Tag Archives: Environment

Between the Tides in California: Q&A with Authors Ryan P. Kelly, Terrie Klinger, Patrick J. Krug, and John J. Meyer

The vast and diverse California coast is an awe-inspiring place of exploration and discovery, full of life forms that are shockingly unfamiliar.

In the newly released guidebook Between the Tides in California—a follow-up to the popular Between the Tides in Washington and Oregon—scientific experts reveal the hidden worlds of the intertidal zone, profiling sites from the remote northern seashores to the popular beaches of Southern California. Richly illustrated and accessibly written, the book transforms readers into nearshore detectives, with each species offering unique clues about the environment around them.

What inspired you to write this book?

Ryan P. Kelly: This book was a long time coming. I was sitting in California—in 2011, before I moved to Seattle and UW—and drafted the original sketch. The idea was to do a roadside guide to ecology, focusing on the intertidal, aimed at a curious, outgoing public. Terrie, John, and I are all originally from California, and we asked Pat to be a part of this book both because of his deep knowledge and because he’s actually in place there in Southern California, while the rest of us live in Seattle.

John J. Meyer: For me, it was an opportunity to pay homage of sorts to the place and coastline I love the most. The West Coast is truly spectacular—all of it—but the beaches and tidepools of California are where I fell in love with the ocean in the first place.

Patrick J. Krug: It’s a lucky few of us who have been able to live immersed, literally and figuratively, in the study of marine biology. Not much beats the fun of sharing everything you’ve seen, read, and been taught over a lifetime with other people who like to explore and learn about the ocean.

When people see me working in the intertidal and ask what I’m doing, it only takes a few minutes to show them how to find animals they’ve never seen before. I wanted the book to be like having four marine biologists in your pocket, pointing out sea creatures you may have overlooked your whole life.
Patrick J. Krug

As research scientists, why write a book for the broader public? Did you perceive a specific need?

RPK: It just seemed like ecology deserved the kind of treatment that geology has gotten in the Roadside Guide to Ecology series. There are lots of guides to shells and seashore creatures, but it seemed like nothing explained why a thing was here and not elsewhere. The why seemed important to explain to a broader audience.

JJM: As a researcher turned policy specialist turned communications professional, I have seen firsthand the importance of making science broadly accessible to all people. If we can help do that for our oceans, I am all for it.

PJK: Right now there’s so much curiosity and appreciation for the ocean paired with concern about how to protect our coast from escalating human impacts. It felt like the right time to talk about the shoreline we love in accessible terms to anyone looking to explore, learn, and be inspired.

In writing this book did you learn new things that differ from your day-to-day research activities? If so, what?

RPK: I loved getting the chance to look up facts and distinguish them from scientific lore and rumor. We all learned a ton. And as my day-to-day work has pulled me away from the intertidal, this was a great opportunity to reimmerse myself in some real-world ecology.

TK: I learned a great deal from my coauthors, whose specializations are somewhat different from mine. For instance, who knew that gumboot chitons have magnetite in their teeth? Or that hermit crabs can be extremely picky in choosing a new shell to inhabit?

PJK: I spent a lot more time thinking about places instead of species. I do a lot of biodiversity discovery work, finding and naming new species, so I’m often thinking: what is special and different about this organism, what sets it apart from every other form of life? But for this book, we wanted to give the character of places—what do you find on this beach, and why is it here? It was a different challenge to capture in photos and words the feel of each rocky point or sandy cove that we profiled along the Golden State’s epic coast.

The intertidal community at Big Sur’s Partington Cove is typical of high-energy environments where wave-tolerant species dominate the shore. Photograph by the authors.

Many Californians are familiar with Ed Ricketts’s Between Pacific Tides published in 1939. Is there any connection between your book and his?

RPK: Those are very, very big shoes to fill, and I wouldn’t say we were aiming to fill them at all. Inevitably our book does have thematic overlap with Ricketts, but he was setting out the language of intertidal ecology for what was probably the first time for a relatively popular audience. That book is pretty dense with detail; we have tried to stick to a more narrative style and to focus on geographic patterns that visitors are likely to notice in a day at the shore.

