Searching for Amsonia in Arkansas, Part 1

It all started with a text message back in February.  My friend and colleague Thomas Rainer was reaching out to ask if I had ever been plant exploring in Arkansas.  He was keen to see Amsonia hubrichtii in the wild.  

So, who is Thomas Rainer, and what plant is worth traveling from Washington, DC for him—or Nacogdoches, TX for me—just to see in the wild? Thomas is no stranger to the plant world. He and his coauthor Claudia West had helped galvanize the naturalistic planting movement with their book Planting in a Post-wild World. Now, they are business partners and integrate horticulture and ecology into their designs at Phyto Studio.

And, for the plant, Amsonia hubrichtii (Arkansas bluestar, thread-leaf bluestar, Hubricht’s bluestar) is beloved in the horticulture industry for its starry blue flowers that appear on top of the softest textured plant ever.  Seriously, I just want to hug the feathery round-mound anytime I see it. And, then in the fall the foliage turns a brilliant caramel yellow. This species grows well in practically any garden situation minus deep shade or a flooded pond. And, while it thrives in many parts of the eastern half of the country, Arkansas bluestar is native to only 20 or so counties in Oklahoma and Arkansas.

Thomas wasn’t alone in wondering about this species. Amsonia hubrichtii had been on my mind this past year. I had been struggling with Arkansas bluestar here in Texas. In conversations with others here in the lone star state, the bluestar didn’t seem to quite like something. I know we are hotter than the Lurie Garden in Chicago, IL where it is massed and the John W. Nason texture garden at The Scott Arboretum in Swarthmore, PA where it provides soft billowy edge to paths. But, are we really that much hotter than Arkansas?  I lacked the in situ knowledge, of seeing where it grew in the wild, and I suspected there was more to the situation. 

So, we started planning a trip to see where Amsonia hubrichtii grew.  I reached out to local plant enthusiast Eric Hunt. He is a member of the Arkansas Native Plant Society who I had conversed with on social media in the past about Arkansas flora. He had photos on Flickr of Amsonia hubrichtii blooming wild in the Ouachita mountains. We decided that late April into early May would likely be the best time to see Arkansas bluestar in flower, and we picked a weekend that best fit our schedules.  

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We met Eric mid-afternoon at Middle Fork Barrens Natural Site near Hot Springs, Arkansas.  He was chipper to see us and show us around.  In talking with Eric, we learned that he had moved around the country from Alabama to California, and finally ended up in Arkansas.  He worked on computer systems, and on the side he enjoyed botanical expeditions and plant photography.  

We approached the area from the south, walking one of those gravel roads that when a giant yellow school bus comes barreling by and picks up a cloud of dust, you are thankful there’s a stiff breeze blowing it away. Eric started talking to us about Middle Fork Barrens. He said botanists had known about the barrens for years, but it had only been recognized as a natural area since 2004.

As we walked, he began identifying our inquiries. An aster dotted the ground, and he shared that the barrens were one of the more eastern sites for the spring flowering Astranthium ciliatum (Comanche western-daisy).  And, Valerianella nuttallii (Nuttall’s cornsalad) was everywhere as a nice dusting of white over the carpet of green.  

Walking in we also saw our first of many Baptisia bracteata var. leucophaea (cream wild indigo), which occurred more often in shadier sites than I expected.  I have seen the other variety Baptisia bracteata var. bracteata (long-bract wild indigo) near where we live in east Texas, and it was nice to compare it against this lighter yellow form with more upright flowers.  

A close up of Valerianella nuttallii

You can really see how nice the white haze of Valerianella nuttallii scattered throughout the barren was. It was pretty much everywhere.

A close up of Astranthium ciliatum

I loved this alpine meadow feel of this combination of Astranthium ciliatum and Valerianella nuttallii

The off white flowers of Baptisia bracteata var. leucophaea

We reached the main entrance to the barren guarded by a fence and gate and made our way through a narrow opening on the side. Eric made a point to show us a borrow pit where locals had harvested stone in the past for various projects. It was here where a new to science Phemeranthus (fameflower) grew.  Thomas commented on how this habitat created by humans made it possible for a species to grow where it might not have previously as the area around was covered in vegetation. This thinking can be applied to urban sites. We humans can have positive effects on creating habitat for unique species to grow.

You can still make out where vehicles used to drive to take stone from this borrow pit. If you squint, you can barely make out hints of pink in the center. That’s the Phemeranthus in bloom.

For those of you who don’t like to squint, here’s a close up of the new Phemeranthus species. Eric said that it had been lumped in with another species, but upon closer study, scientists realized it deserved being named as a new one.

