Yellowjackets

Day 291: While we're on the subject of carnivorous plants (we were talking about Sundews day before yesterday), I am happy to report that my Sarracenia x Carolina Yellow Jacket has turned into a veritable grove of hungry pitchers and is keeping my back porch bug-free with the assistance of its companion, Sarracenia rubra. In this record-breaking heat, I top up their water saucers at least once a day to ensure that they have the proper boggy conditions their roots prefer, and although I often see mosquito larvae in the bowls, I have yet to see a single mosquito. They're doing a great job, my door wardens!

Perfect Popovers

Day 290: It's a well-known fact that I don't like to cook. If a meal takes more prep time than five minutes and if it's going to dirty up more than one pan, I can't be bothered. The exception to my avoidance of culinary excursions is baking. If I do say so myself, I'm a good baker. I've been making my own bread for more than forty years, and cookies are the mainstay of my diet. As such, I am no stranger to creating puff pastries such as creampuffs and eclairs, but popovers were a new adventure. Having been introduced to them during a trip to the east coast several years ago, it followed that sooner or later, I'd have to make my own. To that end, I purchased a heavyweight Silverstone popover pan. It arrived today, and here you see the results, minus two which I gobbled while they were still hot.

There are many recipes for popovers on the internet, and about 50% will recommend preheating your oven. I followed "Joy of Cooking," a cookbook which has never let me down. I substituted powdered milk for whole milk (something I never have on hand), buttered each cup and dusted it lightly with confectioner's sugar ("to give the popovers something to stick to," per "Joy"). The recipe said it would make nine, and that proved to be quite accurate. A little less than a quarter cup of batter went in each cup. Every popover rose to crispy perfection and slid right out of the pan. Since I had to have a split one for the photo, I only had six left to put in the freezer for later treats!

Jack's Lot

Day 289: Warm weather saw me out and about in a boat again today, kayaking around Lake St. Clair and checking on my little Sundews in three locations. Jack's lot are by far the most abundant and healthy, and Jack (the homeowner whose floating logs they inhabit) is now quite aware of how special they are. He was home today, the first time I've seen him in a year, and he happily informed me that the local newspaper ran an article about the species some time last fall, although it only mentioned that they occur in Alaska. So much the better! I don't want word getting out, because unscrupulous collectors would make short work of these delicate carnivorous plants.

Seeing that I was having trouble getting into position to take photos of the flowers, Jack assisted me onto his dock for better stability. From that vantage point, I was able to get in closer with my Hoya macro filters to capture the "dew" which gives Drosera its common name. I was surprised to see that many were still in flower; most were forming seed pods, an encouraging sight. I'm happy to know that Jack has taken the stewardship of my little friends to heart.

Sickletop Lousewort, Pedicularis Racemosa

Day 288: I find the Louseworts to be intriguing for the wide range of flower shapes exhibited within the genus. Some are vaguely reminiscent of snapdragons. Some are beaked, including one which takes it so far to the extreme that the flower resembles a tiny purple elephant face, the trunk curving gently upward. Sickletop puts me in mind of a poem from my childhood: "There was a little girl / Who had a little curl / Right in the middle of her forehead. / When she was good / She was very, very good / But when she was bad / She was horrid." Sweet Sickletop, of course, is the good girl in the verse, and I've never seen her naughty. In fact, she's rather shy, nodding beneath her leaves when other Louseworts show off their flowers on a spike. Eight species of Pedicularis can be found in Mount Rainier National Park. Look for them in subalpine meadows.

Zipping Through Morning

Day 287: I'm not fibbing. Going zip-lining may have been in the back of my mind, but it was not an idea I was seriously entertaining when I left home this morning. I had two free passes to Northwest Trek, and when I couldn't locate a potential cohort, I decided to go alone. Now bear in mind that I'd read up on the zip-line adventures NW Trek offers, and although I hadn't seen the course layouts, I was afraid I might lack the upper body strength to complete any but the very basic "kiddie" version. I couldn't see that being much of a thrill, not for an old climber like Your Humble Narrator, no sir.

As I drove to Trek, the mental gears began to grind. What harm could there be in asking about difficulty? The gal in the admissions booth encouraged me to talk to staff at the zip-line center. They in turn assured me that the Discovery course was within my physical capabilities. The next thing I knew, I'd forked over the fee and was getting harnessed up.

