Triantha Occidentalis

Day 242: The day began like any other Botany Day. Team Biota had a list of five "target plants" which either hadn't been seen in the Park for 20+ years or whose habitat was in jeopardy due to the perfectly natural process of succession. We spent a couple of hours feeding ravenous mosquitoes at one location, and only turned up one of the plants on the list: Triantha occidentalis, also known as Western False Asphodel. There were half a dozen stems, none fully in bloom, and it was all too obvious that in a few more years, their plot will be filled in by other vegetation. That said, even though we hadn't checked off the whole list, we found a few uncommon species which were not among those we were seeking. Moving along, we made a few other stops and then decided to check on some of our other favourites to see if they were in bloom.

We have a secondary goal when we are in the field, and that is to find additional sites where some of the less rare species occur. We call these "non-Biek locations" because they are not listed in "Flora of Mount Rainier National Park." At the close of every year, I turn in a report of "non-Biek locations" for addition to the Park's database. As we were walking along the edge of the road, spread out, I looked down-slope and thought I could see an example of one particular plant. I sized up the angle of incline and potential hand-holds, and in a rash moment decided that finding a new non-Biek location took priority over anything else, I started down the hill. I had descended 15 feet or so when the sandy footing gave way and sent me sliding into a clump of small alders. The momentum was such that when my toe tangled in the base of the clump, I was pitched face-first through the branches. They collapsed under my weight and I began a rapid downhill slide on my front, head first like a toboggan. When I came to rest, my first thought was, "I can see. Therefore my glasses are still on my face." I had thought I felt them pull off. Then without moving, I assessed my extremities. Nothing felt like it was broken, so then I began the process of getting turned around without sliding further down the hill, and dragging myself back up to road level. Being rather rattled by the experience, I neglected to check the damn plant to see if it was the right one as I crawled past it. On reaching the road, I discovered a broad smear of vegetative matter on my glasses which at first I took for a major scratch, but after washing it off, I saw that the underlying scratch was minor. However, my poor carcase had taken quite a beating, and by that evening, I was aching in every muscle and the bruises were beginning to colour up. I knew there was no way I could hide the evidence, and reluctantly confessed to Kevin. His utter silence was more painful than a reprimand. Worse than the injuries to my various parts and ego is that inflicted on his trust in my judgment. That's going to take a long time to heal.

The Annual Bath

Day 333: For as long as I have been hiking in the backcountry as an adult (some 50-plus years), I have observed a particular ritual of plunging myself into a cold mountain lake or creek some time during the month of September in what I refer to as my "annual bath." I will further inform you, should you ask, that the purpose of this ablution is to "cleanse myself of the dross of humanity," refreshing and renewing my spirit that I may survive another year of contact with humankind. It is, of course, necessarily done completely naked and is not complete until I am but one click shy of hypothermia, emerging from the water with tingling skin and painful scalp. Sometimes, the bath takes the form of a swim in an alpine lake, but the most common observation of this rite is done in a shin-deep pool of a stream, and consists only of splashing and/or pouring ice water on myself until every inch of me has been rinsed with clear, pure living water, and only that.

For the last several years, I've had to make do with a small kettle lake as my bathtub. I've stepped out of it at least twice with a scummy coating of fir pollen clinging to my hide. What matters is not the physical cleanness, but that of my inner being. Once, I dunked in the Nisqually River and came out coated in glacial silt and had to shower when I got home. For obvious reasons, the clear water of a mountain creek is more desirable, and for several weeks now, I've been trying to figure out the best spot for my annual dunk. There are more people on the trails than there used to be, and of course I am beyond the years when I could hike into the deep backcountry to find a private spot. One possibility kept rising to the top of my list of options: a secluded corner in Lodi Creek where it veers away from the trail to Berkeley Park. 

