Waterfall Hole

It’s loud here, but beautiful. A new realm. A large school of some kind of minnow curiously swims right up to my mask and camera, which makes getting a good shot difficult, but makes the swim really enjoyable. The topography of this large pool grades from fine sand on the shallow downstream edge to a deeper pocket with exposed bedrock where the water continues to wear it away. A large pile of leaves accumulates on the right, under a canopy of overhanging rhododendron. A rhododendron branch swirls in the current, and I have to work to keep from being pulled upstream into the waterfall. The stream funnels through a bedrock trough and dumps about 15 feet into this pool where a cascade of bubbles almost reach to the bottom 4 feet below. The large school actively feeds unconcerned that I am there. A large stoneroller grazes on the bedrock shelf at the back of the plunge pool and darts behind the curtain of bubbles for protection. I pick my head from the stream and a whole new view of the river is revealed. I am almost directly under the small falls, and what appeared to be a modest sized falls now seems enormous. It is so quiet above in the forest, but when I put my face back under, the river is filled with the crash of the waterfall, like an unexpected constant rumble of a train. That is the case most times I snorkel: the view below if often something unexpected, but there is also a reassuring permanence to our rivers and streams. Water flows downhill. Life goes on. And Snorkeling often becomes a celebration of that life and the opportunity to experience it.

Not So Angry Beaver

Lumps of sawdust poop laid on the bottom, and a fresh beaver chew was placed against what appeared to be an old beaver dam. More chew sticks and feces were on the bottom near what I suspected was a bank den. I thought this creek was partially beaver controlled, and these fresh signs prove it. That might explain the greater than expected diversity and abundance of fish we see in this small creek. In her book, Water, Alice Atwater presents a compelling argument about how beaver were responsible for water quality in North America. These large rodents were extremely abundant, and dammed flowing waters to form beaver ponds. Beaver ponds trap sediment, act as great filters for water, and create a diversity of habitats. Diverse habitats and clean water support biologically rich ecosystems. Beaver were trapped out initially for their fur and later because we consider them nuisances. As the beaver were removed, so were the benefits of their engineering. Today they are returning to even urban streams, though we still tend to remove them when they create what we consider flooding problems. Maybe part of the solution to restoring stream health is to leave the beaver alone. The beaver are welcome here at Eden Mill and we enjoy the benefits they provide to this stream.

Hoping For Hellbender, Grateful For Trout

I wasn’t thinking about hellbender until yesterday afternoon, when I heard they were abundant here in Pisgah National Forest. Someone who snorkeled this river said they saw 6 hanging out right in the open this summer, right where I was. Hellbenders are foot long salamanders, giants in North American terms. They need cold, clean water to survive so their numbers are declining and their range is shrinking since cold clear stream are becoming rare. They used to be in the rivers near my house but are now believed to be gone. I have never seen one even though I have been on an unofficial search for the last 3 years by looking for them any time I am in their range. I want to see one in case they disappear from the wild, but I have hope that we can protect the populations that remain. The river was clear and loaded with fish, but that didn’t matter. I had a search image of a flattened, round, well camouflaged, mottled head of a salamander blazed in my brain and nothing else mattered. I envisioned it barely peeking out from under a flat rock and I searched for an image to match the one in my head. I’m sure I missed some fish. I saw movement in my periphery and dismissed it. It wasn’t until I looked to my left and saw a large brown trout holding under a log that I realized I was missing incredible biology for the search of what might be. I was missing what was in front of me, which was pretty awesome, in the quest for something better. The fish was large as trout go, and beautifully colored with yellow fins and belly, red and brown spots above, and a slightly hooked lower jaw. The large fish just held under the log at the base of a small falls and watched me watch it until it decided I was too much threat to tolerate, when it disappeared with one flick of its tail. Brown trout are not native to North America. They were brought here from Europe and like the also non-native rainbow trout, are raised in hatcheries and released in our rivers and streams. They are top predators in the aquatic food web, and part of me wonders if the decline we are seeing in hellbender could be related to these non-native fish feeding on hellbender larvae. But this trout was an incredible animal and I shared a similar thrill in watching the brownie that fly fishers do when they capture this elusive fish. It definitely would have been amazing to see a hellbender. These animals are so secretive and well camouflaged, and the rivers in Pisgah afford so many places where a hellbender can effectively hide from a snorkeler, I bet that my search was very incomplete, that I was just at Pisgah at the wrong time of year and if I return in their breeding season, I’ll see one. Still, every time I search and come up empty, part of me worries that their numbers are dropping and maybe I will miss my chance to observe them in the wild. But for now I am grateful for trout and will continue my hellbender quest.

