Foothills Fancies

Living with 2007

2012-01-27T14:29:00.019-07:00

It was a pretty good year for me, all in all— a new job I loved, congenial boss, lots less stress, mellow home life, what’s not to love?

Unfortunately, that’s not the 2007 I want to talk about today. In the course of January’s big move (switching the putative “home office” into the guest room and vice versa), one of the things that went “out with the old” was my (mostly*) trusty Sony Viao. In with the new was a laptop I’ve used sporadically for a year or two and never learned to love. Monitor and usable keyboard stayed, though, and because “everything” is on external hard drives, the transition was as seamless as possible.

(*with the exception of a couple of killer malware infestations)

Except for Windows 2007

I can’t tell you how much I hate this program.* Some may say it’s a sign of stick-in-the-muddedness, but I am willingly learning lots of new things— getting along fine with the new Thrive and its various interfaces; trying out awesome new culinary tricks; coping, more or less, with new “procedures” at the office; even changing my eating and exercise and work habits. Honest! Dealing with my office and clutter, for goodness sake!

*But I’m going to try anyway.

But, time and time again, Windows 2007 trips me up. Just when I think I’ve got it down, mastering the new “Ribbon” in MS Office, for example, it turns around and bites me in the butt in some surprising new way.

And every time it does, someone on the listening end of my rant will say “get a MAC.”

I’m an old DOS hand

Perhaps some of you out there are old enough to remember when you had to tell a computer what to do, instead of having it guess what it thinks you want to do. We even had a saying “computers don’t do what you WANT them to do; they do what you TELL them to do!”

Good ol’ DOS. On days when 2007 seems determined to stymie my every effort, I remember DOS more fondly than usual. In the DOS days, it was possible for someone without a degree in computer science to understand, in a basic way at least, what a computer was actually up to. There were disks, or “platters,” that spun at 3600 rpm, a “motherboard” you could see, little “beans” that added more RAM, and “hard-wiring” (also visible). There were peripherals in those days, and ports in two flavors, and buses and “scuzzies” (SCSI). And an awesome immune system! This nice screenshot is courtesy of Wikipedia which (naturally) has a DOS page. “AUTOEXEC.BAT”— man, that takes me back! Note, please, the complete absence of GUI interfaces, icons, bells, whistles, animated gifs, popup menus, and other nuisances.

Briefing for those born after 1980: DOS stands for Disk Operating System. Once upon a time, a computer screen was a tabula rasa (sorry, I mean, blank slate; folks born in recent decades may not know Latin either), a black screen on which you could type sweet easy commands (many less than 5 characters long) to get the computer to do things. If you needed the computer to do something really complicated, you put all the commands into a text file called a "batch file" so you didn’t have to type them every time you wanted to perform that string of commands. (Courtesy Bundesarchiv, B 145 Bild-F077869-0042 / Engelbert Reineke / CC-BY-SA, via Wikipedia.)

Some bigger programs were developed to help, with names like Lotus 1-2-3 and Wordstar. They successfully performed functions akin to those of MS Office, entirely without resorting to a Ribbon! Wordstar, in particular, used a bunch of keyboard shortcuts that made things easier. Wheee… In about 1985 or so, someone said “Don’t bother to learn those; they’ll be obsolete soon!” Guess what? It’s been almost 30 years, and we’re still using the exact same commands! Even Mac has had to adopt them.

Big MAC is not the answer

Then the Steves decided it’d be better if we didn’t know what was going on inside that shiny metal box. Or that we shouldn’t have to be bothered with all that. In the name of accessibility and freedom, they relieved us of responsibility and made the computer a true “black box.” Those of us who think more verbally than visually found ourselves to be icon-impaired and consequently handicapped in our ability to function.

As others have noted, the success of the Macintosh Apple made all other fruits pale in comparison. It was no longer enough to be juicy and sweet, now you had to look more and more like the rosy red apple of temptation. And Microsoft was nothing if not adaptable: with every generation, its operating systems got “easier,” more “user-friendly” and “intuitive,” and its GUIs grew gooey-er than ever. (McIntosh apple image, not to be confused with Macintosh Apple. Lars Zapf at Flickr, again via Wikipedia.)

The frustration grew accordingly. But like all caught in the throes of evolution, one must adapt or die. And so we struggle on, slowly coming to understand that a “bucket” means “fill,” or “A” means Font but “B” means Bold. And a funny little brush now means “Paste.” I haven’t seen a paste brush since the bathroom had wallpaper!

Has my life improved?

All this is not to say I’m ready to go back. I do understand we can’t. I don’t covet the 10 MB hard drive of my original XT (yes, total capacity; now I have images bigger than that!) or the reassuring click of the XT keyboard I once thought I couldn’t live without. I’ve learned to adapt, just as I did with losing the IBM Selectric that was also once indispensable.

Life goes on, and by and large, computers are more fun now. I love having Wikipedia at my fingertips; love being able to email and blog and tweet and doctor photos and keep up with what other people are doing. I love the vastly expanded learning capability that computers and the internet offer, although I wonder, now and then, if we haven’t outsourced our brains. (Yes, I still keep whole poems, and phone numbers, in my head. I’m old school.)

Maybe someday, I’ll be able to say “how will I live without Windows 2007?” But not today.

A Word about Rants

Rants are fun to write; I also often find them fun to read. Maybe I’ll write more rants in 2012. That’s a good goal, eh?

We all have something we can rant about. Here are a few of my “recent favorite” rants:

Fred on Marital Bliss and Loose Dogs
Dave on Squirrels and Democracy
Hugh on (well Hugh doesn’t really rant, but here’s a nice piece on wrong numbers)
Sarcozona on the Mathematical We
Phytophactor on the Digital Age
Garden Rant on Strange Bedfellows (HT to the Phactor); also here.

Wow, "rant" is even in the title of that last blog. And they have a cocktail hour! 'Scuse me, I'll be back later.

Just a Dusting

2012-01-09T07:21:00.003-07:00

After all those clear, warm days (even to 60s on Thursday; 15s C), clouds and white-out conditions rolled in Saturday afternoon. Left us with only a few inches/cm, though. Sunday (1/8) arrived bright and clear, but white and cold.

This is the first "view" north of the new year, and an appropriate one. With two nice snowfalls in December, our White Christmas was assured, as well as some relief for the trees and shrubs that depend on winter moisture. Sad to see other parts of the country are still waiting. Need snow? Check out winter in the Lanark Highlands, courtesy Kerrdelune. Her photo today is even more lovely.

If your wintry days need brightening with blossoms, visit the December Berry-Go-Round, hosted by the Roaming Naturalist.

Why I'm Not a Scientist

2012-01-07T08:37:00.002-07:00

I heard about the Fibonacci series and said "That's cool!"

Aidan didn't stop there.

Incredible story! HT to Botany Photo of the Day!

Good Year

2012-01-06T08:26:00.006-07:00

This morning was not quite this garish; softer and more delicate really, to my eye. The Sun is just barely, not even visibly, advancing northward from his extreme position, just as last year. Another swing around the Sun.

All the days of this year have been glorious thus far, with clear skies day and night, a waxing Moon, Venus in the evening, and Jupiter (still working his way across the southern sky) now high at prime viewing times. At dusk, Orion will be charging up from behind the hogback barrier above, as the Winter Hexagon hangs above and around him.

Just glorious!

Coyote Coincidences

2011-10-24T07:37:00.009-06:00

On Saturday (10/22), I saw my first coyote in quite some time.* Up close and personal, he stood behind my car as I was leaving the office at 9:30 a.m. Big, beautiful, and apparently bold, he looked back at me from the rear-view mirror, then calmly ambled off to watch me from a different angle before disappearing in the brush along the creek. (Yes, our office location is really neat!)

The camera was there, but wildlife photographer I'm not, so it didn't cross my mind until later. We'll have to make do with my old illustration. Unfortunately, it also didn't occur to me to do more than quietly observe him!

If my haphazard blogging can be trusted, it's been almost three years since we've seen coyotes around the homestead, 3.5 since we've lost a cat to one, and only in April 2004, I think it was, did we lose chickens to them. With the cats we're never sure; they just disappear and we make assumptions. (But other possible culprits include great horned owls, foxes, and maybe even mountain lions.) The chicken event (15 chickens dead and dying in one afternoon) provided direct visual confirmation of the perpetrator.

But my sighting Saturday turned out to be timely. The day before, Cat Woman lost her cat and heard from a neighbor that there was a big coyote in her area. Putting one and one together, she found the sad evidence, confirming the cat's fate. In her rural area, residents routinely kill coyotes, so she didn't expect one; she worries more about mountain lions.

The week before, my sister—far down in the southwest corner of the state—also lost a cat. Suddenly, coyotes are back on my mind, and apparently, back in business.

Coyotes have had a lot of press lately in the Denver metro area; this recent article serves as an example of the concerns and the lethal response too often being applied locally. (Although, in California, one neighborhood is taking a less belligerent approach.)

They are truly our urban/suburban wild dog: we provide excellent habitat for them and have created a new breed of this canine with the wily reputation. Eons ago in grad school, I researched coyotes for a wildlife class, and learned that there was evidence that, when persecuted, coyotes produce larger litters, and also grow smarter, stronger, and faster. Killing them isn't necessarily going to help! Nature... vacuum... you get the drift.

With decreasing wild land for habitat, coyotes have been quick to learn to live with us. They have to—after all, we're everywhere these days! We have not been as quick to learn to live with them. Some people don't understand the concept of "wild" and insist on feeding whatever cute animals they see in parks or neighborhoods. That doesn't help, especially when dealing with medium-size predators.

Denver has posted lots of information online to help citizens learn appropriate behaviors toward wildlife in the city.** In the case of coyotes, active hazing programs are important to teach them appropriate behaviors toward humans. Now I have a better idea of what to do when I see one—for the coyote's sake!

More personal thoughts on living with predators over at Small Wonders.

Two more coincidences. * Actually my previous recent coyote sighting was when I flew back from Indiana, just a week before this sighting. Carl the Coyote was the whole 'nother animal that graced the tail of my Frontier jet.

** Thanks go out to Ashley DeLaup, wildlife specialist for the City of Denver, who created all that great material I linked to above and conducted educational programs for Denver's citizens. This fall, Ashley was laid off. Go figure.

First Frost

2011-10-08T10:00:00.012-06:00

May their seeds be safely scattered
As the annuals hang their heads
May the snakes all safely find their paths
Back to their winter beds.

May next year's buds be safely wrapped
In shrouds of green and brown
And watch from higher branches
As this year's leaves drift down.

With their fledglings safe about them
May birds find a southern home
May bears be fattened, safe in dens
As once more they cease to roam.

May scrub jays find they've safely stored
Enough ripe seeds away
To last them through the season
Til another bright spring day.

In the meadow on the mountain
Where the elk are bedded down
May the grass be always lush and deep
As they rest on mossy ground.

The hummingbirds have scattered
Before the cold front's blast
In Argentina's flow'ry fields
May they find safe food at last.

May the little frogs find safety
In deep mud and warm
In the pond amid the forest
May they winter without harm.

May lichens soften in the mist
And softening, turn to green
In dampened autumn weather
Their best days will be seen.

The aspen is a spendthrift
Dropping leaves of trembling gold
May its forests prosper likewise
As this year grows old.

May the bluestem on the hillside
Shining ever in the sun
Glowing red, embrace the frost
Minding not that summer's done.

May the big skunk in the henhouse
Stealing our eggs
Scuttle safely 'neath the coop
On short, fat, little legs.

May the stars again gleam brightly
Once clouds have cleared away
Orion's winter's in the sky
And Scorpio's gone to stay.

Autumn is upon us
Winter's icy breath we feel
May all beings greet the coming year
As again we turn the wheel

May all here on the homestead
Prepare to do their parts
To welcome winter's shelt'ring snow
Holding summer in their hearts.

The Coming Post

2011-10-08T08:01:00.008-06:00

Yes, there will be another post. As of this morning, it looks to be coming soon. My absence here has not been a dearth of things to write about, not even a spidearth. Perhaps we can attribute it rather to an EXCESS of things to write about. Much to say, little time to say it. Or, as another blogger tells me "time, discipline, and motivation." Or we could blame it on the tablet, and free downloadable books. (I have 14 draft posts sitting out there in limbo, and 6 of them were created this year. Good grief!)

Tsk, tsk... an entire month without a post! There goes my 2011 record. I've failed to announce the latest Berry-Go-Round, and even the one before that! September's edition of the plant carnival was posted at A DC Birding Blog (yes, plants and birds are related), and August's was nicely handled by Dave at Osage Orange.

Osage Orange tells me October 6 was Poetry Day. Well, missed it by a couple. By way of explanation, the coming post is part Irish blessing, part catalog of the summer's experiences and encounters, a quick review of all the things I'll probably never get around to blogging about. But wish I would...

Today, this morning, frost is creeping up on us, and there's this weird white stuff in the air. We're perched on our usual line between places that only get wet and places that get actual accumulations. No wonder I'm blogging; I always seem to be motivated by that weird white stuff. Because of the weather, I'm finding myself in a reflective mood, perhaps almost a depressive one. It's not a cheery day out there or in here, but after many many many perfect bright-blue 80-degree Colorado days, we're due for a change.

Back soon! Promise!

Alive in the 21st Century

2011-08-21T08:07:00.002-06:00

Yesterday, the Husband and I finally broke down and went to the Big Box to look at ummm... devices to upgrade our technical communications skills. You know, things that teenagers today take for granted and take everywhere. It was a crash course with a lot of new jargon to absorb—about 4G and 3G and wireless hotspots and dual-core mobile processors and adaptive display technology. Makes you wonder how thousands of generations of humans got along without these important necessities.

There were things that sounded delicious, like Honeycombs and Gingerbread and Cupcakes, but just made us hungrier. We were Inspired and Captivated; our imagination took Flight; we were surprised at the Incredible Intensity with which we could explore the Galaxy, even the Cosmos. It's truly a Revolution, and it hit us like a Thunderbolt. All very sci-fi, with Droids and Comets and Photons—wheeee! We Clutched each other with diminishing Status as the price tags added a little Gravity to the situation and Restored our Touch. Can we Prevail? Are we ready to Thrive?

