The Lovely Sarracenia

Day 261: Despite being desperately in need of repotting, the lovely Sarracenia has put up a single flower this year, gracing my back porch with her beauty while working overtime to reduce the mosquito population. She's an insectivore, one of three "carnivorous" species in my collection. Pitcher Plants are not as delicate as you might think, nor are they tropical as many people suppose. My Sarracenias have survived sub-freezing temperatures with little or no protection, taking some frost nip to their foliage, but coming back from the root the following spring. I bring them inside overnight if temperatures dip into the low 20s. Native to the eastern part of the continent, Sarracenia grows from New England to Florida, across the Gulf States, and in eastern Canada. One population is known to occur in British Columbia. Several varieties are under commercial cultivation, so if you're interested in "carnivorous" plants, check your best local nursery. Never remove plants from the wild.

Hardy Kiwi Flowers

Day 260: Students, please take your seats and prepare to take notes. Today, you will learn several new botanical terms as they apply to Actinidia arguta "Issai," also known as the hardy kiwi. If you have encountered it in nurseries, you may have noted that the tag refers to it as a "self-fertile female" vine, capable of fruiting without benefit of a male. Actinidias are dioecious, which is to say that male and female flowers appear on separate plants. Most require both sexes in order to fruit; the exception is Hardy Kiwi "Issai." Gynoecious plants (those with pistillate flowers, i.e., females) will form seedless berries without fertilization. This is known as parthenocarpy, and veg gardeners may recognize the behaviour if not the term if they grow seedless cucumbers. The principle is the same.

Personal footnote from the Professor: I have loads of flowers on my Issais! If the squirrels don't get them this year (I think I've successfully relocaed 95% of the population), I should have lots of little thumb-sized, fuzzless, seedless nibblies from the two vines covering the trellis gateway to my "Berry Pen." If you can pass the test for botanical vocabulary in a month, I might be willing to share.

The New Tenants

Day 259: The House of Chirp hadn't been vacant for more than four or five days when prospective new tenants began requesting walk-throughs. It rented out quite quickly, and I suspect that it's a renewal of the former lease. If you look closely at the photo, you will see a third bird inside the main apartment.

Young swallows are fed on the wing for some time after they fledge. Could the third bird be one of the pair's offspring? That's one theory. Another possibility is that a third adult has been engaged as a "nest-helper," an occupation seen more frequently in crows and ravens. The nest-helper is usually a first-year adult who is being schooled in the art of chick-rearing, starting with nest construction and concluding with eventual flight lessons. The nest helper also provides food for the hatchlings, giving the parents a break and time to fulfill their own dietary needs.

This event marks the second time the House of Chirp has held a second clutch; the first was last year. Several factors might be in play in the magic equation: climate change, weather, availability of food among them. In any event, I may get to see another crop of little Tree Swallow "gilligans" take wing in a month or so.

Helvella Elastica, Flexible Lorchel

Day 258: I am grateful to my botany partner Joe for finding and GPSing these specimens of Helvella elastica (known commonly as the Flexible Lorchel), a fungus we suspect might be allied with certain mycoheterotrophic plants. When we first observed it in 2017 in another location, I was unable to identify it from my photos. With a mind to the importance of certain features, I was able to key it out after a visit to Joe's coordinates. That said, I have been unable to find any references linking mycoheterotrophic species specifically to the Helvellas, but in fact, very little research has been done in that regard with respect to any plants outside the better-known Orchidaceae. Oh, if only I was fifty years younger and had a team of observers under my direction! A lot can be theorized from field observations of species associations, links which can be used to refine searches for rare mycoheterotrophs. Lab work is great for confirming connections, but first the plants and their associates have to be found. That funny-looking fungus at your feet may contribute to the germination process of a rarity, or to its survival. The more I see, the more convinced I am that fungus makes the world go 'round.

