Last weekend I climbed Treasury Mountain, a massif of marine shales rising more than thirteen thousand feet above sea level. The endless slopes of loose scree are nearly bare – but not completely. Can you find the white-tailed ptarmigan (Lagopus leucura) in this photograph? The species lives on alpine tundra throughout the year, and is nearly invisible in its summer plumage.
I have heard they are very tasty, but have never had the heart to find out.
This summer I’ve been living in the Rogers Boggs cabin at the Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory. There are four bedrooms, but I haven’t had any cabinmates for the past few days. That doesn’t mean the place is empty. I’ve been sharing it with a few wild visitors.
A family of mule deer (Odocoileus hemionus) has been hanging around the cabin. The mother of this fawn has realized that there no need to worry about predators with so many people around.
There are also two adult yellow-bellied marmots (Marmota flaviventris) living in the townsite. This one likes to spend time on a rock next to my window.
A few of the animals come closer. I found this mountain bluebird (Sialia currucoides) trapped in my wood stove this morning. I think it flew in the chimney and couldn’t get back out. I was very surprised to find it when I opened the stove door, but it immediately flew out, and then away.
The chipmunks (Tamius miniumus) are the boldest. They come in through the window and sit on my couch eating flowers.
One even licked me a few days ago. I’ll miss this place when the field season is over.
Every day of the last week I have climbed the same mountain, bringing up cargoes of steel nails, aluminum tags, meter tapes, string, sandwiches, water, and everything else needed to install a long-term plant census site. The hike in is three miles and climbs from 9000′ to 11700′, rising from subalpine meadows through spruce forest to an alpine scree field.
Here’s what the installation process looks like. First, assembling equipment. I have fifty plots at the site, and each needs its corner points to be permanently marked. Each plant in each plot needs a permanent tag. This means lots of aluminum strips and metal nails hammered into the ground. A recycling shed provides much of the raw materials – then backpack-manageable quantities of metal are stowed in a pack and hiked up the mountain.
At the site, I lay out meter tapes to designate baselines for census plots.
Then metal nails go into the ground to demarcate each plot, and nylon string is laid to mark plot boundaries. The string will probably be destroyed overwinter from ultraviolet radiation or animal nibbling, but it can easily be replaced. I’m more worried about frost heaving destroying the corner makers.
This is the final layout. Each plot is four square meters in area and includes a wide alley so I can walk through the site without trampling the delicate vegetation.
Next up is the census. Each plant gets its own permanent tag, nailed into the ground near its rooting point. I am mapping, sizing, and tagging every individual in every plot. It means a lot of tags, and a lot of nails.
I’m a little over half finished with the initial census. Some plots are bare, and some have more than a hundred individuals. Some are less than a half centimeter tall and others form a low mat covering almost a square meter. They are all beautiful.
The field days are long and hard, but I don’t mind. If the site survives the winter, the science will be good. If it doesn’t, I will try again. In the meantime I am enjoying the scenery.
(Thanks to Guadalupe Flores and Jordan Stark for their invaluable field assistance).
I’ve been trying to choose a research site in the Rockies for several months. It’s not easy. I want to study how alpine plant communities respond to disturbance, and I want to study it in the long term. This means I need to choose a research site that I won’t regret a decade from now. There are some constraints. It has to be on national forest land, but not on land designated as wilderness, because I plan to disturb and manipulate the ecosystem. It has to be within hiking or hitchhiking distance of the Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory. And it needs alpine vegetation. There are only a few areas that meet these criteria. I spent the past few months with maps and GIS tools identifying some candidates, then took the past few days to see what they looked like up close. Here’s how it went down.
My first choice was the top of Virginia Basin (approximately 12200′ elevation). It’s the green valley in this photo, glowing in a stray sunbeam. It only takes a few hours to hike up from the research station, and not many tourists pass through the area.
The trouble is that despite its high elevation, it is barely an alpine site. Willows and meadows extend nearly to the top of the saddle which forms the top of the basin.
Most of the species are subalpine, and the density of plants was higher than I had wanted.
The site also didn’t smell so great. Right next to my imagined research site was a recent elk kill, and the odors weren’t so attractive. I didn’t relish the idea of working there.
My second choice was a peak across the valley from Virginia Basin, here seen from the same location as the previous photograph. This is Gothic Mountain, approximately 12500′ elevation. Most of its upper reaches are unambiguously in the alpine zone.
I climbed it today, and was pleased with the plants I saw. Many of my favorite alpine species are there.
The trouble is that the site is not easy to reach. It is a long three or four hour hike, with most of the upper sections being on loose talus or scree. There is significant exposure in a few places, and it takes almost an hour to get from the summit down to an area that would be safe from lightning. Any research sites would have to be on steep slopes. I decided the site was too risky to be worth using.
My final option was Mount Baldy, elevation approximately 12800′. I dropped down a ridgeline from Gothic and checked it out.
Finally, I got lucky. I found a ridgeline covered in shale that supported exactly the kind of alpine plant community I was looking for.
The site doesn’t require any scrambling to reach, has beautiful views, isn’t visible from any trail, and includes many interesting species like this columbine.
So I took its coordinates with a GPS, then hiked a few miles back down the valley to a well-deserved rest. Tomorrow I will start setting up the research site. The investment in time to find the right place has not been small, but when your commute to work looks like this, it all seems worth it!
