Marsh Marigold, Caltha Leptosepala

Day 285: The plant shown in this image provides a classic example of why I dislike common names. It is not even in the same family as garden marigolds (Asteraceae), so why is it called "Marsh Marigold?" Caltha leptosepala belongs to the family Ranunculaceae, alongside buttercups, anemones and hellebores, among others. Its Latin designation "leptosepala" refers to its narrow sepals, that portion of the flower which encloses the emerging bud and serves as protection for it. In a diagram of the parts of a flower, the sepals form the first whorl and are usually green or greenish. Here, the Latin epithet provides a useful clue to identifying the plant in the field, whereas the most frequently used common name would lead you thoroughly astray. But all is not lost. It's also known as "Elkslip" which, if you think about it, makes more sense.

Unbecoming Nomenclature

Day 41: I have to admit that the first time I heard Icmadophila ericetorum referred to as "Fairy Barf," I thought my leg was being pulled, or rather I should say that I thought the person who said it was applying their own personal "pet name" to the species. Lichen common names are not standardized like those of most vascular plants, so it's a bit of a free-for-all out there. Surely no one would call a lichen "Fairy Barf!" Little did I know at the time of lichen taxonomists' predilection for determining acceptable nomenclature while (apparently) stinking drunk, or I would have understood. Needless to say, I have since encountered the term in numerous references. Although I don't like it (I dislike common names anyway), it does seem to be peculiarly descriptive of the species' pale pink apothecia. The light green crust beneath them is the lichen's thallus (body), and its hue fails to supply a better suggestion. In any event, although I can't speak to a timetable for when the fairies deposit it, you're likely to find it on decaying stumps of cedar.

Parnassia Fimbriata, Grass-of-Parnassus

Day 324: Grass-of-Parnassus is an excellent example of how confusing common names can be. First of all, it is not a grass. Purportedly named for its abundant occurrence on Mount Parnassus (Greece), the species actually growing there is a botanical cousin. Also called "Marsh Marigold," it is not related to the Marsh Marigold (Caltha leptosepala) known and loved in PNW alpine wetlands. Yes, it prefers a similar habitat, and thus comes a third common name, "Bog-stars." This is why I prefer Latin. There can be no doubt when Parnassia fimbriata is specified. Whatever you call it, its fringed one-inch flowers are highly photogenic. Look for it along the margins of perennial seeps and springs in the subalpine zone.

Communities

Day 231: Well, this one will make my botany partner Joe happy, because he never has been able to pronounce "Suksdorfia," but it leaves us both having to unlearn the name and trying to remember to call it Hemieva ranunculifolia instead. Even the common name has changed. It's no longer "Buttercup Suksdorfia" for obvious reasons. Now it's Buttercup-leaf Mock Brookfoam. Try saying that three times fast. I dare ya.

One of the "secret techniques" I use when searching for rare plants is to look for other plants which I know to be associated with my target species. They may or may not have any physical link ("association"), but they prefer the same habitats. For example, we know that Aphyllon purpureum is parasitic on specific sedums. This is a direct association, i.e., if the sedum is not present, neither is Aphyllon. However, both the sedums and Hemieva enjoy the same habitat (areas where the roots of the plant can remain cool and moist), so it makes sense to seek out Aphyllon where the two occur together. Of course, there are no guarantees. You could spend days searching through Hemieva's buttercup-like leaves and the fleshy foliage of the sedums without finding a single example of Aphyllon, but it's a place to start. There is quite a bit of information on plant communities on line, so sometimes I do my preliminary leg-work on the internet, reading research papers, trying to determine which associations I might find in our area. Perforce, plants in California will have a different circle of "friends" than those in Washington, and those at Mount Rainier may be found with different species than those in the lowlands. And sometimes, no matter how much you've read ahead of time, the environment will offer its own set of subliminal clues to point the careful observer in the right direction, the "if I was Aphyllon, I'd be over there" moment, recognition of the ideal habitat. It's a skill which comes naturally to some people while others struggle to develop it. If something seems to be compelling you toward a specific niche in a rock, check it out. Your subconscious mind may be trying to tell you something.

