In Praise of Native Wildflowers

By Rebecca Deatsman

Wildflower season is in full swing here in eastern Oregon’s Blue Mountains. There’s always plenty of doom and gloom for anyone who follows environmental news, but sometimes it’s nice to take a step back and enjoy the beauty that’s still out there, so I thought I’d share some of the wildflower photos I’ve taken this spring.

If you’re interested in learning more about native plants like these, many areas have native plant clubs with regular meetings and field trips. This list of native plant societies around the country may help you find one near you. There are also (of course) plenty of resources available online to help with wildflower identification. I found this Wildflowers of the Pacific Northwest site especially helpful when figuring out what exactly I’d been taking pictures of.

Prairie Smoke

Prairie Smoke

Arrowleaf Balsamroot

Arrowleaf Balsamroot

Triteleia

Triteleia

Panicled Death-Camas

Panicled Death-Camas

Lupine

Lupine

Shooting Star

Shooting Star

Glacier Lily

Glacier Lily

A Fishy Success Story

Photo courtesy of USFWS

Photo courtesy of USFWS

By Rebecca Deatsman

Last fall I spent three days canoeing the Willamette River in western Oregon with a group of high school students. It’s a beautiful waterway, lined with state parks, and if your only experience of the region was floating down the river you might not guess that over 2 million people, 70 percent of Oregon’s total population, live in this watershed. There are 371 dams in the Willamette River basin, intensive agriculture, and thriving cities. This may sound like an unlikely setting for an endangered species success story, but this spring, that’s exactly what’s happened.

The Oregon Chub is a small, ordinary-looking fish, typically less than four inches long. It’s endemic to the Willamette River watershed, meaning it’s found nowhere else in the world. For centuries, these small fish lived in slow-moving side channels and vegetation-filled beaver ponds throughout the Willamette basin, munching on tiny aquatic invertebrates like mosquito larvae and generally not attracting much attention. However, as the river was controlled and channeled and dammed, the lazy wetlands where chubs hung out were gradually replaced by towns and farms, and their populations began to decline.

The story of their listing and eventual recovery shows how slowly the endangered species system in the U.S. works. It was first declared to be a candidate for listing under the Endangered Species Act in 1982. In 1990, a professor from Oregon State University formally petitioned for it to be listed, providing data on its decline, and not until 1993 did it officially become a federally-designated endangered species. Once that was done, it took a further five years (until 1998) for a recovery plan to be written up, and critical habitat for the chub was not designated until 2010. At the federal level, the wheels of endangered species conservation turn very slowly.

However, once things finally got going, the Oregon Chub had several things going for it: it was small and uncontroversial (unlike, for example, wolves) and conserving its habitat didn’t require any major sacrifices by industries like timber and agriculture. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service worked closely with the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers (which manages a number of dams on the Willamette) as well as private landowners along the river system to restore and protect pockets of habitat where the fish could thrive. It was downgraded from “endangered” to “threatened” in 2010, and finally, this spring, though it will continue to be monitored, the Oregon Chub became the first fish ever to be completely removed from the Federal List of Endangered and Threatened Wildlife.

In the Willamette River Basin, timber, agriculture, urban areas, and wildlife all coexist within a limited area. Managing places like this will always be challenging, but the success story of the Oregon Chub provides reason for hope.

Further Reading:

When an owl species goes silent

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Spotted Owl: Photograph courtesy of USFWS

By Rebecca Deatsman

Is it ethical to kill one native species to save another? What if one is common and widespread and the other is endangered? This is the dilemma faced in recent years by wildlife managers in the Pacific Northwest as they continue the struggle to save the Spotted Owl.

First placed on the endangered species list in 1990, the Spotted Owl has become infamous as a symbol of the ongoing conflicts between environmentalists and loggers in the Northwest. Spotted Owls need undisturbed old-growth forests to thrive, but those same forests also contain valuable timber that helps support loggers, their families, and entire communities. However, habitat loss isn’t the only serious threat that the Spotted Owl is facing, and some people may be surprised by the source of its newest challenge: another owl.