When my botany partners suggested a hike to "Fremont junction," I assumed we would be turning around at that point. When we got on trail, I found out that Joe had meant the Northern Loop junction instead, a mere half mile from first contact with Lodi. I really debated whether to ask them to wait for me there (Joe is still breaking in a knee replacement) since I didn't want to burden them, but when he said that he thought he might shear off onto the trail to Skyscraper Pass, I asked him if he'd mind waiting. He'd heard a rumour about goats in the area and wanted to get photos, and having not seen any yet, was more than willing to grant my request. I took off at a lope. Forty-five minutes later, I met up with my friends again, my spirit divested of humanity's dross and hair still wet beneath my hat. Unbeknownst to us, the Goat Rocks Fire was preparing to divert us onto another adventure: having to make a full circuit of the Mountain in order to get me back to my house. In Sharon's words, "At least there were goats." And I got my annual bath.

She'll Be Comin' Round The Mountain

Day 332: It started out like any other Botany Friday, if perhaps a bit smokier than usual. My botany partners got up at 2 AM in order to make the long drive to pick me up at 5:30 (I got up at 3:30), and if we hadn't been delayed by road construction, we'd have been at Sunrise at 7:30. The air seemed to grow thicker with smoke as we progressed eastward, but thinned as we gained altitude. It was less smoky at Sunrise (6420') than it had been in the valley, and as we climbed up to Frozen Lake, we noticed a slight improvement in air quality. However, by the time we were ready to return to the car, more smoke had moved in from the east, thick enough to smell and taste. In the distance, we spotted the billows of a rising cloud in the vicinity of Packwood, and later confirmed that it was in fact the smoke plume from the 150-acre Goat Rocks Fire (update 6 AM 10 Sept. - fire is now at 1200 acres). Meadow Rovers were recalled from duty due to the rapidly rising air quality index shortly before we arrived back at the car. Not long afterwards, an alert went out from area cell towers saying that a Level 3 evacuation order had been issued for Packwood residents, "Leave now!" Highway 12 was closed from Skate Creek Road to White Pass. We figured we could still come back through the Park, but found Hwy 123 closed at Cayuse Pass. Our only option at that point was to complete a full circle around the Mountain in order to get me back home, adding roughly 100 extra miles to my botany partners' driving day. Did we find any new and interesting plants? Nope.

Pin It!

Day 316: My botany partners joke that they can track where I've been by looking for "Crow Rocks," i.e., the various things I use as field tripods. Sometimes it's a rock, yes, but sticks and bits of shed bark are also frequently brought into service for the same purpose. As it happened, I was down on my knees at the camera with a chunk of long-dead, dry wood propping up the lens, and my attention was fully on the unique plant I was photographing. Then, as I started to raise up, the light hit the surface of the wood at a different angle, and there they were, hundreds of little black pins no more than one scant millimeter in height. Joe and Sharon were already back at the car, so I carried my treasure out to them and as I walked up, I said, "Here's something I bet you've never seen before!" A photo session ensued, drivers of passing cars no doubt wondering what was so fascinating about a chunk of old wood.

These are a species of "stickpin" or "pin lichen." Without laboratory facilities, I can't positively determine which one, but Mycocalicium subtile is my best guess, based on characteristics I could observe with a hand lens and habitat/substrate. This is only the second pin lichen I have ever found. As you might guess, they are extremely difficult to spot due to their size. Closer observation would reveal that the capitula (pinheads) are goblet-shaped or, as Sharon observed, "Like little tiny Myrios," referring to our historic fungal find from several years ago. You never know what you're going to find in the woods if you just keep your eyes open.

Aspidotis Densa

Day 286: There is a new name on the list of ferns known to occur in Mount Rainier National Park as of yesterday: Aspidotis densa. Known commonly as "Indian's Dream" or "Cliff Brake," the species had not been observed previously in the Park or in Pierce County, although it had been reported from Lewis County to the south and King County to the north. Only two specimens were observed at this site. However, we did not make a thorough search on this occasion. That will be forthcoming. The fern can be recognized by its blackish-brown stems and delicately lacy fronds. Fertile blades with thinner segments are held erect and exhibit more pinnae (divisions) than sterile foliage, a phenomenon called dimorphism or "having two forms." You would be correct in assuming that the plant was discovered by Team Biota during a recent outing, and it took several phone calls and numerous emails to confirm its identity. I am surprised that my jubilant "YES!!!" didn't register on the UW's seismometer.

