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.

Letharia Vulpina

Day 256: Team Biota ventured somewhat outside the Park boundaries yesterday to hike to Sheep Lake and Sourdough Gap from Chinook Pass, the trail slightly east of the Cascade Crest. Joe had been to the lake only a few days earlier and had found a lichen he knew I'd have to pursue: Letharia vulpina, aka "Wolf Lichen." We have two species of Letharia in Washington and both are primarily "east side" dwellers. The second species (L. columbiana) usually bears an abundance of fringed apothecia which are so distinctive that Northwest Lichenologists uses the lichen as their logo. I was hoping we might find both on our seven-mile trek.

And there's a point right there: Washington Trails Association's website claims the gentle hike to Sourdough Gap covers a mere five miles. Trusting in them, we left our lunches in the truck. Using my new GPS which tracks your actual route, we had covered seven miles by the time we got back at 3 PM. The largest discrepancy occurred between the lake and the pass. WTA claimed it was 0.75 miles one way. My GPS showed 1.4 miles.

That said, we found Letharia vulpina in abundance, noting that it occurred primarily on dead cedars and alpine fir. Brodo refers to it as preferring barkless branches, and indeed this was what we observed, although we also found it growing on bark. We did not find the second species, but felt we were much more than compensated by the number of "new" vascular plants we discovered, including a couple of species I had not seen before. I still have a few left to identify, but many will be featured in this blog over the next week. Stay tuned!

Mr. McCaw's Amazing Flight

Day 255: In geocaching, a "Travel Bug" is an object bearing a numerically coded tag which travels (hopefully) from cache to cache with the assorted players who happen to retrieve it. Many TBs (as they're called in shorthand) have specific goals, places they'd like to visit, things they'd like to "see." From Mr. McCaw's page, I quote:

"Mr. McCaw is my pet crow, and I've sent him off to find bird sanctuaries across the country. You needn't worry about him eating other birds' eggs because Mr. McCaw is a strict vegetarian (well, except for those noodles...he has a particular passion for pasta. Don't you? I certainly do!) I'd ask a favor of anyone who helps Mr. McCaw during his flight. Would you please post pictures of birds to his log, especially the less common ones? Images from bird sanctuaries would also be very welcome. Mr. McCaw would appreciate layovers near Belmont NY, Seabrook NH, St. Charles IL and Grand Forks ND if possible. Thanks!" (and a bit of further description) "The Northwestern crow (Corvus caurinus) is smaller than the common crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos). Mr. McCaw is a Micro crow (Corvus caurinus-parvus)."

Mr. McCaw first took flight from my hands on June 4, 2005. It took him 14 years (plus 20 days) to complete his migratory cycle. He was able to visit both of my "sisters of the heart" (one in New York and the other in New Hampshire), but oh, where he went in between! Within the United States, he visited caches in Washington, California, Colorado, Indiana, New York, Pennsylvania, Virginia, North Carolina, Kentucky, Tennessee, Alabama and Florida, but his international journey was even more amazing. He made stops in Belize, Spain, Portugal, Sweden, Germany, Austria, Russia, Czechoslovakia, the Netherlands and Greece! Unfortunately, he missed North Dakota and Illinois, but he saw many wonderful bird species on his way. Now he's ready to retire to a Perch of Honor, home at last and keeping me company from the top of my hutch desk.

Well, This Doesn't Suck

Day 254: Well, this doesn't suck...but it should. That's my wellhead. Ninety-something feet below its little blue hat, the pump which supplies my household with water isn't doing its job. I've been without water since Friday afternoon, unless you count the mud which flowed briefly from the tap Saturday morning, so thick with particulate matter that an inch in a bucket hid the bottom entirely from view. We had a few drops of rain on Saturday, enough that I could gather two bucketsful from a downspout for a flush and a hair-wash, ignoring the tea-coloured stain from the roof's asphalt shingles and contamination from bird poop and pollen.

I'm no stranger to this. For almost eighteen years in my previous home, household water came from the sky. It was gathered into two below-ground cisterns which at full capacity contained 8000 gallons. That 8000 gallons had to see my husband and me through the months between April and October, during which time the collection system had to be shut down because of dust generated from the gravel road. We learned to conserve. You bet we did. Even using the Little House Out Back, there were a few summers which saw us dangerously short of water.