We then climbed up through a lightly forested hillside to approach the Amsonia site on the other side of the ridge.  Eric commented about how these shale barrens existed due to the soil being more shallow, and thus trees couldn’t grow, thus creating a “barren.” These type of barrens are different from others in the southeast like serpentine barrens where the soil has toxic levels of nutrients that prevent tree growth.  Eric made a comment that while everything around us was green now, the barrens baked in the summer time.  

As we walked up to the top of the ridge we passed Glandularia canadensis (rose vervain) and a new to me shade preferring Monarda species, Monarda russeliana (redpurple beebalm).  Down the other side we passed a large colony of Symphoricarpos orbiculatus (coralberry). We emerged from the thicket and in front of us was an open valley, punctuated by a thin stream that ran through the middle.  Eric teased that we were almost to the Amsonia.  

We pause for a quick group shot.

We approached the stream where bold leaves of Arnoglossum plantagineum (prairie Indian plantain) grew amongst the matrix of green.  And, rounding a copse we found the Amsonia in bloom.  

This part of the barren had a Rocky mountain feel to it.

GASP! Here it is! The blue flowers of Amsonia hubrichtii (Arkansas bluestar) were just beginning to open. You can see the duff-colored stems left from last year.

In the lower left of this image you can make out a half dozen Amsonia hubrichtii growing in the creek or on the edge (look for the twiggy duff-colored stems scattered amongst the green like you see in the previous photo). But, that’s really it for its distribution on either side of the stream.

I stood there for a bit just looking at the thirty or so plants that were up and down this short section of the stream. Plants were either right on the edge of the water or a few feet away, and we didn’t see any other Arkansas bluestar anywhere else at Middle Fork Barrens Natural Site. So, why? Why hug the creek edge when Amsonia thrives in a variety of sites in the garden? In cultivated environs, I would rank Amsonia hubrichtii more of a generalist, but here we saw a specialist at this site, a species that had a limited set of requirements for survival. How in the world it was ever thought that some scraggly thing growing alongside a creek could have so much horticulture potential, eventually being voted the 2011 Perennial Plant of the Year, beats me.

Eric made the comment this site baked as well in the heat of summer and these streams often dry up. He noted how Amsonia hubrichtii had thick, long deep taproots to help deal with drought, a trait I knew well from relocating my plant in Tennessee to Texas years ago. Perhaps that was the case. The waterway in the wild is where Amsonia can survive. To me, the thread-like foliage and round-mound shape were also indicative of adaptations for drought. Eric also said that for a species that evolved to grow near waterways that the thin foliage wouldn’t shred as bad in flash floods, as we could tell had happened from the slight down creek bend of the dead bluestar stems from last year. He added that one can also find Vernonia lettermannii (thread-leaf ironweed) with similar thread-like foliage in similar creekside habitat with Amsonia hubrichtii.

Eric offered to show us more of the natural area, and we gladly accepted.  As we walked further north out of the barren, the habitat began to feel more like the eastern forests I knew so well.  We saw Delphinium tricorne (dwarf larkspur), Polemonium reptans (Jacob’s ladder), Cynoglossum/ Andersonglossum virginianum (wild comfrey, although we have that in east Texas, too).  A new one to me was Tradescantia ernestiana (woodland spiderwort), which has nice thick straps of verdant foliage. Eric said that it was a clump former and didn’t spread like other spiderworts. And, of course, jokes about Ernest P. Worell and Vern ensued.

Andersonglossum virginianum graced our path through the woods.

The last time I saw Delphinium tricorne was on the Blue Ridge Parkway many years ago. It was nice to see it again here in Arkansas.

Seeing Polemonium reptans made me think back to my friend Jimmy Williams’s garden in Paris, TN where I first learned this species.

See, Vern?! Tradescantia ernestiana is a great plant for shade. I loved the green, thick leaves.

We arrived at the middle fork that gave the barrens its namesake. Thomas began discussing the river scour habitat, areas where rivers would erode during flood events. We talked how these events could create habitats where trees and shrubs could find purchase while the herbaceous plant palette could be more variable. To my surprise I saw Rudbeckia laciniata (cut-leaf coneflower).  I sold ‘Herbstsonne’ at the nursery years ago, but I had never seen the species in the wild.  

Eric and Thomas investigate plants growing in the river scour habitat.

Rudbeckia laciniata was one of the species in the river scour habitat.