TK: Between Pacific Tides was formative for all four of us—you might say that as students we were weaned on that book. I’ve been carting around a copy for almost fifty years, and I still use it. But we did not set out to replicate it—that would be impossible.

How did you approach the main themes of the book and bring them to life?

RPK: It’s easy to write about things you love and find fascinating. I’d say we just tried to convey that enthusiasm—I hope it worked.

JJM: This book is filled with photos of ocean and tidepool habitats, which was intentional; you can read and see the magic of the California coast. I hope they help transport the reader to these special places and that readers then become inspired to go see them in person!

PJK: When people see me working in the intertidal and ask what I’m doing, it only takes a few minutes to show them how to find animals they’ve never seen before. I wanted the book to be like having four marine biologists in your pocket, pointing out sea creatures you may have overlooked your whole life, to tell you about their hidden world, their challenges, and the incredible adaptations that let them thrive in the unforgiving world of the intertidal zone.

The Mendocino Headlands, carved from a jumble of metamorphic and sedimentary rock, form rugged boundaries between land and sea. Photograph by the authors.

Is there a location in the book that is your favorite? What about that location makes it special?

TK: Hands down, my favorite is Partington Cove on the Big Sur coast. It’s a truly magical spot.

JJM: Terrie turned me on to Partington Cove too, which was new for me and now ranks among my favorites. But the intertidal on the Stornetta Lands in Mendocino County I think is my favorite; the diversity of micro-habitats is immense, which leads to lots of diversity in the organisms that live there. And the rugged coastline as a backdrop only makes it that much more special!

PJK: I wanted to find the outrageously neon pink sea slug, Hopkins Rose, so I went back to the same rock channel in La Jolla, San Diego where I first found this species thirty years ago. And they were right where I left them in my early twenties, same exact spot. A great puzzle in marine ecology is how rare species persist in one place in a dynamic, turbulent ocean. This was a wonderful illustration of that mystery for me.

Everyone has a favorite species or two. Which species in the book are your favorites, and why?

TK: It’s hard to beat giant kelp (Macrocystic pyrifera) for sheer majesty—but giant kelp is not an intertidal species. In the intertidal, I might vote for the kelp Lessoniopsis littoralis. Its common name—flat pom-pom kelp—does it no justice. This kelp lives in only the gnarliest wave-swept spots and can survive for many years. Its thick stipe is reminiscent of a tree trunk, helping it tolerate the onslaught of waves where few other organisms can persist. To me, it’s the oak tree of the intertidal.

JJM: Almost impossible to pick, but I’ll go with the Spanish shawl. It’s such a crowd-pleaser, fairly common, and simply stunning to see with its bright purple body and orange mane against the greens and browns of a tidepool.

PJK: I always hunt for two elusive species of limpet (small snails) that can usually be found, with some effort, by their special “home turf.” One lives only on the feather-boa kelp, blending in with its glossy brown shell. Its relative glides up and down the narrow blades of surfgrass, like a dime cut in half. Both are marvelously adapted to their different hosts, and the kelp and grass benefit from the pruning and cleaning activities of their little shelled gardeners. There’s something special to me about knowing you can always go back and find your old friends waiting right where you left them if you know their haunts—not too different from people.

A sea slug, the Spanish shawl (*Flabellinopsis iodinea*), found below Sunken City, near Los Angeles harbor. Photography by the authors.

What are the most important messages conveyed in the book? What do you hope that readers will gain?

RPK: Once you start to notice a thing in the world, once it appears on your mental map, you’re likely to start to care about it. That was a core goal here: help others see what we see when we visit the coast, with the likely outcome that others will start to feel about these places the way that we feel about them.

TK: The California coast is magical for so many reasons. But some of that magic can get lost amid its crushing popularity. We wanted to capture some of the beauty and intrigue that can still be found along this coast. It is an absolutely stunning place.

JJM: There are still wild, thriving places, even in the most populous state in the union. Of course, that’s because all the right natural ingredients are there, but it’s also because of the choices people have made. Californians place a high value on their coast, and as such protect it and care for it in many awesome ways. It’s great to see that investment pay off—many special places remain and are there for all to experience.

