Marsh Marigolds

Day 260: I will make no attempt to justify the common name "Marsh Marigold" as it applies to Caltha leptosepala, but one source suggests that "marigold" derives from the expression "mare's-galls" and refers to the gall-like shape of the buds. That said, the plant is not even remotely akin to garden marigolds (Tagetes). It doesn't even belong to the same taxonomic family (Tagetes is in Asteraceae, Caltha in Ranunculaceae). "Marsh" is accurate; it is a denizen of wet pockets and seeps in the subalpine areas of the Pacific Northwest. The newly emerging buds exhibit brownish-pink petals on the exterior, a colour which persists on the adult flower, although this tinting is not readily apparent in a top view. To me, Marsh Marigolds are one of the species most evocative of mountain meadows, moreso even than Western Anemones or Avalanche Lilies, and perhaps rivalled in my mental accounting only by Bog Gentian. They always make me smile.

Half Rack

Day 259: I'm sure there are a number of locals who'd like to know where this half-rack was found, but I hasten to remind people that removal of anything from the Park is strictly prohibited. I might be asked, "But why can't I take it home?" I don't expect my explanation to be accepted with good grace, but the fact of it is that this antler will become home and food to a number of different insects, insects which will in turn become nourishment for birds, frogs and other critters, and will contribute minerals to the soil ecology which supports plant growth. It might even be possible that some rare species depend on its biodegradation in order to proliferate. Certain lichens and fungi only grow on decaying antlers. Mycorrhizal affiliations are present in many of the Park's rarer plants. Is there a connection? We don't know. The bottom line is that we humans do not fully understand how things are connected in our environment, and already, our interference with natural processes has disrupted the mechanisms in uncounted ways both small and large. We have ripped and torn the flesh of our Mother Earth when we should have been walking quietly beside her, drawing our lessons from her to ensure our continued survival.

Watch Your Step

Day 258: Travelling cross-country in lower-elevation forest presents a number of hazards. You never know when your projected route is going to terminate in a devil's-club thicket (although if you're near a spring, it's pretty much guaranteed). You must be alert for small holes which might indicate ground-nesting bees. You must watch for ankle-grabbing vines, shin-cracking stobs, spidery drop-nets, eye-poking branches, slippery slopes, animal dens...in fact, I'm convinced that if the list was numbered, it would be equivalent to the number of steps taken during any one adventure. In other words, you must always, always, always watch where you are going. And that bit of woods-lore is precisely what saved Junior. Joe looked behind the log before he threw his leg over it, and therefore didn't step on the fawn.

We'd heard mom bounding up the hill a little earlier and didn't give her a second thought. The forest is home to all sorts of wildlife, and unless it's huffing or growling at you, the sounds it makes are pretty much just background noise. Small birds chirp and chatter, squirrels drop cones, grouse drum...silence in the forest is rarer than you might think. You become familiar with the normal noises of the woods even as you're attuned to notice something out of the ordinary. The thump of a deer's hooves on thick forest duff are one short phrase in the woodland symphony. Mom Deer has a different definition of "music appreciation." To her, the sound of three humans discussing the potential for Phantom Orchids occurring in pockets of her habitat were as glaring as a cymbal clash. With Junior still too unsteady on his legs to follow her with any speed, she imparted to him the cues which meant "stay still, don't move," and he froze in place, not even blinking during the brief time we spent cautiously taking photos.

Even when walking on an established trail, it's wise to mind your step. Little critters will be crossing that pedestrian highway, be they caterpillars, mice or voles, snakes, frogs or other species. Many of them can't get out of your way quickly, so the burden of their welfare is on your soles.

A Team Biota Day

Day 257: Team Biota had a field day yesterday in two senses of the phrase. We spend 9.5 hours in a variety of habitats, including lowland and subalpine forests where hiking ranged from clambering over logs, weaving through devil's-club thickets, slogging in bogs and navigating cross-country over snow-covered terrain. We documented a total of six Phantom Orchids still in bud and a new location for Myriosclerotinia caricis-ampullaceae (a whopping 29 specimens), and managed to rule out several other potential sites for the latter. Muddy, wet, tired, the three of us (Joe, Sharon and I) reported our findings to Arnie at the end of the day, thoroughly satisfied at having observed not one but two rarities in the space of a single field trip.