Myriosclerotinia Caricis-Ampullaceae

Day 257: The botany mission which compelled me to break voluntary isolation for the third time in four months had in fact three parts. The first was to document Corallorhiza maculata var. occidentalis. The second and third parts were conducted at the same location: photograph and identify a specific fungus which we believe may be associated with some of the rarer mycoheterotrophic species, and to check for possible soil disturbance where one of those species is known to occur, i.e., to ascertain whether it might have been dug out by an unscrupulous collector. However, as I was driving up the road, it occurred to me that I could also visit an old friend who I knew to be at home from a report from my botany partner, Joe. A rarity worldwide, Myriosclerotinia caricis-ampullaceae occurs in half a dozen locations as recorded by Team Biota over the last several years of exploration. It is parasitic on a narrow group of sedges, although in our observations, it is not affecting the sedge population at any of the documented sites. Myrio, as we lovingly refer to him, is a cute little thing...well, not so little, actually, but very difficult to see in situ, hiding behind sedge foliage or moss. Our largest specimen measured roughly 50 mm in height with a cup width of almost 20 mm. The largest I found on this trip was +30 mm in height, 15 mm in diameter. The size alone differentiates it from other similar species, as do other characteristics not readily visible in attached specimens. Myrio is also ephemeral, which is to say, "Here today, gone tomorrow." While some cups may persist for several days, the "season" for this fungus is a 14-day window at best. Certain factors can be used to predict its eruption at individual sites, which was why Joe checked on it last week. Had I waited until next week to visit the location, I might have missed the timing. All three missions plus one accomplished, I returned to isolation without having come into contact with a single human being, my need for contact satisfied by touching base with some of my dearest friends.

Corallorhiza Maculata Var. Occidentalis

Day 256: Day before yesterday, I got a late-day email from Beth Fallon who replaced Arnie as the Park's Plant Ecologist two years ago asking for my confirmation of her identification of a yellow Coralroot she'd found that afternoon. She can be forgiven for thinking it might have been C. trifida. She's from out of state and is still learning our local species. It was a Coralroot and it was certainly yellow, and C. trifida is sometimes called "Yellow Coralroot," but even a quick glance at her photos told me that it was definitely not trifida. For one thing, it was way too tall, towering above the Achlys in the background. The flowers were the wrong shape for trifida as well. I pulled Hitchcock down from the shelf and started writing a point-by-point analysis in response. By the time I'd reached the bottom of the key, I was 99% convinced that it was Corallorhiza maculata var. occidentalis, a far less common cousin of my own dear Mac.

Now you must take into consideration here that I have only driven my car out of my yard twice since early March. What could possibly compel me to break my regimen of voluntary isolation? Yep, you got it right in one: a plant, and specifically, an uncommon mycoheterotrophic plant. The lure was just too great. By ten yesterday morning, I was off on a botany mission, armed with camera, tripod, mask and GPS. By that time, I'd heard back from Arnie who agreed with my assessment, but both of us felt that I really needed to observe the specimen in person before making a full commitment. Fortunately, it was very easy to find. I have not seen this variety in the Park before, so will be anxious to hear if it is in our records. I am delighted to have been able to document this spectacularly beautiful Coralroot variety.

I could have gone home happy at that point, but y'know, I was already out there, so...well, I guess you'll just have to tune in tomorrow, won't you?

Mac

Day 255: Lovingly nicknamed Mac, my "pet" Corallorhiza maculata is now just past her prime. She reached a substantial height of 20" and bore at least two dozen individual flowers.

Although the Corallorhizas form seed ("dust seed," extremely fine), they cannot germinate without the aid of soil mycorrhizae. The exact process is not well-understood. Some research has indicated that the mycorrhiza aids in breaking down the sheath surrounding the seed. What we do know is that the mycorrhiza is responsible for breaking down nutrients in the soil, converting them to a form which can be used by the plant. Interestingly, each species/subspecies of Corallorhiza is affiliated with a different fungal partner. Apparently my back yard suited Mac's needs. In the thirty years I have lived here, I have not found Corallorhiza on the property, but another thing we know about these marvelous mycoheterotrophic species is that they can disappear and lay dormant for more than 25 years, emerging again only when conditions are ideal. Given our relatively mild, wet winter, I had predicted that this year would be a boom year for mycoheterotrophs. My projection is being borne out not only near my home, but as friends and colleagues report in, the abundance is being noted throughout the Pacific Northwest. Due to COVID-19, I'm forced to enjoy most of them vicariously, but every day, rain or shine, I step out into my yard for a few minutes to tell Mac how beautiful she is.

Find Prosartes

Day 254: Now several weeks past its blooming period, the Fairybells are just one more green thing in the green, green sea of our forests. I had found Prosartes hookeri near this spot a month ago and, despite it being a common plant, photographed it and put the images in my files, little expecting to have to refer back to them at a later date. In another corner of the universe (Oregon), Arnie was working on the vascular plant list for the same area. We've been bouncing species and subspecies around for several days via email, hoping to refine the catalog. However, when it came to Prosartes, he had recorded one species during a survey he'd personally conducted, whereas my record showed another one entirely. Was one of us wrong in our identification, or were there in fact two different Fairybells at Tahoma Woods? I could recall having walked past some which I dismissed as "not fully open yet" when they were in bloom; could I have overlooked the second species, whose petals never curl back to expose the stamens? Yes, I thought I could have done, and equally, Arnie admitted that he might have given mine (which I was sure were hookeri) a perfunctory glance or missed them entirely. Thus it became my mission for the day to find a green needle in a vast green haystack. In the end, I located ten specimens in as many acres, and all of them along the trail were Prosartes smithii, i.e., the "other" Fairybells. Just to reassure myself that I hadn't made a mistake with the roadside plants I'd photographed, I also checked them on the way home. Yep, different Fairybells. The census has been amended to include both P. smithii and P. hookeri.

