Delirious Ramblings

Morning Bracken

Bracken Ferns, Coconino National Forest, May 2012

I was poking around the woods south of Flagstaff this morning and caught a community of early season Western Bracken ferns glowing in the sunlight. Bracken ferns are one of my favorite forest plants and I always enjoy being in their presense. Well... except for when you have to walk through a stand of them after a rain or when they are covered with dew, that is.

Bracken ferns are a little like aspen, with large underground rootstock networks and many interconnected fronds. And like aspen their root networks can persist for hundreds or thousands of years, making them true Methuselahs. Bracken ferns are also poisonous to livestock and other ungulates, which is why they can grow mostly unmolested year after year.

A Wilderness of Cats

Wait-a-Minute Bush, Sycamore Canyon Wilderness, April 2012

In the hot chaparral country below the Mogollon Rim grows an especially irascible member of the Pea family called Wait-a-Minute Bush (Mimosa biuncifera). It gets that name from its habit of grabbing on to your clothing or skin with its long claw-like spines, thus forcing you to stop and carefully extract yourself from its grip. I've always known it by its other common name, "Cat Claw", which I think is more descriptive of this plant's true nature, as its thorns resemble a house cat's claws and it will scratch the hell out of you if you mess with it.

 

Wait-a-Minute Bush, Sycamore Canyon Wilderness, April 2012

Wait-a-Minute tends to grow in nearly impassible thickets, many quite large; they stake out their territory and they guard it jealously. Anyone foolish enough to muscle his or her way through their domain will not be the same person when they exit the other side, the plants having exacted their toll in flesh and blood.

Once, many years ago, a relative and I went on an off-trail trek into Sycamore Canyon Wilderness, looking for gray limestone and fossilized fish, chasing rumors of lost buried treasure, and seeking adventure. We found neither fish nor gold. Instead we found sixty thousand acres of dry red dust, shimmering heat, and a hissing fury of pissed-off cat claw that tore at our clothing and lacerated every inch of exposed skin. I came away from that experience with a healthy respect for cat claw bushes and a love of Arizona's second largest redrock canyon that I carry with me to this day.

Blue Grama

Blue Grama grass, Flagstaff AZ, September 2011

On the way out of the Sandy Seep trailhead a couple weekends ago I took the above photo of some Blue Grama grass (Bouteloua gracilis) growing next to the trailhead parking lot. Blue Grama is a widespread grass species found pretty much throughout the West from Canada all the way down to Mexico. It's very drought resistant and under most circumstances can tolerate grazing and even fire, so it's pretty tough stuff. It's also very beautiful to look at.

Blue Grama uses an interesting survival strategy: it goes dormant during periods of limited water availability - as during the early spring and summer before the monsoons arrive - and often appears dead. When the rains finally come it then shifts into overdrive, greens up quickly, and you see the distinctive and beautiful curved seed heads develop.

According to the Wikipedia entry for Blue Grama, it uses C4 carbon fixation, which is a relatively recent (if you can call 32 million years recent!) development in the photosynthetic process. C4 carbon fixation allows the plant to break down carbon dioxide molecules into food more efficiently than the much older C3 process (which originated way back some 500-250 million years or so). C4 also helps plants to grow in hotter, drier, and more nitrogen-poor environments. As the climate warms the C4s will probably do well, at least at first anyway.

I'm sure throwing around all these C4 and C3 terms will trigger some sort of national security watch-list algorithm. The next time I try to board a plane I'll be whisked into a back room where I'll get to spend twelve hours trying to explain concepts like photosynthesis, carbon fixation, donor electrons, and evolutionary adaptation to a couple of TSA security goons.

Mexican Hat

Mexican Hat, Flagstaff, AZ, August 2011

The above photograph is of a colony of Mexican Hat I found growing along the FUTS trail east of NAU campus one day last month. According to my field guide, Mexican Hat (Ratibida columnaris) is in the sunflower family and likes to grow on roadsides, in fields, and in open clearings in pine forests. These ones were growing in a field next to a road in a pine forest, so I nailed all three locations with one flower.

In my ramblings around the area I tend to see the yellow variety more often. The above are obviously the red variety -- or Ratibida columnaris var. pulcherrima. The yellow ones look the same except are all yellow. They are often called Yellow Coneflower but both the red and yellow varieties are Mexican Hat.

An Exquisite Rarity

 
San Francisco Peaks groundsel, Agassiz Peak, August 2011

When I was up on Humphreys the other day I stopped to photograph a colony of San Francisco Peaks Groundsel growing along the Weatherford trail. The groundsel, or more technically the Packera franciscana, is the extremely threatened plant that is the reason behind why the Forest Service doesn't want people hiking off-trail in the alpine tundra on Agassiz and Humphreys peaks. They are quite serious about it as the prominently placed signs warning of five hundred dollar fines for anyone caught going off trail make very clear. It saddens me that they have to resort to this approach, but there are so many people hiking up there every weekend that it wouldn't take long for the groundsel to be trampled to oblivion by unwitting or uncaring sightseers. Even with the signs scofflaws still leave the marked trails.

