Our Alaskan ocean, with its cold year-round temperatures and high oxygen content, is home to some of the largest creatures in the world. One enormous mollusk happens to be as intelligent as she is large, and she's all the more intriguing for her eight arms, hundreds of suction cups, and quaint hobby of collecting shiny objects: the giant Pacific octopus.
These clever invertebrates average 16 feet in length and 110 pounds, but the record-holder was measured at 30 feet and 600 pounds! They also live longer than other octopuses, but don't expect much. They last around four years, with both males and females dying shortly after breeding.
Naturalist Kim points out an octopus den at China Poot Bay.
Octopuses live in dens that are submerged at all but the lowest tides. As a bonus, they prefer dens with two holes: both front and back doors.We were lucky to find this den at low tide. When Kim tickled the entrance with her finger, a red tentacle swooped out to investigate.
When searching for octopus dens, keep your eyes out for the midden, a trash pile of helmet-crab exoskeletons and snail shells discarded by the octopus.
Live octopuses are cool and all, but this blog is about a dismemberment, so let's get to the point!
On June 4th, a dead giant Pacific octopus washed up on Otter Rock.
The limp form of a freshly-dead octopus.
When the tide went out, I descended the rocky shore to investigate.
The octopus was smothered by another of our ocean's giants: sunflower stars! I knew these monstrous, soft-bodied stars to be predators of other sea stars, but I knew nothing of their fondness for octopus meat.
My hand for scale. The tentacles was thicker around than my arm, and the sunflower star could have covered my entire face and wrapped around to the back of my head. (I had no intentions of letting it.)
The octopus was stone-dead, but her sucker still held my finger tight was I pressed on it.
This squishy sunflower star was waiting for the tide to come back in so he could move freely over his meal.
My favorite shot. I love the juxtaposition of tube feet and suction cups: the echinodermatan and molluscan solutions for the tasks of moving around and holding on.
Here's a video of the tube feet in action!
Three days later, the octopus had disappeared from the low intertidal zone and reappeared high-and-dry upon Otter Rock. The pair of bald eagles were spotted dragging and pecking it. The octopus's carbon was redistributed first to deep waters, then to the crown of a spruce tree, and who knows where else.
Each day I asked one of my visitors to be an octopus model -- for scale and, of course, the cute factor.
June 7th: "There it is, but I'm not touching it!"
June 8th: "There it is! Can I touch it?"
On June 8th, it smelled like bacteria were joining the food chain.
The suction cups, however, were still intact.
June 12th: my octopus models were unwilling to get any closer than this. I thought they were still brave, considering the stench and general goopiness.
June 12th was the last day our dear dead octopus was seen. Whether she got dragged into the woods by a bear or deep under the sea by a seal, or was chewed into goo by microbes during the next few tide cycles, we'll never know.
In theory, I knew that elements are recycled and dead things make up the living. But after watching the swift dismemberment of an octopus into the vibrant life of the intertidal zone I admire daily, I feel included in a secret.
On June 25th, I watched one of the three bald eagle chicks flap his wings for the first time.
Now, when I spy on our bald eagle chicks through my binoculars, I think of the octopus midden. In the chicks' emerging flight feathers, I see helmet crabs that became octopus that became eagle.
Laura and I bounded through ferns and devil's club. We were running our daily loop of the Lost and Found Lake Trail, bear spray in hand, singing bear songs, trying to break our record of 19 minutes.
Laura rounded the bend near the spruce-bark-beetle clearing and stopped dead in her tracks. I nearly collided with her back. Oh dear, I thought, what does Laura see?!
Instead of backing away in fear, Laura motioned for me to hurry up and look. "Quick, before she flies away! It's a ptarmigan in the trail!"
Sure enough, a brown ball of feathers was blocking our path, but she was not flying away. She was lowering one wing to the ground like an aggressive chicken and sashaying toward us.
Laura and I looked at each other. "Something's not right with this ptarmigan," Laura summarized.