Lycogala Growing, Going, Gone

Day 253: Lycogala epidendrum (commonly known as "Wolf's-milk") was the first slime mold ever to be described botanically, and I say "botanically" with some reservation. Linnaeus could be excused for thinking it was a fungus; indeed, he initially called it "Lycoperdon" to include it with puffballs, but modern science is equipped with better tools. We now understand that slime molds are a very different breed of cat from any other form of life, although like all fertile living things, they reproduce, or at least are capable of reproduction. They begin their lives as single cells, able to move about in an amoeba-like fashion. At this stage, they can reproduce by means of cell division, asexually, but when they encounter a cell of the proper mating type, they may fuse and reproduce via nuclear division (as opposed to cell division). Given ideal conditions, they will then form fruiting bodies like these. A fresh Lycogala is pinkish-orange. As the fruiting body matures, it darkens and dries out (middle photo), then ruptures, releasing thousands of unicellular spores to start the process over again (lower photo).

In a well-publicized quote from slime mold expert John Tyler Bonner, he explains the unusual nature of Myxomycetes: (they are) "no more than a bag of amoebae encased in a thin slime sheath, yet they manage to have various behaviours that are equal to those of animals who possess muscles and nerves with ganglia - that is, simple brains." They're out there. They're breeding. Are you really sure you want to go for a walk in the woods today?

Tail Project Completed

Day 252: The Tail Project is done, its fringes all tied! Made largely with loom waste from my floor loom, this throw would make my grandmother proud of me for maximizing the materials available. It was an exercise in design to find the proper balance between colours and the "tail count" in my scrap bags, but I am quite pleased with the way it turned out. A scarf using the same colours in different proportions is now in progress on my small rigid heddle loom. The tail census has been substantially reduced, but not eliminated entirely. I see more scarves in the near future. If the pandemic has an "up" side, it is that it is forcing me to use the materials in my stash, many of which have been waiting their turn for several years, and I am now coming to the point where selecting a "main colour" is almost impossible. What I have remaining is small balls and hanks, fifty yards here, ten there, and while I could crochet them into an afghan or use them in Fair Isle knits, it's much more fun to engineer order out of chaos in a well-balanced project for the loom.

Tubifera Ferruginosa, Raspberry Slime

Day 251: If you only knew what it takes for me to bring you these daily excursions into the marvelous realm of botany! With voluntary isolation de rigueur (at least for me), the area within walking distance of my home has become my playground. I'm taking the opportunity to explore it in depth, and by that, I mean waist-deep in ferns and prickly Oregon grape. These woods are trailless but for the short sections where deer or elk have avoided the tangle of fallen trees, walking single file for fifty yards or so, then to disperse and browse at leisure. A deer's legs are much longer than mine, and what they might step over becomes a gymnastic exercise for me, heaving myself from one side of a log to another, uncertain of what might or might not afford me a step down where I hope to find it. Nor do I go in a straight line from Point A to Point B, navigating instead on a tack port or starboard to avoid insurmountable obstacles and impenetrable thickets. I cover a lot of territory, if not any great linear distance, and it is this which keeps my ramblings interesting. That said, I decided to explore a new section of forest which in the past I have only visited in Chanterelle season (and then, only in part). I call it the "middle terrace," one of three levels between the highway and the river.

I spent the better part of two hours in examination of the middle terrace, and as the morning wore on and I had seen not a single thing worthy of a photo or botanical essay, I began to despair. When I poured myself out through a hillside of Oregon grape and landed in the maintenance area, I was seriously rethinking the need to breach the next section to try to re-find Tarzetta so I could mark it with the GPS (I'm good...I found it...a  single 10 mm white marble in acres of woods). I dived back into the woods at the Ceratiomyxa Stump, found Molly Eye-Winker's log and a nice crop of Lycogala epidendrum, and then...hang on...what's that orange bit? Right in the middle of my line of travel, dotting a decaying branch I'd stepped over less than 48 hours previously, was a slime mold. As it turns out, it's a new one for me: Tubifera ferruginosa, Raspberry Slime.