From here we started back toward the cars. As we walked along, Thomas called out, “Oh, there’s Silene!” Sure enough in the dappled shade, we found the red star-shaped flowers of Silene virginica (fire pink). This habitat was different from the usual vertical Appalachian cliffs from which I had seen Silene growing, and them being scattered along the forest floor reminded me of the mass planting along the elevated walkway at Chanticleer. We discussed how some species like Silene regia had been investigated for being carnivorous. Eric commented how in thousands of years this species could be, too. All it needs is to develop a way for attracting insects to the plant and to make enzymes to break them down for uptake.

Silene virginica glows in the late afternoon light.

We returned to our vehicles, and thanked Eric profusely. It was a grand day for seeing not only Amsonia, but many other incredible species in such a wild and rugged environment. Next week, I’ll be back with part 2 of our journey to see Amsonia hubrichtii in Arkansas.

One last look at the Middle Fork Barrens Natural Area. What a fun place to explore the wilds of Arkansas!

Gentians for Advent

Gentiana saponaria have become one of my favorite flowers in late fall. I don’t like calling them soapwort gentians, named so because their leaves resemble Saponaria.  It leaves a bitter taste in the mouth just saying it and sounds like a compound the dermatologist would prescribe.

No, I so find the name harvestbells much more delightful. It is as if we are ringing in the end of the growing season as we head into Christmas time.  The egg-shaped flowers of these natives remind me of the chunky holiday lights colored for advent, their cobalt blue petals with hints of purple and pink as the flower fades after being pollinated.

I’ve had one on my small nursery pad now for a few years in a container that I got via a colleague, and it has been fun watching it develop and produce 40+ flowers this fall.  I’m afraid to plant my one little plant out; however, I’ve been germinating seedlings, and with a few back ups, I’m about to become more courageous and try it in the ground.

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The Native Plant Society of Texas planned an outing last Sunday to see them blooming in the wild, and I jumped at the chance to go.  While they occur all the way north to Wisconsin, over to coastal New York and New Jersey, and down into Florida, they are rare in Texas and only occur in two counties. Even Karen was interested in seeing them in the wild.  

We arrived at Six Mile Boat Ramp on Toledo Bend Lake Sunday morning to meet up with the group and drove the short distance to the gentian site.  This site is the same that we visited in January 2020.  After walking down the road a bit, friend Peter Loos who helped lead the group directed us into the woods.  The soil here was wet as we stepped carefully and looked down to start searching for the little blue bottles amongst the brown and silver sweet bay leaves.  

“Found one,” Peter yelled.  

Two harvestbells hug the ground and barely appear above the leaf litter. Can you find them?

And, then another and another as we walked through the muck.  On most plants the hefty flowers hugged the ground on long stems as if tucked in for winter’s rest amongst the leaf litter.  The flowers might be a good 18–24 inches away from the crown of the plant.

A good overview of Gentiana saponaria habitat in east Texas.

We first encountered isolated individuals, but then they started appearing in small groupings of three here or eleven there.

One of the most populous concentrations of Gentiana saponaria we saw. How many do you count in this photo? I see seven clusters of flowers and counted eleven plants at this site.

The larger plant in the image above seemed well placed leaning against this pine.

Rounding the corner in the stream, we found an individual that had a flared open flower where we were able to see inside, which was quite unusual. Harvestbells don’t open and close like other gentians such as Gentiana catesbaei.  Instead, bees have to force the petals open to access the pollen. I noticed on it that the pistil was covered in some type of fungus, and there was a small pool of water in the bottom of the flower.  

A close up of the open flower with fungus on the pistil.

I’ve long wondered about the closed flowers of gentians, thinking that it was coevolution with a pollinator. But, seeing this fungus and the water pooled in the bottom clicked with a previous observation. This fall on my plant at home, I pollinated the flowers by prying the flower petals open with my finger and swirling it around.  Then, I would go to another receptive flower and swirl. And, another and another, any that looked ready to receive pollen.  The next morning when I got ready to do more pollinations, I was surprised to find that the flowers I had slightly forced open the day before now had copious water in their little blue bottles.  That didn’t happen last year because this year I installed automatic irrigation for watering my plants. Last year, I got good seed set, but my gut told me that water sitting in the flower wasn’t good. I turned the plant up to dump out what I could and relocated it where I could hand water it. 

But, now seeing this fungus-ridden pistil, I wonder if the closed flower evolved first not to entice bumble bees to pry their way in but instead as protection from rain.  I can think of a handful of late fall and winter flowering plants like Edgeworthia chrysantha with its downward facing flowers or Claytonia virginica that open when the sun is shining that have adaptations that protect the pollen from rain.  While it’s just a hypothesis, it would be easy to test.  One could have a group of plants where the flowers are forced open and allowed to get wet versus a control that remain closed, and then do seed counts on both groups. But, I digress.  

