The Vasculum

Tragia ramosa: the spicy side of tactility

2012-01-29T22:28:00.005-06:00

Ouch! Great Oden’s Raven!

This is what I exclaim moments before I locate Tragia ramosa while fingering my way through a quadrat or as I sit for lunch in an open glade with a view and decide to lay back and reflect. The nasty needlish and nettle-like hairs of this gangly dweller of grassland understories deftly prick the skin and give you a dose of hot proteinaceous exudate that, tingling as it burns, lasts for hours after the encounter. Try to avoid it as I may, I become hostage to Tragia’s maniacal “gotcha” game time and time again.

That being said, I am a big fan. It just has that lovable bulldoggish quality to it. And the fruits, how amazing are those bristly gynophorous brutes?

The complexity of Tragia’s pain delivery system is fascinating and has been intimately studied and explained by Thurston (1976). As explained by Thurston, each stinging “hair” is made up of four cells. Three of these cells are parallel to each other in an elongate fashion. The base of the triad is anchored to the leaf surface. The tips of the three cells converge around a terminal cell which is heavily vacuolated with stinging fluid. Protruding from the cell wall of the terminal “poison” cell is a fierce calcium oxalate crystal. But this is no ordinary crystal. The base of the crystal has several spikes that intrude into the interior of the terminal cell. The shaft of the crystal has a longitudinal groove all the way to the ice pick tip. The theory is that the slightest contact with the crystal causes the spikes at the base to rupture the vacuole and cytoplasm of the “poison” cell and the toxic brew is instantaneously funneled (or shot depending on the role of turgor pressure) into the skin of the offending beast. Tragia ramosa is covered with hundreds of thousands of such trigger happy hairs.

So where can those hungry for pain, those lusting for the spicy side of tactility experience this sneaky deterrent to sampler and grazer alike? Primarily a species of southwestern North America, Tragia ramosa enters the southern third of the Tallgrass Prairie Ecoregion at the northeastern extension of its range (BONAP). Here its range overlaps the similar Tragia betonicifolia.

In the photo above, taken at Tallgrass Prairie Preserve in the Flint Hills of Kansas, T. betonicifolia is on the left and T. ramosa on the right. Tragia betonicifolia has larger leaves on the lower half of the stem. These leaves are noticeably cordate as opposed to the nearly truncate leaf bases of T. ramosa. Also, the upper stem leaves of T. ramosa are narrower, thicker, hairier and more corrugated than those of T. betonicifolia.

So, be careful. Its dangerous out there. But if you find yourself face to face with a Tragia, feel free to give it a try. Chances are, it will find you first.

Thurston E.L. 1976. Morphology, fine structure and ontogeny of the stinging emergence of Tragia ramosa and T. saxicola (Euphorbiaceae). American Journal of Botany 63(6) 710-718.

Juniperus virginiana; Open for Business

2011-03-06T23:06:00.004-06:00

I was preparing for a lecture on gymnosperms for my MST botany class and decided to collect specimens of male strobili from the Juniperus virginiana next to my house. You know, something to pass around, to smell, to feel. Male strobili are easily found. In fact, when in abundance on certain trees they give a tan hue that can be zeroed in on from quite a distance.

The little cones, just a few millimeters long, were opened just enough to let the microspores slip through and onto the gusty superhighway that is the air on these warm days of late winter.

I admire these reproductive gems every year and anticipate their awakening as one of the first stirrings of Spring. With spring Peepers chanting in the background, I shook a branch and delighted at the millions of encapsulated microgametophytes lofting on their journeys of hope, each wanting only to contribute its self-determined half to future eastern red cedars everywhere. The assumption of hope being my wish for them and an obvious stray from scientific reasoning that I allowed myself in my hour of appreciation and, dare I say, participation.

But what about the ladies? Those to whose liquid pollination droplets these lusty yellow shore-leave soldiers of sexual selection aspire? Where are they in such a time of need? And why have I never seen them in spite of many a casual attempt at location? I see plenty of female plants as indicated by the previous season’s berry-like fleshy blue cones and I have picked through many branchlets with the intense attention of a bonsai artist, but have always fallen short of discovery. But there I am, year after lonely year, growing more concerned and frustrated by every failed attempt.

Well, I am proud to say that I need look no more. While digging through the dizzying dichotomy of branches and scales, straining my eyes on broken tips that may be it but aren’t while getting pricked by the dry and needle-like scales of the interior, I finally found one.

In full glory, I give you an open megastrobilus of Juniperus virginiana. Notice the three naked ovules two of which have active pollination droplets. These droplets exude from the micropyle and provide increased surface area for pollen grains to land on. Eventually, the droplets contract back into the ovule and bring the pollen in contact with the nucellus of the ovule. A pollen tube extends into each archegonium of the ovule making fertilization possible. If all goes right, a seed forms and awaits dispersal. Notice the thick "scales" surrounding the three ovules. These will develop into the fleshy cone of the glaucous-blue "berries" (hey, my two year old calls them blueberries so back off).

A piece of me is now at rest and I sleep better, undetectably so but better, knowing everything is indeed as it should be. And if I pursue the hunt for the elusive female cones of junipers again, it will be for fun rather than the aching necessity of curiosity.

The Table Key to Carex sections

2011-02-13T15:31:00.016-06:00

Most botanists know that Carex is a difficult group to master. Not because the taxa within it are necessarily obscure, but because there are just so many that it is difficult to wrap your mind around them all. Most sedge-heads get in the habit of thinking of Carex in terms of the taxonomic sections within the genus. This breaks the species into more concrete groups and allows one to digest them by shared morphological traits. That being said, it is also difficult to keep the sections straight in one's head. In order to save my brain some strain I put together the following table key to the Carex sections.

In order to use it, just start with the top row and work your way down the dichotomous choices to a group of 2-4 sections. Under each section is a list of characters that should distinguish each from the other.

While the table key was devised for those Carex sections found in Missouri, it undoubtedly covers most sections in the Midwest (minus some obscure, rare or monotypic sections to the north). Also, keep in mind that this thing is hot off the presses and has not been tested or reviewed extensively so use it with caution.

If you would like to print off a copy for you home, office, clipboard or tattoo artist I have also put it on www.scribd.com where you are free to print off a copy. Click HERE to be directed to the page. You should print it on 8.5 x 14 size paper for legibility. If you print it, I only ask that you please provide me with feedback on anything from spelling to taxonomic confusion.

Thanks,

Justin Thomas

Prairie Poem

2010-12-12T21:56:00.004-06:00

Oh proud prairie

Oh fertile shroud

Rooted in the black depths of antiquity

Spotted and swaying with varying degrees

Of blue, green and golden pleasures

A symphony of silent strength

Where wind and grass collide

To worship open expanse

In you I confide

Between the prayers of a Pleistocene sky

The pressure of ice

And the loft of loess

I walk in silent search

Of anything

That can exist so freely

As these erupting spirits of bloom

In concert with birds, time

Motion and tune

Oh my miserable heart

diced to bleeding pulsing squares

Roads and crops

Dust and barbed wire stares

Pitted with rust

That stain more red than ignorance

My imprisoned prairie soul

Dig deep

Into ancient soils

And find the us

In what remains

Of the plows crumbs

And the cattle's waste

Find the starry night

So far away

And let us sleep

Together

Under it

And remain

Carex aureolensis

2010-08-04T21:16:00.016-05:00

It was just about a year ago when I first heard of Carex aureolensis. While walking with a fellow botanist he asked if I had noticed it in the Cyperaceae volume of the Flora of North America (vol. 23). I had not. He then informed me that it had been split out of Carex frankii, a species I had seen throughout eastern North America and in which I had never noticed much morphological variation. I believe my reaction was typical of most biologists upon hearing of taxonomic change in a group thought to be stable. My lips tightened, my heart rate increased and my vision became unfocused as my brain slammed into a low, deeply contemplative, gear. After a few minutes of test driving the idea in my head, I said with a slow and worried countenance “I don’t know if I buy that”. Trail talk is cheap.

When I got home, I hit the index of FNA vol.23 and thumbed my way to page 519. Sure enough, there it was. I read the description, habitat and comments then flipped to the key characters. It all sounded legit; little overlap in easily seen morphological characters including habit and scale shape coupled with a definable geographical range. I quickly put the characters of C. aureolensis to memory; rhizomatous instead of cespitose growth; scarious tissue on the body of the pistilate scales; lanceolate to ovate staminate scales. I’ve been looking for it ever since.

For the past year, every time I would see C. frankii (below), or at least what I had always thought was C. frankii, I would run through the characters in hope of finding the elusive C. aureolensis.

I would start with the growth habit (rhizomatous vs. cespitose). This was never satisfying and what turned out to be C. frankii was always loosely cespitose at best and bordering on what I would call rhizomatous. Unsatisfied by ambiguity, I would snap a pistillate spike in half like a green bean from the garden and look at the scales subtending each perigynium.

Needle thin from base to tip every time and thus C. frankii. The pistillate scales of C. aureolensis should have membranaceous/scarious tissue on the body that often forms a tooth on both sides of the midvein similar to the stipules of native roses. The search continued.

Today started like most of my summer days. Up early, out the door, field work, home, sleep, repeat. Who knew that the series of events about to unfold would so profoundly change my life, dramatically reorganize my world perspective, reroute billions of synapses in my brain and leave me standing, shivering, in the mental frigidity of a shattered and hollow psyche. Well….not really….but it was kinda neat…..Basically, I stumbled onto C. aureolensis, collected some and went home. Boring to most, but to me, a great day.

Like many “new” names, C. aureolensis is not really new. It is resurrected. Described in 1855 by Ernst Gottlieb von Steudel (a distant cousin to Heinz the Baron Krauss von Espy, no doubt), it appears in none of the florae on my bookshelf before 2002 when Ford and Reznicek reinstated it as a distinct species (Flora of North America, vol. 23). Knowing when it was lumped or if it was ever even acknowledged would require more research than I have time for right now. Regardless, a big “hats off” to Ford and Reznicek. This thing is clearly distinct. So much so that when I first saw it I didn’t have a clue what it could be. After inspecting it for several minutes I decided it was similar to C. frankii but with a bit of C. squarrosa thrown in the mix. A second later, my brain, like an overexcited schoolboy squirming in his seat, raised his waving hand with an “ooh, ooh, ooh”. “Yes brain”, I replied. “It’s Carex aureolensis!!!”. Indeed, it was.

Here is the breakdown:

The population I found is clearly rhizomatous and easily evenly covering twenty square meters of wetland.

The plants are darker green (C. frankii is often a bit on the yellow-green end of the spectrum) and the pistillate spikes are more evenly distributed along the stem than C. frankii.

The pistillate scales have membranaceous tissue at the base (click on photo below to see it best). The bodies of the perigynia seem more squat than those of C. frankii.

So, there it is. The process of discovery as illustrated by my encounter with C. aureolensis. To me, one of the best things about being a botanist is the serendipity, surprise and elation of discovering a new plant. And while new plants to a region or even to science are certainly exciting, the innocent pleasure of finding a new plant to yourself, one you have been keeping an eye out for years, CAN be a higher reward; a private exchange between a hunter and his quarry. It is what keeps many botanists going when the days get long, the hills get steep, the Smilax gets thick and the myriad sacrifices of a nomadic life take their toll. It is in these moments that such discovery is needed most.

The Dichanthelium Series: Dichanthelium lanuginosum

2010-07-04T00:22:00.009-05:00

This is the most commonly encountered Dichanthelium in the eastern United States. Correspondingly, it is the most generalist species of Dichanthelium in the eastern United States. It has 26 synonyms that loosely represent its range of morphological and geographical variation. It is often lumped with D. acuminatum. In Michigan, Wisconsin and the Chicago region, it is erroneously referred to as D. implicatum (a travesty that won’t soon be rectified and that largely hinges on the cult of personality).

The sheaths are pubescent with short uniform hairs. The vernal stem leaves (biggest leaves on the stem) are oriented nearly 90 degrees from the stem. The adaxial leaf surfaces can range from glabrous to villose to velutinose; consistency is found at the population level. The spikelets average around 1.6mm long.

Ligule length is the strongest character. Unlike D. acuminatum (to which it is only distantly related), D. lanuginosum has a uniformly long (2.0-4.0mm) ligule. It also lacks the ciliate leaf margins of D. acuminatum which has margins akin to D. laxiflorum (for those in the know).

It disturbs me that the most common Dichanthelium, the weedest Dichanthelium, in the eastern United States is so shamefully misunderstood. This presents a sad dichotomy in that scientists travel the world, infinitely dissect cells and monophylogenically clade molecules in attempt to discover new ways in which organisms manifest themselves from the biotic and abiotic ether of existence, but so easily lump or ignore that which strays from the convenience of preordained knowledge right in their back yard. Such ignored mysteries harbor the bulk of missing knowledge.