We knew it couldn't hurt us, but an animal without fear is unnerving. Can ptarmigans get rabies?
Suddenly, a train of three peeping fluff-balls tumbled across the trail, from the higher, forested side to the lower, mossy patch. Their backs were striped to blend in with shadows from spruce bows, and their feet were so small they got caught in the sphagnum. The mother's strange behavior made sense: she was being a crossing guard!
Bobbing across the trail.
A frantic peeping wove through the bushes on the high side of the trail, and the fourth straggling chick emerged to join its siblings. Mama gave us the sideways-eye of a prey species (if you don't know what I'm talking about, stand on a porch above a flock of hens, lean over the railing, and watch them turn one side of their head straight up) and allowed us to pass. We happily watched the family amble through the underbrush. They sabotaged our 19-minute goal.
That night, I texted Laura's photos to my bird-verifier, Thomas, who politely pointed out that our "ptarmigan" was a spruce grouse. Makes sense, since our forest is 95% spruce, and ptarmigans live in tundra!
This photo was taken with no zoom to show how close Mama got to me.
When she made eye contact, I got the sense she was both intelligent and confident, entirely committed to her role of protector.
Five days later, I was clearing grass and blueberry bushes with a scythe when an indignant clucking interrupted my whacking. There, in the trail, stood Mama. This time, I watched for an hour as she strutted along a sunny log and her chicks dust-bathed in the middle of the path.
"This root is the perfect size for me!"
Spruce-shadow markings.
Look at those furry legs!
They'll become nicely feathered shanks, like Mama's.
This sun makes me sleepy...
Later that afternoon, as I finished the other side of the loop trail, the family emerged again! They had taken a short-cut through the forest. What draws them to the trail, I don't know, but I think the blueberries have something to do with it:
The next installment in the spruce grouse saga came yesterday, when I surprised the mother by coming around a bend too quickly, and she returned the surprise by flying within inches of my face, claws outstretched. Sorry, Mama!
This time, the family was spread out on an open slope beneath the mountain hemlocks. I counted the chicks, anxious that all four might not have survived the week, but my total came to FIVE. Props, Mama. Keep up the excellent work.
It's a frequently asked question to which I knew the answer before I arrived.
"Yes, but just black bears. No grizzlies."
I wasn't at the Field Station 24 hours before I witnessed the answer firsthand. I was looking out over Lost and Found Lake, about a half-mile from the Station, with a group of visiting teachers when someone pointed out a black form on the opposite shore. (Lost and Found Lake might be more accurately termed a pond, mind you.)
Lost and Found Lake.
Binoculars went up, cameras clicked, and we had confirmation: the black shape was a black bear!
What a robust nose!
The bear saw us, but he didn't seem particularly interested. He padded a few feet away and lay down for a nap.
That was my first sighting of a bear from foot -- I saw a few from the car window with my mother on our Great Alaskan Road Trip last summer -- but it would not be my last.
Two days later, I emerged from the Low Tide Trail. My hiking partner pointed across the tidal lagoon, and there she was, a black bear balancing on driftwood for fun!
This black bear didn't seem worried about us, either. As long as we keep our distance, they keep theirs, and nobody gets surprised, we'll all be great friends.
One of the most imaginative tips I've recieved as a guide was a package of homemade bear jerky. Every Alaskan resident gets to shoot three bears a year, though of course most don't take up the offer. Our eight-year-old visitor had shot this jerky's black bear himself. And here I'd thought butchering my own rabbits made me cool.
I haven't seen a bear since my first three days at the Station, but I always carry bear spray. And when my friend Laura and I go running on the trails, we holler our rambunctious greeting at every turn: HEY, BEAR!!!
In case you haven't heard, spring is the season for babies.
Here at Peterson Bay Field Station, a pair of bald eagles is accomplishing an incredible feat: they are raising triplets!
The broken crown of a seaside spruce makes an ideal platform.