When I moved here, I thought my water woes were over because I was on a well. Ten years into my occupation of the house, the well went dry and had to be re-dug. While trying to find financial aid, I spent six months hauling water in carboys, buckets and bottles from any source I could find, every single time I left the house. If I wanted to bathe, it had to be heated on the stove; you can't fill a hot water tank manually.

Since Friday, I've been back on camp conditions. The well-drilling company's serviceman is supposed to get here Friday. What will happen after that is a huge unknown. For now, though, if you're headed my way, please bring potable water in any quantity. The commodity most Americans take for granted is unavailable in Crow's own little third-world country.

Salal

Day 253: Salal (Gaultheria shallon) is a common understory plant here in the Pacific Northwest. Given optimum conditions, it can grow to six feet in height, but even less lofty stands of it could be described as the proverbial "impenetrable thicket." The leaves are leathery and stiff. The stems, flowers and berries are fuzzy and sticky (imagine velvet-like, resinous Velcro). Although they are not prickly or hard to remove like burrs, Salal flowers will adhere to fabrics such as wool socks or soft cotton shirts and leave your fingers feeling sticky after you've pulled off a dozen or so. The black berries resemble blueberries superficially, and are mildly sweet and edible. They can be made into jam or jelly; however, they are not particularly juicy and you'll have to gather more than you might expect. They can also be dried and used as an unusual snack. The foliage is wantonly harvested locally by those in the floral trade because it does not wilt, a practice which is leading to a decline in the plant regionally.

A funny aside here: when I was young (eight or nine), my mother warned me that some black-coloured berries might be poisonous. Because she was unfamiliar with Salal, she included it in her caution. I was horrified when a friend picked and ate them as we walked half a mile to the school bus stop, and for several days, I watched her closely, waiting for her to exhibit symptoms or drop dead. When she did neither, the incident fueled a growing distrust of my mother's botanical skills which had also informed me that red Huckleberries were poisonous, but on the same hand, it spurred me into further research to find out exactly which black berries she might have been trying to prevent me from eating. Nevertheless, I always viewed Salal with a certain degree of skepticism as regards its edibility. I did not try them for myself until I was an adult.

Should I Be Nervous?

Day 252: You're going to have to work really hard to convince me that Fuligo septica didn't follow me home from work on my boots. For several years now, I've been watching it come and go to the base of a tree outside Tobin Resource Center, taking pictures of it when it was in its reproductive stage as it is here, walking through its line of travel. When I threw back my curtains this morning and looked out across the yard, the first words I spoke on seeing a yellow patch covering the decaying stump of the Whatzit Tree were, "Is that a slime mold?" It was not there yesterday. Slime molds, as my regular readers should know by now, are neither plant nor animal but exhibit characteristics of both. They are capable of locomotion, communication and cooperation, living most of their lives as single, disparate organisms but coming together when a food source is located, there to reproduce. Size-wise, this is an impressive specimen. Now I'm wondering: should I be nervous?

All In A Day'sWork

Day 251: On the way to work this morning, Kevin and I came in through the Nisqually gate as usual, passed Westside Road with a casual visual survey to see if any more "memorial" flowers had been placed in a certain spot, but then as we passed over Tahoma Creek, we both did a double-take at the appearance of brilliant colours in the creek below. From the passenger side of the car, my first thought was that it was the jacket of someone who had tumbled into the raging waters. Kevin, in the driver's seat, saw that it was a bouquet of balloons. We pulled over immediately and descended to the creek where I selected a stick of sufficient length to serve as my rod, and successfully landed the trophy in a matter of a few minutes. How the balloons got there is anyone's guess, and why they stayed stuck at that particular spot is an even greater mystery. A ranger's job may be many things, but it's never boring.

Photo credits go to Kevin who captured the landing of the big fish with his cell phone.