The Dichanthelium Series: Dichanthelium praecocius

2010-06-28T00:47:00.012-05:00

There, beneath the big grasses of the prairie, nestled next to triple-canoed violet fruits, aborted Scleria achenes and the tumbled tops of Agrostis hyemalis is a grass that no one sees. It is small. It is hairy and dirty.

The stems emerge tangential, node, soon bend geniculate but not quite erect. Hairs are ubiquitous but sparse enough to collect dirt; char in good years.

Vernal panicles elongate and expand moments before the axillary inflorescences; a novel trait for the genus. Lodicules pump like steam engines as the flags of gynoecium and androecium unfurl to disperse and collect anemochorous wares. Spikelets fall short of D. villosissiumum and rarely exceed 1.9mm length.

Its ligule further distinguishes it from D. villosissimum and D. acuminatum into which it has been lumped as of late. The ligule is much too long for this (exceeding 1.0mm) and has a unique shape in that the central hairs are shorter than the marginal ligule hairs.

Home in the prairie, beneath the big grasses where voles hide from hawks and lizards find shade. Hidden, hairy, ligulate, praecocius.

A Botanist

2010-06-16T22:20:00.002-05:00

A botanist is a natural historian. A collector of facts and events that he employees in the speculation of one's influence on the other. A botanist listens as the ancient seas of the Ordivician tell stories 450 million years old. He can feel the impact of an asteroid 65 million years ago, smell the soot from increased volcanism, and give witness to the subsequent diversification of mammals and angiosperms. In his mind, he can not only see the glaciers of the Pliestocene melt and distribute the great soils of the Midwest, but he can smell the tundra and hear the Mammoth’s call. He sees anthropogenic fires, the hypsithermal, the prairie pennisula, the bloody sword of DeSoto and John Deere's polished plow. He tries desperately to explain how today's mistakes and yesterday's blindsightedness form the inevitable consequences of tomorrow. And as the perpetual inaction of society oozes onward, he need only think of glaciers and oceans, extinctions and speciations, and the ever expanding march of time to know that maybe, just maybe, the sky isn't falling, just yet.

Visit the latest Berry Go Round

2010-04-29T12:54:00.002-05:00

The latest edition of the famed Berry Go Round is blooming across the internet. Click here and read about Orchids, Trillies and many other spring time goodies!

Winter Mosses (2009-2010)

2010-04-17T23:15:00.015-05:00

Every winter, as the cold grip of dormancy overtakes our vascular flora, my attention is turned from phanerogams to cryptogams: bryophytes to be specific. While I am still a fogged in amateur, I am starting to hear voices in the mist. I’m seeing patterns and struggling less. Here is an example of how tricky moss identification can be. The two moss specimens below were collected from the margin of my driveway.

Accustomed to the macroscopic, my eyes failed to pick up on the subtly dramatic differences. What I assumed to be one “thing” was indeed two, each as evolutionarily relevant as a Blue Whale or a Dawn Redwood. Here is a closer look.

The specimen on the left is Weissia controversa. Barbula unguiculata is on the right (they are reversed in the first photo). Notice how much narrower the leaves of Weissia are compared to those of Barbula. The capsules of Weissia are also shorter. Having trouble seeing the leaf differences? Here they are after being wetted.

Both species are abundant throughout the Midwest and common in dry habitats on soil or occasionally rock.

Here are some photos of other mosses I encountered this winter that are common enough to keep an eye out for.

Ceratodon purpureus - on soil or base of trees; common. Can be readily identified by the densely tufted habit and the red-purple setae (stalks of the capsules). Notice how the tuft makes a green, tan, purple rainbow in longitudinal section.

Fissidens bushii - on soil in fields, glades and prairies; common. Reputed to be a calciphile. The genus Fissidens is pretty distinct in having strongly distichous stems.

Funaria hygrometrica - on disturbed soil especially burned areas; common. Plants can occur singly or in sparse colonies but not in tufts. The asymmetrical capsule distiguishes Funaria from similar genera such as Pohlia and Bryum.

Mnium affine -on soil in forests; common. One of the widest leaved Mnium species. Leaves with singly serrate margins that are serrate to the base. Recently placed in the genus Plagiomnium. But since I don't know why, I'm sticking with Mnium.

Physcomitrium pyriforme - on soil; weedy and common. Its spherical capsules make it very distinct.

Polytrichum commune - on dry acidic soil in woodlands and glades; common. Leaves are toothed and have reddish tips.

Thelia asprella - on the base of trees in mesic to dry woodlands and forests; common. Forms thick mats from extensive rhizomatous branches. Leaves are ornately papillose.

Thelia lescurii - on soil in fields and open woodlands; common. Much less branched and very low to the ground

At this rate I might be a decent field bryologist by the time I'm 200 years old. Regardless, I'm enjoying the challenge and gaining appreciation for the great and small of our natural world. Nothing can be more rewarding or humbling.

Rafinesque and the Resurrection of Polygonum bicorne

2010-02-07T23:19:00.007-06:00

Constantine Samuel Rafinesque was a strange man. I can’t stress that enough. When you look him up on Wikipedia you quickly realize that he was different. His name is preceded with such erudite appellations as polymath, autodidact and polyglot, besides the more familiar terms of botanist and zoologist. But this post isn’t about Rafinesque, or at least not directly so. Indirectly, it has to do with his eyes and what they saw. You see, where others missed the trees for the forest, Rafinesque perceived entities hidden deep within morphologies. Ever the avid publisher, he described many of these entites as taxa (usually species) new to science. Since his death, the oscillations of botanical treatments and nomenclatural innovations have alternately celebrated his insights and condemned his indiscretions. Few authors have had as many taxa bounced in and out of synonymy for so many decades. Polygonum bicorne, the focus of this post, is a fine example of this.
Rafinesque described Polygonum bicorne in 1817. It is morphologically similar to the more common and widespread Polygonum pensylvanicum which was described by Linnaeus in Species Plantarum in 1753. Both have eciliate to short-ciliate ocreae summits and both have stipitate glandular pubescence on the peduncles. They differ in that the flowers of P. bicorne are heterostylous (different types of flowers on plants) where those of P. pensylvanicum are homostylous (all the flowers morphologically the same). The flowers of P. bicorne differ from one another (heterostyly) in that some flowers have exerted styles and others have exerted stamens. To be clear, all the flowers of P. pensylvanicum lack exerted stamens and styles. Also, the achenes of P. bicorne, which are two-sided, have a distinct bump in the middle of one side, while those of P. pensylvanicum are smooth on both sides.

Field characters for the two are subtle and their use requires experience with each. Polygonum bicorne tends to branch profusely from the base and grows with a squat, globose silhouette. It has smaller, narrower leaves and very open flowers. Polygonum pensylvanicum grows more as single stems or small clumps but usually in a more upright condition. It has larger, wider leaves and nearly closed flowers. Furthermore, the flowers of P. bicorne are usually deep pink, while those of P. pensylvanicum range from off-white to pink. The habitat of each includes disturbed wetland communities but the range of P. bicorne is nearly limited to the central Great Plains. Polygonum pensylvanicum ranges throughout eastern North America east of the Rocky Mountains.

In the field these two species are distinct but when P. bicorne is peeled from the plant press its flowers can appear closed or partially closed and thus it becomes artificially similar to P. pensylvanicum. Enter Professor Twist (Google him for a quick chuckle). Full of well intentions and hungry for something interesting to share with the world, he starts pulling specimens from the stacks which are often mixed with misidentifications in both directions. Not seeing the distinctions that are so striking in the field, he pronounces that these two entities are better treated as one widely varying organism. Almost without exception, there is no one to rebut; or at least no one with a voice. And so a species is lost to ignorance through an ill concept of science; at least until the resurrection.

This brings to light a general problem. No field of science witnesses as much conceptual ebb and flow as taxonomy. It is also about the only field of science where opinion, rather than evidence, reigns supreme. Morphometrics, a powerful tool at the species level, is rarely used. Instead, taxonomic “treatments” are often based on what an author “thinks” are taxa without reference to how it directly relates to the organisms in question or the previous author’s concepts. Repeatability, the hallmark of good science, is thrown out the window. This wishy-washy, literature-based flip-floppery has served to usher in the molecular era; under the guise of resolution. Sadly, molecular taxonomy only offers a trade of one type of uncertainty for another. But because that uncertainty comes with the numerical averages of averaged averages, it is somehow construed as quantitative. Field folks (I reserve the title of botanists) that have the daunting task of applying this taxonomic maelstrom to management decisions are left confused, agitated and ultimately apathetic. Shamefully, they are forced to follow whatever is “up to date” (i.e., in fashion) or the renderings of their local floristic text, if they are lucky enough to have one.

Because Rafinesque spent so much time in the field, and because he knew the flora so well, he was able to decipher and describe many cryptic species. Field-based botany was more the rule than the exception for the first two centuries of American scientific exploration. Many contemporary scholars, lacking the field miles of their predecessors, now busy themselves with shotgun revisions. In their wake, taxa such as Dichanthelium, Aster and Andropogon (at least in terms of Little Bluestem) are pushed and pulled into bizarre contortions. So when a creature as valid as Polygonum bicorne, though now in the genus Persicaria, resurfaces as a good species, rays of hope beam throughout the forests, woodlands and prairies. The content hearts of lowly field botanists, seeking a touch of Rafinesque’s vision, being the ultimate source.

Strolling the Remnants: Sand Prairie Conservation Area

2010-01-05T20:18:00.000-06:00

My work through the Institute of Botanical Training takes me all over the Midwest. In 2009, I was working on a contract in southeastern Missouri that was about an hour from Sand Prairie Conservation Area. An admirer of prairies of all kinds, I visited the site twice over the season and would like to share my observations below.

Visit One: April 17:

A chilling spring breeze blows across the sand prairie.

Sun-warmed sand dislodges, rolls and re-accumulates as it gradually exposes and conceals scattered pebbles in this sandy scene.

Small dune-like hills stabilized by vegetation subtly gradate into expansive flats. The surrounding landscape speaks of the early Holocene winds and braided waters of glacial outwash that are responsible for the sandy deposition. A sprinkling of sand islands scattered within a matrix of wet forests of the Mississippi floodplain. Here, inches in elevation separate desert from swamp.

Weathered gray stems spinning in the wind draw solar systems in the sand.

The stenciled yellow and green haze of the far tree line is the only sign of spring, but even then it is muted and distant. I drop to my knees and just beneath the tattered remains of grasses I notice tender new blades. They mirror my delight in the warm touch of the sand.

A lonely clump of Asclepias amplexicaule, huddles nearby. Its cells dividing by the millions and fighting the urge to elongate, I smile at hard-wired patience.

Visit Two: July 14

Summer is in full force. The quartz crystal sand grains are readily absorbing the sun’s light and reflecting it back as heat. An occasional gust of wind flattens the radiant heat and reminds me just how hot it really is. The sterile sand is bone dry. I can feel the crisp vibration and microscopic scour as my boots sink down into beaded firmness. In an awkward succession of steps, I traverse the slight dunes.

I am careful not to crush any vegetation or get close enough to disrupt root systems. Each individual plant here is a treasure, though many of them are rather weedy. They are consequential remnants; the crumbs and afterthoughts of agricultural impact whose persistence on this reservation comes secondary to someone’s inability, financial or otherwise, to find a distinctly human use for the land. Thus, signs of ecological abuse abound and the site is far from pristine.

Dancing in the wind and sun, happy as a lark, Crotonopsis linearis thrives in the sand.

Its entire body is encrusted with lepidote scales; little partially transparent shields that reflect most of the overabundant radiation of the sun and serve to reduce transpiration.

The patient Asclepias amplexicaule plant that I encountered last spring survived, bloomed, fruited and now disperses its seeds into a landscape to which it is no longer adapted. Perhaps its propagules will find a suitable slice, but pickings are slim to non-existent in the dominantly row-crop surroundings.

As is the habit of naturalists deep in exploration and children hard at play, I push these grim realities out of my mind and envision myself in a landscape without a parking lot, powerlines or quarter-mile rotating sprinkler systems. Instead, I am hundreds of miles from home and new discoveries are footsteps away.

The dune blowouts are margined and capped with numerous conspicuous tufts of grass. I examine one. Its short ligule, double vestiture sheath pubescence and relatively small spikelets make it, unquestionably, Dichanthelium columbianum.

One of the most poorly understood grass species in North America, it is currently known from only two stations in Missouri; here and another site a mile or so up the road. Damn if it doesn’t love sand.

Above the grasses, white pillows of floral décor top the dark green sub-shrubbery of Polygonella americana. Another sand-lover.

Up close the flowers take on a pinkish hue due to the infusion of red pigments in the anthers.

As I walk further onward into the preserve I am drawn to a patch of Monarda punctata with its Suessian verticils.

Rolling a thick, symmetrically rugose leaf between my fingers releases a flush of aromatic experiences. The ineloquent would say “minty”, but that falls short of capturing the crispness, the coldness, the dry, burning earthiness and sweet pungency that seizes the nostrils and nearly brings water to the eyes. Perhaps no words can capture it fully. It is considered to be a bit weedy in other reaches of its range, but it is listed as a species of conservation concern in Missouri, due to its rarity. It was a pleasantly refreshing encounter.