Flower Mimicry

Day 282: Team Biota is always on the lookout for the rare and unusual, and last week's outing provided us with a couple of Mystery Plants. One I managed to identify within 24 hours despite the fact that I only had foliage to go on. As I told Arnie, "If I was a taxonomist, I'd call it somethingoranother betulifolia," and sure enough, the plant's birchy-looking leaf was the clue I needed. I like it when Latin tells you something about the field characteristics! But then there was this critter, and it had all of us baffled, right up the chain to the curator of the WTU Herbarium. I was convinced that it was infected with some kind of pathogen and he agreed, but we couldn't determine the identity of the plant. Team Biota began planning the next trip around trying to find a) a healthy specimen and b) an open blossom, but I didn't think those red "buds" were really buds. I was ready to consign it to the Unidentifiables file, but while looking for information on another subject entirely, I stumbled across a photo which strongly resembled our unsolved Mystery. I checked the associated document and discovered that it showed a Boechera (Rockcress) which was infected with the fungus Puccinia monoica. The fungus creates a condition known as floral mimicry, i.e., it distorts the leaves and makes them look like...yep, flower buds. I spent the next several hours down a rabbit hole of scholarly treatises while exchanging emails with the Herbarium curator, and we narrowed the possible Boechera candidates down to two, which fortunately have one distinctly different characteristic to separate them. There will be another chapter to this story as soon as Team Biota has put the final piece of the puzzle in place.

Wildflower Rainbow

Day 281: While Team Biota does spend a lot of its time on its respective hands and knees (figuratively in the instance of Joe, who is recovering from surgery), we do occasionally step back to take in the wider view. In this case, a scree slope above Cayuse Pass was painted with every colour of the rainbow, from tiny purple Boecheras (Rockcresses) and indigo blue Larkspurs to red and orange Castillejas supplemented with "damn yellow daisies" and a broad palette of green foliage in between. It is summer in the mountains, and these plants have only three months to complete their reproductive cycles before the long cold season settles in. Here, the undiscerning observer sees only beauty, not the intense struggle for survival which compels the display. It's serious business being a plant.

Botanizing With Bears

Day 275: Uncle Walter may go waltzing with bears, but he's got nothing on Joe, Sharon and Crow who go botanizing with them. Yep, today my botany partners and I made our first excursion since the pandemic closed us down in March 2020. We spent a fantastic 11 hours searching slopes, ditches and bogs for the rare and unusual species found in Mount Rainier National Park and came home with hundreds of photos between us and two mystery plants which have so far eluded identification. I'll be focusing on those over the next few days, but my readers can expect a week or more of wildflower posts, and although all of them may not be of rarities, I hope to impart some bit of knowledge to you about each. As for Bear (Ursus americanus, black bear), he/she was stopped traffic on the Sunrise Road for the better part of twenty minutes while enjoying a leisurely lunch at the meadow smorgasbord.

And Other Wildlife...