There were about ten people in my group. We received some basic instruction and then were told we'd be expected to go through a qualifying course before being turned loose on the real thing. "If you make two mistakes, you'll be disqualified from the team," we were told. As we lined up, I sensed a uniform reluctance at my back, so I said, "Well, I might as well be the first one to make a fool of myself." I clipped into the first safeties and scrambled up a ladder, over a slatted suspension bridge and whizzed down a short zip-line. Passed with flying colours!

Advancing to the real course, I conquered a "climbing wall" quickly, bounced over a longer suspension bridge slung between the trees (suspension bridges are old-hat for this Parkie) and called out, "Clear!" Then I crossed a 4-inch wide plank bridge to the next platform and called out, "Clear!" again. The course instructor advised me that I didn't need to give the "Clear!" signal unless there was someone waiting behind me. Oh, nope...nobody back there. Halfway through the course, I realized no one was anywhere near me. I was way ahead.

All in all, I passed over or through at least ten "obstacles" such as plank bridges, cargo nets, hammocks, slat bridges, loose loops of rope, and a single "tight-rope" cable in addition to three short zip-lines (the longest about 250 feet). Unfortunately, I was not allowed to carry my camera, so I went back and got these pictures from the ground. I'm almost tempted to buy a GoPro (permitted) because I'd like take on the more challenging courses.

Sunflower Explosion

Day 286: There has been another Bambi-attack in my garden. Spike got one of the horse chestnut trees. I can only blame myself. I didn't surround all of them with wire, although I did take measures to protect the ones in the front yard. The savaged one may pull through; it had established a good root system, but as of this writing, there's not a leaf on it.

First to go were the raspberries, and I understand that Spike is looking for better forage than the brittle dry grass and withering leaves on non-cultivated plants. I can't blame him. The dry weather is hard on wildlife. That said, if I'd had clear foresight, I would have hung a string of cat-food cans as a "deer-scarer" as I've done in the past. All things considered, I'm surprised my nibbling nemesis ignored the sunflowers. This one now towers a foot above my head and is just beginning to open. With any luck, several more will mature to provide natural snacks for the birds. After all, they planted them. They should reap the harvest!

The Geranium That Wouldn't Die

Day 285: This is the story of The Geranium That Wouldn't Die. It's not the kind of story you hear every day, and some people may find it disturbing. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Last spring when I was hunting down rare orchids, a friend reported to me that he had found daffodils, tulips and other flowers blooming on a service trail in the Park. Since planting of non-native species is strictly prohibited within our boundaries, I dutifully went to the location and removed them. Rather than throw them out, I brought them home and planted them, scoring in the process some bulbs for my garden (the tulips were pink, ugh!) as well as a white hydrangea. The daffodils were well-rooted, as if they had spent at least one full year in place. The tulips and hydrangea were in pots and fresh, but I also found other empty pots buried in the ground at the site. All things considered, I figured someone had spread a family member's ashes there at some time in the past, and now they were creating a memorial garden. I may have been right about that, but only halfway.

Two weeks later, more plants showed up in the same spot. I climbed up the short rise to remove them, and was met with the sight of human "cremains" distributed over an area approximately 8' x 10'. Again in the line of duty, I documented everything with my camera, pulled the plants, covered the ashes with forest detritus and reported the discovery to my superiors.

Once again, I brought the plants home, but our nights were still dropping into the mid-20's and I assumed the geraniums wouldn't survive. I didn't want to fuss with bringing hanging baskets in and out, so I pitched them onto my compost heap and didn't give them another thought until a month or so later when I found one of them blooming its silly head off without so much as a pot around its roots. I felt sorry for the poor thing and stuck it in some dirt and set it by my back porch step. It looked sickly for another month, and then started putting on leaves. Now it's covered in blossoms, and today enjoyed a light sprinkling of rain.

Penny Perspectives - Foamflower

Day 284: One of my colleagues recently tossed me an interesting question: What is the tiniest wildflower in Mount Rainier National Park? Well, I had to admit that I didn't know, and subsequent research in field guides hasn't provided me with the answer, but I do have a list of candidates. One of them is Foamflower (Tiarella trifoliata). An individual blossom from this species wouldn't quite cover the date/mint beneath President Lincoln's chin, as demonstrated in this Penny Perspective. When found growing in masses in moist areas of the lower forest, the derivation of the common name becomes clear; when viewed in close-up, the flowers are among the most delicate, long stamens projecting well beyong the petals. Tiniest? Perhaps not, but Foamflower's "faerie skirts" are certainly comely figures, dancing on the slightest breeze.

