Pinguicula Vulgaris

Day 230: Some Latin binomials confuse the tongue so much that a large number of botanists may be heard referring to certain plants by their common names; case in point, Pinguicula vulgaris. "Pin-GWICK-yu-luh" is not an easy word to pronounce, but "Butterwort" is. The "vulgaris" portion of its scientific name means "common," but this plant has only recently been removed from the "Rare, Threatened and Sensitive" list. It is one of a handful of insectivorous plants found in Washington, and only occurs in certain pocket ecologies. It dines on the gnats, mosquitoes and other small insects which are attracted to a sticky substance exuded by its leaves, digesting their soft parts by means of a secondary enzyme which converts them into utilizable nutrients. The yellow-green leaves may look like they have black freckles, but a closer look will show the spots to be insect exoskeletal material, the remains of Pinguicula's leisurely meal.

Another Name Bites The Dust

Day 229: As of this writing, you may still refer to Aphyllon purpureum by its synonym Orobanche uniflora, but at the rate Latin binomials are being revised, that terminology may change by the time I hit the "post" button. I'm trying to keep up, honest I am, but there are moments when I just want to reach out through the ether to throttle the first taxonomist I can lay my hands on. ITIS (Integrated Taxonomic Information System) still lists it as Orobanche, but I happen to know that my contact at the Burke Museum has more up-to-date sources. Burke puts it under Aphyllon purpureum, and I accept their authority.

In any event, this lovely flower has no foliage. The leaves you see in the photo belong to Suksdorfia ranunculifolia (I checked...that nomenclature is current, and the plant will be the subject of a future post). While Oroba...dammit...Aphyllon frequently grows in the same environments, it is parasitic on several different species of sedum (small succulents, specifically S. oreganum and S. divergens in Mount Rainier National Park). It draws nutrients from its host and cannot exist independent of it. Research is being done to determine if the relationship goes two ways, but current studies do not indicate any benefit to the sedum. It is also parasitic on some members of the pea family, hence its common name "Naked Broomrape." "Broom" refers to the legumes (think "Scotch broom") and "rape" comes from Latin "rapum," meaning "a tuber."

Corallorhiza Trifida, Northern Coralroot

Day 228: Northern Coralroot (Corallorhiza trifida) is listed as rare in Mount Rainier National Park. Much smaller than its relatives Western and Spotted Coralroot (C. mertensiana and C. maculata), it can be extremely difficult to see in the deep forests it prefers. A full-grown stem will seldom exceed 8" in height. This tiny orchid is partially mycoheterotrophic by virtue of containing some chlorophyll, which is to say that it is incapable of complete photosynthesis on its own, and therefore must rely on specific mycorrhizal (fungal) components in the soil to facilitate the uptake of nutrients. All Coralroots are mycoheterotrophic, however, the different species depend on different fungi.

In years past, my botany partners and I have recorded as many as 23 stems in a single season over three known locales. So far in 2019, we have observed exactly ONE. I believe this fluctuation in the census represents the overall health of the mycorrhizal system, i.e., the presence or absence of moist, warm conditions during the period of winter dormancy. If conditions are not right for the mycorrhizae, the plants will not emerge. Ironically, we are seeing C. mertensiana and C. maculata emerging earlier than normal. It remains to be shown whether their numbers will be greater than average as the season progresses.

That Famous Fungus

Day 227: Team Biota took to the field today, checking on a few of our favourite rare species. Joe had gone alone to Myriosclerotinia caricis-ampullaceae "Site A" last week and reported a few small cups. Today, we found 50-60, the largest of which measured 11 mm. in diameter. None of the other known sites is snow-free, and even at Site A, meltwater is flowing too deeply through much of the sedge for the cups to have emerged. We will be watching this site very closely for this world-wide rarity over the next two weeks! As soon as our primary site opens up, we will begin a five-year observation to determine if the parasitic fungus is affecting sedge growth and development. Myrio was just one of several rare species we checked up on today, so stay tuned!