Pellia Epiphylla

Day 250: The things we do for science! A week ago, during a Team Biota field exploration into a new pocket ecology, I discovered a liverwort I had not seen in the Park previously. The area where it occurred was what I describe in my journal as "down in a hole," i.e., in a brushy minor drainage lined with tangled young alder, under fairly well closed canopy (read, "in a dark bit of forest"). I prefer not to use flash when photographing my subjects and, to tell the truth, the option never crossed my mind. Instead, I laid my pack on the wet ground and braced the camera against it. Shooting a long exposure resulted in a less-than-clear image of the tiny sporangia (spore capsules, inset). I did think to take a sample which I examined under the microscope at home to determine that my new liverwort was Pellia epiphylla. That said, I wanted better pictures, so day before yesterday, I returned to the hole alone in the rain. The mosquitoes had hatched in droves, and while I knelt in the wet taking pictures, they attacked through the open space at the back of my brim cap. I got better photos of Pellia, but the few fragile, thread-like setae and sporangia which remained had been beaten down by the rain. It looks like another trip to the hole is on next year's calendar...with bug spray.

Nothing Cuter

Day 249: Friends will have heard me say the same phrase frequently: "There is nothing...absolutely nothing cuter than baby birds." As much as I love kittens and would currently describe myself as a cat-person, in my heart forever and always, I shall be a bird-person foremost. I grew up with a parrot and a macaw, shared a parrot companion as young adult, but the love of my life was a cockatoo named Cocoa. As anyone who has spent any time with psittacines will tell you, they are extremely intelligent in a way very similar to humans and have a similar sense of humour. Living with one of them will teach you more about birds than any textbook ever could. Thus it was that I became a bird-lover, not just of my personal avian friends but of most bird species and especially their offspring.

Both the House of Chirp and Pussywillow Cottage were occupied earlier this year by Tree Swallows (Tachycineta bicolor). The family in Pussywillow was ravaged by a squirrel, but the House of Chirp brought forth yet another successful clutch. The kids were looking out the door day before yesterday when I took this photo, the parents trying hard to tempt them into flight by holding tasty insects just out of reach. When the sun set, they were still ensconced in the house. Last night when I arrived home from work, there were more swallows than usual sitting on the power line over the yard, and there were no little noses sticking out the hole in their box. Yes, the kids had flown the coop. They'll stick around for a week or so, being fed on the wing until they're strong enough to migrate with the rest of the flock, and I will retire from my kitchen-window vigil, replete from my annual dose of baby-bird cuteness.

Botanical Drawing

Day 248: This year, the Volunteer Program is taking a new tack with respect to training incoming and recurring volunteers. In years past, we packed as much information as possible into two all-day sessions, a plan which left many people butt-weary and glassy-eyed, if better informed. For 2019, we're offering more sessions, including a half-day orientation for new Meadow Rovers and a second half-day for returning Rovers. In addition to the basic training, we will be offering one- to two-hour specialized programs from subject-matter experts and...well, you can probably guess how that applies to me. To that end, I had to dust off my limited artistic skills to create pencil drawings which I then put through my photo-processing software to render in high-contrast black-and-white. These will be part of the "Lichen Fact Sheet" I hand out to my "victims." A one-hour program on lichens, mycoheterotrophs, slime molds and rarities will be followed by a hands-on field trip through Longmire Campground in early August.

Sweetfern Nutlets

Day 247: Sweetfern (Comptonia peregrina, aka Spicebush) is not native to the Pacific Northwest. Neither are Japanese Maple, Hydrangea, Euonymus nor a host of other shrubs you may find in our gardens. Comptonia grows wild in the hills of the east coast. My particular specimen followed me home from Maine where it grew leggy with long stretches of stem showing through sparse leaves. In my garden, it is a bush, a green mound of fragrant foliage which I keep carefully maintained to prevent it from spreading in the manner of its kind. It is notorious for sending out underground runners which may pop up ten feet away from the parent stock. However, my plant does not seem to propagate by seed even though it forms soft, spiny nutlets, giving rise to my affectionate nickname for it: Fuzz-nuts. Although my specimen is much bushier than its Maine cousins, the lushness of its foliage is not its main attraction. It is the sweet, spicy scent. The foliage is very aromatic, and the slightest brush against it releases the volatile oils responsible for its fragrance. That said, if cut and brought into the house, the scent is short-lived. Still, if you prune the plant to manage its form, those cut branches will look lovely on your mantelpiece even if they only do give you a few hours of olfactory pleasure.