One flower I found had the top eaten off, so I inspected the flat seed before blowing them to the wind.

We walked further down the stream seeing more and more harvestbells. There were stream-side flowers, nibbled on flowers, backlit flowers, and plants with robust flowers.

Once pollinated, the flowers fade from blue to purple or a pinkish-purple.

We are not the only organisms that like gentians. A few of these flowers have been eaten on.

When the sun perfectly pierced through the pines, the harvestbells would be backlit and glow like Christmas lights.

One of the heaviest flowering Gentiana saponaria individuals that we saw.

Gentians weren’t the only notable flora we saw. On our way out, we saw a trio of Liatris with their fluffy seed.  Liatris pycnostachya was so plentiful. There were thousands of stems standing stolidly in the dappled shade. I noted here in the wild they were much less floppy than I am use to seeing in garden culture. While much more muted now in seed, I would have loved to see this sea of purple in bloom this past summer.  

We also saw Liatris tenuis with its more spindly seed heads.  And, to my great delight I saw Liatris squarrosa for the first time.  The feathery pappus made the seedheads almost the size of dandelions puff balls and created a great architectural essence along the trail back to the car.  

The vertical lines of Liatris pycnostachya rise from the forest floor.

My jaw dropped upon seeing the size of these Liatris squarrosa seed heads. They were somewhere between a quarter and half dollar size.

We left having seen so many harvestbells, probably almost 100 at this one site.  I love visiting places like these where they occur because you get such a better feel of what conditions the plant needs to live.  

Back home I discovered that my plant was going to seed. It was an early Christmas present, and once they germinate after three months of chilling will keep giving the gift of delight for many years to come.

Interested in joining the Native Plant Society of Texas?  Click here.  

The Azaleas on Gregory Bald

With the return of high summer and the longest days of the year, my mind drifts back to an incredible mountaintop experience I had just a week shy of the solstice some years ago.  

The azaleas on Gregory Bald are breathtaking to witness in full bloom.  

Gregory Bald was this magical place that I heard about in graduate school, an Appalachian peak covered with azaleas that lights up in mid-June like an orange St. Elmo’s fire of Rhododendron cumberlandense (Cumberland azalea).  I had been cooped up for six months with a torn tendon in my right foot, and at night I would scour the internet looking to experience the wild beyond my bleak apartment walls.  The quote still burned into my brain seven years later from reading Hiking in the Smokies was, “This [hike] should be on the life list of any self-respecting hiker, gardener, or nature lover.”  I knew before I moved from Raleigh I had to experience this natural treasure.  But, when and how?

One day, that opportunity presented itself.  Sitting in the graduate office with my foot fully healed, I struck up a conversation with my friend Irene Palmer who casually mentioned that she and Tom Ranney’s crew were hiking up to Gregory Bald.  They were blooming early due to 2011 being a warmer than normal year.  

I was ecstatic.  For them at least.  She invited me to join, but I had errands and prep for an upcoming conference that were to fill the rest of my week and weekend. But, then the calendar in my head started moving the to-do’s around, and I realized that I actually had a free weekend if I could get the bulk done before their excursion.  

Friday after work, I drove to Asheville to spend the night.  The next morning, we headed toward the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, one of my absolute favorite places in the world as blog readers will likely recognize.  Traveling with me was Tom Ranney, esteemed plant breeder at North Carolina State University; his wife, Amira; Kevin Parris, horticulture instructor and arboretum director at Spartanburg Community College; and Tom's student crew and my good friends Jason Lattier, Kelly Oates, the previously mentioned Irene, and Kim Shearer.  The main purpose of the trip was to assess the Gregory Bald azaleas for Kim’s summer internship project focusing on better understanding their genetics.

We stopped at Chimney Tops on Saturday to do a little pre-hike to see what botanical interests we could find.  Climbing the steep crag made me feel like I was following my father’s footsteps.  Dad would often share with us on family trips through the Smokies that when he was a youngster he had hiked Chimney Tops.  Now, I was, too.  

Looking down from Chimney Tops.  The Ericaceous Kalmia (mountain laurel) on the right are hints of other blooming plants to come.  

After summiting and returning to the trailhead, we travelled toward Cades Cove.  Traffic was heavy in spots as many tourists congregated to see the synchronized fireflies in the Smokies.  We, however, were there to see something botanical glow.   

