It's A Quadrillium!

Day 190: The very name "Trillium" tells you that this plant should have three somethingoranothers to distinguish it, but this extraordinary specimen from Pack Forest apparently missed the memo. Four petals, four sepals, four leaves, as perfect as if they always grew this way, caught my eye as I was coming down the 1000 Rd. from Kirkland Pass. I had actually taken a few steps past it before the unusual arrangement registered with me, jerking up short in mid-stride to backtrack with a "What the heck...?" spoken aloud. After taking several photos, I continued on, trying to decide whether it was a Quatrium, Quillium or Quadrillium, settling eventually on the latter cognomen. It will be interesting to pay a follow-up visit next year to see if it repeats the performance.

Trillium Ovatum

Day 171: I find it highly amusing that I actually caught out a couple of people who should have known better with yesterday's April Fool's prank, so today I will make it up to the readers who have every right to expect accuracy in my posts by telling you something you might not know about Trillium ovatum.

You will find this plant described in most field guides as having a three-petalled white flower held above three leaves. Sorry, but that's not what's really going on here. What you see above the ground is a scape, i.e., a flower stalk. The green "leaves" are bracts, i.e., specialized leaf-like structures from which the inflorescence emerges. Other examples of bracts which are mistaken for petals are found in poinsettias (the red bits) and dogwood (the white parts). Close examination of either of these familiar plants will reveal the true flowers clustered together in the center of the showy bracts. Some common scapes include chives, onions and other alliums, whose the flower-bearing stems (peduncles) very much resemble their non-flowering leaves. Bracts perform photosynthetic functions like true leaves, but their primary purpose is to protect the reproductive structures of the plant, and to act as a draw for pollinators. Trillium ovatum's true leaves take the form of tiny scales (cataphylls) on the rhizome, which store nutrients and provide structural support for the plant.

Trillium Bonus

Day 169: I'd gone prowling in the local woods on a trillium hunt only a few days prior to a hike in the Mossyrock area, returning home without having observed a single leaf. Our populations of this native wildflower have suffered greatly from human predation (for that is what I choose to call it), and now they are no longer as abundant in our lowland forests as they were when I was a youngster. I suppose they would still be categorized as "common," although it has been many years since I would have chosen that term to describe their occurrence. Nowadays, each and every one delights me with its flower almost as much as the clusters of them in the acreage behind our house did when I was a child. I remember picking one, bringing it home to my mother who gave me a stern lecture on its fragile botany, and never again did I look at the plant in quite the same way. It may have been that lesson which first made me aware of man's sins against nature; in any event, I learned to respect and value plant life in situ from that moment forward. Perhaps that's why I make this annual pilgrimage to find the first trilliums of the season: penance, and to ask their forgiveness for the one of their number which I so brutally destroyed almost three-quarters of a century ago.

The Light In The Forest

Day 180: Trillium ovatum, the Trillium which used to be so common in Pacific Northwest forests, is becoming harder to find every year. In my childhood, they were everywhere, so abundant that I thought nothing of picking one or two to bring home to stick in a vase on the kitchen table, thus eliciting from my mother what may well have been my first lesson in plant ecology: that if the flower and leaves are picked, the plant has no means to photosynthesize, weakening the bulb until it is rendered non-vital, i.e., it dies. At age six or seven, I was so horrorstruck by this revelation and my part in it that I immediately went on a campaign, attempting to educate my classmates and to stop them from gathering the flowers. I don't know that I had much success, nor even in later years when I tried to discourage friends from digging the bulbs to transplant into their flower beds. Trilliums do not transplant well, and such misguided personal harvesting has been a factor in their current decline. Nurseries do offer cultivars bred to be more forgiving, although once put in place, they should be left there permanently. As for our woodland species, please let the light of their blooms shine in the forests of their choosing, undisturbed.

First Sighting 2017

Day 173: When I went up to Sulphur Creek Falls ten days ago, I was watching for both Trillium and Cardamine blossoms and only saw a few buds of the latter. This week's trip yielded up half a dozen Trilliums although none were fully open. I had to come in from underneath this one (not a problem on the steep slope!), and it was here that I also found one of yesterday's snails, almost entirely concealed by forest duff.

Common names being what they are, the epithet "wake-robin" applies broadly to several different species of Trillium, yet uncharacteristically in a person who prefers the precision of scientific Latin to common usage, the name inspires me with a sense of spring's true return and therefore, it's how I address these lovely lilies when I find them. They are extremely fragile and do not transplant well, but I am favoured by having a few in the wooded strip at the edge of my property. They are not as common in Pacific Northwestern forests as they were in the days of my childhood, days before I was aware of their delicate biology. I am guilty of having picked a few in my youth, and it haunts me that I contributed even in that small way to their decline. Perhaps that's why when I see the first ones each spring, I always share the message: do not dig, do not pick. Your conscience is watching over your shoulder.

Hey, You Robins!

Day 181: It's not spring without Trilliums. Also known as Wake-Robin (a name I find enchanting), this denizen of the shady forest has declined radically from the abundance it once enjoyed, largely because it has been over-harvested by people seeking to transplant it to their home gardens. It does not take well to being disturbed, and seldom survives the transfer. That said, I've noticed at least one commercially-grown variety being offered in nurseries this year, presumably sturdier stock than those growing wild. This is not to say that you cannot still find groves where no robin could possibly be caught napping, but enjoy Trilliums where they stand, regardless of their numbers.

Trillium Cluster

Day 167: Spring is coming on in a rush! I spotted my first Trillium of the season just a few days ago, quite near this site along the Bud Blancher Trail where today they were out in dozens. Following close on the heels of Skunk Cabbage, Trillium boasts a common name reflecting its early emergence: Wake-robin. A charming term, it is sadly falling into disuse for the white-flowered variety, more often to be heard in the eastern portion of the United States where a red-blooming species carries the name. Like so many common names, it may also refer to other unrelated plants, a confusion which less romantic Latin resolves. As much as I prefer using scientific nomenclature for clarity's sake, the phrase "Wake-robin" conjures up a delightful vision of fantasy forests too enchanting to resist.

By Any Other Name...

Day 199: Outside my window and just as the sky begins to lighten, I hear the sound of Ma Nature's alarm clock: "Cheery-up, cheery-up, cheery-up, TWEET!" repeated with the insistence of a dripping faucet. It's those robins again, the "early birds" of legend, better than roosters for announcing that a new day is about to begin. I'm ahead of their game, already out of bed and going about my morning routine, an inveterate early riser. I think better in the mornings, and today, I'm thinking about who gets those goofy robins out of bed. Why, it's Wakerobin, of course!

Better known in the Pacific Northwest as Trillium (Trillium ovatum), this much-loved member of the lily family also goes by the common name of Wakerobin, an appellation which surely came about because of the coincidence of its appearance with the first spring songs of our old friend, the American Robin. If you see Trilliums, listen for the first robins of the season; if you hear a robin, start looking for Trilliums in the forest, but do not pick them and do not try to transplant them to your garden! For all its abundance, the Trillium is an exceptionally delicate plant and individuals can easily be destroyed by a careless footfall.