Dropping off the sandy dune-like portion of the preserve, which comprises only a fraction of the site, and onto the larger flat expanse, the floristic quality plummets. Polygonella americana, Dichanthelium columbianum and Andropogon ternarius are replaced by such emblems of disturbed acidic soil as Diodia teres, Rumex acetocella and Andropogon virginicus. As I meander further through the spoiled remains of the site, I am transformed back to the sad reality of our impacted world. I ponder what fascination these sand prairies would have evoked had knowledgeable eyes seen them first. How splendid it would be to have witnessed these jewels in high gloss and strongly fastened to the crown of a natural landscape. But like much of what is beautiful in the world, they were first met by poor hungry souls armed with God’s wills and empty pockets. They dared challenge their own lowly station in life in an attempt to scratch out a living on such humble ground. I want to blame them, but how can I? Instead, I ask myself if I will be blamed when I am an ancestor. I don’t like the answer.

As I head back to the truck, to burn an hour’s worth of fossil fuel back to my overpriced, over-air conditioned and over-illuminated hotel, I look for something more positive to which to cling. I try to shake off the dread with the classic clichés of conservation, “at least we were able to save a few acres”, “every little bit helps” or “with a little education, people will see the value of such places”. Ultimately, I decide that these mantras are largely untrue and certainly aren’t my style. Habitat loss is a stark tragedy and trying to polish it over is pathetic, hollow and self-serving. Mourning the cake by honoring the crumbs gets us nowhere, fast. We need to cut our losses and get down to serious work if we are going to prevent further loss of what’s left of the irreplaceable. So, I look west and feel the pull of the Ozarks. There, hope for conservation can still be found, sprawled along ridgetops, seeping through fens, buried beneath the leaf litter and dripping from torches.

Festuca paradoxa and why we know we know nothing

2009-12-27T00:00:00.000-06:00

The mention of fescue often brings to mind tough, stringy, silica-laden strands of grass being pulverized by the broad molars of cattle, cudding its way through the four steamy stomachs of the beast only to be expelled in a watery, brownish-green ooze of hot acrid defecation upon an overgrazed, cracked and sore, field that once harbored an intricate assemblage of native organisms but that is now reduced to a monoculture of fescue. Or at least it does to me. But there are good fescues in the world. Ones whose histories are not synonymous with the death knell of Midwestern natural systems. Folks with a remedial knowledge of Midwestern natural communities are aware of Festuca subverticillata (Nodding Fescue); a native species commonly found in woodlands and forests of decent remnant natural integrity. Others might be surprised to know there is another native fescue in our midst. I am writing, of course, of Festuca paradoxa.

Festuca paradoxa resembles F. subverticillata in gross morphology but is generally larger and occurs in more open habitat. Here is mediocre photo of the overall habit of F. paradoxa:
Festuca paradoxa also has more spikelets on the lower branches of the inflorescence than F. subverticillata (8-20 vs. 2-7).

Both of the afore mentioned native species can be differentiated from the exotic F. arundinacea (aka F. elatior, Schedonorus arundinaceus and S. phoenix) by having leaves that are distributed evenly along the stem (basal distributed in F. arundinacea) and by lacking finely ciliate auricles.

The spikelets of F. paradoxa (below) are very typical of fescue wherein the glumes are about as long as the lemmas which are elliptic in outline with acuminate tips. Members of the genus Festuca typically have fewer florets per spikelet (3 to 10) than grasses with a similar morphology.

To the field botanist, who relies heavily on the vegetative characters of grasses for identification, fescue venation is quite distinct. The adaxial leaf surface has many raised nerves which give it the texture and appearance of a vinyl record.

The auricle of F. paradoxa is creamy white in coloration and contrasts with the yellow-green of the leaf blade and sheath.

The auricle of F. subverticillata is green or sometimes tinged with purple, while the auricle of F. arundinacea (below) has a pronounced yellowish coloration in stark contrast to the dark green of the blade (note the ciliate margins which are indicative of F. arundinacea).

Festuca paradoxa is a bit of an enigma. Geographically, it occurs in the eastern regions of the Great Plains states (Texas, Kansas, Nebraska….), east to Pennsylvania and Georgia and north to Minnesota and Wisconsin. However outside the east-central portions of the Tallgrass Prairie Ecoregion and the Ozarks, its distribution is very spotty. It is listed as a species of conservation concern in ten states and potentially extripated from three. On a county by county basis, Missouri has the most occurrences of F. paradoxa, but even here it is rarely encountered. When it is encountered one usually finds but a few stems or a single patch in areas where suitable habitat abounds. Why?

(WARNING: the following is theoretical ramble based on general assumptions and oversimplifications serving ultimately to illustrate a point that the author concedes may itself be an overgeneralization of the facts).

In any given flora there are species whose occurrences within the landscape are infrequent and seemingly patternless. These plants exemplify the difficulty inherent to our human understanding of the structural, temporal and compositional complexity of natural systems; the plethora of biotic and abiotic influences over the evolutionary histories of species as they assemble into natural communities and disassemble as influences change. In most cases the ranges of species are either expanding or contracting depending on the abundance of suitable habitat and their ability to disperse into said habitat; where suitable habitat is defined as the proper biotic and abiotic conditions necessary to colonize, persist and reproduce. Climate change (non-human induced, for these purposes) is one of the larger factors involved in the ebb and flow of the geographical ranges of species. As the availability of suitable habitat decreases in a region, species become isolated in the fragments of habitat. Pleistocene relict species are classic examples of this phenomenon. Such relicts are usually edge of range species associated with regionally rare habitats. Other major factors include a missing pollinator or seed disperser which can ultimately result in a fragmented range but usually is not primarily associated with a fragmented habitat. In this case, plenty of habitat exists but the species does not seem to be able to colonize it successfully. Of course, all of this is further complicated by the fact that subtle changes in climate or the achieved evolutionary potential of competitors, predators or symbionts can lead to local or global extinctions.

But how does this relate to F. paradoxa? Ultimately, all that can be said is that because it is found in small, isolated populations across its range despite the availability of seemingly suitable habitat it best fits the pattern of a species with a contracting/fragmenting distribution. As is the case for many such species with similar distributions, this is where our knowledge runs out of gas. Such scenarios illustrate the ignorance of science as it relates to a functional understanding of individual species; as such knowledge relates to the reality of species distributions. Yet outside the realm of federally threatened species you never hear botanist discussing these strange distributions. Which make me wonder how can we protect potentially imperiled species or manage natural communities with nothing more than a basic understanding of regional phytogeography?

Here is good example of what I am talking about. A few years ago I collected data pertaining to the herbaceous and woody ground flora in several natural areas in the Chicago region. The research was directed at demonstrating the effects of deer browse. These preserves were being managed as black oak savannas and each had numerous acres of very large trees most of which were black oaks (Quercus velutina). Land surveyor notes as well as the matrix flora of these sites verified that these sites were likely black oak savannas historically. While collecting quadrat level data throughout the region at these flagship preserves we started noticing that several of the sites had no oak seedlings in the understory. We then noticed that there were no oak saplings, nor any young trees. None. Just large 150 to 300 year old oak trees. When we brought it up to the scientist in charge we were met with blank stares and some on-the-fly explanation the boils down to a “burn it and they will come” philosophy. A more likely explanation, based on my own speculation, is that these sites have been changed such that they no longer favor black oak colonization even though there are tons of acorns raining into the seed pool annually. These sites were heavily grazed for over a century. It seems likely that anything ranging from soil compaction to changes in mycorrhizal interactions (little is known about invasive/exotic soil fungi) could have killed these savannas decades ago in terms of population structure. The situation is akin to visiting a retirement home, not noticing the disproportionate number of elderly people and instead convincing ourselves that they have the potential to be a flourishing community if we can only rehabilitate them. I fear such ignorance is rampant when dealing with floristic shift that take decades, centuries or even millennia to unfold.

This brings us back to F. paradoxa and species like it whose distributions we can’t explain or worse, that no one is trying to explain. If we are to successfully preserve, restore or, god forbid, recreate natural systems, we should be able to answer questions regarding species assemblages. Otherwise we are practicing science based on blind-guesses and the active application of assumptions about past systems that may or may not apply to current scenarios. It seems to boil down to the Socratic Paradox in that “All we know, is that we know nothing”.

So the next time you encounter F. paradoxa, waving gracefully in the breeze, admire its current station in the modern landscape and remember to ponder what missing pieces of the puzzle it could provide if we only knew the relevant questions.

The Board

2009-12-02T16:31:00.000-06:00

One of the best classes I took as an undergraduate was Plant Taxonomy. Not just because I drool over the topic, but because the professor, Dr. Robin Kennedy, taught it with great enthusiasm. She also developed a wonderful structure for the class; lab and lecture. Our exams were a mix of live and pressed plant specimens that we had to identify by their visible characters. We were also given lists of characters to which we had to match families. For example, what family has tetradynamous stamens? Why, Brassicaceae, of course. We covered over 60 families of vascular plants over the semester and the mental organization of information for all these families, their characters, associated terminology and their floral formulae was mind melting. However, we were given a tool.

In the first lab session we were handed a manila file folder which we placed on a light board and upon it we traced a series of rows and columns. Each column was given a heading like “United Carpels” or “Zygomorphic”. As the weeks passed and we learned what these terms meant, we added each new family to its corresponding column by copying the information off a large blackboard at the corner of the room. It was called “The Board”.

I spent hours memorizing The Board, or at least my copy of it. When lab exams began, I would quickly draw it on the back of my exam and write in all the families. Years later, I occasionally whip out The Board for a quick refresher. I relearn such fun facts as Solanaceae has a superior ovary and Malvaceae has monodelphous stamens. Then I fold it up and stuff it back into my plant tax book.

I ran across The Board the other day. I hadn’t reviewed it for quite a while and I was embarrassed by how little plant family trivia I could recall. I decided to breathe new life into The Board by typing it into a spreadsheet and posting it on my office wall. As I once again added each family to the rows and columns I decided it would be fun to add more families of angiosperms. That done and still enjoying the process, I turned to the fern families which have always troubled me since I never had to learn them. So I added them too. After several sessions and more hours than I care to admit The Board seemed to have reached its full potential. I liked the finished product so much that I thought I would share it. Here it is (click photo to enlarge):

Here’s how it works. First, everything in the black-lined corner on the bottom left is a non-angiosperm family or a monocot. The rest are dicot angiosperms. To derive at a single family, start at the top and follow the appropriate column until you reach a list of families. Then you need to examine the list for characters that best fit the plant you may be identifying.

Besides identifying plants to family, The Board is an easy way to learn or reinforce the characters of the major plant families. In terms of geographic range, the board is based on Midwestern plant families but should work anywhere east of the Rockies and north of the southern coastal plain. If a family has greater than two genera or seven species I added it to the board. I also added some families that have few genera but several species, such as Clusiaceae, and families that are small but relatively common such as Lythraceae.

Admittedly, the board has shortcomings. Some of the families are oversimplified. Only the more prominent characters for each family are listed. And not every family is listed. But overall, it represents more information than is floating around in the heads of 99% of folks that call themselves botanists, so I feel it is at least justified as a teaching tool. In fact, it will be added to the training material that the Institute of Botanical Training provides for its students.

If you would like your own copy of The Board, you can save or print off the jpeg above. However, this will result in a low resolution copy. If you would like a clean and crisp copy I have saved a pdf version at Scribd.com. Here is the link:

Lastly, The Board is a work in progress. If you have suggestions for additions, subtractions or good old fashioned edits, please let me know. Updating the families to reflect the work of the Angiosperm Phylogeny Group is not an option, so don’t bother suggesting it. For better or worse, the families of their treatment lack cohesive morphological distinctions and would be a mess. Otherwise, enjoy!

Arthraxon hispidus

2009-11-17T00:43:00.000-06:00

Earlier this year, September 14th to be exact, while driving a gravel road through a section of the Mark Twain National Forest I noticed a dramatic change in the structure of the roadside vegetation. My brain instantly weighed my desire to stop and investigate against my need to get some real work done. Before I could make up my mind, my foot hit the brake. It always does.

What I had seen was a large colony of grass that superficially resembled Microstegium vimineum in overall stature and habit. However, the inflorescences more closely resembled Bothriochloa bladhii.

Luckily, I had my copy of "Steyermark’s Flora of Missouri" (Yaskievych 1999) riding shotgun. A quick run through the keys gave the name Arthraxon hispidus.

I had heard of this grass before, though I had never seen it. It occurs rather sporadically throughout the eastern U.S. and is more common in the southeast (Kaufman and Kaufman 2007). Vegetatively, it is readily identified by its clasping leaves (similar to Dichanthelium clandestinum) and strongly ciliate leaf margins.