Cool Quartet

Day 226: I'm really jazzed about my garden right now. Who wouldn't be, when this quartet is playing upbeat blues? I'm ashamed to admit that the wisteria surprised me. I hadn't noticed that it was in bud, and here it is, in full flower. The clematis is a new addition ("Multi Blue"). I thought my beautiful "Vancouver Sea Breeze" had died off after being buried under snow for a month, but when I went to plant its replacement, I discovered a pair of new stems. Two clematis isn't a bad thing, although they're going to have to share the same trellis. The Siberian iris and Bachelor's Buttons are old-fashioned favourites without which my flower beds would feel incomplete. The blues are cool!

The Ubiquitous Rhododendron

Day 225: At this time of year, it may seem like every yard in western Washington has at least one rhododendron in it: lavender, purple, red, white, yellow, orange, any shade of pink imaginable. Most are maintained at heights of six to eight feet, but it's not uncommon to see an old, established plant 15 feet tall or more. There's no mystery to the rhododendron's popularity in our damp climate. It is evergreen, holding its leathery leaves throughout the winter. In its original pinkish-white form, it's native to the area. Admittedly, the showy colours are garden cultivars. No one plants the native. But walk through the lowlands of the western Olympic Peninsula, and you'll be surrounded by Rhododendron macrophyllum. Less showy is R. albiflorum, a bushy plant with leaves similar to but somewhat larger than those of blue huckleberry. True to its scientific name, its smaller, less abundant flowers are white or whitish-yellow. and are trumpet-shaped. You probably wouldn't recognize it as a rhody if you were unfamiliar with it. Oh, and by the way...if you say "rho-do-den-DRUM" in my presence, I will whop you upside the head with a stick.

A Spectacular Show

Day 224: I have to admit that Adenium obesum "Joyful" is putting on a much more spectacular show than I'd expected. The first flower began opening two weeks ago and was in full display a few days later. That first bloom is not yet showing signs of wilting, and two more have opened beneath it with more developing on the primary stem. The second stem also has buds, although they're still small at this point. If the pattern of development holds true (and there's no reason it should not), the blooming season for this remarkable succulent will cover more than a month. Adeniums require special attention with respect to water requirements, demanding dry conditions in the dormant time and more frequent watering when the plant is growing/blooming. If I am successful in keeping this one alive for a year, I will certainly be considering adding more Adeniums to my collection.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

Day 223: You cannot fault my flower beds for lack of colour. If my preferences lean toward blues and purples, it is deliberately not evident. Rather, the cool shades are dispersed throughout to complete the rainbow; not regimented, neither boundary nor in bounds. There are no tidy borders of shorter species, no insistence on "tall people in the back, please." Leaves fill in every hollow, peonies popping up through hellebore and columbine and the tangled straps of daffodils. It has taken me years to turn my colour gardens into unschooled chaos, to find just the right plant for this patch of poor soil or that. My flower beds are as close to a wildflower meadow as could be expected of tamed hybrids and commercial cultivars: motley, rampant and lush when at peak bloom. How does your garden grow?

Mobile Home

Day 222: Look into the clear waters of the Mashel River at Eatonville, and you may see evidence of the good work being done by the Nisqually Land Trust upstream. Caddisflies and their larvae are sensitive to pollutants. Their presence is an indicator of water quality.

We called them "periwinkles" when we were kids, not knowing that the term actually applies to a small snail. Possibly someone's parent was misinformed and thus the error was spread to my generation of friends as one of those things learned from peers. In any event, the correction to my lexicon didn't come until I was an adult, and I still use the word in the full knowledge that it's being misapplied. Thus it was that yesterday morning, I went "periwinkle hunting" in Smallwood Park.

Caddisflies are members of the order Trichoptera. There are many species, but all their larvae build cases from small stones and bits of vegetative matter such as this one. Some anchor themselves on rocks and twigs; others are unattached and do their hunting from their "mobile homes." They eat algae, rotting vegetation and even smaller insects. In turn, they are eaten by fish, both as larvae and as adults. The fish are then eaten by fly-fishermen, who know that a well-tied caddis will sucker even the most wary trout. The occasional fly-fisherman may be eaten by a bear, but not sufficiently often to include them in a description of the food chain.

