I situate myself below the north bank of Lookout Creek in a young stand of red alders, none more than 20 years old, on a flat bar directly upstream of the reflection plot. Were the creek to rise another 50 centimeters, my boots would be submerged. While I set up my stool and stow away my daypack I am greeted by a Pacific wren who bobs almost formally with each two-note call.
Chee-chee, chee-chee. Down up, down up. The bird is clearly aware of my presence, and seems to want me to know that it owns the timber rights to the pile of logs on which it perches.
There are four large Douglas fir snags above me on the bank, and it could be perilous on a windy day to encamp where I currently sit. Any of six snags from the north bank would add to the gravel bar’s topography were they to collapse downhill, which judging from the deadfall around here would be the logical direction, and most of them are already leaning downslope. There are likewise two snags on the far side of the creek whose tips, at least, will someday add to the bar’s mass.
The creek runs clear despite the recent rains, and when I look upstream from the bar I can clearly make out the round rocks all the way across the bottom. From the bank I cannot see fish or any other aquatic fauna.
A cluster of large logs—I can count seven from here but there are certainly more—the largest of which are more than a meter in diameter, form a partial dam on the upstream edges of the bar, bifurcating the water to create a fairly stable island. With the exception of a large Douglas fir that serves as a bridge from this bank, the other logs seem to have flowed here from upstream during a flood. Both channels form ripples and rapids just loud enough to make it impossible to hear ambient birdsong from the forest. Twice as much water flows to the far side of the bar than the near.
The downed log that serves as a bridge has a stile built over it to facilitate crossing. The log is covered with moss uphill of the stile, but not on the side leading to the bar, where it appears that human traffic has worn away any growth. The logs on the gravel bar, likewise, are not mossy, which may attest to the thoroughness of my colleagues’ explorations here. After all the rain in the past few days, the bridge log does not appear safe to cross.
Three separate alders grow on the bar, the largest being approximately 10 meters tall and about 20 centimeters in diameter at the base. They have shed most of their leaves by now, and appear to be flourishing. Younger hemlock and Douglas fir saplings crowd together in the center of the bar, none having exceeded two meters in height.
I leave the security of the bank to climb along the logs atop the bar, moving from mossy stepping-stones to slick logs that have long ago shed their bark. To say that these logs are slippery is to understate the peril, and I’m glad no one can see me straddling them and crawling along the more precarious sections.
The largest of the logs is a bit spongy, and I keep an eye out for rot while I cross it. The transit was well worth the effort, however: One understands a gravel bar imperfectly from the bank.
I can now count 14 logs thick enough to have been the trunks of centuries-old trees atop this bar. None of the logs appear to have been lumbered; their ends are snapped rather than sawn. There are six large tree-trunk logs immediately downstream, visible from the outside of the gravel bar. A lot of timber went into the creation of this reflection plot. There is an S-curve below me as the water runs past this bar and then left into the next group of three giant logs on the southern bank. Clearly, these trees are altering the course of the stream within its traditional banks.