Day 272: Most of my bear sightings have been in the backcountry, and at least two of them were of the "up close and personal" nature, i.e., the bear was within 50' of me (in one case, only about 20'). I'm not complacent about bears, but my customary response to them is that I speak in a normal tone of voice, saying, "Bear...hey, bear! I need to use this trail. Would you mind moving over so I can come by?" Sometimes it takes several repetitions and maybe even a few steps forward before Bear notices me, but only once have I encountered aggressive behaviour, and that was from a motherless cub who was probably more curious about me than anything else. Cubby and I came to an agreement after a tense ten minutes, neither of us wanting to escalate the situation. Backcountry bear experiences aside, bears are attractive to any photographer, and thus it was that Team Biota started a bear jam on the Valley Road. We'd first glimpsed it (her, I believe) from the upper portion of the road, a tiny black dot moving among small trees deep in Paradise Valley. After she crossed the creek, we lost her in the brush, and then we hopped back in the car and drove down the road further to a viewpoint directly opposite. Sure enough, there she was, and this time within zoom range. We were somewhat sidetracked by the presence of marmots on the rocks immediately below us, more marmots than I have ever seen in one location. There must have been at least twenty, adults and young alike, sparring, kissing, loafing on any rock which afforded a flat surface. Below us, the bear moved into open meadow, offering a good photo op. While the four of us trained our cameras on Ms. Ursus, cars were pulling over behind us, filling the small pullout. A tour bus went past without stopping. Pretty soon, the parking area was full, the roadside lined with people, cameras ranging from cell phone to high-end, all taking pictures of the bear. She was a good 600' or more from us horizontally, another 150' vertically...a tiny black dot in most viewfinders. I thought of the visitor who told me he'd seen a polar bear at Lake Louise. He had a picture to prove it, too. He pulled out his iPhone and zoomed in on the white blur in the image. "That's a goat," I said. "No, it was too big. It was a polar bear," he insisted. I suggested that when he got home, he should email the photo to our wildlife biologist and gave him her address, you know, just for documentation's sake. To make a long story short, there were a lot of photos taken during the Tuesday bear jam, but most will simply show a black lump. I was zoomed to 74x for this one.

Western Tanager, Piranga Ludoviciana

Day 271: Flighty Western Tanager (Piranga ludoviciana) isn't the easiest bird to photograph. One occasionally comes to my yard, but invariably hides in the tangled leaves of the contorted filbert. However, when Team Biota spotted one in Longmire, we went into full "Big Year" mode and pulled as far off the road as the narrow approach to the bridge would allow, and all four of us jumped out with cameras at the ready. While none of these is an ideal field-guide shot, they are still the best Tanager photos I've achieved, definitely sufficient for a positive ID. A female was more elusive, flitting from tree to tree but always landing in the protective cover of foliage. Formerly placed with other Tanagers, Western Tanager has been reclassified into the family of Cardinals. Western Tanager's diet consists primarily of insects, although they also consume various fruits. Locally, their diet includes elderberries, serviceberry and cherries (wild or cultivated). They are also an important control for tussock moth here in the Pacific Northwest.

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."

Luzula Hitchcockii, Hitchcock's Woodrush

Day 268: For as often as I have seen this plant in the subalpine backcountry, I'd never bothered trying to identify it until it was brought to the forefront of my attention by Joe during a Team Biota hike. When not in flower, the leaves had suggested to him that it might be an Allium (onion) of some sort, but after the inflorescence opened out into a loosely organized panicle rather than an umbel, it became obvious that it belonged to a different family. We then settled in with the field guides and after some to-ing and fro-ing, settled on Luzula hitchcockii, Hitchcock's Woodrush. It occurred in some places immediately east of the Cascade Crest in such abundance that it appeared to be the dominant vegetation. However, the snow had just melted back and other plants may not yet have begun their emergence. Since this trail was new to me, I am anxious to take another trip later in the season to observe the succession.

Polemonium Pulcherrimum, Showy Jacob's Ladder

Day 267: Stepping aside from the rare and unusual for a change, I'd like to share with you a lovely little wildflower which is fairly common, particularly on the east side of the Park. One of several "Jacob's Ladders" (so named for the arrangement of the leaves), Polemonium pulcherrimum is a compact plant which seldom achieves heights over eight inches. Its common name of Showy Jacob's Ladder describes its floral display quite accurately; the second half of its binomial comes from the same Latin root as another more descriptive English word, "pulchritude" (beauty). The inflorescences rise above the foliage in clusters of summery blue, their yellow eyes as bright as sunlight in open meadows, "showy" indeed and eminently beautiful in their subalpine setting.