Sigh. Now I have Tablet Envy. It's only a matter of time. Maybe I'll even be a better blogger??

Summer Berry-Go-Round is here

2011-08-04T06:56:00.003-06:00

July's plant carnival, Number 42 in the Berry-Go-Round collection, is elegantly hosted at Beyond the Brambles. Kate leads a merry and colorful romp through the plant kingdom, and the rainbow! Check it out for some great plant-related reading!

I've been scarce here all summer, but I keep hoping things are going to change... soon! Despite a long string of 90-plus degree days, we've had enough rain, now and then, to keep the hills green, even into August, reminding us of what Colorado used to be like... back in the last millenium. And with it, of course, a memorable show of thunder and lightning!

Hope your summer is memorable as well...

Expect More from Berry-Go-Round!

2011-07-01T16:30:00.004-06:00

In the hands of "Mr. Subjunctive," the Berry-Go-Round plant carnival takes on a whole new flavor. Several in fact, as he presents BGR #41 as an 8-course tour de force, henceforth to be known as "The Formal Dinner BGR."

What an excellent menu he's prepared!! From soup to nuts, and beyond, Mr. S introduces us to a whole cast of dinner guests, many of whom are sharing the BGR feast for the first time. That means I got to learn a lot of new things and be introduced to a variety of cuisines I might not have encountered otherwise.

Wait'll you see what's for dessert!

Great job, Mr. Subjunctive! Thanks for hosting...

[Could someone please pass the bicarb...?? I may have overdone it.]

Lost in the Night Sky

2011-06-11T07:13:00.009-06:00

Imagine being able to go zooming around the universe, exploring galaxies at will and taking a close-up look at any features that caught your eye! Perhaps you've always wanted to see the Pleiades in better detail, or get a clearer look at the Garnet Star. Whatever you wish to examine is laid out before you in the Photopic Sky Survey, an ambitious effort by Nick Risinger.

According to the website, "The Photopic Sky Survey is a 5,000 megapixel photograph of the entire night sky stitched together from 37,440 exposures." As a result of an entire year of Nick's dedication and creativity, we have an unprecedented opportunity to wander among the stars at last.

Images used by permission, copyright Nick Risinger, skysurvey.org. (As always, when you find something you like on the Internet, consider making a donation to support quality content online!)

For various reasons (overcast, fire haze, etc.) I've been missing the night sky of late, and my opportunities for astro-posts have been limited. Failing regular observation, I lose track and get rusty—where is every[stellar]body? Refresh your memory at this site, and you'll see things you never could before!

So where in the galaxy is the photo above? With Alnitak and Alnilam in the upper right, this is a zoomed image of Orion's belt and sword, showing the large red Horsehead Nebula near Alnitak. If you don't know the names of the other nebulae here, check the link above for the labeled 360° version and go zooming!

What a way to compensate for a cloudy evening! Thanks, Nick!

A New Universe

I discovered SkySurvey because I finally ventured out on Twitter about May 15th, and this site was featured on @APOD, the Astronomy Photo of the Day, on May 20th. (See an index of all APOD's photos for more awe-inspiring sky-related images. Follow @APOD and the Twitterverse will deliver the mysteries of the cosmos daily!)

BGR--At Home in Alaska

2011-06-02T16:14:00.005-06:00

The latest edition (#40) of the Berry-Go-Round plant carnival is making itself quite at home in Sitka, Alaska, thanks to Matt's creative editing! He managed to tie each and every post, including FF's previous post on gillyflowers, to a Sitka relative. Pretty cool, Matt—and nice work all around!

Lots of great botanical reading is provided: from ferns to coralroots, caryophs to coffee, with a little peat and pussytoes for good measure! Go check it out... if you like what you read, please don't forget to leave encouraging comments. Next edition will be hosted at Plants are the Strangest People.

Clove Gillyflowers: A Botanical Ramble

2011-05-25T07:26:00.014-06:00

As with our eviction from Eden (a botanical story in itself, it turns out), it all started with an apple. At a historical symposium recently, we were talking about an old apple orchard that survived on a historic homestead in Westminster, Colorado. Do you know the name of the apple?, I asked, and the answer led me into temptation.

Apple image by Abhijit Tembhekar from Mumbai, India, source: Wikipedia.

"Sops-in-wine," I was told. Oddly, I had just read that very name in American Household Botany, a useful compendium of botanica I'm currently reading. But the name, sometimes known as "Sops-of-wine," was not applied (in the book) to heirloom apples. Off we go then!

What are sops? The noun, we understand, refers to "a piece of food dipped or steeped in a liquid," from the Middle English, soppe, and allied to, of all things, sopaipillas, which derived from sopa, or food soaked in milk, apparently of Germanic origin. About the only use of the word I can think of nowadays is in the adjective form, sopping wet. (Except for a friend of mine, whose 17 years in old Mexico taught her to make a mouth-watering sops of bread in red chile sauce.)

Sops of Wine is described by Big Horse Creek Farms as an "excellent early summer apple which grows well in all regions of the South. Its exact origins are unclear, but Beach (1905) says it is an ancient English culinary and cider apple. Fruit medium to large, slightly conical, with greenish-yellow skin covered with dark red faint red striping. Flesh is yellow and often stained with pink"—just as if it had been sopped, or soaked, in wine. Whether it actually was ever sopped in wine is, I suppose, another story.

Another plant truly was sopped in wine: the Clove Gillyflower, to which the name "sops in/of wine" is also applied. We've all seen these flowers, we just know them by another name: Carnation (Dianthus caryophyllus and others). John Parkinson described “gilloflowers” in 1629, in his “Paradisus Terrestris.” He notes:

To avoid confusion, I must divide Gilloflowers from Pinkes and intreats of them in several chapters, of those that are called Carnations or Gilloflowers as of the greater kinds in this Chapter; and of the Pinkes as well double as single, in the next. But the number is so great that to give several descriptions to them all were endlesse… I account those that are called Carnations to be the greatest, both for leafe and flower, and Gilloflowers for the most part to bee lesser in both…”

Parkinson thereafter names some nineteen types of Carnations and 29 of Gillyflowers, not including the small wild gillyflowers he calls “Pinkes.”

Dianthus, literally from the Greek, means “divine flower” (dios plus anthos). It is in the family Caryo-phyllaceae, and the specific epithet of Gillyflowers, D. caryophyllus, adopts the family name. The carnation is also linked to cloves, and was once called “clove pink” for its scent and frequent use as a substitute for the expensive imported spice.

The clove tree, dried buds of which are the familiar spice, was Caryophyllus aromaticus L. (caryo meaning nut, and phyllus, of course, leaf). (It is not, however, in the Caryophyllaceae, but in the Myrtaceae, where it is now known as Syzygium aromaticum (L.) Merr. & L.M.Perry. Go figure.)

The English name Carnation is often thought to be derived from the Latin for flesh, as in carnal or carnage, which many of us associate with the color red. In fact, according to Webster’s, the carnation was originally “flesh-colored but now found in many color variations.” An old alternative, dating to the 16th century, connects the word to “Coronation,” in reference both to its common use in “weaving crowns or chaplets for the head, or as Lyte has it, from the flowers dented or toothed above—like to a littell crownet.”

Whence "gillyflower"? Wikipedia suggests this one is a corruption of the French giroflée, which translates the original Greek karyophyllon. Which puts us back to cloves again.

Should you not wish to adulterate good wine by soaking carnations in it, this same Wikipedia article offers a recipe for making wine using only gillyflowers, if you happen to have a peck of them on hand.

An old recipe for gilliflower wine is mentioned in Cornish Recipes Ancient & Modern dated to 1753:

“To 3 gallons water put 6lbs of the best powder sugar; boil together for the space of 1/2 an hour; keep skimming; let it stand to cool. Beet up 3 ounces of syrup of betony, with a large spoonful of ale yeast, put into liquor & brew it well; put a peck of gilliflowers free of stalks; let work fore 3 days covered with a cloth; strain & cask for 3-4 weeks, then bottle."

These days, it's a challenge to find carnations that smell like cloves or anything else. I suspect our modern "gillyflowers" would not make a very fragrant wine. Maybe the apples would work instead!

——More References
A Sales Manual on Colorado Carnations, by the Colorado Flower Growers Association, Inc. circa 1960s (includes an extensive history chapter on this flower, quoted above; online at Colorado State University).

Cloves, Picotees, and Sops in Wine, a nice essay on Cottage Gardening by Barbara M. Martin.

American Household Botany: A History of Useful Plants 1620-1900, by Judith Sumner. 2004. Timber Press, Portland and Cambridge. 396 pages.

Spring-worthy Weather?

2011-05-20T07:38:00.003-06:00

It's a truly glorious morning today, after days of hail, rain, tornado warnings, and other assorted delights. All of which (okay, some of which) have been deeply appreciated after our lack of serious snowstorms here in the lower foothills these last few months. Still some white on Mt. Morrison, but a rosy dawn and clear skies highlight the greening we have at last.

And, just this a.m., the most spectacular frost patterns we've had all winter, right there on my car windshield! On May 20th, such visions are ephemeral indeed!

April Showers Bring... a New Berry!

2011-05-01T09:11:00.016-06:00

Earth Day and Arbor Day are both more than a week past, and May Day is well underway as this late-breaking edition of the Berry-Go-Round plant carnival hits the streets. It's time to find out what those April showers have brought us. Some entries below came straight to me, others I tracked down in the wilds of the web, looking for signs of spring and plant life. Enjoy these offerings!

It's All About Trees

First up, grab a shovel and join Jade at Brain Ripples , who brings an early entry of 15 Celebrations in Spruce and Birch to kick off our thoughts about trees with reasons to celebrate and, of course, plant trees! Link-rich, this post is a carnival in itself, and well worth a visit.

Over at the Digital Botanic Garden, we find delicious walnuts, along with a little reminiscence about the walnut-shell boats of childhood. In the spring theme, Phil also brings us a favorite showy flowering shrub. Nice for me, as we don’t get to see these much around here. Back in March, Phil also explained the language of love, floral edition, by outlining how two fictional romances might have—or have not—taken place. A must read! (bookmark it for Valentine's Day)

Step-by-step spring from Sarah at Musings from Dave whose written musings... on the gradual onset of the green season are as charming as her photographic accompaniment. Second installment here. And earlier fabulous time-lapse close-ups all help us see spring as it happens!

Tai at Earth, Wind & Water explores the virtues of Red Filbert, a new one to me, but most attractive!

Please welcome Georgia’s first submission to BGR from Local Ecologist, as she combines history and ecology to chronicle changes in the urban tree canopy on Broadway north of Columbus Circle between 1901 and 1912. What happens to trees when New York City builds a subway? Great sleuthing, Georgia—we hope to hear from you again.

Ted at Beetles in the Bush brought us the spectacular ceibo, also known as cockspur coral tree. It's the national flower of both Argentina and Uruguay, so we appreciate the lengths he went to for these gorgeous photos!

As we are speaking of trees, The Nature Conservancy undertakes to Plant a Billion, in its efforts to restore the Atlantic Forest of Brazil, the lungs of the planet—and much more. Meet a few tropical trees, watch their seedlings grow on the home page at this site, and see if you can help this critical project.

Lest we forget that much of our planet is treeless, FF's companion blog, Small Wonders, provides an opportunity to rethink Arbor Day in favor of prairies where appropriate, along with a review of this holiday's history.

On to Spring's Wildflowers

Puca at Anybody Seen My Focus? invites us to join a hike on the Bradley Mountain Trail in the Davidson-Arabia Mountain Nature Preserve in DeKalb County, Georgia. Parts two and three of the hike follow, with fascinating terrain and natural "dish gardens" (a new phrase to me) that hold two outstanding wildflowers: the Elf Orpine (Diamorpha smallii) and the Oneflower Stitchwort (Minuartia uniflora).

Comment1 at Real Monstrosities offers an inventive look at pitcher plants from someone who “decided to rekindle my love of creepy crawlies and years of avidly watching David Attenborough documentaries and create this, Real Monstrosities. Life at it's most bizarre. A collection of creatures strange in body or habit.” Thanks for joining us this month!

At Hill-stead's Nature Blog, Diane tells us how to feed the hungry, especially birds, butterflies, and other picky eaters who depend on native plants for sustenance! This story of winter's deprivation offers a thoughtful look at an important side effect of the spread of invasive exotics and a valuable reminder of another good reason to go native in your landscape.

Mary, the Accidental Botanist, takes us on a visit to her local library, the internet and shows how we as individuals can contribute. It’s a reference collection where any and all of us can make a difference!

Jeremy and Luigi at Agricultural Biodiversity bring us a coconut imposter and cautionary tales about germplasm documentation. Jeremy adds "the comments add a lot to the discussion... [comments are] one of the best things about having a blog, and one reason to submit to BGR is to encourage new readers and potentially useful new comments." So, don't forget to comment—it's important!

Dave at Osage Orange dropped by with another reminder in the year of the Juniper, this time an essay on proper pruning and other spring garden chores.

Some "wildflowers" can fool us, and beauty is always in the eye of the beholder! Kate at Beyond the Brambles discovered a way to turn the tables (and fork) on those who outgrow their hospitality. She found the invasive Japanese knotweed to be Tangy, Fibrous, and Slightly Sweet. Who knew? We should be eating more of these! Kate just discovered BGR and plans to host in July—welcome aboard!

A few more gleanings...

Ellen, the Adirondack Naturalist, has been transplanted to Michigan, where she found a seasonally appropriate story of resurrection to post.

The Phytophactor has produced no less than 65 posts since the last BGR, and, it being spring, at least half of them are about plants. You'll find lots more there, but I simply have to point out one little ditty he calls Plant Porn. Must-see video! Sex and archegonia bring to life what we read about in college botany but never got to see happening!

At Botany Photo of the Day, I picked out skunk cabbage among this spring's offerings. You'll find much more to explore there as well.

