Dipping into Baptisia Again

I’ve never seen Baptisia australis in the wild, even though it is one of my favorite perennials. I wrote a few weeks ago that I had encountered Baptisia alba, Baptisia sphaerocarpa, and Baptisia bracteata and that I hoped to add Baptisia australis to my life list, soon. 

I decided this spring would be a good time to search for this species. I reached out to colleagues who were familiar with the northeast Texas region since that is the nearest place to me that this blue wild indigo grows.  My friend Sonnia introduced me over the internet to Carol Clark, a naturalist who is quite keen on the flora and fauna of north Texas.  After Carol and I conversed for a bit, she put together a wonderful itinerary for seeing Baptisia in the wild.

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For our first stop on the Baptisia tour, Karen and I arrived to Clymer Meadow around 10:30 am.  This 1400-acre Nature Conservancy site is a virgin prairie north of Dallas that has never been plowed and only used as forage for livestock.  Many consider it an excellent preserved example of the Blackland Prairie that once covered much of the middle of North America.

Clymer Meadow is a collection of various tracks of land that is managed by The Nature Conservancy.

We parked at the top of a hill near a grove of trees where we could survey the acres of grassland that surrounded us under an ash-colored sky.  Here, I met Carol for the first time, her friend Stephanie Jennings who works at the Heard Museum, and Brandon Belcher who stewards the Clymer Meadow with The Nature Conservancy. 

We walked down the hillside, and Brandon showed us a population of 50–100 Baptisia australis that straddled a mowed section of pipeline.  I was curious to see their habit in the wild as well as the different colors, and I was delighted to see many variations on the theme of blue.  Slivers of cobalt, periwinkle, purple, indigo, and chambray rose above the mosaic of last year’s brown duff.  In the clearing Castilleja purpurea also blazed magenta against the unkempt, wild grassland.  It was such a great analogous color combination that I wish I could recreate in a garden; however, the Castilleja is a hemi-parasite; thus, it feeds some off the roots of neighboring plants and is difficult to grow in cultivation.

Baptisia erupt from the tapestry that is last year’s tan threads and this year’s green flush.

The pink you saw in the left corner of the image above was Castilleja purpurea, purple Indian paintbrush. This particular clump was had richer purpling.

A smoky purple selection of Baptisia

Castilleja and Baptisia made a most excellent pairing.

My mind drifted back from the Castilleja to the Baptisia.  They were much shorter than I expected and shorter than the types that I encountered in gardens.  This form was Baptisia australis var. minor, a more compact variety that many love to use in naturalistic design for its dense stem mound habit.  Carol and Brandon noted they were usually a little taller and attributed their diminutive demeanor to the cooler spring and commented that they just hadn’t fully expanded yet. 

A rich purple form of Baptisia australis var. minor. Notice how the plants barely rise above the fray.

Brandon commented on how other plants were late, too.  In the matrix of foliage below we saw Manfreda, Eryngium, and Silphium short and waiting on their moment later in the year.  Even Nemastylis geminiflora wasn’t in flower quite yet. 

After sampling the variations in the Baptisia population, we walked back up the hill.  Brandon mentioned that at Clymer Meadow, a fascinating soil phenomenon called can be observed.  He took us just beyond the tree grove where we parked to an open spot in the grassland.  He had me stand on the top of an elevated soil spot, and he stood a few feet away in a wet depression called a gilgai.  On flat ground we had been looking eye-to-eye, but now there was at least a two foot difference in our height. 

Here I’m looking down on Brandon from my small hill. In the lower left you can see a wet pocket, or gilgai. These depressions fill with water while the higher spots stay dry and provide habitat for grasses like Pancium, which you can see its tan ribbons scattered about in this image.

He explained these small pools and small hills develop from soil wet/dry cycles.  When the soil dries, it cracks open and sediment falls in.  Then, when it rehydrates during the cooler seasons, the soil expands and the sediment gets pushed upward.  This process then repeats over years and years until it creates a vast honeycomb appearance across the landscape. This soil pattern is also called gilgai, just like the little pools of water. 

He said that this micro-typography creates some interesting habitats for plants because within a few short feet you go from hydric conditions where Juncus grows to more mesic/xeric conditions where Pancium can be found.  Brandon commented that the small pools in the depressions can be wet all the way into summer and provide a home for frogs and other critters. 

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We left Brandon at Clymer Meadow, and the rest of us headed to Pioneer Park next to eat a quick sack lunch and see if we could find Baptisia there.  We did not, but while walking through the prairie and being serenaded by Dickcissels, I was able to see Callirhoe alcaeoides for the first time in the wild.  This light poppy mallow is a delightful perennial that deserves wider use. 

At first I thought these Callirhoe alcaeoides were an Oenothera from a distance. Was I surprised to see this species in the wild!