Now the interesting part of this is that while I was scouting the middle terrace, I found nothing worth note except perhaps for a common facultative mycoheterotroph, and only one specimen of it. Yet within 100 yards of the Ceratiomyxa Stump, I had four slime molds (Tubifera, Lycogala, more Ceratiomyxa and previously, Fuligo septica) plus fungus Molly. What IS it about that locale? That question will likely remain unanswered, but I do know one thing: there's no need to go back to the middle terrace until it's time for Chanterelles.

Scutellinia Scutellata, Molly Eye-Winker

Day 250: Given that the largest specimen of Scutellinia scutellata in this grouping was a mere 4 mm in diameter, it's a wonder that I noticed it on a log twenty feet away and at the 3 o'clock position to the way I was facing. Yep, these little guys were literally in the corner of my vision. There were more, possibly a dozen in all, spaced out in small groups over six feet, and as my mind registered them, the thought passed through, "That's too big to be chiggers," although at first, that was what the colour suggested to me. "Molly Eye-Winkers!" I said aloud to the forest in general, recognizing them as I got closer, and even before I could see their distinctive "eyelashes." Molly is a fungus, not particularly common, but also not too particular about her substrate. I've found her attached to both wood and rock, apparently anchored to the latter via a layer of grit and dust. What she does demand is a moist environment to keep her complexion fresh and bright, and she doesn't care for a lot of sun. Always a favourite, if you see her, give her a wink from me.

Another Weird One For Crow - Tarzetta Cupularis

Day 249: The people who want me to file a "flight plan" just don't understand that I go where the woods sends me, not necessarily following an established trail or an animal track, but rather where some instinct directs. I cannot define the parameters for selecting a route; no occurrence of a specific moss, no slope of the land, no play or light and shadow compels me to go this way instead of that. Yet when I listen to the speech of the forest, it invariably guides me to something worth observation. Attempts to force the process result in pointless meandering, pleasurable in its own way, but more often than not, lacking the thrill of discovery which I so crave. Having already found specimens of one unusual fungus (tomorrow's feature), I was on my knees photographing some Nidula buttons, not yet open to reveal the "eggs" (peridioles) inside the cups which supply their common name of "Bird's-nest fungi" when a tiny spot of creamy white caught the tail of my eye. "Who's that weird little guy?" I said, words my botany partners recognize as a flag being run up the pole. I took several photos before remembering I'd put my measurin' stick in my bag (a good thing to have when botanizing), but further searching left me with only the one example. Elated, I hurried home to hit the field guides, certain that I would fail to find it in their pages which, naturally, proved to be the case. In the end, I called in expert help to get as far as Tarzetta ("Tazetta" in some references), and then narrowed it down by morphologic features to T. cupularis (Elf Cup or Grey Goblet), and a new species for the Park. Update: identification confirmed by a second, regionally knowledgeable mycologist. This photo is the first image of the species to be added to the Burke Herbarium's gallery. The only specimen of the species in the Burke collection was taken from Pack Forest.

Works In Progress

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Day 248: Years ago, I realized that I was going to have to set some rules for myself if I ever wanted to see a project through to completion. As a young needleworker (and by "young," I mean in the age range of 4-18 years), it was not uncommon for me to begin knitting a sweater (for example), finish a few inches and then start knitting a hat or mittens. My workbasket might have contained three partially-completed knit items, an equal number of crocheted pieces half-done, and off in the corner, perhaps two pieces of crewel embroidery or needlepoint on frames or in hoops. I wasn't finishing anything because I wasn't focused. That was when I wrote the Law of Projects: that no more than one piece of any type of needlework could be in progress at the same time, i.e., one knit item, one crochet project, one piece of bobbin lace, etc. That said, there is some latitude in the interpretation of the Law, as is the case with most contracts: if the form of execution is sufficiently different, the second project may be considered as a fiberart of another type. This interpretation is particularly important when it comes to weaving.

The floor loom and the rigid heddle are two entirely different breeds of cat. The floor loom is treadled to form the sheds, whereas with the rigid heddle, the reed must be lifted manually, processes as individual as dancing opposed to lifting weights. In the case of the large frame loom (rigid heddle), I work standing up, as opposed to sitting on a bench when working at the floor loom. The action of passing the shuttle back and forth, although common to both methods, is as incidental as the use of a knife to cut bread or to whittle a stick: same tool, different product. The Tail Project (top) is an active sport. In weaving it, I am standing to manipulate the sheds, stepping from side to side to draw the weft across the work, beating the threads into place with physical exertion. The slub cloth on the floor loom (bottom) becomes a meditation, a repeated sequence of steps, throws and beating done in rhythm.