Nina at Nature Remains goes Searching for Spring, as she brings us a tiny harbinger, Draba verna (favorite research subject of my friend Julie). On a spring wildflower trip with the Midwest Native Plant Society, the rare Draba brachycarpa also puts in a welcome appearance. If you're still hungry for spring wildflowers, Nina will help, with little men of the spring woods, a delightful frolic, and time with trout lilies.

Tell them Berry-Go-Round sent you

Lots to keep you busy! Thanks for stopping by! Please enjoy these authors and give them feedback. We hope you'll spread the word about Berry-Go-Round by linking back if your post was included, or even if you just enjoyed this edition. Next month's adventures in botany will be hosted by Matt at Sitka Nature.

Before Earth Day

2011-04-24T14:02:00.013-06:00

As friends in the CCC alumni group used to say, "Before Earth Day, there was the CCC!" (Civilian Conservation Corps, 1933-1941) The CCC does have a reputation as this nation's first big organized attempt at environmental protection, pre-dating the first Earth Day by as much as 37 years. But times were different then, and its record, sad to say, is mixed. Despite reforestation and fire-fighting efforts (now not universally appreciated), the CCC boys engaged in a number of less environ-mentally positive projects by today's standards.

Among those were rodent control (including kangaroo rats in California and prairie dogs everywhere in the west); rattlesnake slaughter (serving no known purpose and somewhat contradictory to the required rodent control); predator control (400,000 predatory animals annihilated, again increasing the necessity for rodent control); eradication of some 300 million native Ribes shrubs (gooseberries and currants, which carry white pine blister rust, white pine being the preferred species); and drainage of wetlands (then called "swamps") for mosquito control.

In all, according to Nature's New Deal, by Neil M. Maher, they modified 118 million acres. Presumably that total doesn't include the building of roads in wilderness and national parks. All of these won the CCC the enmity of local and national conservationists, among them Aldo Leopold, Bob Marshall, and Rosalie Edge.

Don't get me wrong— I still think the CCC was probably the best public work program to date...

Before Earth Day, however, and even before the CCC... there was Arbor Day. Proving that nothing we humans do is an unalloyed blessing, even an innocent-looking holiday like Arbor Day has its dark side. I even wrote a somewhat critical article about 12 years ago. These days, when we need all the CO₂-gobbling plants out there we can get, maybe I should re-evaluate my opinion. I'll still find it hard to believe we need trees everywhere, though—no matter what species, no matter where. I'm too fond of grasses for that! Another reason is that some researchers have shown that grasslands can be as effective as forests at reducing carbon dioxide.

Of course, science marches on, and you can also find research that demonstrates the opposite effect. Your choice!

For Earth Day... for Earth!

2011-04-22T17:46:00.004-06:00

“We can think of the Earth and its natural resources as a one-time inheritance that we received from nature or God… and the question is are we going to squander that inheritance like a derelict rich kid and go broke, or are we going to treat it like the fortune that it is and be good stewards?... Global society has been acting like the derelict rich kid, and experts agree that we’ve been in global overshoot for 3 decades… by mid20-30s we’ll need two Earths to support us and, of course, we only have one.”
—Emmett Duffy; Professor of Marine Science at the
College of William and Mary’s Virginia Institute of Marine Science

Every year, I think about how I'll tackle the immense topic of Earth Day. It looms huge for me because, although Earth Day is and ought to be every day, most of us think consciously about it once a year (if that!). But the once-a-year version is significant to me because 41 years ago, when it all started, I was a college student in the midst of our campus activities—which focused mostly on education, recycling, and other cosmetic efforts. Hey, we tried!

Now, though, there's a lot more meaning to Earth Day for me, even though it seems largely neglected in our world of heedless consumption. Sometimes it's hard to be hopeful in these times of global climate change and other effects of rampant human overpopulation. One thoughtful, authoritative, and articulate blogger helps bring me back to Earth every time I visit (even though he's blogging elsewhere these days), and he is Emmett Duffy, the Natural Patriot. Here are a few of my favorite samples from 2009:

Approaching the Ultimate Limits
An assessment of the Obama administration from the Ecological Society of America
The End of the World As We Know It

Quotes in his “Food for Thought” sidebar are only one reason to visit the Natural Patriot. I love this revolving quote widget of his, or whatever it is, and today I discovered you can refresh them by clicking through with your mouse. So in lieu of further pontificating on my part, I bring you a limited selection of more memorable comments on our predicament. Quote addict that I am, this list could go on forever, but I'm trying to be discreet!

Most have gone long unheeded, but... we can't say we haven't been warned! Even a variety of American presidents have tried to sound the alarm.

You cannot escape the responsibility of tomorrow by evading it today.
—Abraham Lincoln

Saving our civilization is not a spectator sport.
—Lester Brown.

We have always known that heedless self-interest was bad morals; we know now that it is bad economics.
—Franklin Delano Roosevelt

I look forward to an America which will not be afraid of grace and beauty, which will protect the beauty of our natural environment, which will preserve the great old American houses and squares and parks of our national past and which will build handsome and balanced cities for our future.
—John F. Kennedy

Whether we and our politicians know it or not, Nature is a party to all our deals and decisions, and she has more votes, a longer memory, and a sterner sense of justice than we do.
—Wendell Berry

The Creation, whether you believe it was placed on this planet by a single act of God or accept the scientific evidence that it evolved autonomously during billions of years, is the greatest heritage, other than the reasoning mind itself, ever provided to humanity.
—Edward O. Wilson

Do we not already sing our love for and obligation to the land of the free and the home of the brave? Yes, but just what and whom do we love? Surely not the soil, which we are sending helter-skelter downriver. Certainly not the waters, which we assume have no function except to turn turbines, float barges, and carry off sewage. Certainly not the plants, of which we exterminate whole communities without batting an eye. Certainly not the animals, of which we have already extirpated many of the largest and most beautiful species.
—Aldo Leopold

One for the Tea Party:

I don’t mind paying taxes. They buy me civilization.
—Oliver Wendell Holmes

Lastly, in the true spirit of Earth Day:

Do not let spacious plans for a new world divert your energies from saving what is left of the old.
—Winston Churchill

BGR Reminder; Got Books?

2011-04-18T19:00:00.005-06:00

Don't forget—the deadline for submissions to this month's Berry-Go-Round plant carnival is April 25th. Submissions are trickling in slowly. I've also rounded up quite a few fun posts in case they're needed, but will include proper submissions on a priority basis. See below for instructions on how to share your favorite plant posts—or someone else's!

In other news: A botanical bibliophile's dream... Jack and Martha Carter are liquidating their collection of botanical books over at Mimbres Publishing. I hesitate to even mention it before I have a chance to shop myself!

Growing Up Pie, Part 1

2011-04-09T10:15:00.004-06:00

The young couple who took up residence next door last spring are doing a little housekeeping. I see them refurbishing the nest in the Ponderosa Pine below the house, bringing a new stick or two where needed, or rearranging a bit here and there.

I think last summer was their first season as newlyweds. Being 100 feet away from the birdfeeders didn't hurt; they probably grew up here themselves and wanted to stay in the neighborhood.

Yesterday, I caught them in the garden, in flagrante delicto, and for 45 seconds or so, I was able to tell which was the male and which the female! Alas, the moment escaped the camera, but I think I know what's coming this summer. Clearly the "courtship" is over.

Usually I have a ringside seat from which to watch their efforts. Every once in a while, the view is obstructed.

A half-dozen or so local does and yearlings are recognizable now, but this gentleman is a stranger who wandered through in mid-March, intent on the does, no doubt. It's that time of year.

Setting Up Housekeeping

It was last April when these two Black-billed Magpies picked out our youngish ponderosa pine for their starter home. I guess it didn't occur to me to document the process until construction was well underway. If you are curious about nest-building details, the Watcher has, of course, covered magpie architecture.

All those trips back and forth carrying sticks can really work up an appetite. In April, one year ago today in fact, I buttered the bark of the ash tree out front with a suet dough concoction. It didn't take them long to discover and exploit this new food source.

Finally, about May 21st, the nest was complete. All was quiet well into June. Many more trips were made, bringing food to whomever was sitting. We suspected eggs, but never confirmed by direct observations.

Events continued to unfold, and finally the activity level rose, as did the noise. In mid-July, some grew impatient inside, and began waiting on the doorstep for food to appear. Growing up seems to involve a lot of waiting.

But mom or dad always managed to show up in time.

Kinda makes me glad we planted that tree, a bare-root seedling, back when we moved here ourselves as newlyweds.

Coming Soon: Part 2, A Raucous Summer

Suddenly Spring

2011-04-07T07:36:00.005-06:00

By the time I started actively searching for signs of spring this year, it was well on its way!

I should have checked for Easter daisies (Townsendia cf. hookeri) on St. Paddy's Day (March 17th). I didn't get to my favorite patch until April Fool's Day, but they were chugging along just fine, and right where I expected them to be. You can see them, right?

How about now?

Some of our earliest spring wildflowers are well hidden—if you didn't know exactly where they are, you'd be hard pressed to spot them! Hidden in plain sight, right along one of our most popular trails in full range of unscooped dog poop, this patch of Easter daisies was still unobserved by 99% of passersby. Those who saw me with camera and dog weren't even curious about what I was trying to photograph.

How's this for an Easter bouquet?

The stemless Easter daisy can't help but look like an old-fashioned "posy" or nosegay, with all the flowers clustered at the base, obscuring a rosette of leaves that are, by themselves, easy to overlook. Without the burst of white color to draw the eye, these little guys don't suggest any dramatic display at all!

The early bees are having no trouble finding them, however.

Equally cryptic are those who will bloom a bit later, now mere hints of beauty to come. Here, a feathery rosette of Lambert's loco cozies up to the glaucous blue basal leaves of one-sided Penstemon. Only by watching through the season would we know what they're going to be capable of producing!

The name of this bulb I planted long ago in the backyard popped back into my head this morning as I went out to take an updated photo. Siberian squill, Scilla siberica, naturalizes even here in the rugged and challenging West apparently.

I stand corrected, thanks to Nina at Nature Remains and depending on whether you're a "lumper" or a "splitter." This is, per the criteria at Wikipedia, Chionodoxa rather than Scilla. Hmmm... "Glory-of-the-snow." Think I like that better than "Siberian squill."

The few that I planted, probably 25 years ago now, before I knew better and when I still had gardening illusions, have now escaped the rock garden and carpeted even gravel waste areas in my none-too-well-tended yard. Blooming before the daffodils, they hint of things to come; however dry the season, they manage well enough on the residual soil moisture of previous snows and just ignore the hot dry season in dormancy.

Thankfully, they've not escaped the confines of the limited backyard area, as the grape hyacinths used to do before the chickens and deer ate them all. Although it may be fine in controlled shady lawn sites, the thought of deliberately planting it in wooded areas back East, as the garden websites seem to suggest, raises concern. I'm sure it'd be well able to outcompete native spring wildflowers, and I wonder whether it's ever considered invasive.

Also naturalizing, but more welcome, is this Yellow Prairie Violet, Viola nuttallii, happily blooming nearby in the same gravel area. Like the perennial bulbs, these natives thrive on the neglect provided by the absent-minded gardener, as well as the indifference of the season, which keeps forgetting to add moisture.

Where Do Orioles Live?

2011-04-05T18:45:00.001-06:00

Suddenly Spring is in the offing, and where there was nothing showing but bleak just a few days ago, now an air of hope and greenery emerges. I thought I'd better get out and grab some photos of Oriole Abodes (say that 3 times fast) before they became, once again, invisible.

Rocking and resilient, these nests have weathered the test of time and the gale force winds we've been having recently. I'll be pleasantly surprised if any of these photos are in focus, as I could barely operate the camera without losing my hat to the wind!

Elm trees, ours and the neighbors, seem preferred in my small sampling, with two nests per tree. Chinese or perhaps Siberian, I don't bother to distinguish, as both are unwelcome exotics. Except, apparently, to the orioles. (Ours, you may recall, are Bullock's Orioles.)

What a place to sleep, lulled by winds in these deep woven hammocks! I wonder—Do they build anew each year? Are these two elms, with two nests each, a record of previous occupation, or do they represent multi-family housing?

One hardy pair gave the neighbor's Russian-olive a go.

Of course, the Orioles them- selves are nowhere in sight as yet, and the trees stand vacant still. But Spring is all about hope, is it not?

Botany and the Indian Gulch Fire

2011-04-03T11:24:00.005-06:00

First the Fire
(Photo courtesy Chuck Haraway)

As of Friday night at 6:40 p.m., March 25, 2011, "The Indian Gulch Fire is 100 percent contained after burning 1570 acres." Just that morning, 9 a.m., the fire map showed 1502 acres burned. In a great use of technology, the Jeffco Sheriff's Department kept a blog, regularly updated from the front lines.

I haven't seen a final map, but I'm guessing the fire captured the westernmost gulch, shown on this 3/25 map as an uncontrolled fireline, accounting for the 68 acres added to the tally on Friday. Here's my version of the official map overlain on topo; boundaries are approximate.

Also that Friday morning, Incident Commander Muir diverted some air resources from the Indian Gulch Fire to support firefighting efforts in Douglas County, Colorado, where the Franktown Fire (aka, Burning Tree Fire), also partly a grassland fire, burned 1,600 acres in little more than 24 hours before it was contained. On the 21st, firefighters briefly battled and conquered a third fire near Evergreen. A busy week!

In all, firefighters from 65 agencies responded to the Indian Gulch fire. They came from all over Colorado, plus Arizona, Idaho, South Dakota, North Dakota, and Florida(??!). The Jeffco Sheriff's Department reported that "fire crews have enjoyed a wave of support. Citizens have dropped off food, beverages, personal hygiene items, socks, and other supplies, all of which have been put to good use. Local businesses have offered free food and coffee to the firefighters between shifts."

Because I captured no photographs, please drop in on another local blogger, at Fun with Gravity, for great photos of this epic ecological event. Mtnrunner2 kindly gave me permission to use this dramatic photo. (Reminds me of Mordor.)

