Myrio On Live Sedge

Day 244: Beth Fallon, the Park's new Arnie (Plant Ecologist), got to meet Myrio today when she and I took a field trip to the site of our largest population. The receding snow meant that we had to do a bit more bushwhacking than Joe and I had done on Tuesday, but it also meant that new fungi had popped out further upslope to the limits of the host sedge. Beth agrees with me that a survey would be helpful toward understanding the effects of the fungus on the sedge, but unfortunately, it's too late to push it through the approval process this year. That said, she was intrigued by Myrio and my description of its life cycle, so to that end, I tried to find a free-floating specimen with its sclerotium still attached. I was unable to locate one, but for the first time, was able to take a sample of the complete fungus attached to its LIVING host. The specimen will go in the Park's herbarium once it is dried and mounted.

A Kink In Its Tail

Day 242: One of the distinguishing features of Myriosclerotinia caricis-ampullaceae is a kink in the end of the stipe, and the stipe's termination in a "button" of tissue called the "sclerotium." The sclerotium anchors the fungus to its host sedge at a leaf axil. While neither the kink nor the sclerotium is visible in this photo, the curled stipe demonstrates the struggle this fungus puts up to reach the surface through a dense bed of sedge foliage. Myrio likes to keep his feet wet...not just damp, mind you, but wet...and emerges just as the snow pulls back, so field research can be a chilling proposition. Amid voluble cursing on the lines of, "Oh, damn, that's cold!" (rendered somewhat more family-friendly than the actual vocabulary), Joe and I waded barefoot into the fray hunting for exceptionally large specimens (size also confirms the identity of this rarity). In the process, we made a discovery: when the sedge dies and begins to decay, Myrio drifts free, allowing its fruiting bodies and their spores to move downrange. Our main site presents an opportunity to study the fungus' rate of spread and its effects on our native sedge population. Since this site was unknown in 1941 when Myrio was first discovered in the Park, we hope to establish a baseline for the next generation of researchers.

Where Rarity Is Abundant

Day 241: Forgive my enthusiasm, please, but after discovering a fungus which is rare world-wide not only as a species but as a genus, Team Biota has hit the fuddy-blucking mother lode of Myriosclerotinia caricis-ampullaceae at Mount Rainier National Park. Because neither of us thought to bring gumboots, we spent close to two hours wading barefoot in icy, shin-deep snowmelt (well, Joe stepped in a hole about two feet deep, so he gets bonus points) simply because we couldn't believe the abundance of cups. The largest we measured was a whopping 29 mm in diameter, surpassing the largest of our initial finds in 2016, but the most exciting discovery of the day was neither size nor number. We found numerous specimens which had detached from decaying sedge, leaving the stipe's end "curlicue" and sclerotium exposed, suggesting that the fungi are transported by the lightly flowing water in which they grow. This may also offer a clue as to why the cups disappear within a matter of days from their time of emergence. They may be being washed into deeper water or becoming buried beneath floating sedge, or both. In any event, the more information we can gather on this little critter, the better. I wish I had more years left to me in which to study them.

A Team Biota Day

Day 257: Team Biota had a field day yesterday in two senses of the phrase. We spend 9.5 hours in a variety of habitats, including lowland and subalpine forests where hiking ranged from clambering over logs, weaving through devil's-club thickets, slogging in bogs and navigating cross-country over snow-covered terrain. We documented a total of six Phantom Orchids still in bud and a new location for Myriosclerotinia caricis-ampullaceae (a whopping 29 specimens), and managed to rule out several other potential sites for the latter. Muddy, wet, tired, the three of us (Joe, Sharon and I) reported our findings to Arnie at the end of the day, thoroughly satisfied at having observed not one but two rarities in the space of a single field trip.

Each observation seems to bring up a whole new set of questions: How many plants do six stems of Cephalanthera represent? Based on proximity, the answer could be any number from two to six. How far does the mycorrhizal component extend? What is the mycorrhizal component, since it seems to be different in the Park than in other areas where Phantom is known to occur? Does water chemistry have any effect on Myrio's preference for growing in some meadows where its host sedge occurs and not in others? Is there a connection between the presence of certain other plants in conjunction with Myrio? Observation suggests it, but there's no proof for a link. And how do we get answers when the Park's budget is pinched so tightly that it's even unlikely the aquatics crew's broken pH meter will be replaced in the near future?

Gathering field data is a step forward in ensuring that these rare species will eventually be better understood. That's what Team Biota does. We're the "boots on the ground," ranging the places where (hopefully) few others go. Somehow when you're on your knees counting little Myrio noses or taking a photo of a Phantom, "wet, muddy and tired" just don't seem to matter.

Not Asparagus

Day 210: Other than my usual meanderings-around, today was my first real field day (albeit rather damp) looking for rare plants this year. Erupting three weeks later than they did in 2017 due to late-lying snow, nine Corallorhiza trifida stems made their appearance at the location I call "Three-Quarter Mile." None were seen in either of the remaining two customary pocket ecologies, but eight of these were in the "asparagus" stage of early development. The solitary blooming specimen was shorter than average at approximately 4". Warmer temperatures are projected for the weekend, so the buds should be fully open in about 10 days.