Rescue Violet

Day 246: Some people have "rescue pets," unwanted or special-needs dogs or cats which they've taken from a shelter to give a "forever home" (as the jargon goes). I have a "rescue plant." Years ago, I kept an extensive collection of African Violets, perhaps 60 plants in all ranging from the standards you'd find in the floral section of the grocery store to specially-bred miniatures and unusual colours and/or flower forms which I'd purchased from commercial breeders. I belonged to the African Violet Society and even wrote for their magazine. Then one fine summer day, I left for a ten-day tour of duty at my post at the Mowich Ranger Station, leaving my floral babies in the keeping of my husband, along with a set of detailed instructions for watering. I came home to a catastrophe of dead and dying plants. I couldn't bear to start over, and thus gave up the hobby for a selection of less demanding species (notably Hoyas).

About six months ago, I purchased an African Violet, intending to give it as a gift. Too late, I discovered that it had been overwatered to the point of having developed root-rot, and many of the leaves dropped within days of bringing it home. It was in no shape to present, but I couldn't bear to throw the poor thing out. I figured I'd be fighting a losing battle, but I decided to try to nourish it back to health. It's still a little lop-sided, but it now has a nice rosette of leaves and just put up a flush of beautiful picotee blossoms: the Rescue Violet.

Penny Perspectives - Brewer's Monkeyflower

Day 245: The cheery sight of pink or yellow Monkeyflowers will be familiar to anyone who has hiked more than a few times in the Pacific Northwest. They are often found lining moist streambanks, sometimes in glorious abundance. Less well-known and for a reason which should be made obvious by this Penny Perspective, Brewer's Monkeyflower (Erythranthe breweri) occurs in drier soils. Formerly classified as "Mimulus," all Monkeyflowers native to Mount Rainier National Park and western Washington have been shifted to genus Erythranthe, so if you prefer to use the scientific nomenclature, make appropriate corrections in your field guides.

Myrio On Live Sedge

Day 244: Beth Fallon, the Park's new Arnie (Plant Ecologist), got to meet Myrio today when she and I took a field trip to the site of our largest population. The receding snow meant that we had to do a bit more bushwhacking than Joe and I had done on Tuesday, but it also meant that new fungi had popped out further upslope to the limits of the host sedge. Beth agrees with me that a survey would be helpful toward understanding the effects of the fungus on the sedge, but unfortunately, it's too late to push it through the approval process this year. That said, she was intrigued by Myrio and my description of its life cycle, so to that end, I tried to find a free-floating specimen with its sclerotium still attached. I was unable to locate one, but for the first time, was able to take a sample of the complete fungus attached to its LIVING host. The specimen will go in the Park's herbarium once it is dried and mounted.

Rana Cascadae, Cascades Frog

Day 243: You might think that the "cascade" in Rana cascadae's scientific and common names (Cascades Frog) referred to riffles or waterfalls, but in fact it reflects a larger habitat: the Cascade Range. It inhabits higher elevations than the Red-Legged Frog, but in the transition zone where the species overlap, the two can be difficult to tell apart, especially if young specimens of R. aurora are present. Once you move above 4500', it is unlikely that you would find R. aurora. R. cascadae's vertical range extends to 6000', and is limited to a relatively narrow band including the Cascade Crest and Mount Rainier. Sometimes these frogs appear in great numbers and can turn their marshy habitat into a living obstacle course for anyone venturing into their territory. The drum-like reverberation of a human footfall may set the wetland springing as a dozen or more frogs leap to safety.

A Kink In Its Tail

Day 242: One of the distinguishing features of Myriosclerotinia caricis-ampullaceae is a kink in the end of the stipe, and the stipe's termination in a "button" of tissue called the "sclerotium." The sclerotium anchors the fungus to its host sedge at a leaf axil. While neither the kink nor the sclerotium is visible in this photo, the curled stipe demonstrates the struggle this fungus puts up to reach the surface through a dense bed of sedge foliage. Myrio likes to keep his feet wet...not just damp, mind you, but wet...and emerges just as the snow pulls back, so field research can be a chilling proposition. Amid voluble cursing on the lines of, "Oh, damn, that's cold!" (rendered somewhat more family-friendly than the actual vocabulary), Joe and I waded barefoot into the fray hunting for exceptionally large specimens (size also confirms the identity of this rarity). In the process, we made a discovery: when the sedge dies and begins to decay, Myrio drifts free, allowing its fruiting bodies and their spores to move downrange. Our main site presents an opportunity to study the fungus' rate of spread and its effects on our native sedge population. Since this site was unknown in 1941 when Myrio was first discovered in the Park, we hope to establish a baseline for the next generation of researchers.