Local Ecology and Botany

Funny, we were just talking about Big Bluestem a week ago, and many of those south- and east-facing slopes I mentioned then were in the line of fire, so to speak. You can see the orangey bluestem just below the burned area in this photo, taken several days later. The dark shrubs below the line are unburned, but it's hard to distinguish burned area from dormant shrublands at this distance. That ashy white color above reveals the charred area a bit better.

You didn't hear much in the press about it, but Indian Gulch seems to have been predominantly a grassland fire, not so much a forest fire. Given the winds we had, that's a good thing! No doubt the firefighters struggled through some shrub-choked thickets in the gulches as well, but part of what burned had to be bluestem.

Also well in the line of fire, as revealed in the "no structures threatened" reports, is public open space parkland (Mt. Galbraith Park, at the east end, shown in gray here); more is private undeveloped land (Goltra property to the west). That's the good news.

Indian Gulch is also an area of significant botanical and ecological interest. That was, in fact, part of the reason the area was acquired as Open Space in the first place. Listed as a "Conservation Area" in a 1993 report by the Colorado Natural Heritage Program, the Indian Gulch area contains an occurrence of the rare Ute ladies' tresses orchid, Spiranthes diluvialis, identified in 1984 (from herbarium specimens) as a distinct species from the more robust Spiranthes romanzoffiana. [HT to the Chemist for botanical support on this one; Spidil and I are not well acquainted. He kindly provided this photo as well.] The area contains one of 10 original populations (8 of which are extant) in Colorado, and the only one in our county. Populations in Colorado and Utah accounted for 84% of the known individuals of Spiranthes diluvialis when surveyed in 2004.

Can't help wondering whether any orchids burned, and how tolerant they may be. As a species of wet/riparian grasslands, Spiranthes has probably been through this before.

In the End

All expectations are now raised for an incredibly busy fire season this year. (The newer Crystal Fire in Larimer Co. has already burned 4,500 acres.) The little graupely-sleet falling as I write this probably won't amount to much relief. We need a good upslope, dumping a couple feet of snow! (Nice view of red fire retardant on the hillsides, and charred areas to the right, in this last photo by Chuck Haraway.)

Thankfully, no lives, livestock, or homes were lost. Both the Indian Gulch and Franktown fires are believed to be caused by human action. Investigations continue.

Even in March Berries Go Round

2011-03-30T17:18:00.006-06:00

Ah me, I failed (til recent reminders) to let you know about the current edition of Berry-Go-Round, number 38, which is now up at Anybody Seen My Focus?. Puca, a first-time host, has done a smashing job of rounding up the latest and greatest plant posts, and even included FF's recent contribution on big bluestem, below.

Hustle on over and check out lettuce-growing tips, SPAM (not the bad kind), spring flowers, and much more. Do drop a comment or two on posts you enjoy; it helps keep our participants motivated!

Then, when you're ready, be the first to try out the new BGR submission form to deliver your post on plants, botany, green news, etc. directly to my doorstep, where the next edition will be hosted at the end of April. Or, if you're not excited about such technovation, email me your link directly at FFnaturalist AT gMAIL you-know com. Okay?? Deadline is April 25th, please...

Preliminary indications are that the April edition will have a bit of a tree focus (Arbor Day and all), but plant posts of all types are welcome. Lines are open...

Big Blue: A Grass for the Times?

2011-03-25T15:02:00.017-06:00

Last fall I had an email from a botanist friend: What’s going on with big bluestem? After he pointed it out, I noticed that, sure enough, this species, one of the dominant grasses in the tallgrass prairie (as in the source of the original Kansas sods that once housed the homesteaders), was bustin’ out all over the foothills!

Above: Fall color in "turkeyfoot," Big Bluestem grass (Andropogon gerardii), looking across Section 16 and Boulder's Jewell Mountain Open Space. (You can even see the turkey feet in this photo!)

Normally, Big Bluestem does occur on the slopes of our mountain front in sporadic patches, but has been expanding in recent years. In 2010, this warm-season grass had an extraordinary year. Its abundance first drew attention at Lookout Mountain, on the slopes of Windy Saddle Park and adjacent areas, where patches of last fall's russet color could still be spotted in January, even from a distance, as long as the ground was free of snow. Big bluestem and its cousins in the grass family provide great winter color in the landscape.

[This post is a revised version of an article that appeared in the March edition of the Plan Jeffco newsletter, and is therefore oriented toward local open space parks.]

Tallgrass prairie, whether here or in the East, is a tattered remnant of what it was in its glory days. We’re lucky to have sizable patches in Jefferson County; efforts to protect some have been underway for more than 20 years. It’s been years since we talked tallgrass prairie here at FF, but we have continued to monitor developments in the Rocky Flats area, where our best examples of this rare ecosystem survive, including the Ranson/ Edwards property and Jewell Mountain, where Boulder conveniently protected several hundred acres. Patches of big bluestem on the foothills slopes are fine, but limited, reminders of the more extensive remnant prairie that once rolled out across the county but now have retreated to a fringe along the mountain front. Most of what you see west of Highway 93 and north of Hwy 72 is tallgrass prairie.

Big Bluestem (grass)
Andropogon gerardii

Warm-season sod-forming grass.
Height: 4-5 feet in Colorado; to 8 ft in prairie states.
Range: All but the five westernmost of the lower 48 states, as well as the central provinces of Canada.
Dominant and characteristic grass of the tallgrass prairie ecosystem.
Flowering heads are 4-5 inches long, with 3 (sometimes more) spreading branches, suggesting its other common name: turkeyfoot
Links: At USDA Plants database; at Illinois Wildflowers.

Don't Confuse Big Bluestem with:
Smooth Brome (Bromus inermis; Bromopsis inermis) is a ubiquitous pasture grass that was introduced in the late 1800s for livestock forage and erosion control. A sod-former, it tends to grow in extensive monocultures, unlike the patch effect of bluestem, although it is a similarly robust grass that turns color in the fall (more brownish than reddish, however). Smooth brome has leaves on the stem, not just at the base, and lacks the characteristic "turkey foot" seedhead. It is invasive in prairies, and some states consider it a weed. According to the USDA, Smooth Brome now occurs in every state except Hawaii, Alabama, and Florida.

Big Bluestem in Jeffco’s Landscape
Look for these foothills patches primarily on unforested south- and east-facing slopes: on Mt. Morrison, most central-county slopes visible west of Highway 93, and on the north slopes of our canyons, from Bear Creek to Golden Gate. In Mt. Galbraith Park, you can see the colorful auburn patches across the canyon opposite as you make your way up the trail. Driving west on I-70, look for it to the north as you enter the foothills, on the slopes in Matthews-Winters Park.

In the southwest part of Red Rocks Park, bluestem occurs on more prairie-like level sites, because that area has been long protected and contains isolated spots where the Rocky Flats alluvium persists on lands that would otherwise have been cultivated or developed. In fall, Big Bluestem blends perfectly with the outcrops of the Fountain Formation that define Red Rocks.

Lack of development, and a somewhat inhospitable climate, have also protected the Rocky Flats area. The extremely cobbly soils, beloved of gravel companies, hampered agricultural attempts on much of the area, and enhanced the available moisture content for the growth of these taller species. These soils are considered among the oldest in Colorado, in part because the area is unplowed, with some estimates placing their age at 2 million years. But Big Bluestem’s visibility in the landscape of any given year reflects how we’re doing on overall precipitation and temperature.

The Water Year and Other Influences
Based on the 30-yr average precipitation, our wettest month of the year should be May. When it is, that’s about perfect for big bluestem and other warm-season grasses (including blue grama, sideoats grama, little bluestem, and switchgrass), which are just getting started as the weather warms toward summer. By June, the cool-season grasses (such as the common lawn grasses, including Kentucky bluegrass, which take advantage of early season moisture to start growth) will be ready to flower and set seed, but you’ll still have to hunt around on the ground to find evidence that big bluestem is even alive. Large clumps of hairy, velvety blue-green leaves will be your hint.

In July, those spreading clumps send up tall flowering shoots, which produce the “turkey-foot” seedheads by August. When cool-season grasses are giving it up and their seed has scattered, Big Bluestem ripens into the terra cotta masses that reveal its presence even from a distance.

This seasonal habit represents an entirely different metabolism (called “C4”) in these warm-season plants, which use carbon along different pathways than many familiar plants. According to some researchers, this may give them an advantage under conditions of elevated carbon dioxide (think global climate change), especially during drought.

Interestingly, although it seemed, until February snows, that it’s been droughty for several months, 2010 was a good moisture year during its first half, giving Big Bluestem the start it needed. In fact, rainfall in this part of the county has been at or above normal every month from April 2009 through last June. (Later records have not yet been posted online; I’d guess July stayed high as well.) Average temperatures have also hovered a degree or two above normal since late in 2008. Both conditions have supported growth of Big Bluestem, a species that prefers it a little more moist and warm than is the rule in Colorado. If we go too dry and warm, we’re apt to see more of its cousin, little bluestem, but as long as it finds a moist spot, Big Bluestem will remain a part of the county’s natural prospect.

——
Further Reading
Many more references—bison grazing effects, mycorhizal associations, fire, etc.—can be found via Google Scholar; here are a few to get you started. If you've been following our Indian Gulch fire, some of the articles on fire may be of interest; parts of Mt. Galbraith Park, mentioned above, burned. Note that most articles are in Jstor, and only abstracts are available to those of us without university connections.

Biomass production and species composition change in a tallgrass prairie ecosystem after long-term exposure to elevated atmospheric CO2
Clenton E. Owensby, Jay. M. Ham, Alan. K. Knapp, Lisa. M. Auen, 2001, Wiley Online Library.

Photosynthetic and water relations responses to elevated CO 2 in the C 4 grass Andropogon gerardii
AK Knapp, EP Hamerlynck, CE Owensby, International Journal of Plant Sciences, V 154,#4, pp 459-466, 1993.

In absence of water stress, such systems don’t respond to elevated C, but in water-limited envts, levels of leaf phi, leaf-level ps rates, and stomatal conductance are all likely to be affected by elevated atmos CO2, with the net result being inc in biomass productn.

Growth and Gas Exchange of Andropogon gerardii as Influenced by Burning
Tony J. Svejcar and James A. Browning, Journal of Range Management, Vol. 41, No. 3 (May, 1988), pp. 239-244

Long-Term Effects of Annual Burning at Different Dates in Ungrazed Kansas Tallgrass Prairie
Gene Towne and Clenton Owensby, Journal of Range Management, Vol. 37, No. 5 (Sep., 1984), pp. 392-397

Fowl Weather*

2011-03-08T06:58:00.016-07:00

Dire predictions for weather here these last few days have uniformly failed to materialize. That's unusual for March, storms of which routinely produce whatever snow piles are forecast. We woke today to a proper pea soup of fog, as yesterday, but only a skim of white crystals has reached the ground. For the life of me, I can't find the camera, but it looks a lot like this out there, minus the heavy snow.

(Ah, ha! You have only to retrace your steps, and remember that you were trying to snap the lovely crystals on the gate, without success, then came in by the fire, and voila! Here's this morning's actual view.)

It's produced a nice feathered frosting of white on everything, one of the occasional attractions winter provides. Even the chain link gate to the chicken yard looks like a piece of delicate lace...

And the trees! Yesterday I attended a 1 p.m. meeting atop Lookout Mtn, which was in dense fog. The storm, scheduled to move in at 2 p.m., made us hurry through the meeting, but we left in dense fog and clear roads, allowing a view of white-laced trees. Much like this view from February 25th, only a mountain away, but with the ground whitened as well.

Anyway, the point of all this was to talk about chickens. My friend at the Hoosier Horse Farm took a whim in the chicken direction recently, and has been entertaining me with questions and, now that she has her chicks, reactions.

First, a debate on "what kind"... answered in favor of Barred Plymouth Rocks and Ameraucanas (aka "Easter Eggers"). Then the excitement of fluffy little bits of incipient chickenhood at home—"You didn't tell me they'd be so much fun to watch!"

(They aren't nearly so pink, but it is hard to get good photos in indoor light. The 'Canas are the ones that look like chipmunks... very cute!)

The first night she made coffee and stayed up to watch them. First they run around pecking, then they drop, wherever they find themselves, down for a nap, then up and down... Chicken TV. (Networks take notice.) It's especially entertaining to watch them drink.

Last night an update arrived: "They double in size every 12 hours! They are bored... they can fly." (She also mentioned poopy and smelly.) Uh, oh... now she'll be in a race to get them outdoor housing. All too soon, they'll look a little like this photo of our 2008 batch, miniature adults.

Months later, eggs will start arriving. A regular reader wants to know what green eggs look like: here's the answer. (See, we do requests, eventually, here at Foothills Fancies.) It's a good thing she only got 7 chicks—she might be able to keep up!

I have nine (9) dozen eggs in the fridge as I write this, and have just eaten two (one brown, one green) for breakfast. (Not two dozen.) I gave some to Cat Woman (giving them to everyone these days...); she's the only one I know who has been able to distinguish the green eggs from brown; she says they give her indigestion!

I'm finding eggs all over in the coop; last night I even stepped on one, much to the appreciation of the three hens that hurried over to clean it up. This rate, with Easter still six weeks away, is a little alarming. But it won't last...

* Forgive me that one...

The Mysterious Internet

2011-03-04T08:23:00.002-07:00

It's a tangled web out there, for sure, and its ways are beyond mysterious. The Phytophactor offered kind words about FF re: the latest Berry-Go-Round, prompting me to go look at my own stats again. I'd decided last time that this is a futile exercise yielding little in the way of intelligible results. It still is. And, of course, it's hard to tell whether people are satisfied with what they find when they arrive.

Speaking of the Phactor, don't miss his posts from early this week on the evolutionary timeline, and one on endangered plants. He's been very prolific lately, and these two are great.

But I just know you'll be interested in some fascinating details about the appeal of Foothills Fancies to the online world at large. Here's a list of my all time top posts (all time being "since Blogger installed stats" or mid-2010).