Each observation seems to bring up a whole new set of questions: How many plants do six stems of Cephalanthera represent? Based on proximity, the answer could be any number from two to six. How far does the mycorrhizal component extend? What is the mycorrhizal component, since it seems to be different in the Park than in other areas where Phantom is known to occur? Does water chemistry have any effect on Myrio's preference for growing in some meadows where its host sedge occurs and not in others? Is there a connection between the presence of certain other plants in conjunction with Myrio? Observation suggests it, but there's no proof for a link. And how do we get answers when the Park's budget is pinched so tightly that it's even unlikely the aquatics crew's broken pH meter will be replaced in the near future?

Gathering field data is a step forward in ensuring that these rare species will eventually be better understood. That's what Team Biota does. We're the "boots on the ground," ranging the places where (hopefully) few others go. Somehow when you're on your knees counting little Myrio noses or taking a photo of a Phantom, "wet, muddy and tired" just don't seem to matter.

Weaving With Tabby

Day 256: After finishing up the table runners which I'll be entering in the Washington State Fair, I decided that my next weaving project should be something more complex. I opted for a simple, reversible overshot pattern executed in three colours on a black ground. In this type of weaving, two shuttles are used. One carries the surface floats and the other the background. Each float throw is followed by one background throw, aka the "tabby." Consequently, an over-and-under weave results in the main colour spaces between the longer float threads of the weft. The treadle action is something of a dance: tabby left, pattern, tabby right, pattern, changing the pattern throws according to the design. Too complicated to write out fully in a weaving draft, this method is usually abbreviated with the notation, "use tabby" for a specified number of throws. The technique of overshot can be an exciting adventure for the patient and detail-conscious weaver. Unfortunately, I ran short of black, and instead of making a full tablecloth, this piece will be another runner.

Doctor Kevin And The Daleks

Day 255: Obviously having won out over Doctor #4 as evidenced by possession of his famous scarf, now the Daleks face off with Doctor Kevin and his trusty sonic...um...Smarties packet. Look out, Kevin! There's another one behind you!

The Daleks were just one of over three hundred entries in yesterday's Pride Parade in Seattle. The National Park Service was represented by rangers from Mount Rainier, Olympic, Klondike (Seattle), the Regional office and San Juan National Historic Park. There were easily two dozen of us, some in uniform and others not, marching in support of human rights. It seemed like it took forever for us to begin the walk from our position near 4th and Madison to the Seattle Center, but those below us in the queue had an even longer wait. As I walked the mile back to the light-rail station at Westlake, the parade was still making its way through downtown.

Any Hue But Blue

Day 254: I say jokingly that Corallorhiza mertensiana comes in every hue but blue, and that isn't as much of a stretch as it sounds. I've seen them uniformly magenta-purple, so deep that the darker veins could barely be distinguished. Others have been coppery-brown or a greenish-bronze. I've even seen them so green, you'd have mistaken them for a giant economy size C. trifida if it hadn't been for the shape of the flower. Recently, Arnie (I'm sure you all know who I mean by now without me having to remind you that he's the Park's Plant Ecologist with whom I have taken some memorably muddy field trips)...Arnie went hiking out of Ohanapecosh Campground (an area known for its mycoheterotrophic diversity) and came across some specimens which were mostly yellow. He sent me a photo and a line of question marks, from which I inferred that he wanted a second opinion. I laughed, and sent him back a note: "Let me know when you find a blue one." Shortly thereafter, Joe Dreimiller and I made a trip on the same trail system. Yellows dominated.

For those of you who might be wondering, the flower's morphology (shape) is distinctly different in each of the four species of Corallorhiza we find in the Pacific Northwest. Mertensiana has narrow side petals, the thinnest of the four. It looks thready. Maculata's lower lobe is slightly ruffled and almost always distinctly spotted with purple. It also tends to be coppery in overall colour. Trifida is tiny, seldom more than 8" high and its blossoms are proportionally smaller. Striata...as yet not confirmed in the Park (a single herbarium specimen is misidentified), but I'm still searching for those striped, more compact flowers every time I go into the field.

