Beargrass -- Xerophyllum tenax

July 26, 2019 by Will Clausen in Plants

For the past fifteen minutes, I have been an unwitting pollinator. Arriving at my campsite, I throw off my backpack, a necessary burden on the long hike up this steep mountainside. I’m lightheaded and tired as I notice white dust covering my pants, sleeves, and the sides of my pack. It puzzles me as I set my breath and take time to recover, but looking out toward the open meadow, it clicks. This isn’t dust, but pollen from the field of flowering beargrass (Xerophyllum tenax) I just waded through to get here. After I set up my tent, I head back into the meadow to run my hand through the masses of inflorescences, large and comprised of many small white flowers at the end of four foot stalks. I smile as I look at my hand, covered in pollen, confirming my thought. I send it through the beargrass again before wiping it off on my shirt. This summer seems to have brought a particularly great bloom for this beautiful plant. The meadow is awash in white, mimicking the blanket of snow that covers it for more than half of the year. Looking back downhill, I can barely make out the path that I followed because of the dense growth of beargrass crowding everything. The plants along the trail, near the tree line, have used me to send pollen uphill. When I head out of here in a couple of days I will be used again, this time in reverse, helping to send pollen down, mixing genes. Not that this remarkable population of beargrass needs any help. Tens of thousands of them fill the meadow I am in and the hillside above me. My contribution to its reproduction is infinitely insignificant. But still it has put me to work.

Buckbean -- Menyanthes trifoliata

June 15, 2019 by Will Clausen in Plants

A muskeg can be a very quiet place. Crossing through, all of the noise seems to be sucked into the mossy mire and I am sunk into thought. These places feel ancient. I am walking in an old basin, once a shallow lake, filled in by thousands of years’ worth of organic matter and sediment, built up, saturated, and compressed into peat under its own weight. The plants of past centuries give way under my own weight, a slight but noticeable spring to the wet ground. Here in southeast Alaska and throughout the northlands where these waterlogged bogs exist, cold temperatures combine with anaerobic conditions to bring decomposition to a near standstill. Slowly, inch by inch, these basins fill in with the withered remains of past vegetative growth. What I am walking on looks much as it did a hundred years ago, a thousand years ago, only more filled in, a little higher. I start to imagine that maybe this quiet is just about the same as it has always been. The buzz of mosquitos provides white noise, a meditative hum linking past and present. Slowly the hum builds and I realized that it is not mosquitoes I am hearing but a manufactured mimic, a distant floatplane whirring up the Lynn Canal. Snapped back to the present, I remember that it is good to be aware. A bear could be around though a likelier problem the ground underfoot, which isn’t always firm. A large muskeg complex is a mosaic of dry and wet land, areas that have filled in completely and spots that are still mucky. Throughout, small streams and little ponds are found. The open water is easy enough to avoid, but areas where a thin layer of moss covers the muck can be less obvious. A step in the wrong spot can put you up to your knee or more. Knowing a little bit about this type of landscape, the topography and plants can help. Ahead I can see hundreds of buckbean (Menyanthes trifoliata) leaf stalks emerging from the moss, a beautiful plant but one to tread near carefully.

Yellow Bells -- Fritillaria pudica

May 16, 2019 by Will Clausen in Plants

The hardened landscape of the Inland Northwest, baked in summer and frozen in winter, is softened each spring by an abundance of wildflowers. So many of these spring wildflowers appear tender and fragile, seemingly out of place and yet a vibrant component of the land none the less. Among these many plants you will find yellow bells (Fritillaria pudica) with their small flowers nodding stoically, heralds of spring, like wild daffodils, lifting spirits after a long winter. From southern British Columbia to northeast California, through Idaho, Montana and western Wyoming, yellow bells are found in the shrub-steppe that characterize this part of the country, the iconic sagebrush (Artemisia sp.) habitat, and also open ponderosa pine (Pinus ponderosa) habitat where these towering trees meet the shrub-steppe. Among such robust and gnarled neighbors, the species name “pudica”, translating to shy or modest, seems well suited to yellow bells. It reflects the downcast view taken by the pendulous flowers, their diminutive size and fleeting nature. But I don’t really consider yellow bells to be shy or modest. They are brilliant. Massed, they make a loud statement which is amplified all the more for being made by such a plant in such a landscape.

Red Alder -- Alnus rubra

April 06, 2019 by Will Clausen in Plants

Throughout the forested land of the Pacific Northwest west of the Cascade Mountains, red alder (Alnus rubra) is one of the most important plants. Despite their importance, they are generally overlooked because there really isn’t anything particularly striking about them. In fact, most people either don’t think about them at all or consider them a weed, an unwanted and persistant presence invading a manicured garden. But it is this weed-like quality that makes them so important in the wild landscape. Red alders are workhorses, humbly fulfilling their ecological role. They are a pioneer species, growing quickly as a landscape resets after destruction. They make significant contributions, making life possible for others while taking advantage of the favorable but fleeting conditions under which they thrive. They are the driving force of renewal in the forest and without them these places would certainly be very different.

