Blue (Sooty) Grouse, Dendragapus Obscurus

Day 300: As a birder, I know that grouse frequently perch in trees, but it always amuses me to see one of these fat brown "chickens" take wing from the side of the road to land on a branch. I half-expect the ungainly thing to pitch off the other side in a cartoon-like demonstration of Newton's First Law, "an object in motion tends to remain in motion," yet it compensates for its mass. The claws dig into the rough bark, perhaps the wings flutter a little, and the bird comes to rest with barely a wobble. Blue (Sooty) Grouse are relatively common in Mount Rainier National Park. I've been surprised by them on many occasions when a piece of "trail" ten feet in front of me suddenly lifted off with an enormous clatter of wings. Their colouration camouflages them well against dirt and gravel or, for that matter, against the grey-brown bark of conifer boughs. There is some confusion regarding the proper scientific name of this species, and field guides may have it listed as "Blue Grouse," separated further into "Sooty" (Pacific) and "Dusky" (interior) forms. The difference is only noticeable in males of Dendragapus obscurus; females of both forms are visually similar.

Penny Perspectives - Lotus Micranthus

Day 249: Even little plants can be invasive. Lotus Micranthus is a teeny-tiny pea with ambitions of world conquest. It occurs profusely in disturbed soils in Mount Rainier National Park, particularly along roadsides and in the traffic islands at Longmire. Also known as Small-Flowered Lotus, it is a legume and bears multiple tiny "peas" in each of its seed pods. When ripe and dry, the pods may burst with a sharp snap, launching an explosion of seeds into the surrounding areas.

Rosy Twisted-Stalk

Day 244: Twisted-Stalk is currently a taxonomic nightmare. Some field guides will list it as Streptopus roseus, S. curvipes or S. roseus var. curvipes but the current designation and ONLY accepted name is S. lanceolatus var. curvipes. Okay, you've all heard me rant about taxonomy before. I just wanted to throw this in here to emphasize the fact that botany is not a static science.

Rosy Twisted-Stalk, true to its common name, bears a bell-shaped flower which is marked with a purplish colour. Unlike other Streptopus species, its stalk is not markedly kinked at the point where the flower stem (pedicel) emerges from the stalk, nor do its leaves clasp the stem. It is generally found above 3000' elevation. Three species of Streptopus occur at Mount Rainier; the other two have white flowers which open out at the tips.

Suksdorfia Ranunculifolia

Day 238: The current trend in taxonomy leans toward naming plants and animals after their discoverers or after researchers who have contributed substantially to the respective disciplines. It is a source of much frustration to me. I far prefer something informative in the nomenclature, such as "Suksdorfia ranunculifolia" (the photo above). It tells me that when I observe the plant, I should see leaves resembling those of the common buttercup (unrelated). Likewise, "latifolia" tells me that the leaves are broad, "rotundifolia" that they are round, "purpurea" that the leaf or flower is purplish. I can equate the terminology with some portion of the plant, and thus the name is easier to remember than (for example) "lyallii" (named after David Lyall, a Scottish botanist) or "hookeri" (a friend of Charles Darwin). It might be different if these botanists' images leapt into my mental vision along with some association to a botanical feature. Surely "einsteini" would call to mind the frizzy hair of that well-known physicist. Yes, I could see a dandelion with the taxonomic designation "Taraxacum einsteini." Makes perfect sense if you think about it.

Letharia Vulpina

Day 235: When you're standing a good 15 crow-flight miles west of the Cascade Crest looking at a specimen of Letharia vulpina and the trees around you have no sign of the lichen on their bark or boughs, the word which springs immediately to mind is "transport." How did it get there, only 10 feet from the roadway? I have only observed this lichen from the Crest eastward, and although it is on the master list of lichens which occur in the Park, I don't know where any herbarium specimens may have been collected. You'd think that in an area where the snow is still receding, you might see other bits around it in the pockets of debris accumulation. There were none. One reasonable theory would be that it was carried to the location on a snowplow blade, hitchhiking until it broke free and was cast off to the side. There is plenty of evidence suggesting this method works as a means of seed-dispersal for vascular plants. Needless to say, I'll be paying closer attention to the trees above this particular section of Stevens Canyon Road from now on. If it's there, I'll find it.

My Favourite Marchantians

Day 273: It is argued that Marchantia alpestris should be treated as a separate species from M. polymorpha, a notorious pest in greenhouses. The differences are subtle, but more importantly, M. alpestris does not form extensive monocultures where it occurs naturally. The spread of this liverwort is kept in check by mosses, lichens and the harsh environment surrounding it, a factor which confines it to the shadier and damper areas of the subalpine ecology. It colonizes in areas scarified by fire and may be abundant until such time as other bryophytes and vascular plants get a toe-hold, but for the most part, only survives en masse in the mats of moss along the margins of small streams and seeps. The "umbrellas" shown in this photo are the male reproductive structures (antheridia).

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.