Hungry Mother

The water is clear and cold and there is no life, at least none that I can see, but the place is still interesting. The water stings my exposed cheeks, and ice crystals elevate pebbles on the shore. The stream scape is new, different for me. The bottom is angulated fractured bedrock that hasn’t had the time to get worn smooth by the water. A recent small avalanche put two boulders, a log and some moss into the middle of the small creek, and a large pile of leaves accumulated on the bottom of the lee side of the stream, over a small sand bar. The creek is tiny, barely 6 feet wide and I figure this is probably a first order stream. Streams are defined by size. A first order stream has no tributaries. A second order steam forms when two first order streams come together. A third order stream forms when two second order streams come together, and so on. Based on its tiny size, shallow nature and slow flow, I assumed Hungry Mother Creek was first order and while it was small and without any fish I could see, it was still interesting based on landscape and legend. Hungry Mother got its name from the story of a female settler, Molly Marley and her small child who were captured by Native Americans after they destroyed encroaching European settlements in the area. Molly and her son eventually escaped and when the young boy was found wandering down the creek all he could say was “hungry mother”. A search party found his mother dead along the creek I was snorkeling in, maybe even at this spot. We have, and still do, treat each other like crap. It’s no wonder we treat our environment the same. The tragedy of this place, perpetrated by both Native Americans and Europeans, gives the stream an unsettled feel. The lack of fish adds to the graveyard ambiance. But I don’t think the lack of life is due to abuse. It’s cold and I think things have hunkered down for the winter. I imagine this place is pretty different in summer, when the creek is full of fish and the valley full of humans enjoying the park named for this legend. I hope I get the chance to come back and snorkel here when it’s warm.

All Holed Up

Big branch is really different than the last time I was here in August. The remnants of a hurricane came through and dumped 7 inches of rain in a short time. Big Branch took heavy flows, no doubt, and now the small creek is rearranged. Little is familiar. Logs that fall fish used for shelter are gone. New ones take their place. Holes are filled in, others are enlarged. Streams are dynamic places, and are supposed to change. The question is how fast, and as climate destabilizes and storms become more intense. I wonder if our stream ecosystems will keep pace. I approach the first hole in the stream with a lot of anticipation. There have always been a lot of fish here. A school of common shiner usually hangs on the fringe, and large fall fish usually hold beneath a wide tree trunk wedged in the sand. It’s all different now. The tree trunk is gone, the hole is wider, but still only 2 feet deep and there aren’t any fish. I wonder if everything has headed for deeper water in Deer Creek with the arrival of colder temperatures, and if Big Branch will be fishless for the winter. I head further upstream and slide into the largest hole in the creek, one that drops to 8 feet, and find out where all the fish have gone. Before me is a school of at least a hundred fish composed of at least 5 species. Common shiners, northern hog suckers, chubs, and white suckers all slowly move in unison away from me. And the large fall fish I liked watching and especially enjoyed showing to others who came out on snorkeling trips with me were there, near the bottom. Everyone I expected to be in this creek was, just all holed up in this single deep spot, which was just as deep but narrower than it was this summer. Maybe this is the refuge the fish in this stream seek in winter, the deeper water they need to avoid freezing temperatures. It certainly appeared that way today. If it is that refuge, it demonstrates the importance a single stream feature can play in maintaining its diversity and health. This hole is still as deep as it was this summer, but it’s a little more than half its original width. The outside of it has been filled in with sand deposited during the last large flow. If that trend continues, the hole will fill, deep water will be gone, and these fish will have to find somewhere else to hole up for the winter. The sand that fills this hole all comes from us, upstream. Our streams start on our driveways and rooftops and what we do in our backyards matters. But for now there is a healthy fish community living in this hole and I enjoy watching the large school.