Scales and Tails
Best Botany Blog
My Kingdom for a Domain…
Whatever Happened to Sphenopsida
High Color: Alpine Tundra
Live at Bear's Lair
Tree Cholla
Stuff Plants Do
Summer Feast BGR
Snowy Sunday Visitors

The moral of that story is that old posts live for...ever. A sobering thought. The twin two-year old posts on obsolete plants (Sphenopsida, 27 in Feb) and obsolete taxonomy ("My Kingdom...", 38 in Feb) are still tops in this past month's searches. Several people wanted to know about Zosterophyllum and Asteroxylon? If FF comes up, that surely speaks to the paucity of information out there on fossil plants.

It's heartening to know that people are also out there looking for botany blogs. That means I should be doing more botany, right? (We all should...) A little post I wrote five years ago, simply pointing to the wonderful Botany Photo of the Day is still a top-notch vote-getter.

How do people find us? It's clear from the above list that participating in carnivals adds to one's visibility, as most of those posts were included in one carnival or another. Google, in all its guises, is always a great source of traffic; this month the new listing FF got from Online College Courses is already being productive.

Other bloggers, and being well connected, also help. I already miss the Watcher, who sent more people my way than anyone until he stopped posting one month ago today. Inexplicably moving to the top of the referral list lately is the terrific bird-blogger Bootstrap Analysis. As far as I can tell, my only acquaintance with her was a post I submitted to I-and-the-Bird FIVE years ago! (Thanks, Nuthatch!)

But the all-time top of the Foothills Fancies hit parade, with more than twice as many visits as any other post, is the delightful Scales and Tails, documenting a fascination with snakes we might not have expected. In particular, strong in the search terms are things like "baby rattlesnake identification," "images of baby prairie rattlesnake," and so on. (We can only hope these weren't emergency searches.) Thanks go to this little guy. I hope you're doing well, sweetie, wherever you are.

I think I feel a rattlesnake post coming on... stay tuned!

Bright Spots in Winter: BGR #37

2011-02-28T07:03:00.005-07:00

If winter's lingering a little too long where you are, you can always turn to the Berry-Go-Round for a touch of life and color. The Phytophactor has corraled a red-carpet-runway-free batch of plant posts for this month's carnival.

Contemplate invasive (?) orchids (we should have such weeds) or bryophytes-du-jour (such as this loverly liverwort), explore tasty wild edibles (with care!), tropical vines, or Great Basin conifers. You can even try your hand at making soup—but brush up on your Latin first to get the ingredients right...

And of course, FF's own lichen post below is featured too.

Thanks, Phactor!

Opposites Attract, or What’s Up with Lichens

2011-02-26T17:49:00.020-07:00

What is it about lichens that’s so fascinating?? I caught “the bug” many years ago, but I guess unless you’re exposed, your immunity remains intact. Once you start noticing them, though, they can be hard to resist.

First, there’s the startling array of shapes and colors. That trait they have in common with other fungi so maybe it’s not lichens’ most unusual feature (those are fungi, above, by the way). Still, for everything from barely perceptible crusts to wacky forms worthy of a sci-fi movie, lichens are hard to beat.

Second, they’re pretty much everywhere. Once you start spotting them, you can find them in deserts or high mountains and everywhere in between, growing on rocks, old stumps, tree bark or twigs, mosses, soil, or substrates provided by humans. Some even live underwater.

And everywhen. Fossil lichens have now been reported as far back as 600 million years ago (in China, 2005), and it’s been proposed (though not widely accepted) that the famous Ediacaran biota of Australia may have represented fossilized lichens (Retallack, 1994; refuted by Waggoner, 1995). They’ve even been given credit for, very early on, building the oxygen atmosphere and making the planet fit for habitation.

Okay maybe that’s a stretch… and probably we should call them "lichen-like symbioses" rather than the lichens we know today. There is, however, an "unequivocal report" of lichen fossils from 400 million years ago, and that's not half bad.

Lichens are tough. Studying them in the harsh environment of the Arizona desert, where they’re lucky to get a few minutes to photosynthesize using dew at dawn before they dry out for another day, one develops a certain respect for these crusty critters. Imagine the temperature on a dark volcanic rock at midday of an Arizona summer... you'd be crustose too.

Lichens survive in the even harsher Namib and Negev deserts, where dew and fog are the only sources of water. We used to speculate that, if there was life on Mars, it was most likely in the form of lichens.

That latter hypothesis has since gotten a boost from actual research. As reported in New Scientist, 2005:

In an experiment led by Leopoldo Sancho from the Complutense University of Madrid, two species of lichen—Rhizocarpon geographicum and Xanthoria elegans—were sealed in a capsule and launched on a Russian Soyuz rocket on 31 May 2005.

Once in Earth orbit, the lid of the container opened and the samples were exposed to the space environment for nearly 15 days before the lid resealed and the capsule returned to Earth.

The lichens were subjected to the vacuum of space and to temperatures ranging from—20°C on the night side of the Earth, to 20°C on the sunlit side.

We just knew it!! When the lichens came home from their jaunt in space, and were returned to reasonable conditions, they came back to life and actively metabolized, just as if they hadn't been subjected to intense solar radiation and a huge range of temperatures, not to mention absolute vacuum. They have remarkable recuperative powers.

By the way, that temperature has got to be wrong; space is no where near that warm!! According to Answers.com, "In Earth orbit, the temperature of objects in sunlight can rise to 120°C/250°F. The actual temperature in space is about 3°K (-270°C or three degrees Celsius above Absolute Zero)."

That's literally cool, but what about the attraction?

Maybe the neatest thing about these incredible organisms is that they're not one organism at all, but a combination. The lichen symbiosis is not unique, but has happened many times, and with many different partners. Now that fungi, and therefore lichens, are no longer considered plants but their own entire kingdom as are algae, the lichen combination unites members of two extremely distinct groups of organisms. (Ever think it's tough to get along with mates of our own species?? Consider the lichen.) The photobiont consists of algal or cyanobacterial cells immersed in the hyphal strands of the mycobiont, or fungal partner. Here's a great orange lichen; note the green layer of algal cells in the lower right of the photo, where the thallus has been cut.

Above: Xanthomendoza mendozae close-up. Photo by Chris Wagner, U.S. Forest Service. By the way, the Forest Service has a well-written section on lichens; worth checking out for more on the basics!

In some lichen species, the symbiosis gets really interesting. They may have a primary union with, say, Trebouxia, the most common green alga in lichens, but they also have a little cyanobacterial thing going on. Take this Peltigera for example. When wet, its bright green color tells us that most of the thallus contains green algal cells (Chlorophytes, eukaryotes). But see those darker bumps on the surface? Called cephalodia, those harbor cyanobacteria (Protists, kingdom Monera), adding a third kingdom to this particular symbiotic union.

In our neck of the woods (Pelts are creatures of the forest-floor), most Peltigera species are grayish or brown and never show green, even when wet. Those species, including the abundant Peltigera canina, have remained true to their original cyanobacterial commitment.

Back with more on these wonderful beings soon!

Brown is Back: the February Thaw

2011-02-19T11:34:00.005-07:00

This week, brown is the new white. Most of the evidence of the storms of early February has disappeared from the view, if not from the north-facing front yard.

The rainbarrels were 350-lb ice cubes little more than a week ago, but with temperatures in and above the 40s and 50s since the 11th, they’ve returned to liquidity. Tonight the chance of precipitation moves a bit above slim, so white may make a return as temps are expected to be more seasonal than springlike tomorrow.

Meanwhile, it’s a comfortable 52 degrees at midday, and Cat Woman and I are going to attempt to revisit the jelly lichens at the Bear's Lair this afternoon.

Inspired by Swamp Things and her photos of spring (snakes? salamanders?... mink??) already, I went out to look. Even the currants (usually first) are resisting the temptation to show green, but I did spot some early leaves of grape hyacinths, so the bulbs are considering a new season.

What We're Used To

2011-02-18T08:23:00.007-07:00

Yesterday I had another of those startling encounters with a "foreign" culture when someone visited from downtown Denver to install equipment. Really a nice guy, but he always has trouble finding the place even though he's been out here before (we're 20 miles from Denver). To get here, after exiting the highway, you have to make all of three turns, all on paved roads. More than getting lost, though, I was surprised by his concern that he might encounter a snake. Not just a rattlesnake, but apparently any kind of snake.

It's February. I explained that his chances of seeing a snake were somewhere between extremely slim and zilch, no matter how mild the day. We also talked about bears and mountain lions, neither of which I've seen in person in my 30 years here. We know they're here, we just don't see 'em. In fact, we've grown used to not seeing 'em. (Photo by H. Barrison via Wikipedia.)

We don't live in a remote mountain cabin without services. This is, for all intents and purposes, civilization. There are neighbors within shouting distance; we even have regular trash pickup. But when I thought about the "other foot"—how I feel when I go to downtown Denver—I got it. It's culture shock; it just wasn't what he was used to. I can function downtown, more or less, and he can function here; it's just outside of the comfort zone.

In fact, I can navigate fairly well downtown, as long as I'm going somewhere I'm used to. But set me down in San Francisco or St. Louis, and I'm a fish out of water. Big cities make me nervous; if I went to New York City, I'd turn into a basket case utterly dependent on my guide. There would have to be a guide. (Photo adapted from Wikipedia.)

I had the same experience decades ago when I was in college. I tutored a young man from The City who found himself unsettled by the surroundings of the rural college we attended. Drop him off the subway in the middle of Queens or Yonkers, he'd be fine. The green hills of upstate New York, though, freaked him out. I doubt he ever left the campus. As we talked about it, we realized I'd be equally freaked on his home turf.

We humans are adaptable creatures, and that's the problem. We're able to get used to whatever's around us, and it becomes a new norm, a new basis for future comparison. Scientists call it shifting baselines and Wikipedia does a pretty good job of explaining the basics. Originally applied to the oceans and perceptions of fish abundance, the concept works marvelously for just about everything. We can only compare with what we know. That's why the older we get, the more different the "good old days" look.

The message, I guess, is be careful what you get used to, whether it's the new superhighway, more convenient shopping, having 100 TV channels, or never seeing open lands and wildlife. It will end up in your future. Sci-fi writers have suggested that humans can adapt to planets and environments that are entirely manmade. At the rate we're going, some of us may get to find out.

Every day we all make choices, says a student at Scripps. Make sure your choices count.

The Week That Was: February So Far

2011-02-07T09:42:00.005-07:00

January's last gasp was almost tropical, with clear skies and shirt-sleeve weather most of that last weekend. The groundhog brought change, for sure, this time! The cold started on the 31st, and we (and the groundhog) were in the deep freeze on his day, with the added touch of several inches of snow. Mind you, I'm not complaining (especially after lamenting December's lack of moisture in any form). I was lucky, I got to stay home feeding the woodstove and keeping the chickens in liquid water (or trying to) as we spent a couple days in the teens below zero.

The slideshow covers the past two weeks, starting with the brown views of late January, and ending with this morning's sun shining on a foot of new-fallen snow that began arriving yesterday morning. By 10 a.m., it will be above freezing and I won't have to worry so much about the chickens' thirst. Colorado blue skies have returned for the moment, though more snow is expected tonight and tomorrow.

I did worry about the birds, most of whom flocked to the feeders. Food was no problem; they had plenty of that, but I was out of suet. I invented a substitute of sorts, that immediately attracted a little Downy Woodpecker, but she soon lost interest. Even the starlings didn't find it tempting. Finally, I fed it to the more appreciative chickens, once proper bird suet arrived.

I tried to provide the little birds with water too, but it was rejected. Juncos, finches, and assorted sparrows foraged inches from the dishes without indulging. Everyone looked like little puffballs, all fluffed against the cold.

Both Sharp-shinned and Cooper's Hawks have also been coming by regularly. (I'm finally getting better at telling them apart, at least when the size differential is visible.) I've found little evidence of their success, but they keep the little birds on their toes.

January Berries

2011-01-30T11:39:00.004-07:00

The latest edition of the Berry-Go-Round plant carnival is now posted at Seeds Aside.

This month's eclectic collection offers a look at a dozen record-holding plants, news about Sphagnum genetics, book reviews, the evolution of C4 photosynthesis, and the stunningly unique Fern Rap. Or how about the oldest evidence of plants found to date in Florida? All of these tasty tidbits, and many more, can engage your brain cells if you wander over to edition #36 of the Berry-Go-Round.

Nice job, Laurent! Thanks for the great reading...

"Botanical" Wonders

2011-01-22T09:20:00.027-07:00

Two events conspired to renew my level of botanical engagement this month. The second was Mary, the Accidental Botanist, who posted a piece about ThePlantList.org, a great resource for people (Mary aptly calls "plant nerds") who want to figure out more about a plant.

But the original reason I needed to re-engage was work-related: a project that gave me an excuse to learn more about the rare plants at Summit Lake Park, the alpine contribution to Denver's Mountain Park System. I need to know what these plants look like, and I won't be making any trips to Mt. Evans or Summit Lake in January (see photo). Could the new PlantList site help me?

In two clicks, on my first attempt*, I found myself looking at an image of herbarium specimen #K000697587 of Draba exunguiculata at, incredibly, the Kew Herbarium! It was collected near Gray's Peak in 1885!

*Okay, not quite that easy. Plantlist has a typo; I had to add an "n" to the species epithet to make it work.

Quite a few of the rare plants at Summit Lake are mosses and liverworts (bryophytes). In another two clicks, this time over to the New York Botanical Garden, I was studying a map of locations of specimens of the rare moss, Oreas martiana. Although 16 of the 39 specimens at NYBG are from Colorado, the map showed only six locations on the North Slope of Alaska, one in northern British Columbia, and two in Greenland. Ahh, there's the wrinkle: The specimens have to be "georeferenced," that is with coordinates recorded, in order to be plotted, and many, it seems, are not.

The Plant List, sad to say, deals only with vascular plants and bryophytes. You'd think 298,900 valid names (and more than a million total) would be enough to satisfy anyone, no?

As I said in a previous post about Summit Lake:

I’m a bit daft about cryptogams, and it seemed everywhere we tried to put a flag, the “bare” ground was thick with lichens and mosses. Tundra lichens are a special breed—most are species that dominate arctic ecosystems and aren’t seen down here in the lower 48 states, except at very high altitudes. So they’re special, at least to me.