PJK: To me, the book is about why each beach and bluff in California has a unique vibe and look. The chapters should help readers find new places to explore, and unpack the backstory of the marine life, rock formations, dune plants, and birds a visitor might see on a given outing. My experience is that the more people learn about the ocean, the more they are inspired to protect it, so I hope that a deeper understanding of California’s coast will bring readers a passion for conservation—and more fun on every trip to the beach.

Fossil shells are exposed in the cliffs behind Moonstone Beach south of Trinidad.

How does this book differ from field guides, textbooks, or other books on intertidal communities?

RPK: My bookshelf is full of similar books. Did the world need another one? We thought yes, because we were filling an unfilled niche. The book is about why rather than about what: why some things live here and not there, and how a person can learn to read a beach and glean meaning from the patterns of life on the shore. We think that’s unique among books in print.

PJK: I felt people would like the beach version of a travel guide that tells you what not to miss when you visit a place, explaining the history of that particular fountain, wall, or monument: why it’s special and remarkable, who put it there, the historical context that will enrich your experience standing in front of it. We have that for Berlin and Rome, why not for the California coastline? I also don’t think scientists are always great at speaking plainly to people, at capturing the wonder they themselves feel about nature in their writing or images. That’s probably because we are trained to be dispassionate and technical in our work, but we love what we study, and I wanted that exuberance to come through (along with some good ecology) for the interested reader!

What’s the best way for readers to approach this book?

RPK: There are lots of photos, sidebars, maps, and so on, which some readers might find as useful points of entry. It’s quite readable (we think) straight through, too, but we were aiming to stay away from sounding like a textbook. My hope is that you can throw it in your car and pull it out on a road trip along the coast.

PJK: Like a literal choose-your-own-adventure book. Decide where you want to go: maybe it’s nearby, or you’ve never been there before, or a photo catches your imagination. Take a drive, go for a walk in the sea breeze and sunshine, and make a new discovery. One thing should lead to another, and then another. . . and if you hit the end of a chapter, flip to a random page and start again.

About the Authors

Ryan P. Kelly is professor of marine and environmental affairs at the University of Washington. Terrie Klinger is professor of marine and environmental affairs and co-director of the Washington Ocean Acidification Center at the University of Washington. Patrick J. Krug is professor of biological sciences at California State University, Los Angeles. John J. Meyer is senior director of marketing and communications in the College of the Environment at the University of Washington.

Related Books

Repeat Photography and Global Warming: An Excerpt from ‘Capturing Glaciers’ by Dani Inkpen

Photographs of receding glaciers are one of the most well recognized visualizations of human-caused climate change. These images, captured through repeat photography, have become effective with an unambiguous message: global warming is happening, and it is happening now. But this wasn’t always the case. The meaning and evidentiary value of repeat glacier photography has varied over time, reflecting not only evolving scientific norms but also social, cultural, and political influences.

In Capturing Glaciers, Dani Inkpen historicizes the use of repeat glacier photographs, examining what they show, what they obscure, and how they influence public understanding of nature and climate change. Though convincing as a form of evidence, these images offer a limited and sometimes misleading representation of glaciers themselves. Furthermore, their use threatens to replicate problematic ideas baked into their history.

Excerpt from Capturing Glaciers

I visited an old friend recently. It had been years since seeing the Bow Glacier. Both of us had changed. I was last in her neighborhood on a winter day so bright and cold it transformed my breath into crystals that shivered and sparkled in the air. She was indisposed, hibernating beneath her billowy robes of winter snow. I had to content myself with a view of her front garden, soft and rounded, blue and white. In summer she presides over one of the most breathtaking scenes on the (for now) aptly named Icefields Parkway in the Canadian Rockies. Perfectly framed by peaks, the glacier perches above the indigo waters of Bow Lake, to which she is connected by thundering Bow Falls and a creek that winds its way through rainbow-pebbled flats. The whole scene can be taken in from the front porch of red-roofed Bow Lake Lodge, set on the lake’s shore by packer and guide Jimmy Simpson. In 1898 he deemed this a good spot to “build a shack.”