Please Don't Tread On Me

Day 221: I had some free time this morning while waiting for the library to open, so I took a walk through Eatonville's Smallwood Park. The park is boxed in between the Bud Blancher Trail and the Mashel River and the habitat it provides is fairly generic, i.e., salmonberry bushes, ferns, Douglas-fir and Western Hemlock canopy, Indian Plum and Snowberry understory, not the kind of place one expects to discover anything out of the ordinary. That's not to say it doesn't afford some surprises, such as this little garter snake. I think it's Northwestern (Thamnophis ordinoides), but I reserve the right to be wrong. In any event, he/she very nearly became a snake pancake by virtue of blending in so well with the leaf litter. In fact, when I first noticed it, it had its head buried under a leaf, making it look even more like a twig. Last night had been fairly cool, so my little reptilian friend was rather torpid. Even when I carefully teased away its blanket of leaves, it barely budged. I hope no one else follows that side trail until it manages to warm up enough to move out of the path.

Update: confirmed that this is Thamnophis ordinoides. Only Northwestern Garter Snake will show a red vertebral stripe like this one does, although it is a less common colour variation. Thank you, little snake, for being distinctive!

Columbine Constellation

Day 220: I'll admit it. I have a profound fondness for "old-fashioned" plants: lilacs, lily-of-the-valley, Shirley poppies, honeysuckle, delphiniums, blood-red peonies, hollyhocks, bleeding-hearts, columbine. My grandma grew most of them...well, if the truth be known, the gardener of the family was my grandfather, but by the time I was old enough to walk, he was confined to his bed by a stroke. I think of my grandparents' yard as being my grandmother's handiwork if only because she was a major figure in my upbringing. Admittedly, a lot of modern varietals were unknown in those days; I don't recall seeing any double columbines or hollyhocks until I reached adulthood. Consequently, I lean toward the singles for my own garden, although I have to admit that those with ruffled and abundant "petticoats" are attractive in their own way. In fact, the double hybrids have become so popular that it's almost impossible to find singles of some species now.

Old-Fashioned Favourite

Day 219: On the heels of yesterday's post about False Lily-of-the-Valley, today I bring you the real thing. This may well be the first time the two plants have bloomed concurrently in my yard; one usually follows the other by about two weeks.

One of the fondest memories of my childhood is of sitting on my grandmother's back step, flanked by beds of Lily-of-the-Valley on either side. To this day, the scent is one of my favourites. It will be at its best on warm evenings which, unfortunately, have been rather scarce here in western Washington lately, but I can't bring myself to cut a bouquet to put on the mantel. It's rare that I cut flowers, the exception being the occasional bunch of daffodils when they're at their peak, and that only because removing the flowering heads before they can start forming seed makes for stronger bulbs. Flowers last longer when they're alive, and if I want to enjoy them, I just need to step outside. This philosophy is not just better for the plants; it's better for me as well. Rain or shine, I take a daily dose of "outdoor tonic" with a walk around my flower beds and berry garden.

Maianthemum Dilatatum, False Lily-of-the-Valley

Day 218: A close relative of False Solomon's Seal, at first glance, False Lily-of-the-Valley resembles its fragrant namesake, normally bearing two (occasionally 3) heart-shaped leaves beneath the flowering stalk. However, its flowers do not resemble little bells, nor do they carry the perfume typical of the old-fashioned garden favourite. For all of how I curse taxonomists (especially those who assign plant names), in the early days of the science, binomials were generally based on the characteristics of the creature they described. Maianthemum dilatatum is a relic of that era. The scientific name of False Lily-of-the-Valley is descriptive: Maianthemum dilatatum, i.e., a flower which blooms in May ("Mai" - May; "-anthemon" - flower) and spreads out ("dilatatus"), covering the ground as effectively as the true Lily-of-the-Valley gardeners hate/love. I welcome this native in the woods at the edge of my property where it masses in the rich compost of thirty years' accumulation of grass clippings.

