It was a blast to volunteer with TeamSmile and the Los Angeles Chargers this past week. Over 200 kids were bussed in from local schools to receive free dental care. Many of them had never even gone to the dentist before. A great cause and a great day!
Exploring color and shape with my microscope adapter and some common household materials.
It's not an original idea, but it's something that I am going to take up when I travel - the classic "beer in hand, check out the land" photo.
Here are some I took while traveling in Europe.
Edinburgh --> Amsterdam --> Zürich --> Madrid --> Barcelona
It's remarkable how animals find ways to adapt in environments completely developed by people.
Spring has rolled around and it seems like every species of bird in the neighborhood is shacking up in the back yard. There is a pair of house finches holed up in a gutter with four newly hatched chicks, their necks stretching blindly for food with faces only a mother could love. Hopefully they have flood insurance.
House sparrows made a home out of the various boxes on the power pole and can be seen fluttering in and out throughout the day.
The new comers, a couple of mourning doves, have been busy constructing a nest two feet from the patio table, with the male busily fetching twigs and the female doing the fine tuning. A couple days after landing, two robust eggs appeared.
Earlier in the year, there was a hummingbird nest built literally above the back door. The youngling has since grown up, but I'm sure it still visits the feeders in its old stomping grounds.
All of these nests were within 30 square feet of each other. Sometimes you really don't have to go anywhere to appreciate nature.
It's not always sunny in Southern California. Photos from a stormy Sunday in Newport Beach.
My parents always warned me about you. How you’re big and dirty, and of course, about your problem with the T word. But yet, here we are. Like most people at the beginning of a relationship, I’m hesitant. I come from a town 1,800 times smaller than you – in fact, my entire state barely has more people than you do within your limits. I might (will) get claustrophobic sometimes and I may have to leave every now and then. Please don’t take it personally.
From the short time we’ve spent together, I can say this – I’m willing to give it a try. You may not be as green and covered with trees as home, but the violet blossoms of your jacarandas are incredibly beautiful. Nearby, you provide mountains to explore and beaches for breathing in that salty ocean air. I appreciate the effort you made this year to make me feel at home, even though all that rain nearly melted the locals. Your artwork is amazing and I haven't even mentioned your cooking yet! As I'm writing this, I dream of your street tacos.
It’s almost time to dive into your culture and add a few stars to your creative galaxy. What I’m most encouraged by is the future. There will be hard times, but I'm certain the good will outweigh the bad. I look forward to growing as a person in your embrace. You have my word that I will at least peek through every open door, and knock really loud on those that are closed.
For the one I love, I know I can learn to love you.
Recently, I ventured south on California's Pacific Coast Highway, accompanied by my adventure partners for the day, Mallory and Alli. Our plan was to retrace one of my earlier excursions by hiking to Lower Moro Campground in Crystal Cove State Park, and then finish the day by visiting one of Laguna Beach's most iconic landmarks.
Crystal Cove is quite emphatically the gem of Orange County's coastline. The pristine, aqua blue waters are home to vibrant tidal pool ecosystems and frequent whale sightings farther out to sea. On the other side of the road, a vast trail system branches out and up into the San Joaquin Hills, a beautiful area popular with hikers and mountain bikers alike.
We set out from El Moro trailhead, quickly gaining elevation along the southernmost ridge trail. Southern California had an uncharacteristically wet winter and although the wildflower "super bloom" farther east received all of the attention, Crystal Cove was the greenest it had been for years. Orange California poppies exploded here and there while black mustard plants towered over the path, painting large swaths of bright yellow on the verdant hillside canvas. A steady, refreshingly brisk wind flowed from the ocean like an encouraging mantra, urging us higher and higher.
About two and a half miles in, we reached our destination, Lower Moro Campground, a small plot of 10 to 15 sites with bathroom facilities but no running water. Staying a night there is on my list - I'm sure watching the sunset from the peak, and the sunrise the next morning, would make for an unforgettable view. But just then, the vista was enough, and Mallory and Alli agreed. From there, Newport Beach stretched north, the jetties at the Wedge and the bay all visible. Even farther to the horizon, a thin cap of snow atop the San Gabriel Mountains held on against the April sun, a strange sight considering the hot temperatures we were experiencing. Several buzzards soared level with us, riding the thermals and updrafts with effortless acrobatics, putting on a show.