Musk Monkeyflower, Erythranthe Moschata

Day 253: The source of much taxonomic frustration earlier in the week, Musk Monkeyflower is one of those spots where Arnie (the Park's Plant Ecologist and my Natural Resources supervisor) plants his feet firmly in his era and refuses to budge. Maybe it's the euphony of the undulant m-sounds in "Mimulus," flowing off the tongue like sweet syrup, or perhaps it's the attraction of alliteration in Musk-Mimulus-Monkey. I cannot get him to say "Erythranthe" for all the tea in China and in a way, I can understand his reluctance. What I was not prepared to encounter was a refusal to acknowledge the greater family, Phrymaceae. Monkeyflowers are no longer part of the Scrophulariaceae and you'd think Arnie might be glad of an easier word to pronounce, but no, he stands firm in the outdated nomenclature despite my repeated assaults on his wall of resistance. It's a friendly engagement (or at least we haven't come to blows about it YET), and I'm still hoping to win him over with banter.

Erythranthe moschata is one of the smaller monkeys (although not nearly as tiny as E. breweri, whose little pink flower would fit in the diameter of a pencil eraser). It's notable for its somewhat viscid and densely hairy leaves and the absence of any vivid markings in the throat. It's regarded as "uncommon" in the Park, but may be found near seeps below 5500'. Like other monkeys (except the mammalian ones, of course), it enjoys having wet feet.

Starflower, Trientalis Latifolia

Day 252: A relatively common plant in the lower forests of the Pacific Northwest, Starflower's blossoms may be pink or white, and for many years, the two were treated as different subspecies following the nomenclatural convention of "splitting." The opposite of "splitting" in taxonomy is known as "lumping," and the proponents of either side of the coin are known respectively as "lumpers" and "splitters." It's kinda like Democrats and Reprobates (um...did I mean "Republicans?" No, don't think so). Currently, the Lumpers hold the majority as far as botany is concerned, so what I have always thought of as Trientalis borealis ssp. latifolia has been reallocated to the simpler Trientalis latifolia, pink or not. Fortunately with botany (unlike politics), you can be of two minds about this without major conflicts of conscience. One, lumping subspecies into a single species regardless of the obvious differences in physical characteristics gives us a manageable homogeneity (if sometimes skewed toward the dominant form) and an objective overview of the organism as a whole; two, splitting into subspecies allows us to learn more about the diversity of the parent species' adaptive responses and how they have shaped its natural history. Personally, I think the convenience of lumping should be relegated to field guides for novices with a fear of long names. I'll undoubtedly continue referring to Starflower as Trientalis borealis ssp. latifolia in the hopes that some day, the Splitters will regain the house.

White Water Crowfoot

Day 251: White Water Crowfoot (Ranunuculus aquatilis var. diffusus) is a fascinating little plant. Note that I said, "little." The flowers are only about 3/16" across. What is particularly interesting about this member of the buttercup family is that it exhibits two different forms of foliage, one on underwater stems and the other, after the stems break the surface. The aquatic foliage is comprised of thready, greenish-brown filaments, reminiscent of some other types of pond weed. Where it emerges from the water, the leaves become more moss-like and much brighter green.

Wild, Wacky Wild Ginger

Day 250: Perhaps my favourite blossom from the wealth of wildflowers growing in Mount Rainier National Park, Wild Ginger's inflorescence is not easy to spot. Its heart-shaped leaves form a roof above the flowers, hiding them from the eye-line of the casual observer. I had searched for them for many years, walking right past until one day, I happened across a colony on an incline six feet above trail level. "Wild Ginger!" I shouted to the general environment, and from that day forth (now that I knew what to look for), I began seeing the leaves of plant in more and more places even after the blossoms had faded.

