Bog Candles

Day 291: Platanthera dilatata is easily the most recognizable of Mount Rainier National Park's Orchidaceae, and its immaculate white flowers leave no doubt about how its common name Bog Candles came into our vocabulary. It is also one of the taller Orchids, its striking spires often reaching heights of 2.5-3 feet. As with many other members of the Orchid family, it prefers wet "feet," i.e., it can be found in ditches and wet meadows, and may occur at elevations up to 5000'. It hybridizes with other Platanthera species, making varietal identification of any given specimen extremely difficult.

Marjorie Learns Shepherd's Hey

Photo courtesy of David McKeown

Day 290: In May 2010, I joined Kelly DeLay's "Clouds365," an on-line photo project which documented sky conditions around the world on a daily basis. The project ran for (three?) years, during which time a few of the more consistent contributors got to know each other, if only as friends in cyberspace. Occasionally, some of us had the opportunity to meet up with others, but it was rather rare. Upon the project's completion, a scaled-down version migrated to Facebook and the virtual relationships continued. Yesterday, I had the privilege of meeting in person David and Marjorie McKeown, who were on the long route home to Quebec from Hawai'i. The encounter forged another link in the chain; David and Marjorie met another of my friends (Patty Evans) several years ago. Patty was also involved in the Clouds365 project. That said, my relationship with Patty began on the internet over a decade ago, a result of a common interest in geocaching. She and a third caching friend (Alison) are my truest and dearest sisters-of-the-heart.

I was thrilled that David and Marjorie were able to attend Sound & Fury's tour of Woodinville cideries, even moreso that they took photos and videos of our dancing. However, the high point of the day was when Marjorie (left, blue and purple shirt) joined in as Foreman Dave taught "Shepherd's Hey" to members of the audience. David declined on the grounds that he was the photographer!

Deptford Pink, Dianthus Armeria

Day 289: I have found both Deptford Pink (Dianthus armeria) and superficially similar European Centaury (Centaurium erythraea, formerly C. umbellatum) growing wild, but in this case, the Deptford Pinks came in a wildflower seed packet and surprised me by showing up in the area I refer to as the "Barren Wasteland" between my house and garage. I greeted them as I do many of the people I know: by addressing them by the wrong name. With plants but seldom with people, a closer look invariably corrects the error. Deptford's freckles and fringe immediately generated an apology. "Oh, hi, Deptford!" I said, as I offered a much-needed drink of water to the inhabitants of the Wasteland. Deptford keeps company with Coreopsis, Oriental and (persistently) California poppies, white yarrow (much to my dismay), Sweet William and assorted other drought-tolerant, rather weedy species. I don't much care what grows in the Wasteland, just as long as it puts up some colour. Aggravatingly, the company which packaged the wildflower seed also saw fit to include Bindweed, that white Morning-Glory which strangles anything and everything in its path. I am being diligent about removing it, but have found a few strays which escaped notice climbing up the stems of the Coreopsis. WHY would anyone consider Bindweed a desirable plant? Wildflower mixes often include non-native species which can become invasive, so know what to be watching for when the seeds sprout. As for Deptford, he and his offspring are welcome to populate the Wasteland, pink or not. I mean, who can resist freckles?

Akebia Fruit

Day 288: Even using the proper scientific terminology, it is difficult to write about the process of manual cross-pollination without it sounding risqué. My efforts in that regard are being rewarded with the production of approximately a dozen and a half Akebia fruits of various sizes, the largest of which are shown here. When in the flowering phase, the pistils of this cluster exhibited a heavier production of stigmatic fluid; pollen transfer was much easier to effect because the pistils were receptive. Size of the fruit indicated the number of ovules (seeds) successfully fertilized. These were within easy reach of my paint brush and I transferred pollen to the pistils several times during their period of receptivity. Whether or not the fruit proves to be worth the trouble as far as edibility is concerned, the experiment has expanded my grasp of the mechanics of botanical reproduction and, having seen the phases first-hand, I can now explain the process in intimate detail even if doing so makes my readers blush.

Ranunculus Aquatilis Var. Diffusus

Day 287: Tentatively identified as Ranunculus aquatilis var. diffusus (White Water Crowfoot), this teeny-tiny treasure was another score from Arnie and Crow's bog adventure. The flower in the main image is imperfect; there should be five petals like those shown in the inset (lower right), but I could not capture the moss-like foliage with a perfect blossom. This aquatic species has thread-like, filamentous leaves on the portions of the plant which are submerged, so very different from the leaves above the water that they appear to be two different types of plant. In fact, the submerged leaves resemble those of the invasive Fanwort (Cabomba caroliniana). If Arnie had not pointed the flowers out to me, I would have dismissed the emergent foliage as a moss. Compare the leaves with the brown Douglas Fir needles in the upper right for size.