Barred Owls are originally native to eastern North America, but have been gradually expanding their range west over the last century, likely due to how humans have altered habitats in the once-treeless Great Plains; they were first documented in California in the 1950s and in western Washington in the 1970s and have been increasing ever since. Barred and Spotted Owls are close cousins, both in the genus Strix, and look very similar, with dark eyes and without the distinctive “ear” tufts sported by many other owls; however, Barred Owls have horizontal and vertical barring on their breasts and bellies while Spotted Owls are more, well, spotted. (See photos.) Barred Owls are also larger, more aggressive, and can use a wider range of habitats – and when they move into Spotted Owl forests, they can easily outcompete their shy western cousins. When big, boisterous Barred Owls move into an area, Spotted Owls learn to be quiet in order to avoid them. Since owls rely on vocalizations to find mates and defend territory, an owl population that goes quiet doesn’t last for long.

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Barred Owl: Photograph courtesy of Oregon Fish and Wildlife

Trapping Barred Owls alive and moving them to a new location away from Spotted Owl habitat is difficult and costly; the only real option for eliminating them is killing them. In 2009, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service authorized a pilot project to kill eighty Barred Owls in Spotted Owl habitat in California and study the results. The experiment was a success, with Spotted Owls rapidly recolonizing sites where their competitors had been removed, and based on these results the USFWS is greatly expanding the program – last September, they announced a plan to kill 3600 Barred Owls in California, Oregon, and Washington over the next four years. The Canadian government has reached the same conclusion and last year okayed the killing of 40 Barred Owls in British Columbia, where as few as ten Spotted Owls remain in the wild.

These decisions are not without controversy. Native birds of prey, including the Barred Owl, are protected in both the U.S. and Canada under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act, making it illegal under most circumstances to capture or kill them; the USFWS had to issue special exemptions to allow the cull to go forward. In the U.S., a group called Friends of Animals is suing the USFWS to stop the cull, saying the plan is “immoral, unethical and cruel, as well as illegal.” An online petition petition against the shooting of Barred Owls in British Columbia garnered over 15,000 signatures. Many people are uncomfortable with the government-sponsored killing of native, non-game wildlife, even with the best of intentions. Still, the cull is going forward, having begun in America near the end of last year.

It’s hard to argue with a simple, cost-effective measure that may be able to help bring a declining species like the Spotted Owl back from the brink, but it’s also understandably hard for some wildlife lovers to stomach. In this case, the owls in the old growth may be our canary in the coal mine.

As habitats across the continent continue to be altered by climate change, this is probably not the last time that two species, both considered native, will come into conflict and force wildlife management agencies to make tough decisions. In addition to reshaping our climate, the decades to come may reshape the very definition of “native,” and our concept of wildlife ethics along with it.  For now, the Spotted Owl and its habitat remain safe.

Further reading:

Bioregionalism defined by a Banana Peel

Owyhee_River_(9092356229)

The Owyhee River. Photo courtesy of Wikipedia Commons

By Neva Knott

My personal introduction to bioregionalism came during a cross-state Oregon road trip with some housemates in 1991. I lived in a 13-person artist’s house. All of us were also avidly outdoorsy. Every few months, someone would suggest a spur-of-the-moment jaunt somewhere, and we’d pile gear and food and ourselves into the large Suburban that sort of functioned as the communal adventure wagon. For this trip, we had formed a bit of a caravan, with the Suburban and two small pick-ups. We had been camping on the Owyhee for a few days at a place known to some as three rivers. This place was on the desert plateau, with clay bedrock and few trees. Wide-open skies. Desolate, except for the fun we were having by being out of the city. We’d swung southeast to visit Silver City, an abandoned mining town. It was October, which translated to afternoons in shorts, drawing, painting, photographing, and swimming in the river mixed with waking to snow on the ground some mornings.

On the drive back, I was about to throw a banana peel into the woods and was admonished by the more rigid and imperious males—the one housemate I didn’t like— because that fruit is not of my bioregion, and I would have messed up the ecosystem by putting an invasive, though biodegradable, item into it. This really was the first time I’d heard this word; my dad was a biologist, ever concerned about the trace humans left behind when out in nature. All he’d taught me was that it was ok to through biodegradable food waste into the bushes—it might become a small morsel of food for a critter, and it would decompose into the soil, no worries. Bioregionalism, I learned then, was the idea that one should live within the natural limits of the place. We had some brief and general discussion about it, and that was that—until I began my Master’s work at Green Mountain College.