The groundsel is a small endemic flowering plant of the daisy family and grows only in the alpine tundra zone high on Humphreys and Agassiz peaks. It is locally common in various places about the volcanic scree fields above tree line, but because its habitat is restricted to this one small location the groundsel is one of the rarest plants on earth. It is threatened by all forms of recreation on the mountain as well as climate change. As the climate warms the groundsel will find its habitat pushed ever higher until at some point it won't be able to go any higher and that'll be the end for this wonderful little spark of yellow among the rocks.

 

 San Francisco Peaks groundsel, Agassiz Peak, August 2011

The alpine tundra zone atop the Peaks is the only tundra in Arizona and, in fact, is the farthest south of any tundra in North America. During one of the many southern incursions of glaciers and ice sheets of the last Ice Age the tundra was pushed all the way down here into Arizona. Even though the Ice Age is long since over many species of relict arctic plants still remain here today, taking refuge atop this mountain in a sort of Pleistocene reliquary. It's amazing to think that at one time, maybe as recently as 10,000 years ago, there may have been snowy, windswept tundra extending as far as one can see to the north of the Peaks.

Yellow Columbine

Yellow Columbine, Humphreys Peak, August 2011

Above is a photo I took Sunday along the Humphreys Trail of a Yellow Columbine (Aquilegia chrysantha) flower. Yellow Columbine is a perennial species, grows up to about four feet tall, and likes streams and rich soils in shady forests. There is tons of columbine growing along the lower Humphreys Trail, so you don't need to be a serious hiker to see it - just hike up a mile or so and you should find it.

Of all the high elevation flowers in the places I hike I've always thought that the columbines were especially beautiful, what with the lovely petals and long spurs projecting backwards. But it turns out that columbine have an interesting story as well. North American columbine have strong ties to Asian species and are thought to have arisen as early as the mid-Tertiary period some 20-30 million years ago. Although because most species are so similar genetically it's possible that they may have evolved as recently as 3.5 million years, so the jury is still out. The long nectar spurs are the key to their diversity, a trait that has evolved at least fifteen times in other genera, an example of a phenomenon called convergent evolution where unrelated organisms arrive at some biological trait independently.

 

Yellow Columbine, Humphreys Peak, August 2011

Floral spurs help the plant to attract specific kinds of pollinators. The length of the spur determines the type of pollinator (i.e. bees, moths, birds) and ensures that pollen will only be exchanged with similar flowers. For example, short floral spurs generally attract bees, while medium length spurs attract hummingbirds, and really long spurs are attractive to hawkmoths. The Yellow Columbine is one of the longest spurred flowers in Arizona and is mostly pollinated by hawkmoths.

The orientation of the flowers is also significant. Generally, flowers that point downwards tend to attract hummingbirds, which will hover below and probe upwards for nectar. Upward pointing flowers like yellow columbine tend to attract moths that will hover above and probe downwards. Just by orienting the flowers around and varying the floral spur length plants can fine-tune themselves for the types of pollinators in an area. And that's pretty interesting stuff!

The Shameful Beauty of Dalmatian Toadflax

 

Dalmatian Toadflax in flower, Flagstaff, July 2011

For a long time I didn't know what Dalmatian Toadflax was. I saw it everywhere I went but I never thought much about it. It was just another one of those plants growing along the trails that I figured I'd eventually get around to identifying. Then one of the guys with Friends of Northern Arizona Forests pointed it out to me as an invasive species and the unassuming plant that had never bothered me before suddenly morphed into an enemy, a symbol of all the things that had gone "wrong" with the environment.

It turns out that Dalmatian Toadflax originates from the Mediterranean and was brought to the U.S. for ornamental purposes in the late 1800s and quickly escaped. Now it's found in 22 states and has been classified as invasive or noxious in most of the west, including in Arizona. It prefers open areas and places where the soil has been disturbed like along trails and roads, which explains its seemingly ubiquitous presence, as we tend to prefer those same places. It spreads quickly via vegetative propagation as well as profuse seed production and can form large colonies that crowd out and out-compete native plants.

 

Dalmatian Toadflax Flowers, Flagstaff, July 2011

Toadflax is incredibly tough, and once it's established it's practically impossible to eradicate. Getting rid of it generally requires manually pulling it up by the roots or spraying it with powerful herbicides. Because its root system can reach down into the ground over four feet and spread out over a dozen feet from the parent plant, uprooting them is rarely effective. Unless you get the whole root system it just comes back during the next growing season. Herbicides are also largely ineffective for the same reason - the plants are just dug in too deeply. Generally you must use a combination of uprooting and herbicides. The good news is that if you keep trying you can knock it down to a manageable level - you just have to be more persistent than the plant!