Undeniable Evidence

Day 137: If this scene fails to inspire you to break out the seed catalogs, you're beyond all hope of redemption. Snow or no, the daffodils are solid evidence that Spring is on the way, and every year, their white-petalled, orange-cupped blossoms bring up a discussion of the differences between daffodils, narcissi and jonquils. Okay, let's lay the facts on the table.

To start with, all three terms fall under the scientific name of Narcissus. Colloquially (and therefore not strictly speaking "correctly"), "daffodil" refers to the larger-flowered varieties with long trumpets. Likewise, "narcissus" covers small-flowered species with short trumpets or cups. "Jonquil" refers to those plants which bear more than one flower per stem (again, colloquially). "So what about miniatures? And the ones with half-length trumpets?" you ask. "Narcissi," I reply, because I always default to the scientific name if there's any doubt when someone is asking me for an "official" determination. I'm not fond of common names. They are often shared among completely unrelated species, and can exhibit quite a variety of regional permutations (i.e., Texas "bluebonnets" are a lupine under a pseudonym). Still, no matter what you call them, they announce the arrival of Spring in full voice, a glad invocation against winter's thrall.

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.

Mertensia Paniculata

Day 210: Sprangly, bushy, tall Mertensia paniculata would seem to be a weed if it wasn't for its pretty "bluebell" flowers. Also called "tall bluebells" or "lungwort," the scientific name distinguishes it from several other unrelated plants commonly referred to as "bluebells." They include Campanula ("Scotch bluebell" or "Harebell" and "Scouler's bluebell") and Hyacinthoides non-scripta ("Scilla," aka "English Wood Hyacinth"), the latter a garden plant which can be considered delightful or a nuisance, depending on your point of view. To my way of thinking, use of a scientific name eliminates confusion, and in fact often describes a feature which is helpful in identifying a species. In this case, "paniculata" refers to the panicled inflorescence, i.e., flowers hanging loosely from multiple branches off a main stem.

Mertensia paniculata likes moisture, so look for it in meadows and along streams, or in other damp locations. It may stand up to five feet in height. The flowers appear among the topmost leaves, and although they are usually blue, occasionally a pink one will appear within the same inflorescence. Shouldn't those be called "pinkbells" if one follows the illogical convention of common names?

A Unkind Name

Day 309: Today, I bring you a plant which has been given a raw deal by those who handed out common names, however appropriate that name might be. I prefer to call it simply Eriogonum (generic shorthand for its taxonomy, Eriogonum pyrolifolium), or by the less-popular appellation of Alpine Buckwheat, either of which affords it a tiny little bit of dignity among its peers in the plant kingdom. In fact, its scientific name reflects a physical aspect which sometimes also serves as an uncommon common name: Pyrola-leaved Buckwheat. Even that would do. But no, that's not what you'll hear this little creamy flower called. Rangers, naturalists and visitors alike refer to it "Dirty Socks," reflecting its distinctive scent. "Dirty Socks," indeed! That's not nice at all.

Membranous Dog-Lichen, Peltigera Membranacea

Day 170: As if lichens weren't fascinating enough by themselves, existing only by cooperation between fungus and algae, their common names are utterly intriguing. Peltigera membranacea (Membranous Dog-Lichen) is a member of the larger family of "pelts," which includes among other Dog and Fan Lichens such oddities as Freckle Pelt, Frog Pelt, Carpet Pelt, and Born-Again Pelt. Other families have even more peculiar names: Rock Pimples, Ragbag, Sea-Storm, Spray Paint. Who thought up the vernacular nomenclature? And what had he been drinking? I can understand Oakmoss and Bearded Lichen, but what about Naked Kidney and Salty Rock Tripe? Gritty British Soldiers? Bloody Comma? It's enough to make me wonder whether my love affair with these complex lifeforms has its roots in science or etymology.