Arthraxon hispidus is native to Japan and Eastern Asia. The first record of its occurrence in the U.S. came from Pennsylvania in 1877 (Yatskievych 1999). As with its gross morphology, it seems to prefer the same habitats as Microstegium vimineum; mesic to wet disturbed sites in open forests and floodplains. The most likely mode of dispersal seems to be from logging equipment and trucks, also similar to Microstegium vimineum. I don’t know that this grass has great potential for invasion in Missouri, but it was dominating the roadside where I found it for 50 or 60 meters and appeared to be spreading into the surrounding pine woodland. This county record represents the fifth county it is known from in Missouri (as of 1999). Regardless, the accumulated effects of several weak invasives can be as detrimental to a local ecosystem as one strong invasive, if not more so. Let's hope it behaves itself.

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Kaufman, S.R. and W. Kaufman 2007. Invasive Plants: Guide to identification and the impacts and control of common North American species. Stackpole Books. Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania.

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Yatskievych, G. 1999. Steyermark's Flora of Missouri. Conservation Commission of the State of Missouri. Jefferson City, Missouri.

Pic Picks 2009

2009-11-12T22:24:00.000-06:00

Now that the growing season has ended and the 2009 Botany Slideshow Extravaganza is over, I thought I would post some of my favorite photos from the year. The lack of labels or narrative is intentional. If you want a name, hover your cursor over the image and look for the name within the file name. Enjoy!

Rash Doctors

2009-11-11T16:26:00.000-06:00

Many of the botanists of yore were primarily medical doctors by profession. Examples include such greats as Asa Gray, George Engelmann, John Torrey and to some extent Carolus Linnaeus himself. If modern doctors had such affection for our wild flora, perhaps I wouldn’t cringe when I commonly hear of people in the Midwest diagnosed with Poison Oak or Poison Sumac rash. To them, I usually reply with some cynically derived question regarding the geographical location of their encounter with the offender. If they have been diagnosed with Poison Oak I ask, “have you been in the forests, woodlands or swamps of the southern states lately?”. My Poison Sumac inquiry is more specific. “Have you been in a high quality wetland community lately?”, I say.

Most folks eye me queerly and retort “no, I was doing yard work” or “whatever do you mean”. The bait being taken, I explain that Poison Ivy is a much more likely explanation for their dermal discomfort; especially for those living outside the range of anything but Poison Ivy, as most Midwesterners are. Some, in true argumentum ad verecundiam fashion, defend their doctor’s claim. Others are interested in the difference and enjoy learning a bit of natural history. For those that don't know the difference.....

...here is Poison Ivy (Toxicodendron radicans).

Notice the sharp pointed teeth on the leaflet margins, the pointed tips of the leaflets and the long petioles of the lateral leaflets. Its habitat ranges from anywhere to everywhere; xeric to mesic, acidic to calcareous, disturbed to pristine, the PI can live there. Poison Ivy usually grows like a true vine. It clambers and twines on structures and other vegetation. It is common throughout North America in every state and province east of the Rockies.

Here are two photos of Poison Oak (Toxicodendron pubescens).

Notice the rounded teeth of the leaflet margins, the blunt tips to the leaflets, the nearly sessile lateral leaflets and the relatively long petiole of the terminal leaflet. Its habitat tends to be quality dry to mesic forest and woodlands. Poison Oak does not vine or climb on other vegetation but rather grows as a small shrub. Its geographic range is basically the southern states of the Civil War with a few stragglers into border states.

Lastly, here is Poison Sumac (Toxicodendron vernix).

Notice that the leaves are entire and pinnate instead of trifoliate –so much for the “leaves of three” adage. The habitat of Poison Sumac consists of quality fens, bogs and wetlands. It grows into a shrub of ten feet or so. It occurs sporadically throughout most of eastern North America.

So the next time the doc says “you have poison oak”, Get a second opinion and get it from a botanist.

Vitaceae Seedlings; A Mystery No More

2009-08-27T22:42:00.000-05:00

Sampling plants in quadrats is a challenging endeavor. It requires a taste for botany in its most raw and primitive state. Plants encountered in quadrats are almost always sterile and range from newborn seedlings to the withered remains of plants that may have senesced earlier in the year; and everything green in between. The field botanist spends countless hours in a growing season on his knees, head buried in vegetation, straining to use a hand lens at ground level in order to examine such subtleties as the red calluses on the teeth of Ceanothus americanus seedlings or the length of the ligule that separates Andropogon virginicus from Andropogon scoparius (Schizachyrium lacks taxonomic credibility when applied to Little Bluestem).
All this with the discomfort and sometimes fear that ticks, chiggers, horseflies, deerflies, yellow jackets, mosquitoes, gnats, spiders, snakes, falling limbs, storms, poison-ivy, heat and meth-heads illicit all around you. You know you have reached the pinnacle of a seasoned field botanist when you choose to examine a deftly teased Scleria achene between your fingers before you tend to the thousands of seed ticks that have just colonized your hand, or to wipe the searing sweat from your burning eye sockets.

In spite of this, the forests, woodlands, glades and prairies are our laboratories, where we test and untangle the differences in taxa by their simplest organs; their leaves and stems. Hard won are the tricks of our trade and they evoke an excitement that can be shared with few and appreciated by even fewer. After 12 years in the field, I am still a student of the flora and each day I am humbled by the myriad challenges of the trade.

I write this as a prerequisite for the information below in the hope that it will put the breadth of these findings into perspective. For each season a few new mysteries are solved; the knowledge that the Vaccinium can be distinguished by their venation patterns, that Impatiens can be discerned by the number of teeth on the leaf margins, that species in the genus Aristida actually have solid vegetative characters. This is the gold you can never mine from “the literature”. Sadly, it has no outlet.

One of the great unsolved mysteries in vegetative sampling has always been how to distinguish the cotyledons of Parthenocissus quinquefolia (Virginia Creeper) from Vitis aestivalis (Summer Grape). Both are members of Vitaceae (the grape family), both are commonly encountered and both germinate and persist throughout the summer. In the past, when these little groaners were encountered, they were entered onto the datasheet as “Vitaceae”; a moniker that lacks ecological significance and provides no information other than simple occurrence. This has all changed.

Earlier this summer I was innocently sampling a plot when what should appear within the boundaries of my quadrat but a bushel of Vitaceae seedlings. The first one I glanced at had three leaflets on the first true leaf emerging from between the cotyledons thus instantly giving it away as Parthenocissus. The next had one distinct leaf of a Vitis aestivalis. As I surveyed the quadrat and surrounding area I realized I was in an ocean of both species all with cotyledons intact and with one corresponding true leaf. Perhaps the tree above, lacking vines of either species, had been a turkey roost or an opossum hangout. Regardless, the area was strewn with an incredible density of both species in seedling form. I told myself that this was an opportunity not to be missed.

After a half hour of examining everything from stem thickness to overall color, I could find nothing consistent to differentiate these two beast and I had all but decided that my little observational study was as it had been, inconclusive. Then I noticed the broadly truncate-ovate bases of the Parthenocissus cotyledons and how the cotyledons were about as long as broad and thus rather deltoid in outline.

Comparing a Vitis seedling, I found the cotyledons of Vitis to be more rounded at the base and cleanly ovate in outline (longer than broad but broadest below the middle).

Twenty or thirty seedlings later, I was consistently and accurately using these characters to distinguish the two. I collected and pressed several examples and went about my merry way. For the remainder of the summer, as I have hiked to plots or walked between quadrats all over the Ozarks, I have kept an eye out for more seedlings and have found these characters to hold with 100 percent consistency. In fact, I don’t even pause anymore. They are so distinct that now I can’t imagine how this difference has gone undetected for so long.

Though this may seem insignificant in the grand scheme of nature and its study and though these findings will never grace the pages of Science, I smile every time I think of the simple hidden beauty that eluded field botanists for so long. Discoveries like this fuel my hope that some day field characters for such notorious complexes as Zizia aurea/Thaspium trifoliatum and Liatris aspera/scariosa/squarrulosa will seem as obvious as the vegetative differences between Impatiens capensis and I. pallida. The more we learn, the cleaner the data we collect. The cleaner the data, the better the management decisions based on these data will be. To me, this is science at its best; ever learning, ever revising and always hashing out the details regardless of the annoying gnat in your eye, the itch of poison ivy or the hundreds of chiggers slowly digesting the flesh from around your ankles. Afterall, science is stone.

Lactuca....hirsuta?

2009-08-04T19:27:00.000-05:00

Lactuca hirsuta is one of the most under detected species of vascular plants in the Midwest. There I said it. It is completely off the radar for most folks, yet I see it with considerable frequency, at least here in the Ozarks. The USDA Plants website shows that it occurs in most every state northeast of Texas (north to MN and east to Maine and GA) yet it is listed from shockingly few counties in these states. I don’t know how this creature has escaped detection. Perhaps its anomalous distribution stems for the common precept that Lactuca canadensis can be distinguished from other Lactuca by the salmon/orange sap color. While this it true, one must then distinguish Lactuca hirsuta which also possesses this quality. This is easily done since L. hirsuta, as the name implies, is hirsute and L. canadensis is glabrous (disclaimer: some specimens of L. canadensis can be very slightly pubescent and some L. hirsuta can be sparsely pubescent but the vast majority are clear-cut).

Here is quick shot of the stem and leaves of L. hirsuta (above). And for comparison, here is a shot of the stem and leaves of L. canadensis (below). Also notice the difference in overall leaf shape between the two species.

There are other subtle but taxonomically satisfying characters. Most notably, the leaves of L. hirsuta are progressively shorter toward the top of the stem while those of L. canadensis remain roughly the same length from tip to toe. Also, the involucres of L. hirsuta are range from 15-22mm long where those of L. canadensis are typically 10-14mm long.

Lactuca hirsuta (above)
Lactuca canadensis (below); my thumb nail is 15mm long, for scale.

Esteemed Missouri botanist Alan Brant pointed out to me that the inflorescence (branches and involucres) of L. hirsuta are often infused with a dark purple coloration while those of L. canadensis are mostly green with some hits of purple here and there. That can clearly be seen in the involucre photos above.

So, as Lactuca are bolting and blooming across eastern North American, in your travels, keep an eye out for the lonely but hairy L. hirsuta. While I don’t have a great grasp on its habitat requirements (perhaps a bit more conservative than L. canadensis), it seems to prefer dry acidic soils with just a touch of disturbance suffused with a sparkle of full sun. Rocky soils with sparse vegetation that have recently witness fire are ideal. I remember seeing it at Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore. I can imagine that open sand would suit it just fine. Another place to find it would be the neglected stacks of almost any herbarium in eastern North America, where it has undoubtedly been misidentified as L. canadensis. Hey, let’s print off some annotation labels and head to the herbarium!

A Sabatia Induced Rant

2009-07-24T23:55:00.000-05:00

In Richard Manning’s book “Grassland”, he wrote the following:

I once heard a story of a man who had perfect recall, so he could never carry on a conversation. He had to live in isolation because the merest stimulus, the merest sentence from outside his own head would recall everything. All the information in his head would come tumbling forth in a great rush, and he would be crushed by the pain of seeing.
I imagine that must be what it is like sometimes to be a botanist. I have been afield with many of them, and they are different, almost invariably quiet, distant. Undeniably, they see something different from what I see, as if the knowledge of the plants lifts a veil. The whole of it is there in the plants to be read, the full soul of a place, its life and the abuses of its life, the creation’s intentions and the manifest violation of those intentions. Botanists are our shamans.

While this is clearly a romantic notion, there is some truth to it. Most botanists I know often reminisce about the days before they understood the harsh realities expressed in the flora of a place. When our non-botanists parents or friends remark at how beautiful the honeysuckles smell in the summer, we grit our teeth and try to explain to their rapidly glazing eyes why honeysuckle is bad (of course they usually miss the point and come away with the thought that they should be ashamed of enjoying the fragrance). In quiet hours I often mourn the loss of such innocence. But knowledge is a heavy burden, and I derive far greater pleasure in knowing. To me, it is knowledge that is bliss. I mention this because I believe this is one of the fundamental social functions of the botanist; to shoulder the burden of the knowledge of place and attempt to interpret the landscape for those off chasing money or fame or any other thing that an honest botanist will never know.

On this note, this year more than any other, I’ve noticed rather interesting changes in the flora. Aberrations like Platanthera lacera have come up by the thousands across the Midwest. Platanthera leucophea has had a boom year in existing populations and new populations have been found. Listera australis, a more eastern and southern species, has been discovered in Missouri and Platanus occidentalis and Morus rubra seedlings are sprouting on the bone dry ridge tops of the Chilton Creek Preserve. Just to name a few examples. On my own 16 acres I regularly take walks and I have noticed a dramatic decrease in the populations of xeric species like Krigia dandelion, Helianthus mollis, Helianthus occidentalis, Spiranthes vernalis, Gymnopogon ambiguus and Polygala incarnata while witnessing an increase in mesic species like Dichanthelium laxiflorum, Salix humilis, Pedicularis canadensis and Senecio aureus. However the most dramatic change, in terms of population and sheer flora display, has been Sabatia angularis (photos distributed throughout this entry).

