Past and Present Observations

Matthew C. Roberts is a writer who lives near Padden Creek on the south side of Bellingham. He’d like to thank WWU environmental literature professor Ning Yu for supporting this essay.

Part 1

There are in our existence spots of time,
That with distinct pre-eminence retain
A renovating virtue…

It is a primal curiosity for a person to stand by a creek and wonder where it begins. The story of water is an old one; and to begin to trace the Paleo currents of time, I had to first follow my own stream of thoughts, and intuitions, to form an understanding of history. This began by observing Chuckanut Creek from the present and retracing its meanderings to the past. It is true though, that a creek or river says something different to each us. But to interpret these different meanings I have tried my best to find out how the creek evolved in contrast to its present state of being. I have done this through interviews, research, close observations and by reading the creek’s ancient scripture etched beneath its flows in the bedrock of time.

The headwaters of Chuckanut Creek descend from the western slope of Lookout Mountain. The mountain stands between I-5 on one side and Lake Whatcom on the other (Sudden Valley area). Its slope is steep, rising over 2,000 feet, and rests in the eastern shadow of Chuckanut Mountain. Life for the creek begins in the moss-shouldered seeps fed by rainwater collected in porous layers of sandstone that expand and contract according to changes in temperature. Between these layers of sedimentary grains exists a story of a time and climate very different from our own. It is said to have been a tropical period; and the evidence exists in the forms of compressed palm, fern, alder leaves and hydrangea fossils leftover from the middle Eocene Period (40-50 million years ago). This evidence shows how sediments were deposited by a fluvial process, which led to settling in an environment not unlike a swamp or bog. And over a long period of time the river deposited enormous amounts of sediments in the form of sand, mud, silt and coal, which eventually compiled to create mountains referred to as the Chuckanut Formation.

In more recent times (15,000 years ago), a glacier over a mile thick once covered the area. And as the climate warmed, the ice began to advance and retreat many times over, carving depressions in the underlying rock. And as these fields of traveling ice began to melt, they merged with the Nooksack and Skagit Rivers. All of these geologic events helped form what is now Chuckanut Creek. However, there are theories that illustrate that the creek was formed also by forces of plate tectonics known as a strike-slip fault.

As you can see, Chuckanut Creek has quite a story to tell. And when I stood next to its boisterous edges and looked up at the canyon walls, I tried to recreate the tremendous disturbance in my mind, by picturing first an arctic world where the ice was a mile thick, a stark landscape with wind-blown waves of ice-dust breathing in the distance. And by knowing this landscape did not last, I placed myself in a biblical flood caused by an epic meltdown that eventually settled into stagnant water, although, in the still waters of my mind, I had a hard time living there for too long; I could not help but hear the baying of the creodont’s wolf-like cry echo down the canyon rock from some distant plain—only then did I return to feel the earth separate violently, as if dropping to a former ledge that was once itself, while a cascade of turbulent waters carved its way to the sea. What was left was no longer a plain or a flood, but myself, merged with the sound of water pushing against boulders, reminding me the odyssey of the creek is far from over.

My imagination did not fail me in the way fiction speaks its own truth about distance and time. What I did observe, in the section downstream from the footbridge, was that the creek and rain had scoured away rock and clay from a small cliff to show that some sort of uplift did occur. There were sedimentary layers of sandstone, and what appeared to be dark layers of share that were tilted up at a 40-degree angle to the north. After believing the story I had created, I thought back on the magnanimous event and declared indeed I had traveled millions of years back in time without any sort of portal or scientific contraption to transport me, only my own mind as a vessel.

After returning to the present, in terms of human existence, I played out the same scheme of time travel but in a more reasonable approach to what my observations could more accurately support. I looked up at the hillsides along the creek to analyze how erosion played a crucial role in creating habitat for riparian zone life. I could see how the slopes were eroded by rain, or slowly eaten away by the creek’s fluctuating fluvial velocities, undercutting tree roots that had fallen into the stream like pickup-sticks. This kind of woody-debris provides back eddies and tail-outs where gravel collects, allowing salmon to utilize these slower currents to rest or (depending on the species of fish) to spawn. The fallen trees also create bridges for creatures such as squirrels and birds to pass from one side of the zone to the other. In many cases the fallen trees are consumed by seedlings, fungi, ferns, mosses and insects that feed on the nutrient-rich decomposing wood. There is a vital connection between erosion and the creek’s ability to sustain animals and plant life within its corridor.

The main tributary to feed into Chuckanut Creek originates from the tannic still waters of Cedar Lake. The lake is located at the top of Chuckanut Mountain adjacent to Pine Lake at an elevation around 1,300 feet. The creek (which according to my topo map does not have a specific name) is high gradient as it plunges down the southeast slope over tight grains of sandstone to form a confluence near Old Samish Road a mile or so before Chuckanut Creek takes a hard bend, or U-turn, back to its source on Lookout Mountain. There’s a canopy of western red cedar and hemlock trees that tower over Cedar Lake, almost as if they appear to be growing straight out of the water itself. A fisherman once told me he lost every lure in his tackle box up there due to the amount of phantom logs soaking at its bottom. He claimed the fishing to be quite a spectacle just before dusk during the “bewitching hour,” as trout leapt skyward like snow leopards, after insects thick as a Christmas in July snowstorm.

There are also many small ponds near and along the creek. The ones I’ve peered into look dark as wine with no hint of even having a bottom. Some of these ponds must have been connected to the creek at one time. There is one of these ponds in the Arroyo Canyon section that is only an eagle’s wingspan from the creek. How it became to be or what exists in its waters is a mystery. It mostly looks like static frog-water, or a rearing pond for mosquitoes, even though each time I pass by, I try to create a fish there, somewhere, in its tannic depths for nothing more than the amusement of my imagination.