I met the Bow Glacier the summer I left home, one of those free-spirited summers that Hollywood films coat thickly with nostalgia. Freshly released from the corridors of teenagedom, I chose a seasonal job that could not possibly advance the career I was preparing for in college but that would give me plenty of time in the mountains: housekeeping at a historic alpine lodge. In my time off I often scrambled up chossy peaks where I met wobbling marmots and grizzlies lounging in full-blooming meadows. I drank from swift, icy streams and camped wherever suited me (because, like many seasonal workers, I believed that national park rules didn’t apply to me). The Bow Glacier looked on with dignified indifference. I stood on her surface, secure in mountaineering harness and crampons (though a couple foolish times not) and marveled at the white westing plains of the Wapta Icefield from which the Bow drains, dreaming of even grander vistas beyond. I knew in those moments I was one of thousands to behold that sight yet felt like the world had just taken form. My happiness was untouchable, not yet complicated by the conundrums of adulthood. I was immortal; death did not exist and time would never run out.

Old friends: The Bow Glacier and the author, 2003.

But time does run. And glaciers, compressions of time in frozen water, are excellent gauges of its passage. Mountain glaciers like the Bow are disappearing at rapid—and accelerating—rates. When Jimmy Simpson pondered building his shack, the Bow cascaded down to a forest abutting the lake in three undulating lobes, with the topmost flaring like outstretched eagle wings. I studied its shape from a black-and-white photograph hanging in the lobby of the lodge. Crevasse-torn icefalls separated the lobes, giving the glacier an intimidating look. It was big. It was beautiful. But the Bow Glacier has since receded. When I arrived one hundred years later, only the topmost lobe remained; dark cliff bands, wetted by Bow Falls, stood where crevasses once churned. The eagle wings were gone, and the glacier’s surface was noticeably lowered. Yet you could still see its toe from the lodge. Today it has retracted even further. Like a wounded spider, it now huddles on the lip of the cliff over which it draped in 2003, barely visible from Bow Lake Lodge.

Photographs of glaciers are about more than just glaciers. They’re also about nature, land, how we can know about such things, and the value we ascribe to them. Grasping this allows us to better appreciate repeat glacier photographs for what they can tell us about global warming, but also how they are conditioned by history and where they fall short.
Dani Inkpen

For many people who are not climate scientists, drastic recession of mountain glaciers like the Bow is clear and persuasive evidence of global warming. Since most folks have never been to a glacier, photographs are often how they learn of disappearing ice. This is achieved through what are called repeat photographs: juxtapositions of old photographs and recent re-creations taken from the same perspective at the same time of year (because glaciers fluctuate with the seasons). Curiosity about the historical photographs in repeat series, like the one hanging in Bow Lake Lodge’s lobby, eventually pulled my carefree summer in the Rockies into the trajectory of a professional life.

My book, Capturing Glaciers, is the result: it is about the people who photographed glaciers repeatedly and systematically to produce knowledge about glaciers and a variety of other subjects such as ice ages, wilderness, the physics of ice, and global warming. Throughout the twentieth century those studying glaciers used photography to capture changes in glacier extent and distribution, but they did so for different reasons and with different consequences. I trace the evolving motivations behind the use of cameras to capture images of ice and concomitantly changing ideas about what is (or is not) being captured.

The book title is thus a double entendre, referring to both the enduring allure of glaciers as repeat photographic subjects that “capture” beholders and the variety of ways people sought to capture glaciers with their cameras. I pay especial attention to the perceived value of repeat photographs as a form of evidence. Doing so illuminates some of the ways repeat photography has encapsulated and conveyed changing ideas about what glaciers are and why they matter. Photographs of glaciers are about more than just glaciers. They’re also about nature, land, how we can know about such things, and the value we ascribe to them. Grasping this allows us to better appreciate repeat glacier photographs for what they can tell us about global warming, but also how they are conditioned by history and where they fall short. It helps us see them not as static representations of the present situation, but as still-evolving elements in a process much bigger and more complex than any photograph could possibly capture.