Should I be so inclined, I could add backstrap, tapestry or card-weaving without breaching the Law of Projects, but there are other fish in the ocean: a quilt to finish, a tablecloth to crochet, spinning to be done. How do people find the time to watch TV or play on their computers when there are so many crafts begging for hands to complete them?

Any Day Now

Day 247: There is a phrase my friends have heard me say a thousand times or more: "There is nothing, absolutely nothing as cute as baby birds." I mean, kittens run a close second in my book, but baby birds, be they fluffy precocial chickies or duckies or pink-skinned, pinfeathered buzzards simply melt my hard old heart. A baby parrot or cockatoo, all beak and spikes, is to my way of thinking one of the cutest critters on the face of the earth. Naked jaybirds? I love them. I've never seen a baby hummingbird, but I'm sure I would adore them. Naturally, the annual fledging of swallows from my birdhouses requires long hours at the window, camera in hand, hoping to catch the little "gilligans" (my nickname for them) as they take their first looks at the big, wide world and the bigger open sky. This year, only the House of Chirp was occupied. Pussywillow Cottage has seen too many tragedies when invading wasps or savage squirrels attacked, and I'll need to find a new location for it if I expect to draw tenants. Tree Swallows won the bid for the House of Chirp, and from the sounds emanating from deep within, there must be three or four offpsring nearing the time of their first flight. Easily told from the adults by their greyish feathers and yellow-pink gapes, they change shifts at the door as Mom and Dad make repeated trips to the insect market, bringing home mosquitoes, crane flies or anything else they can nab at a bargain price. It's too early yet for dragonflies, but a few years ago, one parent brought one home and struggled for several minutes to get it through the door. Those little tummies are hungry! It won't be long now before the parents tempt them into taking wing by holding breakfast just out of reach. Fly, you little sweethearts! And I'll see you next year.

The Tail Project

Day 246: One drawback to weaving is that there is always a certain amount...sometimes quite a bit...of "loom waste," the section of warp between the heddles and the back beam. When calculating yardage requirements for a project, the weaver factors in an amount appropriate to that distance and the loom being employed. Different types of loom will have more or less waste depending on their design, so sometimes it's possible to take the waste from one loom and use it on another, or to use it as weft for narrow stripes. Oh, hang on! I've gotten ahead of myself with this story. You're probably wondering where this loom came from, aren't you? Yes, it's "new" (to me, anyway), given to me by a member of our Morris-dance side, and looking very much like a pile of kindling at the time I picked it up. The brochure she gave me to go with it was rather unhelpful. It wasn't that it was written in German; I could stagger through that. It was that it didn't show any model which went together with the parts I had laid out all over my living room floor. Several visits to Mr. Google later, I had a handful of blurry photographs which showed at least some of the parts (not always in the same places) and a model number, Kircher-Rahmen WU80. Don't even ask. YouTube was no help at all.

As the afternoon wore on, I discovered that the "pile of kindling" actually contained two looms, the Kircher and a tapestry frame, the parts of which could not be made to relate to the tapestry adaptation for the WU80. So...I got two looms for the price of one (free!), and two smaller rigid heddle looms (one missing a handle) thrown into the bargain. I'm still not sure I have all the parts in the right places, but what the heck, it's a loom. The heddles go up, the heddles go down, threads can be secured to the beams. That's really all any loom needs to do.

And that brings us now to the Tail Project, i.e., what to do with all those five-foot long bits of warp from my floor loom. I had to pull in some other yarns from my stash, but was eventually able to formulate a plan for a striped lap throw which will be fringed on all four sides, substantially reducing the number of bags of loom waste occupying my crafts room. As my grandma used to say, "Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without." Weavers, take note. Those tails are good for something. Save them until you have enough.

Calocera Cornea

Day 245: Calocera cornea frequently emerges from its substrate following heavy or prolonged rainfall, and we've had plenty of precipitation for the month of June to date, so I was not surprised to find it erupting from a piece of barkless, downed alder recently. It grows on a variety of different hardwoods. A "cousin" species, C. viscosa prefers to keep itself specifically to the wood of conifers, but its tips are forked. Calocera cornea may be quite abundant where it occurs, as was the case on this particular log. Despite its superficial resemblance to the coralloid species, it is in fact a jelly fungus.