What about my favorite arctic tundra lichens that also occur at Summit Lake? No help from the PlantList there, but I was hooked on the concept. Lichen images are rarely a problem; Steve and Sylvia Sharnoff have helped us out with their definitive book and website at Lichen.com. (And Steve's more extensive photo gallery, a wonderful place to explore on a snowy winter's day.)

A quick visit over to the American Bryological and Lichenological Society (ABLS) website reminded me I should drop in on the lichen herbarium at Arizona State University, where Dr. Thomas Nash has amassed more than 109,000 lichen specimens. Searchable... Now that sounds promising!

Instead of searching only the ASU collection, though, I found myself presented with this opportunity to search lichen herbaria across the US and Canada! Enter a taxon, and/or maybe some criteria, and pow! you've got label data from any of the 15 institutions in the Consortium of North American Lichen Herbaria.

A few more clicks, and you'll have a map of all the georeferenced specimens in the database, or maybe a list of all the lichen specimens collected within a given distance of whatever coordinates you care to enter. If you ask for all the occurrences of the arctic lichens Dactylina madreporiformis (aka Allocetraria madreporiformis) and Thamnolia vermicularis, you get 515 specimens in ten (counting subspecies) taxa, that look, on the map, like this. The Dactylina is red; Thamnolia blue.

The armchair explorer can click each little map bubble to view a specimen label for that site. If multiple specimens occur there, a list of them pops up, and you can pick which label you want to see.

If you have a microscope handy, you can even try using a Dynamic Key to the lichens of an area, as in this one for the 348 lichen species within 40 miles of Summit Lake. The key will walk you through the characters, eliminating species at every choice (pick a feature you know, if possible, or can make an educated guess at), until you arrive at your answer. Unfortunately, the first big steps in elimination require you to know quite a bit about the lichen's innards, like spore features and what the photobiont (algal partner) is. If you happen to know it's cyanobacterioid, you're in luck; you'll only have to work through 36 species. Alas, about 90% of lichens involve green algae, often Trebouxia, as the primary photobiont.

Easy way to lose a week or two (as I did)... If Dr. Weber's lichen collection* at the CU Boulder Herbarium (COLO) was in the database, I'd be in real trouble!

You say you're not particularly fond of lichens? We'll have to address that in a future post...
——
* Specimen data aren't online, but you can explore his Catalog of Colorado Lichens.

For Berry-Go-Round #36... "Botanical" is in quotes because lichens aren't really considered to be plants by most people. These days they're organized as "lichenized fungi." But BGR says it's okay "as long as a reminder clearly indicates fungi and algae are not considered plants anymore." This is my reminder.

How to Start a Year

2011-01-18T06:46:00.008-07:00

So far, 2011 has shown promise, in its small moments and quiet observations. Just the way we like it here at FF... Dawn photo, on the 2nd, finds the Sun in its notch, already a bit to the north of its Winter Solstice position.

Our New Year's storm was followed by an even more productive one the next weekend. So far, we are two for three on weekend snow. With temperatures plus-50F (above 10C) this past weekend (and a few minutes of actual rain, in January yet, yesterday morning), the entire foot (30 cm) of snow is now also gone. On January 6th, the calm between the storms is reflected in a pink morning.

Trips to the coop after dusk have, a time or two, been accompanied by the hooting of Great Horned Owls, and early one morning, we could hear two calling to each other in the neighborhood. It's that time of year already. One night, even a sighting, as an Owl flew low past the house.

The youngest girls, last year's pullets, have starting laying seriously, and we are already overwhelmed with luscious eggs, many of them in shades of green. In another month, the older hens will start again too; I'd better get my "customers" primed for a busy season.

The Sharp-shinned Hawk is becoming a regular, often spooking from the chicken area each morning when I open the coop door, and sometimes not going far. To date, I've found Junco feathers by the gate, by the fence, and under her tree. Why she isn't eating more Starlings is still a mystery.

On a sad note, Bob the Quail has not shown his adorable little face, or that roundish shape lurking under his favorite shrub, since January 4th. I still hope for his return, but know as well that his visit was a special glimpse and not necessarily a long-term liaison. Cat Woman's friend and I will remember a special sighting of him on New Year's Day.

No evidence suggests that the resident sharpie was the cause of Bob's sudden disappearance. He made it through the first cold spell, but left before the second, so it wasn't the cold either.

For several days, a Red-tailed Hawk screamed from a power pole down the street. One morning, he took off as I was driving away, making a low pass just above my windshield. Too quick for the camera, that close look sticks only in memory.

One morning, I met Bee Lady and Flame at Red Rocks to check out the birds there. With several "unusuals" reported, including a Curve-billed Thrasher, we had high expectations. We saw, that day, only the Golden-crowned Sparrow, a new one for me. Neither the Harris's Sparrow nor the Rosy Finches put in an appearance. The thrasher has been reported back since, and Cat Woman got to see an entire flock of Rosy Finches there this weekend.

On the domestic front, we've had some serious cold, during which the woodstove served cozily, and the Chocolate Cat discovered the cryptic qualities of the new blanket "Grandma" brought him for Christmas.

That's January—and domestic tranquility!

Welcoming the New Year

2010-12-31T15:41:00.007-07:00

...with a little moisture! At least it kept up through the day, giving us this view about 4 p.m. yesterday afternoon.

And, bright and early this morning, a crisp 6-8 degrees (-15 C), and we have, maybe 6 to 8 inches (15-20 cm) of snow to match... seems like less by this afternoon.

The view this afternoon includes our semi-domestic herd of ungulates, come to see if there's chicken food or birdseed available. Bob the quail has been pretty invisible all day. Now that it's warmed up to 15 (10 C), I took hot water out to the coop area an hour ago, and there he was, right in front of the coop door. We've been half expecting an extra during beak count—is tonight going to be the night?

Also hanging out near the feeder is the current generation of Artemis. (Artemis helped start this blog, so we really enjoy seeing her and/or her relatives.) I finally had to go out anyway; the little birds are relieved that I've incidentally chased her off so they can have a snack before bedtime.

Upslope: Color It White

2010-12-30T10:52:00.004-07:00

Boy, howdy! It's a bouncing baby (or maybe not so baby) upslope storm! It finally arrived this morning, though I think the weatherfolk thought it would be a little later. We've been waiting for a storm to go south, but everything lately has moved north of or straight over the center of Colorado. (For the whole deal on upslope storms, see Second Storm from last March, our usual upslope season.)

For some reason, I thought this one might arrive from the south, but clearly (8:15 a.m.) the action was going to be in the north.

By 9:45, I was slightly optimistic.

And, at 10:30 a.m., my dreams were coming true! If it just stays all day and gives us the 6-12 inches expected (15-30 cm), I'll consider my wishes fulfilled! For now...

Red Sky at Morning

2010-12-29T09:34:00.009-07:00

This bodes well! A break in a long-drawn out drought today would be most welcome. The weather forecast supports this sky, which, as you'll recall, suggests:

Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.
Red sky at night, sailor's delight.

Unfortunately, I can't find this one in my lovely weather lore book, discussed earlier this month. I do see something similar:

Rainbow in the morning, shepherd take warning.
Rainbow toward night, shepherd's delight.

But we have neither rainbows nor shepherds. For that matter, no sailors handy either. Still, we are hoping for a nice pile of heavy, wet snow. It's just what the foothills need!

Eric Sloane does offer another reassuring thought from lore; this one, he assures us, is true:

Evening red and morning gray sets the traveler on his way.
Evening gray and morning red brings down rain upon his head.

Oh, yes, please!!

In other news, I pretty much failed to take my usual Solstice sunrise photo. Apparently I didn't last year either. I did bracket this one, so here's this morning's shot, a picture-perfect match for 2008's pre-solstice view!

It's been a long time since I did one of these, too. See how dry?

I'd best be off about my errands before the storm hits!

The Holly and the Ivy

2010-12-26T10:31:00.000-07:00

Christmas, and the whole winter season in general, is brightened by a host of plants we traditionally associate with this time when we are, in the Northern Hemisphere temperate zone, largely plant-deprived. Lately it seems The Tree and the ubiquitous modern Poinsettia get most of the glory, but in times past many other plant species lent color and meaning to our festivities. As this song has been trickling through my head all week, I thought I'd explore a few of its historic associations, and give you a reason to keep your holiday greens up a little longer.

In days of yore, when certain Europeans placed great emphasis on the symbolism associated with plants and animals, the year was divided into two parts: the waxing year, into which we pass on the Winter Solstice, is ruled by the Oak King; the waning half is ruled by the Holly King. (Photo from Wikimedia commons.)

As the song (circa 1710) says:

The Holly and the Ivy, now are both well grown;
Of all the trees that are in the wood, the Holly bears the crown.

The Holly (always symbolically male, though botanically coming in both flavors) is "best in the fight;" he wins the crown at Summer Solstice but rules only until displaced by Oak on December 21st. (The "boughs of holly" tradition predates our image of Victorian Christmases; the Romans used holly in similar fashion a millenium earlier for celebrations of Saturnalia, associated with December 17th.)

The Ivy is traditionally female, and her place in symbolism sheds a more sinister light on the festivities:

Holly stands in the hall, fair to behold:
Ivy stands without the door, she is full sore a cold.
Holly and his merry men, they dance and they sing,
Ivy and her maidens, they weep and they wring.

Ivy hath chapped fingers, she caught them from the cold,
So might they all have, aye, that with ivy hold.
Nay, ivy, nay, it shall not be I wis;
Let holly have the mastery, as the manner is.

This sad story actually makes logical sense, in that Holly has been brought inside to decorate the mantel, while Ivy, being attached to the outer walls of our hypothetical English country house, must spend the winter outside.

Holly and Ivy Here and Now
Neither of these excellent plants of the British Isles escapes sinister implications on this side of the pond. English Ivy (Hedera helix) and English Holly (Ilex aquifolium) both can, and have, become invasive here in North America. Here one of the benefits of Colorado's harsh and droughty climate presents itself; neither species, thankfully, has escaped from cultivation in our fair state. Elsewhere it's not so comfortable: English Ivy is a designated noxious weed in Oregon and Washington, whose forests, coincidentally, provide most of our domestic holiday greens. (See another essay on the holiday harvest over at Small Wonders. Apparently I've long been interested in this topic.)

H. helix can grow to choke out other plants and create "ivy deserts" in the United States. State and county sponsored efforts are encouraging the destruction of ivy in forests of the Pacific Northwest and the Southern United States. Its sale or import is banned in Oregon. Ivy can easily escape from cultivated gardens and invade nearby parks, forests and other natural areas. Ivy can climb into the canopy of trees in such density that the trees fall over from the weight, a problem which does not normally occur in its native range. In its mature form, dense ivy can destroy habitat for native wildlife and creates large sections of solid ivy where no other plants can develop. —from Wikipedia.org.

English Holly is also plantae non grata in the Pacific Northwest, despite its commercial production there, which may well have been a source for the invasion. It is considered naturalized in many forests in our western tier of states, where it occurs in the westernmost counties, but hasn't spread in the eastern U.S. forests as ivy has, according to the USDA distribution records. It has not, so far, been listed as a noxious weed, though it is projected to change the composition of the Pacific Northwest forests in the decades ahead.

Household Decor—and More
It's not just about decking the halls to bring inside a little spirit of the forest at Christmas; in older days, the practice of using plants indoors was year-round, each with its season. This tradition supported not just comely decorations, but practical applications of sanitation and, no doubt, sanity in times when people were not in the habit of bathing regularly and often lived with their animals. In this critical role, plant use was known as strewing, and involved a wide variety of herbs and other species, as partially outlined below.

Candlemas Eve, by Robert Herrick, published 1648
(found online at The Hymns and Carols of Christmas)

Down with the rosemary and bays,
Down with the mistletow;
Instead of holly now upraise
The greener box for show.

The holly hitherto did sway,
Let box now domineer,
Until the dancing Easter day,
Or Easter's Eve appear.

Then youthful box which now hath grace
Your houses to renew,
Grown old, surrender must his place
Unto the crisped yew.

When yew is out, then birch comes in,
And many flowers beside,
Both of a fresh and fragrant kin,
To honour Whitsuntide.*

Green rushes then, and sweetest bents,
With cooler oaken boughs,
Come in for comly ornaments,
To readorn the house.

Thus times do shift;
Each thing his turn doth hold;
New things succeed,
As former things grow old.

* "Whitsuntide" is the Christian celebration of the seventh Sunday after Easter. This puts it more or less coincident (given Easter's variable date) with and apparently a replacement for the pagan celebration of May Eve/May Day, aka Beltane.

Obligatory botanical note: I'm going to go out on a limb (or bough) here, and try to put names to these plants, for those of us not conversant with the more common decorative and strewing herbs.

"The Greener Box": Buxus sempervirens, in the unappetizing Euphorbiaceae, is an easy one, and grows in Europe, the Orient, and temperate Asia. Given its toxic nature, unlike the rest, we'd perhaps count on this green primarily for decoration.

"The Crisped Yew": Taxus baccata occurs in north temperate Europe and Asia; in North America, substitute Pacific Yew (Taxus brevifolia).

"Birch" would most likely be Betula alba , which grows in Europe, No. Asia, and No. America, or in No. America, perhaps also Sweet Birch, B. lenta.

For "green rushes," we could use Sweet flag, Acorus calamus, a plant of north temperate regions, as is the Bulrush, Scirpus lacustris, both widely used for strewing.

"Bent": Agrostis stolonifera, perhaps, or others of the more than one hundred species of this grass. Pasture grasses and sometimes weeds, these would have been part of the straw commonly used as floor covering.

Perhaps not surprising is the fact that all of these mentioned have one other thing in common, in addition to this use. These species all come with an "L." after their names, signifying the Linnaean origin of their binomials.

Few of us have backyards that could sustain a year-round harvest of greens for strewing and freshening our houses; most likely, we also lack the time to harvest and redecorate seasonally. As the practice has faded, it seems our winter holiday decorations are the only remnant of a once wider traditional practice of bonding with plants. (At left: Burning The Christmas Greens, from Harper's Weekly, 1876.)