Jens-Christian Svenning (at Aarhus University in Denmark) had some important comments on my last blog post that are worth sharing:
Interestingly, Rhodendron ponticum is not truly biogeographically non-native to NW Europe. It now has a relict distribution in the W Palearctic and was formerly much more widespread. Most notably, it reached the British Isles on its own in the Hoxnian/Holsteinian Interglacial – and guess what – became very abundant. It’s also worth noting that Rhododendron ponticum can be dominant within its current southern range – just as its close relative relative, R. maximum, can be in E North America. So, overall Rp in the UK is not really a truly exotic invader and it’s just behaving normally (given the ideal climatic conditions) (although necessarily benignly from a (local?) biodiversity perspective). In this way it seems more comparable to other native dominating species such as bracken (in the UK).
This longer-term view challenges my notion of what ‘normal’ should be. This invasion will come but it will also go. The Earth’s history is very long, and an interglacial climate excursion or human perturbation are but small things upon it.
A beautiful view from the coastal cliffs in Exmoor – but not if you look more closely. The right side of the photograph is dominated by a dense yellow-green canopy extending up and down the cliffs for kilometers in each direction. It looks like a scar, or a cancer. What is it?
If you walk England’s Southwest Coast Path, you’ll pass through this area near the Glenthorne Estate to the west of Porlock Weir. Today it would be difficult walking were it not for the path chainsawed through the landscape. The problem is Rhododendron ponticum (Ericaceae), native to southern Europe and western Asia. It has spread into Britain, where it is enjoying considerable success. Where it grows, it generates a monoculture, outcompeting all other plants with its dense canopy and tangling branches. Where Rhododendron grows there is no understorey. There are no insects, and there are scarcely any birds. Native species can’t eat it. The area feels haunted and sinister.
For Rhododendron, this monoculture is a success story. It has been able to grow better than anything else in the landscape, and now dominates. The only difference between it and the other native species is that it is more successful. Why? Perhaps because it has escaped its natural enemies, growing in a strange land far from home. Or perhaps because its growth has an immediate negative impact on other plants. Or perhaps because it has been helped by people, who first planted it for its showy flowers and ability to provide cover for game animals. There are many ways to achieve a high evolutionary fitness, but in the end some plants are winners and some are losers.
Just because it has been successful does not mean it is wanted. We humans get to choose the landscapes we want, and the plants of last century have lost their appeal. The European Union has provided funding in partnership with Great Britain to restore this landscape to one dominated by native species. I saw only a small part of the restoration efforts, but it looks like difficult work – pruning and drying and stacking and removing a huge amount of tangled biomass, then returning to the site to plant native trees in their place. I think it will be many years before they succeed – and this story is being repeated all across the country.
As a comparison, here is a view from a deep Exmoor combe. This landscape is also a patchwork of species resulting from centuries of land use change. But somehow it feels a much more peaceful and functional system than that Rhododendron wasteland.
It would be easier to let the non-natives win – their dominance is in many ways natural – but that is not an outcome many want to see. Certainly I did not want it, walking through that pale imitation of a coastal forest.
Can you guess what this is a photograph of?
It’s an algal bloom on the surface of a lake, seen from above. The algae are growing so well because of eutrophication due to shallow depths, low flow, and high nutrient inputs. The pattern is beautiful, but the lake itself is a mess. When I say lake, I should say river – in this case, the River Glyme, flowing through the grounds of Blenheim Palace in Oxfordshire. In the 1760s, it was dammed by “Capability” Brown as part of the park landscape.
The result is elegant (at least if you ignore the algae), but leaves much to be desired from the standpoint of ecological functionality. The lake is a pale imitation of a natural one, and the gardens require far more maintenance than the forests and pastures they replaced.
These engineered landscapes make me think of one particularly controversial area of ecology: the relationship between biodiversity and ecosystem functioning. A basic premise of much conservation biology is that more species result in better functioning, more robust ecosystems – this is one of the key reasons to fight species loss. Yet here is an example of a site with far more species than the woodland it replaced, yet demonstrably lower levels of functionality, and far more fragility. The palace is thus a counterexample. Is this phenomenon common? And if it is, does this undermine this key assumption? In support of this, Vellend et al. showed that over the past century there has actually been no systematic loss in biodiversity in local study areas. Their conclusion held regardless of what happened over that century – climate change, pollution, species invasions, introduction of grazing, fire, and so on. The one exception (unsurprisingly) was the conversion of natural ecosystems to monoculture agriculture. As ecosystems degrade, they don’t necessarily lose species. Rather it seems to be the case that species from across regions spread out, equalizing the composition of different local sites.
So what should we take away from this story? That conserving biodiversity is not useful? I wasn’t sure until I walked through the grounds of that palace. A better interpretation – the one taken by Vellend et al., is that the number of species in a site is itself not a useful indicator of functioning. The performance of these species, and their response to unforeseen changes, matters more. The high diversity of garden plants and algae at Blenheim Palace should not be our measure of functionality. Conservation to keep up species numbers will not succeed, but conservation to keep up functionality may. It is a more nuanced message, but one that more ought to hear.
(Properly defining functionality, of course, becomes the next major issue – and that will have to wait for another post.)