Fading Phantom

Day 286: Better late than never, I suppose. Because my botany partners were unavailable until next week when the temperatures are due to rise again, I went alone today on the annual pilgrimage to Cephalanthera austiniae, the Phantom Orchid. The five stems were well past their prime, in one case entirely bare of flowers or pods. I gave the area a thorough search in the hopes of turning up more, but to no avail. I think perhaps Phantom is going into hiding again. It can stay dormant for up to 25 years. Another conclusion can be drawn from this morning's exploit: I'm getting too old to heave myself over one log, just to have to belly-crawl under the next one. Unlike Cephalanthera, I don't think I'd benefit from dormancy.

Budding Cephalanthera

Day 271: The forest and I are growing old together. As my strength and stamina begin to wane, the woods are becoming more deeply tangled. Limbs and trees fall, thickets thicken, ground cover covers more ground. The trailless route to Cephalanthera has always involved climbing over, under, around and through an infinite variety of obstacles, and each year brings more. I emerged from this morning's foray with a head count of four very young stems and multiple new bruises, dings and gouges in my anatomy. Was it worth it? Need you ask? Also worthy of mention is the fact that in an area where they are normally abundant, very few specimens of Corallorhiza were in evidence. I counted a mere three occurrences of maculata, and all at the "seed pod production" phase of their phenology. My suspicion is that the mycoheterotrophs in this particular pocket ecology are suffering from a stressor of some sort, possibly that late-spring snow event which could have disrupted their timing. In any event, I will have to make a second excursion to Cephalanthera in two weeks or so, so I'd better start steeling myself for another round of crawling under fallen trees, over logs, around impasses and through devil's-club, the demanding rite of physical passage which takes you to the Phantom's secret lair.

Going Extinct

Day 274: There is a reason I am showing you another photo of Cephalanthera austiniae today. I want to embed it firmly in your minds so that you can tell your children and grandchildren that you've seen pictures of them growing in the wild, that you knew someone who stood beside the actual living plants in an obscure corner of Mount Rainier's forests. In the last 24 hours, I have read two articles which say that Phantoms will vanish by 2100 AD, victims of climate change. Cephalanthera is not the only species of holomycotrophic orchid threatened by global warming, but in scientific studies, it has been shown that it is perhaps one of the most vulnerable to rising temperatures and loss of habitat. Does that tell you why I am so close-mouthed about their location? And does it not wrench your heart to contemplate their almost-certain loss? I've often used the phrase "everything is holding hands with something else" when discussing the natural world. It would seem that Cephalanthera is losing its grip. And then what, people? We're already sliding down the slippery slope toward our own demise as a species and, I hasten to remind you, we greased the skids and are continuing to lavish on fresh oil.

Cephalanthera

Day 273: Navigating trailless forest in pre-dawn twilight presents a few challenges most hikers will never experience, but in order to be through the gate before casual Park visitors started lining up and to have the strenuous portion of my hike behind me before the heat of the day, I was out well before sunrise, pushing through the devil's club and clambering over tangles of logs and limbs en route to the only location in Mount Rainier National Park where Cephalanthera austiniae is known to occur. The sun still had not climbed above the horizon when I spotted the first one. As I unshouldered my pack and set up the tripod to capture its pristine whiteness in the flat light, a second one caught my eye, then a third and fourth together, and a fifth beside them. The census eventually reached fifteen: not a record, but definitely a respectable number, and all within a plot of land generously estimated to be 150' x 75'. Why here? What mycorrhizal component exists in this pocket ecology to support these plants? The Phantom knows, but I do not.