Only a month prior, I had stumbled upon a nearby mountaintop oasis, a pond that is undoubtedly spring fed but was bolstered by the heavy rain fall. Then, the water was deep and countless tadpoles (more than I have ever seen concentrated in one place) swam in the mud around the edge. Since then, the campground had been overgrown, but I still managed to pick my way back, finding the bed empty but still damp. My hunch was that not everything was as it seemed and sure enough, those tadpoles had grown into frogs, and some into toads by the look of it. They came pouncing out of the vegetation, tiny dots hued red, brown and green. Careful not to step on any, we knelt down for a closer look and another surprise. Toads began pouring out of holes in the ground, exiting their cool and dark burrows in twos and threes. After snapping some pictures, the girls decided it was getting too Old Testament and we decided to start the journey back - besides, we didn't want to risk squishing any of our new amphibious friends.
With the windows rolled down, we continued along PCH to Victoria Beach, a public area with a very private feeling entrance - if you didn't know where to look, you would easily miss it. The staircase is sandwiched between two charming beach houses in a luxurious Laguna Beach neighborhood. Parking is super limited, but somehow large groups of people make the trip every day. Our destination was what locals refer to as "Pirate Tower', an elaborate, medieval looking spiral staircase built in 1926 for California State Senator William E. Brown and his family to access the beach and swimming pool. Harold Kendrick, a retired Naval officer from Los Angeles purchased the house in the 1940's and liked to dress as a buccaneer and hide gold coins in and around the structure, thus contributing to its current moniker.
The perfect day of hiking and sightseeing came to an end as any coastal Orange County adventure should with a turkey club and a peanut butter malt at Ruby's Shake Shack atop the bluffs.
Let’s face it. As human beings, our very existence is rooted in the “wild” side, that primal state where the fear of being eaten was a constant threat. We were in tune with nature because there was no other option. But, our species climbed the evolutionary ladder, torch in hand, mastering the environment as we grew, building concrete walls for safety. Now, as we look down from our towering skyscrapers at the top of the chain, we face another challenge, much different from the plight of ancient ancestors who simply required a sharp spear. What’s at stake though, is essentially the same – survival.
There has been a disconnect during our biological ascent. We live on a planet that is beginning to reject our very presence thanks to our shortsighted love affair with fossil fuels and lack of respect for our fellow creatures. It is my humble opinion that our only chance to keep a seat on this space ship of biodiversity we call Earth is to reestablish what was lost: an appreciation and care for the natural world and the organisms that call it home.
Never before has telling the stories of wildlife and humankind been more important. At the intersection of both, reconnection, restoration, conservation, education, science, and human emotion do have the power to make a difference.
Nestled deep in the Santa Ana Mountains, there is a place tinged with congruent terror and beauty, where all of its oxymoronic allure is captured in the name - Black Star Canyon. Deep ravines gash the surface of rugged peaks and exposed red sandstone facades jut from swaths of lush green vegetation, a fleeting snapshot of an especially wet winter. The recent rain is in fact a boon, the ultimate goal of the hike happens to be a waterfall, which under normal dry conditions is known to be more of a trickle.
From the moment I step out of the car, a natural urge pushes me to venture into this harsh, strikingly vivid slice of Southern California wilderness. But, forging ahead, the sense of freedom that I often feel while hiking in wide-open spaces now eludes me, with the towering, claustrophobia-inducing peaks pressing in on all sides.
It’s a perfect day for some physical exertion. Dark cloud masses hover overhead, keeping the air cool amid sporadic sunlight. As I fall into rhythm marching along the dusty trail, my mind wanders to the murky history that surrounds the area. An unsubstantiated, yet widely believed tale of an Indian massacre, the apparent retaliation to horse theft, is only square one on a bloody path bookmarked by spooky Satanic cults, violent crimes, and territorial, armed locals. Today, it is a hotspot for paranormal investigators due to claims of spectral soirees, crashed every now and then by Bigfoot and extraterrestrials.
While I don’t give much credence to these legends, it’s hard to ignore the eerie presence of electrical fences, razor wire, and security cameras that very forcefully delineate private property along the road, a barrier excessively marked with countless warnings against potential trespassers.
As soon as I’m starting to get over the bizarre nature of this adventure, something even stranger slaps me in the face. Across the creek sits an old homestead, complete with an abandoned sluice box mining operation and a guard peacock, pecking the ground for bugs and belting out its wailing call. Weird.