Adventures With Arnie

Day 286: I think my readers will understand why I want to put the punchline at the head of the story once they've read the whole thing. This little jewel is Sparganium emersum, a species known to occur in the Park, but one without an herbarium specimen. Arnie found it, and wanted me to have a look to see if I agreed with how he'd keyed it out. I was planning to go as soon as I finished my office work on Tuesday, but then remembered that I was wearing my "dress" boots. I shot him an email to that effect, but as the day wore on, the idea of photographing a new (to me) species while it was in prime condition won out, and when I left the office, I went straight to Arnie and asked, "Wanna go for a ride?" We put together the necessary equipment for taking an herbarium specimen, grabbed a government vehicle and off we went. Both of us have now keyed the plant out and yes, it is Sparganium emersum.

Those of you who have been following my adventures this year will remember the discovery of the Phantom orchids and my radio call to Arnie which was broadcast over all receivers: "Arnie, Joe and I are kneeling beside two Phantoms." Most people had no idea what I meant by that, but it caught the ear of one Law Enforcement ranger (Kelly) who referred it to another plant-loving Parkie, Ana. She told him, "They must be referring to Phantom Orchids" and naturally, she became curious about where the Phantoms might be hiding. Kelly spoke with Arnie who gave nothing away, but neither did Arnie tell me about the exchange and how it further developed.

A few nights ago, a friend invited me out to Chinese at an excellent restaurant in the middle of nowhere. When we walked in, I heard someone call my name. Sure enough, it was Kelly, accompanied by Ana. As I walked over to them, he said without preamble, "Arnie said I should ask you about some phantoms." I checked up short. No way did I believe that Arnie would compromise our find. I groped for a reply and finally said, "No, you're not going to catch me with that old trick!" We had a good laugh, and then the rest of the story came out.

It seems that Arnie and Kelly got their heads together and had decided to play a little joke on me about proper radio protocol. Arnie told Kelly that the next time he saw me, he should take me to task for "improper use of code phrases." That revelation confirmed something I've suspected: Arnie is a wicked tease. Obviously, I was going to have to find a way to get the jump on him. But how?

When I got in the car to drive into work on Tuesday, I noticed something I'd left in the cup holder between the driver's and passenger's seats: a sprig of Spotted Knapweed (a virulent invasive) which I'd plucked in South Hill and had forgotten to take inside for analysis. I realized I had the perfect tool at my disposal.

Upon arriving in Longmire, I went immediately to Arnie's office with the Knapweed in hand. As soon as I had his full attention, I said, "Houston, we have a problem...Spotted, I think." Arnie took the plant from my hand and replied, "Spotted or Black, I'm not sure which. Where did you find it?" I was ready for the question. I said, "In the rip-rap on the levee below the Sunshine Point washout." "How many?" Arnie asked. "Three or four," I said, wanting to make it believable. We talked for some time about how it should be treated...chemicals were out because the site was on the river, pulling would be difficult because it was bedded in rip-rap and it had probably gone to seed several years in order to be so firmly established. Oh, yes, he swallowed the story hook, line, sinker and copy of 'Angling Times.'

Then I changed the subject. "Y'know, I ran into Kelly in Salkum a few nights ago. He greeted me by saying 'Arnie says I should ask you about some phantoms.'" I elaborated on how Kelly had tried to trip me up, and how I'd stopped him in his tracks. Then I said, "...and I understand you enlisted him to play a little joke on me about radio protocol. You're messin' with the wrong person. Paybacks are a mother. I've been known to send people down to the (non-existent) basement of the warehouse as a practical joke. And there's no Knapweed at Sunshine Point."

I said it so quickly that the ensuing silence lasted a full two minutes before he could wrap his head around the words. When it finally hit home, he threw the sprig of Knapweed in the trash and said, "Well, I guess I don't have to worry about that then, do I? You're a sneaky one!" So we had a good laugh, talked about his Sparganium find, and then went back to work.

The story now picks up at the top of this entry. Just before lunchtime, we were off to see Sparganium, me in my dress boots despite Arnie's clear warning that "the mud will suck you down unless you stay on logs." I thought I had good footing on a two-inch stick. I was wrong. The mud was so soft that I sunk in, stick and all, up to mid-shin with my right leg. The action threw me off balance and my left foot landed on gooey mud and also sank. As I shifted my weight to try to free myself from the suction, I just went deeper and deeper until I was finally mired up to the knees of both legs. The voice in the Sparganium said, "I did tell you it wasn't a good idea to go over there!" as he was maneuvering around on solid footing to capture my plight for posterity. It took me at least five minutes to extricate myself. I suppose I deserved getting stuck in the muck for being so wicked to Arnie! When he sent me the photos, he said, "Your boots need a polish."

Botany - it's not for sissies!