Rattlesnake Plantain, Goodyera Oblongifolia

Day 283: Rattlesnake Plantain isn't an uncommon plant, but is best known for its basal rosette of white-veined leaves which hug the ground closely. It occurs largely in dry forest, and may be found at low to mid-elevations. The inflorescence tends to be rather inconspicuous, passed over by casual observers as an immature spike a foot or so in height. It bears a closer look. The delicate flowers of this orchid-family species exhibit satiny white petals and charmingly fuzzy-wuzzy velvety sepals. Colourful wildflowers get all the press with their flamboyant displays, but when you get right down to it (literally, in many cases), you'll find many shy beauties waiting to be admired in quiet corners of the woods.

Blue Ribbon Winner

Day 282: As far as I am concerned, Mountain Bog Gentian (Gentiana calycosa) takes the prize for "blue." Normally emerging as one of the last flowers of the season, they are already appearing in the subalpine zone, dotting the meadows like bits of shattered sky. Bumblebees in particular are drawn to them. It's not uncommon for early-morning hikers to see fat, fuzzy bees emerging from the cups of the flowers after having had an unintentional "sleep-over" inside.

In this photo, you can see a furled flower at the one-o'clock position. The blossoms close at night or when the sky clouds over and rain threatens, and bees frequently find themselves trapped inside until the flower opens up again. A canny observer may hear buzzing among the buds when first light comes to the meadows and the bees begin struggling to throw off their "blankets," wanting to be out and about, collecting pollen. That said, I can't think of a better place for a Bumblebee to shelter from the rain than under a tightly furled sky-blue umbrella.

Monkshood, Aconitum Columbianum

Day 281: When it grows among the subalpine Larkspurs featured in yesterday's post, Aconitum columbianum is easily dismissed as a member of the same species, dwarfed as it may be by the stresses of life in the higher elevations. However, its color tends to lean more toward indigo or purple as opposed to the rich blue of Larkspur, and when viewed in profile, the helmeted cap of the flower quickly identifies it. Aconitum columbianum goes by several common names including the descriptive "Monkshood" as some readers may remember from Severus Snape's reproach of an inattentive Harry Potter, "As for monkshood and wolfbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?" To that I say, "Well? Why aren't you? And while you're at it, make a note that all parts of the plant are highly poisonous."

Rockslide Larkspur, Delphinium Glareosum

Day 280: Another vibrantly blue flower you may encounter in the high country, Larkspur is a smaller cousin to the towering Delphiniums of your grandmother's garden. Like those Delphiniums, a pink or lavender colour variation can be found occasionally. Of the hundreds of plants we observed on Chinook Pass two days ago, only one pink specimen was noted. Delphinium glareosum grows to a height of approximately twelve inches, and bears several blossoms on each stem.

Canby's Lovage, Ligusticum Canbyi

Day 279: I am embarrassed to admit that had it not been for a friend who is a botanist, I would have passed by Canby's Lovage without as much as a nod in its direction. Of the two Lovages found in Mount Rainier National Park, Canby's is much less common than Gray's, and both occur in the subalpine zone. But who pays attention to white umbels when the meadows are filled with Sitka Valerian? Fortunately, my friend is a good observer. She alerted me to the presence of Canby's at Reflection Lake where undoubtedly, I've walked past it dozens of times before.

Canby's Lovage may be distinguished from Gray's by a more dense umbel of 15-30 rays terminating in smaller umbelets as opposed to an umbel of 7-10 rays, and the presence of one or two leaflets on the stem (insert). Gray's occasionally bears one leaflet, but the stem is usually leafless. Despite being less common than Gray's which is only present above 5000', Canby's Lovage can be found at somewhat lower elevations (4000'). The upper range of 7000' is the same for both species.

Gentiana Calycosa, Mountain Bog Gentian

Day 278: One of the highlights of yesterday's botanizing trip was finding Gentiana calycosa already in bloom. Normally this late bloomer heralds the end of the season, not emerging until September. Like so many other wildflowers this year...

"Wait a minute, Crow...isn't Gentian supposed to be blue?"

Ah, you caught that, did you? Indeed, your typical Mountain Bog Gentian is one of the bluest things you'll ever see, but occasionally, a white individual crops up. This is not a faded plant, as you will readily note if you observe the buds beside the open flowers. Nor is it a different species. It is an uncommon colour variation of the Gentian you know and love. Dusty rose-pink specimens occur even more rarely. Hikers in Gentian country are more likely to find the "bleached denim" variation, a washed-out blue.