Where Rarity Is Abundant

Day 241: Forgive my enthusiasm, please, but after discovering a fungus which is rare world-wide not only as a species but as a genus, Team Biota has hit the fuddy-blucking mother lode of Myriosclerotinia caricis-ampullaceae at Mount Rainier National Park. Because neither of us thought to bring gumboots, we spent close to two hours wading barefoot in icy, shin-deep snowmelt (well, Joe stepped in a hole about two feet deep, so he gets bonus points) simply because we couldn't believe the abundance of cups. The largest we measured was a whopping 29 mm in diameter, surpassing the largest of our initial finds in 2016, but the most exciting discovery of the day was neither size nor number. We found numerous specimens which had detached from decaying sedge, leaving the stipe's end "curlicue" and sclerotium exposed, suggesting that the fungi are transported by the lightly flowing water in which they grow. This may also offer a clue as to why the cups disappear within a matter of days from their time of emergence. They may be being washed into deeper water or becoming buried beneath floating sedge, or both. In any event, the more information we can gather on this little critter, the better. I wish I had more years left to me in which to study them.

Minions

Day 240: Some things defy description, and it's my opinion that the spore capsules of many of the liverworts fall within the criteria for "weird." Asterella gracilis (shown here with the fleshy leaves of a sedum) is a good example. When I first encountered these, I shipped off a sample to a liverwort expert in Oregon for identification, although in the interim, Team Biota applied their own common name to the species: Minions.  If you've seen the movies, the derivation should be obvious. Since then, I've learned more about liverworts and have come to regard them with almost as much curiosity as I reserve for slime molds. They are nonvascular, i.e., they lack the vessels which in vascular plants transport water and nutrients. Consequently, they are generally rather small. However, like certain lichens and those creepy, creeping Protists, they are eminently suited to be the pioneers in ecologies which would be inhospitable for other plant types. Most liverworts grow in damp areas because of their inability to retain moisture in their cells.

A Motley Crew

Day 239: Now there's a motley crew! Sound & Fury danced in Port Townsend yesterday, the featured entertainers at the Brass Screw Confederacy's steampunk fair. We'd been anxious about rain all week, but the weather turned nice for the event, perhaps even a little too nice for those of us in multiple layers and corsets. Morris dancing is a very energetic sport, but fortunately, none of our ladies (or gentlemen, for that matter) needed smelling salts or medical aid. After performing two sets, we walked among the other beautifully costumed attendees and then set sail for home.

Wild Ginger, Asarum Caudatum

Day 238: One of my favourite wildflowers, Asarum caudatum is another species with a misleading common name: Wild Ginger. It is in no way related to true ginger, Zingiber officinale, although if crushed, the leaves give off a ginger-like scent. The "caudatum" portion of its botanical binomial refers to the three tail-like appendages at the tips of the calyx. The flowers are generally concealed beneath the leaves, not noticeable in the broad overview. Although the plants occasionally form seed pods, their primary means of reproduction is rhizomatous, i.e., it forms runners underground and often develops into thick mats in ideal habitat. Its plant associations include most of the evergreen trees found in the Park, and it can be found to 3000' elevation although it is somewhat uncommon.