Black Hock

Day 285: Hollyhocks...I think it's possible that this old-fashioned garden plant may have seeded my interest in botany. My grandmother had them in her garden (or more properly, in the alley behind her house), and as much as I loved their towering height and spectacular colours, it was their seed pods which truly fascinated me as a very young child. I'm sure many subsequent generations of Hollyhocks germinated from the seed I picked out one by one to examine, scattering them and a spoor of spent husks on the dry Eastern Washington soil. Their penchant for sticking to my socks and other clothing taught me about seed transport before I understood its significance; I was intrigued by how each seed was locked to the one beside it by the hooks around its outer margins (a similar observation of cockleburs led to George de Mestral's development of Velcro).

My grandmother's 'hocks were all singles and thus became my mental holotype for the genus. No doubles for me! Those ruffly things were an insult to real Hollyhocks, show-offs whose flamboyance couldn't contest with the pure, simple beauty of the traditional flower's open face. When it came time to put them in my own garden, singles were difficult to find in catalogs, but when I did find them, they were only available in black, a bonus as far as I was concerned. They were one of the first plants I put in when I bought my home thirty years ago. I seeded them against the south-facing wall of the house, and there they have continued to provide me with joy on an annual basis.

Fresh Off The Bush

Day 284: It was a debate: save them for a few days until I'd have enough for muffins, or eat them immediately. I sized up the ones still ripening on the bush and decided to have these for lunch. Two of my three blueberry bushes are covered in berries. The third bush is still recovering from having lived several years in a bad spot, and isn't bearing as heavily. Nevertheless, I should have no trouble gathering enough for several more snacks and a batch of muffins if I can prevent Squirrel/Chipmunk #14 from picking them as soon as my back is turned. The raspberries are also beginning to fruit, protected from jay predation by chickenwire. The occasional bird goes under the lower edge and needs to be rescued from its perceived "cage," but they are not nearly as greedy as Mr. Squirrel.

Sound & Fury Steampunk Morris

Day 283: Sound & Fury stepped outside tradition yesterday to dance at the Fairhaven Steampunk Festival (Bellingham), and it was one of the most delightful non-botanical experiences I've had in many years. It was Sound & Fury's second year performing at this event. We danced two sets as the temperature rose, breaking between them for cool beverages and lunch at the local pub. My new steampunk persona Finnie (Feannagh) MacLeod made her first public appearance and was honoured to be asked to pose for portraits by several bystanders. I found that dancing in a corset isn't quite as difficult as it sounds, and definitely improves the posture. We will be appearing again in regular kit at the Ballard Locks Monday evening, and at a selection of Woodinville cideries on July 29.

Dipping The Ocean Dry

Day 282: I feel like I'm trying to dip the ocean dry with a teaspoon...one with a hole in it. Okay, this guy is a Townsend's Chipmunk, not a Douglas Squirrel like the nine before him, but he is still a wire-gnawing, insulation-shredding rodent, and a free agent at the moment. All up and down the valley (Park included), we are experiencing an invasion of Rodentia on record levels. Our campground hosts and tent-site occupants are reporting mice in enormous numbers, and I've had them in the house where they've never come before to brave the cats in prior years. I have relocated ten "squirrels" (counting Chip's cousin #10) and know that I have at least two more (one each, "chip" and "doogie"), one of which is residing in the wall of my bedroom. It keeps me awake nights, clawing at the wood. The small investment in a Hav-a-Hart trap is paying big dividends, although I'm getting a little tired of driving over the river and up the hill to release the offenders well away from anyone else's home. Cute though they may be, these critters are the stuff of homeowner's nightmares. Go home, you little varmints! You have thousands of acres of open forest right across the road and don't need to move into my house.

Gratuitous Avalanche Lily Photo

Day 281: My lens is almost always trained on the more obscure items in Mount Rainier National Park's botanical census, but most people come to the Park to see wildflowers massed upon the meadows in views like this one taken en route to Snow Lake a few days ago. While most of the Avalanche Lilies (Erythronium montanum) are now setting seed and exhibit the typical triangular pods, there are a few pocket ecologies which are behind the rest and are still filled with massed blooms. This was probably a patch where the snow laid late, sheltered by shrubbery or in shade for most of the day while other areas had melted out earlier. Avalanche lilies are one of the first plants to bloom in the subalpine zone, often poking their heads through an inch or two of snow to put on a show for early-season hikers. As common as they are, their spectacular display is enough to make even this seasoned backpacker stop for the gratuitous Avalanche Lily photo.

Elephant-Head Pedicularis

Day 280: One of the highlights of my short hike to Snow Lake two days ago was finally getting a decent picture of Elephant-Head Pedicularis (Lousewort). The problem has not been that the plant is scarce; it's that my camera doesn't like pink/purple shades, and especially not when the subject is in full sunlight. Invariably, my photos either had blown-out highlights or were too "flat" to be attractive.