The name "Wild Ginger" is misleading. Wild Ginger (Asarum caudatum) is not related to true ginger (Zingiber officinale). The unfortunate nomenclature invariably leads to a pet-peeve question from visitors: "Is it edible?" Its common name derives from the lemony-gingery scent of the crushed leaves and/or roots. It should not be consumed because it contains potential carcinogens and other toxins which may harm the kidneys. You have grocery stores, people. Some of them even specialize in "natural" foods as good as any you'll find in the wild. You don't need to eat a wildflower or fungus just because it's there.

Penny Perspectives - Lotus Micranthus

Day 249: Even little plants can be invasive. Lotus Micranthus is a teeny-tiny pea with ambitions of world conquest. It occurs profusely in disturbed soils in Mount Rainier National Park, particularly along roadsides and in the traffic islands at Longmire. Also known as Small-Flowered Lotus, it is a legume and bears multiple tiny "peas" in each of its seed pods. When ripe and dry, the pods may burst with a sharp snap, launching an explosion of seeds into the surrounding areas.

Caloscypha Fulgens

Day 248: I have had several inquiries about this orange-peel fungus this spring. Caloscypha fulgens is fruiting in abundance in multiple locations. This could be cause for concern. As I have read up on the subject, I've discovered that in its conidial (spore) stage, it is a plant pathogen (an infection) which affects Sitka spruce seeds, causing them to wither and die before they can sprout. It erupts as irregularly cup-shaped structures close on the heels of snow-melt and thrives in the cool, damp conditions of our Pacific Northwest spring season. Newly emergent cups resemble those of the fall-fruiting Aleuria aurantica (orange inside and out), but as Caloscypha ages, its exterior turns brown and may be tinged with blue or green. The pathogen is known to be spread by squirrels which may stash an infected spruce cone with others not infected.

Yakking About Bioluminescence

Day 247: Quoting Wikipedia, "Noctiluca scintillans, commonly known as the sea sparkle...is a free-living, nonparasitic, marine-dwelling species of dinoflagellate that exhibits bioluminescence when disturbed...Its bioluminescence is produced throughout the cytoplasm of this single-celled protist, by a luciferin-luciferase reaction in thousands of spherically shaped organelles, called scintillons." And that was the basis for an outfitter-run kayaking paddle into the Nisqually Reach and McAllister Creek from 8-11:30 PM last night. I got home at 1 AM, still sparkling with the thrill of having completed one of my Bucket List projects: witnessing bioluminescence with my own two eyes.

We set out from Luhr Beach just before sundown, ten clients in five tandem kayaks and the outfitter (a biology researcher) in his single. We shot about a mile out into Hogum Bay, and then as darkness settled over us, we turned inland, paddling a hundred or so yards off-shore toward McAllister Creek. Sam (the outfitter) knew what to expect, and naturally sighted the first glints of bioluminescence long before anyone else did, but within ten minutes of his first announcement of the phenomenon, it began showing itself to the rest of us. At first, it appeared as only a few quick sparks of light, but as the night grew darker and our eyes adjusted, the flashes became more frequent until with each stroke of the paddle, it seemed like silvery fireworks were bursting in the disturbed water, thicker in some areas, absent in others, and sometimes clumped up into larger masses. It shimmered like glitter, each flash lasting only a microsecond. Sam explained that each single cell stores only enough energy for one flash per day, and that the organism uses the effect as a "burglar alarm," protecting itself against one predator by luring a larger one to eat its pursuer.

A lot of what Sam related as we paddled through the field of seaborne "shooting stars" pertained to the history of the area: the settlement, the agriculture, the politics. I contented myself with watching the fire in the sea, dancing beneath the water's surface. I've never been much for human history. It seems so dull when placed alongside the wonders of the natural world.

The bioluminescent effect grew in strength as the night deepened and as we paddled back to our starting point, each stroke of the paddle was outlined in a milky glow and ripples of light followed. Sometimes a single star-like glint would linger on the paddle blades, or on our fingers as we trailed them in the water. Then as we approached the boat ramp, the phenomenon appeared to dwindle as artificial light assaulted our eyes. No doubt the sparkle was still present, but as with so many things, the influence of Man dominated, repressing the magic of Nature.