The Cultivated Jungle

Day 217: When I moved into my home thirty years ago, the yard was an almost barren canvas. Aside from a 10'-wide wooded belt separating my property from the one adjacent to it, the only "landscaping" (a term I use in a very loose sense) consisted of a hedge of yews, a 150' tall, 13'-around Douglas-fir and a short weeping, flowering somethingoranother tree in a rock circle in the front yard. It was a lovely little tree, but I was never able to identify it. It had leaves like a cherry, flowers like an apple and formed fruits similar to chokecherry, which it definitely was not. It became known as the Whatzit Tree, and for years, it stood as the only relief in an otherwise empty yard. It eventually succumbed to a combination of insects and the Sapsuckers which loved to drill for them, but by then, I had begun planting trees and shrubs or, as I thought of it, habitat. These days, the planting urge is still upon me, but I'm running out of space for things with strong root systems which can't be planted too near the septic tank. My yard is still a long way from being an impenetrable jungle, but the birds love it. "Build it, and they will come," they say. I planted it, and they did.

Black Parrots

Day 216: The "other" Parrots have arrived, which if you're not one of my regular followers, may be a bewildering statement, accompanied as it is by a photo of a Black-Headed Grosbeak (Pheucticus melanocephalus). It might help if I explained that the Porch Parrots are now here in vast numbers, i.e., I have so many Evening Grosbeaks that I'm having to fill the feeders twice daily. It's those big chartreuse beaks, big seed-cracking beaks which earned them the nickname "Parrots." The cacophony of chirps ("CHURP!") is deafening from the back porch, the contorted filbert serving as a jam-packed choir loft. The red dogwood carries as many yellow and orange birds as it does green leaves, and all of them demanding second helpings. My year and my world would be incomplete without the Parrot complement, such bright and gregarious little souls they are.

Swamp Gooseberry, Ribes Lacustre

Day 215: Field guides sometimes refer to the edibility of specific plants. Some may even describe how certain parts of a plant were prepared by indigenous populations. An important thing to bear in mind is that the term "edible" does not necessarily equate with "tasty," a fact to which your correspondent will most strongly attest in the case of Ribes lacustre, also known as Black Gooseberry or Swamp Gooseberry. This thorny member of the currant family produces a small, round black berry lacking in any gastronomic appeal. While not specifically unpleasant, its insipid taste and somewhat dry texture do not recommend it to the palate. Despite its gustatory failings, it is often listed as "edible." Yes, and so are organically-produced paper products, although they're better suited to use under your breakfast fare than in it.

Aptly Named Adenium "Joyful"

Day 214: "Joyful" is an apt name for this particular cultivar of Adenium obesum, a succulent found wild in sub-Saharan Africa. Many hybrids are available through specialty plant suppliers, but those most commonly available are likely to be the product of grafting onto sturdier true-species stock and would not develop the thickened base (caudex) if left to develop on their own from seed. Adeniums must be treated with some attention to their seasonal water requirements in order to be grown successfully. During the blooming cycle, they require more water; during the months of winter dormancy, they should be managed like cacti, allowing the soil to go nearly dry between waterings. A potting soil which drains well is essential. Otherwise, they may develop root-rot. This is a plant which loves it hot and dry! Set it in a sunny window and prepare to enjoy a spectacular display.

Penny Perspectives - Chickweed Monkeyflower

Day 213: Most hikers in the Pacific Northwest will be familiar with the larger pink or yellow Monkeyflowers which often line the banks of our streams, their open faces telling the story of how their common name came into existence. Just as common but less well-known is tiny Chickweed Monkeyflower which begins blooming in late spring and persists throughout the summer, better adapted to dry soil than its larger relatives. Shown here in a Penny Perspective, Erythranthe alsinoides will be listed as Mimulus alsinoides in all but the most recent field guides. The distinction came about when molecular studies showed that Erythranthe followed a separate evolutionary line from Mimulus, and thus it was removed from the family Scrophulariaceae and placed instead in Phyrmaceae. While this informational tidbit in no way affects our enjoyment of the smiling "monkey faces" in our meadows, the reclassification demonstrates that science is always moving forward, toward a better understanding of the world around us.