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Next we went to the home of one of Carol’s friends who had a five-acre prairie in her backyard.  Pulling in the driveway, I was delighted to again see Baptisia in bloom, and there were more here in this front part than we saw at Clymer Meadow.  Carol commented that this section wasn’t the best, and it would better behind the house.  She was right.  Behind their house was long grassland, and at the very back were hundreds of Baptisia.  Again, there was a myriad of colors of blue and purple here.  We found some very floriferous forms as well as a compact form that had already finished flowering.  She said they never burned it, but they would mow it each year. 

Hundreds of Baptisia australis var. minor bloom in this backyard prairie.

Here’s another section where you can see the variations of blue and purple flowers.

Here was a form with a rather dense inflorescence, packed with flowers.

We found this compact, early form quite interesting. It finished flowering a week or two ago, while all the other plants around were in their full splendor.

I quite liked this periwinkle color on this Baptisia.

I shared with Carol and Stephanie how I learned in writing my last post on Baptisia that bees will move up the inflorescence from lower, nectar-filled pistillate flowers…

…to more pollen heavy staminate flowers nearer the top. Then, they hopefully will take that fresh pollen to the next flower and repeat the process. It helped to have a bee demonstrating this pollination syndrome as I described it. :-)

 Mixed in with the Baptisia were other great natives like Linum berlandieri, Penstemon cobaea, and Amsonia ciliata var. texana. 

For all the blues and purples we saw today, it was nice to have the contrasting yellow and orange in Linum berlandieri at this site.

This site was also my first encounter with Penstemon cobaea in the wild. Don’t you just love those big honkin’ flowers?

I was intrigued by Amsonia ciliata var. texana. They formed these large clonal colonies, something I was unfamiliar with seeing Amsonia do.

The flowers of Amsonia ciliata var. texana had a surprising sweet fragrance with echoes of vanilla.

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It was getting later in the afternoon, and Carol suggested that as a last stop we should go check out a spot north of us where they were expanding the road and she had heard from a friend some Baptisia were in the construction area.  We found it and pulled off to survey the population.

The site where the road is being expanded cuts right through a population of Baptisia.

I climbed out of my truck, my eyes saw it, and I exclaimed, “A WHITE ONE!!!” 

GASP!!! Jaw drop. Wowzers.

We had seen hundreds of Baptisia all day, and yet here in this construction area was a white Baptisia australis var. minor.  We rescued this specimen as well as a few other plants that had been run over and were in the kill zone before we parted ways and headed home.

Overall, it was a great day learning more about Baptisia australis var. minor in the wild and making new plant friends. We hope that some of the forms we saw can be propagated. Gardens need more Baptisia, and it is even better knowing exactly where they grow and where they originated.

Late Summer in the Green Swamp

Tromping through a place titled the Green Swamp Preserve in late summer in North Carolina might not sound appealing.  I don’t know what is the greater deterrent, the mental conjurings of a swamp, heat and humidity, or biting insects that are certain to plague visitors at that time of year. 

But, when I visited in 2012, it was in the mid-seventies and overcast, and instead of finding swarms of biting insects or even a single tick, I found a plethora of late summer wildflowers in bloom and at their prime.  This place wasn’t a swamp. It was a garden of Eden.

The Green Swamp is named not because of the quicksand we’ve seen in the movies but instead for the pocosins found scattered about in the longleaf pine (Pinus palustris) savanna. A pocosin, named by the Algonquian Native Americans for a “swamp on a hill,” are wetlands that are elevated above the surrounding ground due to a build up of organic matter. This habitat is unique and the World Wildlife Fund has designated this area one of the top ten ecoregions in North America. Noteworthy also is the longleaf pine savanna; their range is much larger as longleaf pines once occupied 90 million acres from east Texas all the way around the gulf coast to Virginia. However, now only 5% of this habitat remains. But, thanks to The Nature Conservancy, approximately 15,000 acres were preserved here in the Green Swamp in North Carolina in the 1970’s and 1980’s for those of use who like to wander looking at wildflowers. And, I must say that standing it this longleaf pine cathedral with wiregrass (Aristida) floor tiled occasionally with orchids, carnivorous plants, and other wildflowers was an incredible experience.

I trekked to the Green Swamp because of Flickr.  Some great photos I had seen online had spurred me into visiting this area.  And, then by a fun coincidence, I ran into one of my Flickr friends in the parking lot who I had never met in person!  The connection was made when we exchanged greetings, discussed the flora of the area, and then made introductions.  I knew the name Skip Pudney sounded familiar, and sure enough, he was in my Flickr contacts.  It was wonderful serendipity running into him because he gave me advice on where to look for flowers. Skip told me that the Big Island Savanna, named for the large island of grassy habitat, was the best he had seen it in his 8 years of visiting.  He noted The Nature Conservancy had burned it the past two years.  Fire is essential for many species that can quickly be outcompeted by the scrub. Therefore, perhaps the burning was a factor contributing to this year’s great bloom?