Unenviable First Record

Day 246: Here you see the first recorded instance of a species within the confines of Mount Rainier National Park, and I am NOT happy about finding it. This is common Teasel (Dipsacum fullonum), a nasty invasive. Immediately after I took the photo, I wrapped my hand around its scrawny neck and pulled it up by the root. It was one of two specimens of invasives I left on Arnie's desk Monday afternoon, although at the time I didn't know it would be a new record. Given its location, it will be easy for me to monitor the site during my lunch break. I'd have preferred finding Corallorhiza striata or a new lichen as my claim to fame in 2018, not something which inspired instantaneous vegicidal instincts. Still, the season is young. There's hope yet.

Butterwort

Day 245: The space of a week saw the Butterwort (Pinguicula vulgaris) go from bud to lavish blossom in its isolated niche in a wet rock wall. This little carnivore is rare in the Park and elsewhere. I know that it occurs in at least one other area, but unfortunately, that location is at one of the furthest possible removes from my home. It's not that it's distant geographically. In fact, if this Crow could fly, it's less than twenty miles, but to make the connections by car, it's close to a three-hour drive. In this photo, the foliage on the right belongs to a different plant. The insect husks on the paler green leaves on the left mark the foliage of the hungry Butterwort.

Rosy Twisted-Stalk

Day 244: Twisted-Stalk is currently a taxonomic nightmare. Some field guides will list it as Streptopus roseus, S. curvipes or S. roseus var. curvipes but the current designation and ONLY accepted name is S. lanceolatus var. curvipes. Okay, you've all heard me rant about taxonomy before. I just wanted to throw this in here to emphasize the fact that botany is not a static science.

Rosy Twisted-Stalk, true to its common name, bears a bell-shaped flower which is marked with a purplish colour. Unlike other Streptopus species, its stalk is not markedly kinked at the point where the flower stem (pedicel) emerges from the stalk, nor do its leaves clasp the stem. It is generally found above 3000' elevation. Three species of Streptopus occur at Mount Rainier; the other two have white flowers which open out at the tips.

Oscar The Grouse

Day 243: Under the motivation of his biological imperative, Oscar the Grouse was doing a stupid thing: walking along the inside curve of a paved road, ignoring traffic. I was afraid we were going to be witness to the making of road pizza, but as soon as Joe and I stepped out of the truck with cameras in hand, the tourists coming up behind us started pulling over into the viewpoint to see what was going on. By that time, Oscar had increased his pace and was running along the verge in full turkey mode. At the end of a fifty-yard sprint, he dipped abruptly over the edge and flushed out two females. They made a dash to the yellow line, then flew up into the trees with the male following. I was glad to see them all in a safer spot when we drove away.

If English was a sensible language with the plural of "mouse" being "mice," then the plural of "grouse" should be "grice." Although I seldom see more than one (and that rarely), it is "grice" in my book (for those of you keeping track, you can put that in your notes beside "Porch Parrots" and my insistence on the spelling of "garbidge" because the world needs a few laughs). Oscar happens to be of the Blue/Sooty persuasion, and yes, I had to check that in the field guide. The distinction is in the colouration of those yellow air sacs he's so proudly displaying; our PNW birds tend to be the subspecies, but where the ranges overlap with Dusky (the "Blue" of the interior), they intergrade and the line becomes very blurry. That said, there was no doubt that Oscar here was bent on furthering his genetics, although his singleness of purpose almost left him as a candidate for the Darwin Award.

Historically Present

Day 242: For several weeks now, Team Biota has been watching the snow melt back in anticipation of being able to time when Myriosclerotinia caricis-ampullaceae might appear in the basin where it was recorded in 1948. For those of you unfamiliar with backcountry travel in the shoulder season, melt-out isn't like the rolling back of a blanket. It's more like a major moth infestation eating away at that same blanket, holes appearing here and there until the fabric is entirely gone. Terrain affects the rate of melt, and sun exposure may work in either of two ways: by causing a hard crust to form lengthening the duration of snow in any particular area, or by melting it. It's not easy to predict which way it will go.