Vancouveria Hexandra, Inside-Out Flower

Day 244: The flowers of Vancouveria hexandra are fairly small, but well worth a closer look. Its reflexed petals inspired its common name of Inside-Out Flower. Common along moist forest margins, the outline of its individual leaves resemble a child's drawing of a tulip and emerge from opposite points along a wiry, thready stem with a single leaf at the tip. It may establish itself as the dominant groundcover when it is able to out-compete Oxalis in their mutually-preferred environments, or the two may in some cases peacefully coexist. Both enjoy shade or sun-fleck habitats, and the acidic soils of Douglas-fir forests encourage its growth. Despite its visual similarity to a miniature lily, it is a member of the Barberry (Berberidaceae) family.

Starflower, Lysimachia Latifolia

Day 243: If you don't have anything else on your agenda this afternoon, you might want to pick up a pencil or pen, and pull ALL of your field guides down from the shelf. You're going to be making some serious edits.

First off, Trientalis has been renamed. It is now Lysimachia. We have two species of Starflower in western Washington (Northern and Pacific, although Pacific may also be called Western, Broad-Leaved or Oval-Leaved), and here's where it gets sticky. We are concerned with Pacific Starflower shown above. You may find it listed under a potpourri of Latin nomenclature: Trientalis borealis, Trientalis borealis ssp. latifolia, Trientalis europaea var. latifolia. Not a one...I repeat, not a one of these species names is correct (and of course the genus should be changed to Lysimachia). The discrepancy led me to an exchange of emails with David Giblin of the Burke Herbarium, as often occurs when I have botanical mysteries of one sort or another. He, Arnie and I frequently engage in round-robin discussions. He was able to set the record straight: Lysimachia borealis (variety or subspecies aside) does not occur in the PNW, but Lysimachia latifolia (above, "the Lysimachia with broad leaves") does. At least it's shorter to remember.

Mycoheterotroph Magic

Day 242: You're going to scoff. I know that, and I know you're going to ridicule me for being about as unscientific as a person who calls themselves a scientist can get, but sometimes even the most anchored among us have to raise an eyebrow when things come together as if by magic.

During my friend Michael's pursuit of his degree in ecopsychology, he asked questions of me as a naturalist, as an animist and as a shaman. To me, the three terms form a well-balanced Venn diagram with me smack in the convergence zone. One question he posed was that, given my profound love of Nature, did I feel that Nature ever demonstrated love in return? I replied in the affirmative, but qualified my response by saying that naturally (if you will forgive the pun), this return would take a different form than human love, and might in fact manifest as something we would fail to recognize. That said, I cited at least one circumstance where it approached what we humans consider a demonstration of love, when Nature had seemingly expressed a sentiment toward me which, for want of a better phrase, I would express as gratitude. Love takes many forms among humans. Who can define it for anyone other than themselves?

My readers are aware of my passion for mycoheterotrophs, that group of plants which grow only in certain narrow ecologies, plants dependent on specific soil mycorrhizae, plants which cannot exist unless their complex requirements are met. Being in voluntary isolation has put dramatic constraints on my ability to "botanize." My expeditions are limited to walking distance from my home, but even so, this spring has brought a number of interesting finds: several slime molds, a plant not previously recorded on Park property, and a few scattered specimens of Corallorhiza maculata, one of my favourites. I mention the last specifically, because I had not observed them in this area previously, and I've done quite a bit of prowling about in the trailless woods in the last thirty years. I have been lonely for my mycoheterotrophs, more than for human company.

Yesterday afternoon, I walked out to the wooded strip between my property and the one adjacent to me, intending to pitch some radish leaves onto the unofficial compost pile. At the very margin, spotlighted in a sun-fleck as if to say, "Hey! Down here!" was a single stem of Corallorhiza maculata. The flowers were just beginning to open on the lower portion, a few maroon spots winking at me as I gaped in surprise. As I walked back to the house to get the camera, I burst into tears. If I couldn't go to my mycoheterotrophs, it seemed that at least one of them had come to me.

Bellisima!

Day 241: Of the several Hoyas in my collection, Hoya bella is by far the most reliable. In fact, the others bloom rarely, if at all. My other favourite is one I grow exclusively for its foliage which resembles that of Rosary Vine, so I don't mind that it doesn't flower. Bella can get rather sprangly if not kept in check. Pinching will stimulate new branches to form along the main stems. It does not form spurs as many other plants in the genus do, so you can prune radically without interfering with its ability to blossom. The flowers are borne in clusters like the one shown in the photo and appear both at the tips of the branches and at the nodes. I keep mine cut back, and usually have cuttings to share.