Crowds await travel into the park to see the synchronized fireflies.

I think seeing the crowds for the lightning bugs inspired us to make some of our own lights in the mountains after dark.  We got several flashlights, I set up the long exposure on my camera, and we started making light art.

Light art fascinates me.  I need to do more of it.  

Kevin Parris tried his hand at drawing a Rhododendron flower, and I'd say he succeeded!  

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We woke well before dawn, clamored our campsite into the cars in the dark, and zoomed through Cades Cove in the civil twilight.  It cracked me up.  Every time I’ve travelled the eleven-mile loop in the past, it was slow going either because you were taking in the scenery from the valley or because you were following someone slow.  And, I’m sure for you readers who have ever been can attest that you, too, have sit in traffic while onlookers (or you) pause for deer and bear.  But, today our goal wasn’t the fauna in the valley but the flora on the top.  

A quick pic from the car of the glorious Cades Cove at dawn.  

We travelled the gravel of Parson Branch Road.  At one point in particular I remember being told to not let off of the gas because of the steep incline my Ford Escape had to climb.  I recall leaning forward in the needless hope the car wouldn’t topple backwards.  

We arrived at the trailhead around daybreak ready for a four and a half mile hike to the summit of Gregory Bald.  After the hike from the day before, I felt every tenth-mile of the trek.  It was beautiful hiking through the forests of Appalachia, and along the way we paused to appreciate the flora from towering Magnolia to verdant seeps inhabited by Veratrum.

It seemed we had been walking forever when suddenly the forest broke away and the Rhododendrons appeared.  Staring at the orange orbs conjured thoughts of lava erupting from ancient couldrons.  

WE MADE IT!!!  AND, THEY'RE BEAUTIFUL!!!  

We were a bit weary from our trek to go into full plant geek mode, so we rested and ate lunch before we began our explorations. 

Evidently, we weren't the only ones hungry...

From our vantage point, we saw the loop in Cades Cove we had just raced through in the pre-dawn light.  It was a bit of an out of body experience for me.  So many years I’ve circled that road and looked to the surrounding peaks, sometimes stopping to enjoy a picnic with my family.  Now, in this shallow heaven, I was looking down and stuffing my face with a sandwich.   

The light green in the valley below is Cades Cove.  

After lunch, we began to explore the bald like kids in a candy store with with each plant offering a new flavor of petal color—cherry red, butterscotch yellow, bubblegum pink, and orange... orange.  Then, there were other attributes to devour like sweet fragrance, licorice-colored stamens, colorful blotches, early and late flowering, and differing heights.  Here’s a few photos to make your mouth water.  

I loved seeing the loners, little islands of orange surrounded by a sea of grass.  

...islands in the stream, that is what we are...

Here's a nice close up photo of the flowers of Rhododendron cumberlandense.

We encountered color variants in pink,...

...apricot,...

...peach,...

...lemon,...

...and salmon.

Another loner.  Notice how the softer orange petal color echoed the tan of the surrounding grass panicles.

Occasionally, we spotted some plants with galls on them.  

One plant I found had buds still unopened, and getting up close made me weak in the knees.  They look so cool, like little flames licking the sky and waiting to burst into full-flowering conflagration.  

Pollinators were working these shrubs left and right.  

I bet that bee on the right is saying, "WHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"  I mean, who doesn't want to slide on some stamens?

So, how does this magical place, this garden of Eden even exist? 

A narrow path leads through the grass matrix surrounding the fiery-colored azaleas.  

We should first address the absence of the trees that allow for other species to grow and give the balds their name.  For many years, the origins and persistence of these fascinating ecosystems have been debated, but the current hypothesis from Weigl and Knowles is that these grass and forb dominated patches originated due to glaciation and were maintained by herbivores.  The cold made the the high mountain tops unsuitable for woodies, and during warming periods when plants reclaimed the peaks, herbivores—megafauna and their modern ancestors—topped woody flora with munching and trampling.  Similar ecosystems in the Pacific northwest and the Poloninas in Europe support this hypothesis.  

One end of the bald had more trees and shrubs growing around the azaleas, a step towards succession.  Here, blueberries dominate.  

The bald created a place for the azaleas to grow, but why were there so many azaleas here?  We had only seen a few of the deciduous rhodies on our trek up, and yet here there were hundreds in full bloom.  And, not just one color but many variations on the warm hues.  One hypothesis is that the azaleas have climbed by seeding themselves, scaled the mountain with warming temperatures, and hold the last high ground against the advancing forests.  Others have made the case that this colorful collection is an example of gardening the wild and that many years ago settlers moved azaleas they adored to the top of the mountains.  The shrubs that we see today are relics from this pioneer gardening or those plants' offspring from an earlier time.  

