The Return of Oxblood Lilies

I’ve been doing a happy dance. We were blessed with another 2.5 inches of rain this week, which brings our total since mid-August to over 4.5 inches. The precipitation has certainly set the stage for fall, and everything just feels cooler with the ground and vegetation primed with water. The garden looks so much fresher. Leafless twigs have new growth emerging, and plants that were sulking have a vibrancy they have lacked for months.

With the return of the rains we also see the reappearance of autumn geophytes like oxblood lilies. And, my, are they making a show this year. They looked quite funky a few days ago as the scapes emerged, like gnarled red fingers rising from the earth. And, now that they are in full bloom, I am amazed. I don’t ever remember them looking so good or all blooming at once. Perhaps they’ve finally settled in. The red is such a brilliant crimson. If I’m honest, I’ve never been very impressed with their performance here, but this year has changed my mind. I’m so glad that I planted them.

Rhodophiala bifida flower scapes rise from the ground after a soaking rain

I lined thirty rescued bulbs of Rhodophiala bifida out in our patch a few years ago in turf to hold them until I could decide where would be a good spot for them in the garden. Beside these additions, I have found a few bulbs that were here when we moved in five years ago. A handful of Rhodophiala were grouped with Lycoris radiata and Leucojum aestivum under an old oak, and over the years, I sorted them as they finally developed enough to bloom. Who knows how many years they held on in dense shade before I relocated them.

I was delighted to find a couple more in another part of the yard today. I’m surprised in the five years we’ve been here I’ve never seen them bloom, but the bulbs were just under the drip line of a live oak we lost from the February 2021 cold spell. My guess is with the tree gone, they’ve been able to finally capture enough sunlight to bloom. I spotted the backlit red inflorescence from 250 feet away, and I thought perhaps that hillside would be a perfect spot for more. It’s amazing how perceptible their red is at a distance.

When I compare the flowers from all the bulbs, they seem to have the same flower structure and color. I believe all of them to be clones of the ‘Hill Country Red’ strain that has graced Texas gardens for years. Scott Ogden writes in Garden Bulbs for the South that while Rhodophiala bifida is native to Argentina and Uruguay, the vigorous, polyploid form seen in Texas gardens is absent from its native lands.

It is believed that Peter Henry Oberwetter, a German immigrant, is likely responsible for finding this vigorous selection. He introduced oxblood lilies to the US between 1860 and 1915.

Seeing how they are still holding on at old home places is a testament to their staying power. The flowers may be gone in a week, but the plants won’t be. They will continue sitting there quietly, soaking up their sunshine, and then singing with crimson bells when the autumn rains return year after year.

The line of ‘Hill Country Red’ Rhodophiala bifida at home.

Gomphrena and the Dog Days of Summer

Every August I pay attention to what plants don’t look like they’ve just been through the oven. I want the garden to look fresher in midsummer without having to water so much. One species that I’ve learned I can depend on is Gomphrena globosa.

Yes, it might seem odd to suggest an annual that has to be planted every year as many of them are dependent on irrigation, but it is so worth having globe amaranth for the explosive growth come the dog days of summer. Before the glorious two inches of slow rain this week from tropical systems, we were bone dry, and yet, Gomphrena continued to thrive and bloom. In Armitage’s Manual of Annuals, Biennials, and Half-hardy Perennials, he quotes a Texas cut flower grower joking that the plant grew at the gates of hell, hence its ability to take the heat.

One of the reasons that Gomphrena is able to tolerate the hot, dry Texas summers so well is that it is a C4 plant. C4 plants have a different type of photosynthesis where they are more efficient at capturing carbon during high heat and drought conditions. It is not unique to Gomphrena as C4 photosynthesis has evolved in different families. Corn and sugarcane, also good warm-weather growers, also share this type of photosynthesis.

Wild and wooly with Gomphrena globosa ‘Ping Pong White’, Zinnia elegans ‘Benary’s Giant’ cultivars, and Gossypium herbaceum ‘Nigrum’

I’ve had the goal to enclose the patch where I have my vegetable garden, cut flowers, and trial plants with a double fence, and I finished building the inner front fence of the patch this past winter. There’s two beds on either side of a narrow pathway in the six feet of space. I envision this front area as a place where the planting scheme will change with the seasons. This year, I planted a plethora of Gomphrena globosa ‘Ping Pong White’ in the beds between the fences. It acts as a groundcover for Zinnia elegans ‘Benary’s Giant’ cultivars (zinnia) and Gossypium herbaceum ‘Nigrum’ (black-leaf cotton).

But, the Gomphrena have grown so thick we can’t see the ground of the path. It amazes me how plugs planted two feet apart now hide any bare soil.

Karen has taken to drying more flowers this summer, and the pathway becomes visible again once she makes a pass through cutting flower stems. Our backporch has become a drying room for Gomphrena and other stems. It is a wonderful cut flower and dries well. At night we sit on the porch and strip leaves and make posies of the flowers to preserve this celebration of summer a little longer.

The first of many posies to come of globe amaranth

I’ll likely thin the plants out in the next month. Underneath them are over 1,000 Lycoris radiata bulbs ready to spring forth. I thought the red and white together would be a nice combination.

But, I will leave a few until frost. Years ago when we first planted globe amaranth, the plants the froze in the fall, and the White-throated Sparrows loved tearing the flowers apart and scouring the ground underneath for seed.

The dog days of summer are fading, and I can’t wait for the winter birds to return.

Cut flowers have been filling a pitcher we brought back with us from the Hauser & Wirth farm store in England. This week, it is festooned with Gomphrena globosa ‘Ping Pong White’.

Superbloom

I love wildflower eruptions. I’ve witnessed these floral spectacles a few times in my life. An Appalachian forest floor covered in Phacelia, the roadsides here in the lone star state littered with Lupinus and Castilleja, and a bottomland hardwood forest so thick with Packera I could barely walk are a few that come to mind.

And, this summer, what were the odds? We booked a trip to England the same year that a superbloom was going to be planted in the moat surrounding the tower of London. Of course, superblooms are more intense than just a showy patch of wildflowers. They are a product of nature, the perfect environmental conditions causing all seeds of handful of denizens to erupt into bloom, usually carpeting the barren desert. Some superblooms are even visible from space.

However, this Superbloom was one made by man, a flora synthesized from species around the world to create a spectacle celebrating the Queen’s Platinum Jubilee. Nigel Dunnett designed the planting to make the Superbloom in the moat surrounding the Tower of London happen this summer. Over 20 million seed were planted and nurtured to be enjoyed by countless visitors.

While visiting London in July, we made a point to visit the Tower of London Superbloom. It was a wonderful case study in seeing the end result of synthesizing a naturalistic planting from seed. While I had seen naturalistic plantings developed from plugs and gallons, I had yet to really see a seed-based system. Such systems are more open to randomness and plants appearing where environmental conditions suit them. Thus, I tried to pay attention to the little details throughout the planting.

I have to had it to Nigel and his team. The bloom was probably at the closest to peak as we could have experienced it. And, bringing a superbloom into the heart of London I hope only inspired and educated people about the power of plants.

ENTERING THE SUPERBLOOM

We arrived right after they opened and thus beat the crowds. I was aware of the calm colors used at the entrance—whites, soft yellows, greens, browns, and blues with a few other pastels mixed in.

The view walking into the superbloom. Notice how the colors started soft and mellow. A pathway allows exploration, and a kettle hides a grate.

Here we see pops of color, but overall the planting isn’t too intense.

Woven willow added legibility between path and flowers. The introduction of oranges from Calendula, Dimorphotheca, and Eschscholzia add some pop to the planting.

SUPERBLOOM SLIDE

I mean, if you’re going to have a superbloom, you might as well have a superslide, right? Near the entrance was a fun way to get kids more engaged with the space.

The planting around this structure was my favorite of the experience, I think because of the layering, texture, and color. Verbena bonariensis and Oenothera (Gaura) lindheimeri both provided this moving, emergent layer above the umbels and asters below. In this section it was clear that plugs had been introduced as we saw Kniphofia, Sedum, Stachys, Agastache, and other plants that had significant biomass that would have unlikely been achieved in one growing season from seed.

