Anticlea Occidentalis, Mountainbells

Day 293: Okay, bear with me here. This is not going to be another rant about taxonomy, I promise. That said, when this plant was moved from Stenanthium to Anticlea, my curiosity about the etymology was aroused because it didn't seem to be sourced in Latin. As it turns out, the name was drawn directly from Greek mythology. Anticlea was the mother of Odysseus (the identity of his father is subject to debate). Her name means "without fame," appropriately perhaps, because she seems to have no particular function in the legend beyond being noted as part of Odysseus' genealogy when he meets her spirit in Hades. Ask three people how to pronounce "Anticlea," and you'll likely receive three different answers. I've heard "An-TICK-lee-uh," "ANTIE-klee" (totally ignoring the final "a") and something close to my own pronunciation of "Anty-CLEE-uh." Perhaps the most surprising thing about the taxonomic shift is that it denotes a phylogenetic link with three species of deathcamas, one of which (Glaucous Death Camas) also experienced a reclassification (from Zigadenus to Anticlea). In any event, Mountainbells are lovely and relatively scarce in our forests. They prefer a moist, shady habitat. Their delicate purple bells sway on slender stems to a height of roughly 12 inches, responding to the slightest breath of wind.

Anticlea Occidentalis, Mountain-Bells

Day 257: "Learn something new every day." That's not always easy to do, but sometimes it occurs as a happy accident. Such was the case when I was verifying that the taxonomy of Anticlea occidentalis hadn't changed again. I know the plant's common name as "Mountain-bells," but common names being rather flexibly applied, many nurseries refer to various Alliums as "Mountain Bells" (with or without a hyphen). The term may also be casually dispensed to several other mountain-dwelling, bell-shaped flowers. Common names annoy me, but nevertheless, discovering that our native Anticlea is also known as "Feather-bells" scored a point on my "Learn something new" chart; I had not heard it before, and it seems more appropriate to the delicate, recurved petals of this dainty flower. Mountain-bells are almost always ringing, their chimes only audible to faeries and other woodland sprites. The slightest breeze sets them in motion at the ends of their thready stems. Habitués of moist meadows and seeps, they may also be referred to as "Bronze Bells" or "Mission Bells" by those who don't care to be more specific about a plant's true identity.

Anticlea Occidentalis, Mountainbells

Day 266: Mountainbells...Anticlea occidentalis. You might notice a similarity in the second half of this plant's Latin binomial to the one I posted yesterday: "occidentalis" and "occidentale." I am not grounded firmly enough in Latin to be able to explain the distinction other than to say it has to do with the gender attributed to the first half of the name, Thalictrum being masculine, Anticlea being feminine. Most European languages are gendered. For example in Spanish, "the table" is "la mesa" (feminine) and "the car" is "el carro" (masculine). You go along just fine assuming words ending in -a are feminine until you hit "el problema" and "el agua" (both masculine as evidenced by the article preceding them). I can vouch for the fact that it works the same way in German, Russian and presumably French (another Romance language, i.e., one which originated in the vicinity of Rome, not one with which you can woo a lover). Russian doesn't have articles, but nouns are gendered, and German even includes nouns with the non-gendered article "das." You thought this essay was going to be about the plant, right? Wrong.

I've recently taken Park-sponsored two trainings dealing with diversity. One was focused specifically on gender identity while the other skirted the edges of it without adressing it fully. I failed to connect the subject to botanical Latin at the time, but the more frustrated I become with shifting taxonomy and in particular changes which only happen in order to bring both halves of the binomial into gender agreement, the more strongly I feel that gender should be expunged from language altogether, and if articles are necessary, they should be there merely to specify the somethingoranother belonging to "them," or to "their" possessions.