Like so many other wildflowers this year, the Gentians are ahead of schedule by about six weeks. Already, wildflower season has passed its peak in Mount Rainier National Park. What will the meadows look like in late August? And what does this early season portend for the pollinators, many of which are species-specific? Will they die off? Or is it possible that our written history fails to show the broader picture, omitting observations of species in similar times of stress? Will they shift to another plant, or will only the hardiest survive? Each question we ask raises dozens more. This is a fascinating time to be a naturalist, for sure, but also an unsettling one.

Campanula Rotundifolia, Harebells

Day 277: "These are not the Campanulas you are looking for." Campanula scouleri remains elusive, even when I was in the company of the two friends who found it a few days ago, but an abundance of the more common Harebell (aka Bluebell) provided a bright interlude to scouring the ditch alongside Stevens Canyon Road. The three of us retired to the Tipsoo Lake area after spending an hour in search mode, there to find a number of other delightful wildflowers which I'll feature in upcoming posts. Upon a return to the search area and another two hours of patrolling, we decided that C. scouleri must have lost the petals of its only two blossoms and that looking for a solitary specimen with a leaf closely resembling that of another common plant was not likely to lead us to success, we packed it in and called it a day.

In Days Of Old

Day 276: Okay, don't everybody fall down laughing. Yes, that is indeed Your Humble Narrator, way back in the Carbon River days. Just for chuckles, I dragged the slide out of my archives and had a friend scan it for me, but age will take its toll on slides and Crows alike. I'm not sure which of us fared the worst. I will admit that the uniform I wear today is a few sizes larger...well, the pants and shirt, anyway...hat size decreased when the Afro disappeared...and the insignia changed from the shield design to the current round patch. That said, I transferred one of the old patches to my new hat, proud to be one of the "Old-Timers" in the Park.

My Favourite Marsh-ians

Day 275: By now, my readers should know what to expect when I go kayaking on Lake St. Clair. Sundews are a given! I was afraid I might have missed their flowering period, but was happy to see that many of them were still in bloom. They also appear to be enjoying a wide variety of bugs in their diet, everything from flies to spiders, mosquitoes, wasps and the occasional beetle. Mycoheterotrophs and rare orchids aside, Drosera rotundifolia was one of my "bucket list" plants. Finding them in the wild was arguably the finest moment in my history as a naturalist. I still get excited about visiting them!

Fruit Of The Vine

Day 274: If I dawdled a bit on my lunch break today, it was because I was conducting valuable scientific research into whether specimens of Rubus ursinus (common name, Trailing Blackberry) produce a more flavourful fruit when found in proximity to other leafy species as opposed to those with vines travelling across expanses of sun-warmed rock. I was unable to obtain a truly broad sampling on this single occasion; therefore I would strongly suggest that further studies be made over the next few weeks.

Aunt Hollyhock

Day 273: Single Hollyhocks always remind me of my grandmother, and they're not easy to find these days. Most seed dealers only offer the showier doubles, but in my book, those just won't do. A Hollyhock should be a saucer with a central structure, not a bowl of frills. While searching for singles some years ago, I struck upon a bonus: a black-flowered variety. I love black flowers, so I promptly purchased a packet and planted them beneath my kitchen window. Since that time, a friend has given me more seed, so I can't say for sure whether these are mine or hers. In wanting to portray the richness these plants lend to my garden, I inadvertently captured another "bonus" in the person of an ant hiding deep inside the blossom, a pollinator ensuring future generations of single black Hollyhocks to grace my yard.

Garden Lace

Day 272: If you've ever grown Nigella, you'll understand where it came by the common name of Love-in-a-mist. The flowers are enfolded by a lacework of fern-like leaves which curl even more tightly around the seed-pods as they mature and swell. A delight for dried-flower enthusiasts, the red markings on the pods last for years. Nigella may be left in the garden to self-sow, or if you have pods left over from arrangements, crush them and toss the seeds into your garden in the spring. Even after two years, some seeds will retain their viability. There's no reason to be without Love-in-a-mist!