In a typical Ozark summer, S. angularis blooms in scattered populations across prairies and old fields; a plant here, a plant there. This year, however, the populations are large and dense and the plants are huge! The field in front of my house, in which Sabatia typically goes relatively undetected is literally pink with plants. While driving across the Ozarks one cannot help but notice their abundance. A naturalist friend of ours just sent us a letter documenting the phenomenon throughout Texas County as well. I speculatively attribute this phenomenon to the past two wet years that have followed several very dry years (at least in the Ozarks). I’m sure there is more to the story than this simple answer. And I’m sure this is all within the ebb and flow of the natural order of things where variations in seasonal severity lend boom and bust years to a resilient biota. But I fear there is very little documentation of such phenomena and any trends that may arise. Sure, a handful of rare species are occasionally tracked given funding and time, but who is watching the big floristic picture? There are various projects monitoring the phenology of plants in an attempt to document the effects of climate change, but what about the changes in structure and composition of natural communities in general that may be outside the narrow scope of climate change. Regardless of cause, what if the Ozarks are getting wetter, for example? This would have tremendous effects on glade and woodland restoration/conservation efforts to say the least.

This brings me back to the main point. In the heyday of ecology, botanist/ecologist like Lucy Braun, Henry Cowles and Julian Steyermark spent countless hours documenting the flora through descriptive floristics projects. This included such elements as a list of species, their abundance and frequency and the overall structure of the vegetation of the site. All this from quadrat and transect data. Now such techniques are largely considered to be only of historical significance by academics and are rarely undertaken and almost never funded outside of an occasional study conducted by a graduate student. When I mention this void in the sciences to professionals their reactions are rather dismissive, as though I am evoking some sort of nostalgia-based concept of scientific responsibility rather than anything of ecological or social importance. Perhaps if the topic were polar bears, they would lend a sympathetic ear. It is increasingly obvious that respectable botanists that can identify plants without flowers and the aid of keys, dying breed that we may be, are being underutilized and certainly underappreciated. Sure, our skills are often called upon to put together an occasional species lists or partake in a bioblitz, but these activities lack any ecological significance outside the stark documentation of occurrences. They provide no information about abundance, structure or conservation. Somehow a species list has become an acceptable replacement for actual data.

In a society that continues to destroy natural communities and impact natural processes at an ever accelerating pace, now is not the time to stop describing the remnants. From the ever shrinking crumbs of our natural system, we may yet be able reconstruct or at least envision the cake. To most, crumbs aren’t exciting. After all, far reaches of the tropics still have big pieces of cake upon which to feast the intellect. Sadly, most academic botanists lack the ability to even identify the most common species in the remnant woodlots behind their expensive suburban homes. Meanwhile the only plants most botanists under the employ of state and federal governments get their hands on are the various trees used in the manufacture of their pencils. In effect, environmental consultants are conducting the lion’s share of descriptive ecology, though often by poorly trained staff and for reasons not conducive to ecology or science. So while the botanical “shamans” mentioned by Manning may be a bit of a misnomer, where are they? And who is going to tell us how the natural system is responding to changes, natural and human induced? How will we detect localized extinctions inherent to a fragemented landscape? Gerould Wilhelm once said, “You cannot take care of what you cannot see”. So where are the seers and why aren’t they seeing?

Argyrochosma dealbata

2009-07-12T00:29:00.001-05:00

While running transects across the grassy ledges and shelves of Hercules Glades Wilderness in Taney County Missouri, I paused to wipe the accumulation of sweat and juniper needles from my brow. As my heart rate approached conditionally normal, given the heat, my eyes focused on a tiny patch of bluish vegetation clinging to the otherwise salt and pepper façade of the sun and lichen aged limestone rock; the jutting and ever dissolving bones of the Ozarks. I leaned in.

Puzzled, I looked around the ledge and discovered eight more small clumps of this little fern. I am accustomed to seen Cheilanthes feei on such rocks in such habitat, but this was strikingly different. In fact, Chelanthes feei was growing on the same ledge some 24 inches away and made for apt comparison. Hot blood squeezed through my brain and I was surprised when the name Notholaena dealbata surfaced; a fern I had only seen on glades along the Blue River in Kansas City. A quick cruise through several cold blooded references verified the identification.

Notholaena dealbata (Powdery Cloak Fern) is currently referred to as Argyrochosma dealbata on the USDA PLANTS website. Taxonomically, it seems to fit somewhere between the genus Cheilanthes and Pellea. I can certainly see the similarity with the latter. The core of its range extends from eastern Kansas and southwest Missouri into Oklahoma, Arkansas and Texas with outlying populations in Illinois, Kentucky and Nebraska. It only occurs on outcrops of calcareous rock.

The sweetest thing about Argyrochosma dealbata is not the blue coloration or the revolute margins of the pinnae, but the farina of the abaxial surfaces of the pinnae (the white color in the photo below is the farina).

The farina, in this case, is a waxy exudate. I can only speculate as to its function, but won’t. The dark spheres are sporangia each containing 64 spores. Morphologically, the genus Argyrochosma differs from Cheilanthes and Pellea in the possession of farina and was split from Notholaena based on a different chromosome number (n=27). Argyrochosma means “silver powder” in reference to the farina.

I have always been enamored with small ferns. This is probably my favorite, for obvious reasons.

Silphium asteriscus

2009-07-01T21:04:00.000-05:00

I truly enjoy the genus Silphium. It has an exciting yet strangely cohesive range of morphological variation. From humble colonies of S. integrifolium to the stoic and lofty stems of S. laciniatum, from the cool, rough texture of S. terebinthinaceum to the dense flocculence of S. mohrii (see below), they never fail to please.

Here is a veiny crowd pleaser; the leaf of Silphium compositum from northern Alabama.

In the Ozarks Highlands of Missouri, I annually anticipate the lemony blooms of S. asteriscus that begin dazzling the understory of our acid upland woodlands soon after the summer solstice.

Silphium asteriscus (Starry Rosinweed, if you must) occurs throughout the southern United States in acidic woodlands. When young, it produces a basal rosette of ovate to lanceolate leaves. When it bolts to flower, the leaves are alternate along the stem, as opposed to S. integrifolium which is opposite leaved (and which never produces a basal rosette).

In spite of the dramatic range in morphology within the genus, all Silphium have a unique suite of characters. They all have thickish leaves with isodiometric venation (see leaf of S. asteriscus below).

The leaf margins of Silphium are often toothed and each tooth has a yellow callus at the tip (see blurry photo below).

Strangely, species or individuals lacking teeth have calluses on the margins where teeth either were or should be. Most all species have stiffly pubescent leaves and stems. The involucral bracts of the capitula (flower head) are broadly ovate to deltoid in outline and much wider than the closely related Helianthus (sunflowers). Florally, the disk flowers of Silphium are sterile and have only one style, as opposed to Helianthus which has fertile disk flowers with dichotomous styles.

Large or small, laciniate or entire, Silphium is a fine genus. Most every floristic region of eastern North America has at least a couple of species of Silphium (the number increasing to the south and east). As they are beginning to come into bloom throughout the range, be sure to take some time to observe them closely. Feel their cool, rough leaves, their whiskery stems and their stiff phyllaries. You won’t be disappointed.

The Oddly Bearable Heat of Hercules Glades Wilderness

2009-06-25T16:28:00.000-05:00

A foggy sunrise over the balds and ridges of Hercules Glades Wilderness in southwestern Missouri has been my companion for most mornings the past two weeks.

Temperatures have been starting in the low 70’s at sunrise and accelerating from there to the mid and upper 90’s by noon. The high humidity and lack of anything resembling a breeze has forced me to wake at 4am and have my quadrat buried deep in the dewy glade grasses by first light. By noon, I haul myself, an ever present load of ticks, and my near empty gallon jug of water a good mile to the nearest refugium where I reestablish a safe body temperature and stifle the heat induced randomness of my thoughts; thoughts that make one believe in the hallucinations induced by such spiritual paraphernalia as the Native American sweat lodge.

Such thoughts were in my head yesterday morning when I glanced up from my vegetation sampling to see a 200 pound black bear walking broadside, watching me from no more than 60 feet away. I have always half expected to see a wild hog or a crazed meth-head in the places my field work takes me. And every now and then I hear of a bear that roams into an Ozark town where upon it is chased into a tree, photographed and politely removed from “civilized” society. But I, up until this point, had never seen nor thought I would ever see a bear face to face.

I walked quickly to my cruising vest, a lucky ten feet away, for two items; my camera and my pistol. The bear was calm and obviously as interested in me as I him. Heart racing, hands shaking, I focused my finger on the small power button of my camera. Thinking that I was stupid for not trying to scare the brut away before he got any ideas, I snapped off some quick photos with the point and shoot. Then I decided that I would prefer he go somewhere else. So, like a poodle barking at a rottweiler, I clapped my hands and yelped “Hey!” and “Git”. The response was predictable; he could not care less. Why should he care more? I was on his turf and besides, he had not completed his observations of me.

I drew my pistol, chambered a round and fired it into the dissipating fog above my head. As the shot rang through the hills of the wilderness the bear, my strangely misunderstood and somehow mystical bear, bucked, wheeled and ran, with a sort of sad desperation, into the tangled distance of tree trunks, branches and woodland grasses.

It took a while for my hands to stop shaking and for my heart to leave my throat and return soundly to my chest. In the meantime, I stood shaking my head and laughing in disbelief. I couldn’t stop saying aloud to myself “a f&#king bear!”. I laughed more when I played back the photos I had taken. The low light and my case of the shakes resulted in about the best Sasquatch or Nessy photo you’ve ever seen, but still recognizable as a bear.

As I ran the next transect I came across a rotten log about 25 feet long and 20 inches in diameter that had recently been turned over and torn apart. I concluded that the bear had been here feasting on grubs and ants when I walked up and began installing the plot.

I finished sampling the plot but with both eyes scanning far ahead in case my furry new friend was to return (or have friends of his own). This was difficult because I have trained myself to look for venomous snakes underfoot and not bears in the distance. The compromise was understandably unnerving.

Tomorrow I need to sample a plot in the same area. I’m quite sure that another close encounter will not occur. Part of me wouldn’t mind. Or is that the heat talking?

Isotria verticillata (Orchidaceae)

2009-05-10T14:48:00.000-05:00

Three weeks ago, while on a field trip with the Missouri Native Plant Society, we stumbled upon a large population of Isotria verticillata at the peak of bloom. Anyone that has conducted surveys for rare, threatened or endangered species in the Midwestern and eastern United States has probably had this search image in their head (though maybe more so for its relative the federally threatened Isotria medeoloides).

Before I learned the vegetative field characters that distinguish this species from the often sympatric Medeola virginiana, I agonized over its identification. With practice and a visit to the herbarium, I learned they are quite distinct even when found in the sterile state. When sterile, both have a whorl of leaves at the top of the stem. However, Medeola has three (or sometimes five) distinct veins in each leaf while the venation of Isotria is inconspicuous and more reticulate. The venation of Isotria reminds me of the organization of juice sacks you find in an orange when you peel the papery septa off a locular segment. Additionally, Medeola usually has some arachnose pubescence on the stem where Isotria is glabrous. Lastly, the leaves of Isotria are more obovate to oblanceolate and pudgy while the leaves of Medeola are more elliptic to narrowly oblanceolate.

Isotria verticillata has a stalked flower and long sepals which distinguishes it from I. medeoloides which as a sessile flower and much shorter sepals. Isotria verticillata is usually found in colonies while I. medeoloides is often found as single plants.

Isotria medeoloides has not been seen in Missouri since 1897. It is panning out to be a great year for orchids in Missouri. Perhaps it will show up.

Prunus munsoniana

2009-04-19T22:17:00.000-05:00

For many, spring is ushered in by the purple reign of Eastern Redbud or the snowy white of Flowering Dogwood. While I also put the winter blues behind me at the sight of these old faithfuls, I find Wild Goose Plum a more accurate measure of the seasonal fulcrum. Blooming a solid two weeks earlier than the more cliché spring trees mentioned above, I like how rebellious it is in the face of a late freeze. It softly represents the more unique and less vulgar aspects of nature’s palate.

Wild Goose Plum (Prunus munsoniana) begins blooming at the end of March and reaches its peak bloom by the second week of April. Unlike Flowering Dogwood which seems to have a more regionally synchronized phenology, Prunus munsoniana has no rhyme or reason to its blooming window; I speculate this temporal heterogeneity is a consequence of blooming closer to potential late freezes. Be it patches in the same field or scattered colonies along miles of highway, you will often see a full spectrum of floral progression even within populations.

If you don’t already know this plant, you probably have noticed it. Especially if you, like me, cannot help but botanize while driving. It is the white flowered shrub that forms light, pillow-like colonies along prairie edges, fence rows and old fields throughout the Ozarks (see photos below). It seems especially common along the major ridge systems of the Ozarks (Salem Plateau, Springfield Plateau and their secondary branches) where prairie expanses as well as humble openings once dominated. The growth form of the colony is very sumac-like, in that the center of the colony is tallest and the sprouts get shorter toward the periphery. And like sumac, fire can be stand replacing; from which it quickly resprouts with added vigor.