On this day [Candlemas] the Christmas ceremonies, which had lingered on after Twelfth-day, finally closed, and all traces of them were removed. The custom long prevailed, and there must be many still living who can remember the evergreens with which our churches were decorated at Christmas, remaining until Candlemas [February 2nd]. from William Henry Husk, Songs of the Nativity (1868)

Do we have, today, less need in our homes of the freshening effects of greens (not to mention the antimicrobial properties that were probably also a benefit)—or are we just now more inclined (or able) to get those benefits from a commercial product than from our backyards?

Watching the Watcher

2010-12-25T18:00:00.002-07:00

Over at Watching the World Wake Up, the Watcher recently completed a marvelous four-part Thanksgiving chronicle that dredges up all kinds of memories of the more adventurous days of my own youth. He covers dinosaur tracks, muddy roads, rock art, geology, and of course desert botany in this quadruple tour-de-force. I'm in awe of his blogging talent, so, yes, I'm a Watcher Watcher.

Watcher's contributions to the blog world include the invention of the tangent and the nested tangent, without which his posts would be eversomuch more straightforward and possibly even dull. Some visitors flock to his site just for the tangents! And, of course, the allusions to Selma Hayek.

And his posts are LONG! Settle in, it's going to be a substantial visit, but you will come away having learned some remarkable tidbit of esoteric knowledge you would never have thought to look up for yourself. On average (n=1), his posts are 12,500 pixels long, or 2,300 words (n=2). I thought that chicken post below was long; it comes in at less than half the length of a typical Watcher post.

Nor does the Watcher neglect illustration. If he fails (on the rare occasion it's been known to happen) to capture a photograph, he will create an Awesome Graphic, an art form he invented (along with the subcategories Expand-o-graphic and Action Graphic). Some complex concepts, of course, demand an Awesome Graphic and could not be otherwise illustrated. [This one is from his post on seeing the Mexican flag come to life.]

I don't know how he does it all, but I'm glad he does!!

He can't stop, apparently, with knowing that birds have pentachromatic vision, or that some, but not all, Springbeauties are tetraploid. Instead he takes his readers into the nitty gritty of what that means, plumbing the depths of whatever science (astronomy, psychology, physiology, genetics, geology, archaeology, zoology, botany) presents itself. It's like he has a post for everything!

Want to know How Magpies build their nests or All about Greek Mythology? There's a post for that!

One aspect of the Watcher's work, however, fills me with dismay. He thinks of his blog as a "project" that will, one day, be "completed." On that day, the blog world will be an emptier place.

———

Off Topic: The little sponges we are as children just soak up all kinds of stuff, and just thinking of writing this post brought back memories of the Watchbird. For those whose childhood was more deprived, here's a bit about the Watchbird:

In the baby boom years, I suppose parents needed all the help they could get rearing responsible offspring of good character. Some of that "help" came from the Watchbird, a cartoon created by Munro Leaf to remind us how to behave. Apparently some of my peers have more sinister recollections of the Watchbird, but I (of course) was trying to be good, and the Watchbird regularly showed us examples of bad children: the Whinie, the Sneaky, the Pusher... (honestly, I've forgotten all of them!) I guess you could say it was negative reinforcement, and maybe that's why it's frowned upon today. Like spankings and other forms of archaic parental guidance, however, it was effective! Contrariwise, as Hootsbuddy recalls:

Maybe it was this early training that made part of me into a Watchbird. I dunno. In any case, it missed the mark. I was suppose to identify with someone in the cartoon, not the Watchbird. I guess even at that early age I was more prone to judging than being judged.

(As long as I'm being quantitative, I should mention that Hootsbuddy's Place (which I found on a "Watchbird" search) looks pretty interesting. He managed to rack up more than 3,000 posts featuring all kinds of commentary in less than six years... and then stopped abruptly in mid-2009, as we all probably will someday.)

My Visit to the Book Cliffs
At any rate, the Watcher's posts quite often strike a chord. This last one especially brought back days of trucking around the Book Cliffs on (gulp) synfuels reconnaissance. (Ah, the last big boom; those were the days, eh?) I remember two special events. [Pic right, not mine.]

Watcher reports: "Once you get off the asphalt, Mancos is both wonderful and horrible. In dry conditions, graded dirt roads across the Mancos are often smooth and fast, allowing a passenger car to zip comfortably along at 40 or 50 MPH. But when wet, forget it." (Whence he goes on to explain, in true Watcher-style, about smectitic clays.)

I can't say I remember that it was Mancos Shale we were driving on, but I do remember "smooth and fast." As you approach the Book Cliffs (which in my day were apparently closer to I-70 than they are now), you start winding around the toes of the cliffs. Cruising around one such hairpin, a bit too fast probably, I found myself face to face with a huge logging truck (he was probably also moving right along). We both slammed on the brakes, and came to a mutual stop with our side mirrors almost touching. Whew! Survived that one...

While in the Cliffs, we had a good time cruising across washes, which of course are more fun if they have water in them. If you went fast enough (it was a rental vehicle, and I was, after all, young), you could get a good splash going!

Anyway, when we left to return to Grand Junction, it was beginning to snow a bit. In fact, it quickly became a whiteout, though I don't remember that there was much accumulation. As we drove south toward I-70, confident it was out there somewhere, a helicopter landed next to the road to ask us for directions!! In the decades since, I can't say that's ever happened again!

So, Watcher, as always "Thanks for the memories!"

Old Weather, New Insights: The Moon

2010-12-11T17:00:00.002-07:00

As long-time readers (if any) know, the weather used to be a frequent topic of conversation around Foothills Fancies. Thanks to The Chemist, it may be again. Last week he handed me a great little book, with the comment that he'd throw it away if I didn't want it. You know how I am about throwing things away. I've been reading it avidly ever since.

The Non-hunters Moon
When I read page 47 of this cute little book, I knew I wanted to write first about weather and the Moon, especially because we broached the subject not long ago. I asked The Chemist for help again, and for a "slight fee," he provided this incredible image, taken Wednesday night between 5 and 6 p.m. local time. With the Moon less than 15% full, we have here a lovely waxing crescent.

How did he do this, you ask? The Chemist reports: "I went up on Genesee Mountain last night with that in mind. Unfortunately, there were thin clouds covering the moon so I couldn't get the best pictures. I did take about 300 in 3 series and the attached is a stack of the best 67 images from one series. These were taken with my Pentax dslr and 400mm telephoto." The fee will be paid in pizza, I think.

"When you can hang your powder horn on the moon, do just that." So says the weather wisdom compiled by Eric Sloane in Folklore of American Weather (1963). This one is attributed to "famous Indians" who apparently hunted when the ground was wet from recent rains. They saw this Moon as a dipper, that could either hold or release water. I would guess that powder-horn-packing Indians are a fairly modern development, or perhaps this is an updated version of an ancient saying once applied to quivers or bows.

In either case, this weather sign is not very reliable, says Eric, but the saying stuck with me because the idea of a Nonhunters Moon, especially following so close on the Hunters Moon of November, was appealing, giving the woodland creatures a little break from pursuit.

Right now, however, many weeks or even plural months since a reasonable precipitation event, we're tempted to believe that this bowl of a Moon IS withholding moisture from our foothills! It is dry, dry, dry... and a few snowflakes last night did nothing to change that. The storms that have made the mountain ski resorts deliriously happy have done nothing for us whatsoever.

Eric Sloane and the Weather
The name sounded familiar, so I had to check him out. Eric Sloane is more famous as a landscape painter than for his weather-wisdom, although he has plenty of credentials in the latter. As a painter of clouds, skies, and American pastoral landscapes, he "sought out the abandoned and nearly forgotten treasures of our early American landscape." At one point, he was painting airplanes, and skyscapes with airplanes, in exchange for trips into the wild blue yonder. Gradually in his paintings, the airplanes got smaller and the clouds took over the canvas. "Who'll buy pictures with just clouds?" his friend asked. One answer: Amelia Earhart.

Credited with initiating the concept of televised weather forecasts, Sloane also turned to old farmers' almanacs and diaries in search of weather wisdom. This led him to promote a philosophy of awareness that was based on the kind of insight early [European] Americans, especially farmers, had to develop to begin to understand this new climate in which they found themselves living. Their understanding of stable British (and other European) climates didn't travel well across the Atlantic Ocean to the fickle New World. Although some of their observations, like the one above, don't hold water, others were found to be perfectly sensible and reliable. We'll explore some of those in future posts.

The person of the 18th century, Sloane argued, was not a more intelligent, enlightened, or better person than his 21st century counterpart. He and she was more adept at being content in their pace, relative level of self and community reliance, and in their better understanding and acceptance of their locale within the stream - be it metaphysical or metaphorical - of time.—from Eric Sloane's Philosophy of Awareness

And Our Lady Moon?
Never be it said that you can't learn anything from blogging. It was just a couple years ago that I came across the simple statement: "The full moon rises at sunset and sets at sunrise." It was something I'd probably never thought about, but... how else could it be? Have you ever seen a Full Moon in the daytime? Why not? Where is the Moon when it's New?

If this is news to you too, play with the idea a little, and you'll figure it out. Stretch out your arms and point one at the Moon and one at the Sun. A Full Moon is always, and must be, 180 degrees from the Sun. Contrariwise, when we see a Half Moon, our arms will be at a 90 degree angle.

Here's another tip to play with: When you can cup the crescent Moon in your right hand, it's waxing. When you can hold its curve in your left hand, it's waning. I've struggled to remember which is which, but that's the simple formula.

To learn something more concrete with this post, I'm taking a stab below at labeling the features we see in The Chemist's terrific photo. I'm no astronomer, and this is a pretty wild guess, but it seems to match the maps I have. I am looking forward to being corrected by someone with better knowledge!!

Fine Feathered Friends

2010-12-01T13:00:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago, I had an urgent email from a neighbor: "my chickens are sick, could you come take a look?" I could and did, without any certainty I could be much help, but I seem to be the neighborhood "go to" person for animal calls of all sorts. Kittens arrive in cardboard boxes, strange beasts must be pulled from backyard pools after dark, snakes show up on the doorstep in jars or must be rescued from netting. I have to uphold this sacred trust.

Chickens in Fall, or All About Moulting
But the thing was, her three chickens looked better than some of mine. One hen had feathers of a certain dullness, but I saw no sign of illness or the mites she suspected. (You can test for mites by picking the bird up to see if little flakes of pepper jump off on you.) They were pretty normal for older hens in fall. Older is relative to commercial chickens, who rarely reach the age of two, for hens; not even close to that for cocks.

When I took this picture early yesterday, I noticed there's not much sun in the chicken yard at this time of day/year. John Denver fans, the girls just love 'sunshine on my shoulders,' and these two pullets* crowded close to the gate, where the first morning rays are found, to warm their feathers.

* Pullet is to hen as heifer is to cow, or filly is to nag, as maiden is to mother, as virgin is to... well, you get the drift. These two are (or were) pullets, or spring chickens of this year. One or more of these new girls has started laying, so they're gradually reaching the status of "hen." Because all of the older hens have stopped for the season, we're out of fresh eggs, and we can't wait! Pullet eggs, by the way, are smaller than "regular" eggs: Apparently it takes a while for them to get the machinery working at full capacity.

"Notice, please, how sleek and lovely we are as we strut about the yard."

Even the older gals are looking pretty good now, but a few weeks ago (10/17), I caught poor Goldie here looking downright pathetic. She seemed embarrassed, kept trying to hide behind something, more camera-shy than usual. Her back was almost completely bare, and new quills stuck out all over. Believe it or not, this is normal.

Why chickens should decide to moult when it's already getting cold is beyond me. Seems like it would just make chilly times worse. Presumably, with winter coming, those new feathers will do a better job of insulating them than the old beat-up plumage would. Still, it's a slow process; they don't lose all the feathers at once, although piles of worn feathers drifting around the chicken yard can make you think so. Here's Goldie in progress (11/5), with her new body feathers about halfway regrown.

Note also that Goldie's comb has faded to a pale pink, a sign that she's not in peak condition (partly her age); her resources are going into feathers, which are, after all, almost pure protein. That means no protein left over for those nutritious little bundles we enjoy for breakfast. (Here's a Barred Plymouth Rock in great shape, with bright comb, for comparison.)

Slow as it is, moulting in these pampered hens is speeded up, I think, compared to that of wild birds. Getting caught without primaries or tail feathers would be dangerous! Most wild birds seem to have a moulting process that is much more subtle. I understand birders see birds in moulting mode routinely, so maybe I'm just not watching close enough. I only notice when an eagle or raven flies overhead, missing a prominent wing- or tail-feather.

As it turns out, moulting is triggered by the shorter day length of autumn. In Australia, the onset of moulting is in about March, vs. our September. However, off-season moults are reported by chicken folk fairly regularly, and partial moults can occur whenever chickens are stressed. The stress factor enables egg producers to time and synchronize moulting by applying mild stress to get the whole process over with all at once. (Goldie is looking fine now, though still pale and, I'm sure, not laying.)

More on moulting, from the Queensland Department of Primary Industries and Fisheries.

Egg laying, by the way, uses the same trigger but in the opposite direction, and will pick up noticeably here as early as February. In case you were wondering why eggs are more closely associated with Easter than with Thanksgiving.

Hanging with my Peeps

The chickens are wary and camera-shy, but only to an extent. At least they're used to me, and to the arrival of fresh food on a fairly regular basis. This little guy, who has been hanging out with them quite a bit lately, has captured our hearts, but is a real challenge to capture with the camera. His penchant for hiding under shrubbery adds to the poor quality of these shots. Can you find him in the photo below? When the Handy Helper and I first saw him, back in late September I think, I thought he might be an immature chukar.

That proved wrong when the Darling Husband reached for the bird book the next time he showed up. Bobwhite Quail. A total surprise! Here he is perched in a honeysuckle bush (11/15), very unusual for him.

Hadn't seen him in a few days, and began to worry. This morning (12/1), while I was carrying a teakettle of hot water out to the girls, he ran by. I, naturally, didn't have a camera at hand. It was the second time I've been close to him without fences, shrubs, and camera between. But I went back for the latter, and when I returned with food, there he was, sipping the newly warmed water! At last a clear, if not focused, shot, taken as one of the Ameraucanas looked on.

