Snow Queens

Day 185: Another early-season favourite from the Rimrocks trail is Veronica regina-nivalis, aka Snow Queens. They're located within easy distance of parking, which saves me having to hike three miles in Pack Forest to see them in the first place I discovered them. Formerly known as Synthyris reniformis ("reniform" referring to the kidney-shaped foliage), these dainty clusters of flowers have two purple anthers peeking out of each bell. They are easy to miss in the shady, moist habitat they prefer, often barely rising above a carpet of moss or other vegetation. Unless you live in the Pacific Northwest (for this discussion, that includes northern California), you will probably be unfamiliar with this native plant.

Lynch Creek Fawn Lilies

Day 184: Since I had to go to the library today anyway, I took a little side trip, i.e., a short hike up the Rimrocks trail to see if the Fawn Lilies (Erythronium oregonum ssp. oregonum) were in bloom. The ones in my yard only have leaves showing. Sure enough, they were out, alongside Snow Queens and a few Trilliums, and although I'd hoped the Plectritis on the bald would be in bloom as well, its leaves were only barely beginning to show. I went a bit farther than I'd planned initially, turning around at the point where there used to be a clear view of the Rimrocks. Now the trees are too tall, and block all but the highest outcrop. The trail sees very little traffic because it is in an undeveloped county park, and it has rewarded me with multiple "life list" sightings of plants I've found nowhere else.

Therapeutic Plant Hunt

Day 237: By our very nature, human beings tend to dwell in their grief, and I am no exception. The full impact of losing Tippy hit me yesterday in late afternoon, and I said as much to a few select friends who almost all responded in the same way: You need to get out in the woods. I knew they were right, so today I went out on a therapeutic plant hunt, hoping that a little-known and seldom used trail would yield at least one of the species I've seen there and nowhere else. My first goal was Sanicula crassicaulis var. crassicaulis, and I am finally able to show it to you as a Penny Perspective, clusters of tiny yellow flowers gathered together in a space smaller than Lincoln's head. I first observed the foliage several years ago, and when I couldn't identify it, shipped the photos off to two botanist friends who helped me out. One of them said, "You must go back when it's in bloom." I had no idea what to expect (on-line images make it look much larger!) and was delightfully surprised to see its delicate inflorescences. It promptly went on my mental list of "favourite plants." Before I left this morning, I checked my records. Yes, I'd seen it in bloom in early June. Today's specimens were largely already in the seed-forming stage, although I was able to find a few with flowers. And, focused as I was on botany, some of the pain of the last few days lifted. Thank you, my friends, for kicking my butt out into the woods.

Pacific Wren

Day 195: I knew I only had seconds to capture a photo of my little friend here, despite the fact that he seemed to be anxious to have his portrait taken. I turned the camera on, and with some difficulty, found him against the background and zoomed in. Click! and then click again, and he was gone. Only then did I look at the settings. At 1/15th of a second, hand-held, I was sure I wouldn't have anything worth saving. The second image was a blur, but with a little post-processing, I brought this one up to an acceptable light level and was pleasantly surprised by the detail I'd caught in the long exposure. Pacific Wren (Troglodytes pacificus) is an elusive little creature, quick to hop away into concealment, and there to serenade you with a long "Neener-neener, can't catch me!" taunt. More often heard than seen, he prefers brush piles and tangles of vines where his freckled colouration serves him well. But occasionally he pops out to perch on a twig, tail held erect in typical wren fashion, and then he's gone again before the thought of the camera has fully formed in your mind.

Damn Yellow Daisies

Day 243: Birders have their LBJs and LGBs (Little Brown Jobs and Little Grey Birds). Botanists have DPDs and DYDs...Damn Purple Daisies and Damn Yellow Daisies, respectively. The latter is sometimes expressed as DYC, the terminal word being "Composites." The acronym is pronounced "Dicks," which gives a sense of the frustration felt by anyone attempting to identify one of its members.