The beautiful longleaf pine savanna. Notice the dark black burn scars on the trees from previous years.

From Skip’s advice, I first ventured back along the trail to find carnivorous plants. The Green Swamp is home to several of them. Venus fly traps (Dionaea muscipula) were one of the highlights from the day. This fascinating species not only has captured insects but also the minds of young and old over the years. Even those who show little interest in plants perk up when they hear about Venus fly traps. And, they don’t hail from far away lands. No, they are endemic to a 100-mile radius around Wilmington, NC. The traps technically are modified leaves. If two or more hairs are touched in succession, then the leaf will close and trap an insect.

My first encounter with Venus fly trap (Dionaea muscipula) in the wild!

On this adventure I also saw Sarracenia for the first time in the wild! Sarracenia flava was scattered about in the wiregrass savanna, and this yellow pitcher plant is one of the tallest in North America. Most were tattered after the summer, but some were producing new pitchers for fall.

A few new pitchers on Sarracenia flava are popping up out of the grass.

Even the tattered foliage and flowers of yellow pitcher plants (Sarracenia flava) looked admirably rustic.

The Green Swamp is also well known for being home to native terrestrial orchids, and I timed it just right to see three of the late-summer flowering orchids in bloom. In decreasing order of fringe, I saw Platanthera ciliaris, Platanthera cristata, and Platanthera integra. While all three were beautiful, my favorite was of course Platanthera ciliaris. It was very showy with its large orange flowers with the frills. And, I loved seeing the gradation from bloom to bud on this indeterminate inflorescence.

Platanthera ciliaris (orange-fringed orchid) dotted the landscape.

A close up of the delicate Platanthera ciliaris flowers.

Platanthera cristata had a little less fringe but was still lovely to see.

As the name suggests, the yellow fringeless orchid, Platanthera integra, has no frills on the lower petal. The epithet integra means entire or undivided.

Scattered amongst the wiregrass were other colorful delights like the bronzing foliage of cinnamon fern (Osmundastrum cinnamomeum) and fire-engine red petals of Lilium catesbaei.

I had never seen cinnamon fern have such good late summer color. Of course, it gets better. Check out Alan Cressler’s photo of it in November.

An opening pine lily’s (Lilium catesbaei) red petals lick like flames against wiregrass.

Here’s a Lilium catesbaei that’s a bit further along. You can see the pollen dehiscing.

Eventually I made it to a back area that was wetter, and I discovered what I like to call a milky way of blazing stars. There must have been thousands of plants in bloom here along a 500 foot stretch near the edge habitat. And, scattered amongst them were other noteworthy wildflowers.

Just look at how the purple fades into the upper right of this image. These Liatris pilosa went on and on.

Grassleaf blazing star (Liatris pilosa) made this a purple milky way.

Grassleaf Barbara’s buttons (Marshallia graminifolia) was one of my goals to see for the trip, and I was happy to see it in abundance.

I believe these Marshallia have garden merit. I just love their pinwheel galaxy appearance.

As the Liatris became more sparse, the rush featherling (Pleea tenuifolia)—and don’t you just love the common name—became more prevalent.

A close up of Pleea tenuifolia in flower

Another species I added to my wishlist to grow one day was Zigadenus glaberrimus or the sandbog death camas. They had these beautiful and persistant tepals.

I know I talked about carnivorous plants earlier, but I think this trip was also the first time in my horticulture career that I realized that flowers could be used as lures by predatory insects. I saw multiple examples throughout the day of predators waiting to ambush a pollinator.

Seems I'm not the only one admiring this yellow fringed orchid (Platanthera ciliaris). A praying mantis hangs on the fringe, undoubtedly waiting for some flying prey to come along.

Don’t mind me. I’m just waiting for dinner.

Grassleaf Barbara’s buttons makes a great stakeout spot for Carolina anole (Anolis carolinensis).

I returned to my car after seeing yet another great example of southeastern flora and a habitat that deserves to be revered more. I know that organizations are working to restore these habitats, and after seeing the diversity of plants in the Green Swamp, I wholeheartedly welcome such efforts.

A Lovely Aster

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I love asters. Their flowers beckon fall and provide a breath of fresh air after the sun has baked the garden for much of summer. I hope one day to have a decent collection of them here in east Texas. I’ve already realized that some gaudy selections don’t fare too well for us, and I’ve begun turning to lesser known types for my garden.

One is Symphyotrichum lateriflorum ‘White Lovely’. This calico aster has been blooming in the garden since mid-August and is one of my first asters to bloom.  I bought it when we first moved to the house three years ago from Digging Dog Nursery in an effort to start evaluating new-to-me perennials.  