Marsh Marigold, Caltha Leptosepala

Day 237: At least its Latin binomial hasn't changed recently, but if ever there was a confusing common name, "Marsh Marigold" should be somewhere near the top of the list. Most English-speaking people think of marigolds in terms of the orange-yellow-brown pompoms along our garden borders. In fact, those belong to another genus entirely: Tagetes. Worse, they are in a different family (Asteraceae) than Caltha leptosepala (Ranunculaceae). The leaves of our bedding marigold are finely divided (pinnate) and look lacy, quite unlike the somewhat leathery, kidney-shaped foliage of the plant featured above. So how in bloody blue blazes did Caltha leptosepala come to be known as Marsh Marigold? Blame religion. I've backed up the commonly accepted version of word-lore with reliable etymological references because it caused my eyebrows to raise in doubt, but it's apparently true. The word "marigold" derives from "Mary's gold" and refers to the bouquets of early-emerging yellow flowers which were used to give tribute to the purported mother of Christ. Any yellow flower placed in her shrine was called "Mary's gold," i.e., "marigold." There are several yellow Calthas, and the word was applied to them as well since their flowers also emerge early, making them a good candidate for reverential use (and never mind the lack of a scientific base). Does the plant have a better common name? "Elkslip" is not often heard here in the Pacific Northwest, but I think I may have to work on popularizing it. That said, another thought has crossed my mind: maybe I can claim that all those yellow "lawn-daisies" in my front yard are marigolds. Surely somebody laid a nosegay of dandelions at Mary's feet some time in the past?

Hordnia Atropunctata, Blue-Green Leafhopper

Day 236: A garden pest, (formerly, now Hordnia) Graphocephala atropunctata is commonly known as the Blue-Green Leafhopper or Blue-Green Sharpshooter. I discovered the relevance of the latter name when I sprayed them with insecticidal soap. They popped off the leaves like seeds from a dry silique, "shooting" several feet from the plant. Considering that the majority of them were on my "Red Lake" currants and only a few had migrated to the gooseberries, I think it's safe to assume that their eggs were on the stems of the currants and only hatched recently. I hadn't noticed any nymphs, but now I know to keep a closer watch. The spread of insects and diseases from "big box store" plants is becoming more prevalent as inspection standards are relaxed for species imported from other states. The guidelines are still there (the "laws," if you will), but the sheer bulk of vegetables, flowers and shrubs makes it impractical to inspect each incoming plant. We all know it's about economics, don't we? There will be more dollars in the pockets of growers and inspectors if the burden of control is shifted to the individual gardener. What a warped world this is!

Footnote: the taxonomists got me again. This critter was moved to Hordnia, and is now Hordnia atropunctata.

Pinguicula A Week Later

Day 235: In the space of a week, Pinguicula/Butterwort went from bud to blossom and is now putting on a spectacular (if somewhat secretive) show. It is known to occur in only a handful of locations in Mount Rainier National Park, but for all of its rarity, it can be found around the world in the northern latitudes. Often referred to as a "carnivorous" plant, the correct term should be "insectivorous." Unlike the cartoon Venus Fly-Trap, its leaves do not snap shut on its prey; rather, they secrete a sticky liquid which attracts and holds insects while they are digested by enzymes. That said, the edges of the leaves may roll inward to assist in confining insects, but they do so slowly, and do not fully close like the "jaws" of a Fly-Trap. In late summer, Pinguicula begins forming a hibernaculum, reverting to a small, rootless cluster of leaf buds which persist through the plant's winter dormancy. These buds husband the starches/sugars which will nourish the emerging plants in the spring. Pinguicula may spread when these hibernacula are washed free of their moorings or alternately, by seed.

Lycogala Epidendrum, Wolf's-Milk Slime Mold

Day 234: We put up the platform tents in Longmire Campground last Saturday, and Kevin wanted to make a time-exposure video of the process. He started to set his cell phone down on a stump, but discovered it was occupied. As I walked down the road, he said, "Come with me. I have something to show you." He pointed at a group of salmon-orange bumps and asked, "Are they a lichen or a fungus?" I replied with a laugh, "Neither! That's a slime mold." In fact, it was Lycogala epidendrum, also known (for some bizarre reason) as "Wolf's-milk" which, as slime molds go, is one of the most common species worldwide. I know of two locations where it occurs in Longmire now, this being the second one.

As a species, Lycogala was first classified by Linnaeus, the father of taxonomy. He called it "Lycoperdon" because he thought it was a puffball mushroom. We now know that it isn't a fungus at all, but a unique lifeform which some felt necessitated recognition of a separate biological kingdom, the Protists/Protoctista. At the time of this writing, this classification is considered obsolete, and further parsing of kingdoms is the subject of on-going research. Slime molds might well be the puzzle of the century!