Seen in the corner of my eye, I was about to dismiss this DYD as common hawksbeard (Crepis), but one of the lesser deities of botany was on duty and and grabbed me by the ears before I could walk past. "Leaf," I said, the subconscious observation rising to the surface of my thoughts. "Linear? What the heck...? Aaaaaagggghhhh! DYD!" Only then did I notice that what I had initially taken for abundant ray flowers were in fact far fewer petals, each having three distinct lobes. If I had thought about it at the time, that would have given me a clue because I've seen a much smaller cousin, but I turned to my field guides and Hitchcock as soon as I got the photos out of the camera. I pinned it as Madia almost immediately, but then had the task of sorting out which one. I was guided by leaf shape, number of ray/disk flowers and a hairy involucre to settle on Madia sativa, aka Coast or Chilean Tarweed. Despite the misleading nature of the common name, it is native to the area.

Plectritis Congesta

Day 242: As long as I was already in Rimrock County Park on a Sanicula hunt, I thought I'd check on the...um...uh-oh...the word is in there somewhere...that pink thing up on the knob. Maybe it's because it's pink, or maybe it's because I've only found it in one location, but the name "Plectritis congesta" doesn't want to stick between my ears, nor "Sea-blush," because the aforementioned location is significantly inland of any salt water. How it came to grow on top of an exposed rocky knob where little else but Scotch broom has put down roots is a mystery to me, but this is one of the things I enjoy about hiking in Rimrock. Owned by the county, the park is undeveloped. Evidence suggests that it was clear-cut many years in the past, but even as second or third growth, the acreage offers a good variety of "pocket ecologies." I've found several plants there which I have not seen elsewhere, including Sanicula crassicaulis, Erythronium oregonum and a DYD ("Damn Yellow Daisy") which will be the subject of tomorrow's post. Lots of "bunny-trails" lead off the main path, established by deer and going nowhere in particular, as tangled as a plate of spaghetti. There are no broad views, although if you know where to stand, you can get a glimpse of the Rimrocks, and even through a screen of alder foliage, they're an impressive sight. But even so, I seldom hike for the broad view. My preferred "scenery" seldom exceeds a foot and a half in height. Plectritis tops out at about eight inches, a pink Marine buzz on a rounded pate of exposed rock. That's worth challenging a few nettles to see.

It Started With Sanicula

Day 241: Earlier this year while hiking in Rimrock County Park, I found some odd foliage I couldn't identify. I referred it to my two tame experts, Arnie and David Giblin at the Burke Herbarium. They both identified it as Sanicula crassicaulis, and left it to me to determine the subspecies (var. crassicaulis). David said, "And be sure you get pictures of the flowers when it blooms." That was my project for yesterday: find a bloomin' Sanicula. I think David must have been having a quiet little chuckle, knowing what was ahead of me. I hadn't gone far up the trail when I spotted the familiar leaf. A few tall stems rose above the foliage, terminating in what I took to be seed capsules. As I continued on, I was kicking myself for not having made the trip in late May, thinking that the petals had already dropped, but then noticed a tiny fleck of yellow on another inflorescence. "Hang on a mo'," I said aloud. "Is that the freakin' flower?" What I'd seen earlier were buds. A hand lens would have been nice to have at this particular juncture, but no one had warned me. I put my eye right down on the yellow bits and discovered that yes indeed, the Sanicle panicle displays a number of tiny corymbs, all in a space no larger than the pink of your thumbnail. I'm trying to work that into a poem to drop on David as my revenge.

Snow Queens, Veronica Regina-Nivalis

Day 158: Okay, that does it. Who spilled their coffee in the DNA sequencer? Snow Queens have been reclassified into the Speedwells as Veronica regina-nivalis, and that's just since I got my latest edition of Hitchcock where it's still listed as Synthyris reniformis. That's not the first sticky-note I've put in Hitchcock's index, and I can guarantee that if the taxonomists have their way, there will be a lot more before the next edition is released. Now I am tasked with remembering the "Veronica" portion of the Latin. "Regina-nivalis" is easy. It means "queen of snow." I s'pose I'll have to take to addressing this early bloomer as "Queen Veronica" when I meet her in the woods. That said, it was not necessary for me to make a six-mile trek to reach Snow Queens this year. As luck would have it, Rimrock County Park is full of them, starting only a hundred yards up the trail, as I discovered when hiking there on Wednesday. I do enjoy seeing this lowland plant with its purple anthers peeking out from a bell of pale lavender petals. I think of them as the eyes of curious faeries, watching the human who has intruded into their woodland to be sure she does no harm. One of the first flowers to emerge in spring, Snow Queens outpaces even Cardamine and Trillium, if perhaps running head to head with Skunk Cabbage. It is this phenology which pulls me out of my bear-den each year, anxious to celebrate my floral friends' emergence from their winter naps.