Packing Expert

Day 271: I took advantage of cooler weather to sit outside with friends while they had lunch today and couldn't help but admire their skills at packing for future picnics. All guests but one filled their sub-lingual pouches to capacity and then deftly collected four or five more round pieces of dog food until their beaks were stuffed as well. The remaining visitor (nicknamed Timid) approached the feeding station with trepidation, landing only long enough to make a quick thrust at a piece of food, knocking it to the ground to be retrieved on the second try. I suspect Timid is new this year and hasn't learned the ropes. On the other hand, Sweetheart sits on the fence patiently, waiting for me to walk away. When I caw softly to her, she responds with the same syllables, acknowledging me in the same tone.

Hoya Curtisii

Day 270: Hoya curtisii is one of my latest acquisitions. A "miniature" Hoya, it is also a creeper, useful as a groundcover in larger pots, and trailing when grown by itself. In form, it reminds me very strongly of Ceropegia woodii (Rosary Vine). The leaves are not quite as heart-shaped, but they are of a similar size and bear the same silvery mottling. I've only had it for a few weeks, so can't vouch for the flowers, but it seems to be a very vigorous and trouble-free grower, having gone from a few four-inch stems in a 2.5" pot to fully filling a six-inch pot with half a dozen stems dangling a foot over the edge. It is reported to be an intermittent bloomer like Hoya bella, forming clusters of slender-armed, pale yellow stars surmounted by a crown of pink-tipped white beads. I can hardly wait!

Sungold Harvest

Day 269: Sungold's sweet fruits may be smaller than those of Sweet Million, but what they lack in size, they make up for in number. A single plant is now producing to match my capacity for grazing, providing a nice handful each morning with more ripe for an afternoon snack. Admittedly, I've picked a few which weren't quite at maximum sweetness, but how do you tell when an orange tomato is fully ripe? That's the only drawback to this prodigious provider that I can see.

Indian Pipe, Monotropa Uniflora

Day 268: Without a doubt, this year has been an exceptional one for botanizing. In the process of scouting out uncommon mycoheterotrophs and orchids earlier in the season, I discovered a number of colonies of Indian Pipe just starting to emerge through the forest duff, little buttons of white among the fall of needles and twigs. I've been watching them closely for six weeks or more, waiting for their ghostly pale "shepherd's crook" heads to lift and open. A solitary flower hides inside each shroud, a yellow eye, its glance downcast in demure grace.

Also called "Corpse Plant," Monotropa uniflora is not a common species, but neither is it rare. What is rare, however, is to see more than a few in any given area. Here, within the space of a few acres of hillside, there are dozens of colonies...dozens, perhaps even a hundred or more clusters have popped up, most showing 20-30 stems in a grouping. I have never seen them so lush! Is their abundance due to an increase in the fungal cooperator in this mycoheterotrophic relationship? I believe that may be a substantial contributing factor, based on my observation of other mycoheterotrophic species this year.

Mountain Postcard

Day 267: I have the good fortune to be able to live, work and play in what I consider to be one of the most beautiful and exciting places on Earth: at the foot of Mount Rainier. I never know from one day to the next what I may discover. Why, just in the last few months, I've documented several rare plant species, and I have to tell you, those are the kinds of "red-letter" events which delight me most. But even when I'm viewing the mundane...marmots, paintbrush, alpine meadows filled with heather...it is the Mountain's presence which awes me and fills my spirit. This, above all else, is home.

Summer Spoonful

Day 266: Since discovering Osteospermum "Spoon Flower" a few years ago, it has become one of my favourite annuals. It is a prolific bloomer and although it benefits from deadheading, it will still produce dozens of flowers even if you neglect the task. Like other Osteos, it can withstand drier soil than many annuals, although in the 90-degree temperatures we've been experiencing for the last week, I am keeping the garden well-watered.

Breakfast On The Fly

Day 265: With another day of very hot temps in the offing, I am making sure to keep my garden watered and the birdbath refreshed. Most of the activity occurs in the early hours of morning now, hummers flitting between the feeders and Crocosmia as if they can't make up their minds which they prefer, Grosbeaks lining up three abreast to drink fresh, cool water. By 1:30 PM when the thermometer stood at a blazing 95°, not a bird or butterfly was to be seen in the still air hanging weightily on the neighbourhood. When a light breeze picked up in late afternoon and shadows fell on the flowerbeds, a handful of visitors returned to try their luck.

Remember, folks, this weather isn't just hard on you. It's hard on everyone. Keep clean water out for the "little people" who give you such joy when they come to your flowers.

Parkies On Parade

Day 264: I'm sure hot temps kept a lot of people from attending Eatonville's Fourth of July parade today, but a group of stalwart Parkies marched despite the weather. Our theme was "trails," so some members of the group carried shovels or pulaskis while others wore backpacks and carried trekking poles for the one-mile route through the heart of town. Although turnout was low compared to previous years, those who attended waved enthusiastically or cheered as we walked by.