EcoregionsMap

Oregon’s Bioregions. Map courtesy of Oregon.gov

In between the time of that camping trip and my enrollment into my graduate program, I learned the life of a banana grown for commercial consumption. Conventionally grown bananas come from trees that stand knee-deep in fertilizer and pesticides. These chemicals are harmful to the fruit growers, and stay with the fruit as it travels to you. Most often, conventionally grown bananas are picked, shipped, stored, and “re-greened” through exposure to gas while warehoused, so that they arrive in the grocery looking just ready to ripen. By the time a banana grown in the fruit region of Mexico, Central or South American arrives at my grocer, it is contaminated. Not only have several chemicals been applied to the fruit itself, the processing, storage, and transportation use up a lot of fuel and other resources. Just one banana has a large toxic footprint. I was not just putting something biologically invasive into that distant Oregon landscape, I was putting layers of chemical residue into the flora and fauna.

The first class in the Master’s of Science of Environmental Studies program at Green Mountain College is Bioregional Theory and Practice. The main text for the class is LifePlace by Robert L. Thayer.  He says that a bioregion is a unique region definable by natural rather than political boundaries with a geographic, climatic, hydrological, and ecological character capable of supporting unique human and non-human living communities. As one who walks around outside looking at the sticks, shrubs, mountains, trees, and critters, I decided immediately that I liked this guy’s thinking.

Since the banana peel incident, I’ve put thought or at least musings into this idea, and often, on other road trips, have considered the scope of bioregionalism. So what, really, is it? Peter Berg, founder of the Planet Drum Foundation, is responsible for coining the phrase. Through this foundation, he put the idea of living locally out to the masses in the early 1970s. In his early work, he defined a bioregion as a place with a pattern of natural characteristics, “A bioregion is a whole life-place with unique requirements for human inhabitation so that it will not be disrupted and injured.” Bioregionalism, for Berg, is a movement with three goals—restoration and maintenance of local natural systems; practice of sustainable ways to meet basic human needs; re-inhabitation.

Re-what? Re-inhabitation. Living as an inhabitant of the natural world of one’s bioregion. People live, work, eat, and play in relation to naturally rather than politically defined areas, and sees this deep rooting in place as antidote to the rootless, stressful, modern life.

Neighborhood Bull, Redmond, OR. Photo by Neva Knott

I lived in Central Oregon at the start of the 2009 recession. The phrase, Make Local Habit, sprung up in quick response to the devastation. Those three words are my definition of bioregionalism. When I think of bioregional living here, I think of Central Oregon making it on it’s own. The region is largely farmland, but it doesn’t seem to really feed the residents—most of the food at the grocery is trucked in from elsewhere, while most of the farm goods are exported—beef, dairy, garlic, alfalfa, wheat, hay, seed crops, potatoes. The area is pretty dependent on outside sources. Most of the goods and services are big-box, cutting out small business opportunities. Instead, I want to see local food in locally owned groceries—this state has the natural resources to completely feed itself.

To practice making local habit, I then took it upon myself to commit to the 100-mile meal. I got my Oregon map out of the car glove box, measured out the distance in length, and drew a circle to show the radius of 100 miles from home. That’s the part of the state I could buy food from. That area became the bioregion of my diet. I began to  shop only at stores that post where the food is from, and stopped buying anything shipped from far away. I went to the farmer’s market and was easily able to feed myself with produce, goat cheese, and smoked turkey off local farms. When I couldn’t buy local, I bought regional, limiting my choices to within the radius. I’ve sourced my food in this way for four years now, and I know with each purchase I do a little for the land, and a lot for the local economy.

Even though we live in a global economy–the global village–much can be gained by living a little more, well, where we live. In connection to communities, and to the land.

And I did cut out bananas, for a long while.

Garlic

Garlic Field, Madras, OR. Photo by Neva Knott