Broadleaf stonecrop -- Sedum spathulifolium

February 25, 2019 by Will Clausen in Plants

We have just ducked under a fallen giant, the corpse of a massive Douglas-fir recently toppled and resting on a steep hillside. Far downhill, branches of a former canopy touch the river that we have been following. Looking uphill I can see the flared root crown, where trunk once met ground. From this crown, gnarled roots reach back for the hold they were unable to sustain, grasping at straws. This is not an unusual sight and coming up the Duckabush River on the eastern edge of Olympic National Park, we have seen a lot of big trees on the ground. Along this short stretch of trail there are five or six huge trees down, probably all victims of the same wind storm. Among these trees, miles upriver from the trailhead, even further from the shoreline, past the blowdown, we find a campsite. Exploring beyond the campsite, we come to a rock-filled area at the bottom of another steep slope, a place too unsettled for big trees. In this pocket of open land, the rocks are overrun with a plant that I didn’t really expect to see here in the middle of the thick forest, broadleaf stonecrop (Sedum spathulifolium). This is a stonecrop stronghold, a sedum kingdom, a jumbled boulder field with an open window to the blue sky above.

Berzelia

February 08, 2019 by Will Clausen in Plants

With small evergreen foliage covering tall braches, long green whips individually thin but collectively capable of forming a dense thicket, berzelia looks to me a bit like giant sequoia minus the towering trunk, as if someone has cut out a small segment of that massive canopy and rooted it directly into the ground. I am also reminded of the Norfolk pine potted up in my apartment, and the untrimmed juniper down the street. But looking at this berzelia, I’m very far away from those giant sequoias and the plants in my neighborhood. This is the Western Cape of South Africa and bringing my thoughts back to where I am right now, berzelia foliage reminds me of heather (Erica sp.), the low-growing shrubs which are one of the most prevalent and diverse plants in this wild fynbos landscape. We have been seeing the ropey needle-clad stems of heather everywhere. Because of that and the various other plants it reminds me of, my first impress of berzelia is that I’ve seen it before. Still in spite of the similarity to so many familiar plants, berzelia isn’t quite like anything else. As for robots of the creepy uncanny valley, so human and yet lacking some inscrutable human quality which exposes them for what they are, so for berzelia. They so nearly achieve abject normalcy, but walking closer it becomes clear there is something bizarre about this plant.

Mountain bog gentian -- Gentiana calycosa

January 28, 2019 by Will Clausen in Plants

The ground is a maze of color. Dashes of red and white freely weave among browning green, tufts of lime green dabbed around. From where I am, more or less laying on the ground, it is just a jumble. But I’m not quite thinking straight yet. After a long and arduous hike along a steep trail through recently burned forest, I have stopped short of the lake which was my goal. The sun beating through the canopy-less forest has worn me down. Sweat mixing with the ashes kicked up with each step has left a layer of grime covering my skin. I did not bring enough water and in this dry place I have not found a stream. I have been fighting cramp and moving too slow, so this damn lake isn’t happening even though it’s nearly in sight just over the next rise. It would be so nice to jump into. I cannot. I have a genuine concern about getting back to the trailhead with these legs and I know that the best thing to do is stop for a minute to recover. So I collapse under the shade of a western larch, rub my legs, drink and eat, and take in the colorful chaos of fall color right in front of my eyes.

Bloodroot -- Sanguinaria canadensis

January 10, 2019 by Will Clausen in Plants

Every spring in hardwood forests of Minnesota, the ground receives a relatively quick shot of sunlight. Over the long winter months, skeletal deciduous trees stand by as falling snow piles up on the forest floor creating a blanket under which plants and animals escape the cold. Through March and April, rising temperatures and a strengthening sun work in tandem to undo the blanket of snow and as the resulting meltwater infiltrates the ground or flows away downstream, bare ground is exposed to the sun. In response, the buds of dormant herbaceous plants nestled in just below the leaf litter, come to life. But they must work quickly because even as they are emerging from the ground, the leaf buds on the trees above are coming to life as well. In just a few weeks, the forest floor will be shaded again. Among the early bloomers found growing in these woods, bloodroot (Sanguinaria canadensis) is perhaps my favorite.