The flowers are small and classically Rosaceae (see photo below). They open just a few days before the leaf buds burst. By the time the leaves have unfurled, they are on their way to fruit. The fruit is a small edible plum from which many cultivated plums have been derived. So the story goes, one Captain Means of Tennessee shot a goose and from its craw extracted a plum seed. He planted said seed and so enjoyed the fruits that he made it commercially available as the “Goose Plum". Personally, I have never eaten the fruit. In fact, from all my botanical roving I have yet to find a ripe wild plum of any species (P. hortula, P. mexicana, or P. americana).

Part of the charm of this humble shrub is that once the flowers have faded along with the chilly nights of spring, it practically vanishes from the landscape. It must be just inconspicuous enough to go undetected. Much like Rhamnus lanceolata, this otherwise common element of our flora is rarely noticed for the greater part of the growing season.

When I see it blooming in the spring I always promise to remember the location of each sweet little harbinger in their gentle mounds along the road to town. But the ensuing spring fever and the swift current of life invariably wash it from my mind and I don’t think on it again. That is until the following March, when my feet start itching and my eyes keep looking out the window for that first sign, that true resurrection, of spring. For me, there is no waiting for Dogwoods and evidently no looking back.

Ozarkian Atrichum

2009-03-18T23:42:00.000-05:00

Back in early February, I collected a moss that had to be in the genus Atrichum (Polytrichaceae). It was acrocarpous with lanceolate leaves possessing lamellae (gill-like flaps) along the costa (midrib) and had serrate teeth on the margins. But it was a species that I didn’t recognize. There are two species commonly encountered in the Midwest, A. altecristatum and A. angustatum. Both can be readily identified by field characters. This one didn’t match either. Then last Sunday, I collected another Atrichum that looked different. Needing answers I turned to the Flora of North America volume on acrocarpous mosses. In it, I learned that there are only five species of Atrichum in Missouri and that one of these species is restricted to bald cypress swamps in the Bootheel. At this point I thought to myself “if my summation is correct, I have collections of all four Atrichum known from the Ozarks (of Missouri, at least)”.

Having been intimidated by bryophyte keys many times before, this time I stood steadfast, mustered my patience, gritted my teeth and dove in head first. Three hours later, I emerged victorious; blooded but unbowed. And as with any successful quarrel with a difficult plant group, at the end I asked myself “could it really be that easy?”. Here’s the breakdown:

From left to right: A. crispulum, A. crispum, A. altecristatum, A. angustatum. Note their relative size.

As luck would have it, A. angustatum is not only the most common species in the Ozarks, it is also the easiest to identify. Here is what it looks like in the field.

Identifying A. angustatum comes down to two characters. First, the leaves will be significantly less than 1.0 mm wide. Second, the costa and associated lamellae (basically what would appear to be the midrib of the leaf macroscopically) will account for one quarter or more of the leaf width. Terminology aside, pretty easy stuff. Here is a closer shot of a leaf where you can see the proportionally wide costa.

While all four seem to be acidophiles, you will commonly find A. angustatum in the driest of acidic habitats; cherty acid uplands, margins of igneous glades and sandstone outcrops. Like many mosses, it grows in large colonies on exposed soil such as tip-up mounds, ditch margins and that special little litter free micro-habitat that exists around the perimeter of large tree trunks. For the most part, A. angustatum is the shortest Atrichum in the Ozarks (see line-up photo above).

The second most common species in the Ozarks is A. altecristatum (formerly known as A. undulatum; in part). It is also readily identified by macroscopic field characters. The first thing to notice is that the leaves are strongly undulate (wavy like a lasagna noodle).

Other species have this character, but it is definitely more pronounced in A. altecristatum. The second character is height. As you can see in the line-up photo at the beginning of this post, there is a progression in height. It is taller than A. angustatum, but significantly shorter than A. crispulum and A. crispum. The rule of thumb is that A. altecristatum is one to three centimeters tall and the two taller species are two to six centimeters tall. I know what you’re thinking, “there is that damn overlap that makes this stuff so difficult”. Fear not, most specimens fall toward the extremes. A third character is habitat. Atrichum altecristatum is the weediest of the four species and occurs on areas of bare soil in mesic to dry-mesic forests. While its occurrence in intact native landscapes is well documented, it clearly increases in abundance under certain levels of disturbance; chiefly woods that have been heavily grazed. Perhaps it is the soil compaction coupled with the increase in exposed soil, but an abundance of this species indicates abuse. This is important because the remaining two species demonstrate a high fidelity to intact natural communities. They also occur in wetter habitats.

Atrichum crispulum also has undulate leaves. In fact, even under a microscope they are nearly identical to those of A. altecristatum. However, plant height and habitat easily differentiate the two.

Here is A. crispulum that has been rehydrated on my porch. This particular specimen is close to five centimeters tall; nearly twice the height of the average A. altecristatum. Atrichum crispulum is a species of undisturbed plant communities and is found in moist to wet protected slopes and wet sandy ledges in shady ravines. It has just recently been recognized as occurring in Missouri and is state listed as SU. Any new locations would be good info for the Natural Heritage folks.

The last species to round out the Ozarkian Atrichum experience is A. crispum. It is also found in wet habitat with intact native integrity.

It differs from the previous three species in lacking undulate leaves. In height it resembles A. crispulum, but it is more sparsely foliose.

That’s it! Height, undulations and habitat are all you need to distinguish the Atrichum of the Ozarks. Don’t ask me why the keys are based on the length of single cells and other equally tedious characters. It goes to show that with some field experience, some collecting and the process of elimination, moss identification is not only possible, its kind of fun.

Botany Road Trip: Spring 2008

2009-03-02T00:00:00.000-06:00

Every spring I like to take a botanical road trip. Last spring my buddy Brad from Michigan came down and we took a southern tour. Due to a computer malfunction, I was unable to show my slides of the trip at the annual Botany Slide Show Extravaganza this winter. So, being compelled to salvage the usefulness of my slides from the trip, I put together the following.

The trip started right here in Dent County with a visit to Big Glade at Indian Trails State Forest.

Big Glade had received a solid burn earlier in the spring. The tender green tips of summer grasses and sedges were just breaking dormancy and lending a green buzz to the chert strewn dolomite shelves of this spectacular natural area. As it was early yet, few plants were flowering. Here are two fun ones:

Castilleja coccinea (yellow form) is one of my favorites. This hemiparasite is common on glades, but rarely abundant.

This is Silene caroliniana var. wherryi. In Missouri, it is only known from a cluster of counties in the central Ozarks. This variety also has disjunct populations in Ohio, West Virginia, Kentucky, Alabama and North Carolina. It differs from other varieties in lacking glandular pubescence within the inflorescence.

From Big Glade we headed south to a chunk of National Forest near Birch Tree. Our quarry….the state imperiled/globally vulnerable Ozark Wake Robin (Trillium pusillum var. ozarkanum).

We were surprised to find this beauty blooming in profusion along the road ditch. A thunderstorm was riding down our backs, so we didn’t stay long. That being said, there wasn’t much else to see here. The wind in our faces, we headed to Bona Glade for a glimpse at the federally threatened Geocarpon minimum.

Like POWs traversing a landmine field, we watched every step. We were growing more discouraged with every Geocarpon-less acre and a good hour went by before we found the treasure. We safely tip-toed around the populations of this little gem and got some decent photos. While Geocarpon was the main attraction, I was struck by the range of color and texture this extensive sandstone glade offers.

The reds and oranges of the rock mixed with the greens, grays and yellows of the mosses and lichens commingled with the deep blue of a crisp spring day.

Noticing that Lichen Glade (another sandstone glade) was nearby, we loaded up and headed out. I had wanted to visit this site for years in order to find and photo Selenia aurea. Eyes wide the second we left the parking area, we stared intently at the ground. Had we looked up, we would have seen the glade was practically carpeted with a yellow so rich it would make a number two pencil bow its lead in shame. It was a profusion of Selenia aurea.

The beauty of this yellow halo was only match by the purple haze aglow on the west facing slope of the glade.

This violet symphony beneath the bursting buds of widely spaced Post Oak trees was composed of thousands of Collinsia violacea blooms being back-lit by the setting sun.

Feeling warm from the glow of a day’s glade hopping, we drove into the night and camped at Roaring River State Park. Tip: when camping on cold spring nights, make sure you actually pack the tent and not the bag that looks like the tent but is actually a screen canopy for a picnic table.

Over morning coffee, I contemplated what was colder, last night’s windchill or the look in Brad’s eyes. I consoled myself with the belief that the vista from Chute Ridge Glade that morning bought some forgiveness.

If it didn’t, the small population of Trillium viridescens might have.

There is a section along Chute Ridge Glade dominated with an overstory of Quercus muehlenbergii and Fraxinus quadrangulata. The understory is dominated by high quality mesic woods species such as Echinacea purpurea, Elymus glaucus and Hydrastis canadensis. This Dry Mesic Limestone/Dolomite Woodland community seems to be suffering from overzealous clearing and burning. It is as though it is being interpreted as an overgrown portion of the glade rather than a community within the glade. I fear such homogenous micromanagement and a drive to achieve 100% black during prescribed fires might be doing more harm than good here. Then again, what do I know?

From here we jumped into the truck and headed for the border. Our first stop was to see the Ozark Spring Beauty well inside the Natural State that is Arkansas.

The few scattered populations of this species in the Ozarks were long thought to be disjuncts of the common eastern Carolina Spring Beauty (C. caroliniana). A recent monograph of the genus demonstrated, without doubt, that this is a distinct species. I believe it is an Ozark endemic. Subsequent searches of historic population locations in Missouri have come up empty.

Next we had a date with shale barrens in the Ouachita Mountains.

The white flowers in this photo are of Valerianella nuttallii. It is a shale obligate and a Ouachita endemic.

Here is a close-up. We witnessed many other fabulous plants in the shale barrens, but it was too windy for decent photographs. This is the very site for the newly discovered species Sabatia arkansana that was all the rage a few years ago. I would strongly recommend a visit to these treasures. They were very unique in both vegetative structure and composition.

A short hike into the forests of the Ouachita Mountains led us to the next prize; Cypripedium kentuckiense.

This plant pretty much made the trip for Brad and me. Noted Arkansas nature photographer Craig Fraiser, led us to the population that consisted of a few hundred stems. Kentucky Ladyslipper was split out of the Yellow Ladyslipper complex in the mid-1980’s and described as a new species. It differs in having a pale yellow slipper with a much larger opening. The habitat and habit are both dramatically different as well. Living plants barely resemble Yellow Ladyslippper, but pressed plants can lose the characters that differentiate the two species (especially habit and habitat). This is a great example of how field knowledge is crucial to taxonomy; a fact that is increasingly ignored as organismal biology is abandoned by universities throughout the nation.

High on great plant finds, we ventured further south. Morning found us in Texarkana, Texas. Our destination was extreme southwest Arkansas, but we were so close to Texas it would have been rude not to stop by for a few minutes. Once we were back in Arkansas, we stopped at Miller County Sandhills. The site touts 21 state listed plant species. As the name implies the area is dominated by deep sandy soils and corresponding xerophytic species. This is the first time that Brad and I really noticed a major shift in the vegetation. We could certainly taste the southern influence and we recognized very few species, which to a field botanist can be quite exhilarating but also very frustrating. Two members of the Euphorbiaceae proved to be the most interesting and strange plants at the site.

This is Cnidoscolus texanus. It took us hours to identify this thing, because its large funnelform flowers were unlike any Euphorb we had ever seen. The milky sap and a wild guess finally got us an identification.

Compared to this photo of Stillingia sylvatica in full bloom you really get a feel for the range of morphological variation in this crazy family.

On our third day we crossed into Louisiana. We had three goals for the Pelican State; 1) find Penstemon murrayanus, 2) eat a meat pie in Natchitoches and 3) get our feet wet in Cooter’s Bog.

Here is Penstemon murrayanus. It is my favorite photograph from the trip. This species is ranked S1 in Louisiana and S2 in Arkansas and Oklahoma. Evidently it is also rare in Texas. We found it growing along some weedy railroad tracks surrounded by extensive ORV trails. It seems to have an interesting autecology, but darn if I can find anything about it. Online there is an abundance of sites referring to its use as a hummingbird plant. This plus the brilliant red of the flowers has made it a favorite of the well intentioned but rather myopic “native” plant trade.

That night we feasted on meat pies in the gorgeous and historic town of Natchitoches. Don’t try to pronounce it. You have to be born there to pull it off.

The next morning, and an hour or two south of Natchitoches we found Cooter’s Bog.