Other plants in my trial bed are showing wear and tear from the summer, but ‘White Lovely’ Symphyotrichum lateriflorum erupts with gossamer blooms.

Throughout the growing season it is barely noticed with its green shroud of clean, thin foliage.   But, when it blooms it imbues the essence of flowering froth as thousands of dainty white flowers cover the plant for several weeks.  I can quickly see how massing these would create a haze surrounding taller perennials.  It is short, perhaps topping out under three feet.

Symphyotrichum lateriflorum ‘White Lovely’ highlighted with the morning dew and the first rays of sunrise. Here you can see how the plant blooms laterally or one one side, hence the lateriflorum epithet.

Allan Armitage stated in both his treatise Herbaceous Perennial Plants and Armitage's Native Plants for North American Gardens that this species doesn’t typically perform well south of Zone 6 or 7, which is odd because it is native from Canada to the gulf. But, my experience says otherwise. Some blasted rodent decided to enjoy the root system as a snack last spring. I divided it into three plants, and they were set back into good contact with soil.  If it can survive that and still look good after our summers, it is a winner in my book.

Right now, they are planted next to Pycnanthemum tenuifolium in a bed that started as a holding ground for plants in containers and trial material.  I quite like the pairing.  There is a silvery-white color echo, and the airiness of the aster flowers and the remaining circular seed heads of the mountain mint go well together. 

One final note. The story of ‘White Lovely’ is a bit of an enigma to me. How could such a great plant not have more information available about it? I searched to learn about its origin and only learned that it is likely a sport from ‘Lovely’, a more purple form of the species.  But, I can’t even find much on ‘Lovely’. So, if you know more, drop me a line. This great aster deserves to be known and grown.

I particularly like this happenstance pairing of Symphyotrichum lateriflorum ‘White Lovely’ with the fading Pycnanthemum tenuifolium.

Detour to Echinacea pallida

I hate interstate traffic jams, especially the ones that threaten to add an hour and eighteen minutes to a nine hour trip.  But, I love the technology like Google maps that predicts such interruptions and reroutes for treks down rural roads in an attempt to save time.  Such was the case last June when we were traveling back to Texas from Tennessee.

We ventured off the highway just before the logjam near Arkadelphia, Arkansas when a couple of Echinacea caught my eye.  As I’ve written before, the habitat and management of roadside edges help preserve wildflowers and relic plant communities.  I saw another large group in front of someone’s house and thought that if I could find a large patch and a wide shoulder, it might make for some good photographs. But, then we rounded the corner, and I gasp.  For the next quarter mile, the whole left side of the road was covered with Echinacea pallida, the pale coneflower.  

Wowzers. Have you ever seen so many Echinacea pallida?

I’ve become a huge fan of species Echinacea in recent years due to their durability and reliability over the hybrids, and seeing this mass of pale coneflower was further testament for me to how well they grow. Echinacea pallida does well in a range of conditions, which is not surprising considering it is native to a swath that extends from the Gulf of Mexico all the way up to Lake Michigan.

I pulled off onto a logging road just where the patch of Echinacea stopped.  I walked up the hillside in shorts braving ticks and chiggers, but it was worth it to see thousands of Echinacea pallida in flower.  Growing amongst the coneflowers were other wildflowers like Liatris aspera, Mimosa nuttallii, and Asclepias tuberosa.  

I started snapping away with my camera. The densest of the plants was about two telephone poles down, and I felt pulled toward this floral center of gravity.  There was little if any diversity in color that I could see, but I did notice differences in the length of the rays.  Echinacea pallida can be identified by its dropping ray florets, and it has white pollen instead of the typical yellow color of many other species in the genus.  

A close up of a solitary flower on pale coneflower. Note the absence of yellow-colored pollen.

I began to wonder what would cause this Echinacea population to be so large.  My guess is a post-seed-set mowing.  I noticed in the ground layer there were several juvenile plants sans flowers.

A shot of Echinacea pallida backlit gives a different perspective of the flower with the blackening of the cones.

As I walked back to the car, I mused on how this traffic jam and resulting detour was one of the best ever for botanizing.   However, with all the photos I took, I’m not sure if we saved any time taking the backroad or not!  

Grace is one word that comes to mind when I see Echinacea pallida. So lovely and elegant.

The Pastoral Spirit of Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center

In early March, Karen and I visited Austin, TX, which meant I could finally got to Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center.  Even though I’ve lived in Texas for almost six years now, I haven’t been to this incredible garden; however, I have longed to see it.  The Wildflower Center has a rich history since being founded by Lady Bird Johnson and Helen Hayes in 1982 with the central mission for “inspiring the conservation of native plants.”

Aquilegia canadensis greets visitors in a courtyard at Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center.

