It’s a cool, misty morning in late May at the Ross Creek Cedars, a remnant patch of old-growth forest in the rain-blessed northwestern corner of Montana. A Townsend’s warbler (Setophaga townsendi) is singing from the treetops, and in the distance a varied thrush (Ixoreus naevius) gives his surreal whistle. Moisture accumulated in the canopy during last night’s drenching rain drips steadily to the ground, splashing on ladyfern (Athyrium filix-femina) and goldthread (Coptis occidentalis) leaves before an aromatic blanket of fallen western redcedar (Thuja plicata) needles absorb them.
The morning is relatively quiet. Birdsong is subdued after the rainstorm. “Boring, nothing to see here,” some would say. But I invite you to pause here, to listen and reflect. The forest is pausing, it seems—pausing to breathe. And within this stillness, each bird call, each raindrop and each movement is magnified, as apparent as a ripple in a motionless pool.
This story is about stillness. It’s about noticing what the creatures around us may show us when we stay quiet and slow, when we let the sounds and rhythms of the forest seep into our skin. Mostly, it’s an invitation to be still in nature. This one’s not so much about me speaking as it is about making space for the forest to speak. If you like, close your eyes as you listen. Let these sounds transport you to a damp western redcedar forest along a mountain stream.
Plants and forest sounds
The forest floor is vibrant with the pale greens of unfolding leaves: ladyfern, Devil’s club (Oplopanax horridus), twisted-stalk (Streptopus amplexifolius). The goldthread is evergreen, so it doesn’t have any unfolding to do. The emerging leaves of the wild sarsparilla (Aralia nudicaulis) are a ruffled burgundy-purple.
The stream is a constant rushing noise in the background. Raindrops keep falling from the canopy to the forest floor.
The air is humid and still. I can catch the faint, rich odor of redcedar duff.
The sky is getting lighter now. The sun peeks briefly through the low, gray blanket of clouds. Western tanagers (Piranga ludoviciana) are singing, sounding like hoarse robins among the canopy.
I’ve only been sitting for a few minutes when insistent, staccato chips erupt from the undergrowth nearby. I recognize these chips: a Pacific wren (Troglodytes pacificus). But as I spot the wren flitting among ladyferns and fallen branches, I immediately notice something interesting: this bird is carrying a leaf in its beak.
The annoyed chipping doesn’t last long. The wren apparently decides I pose no major risk, and goes back to work. A massive redcedar towers above us. The wren flies to the trunk and disappears under a loose slab of bark. He’s building a nest!
The Pacific wren
By saying “he,” I’m making an assumption, but a well-founded one. Although male and female Pacific wrens look identical, nest-building is an activity almost entirely confined to males. Each male builds one to several nests, generally using existing nooks and crannies in stream banks, root wads, and other protected spots in the forest understory. Females choose which nest the pair will use to raise their young. Some of the extra nests may be reused in future years.
I continue watching the wren for many minutes. He’s very busy gathering leaves, conifer needles, and what appear to be dead ladyfern fronds from a patch right in front of the nest tree, within five yards of it. Mostly, he stays silent. Sometimes I can barely hear his wing whir as he flies to the nest, a globular cup well-hidden and sheltered by cedar bark. At times the wren remains in the nest for a minute or more, presumably arranging and weaving the materials.
Finally I walk onwards, leaving him to his nest-building. He sings briefly. Then he continues making trips to his woven home, roofed with cedar bark, part of the living tree.
His song makes me think about the Pacific wren I heard in western Washington in April of 2023, when Rod Crawford showed me a world of spiders and I learned about a forest-floor food web that connects wrens, spiders, and salamanders. And then I return to the present moment, as the cedars breathe, the raindrops drip, the varied thrush sings, and the ladyfern fronds continue their silent unfolding.
Further reading
Towes, D.P.L. & Irwin, D.E. (2020). Pacific wren (Troglodytes pacificus), version 1.0. In Birds of the World (A.F. Poole, editor). Cornell Lab of Ornithology, Ithaca, NY. Retrieved from https://birdsoftheworld.org/bow/species/pacwre1/cur/introduction
