Oregon Sage-Steppe

I’ve finally settled into the sage-steppe grasslands of Eastern Oregon. In many ways, my new home is a world apart from the tallgrass prairies of the Midwest, having few ticks, no chiggers, no poison ivy, and no thorny or prickly vegetation above shin height. It essentially doesn’t rain in the summer. There are NO C4 grasses (frankly, good riddance to them). If the system is healthy, it doesn’t burn very often (and vice versa). There are landscapes on the sage-steppe. People call the Flint Hills of Kansas a “landscape-scale” prairie. From a Great Basin perspective, the Flint Hills prairies are like the postage stamp prairies of Iowa and Illinois. Elk and Antelope roam here. A nighttime drive reveals no lit bulbs for miles or tens of miles to the horizon.

View from the Northern Great Basin Experimental Range. Juniper encroachment is evident.

View from the Northern Great Basin Experimental Range. Juniper encroachment is evident.

That said, there are many commonalities. In both places, altered fire regimes threaten biodiversity, although in sage-steppe grasslands it is mostly fire too often, whereas in tallgrass prairie both too frequent and too infrequent fire can starkly achieve biodiversity loss. Both grasslands are threatened by the encroachment of Juniper species. Both face threats from exotic species, especially in temporal or spatial proximity to human activity. Both inspire wonder. Both are worthy of conservation and restoration. Efforts for conservation and restoration in both are often justified and underwritten over concerns for particular, charismatic grouses.

On the sage-steppe the barriers to successful restoration are initially abiotic, although they develop a biotic component if exotic, annual grasses are given time to dominate after disturbance. Dry periods and fine soils lead to the formation of crusts that germinated seedlings often fail to emerge through. Soils after fires are often hydrophopic, preventing moisture from penetrating and sustaining young vegetation. Seeds often germinate in fall and die over the winter before they can emerge. Summer brings drought. Generally, abiotic conditions favorable for the establishment of plants from seeds are unpredictable…a year’s efforts may be a waste or they may not. A fifty-million dollar effort (i.e. BLM recovery plans following large fires in 2012) to revegetate a huge tract devastated by an unusually large and intense series of wildfires may succeed, or it may fail utterly.

Seeds with a hydrophopic coating to prevent early germination. Seeds were sown in rows and covered to approximate rangeland drilling.

Seeds with a hydrophopic coating to prevent early germination. Seeds were sown in rows and covered to approximate rangeland drilling.

Bluebunch wheatgrass is among the dominant bunchgrasses in sage-steppe grasslands. Re-establishing it following catestrophic fires and other disturbances may be key for preventing invasion by exotic annual grasses.

Bluebunch wheatgrass is among the dominant bunchgrasses in sage-steppe grasslands. Re-establishing it following catestrophic fires and other disturbances may be key for preventing invasion by exotic annual grasses.

When I was searching for graduate programs, I was initially interested with the idea of restoration in arid systems. I was told quite bluntly by a well-known faculty at the University of New Mexico, that restoration in arid grasslands didn’t work.

Luckily, there are people with an imagination out there, who have been asking whether or not barriers to the restoration of arid grasslands are insurmountable. If we lump seeds together, so their collective turgor can break through soil crusts, if we coat seeds with surfactants to punch holes in hydrophobic soils, if we coat seeds with hydrophobic substances to delay their germination until spring, if we engineer “pillows” so broadcast seeds tend to fall seed-down with a cap of soil over them, can we make the results of restoration more predictable? Maybe.

A huge problem with restoration and the expectations surrounding it has always been that we are trying to recover characteristics of a system from a new starting point, over a different trajectory, and over a truncated time period compared to the context that led to the formation of the system in the first place. We are working with something with great and perhaps irreducible complexity, and our approaches have been very limited…prescribed disturbances, and, in a few cases, tinkering with spatial arrangements. This research is exciting to me, because these are new tools, and they are targeted tools. At the rate we are turning up and simplifying the world we live in, we have to both increase our efforts and our abilities in order to achieve noticeable progress.

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Drought

I am wrapping up my field work this month and next, and things are looking a lot different than they have any time in the last four years. The drought is epic. I’m not old, but I’ve never seen things drier. At my research site in Nebraska, which has been relatively wet until this year, things are especially bad.

I captured these images while I was in the field up in Nebraska a couple of days ago.

This is one of the quadrats I sampled from on my restoration plots just northest of Hastings, NE. The dry vegetation is mostly indiangrass (Sorghastrum nutans), wild rye (Elymus canadansis), and rigid goldenrod (Oligoneuron rigidum). If you look close, you can find a little bit of green indiangrass, and there are a couple of stems of the exotic grass, Bromus japonicus.