We certainly experienced that guiding philosophy walking through the garden.  I was so impressed with the garden’s genuis loci, its spirit of place.  It wasn’t just a hodge-podge of native plants through around.  No, walking through the garden I sensed this agrarian theme with threads of Spanish influence woven throughout.  There were no mass beds of annuals, except the site-appropriate Lupinus texensis.  It was wild, and it was real.  And, I saw flora friends I’ve known for years, and I even made some new ones.

In the silo garden, Lupinus texensis and Ranunculus macranthus provide early spring color. Grasses and Rudbeckia maxima provide good texture early in the year.

Right as we entered the garden, we passed by stone work that resembled old Spanish missions of the area.  There was a large stone facade that supported an aqueduct for water that extended out toward the parking lot. This structure is used in their rainwater harvesting.  There was even a water garden to illustrate how in this xeric environment there were still some wet springs that supplied water.

Visitors walk past a stone aqueduct as they enter the garden.

From this main entrance, we entered a large courtyard that was dotted with wildflowers.  In cracks of stone grew Aquilegia chrysantha var. hinckleyana,  a rare yet reliable columbine for growing in Texas.  Scattered about in others beds were varied cool color forms of Tradescantia gigantea.

Aquilegia chrysantha var. hinckleyana flowers in a courtyard at Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center.

Tradescantia gigantea blooms in a range of cool colors seen here.

From here we approached the silo courtyard that featured a small metal grain bin that was planted with Texas wildflowers like Lupinus texensis, Ranunculus macranthus, and Rudbeckia maxima.  For kicks they also espaliered a Texas redbud.  This garden only made me want a silo for my home garden even more!  

The silo courtyard looks like it belongs on a farm. I love the galvanized effect.

Who has ever seen a Cercis canadensis var. texensis espaliered? Such a funky way to treat a native!

I began to notice that wood was a unifying design element used throughout the garden.  Logs were used to line the pathways in the woodland garden to delineate the path from the Chasmanthium latifolium and Phacelia congesta.  I, too, have grown fond of using logs in my own garden for edging.  However, they used what appeared to be rot-resistant eastern red cedar instead of the fallen snags I employ.  

Logs edge the beds in the woodland garden.

Many species within the borage family feature scorpioid flowers where the blooms on the cymes zigzag. You can see this incredible arrangement on this Phacelia congesta.

In the theme gardens, raw cedar was also used for fencing and to build an arbor that ran the length of the garden.  The agrarian gestalt was continued with galvanized troughs used as planters for more Lupinus, Ipomopsis rubra, and other natives.  In other beds the gardeners were planting a diversity of new plants.  One told me that they were evaluating some native species for use in cultivation.  Twinkle lights were draped back and forth over the garden.  I would love to see this section at night.  

This arbor features native vines like Gelsemium and Lonicera sempervirens.

What an incredible flora display from this Lonicera sempervirens.

Seeing these stock tanks gave me inspiration about using them at my own house.

From the theme gardens, we ventured back to the family garden that featured many areas for parents and children to find delight.  There were sinuous and spiraling short walls in the garden.  Also, we saw a dinosaur creek and a stumpery with nests made from grape vines.  Here, native plants reigned in the landscape, too.  Prunus mexicana provided early spring color in tree form while Packera obovata covered the ground.  In the family garden was also a mass of Lupinus texensis.  I noticed they suffered from the sitting disorder that plagues bluebonnets.

A bit of whimsy with curvilinear mosaic walls and tree crowns turned upside down in the family garden.

Nemophila phacelioides dots itself in beds in the family garden.

I enjoyed seeing this blue Lupinus texensis and yellow Packera obovata dyad color pair in the family garden.

Here you see a problem that plagues Lupinus texnesis, the butt hole disease.

Packera obovata electrifies the ground layer under Prunus mexicana with its yellow flowers.

We headed back toward the entrance, past bluebonnets a plenty and a thick patch of Salvia lyrata that hadn’t come into bloom yet. I thought it would make an excellent groundcover if used with that density.  Before we left, we made a quick run up the observation tower to glance out over the garden.  

Salvia lyrata that occurs sporadically along roadsides and in lawns can be massed as a groudcover.

The observation tower at Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center.

One final look at Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center from the observation tower.

I left with the impression that this garden was a prime example of south meets west. Karen and I both commented about what a great visit we had. I can’t wait to see it again in other seasons to learn about more great natives to incorporate into my garden.

Celebrating Easter in Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest

One of the most memorable Easters of my life was in 2011 when I attended a solo sunrise service in Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest just across Lake Santeetlah from Robbinsville, NC.

It was part of my weekend wildflower pilgrimage in the mountains.  Easter is a fickle date since it is held in tandem with the Sunday following the first full moon after the vernal equinox.  That year would be one of the latest dates it would fall, and with time off from grad school classes, it would coincide perfectly with peak bloom in the mountains.  