Wildflower plantings around the superslide.

I was quite fond of Verbena bonariensis and Oenothera lindheimeri early on in the display. Here it was evident they had used plugs to bolster the underplanting.

I also admired the verticality of the Agastache inflorescences.

Here you can also see the diversity in this initial section.

The Verbena bonariensis faded away as we approached the mass planting on the western side of the Tower of London.

THE WEST SIDE

Past the superslide was a large open area where the flowers formed a living tapestry. Blues of Echium vulgare and Centaurea cyanus softened our approach to the more vibrant oranges and yellows . It was shocking seeing so much color after the cooler colors of the Verbena and Gaura section.

You can see the shift in color and planting here as the blues and purples gave way to the yellows and oranges.

Atriplex hortensis ‘Rubra’ emerged from the golden haze of wildflowers below.

The eyespots of Coreopsis tinctoria were a nice color echo with the Atriplex hortensis ‘Rubra’.

Further from the Atriplex hortensis ‘Rubra’, sunflowers were used to provide the emergent layer.

As we walked on, other colors were mixed back in to give the eyes a break from the yellows and oranges.

This photo is one of my favorite shots of the superbloom for the diversity of colors and species.

It truly is amazing thinking that most of this developed from the planting of 20 million seed.

One of the few sections of the superbloom that we saw where things were beginning to be past prime for color. The seedheads were noted to be important for birds.

In this western section, it became clear that the superbloom was designed to be an immersive experience. While the path was off to one side, there were these small circular viewing areas that allowed visitors to step into the space.

You can see there are a few of these compartments for a visitor’s viewing pleasure.

A photo from the walkway above before we entered really gives a perspective of these puzzle piece edges. I liked how on this western side that the foot traffic was confined to one side so that it really allowed us to appreciate the scale of the wildflower planting.

A close up of one of viewing areas

Karen paused in one of the circular areas for a photo with the wildflower backdrop.

THE NORTH SIDE

As we approached the north side, one of the pleasant surprises we experienced was natural music being played. Erland Cooper who creates natural synth music composed Music for Growing Flowers specifically for the superbloom. It was a twenty-minute looped piece, and you can listen to it here. It was a delight to hear the music over the bustle of the city, and it made me ponder why we don’t use music more in gardens?

On a sign he said, “I plough themes of the natural world for inspiration and wanted the ambient score to feel conducive to a growing environment. As music is just vibrations of sound, I’d like to think that it is encouraging the flowers to grow in their life cycle over the summer, boosting biodiversity and helping on this rewilding journey.” A lovely thought indeed.

I really admired the efforts to educate the public with the signage provided. Below is just one example of many that communicated the dynamics of the superbloom site.

While I took photographs of many of the signs, I chose to share this sign specifically because it alludes to the changing conditions for establishing seedlings on the site.

I noticed that in one area, the seeds seemed to have a hard time getting established. I asked a volunteer about it, and he said that heavy rains in March had washed some of the soil away.

While I was standing looking at this space, I saw a demarcation line between a big expanse of yarrow and the seed-sown wildflowers. It hit me that I was looking at wildflower sod.

As the sign alluded to above, there were establishment issues in the spring, and so I assume that wildflower sod was brought in to fix that issue. I think the first person I heard using wildflower sod was Carrie Preston at the 2017 Philadelphia Flower Show. This section of the Superbloom was the first time I had seen it used in person, and I thought it a brilliant backup plan because I’ve had issues with getting seed to establish via direct sowing, too.

Here you can really see the sod line on the yarrow and the lack of establishment from the seed.

This photo is a shot right behind the one above where you can see the sod line. Isn’t this mass of Achillea lovely? My guess is that at least part of this was established using wildflower sod.

I was also very curious about these patches that were devoid of any flowers that I saw at the Superbloom. They were mainly on this northern side of the Tower of London. I noticed them before we entered from the walk way above. At first, I thought that they had cut the wildflowers back for regeneration, but once on the ground I realized I was wrong.

I don’t think that the bare spots detracted. They served as breaks in the superbloom, areas where just like in nature the wildflowers aren’t as abundant.

Instead, what I was seeing was fresh wildflower sod that had been laid. In some areas it was more established than others. My guess is that as sections have petered out or had poor establishment, the sod is an opportunity to replace those areas. I had wondered how one could keep such a spectacle going, and so these observations helped make more sense, though I’m not suggesting they used the sod over the entire area. I really think they had crafted a mix for long season interest. But, if the seedlings don’t take, this technique is an option for a bandaid for these styles of plantings.

A close up section of wildflower sod that looks recently laid down. I can make out what looks like the silver-leaves of Lychnis and the emerging feathery foliage of Achillea.

A patch of wildflower sod from a broader perspective. Notice the overall brown coloration, and compare with the photo below.

Here is another section of sod that is more established. Notice how much more verdant this space is.

I share all this not to detract from the Superbloom or to degrade it but to share the nuts and bolts of how it is managed. As I said earlier, seeing it in bloom is a wonderful case study for learning, and I am fascinated by such minutiae. I admire the creativity to have options to keep the space looking fresh and alive.

THE EAST SIDE

As we walked eastward, we began encountering small hillsides of wildflowers. Yet another way to make the site more engaging was to create changes in elevation for the wildflowers, which was achieved by bringing in soil and sowing seed on these raised areas.

Here you can really see the elevation change on this hillside. You can barely see the people on the other side who are standing on the pathway.

What I liked about the elevation change is that it brought many of the wildflowers up to face level, so that instead of looking down one looked toward them.

On the far northeast side was a beautiful willow sculpture called Nest by Spencer Jenkins. Having structure in the Superbloom gave it a sense of permanence, even if it was made from natural materials.

I’m a sucker for woven willow, and Nest by Spencer Jenkins was a lovely homage to the animals that share the space with wildflowers.

This vantage shows how the curves of Nest blend well with the sways in the planting beyond.

The last section had a vegetable garden feel. There were enclosed spaces with winding pathways. The incorporation of dill and sunflowers added to the allotment feeling. It was as if the design communicated, “I’ve taken you through what it might look like in the wild, and now let’s consider how we could incorporate these ruderals into our gardens, big and small.” In this space there was a nice pollinator display with woven branches and metal sculpted pollinators above.

This space looked like a summer vegetable garden erupting with growth.

More willow structures added to the organic feel of the site.

Papaver, Anethum, Centaurea, and Echium were the last big dominant species in this space.

Another shot of the wildflowers at the end of the Superbloom.

Artist Mehrdad Tafreshi made these cool brass and copper pollinators that hovered over this last section.

SUPERBLOOM AT NIGHT

We had a glimpse of the Superbloom the night before we walked through it. My colleague Andrew Bunting of the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society had visited only a week earlier. I saw his incredible twilight photograph on Instagram, and I knew we had to visit in the evening. I snapped a few photos just before sunset. It was really something else to see lit up at night.

An almost duplicate of the image I saw Andrew post a week prior to our visit. Seeing the Superbloom early before it got crowded was on my itinerary, but after seeing his photo, I knew we had to visit at twilight, too.

It was amazing to see how the wildflowers at night glowed when shined with colored lights.

A photo of the eastern side of the Superbloom glowed under purple lights.

One of the things about wildflowers is they not only catch sunlight but they also are great at refracting light at night.

The July 2022 super moon shined over the glowing Superbloom.

After the experience, I thought it funny. I’ve never been out west to see the famous California superblooms, and here I have traveled a quarter the way around the world to see one. And, just like many of the superblooms here, this display was ephemeral. It won’t last much longer with the close of summer upon us.

But, the memory of such sights lasts. I hope that with this photo journey you feel inspired at such a massive display of wildflowers, too. It makes me think about how I can incorporate more ruderal plants into my garden to make a mini-superbloom of my own.

