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.

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.

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.

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.