I take a photograph-centered approach, following the photographs to archival information about the practices behind their creation. The history of how repeat photography was used to study glaciers in North America is checkered and discontinuous. Its value as a form of evidence ebbed and flowed based on ideas about what glaciers were and what knowledge-makers wanted to know. This was more than just a scientific matter. While many of the actors who populate the pages of the book were scientists, producing knowledge of glaciers required an extensive host of characters and institutions. And the meanings of repeat glacier photographs broke the bonds of scientific intention and interpretation, drawing from and circling back to potent cultural associations. We will see, then, that the value of a form of evidence is conditioned by nonscientific elements, including political and practical considerations. Evidence, like objectivity, has a history. And history continues to make itself felt in the present.

Dani Inkpen is assistant professor of history at Mount Allison University.

More from the Weyerhaeuser Environmental Books Series

From Gold Rush to Green Rush in Indigenous Northern California: Q&A with Kaitlin Reed, author of Settler Cannabis

The newest book in our Indigenous Confluences series, Settler Cannabis offers a groundbreaking analysis of the environmental consequences of cannabis cultivation in California that foregrounds Indigenous voices, experiences, and histories. Below, Reed shares about the ongoing effects of resource rushing in the state and how this history can inform the path toward an alternative future, one that starts with the return of land to Indigenous stewardship and rejects the commodification and control of nature for profit.

Can you tell us about your background and how your research for Settler Cannabis took shape?

It was never my plan to write a book about cannabis. Thinking back, my scholarly entanglements with cannabis began within the first few days of my freshmen year of college. Gathered in the hallway of our dorm building, my cohort and I exchanged introductions and pleasantries. I shared that I was a member of the Yurok Tribe in northwestern California—as soon as the word “Humboldt” left my lips, eyes lit up. I pondered: How had this commodified plant relative made its way over three thousand miles from Yurok ancestral territory to the Eastern Seaboard? And who was really paying the price? These questions would take a backseat for the next few years.

In 2014, I was an inexperienced intern working for the Yurok Tribe Environmental Program (now referred to as the Yurok Tribe Environmental Department). One July morning, I was drinking coffee at my desk. I opened my inbox to see a Los Angeles Times article that had been forwarded to all Yurok tribal employees. The headline read: “Massive Raid to Help Yurok Tribe Combat Illegal Pot Grows.” This has come to be known as Operation Yurok. While I sat safely in my office, other tribal members and employees, accompanied by dozens of law enforcement officers clad in camouflage and carrying assault rifles, made their way upriver. Their goal that morning was to eradicate cannabis cultivation and document the resulting environmental damages, both within and beyond the boundary of the Yurok Indian Reservation.

The health of ecosystems is directly connected to the vitality of Indigenous peoples.
Kaitlin Reed

That summer, and several summers to follow, the Yurok Tribe was under siege from illicit trespass cultivation. Illegal and unregulated water diversions were running our streams dry. Chemical pollution and human waste dramatically degraded our water quality. Our wildlife were intentionally and accidentally poisoned. Our traditional gatherers and basketweavers faced threats, physical violence, and intimidation from cannabis cultivators. And yet, all the while, the experiences of California Indian people were largely left out from mainstream cannabis discourse. For me, it became very important to document the ecological and cultural impacts of cannabis cultivation for Indigenous peoples not as a new phenomenon but as a continuation of settler-colonial resource extraction.

Can you share a brief overview of resource rushing in California and describe how this history connects to cannabis cultivation in the state today?

The book aims to connect the historical and ecological dots from the gold rush to the green rush. I argue that resource rushing, or the “rush” mentality, is a violent settler-colonial pattern of resource extraction that must be repeatedly played out—first gold, then timber, then fish, and now cannabis. While it may have started with gold, resource rushing did not end with gold. Resource rushing in California has always been less about the specific resource/relative in question and more about access and control over lands and the ability to assert ecological managerial authority. The real gold is not gold, after all, but the land itself. In Northern California a pattern of resource rushing has left a toxic legacy that shapes the historic context of emerging industries in the state. From the widespread use of mercury during the gold rush and its disproportionate impact on Indigenous fishing communities to the aerial spraying of atrazine over Yurok forests as late as 2013, the use of toxics within settler resource rushing has negatively impacted tribal peoples since invasion. California Indians have watched this pattern play out over and over again.

How does settler-colonial violence against the landscape correlate to violence on Indigenous bodies and cultures?