Apparently my idea of manifesting a fish in the pond became a reality for a resident up off of Galbraith Road. He is said to have, at one time, dammed up a spring-pond in his backyard that fed into the creek and planted it with brown and rainbow trout. I think he did this mainly for a neighborhood fishery. Unfortunately though, for whatever reasons, the fish found a way to escape into Chuckanut Creek, which could have polluted the gene pool as far as native trout are concerned. Theoretically, whether it’s genetically possible or not, there may exist a German brown, cutthroat and rainbow hybrid (German cutt-bow) snapping at mayflies and sculpins in the quiet pocket water of its upper reaches.

Winter, with spring not far away, will make the acrid smell of decomposing salmon only a memory. It doesn’t take long for my mind to recall the first salmon of the fall who make their pilgrimage home to the swollen waters they’ve been imprinted on as juveniles. The creek is home to chum, coho, chinook, winter steelhead and coastal sea-run cutthroat. The predominant run is chum salmon (Oncorhynchus keta).

The return of adult chum has varied widely over the years, as indicated by stream surveys conducted by the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife (WDFW). I was able to obtain and review historical data reaching back to 1951 showing a nominal return of 114 adult chum; and in 1967 a zero return. There were also sporatic years where no stream data existed.

There is, however, unlike many coastal creeks that are showing the scars of development, sustainable news for the chum salmon and Chuckanut Creek. Today, the news is good thanks to Shannon Moore and Nooksack Salmon Enhancement Association (NSEA) volunteers, who over the last decade put in countless hours monitoring remote streamside incubators (RSIs) full of chum and coho salmon eggs. This is a very tedious and time consuming job (as I can attest), which includes sorting out the dead eggs, making sure the intakes are clear of debris, and braving the winter elements such as high-water to keep the box and eggs from being washed away.

The RSIs are also referred to as coffin boxes due to their rectangular dimensions and can incubate roughly 100,000 chum eggs. The boxes are stabilized in midstream, tethered to a PVC intake pipe, which reaches upstream into a deep pool or steady current to provide a consistent flow of oxygenated water incubating the salmon eggs resting in trays inside the box.

This method is usually a last resort for creeks that have extinct native salmon populations, or very low returns, but still contain vital rearing and spawning habitat. The chum seem to adhere to these conditions more effectively because they spend very little rearing time “instream” before migrating to sea. Nonetheless, chum are instrumental in providing nutrients for the subaquatic insects and riparian zone creatures. You can get a sense of a thread of life, in this corridor of noisy water, which connects the salmon to every living being.

It’s always a thrill to spot the first salmon of the fall tucked behind a cut-bank or trying to clear a falls to gain entrance into the next pool. Chum salmon are rulers of Chuckanut Creek’s currents when they return in November. They also bring with them a wide array of predators that stake out their claim for salmon flesh: cougars, bald eagles, raccoons, dippers, mergansers and red-tailed hawks who know when its time to dine.

The red-tailed hawk (Buteo jamaicensis) in particular, was mentioned by Doug Huddle, fisheries expert and naturalist who has made hundreds of trips up and down the creek counting salmon for WDFW. He described the hawks as being highly territorial to the chum salmon run. Doug explained to me how the hawks perch high in the deciduous canopy or wade the shallows, much like the bald eagles do, to catch a stray chum or coho. He also mentioned their peculiar vocalizations and how they would not flush the area no matter how long he was there. This is very interesting territorial behavior I was unaware of, and later I thought about how every time I return to the creek I see something different. And as Doug stressed in our conversation, “Always allow for something to occur you don’t know about.”

Over the years of walking the creek, I can relate to the unexpected; I’ve observed sea-run cutthroat (Oncorhynchus clarki clarki), through polarized glasses, riding the currents like thermals, shifting in and out of feeding lanes as they picked off insects funneled to them in deep pools of early fall. These cryptic trout are a mystery to their own. They do not have the same regimen of Pacific salmon, even though they are anadromous; they return sometimes in the fall or sometimes in the spring, depending on the river or creek. And unlike Pacific salmon they have the capability to spawn and return to sea without dying. The sea-runs also choose to stay close to their home waters, usually inhabiting the estuaries (such as Mud Bay). Or they do a mini-migration that may be evoked by following their prey consisting of amphipods, sand lance and sticklebacks— to further waters.

Another enigmatic character of Chuckanut Creek is the steelhead (Oncorhynchus mykiss). An old timer that I had talked with in Arroyo Park, who’s lived off the Interurban trail for 40 years, speaks of steelhead, although he admits to only seeing just one in all his years of walking the creek. There is not much known about the steelhead of Chuckanut Creek. They are thought to return during winter months when stream flows are consistently higher. And, like the sea-run cutthroat, they can also spawn and return to saltwater. The cutthroat, Pacific salmon and steelhead hold a unique niche in this fluvial world as indicator species. By observing these fish we can also learn more about ourselves and our place in the natural world. That is what I enjoy mostly about visiting this coastal stream and peering into its tannic currents; where there’s always a window of reflection looking back, reminding me how volatile our existence really is. §

Next Month:

The author follows Chuckanut Creek into Arroyo Canyon where he explores the forest canopy, aquatic insects, the river rock hopping water ouzel (dipper) and less-aesthetic entities inhabiting the creek, such as fecal-coliform, phosphates and other non-point pollutants.