Alternate Lifeform

Day 233: One expects to find wildlife in the forests of Mount Rainier National Park: cute chipmunks, cheeky squirrels, birds, bats, frogs, marmots and pikas, rangy mountain goats or maybe even a bear or a cougar. None of them inspires me with quite the same admiration/trepidation as the slime molds. That's what I said: slime molds. They are not, as one might suppose at first glance, fungi. These creatures (and "creatures" they truly are) are capable of locomotion, communication and cooperation, and yet they do not fall into any of the standard "animal, plant or fungus" biologic kingdoms. Some refer to them as Protists or Protoctista and lump them together with other undefined organisms, although now those terms are considered obsolete.

Here we have two examples of Leocarpus fragilis, aka "Insect-egg Slime Mold." Its individual members have discovered food sources at these two locations, and word has gone out on the slime-mold grapevine (chemical signals) that it's time to eat and breed. Their amoeba-like cells have gathered together for the event, and are now reproducing. The fruiting bodies have developed and are now visible to the naked eye. When mature, these sporangia will burst, releasing their spores, and a new generation of Leocarpus will have been born. They may be waiting for you out there in the forest, an alternate lifeform looking for easy transport on your boots, your pantlegs, your hands. There are more things in the forest, dear readers, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Finding Rosy

Day 232: When Team Biota first started working with the Park's former Plant Ecologist, he tasked us with finding both rarities and plants which occurred in "non-Biek" locations, i.e., sites not listed in David Biek's "Flora of Mount Rainier National Park." We far outstripped his expectations, bringing him documentation of numerous species throughout the years of his tenure. Arnie is retired now, but Team Biota is still hard at work.

During an early-season survey last spring, we encountered a single specimen of Rosy Twisted-Stalk (Streptopus lanceolatus) and took appropriate photos, but both Joe and I failed to GPS-mark the coordinates because at the time, we didn't realize it was in an unrecorded spot. When we reported it to Arnie, we had to admit we'd both dismissed it as nothing special, so the following week, we went back, thinking we'd remember where we'd seen it. As things turned out, we spent the next several weeks combing the area for a flower, a leaf, a bitten-off stem...anything to prove that little Rosy wasn't a figment of our combined imaginations. We found nothing, not a trace, and 2018 concluded without evidence of the plant's presence, so as soon as the snow melted back from the site this year, we began searching anew. Today, we found our elusive prey and, with the gods of botany smiling benevolently on our diligence, we not only located our original specimen but a second, larger population as well.

Communities

Day 231: Well, this one will make my botany partner Joe happy, because he never has been able to pronounce "Suksdorfia," but it leaves us both having to unlearn the name and trying to remember to call it Hemieva ranunculifolia instead. Even the common name has changed. It's no longer "Buttercup Suksdorfia" for obvious reasons. Now it's Buttercup-leaf Mock Brookfoam. Try saying that three times fast. I dare ya.

One of the "secret techniques" I use when searching for rare plants is to look for other plants which I know to be associated with my target species. They may or may not have any physical link ("association"), but they prefer the same habitats. For example, we know that Aphyllon purpureum is parasitic on specific sedums. This is a direct association, i.e., if the sedum is not present, neither is Aphyllon. However, both the sedums and Hemieva enjoy the same habitat (areas where the roots of the plant can remain cool and moist), so it makes sense to seek out Aphyllon where the two occur together. Of course, there are no guarantees. You could spend days searching through Hemieva's buttercup-like leaves and the fleshy foliage of the sedums without finding a single example of Aphyllon, but it's a place to start. There is quite a bit of information on plant communities on line, so sometimes I do my preliminary leg-work on the internet, reading research papers, trying to determine which associations I might find in our area. Perforce, plants in California will have a different circle of "friends" than those in Washington, and those at Mount Rainier may be found with different species than those in the lowlands. And sometimes, no matter how much you've read ahead of time, the environment will offer its own set of subliminal clues to point the careful observer in the right direction, the "if I was Aphyllon, I'd be over there" moment, recognition of the ideal habitat. It's a skill which comes naturally to some people while others struggle to develop it. If something seems to be compelling you toward a specific niche in a rock, check it out. Your subconscious mind may be trying to tell you something.