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Aldridge Conservation Easement:
120 Acres SE of
Maytown in southern Thurston County
Protected with Conservation Easement in 1989.
The property includes extensive
ponds and wetlands, meadows and evergreen and deciduous
woodlands. The property is also notable for its unusual
glacial-remnant topography.
The property is a series of long, low areas which have
been dammed by beavers to create shallow ponds separated
by gravel ridges. The ridges are covered with second
growth fir, cedar and hemlock. There are extremely large
big leaf maples and a few virgin conifers. Approximately
one third of the property is under water, one third is
low areas, and one third ridges and open grassy fields.
Wildlife found on the property includes ducks, geese,
osprey, bald eagles, grouse, herons, coyotes, black
bear, deer, elk, mink, beaver, otters and raccoon.
Notes from the Field: Aldridge Easement
by Shelley Kirk Rudeen
(Winter 1993)
It was the last day of October and classic fall weather. I embarked on
what I hope will be the first of many field trips to Capitol Land
Trust conservation easement sites, to document their wonders for
readers like you. This trip took me to William Aldridge's domain: 120
acres of ponds, wetlands, meadows and forests, protected with an
easement in 1989.
Upon arrival I headed for the nearest pond and followed a trail on its
western shore. The pond was alive with light, with sounds of wind and
wren chatter, and with insect activity. Scores of small beetle-like
insects dimpled the water at one edge. Dozens of spider threads
drifted over the water, visible because of the low autumn sun.
In the pond, fleshy wapato stems had succumbed to the first frosts and
rains. Normally held above the water, they had fallen over and begun
to decompose in the shallows. Theirs were not the only nutrients being
added to the pond, for the wind tossed alder leaves to its surface.
They floated till waterlogged, and then sank to become part of the
rich muck on the bottom.
Red alders dominated the shoreline, but behind them Douglas firs were
so thick that I could hear the dry hiss of falling needles. My
attention was drawn to dozens of deer prints in the duff; then to a
winter wren flitting about; and finally to something I had hoped to
see: signs of the resident beavers.
They'd begun work on a clump of alders at the pond's
edge. They had chewed nearly through the base of two 10 inch trees,
which were precariously perched until the beavers (or a high wind)
finished their work. I wondered how long it takes to gnaw down a tree
this size. The chips at the base gave a clue but not the answer: some
of the chips were a good 2" square.
The far end of the pond was littered with peeled twigs and saplings.
Curious to know where the beavers were logging for their snacks and
building materials, I followed the evidence several hundred yards into
the woods. Scrape marks in the duff, flattened grasses, disturbed
moss, and chewed vine maple tips marked the trail to the work site.
The beavers had removed eleven trunks from a large clump of vine
maple. Chips littered the ground. What a distance for these creatures
to drag their sticks and branches! No wonder we call hard working
humans "eager beavers."
I left the forest and entered the meadow. A hawk and a small cloud
soared overhead. Wrens called from the edges; two flickers glided
between fir trees. Animal trails crisscrossed the tall grasses, while
underneath the small trails of rodents were hidden.
The westernmost pond is reached by crossing the meadow and entering
another forest, this one boasting a greater diversity of trees and
understory than the previous forest. The water in the pond was quite
low. I crawled out on a log that will no doubt be floating when winter
rains replenish the water table. This day, however, the log lay in mud
and grass and I could safely bask in the sun.
A dragonfly lit on my hand. It kept its wings drooped, perhaps to
avoid being blown away by gusty winds. Large, complex eyes covered
much of its head. Dragonfly eyes are composed of up to 28,000
hexagonal lenses. I brought my own two measly lenses closer to admire
the gossamer wings, the pulsing red abdomen, the robot-like movements
of the head.
A small roar in my left ear signaled the arrival of another dragonfly
on my shoulder. There were dozens of them about; some red like my
visitors, others large and blue-green. They flew with no discernible
pattern or purpose and paused frequently in midair, their transparent
wings catching the sunlight.
Perhaps the composer of Flight of the Bumblebee sat in just such a
place as this and was inspired by the flight of insects!
Farther along, the pond widened and deepened. Four male and six female
mallards were feeding there. Surface feeding ducks such as these
search the water for plants and seeds, insects and small aquatic
animals. The mallards' heads ducked under water and their tails tipped
up in the air. My grandmother called them "teeter asses" and
it's easy to see why.
William joined me for the end of my walk. Pointing out a snag twenty
feet into the pond where a pair of raccoons has raised four litters,
he laughed at the memory of the young ones falling overboard. He makes
regular rounds of these meadows, ponds and forests.
Naturalists have made the rounds here, too. They've recorded evidence
of an impressive variety of species that depend on William's place for
permanent residence, for part of their territory, or for migratory
stopovers.
Daylight waned and the wind blew October to a close. I turned for
home. It's nice to know that everything I saw that day, and much that
was hidden from my eyes, is protected through the partnership that
William and the Land Trust have formed.
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