I left Cherokee, NC at... well I don’t even remember when.   Probably 5:00 or 5:30 in the morning.  I drove a little over an hour until I reached the Cherohala Skyway very near my destination.  I pulled off into the Hooper Cove parking lot (elevation 3096 ft) at just before 7 am, and I watched the sunrise.  From there, I left to head to Joyce Kilmer.  

Sunrise at the Hooper Bald overlook on the Cherohala Skyway

Vibrant foliage of Rhododendron flank a stream in Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest.

But, why all the effort to visit this forest?  Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest is one of the few virgin forests left in eastern North America.  I had heard tales of the mammoth trees, and I just had to see them.   You may also wonder who Joyce Kilmer is.  He authored the poem “Trees”.  It is a fitting passage for an Easter morning spent in the woods. 

“I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.”

— Joyce Kilmer

Tiarella, Phlox, and a host of other perennials blanket the understory in Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest.

He died in 1918 during World War I in France, and to remember him, the New York chapter of the Veterans of Foreign Wars asked the government to name a forest in his memory in the mid–1930’s.  Around the same time, the government purchased 3,800 acres of pristine forest in North Carolina to preserve “one of the few remaining examples of the great hardwood forests that covered the slopes of the Appalachians when Columbus discovered the New World”.  It was this tract of land that would be named in his honor in July 1936.  

Fronds as far as the eye can see.

I was enraptured upon my arrival, and I saw not another soul while I walked the trail. I quickly saw why the government paid $28 an acre instead of the typical $3 or $4 an acre cost at that time.  I stood in a forest cathedral with the rays of light coming through the stained glass foliage above and the choir of songbirds singing in the broken morning.  The trees had these interesting lolly-pop crowns, few branches below from self pruning and rounded tops from crown shyness.  I suppose both those effects were due to being ancient and clustered so close together.   They were MASSIVE, over 100 feet tall, and many of these giants from this long lost era had been dated to at least 400 years old.

Hard to have scale for how massive this tree is…

…until I stand at the base.

Look at this little cutie. Viola canadensis or Canada viola. One is lovely…

…and thousands are even lovelier. Look at all those white flowers!

And, there was magic.  The forest floor was carpeted with wildflowers and natives of all kinds, and the earth-hugging tapestry shifted with habitat—ferns on one hillside, violets on another, and Tiarella and Phlox scattered along side a dry creek.  I encountered half a dozen species of Trillium.  Most were past their prime, but Trillium vaseyi and Trillium cuneatum still looked good.   

In Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest I met Carex plantaginea for the first time. Most know it by its seersuckered foliage, but I was enchanted by the inflorescences.

Adiantum and Uvularia, zig and zag.

My first encountered with the urn-shaped flowers of Gaylussacia ursina.

One of my favorite Trillium is Trillium vaseyi. I love it for its large (about the size of a camera lens cap) crimson flowers.

A close up of Trillium vaseyi.

I saw plants growing on top of fallen trees.  These nurse logs as they are called were covered with Tiarella and other flora of the forest.  And, I saw the shadows of these life forces, evidenced by the tree root stilts showing where the log’s circumference used to be.

My jaw dropped at seeing plants growing on logs for the first time. The white-flowering Tiarella cordifolia looks quite happy. These habitats must be moist to support plant growth on fallen timber.

And, here the ghost of a log can be seen. I wonder how long ago it faded into the forest floor.

When I see such sights, I am filled with wonder and awe but also a bit of sadness as I think that much of the world used to look like this virgin forest before we spoiled it.   Even some parts of the forest showed the effects from mankind.  Along the path were massive Tsuga canadensis that had fallen with trunks twisted like toothpicks.  I wondered what had caused such damage.  Later, I read how they used dynamite drilled into the trunks to explode them and mimic these snags falling from a storm.  These ancient ones had to be felled because they had died from the horrid woolly adelgid, and those near the trail had become a liability for potentially dropping detritus on pedestrians.  

Dynamite-exploded trunks of Tsuga canadensis, eastern hemlock. A few dead trees still stand.

Here’s a close up so you can see how gnarled they were.

I count 225 rings on the cross section of this fallen Tsuga canadensis. A few small sections were too faded to count, and I didn’t include them. With that error it means that this tree likely was a seedling at the founding of our country. So sad to see that we led to its demise with the introduction of the woolly adelgid.

However, even in its brokenness, visiting places such as Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest reminds me of the wonders we can still experience on this planet.  And, it resurrects the belief that we need to do all we can to protect these special treasures.  For, I too, think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree.  And, a forest as lovely as Joyce Kilmer. 

Sandyland Bluebonnets Blooming

My sandyland bluebonnets (Lupinus subcarnosus) are flowering!  Yippie, the first bluebonnets blooming at our house!  And, what a show they are.

Lupinus subcarnosus flowering at our house.

