Corallorhiza Trifida

Day 221: For the last two weeks or so, I have been monitoring three sites in the hopes of seeing Corallorhiza trifida, rare at Mount Rainier National Park. We discovered it two years ago and thought we'd hit the jackpot with a total of four specimens; at that time, it had not been observed in the Park since 1999. In 2016, my two botany partners and I made a concerted search for the species and turned up a whopping sixteen. In the vernacular, we were "over the moon!" Until yesterday, my 2017 total was again sixteen, all found while searching alone for threads of green no larger or longer than the lead in a standard pencil. It's slow work. Every footstep must be taken with enormous caution not to crush what might be a one-inch stem barely visible above the carpet of moss. Yesterday, Team Biota (the three of us) took to the woods again. When we emerged, we had surpassed the 2016 record by four specimens. Twenty! Only a few stalks bore open flowers, but a few more days of warm weather will bring out the remainder. Team Biota's first day in the field also turned up a new site for our favourite Liverwort as well as a slime mold I've referred to an expert for identification.
UPDATE: Joe went back up alone today and found three more, two in new locations and one at a site where we hadn't seen any yet this year. Twenty-THREE!

Day Of The Trifidas

Day 199: I couldn't resist the play on John Wyndham's apocalyptic novel, "Day of the Triffids." I think of the book every time I say "Corallorhiza trifida."

My enthusiasm for this rare Coralroot has become widely spread, now involving members of the Native Orchid Society and an assortment of botanists, some of whom will be making field trips to the site before this ephemeral beauty fades. It occurred to me yesterday to suggest an after-work expedition to my good friend and supervisor, Kevin. Despite a few sprinkles, we stopped on the way home to take some photos and then went orchid-hunting. We managed to turn up two more specimens near to the first, bringing the total to three and a stem. However, I failed to predict the next course of events.

My photos from that late-day session were uniformly bad. I'm struggling with the technique involved in shooting macros with an add-on lens, and low light is always an issue with my camera. Consequently, I waited until I knew the sun would be penetrating the dense overstory at the site, and made a return trip at 10 AM this morning.

First, let me explain these two photos. Other than adjustments to contrast and the depths of highlight and shadow and some minor cropping, they have not been altered. They demonstrate what occurs in the "sun-fleck" forests in which species such as these thrive. In one second, a plant and its surroundings may be fully illuminated by a ray of sunlight. In the next, it may go as dark as the proverbial London coal-hole at midnight. Throughout the day, this shifting of light creates a unique microecology. Plants entirely dependent on sunlight for photosynthesis cannot survive here; often, you will see nothing but evergreen needles and twigs on Pacific Northwest forest floors. However, the mycoheterotrophic species (obligate or partial) require very little sunlight. It is in the deep forest ..."sun-fleck" forest where competitive species would die ... that you will find them.

So, lesson done, here's the story. I arrived at the parking pull-out and pulled up in front of another vehicle. I knew that one botanizing friend was planning to come down to make another observation of our little pet rarity, and noting that the car looked vaguely familiar, I assumed it was his. However, when I arrived at the site of the Corallorhizas, no one was there. Figuring that he had gone for a longer hike, I settled in to capture C. trifida on digital film.

I took up my customary position and had been flopped on the forest floor, camera clenched tightly in my fists, for half an hour or so when a fir cone hit me on top of the head. I cast a glance upward for a squirrel, but saw nothing. Not to be distracted, I went back to taking pictures. A minute or so later, I was pecked on the head by another cone. I brushed at my hat despite the fact that the cone had bounced and landed in the duff. A few seconds later, I got hit again. I looked up and swore at the squirrel, but still didn't budge from my task. Then a mischance cone tagged me at the corner of my eye. Now grumbling audibly and volubly, I pulled my hat down and, as is my usual wont, continued giving verbal posing instructions to the specimen of C. trifida before my lens.

But that bloody squirrel was not letting up! I kept getting pelted with cones, twigs and bits of debris, but I am imperturble when bent upon a goal and didn't flinch. I remained belly-flopped on the ground, talking to the light, the flower, the rocks, the roots, the camera and anything else I felt needed addressing.

Five or ten minutes passed while I endured a continuing barrage and then, thinking to get some shots of the second new specimen, I started to get up. My eyes travelled to the trail above me where I saw first a pair of legs in uniform trousers and then Kevin's laughing face. I have no idea how long he may have been there, nor how he managed to sneak up on me without my hearing his approach.

Kevin, bless his heart, has been infected with my enthusiasm for this botanical marvel, our little Corallorhiza. He had returned prepared to take photos himself, using far better equipment than I have in my arsenal, and had spent an hour doing just that before I arrived. That said, I am forced to admit that although I may and do consistently recollect rocks and trees I've met only once, I had gone up the trail without recognizing Kevin's car despite the fact that I ride in it regularly.

Corallorhiza Trifida, Local Rarity

Day 196: One of the most exciting moments in a naturalist's career is the discovery of a species they have not observed before. Following a report from a former Park volunteer, I made a total of four trips trying to locate and obtain a decent photograph a solitary specimen of unusual orchid, and even once I had it "in the bag," I was baffled. Since I could not identify it myself, I sent the photo out to several experts in native plants, and just before bedtime last night, I received an identification from one of them: Corallorhiza trifida, aka Early or Yellow Coralroot.

According to Susan McDougall and David Biek, C. trifida is "rare at Mount Rainier....circumboreal, but is uncommon here in the northwest and recorded a couple of times apparently at the mountain...A terrific find!" It is so unusual that they want to photograph it themselves before the blossoms fade. During a plant survey in the Park last year, they had been unable to find an occurrence of the plant.

Even more exciting for me, of course, is the fact that this rare Corallorhiza is also a partial mycoheterotroph, a group of plants in which I have a particular interest. I believe our mild winter may have allowed the mycorrhizal components of many mycoheterotrophic species to proliferate, thus bringing to the surface a greater number and variety of plants than we'd see in a normal year.

Dear little Corallorhiza trifida, if you were a bird, you'd go on my Life List, but unfortunately, I haven't kept good records of my botanical finds. Maybe you've given me reason to start!