grey shimmers to the east.

Snow algae and snow "craters" in the Humphreys Lakes area.

For my last saunter of the day, I climbed the granite rubble that slopes up at the north end of the valley to inspect the base of a small waterfall that seemed to be a constant source of sound in the valley. A ribbon of vegetation followed the water’s course down the otherwise mostly barren slope. It was populated with sedges, red paintbrushes, Achillea millefolium, Delphinium, and abundant rosaceous shrubs with prolific yellow flowers. There is a slight fragrance in the air too, perhaps due to the latter species. The sky is beginning to turn pink to the west and night will come soon.

Reference

Wenk E. 2015. Wildflowers of the high Sierra and John Muir trail. Wilderness Press, Birmingham, AL.

Granite boulders that may have been left by retreating glaciers.

More snow algae, a partially covered lake, and Mt.
Humphreys in the background.

A spike of Pedicularis sp. flowers, John Muir
Wilderness.