An Evening Stroll at Great Dixter

“A sensible notebook is essential.  I keep two of them going concurrently.  One is for ongoing notes with names of plants seen or acquired. ... The other notebook is for when I’m away from home for two or more days.  It spends most of its time at my bedside and is a diary of events which I write up in bed, early the following morning, while all is still fresh in my mind.  In future years, it is an invaluable source of reference. ... Make yourself more observant.  You miss so much that you shouldn’t.  So much around you is interesting and deserves a mental image.  Note it down there and then, and make a good description that will mean something to you when you next look it up.”

From “New Years Resolutions” in Cuttings: A Year in the Garden with Christopher Lloyd by Christopher Lloyd

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There was the view of the rolling hillsides that I remember from my last visit some 12 years ago to Great Dixter. “This has to be one of the best parking lot views of any botanic garden in the world,” I said to Karen as we climbed out of the car.  I made sure I had my camera ready and pocket Field Notes that I carry with me when visiting gardens for taking notes. Christopher Lloyd had written that advice years ago in his book Cuttings, and these pocket notebooks have served me well to remember what I saw.

The sun was sinking in the afternoon sky riddled with clouds as we walked toward the great hall. I saw a lady in the white barn, and I said, “We are looking for Fergus.”

“Oh are you?” she stated back as if it was a question she had been asked a thousand times.

“Yes, I’ve never met him, but we’ve been in touch, and he said to meet him this evening at 5:30.”

“Well, he’s one of the kindest people you’ll ever meet.  They are wrapping up the symposium now.  He should be near the house.”

We walked toward the great hall and paused in front of its rustic majesty.   I closed my eyes to bolster my ears, and the hunt for voices in the garden began.  “This way,” I said to Karen as I heard some noise around back.  Behind the house we started encountering some attendees from the symposium that Fergus has been hosting, and I started asking the question, “Have you seen Fergus?” 

“Not recently,” one person answered.

“Hmm, I just saw him, but I’m not sure,” piped another one. We saw more people in the distance and went to ask them.

“Perhaps he’s in the house,” this group answered.

“Could you please show us?” I asked. “We’re not from around here.”

“Oh, I could have never guessed that,” one of them joked back.

She took us through the house. We emerged through the front door, and in an inverted host-and-visitor greeting found Fergus standing outside with the biggest smile and a hearty welcome.

With pleasantries aside, we introduced ourselves.  We talked about our trip highlights so far, saying we were balancing gardens for myself with Downton Abbey’s Highclere Castle and bookstores for Karen. Fergus asked Karen if she liked plants, to which she replied she did and liked to draw them.

Two symposium attendees sauntered up, and I recognized an accent I really hadn’t heard in a few days. They were from the states, one from Ohio and one from just outside Philly.  They had come to learn more about the horticulture techniques used at Great Dixter.  I was amazed that people travelled that far to come to this symposium. They were discussing the day’s content. Meadows and encouraging biodiversity had been the topics for the day, and both ladies were amazed at how a small planting with the right species could welcome all kinds of the creatures to their gardens.

“Let’s find somewhere to chat. Come in the great hall,” Fergus said as he took us back in the house. Not rushing this time, we were able to appreciate the ancient architecture, the massive wooden beams, and the off-white walls.

He offered us tea and biscuits in true English fashion, and we gladly accepted as he gave us a quick tour of the house that Christopher Lloyd had lived in.  “Let me take you upstairs,” Fergus said. We entered a door off the back side of the room.

As we climbed the stairs, I said, “I told Karen this house dates back to the 1400’s.” “Yes,” Fergus stated.  “About 1450 to be more exact.” We entered to find a large collection of library books.

“There is much history in this room.  It’s special.  I thought you would would like this, Karen, since you like Downton.”

Karen smiled and nodded in appreciation. We headed back downstairs and out of the house.

“Wow, that planting looks great,” I said in reference to the silvery theme they had in the solar garden in front of the house, an area that changes out a few times a year with different annual displays. The grays of Plectranthus and Helichrysum glistened amongst Canna and other annuals.

“Yea, we just planted it two weeks ago.” He showed me a photo on his phone of the display only a month ago that was ripe with reds and oranges. “We left a bit of the annuals in for seed here at the left. The planting before had turned brown as it ended its seasonal display.”

“How do you keep things from falling over with freshly planted material?” I asked as I find new plants can be floppy.

“We make sure that they are heavily watered before planting,” Fergus replied.

We walked north of the house toward a patio where a container display of mostly conifers sat in the corner, resting on a patio of stones cobbled in the pattern of two dogs. I knew from reading books that these dogs were Christopher’s two dachshunds, Canna and Dahlia.

We then turned and walked down beside the house where a Magnolia grandiflora shaded plants in pots.  Fergus said that these plants and containers were for the attendees of the symposium for the morning.  The student interns would make the arrangements and then the attendees would appraise them from what they had learned in the symposium.

Around the back of the house on the terrace, Fergus sat for a moment with the topiary lawn in the background, the manicured shrubs and billowy Cotinus erupting from a sea of grass. A cat hopped up on the ledge. “Why, hello there. What’s the cat’s name?” I said.

“Neil,” Fergus said as he smiled. “This cat is from Afghanistan”, Fergus revealed as he petted him.  At first I thought it’s origin odd and far off, but then I realized we were only a channel away from being on the European continent with a direct beeline to Afghanistan. Neil would join us for the rest of our tour, following in Fergus’s footsteps. I didn’t realize until after we left that Neil is famous. He has a book written all about him.

I took the pause in our exploring to ask Fergus how he taught his audience, whether they be symposium attendees or interns.

“It depends on the person you are educating.” He paused as he petted Neil. “I bring them along on a journey. I weigh their capabilities and gauge what they are able to do. You have to tailor your lessons to the person, to their abilities.”

He paused again as Neil nuzzled up to Karen. “Let’s go to the exotic garden.” I began to realize this was a pattern, Fergus using the imperative to encourage our exploring and always suggesting what was to come next.

As we approached a hole in the yews, he quipped, “Go in there,” and we did.  We found ourselves immersed in the foliage of a secret garden hidden by a hedge. It was not a claustrophobic feeling but instead an embrace by the plants around us.  It felt like a jungle.

“Yes, that’s what it’s supposed to feel like,” Fergus replied to my comment.

“Wow, in only a few square feet there’s a Ginkgo, a Taxodium ascendens, and a weeping Cedrus,” I said astonished.

Then, Fergus said the words that any young plantsperson loves to hear from an elder.  “You know your plants.”

I grinned a bit, and then said, “But, I don’t know that.”

“That’s Iochroma australis (Eriolarynx australis).” Of course, the flowers resembled Iochroma cyanea that I knew from southern gardeners.

“Let me go turn the water on while you explore.”  We wedged our way under the foliage of bananas, past Persicaria and Boehmeria, and rounded the dissected foliage of Rhus not able to see around the next curve.

Suddenly, Fergus reappeared dragging a yellow hose. As we exited for him to turn on the water, the bright-eyed Inula magnifica greeted us on the other side of the exotic garden against a background of Gunnera tinctoria.  Karen went for a photo, and I commented on how she loves the aster family.

I noticed that a single leaf of the Gunnera had dry down damage, but didn’t say anything. “It’s so dry.” It was like Fergus read my mind. This was his first lamentation of many about the dryness.

“Is it always like this?” I inquired.

“No, this is abnormal,” he responded.

As we walked back toward the house, I piped up, “The exotic garden was great. I remember reading about it from Christopher’s book and how it used to be a rose garden? Oh! I should ask did you call him Christo?” I asked stressing the i into an e. “Am I saying that right?”

“Chris-TOH,” Fergus corrected me. “Yes, the exotic garden has changed since Christo’s time but the meadows are the same. I’ve tried to make the exotic garden more wild.”

Back near the house, we saw Erigeron karvinskianus, Centranthus ruber, and succulent plantings growing in stone circles near a 100 year old mulberry. “Edwin Lutyens designed these steps and circles, am I correct?” I asked as I butchered the name.

“Yes,” Fergus said, pronouncing Lutyens as Lutchens.

“Forgive me; I’ve learned by reading,” I replied. Fergus smiled.

“Let’s look at the long border” Fergus said as we walked under the mulberry’s crown.