Penny Perspectives - Blue-Eyed Mary

Day 212: As shown in this Penny Perspective, "small-flowered" is an appropriate epithet for Collinsia parviflora, also known as Small-Flowered Blue-Eyed Mary. In fact, the whole plant is seldom more than four inches tall. Even when growing in masses, its brilliant blue flowers fail to stand out against the drab greys and browns of rock and soil. A closer look at this plant would reveal that its petals form a tube which is bent near the base, turning Mary's bright blue eyes to face outward and slightly up, as if to welcome the summer sun and herald the start of wildflower season.

Team Biota's first day in the field since last autumn didn't yield any rarities, although it brought a surprise which was less than pleasant: ticks. I have not previously encountered ticks in the Park, but one of my botany partners and I each found one walking on us. The soil in the area where we picked them up was quite dry for this time of the year. I suspect we'll be seeing more and more of these nasty little creatures as changes in our regional climate shift toward a hotter and drier ecology.

Wrong Waterfall

Day 211: On a typical work day, I have half an hour ot so to take a little hike. If my other work is done, I can extend that by searching out material for my weekly Park Facebook posts. To that end, I decided I'd take a long-abandoned trail up the south side of the Nisqually River in the hopes of finding an odd lichen, a new grove of Calypso orchids or some other noteworthy plant. I'd projected my turn-around point to be at the waterfall visible from the Longmire bridge. I didn't make it. Another waterfall got in my way. The streams in the Park are running at spring levels, swollen with snowmelt and therefore dangerous to attempt crossing. As they say, "discretion is the better part of valor," so I cut my exploration short and put it back on the list for another day.

Plectritis Congesta

Day 210: From its common name Shortspur Seablush, you would expect that Plectritis congesta would grow close to the coast. I didn't know what it was when I found it in Rimrock County Park near Eatonville a few days ago, so because I was very excited about discovering Erythronium oreganum in the same general area, it went in my files under "Identify." Things in "Identify" tend to get nudged off the board when I transfer files to secondary storage, but I happened to be looking back over the last week's photos and noticed that I hadn't dealt with it yet. I was prepared to accept that it was an escapee from someone's garden, and will admit that I was somewhat surprised to learn that it's native with a range from Vancouver Island to California. It is not found outside the western states, and makes a second "Life List" plant I've discovered in Rimrock Park.

A Garden Of Calypsos

Day 209: Two weeks ago, the Calypso Orchids (Calypso bulbosa) were just beginning to bud, but warmer temperatures have brought them into full flower by the hundreds in Longmire Campground. Even as brightly coloured as they are, they're easy to miss, the flowering stems standing at most four inches high and often coming up through a thick layer of moss. The flowers may measure as much as an inch and a half from the "horns" on the lower lip to the tip of the tallest petal. Partially mycoheterotrophic (also referred to as "hemi-mycoheterotrophic"), each plant has a single leaf which allows for some photosynthesis; otherwise, the nutrients necessary for Calypso's survival are broken down by soil mycorrhizae into a form this dainty native orchid can utilize.

Penny Perspectives - Anemone Lyallii

Day 208: Tiny Anemone lyallii (Lyall's Anemone) is relatively uncommon in Mount Rainier National Park, and it is often overlooked because of its size, which this Penny Perspective clearly demonstrates. It can be distinguished from similar A. deltoides by the leaf arrangement (three "threes" in the case of A. lyallii and only one set of three in A. deltoides). A third species (Anemone oregana) is larger, although small specimens can be confused with A. lyallii. The distinction between the two is most easily made when the plants are in bloom. Oregon Anemone has 35 or more stamens, Lyall's less than 35. Lyall's may also be listed as Western Wood Anemone in some field guides.

