Liverworts

Day 362: Scientists are driven to name things (via those pesky taxonomists, of course): to categorize, to distinguish, the better to understand where any given species fits into the grander scheme. To know that This and That are related gives us perspective from two angles, and so much the better if we also know they are related to Those. The morphological commonality here is obvious: This, That and Those all belong to the family "Th-," further divided into genus and species by "-is," "-at" and "-ose," and that method (superficial as it was) served us well for many years. Then came DNA analysis, and now our preconceptions are flying out the window at an astonishing rate. Observation of macroscopic and microscopic characteristics is proving to be insufficient. The liverwort shown above demonstrates my point.

There are two schools of thought regarding this Marchantia. Some will argue that it is M. polymorpha, a common pest in greenhouses and nurseries. Others will claim that it is M. alpestris, and may even cite as proof the fact that it lacks the black median line seen in its cousin. Yet another branch will defend it as a different variety (M. polymorpha var. alpestris) or subspecies (M. polymorpha ssp. montivagans). It's enough to drive you mad! To date, Santa Claus has declined my requests for a DNA sequencer and someone with the knowledge to run it, so given that my observations of this liverwort have both occurred in alpine locations where it is unlikely to have been imported from a lowland greenhouse, I'm calling it Marchantia alpestris, and I reserve the right to be wrong.

Patchwork

Day 360: The high country is clad in motley, performing its final botanical dance of the season with wild abandon. This, not the masses of wildflowers so loved by visitors, is the display which calls to my heart. In these colours, memories of frost outside my tent door shimmer, wraiths of mist rise from meandering springs in the golden first light of morning, and the crackle of grass beneath my boots sends hundreds of grasshoppers leaping from concealment as I climb a ridge still shadowed from the sunrise. A distant summit begs a visit, and I will climb above the last heather to its crest, there to look out on a panorama of huckleberry-red and willow-gold. Spiderwebs and raptors stitch the air, riding an invisible staircase of updrafts. But even now, the spirit of the high backcountry is donning her nightgown and preparing for a long winter's sleep beneath this patchwork. Together, we shall dream of sunlight and birds and solitude, and the return of Spring.

Goat Rocks Fire

Day 359: Per this morning's update, the Goat Rocks Fire now stands at 4552 acres, small as wildfires go, but filling the air in the surrounding communities with smoke. It was projected to grow somewhat today, based on wind and humidity forecasts and indeed, from the top of the Golden Gate Trail, my botany partners and I could see it progressing slowly down the ridge. Per the incident report, a direct approach to suppressing this fire (i.e., sending in ground crews) would have little chance of success due to steep terrain and a massive quantity of dry fuel and would pose extreme safety hazards for firefighters. An indirect solution is being implemented instead, with containment lines being cut in to the west and north, the most likely direction for spread. Higher humidity early next week should further limit the spread.

Seriously?

Day 8: I don't think any of us were quite ready for the sudden transition from summer to winter, but after all, we should have expected it. Autumn in the Pacific Northwest lasts a matter of days, as does Spring. In the space of a week, leaves change colour and are stripped from the trees by wind and rain  to stand bare and shivering. If you're a resident of the higher elevations like Sooty here, you'd best know where to find shelter and food. During the winter when snow prevents access to any other food source, Sooty Grouse subsist on a diet comprised almost exclusively of evergreen needles. Yep, that's what I said, evergreen needles. The occasional bug out for a winter stroll may wind up as a protein snack for a grouse lucky enough to spot it. Sooty Grouse populations are on a slow decline, although you certainly wouldn't have thought so if you'd been hiking near Paradise this year. They are listed as a species of concern which, without careful conservation, may be upgraded to threatened or endangered.

Sooty Grouse, Dendragapus Obscurus

Day 300: As with many bird species which exhibit morphologic variations from one side of the country to the other, Dendragapus obscurus is technically a Blue Grouse in "Sooty" form. Its eastern and interior counterpart is the Dusky Grouse. The differences are most obvious in the males. Sooty's tailfeathers are tipped in grey whereas Dusky's tail is almost solid black. In mating display, the air sacs on the sides of Sooty's neck will be yellow; in Dusky, they are purplish-red. The females are quite similar, with Sooty being perhaps a little darker. Where the ranges of the two subspecies intersect, they intergrade.