The long border was spectacular, better than I remembered. Overall, the planting was heavier on the yellows at this time of the year, mostly because of the gold foliage of several species and the butter-yellow panicles of Verbascum olympicum rising above the splattering of colors below.

We walked and Karen began snapping photos of plants to draw.  I asked about a dahlia that Karen eyed asking what was the cultivar.  It didn’t matter since we can’t really grow them well, but I though it nice to know the name. Fergus bent down to find the label, and he read off 'Kenora Wow’.

I noticed as Fergus pulled the foliage back that near the base of a plant was sheep wool.  “What’s that for?”

“Slugs,” Fergus responded. It was interesting to see such an ingenious solution to keep the pest at bay.

We walked the long border’s length, pausing to take photos with the fragrance of Phlox paniculata wafting in the air. Fergus lamented again it was dry.  I said, “Yes, but so is Texas, and this looks nothing like Texas.  But, it’s cooler here.”

Fergus, chuckled, “Yes, it is cooler here.” I couldn’t see the stress on the plants, but Fergus could. He talked about if rain didn’t come that plants would soon start to crisp.

Reaching its end Fergus invited, ‘Let’s sit here and talk.” He revealed to us that this was one of Christo’s favorite places to sit at the end of the day, and he and Christo would often sit and chat about the garden.

We talked about many things, how Fergus went to college at Wye where Christo and Nigel Dunnett went. “The real learning happens on the ground,” Fergus shared about the benefits of hands-on learning. He revealed that he had been here for 30 years, and was married in 1994.

“What is your favorite food?” Fergus asked us. We said that we really liked pub places in Texas, and there was an Asian fusion place where you can get tacos and fried rice in town.

“Tacos… tacos and Mexican seem to be the number one thing people miss from the states. I ask people this question who have been here a while, and that’s the one thing that seems to always come up.” Karen and I realized that we really hadn’t seen that cuisine here.

I asked him what was Christo like?

“Eccentric,” was the first word that Fergus used. “If you worked hard, he would give you anything you wanted. Christo valued work ethic and would work hard, partly because he was so focused.  But, he was kind,”

I said, “You’ve probably been around the world. Where’s your favorite place you’ve been to?” he replied, “New Zealand was special,” which was followed by Japan.

I asked about the people visiting from the states, amazed that they travelled so far.  “Oh, yes.  We get visitors from all over for our weeklong symposium. We host four a year.”

He got up and said, “Let’s go up here,” while snapping a photo of the border for an Instagram post.

As we walked through the border up toward the orchard stock beds, he said, “We’ve been doing a biodiversity assessment here.”

I said, “Yes, Thomas Rainer shared that with me, some story about a spider.”

“Yes, the endangered Meioneta mollis was found here.” Gardens often get a bad rap for being deserts of biodiversity, but the surveys that Fergus is having conducted really give him concrete evidence to show that Great Dixter is a special place for many organisms.

“Have a look in there while I go check on water.”  

We walked a few steps down a narrow passage to find the most spectacular pairing of plants while Fergus disappeared through a hole in the hedge. Verbascum, Lythrum, Inula, Oenothera, Erigeron, Dipsacus, and more were backlit by a lowering sun.  It was one of the best contrasting color combinations I had ever seen. I had heard before from others that if you want reliable color drama to pair yellows and purples together, but this mixture blew it out of the water.

Behind us, more Verbascum olympicum rose with Cynara cardunculus and a lovely yellow Alcea. With just the two of us Karen asked, “Why didn’t you talk this place up more?! This is one of the best gardens I’ve ever been, too.” Ah, yet another person enraptured by the spell of Great Dixter. I suppose I left out that we were visiting Christopher Lloyd’s home, a man who many consider to be the greatest garden writer of the 20th century. Sadly, he passed away in 2006, but it was quite evident that Fergus was doing a smashing job of keeping his spirit alive at Great Dixter.

Just when the sun disappeared behind a cloud and the light became right, we heard a familiar voice. “That’s nice isn’t it.” Fergus came back to say he was checking on sprinklers, and I said no worries. 

“So, with this planting and the color combination, do you do designs the previous year?” I asked

“No, it sometimes just comes together from what we grow,” Fergus replied.

“So, what do you call this garden?” I inquired.

“This is the orchard stock beds.” Fergus stated.

“Really?” I exclaimed. I had never seen propagation beds look so good. 

“Yes, we will dig most of this out to propagate for the nursery,” he replied. Ingenious, if you ask me.

“Let’s go up here.”  We walked through the hole where Fergus had disappeared and found yet another beautiful planted area.  Erigeron dotted the dark foliage of a low hedge of Symphyotrichum lateriflorus ‘Horizontalis’. In the background fading giant fennel and flowering hollyhocks rose for height.

I had never seen Ferula communis in seed, and was amazed.  “Wow that’s so big!” I said in reference to the giant fennel. Then, I noticed the color echo. “Ok, did you plan that?” I asked pointing to the fennel stem and the hollyhock having the same pink color. Fergus smiled, “I have to be honest and say no.”

We made our way up to the high garden where the vegetable garden and compost area were.

“I always love to see vegetable gardens as that’s where I got my start,” I commented.

He said, “Have you ever seen that?” pointing to the compost pile. Pumpkins draped themselves down either side of the behemoth mound. 

“We planted about 10 different varieties on top.” I reached down and grabbed a handful of the black gold. Strands of grasses were still visible.

He dug around in the pile for a bit, the pitchfork hitting dry layers. “We cut the grasses in the meadows and then everything from the garden goes in these piles.” I thought of all the things I’ve seen so far here, I think I’m most envious of this compost pile.

We retraced our steps back toward the house and arrived where we had first begun. Neil made a point to assess the display containers in front of the house that are regularly changed out to keep up appearances.

Fergus then took us to the barn garden.  Edwin Lutchens had designed this area to be flat but there was now a sunken pond in the middle.  We walked around admiring the plants, and the diversity in this small space seemed the richest we had seen thus far. Everywhere we looked were plants thriving. There was a lovely pink Abelia with more Phlox paniculata that perfumed the air, a haze of Salvia sclarea against the electric Euphorbia donii ‘Amjilasa’, an espaliered fig on the wall whose girth was too wide to photograph up close, flaming Cuphea cyanea in the pots, the puffball of Santolina neapolitana, and the neon pink Salvia microphylla ‘Cerro Potosi’ with Verbascum chaixii ‘Album’.

And, Karen was quite keen on the hydrangeas. I noticed ‘Ayesha’, one of my favorite varieties for its cupped sepals.

As we exited the barn garden, I asked him about a comment from Thomas Rainer about woodland management. “Thomas said you had some type of system to manage your woodlands.”

“Yes, here, I’ll draw it for you.” Fergus took my Field Notes and began to sketch it out. “It’s a coppice with standards system. You have the oaks as your standards for building and are grown for 50–100 years. You coppice the ash and hornbeam for firewood; let’s say 20–40 years for them. Last you have your chestnut for poles, 15 years of growth.

He turned the page and said, “Let’s say this is your woods.” Then, he divided it up into segments drawing oaks, then ash and hornbeam on the left and chestnut on the right. “So, you cut progressively overtime so that you have this dynamic forest with changing light levels over a 25 year period. It’s an ancient way of managing woodlands through coppicing.”

I was amazed. Even the woodlands that surrounded Great Dixter were managed with care and thought, just like the gardens.

“Well, I must go.  I have another day of symposium tomorrow to prepare for.” He and I both agreed about garden talks that the slides were easy and fun.  The plant list was the hard part, getting the names right and proofing them. We thanked him for his generosity and time, we said our goodbyes, and we left, the same way we came, down the long path through the meadows toward the parking lot.

The sheep were gone but the sky riddled with clouds remained, as do our memories of this special evening strolling through the gardens of Great Dixter with Fergus. I can’t wait to visit this place again and spend some time with our new friends Fergus and Neil.

Liatris pycnostachya, Sparklers for the Summer Garden

I have long loved the Liatris sparklers that burn bright in the garden. They erupt throughout summer, the earliest species starting their floral celebration around the 4th of July here in east Texas.