I've Got The Blues

Day 207: I've got the blues, and I mean that in the best possible way. I had never realized how difficult it was to find plants with vibrantly blue flowers until I started trying to theme my flower beds. I started with delphiniums because they came with the house, planted lobelia to fill in and then promptly regretted it when it turned weedy. What other possibilities were available for a true blue? I tried cornflowers, but could only find them in a mix of colours which leaned strongly toward pink. Blue columbine was a must-have, and I found several variations, pulling out the old pink-rose ones and replacing them with blues and purples. Then I discovered Lithodora, a creeping groundcover which is as blue a blue as you could possibly ever hope to find. Little by little, my garden began singing the blues. My, that's music to my eyes!

Stay-At-Home Mom

Day 206: Mrs. Tree Swallow is a stay-at-home mom. After she has laid her clutch of eggs, she leaves the nest rarely to feed, her mate bringing the bulk of her food to her door. When the babies hatch, they are fed by both parents, although mainly by the female. I am happy to report that both of my nesting boxes are occupied again this year, and there is a constant flurry of activity around the houses as other potential renters check on availability. I wish I had more space, because although Tachycineta bicolor is more forgiving in its territorial boundaries than some other species of Swallow, they will not tolerate the paper-wasps which also like to build under the eaves. The nesting boxes are on the shady side of the garage where I can watch them from my kitchen window; all other locations where I might put additional housing are either too hot and sunny or are favoured by the infernal wasps. That said, even providing only two nesting boxes has kept birds from building in the peak of my carport, thereby saving me multiple car-washes each season.

Bending Rules

Day 205: My friends all know that I don't like pink. No, revise that. My friends all know I despise pink, so they are always surprised when I post images of pink-flowered plants in my garden. While I would hardly want to choose pink as the theme for the beds I see most frequently from my windows. I am willing to excuse it in quiet corners if it comes on a plant I particularly like. I have fluffy pink-skirted Columbines, Bergenia (only because I've been unsuccessful digging it out), heathers which lean rather toward rose than to lavender, fuchsias in both bright pink dresses and pale blush-tinted ones, and Bleeding-Hearts. No garden should be without Bleeding-Hearts, whether plump-flowered ones like this cultivar or the dainty natives. I'll bend the rule for Ma Nature. If her fashion sense dictates that she should wear pink to Spring Fête, who am I to say otherwise?

Nuisance (Non)-Native

Day 204: May the gods of botany strike me where I stand, this represents one native plant genus I would not miss if it died out entirely. Its various species and subspecies can all be lumped under the common names of Bedstraw or Cleavers, and the latter is particularly descriptive of the obnoxious, sticky, amazingly persistent burrs it produces. Walk through a patch of Galium and you'll spend the next half hour de-seeding your socks and pantlegs. You might even find a tick or two because they love hiding out in the stuff (I learned the hard way). This particular species grows in the woods at the edge of my yard where I can keep it contained by mowing, but given half a chance, it would spread until it had subsumed the dandelions, crushed the hawkweed, suffocated the moss and crept in through my bedroom window to strangle me as I slept. Resistant to all methods I've employed to eradicate it, it's just waiting for its moment to take over the world.

Update: Confirmed that this is Galium odoratum, a non-native Bedstraw.

Amelanchier Alnifolia, Serviceberry

Day 203: Serviceberry, Sarviceberry, Sarvis, Shadberry, Shadbush, Shadblow, Shadwood, Juneberry, Saskatoon, Chuckley Pear, Sugarplum, Wild-plum...the things you could call Amelanchier alnifolia vary dramatically from region to region. Its scientific name "alnifolia" refers to the resemblance of the leaves to those of alder, although I'd take issue with that and suggest that "betulifolia" would be more appropriate since to me they look like birch. This sprangly shrub blooms in May-June, corresponding with the shad runs on both the east and west coasts. While this explains several of the common names, others confound the imagination. "Chuckley Pear?" Where did that come from? "Wild-plum"(hyphenated) is even more confusing, since Sarviceberry (the form I learned as a child) bears fruits which look and taste rather like blueberries. They can be used quite successfully as a substitute in muffins and pancakes if you have the good fortune to be able to collect enough before the birds raid the bushes. I've never been able to gather enough for jam, so when I found a healthy grove yesterday, I carefully lifted an offshoot to grow at home. It will remain in a sunken pot for a year until it's had a chance to establish a strong root system and then I'll move it to a permanent location at the edge of my woods where hopefully it will flourish and spread.