Last week on a hike above Paradise, I heard a grouse drumming in the same area where I encountered this one a few days ago, but couldn't spot the bird. This female was impossible to miss. She was determined not to relinquish the trail even after Joe and I had gathered several visitors behind us while we photographed her. We'd move ahead a foot, and she'd do likewise, invariably stopping in a shady spot which made photography difficult. At one point, we expected her to head downhill through the meadow, but instead, she ran, skitter-skitter-skitter through a sunny patch on pavement, only veering off trail when she came to a small rocky wash. Even then, she remained a mere six feet from us as we passed her, and then returned to picking and eating wildflowers.

It's Our Birthday!

Day 140: Mount Rainier National Park was established on March 2, 1899, and today marks MORA's 118th "birthday." It might surprise you to learn that I have been associated with the Park in some capacity or another for well over half that span of years, starting with visits as a babe in the arms of my parents, followed by hiking with an uncle who served as a ranger in the 50s, and later by hiking, climbing and working in the Mountain's dominion as an adult. We have grown old together, the Park and I, although to the Mountain we are but glints on the river of Time. It is a relationship which I hope endures for many years to come. Happy Birthday, MORA!

Fall Colour

Day 357: The "drizmal" season has arrived, and already I'm longing for the backcountry, oppressed by rain and grey skies. It was just a week ago that I was stepping out among the brilliant colours of autumn, hiking in shirt sleeves to delight in the crispness of a September morning. The grey had not yet turned gray, a distinction in spelling which I employ to differentiate soft, comforting hues from those of gloom and foreboding so persistent in our Pacific Northwestern winters. An absence of sunlight does not bother me; born-and-bred Washingtonians regard the sun's shine as intrusive and painful. We revel in our overcast, despite the fact that our fellow photographers from elsewhere in the country invariably accuse us of having "blown out the sky," not understanding that white or grey are normal and blue is a rare exception. Neither do short days bother me to any great extent, but being penned indoors by cold, soaking rain pushes strongly against my tolerance for inclement weather. It came too fast, this shift to the dreariness of October, as if someone threw the switch and locked the doors behind Summer.

Prumnacris Rainierensis, Cascade Timberline Grasshopper

Day 356: Years ago when I used to hike extensively off-trail, one route I consistently took to get from Here to There was so heavily populated by grasshoppers that I dubbed it the "Grasshopper Track." I would pass along it, shuffling my feet to keep from stepping on any of the hundreds of hoppers who fled in all directions (not always away from danger), and the sound of their leapings and landings is one I will forever associate with September camps in my beloved high country. The species were assorted; some small, some large, and occasionally, an enormous specimen with a distinctly different body morphology, fatter than the rest. More concerned with other things, I never bothered to try to identify them, but during my latest MeadoWatch hike, I found another "Grasshopper Track" quite accidentally. Although this guy wasn't the largest representative of his species that I've seen, I can now put a name to him: Prumnacris rainierensis, Cascade Timberline Grasshopper.

In person, the coppery colour of the exoskeleton is much more pronounced. The body is quite short in comparison to other grasshoppers and also heavier, giving the impression of "stubby and stout." The antennae are shorter as well, and the chin bears a pair of spurs, giving rise to the common name for the family of "spur-throated grasshoppers." I saw less than half a dozen of this species, but this new "Grasshopper Track" was abundantly populated with others; green, gold, brown, some tiny, some of normal size, and all clicking and popping from dried leaves to withered sedge blades with a sound which carried my thoughts to a place most dear to my heart and blithe September days alone amid its beauties.

Elmera Racemosa, Yellow Coralbells

Day 316: Yellow Coralbells (Elmera racemosa) is a small plant with leaves you might mistake for those of a Heuchera. It was first considered to fall among the Heucheras until genetic research proved it to be a distinct genus and in fact, it is the one and only Elmera currently known. It occurs only in the Pacific Northwest (Oregon to British Columbia), and somewhat infrequently in the upper subalpine zone at Mount Rainier National Park. Elmera is a hardy plant capable of surviving both cold winters and dry summers.