The silvery foliage of a ground-hugging Salix (or, that's what our best guess was) played as a nice foil to the orange azaleas.  

Either way that the azaleas arrived on top of Gregory Bald, they form a hybrid swarm.  Sinister-sounding, but quite harmless.  It is a way of describing how the genetics move in the plant population.  Most people think of evolution and the movement of traits between species as a tree.  You start at the base and climb upward, and every so often there is a branch where some new trait or species arises.  But, for some genera like Rhododendron that readily hybridize, the movement of plant traits is more like those rope jungle gyms that you used played in as a kid.   Traits can jump from where there are knots in a rope as long as there is a bridge between them.  Kim’s summer internship project focused on better understanding how these bridges might exist.  For example, Rhododendron cumberlandense and Rhododendron arborescens (sweet azalea) are separate species that occur on Gregory Bald, and the identification of several plants that show intermediate characteristics helped to support genetic movement between species.  If you want to learn more, check out her insightful paper here.

Here's a nice example of an azalea showing intermediate characteristics.  While the exact parentage is unknown, hints of pink from Rhododendron arborescens appear to mingle with the orange from Rhododendron cumberlandense.

I unfortunately had to leave the group early as I had a six hour drive ahead of me to get back to Raleigh.  It was the experience of a lifetime with good friends, and I want to go back.  

This scene could all be forest.  But, it's not, and that enriches life.

And, I hope I can return and see the azaleas and the bald.  Researchers believe that if we don’t intervene, the balds will one day become reforested and disappear.  On some balds, encroachment from the trees is already a management issue for maintaining these ecosystems.  Granted, some might argue that succession towards forest is nature taking its course, but I think it is important to maintain these ecosystems for the diversity of the Appalachians and for people to have these incredible plant experiences that help us appreciate the beautiful web of life and to garner inspiration for our gardens.

The Roadside Flowers

Roads are a lifeblood of civilization.  The veins and arteries that criss-cross our world have provided for our needs, wants, and ambitions for thousands of years.  

To build a road, the landscape must be destroyed and altered.  Wendell Berry writes about these scars on nature in his essay A Native Hill.  He states that "even the most primitive road" is for "haste," and "it's wish is to avoid contact with the landscape."   

But, from the chaos of destruction comes creation as nature covers the wounds with new growth like roadside wildflowers.  In places where fire is now suppressed, bison are dead to trample, and no trespassing signs dot the landscape, roadsides maybe the only places passersby enjoy impressionistic wildflowers, albeit at 70 mph.  These slivers of prairie and meadow are where disturbance occurs on a frequent basis, usually in the form of a mower blade but occasionally there's the rogue smoldering cigarette that will lay waste.  Here, especially in spring, we see color burgeon.  

Ember-colored Gaillardia (firewheel) smolder on the highway shoulders in west Texas

Roadside decor.  Oenothera speciosa (showy primrose) and a fire hydrant.

Phacelia bipinnatifida (purple phacelia) form a river of lilac on the roadsides in the Smokies.  If you pull over and squat amongst the flowers, you'll sniff hints of celery.  

Salvia lyrata (lyre-leaf sage) is a common acquaintance to right-of-ways, especially in suburban lawns.

The lemon yellow flowers of Baptisia sphaerocarpa (yellow wild indigo) are very visible at 70 mph and often warrant a u-turn.  

I like looking at roadside flowers.  These right-of-way gardens are one of the best, most readily available places for people across the world to see a plant community in action.  In fact, the claim has been made that in a fractured nature these areas may be the only refugia for some species here in the US and abroad.  And, while I understand and deeply respect Berry's thoughts about damage to the landscape, to me roadsides are opportunities for contact with the landscape and offer a glimpse at how plants weave themselves together.  

It was looking at a roadside years ago that the epiphany of everything I'd read about how people look to nature to design gardens really struck me.  I've never looked at roadsides the same again.  

I look for patterns in the vegetation as I shuffle back and forth across the countryside.  Some plants cover the ground, some fill for a season, and some rise as icons, towering above the life below.  And, whether the flora are relics of a past age, hitchhikers from trucks, or immigrants seeded in by the transportation department, they are beautiful and make trips zoom by as I enjoy the moving picture.  