Cooter’s Bog is neither Cooter’s nor a bog. This preserve, as part of the Kisatchie National Forest, belongs to the tax paying American public. It isn’t a bog if you define a bog as ombrotrophic (wet from direct precipitation and surface run-off) and a fen as minerotrophic (wet from groundwater discharge). Rainwater from the surrounding Long Leaf Pine stands percolates through deep sandy soils until it hits a clay layer. Where shallow valleys have eroded down to the clay layer, water, following the path of least resistance, emits from the ground. Even though it is acidic, it is a fen. In these nutrient deficient soils you find common carnivorous bog genera like Pinguicula (Butterworts), Drosera (Sundews), Utricularia (Bladderworts) and Sarracenia (Pitcher Plants). We saw and relished in examples of each, as well as many other fascinating taxa.

Here is a fine example of Sarracenia alata pitchers and flowers. Clumps of this amazing plant were scattered throughout Cooter’s Bog. This species rounded out a trip we took several years ago to Florida where we saw five other species. I have now seen six of the roughly 11 species in North America.

While we would have stayed for days or pushed on into Texas, the pull of real life and its burdens dragged us homeward, leaving us with only a taste of deeply southern flora. The end of a road trip always evokes a hint of melancholy in me. Like the song “The Last Fandango” or the end of “The Breakfast Club”; a satisfaction that is measured most by the degree to which you don’t want it to end. We vowed to return someday. I’ll let you know when we do.

Isoetes and I

2009-02-21T16:28:00.000-06:00

I have always felt that field biologists are primarily explorers. Even as we revel in a new discovery, our minds are already drifting off to the next expedition. We all have our own lengthy lists of locales and taxa for which we pine. For me it is usually a certain species, but with some groups I would be equally happy to find any member of the genus. The genus Isoetes (Isoetaceae) is once such group. With my feet and eyes, I have covered a lot of ground in Missouri and the Midwest. Yet, somehow I have never crossed paths with an Isoetes. I have molested many sterile Eleocharis and Juncus in the distant hope that they were Isoetes. Experience has told me, I will know one when I see one.

Friday morning, I met with the esteemed Missouri Botanist Alan Brant for some stream corridor work in the St. Francois Mountains (center of uplift for the Ozark Plateau characterized by a preponderance of rhyolite). He enticed me along on the trip with the promise of nice weather and possibility of finding some fens, seeps and springs. About a mile into our trek, at the base of a slope, Alan spotted a grove of Alnus serrulata (Smooth Alder) in a young even age cut. Within the grove we could see open grass/sedge areas. Given the geology of where we were and the dominance of Osmunda regalis, Panicum microcarpon, and Alnus serrulata we decided it was an acid seep (really more like an acid fen if such a creature exists). Once we fought our way through the dense stand of saplings and briars that tend to follow blatantly disrespectful logging practices, we explored the seep. As you may know, botanizing in the winter is mostly an exercise in forensics, as the dried and shattered remains of carices, grasses, composites, ferns and the like are the only fodder for study. So anything green, is gold. As I approached some shallow pools that were covered with a thin layer of ice and rife with salamander eggs, I saw green.

Having been prematurely excited on other occasions by what proved only to be Eleocharis stems, I was a bit hesitant to believe that what I was seeing could be an Isoetes. But as I got closer and knowing I had never seen anything so Isoetes-like as these rosettes, my heart jumped. I knew it was my first bona-fide Isoetes. I called Alan over and he verified it.

In Missouri, there are three species of Isoetes, each with a fairly wide distribution (I. butleri, I. engelmannii and I. melanopoda). Two are common and one, I. engelmannii, is listed as “probably state imperiled” (S1?).

While the best way to identify Isoetes englemannii is by the sculpturing on the megaspore, a field determination can be made by habitat, size and characters involving the leaf bases. Isoetes engelmannii is the only submerged aquatic species in the state, as this clearly was; the other two species are more emergent. Isoetes butleri is principally found on calcareous substrates (such as dolomite or limestone glades), so it wasn’t this species. Isoetes engelmannii has pale leaf bases, as did our specimen. Isoetes melanopoda, as the name suggests, has a black coloration to the leaf bases. Thus by morphology and habitat, we came up with the field determination of Isoetes engelmannii. A hard target search of the fen revealed at least 30 more stems. Given the extent of the population and Alan’s opinion that it is far more common than its S1 status indicates (a status more indicative of the rarity of habitat), I collected a small sample. Since it is a new population the sample will be sent to the Missouri Botanical Garden herbarium and an Element of Occurrence Record will be filed with Natural Heritage.

Isoetes (the Quillworts) fit into that silly lay-term “fern allies” that also includes the Horsetails (Phylum Sphenophyta), the Whiskferns (Phylum Psilotophyta) and Club Mosses (Phylum Lycophyta, as is Isoetes)(based on Raven’s “Biology of Plants”, sixth edition). Being an artificial term, “fern allies” has no real taxonomic significance other than designating the non-flowering, non-fern vascular plants. Isoetes is somewhat closely aligned with the Lycopods (Club Mosses) but is the only genus in the order Isoetales. There are roughly 150 known species of Isoetes, distributed worldwide.

Isoetes have a very unique morphology. They grow from a corm which, unlike a bulb (composed of modified leaves), is simply a very short and slightly modified stem. In the photo below the corm is the brown bulbish portion of the base.

The leaves grow from the top of the corm and the roots grow from the bottom. However, Isoetes do it in a strange fashion. The corm is more or less divided into halves. The photo below is taken 90 degrees from the previous photo.

So the corm of Isoetes is kind of like the body of a yo-yo with the leaves and roots growing out along the seam (where the string winds). In the photo below I have made a section perpendicular to the seam.

Here you can see the roots coming out of the heart-shaped bottom of the corm and the leaves out of the heart-shaped top.

The leaves of Isoetes are four-chambered in cross-section. This feature allows the leaves, once gas filled, to float. The base of each leaf flattens out like a clove of garlic. In this “clove” area the sporangia are formed. Like the genus Selaginella, Isoetes are heterosporous (meaning the “male” and “female” spores are very different). The “male” spores are called microspores and the female spores are megaspores. Unlike ferns, the sporangia of Isoetes are like little white eggs. In the photo below (be sure to click on it) you can see last years megaspores (each is about 0.5mm in diameter) erupting from the leaf base. Just to the right you can see some newly formed megaspores.

Each individual plant alternates between the production of male and female spores; the megaspores are produced in the spring and the microspores in the summer. I put several megaspores under the dissecting scope and they are indeed sculpted with ridges which is the key reproductive character for this species in our range.

My mind has been racing, since finding Isoetes engelmannii. I’ve been mentally rearranging my already booked summer schedule for a chance to hunt down the other two species. Where should I look? Perhaps I could cheat by copying label information next time I’m at MoBot. But in reality, plant finds, like many things in life, are best when they are spontaneous. I’m sure I’ll find the other two. And if I’m lucky, it will be when I least expect it.

A Quick Guide to Midwestern Andropogon

2009-02-10T14:30:00.000-06:00

Whenever one thinks of Tallgrass Prairie grasses, the “big four” often come to mind. The “big four” being Big Bluestem (Andropogon gerardii), Little Bluestem (A. scoparius), Switch Grass (Panicum virgatum) and Indian Grass (Sorghastrum nutans). Though they represent only a fraction of the grass diversity that prairie is capable of expressing, they often make up a significant portion of the vegetative biomass.

All four of these species are easy to identify by their flowering structures and many folks working in prairies can distinguish these species by vegetative (non-floral) means. It is really just a matter of stem bases; Panicum virgatum is the only one with a circular cross section, both A. gerardii and S. nutans have an oval cross section and A. scoparius has a very flat base. Andropogon gerardii and S. nutans can then be separated by ligule length where S. nutans has a prominent and cartilaginous ligule compared to the shorter membranaceous ligule of A. gerardii.

You may have noticed that I refer to Little Bluestem as belonging to the genus Andropogon instead of Schizachyrium. It isn’t that I am stubbornly hanging on to an old name because I fear change and scientific innovation, but rather, because I have read the literature involving the removal Little Bluestem from Andropogon and have found it extremely unconvincing. I’ll address this topic in a future entry.

In the Midwest, A. scoparius is often confused with other flat based members of the genus (basically all but A. gerardii) such as A. virginicus, A. ternarius and A. gyrans (=A. elliotii to some). From my experience, when folks learn to distinguish the similar species, they are surprised at how common the other species are.

In the photo above, you can see all four placed side by side. They are, from left to right, A. virginicus, A. ternarius, A. scoparius and A. gyrans.

Andropogon virginicus (below) is a species of old fields, highway medians and degraded grasslands. It is the most generalist of the group and holds little to no conservation value other than it being better than a field full of exotics. Though I have seen it in relatively intact natural communities, to me it doesn’t seem to have a precise niche in any. Rather, it seems like an ecological anachronism like Gleditsia triacanthos or Maclura pomifera.

To the experienced eye, it is quite distinct even from a distance. It has a more yellow-green cast to the summer foliage and a more yellow-orange cast to the cured stems in the winter (see photo above).

It differs from other Midwestern Andropogon in that the spikelets are included in leaf sheaths and small blades all along the stem (above). Other members of the genus express their spikelets on well exerted peduncles or, as in the case of A. gyrans, the subtending sheaths are large, spathe-like and distributed at the top of the stem. These differences will become more obvious with the descriptions and photos below.

Andropogon gyrans (below) is like a meek, polite and a little fancy version of A. virginicus.

I say this because it occurs in the same weedy habitats as A. virginicus but never in such density. Chances are if you have an abundance of A. virginicus in an area and you look around you will likely find a few stems of A. gyrans mixed in the population. Andropogon gyrans also seems to lack any real fidelity to a well defined natural community or soil type. In fact, all you can say about it and A. virginicus is that they are only found in full sun and moist to dry soils. Andropogon gyrans cures about the same color as A. virginicus but with deeper orange notes along the spathe-like sheaths that subtend the spikelets.

The winter stems of A. gyrans make it the most easily recognized member of the group. The spikelets are more or less congregated in the upper ¼ of the plant and are subtended by the afore mentioned large spathe-like bracts (above). These large bracts give the plant a similar silhouette to that of the tropical genus Heliconia. I have yet to find a consistent field character for distinguishing A. gyrans and A. virginicus without full grown stems. Luckily, one can usually find a remnant stem or two.

Andropogon scoparius (below) is the major player in the Tallgrass and Mixed Grass Prairie systems.

It also contributes significantly to the biomass of glades, woodlands and savannas. The standing, dormant vegetation of A. scoparius is typically more red-orange in color than the yellow-orange of A. virginicus and A. gyrans.

It also differs from A. virginicus and A. gyrans in that its peduncles are not included or otherwise associated with subtending leaf blades or sheaths. Rather, the peduncles are long, exerted and conspicuous (above). When flowering and/or fruiting material are present, A. scoparius can be distinguished from other Andropogon in the presence of a solitary spikelet on each peduncle (A. virginicus, A. gyrans and A. ternarius have two spikelets per peduncle). The best way to differentiate A. scoparius from the other three species in this article is by their ligules. The ligule of A. scoparius is more or less 1 mm long, while the other three have much shorter (less than 1/2mm) ligules. This may seem like a subtle character, but a good field botanist can easily distinguish 1mm from 1/2mm or even 3/4mm. It is all about practice and the perception of scale.

Like A. scoparius, A. ternarius (below) has exerted peduncles.

In fact, they are so exerted in this species that the plants take on a very leggy appearance. This leggy silhouette is further exaggerated by a lack of foliar density, compared to other species. Andropogon ternarius has the red-orange coloration of A. scoparius and is most likely to be misidentified as that species.

The easiest way to tell the two apart, in addition to the peduncle lengths, is that the tips of the peduncles of A. ternarius have a tuft of pubescence (see above and below) whereas A. scoparius is glabrous.

Caution must be used in conjunction with this character because the spikelets of BOTH are pubescent. Of course, A. ternarius has two spikelets (thus the name Splitbeard Bluestem) where A. scoparius has one (seem like a weak character to base a genus on doesn’t it?). Andropogon ternarius has the most southern distribution of the four species mentioned here and is the most conservative. It prefers acidic soils and is less tolerant of disturbance. Where you find it, it is a remnant or relic plant, not a colonizer as the other species mentioned here (less so for A. scoparius, of course). It also makes a nice subject for creative photography.

Lastly, as always, one must keep in mind that this is a diverse group and that along the southern fringe of the lower Midwest one is likely to run into members of the genus not mentioned here; some native, some exotic. That being said, all the other species are different enough that the cautious botanist will instantly know when he/she has stepped outside the comfort zone.

Fight or Flight on the Shortgrass Prairie

2008-12-31T18:18:00.001-06:00

In early September, I took a little trip to eastern Wyoming. It wasn't the best time of year to visit the Great Plains since late summer is predominantly crispy and brown on the Shortgrass Prairie. However, I was able to find some color here and there.

The area receives an average of 12 inches of precipitation annually. These arid conditions have resulted in a significant percentage of annuals in the flora. Cryptantha crassisepala (photo below) is a fine example. The hairs of the inflorescence are very stiff and are quite pleasing to the touch. With its numerous scorpioid cymes the plant is visually pleasing as well. In the very center of the photo is the final flower of what would have earlier been a much prettier display.