We had a fairly good idea that the basin would melt out ahead of the trail which accesses the general area. In other words, we knew we'd have to travel on a fabric of snow in order to reach the appropriate moth-hole. There, another factor comes into play: cross-country travel. At this time of year, snow travel off-trail poses a number of risks such as pools of meltwater or streams concealed below a fragile surface layer, or the dreaded "tree-well," an area of melt around a tree trunk or fallen log. Snow mats down flexible young trees like alders, pins them down until the spring-loaded branches trip like a mousetrap as soon as a hiker steps on the release point. In this case, we got lucky. The snow was sufficiently deep to allow us to skim over the tops of the tangled trees once we left the trail.

The basin was almost fully melted out. We performed an inch-by-inch survey of the section where Myrio had been present two years ago and found about thirty specimens. Then I circled around to the northwest edge and began working through the basin from tree-line down. Almost immediately, I found one Myrio and then another and another and another. As I shouted out the numbers in the growing census, Joe made his way up a small log which was almost completely grown over by meadow vegetation. I heard his excited call: "Got one...no, two. There's another one! There's a cluster of four, no, five-six-SEVEN!" Meanwhile, I was keeping count, "That makes 51, 52, 53, 57, 58-59-60!" By the time we called it quits, we'd raised the total to 88, but even more thrilling was seeing that they weren't confined to one narrow band. They were all over the place!

Needless to say, this was an exciting field trip. Arnie wasn't in the office when I reported back and returned his radio, but this morning, I gave him the news. Now that we've recorded occurrences in both of the known locations, we'll be expanding our search to other potential sedge meadows. The hunt for Myrio continues!

The Best Job

Day 241: If I had a dollar for every time someone has said to me, "You have the best job in the world!" I would be able to foot the bill for a research facility, equipment and staff to support my field observations of botanical rarities. The dollars are not forthcoming, sadly, so my usual response is meant to be comic: "Tell me that after you've humped an 8-foot two-by-twelve nine miles uphill in your pack in a pouring rainstorm because you need a bookshelf in your cabin." All joking aside, I knew a ranger who did exactly that. He also wore a full net suit when he went to check the campground at night because otherwise, he wouldn't have had a drop of blood left in his body. The mosquitoes at Mystic Lake originated in Transylvania.

Seriously, though...I do have the best job in the world. Okay, I don't get paid for it, but that's another story. I put in long hours: 13 on Friday, 11 on Saturday, 10 on Sunday, 9 today, and from the look of the pile on my desk, probably at least 8 both Tuesday and Wednesday. It's June. It's Park Service. It's nuts. Today, I swamped around in cold water, down on my knees counting micro-fungi at the edge of bear-tracked snow. I got slapped in the face with wet, prickly Balsam fir branches and snappy slide alders. I got gnawed by mosquitoes, and my knees bent repeatedly into positions they were never meant to achieve. I got filthy and cold in the process of "doing science" and when my day was done and I went to report to my supervisor, he was off somewhere else and I couldn't even brag up our finds. But I did leave him a present of two noxious weeds, roots and all, carefully centered on his desk and weighted down by the radio he'd sent me out with, on loan because our division is so underfunded that I can't have one of my own.

"Wait," I heard you say. "Didn't you say you love your job?" Yes, I did. The little moments of...uh...discomfort are nothing compared to the sense of feeling that what I do is valued, that it will make a difference in the long term even if the long term is well past my life's duration. Every rare plant I document, every weed I pull counts toward the legacy I am leaving as my contribution to the mission of the National Park Service. What's a few mosquito bites in the scheme of things when you are helping to protect one of the world's most priceless resources? Nevertheless, I still need a bath.

Yellowjackets

Day 240: The Yellowjackets are out! No, I'm not talking about the stinging insects. I'm talking about the pair of blooms on my Sarracenia "Yellowjacket." It's easy to see how the varietal got its name with its delicious lemony yellow petals. To be completely honest, I divided and repotted my carnivores this spring and the foliage is not doing well. Rubra has yet to put on any new growth after putting up several small, feeble flowers. The issue might be due to transplanting or it may be a response to too-cold winter nights on the porch. Although I could replace them fairly easily, I will still attempt to nurse these back to health. After all, they've been with me for quite a few years now.