We finally drop into the creek for the final stretch and encounter perhaps the scariest sight of all, the stuff of nightmares - poison oak. Here, there and everywhere, never before have I seen so much of the itch inducing plant. Some may guffaw at my abhorrence, but as someone who is extremely allergic, it’s no laughing matter. As I sit here writing, days later, it appears I have escaped its leafy jaws, though I certainly touched it at least twice.
On the bright side, those nasty leaves of three do not grow in flowing water, so we take to the rocks in the stream, jumping from side to side. Eventually, we’re not the only ones traversing them like parkour experts, in fact, Black Star Canyon is living up to its reputation; the ravine narrows and steepens, and the water cascades over increasingly large boulders, making the climb slow going.
At long last, we stand at the base of Black Star Canyon Falls, which drops 40 feet into a seam in the limestone cliff, reappearing again from the mouth of a cave to the left, a quirky feature that’s only fitting for such a peculiar experience. If the tall tales, poison oak, and rattlesnakes (did I forget to mention that?) don’t discourage you, Black Star Canyon can be a truly breathtaking expedition into the great outdoors.
To see photos from my experiences with salmon, click here.
Below is the highlight reel of video footage
This content was originally published by OR Magazine.
Her handlers bring her out on a leash, evoking the tameness of her domesticated cousin. But as I crouch down to her level, that notion wavers for me, if only for a moment. Her eyes, that’s where her wildness remains, and as she comes forward to sniff my lens, I think, this is a real, live wolf.
Of course, I am completely safe and she is as friendly as my dogs back home. Tundra, the soon-to-be 15 year-old gray wolf (66 in wolf years), pushes her body against the back of my thigh, looking to be patted.
Today, I’m not the only lucky person. A guided tour of two families waits patiently for their turn. Kids look on in awe and excitement, which only increases as they begin petting her thick coat. One mom asks her son, “Can you believe you’re touching a wolf?” as she snaps photos on her phone.
I’m visiting Wildlife Images, an animal rehabilitation and education center located outside of Grants Pass, Oregon. Founded in 1981 by J. David Siddon, its goal is to provide a place where injured wildlife can receive treatment, while at the same time educating the public. For Tundra and her two wolf companions, Kelsey and Argo, Wildlife Images is a permanent home, as it is for the bears, bobcats, mountain lions and several other species. Each has a gloomy origins story. One resident black bear was used in place of a guard dog for a junkyard, and Tundra was abandoned as a pup on the doorstep of Sarvey Wildlife Center in Arlington, Washington. Still, all found their way to a better life here.
For the spring 2016 edition of OR Magazine, my team and I are exploring the story of wolves in Oregon. With solutions journalism, we hope to shed light on the processes and people who are striving to alleviate tension between the animals and the state’s ranchers and cattle farmers.
Dave Siddon Jr. picked up right where his father left off, taking over at Wildlife Images when his father passed away. During our talk, he offered a perspective on the wolves from a conservation angle, naturally. “A lot of what I try to convey to people is the Yellowstone story,” he says, “Wolves had been extirpated from Yellowstone for I think 70 years. Their reintroduction, what it did for bringing the habitat back as a healthy and sustainable bio-system, and the benefits of having wolves in Oregon, it’s a wonderful thing.” Oftentimes, the predators are the first to go when humans are involved, and Siddon believes it’s time to get over the pioneer mentality of a time long past.
Nonetheless, farmers deal with the very tangible difficulties of protecting livestock from predators, and there is much more to the story. But for now, I’m motivated to continue the pursuit and excited to cross my experience with a wolf off the life list.
It’s a Saturday in late February. Seven drift boats bob in a line, the current of the Siuslaw River fighting to push them downstream. Still, their anchors hold steady, setting up the perfect position to make a cast. An elderly man leans back in his swivel chair and lights a cigarette, his line already set. For each fishing rod in the boats, there are two on the shoreline. A quiet anticipation hangs on the air. The only sounds are the rush of water against the bank and the subtle click-click-click as a woman reels in her lure to try her luck somewhere else. Camping chairs, the rugged cooler full of beer – for everyone, it seems this is the exact place they want to be on a cloudy weekend in Oregon, and they are all here for the same reason. It’s winter steelhead season.
Though the scene is calm down below, a quarter of a mile upriver, in the clear tributary waters of Whittaker Creek, things are different. Beneath the bridge at Whittaker Creek Campground, where the creek deepens and fishing is prohibited, 50 or so steelhead swim in a tight group, their powerful dark bodies spotted with white fungus.