Chrysomela Confluens

Day 262: I have to admit that I had never spent much time studying bugs until my botany partner Joe began drawing my attention to them. He's keenly interested in the life cycles of butterflies and moths, and therefore likes to check shrubbery when he spots a furled or nibbled leaf. In the course of our adventures, the diverse community of beetles has opened my eyes to a new kind of beauty: those hard-shelled, often colourful individuals who form a vital part of the chain of life.

Many beetles are predatory on other insects. Like Ladybugs, some consume critters which would be otherwise detrimental to plant life (scale, mealybugs, thrips, aphids). Others eat only specific plants or families of plants. Chrysomela confluens (above) is a good example. It feeds solely on alder and willow (a point which helped identify this specimen). Still others consume fungi, and some actually "farm" certain fungal species. Lastly, some maintain a diet of decaying matter or dung which, although a repellent idea from a human perspective, keeps the earth from being buried in waste material. On the flip side, many beetles serve as pollinators, a role for which they are not widely acclaimed.

While the "cute" or imposing members of Clan Beetle get all the press, many less impressive Coleopterae are disappearing from the species census for a variety of reasons, notably the use of wide-range pesticides which affect more than just a target insect. You'd hear about it if the Ladybug population was in decline, but if every Chrysomela on the planet died overnight, the news wouldn't make a one-liner on the bottom of an inside page.

Placopsis Gelida

Day 261: Bullseye! It's easy to see how Placopsis gelida got its common name "Bullseye Lichen," although the cephalodium is not always as perfectly oriented as it is in this specimen. It is this nitrogen-rich feature of lichen anatomy which makes it possible for Placopsis to colonize the seemingly bare surface of recently broken rock. When wet, this lichen may exhibit a greenish-blue tint. Placopsis is a "pioneer" species, i.e., one of the first to establish itself on freshly exposed surfaces. It contributes to the breakdown of rock and in decay, supplies both the matter and nutrients in which vascular plants can establish themselves. The next time you see a rock cliff dappled with wildflowers, thank the lichens which made it possible for them to thrive.

Wall Art

Day 260: It was during a walk through the faerieland of Stevens Canyon that I discovered the Queen of Rocks taking her leisure some eight feet or so from the roadway. She wore a coronet of Penstemon and rested almost vertically against the face of the wall. No other vegetation dared approach closely to her regal repose, nor did any other rock disturb her serene aspect. It was clear that she commanded the wider scene of towering granodiorite, her chiseled throne protected from the cruel forces of wind and water by the grey and ancient battlements which stood at her sides. My audience with her was brief and, vulgar paparazzo that I am, I accepted her gracious permission for a single photograph before moving on.

A Fungus With Eyelashes

Day 252: When I find a species which baffles me, I will refer it out to an expert for help, but my personal quest for its identity doesn't stop there. I continue searching, and in this case, I was able to identify Scutellinia scutellata before Katherine Glew could write back to me to say that it wasn't a lichen. You could have fooled me. In fact, it did fool me, and that's why I sent the photos off to her. She's a lichenologist. The problem is, Scutellinia scutellata isn't a lichen at all. It's a fungus...a fungus with eyelashes.

According to several references, it's not uncommon in the Pacific Northwest. It is a subalpine species, and erupts in the spring. It first appears as tiny round "buttons" which, as they mature, open out into flattish orange disks with golden-brown "eyelashes" around their rims. The backs of the disks show a sparse population of short, stiff hairs. Various field markers allow it to be distinguished from other members of the genus: eyelash length, substrate and when viewed under the microscope, spore characteristics. The largest specimen shown in this grouping had a diameter of 6 mm., but they can be as large as 10 mm. Commonly referred to under the uninspired designation "Eyelash Cup," it is also known by the charming name of "Molly Eye-Winker."

Suksdorfia Ranunculifolia - A Profile

Day 247: I've spoken often about how important it is to capture a side view of a bird if you want to use your photo to make an identification. In the side view, a bird presents the greatest number of field markings possible. But what about plants? Ah, there we're getting into tougher territory.

Many plants have inflorescences which rise well above their leaves. This often means that you can't capture the flower and leaf in the same image. Growth habit also supplies a definitive characteristic. When given a species like Suksdorfia ranunculifolia ("the Suksdorfia with the buttercup-like leaves"), it's best to take three views for your records.

This lovely Suksdorfia often exhibits red-centered and yellow-centered flowers in the same panicle, the panicles rising as much as a foot above leaves which resemble those of common buttercups. When individual blossoms first open, their centers are yellow. As they age, they fade to red. The plant's preferred habitat is somewhere its "feet" can be kept cool and moist, and therefore can be found where seeps emerge from rock. In the Park, it is most common in Stevens Canyon.