Goldie

Day 239: Two years ago, I bought a weeping Golden Chain Tree for my front yard. Last year, it produced a few chains, still getting settled into its new home, and this year, it has rewarded me with a lavish display of cascading yellow flowers. I've actually been pleasantly surprised by the growth rate of many of my landscaping trees. Harry Lauder (the contorted filbert) arrived here as a 16-inch twig and has now developed into a 10' x 10' bush. A spindly foot-tall Japanese red maple now towers 12' above my driveway, and a sickly 8' Mountain Ash survived an attack of ash-borers to become an 18-foot tall tree which provides berries for the birds. The red dogwood has grown from a 6' sapling to a twenty-foot tree which, although it "blooms" erratically, provides nice fall colour in its leaves. Sometimes it's hard to believe I've lived here thirty years (the longest I've ever lived in one spot), but the spectacle of the garden records the story in a most eloquently stated natural history.

Suksdorfia Ranunculifolia

Day 238: The current trend in taxonomy leans toward naming plants and animals after their discoverers or after researchers who have contributed substantially to the respective disciplines. It is a source of much frustration to me. I far prefer something informative in the nomenclature, such as "Suksdorfia ranunculifolia" (the photo above). It tells me that when I observe the plant, I should see leaves resembling those of the common buttercup (unrelated). Likewise, "latifolia" tells me that the leaves are broad, "rotundifolia" that they are round, "purpurea" that the leaf or flower is purplish. I can equate the terminology with some portion of the plant, and thus the name is easier to remember than (for example) "lyallii" (named after David Lyall, a Scottish botanist) or "hookeri" (a friend of Charles Darwin). It might be different if these botanists' images leapt into my mental vision along with some association to a botanical feature. Surely "einsteini" would call to mind the frizzy hair of that well-known physicist. Yes, I could see a dandelion with the taxonomic designation "Taraxacum einsteini." Makes perfect sense if you think about it.

Corallorhiza Maculata

Day 237: Several species of Coralroot occur in Mount Rainier National Park. Of the more common ones, Corallorhiza maculata is my favourite. This mycoheterotroph displays a white lower petal marked with dark purple freckles and looks more like a tropical orchid than its cousins. Local specimens are generally shorter than C. mertensiana (the Coralroot most often seen), although in optimum growing conditions, its copper-coloured stems can reach heights of 30 cm.

Every year, I hope that somewhere in my travels, I'll find a specimen of C. striata within the boundaries of the Park. The only report of the species was subsequently proved in error. A specimen identified as C. striata was in fact C. mertensiana. Mycoheterotrophic plants are often very selective about their fungal associations, which no doubt accounts for the rarity of the species. Anybody know of research being done to determine which fungi are associated with specific Corallorhiza species?

Big-Leaved Sandwort

Day 236: You need to get down on your hands and knees to appreciate the delicate white flowers of Big-Leaved Sandwort (Moehringia macrophylla). Also known scientifically as Arenaria macrophylla as well as assorted common names including Bigleaf Sandwort and Large-leaved Sandwort, the leaves were undeniably the definitive feature when it came time to put a name to the plant. Even so, "big" is a matter of perspective. At a maximum of two inches long and less than half an inch wide, the leaves would not pose much of a geographic conquest even to an adventurous aphid. This species is common in the Park, but often overlooked because of its diminutive "large" size.

Letharia Vulpina

Day 235: When you're standing a good 15 crow-flight miles west of the Cascade Crest looking at a specimen of Letharia vulpina and the trees around you have no sign of the lichen on their bark or boughs, the word which springs immediately to mind is "transport." How did it get there, only 10 feet from the roadway? I have only observed this lichen from the Crest eastward, and although it is on the master list of lichens which occur in the Park, I don't know where any herbarium specimens may have been collected. You'd think that in an area where the snow is still receding, you might see other bits around it in the pockets of debris accumulation. There were none. One reasonable theory would be that it was carried to the location on a snowplow blade, hitchhiking until it broke free and was cast off to the side. There is plenty of evidence suggesting this method works as a means of seed-dispersal for vascular plants. Needless to say, I'll be paying closer attention to the trees above this particular section of Stevens Canyon Road from now on. If it's there, I'll find it.