Thalictrum Occidentale, Western Meadow Rue

Day 265: I first became acquainted with Western Meadow Rue (Thalictrum occidentale) while hiking with my mother on the Purcell Mountain Trail near Packwood. We each made similar mental associations for the dangling stamens which trembled at the slightest whiff of breeze, mine being somewhat more family-friendly than hers of "whorehouse lampshades." To me, they brought to mind Victorian era decor, silken pastel petals and long strands of beaded fringe. It's not an uncommon plant, but years went by before I saw it again because I was looking in all the wrong places. During a recent Team Biota hike, we found it in abundance on the east side of the Pacific Crest, recognizable by its columbine-like leaves. It was not in flower at the time, buds swollen but not quite bursting, so we made a second trip to the site a week later to find all the "lamps" lit and their fringe shivering in the breeze.

Naches Peak Loop Trail

Day 264: Mount Rainier National Park has over 260 miles of maintained trail. I have hiked all about 20 of those miles, and the ones I haven't hiked are on the east side, each with a trailhead at the furthest possible points from my house. The miles I've put in off-trail (my preferred hiking venue) are another story entirely. I choose to avoid the great unwashed mass of humanity whenever I can, and therefore have always assiduously avoided places like the popular Naches Peak Loop Trail. A few days ago, I was compelled by dual purposes to remedy that. As Team Biota, we were searching for four uncommon plant species within Park boundaries, and as a participant in MeadoWatch (a plant phenology program which sends out volunteers from the Park to report on specific plants' growth phases along designated transects), I had been asked to give a pre-season report on trail conditions on the Loop. Plants aside for the moment and gathering thunderheads notwithstanding, there was a lot of drop-your-socks gorgeous scenery to enjoy along the 3.5 mile trek, including this view of Mount Rainier from the east. The trail was about 90% snow-free, although some slick patches of snow/mud required careful foot placement. Unfortunately, none of our four target plants showed itself. Maybe they're along that last remaining stretch of trail I've never walked...

Ozomelis Trifida, Pacific Mitrewort

Day 263: This exquisite plant wasn't in a position where I could do a Penny Perspective, so get out your metric ruler and measure off two millimeters. Not centimeters...millimeters. That's a generous estimate of how big the largest flower was from petal tip to tip. The detail wasn't visible in the photos I took on June 25, so I went back with an additional macro filter, stacking them for a total of 5x magnification on top of the camera's 2.1x macro zoom. My botany partner Joe had seen them a week earlier and had identified them as Pacific Mitrewort, but taxonomy being what it is currently, his Latin was out of date. The proper binomial for this little beauty is Ozomelis trifida, "trifida" referring to the separation of the petal tips into three fingers. The plant is also called "Three-toothed Mitrewort."

Saxifraga Austromontana, Spotted Saxifrage

Day 260: By and large, I'm not much impressed by Saxifrages. Okay, some of them put on a fairly good floral display at the tops of thready stems, but unless you look past the flowers and start trying to sort them out by foliage, they pretty much look the same and usually elicit "Oh, yeah, that's another Saxifrage" from me as I walk by without a second glance. That changed while Joe and I were standing in Sourdough Gap. I was off nosing around in lichens until he said, "Take a look at this one. It has spots, lots of them." I dutifully climbed down off the rock and had a peek. "Oh!" says I, "I gotta get a picture of that!" Thus Spotted Saxifrage (Saxifraga austromontana) moved into the mental niche I reserve for "noteworthy plants."

It's easy to become complacent when you've been looking at little white flowers all day. After stopping to look at five clusters of exactly the same thing, you start to shelve them all under "LWF" (refer to the previous sentence) and you start to ignore them. Likewise DYDs and DPDs (Damn Yellow Daisies and their purple counterparts). The mind goes into "nothing to see here, just keep moving" mode, and if there was something exceptional, you'll probably walk past it without so much as a nod. In fact, I'd walked by S. austromontana, dismissing it as "just another bloody Saxifrage." Thanks to Joe's attentive eye, I got to add a new plant to my botanical Life List, and as far as the plant is concerned, it now has appropriate status as my favourite Sax. I mean, what's not to like about polka-dots?