Queen Of Plants Without Chlorophyll

Day 284: About a week ago, I received an email from Arnie with the salutation, "Oh, queen of plants without chlorophyll," which was accompanied by a lovely photo of an Aphyllon species he'd found near Oregon Caves and a question about why he was seeing clumps of Castilleja at some points along the trail and Orthocarpus at others. I suggested that it might be because both plant genera are initial mycoheterotrophs (i.e., they require the assistance of a mycorrhiza to germinate), possibly even facultative mycoheterotrophs (ones which rely on a mycorrhizal "assist" even though they're capable of limited photosynthesis). Arnie likes to wind me up, and he's doing a fantastic job of it, keeping me posted almost daily on the mycoheterotrophs of southern Oregon. Damn, I wish I could take a road trip!

However, his salutation made me laugh, and also made me feel unashamedly proud of the fact that he turns to me when he has questions about mycoheterotrophic plants. In fact, it was my passion for mycoheterotrophs which inspired him to send me on a hunt for Cephalanthera austiniae, the Phantom Orchid. I think he thought it was a wild goose chase; I thought it was a snipe hunt, a way to keep me occupied and out of his hair for the rest of the season. We were both surprised when I got on the radio and announced breathlessly, "Arnie...Arnie...I'm kneeling beside two Phantoms!" as the tears streamed down my face.

That was several years ago. My botany partners and I have continued to monitor the site (the only place where Cephalanthera is known to occur in Mount Rainier National Park), and each year, we inventory Phantoms. With COVID hanging over our heads like the sword of Damocles, Joe and Sharon have gone alone twice, and last Sunday, Joe reported a census of 19 to me. This morning, I was out the door before sunrise with GPS and camera in hand. I only found 17 of Joe's specimens, but I also noted several large banana slugs in the area. I think that may be a clue into why some Phantoms disappear within a day or two and others live out their life cycle to set seed. In fact, I noted one old stalk from last year, its pods hanging dry and empty. So why is the Phantom so rare? Let's turn back to the discussion I had with Arnie: it requires a specific mycorrhizal partnership. In fact, Cephalanthera is more selective than other mycoheterotrophic species. Some combination of factors allows its existence at this site. We know that it occurs in the presence of certain other vascular plants ("plant associations"), so I believe it's possible that the mycorrhiza is dependent on something in the decaying detritus of these plant associates. Ah, so many questions! But I do know this: Cephalanthera austiniae is the true Queen of plants without chlorophyll. I am simply one of her vassals.

Cephalanthera Census

Day 270: Cephalanthera austiniae is only known from one location in Mount Rainier National Park. Since the Park's establishment in 1899, it has been observed by a mere handful of people, almost all of whom belong to Team Biota. Yesterday, we did an extensive inventory and came up with a census of eleven stems. Because of the nature of this unique plant's growth pattern, we estimate that that census represents no more than five plants. Why is Phantom Orchid so rare? There are a number of factors. First of all, it is an obligate mycoheterotroph, i.e., lacking chlorophyll, it cannot photosynthesize and relies on soil mycorrhizae to provide its nutrition. Second, it depends on specific mycorrhizal species (or perhaps just one). Third, those mycorrhizae only grow where a certain type of decaying vegetative matter is present. Cephalanthera may also depend on the presence of certain species of vascular plants (what we call its "associated" plants) and I believe it may also require a specific soil regime and/or that it tolerates only a narrow range of soil pH. These factors all come together in a tiny, secret pocket of forest at Mount Rainier, a spot where the only sounds are the trickling of a thready stream and the voices of Team Biota saying, "Four...five...I've got another one over here."

Chasing Phantoms

Day 270: Putting this in perspective, the three people who make up the core of Team Biota are three of only six or seven individuals who have ever observed Phantom Orchids (Cephalanthera austiniae) in Mount Rainier National Park. Two others are Park colleages, and the sixth is a former Park employee and friend of Arnie's. The seventh observation was made before the Park was established in 1899 and only describes the location as in the "upper Nisqually Valley," a broad term which could refer to anything above the former town of Alder. That first sighting was of a single stem, as was the one made by Arnie's friend. Even Joe and Sharon have not seen as many stems as I have: a total now of 23 (14 in 2017 and 9 this year). You can't blame me for being a bit jazzed!

