Saussurea Americana, American Sawwort

Day 318: By now, I am sure most of my long-term readership will have figured out that words are my favourite toys. I enjoy finding out where they came from, what they're connected to, how their meanings have changed over time. To look at American Sawwort (a plant endemic to the northwestern states including Alaska and Montana), one might think that its common name was a logical extension from the toothy margins of its leaves ("-wort" means "plant"). Whether that is the case, I can't honestly say, but what fascinated me about its etymology is that its botanical name is Saussurea americana which, to my ear, is far too "saw-ish" a term to be coincidental. In trying to track down its taxonomic roots, I discovered that the Saussures (father Horace and son Nicolas) were both scientists of some renown in the late 1700s and early 1800s respectively, and that Nicholas in particular had a penchant for botany. In fact, he laid the groundwork for our modern understanding of photosynthesis. Is there a linguistic connection between "sawwort" and "Saussure?" Inquiring minds are itching to know.

Delphinium Glareosum, Rockslide Larkspur

Day 291: Every wildflower season, there are always a few names I forget. Usually it's because I have nothing with which to associate them, like the infamous "smithii" of taxonomic shame. I get as far as "Delphinium" with this one ("Larkspur" in common reference), but the second half of the binomial invariably eludes me. I never bothered to look up the source Latin for "glareosum" until this morning, but had I done, it would have linked the common and scientific names forever in my mind. "Glareosum" means "gravelly." We commonly call it "Rockslide Larkspur." Gravel or rocks, whichever you choose to call its preferred habitat, the name now makes sense. You'll find it in the subalpine zone, its intense blue lighting up grey scree fields and pediments, even putting to shame the Mountain Bluebirds who frequent the same regions. Each floret comes with its own bee, i.e., the black-and-white center typical in most Delphinium species. Young leaves are reddish-purple, turning green as they mature in sunlight.

Monkshood, Aconitum Columbianum

Day 281: When it grows among the subalpine Larkspurs featured in yesterday's post, Aconitum columbianum is easily dismissed as a member of the same species, dwarfed as it may be by the stresses of life in the higher elevations. However, its color tends to lean more toward indigo or purple as opposed to the rich blue of Larkspur, and when viewed in profile, the helmeted cap of the flower quickly identifies it. Aconitum columbianum goes by several common names including the descriptive "Monkshood" as some readers may remember from Severus Snape's reproach of an inattentive Harry Potter, "As for monkshood and wolfbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?" To that I say, "Well? Why aren't you? And while you're at it, make a note that all parts of the plant are highly poisonous."

Rockslide Larkspur, Delphinium Glareosum

Day 280: Another vibrantly blue flower you may encounter in the high country, Larkspur is a smaller cousin to the towering Delphiniums of your grandmother's garden. Like those Delphiniums, a pink or lavender colour variation can be found occasionally. Of the hundreds of plants we observed on Chinook Pass two days ago, only one pink specimen was noted. Delphinium glareosum grows to a height of approximately twelve inches, and bears several blossoms on each stem.

Campanula Rotundifolia, Harebells

Day 277: "These are not the Campanulas you are looking for." Campanula scouleri remains elusive, even when I was in the company of the two friends who found it a few days ago, but an abundance of the more common Harebell (aka Bluebell) provided a bright interlude to scouring the ditch alongside Stevens Canyon Road. The three of us retired to the Tipsoo Lake area after spending an hour in search mode, there to find a number of other delightful wildflowers which I'll feature in upcoming posts. Upon a return to the search area and another two hours of patrolling, we decided that C. scouleri must have lost the petals of its only two blossoms and that looking for a solitary specimen with a leaf closely resembling that of another common plant was not likely to lead us to success, we packed it in and called it a day.