Red's Branch

Day 240: I have to admit to cheating here. I don't usually doctor nature photos unless it's to remove small bits of dirt or holes from leaves and petals, and even that is something I do rarely, preferring to show the specimen exactly as I saw it. However, Red is just cute as a bug's ear, and his preferred shelter is a broken wisteria trig caught under the soffit of my carport. It protects him from both wind and rain, an alternative to the clothesline under my back porch awning when the breeze is from a different quarter. The wisteria branch projects out just far enough for the light to catch his brilliant throat feathers, but the background of ugly soffit was more than I could stand. I took a deliberately out-of-focus shot of the dogwood beside the driveway and pasted Red and his twig over it, paring away 90% of the original photo. I think he'll be much happier in this setting until the weather changes.

Superstition

Day 239: Friday the 13th? Black cat cross your path? Do your ears tingle when someone is talking about you? We all have our superstitions, but mine grows under a Sitka Mountain Ash and sweetens the yard with its fragrance on warm afternoons. One of the deepest purple varieties of bearded iris, Superstition is marketed as black, but is quite variable depending on soil conditions. When I first planted mine thirty years ago, it remained quite dark for several years before fading to a rich mahogany red as the bed failed to supply the proper nutrients. I shifted it to a new spot where the soil was richer, and it reverted to "black" within two years. It's been happy there, and despite having its rhizomes fairly well grassed-over, it continues to reward me with a flush of blooms every year. It's difficult to maintain iris weed-free since seeds (particularly grasses) work their way into the crevices of the root system where they can't be pulled without damaging the tubers. Sometimes it's easier to just dig them up and move them, so why not divide them at the same time and share them with your friends?

Fiber Frolics

Day 238: Despite the fact that I don't feel as if I'm spending any more time at fiber arts than usual, a mound of completed projects is growing almost daily. Admittedly, my attention span is quite short these days: ten minutes at the loom, a row or two of crochet, half a dozen rolags spun into yarn, two or three threads put into Mousie's quilt pushing the limits of my focus, but as they say, "a little of this, a little of that" adds up. Some unrelated crafts are interdependent, e.g, in order to spin more single-strand white wool for plying, I have to wind plied wool onto the warping board to free up spindles. To do so means that I have to remove the measured warp for my next weaving project from the warping board, and I can't do that until I get the current project off the floor loom. Perhaps this is why we speak of "web" in so many fiber arts. My studio space (crafts room, living room and to some extent kitchen) would make Arachne proud.

Joyful Adenium

Day 237: I began my small collection (three, if the truth be told) of Adeniums with "Joyful," and it does a good job of living up to its name. This is the reward adenium fans get for tending a few leaves at the top of a potful of sticks: glorious outsized flowers which last a week or two before they begin to fade. The plants come into bloom two or three times each year, to be followed by a period of new foliage development. Almost invariably, one layer of leaves will drop as the stalk hardens and becomes more woody at the points of attachment, leaving the Adenium aficionado with taller sticks and roughly the same number of leaves. A succulent caudex forms at the base of the plant, a swollen stump from which the stems arise. Hybrid plants (those bred for their showy flowers) generally do not develop a caudex and are grafted onto non-hybrid stock. A desert plant, Adenium likes its soil on the dry side. During the non-blooming period, watering should only be done when the pot feels light when it is lifted. During the flowering period, watering can be increased, but soil should still be kept on the dry side. Adeniums demand phosphorus to flourish, but are sensitive to other fertilizer salts. If your plant drops too many leaves or if the leaves are wrinkled or discoloured, flush the soil thoroughly with water and then allow it to dry almost completely before watering again.

Fuligo Septica

Day 236: Not far from home but in a trailless wooded area, there is a short stump of small diameter which bears three...count them, three...species of slime mold. The first two have been featured in other posts this last week; the third erupted in full-blown glory in the space of two days, and I discovered it yesterday. It is Fuligo septica, commonly called "Dog-Vomit" which, however apt, does not do its intricate structure justice. Admittedly, I have never seen one quite as lacy as this specimen, a factor which caused me to seek expert help to confirm my identification. The mass is the size of a large grapefruit, and exists side by side with Ceratiomyxa and Lycogala, making me wonder just what is so attractive about that particular stump that three slime molds have chosen it as the center for their conventions. Yesterday I spent quite a bit of time clambering over fallen logs, pushing my way through tangled branches, choosing the placement of my feet carefully so that I didn't land on my back, and in several acres of forest, I found only a few other examples of slime molds, all within 200' of Ground Zero. Nothing unusual about the micro-ecology called out to my human perceptions, no plant associations registered with me although the area is rich in Oxalis, no dominance of evergreen or softwood, no nuance of ambient light. I found each of the three species separately, Ceratiomyxa over here, Lycogala over there and a small Fuligo in another spot, but not with one another except at this stump where all three flourish. We know that slime molds are capable of communication among their individual cells, but are the members of one species able to read the signals broadcast by those of another breed? Our knowledge of slimes is fairly limited, but with advances in science, we may eventually find answers to questions we didn't even know to ask, and that's a thought which makes me wish I was fifty years younger.

