Two Worlds Collide

7/30/2017

Today Jane and I headed to the southwestern side of Olympic National Park to see its two other ecosystems: the coniferous temperate rainforest and the rocky Pacific coast.

The Olympic Mountains are swathed in clouds instead of smoke, for once.

We headed first to the coastline, targeting the supposedly spectacular tide pools of Ruby Beach. I made sure to show up right before low tide so I had plenty of time to see both the outgoing and incoming organisms in the pools.

I suppose I had imagined tide pools such as those found in Maine, where they are literal small rocky pools formed in depressions in the rocks themselves. Instead, I found a series of connected tidal channels wending between rocks along the coastline, forming pools in areas where the presence of a deeply embedded rock had caused sediment to be eroded and piled up elsewhere. These connected channels and pools are strongly influenced by wave action even at low tide, unlike other pools which may be completely disconnected from the ocean at times. As a result, they are full of filter-feeding and suspension-feeding organisms, particularly barnacles and sea anemones. These animals sift nutrients out of the waters as they come in and flow back out, so these protected but wave-washed rocky niches are a perfect place for them to hang out.

The green anemones look like alien kiwis when they're not in the water.

There's about 10 hermit crabs in this photo messing around with the anemones.

My favorite kind of anemones - these ones were smaller than the green ones.

I wandered along the coastline for a while, checking out all of the neat coastal animals and enjoying the sun. Here in the Pacific Northwest, mists sweep along the beach, resisting the heat of the day and delivering cool refreshment to those finding themselves a bit warm. Thick old growth forest presides over the beach, watching over the sand and stone and the skeletons of their fallen. The driftwood here is not as you would see on the East Coast: instead of small chunks of worn-down wood washing up onshore, entire tree trunks, frequently complete with branches and roots, are thrown as far up the beach as they’ll go, bleached white as bone. It’s a fascinating place to explore.

Misty!

Eventually, the tide started to come back in, submerging the pools again and creeping its way back up the beach. I headed inland a few miles to the Hoh Rainforest, marveling at the rapid transition from the coast into temperate rainforest. Gone were the wind-swept, twisted, hardy trees of the coast, replaced by ancient giants draped in moss.

Though the trees here are not redwoods, hundreds of years of uninterrupted growth have allowed them to reach a comparable size. This region sees the most rainfall in the continental United States, making it ideal for an abundance of water-loving mosses and ferns. Many mosses hang from the trees, living on the moisture in the air alone, while the ferns colonize the deep loam of the forest floor. The result is a Jurassic Park-like world, all oversized mossy trees and shaded fern-filled glades and rushing streams edged in brilliant green lush growth. A distinctly primeval feeling hangs in the air, a gravity that forces you to take notice, reminding you how very young and small you are. This is old growth forest at its best.

 

A branch hanging over a stream

Even the streams are full of plant life.

This tree is growing on top of the stump of another tree.

A ranger gives a talk about the different mosses seen on the trees here

Some neat shelf-like mushrooms

These trees rooted on a "nurse log", which then decayed out from under them, leaving only their roots as a reminder.

I hiked the Hall of Mosses and part of the Hoh River Trail, reveling in the wild, ancient feel of the forest. Though there are apparently elk in the area, I only saw smaller animals, most stripping cones and hiding away caches of seeds. I did see a little snake, which I mistook for a root until it scrambled to get out of my path. This forest is different from tropical rainforests in its… stillness, for lack of a better word. Where tropical rainforests are vibrant with the sounds and sights of brightly colored birds, insects, and other animals, this temperate rainforest strives for a uniformity of earthiness in both its plants and animals, all browns and grays with splashes of green, muted and subdued. Life here is not rushed and frenzied as in its tropical counterparts, instead preferring a more sedate pace. It is impossible to walk this forest and not find oneself calmed.

The waning evening light finally called me back to the present, alerting me to the time and my need to get back to camp. The only problem – if it could be called a problem, which it really isn’t - with Olympic National Park is the vastness of its uninterrupted wilderness, which dictates that you must circumnavigate the entire perimeter of the park to get back to town. It’s a 2.5 hour drive back, which caused me to then have to make dinner in the dark at 9 PM. Oops.

So now here I am, settling back in my chair to enjoy the cool breeze of the Olympic peninsula for one last night. Tomorrow I’ll head back to the mainland and onwards to Mount Rainier. Until then… Kelly signing out.