Growing up in rural west Tennessee I once thought that the best anti-litter campaign was to plant wildflowers on the side of the road instead of hosing it with weed killer.  I believed if the roadsides were smothered with color wayfaring strangers probably wouldn't litter them with trash.  

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Over spring break, Karen and I travelled to the hill country in Texas in search of roadside flowers, specifically Lupinus texensis (bluebonnets). 

The day was perfect for photographs.  Just enough wet stuff was falling that you had to wipe your lens occasionally.  We first saw scattered plants dot the roadsides here and there...

and then we found more...

AND THEN MORE!

I commented to Karen at one point that my soul felt full, overcome with all the beauty.  And, it was right on the roadsides for all to partake.  

Bluebonnet leaves wear a necklace of guttated diamonds.

The blur of haste juxaposed with the focus of wildflowers.  

Karen photographing bluebonnets for later drawings.  

As you've probably already noticed in some photos, the bluebonnets weren't alone.  Drifts of Castilleja indivisia (Texas Indian paintbrush) also competed for the spotlight.  

*Content sigh*

The flowers on Castilleja indivisia were so saturated with color!  Besides the crop, I haven't touched this one with Photoshop.  

I noticed time and time again that they occurred in different areas.  Sure, a few rouge plants crossed the lines every now and then, but there were clear demarcations.    Was it from the road department sowing them in different areas?  Varied soil conditions?  Or, parasitism?  I found research after I returned home suggesting that the parasitic Castilleja indivisia grown with Lupinus texensis will produce three times more seed.  Perhaps the paintbrushes weren't just competing for attention.  Perhaps they were stealing it.  

Here you see a family portriat of sorts as some flowers are still young while others are showing their age with faded petals.  No matter how old, they are still beautiful.  

A single peach colored variant in a sea of coral.  

From this trip I realized how much I love Indian paintbrush. I found these more striking than the bluebonnets.  From a distance the Castilleja appear orange, but approaching them I realized that the bracts are really more of a rich salmon (my favorite color!) with verdant bases.  Colors blend at a distance, and I'm sure that's how the orange manifests as the eyes register the two.  

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I believe that we can learn from what we see on the roadsides.  Roadsides offer us a great testing ground for vegetation that does well in mixed plantings. We can use what we see and the patterns we observe to design better plantings.  

Nature and city life intersect at this designed plant community at the crossroads of Elizabeth Street and South First Street in Austin, TX.  Note the scattered Lupinus texensis filling in around tussock-type grasses.  

And as Bliss Carman penned in his poem that I've shared below, they certainly make life more beautiful and more enjoyable.  

ROADSIDE FLOWERS by Bliss Carman

WE are the roadside flowers,
Straying from garden grounds, —
Lovers of idle hours,
Breakers of ordered bounds.
If only the earth will feed us,
If only the wind be kind,
We blossom for those who need us,
The stragglers left behind.
And lo, the Lord of the Garden,
He makes his sun to rise,
And his rain to fall like pardon
On our dusty paradise.
On us he has laid the duty, —
The task of the wandering breed,—
To better the world with beauty,
Wherever the way may lead.
Who shall inquire of the season,
Or question the wind where it blows?
We blossom and ask no reason.
The Lord of the Garden knows. 

A Pioneer in the Smokies

The Smoky Mountains are a magical place for me.   Always have been.  Always will be.  Probably once or twice a month I have dreams where I'm driving along the twisted roads or hiking the fabled trails.  It's my parents' fault.  They took my sister and me there when I was nine, rolled down the window, and herded clouds into the car on the high mountain tops.  I was hooked.  

I like to visit the mountains once a year or so, and last spring, Karen and I planned a visit to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park over my long Easter break.  I, of course, started searching for great places to see wildflowers, and reports for Greenbrier suggested it was peak for early spring bloom.

Greenbrier is no stranger to me.  It's one of my favorite places to visit.  When I was in grad school in Raleigh and met my family for a long weekend in Gatlinburg, I'd always pass Greenbrier on Highway 321.  Sometimes if I was a bit early, I would stop and say hi to the craggy creek.  

The Little Pigeon River gurgles through Greenbrier.

For this visit, we would be staying a bit longer in Greenbriar to hike Porters Creek trail.  I had seen pictures online of the Phacelia fimbriata (fringed phacelia) in full bloom, and the effect looked incredible, like a carpet of white wildflowers in the woodlands.     

We parked for the day along the car-crowded road, which suggested we wouldn't be alone for the hike.  We walked for about an hour passing old stone fences and traversing mighty hemlocks.  We hadn't seen many flowers in bloom till we came to a narrow bridge.   