Key Perspective On Ceratiomyxa

Day 235: I try to accommodate my loyal readers whenever possible, so in response to a request and despite what I said day before yesterday, here are more photos of Ceratiomyxa fruticulosa var. poroides, the top with a key to give a sense of scale because I forgot my measurin' stick again. Now I must point out that this is not the same Ceratiomyxa I've been photographing over the last week. No, this is a brand-new outcropping on a different log about 60 feet away. It was not visible day before yesterday, so the little buggers must have been putting in double shifts in order to build such an extensive slime-tropolis. The original colony is beginning to deteriorate, as is the Lycogala on the same stump. However, the other side of the stump has erupted with a third slime-mold species which of course I will be trying to identify as it develops.

Galium Odoratum, Non-Native Bedstraw

Day 234: In case you missed the update I added to yesterday's post, my observation of Ceratiomyxa fruticulosa var. poroides documented a new species of slime mold for Mount Rainier National Park, bringing the list total to 54. For being in voluntary isolation, I'm having a surprisingly good year, botanically speaking. As my readers are aware, I live for the joy of discovery, but sometimes...well, sometimes I locate species I'd rather not have found, case in point: Galium odoratum, a non-native Bedstraw.

A casual observer might not have given this species of Cleavers a second look, but something didn't seem right to me when I focused on it a couple of years back. There were too many leaflets on the stem, 8-10 in most cases, with 11 on some. That ruled out G. aparine which normally bears 8. I checked my references, double-checked, and then sent a photo off to the collections manager of the Burke Herbarium for expert confirmation. He verified my ID, and asked me where I'd found it since it was a non-native species and somewhat invasive (although not listed as such with the state). I was a little ashamed to tell him the location, but confessed in the name of science, "In my back yard." Native or non-native, Bedstraw is not one of my favourite plants. It grabs ankles when you're walking through it, leaves your socks covered in "Velcro" burrs when it's in seed, and it seems to be a magnet for ticks in a wide variety of environments from dry SW Washington prairie to damp forest edges. Short of using herbicide or spending all the rest of my life pulling it, I have no idea how to get rid of it.

Rebuilding A Civilization

Day 233: I promise this will be my last post of Ceratiomyxa for a while, but this is worth note. I don't know what I expected when I returned to the site less than 24 hours later, but a complete and even more elegant rebuilding of the civilization was not on the short list. I'm sure one of those minor "earthquakes" shaking Washington's seismographs was caused by my jaw hitting the forest floor. Not only had the Ceratiomyxa regenerated, it had done so in true "Doctor Who" style, retaining elements of its former persona while simultaneously establishing its own individual mark. The pillars built by the cooperating cells had become even more elaborate and textured than when I had first seen it, a greater and more glorious Phoenix arising from the ashes of its former existence. The solitary Lycogala nub in the midst of its metropolis even seemed to be drawing some sustenance and substance from the association. It was, in fact, the only remaining pink/orange member of the dozens of others I surveyed. The rest had turned brown. I regret not putting a measuring stick up against the specimen because my readers undoubtedly have misjudged the size of this magnificent slime mold. The largest mound would measure no more than 4 mm and the individual hexagonal compartments of the structure 0.05 mm at the very largest. This mass in the photo frame measures roughly 7 mm wide by 18 mm high.

Update: I am pleased to report that this occurrence of Ceratiomyxa was the first reported on Park property. The Park's official slime mold species count is now 54.

Ceratiomyxa After The Rain

Day 232: A rather dramatic electrical storm and hard rains kept me from checking up on the Ceratiomyxa until a full day had elapsed. As I had expected, the colony had begun to deteriorate, and even the associated Lycogala was merely a shadow of its former self. The slime mold had had its day. Its population had come together to feed and breed, and its constructs...the pillars and towers which were its signature structure had fairly shone in the peak of its glory. Perhaps it was already beginning to collapse at its core when I first observed it; in any event, it did not weather the storm well, and its protist civilization collapsed, leaving behind an amorphous mass of confused and decaying cells. Those which have survived and the offspring of those which bred successfully must now retreat into the protection of their deteriorated stump, there to try to recover until they can rebuild.

Hang on a minute...did you just see a metaphor run through here?