Yesterday, we found three stems in two new spots, although still within the 100' circle we feel represents the mycorrhizal network. One of the older plants was broken (possibly trampled by a certain young fawn of our acquaintance), another had the terminal buds nipped off. The specimen I dubbed "Bitten" last year has emerged this year whole and healthy, proving that its root system and mycorrhizal connections were undamaged. The lower flowers on several of the stems are beginning to open, and if you look closely at the image, you may spot a tiny aphid in the center of the lowest bloom. Are these what pollinate Cephalanthera? If so, I say hurray for aphids!

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.

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.

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.

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.

Cephalanthera Austiniae, Phantom Orchid

Day 258: About a year and a half ago, Park Plant Ecologist Arnie Peterson gave me a challenge: every week, I was to find a new plant (i.e., a species occurring in a previously unrecorded location). By the time last August rolled around, Team Biota (Joe and Sharon Dreimiller and I) had given him enough to fill out the remainder of the year. The challenge resumed this spring, and we're already ahead of schedule.

Arnie decided to up the stakes during the winter. He had received a photo from a botanist friend who had discovered a single specimen of Cephalanthera austiniae in 2005. Despite his long career in the field, Arnie has never seen a Phantom Orchid in the wild. He had been given vague coordinates by the friend and supplied us with a rough estimate of where the 2005 sighting had taken place, a circle roughly a tenth of a mile in diameter, off trail and into tangled forest. After our other duties were done for the day, Joe and I decided to give it a try even though we felt we were a month too early. Thus the saga begins.

My thought process after clambering over several large fallen trees, wiping spiderwebs from my face (they're sharp when they get in your eyes), and following a number of false leads ran along these lines: "That's another white stick...the ground cover is so thick in here you couldn't find an elephant...licheny bit...stick, yeah, another white stick...stick? Waitaminit, that doesn't look like a stick. That doesn't look AT ALL like a stick!"

Then as I got a clearer view, I said very loudly, thoroughly at a loss for any other words, "Oh, shit! Oh, shit! Oh, SHIT! Joe! Joe! Joe! Shit! Oh, Joe!" to which Joe responded, "Are you all right?" I said through copious tears flowing down my cheeks, speaking rather breathlessly and not solely due to exertion, "Joe...I've got the plant!"

"What?" said Joe from 75 feet away. By then, I was crying so hard I could barely speak, "I've...got...the...PLANT!" and I knelt down beside it to pay homage. I heard Joe say, "There's another one behind you!" There was another one five feet away. Neither displayed open flowers, but we had found them, one of Mount Rainier National Park's rarest species.

I tried radioing Maureen, our contact. No response. It registered with me that I had never gotten Arnie's radio number, so I did the next best thing. I called Dispatch. "Dispatch, 442. Please call Arnie Peterson and ask him to contact me by radio." Dispatch replied, "Stand by." Less than a minute later, Arnie's voice came over the air: "442?" "Arnie, Joe and I are kneeling beside two Phantoms," I responded. Short and to the point, he replied, "GPS and photos. Check in with me later." I already had my GPS on the ground, averaging a reading.

For the most part, my photos were poor due to lack of light except for this one, but in any event, a return trip is in order next week to see if the flowers have opened. Our retreat was made somewhat easier by following a distinctive geographic feature, eliminating some of the route-finding hazards we encountered on the way in. Still, you don't want to get into a patch of Devil's Club, and even more to the point, you don't want to grab its stalks to pull yourself uphill. Nor do you want to exhaust yourself by repeatedly heaving your body over the jackstraws of blowdown. That particular exercise gets old really fast.

Some time later, we attained the truck and made our way to Longmire. As we were leaving Arnie's office after showing him the results of our search, I reminded him of the challenge he'd given us. His comment: "It'll be hard to beat this one." I've promised to guide him to the site if he can free up the time. Those herbarium specimens he was cataloguing will keep. The Phantom won't.