Triteleia Hyacinthina, Fool's Onion

Day 280: Although Triteleia hyacinthina has other common names ("White Brodiaea," "White Hyacinth"), none describes it quite as aptly as "Fool's Onion." It has seldom been reported in Mount Rainier National Park, but Team Biota recently found it in abundance (i.e., over 100 plants) in a previously unrecorded location. It is substantially larger than the Alliums it resembles, often reaching heights of 18 inches or more. The inflorescence is an umbel up to 3 inches in diameter surmounting a sturdy stem which sometimes leans under the weight of the flowers, and individual petals are marked by a greenish central stripe. Its rarity caught me by surprise. Because it was so numerous at this site, I assumed it was common elsewhere until I checked the identification in several field guides. Another score for Team Biota!

Comarum Palustre, Purple Marshlocks

Day 271: Rare in Mount Rainier National Park, Comarum palustre is a denizen of boggy or swampy areas. Formerly grouped with the Potentillas (cinquefoils) and previously bearing the misleading appellation of "Marsh Cinquefoil," Purple Marshlocks has undergone changes in both its common and scientific names as research determined that it was a genus in its own right. While most modern field guides will have the correct taxonomy, the older and confusing common name persists. It bears a compound leaf comprised of 5-7 leaflets, toothed, and arranged somewhat palmately (like fingers on a hand). The similarity of the leaf to that of the cinquefoils ("cinque," five; "foil," leaf) was one of the factors which led to its original and inaccurate classification.

Finding Myriosclerotinia Caricis-ampullaceae

Day 253: In a paper published in Vienna in January 1996, Myriosclerotinia caricis-ampullaceae is referred to as "very rare," and goes on to describe it as occurring on two species of Carex, C. lasiocarpa and C. rostrata. The latter Carex is included in many PNW field guides, but there is some confusion regarding the sedges, and whether or not our Mount Rainier beaked sedge is Carex rostrata or Carex utriculata is a subject open for debate among botanists. This information opens the question of whether or not our discovery of the fungus shows a heretofore unrecorded host, or whether it could be a local subspecies. DNA research shows that specimens taken in Europe (notably from Finland, Sweden, Belgium and Czechoslovakia) are identical to those found in the US and Canada. We must also consider that the Carex host recorded in 1985 and detailed in the paper might have been misidentified. One question generates another, which in turn gives rise to many more. Oh, to have another fifty years to find the answers!

Pilophorus Clavatus, Tapered Matchstick Lichen

Day 15: How many times have I walked around the Trail of the Shadows, my eyes sweeping the surrounding area for rare and elusive species? How many times have I gone right past this particular rock, never seeing what was waving to me from its nearly bald pate? If I had not been searching for one particular solitary mushroom, only to be distracted from my task by another lichen nearby, I would not have been bent over at the right angle to the light or in the proper position to spot these minuscule and sparsely distributed threads.

This, dear readers, is a cousin to my favourite lichen (Pilophorus acicularis). It is Pilophorus clavatus, also known as Tapered Matchstick, common nomenclature derived from the "burnt" appearance of its apothecia. The tallest of these little buggers is only about three-quarters of an inch long, and you'd have to cluster four or five of the stalks to approximate the diameter of the lead in a pencil. We're talking TINY, and of course perfectly camouflaged against the rock. Like P. acicularis, Tapered Matchstick is a "pioneer" lichen, growing only on freshly exposed, non-calcareous rock. It is much less common than P. acicularis, occurs at higher elevations, and is more tolerant of deep shade. All of the Pilophorus species are nitrogen-fixers, a biological advantage if you're going to grow on "bare" rock or in poor soil.

Once I'd got this specimen in my photographic "bag," I spent some time looking for any other Pilophorus-supporting rocks in the vicinity. Nope, no luck, but now I'm on high alert. If they're out there, I'll find them.

The Icing On The Cake

Day 259: Yesterday, I introduced my readers to two of the most common species of Paintbrush to be found in Mount Rainier National Park. Today, it is my pleasure to show you a rare variety.

First, I want you to notice that I used the word "variety" in that last sentence. This is not a rare plant, per se, but it is a rare colour. Just like pansies, petunias and poppies can be found in a variety of colours, so can some of our native wildflowers. Their genetic differences are not sufficient to categorize them as separate species or even as sub-species despite the fact that they are visually quite different from others of their same species.

Castilleja parviflora var. oreopola is a case in point. This "Magenta Paintbrush" has white bracts. If you compare a "leaf" of magenta-coloured Paintbrush (C. parviflora) to a "leaf" of this white Paintbrush, you should be able to tell that they are identical in all respects except colour. The white form is rather rare in the Park, previously reported from the Sunrise area. Following a lead from a botanizing friend, I was pleased to be able to observe not one but two specimens near Paradise on a morning hike today.

Cone Plant (Gnome Plant), Hemitomes Congestum

Day 235: Rare in Mount Rainier National Park and observed by your narrator only two or three times previously, Hemitomes congestum (Gnome Plant or Cone Plant) was discovered by me growing in two widely separated locations on June 4, 2015. This further fuels my theory that the mild winter has allowed the mycorrhizal components required by these highly specialized species to proliferate. I have also noted several large colonies of Indian Pipe (Monotropa uniflora) in the same area where this photo was taken, and indeed, monitoring the Indian Pipe's development was what drew me back to the site on this occasion. Additionally in the same area and others, the Spotted Coralroot (Corallorhiza maculata) has grown to an exceptional size. It isn't just a good year for mycoheterotrophs. It's an amazing one!

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!