Western Tiger Swallowtail, Papilio Rutulus

Day 263: Watching my Philadelphus (Mock Orange) be denuded of it blossoms over the last several days has given me a different perspective on butterflies. Perhaps the petals were ready to fall and only needed a slight nudge from a proboscis, but you'd think they were shredding them off one by one if you let observation guide you.

Picture this: Swallowtail lands on a flower, wings fluttering, legs waving as the insect attempts to gain a purchase. Once secured, the butterfly seems to burrow into the flower with some vehemence; jabbing, wriggling, flapping its wings vigorously. Suddenly, a shower of petals results, and Papilio rutulus dines with ease at the banquet of exposed stamens. Done, it moves on to the next flower and the process repeats, each time with a snowfall of Philadelphus petals.

While this wouldn't be particularly noticeable if one or two butterflies were at work, in the case of my 20' tall tree, thirty or more may be attacking flowers at the same time. Only a few petals drop from untouched blooms, as opposed to the hundreds dislodged by hungry flutterers. During the heat of the day, activity is somewhat limited, but when the first shadows touch the tree in the evening and its fragrance fills the neighbourhood, it seems to be abloom with yellow and black trembling flowers. Most have marked bird damage to their wings, but I was able to capture one perfect Papilio rutulus among the dozens ravaging the poor Philadelphus for breakfast.

Lavender Bottles

Day 262: It's been years since I made lavender bottles. I saw no particular need, since the one in my "dainties" drawer still had some fragrance. That said, I figured it could use refreshing, and with a sufficient supply of lavender in my garden, I parked myself on a lawn chair in the shade of the contorted filbert during the cool of the morning and set to weaving. By the time I was done, I had half a dozen, plus a vaseful of flower spikes too stiff to bend.

Also known by the rather boring name of lavender wands, lavender bottles are fairly simple to make. Pick an odd number of long stems (11 or 13 makes a nice bottle), strip them of leaves and isolated flower clusters and bunch them up. Lay the tail of a spool of 3 mm. ribbon (do not cut!) among the flower heads with three inches projecting beyond the tips of the flowers. Tie a piece of string around the flowers and ribbon tail just below the bases of the spikes. Give each stem a gentle pull to be sure the bottom flowers are snugged up against the tie-off because that is where the stems will be the most flexible. Otherwise, you risk breaking them. Now gently bend each stem down to form a "cage" around the flowers.

Weaving will be done with the ribbon coming off the spool. Set the spool on the table. You will not handle it during the weaving. The first two rows are the hardest. Hold the wand in one hand (left, if you're right-handed) and as you weave over-and-under, rotate the wand. Keep the ribbon flat as it weaves through the stems, and try not to leave any gaps between rows. Be sure to keep any string tails inside the weaving. When you have covered the flower heads entirely, cut the ribbon from the spool leaving about four inches. Wrap each ribbon tail around the wand in either direction, and tie off with a square knot topped by a bow.

The fragrance of lavender lasts for many years, even beyond the time when the stems dry and become brittle. Where does the "bottle" portion of the name originate? I haven't got a clue.

Orange Agoseris, Agoseris Aurantiaca

Day 261: Orange Agoseris is not a rarity. In fact, it's hardly even something you'd bother taking a minute out of your hike to photograph. It looks for all the world like an orange dandelion, and when it crops up in a meadow painted with lupines and castillejas, you'd walk past it without a second glance, dismissing it as a weed as opposed to a wildflower. Nevertheless, it's one of my favourites because my initial encounter with it was on a trip through the same area in which I'd taken my first serious hike at age 9. Every time I see it, I am reminded of the event which charted the course of my life, a memory which no other wildflower jogs so strongly. It is for me a "medicine plant," one with which I have a spiritual connection, a figure of significance in my animist theology. I never pass one without acknowledging it, even if it's just to say, "Hi, Agoseris!"

So how do you say, "Hi, Agoseris" correctly? That's a matter of some dispute. The guidelines for classical Latin say that the emphasis should be on the antepenultimate syllable, in this case "a-GOS-er-is," but there are those who would debate the issue. Many botanists will pronounce the name "a-go-SER-is," but again, not all agree. My preference is "a-GOS-er-is," but then, I say "litch-en" instead of "like-en." Who ya gonna trust?