Erythronium Oregonum, Giant White Fawn-Lily

Day 202: Well, I did a double-take. "That's not an Avalanche Lily! What the hell...? Is that a Trout?" In the end, it proved to be Erythronium oreganum, commonly known as Giant White Fawn-Lily, but closely akin to both Avalanche and Trout Lilies and something I had never before seen. I was out on an invasive-plant patrol in the undeveloped Rimrock County Park. It's a lovely place for hiking in solitude, although the peace is frequently broken by the sounds of rifle fire from the local gun club, but I am willing to endure that in order to have the woods to myself. Besides, they're over a hill from the trail system and pose no danger to someone walking on the back side. So, like I said, I did a double-take. The mottled leaves told me it was no Avalanche Lily, nor would I have been likely to find them at such a low elevation. "Trout" and "Fawn" tend to follow some pretty indistinct rules in the application of common names to the Erythroniums, so being a fisherman, those speckly leaves led me to spend the rest of the day saying, "Trouts! I found Trouts!" Well, in between bending over to pull Digitalis and Tansy Ragwort, anyway. A "life list" plant is a pretty good reward for pulling weeds.

Brown-Headed Cowbird, Molothrus Ater

Day 201: The question was how a horse had gotten sixty feet up a Douglas-fir. I could hear it whinnying, over and over and over, clearly distressed by a lack of solid earth beneath its hooves. It was the first summer after my husband and I had taken over his grandparents' "ranch," a 10-acre spread with a pioneer-era house and no indoor plumbing. No one else in the family wanted it when the grandfolks offered it around. We jumped at the chance, moved out of a small Seattle rambler with all the modern conveniences and set up housekeeping with intent to improve the house or build a new one. It never happened, but that's not germane to the story. I was still trying to figure out how the horse got up the tree. Our neighbour ran cattle, but that soprano whinny wasn't coming from any cow. In any event, cows don't climb trees either, and the sound was coming from about halfway up the Doug fir behind the garage.

That was my first encounter with the amazing mimicry for which Brown-Headed Cowbirds are known. They can imitate a siren, a ringing telephone, cats, dogs, other birds and yes, horses, albeit rather high-pitched squeaky ones. There are no horses where I live now, but my Cowbirds mimic hawks and jays and, amusingly, jays imitating hawks, which Steller-fellers do quite well, thank you. By the time it reaches Cowbird pronunciation, a little has been lost in translation, but it's still recognizable and identifiable as a second-hand revision. The other distinctive trait of Brown-Headed Cowbirds is that between calls, they look up, as if searching the skies for flying saucers. "Hey, Joe? Do you know what them UFO things look like? I think I just saw one go over." Some people think they're pests, ranked right up there with Starlings, but I think they're funny. I mean, when I first met them, they were horsing around.

Because I Can

Day 200: As far as edibility goes, the fruit of the Akebia vine has absolutely nothing to recommend it, or none that I've been able to find. I've tried sucking the purportedly sweet pulp off the huge, abundant black seeds, but found it to be almost tasteless and definitely not at all sweet. I've tried stir-frying slices of the pods, but again, thought the end product was bland and insipid and not even worth using as filler. That said, here I am again, paintbrush in hand, tickling pollen from one plant to the other in a repeat of the horticultural amusement I've done for the last two years. Why? Because I can.

There's something to be said for achieving cross-pollinating by hand even if the fruits themselves are unrewarding. I've learned to recognize the symptoms of receptivity in the female flowers (a sticky fluid develops at the end of each stigma) and the presence of ripe pollen on the males. So far, I have only been able to make a one-way transfer successfully: pollen from the white variety to the females of the purple one, making me wonder if the male flowers of the purple variety are sterile. Its stamens drop when I touch them with the paintbrush. The experiment continues, and if nothing else, it keeps me amused.