Here on the Great Plains, as with much of Earth's surface, anthropogenic disturbance has significantly altered the ecological integrity of the presettlement natural communities and dramatically changed the natural distribution of plants and animals. Exotic species that are more tolerant of excessive disturbances in biotic and abiotic structure now thrive. Native plants that evolved into the biotic components of the Shortgrass Prairie system were once numerous and well distributed. However, cheap beef to feed a growing nation justified unrestrained grazing. Within a few decades little more than Sagebrush, Tumbleweeds, dust and cowpies were left on the lonesome prairie.

Sadly, the Tumbleweed (Salsola iberica; a.k.a. S. tragus; a.k.a. Prickly Russian Thistle) has become an emblem of the west, but it no more belongs on the prairie than cattle or sheep; cowboys or spurs. It is a nasty, practically leafless plant covered with thorny bracts. Its diffuse branching gives the plant a globose silhouette. When its seeds have ripened, it breaks off at the base and harnesses the wind to roll and bounce its way across the landscape distributing its seed far and wide; or at least until it hits a fence. Here is a photo of it in flower. Note the spines behind each flower. They are very sharp and most unforgiving. Classically a western weed, it is actually found throughout North America, though less common in the east and south.

Amid the waycross weeds and cow patties, I was able to find some interesting native plants. In over-grazed country such as this, one could classify the native plants into three categories; those that hide from grazers, those that fight grazers and those that suffer local (if not global) extinction.

The hiders are either growing in association with some form of grazer deterrent such as a clump of spiny Tumbleweed. Or they seeking refuge in the most floristically rich remnants of the whole prairie region; road ditches. It is here that you find the shattered remains of a once functioning ecosystem shamefully cast with road kill, Wal-Mart bags and cool season Eurasian grasses.

Here is Lygodesmia juncea (Skeletonweed) hiding in a prickly pear.

Other plants found hidden in the thorns include two species of Machaeranthera. The blue flowered Machaeranthera canescens was probably the most common native bloomer I found during my visit. Just about anywhere sheep couldn't get their chompers, this plant was growing.

Machaeranthera canescens was pretty easy to key out and was in most of the wildflower guides I had with me. However, M. pinnatifida (below) with its yellow florets posed a real challenge. I don't know many eastern genera that have yellow AND blue flowered species, so though the keys would take me to Machaeranthera, I wouldn't accept it. Finally, I ran it through the key to species and found the error of my ways. It still doesn't sit right, but I'm sure far greater minds than mine have agreed to it.

Machaeranthera pinnatifida was one of the few plant specimens collected by Meriwether Lewis on the Voyage of Discovery. As with most of the Lewis collection from said journey, it was described by Fredrick Pursh. So the story goes, he was only supposed to look at the specimens while visiting the States. Instead, he smuggled a stack of them back to England where he described them. In a twist of irony, most of the unabducted specimens were severely damaged or lost. Thus through Pursh piracy do we have any undamaged plant collections from the famous excursion.

Here are some road ditch refugees I encountered. This is Senecio riddellii. This was the only specimen I saw and it was closer to the mountains in a transitional area.

Unfortunately, even road ditches are rarely safe for plants that have escaped grazing. Humans have no tolerance for "unmowed" areas. So, in the name of duty to an ill perceived aesthetic, road ditches across America are regularly mowed. Here is a photo of Heterotheca canescens that I would say is standing defiant, if its defiance did not come in the form of lying procumbent. Normally an upright plant, it has become prostrate in the face of the mowing.

My third category consists of plants with weapons. These fighters defy cattle and sheep with raised swords (thorns/spines/prickles) or toxic potions (alkaloids and other sap-based chemical concoctions of a toxic nature). Gutierrezia sarothrae is of the latter persuasion. It is one of several poisonous native species that increase with grazing. Toxins within the plant tissues cause abortions in cattle and sheep (no Roe v. Wade here).

Other species like Grindelia squarrosa avoid grazers simply by tasting bad. This strategy becomes less and less effective the more a pasture is grazed and as the hierarchy of "tasty" shifts downward. The capitula of Grindelia squarrosa are covered with a sticky resin. From this resin the common name "Gumweed" is derived.

Chrysothamnus nauseosus (below) is another species that cattle and sheep find unpalatable. That being said, it must taste pretty bad because this species and Ambrosia tridentata (Big Sagebrush) are often the dominant species throughout the region.

The photo above was taken in a sand blow which was one of the few places that harbored a significant number of native species. I deduced from the lack of sheep and cattle tracks in the area that sheep and cattle do not like to walk in sand. Nor do I, for that matter. However, all around the sand blows there were more hoof printed spots than not. Don't tell the ranchers or they'll introduce camels.

In summation, my short trip to the Great Plains of eastern Wyoming reinforced several facts for me. That most every landscape across the nation is severely degraded, abused and disrespected. That no matter where he goes, the lover of raw and pulsing nature has to search much to hard to find his once ubiquitous treasure. That when truly beautiful things are relegated to the trash strewn ditches and thorny patches of life, the literal becomes a metaphor of our human hour and inevitable decline. And that one day the prairie will reclaim its kingdom.

The Love Affair of Gaura biennis and Schinia gaurae

2008-12-10T21:11:00.000-06:00

I don't know if it was the cool temperatures, the abundant rainfall or some other stochastic influence, but Gaura biennis was extremely flamboyant in the Ozarks this summer. Everywhere I went, large, diffuse inflorescences of white turning to shades of pink were found.

Admittedly, I have mostly ignored Gaura biennis over the years; finding it gangly and somewhat weedy. But it really out-did itself this year and I took notice. Camera in hand, tripod in tow, I headed down my gravel driveway to a nice specimen for a quick photo. Knowing them to be nocturnal bloomers and having noticed that the flowers were at their peak in the morning when I left the house and mostly shriveled by my evening return, I got to them just after sunrise.

After taking some quick photos, the kind where you don't really see the subject for the equipment, while rushing to beat the light, wind or self-imposed time constraints, I began to study the flowers. In this conscious effort to slow-down and enjoy the moment, the flowers struck me as peculiar. The perianth was tilted about 45 degrees toward the sky, and the stamens where all lined up perpendicular to the ground with the style between the stamens but dropped below their line by a few millimeters. It was the arrangement of the stamens that most drew my attention. I couldn't help but notice that they formed a triangle in outline. Further study revealed a ring of nectaries encircling the base of the style and that the anthers split along the uppermost edge. This made me think about pollinators.

Returning to the house, I grabbed my copy of "Butterflies and Moths of Missouri" and looked for moths that feed on Gaura that might fit what has to be an interesting pollination syndrome. I found that Schinia gaurae (the Clouded Crimson)(picture below from pbase.com) feeds, nectars, rests and lays eggs on species of Gaura and primarily on Gaura biennis. Still curious, I googled for images of this fun little moth. Several of the images demonstrated that the moth is almost the identical size and shape of the stamen arrangement on the Gaura biennis flowers. I also noticed that the back end of its wings are somewhat fluffy, not unlike miniature feather dusters. To cap it off, the adult moth's peak emergence is well in line with the bloom dates of G. biennis.

So at this point I am thinking that Schinia gaurae obviously visits the flowers to get a little nectar and as it aligns itself to drink, the fluffy wing bases get dusted with pollen. It just makes too much sense. Unfortunately, the only references I can find says that G. biennis is pollinated by long-tongued bees. My dream of a "form meets function" world instantly goes up in a cloud of disappointment. After all, what do these Gene Simmons bees have to do with my elaborate Gaura stamens? Are there really nocturnal bees? I needed more info.

I decide to wait until the dead of night before I visit my little population of flowers. At 1am I just can't stand it any longer. I jump in the truck which has become nothing more than a mobile flashlight at this point, and head down the driveway. I get out and eye every flower....nothing. I look closer and find the nectaries, which were dry during the day, are now pumping huge luscious drops of nectar. I must taste one, and I do. It's sweet, but hardly a meal for a curious primate. I also notice that the style is now in line with the anthers and not below them as in the flowers from the day, or should I say night, before. In the anticlimax, I stand a moment, hoping to hear an owl or something to salvage the night, when I notice an erratic flash in the headlights. It's a moth. Surely it is just drawn to the light. It lands on a flower. It's Schinia gaurae!!!! It lights, aligns itself, and drinks. The stamens are covered, the wings are in contact with the anthers and I am ecstatic. I watch for a while, then jump in the truck and head home for a beer and some contemplation about how wonderfully cool life and life on earth is.

Of course, the scientist in me realizes that this merely constitutes circumstantial evidence and in no way proves that Gaura biennis is pollinated by Schinia gaurae. And since I still don't know what the interaction of the plant with long-tongued bees is, they cannot be ruled out. But the novice naturalist, the child, the innocent believer in me is satisfied. At least until next year.

The Flint Hills of Kansas

2008-08-14T23:44:00.000-05:00

The Flint Hills of eastern Kansas harbor the largest remaining pieces of the Tallgrass Prairie Ecoregion. They are one of the few remaining places where the human eye can encompass the great ocean of grass so frequently and eloquently described by early American travelers and settlers.

Here, the wind, the openness and the omnipresent sky all commingle and instantaneously transport you away from modernity to a timeless place where you feel, thankfully and willingly, abandoned. Dream-like, you sense the ghosts of bison and feel that subtle, tenderly ancestral, thrill of open country.

Formed by the shallow seas of the Permian (280-240mya), limestone, riddled with insoluble chert concretions, gives the hills their distinctive “plateau” shape. The residual chert gravel and stones have rendered the region unfit for row-crop agriculture. It is this feature that has spared the region from the ill fate of the plow. Secondarily, the regional climate is too dry for most exotic cool season grasses.

Today, millions of acres of relatively quality prairie are under the management of the regions cattle culture. These private landowners, mostly ranchers, are interested in two things; grass and cattle. After decades of fighting “weeds” which they proudly but half-jokingly define as “anything that isn’t grass”, the humble Flint Hills ranchers are coming to terms with concepts such as biodiversity, heterogeneity and the intermediate disturbance hypothesis. In other words, they are beginning to digest science and conservation. Many are adding management elements to encourage forb diversity as well as grassland bird habitat. Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve and Konza Prairie are assisting in the transition, with a “lead by example” philosophy, like it or not.

Along the highways and bi-ways of the region, classically western Tallgrass Prairie species are abundant. Here are a few of the more common and charismatic forbs of the Flint Hills from a trip there earlier this week.

This is Solidago missouriensis. It is a more western component of the Tallgrass Prairie Ecoregion. It loosely resembles S. juncea but has narrower leaves that are strongly triple-nerved. The fascicles of leaves in the axes of the stem leaves is also a reliable character.

Petalostemum multiflorum is mostly restricted to the Flint Hills of Kansas where it is common. It does occur outside the Flint Hills region, but it is increasingly less abundant. It has white flowers and spherical to hemispherical flower clusters which differ dramatically from P. candidum and P. purpureum. It also has a more diffuse growth form.

Helianthus rigidus (H. pauciflorus) is a common and attractive species of the Flint Hills. It has extremely thick leaves with a very scabrous texture. The involucre is unique and reminds me of a beer bottle cap. It occurs very sporatically further east into the prairies of western Missouri.

Euphorbia marginata has the common name "Snow on the Mountain". I am assuming this is due to the white varigation along the bracts surrounding the flowers. It is a common native of the western Tallgrass Prairie and increases with soil disturbance. When one enters extreme western Missouri and eastern Nebraska and Kansas, it suddenly becomes an abundant member of road ditch communities. I often wonder why it hasn't spread further east. It is one of my favorites.

Like all the Tallgrass Prairie Ecoregion, the "big four" grasses (Big Bluestem, Little Bluestem, Indian Grass and Switchgrass) are common in the Flint Hills. However, the Flint Hills also have grass elements of the Mixed and Shortgrass Prairies further to the west. Bouteloua hirsuta reaches an average height of about 12 inches and has small spikes that remind me of eyebrows. Like its bigger cousin, Bouteloua curtipendula, it has pustulate hairs on the margins of the leaf blades.

Buchloe dactyloides is another small grass in the Flint Hills. It only reaches a few inches tall and seems to be most common in areas with shallow or compacted soils. It is adorable!!

Of course, this is but a taste of what a few hours roaming the Flint Hills can provide a wandering botanist. Upon leaving the Flint Hills, I again remembered the resilience of our natural world. Each species existing as a functional element, a puzzle piece specifically shaped for a purpose within the community. Each species a unit of stability, functioning within a system of ebbs and flows and changing as the parameters of the system are redefined. It is sad that the human footprint often "redefines" the system faster than it can cope. But it will catch up, long after the human candle is extinguished. Thus I cling to my hope that Salvia azurea and its powder blue blooms will continue to stretch above the grasses of the prairie and flag down hungry pollinators for years to come.