It's easy to see where Pedicularis groenlandica got its common name, and if you were of a botanical mind, you might wonder what type of insect is responsible for the pollination of the species since access to the reproductive structures is very constricted. The answer is surprising: bumblebees! The bees do not have to contact the anthers in order to gather pollen. Instead, as their wings vibrate, pollen is shaken loose in a puff and transferred to the stigmae. It has been suggested that this unique adaptation is responsible for reproductively isolating the species from the possibility of hybridization with other Louseworts.

A Thousand Shades Of Green

Day 279: An out-of-state friend once remarked to me as we were driving along a country road in the bottom of a rather ordinary western Washington valley that the overwhelming greenness of everything here made her feel claustrophobic. Washington native that I am, I protested that it was more like a comfort blankie to me, as if the Earth was taking me to her bosom for protection. That's not to say I don't like wide-open spaces; in fact, my favourite locations in the mountains are those which are high, bleak and desolate, places where I can see anyone or anything which might be approaching to interrupt my privacy. Still, when I am out for the day in the kayak and the sun beats too warmly upon my back and shoulders, I seek out those shadowed, deep green places where light falls like confetti; a fleck here, a flurry there, never lingering on leaf or log for more than a few scant seconds. A thousand shades of green are in the hidden coves, patchworked with spots of unassertive brown or grey. It is not solely shade I seek or relief from heat, but the soulful peace of green in all its myriad hues.

Of Corsets Snug

Day 278: Sound & Fury Morris will be performing at the Fairhaven Steampunk Festival in Bellingham this Saturday. It was as good an excuse as any to make a new outfit. Even though I dislike sewing, I enjoy costuming. In this case, I used a commercial pattern (Simplicity 3677), but made a few tweaks to the method of construction which better accommodated the bulk of fabric involved in joining a lined skirt to a heavily lined and interfaced bodice. Nor was the pattern available in my size, so a number of other adjustments were needed to tailor it. Having said that, I now have greater sympathy for those corseted ladies of the Victorian era. Snugged into the bodice, my posture is improved at the sacrifice of my ability to breathe. Dance? I'm glad I don't have to bend over very far to strike my stick on the ground in "Horsham."

Now a question arises: who is this Victorian adventuress? My various personas have their own individual names, generally something to do with "Crow" coupled with a variation of the stage name I used when performing publicly as a Celtic harpist, Margot de Morgan. From this, Capt. Morgan Corbye was drawn ("corbye," "corby," "corbie" and "corbel" are alternate spellings of an Olde English word meaning "crow"). Her identical twin sister is Kat (Katherine)..."Kat" because I have cats. Fictitious actress Katherine Crowe has starred on a theater playbill (ironically, this is the real name of another Morris dancer!), and Kitty Black Crow is a villain on a western "Wanted" poster. The adventuress' steampunk character has not had a chance to develop, although I suspect she is a botanist of some renown. Should I force a name upon her, or as they say, "let the puppy name itself once you've brought it home?" Maybe more time in the corset will settle the issue.

Not Quite In Bloom

Day 277: Invariably, the Sundew logs are my first port of call on Lake St. Clair. When I arrived beside them Friday morning, I observed lots of little buds at the ends of the shepherd's-crook stems, some of which showed evidence of white petals at their tips, but no fully open flowers. There also appeared to be a number of spent blooms which should have communicated vital information to me, but in my enthusiasm for the plants, I missed the message entirely. The Aha Moment came several hours later while I was paddling in the arm of the X-shaped lake farthest from my little friends. There were no open blossoms because the blossoms open in the afternoon! By then, my arms and back were too tired to make a return trip (Lake St. Clair has 11 miles of shoreline and I'd covered roughly 7.5 of it). Looks like another sail is in order, not only to pluck the Jewelweed from its anchorage but to capture the elusive flowers of Drosera rotundifolia.

Spotted Jewelweed, Impatiens Capensis

Day 276: I suspect that many of you are going to react to this photo with thoughts along the lines of "My, what a pretty flower." Put those thoughts out of your head. This is Spotted Jewelweed (Impatiens capensis), one of the Invasive Plant Council's "bonus plants," i.e., those which are on the hit list because of their potential, but aren't yet a major problem. How it got seeded on a log twenty feet out from shore in Lake St. Clair is open to speculation, although its dry seed pods are notorious for ejecting their contents with some force if even lightly bumped, a factor which allows it to spread rampantly. It was not the type of surprise I enjoy finding during a kayak trip, but once I find out how it can be removed most effectively, I have an excuse to go for another paddle on my favourite lake. Take that, Jewelweed! You're creeping just a little too close to my precious Sundews!