The reason I bring this up is that if you're a hiker (and especially if you hike off-trail) you really need to know about this plant so you don't inadvertently help it to spread. By walking through a patch of it after it has gone to seed you can become an unwitting accomplice, as the seeds can become lodged in the tread of your boots (if it's muddy) or in your socks or other hiking gear. This is why at many Forest Service trailheads you will see notices posted asking you to stay on the trail due to noxious weeds. You should not ignore these signs. However, if you do decide to go off-trail (no one will stop you, and off-trail hiking can be extremely rewarding) at least learn to identify toadflax and make a conscious effort to avoid walking through its colonies. That way you will become a more responsible visitor to the public lands and a friend of native plants - or at least not part of the problem!

 

Dalmatian Toadflax pre-flowering, Flagstaff, July 2011

 You will notice that some people uproot the toadflax plants and leave them in the middle of the trail. I am a little ambivalent on this practice. Uprooting the plants does indeed slow them down, which is a good thing. But unless done before the plants have begun flowering it's totally ineffective, as the damage is done and people trampling it can only help spread the seeds. After the plants have flowered you really have to bag up the uprooted plants and dispose of them, otherwise you're just wasting your time and sweat. It does feel good to yank these bad-boys up, though, which I suspect is why some people keep doing it.

The other reason I am ambivalent about uprooting toadflax along trails is that there is just so damned much of it. I've seen "naturalized" trails in wilderness areas that were only visible because of the toadflax demarcating the old route. I've seen huge toadflax colonies growing hundreds of feet downslope from trails and roads in impossible terrain, the seeds carried by water and browsing animals. And I've seen patches of it growing in odd, isolated places nowhere near a trail or road, like it just magically appeared on the side of the mountain.

It is a huge problem, and other than removing it from view along the trails so we can feel better about it, pulling it up willy-nilly is not going to stop it. Large, organized work-parties coming back to clear an area year after year: Yes. Individuals half-heartedly removing a plant here and there on their morning hike: Probably not. Unpopular as his views may be, plant ecologist Mark Davis's thinking that we may have to learn to live with these non-native invasives may be true...

The Epitome of Quiet Endurance

The Epitome of Quiet Endurance, Petrified Forest National Park, April 17, 2011

"Endurance is patience concentrated." - Thomas Carlyle

Last weekend while a friend and I were touring Blue Mesa at the Petrified Forest National Park I snapped the above photo of what may be the world's most persistent bush. I'm not sure what kind of bush it is, I think Mormon Tea, but it sure is tough to be growing up there in that inhospitable dry and windswept environment. Look how its roots have kept the soft siltstone that it's anchored in from eroding. There are at least two distinct levels of root systems visible that were progressively exposed as the rock slowly crumbled away from beneath the plant.

It's not until you see the environment that it was growing in that you realize just how tough this little plant is:

You can't help but be inspired when you see other living things overcoming challenges like this. It kind of puts all your own problems into perspective!

Leaves of three, let it be!

Here's a local plant you absolutely must be able to identify before heading out on your next hike:

Yep, it's poison ivy. Note the evil, shiny glisten to the trifoliate leaves and the sneaky, underhanded way it's nestled itself in around that fallen log. If you want to cross that log you have to pass through the poison ivy patch. I noticed the above specimen (and plenty of its friends) growing right along the FUTS trail in Sinclair Wash east of NAU campus. There's quite a lot of it in places down there -- I hope no one lets their dogs run through it!

Here is another specimen, again growing right next to the FUTS trail, this time to the west of Lone Tree.

I think anyone who is even a little bit outdoorsy has a poison ivy story. My introduction to this horrible, horrible plant came during U.S. Army basic training in South Carolina <mumble mumble> years ago. We were taking a break after a training exercise near a small clearing in the forest. Even though we'd just spent an hour marching around we had so much energy all us recruits decided to play an impromptu game of touch football in the field. We were young and stupid and the game soon devolved from good-natured touch football to something more like full-contact rugby. I remember quite a lot of diving, tackling, and rolling around on the ground. Of course, the drill sergeants encouraged us to play, all the while smirking to themselves.

To our horror we soon realized that we'd played football right smack in the middle of a field of poison ivy. Somehow I only got rashes on my arms and hands, but some of the guys got it all over their faces, necks, torsos, and even on their legs. Don't ask me how they got it on their legs as everyone was wearing Army BDU pants and boots. It was miserable, itchy hell and made the already less-than-fun experience of military training even less fun. Actually, a LOT less fun. A few guys even had to go on sick call because of it.

The worst though was that the oil got into our clothes and took several washings to get out. I mean, we had guys breaking out with poison ivy rashes for weeks afterward - even some who hadn't played football in the field. Apparently the oil on this devilish plant is very persistent and doesn't break down easily, not even in the laundry.

Ever since that learning experience I've steered well clear of plants with even a hint of that three-leafed configuration. I'm sure I've walked around patches of perfectly benign forest plants because of that, but you can never be too sure. Poison ivy (and oak) are so damned evil I wouldn't put it past them to go stealth and disguise themselves. So I don't take any chances: Leaves of three, let it be!