I'm taking photos every day to mark their progress. To the eagle experts out there: any idea how old these chicks might be?
On the Lost and Found Lake Loop Trail, which winds through a mile-and-a-half of Lutz spruce forest, I found the sign of an American robin's reproduction: the cracked shells of two sky-blue eggs.
Cracked sky.
Shell fragments.
A proud mom or a heartbroken orphaner?
I don't know if the eggs hatched or were pilfered by raven or raccoon.
On my day off here in Homer, I circumnavigated Beluga Slough through questionable tides, estuarine mud, and private property.
Kenai Mountains in the background.
Kachemak Bay on the horizon.
I ducked behind the tree line to read a chapter of Aldo Leopold's A Sand County Almanac on somebody's hand-hewn log bench. Seven northern shovelers flew in as soon as I was out of sight.
Pendulous bills make for good shoveling.
I've never seen such an enormous hoof print. Moose were probably watching me follow their trail.
Further along, I discovered septuplet ducklets. Their species eluded me at first. Mallards have orange bills; green-winged teal have dark faces; gadwalls aren't common here.
What nice eyeliner you have. I always go for down-turned wings, too.
Is that a peek of blue speculum I spy?
But with enough patience and photographs, I got a look at her blue speculum, and I believe she is simply a dark-billed mallard mama.
Ahh, blue indeed!
On my walk home, I got a much closer view of a mother mallard with only two ducklings. She had a dark bill and a brilliant blue speculum, confirming my identification.
And her duckling took an adorable bath while practicing her dabbling! I wonder how even their down is waterproof?
A baby duck is a duckling (or ducklet, with poetic license). A baby eagle's an eaglet. What do you call a baby crane? Take a gander. (No, a gander is a male goose!)
I'll give you this one. A baby crane is called a colt!
Watching them gambol through the grass makes clear the resemblance between filly and fowl. I couldn't get too close to the pair of colts this morning, but you can see their yellow fluff nudging mom or dad for food.
Four days ago, I was fighting for a national championship with my ultimate team, the Whitman Sweets, at the National College Ultimate Championships in Raleigh, North Carolina. (We made school history and earned a silver medal!)
Three days ago, I was buying my first pair of Chacos in Seattle and stuffing polypropylene leggings into my waterproof duffel bag.
Two days ago, I was flying to Anchorage and then Homer, Alaska and settling in to my bunk room on the second floor of the Center for Alaskan Coastal Studies. I met an old friend and teammate for dinner (here in Homer, what wonderful coincidence) and fell asleep at 10:30 pm in broad daylight.
One day ago, I took a boat across Kachemak Bay to the Peterson Bay Field Station, a semi-remote campus of the Center for Alaskan Coastal Studies where I'll be living and guiding for the rest of the summer.
We passed Gull Island on our way to Peterson Bay Field Station.
Common murres were conspicuously absent in the water... and then we found them all huddled on top!
Black kittiwakes coated the cliffs and generated a constant pulsing wail.
Tufted puffins bobbed near our boat.
And this morning, I woke up to gossip of boreal chickadees, the indignant peels of black oystercatchers, and the melody of robins.
A bald eagle perches in this snag every day.
A group of eight Alaskan school-teachers are visiting for a three-day Teacher Academy. They'll take back what they learn to provide outdoor education for the students in their classrooms. It's a perfect first group for me because I get to learn about this ecosystem alongside curious educators who ask creative questions and find joy in the mucky details.
Gull Island, a pillow basalt home to thousands of birds.
Otter Rock: can you see the geological sea otter on her back, paws in the air?
Low tide.
Can you identify this dead duck head?
Our steep ramp from the dock to the Field Station.
If you're heading to the beach, take the stairs.
Our drinking water comes thrice-filtered from this steam, but it's still imbued with a rich brown color from leaf tannins.
Today we have a minus 3.2 tide at 7:30 am -- that's really low. We're off to Otter Rock to seek out the Fab Four Phyla and whatever else crosses our path!