Chocolate Lily

Day 241: A close cousin of Washington's native Chocolate Lily (Fritillaria affinis) can often be found in garden stores, usually marketed as Fritillary Lily (Fritillaria meleagris). At least in the cultivated plants in my own garden, the checkered pattern is more obvious than it is in the native species as well as being more strongly defined. The green and brown flecking make the native difficult to observe when it's mixed in with other vegetation, so when Team Biota stopped at a roadside pullout to check for rarities on the cliff face, all three of us walked right past several specimens and didn't notice the first one until we were standing in the ditch and they were at eye-level. A quick survey 100 feet east and west yielded up at least three dozen, but subsequent stops along the same roadway failted to turn up any more. Why that one spot? Why only beside the road? Is it possible they were transported there unintentionally or intentionally? The question becomes important because this is one of several instances of discrete areas where one particular plant exists in isolation beside this roadway. It is a question I will be directing to our Plant Ecologist for further analysis.

Spiranthes Romanzoffiana, Hooded Ladies' Tresses

Day 301: In the opinion of this observer, the spire-like inflorescence of Hooded Ladies' Tresses (Spiranthes romanzoffiana) is one of the most esthetically pleasing among the Orchidaceae. The common name derives from the braided appearance created by flowers ranked by threes in a twist along the stem, each bloom facing at an angle and all pointing in the same direction. This gives rise to a question: does the spiral always go the same way on every plant in the species? The answer is no, but what influences one to turn clockwise and another to turn counter-clockwise is unknown (at least to your narrator). What we do know is that the spiral arrangement creates a "stepladder" for pollinators which helps to ensure that each single, sweetly scented flower is visited in turn as bees and other insects ascend the spiral staircase.

Eriophyllum Lanatum, Oregon Sunshine

Day 297: When a plant is said to be a "composite" (i.e., it belongs to the family Asteraceae), the term refers to the structure of the inflorescence. The blossom (a non-scientific and indefinite word) as we perceive it actually contains two different types of flower: ray and disk. In many cases, the showy ray flowers (usually sterile) surround a tight cluster of much tinier disk flowers containing the plant's reproductive parts. The ray flowers serve as attractors for pollinators. Oregon Sunshine (Eriophyllum Lanatum, aka Woolly Sunflower) is an excellent example of a composite.

When botanizing with Your Humble Narrator, you would find that I generally break subalpine composites into two categories: yellow daisies and purple daisies. Both occur at Mount Rainier National Park in abundant numbers and varieties. The field guides and manuals required to distinguish many of them would easily fill an expedition-sized backpack, although Oregon Sunshine's woolly, silvery leaves clearly set it apart from the rest.

Things My Mother Taught Me

Day 264: In a roundabout way, my mother is responsible for instilling in me a preference for Latin names. Y'see, her dad came from the Midwest where a very similar flower to our native Columbia Lily goes by the name of "Turk's-cap." He was ignorant of the distinction between Lilium superbum and Lilium columbianum, and therefore applied the common name to the flowers he saw blooming here. My mother grew up calling Lilium columbianum by the wrong common name, so inevitably, that was what I came to call them as well. I was in my early twenties when I discovered the error, but the name was so deeply ingrained in my memory that I spoke of them as "Turk's-caps" more often than not, backing up to correct myself each time it happened. Then one day, I hit upon a solution to the problem. I had already learned enough about wildflowers to appreciate the value of Latin names to distinctly identify species often covered by a much broader common name (there are dozens of Penstemons, for example), so it was a fairly easy shift to say "Lilium columbianum" for our regionally-unique "tiger-lily."

It is common for Columbia Lily to have 3-5 blossoms per stem, but don't be surprised if you see more. In my own experience with the species, I counted a whopping 13 flowers on a single stalk near Windy Gap, and have seen quite a few "11s" during my career, both in the Park and in Flatland. Lilium columbianum is not selective with regard to altitude. It blooms from sea level through most of the subalpine zone, and shows up just in time to present a botanical fireworks display for the Fourth of July.

Analyzing Umbilicaria Vellea

Day 256: When lichens are dry, they are much less easy to identify in the field. That it was an Umbilicaria was not immediately obvious because the "belly button" effect is not pronounced in this species, but as I removed a sample, its single point of attachment became clear. With the issue of genus settled, the real work began to determine species. I narrowed it down to two, and then threw up my hands and sent photos off to a lichen contact at the UW. Under her direction and using a microscope, I was able to confirm that it was Umbilicaria vellea, a less common and smaller lichen than U. americana (from which it has only recently been separated as a distinct species) and more likely to be found in an alpine environment. A closer look at the rhizines (inset) will reveal tiny black granules which may serve as vegetative propagules for the lichen.

Peltigera Venosa, Fan Lichen

Day 248: Peltigera venosa is the smallest Pelt lichen to be found in Mount Rainier National Park. In a mature specimen, individual lobes measure only 10-15 mm. wide with brownish-red lentil-sized apothecia generally visible on the margins. Its most distinguishing feature (apart from being bright green) can be seen on the back side of the lobes; true to its Latin name, P. venosa is heavily veined. Interestingly, unlike many other Peltigeras, venosa's reproductive structures occur on the lower surface of the lobes rather than the top, and when these cephalodia (vegetative propagules) become detached, they usually drop close to the parent lichen. A young P. venosa can be seen on the righthand side of the photo. Peltigera venosa is easily the most recognizable species of Pelt in the Park.