Hemitomes Hill

Day 275: An interesting bit of information has come to light in my study of the Park's mycoheterotrophic species: the greatest variety and the largest numbers of them appear in two of only three areas having the same soil type. That's not to say they don't occur elsewhere; there are simply more of them where that soil exists. I have not yet had a chance to talk to the Park's geologist to find out what makes this soil type different, but it's something I want to research further. As for the third area, I have not explored it recently, although some fifty years ago, it was where I first observed Hemitomes congestum and my fascination with the plants then called "saprophytes" began. Of course now we know that these botanical wonders are not saprophytes at all, but mycoheterotrophs, i.e., plants which partner with a fungal component in order to fill their nutritional needs.

Our understanding of mycoheterotrophic relationships is limited. It's fairly new science, and as such, it's opened a door onto a broader scene in which fungus plays a role in the life cycles of other more mundane species as well. Some trees are known to rely on mycorrhizal connections, using the fungal web to "communicate" indicators of local stress to other trees of the same species. It's not a long reach to hypothesize that this may hold true for understory plants as well. The more I learn about mycoheterotrophy, the more convinced I am that the world goes 'round on fungus, and certain corners of it like Hemitomes Hill are richer and more diverse thanks to mycorrhizae.

The Face Of Venus

Day 274: I have limited success growing Venus Fly-Traps and have never had one survive more than about 8 months in my care. That doesn't mean I don't enjoy them, so when my last one failed to sprout after its winter dormancy, I bought a new one. I've had it for about two months now, and the little darling has decided to put on a show of flowers! Individual florets seem to succeed one another, i.e., one blooms as another bud is swelling, with the first flower near the end of its cycle just as the second bursts. Given that, I expect that not all buds will mature, and that successive flowers will be smaller than the earlier ones. Don't be fooled by the background; Venus is a houseplant in our climate, and no doubt about it. I just took her outside for the photo.

My Favourite Marchantians

Day 273: It is argued that Marchantia alpestris should be treated as a separate species from M. polymorpha, a notorious pest in greenhouses. The differences are subtle, but more importantly, M. alpestris does not form extensive monocultures where it occurs naturally. The spread of this liverwort is kept in check by mosses, lichens and the harsh environment surrounding it, a factor which confines it to the shadier and damper areas of the subalpine ecology. It colonizes in areas scarified by fire and may be abundant until such time as other bryophytes and vascular plants get a toe-hold, but for the most part, only survives en masse in the mats of moss along the margins of small streams and seeps. The "umbrellas" shown in this photo are the male reproductive structures (antheridia).

Almost Grown And Flown

Day 272: My little ones are almost grown and flown. Both the House of Chirp and Pussywillow Cottage were occupied by Tree Swallows this year and were threatened by both starlings and a particularly determined squirrel who remodelled the entrance to the Cottage before I managed to trap and relocate the varmint. Despite the incursions, the swallow tenants raised their broods successfully. The parents trained the youngsters well. I only saw a little head peek out from the House of Chirp once, although standing under the house, I could hear an abundance of chattering going on inside. The two kids in Pussywillow Cottage have only recently defied mom's orders, and for the last several days, they've been scrabbling at the door for viewing privileges when she goes off to hunt for insects. Their appetites are enormous! I once saw her disappear into the interior with a large butterfly, only to emerge a second later, having stuffed it in someone's waiting beak. It won't be long now before they follow her to the phone wire. She and dad will feed them on the wing for a week or so before the family begins its migration.

Thoroughly Modern Milli

Day 271: A damp winter seems to have led to an abundance of millipedes in our forests this summer. I can't recall a time when I've seen them in such numbers. These critters feed largely on decaying wood. Harpaphe haydeniana (Yellow-Spotted Millipede) exhibits twenty body segments with most segments having two pair of legs. The first and last segments are legless, and the second and fourth segments only have one pair. According to a NPS document, "This species is possibly the most critical shredder in forests of the Pacific coast. It is estimated that H. haydeniana alone eats 33 to 50 percent of all dead leaves that are on the forest floor. The chewing increases leaf surface area, giving microbial communities increased access to nutrients." Also known as the "cyanide millipede" or "almond-scented millipede," H. harpaphe defends itself from attack by predators by emitting a fluid containing hydrogen cyanide from pores on the sides of its body. This substance can cause temporary skin discolouration in humans, but is not considered harmful.

Circaea Alpina, Enchanter's Nightshade

Day 270: When a rare plant is located, it is always a good idea to document the environment in which it was found. On my second trip to the Phantom Orchid site, I began cataloguing vascular species: Oxalis, Bedstraw, Violets, Hedge Nettle, Foamflower...wait, what's that leaf? The tiny blossoms which give Foamflower its name appeared to be on a stalk emerging from a distinctively different type of leaf, vegetation I could not recall having ever seen anywhere else. I dutifully took photos, noting two reflexed sepals and glandular seed capsules as I did so, hoping that I could identify it without having to lug Hitchcock's "Flora of the Pacific Northwest" back up the hill. Upon arriving home, I hit the books and discovered that it was Enchanter's Nightshade (Circaea alpina), a fairly common plant which, despite its Latin nomenclature, occurs from sea level through the subalpine zone. Undoubtedly, I have seen it before without making particular note of it...little white flowers, so what?...but in this context, it earned my respect as a possible companion species for our precious Phantoms.

