Fruit Of The Indian Plum

Day 251: Now more often referred to by the name of Osoberry, Oemleria cerasiformis will be listed in many field guides as "Indian Plum." I learned it that way, and since the "oso-" prefix means "bear" and an entirely different plant is called "Bearberry," I find it difficult to shift to the new common name. Again I will say it: this is why I prefer the Latin nomenclature. There can be no mistaking Oemleria for Arctostaphyllos. Yes, bears do enjoy these small "plums" when they can get them, and it's not uncommon to find bear scat liberally salted with the stones which resemble a cherry pit, but most likely the birds will beat them to the fruit. The native peoples of the area used the thin flesh in pemmican, and made tea of the leaves and bark. The wood rarely reaches a sufficient diameter to be of any major use, but is straight-grained and strong, and can be carved to make spoons, knitting needles and other small implements.

Great Horned Owl, Bubo Virginianus

Day 250: My botany partner Joe has sharp eyes, so when I noticed him staring at a large glob of moss in a distant maple in the deep shade of the Chehalis-Western Trail, I knew I wasn't seeing the whole picture. "Whatcha got?" I said. "I think it's a Great Horned Owl," he replied. As the only person of the four of us with any zoom capability, I brought my camera up for a better look. Owl's "horns" were obvious even in profile, and when it turned its head, I could see the distinctive feather pattern around the eyes. But Owl was having a little snooze, eyes closed. I took a series of twenty or so photos, and then we walked on. At the two-mile mark, 97-year old Bronka Sundstrom suggested we turn around before the rain moved in. As we again approached the owl's maple, we saw a crow harrassing the larger bird. Owl was now awake and watching the crow, although it wasn't particularly concerned about it. I sat down on the ground at the edge of the trail so that I could stabilize the camera on my knee, hoping that the owl would turn to face the lens. After several minutes with no luck, I tried hooting. Then I tried cawing. The owl wasn't impressed. Over to my left, Joe was fussing with his phone and eventually brought up a series of recordings of Great Horned Owl vocalizations. One, harsher than the others, carried to our subject and made it turn toward us briefly. In that moment, I snapped this photo which, with the magic of post-processing, I've been able to enhance sufficiently to record the sighting.

Grand Finale

Day 249: The flower beds are winding up in a grand finale, with a last, lavish display of colour from the columbines, honeysuckle and delphinium, and will soon yield the stage to the lesser players of volunteer snapdragons, Nigella and the rest of the supporting cast. I have never been one for putting in bedding plants, although every year I give the thought a brief moment of consideration. It seems so wasteful to plant something, only to have it wither in the hot summer spotlights. Let the stage crew have its day in green workman's overalls. Foliage! Without it, the show could not go on.

Potential

Day 248: We've been down this path a few times before, the kiwi vine and I, and I keep hoping that This Will Be The Year that nothing interferes with production. Last year, it formed eight fruits on a plant which thickly covers two seven-foot trellis arches and three feet of fence on either side of them. Theoretically, it is a self-fertile variety, but you'd never guess it. The fruits, gods of weather permitting, should be smooth and small, end-of-thumb sized nuggets which pack all the flavour wallop of their larger fuzzy relatives. However, a shortage of pollinators, excessive heat and protracted cold have all played the role of the villain in years past. This year...this year has got to be The Year. The vine is so covered with buds that if even a tenth of them develop into berries, I should have enough to share with friends, but "if" is the operative. Our current weather pattern is cool and moist. I don't see many bugs. But I see buds, hundreds and hundreds of buds. Come on, kiwi! Do your thing!

Marah Oregana, Wild Cucumber

Day 247: Don't be fooled by the name. The small spiny fruits of Wild Cucumber (Marah oregana) are not edible. In fact, all parts of the plant contain cucurbitacins, compounds which can cause severe gastrointestinal reactions. Like many other cucurbits, Marah (an alternate common name) is a vine. The curling tendrils it produces will be familiar to anyone who has ever grown cucumbers or squash, and allow the plant to climb fences or any other available support (a tightly curled mass of tendrils can be seen in the photo just to the right of the unopened buds at the top of the inflorescence). Male and female flowers are borne on the same plant, generally with a spike (raceme) of male flowers appearing above a single female flower in the axil. Plants are self-fertile, and pollination is done by a variety of insects. Fruits can be up to three inches long by two inches in diameter, are dotted with spines in varying degree, and contain a few large seeds which are released when the "cucumber" ripens and bursts. The plant is also known as Manroot (Man-root or Bigroot) for its large tubers.

Hattie's Cousin Rhip

Day 246: Recently, I featured Hatiora rosea in a post, and discussed the taxonomic shifts the species has undergone. Some authorities refer to it as Rhipsalidopsis or even Schlumbergera. The same debate rages over a similar group of epiphytic cacti. For no scientific reason other than dissimilar foliage to that of Hatiora, I choose to refer to these as Rhipsalidopsis. Sometimes, you just have to put your foot down with those dang taxonomists! This, therefore, is Hattie's cousin Rhip. Rhip is supposed to bloom at Easter, but he's decided to go full bore now instead. Although the species (Rhipsalidopsis gaertneri) comes in a range of warm colours from pink/lavender to peach, rose and white, this flame-red version is my favourite. It can be brought into bloom more easily than Hatiora, even if it doesn't follow the calendar.

Clivia In Full Glory

Day 245: Some things deserve a second mention. It has now been 12 days since the Clivia's first flower opened. That initial blossom has dropped, but five more have replaced it and there are three still in bud. Although Clivia belongs to the same family as Amaryllis and resembles that popular winter-blooming plant in both foliage and flower, its habits are dissimilar. Clivia does not have a fully dormant period like Amaryllis, and holds onto its leaves year-'round. It grows from roots rather than from a bulb, and prefers lower light than its cousin. However, it does require a rest period during which time it needs cool nighttime temperatures and less frequent watering. The normal flowering period for Clivia is in March or April, according to everything I've read, so perhaps mine still needs to adjust its schedule. After all, it took twenty years of sitting in the shaded west window of my bedroom before this beauty decided to put on a show.