The narrow bridge along Porter's Creek trail.  Hikers provide a sense of scale.  

However, once we crossed over, it felt a bit like entering Narnia because suddenly we were surrounded by snow!  

Where's the lamppost?!

Ok, green and white snow.  But, it was everywhere!!!  

Phacelia fimbriata o'er hill and dale

And, it continued for about a quarter of a mile.  It was breathtaking to see so many of one organism en masse.  

A moss-covered log rests in a blanket of Phacelia

Some of it even grew on rocks.  

Fringed phacelia thrive on a boulder, no doubt supported by a layer of detritus and abundant rainfall during the winter and early spring.  

A close up of Phacelia fimbriata.  The flowers were about the size of a dime.  

Much like footsteps on fresh fallen snow, a trodden path manifests through the Phacelia.  

In horticulture design we discuss how the effect of repetition is calming and creates harmony in the landscape.  In fact, just a few weeks ago I shared with my class that seeing the same plant used multiple times in the landscape creates a sense of comfort.  Much like when you travel to a foreign place and see familiar logos or icons. 

So, why so many of one organism?  No human planted this monoculture.  This is nature. 

From my environmental biology background, I learned to ask the question why does a species grow this way?  There have been efforts to classify plants based on their survival strategies, and Grime's universal adaptive strategy theory groups plants broadly into three different categories.  

• COMPETITORS are plants that take advantages of any and all resources they can muster.  They grow tall and wide to take out the competition.  Usually these stalwarts are perennial in nature.

• STRESS-TOLERANTS are plants that have adaptations to ensure survival when stress arises and conditions deteriorate.  They are usually perennial and can take many years to flower from seed.  

• PIONEERS (aka RUDERALS) are short-lived annuals or biennials that are frequently exposed to some type of disturbance, which has selected for plants that quickly produce seed.  

Like most human-made models, plants don't fit neatly into these classifications.  Most plants are a blend of at least two strategies, much like you see below.  

This figure from Pierce et al. (2013) illustrates how one can classify plants as competitors, stress-tolerant, or pioneers/ruderals.  The placement of the symbol equates to what percentage of each strategy each plant exhibits.  

But, thinking about these survival strategies can help us anticipate how plants will perform over time in our gardens.  They help us understand why stress-tolerant Trillium can take several years to flower from seed, or why pioneer Gaillardia can die in our gardens after a few years.  (If you want to read more about Grime's theory, might I suggest Planting in a Post Wild World by Thomas Rainer and Claudia West and Garden Flora by Noel Kingsbury).

In the case of the Phacelia that surrounded us on Porters Creek trail, we were looking at a pioneer-type species based on its short life span and the sheer abundance of plants.  Phacelia fimbriata is a winter annual.  It germinates in the fall, flowers the following spring, and dies after spreading seed.  It also takes advantage of the full sun that filters through the barren canopies during winter and early spring.  

This environment doesn't match my traditional concept of a pioneer species before I learned of Grime's theory.  I usually associate pioneers with species that come in and colonize an area after all vegetation has been removed, and yet around us were towering trees clambering toward the climax community.  But, as Larry Weaner and Thomas Christopher discussed in Garden Revolution, sometimes disturbance only affects a layer of vegetation and not all plants are removed.  

As I began to ponder what disturbance the Smokies get, my mind immediately went to the horrible wildfires that ravaged Gatlinburg this past fall.  Research in the Smokies has shown that fires on average have happened once every 5 to 7 years between the early 1700's to about 1930.  If this pattern was the same for millennia before, it's easy to see how this species evolved to survive frequent disturbance.  

We also encountered a few other spring ephemerals along our hike, and many were like old friends.  I hadn't them seen in a while, but they still brought a smile to my face.  

Dicentra cucullaria (Dutchman's breeches). See the hole? Looks like someone forgot to patch their pantalones before hanging them out. 

Trillium grandiflorum in all its grandeur.  

The freckled petals and coffee-colored stamens of Erythronium umbilicatum (dimpled trout lily) are a delight in spring.

Anemonella thalictroides (rue anenome) occasionally dotted the forest floor.

I assumed before we went that we would see Sanguinaria canadensis (bloodroot) everywhere, but I only saw one in flower.  It was actually right as we were coming back to the parking lot.  

Overall, Porters Creek trail was a great hike, and we both enjoyed the beauty of the spring wildflowers.  But, the wildflowers weren't my only goal for the trip.   

I also had plans to propose to Karen the next morning after the Gatlinburg Easter sunrise service.   She said yes, and the Smokies became even more special for the both of us.