While I grew up in the eastern part of the country with Liatris spicata (dense blazing star), Liatris pycnostachya (prairie blazing star) has become one of my favorite species. It hugs the line of the prairie states north, and we have used it predominantly in our naturalistic plantings in the Plantery where it thrives in the heat and drought. We planted a river of them in front of the agriculture building to capitalize on their massed effect, the purple batons standing stolid in a sea of grasses and perennials (header image).

I delight seeing the creatures that visit prairie blazing star, but sometimes they turn into a meal! A green anole waits for unsuspecting prey to visit this Liatris pycnostachya.

Even before a plant blooms, it is lovely as its spirals upward, the thin foliage looking like swirling sea anemones. One wonders about a plant that evolved to rise toward sky with a single stalk, likely for piercing the dense foliage of the prairie.

In an interesting twist, most spike-like emergents are indeterminate, meaning they begin flowering at the bottom of the inflorescence (think Baptisia, Gladiolus, or Physostegia) when the final flower on a stem is not yet fully formed. However, Liatris have a determinate inflorescence, meaning the plants begin flowering at the apex once all the buds are formed, and like a sparkler the blooms are lit from the top and blaze toward the base.

The transition zone on Liatris pycnostachya where the flowers shift from being open at the top and more in bud at the bottom. You can also see the individual star-shaped flowers that give the plant its common name.

It is true that some stems will lodge after bloom, usually falling from one of those afternoon popup thunderstorms that we so hope for in the dry days of late summer. We will cut back the ones that flop after they finish flowering; however, I try to leave the uprights into the fall. Once the seed mature, they have wonderful lasting qualities in the garden and glow against the lowing sun.

Liatris pycnostachya bending and twisting like pipe cleaner in the Lurie Garden in downtown Chicago. Should they become less upright, they tend to correct and reorient upward.

Liatris pycnostachya persists into the late fall. Here the linear architecture pops against Muhlenbergia capillaris ‘White Cloud’.

And, prairie blazing star sets copious seed.  They glide a short distance away with their feathery pappi, and the tiny spears appear next spring. While plants return year after year from a knotty corm, we find hundreds of seedlings the following season that look like weedy grass. They are hard to pull for knowing what they will become. Thus, we straddle the line by leaving a few and pulling the rest. That way the bed doesn’t look too untidy, and we welcome more floral fireworks for the summer garden.

Lessons from Leuvehoofd

It was cool gray June day when I hopped off the train in Rotterdam. I was in the Netherlands for a soilless substrate conference in Leiden, almost ten years ago now. While there, I took the time to explore local gardens. Of interest to me were plantings that Piet Oudolf had designed in the city along the waterfront. One was found at Leuvehoofd, a park right on the Nieuwe Maas or New Meuse River.

Planting: A New Perspective by Piet Oudolf and Noel Kingsbury had just come out, and I snagged a copy before heading across the ocean, reading it furiously on the flight and during down time in the hotel. It was so interesting to have a guide to the planting right in my hands as I was visiting the site.

I approached the park from the south, where a long bed dominated by mixed grasses, Iris, and fading Allium came into view against a monument for those lost at sea in World War II. I would learn it was named De Boeg, which translates to The Bow in English. The memorial stands 150 feet tall with a pair of iron wings at the base that appear to be breaking water.

Iris sibirica ‘Perry’s Blue’ pops against the green foliage of grasses as the Allium above fade.

Turning a photo black and white so helps me appreciate the textures of the site. De Boeg was a war memorial to those lost at sea in World War II, and here it appears to be breaking through a colony of floating jellyfish

Here you can see how the naturalistic planting softens the starkness of the memorial.

From there four angular beds rippled out from the monument like waves getting larger until they hit the river’s edge. I quickly noticed that the planting this time of year had an overall cool color scheme of blues and purples. For a bit of brightness, down the center of the planting ran a river of Deschampsia cespitosa ‘Goldschleier’. Walking around the garden was interesting because viewing it from different points allowed me to see different perspectives and plant combinations.

Years ago, I downloaded several images from Piet Oudolf’s website to be able to study the designs. The one above is of an early rendition of Leuvehoofd that I cropped to show the four primary beds of the planting.

A perspective showing the essence of the planting at Luevehoofd Park. It is mostly a sea of green dotted with blue Amsonia, purple Allium, and the strip of Deschampsia.

One of my favorite photos from this experience was this view of the planting right next to the water with the Erasmusbrug or Erasmus bridge in the distance.

From this angle you can better see the mass of Deschampsia cespitosa ‘Goldschleier’ that runs through the center of the planting. You may notice on the drawing above that Sporobolus was recommended, but in the book Planting: A New Perspective, Deschampsia was mentioned instead. It was a nice glimpse at the iterative nature of developing a planting.

An unknown light blue Iris softens the sea of green. The design had called for Iris siberica ‘Perry’s Blue’, but it seemed that a few different blue variants were mixed in to play off the analogous color scheme.

A long view of the largest bed along the river front. The scattering of the Allium is quite apparent here. From this view I also really began to appreciate the presence of the matrix or groundcover level out of which other perennials arise.

Calamintha served as a skirt around Amsonia.

I also admired Piet’s ability to create combinations between plants to elevate the planting. This topic was one that Thomas Rainer and I discussed on the recent podcast, these small decisions about color, texture, and/or plant form made when pairing plants that really show the artist’s touch.

Here the colors of rosy purple Salvia nemorosa ‘Amethyst’ echo the umbels of Allium christophii.

Spires of Salvia nemorosa ‘Amethyst’ rise from a block within the planting.

Another example of color echo was between Allium christophii and Sedum ‘Matrona’. Both have hints of that smoky purple hue.

I also admired the repetition of starry shapes in parts of the planting. For example, here the stellate flowers of Amsonia are similar to the stellate flowers of the Allium. Perhaps they seem minuscule, but I believe such small choices are instrumental in elevating a design.

One final shot showing the blending line between the mass of Deschampsia cespitosa ‘Goldschleier’ and the mixed planting.

Overall, it was a good first introduction to a Piet Oudolf design. Leuvehoofd was moderately sized yet digestable. In the coming weeks, I’ll post a second planting I saw right down the river at Westerkade along with the lessons I learned there.

Stoneleigh

Last summer, we visited Philadelphia for the flower show. We had a very short trip arranged, which I had packed full to see gardens and other sites of interest that Karen was keen on. But, once there I was highly encouraged to make some time to go see Stoneleigh. It’s a newish botanic garden in Villanova that was given to Natural Lands in 2016. I was promised it would be worth our time stopping for a visit.

So, we carved out 45 minutes after lunch to see the grounds. And, I am so glad we did. They are doing amazing things with native plants.  As the website says, Stoneleigh focuses on native plants but with a twist.  Walking through had a different feel than most gardens that focus on endemics. It was natives, elevated, with unique selections of great plants around every corner.

I also count myself fortunate to be able to visit. This conservation easement was once at risk of being gobbled up by a school to make new ballfields and new buildings. However, the community rallied together with a vigorous campaign, and with help from the state legislature, Stoneleigh was saved.

I kept my eye out for the unusual and I was rewarded during our short visit. In this post, I wanted to share some of the incredible plants I encountered, many of them variants on the natives we know and love. A huge thanks to Ethan Kauffman for helping me identify the plants I couldn’t in the following photos. And, the next time you visit the Philly area, be sure to visit; this gem is a garden is going to make this brimming heart of horticulture even better.

The parking lot at Stoneleigh evoked this wildness. In the middle was a bioswale where natives like Packera aurea were planted, and on the end cap, two yellow foliage Gleditsia triacanthos var. inermis ‘Sunburst’ provided a bright spot of color.

Across from the parking lot was the largest planting of Penstemon digitalis I had ever seen. Their white flowers created a pointillistic froth.

Near the garden entrance, it was apparent that natives would be at the forefront of our visit. Here Baptisia ‘Solar Flare’ brightens this edge planting.

I got weak in the knees seeing this magnificent cut-back Acer rubrum ‘Snow Fire’ on the way into the garden. Ethan commented that they prune it like a shrub to keep it short. My mind pondered how could I have this in Texas without it frying.

