When I lived in Tennessee, as a teenager I would go to the woods in early spring to see if I could find any wildflowers starting to emerge or in bloom. I was a bit perplexed why my little spot in the northwest part of the state was so devoid of flora. Later, I would learn it was because high soil fertility reduced diversity in the Mississippi Delta region. But, that’s another blog post.
The dearth of wildflowers made me look even more for relics that might be along fencerows or river bottoms that the plow missed. And, in my searching I discovered plants that were brand new to me.
I remember the first time that I stumbled upon Erythronium albidum (white trout lily). In 2005, my journal noted that the sighting of some Phlox divaricata (woodland phlox) near a creek beckoned me to see what else could be found in the area. After walking through the crunchy brown duff that had fallen the previous autumn, a clearing appeared with a massive patch of ghostly green mottled leaves. These leaves were alive unlike the foliar skeletons that carpeted the ground beneath their short stature. There were many single leaves rising from the forest floor while pairs of blades held little white flowers that nodded in the cool breeze and looked like octopi with their arms outstretched. Since it was mid-afternoon, the flowers were open. Had I been earlier or later, they might have been closed.
Back home, I would identify these plants as Erythronium albidum, the white trout lily. I would read how they were ephemerals, plants that grow for only a slice of the season, in this case perhaps two months, while they captured what light they could before the canopy closed. I also learned white trout lilies had storage organs but were also rhizomatous or had droppers, which explained them occurring in such a large swath yet having an abrupt edge of the colony.
The next year I returned to the same patch with my first digital camera in hand to take some photos. They had returned once again in their diminutive yet wide splendor, and I writhed my body as low to the ground as I could to snap some photos. The blooms mere inches above the soil were hard to see inside. I wanted to lay down, but the barren sprigs of poison ivy that rose throughout the clump suggested that wouldn’t be a good idea. Plus, I might have crushed some of the trout lilies. I angled the camera the best I could and snapped away. From that day came some of the first photos I ever took of a wildflower, which helped further cement the memory
The reflexed tepals of Erythronium albidum, taken in 2006
Erythronium albidum bloom in a Tennessee bottomland forest. I count somewhere around sixty flowers in this shot alone.
It’s been almost 20 years since I first discovered Erythronium albidum. I’ve learned many more wildflowers since those days, even a few new Erythronium, but this one still holds a special place as one of the first wildflowers I ever found. I’ve also learned more about this native in that time, how it is visited by the specialist bee Andrena erythronii and how seed have elaiosomes and are spread by ants. It has been observed ants seem to have this interesting dispersal where seeds are moved a short distance but then dropped, perhaps due to the volatiles dissipating once removed from the plant.
I stumbled upon them here in east Texas unexpectedly, much like my first encounter in Tennessee. I was driving to town one day when a patch of the characteristic ghostly colored leaves caught my eye on a woodland edge. After my discovery I got permission from the landowner to investigate and collect some plants.
Once I walked in the woods I was surprised to see there were several different patches. Each colony was uniform in color, but each patch had a slightly different leaf color, some a little whiter, some a little darker, and some more speckled. And, to my delight there was one clump that also was loaded with flowers, many more so than the ones around it. From that colony I collected a few plants. My guess was the ants had done their work years ago starting a single plant that had now become these diverse patches.
Another patch deeper in the woods was much larger and reminded me of my initial find in Tennessee those many years ago. I noted that the colony seemed to stop at a creek’s edge and how fallen logs had separated plants temporarily from each other.
Note in this photo how the colony of Erythronium albidum appears to stop at the creek.
Erythronium albidum are isolated for now on either side of this log. It won’t last long in the heat and wetness of east Texas though.
Erythronium albidum rises alongside a fallen tree.
I like to think that digging them is fishing for trout lily bulbs. The shovel has to be deep enough as their storage organs are about 6 inches down. My King of Spades blade was long enough to access their deep geophytes. I just made sure to not disturb the block of soil that contained them.
There seems to be some debate on whether they sprout from bulbs or corms. I have always felt they were bulbs, though I have not brought myself to cut the storage organ of a white trout lily open yet. However, Ian Young of Scottish Rock Garden Club Bulb Log was curious enough to slice a different Erythronium species open in 2005, to which we own him thanks for his sacrifice. (Seems that was a banner year for learning about trout lilies!) And, in the second set of images from the link one can see the buds emerging from what appears to be a basal plate and surrounded partially by scales, two tale-tell signs of a bulb. And, I think it’s not too much conjecture to say the same is true for Erythronium albidum. So, after I wrote this post, I decided to go out and investigate when I was dividing my trout lilies. I cut open the geophyte, got out my hand lens, and sure enough, there’s no scales inside. It’s a corm!
The absence of scales indicates that Erythronium albidum is a corm (modified stem tissue) and not a bulb (modified leaf tissue).
Back home, I located my trout lilies underneath a sweet gum in the front yard, provided them with ample organic matter, and watered them in well. And, then I waited.
A bud appears on a plant in my garden from a floriferous clump of Erythronium albidum
My plants from that colony have been in the ground for three years, and I was delighted this week to see their maculate blades rising through the leaf litter. And, by the time you read this, the buds are likely opening. They only bloom for a few days, but in their short time they bring me great joy.
Trout lilies demand humility. One must come down to their level and lay prostrate on the ground to fully enjoy the intricacies of the leaves and flowers. Picking one and raising it up high just isn’t the same.
And, one must be patient. A clump can take years to size up to something breathtaking. But, I’ve waited around 20 years to welcome this fun native into my garden. What’s 20 more?
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