Juvenile Pond Slider

Day 269: Last year during a kayaking trip on Lake St. Clair (the Sundew lake), I spotted three adult turtles basking just off-shore of one of the lake's small islands. I got clear pictures of them and from the markings and physiology, was able to identify both male and female adult specimens of Pond Slider (Trachemys scripta). As I researched species information on these non-native turtles on Washington Dept. of Fish and Wildlife's webpage, I noticed the following statement: "...virtually all sightings of Pond Sliders involve adults. Additional work to understand the reproductive capability and population dynamics in Washington would aid decisions about management...All observations are of interest and can be submitted to Lori Salzer...Of special interest are any observations of nesting females or hatchlings." I dutifully contacted Lori and sent her the photos. She responded, and asked me to continue to monitor the location for any evidence of slider offspring.

Two weeks ago, I returned to Lake St. Clair for the purpose of visiting the Sundews. My route goes past the island (a dot of land roughly 350' on its longest dimension), so I swung in close to look for turtles. I spotted two, but these were only about a fifth the size of the adults I'd observed previously. Sure enough, the Sliders are breeding. The good news is that for now, the population seems to be confined to the one island, although there is a second island quite close by. Between rarities and invasives, I have my work cut out for me.

Crow And Arnie's Excellent Adventure

Day 268: Park Plant Ecologist Arnie Peterson and I met up Friday morning, left my car on one side of a hill, drove around to the other side in his car and hiked into the site where Team Biota had discovered seven Phantom Orchids, a rare and endangered plant found only in the Pacific Northwest. Arnie wanted to see them for himself, and my last visit had shown him that they were almost fully open. We arrived on site and after GPSing and photographing the plants, we split up and began exploring the surrounding area. I had not gone more than about twenty feet when I yelled out, "Arnie! Arnie! I've got three more! No, four...no, five! No, SIX! There's a young one in the ferns! I swear these were not here Monday. I KNOW they weren't! I stepped over this log right there!" Arnie came across to survey my finds and then said, "I'm going to check this drainage," with a gesture uphill. I reminded him that I'd been up there on Monday and had found nothing, but he said he wanted to look. I kiddingly commented, "You just want to find one all of your very own, don't you? I'll just stay right here and take more pictures of these." Off he went. I took more pictures, then patrolled the banks of another small intermittent stream but found nothing. On my way back to "orchid base," I heard Arnie: "I've got one! And where this one is, it changes everything we thought we knew about the habitat!" "Hang on," said I. "I'm coming across."

Upon reaching Arnie's specimen, I understood what he meant. It wasn't near water. There was none of the greenery we'd come to associate with the other specimens: no Oxalis, no Enchanter's Nightshade, no moss. More importantly (to our theories, anyway), there was no Red Cedar near the plant. Both of us addressed the innocently-offending orchid with the same question, "What are you doing here, little guy?" At this point, our census of "rare and endangered" individuals had grown to fourteen, all within a hundred feet or so of each other. "One plant couldn't be expected to thrive," said Arnie, "but we have a healthy population here." That said, we agreed that the numbers weren't large enough to sacrfice one of its members for an herbarium specimen.

Cephalanthera austiniae

Our main goal accomplished, Arnie thought we should do an extensive survey of a couple of other drainages. The largest of these was attacked bilaterally, Arnie on one side, Crow on the other. When it yielded nothing in a quarter mile, we decided to abandon it for another potential site on the other side of the hill. Please bear in mind that this is old and trailless forest. Every five or ten feet of travel meant heaving our aching bones over another fallen tree or series of fallen trees. There were occasional open patches which we greeted with great enthusiasm, but on the other hand, there were those devil's-club thickets which are part of the definition of "drainage" in the Pacific Northwest.

While going through one particularly nasty section of devil's-club, I stepped in a hole. My unavoidable collapse occurred in slow motion, but at the end of it, I found myself with my feet uphill of my head, on my back in the devil's-club. I was grateful for the pack which saved me from becoming a human porcupine, but the position was awkward and any hand-hold I could reach was covered in thousands of spines. I writhed and wriggled while Arnie, drat him, looked on, encouraging me with comments in the nature of, "I should get the camera out!" It was not the only such occurrence during our transit. I fell two more times, although in slightly better circumstances. Arnie also fell twice, at which point I reminded him of his camera threat. Unfortunately, he righted himself too quickly for me to make good on the idea.