Pacific madrona -- Arbutus menziesii

December 19, 2018 by Will Clausen in Plants

The drive is short but not exactly direct. On roads that hug the coastline, you don’t usually go straight from point A to point B. As we wind along on this autumn afternoon, we catch glimpses of rich blue water sparkling under the sun. All along the shore are gnarly Pacific madronas (Arbutus menziesii) with their orange-red bark and waxy evergreen leaves. They are the dominant plant along the shoreline and this is the first time I have seen these great trees in all their glory. We’re on Orcas Island, the largest of the San Juan Islands group clustered together in the Salish Sea between the Straits of Georgia to the north and Juan de Fuca to the south. Having just driven off the ferry from the mainland, we’re on our way to a trail. We’ll be there soon but in the meantime I’m glad to be in the passenger seat and not worried about watching the road.

Common butterwort -- Pinguicula vulgaris

November 21, 2018 by Will Clausen in Plants

Clambering over the steep rock wall at the head of a small drainage, we find ourselves on open terrain. We’re about one hundred feet high on a rocky peninsula jutting out into the lake. Ahead of us is the glacier with jagged peaks beyond, behind us a beaver-dammed lake and forest. There is a thin drizzle in the air, which seems right. At our feet is scarred rock, the deep grooves parallel to one another and most running toward the glacier. In these grooves, moss and water collect and out of them little plants with ornate flowers and sticky leaves, common butterwort (Pinguicula vulgaris).

Mountain-avens -- Dryas

November 05, 2018 by Will Clausen in Plants

In rock-strewn fellfields beyond the tree line, plants tend to grow in compact cushions or sprawl along the ground. Cold temperatures, high wind, and thin soil make it difficult to attain height. The soil is regularly subjected to freeze and thaw, heaving any ill-anchored plants out of the ground. Huddling low and with deep roots, plants endure. Yet paradoxically most of these plants cannot survive in less devastating conditions because they are not well equipped to compete with other plants for resources. What they lack in competitive ability, they make up for with sheer obstinacy, happily growing where it seems nothing should. And so it is with one type of plant you are likely to see ranging through high elevation scree and vast Arctic tundra, mountain-avens.

Devil's-club -- Oplopanax horridus

October 09, 2018 by Will Clausen in Plants

An inglorious event that has played through my mind on occasion: to falter on a steep mountain slope, tumble down scree and over cliff tearing flesh and breaking bone, gaining speed on my way toward the tree line and the inevitable understory. That momentum arresting understory is a thicket of devil’s-club with its infamous spines. Insult added to injury.

Cliff paintbrush -- Castilleja rupicola

September 14, 2018 by Will Clausen in Plants

Narrow crevices in alpine cliffs are surprising places to find plants. Despite their stark appearance, high alpine rock faces provide great habitat for all sorts of plants. But even when you know to expect them, seeing plants in such conditions is always impressive. I have marveled at boulder-splitting trees oozing from the crack in the rock from which they have eked out a living. Seeing fern species I associate with wet forests growing in boulder fields above the treeline has made clear to me the amazing adaptability of certain species. And of course this rocky landscape is home to so many colorful compact wildflowers that make high altitude hikes so much fun during the brief summer.

Subalpine larch -- Larix lyallii

September 03, 2018 by Will Clausen in Plants

Autumn in the Pacific Northwest is all green trees and gray skies. Coming to the Northwest as an adult after growing up in Minnesota, I dismissed the thought of any fall color. It obviously wouldn’t match the foliar blaze on the ridge along Lake Superior. I had lived in New England one October, a place where leaf tourism is a boon for small towns. Moving to southeast Alaska, I knew it would be green and I was mostly right. When I moved to Washington two years later, I knew it would be green and I was mostly right. While other parts of the country turn red, orange, and yellow, the Pacific Northwest would look just as it always does. But over the past five years I have learned two things and been reminded of one. The first: fall color can occur below eye level. The second: muted colors can look brilliant among evergreens. The third: there are exceptions to every rule. Washington has larches, and larches are trees with amazing fall color.

Twinflower -- Linnaea borealis

August 14, 2018 by Will Clausen in Plants

To call twinflower an unassuming plant is to take a hammer and hit the nail square. A prostate vine with small evergreen leaves, it only achieves a few inches when the flower stalks reach their full height in early summer. Yet the diminutive twinflower was closer to the heart of Carl Linnaeus, the famed Swedish botanist credited with formally establishing the standard scientific naming system, than any other plant. It is of course named after him, but what is maybe even more telling of his high regard is that twinflower features prominently on his own von Linné family crest.

Bog Labrador tea -- Rhododendron groenlandicum

July 26, 2018 by Will Clausen in Plants

Traversing a muskeg in Southeast Alaska is a unique experience. Offering open expanses, they grant the eye some relief in a part of the world where thick conifer forests and steep mountains often limit long views. They are prehistoric looking yet no older than the retreat of the ice about 10,000 years ago. They hold a distinct assemblage of plants that have adapted to the inhospitable home that the muskeg provides. Muskegs are one of my favorite places to be and in them are found some of my favorite plants including bog Labrador tea (Rhododendron groenlandicum).