At first I resisted they/them/their because of my singularity. I'm not two people, not plural, and neither are you. That said, language is a continuously evolving entity. Many people of my generation will find it hard to unlearn the stock "he/she/his/hers" words because they have been taught us since birth, but we should make an effort. I am willing to embrace new vocabulary (perhaps moreso than some of the rest of you because I deal with taxonomic changes on a daily basis) and also to try to eliminate from my speech those sneaky gendered words we toss about so freely ("you guys" falls from my tongue all too frequently when I am addressing a mixed group).

While I doubt that I'd ever be able to convince the taxonomists that it would be a lot easier to talk about "Thalictrum occidental" and "Anticlea occidental," I trust my readers not to be so dogmatic. Plants may not take offense at being mis-gendered, but some of your human friends might.

Mountainbells

Day 266: Embarrassing moment: I was telling Arnie that I had found Mountainbells in a new location, and he stopped me. "Mountain bells?" he asked, separating the words. "Campanula?" I stuttered and spit for a minute which prompted him to guess again. "Mertensia?" "No, no," I said, "Not bluebells, mountainbells." A few more frustrating minutes passed while I pulled open files in my mental database, and finally, I just gave up and blurted out the incorrect nomenclature, "Stenanthium, only it's not Stenanthium now. It's something else. Dammit!" The Latin gave him the identity of the plant, but neither of us could think of the new name. We finally resorted to looking it up on line: Anticlea occidentalis.

Poking around in seeps and cracks, it's not surprising that Team Biota turns up new locations for some of the Park's less common damp-environment species. Not too many people are willing to clamber up a slot to stand in a light but steady stream of cold meltwater aimed directly at the back of their collars in the hopes that there might be one more specimen of butterwort lurking in the shadows. Nor does your average wildflower enthusiast go on their knees in the mud or slip from soggy, mossy rock to  soggy, mossy rock on their bum to reach the base of a waterfall to investigate a blue bit which might or might not be something unusual. Discoveries of rarities do not often come easily or without some degree of sacrifice. If they were readily accessible, it's almost a given that they would have been collected by less scrupulous observers. No, the rare things in this world largely occur where no one goes, in the same way that the biggest trout in a river are most likely to be found hiding in a tangle of brush below an undercut bank in a spot only accessible through a forest of devil's-club.

But Mountainbells aren't so very uncommon. It's just that by the time I got to them, I was mud up to the neck and my shirt was soaked. There might have been a butterwort up there, but there wasn't.

Anticlea Occidentalis, Mountainbells

Day 274: To quote one of my botany partners, "My favourite wildflower is the one in front of me," and although I have a handful which top my personal list, Mountainbells puts up a good argument for the next spot in line. Formerly known as Stenanthium occidentale, Anticlea occidentalis is uncommon in the Park and I am pleased to have been able to document it this year in two locations new to me. Its reddish-purple half-inch bells are striped with green, and each inflorescence may consist of a dozen or more on a foot-high, thin stem. The slightest breeze sets the stalk to swaying, much to the aggravation of a photographer who eschews the use of flash for anything other than portraiture. If the bells make a sound when they are thus rung, only the faeries can hear it, but a human nose may detect a light, tangy fragrance rising from this member of the lily family.

Penny Perspectives - Mountainbells, Anticlea Occidentalis

Day 248: Although not actually "rare," Mountainbells is a noteworthy find in Mount Rainier National Park, and sufficiently scarce to set me racing into my colleagues' offices with a shout of, "Rare plant alert! Rare plant alert!" For the last month, I've been watching a site where I had observed them previously, waiting for the flowers to emerge above the plant's two or three long, strappy leaves. The leaf blades are what you will notice first. The inflorescence is harder to spot, the delicate bells held on the upper third of the stem. If you crouch down and sight along a line a foot above moist forest floor, you may discover dozens where you thought there were only leaves. The individual flowers are beautifully coloured as this Penny Perspective demonstrates, but are rather inconspicuous in a broad overview.

In checking these off on your botanical "Life List," you may find them listed as Stenanthium occidentale in your field guides. The correct nomenclature, recently updated by phylogenetic research, is Anticlea occidentalis.