Route-finding was governed by density of devil's-club, at times driving us up hillsides we'd hoped to avoid climbing, and somehow, somewhere along the line, we went awry and got on the wrong side of a hill. We wound up laying a new course to waypoints I'd pre-installed on my GPS, points which took us a quarter mile back the way we'd come, and then down some rather steep terrain until we finally reached my car. The distance we had travelled from the orchids was roughly two miles. It is a measure of its ruggedness to say that it took us six hours to complete it. I came home, took a bath, and promptly fell asleep in my chair.

Shooting Stars

Day 267: Easily recognizable, not at all uncommon, favourite among visitors and rangers alike, Jeffrey's Shooting Star (Dodecatheon jeffreyi) grows in moist areas and bogs from sea level to the subalpine zone. It can often be found in profusion, but even seen singly, its attractive flowers are sure to catch the eye. The "petals" are in fact the lobes of a sharply reflexed ("turned back") corolla; the dark purple "beak" is formed from the stamens and style. This plant is endemic to the western US. It can be confused with a similar species (Henderson's Bird-Bills, Dodecatheon hendersonii) which is found in woodlands and on prairies at Washington's lower elevations.

Mountainbells

Day 266: Embarrassing moment: I was telling Arnie that I had found Mountainbells in a new location, and he stopped me. "Mountain bells?" he asked, separating the words. "Campanula?" I stuttered and spit for a minute which prompted him to guess again. "Mertensia?" "No, no," I said, "Not bluebells, mountainbells." A few more frustrating minutes passed while I pulled open files in my mental database, and finally, I just gave up and blurted out the incorrect nomenclature, "Stenanthium, only it's not Stenanthium now. It's something else. Dammit!" The Latin gave him the identity of the plant, but neither of us could think of the new name. We finally resorted to looking it up on line: Anticlea occidentalis.

Poking around in seeps and cracks, it's not surprising that Team Biota turns up new locations for some of the Park's less common damp-environment species. Not too many people are willing to clamber up a slot to stand in a light but steady stream of cold meltwater aimed directly at the back of their collars in the hopes that there might be one more specimen of butterwort lurking in the shadows. Nor does your average wildflower enthusiast go on their knees in the mud or slip from soggy, mossy rock to  soggy, mossy rock on their bum to reach the base of a waterfall to investigate a blue bit which might or might not be something unusual. Discoveries of rarities do not often come easily or without some degree of sacrifice. If they were readily accessible, it's almost a given that they would have been collected by less scrupulous observers. No, the rare things in this world largely occur where no one goes, in the same way that the biggest trout in a river are most likely to be found hiding in a tangle of brush below an undercut bank in a spot only accessible through a forest of devil's-club.

But Mountainbells aren't so very uncommon. It's just that by the time I got to them, I was mud up to the neck and my shirt was soaked. There might have been a butterwort up there, but there wasn't.

Sarracenia Times Seven

Day 265: The carnivores are at the door! Sarracenia has put on a spectacular show this year, all seven of her flowers coming into bloom more or less at the same time. The one on the far right is in the later stages of development. Its outer row of petals has fallen, revealing the "half-orange" structure at its heart. The reproductive structures are hidden beneath its upside-down "umbrella" (the style) which serves to catch shed pollen, thus ensuring a greater possibility of transfer to the stigmata by insects. Audrey has almost outgrown her pot! I'm hesitant to divide her, but it's a job which will have to be done next spring as soon as she shows the first signs of new growth.

Chasing Phantoms

Day 264: First, let me correct the dates I gave previously. Until recently, Cephalanthera austiniae (Phantom Orchid) had only been seen in Mount Rainier National Park on two occasions, both times as a single specimen. The first occurrence was in 1892, the second in 2005...a gap of 113 years. Last week, I found two with my botany partner Joe Dreimiller. Yesterday, I did a wider survey alone and discovered seven specimens, one of which had been cropped of all but its lowest blossom by a deer. The tallest of the plants was roughly 16", the shortest about 8". I took many photographs and GPSed the three locations in which they occurred, and further exploration up the drainage revealed what to my eyes looked like ideal habitat, but no more orchids. Still, seven individuals is not a bad score for a "rare and endangered" species.

Spotted from a distance

Like many other members of the Orchidaceae, Cephalanthera is a mycoheterotroph, i.e., it relies on the cooperation of a specific fungal component in the soil in order to grow and flower. Unlike some other orchids which are capable of photosynthesis on their own because they are possessed of some chlorophyll (partial mycoheterotrophs), the Phantom is an obligate mycoheterotroph, which is to say that it cannot exist without its mycorrhizal partner. Consequently, its survival depends on its ability to lay dormant for many years, waiting for the proper fungus to become active. That's why it is so rare.