Giant White Fawn-Lily, Erythronium Oregonum

Day 157: "I bet they're not up yet," I said as I was packing my pack for an impromptu hike in Rimrock County Park on Wednesday. I had been quite surprised when I stumbled across them (almost literally) two years ago. The colony was the first I'd ever encountered, and they were in full bloom at the time. I had to shift gears mentally from my initial, "What are avalanche lilies doing down here?" The flower is quite similar, like a miniature Easter lily: white, six-petalled and nodding. The leaf is striking, mottled brown and green, and undoubtedly the source of one common name, Trout-lily. It's easier to remember than the alternate for Erythronium oregonum, Giant White Fawn-lily. "Giant" is misleading, although this Erythronium is admittedly somewhat (not much) larger than its alpine cousins. A subspecies is found in western Washington, but I have not determined whether these particular plants belong to it...not yet. It will be a few weeks before that little bud opens to reveal clues to its full taxonomy. Like Schwarzenegger said, "I'll be back."

Plectritis Congesta

Day 210: From its common name Shortspur Seablush, you would expect that Plectritis congesta would grow close to the coast. I didn't know what it was when I found it in Rimrock County Park near Eatonville a few days ago, so because I was very excited about discovering Erythronium oreganum in the same general area, it went in my files under "Identify." Things in "Identify" tend to get nudged off the board when I transfer files to secondary storage, but I happened to be looking back over the last week's photos and noticed that I hadn't dealt with it yet. I was prepared to accept that it was an escapee from someone's garden, and will admit that I was somewhat surprised to learn that it's native with a range from Vancouver Island to California. It is not found outside the western states, and makes a second "Life List" plant I've discovered in Rimrock Park.

Erythronium Oregonum, Giant White Fawn-Lily

Day 202: Well, I did a double-take. "That's not an Avalanche Lily! What the hell...? Is that a Trout?" In the end, it proved to be Erythronium oreganum, commonly known as Giant White Fawn-Lily, but closely akin to both Avalanche and Trout Lilies and something I had never before seen. I was out on an invasive-plant patrol in the undeveloped Rimrock County Park. It's a lovely place for hiking in solitude, although the peace is frequently broken by the sounds of rifle fire from the local gun club, but I am willing to endure that in order to have the woods to myself. Besides, they're over a hill from the trail system and pose no danger to someone walking on the back side. So, like I said, I did a double-take. The mottled leaves told me it was no Avalanche Lily, nor would I have been likely to find them at such a low elevation. "Trout" and "Fawn" tend to follow some pretty indistinct rules in the application of common names to the Erythroniums, so being a fisherman, those speckly leaves led me to spend the rest of the day saying, "Trouts! I found Trouts!" Well, in between bending over to pull Digitalis and Tansy Ragwort, anyway. A "life list" plant is a pretty good reward for pulling weeds.

Rimrocks

Day 6: It's been years since I hiked in this undeveloped county park. The last time I was here, I was geocaching with Kevin and as we were on our way up the trail, hoping for a "first to find," Kevin's phone rang. It was another geocaching friend who was hoping to meet up with us to go for the cache in honour of his birthday. Kevin and I immediately turned around and hiked back down to meet him on the lower trail. We found the cache, and I had not been back to Rimrock Park since, except to pick holly off a bush growing by the side of the road. That bush inspired today's trip. If there was one holly (and a berry-bearing one at that), there were bound to be others. Anybody sense an invasive plant report coming up here? You're right. That said, the only nasties I found were all holly, and only the one was in fruit. However, there were branches of the trail which I'd never explored, and heading off toward the gun club and the sound of rifle fire, I found this exquisite view of the Rimrocks. There are two questions for which I need answers. First, how was this formation made? Second, how did the high schoolers get up there to emblazon one face with E for Eatonville? I ran out of trail going either way. There must be a secret (and probably illegal) way to the top.