This mix of Carex socialis, Carex plantaginea, and Carex laxiculmis provided an excellent example of their functionality as a green groundcover.

The matrix of Carex was a great living groundcover for trees and shrubs like this variegated Hamamelis virginiana ‘Green Thumb’.

As we ventured toward the house, we walked along a long winding pathway past a meadow and giant trees.  Poa pratensis had been left unmown along either side

Scattered around the edge of the great lawn were towering trees like this Magnolia acuminata. This giant is the 6th largest cucumber magnolia in Pennsylvania.

Tucked into the grass were woody trees like Corylus americana SUNDROPS.

As we approached the house, Eragrostis elliottii ‘Wind Dancer’ served as a matrix for emerging Echinacea pallida and Gaura lindheimeri.

Near the house was a pool that had been filled in to make a patio. The purple Penstemon smallii had sown itself around in the beds for a pop of color.

The pool had been replaced with a flagstone patio that featured circular shaped bog gardens. These gardens contained carnivorous plants like Sarracenia and a plethora of other funky native endemics.

I thought these Helenium brevifolium were cute popping out of the bog plantings.

The main house partially hidden by a giant Platanus featured foundation plantings of natives.

A perspective of the main house from the south side. Columnar Juniperus virginiana ‘Taylor’ and even the spherical Catalpa bignonioides ‘Aurea’ provide a formality to the plantings.

The plantings around the house were rich with diversity in native plants. The front steps were flanked on either side with Styrax americanus in full bloom. It is a wonderful and underused native large shrub to small tree.

A close up of the delicate Styrax americanus flowers

Near the house I began to better understand Stoneleigh’s concept of natives with a twist. We kept seeing these variants of natives I had never encountered like Heliopsis helianthoides var. scabra ‘Sunburst’. Ethan shared with me that the variegation comes true from seed on this cultivar.

Here’s another variegated plant I had never seen before—Physostegia virginiana ‘Variegata’. The leaves have the thinnest sliver of white on the margin.

The house served as a trellis for espaliering Cercis canadensis BLACK PEARL. Also, don’t miss the gray-purple foliage of the Populus deltoides ‘Purple Tower’. It almost blends in with the stone.

Here the house is once again used as a surface for espaliering Hamamelis virginiana ‘Lemon Lime’, a nice speckled leaf form of our native witchhazel.

In a world of exotic roses, I always keep my eye out for native species. This Rosa virginiana near the house was quite floriferous.

Behind the house was a mixed planting of natives featuring Coreopsis, Itea, Eutrochium (Eupatorium), and more.

A little further down the bed Panicum amarum ‘Dewey Blue’ and Lonicera reticulata ‘Kintzley’s Ghost’ echoed each other’s glaucous blue.

I have long admired Artemisia ludoviciana ‘Valerie Finnis’ for its narrow, silvery foliage. It pops when surrounded by green.

If seeing one variegated Acer rubrum made me weak in the knees, guess how surprised I was to learn there are two variegated cultivars! This one is ‘Vanity’. And, in case you are curious, the wine-colored foliage plant on the right is Calycanthus floridus var. purpureus 'Burgundy Spice'.

A close up of Acer rubrum ‘Vanity’. Don’t you love that splashed foliage and red tips?

Yet another eclectic mix of natives on the north side of the house. Acer negundo ‘Kelly’s Gold’ is espaliered against the wall while the the bold golden foliage of Silphium perfoliatum ‘The Holy Grail’ pops against the small starry blue flowers of Amsonia ludoviciana on the right of the image.

One of the most impressive trees I saw at Stoneleigh was this fabulous specimen of Nyssa sylvatica ‘Sheri’s Cloud’. The foliage was so clean with the slightest hints of amber on the tips.

I love Kentucky yellowwood, and I was delighted to discover this weeping form Cladrastis kentukea ‘White Rain’. It has to be spectacular in full bloom.

I love the color echoes here. The chairs on the main deck matched the Callirhoe involucrata blooming behind in a mix of Opuntia, and the golden flowers of Oenothera fruticosa complimented the Ptelea trifoliata ‘Aurea’ in the distance.

Echinacea sanguinea, sanguine coneflower

We said goodbye to the last hints of spring this past week.  A cold front brought us mornings in the low fifties with a good breeze.  

Such a cool down is short lived at the end of May in east Texas for this week the heat and humidity have returned.  We have begun the earnest transition to summer.  Many of my spring wildflowers are fading, some all out going dormant and others giving their last hurrah as they produce seed.  I have collected and already sown the progeny of Nemastylis geminiflora (prairie celestial), Callirhoe alcaeoides (poppy mallow), and Marshallia caespitosa (Barbara’s buttons) in hopes of having more next year.

As the summer cast of characters become more prevalent, I find that some like Echinacea sanguinea (sanguine coneflower) still straddle both seasons.  They’ve been blooming now for a few weeks, and as we head into June they are still a lovely site to behold.  

A mass of Echinacea sanguinea grows near Diospyros 'Nikita's Gift' in one of the orchard beds.

I had extra plants of sanguine coneflower and I threw some into the front of the kitchen garden as well.

My plethora of plants all came from seed I collected two years ago.  Near our house there’s a decent stretch where they hug the pine forest edge, and the mowers are late enough to allow the heads to ripen. 

From whence my seed came. Echinacea sanguinea can be found along the roadsides in east Texas. This particular section near our house is quite thick with blooms.

I sowed the seed into trays and planted the plugs last spring.  They petered along as basal rosettes, one here and there trying its best to throw up a flower stalk.  But, this year the display has been spectacular.  

At first the color of the rays is a soft rosy white with the end nearest the disk watercolored with red wine and allowed to bleed down the ligulate petal. But, as they mature over several weeks the white shifts into a myriad of pinks

I love watching sanguine coneflower come into bloom. Often, the ray petals will twist and curl.

The butterflies love them, and standing at a distance I can see a swarm of activity above the blooms.  It’s so much fun to stand and watch all the little creatures with names like Wild Indigo Duskywing, Funereal Duskywing, and Red-banded Hairstreak flying back and forth above the coneflowers like kids darting around the school yard.  I also admire how late in the day the light catches the trichomes on the stems.  The plants glow in the sun with their hairy stems.  Some are prone to flopping late in bloom. My solution is to increase the stress by planting more grasses underneath this fall to wane their vigor.

The beds near the house were planted to be able to interact with light at various times of the day throughout the year. Off on the center right the budded stems of a lone Echinacea sanguinea rises and glows with the trichomes (or what we call hairs).

I want more, and I’ll be collecting seed off them again later in the season.  I learned something new year that will aid in my increasing them.  They propagate readily from root cuttings.  When I pulled a tray up that I overwintered, I found it stuck to the soil and requiring a good yank to remove.  The roots left in the ground soon began producing new shoots, and much to my surprise they are coming into bloom now.  

We won’t likely see temperatures in the fifties for another five or six months, but when cooler weather arrives, I’ll move these propagules to a spot where I’ll be able to enjoy them next summer.  

Rhododendron vaseyi at Southern Highlands Reserve

May brings to mind the flowers of pinkshell azaleas for this time of year is when they reach peak bloom in the mountains of North Carolina. Rhododendron vaseyi is one of our beautiful yet lesser known native Rhododendron. This species was first found by George Vasey in 1878 and is native to only a handful of counties in western North Carolina, perhaps owing its success to slight disturbances from time to time. While not extremely rare, it is considered threatened due to climate change and loss of habitat from development. The good news is even with its limited range, it grows great in gardens where the environment suits it well. And, while I do want to give it a go in Texas one day, I do believe it is better suited to climes further north.

Years ago in grad school before I moved to Texas, I learned of this species, and wanted to see it in the wild. While there are scattered plants along the Blue Ridge Parkway, I had heard that a botanic garden in the southern Appalachians named Southern Highlands Reserve housed one of the largest populations in the world. If you’ve never heard of Southern Highlands Reserve, this garden is a biological ark whose mission is to preserve, educate people about, and propagate the incredible diversity of the southern Appalachians. For on these eroded pinnacles grow species unique to the southeast—some rare, some only occurring in a few counties, and some relics of the last ice age. These mountain tops have been called islands in the sky since they house species that can’t go any lower or higher to avoid a warming climate that is creeping up the slopes.