Necessary Evil

The sign was prominent, with a big red slash through the silhouette of a fish. Don’t eat more than 2, 8 ounce meals of fish per YEAR taken from this river. No wonder why many people think our local streams and rivers are dead. No wonder people think there is nothing of worth or value living in our local creeks. No wonder people don’t act to protect what is still there. I am not suggesting these signs are not necessary, they are. But they only tell one small part of the overall picture. Yes we have polluted our environment to the point it is no longer safe to eat fish, drink water, or breathe air, for that matter, in some places. And somehow these degraded conditions are accepted as ok. How is it remotely ok to have fish so contaminated eating more than 2, 8 ounce fillets in a year can cause health effects? How is it ok to have water we can’t drink or air we can’t breathe? Unfortunately we need these warning signs, and I hope they serve as a wakeup. But what this sign doesn’t reveal is the incredible ecosystem that remains in the Brandywine and our other familiar rivers, in spite of the insults we throw at it. I slid into the water after explaining that there really are things to see in this river to a father and his 2 sons. I am sure snorkeling here looks odd in the summer. I’m sure it is perceived as flat out bazaar now, at the end of November. It didn’t take long before the first fish came into view. A large northern hog sucker darted off from right beneath me in 2 feet of water. I followed the motion to a flat rock, where the fish let me slowly approach. I watched the hog sucker for a while, until it finally had enough of me and swam upstream. I let the current carry me gently downstream and started to explore a pile of logs on the stream bank. A tail of some kind of large fish stuck out of a rotted hole. It beat the water frantically as I approached, trying to push the fish deeper into the cavity. A bass held beneath the clump of wood and watched all the commotion. He was well camouflaged among waterlogged branches and piles of recently shed leaves. A tessellated darter took a short hop away from me and stayed on the bottom. One of the benefits of snorkeling this time of year is the cold water slows everything down, and a lot of fish seem to be more reluctant to shoot away, so I have more time to watch and film. I see a few dead freshwater mussel shells, as I expect, but don’t see any live mussels, as I also expect. Mussels in many of the rivers I snorkel don’t seem to be reproducing and there is growing concern about their future, so I’m doubtful I’ll encounter any here. Then I see the well camouflaged end of the shell of an Eastern Elliptio. Then I see another, and another. I am drifting over a vast mussel bed, and everywhere I look I see mussels. Mussels are filter feeders, and help maintain water clarity. Seeing these animals here gives me true hope in the future of the Brandywine. Maybe we need to amend the signs. Yes we have crapped up the environment. Yes, fish is unfit to eat as a result. But it is far from a hopeless situation and there is a ton of incredibly beautiful, intriguing life waiting to be discovered and protected in our local, familiar rivers and streams. You just need to stick your face in the water.

March of the Caddis

The water was a lot colder than I expected and I wondered if the effort to get into a dry suit was worth it. I doubted I’d see any fish as cold as the water felt. But Deer Creek was clear and I’m always grateful for good visibility, so I slid into the rapid. At first there didn’t seem to be much life. The usual rock weed covered the boulders, but looked thinner and drab compared to summer. It looked likes the rocks were balding. I didn’t see any non-plant life, as the water stung the exposed skin on my face. I slid out into the fast flow and clawed upstream, into a familiar eddy behind a large familiar rock. This is where I go for short quick snorkels, when I just need to get in a river. Smooth cylinders start to emerge on the face of the large boulder that forces the river flow to divide. Humpless caddis flies in the tubes extend their legs up into the current, to filter morsels of food from the water as it rushes by. They quake in the strong current, and my placement in the river changes the current dramatically for these small insects. Other caddis flies cling to algae threads on rocks. I drift out of the slower eddy, and creep into the strong current where I am whisked downstream. I snag a rock edge with one hand and let my floating body trail behind. I feel free. I slowly crawl upstream against the strong water, and notice that there are hundreds if not thousands of caddis cases all facing up into the current, all with outstretched black legs into the current, feeding. I realized that while there isn’t the larger piece of biomass swimming by that I am used to here in the spring summer and early fall, there is just as much life here, carrying out important functions and filling important roles in the rivers food web. The river changes subtly until the changes add up and the place appears very different. A completely different group of animals compared to last trip, a new arrangement of gravel in the eddies, thinned rock weed, and more algae. The caddis become abundant in winter, shad in spring, minnows and eels through the summer. And each river has a slightly different seasonal procession. The extra effort it took to put on a dry suit was definitely worth it today, and I can’t wait to see how our rivers change as fall turns to winter.