Legendary Blue

Day 315: A modern story (~cough!) tells us that Gentians take their colour from the sky. How? Well, let me explain.

The deep cups of Mountain Bog Gentian (Gentiana calycosa) are particularly attractive to bumblebees, those great furry creatures who by all rights should be incapable of flight. But Bumblebee has a secret. His wings are a mosaic of sky fragments, so thin that they seem transparent, shimmering with summer sunlight. Bee moves through the air on his sky-wings but only with some effort due to his weight, so when he grows tired of propelling himself along, he often comes to rest in the cup of a Gentian.

Now Gentians don't care to have dew or rain fill their cups, so at night or when a cloud-shadow passes across them, their petals furl into a spiral, closing to form pointy minarets. That's their special magic. When a Bumblebee doesn't pay attention to the time of day or the weather, it may become trapped inside a Gentian blossom when it closes. Bumblebees are not known for their weather wisdom, so this is not an uncommon occurrence. When a Bee is caught in this manner, it cannot escape until the Gentian opens. It may buzz around inside, and in so doing, it transfers the blue sky-pigment from its wings to the flower. As you might imagine, this happens fairly often, but if you search carefully, you may still find white Gentians in the high country, unstained by the colour of the sky. They have not yet hosted a Bumblebee overnight.

The emergence of Gentians signifies the summer season drawing to a close. They are one of my favourite wildflowers. Yes, they really do close around hapless Bumblebees, and sometimes you will hear them buzzing, trying to escape a Gentian's grasp.

Valeriana Sitchensis, Sitka Valerian

Day 314: Sitka Valerian (Valeriana sitchensis) is common sight in subalpine meadows. It also bears the distinction of having been described in one of the funniest entries in any field guide I've ever read. Aside from the fact that it is highly scented and not altogether pleasantly so, a tea made from the leaves is reputed to have medicinal value if one can get past the flavour which, according to the reference and not validated by personal experience, "tastes like boiled sweat-socks." The scent is less pungent, but still carries a note which may cause your nose to wrinkle until you have accustomed yourself to it as one of the most recognizable odors of the backcountry. You might even find yourself saying, "Ah, the Valerian is in bloom!" before you've observed a single umbel.

Eremogone Capillaris, Threadleaf Sandwort

Day 312: Following up on yesterday's post regarding the pronunciation of scientific names, I bring you Err-uh-MOGG-oh-nee?...Err-uh-mugg-OWN?...Err-uh-MO-gohn?...dang those taxonomists, anyway! It was a lot easier to say when it was an Arenaria. The correct pronunciation is Err-uh-MOH-guh-nee cap-il-LAR-is (Eremogone capillaris), and that's a lot of syllables for a tiny little plant to carry around.

"Threadleaf Sandwort" is a helpfully descriptive common name (aka Slender Mountain Sandwort). The leaves of this species resemble the needles of Douglas fir, although they are finer and much softer and form a mat close to the ground. The plants are most commonly found on the sandy volcanic soils of glacial moraines. It is easy to confuse them with some Saxifrages on initial observation, so pay close attention to the field characteristics of both the flower and the foliage. In particular, look for yellow or pink dots on the petals which will only be present if the plant is a Saxifrage.

Pink Elephants

Day 310: I thought I was going to have to buy a gallon of cheap wine in order to see pink elephants this year, but thanks to my botany partners Joe and Sharon, I found where they were hiding. Yes, this is the Elephant-head Pedicularis I mentioned a few days ago. It tends to bloom earlier than most of the other Pedicularis species. Take a close look at the individual flowers on the spike. The elephants' trunks are obvious, but do you see the floppy ears as well?

Interestingly enough, these plants are uniquely adapted to pollination by bumblebees, but not in the manner you might expect. The reproductive structures of this Pedicularis are hidden too deeply for a fat bumblebee to reach. In lieu of picking up pollen grains by contact, the bees hover near the flower and the vibrations of their wings causes the pollen to dislodge. Presumably, it is deposited by a similar mechanism as the bees progress from flower to flower.