We are a part of the land, and the land is us. We mean that quite literally. When a group of people live in the same place for thousands of years, our ancestors become the soil, they become the Earth. The gifts we receive from Creator—Salmon, Elk, and Acorns—nourish us and become part of our bodies. In caring for the land, gathering the plants, dancing for the Salmon, we engage in an ancient relationship with our land bases, rooted in a connection and reciprocity that has developed over millennia. Additionally, the health of ecosystems is directly connected to the vitality of Indigenous peoples. For example, Yurok elders have said that as long as our River is sick, our people will never be healthy. This includes the Salmon people swimming upriver to spawn, the Tree people dependent on the marine nutrients their Salmon relatives will deliver to the forest, and, of course, the neediest of the bunch, the human people. Our health and vitality are tied to the health and vitality of our landscapes. If the River is sick, everything that depends upon the River will not flourish.

Is sustainable cannabis production possible? What might that look like?

While working on this book project, I received several invitations to speak at academic gatherings. This question comes up a lot. I tell these folks what I tell my students: here in California, our land was stolen only 170 years ago. Before that, our ecosystems thrived. The Salmon runs were so huge, our elders say you could walk across the River on their backs. To us, 170 years is not very long ago. For a people who have been here for tens of thousands of years—and, by the way, some argue over 100,000 years—170 years is a blink, a flash. So, my sustainable vision of cannabis production, then, is not focused on preserving folks’ ability to continue to cultivate for-profit cannabis.

As a result of the legacy of the settler state’s toxic relationship with lands and waters, coupled with the impacts of climate change, our River systems are reaching their breaking points. Our Rivers are choked and contaminated, yet more is demanded from them every day. Our River systems need time to heal, to recover. Demanding water allocations for yet another industry is like asking your relative, still in the intensive care unit recovering from a heart attack, to help you move your furniture. This is not to say that the cannabis industry, specifically, is the cause of this problem. Rather, it is a worldview that considers our water systems as resources to be plundered for export-based agriculture and other industries. My sustainable vision is land return. Decolonization. Ecologically speaking, I argue this is the only path forward. We need to operate within a framework of radical relationality that rejects the commodification and control of nature for wealth accumulation.

Kaitlin Reed (Yurok/Hupa/Oneida) is assistant professor of Native American studies at Humboldt State University.

Discover More Books in the Indigenous Confluences Series

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Between the Tides in Washington and Oregon: Q&A with Ryan P. Kelly, Terrie Klinger and John J. Meyer

A spectacular variety of life flourishes between the ebb and flow of high and low tide. Between the Tides in Washington and Oregon uncovers the hidden workings of the natural world of the shoreline. Richly illustrated and accessibly written, the guide illuminates the scientific forces that shape the diversity of life at beaches and tidepools.

Ryan P. Kelly is associate professor in the University of Washington’s School of Marine and Environmental Affairs. Terrie Klinger is professor in the UW’s School of Marine and Environmental Affairs. John J. Meyer is Senior Director for Marketing and Communications for the UW’s College of the Environment.

Can you tell us a bit about Between the Tides in Washington and Oregon and what motivated you to write the book? How does it differ from other coastal guides?

Terrie Klinger: This book is about the wonder of the intertidal environment, why it is unlike any other on Earth, and the seaweeds and animals that have evolved to live in such a place. We wanted to share that wonder with others who might not be marine scientists. The title evokes Ed Ricketts’s Between Pacific Tides. Published in 1939, Ricketts’s book is widely held to be the classic in the field. We wanted to honor that book and the lasting influence it has had on each of us.

John J. Meyer: The Pacific Northwest is brimming with so much incredible life and beauty between the tides—the diversity of marine invertebrates and seaweeds is just stunning. We wanted to shine a light on these special places, which many folks don’t discover unless they just happen to be at a good rocky beach on a good low tide. A little planning can unlock a world you never knew was there!

Ryan P. Kelly: This book is an attempt to tell people why the species at the shore are where they are, rather than simply being another guide about what one might find there. It’s about ecology, about process. That’s pretty unusual in a book for non-specialists.

There’s a degree of order to the apparent messiness of life along the shore, and uncovering the hidden rules that result in that order is really exciting.
Ryan P. Kelly

What are the main themes of the book and how are they brought to life?