I arrived after driving a winding road through a private development to find the gardens imbued with spring freshness under a clear, bluebird sky. The tour started in the modern meets rustic Chestnut Lodge where we learned that the 120 acre garden was once slated to become 22 lots for development until Robert and Betty Balentine, who live right across the road, stepped in and decided that they would rather preserve nature than see it destroyed. 

Even though this botanic garden is relatively young having opened in 2006, the unique mission and climate of the gardens has already reached international renown.  And, once outside we saw that even though the landscape had been molded by the hands of man, it looked mature for its age since many large trees remained. On the tour early spring flowering plants like Phlox stolonifera (creeping phlox), Trillium catesbaei (Catesby’s trillium), Podophyllum peltatum (mayapple), and Iris cristata (dwarf crested iris) had begun their spring displays, and perennials in the labyrinth were just starting to emerge.

Phlox stolonifera carpets the ground.

Phlox stolonifera softens the edges of this staircase.

A vibrant pink Trillium catesbaei sports wavy leaves and petals.

Podophyllum peltatum umbrellas rise from the forest floor.

Iris cristata provides a nice footing for emerging Osmundastrum cinnamomeum (cinnamon fern) fiddleheads.

Though only a few years old, the hardscape at Southern Highlands Reserve were already imbued with age.

I loved this carpet of moss with various forbs emerging from it.

The wildflower labyrinth is easy to navigate now before it erupts into an herbaceous maze later in the summer.

It is no surprise that the flora grows well here. This site receives around 90 inches of rain a year, which classifies it as a temperate rainforest! I first learned about this ecosystem in the southeast when I visited Highlands, NC several years ago. There's something about hearing the word rainforest that enchants the mind and conveys something other worldly.

We walked down the Vaseyi trail toward Vaseyi pond where as the website says “the largest known natural stand of Rhododendron vaseyi in the world“ is known to occur, and the pinkshells were just popping into bloom. This part of the preserve was designed by renowned garden designer W. Gary Smith, who has a hand for crafting incredible natural areas. The tour guides noted that specimens in the landscape and around the pond were in peak blossom, but under the deciduous forest canopy, buds had barely begun to pop open, a difference which illustrated something the gardeners monitor. Southern Highlands Reserve compares the phenology in wild and cultivated areas to see if any differences are observed, knowledge which is internal to The Biodiversity Project at the garden. It serves as a catalog to document climate change as well as a comparison for areas that are managed versus allowed to remain natural.

Closeup of the pinkshell rhododendron flowers. Note the id characteristics; most blooms have 5 (to 7) anthers and spots on the upper part of the throat.

A much lighter form of Rhododendron vaseyi…

…and a darker pink Rhododendron vaseyi.

Rhododendron vaseyi on the edge of Vaseyi Pond shimmer in the reflection.

Doing an about face from the pond photo above yields this view. Named the Viewsite, this spot provides a spectacular view of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Fothergilla (witch-alder) bloom with their bottlebrush inflorescences near the Viewsite.

We then walked up to their propagation area. This neat staircase was modeled to look like a snake.

Of course, studying the gardens is not the only way they conduct research about the Appalachians. The gardens also propagate species like Picea rubens (red spruce) as part of Southern Appalachian Spruce Restoration Initiative. This conifer is so threatened in the southern part of its range that spruce-fir forests are the second most endangered ecosystem in the US. The population has suffered from logging, fires that decimated plants 100 years ago, air pollution, and a warming, drying climate. Restoration is compounded by the fact that growth is slower at high elevations. These trees serve as a valuable niche for Carolina northern flying squirrels, a federally endangered species that in this part of the world is a relic of the last ice age. These mammals eat truffles that grow at the base of the trees, and eating male red spruce cones provides the squirrels with an oil that suppresses a parasite they catch from their southern flying squirrel counterparts. The garden reported that they are the only facility in the southeast growing these trees for reintroduction. The tour guides shared that the staff is excited to help plant seedlings into damaged ecosystems.

Picea rubens being grown for reintroduction into the surrounding forests.

Thus, preservation of the land at Southern Highlands Reserve has lead to efforts to save species throughout the Appalachians, and the garden's mission becomes a holistic cycle of protecting things that are beautifully and uniquely southern. May we all share this same spirit of saving what we can while we can.

Searching for Amsonia in Arkansas, Part 2

This post is part 2 of 2 of a weekend expedition to Arkansas to see Amsonia hubrichtii in the wild.  You can read part 1 here. 

Saturday arrived, and the question still nagged at me.  How could Amsonia hubrichtii, a plant that grows so well in various locations in the eastern US, be confined to such a small area in Oklahoma and Arkansas?  Sure, it’s not unheard of endemics with narrow ranges like Magnolia macrophylla var. ashei (Ashe’s magnolia) and Echinacea tennesseensis (Tennessee coneflower) being able to grow in a broader region. But, why was the Amsonia just found on the edge of streams? If it can grow in gravel gardens, why not find plants further from the water in the wild?

We (being Thomas Rainer, my wife Karen, and me) decided to spend the day searching out other Amsonia hubrichtii sites west of Hot Springs where Arkansas bluestar had been reported to occur.  As we drove along, I had a chance to explore Thomas’s interests more on this species and in particular what brought him all the way out from D.C. to see this Amsonia in situ.

He shared that he loved to see plants in the wild, and it was a nice get away trip to see friends and family along the way. But, he was curious for this species in particular because near his house Amsonia hubrichtii was planted in a rain garden. During much of the year it looked fine, but later in the season, the plants really seemed to struggle. Based on the barren we saw the day before, he was already postulating that maybe the species needs to be drier in the summer, or have more oxygenation in the root zone.

Our first stop was to another shale barren hidden amongst downed junipers that were felled to prevent them from shading out the understory. Accessing it was like trying to find a way into the secret garden.  Every opening we tried was blocked by a web of crisscrossing branches.  Eventually, we found a way in, and before us was a barren covered with Valerianella nuttaliana (Nuttall’s cornsalad), Nothoscordum bivalve (crow poison), a Tradescantia species (spiderwort), and Marshallia caespitosa (Barbara’s buttons) that was just about to bloom.  The rock face slope faced north, and at the base of the outcrop was a stream.  From the stream northward was a thicket of trees and shrubs.  And, right alongside the stream were a few clumps of Amsonia hubrichtii.  

Valerianella nuttalliana again provides a light dusting of white on this outcrop. To the right is the stream where Amsonia hubrichtii occurs.

Amsonia hubrichtii hugs the stream side in bud. Notice how last year’s stems all face downstream, evidence of heavier water flow at times.

A close up of the patchwork of lichen, Valerianella nuttalliana, a Tradescantia species, and Marshallia caespitosa.

So, this habitat was quite similar to what we saw yesterday at Middle Fork Barrens Natural Site.  The Amsonia was growing in an open area, right next to exposed rock alongside a stream.  Again, this was scour habitat, the stems from last year pointing downstream to indicate the water was forceful enough to bend their branches.

We left and headed to the next location we had for Arkansas bluestar that was right alongside the Ouachita River.  We drove to the site, parked in the shade of deciduous trees, and looked down the twenty foot embankment to the water through the understory of Arundinaria gigantea (giant cane) and Chasmanthium latifolium (Northern sea oats).  Growing up near the north fork of the Obion River in Tennessee, this habitat looked quite familiar.  Thomas offered to go first and see if there were any Amsonia, and when he got to the bottom, sure enough right where we had GPS coordinates there were three plants.  Two plants were easily accessible, and a third was a little further upstream where we couldn’t access, even though I tried and almost slipped in the water. 

Amsonia hubrichtii hugs the bank of the Ouachita River.

This location piqued our interest because it was very different from the previous two barren sites we had seen over the past two days.  The plant was once again growing on waters edge with some rocks present, but these plants were on a river, not some dainty stream.  I gave the plants a gentle tug, and they were well rooted in. I mean, they had to be, right? In this scour habitat, we could tell the water during flood events was well over our heads. It was this site that got us thinking it wasn’t a plant that needed barrens, but perhaps a species that somehow needed water.