Boechera Lyallii, Lyall's Rockcress

Day 259: As many of you know, I was invited to be a contributor to the University of Washington's Burke Herbarium photo database some years ago, and add images frequently. In addition, I refer to Burke when I am working on identifying plants because contributors who have a background in botany know what features of a plant's morphology are definitive and often show those parts in close-up (or in extreme cases, under a microscope). The Burke is very good on keeping up with taxonomic changes, perhaps a bit too good in this case. When I looked up Lyall's Rockcress Tuesday night, it was filed under Arabis lyalli. I labelled my photo as such and the following morning, I sent a batch of images in to Burke. Last night while I was reviewing the material for my next few posts, I thought I might have mis-typed "lyalli" because the final i (it should have two) was missing. I went to Burke to check...and couldn't find the plant under Arabis! Puzzled, I immediately began hunting down synonyms and discovered that it had been reclassified to Boechera lyallii in the space of a mere three days (yes, I edited my submission). As I said to Joe when I updated the information I'd sent him, "Give me a big rock and the nearest taxonomist." I'm ready to whop somebody upside the head.

So, Boechera it is, Boechera lyallii with two i's. It is a very hardy little plant with a preference for dry soils (amazing how some of these tiny marvels survive bitterly cold winters and heavy snowpack). It is most frequently found in alpine/subalpine areas, but also may occur in dry lowland meadows from British Columbia to California, and east to the Rocky Mountains. The flowers may be purple as they are in this image, although some specimens may be lighter and almost pink. The lower (basal) leaves are somewhat fleshy. In addition to its former binomial, it has carried a number of different common names including Murray's Rockcress (how did Murray get in there, I wonder?) or Slender Rockcress. Let's give botanist David Lyall his due and stick with Lyall's Rockcress, please.

Lewisia Triphylla, Three-Leaf Lewisia

Day 258: Roughly a quarter inch across, the flowers of Lewisia triphylla (Three-Leaf Lewisia) are borne close to the ground. Its leaves are succulent (fleshy); flowers emerge on reddish stalks lacking basal leaves, and the inflorescence of a single plant may contain up to 25 blooms. In the case of these specimens found near Chinook Pass (Wenatchee National Forest), they were mostly single. I was thrown off track by the leaf and the absence of pink veins on the petals and wound up referring it out to my contact at the Burke Herbarium for identification. The photo and 10 others taken while on this particular hike will be included in Burke's database. It was a very productive trip! Four of the species we encountered only marginally outside the Park will be the objects of a search next week when we make a patrol of a different trail in the same area which lies within Park boundaries. Lewisia triphylla is one of our targets.

Viola Purpurea, Mountain Violet

Day 257: "Come and look at this," Joe said while I was zoomed in on a small purple flower near the top of Sourdough Gap. "This is a different violet." I took the few steps which brought me to his side. "Look at the leaf," he continued. With two sets of eyes scanning the slopes, we'd been finding all sorts of interesting plants in the east-side ecology. Neither of us has spent much time on "the other side of the mountains," so even common plants were curiosities.

I responded with an appropriate, "Ooooh, I gotta get pictures of that and GPS it." I knelt down, the better to use a macro filter, flipped the flower over to look for a spur. Spur presence/absence and size and helpful in identifying the Violas, although I suspected the leaf would tell me all I needed to know when I got my hands on my field guides. "Oh!" I said. "The back of the top two petals are purple, Joe!" With that revelation (see inset), I had all the field characteristics I needed to make an ID: Viola purpurea, Mountain Violet. We couldn't have found a better specimen. The Violas (including V. purpurea) often intergrade, creating new plants with characteristics of both parents according to dominant traits. This was as pure purpurea as we could have hoped to find: leaf morphology, colour, "bee guides" on the lower petals, the whole nine yards. As much as I love finding "new" plants and especially the less common ones, I prefer it when they conform to the standard descriptions. Had this been an intergrade, I'd probably still be trying to figure out what it was.