Steelhead are an anadromous form of the rainbow trout, meaning they spend time in the ocean, then return to fresh water to spawn, a process that is astounding for several reasons. Before the smolts, or juvenile trout are ready to leave freshwater, they begin to undergo a physiological transformation in the brackish estuary at the mouth of the river. Their internal chemistry adjusts to survive in salt water, while their scales turn a lighter silver color that acts as camouflage.
The adult steelhead at Whittaker Creek are long past this smolt stage, their frames bulky from feeding on marine nutrients. The end of their journey is near, though not all will reach their final destination. Signs of wear and tear are obvious; Some will ultimately succumb to the exhaustion of their hundred-mile journey, their bodies sinking to the gravelly bottom. But, for those that do possess sufficient strength and fortune, yet another obstacle blocks their path.
An angled barrier made of metal bars juts over the surface of the water, a fence of sorts that spans the width of the creek. On one side, a vertical slit leads to a large holding cage, marking the only viable path for the ambitious steelhead. Once inside, the fish are unable to return downstream. With this man-made structure, the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife employs some not-so-natural selection.
View of the Whittaker Creek fishing weir from the pedestrian bridge.
There are two types of steelhead in Whittaker Creek: wild and hatchery-born. In the spring, ODFW releases 70,000 smolts where Whittaker Creek meets the Siuslaw River. These hatchery fish then venture out to the Pacific Ocean, along with their wild steelhead counterparts, where they will grow for two or three years. When the fish eventually return to Whittaker Creek, volunteers with the Florence STEP (Salmon Trout Enhancement Program) sort them, releasing the native steelhead upstream and throwing the hatchery fish, which have a clipped adipose fin, back downstream.
Essentially, this process helps maintain the purity of the indigenous steelhead’s genetic makeup. John Spangler, the ODFW biologist who oversees fish management on the Siuslaw River, stresses why the preservation of resilient heredity is so important. “Fish that perform well in a hatchery environment tend to not perform well in the wild and vice versa.” Spangler says. “If hatchery fish stray from the release point they could spawn with wild fish and pass on genetic material that performs poorly in the wild and reduces survival of offspring. This could produce a downward pressure on wild stocks.”
In a 2014 study, scientists from Oregon State University not only confirmed the degradation of genetic quality when hatchery fish spawned with wild steelhead, but they also found that the rate of change was surprisingly quick. The research discovered that in just one generation, between the offspring of indigenous and hatchery-raised steelhead, there was a variation in more than 700 active genes.
Michael Blouin, a professor of interpretive biology at the OSU College of Science told the school's News and Research Communications department, “We expected hatcheries to have a genetic impact. However, the large amount of change we observed at the DNA level was really amazing. This was a surprising result.” Fundamental traits such as healing, metabolism, and resistance to disease, which have been perfected over millions of years by evolution for survival in a specific environment, could potentially unravel in a fraction of the time.
These findings solidify the differences between domesticated and wild trout, while increasing the importance of keeping the two separate. As a testament to how delicate ecosystem management is, even the rain can make this a problematic task.
Large volumes of rainfall swell the creeks and streams. Here lies the limitation of the fish weir system on Whittaker Creek. “Every year when we get a high water event winter steelhead go over the weir,” says Spangler. “We would need a higher structure to prevent migration over the weir during high water events.”
With hatchery fish able to pass the barrier across Whittaker Creek, the possibility of interbreeding is much higher. However, because constructing a taller barrier would be both an eyesore and a costly endeavor, it is a problem that doesn’t really have any feasible solution.
So why even risk interbreeding at all? Well, when the hatchery fish return to the Siuslaw, their sole purpose is not to breed, but to be caught by the many Oregonians who purchase licenses and tags each year in order to enjoy recreational steelhead angling. In a way, introducing hatchery fish to the Siuslaw River system actually acts as a buffer for the native trout population; regulations require the wild, unclipped steelhead to be released if caught, so ideally only hatchery fish are being taken from the river.
Ultimately, the opportunity to reel in a fish notorious for its vigor and fight does in fact create a sizable source of revenue in the state. In 2008, ODFW reported that 631,000 Oregon residents and non-residents participated in fishing activities, with 5.9% of all fish and wildlife related expenditures, or $147 million, benefiting local economies within 50 miles of home for said participants.
Evidence of Oregonians’ love for fishing is not difficult to find. The drizzly, Oregon winters are hardly enough to deter the most determined steelhead fishers. Even in a torrential downpour, odds are, there will be a rod on the shore and a lure in the water of the Siuslaw River. But beyond the excitement of landing a monster catch, there is much more to take into account for the future of native steelhead stocks in the Siuslaw and river systems across the United States.