Broomrape And Monkeyflower

Day 234: Another of Team Biota's recent finds: a new location for Naked Broomrape (Orobanche uniflora). This uncommon species is parasitic on at least two sedums and some saxifrages in Mount Rainier National Park; the unidentified host is concealed by the lush Suksdorfia foliage in this image. Broomrape stems are devoid of foliage; the plant contains no chlorophyll and is entirely dependent on the nutrients it pulls from its host (i.e., it is a "holoparasite"). Invariably, when I refer to this plant by its common name, it provokes a negative reaction. In fact, the Latin word "rapum" refers to a tuber, and "broom" refers to the family of vetches (legumes),, another common host for the Orobanche genus. And just to demonstrate that science doesn't rule every single moment of my life (close, but not total), the photographer in me could not resist including that sweet, smiling little Monkeyflower (Erythranthe alsinoides) to top off the visual line.

Pinguicula Vulgaris, Butterwort

Day 233: We tend to think of carnivorous plants as things which live in mysterious tropical forests, influenced (I am certain) by fanciful fiction, cartoons and suchlike, but there are a number of species suited to the cooler climates of the northern latitudes. In fact, we have a few right here in the Pacific Northwest. Pinguicula vulgaris (Butterwort) prefers a habitat of year-'round moisture and indirect light, an environment likewise enjoyed by its prey, gnats and mosquitoes. Its leaves secrete a sticky substance which attracts insects. A second type of specialized gland in its foliage exudes a digestive enzyme which breaks down the soft parts of the bugs into a form the plant can utilize as nutrients. Even when not in bloom, the plant can be recognized by its yellow-green, fleshy leaves which are often speckled with the indigestible remains of its food. Currently, Pinguicula is listed as "Threatened and Endangered" in four states: Maine, New Hampshire, New York and Wisconsin. It should be considered rare in all other localities.

Slime Mold On The March

Day 232: This specimen of Leocarpus fragilis (aka "Insect-egg Slime Mold") apparently found something particularly yummy on a fallen twig of fresh hemlock, and as I knelt down beside it to take this photograph, I found it hard to suppress a growing feeling of unease. How extensive might it be? I wondered. Is it crawling up my pantleg while I'm down here? Does it think I might be a candidate for its next meal? I have to admit that the more I learn about slime molds, the creepier they seem.

Slimes used to be lumped with fungi, as did lichens. Then scientists determined that there were some rather major differences between them and your friendly neighbourhood mushroom. For one thing, they were capable of movement. For another, they could communicate with others of their kind. Even creepier, they cooperate with each other, drawing together to share a communal meal and breeding. As data on their habits were compiled, it was determined that they deserved a Kingdom of their own, and thus they became known as Protists.

They fascinate me, a life form quite unlike anything else we know. I'm out there in the woods, not knowing where it may be lurking, not knowing if it has a master plan for world conquest circulating in its plasmodium. Is it benign? We'd better hope so.

First 2018 Phantom

Day 231: Perhaps even more exciting than Team Biota's other recent finds, if perhaps not as showy, the first Phantom Orchid (Cephalanthera austiniae) has made its appearance in 2018. Although we thought it was too early for them to be emerging, Joe Dreimiller and I visited the site in the hopes of seeing any sign of new growth. This rare species has only been recorded in the Park three times (a single specimen in 2005 and now twice by Team Biota), with a fourth historical mention prior to the establishment of the Park in 1899. That fourth record is suspect; the location given is very vague and may have been from outside the Park. Last year during an extensive survey of the area, Plant Ecologist Arnie Peterson and I recorded an incredible total of 14 stems which, due to the nature of the species probably only represents five or six plants. Needless to say, the location of these treasures is a highly guarded secret, but I can share them with you via photos. We'll be keeping an eye on the patch.