All four of them.  #sarcasm

I guess something went wrong with their germination?  Last fall, I scarified the seeds with a fingernail clipper since I didn’t have very many and soaked them in water overnight.  I counted about a dozen that germinated, but these few are the only survivors left. Hopefully, they will spawn more next year.  

Eventually, this scene is what I want.  

Last spring, Karen and I ventured out to Chireno, TX to see Peter Loos’s patch of sandyland bluebonnets.  My seeds last fall came from Peter’s population.

When people think of bluebonnets, they usually conjure images like the following of Lupinus texensis. 

A swath of Lupinus texensis blooms alongside a Texas Hill County highway.

However, Lupinus subcarnosus is lesser known and native to east Texas and Louisiana.  Lupinus texensis has a broader distribution west.  You can easily identify the two.  Lupinus texensis has a tuft of white at the top, which earned it the name el conejo or the rabbit from the Spanish settlers who saw it.  This tuft is absent on Lupinus subcarnosus because the flowers are more spaced apart on the apex.  Most people think Lupinus texensis is more showy due to the dense blooms on the raceme.  I find some humor in this preference because it was actually Lupinus subcarnosus that was first adopted as the state wildflower.  Finally, all bluebonnets were lumped under that title in 1971.  

Either way, both flowers remind me of blue Yoshi from the Mario games.  

Blue Yoshi!

Now you can’t unsee blue Yoshi, can you? Note the banner spot color change on the lower flowers.

And, the white spots on the banner petal will change to a reddish-purple color with age on both species. For Lupinus texensis the color change happens around 6 days after opening, which is believed to be a signal for pollinators. Researchers have noted that around 95% of bee visits are while the spot is still white, and the pollen count drops precipitously after 6 days. I assume these pollination dynamics are similar for the closely related Lupinus subcarnosus.

From the looks of it, my four plants have a few purple spots on them indicating I should see seed in a few weeks.  That’s a good start to having more.

Finding Featherbells

After seeing some early spring wildflowers pop up at my house, I decided to venture out and see if others were rising up out of the post-winter fray. One that I want to check right up the road from me was Stenanthium gramineum or feather bells.

I saw it last year blooming right along the roadside. This species is a new one that I've learned about since moving to Texas. It is closely allied to the death camas (Zigadenus) that I saw years ago in the Green Swamp.

I love its feathery flowers, which resemble miniature lilies with their petaloid floral parts. And, until I wrote this post I realized I actually don’t have any photos of the plant in flower. I promise I’ll get you some later this spring.

It was a challenge locating them at first. The leaf blades resemble grass, hence the epithet graminieum. A Tradescantia fooled me at first, but there was way too much pubescence on the foliage. Finally, I found their smooth leaves rising from the leaf litter with the dark magenta sheath near the base. Sometimes it's hard to remember where you saw something last year!

I feel bad for these plants because they get cut down every July when the roadcrews do their mowing. But, they are doing better than the plant at my house a colleague gifted me two years ago that hasn’t even bloomed yet. I moved it recently to a sunnier spot in hopes that I might see some inflorescences this year. We’ll have to wait and see.

The Stenanthium gramineum my colleague gifted me excavated so that you can see the lovely magenta sheaths at the base.

The Clouds of Pycnanthemum

“Is this thyme?!?”, I remember my teenage mind questioning at the sight of foliage that resembled the herb.  It was March, and I was rummaging through the fencerows near our house looking for wildflowers on a cloudy day that couldn’t decide if it was winter or spring.  Per usual, nothing much was to be seen since I lived in the avoidance zone, but my blitheful, naive self still held out hope I might find something in the leaf litter.  

And, here it was.  I knew enough about herbs to cue in on the small, elongated leaves stooping down.  The foliage looked a bit more pointed than the mother of thyme clump I had back home, but I crushed some, and it released a spicy menthol smell supporting my teenage hypothesis.  “Wow, I’ve discovered thyme from some old homeplace,” I said to the forest around me.

Looking back on the whole experience now, I chuckle.  I didn’t know about Occam’s razor then.  Nor, did I pause to critique my thinking with questions like how has thyme survived in this underbrush, or how has it not spread out and taken over creation?

No, back then I knew thyme wasn’t native to the US; therefore, I assumed someone planted it here.  It still had its low winter foliage just like the herb in my garden. 

So, I transplanted it home and nurtured it.  And, then it started to grow. And grow and grow and grow until it was over two feet tall.  This plant was not thyme! I went through a wildflower book I had and found a match in the Lamiaceae section—Pycnanthemum tenuifolium. 

Pycnanthemum tenuifolium flowering en masse.

Narrow-leaf mountain mint is currently blooming in my garden, and seeing it flourish was a fun reminder that I make mistakes and learn from them.  Sometimes when we are wrong, it turns out better than we could have imagined! Some fifteen years ago in my teenage years I didn’t realize what I had discovered—one of the best native perennials for pollinators and other insects. 