Kelly: We wanted to show, rather than tell. While the themes are those that you might find in a course on marine ecology, we tried to bring those to life by highlighting examples that the reader might run across during a visit to particular places. That was the power of using individual places along the coast as a way to illustrate processes that happen in many other places as well.

Klinger: Intertidal habitats and the species that occupy them are our focus. Habitats determine who can live where, and once occupied, the residents in turn shape their habitats—like your neighbors shape your neighborhood. We try to shed some light on these complexities.

Meyer: To support showing not telling, this book is filled with many photos that are more than just pretty pictures; they are meant to visually bring the vignettes we write about to life.

Who is this book for and how would you recommend readers approach it?

Kelly: The book is for everyone! Mostly non-scientists, but the kinds of curious, outdoorsy people that might find themselves at the shore. We ended up with a lot of text at the beginning that bears reading straight through, but the geographically specific chapters are meant to be read in bits, perhaps as the reader is headed out on a road trip.

Klinger: Nearly anyone who likes to stroll along on the beach, stumble across slick rocks, and explore out-of-the way places along the Washington and Oregon coasts might find something of interest in this book. Readers can jump around to find fun facts and satisfy their curiosity or read from cover to cover for a consistent narrative. My friend Jane, who just celebrated her hundredth birthday, read all the place-based chapters before diving into the first two chapters.

Meyer: This book is meant for people who love to discover new things. So much of what’s living in the intertidal looks and behaves like nothing else, it’s almost like discovering organisms from another planet here on Earth.

Surfgrass (*Phyllospadix* sp.) grows alongside subtidal kelp (*Laminaria setchellii*) at Ecola State Park in Oregon.

Which location or site in the book is your favorite to visit and why?

Meyer: Second Beach in Olympic National Park is a favorite. I discovered it nearly thirty years ago while on a road trip and have gone camping there every summer since. I always couple my visit with a good low tide for some excellent tidepooling, which is backdropped against a spectacularly beautiful location.

Kelly: I just fell in love with Ecola State Park in Oregon during a research trip, and I’ve been back since. What a beautiful place.

Klinger: The rocky sites are my clear favorites. They’re chock-full of interesting species arranged in ways that beg for investigation and explanation.

What’s your favorite species profiled in the book? Are there any fun facts that you’d like to share?

Kelly: I did my PhD on chitons, and so I suppose I can’t resist a good chiton. Tonicella lineata, the lined chiton, is probably the most beautiful thing you’re likely to see on the outer coast.

Meyer: A friend of mine introduced me to the sea palm, Postelsia palmaeformis, years ago, and it’s been a favorite ever since. Watching hundreds of them getting bowled over by crashing waves and then pop back up is one of my favorite things to see.

Klinger: There are some fun facts for sure—for instance, the story about the horse stuck in a sea of foam—and I have a ton of favorite species. One favorite is the air-breathing sea slug called Onchidella—I’m always excited to find one.

The sea palm (*Postelsia palmaeformis*) grows among mussels and barnacles on wave-swept shores.

What do you hope readers will take away from the book?

Klinger: I might hope readers deepen their curiosity about life in the intertidal and the puzzling complexity of nature all around us.

Kelly: A sense of wonder, really. But also a sense that there are answers to questions like “why is this snail here, but not over there?” There’s a degree of order to the apparent messiness of life along the shore, and uncovering the hidden rules that result in that order is really exciting.

Meyer: I think once you understand something a bit more, you care about it a bit more. I hope readers walk away indeed with a sense of wonder that also translates to stewardship.

Upcoming Events

April 11, 6:00 pm at the University Book Store: Learn more about the intertidal zone at an author talk with Terrie Klinger and Ryan P. Kelly. Register for this free event here.

May 13, 11:00 am–4:00 pm, at Friday Harbor Laboratories Open House: The San Juan Island marine biology field station of the UW College of the Environment, Friday Harbor Labs, invites the community to their annual Open House. Guests may meander about the campus and experience touch tanks, science demonstrations, seaweed pressing, and a science speaker series that will include a talk with Terrie Klinger. Visit the FHL news and events page and stay tuned for more details!

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