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.

Velvet Star Cluster

Day 198: When Hoya carnosa bursts forth, it does so in an explosion of little succulent stars which, when observed closely, appear to be made of white velvet blushed with pink. They feel waxy due to their thickness(hence the name), but in fact they are as fuzzy-wuzzy as a teddy bear. Each star bears another smaller one in its center, and each pendent umbel hosts a dozen or more blossoms, a veritable galaxy of double-star systems, each one with a dark nova at its core.

Carnosa is but one variety of Hoya, and a common one at that. There are dozens of other varieties, each with flowers unique to the type. Some grow as vines, others as a mat. Some climb, some trail. Some bloom in only one season and others bloom almost continuously. Many are easily grown as houseplants, at least for foliage. Bringing them into blossom may prove trickier, though. I've been tending a H. lauterbachii for about ten years now with no sign of a flower, but my H. bella more than makes up for it with a shower of stars every six weeks or so. Carnosa comes but once a year, like the Perseid meteors, and it makes it worth the wait.

Drip Catchers

Day 197: I've dug and scratched and shovelled and scraped and sifted, and have thrown dozens upon dozens of Bluebell bulbs out of my garden and into the woods. Still the little buggers come back, year after year, worse than Lily-of-the-Valley (which, incidentally, I love). "Scilla," my mother called them, a relic of their former Latin appellation. Hyacinthoides non-scripta is what they go by these days: Common Bluebell, Hyacinth Bluebell, and for my nickel, they should be on the invasive species hit list. They'll crowd anything else out of a garden.

But then the other side of my brain kicks in, the non-scientific, artistic side, and I find myself thinking, "Yeah, but they're pretty," so the bulbs I pull get tossed onto the growing mound of turves at the margin of my woods. I'm building a berm by default, making a clearer boundary between forest and yard. "Naturalize your little heads off," I tell them as I pitch them onto the pile, and naturalize they do, but some of their kin will crop up in the flower beds again next year, more guests I wish I could send out to a motel. Frustrated, I dig them out again. "Go be pretty somewhere else!"

Then comes a moment when the elegance of their blossoms enchants me, recurved petals (tepals, if the truth be told) holding in precarious tension miniature gazing globes in which my garden is reflected. My demeanor softens under their subtle coercion and I permit them to stay, if in close preserves. My heart is not so hard that it cannot be moved by a simple flower waving its colors in the breeze.

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!

Hattie In Flower

Day 195: Hatiora rosea is not too often seen in houseplant collections, and it is not the easiest plant to bring into flower. Also known as "Easter Cactus," it blooms once a year. I've had mine for over forty years, and for the first decade, it refused to flower. It was consigned to the purdah of my attic sewing room where it was allowed to go dry for long intervals when I forgot about it, and there it experienced cooler temperatures than it had in a south-facing kitchen window. One day as I was looking for materials for a project, I noticed a solitary, one-inch shell-pink bloom, and therein learned Hattie's secret: a preference for cool nights in winter. I have brought this delicate cactus into flower every year since.

The intensity of color varies depending on sun exposure. The plant again resides in a south window for most of the year, and thus the color of the flower is substantially stronger. Its only admittance to the warmer part of the house is during the blooming period, featured before any guests who may drop by.

Big-leaf Sandwort, Moehringia Macrophylla

Day 194: If you want to see Big-leaf Sandwort (Moehringia macrophylla, formerly Arenaria macrophylla), you may have to put your nose to the ground. This plant's five petals would barely cover the tip of a pencil eraser when fully open. The lanceolate leaves which give the wildflower its name dwarf the blossom at a mere 1.5 inches long. Sandworts grow in a variety of conditions including moist forest and on dry slopes. They can be found at almost any elevation where vegetation is present. This specimen was observed at Longmire, Mount Rainier National Park.

Pilophorus On Parade

Day 193: With the acquisition of a new macro lens/filter, one of my first targets was the colony of Pilophorus acicularis at Longmire. These little fellers are my new "favourite lichen," not only for their cute black hats, but also for their propensity for growing straight out from the side of a vertical rock. Seen from a distance of five feet, you'd take them for grey moss where they cluster thickly. Seen from two feet, they put you in mind of a mutant Chia pet. A few specimens grow upright in this location, although I'm sure that they'd rather be doing horizontal stretches with their compeers, the yoga practitioners of Lichenopolis contending against gravity in pursuit of grace, a grey ballet of black-capped figures on a rocky stage.