Zooming out a bit, you can see that the grass is almost completely fried. Most of the green plants are rigid goldenrod, but about half of these are brown along with half of the rosinweed (Silphium integrifolium). The tall stems are last year’s growth of Illinois bundleflower (Desmanthus illinoensis).

In some ways this drought my be fortuitous (beyond having many fewer green stems to count in August sampling). While it is not something I am manipulating, this drought and heat are the sort of events we expect to increase in frequency in the coming decades, so it will be interesting to see how the prairie responds. In this experiment, where I’ve sown identical communities into the plots, but manipulated the states they are sourced from, will there be consequences of source  for drought response? For example, I do know drought affects flowering phenology, and some species from some sources got flowering in ahead of the drought while others did not. I am also relieved I didn’t bother with passive rainout shelters to create fake drought this year, because there has been almost no rain to intercept.

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Keep Public Lands Public

In February Mitt Romney told a newspaper in Nevada that he doesn’t know “what the purpose is” of this country’s expansive public lands. I am feeling a bit retrospective today, on a birthday, as my life marches ahead towards middle age. I’m considering what I have, what I love, and what I want, and I feel like rambling on. Public lands, from the county to the Federal level, are at the heart of much of it. Public lands have captured my imagination, helped me to form my identity both as an individual and as a citizen, set me on a career path, and have been the nucleus of my ethic and morality. The times I have shared with others in the public wilderness have been among my most treasured, pulling from some core ancient humanity that still resides in my heart, but that usually is buried deep beneath the daily clatter of the small things that necessarily dominate life in modern society.

When I was a little boy, I liked to look at maps and copy them. I dreamt about going places with high mountains, sand and cactus, oceans, and wildlife. I played in a little hillside pasture with a creek at its base at the shore of the great maize sea that could swallow me whole. My family moved to a larger town when I was older, and I would get on my bike and ride far out of town, because the lack of open sky was too confining. I stumbled across the prairie, tucked away behind a thicket of plum in the middle of flat central Iowa farmland—bronze indiangrass in late summer and Silphium standing shoulders above the surrounding cornfields. It was a giant sigh for me, an island in the monotony that Pioneer and Monsanto have given us. I can remember renting Zelda for Nintendo as a child and getting lost, wandering forever through a repeating and coarsely pixilated landscape. I put down the video games shortly after discovering them, but real life hadn’t seemed so different, and maybe that’s at the heart of society’s detachment these days. But I had just found beauty in that small county park. It was a transition from 8-bit to the true discerning capability of the human eye. My mind has been painting the texture and color of that small fragment and others like it over the landscape ever since, simultaneously filling my heart with the emptiness of what’s lost and the hope for what we have to gain. That still fuels my ambition.

After graduating from high school, my friend Amir and I packed some camping gear, got into my Corolla, and headed into the American West. There is nothing like the automobile to propel you away, through the matrix of torn earth and dying towns and into the great wide open. There was snow on the Rocky Mountains, the void of complete silence at the base of big red rock at Escalante-Grand Staircase, a 93-degree night in Death Valley, palms and orchids tucked away in a desert oasis. There were monuments to millions of years of wind, rain, and ice stretching out to the limits of perception. There was vastness and complexity. Everything from the horizon to the plants and stones at our feet were new.

A worthy western vista

Freedom means different things for different people. I am convinced that for about 50% of people freedom is right to be an ass. Freedom was something I felt profoundly that summer, and I have sought to repeat it since as often as money will allow. I was looking back through old photos and thinking back through some old memories this morning. So many pictures are from public lands—so many happy moments. I asked Beth to marry me on top of a peak in a public wilderness, and our honeymoon was spent kayaking on a national lakeshore. For me, the open, public, and relatively wild lands are fundamental to America. They embody what we’ve always had, and what we might strive cultivate moving forward.  In enumerating the things I wish for my descendents to see, the wonders of our public lands are my most sacred hope. How dim the world would be, if all we had were fake things we make for ourselves—the geometric and monochromatic landscapes, cul-de-sacs, and fenced pastures. Think of the art, the literature, and the innovation that have been inspired by public lands—are the poets to write about gas wells, clear-cuts, and pollution haze? What would the tenor be, and where would possibility reside? Are our children to find the spirit of what is wild on a computer monitor? I want our children to grow in a country where the land lives in people’s dreams. Selfishly, I want to walk the mountains as an old man, and I want to revisit the places I love with the people I love. I don’t know if life has a point (and I don’t care too much), but beauty and ugliness are both real, and I value possibility of beauty over profit.

Humphrey Peak, AZ….We were so little!

Grasslands transition to ponderosa pines at Wind Cave Nat’l Park

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