I’ll go ahead and address the white elephant (or, should I say white-flowering herb!) in the room.  Yes, as a “mint” it can spread some, but I’ve never had the issues with it that I’ve had with other Pycnanthemum or Mentha species.  I see having more of it as a good thing.  Even with its vigor, I lost the clump I found along the roadside.  But, a few years ago, I began to hunt for plants for creating floras.  I knew where Pycnanthemum was; therefore, I decided to saunter back along the same fence row in search of it.  After a few hours, I found one inflorescence.  I collected a piece from that Tennessee plant and some seed, and this germplasm became the basis for our plants that we use on campus.   Years later, I would find local Texas ecotypes on the road.  Both are blooming now in my garden and offer so much.  

A haze of Pycnanthemum tenuifolium flowers over a perennial planting at my house.

The fine-textured foliage emerges in tight columns rising upward.  In bud the plant makes me think of the constellation Crux, or the southern cross, for the haphazard dots that attempt to form perpendicular lines.  After flowering I enjoy seeing the seedheads that persist well into winter.  

X marks the spot on Pycnanthemum tenuifolium. Since the inflorescences are cymes, that character likely generates this interesting floral architecture.

But, the flowers are the pinnacle attribute of this plant.  The blooms remind me of stratus.  Instead of countless moisture particles composing a flat, gray-white cloud that blankets the earth, here hundreds of mithril-colored flowers form sheets that hover over the foliage.  These dense flowers are the origin of the name Pycnanthemum (pycn- means dense, and -anthemum refers to the flowers).

And, the insects that flock to this all-you-can-eat-buffet is astounding—bees, wasps, flies, butterflies, and more that I’m missing.  Research has shown Pycnanthemum tenuifolium to be a great niche for beneficial insects from providing resources for native bees to creating habitat for predators and parasitoids.   I’ve observed that the plant buzzes most with activity in the middle of the day.  I have plants near each other to accentuate their seasonality, and for the pollinators it makes cloud hopping even easier.  

A zebra swallowtail waddling through the flowers on Pycnanthemum tenuifolium. Yes, I know you can’t see motion in this still picture, but trust me. It waddled.

A giant swallowtail probed Pycnanthemum tenuifolium flowers.

The other day I took advantage of an overcast sky to take photos of my narrow-leaf mountain mint.   I smiled at the similarity of seeing the dark insects dart amongst the silvery-white flowers and how they resembled the shadows of birds circling above me in a broken, gray altostratus sky.  Both looking for food and both trying to live.  This national pollinator week, I recommend planting this perennial in abundance in the garden so that you, too, can have a richer life and enjoy the clouds of Pycnanthemum and all the life that comes with it.  

Delphinium carolinianum, Rock Candy for the Garden

Delphinium carolinianum (Carolina larkspur) is flowering in my garden.  Since seeing it in Texas, it has scurried to the top of my list of favorite wildflowers.  The native stands out with unique form and color—lines of electric blue that pierce the hurly-burly of the prairie.  To me it looks like rock candy. You know, the kind that you used to eat as a kid where sugar crystals surrounded a wooden stick?  I ate it up then, and I’m eating this flower up, now.  Currently, the colors I have in bloom are the prominent rich blueberry and fewer of the light raspberry and soft grape.

Delphinium carolinianum flowers are such a stark yet cheerful blue to see against the greens and golds typically seen in grasslands.

It wasn’t on the property when we arrived.  I’ve been collecting seed from local populations, and it’s thrilling to watch plants I started from seed erupt into bloom.  As the rachis elongates, it slightly sinews from node to node, each bend a place for an immature flower. As the buds develop, the long nectary starts resembling a horn, and upon unfurling I see the spur becoming a beak of a Belted Kingfisher; the flared petals to the sides are the wings and the two pointing down the tail.  

It has taken two years to get the plants from seed to flower.  I made the mistake of sowing the seed my first fall here before I learned how the winter shadows moved in our new garden. The spot received little sun.  The seedlings struggled, and I thought all was lost when they vanished last spring.  Imagine my delight when I found the little dissected leaves breaking ground last fall!  

Before the cold set in, I relocated the plants to sunnier spots.  Now, I and the fauna of my garden have been rewarded this year with blooms.  I’ve watched the inflorescences sway from probing by Ruby-throated Hummingbirds by day and hummingbird moths by night.

But, this larkspur does have an ephemeral nature.  Soon, the rock candy will dissolve with the heat of summer, leaving only seed behind.  But, I will collect them, coax the seedlings along, and hope for an even sweeter show in years to come.  

Pick your flavor. The classic vibrant blue, …

soft purple, …

or, a light periwinkle. Or, do what I do. Collect seed and you may end up with all three.