MeadoWatch

Day 308 (bonus edition): So what is this "MeadoWatch" thing I was talking about in my earlier post? Well, it's a program developed at the University of Washington to study the response of plants to climate change, particularly in the subalpine meadows where such changes will be most keenly felt. Participants in the program hike along specific transects, stopping at predetermined waypoints where they record the phenological phases of ten focal plant species. Ideally, the program will have up to three individual volunteers or groups of volunteers hiking each transect every day throughout the growth period to limit the error factor inherent in any research involving observation. The broad section of data gathered in this manner is then correlated in such a fashion that patterns can be tracked. Are the flowers earlier at a certain altitude this year than last year? Did snowpack persist later into the season? Are flowers blooming before or after the pollinators for their species arrive? MeadoWatch aids researchers by acquiring hard data from citizen scientists who have more time to spend in the field.

Lousewort Anatomy

Day 305: The Louseworts are in their best bloom at various times over the summer, but it's rare to find examples of every species during a single hike because they don't all flower at once. On July 29, I posted a photo of Bracted Lousewort (Pedicularis bracteosa). Today, I bring you two more: Sickle-top Lousewort (P. racemosa, left) and Bird's-beak Pedicularis (P. ornithorhyncha, right). As you can see, there is quite a bit of variation in the shape of the corolla. Pedicularis is characterized by having a double-lipped flower. The upper lip forms a hood-like structure called a galea, and it is this feature which supplies many of the common names by which these plants are known. Sickle-top is obvious: its galea is the "curl in the middle of its forehead." Bird's-beak has a pointy nose. Coiled-beak is similar to Sickle-top, but its "beak" makes a tighter coil and its inflorescence is more densely packed, and favourite of all, Elephant-head has a long and unmistakable elephant's trunk. The unique shapes of these blossoms serve a purpose: they restrict access to the plants' reproductive parts to specific insects. Upon discovering such an exclusive restaurant, the insects seek out similar plants where they can dine at their leisure without being chased off by other insect species.

Marmota Caligata, Hoary Marmot

Day 302: The Hoary Marmot is one of more than a dozen species of Marmot which occur worldwide. Six species are known to occur in the US, narrowing down to three in Washington, one of which (Olympic Marmot, M. olympus) is endemic to the Olympic Peninsula and does not occur outside that range.

Visitors to Mount Rainier National Park may see either of the two remaining species, although Hoary Marmot (Marmota caligata, above) is the most common and may be found in the subalpine meadows around Paradise and Sunrise and up to 8200' in elevation. Yellow-bellied Marmot (M. flaviventris) is generally only found above 6500', and where the ranges of the two species overlap, they do not interbreed. Hoary Marmot is the larger of the two, sometimes attaining weights of 20 pounds or more as opposed to the smaller Yellow-bellied Marmot who tilts the scale at a mere 11 pounds as a full-grown adult. True to their common names, the Hoary Marmot's body fur is grizzled in colour, and the darker Yellow-bellied Marmot's golden yellow tummy will easily set it apart when it sits up on its haunches as Marmots often do. Both species' call is a shrill whistle. Marmots are vegetarian, and dine on a wide variety of forbs as they fatten themselves up for winter hibernation.

Luetkea Pectinata, Partridgefoot

Day 298: It's just one of those "little white flowers" you see all over the subalpine meadows in the Park, but Partridgefoot (Luetkea pectinata) is enchantingly lovely. Its common name comes from the shape of its leaves which resemble bird tracks left in snow or sand. The second half of its Latin binomial also refers to the leaf: "pectinate" means "having comb-like teeth." Interestingly enough, Luetkea is not classified as an herb, due to the woody nature of its rootstalk, nor can it be called a shrub because of its diminutive size. It therefore falls into the category of "subshrubs," plants whose woody stems and roots overwinter without entirely dying back. Many groundcovers qualify as subshrubs, and indeed little Partridgefoot often forms dense mats of foliage soon after the snow melts.