Deep, slate-green eyes gaze intently, unblinking, two orbs framed by a radiant pattern of ink black spots. Those markings flow through a sea of golden-ochre and white, past perked ears and over arched shoulders, all the way down to a tail, flicking to and fro with a mind of its own. The otherwise motionless façade is broken for a moment as whiskers pull back and a bristly pink tongue curls into a feline yawn, exhaling warm breath into the cold air. Her face exudes intelligence and serenity as she looks down from her lofty perch. She has the features of a queen – Raina, the Amur leopard.
Her kingdom is far away. The Amur leopard’s natural territory was once a sprawling area, extending many hundreds of miles from the Primorye region of Eastern Russia into Manchuria, China, and the Korean Peninsula. Following disastrous habitat loss in the 20th century, their range was condensed to the Amur River Valley, with small remnant tracts in China and North Korea.
Nearly 5,000 miles away is the place that Raina and four other Amur leopards call home. Great Cats World Park, outside of Cave Junction, Oregon, is a privately owned and operated zoo dedicated to educating and increasing the public’s awareness about endangered big cat species.
Amur leopards are particularly at risk. This subspecies, which is smaller than it’s African counterpart, thrives in the harsh Russian winters due to its extremely thick coat. Traveler Hawk, a tour guide at Great Cats World Park explains how this adaptation ultimately contributed to the Amur’s decline, “One of the reasons that dates back a millennia is that beautiful coat that they’re wearing. They have particularly long and silky fur to go along with the beautiful clear rosettes. So that pelt is a status symbol - kings, queens, maharajas – they want that particular pelt.” Their prestige persisted into modern times as they became a sought after treasure for poachers. According to the World Wildlife Fund, in 1999 an undercover team confiscated female and male Amur pelts, which were being sold for $1,500 in the Russian town of Barabash, not far from a nature preserve meant to protect the animals.
This, coupled with human encroachment and development, pushed the Amur leopard to the brink of extinction. In 2007, eleven years after the International Union for the Conservation of Nature classified them critically endangered, the wild population was still estimated to be around 30 cats.
Another threat, common to any species with low numbers, is inbreeding. ALTA, or the Amur Leopard and Tiger Alliance, is a network of 15 Russian and international non-governmental organizations dedicated to conserving the big cats through increasing public awareness, financial support, and preserving a healthy gene pool for reintroduction. Though Great Cats World Park is small, its operation is based on the same principles.
“We do the breeding here. Raina is the most recent cub we’ve had born and obviously she’s an adult,” says Hawk. “But as part of that breeding effort again we loan cats out to other facilities. What that entails, it can be difficult. The idea is to send different cats out to different areas where there are studbooks kept to make sure that the bloodlines are pure, so that we can trace them back to the wild. That’s how they’re able to be in the species survival plan program, but also to make sure they’re nice and diverse.”
All of the conservation efforts and international attention seems to be benefiting the cats. In 2012, Russia established its Land of the Leopard National Park, encompassing all of the Amur leopard’s known breeding grounds and the majority of its remaining habitat range. With camera traps, scientists are able to identify individual cats by their unique markings. New census data shows that in 2015, the population of leopards in the park numbered at least 57, double the previous count. It is a small success, but it’s a step in the right direction.
Back at Great Cats World Park, the sun is low in the sky. Raina crouches quietly behind a bush at the back corner of her enclosure, a splash of gold shimmering through the leaves. She and Traveler Hawk are playing their game now. Hawk walks back and forth at the fence, building the anticipation, enticing the instinct to hunt. In a flash, Raina leaps from her hiding place, covering 50 feet in mere seconds. It’s a clear demonstration of her ability as an apex predator. Hawk laughs with an air of appreciation. “Raina, as I’ve said before, is very smart. She has learned to snarl on cue just by watching another cat. She is the most likely to mess with her handlers when we are trying to get her in and out for cleaning and feeding.”
As Hawk will be quick to say, each cat has its own personality. It’s a characteristic that fascinates visitors to the Great Cats World Park and helps build a connection between people and the leopards – something she says is vital in the fight against species extinction. “In my personal opinion, education is the most important part of conservation. People are going to be concerned about a particular animal, or group of animals, or area in the world only if they know it exists and understand why it’s important worldwide.”