It began to click with me something I had read years ago in Rick Darke’s nice synopsis of the bluestars in The Plantsman.  Amsonia hubrichtii was discovered by Leslie Hubricht, a scientist who studied freshwater mussels.  I had long wondered how a person who researched gastropods could be the discoverer, but now I saw how.  If a scientist was working these water habitats, one would encounter this Amsonia species and recognize that it was different. Leslie had also worked at the Missouri Botanical Garden as a research assistant for seven years early in his life, so he would have likely been primed to have an eye for new plant species.

Our next stop to see Amsonia hubrichtii happened by chance.  We stopped to photograph a nice roadside spot of Baptisia sphaerocarpa.  While mine in Texas had just finished flowering, here the screaming yellow flowers were just starting to pop.  As we walked around the site down to the river, we saw a nice carpet of Nemophila phacelioides (baby blue eyes) that we could tell had be recently submerged. Again, right there on a gravelly bar was Amsonia hubrichtii. 

A lone Amsonia hubrichtii glows in the afternoon light on a gravel bar.

The Baptisia sphaerocarpa that prompted our stop at this site. I delight in seeing their brilliant yellow flowers. The haze in the foreground is Minuartia patula.

Minuartia patula in full spring display

My first encounter with Nemophila phacelioides in the wild. I was quite surprised to see the wet conditions where baby blue eyes was growing.

While I’ve tried to keep the discussion focused on Amsonia and keep the other gems we saw at the end of this post, I have to share this amazing field of Baptisia sphaerocarpa (yellow wild indigo).  It was funny how we saw it. We rounded a curve, and suddenly both gasped in excitement at a field of the yellow wild indigo. We were about a week early.  Underneath in spots was a carpet of purple Phacelia, which provided a nice natural color contrast.  Thomas and I talked about how this population was likely possible because of management, i.e. the owners waiting long enough to allow the plants to come into flower and set seed.  I can’t wait to come back through this area sometime in early May and see it all in bloom. 

There were thousands of Baptisia sphaerocarpa in this little over-an-acre field.

I enjoyed the contrast of the yellow Baptisia flowers with the purple Phacelia growing underneath.

A little further down the road, a few billows of blue caught our eye so we stopped to investigate.  These scattered plants became the best Amsonia hubrichtii we had seen in flower.  The bridge made it feel as if we were in some urban sprawl naturalistic planting where Amsonia grows so well, but no, we were right here next to a cattle pasture in Arkansas.  Again, the plant was mere feet from the water’s edge.  

The starkness of the bridge was a nice backdrop for the feathery Amsonia hubrichtii foliage.

Thomas posed with them…

…and then I posed with them. Botanizing boys starry-eyed over their bluestars, I suppose.

Our last stop was to see Vernonia lettermannii (narrow-leaf ironweed). We made a point to find at least one location of narrow-leaf ironweed because Eric who graciously showed us around the day before said they occurred in the same spots. He noted that both had narrow foliage that that doesn’t get as damaged in flood waters as a thicker leaf could.

We parked, and there on the same gravel bar we found both Amsonia hubrichtii and Vernonia lettermannii growing mere feet apart.  The Amsonia was further along in growth, and both were located again in scour habitat.   

Our last stop featured a lovely stream, and here on the bank we found Amsonia hubrichtii and Vernonia lettermannii.

Vernonia lettermannii emerges amongst gravel on the edge of the river.

With the sun getting low, we left this site to head back to Hot Springs to grab a final dinner and say our goodbyes after a marvelous trip.

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So, after everything we’ve seen and some chance to think on it, here’s my hypothesis of its narrow range and proximity to water. I think that Amsonia hubrichtii seed are water dispersed. My guess is that it doesn’t need proximity to water to survive, BUT it needs water for seed dispersal. I’ve searched for any scientific literature I can find on Amsonia seed dispersal. While I can’t find anything in particular on Amsonia hubrichtii, I can find that Amsonia grandiflora (large-flowered bluestar) has corky seeds that float and are dispersed by water. Also, this dissertation on Amsonia kearneyana (Kearney’s bluestar) stated the following: “It should be mentioned that Amsonia [kearneyana] seeds, though large, become buoyant when wet. When seeds were soaked in a clear beaker, they initially sunk to the bottom, but then floated to the water’s surface within a few minutes.” So, if two Amsonia species rely on water for seed dispersal, other species in the genus could, too, and that could explain why we kept seeing Amsonia hubrichtii near moving water.

I don’t think the narrow foliage is the reason they grow along stream sides. I think the narrow leaves are more a factor of drought tolerance. Looking across the plant world, smaller leaves usually correspond to more drought tolerance. Even the four varieties within the Amsonia tabernaemontana complex show this trend. Plants in the eastern US where precipitation is more abundant have wider leaves than those in the western part of the range. I will add I once heard my trip companion Thomas say in a presentation that the species that grow in a location basically haven’t been killed by what mother nature has thrown at them yet. So, while Amsonia tabernaemontana might get ripped to shreds by floodwaters right along a stream, maybe the narrow foliage of Amsonia hubrichtii is damaged less and in drier times is more drought tolerant.

The biggest question for me is why hasn’t it spread further downstream? Why hasn’t it shown up yet in Louisiana where the Ouachita River flows into the Mississippi? Does it need just enough stress to find a site to grow, but parts further south the competition is too great?

My last comment is I would love to see a phylogenetic tree to see which Amsonia species Amsonia hubrichtii is most closely related. I think that would give us some idea of how and when it evolved.

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After returning home, I walked into the garden to find my Amsonia hubrichtii that I brought from Tennessee many years ago doing better than I had ever seen it. The drier spring had kept its foliage clean of the blasted rust that plagues this genera in our area, but I knew what was coming. The dry summer usually causes the foliage to all drop off. I smiled looking at my little Arkansas bluestar, happy to better understand the conditions it needs. I then looked up and started eyeing an area right along where water moves through our yard. Maybe my plant has some distant memory of a great-grandparent bluestar growing along the waterways in Arkansas, and perhaps I can find just the spot for it to grow even better.

OTHER ARKANSAS GEMS

While I tried to focus this post mostly on Arkansas bluestar, there were other great plants we saw on day 2. Here’s a photolog with captions.

We saw Geranium maculatum a few times during the day, and habitats ranged from a craggy hillside to a floodplain forest.

A new to me milkweed was Asclepias quadrifolia. The blushed pink flowers were so cute growing in the rocky understory.

My first time seeing Monarda russeliana in flower. We saw red-purple beebalm here and there in shadier sites.

I loved this patch of Silene virginica and how much thicker it was than the scattered plants we had seen the day before.

We kept seeing this lovely white phlox. To the best of my knowledge this species is just a white form of Phlox pilosa. But, it felt too frequent to just be a color form. And, we really didn’t see any grading between the pink and the white, which made me think there’s little hybridizing. The search for its identity continues.

Not quite the Amsonia we were looking for, but this specimen was a nice floriferous form of Amsonia tabernaemontana.

A nice stand of Packera (likely Packera obovata) grows on a bend in the creek. We talked about what a great early spring flowering perennial this species was and how it provided a good green groundcover.

Osmundastrum cinnamomeum is one of my favorite ferns to see in the wild. Cinnamon fern’s leaves are so regal, and I love the bronzed spore fronds.

The silvery leaves of Heuchera americana growing where I so frequently see coral bells in the wild, finding purchase right along a cliff face.

I got giddy spying Magnolia tripetala in flower alongside a stream. Seeing umbrella magnolia was somewhat unexpected as I forgot that it has this disjunction population in Arkansas and Oklahoma.

Everywhere we went we saw Penstemon arkansanus. This roadside spot was one of the thicker populations we saw of Arkansas beardtongue.

Near the edge of a forest we observed this nice stand of Camassia scilloides. I admire wild hyacinth as a native bulbous species that is frequently found in forest floodplains.

We found a few Ceanothus americanus on a hillside. New Jersey tea is an underutilized native subshrub with dainty white inflorescences.