Can you find all four?

Over the last five years or so, I have noticed a dramatic rise in the bloom rate of a number of mycoheterotrophic species in the Park. They have long been of special interest to me. I suspect this increase may have its origins in the milder, wetter winters we've experienced over the same period of time, as well as the warm springs which have followed them. Many fungi have been appearing in growing numbers as well. The wet weeks of early June and warm conditions later in the month set the stage for chasing Phantoms, and seems to be bringing out other mycoheterotrophs as well (notably Indian Pipe, which is beginning to erupt). However, the census of Corallorhiza maculata is down, although the count C. trifida was up substantially. Clearly, there is a fungal backstory here which I don't fully understand.

Joe and Sharon knew exactly what I meant when I shot a cryptic one-word post to Facebook last night: "Seven." Joe is recovering from shoulder surgery done only a few days ago and will be out of commission for the rest of the season. At least he got to see two.

Star-Flowered Solomon's Seal

Day 263: It's a funny thing: sometimes the names of plants come easily to my tongue (Latin or English), and other times I overthink the process and wind up confusing myself.

(Interruption) Yes, I know there's a bug on the underside of that petal.

Overthinking goes like this. I walked past this plant and said aloud, "Star-Flowered Solomon's Seal." Fifteen minutes later (after a series of unsuccessful attempts to photograph our second species of Twayblade), I looked at it again and said, "No, wait...that's Twisted-Stalk. No, maybe not. Dang! I'll have to look it up when I get home."

My confusion is easy to understand if you look at the stalks. They twist. Therefore, you would assume that it was Twisted-Stalk. It's not. It's a classic case of a common name inviting error.

When I initially opened my mental field guide, my thoughts fell upon the page for Star-Flowered Solomon's Seal. My first response is most often correct in cases like this, possessed as I am of a fairly reliable eidetic memory. Nevertheless, I am seldom able to suppress the argument which emerges from the other side of my brain to remind me that I should know these common plants as well as I know my own face, but don't. It is the common species which most frequently trip me up. Why? Because I don't remind myself of their nomenclature every time I see them in the field. In fact, I generally regard them as "background noise" in my pursuit of rarer things.

In the Twisted-Stalk/Solomon's-Seal issue, we have similar leaves and angled stalks. If I had only remembered the first part of Rosy Twisted-Stalk's name, the debate would never have occurred. Then I would have recalled the kinks in the stems just above bell-shaped, pinky-red flowers, a trait not seen behind Star-Flowered Solomon's Seal's beautiful white stars. D'uh! STARS! Is there any doubt that these white flowers look like stars? And that's what I said in the first place. I just failed to say it with enough conviction.

And since you asked, I do not know what kind of a bug is under there. I didn't see it until I got the pictures out of the camera.

Chrysomela Confluens

Day 262: I have to admit that I had never spent much time studying bugs until my botany partner Joe began drawing my attention to them. He's keenly interested in the life cycles of butterflies and moths, and therefore likes to check shrubbery when he spots a furled or nibbled leaf. In the course of our adventures, the diverse community of beetles has opened my eyes to a new kind of beauty: those hard-shelled, often colourful individuals who form a vital part of the chain of life.

Many beetles are predatory on other insects. Like Ladybugs, some consume critters which would be otherwise detrimental to plant life (scale, mealybugs, thrips, aphids). Others eat only specific plants or families of plants. Chrysomela confluens (above) is a good example. It feeds solely on alder and willow (a point which helped identify this specimen). Still others consume fungi, and some actually "farm" certain fungal species. Lastly, some maintain a diet of decaying matter or dung which, although a repellent idea from a human perspective, keeps the earth from being buried in waste material. On the flip side, many beetles serve as pollinators, a role for which they are not widely acclaimed.

While the "cute" or imposing members of Clan Beetle get all the press, many less impressive Coleopterae are disappearing from the species census for a variety of reasons, notably the use of wide-range pesticides which affect more than just a target insect. You'd hear about it if the Ladybug population was in decline, but if every Chrysomela on the planet died overnight, the news wouldn't make a one-liner on the bottom of an inside page.

Placopsis Gelida

Day 261: Bullseye! It's easy to see how Placopsis gelida got its common name "Bullseye Lichen," although the cephalodium is not always as perfectly oriented as it is in this specimen. It is this nitrogen-rich feature of lichen anatomy which makes it possible for Placopsis to colonize the seemingly bare surface of recently broken rock. When wet, this lichen may exhibit a greenish-blue tint. Placopsis is a "pioneer" species, i.e., one of the first to establish itself on freshly exposed surfaces. It contributes to the breakdown of rock and in decay, supplies both the matter and nutrients in which vascular plants can establish themselves. The next time you see a rock cliff dappled with wildflowers, thank the lichens which made it possible for them to thrive.