Roving Out Of Paradise

Click to enlarge

Day 288: I don't do a lot of meadow-roving, and by that I mean working per the position description of "Meadow Rover," a title which refers to those diligent, patient souls who stay within a mile or so of major parking areas, walking the same trails regularly, repeatedly asking visitors to stay on trail and off the wildflowers. Only a few times each year and generally in conjunction with another event, I manage to get in a little time as an official Rover. Today was one of those days.

The Park was hosting a naturalization ceremony at Paradise, so I went up early with the intention of roving the Moraine Trail, going up to Panorama Point, and returning via Alta Vista. It wasn't long before I realized I was going to have to abbreviate my plan based on the number of visitor contacts I'd had in the first half mile, so instead of turning off to the Moraine Trail, I kept heading up. I made it to the base of Pan Point just at turn-around time, something just over a mile from Paradise parking lot. Still, it was a pleasant hike and a gorgeous morning, mosquitoes notwithstanding. The marmots were out by the dozen even though the wildflowers weren't putting on much of a show.

Once I was back at Paradise, it was my pleasure to observe and take photos as 14 new citizens were welcomed to the United States. What better place could there possibly be to celebrate such an occasion than in a National Park?

Buprestis Aurulenta, Golden Buprestid

Day 317: First an update on the Alder Lake Fire...Christian, the young firefighter who has been my point of contact for the last several days, was called back to the line and his position of providing public information was turned over to an older gentleman from the Dept. of Natural Resources. Despite the fact that I was delivering a large container of chocolate-chip cookies for the crew at Spike Camp, the rapport I'd built with Christian as a kindred spirit was notably absent in my dealings with the new man. He presented a by-the-numbers scenario meant to mollify the concerns of locals, and despite a few leading questions from me was not particularly forthcoming. That said, I know when the wool is being pulled over my eyes, and therefore I will give you my personal assessment of the fire rather than the "party line."

The size of the fire has been reevaluated following an infrared survey and now stands at 173 acres. It continues to move eastward and up the ridge. These are simple facts. Spike Camp is being pulled back to Pleasant Valley tonight, and the fire is going to be allowed to burn to the east over several ridges as crews put in one or more dozer lines 50-60 feet wide between Pleasant Valley and the first ridge west of it. According to the DNR representative, this has been deemed to be the most effective way of stopping the blaze, and in fact that may be true at this point. However, it also tells me that they have lost control of the eastward progression and are now falling back on one of the contingency plans Christian explained several days ago, a plan they had hoped to avoid using.

Now for today's nature lesson! I've always wondered what these beautiful metallic green beetles were called, so after photographing this one at Paradise day before yesterday, I did some research and then submitted the photo to BugGuide.net with a tentative identification which was confirmed by one of the staff entomologists. It is Buprestis aurulenta, aka Golden Buprestid (pronounced "boo-press-tid"), a type of wood-borer which feeds largely on dead or dying trees, and on other wood such as lumber. It leaves an oval hole behind as evidence of its visit. This particular specimen was large for the species, slightly over three-quarters of an inch long. My mother always called them "beauty bugs" which, I have to admit, is a lot easier to wrap your tongue around than "Buprestid."

Grass-of-Parnassus, Parnassia Fimbriata

Day 308: Strikingly beautiful and lace-like when observed closely, Grass-of-Parnassus is not a grass at all, but a member of the Saxifrage family. It was first described by Dioscorides, a Greek botanist, as found growing on the slopes of Mt. Parnassus but how its kidney-shaped leaves could have been called "grasslike" is a mystery we may never solve. It is a plant of springs and seeps, preferring to have its roots cool and damp. Thus, its specialized growing requirements limit its range. When it flourishes, it may line a streambank profusely, but only in a narrow band along the margins of the flow.

The species may be found in Mount Rainier National Park if you know where to look. A friend recently reported it to me along the 4th Crossing Trail, so today I set out to find it. My uniform and the camera around my neck often draw questions from visitors, so much of my afternoon was spent in interpretive discussion of Parnassia and other less common plant species in the Park. About two dozen people now know more about Grass-of-Parnassus than they did when they left home this morning. I love my job!