He ran off, under his favorite shrub, while I loaded the feeders. As soon as I was safely inside, he was out running around again, sampling chicken crumbles and scratch.

Update 12/5/10: Seems I've delayed this post just long enough! Yesterday the Husband captured this shot under a lilac bush—a new location in the backyard. Mr. Quail quickly returned to the chickens.

This morning the Husband fed the girls, and Mr. Quail (we're on a first name basis now, starting to call him "Bob") ran off to, get this, perch in a nearby ash tree. Photo op!! As you will recall, DH is a much better photographer than I, and is using a better camera. I've put DH's five shots into a mini-slideshow below. What a little cutie he is, all fluffed up on his stub this chilly morning! (Guess perching isn't so unusual after all.)

I think he's decided to stick around...

More on Plants: BGR #34

2010-11-29T17:29:00.006-07:00

You may be wondering why, all of a sudden, plant posts finally started reappearing here at Foothills Fancies. It's a puzzle best solved by noting that the latest Berry-Go-Round plant carnival is now posted over at Watching the World Wake Up.
After months of dereliction, we are trying to recoup our reputation as a plant blog by submitting these last couple posts on plants and their activities.

Pity the green ash, a sample here of the indignities discussed below in Plants Die. We've all observed that, in any encounter with power lines, the tree loses. It might be fun to make a series of these, something like RPL's ecology of shopping carts. What do you think?

As usual, the Watcher has rounded up a nice collection of plant goodies, taking us from cotton T-shirts to favorite malts and brews by way of tropical paradises and temperate berries. Drop in and check out some great plant blogging!

Stuff Plants Do

2010-11-27T14:09:00.017-07:00

We know plants sleep through the long season; some (especially annuals) will never awaken. But plants also move through diurnal cycles most of us tend to ignore; some wake and sleep so obviously that we all notice. Explore these delightful time lapse photographic sequences from Indiana to see plants sleep, and waken, and dance, and grow, and thrash about hunting for something to grow upon.

Photo above of Mimosa pudica, Sensitive Plant (leaves open), from native habitat in Goa India. Photo by J.M. Garg, from Wikipedia. This plant also displays reaction to touch, thigmonasty.

We don’t know whether sleeping plants dream. That link takes you to an essay I wrote 14 years ago; I commented then that, although plant responses to light and darkness (nyctinasty) had been known for centuries, scientists these days had “mostly ignored” this line of research. That’s no longer true, it seems, so the story needs an update, as some puzzles are slowly being unraveled. Darwin would be proud.

Mimosa pudica, leaves closed, Photo from Wikipedia, by “Bluemoose.”

Darwin was right
Indeed, as with so many topics, Darwin was the original researcher, the observer and experimenter who explored the esoteric. The Power of Movement in Plants, published in 1880, was his next-to-last book, and he despaired at times of ever finishing it!

Darwin to Sir Joseph Hooker, March 25, 1878:
I think we have proved that the sleep of plants is to lessen the injury to the leaves from radiation. This has interested me much, and has cost us great labor, as it has been a problem since the time of Linnaeus. But we have killed or badly injured a multitude of plants.

Darwin to Asa Gray, Oct 24, 1879:
I have written a rather big book—more is the pity—on the movements of plants, and I am now just beginning to go over the MS. for the second time, which is a horrid bore.

Darwin to DeCandolle, May 28, 1880:
My MS. relates to the movements of plants, and I think that I have succeeded in showing that all the more important great classes of movements are due to the modification of a kind of movement common to all parts of all plants from their earliest youth.

I just happen to have a handy copy of The Life and Letters of Charles Darwin, compiled and edited by his son Francis, but Darwin's letters are now also available online where we all can explore at will.

Modern Science Jumps In
Some plants, such as Maranta, are equipped with specialized joints that control their daily movements. These structures, called pulvini (sing. pulvinus), occur where the leaf blade joins the petiole, functionally somewhat like the wrist joint connecting your hand and forearm. Rapid movements should be suspected in plants that have obvious pulvini—e.g., in Spathiphyllum, which wilts dramatically in an attempt to remind you to water it, then recovers with equal alacrity when you do.

Don’t you just love scientific writing? I was going to entertain you with terrific information about phytochrome and potassium fluxes and glucosidase, but I'd rather stick to what I can see and understand (sometimes) and appreciate (always!)... I can offer a picture (you'll have to click to be able to read it):

I’m so out of practice that, even when I understand the individual words and phrases, it can be tough to extract meaning from some passages (try your skill with samples at the end of this post). As Alice said to the Caterpillar:

I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly, for I can’t understand it myself to begin with.

However, science is like a foreign language, where sometimes you can get the general sense of things without exactly being able to translate it word for word. Here goes with a few gleanings.

Light hitting leaf blades does nothing, but if it hits the pulvinus, the leaf reacts.
Ergo, the pulvinus is the photoreceptor and reacts independently of other pulvini.
Phytochrome is the pigment that keeps leaves from opening when it’s dark.
Phytochrome controls the direction of potassium movement, which controls water movement and hence cell turgor.

Ueda et al. do the best job of explaining all this in an article that almost reads like English, in parts:

One of these is a leaf-opening factor that “awakens” plant leaves, and the other is a leaf-closing factor that reverses this process such that the plant leaves “sleep”. …significant changes in the concentration of the ratio between leaf-closing and -opening factors in the plant are responsible for leaf movement. And this is a universal mechanism in five nyctinastic plants. …

The motor cells in the pulvini of nyctinastic plants consist of two types: extensors and flexors. Leaflets move upward during closure and downward during opening due to the actions of the extensors located on the upper side of a leaf and the flexors on the lower side. …

So these findings represent an important advance in the bioorganic study of nyctinasty and provide important clues regarding the molecular mechanism of nyctinasty, which has been a historical mystery since the era of Darwin.

To me, the fun thing about this article is that, while the mechanism is universal, the pairs of leaf-opening and leaf-closing factors were discovered to be different chemicals in each of the five species studied! How cool is that? (For extra cool, note that Ueda et al. also address the question of memory in plants, specifically Venus Fly-traps and their mechanism for leaf closure.)

In the case of sleeping leaves that rise, as in Maranta and most others, it seems logical that the sleep position is a tense one, and the leaf relaxes into its daytime posture. If so, then raised leaves are actively holding a position, and wilting must occur through some other process. In Maranta, it does; the leaves relax even more, and leaf margins roll inward as turgor is lost.

So far so good. But these articles tend to use Albizia julibrissin or other leguminous species. What about species whose leaves adopt a drooping posture in sleep (e.g., Oxalis)? Are the "extensors" and "flexors" reversed, or do they respond to different signals? In Oxalis, wilting and sleeping postures may be difficult to distinguish. The upper surfaces are relatively exposed, and covering the lower surfaces may help reduce transpiration, reducing further water loss.

With all that we know about plants, it's nice to know a few mysteries remain. It seems no one has answered the ultimate question: If sleeping is so advantageous, why don't more plants do it?

C. Darwin. The Power of Movement in Plants, John Murray, London (1880).
C. Darwin. Insectivorous Plants, John Murray, London (1875).

—References—

Find lots more references by searching nyctinasty at Google Scholar. Here are a few excerpts from just a few samples over the decades to get you started...

Illumination of pinnule tissue alone induced no response, while illumination of an area as narrow as 1 mm, including only the tertiary pulvini and adjacent portions of rachilla and pinnules, was sufficient for a full response. This suggests that the pulvini themselves, the sites of the response, act as photoreceptors. In experiments with various shielding devices, pinnules on the same rachilla responded independently to local illumination, suggesting the absence of any translocatable effects.

Koukkari, Willard L. and William S. Hillman 1968 Pulvini as the Photoreceptors in the Phytochrome Effect on Nyctinasty in Albizzia julibrissin Plant Physiology 43:698-704.

————

Prolonged irradiation during appropriate parts of the diurnal cycle promotes the opening of Albizzia sic julibrissin leaflets. Leaflets also open without illumination, but such opening starts later and is slower and less complete. Opening in the dark is accompanied by lower potassium efflux from dorsal pulvinule motor cells but equal or greater potassium movement into ventral motor cells than occurs during opening in the light. Far red-absorbing phytochrome inhibits opening in the dark… i.e., a high far red absorbing phytochrome level is associated with low potassium content in ventral motor cells, high potassium content in dorsal motor cells, and a small angle between leaflets.

Satter, Ruth L. and Arthur W. Galston 1971. Phytochrome-controlled Nyctinasty in Albizzia julibrissin: III. Interactions between an Endogenous Rhythm and Phytochrome in Control of Potassium Flux and Leaflet Movement. Plant Physiology 48:740-746.

————

The nyctinastic leaf movement is induced by a pair of leaf-movement factors, and one of each pair is a glucoside. There are two key proteins that are involved in the control of nyctinasty. One is -glucosidase: a biological clock regulates the activity of -glucosidase, which deactivates the glucoside-type leaf-movement factor, controlling the balance in the concentrations of the leaf-closing and -opening factors. The other is the specific receptor for each leaf-movement factor: the genuine target cell for each leaf-movement factor is confirmed to be a motor cell from leaflet pulvini, and the specific receptors that regulate the turgor of motor cells are localized in the membrane fraction. (Ueda et al., 2007.)

Ueda, Minoru, Yoko Nakamura, and Masahiro Okada. 2007. Endogenous factors involved in the regulation of movement and “memory” in plants. Pure Appl. Chem., Vol. 79, No. 4, pp. 519–527, 2007.

————

Plants Die

2010-11-23T09:56:00.019-07:00

As I wander around marveling at the wonders of Nature, I can’t help also wondering at my fellow human beings. Time and again, I notice that many of them act as if plants are not alive. This is especially true for trees, who exude a sense of eternity that we more transient beings lack. Their relative permanence apparently makes humans think of them as indestructible features of the nonliving landscape, kind of like rocks. (The humans who read Berry-Go-Round are naturally not in this category of humans.)

That phenomenon, a form of plant blindness surely, causes humans to visit all kinds of indignities on these supremely dignified lifeforms, strangling them with wire fences, lopping off limbs, crippling them in countless ways. Even blithely nailing signs to them as if they had no greater purpose in life than to advise us of money-making opportunities or lost pets.

So, for the record: Plants are ALIVE. Trees included, but plants of all sizes and shapes live, and breathe, and grow, and reproduce, and even, after their fashion, move. They do stuff. (Left, a grape ivy looking for something to climb on.) They eat (some more dramatically than others). If you cut them, they will bleed. If you hit a tree with a lawnmower, it will bruise. Each of those verbs could easily be an entire post in itself, but let’s expand just this one example.

“A tree is much more than a chunk of dead wood,” says Alex Shigo, a career plant pathologist with the Forest Service. “Trees are alive; they live all year ‘round, not just for a short time in the summer.” Dissecting trees with a chainsaw, Shigo revolutionized our understanding because he didn’t rest on what “everyone” knew.

“I could either go with the book or go with what I saw in the tree. Either the books were wrong or the trees were wrong. I chose to go with the trees.”

“I started to see trees in a different way because a tree is a living thing. When you hit a living thing, it reacts. When you hit a tree, it does something. When a tree is threatened, it doesn’t just stand there. It establishes boundaries.”

Citing Shigo, a profile in Irrigation and Green Industry (May 2004) adds that humans put new cells in the same old places throughout their lives, but trees put new cells in new places. A tree doesn’t heal, because it doesn’t replace injured cells with new ones; it just creates a wall, or boundary, between the injured wood and the functional tissue. And that lawnmower “bruise” will remain in the wood indefinitely.

Photo courtesy Wikimedia commons by Max Wahrhaftig June 2005: Alex Shigo (far right) explaining markings on an Oak section during one of his last symposia.

Shigo’s work changed how professionals prune trees by demonstrating that some methods actually promoted rot. Sadly, most tree-trimmers have probably not been exposed to these newer methods, and go about blithely disfiguring trees and shrubs right and left. My most pained memory of this is from Arizona, where trees (I think mulberries) are routinely "pruned" back almost to the trunks on a regular basis; they never develop normal branching patterns but become permanent lollipops.

This post topic was inspired by an outdoor planter I saw recently, full of scented geraniums left to wither and freeze. These plants are perennials, houseplants that thrive inside and add wondrous scents to our indoor air! And they’re favorites of mine. It was all I could do to resist attempting to rescue them, but having already brought all my geraniums indoors to crowd the house, I had to walk away. (I also suspected they were already too far gone to recover. May the devas of scented geraniums forgive me…)

As we head into the season of disposable plants* (or one of them), I part company with the so-called green industry, which creates so much life just to send it out into careless hands who think these living beings are mere decoration.

* Yes, poinsettias too are alive, and, in their native haunts or in greenhouses, capable of growing into mature trees of considerable height.

Confessions: I have, of course, killed my share of plants, perhaps, because of my interest in them and attempts to have them share my life, more than my share. Some, no doubt, were killed with neglect. But not willfully, not with premeditation or malice. (Okay, there are exceptions; certainly there are some plants we prefer to see dead.)

So, yes, plants die. Sometimes on their own, and too often with our help.

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I offer a deep formal curtsy to any and all who treat these amazing, phenomenal lifeforms with all the respect they clearly deserve.

For Berry-Go-Round #34

p.s. Don't forget to observe Buy Nothing Day this Friday!! Eschew the hype...

The Heart of the Monster

2010-11-04T08:30:00.002-06:00

Those who look forward to seeking out goblins, demons, monsters, and other scary critters during this spooky season need look no further than the skyscape that is displayed during these long nights. Last week, my early morning stargazing* taught me a new monstrous constellation.

I'd been scanning the dark gulf between Procyon and Regulus, in hopes of figuring out Cancer, the Crab. A very faint constellation with no star brighter than 4th magnitude, Cancer isn't easily seen this close to "civilization," or with a lightening dawn to compound the challenge. I got a bonus—even spookier than the pale Crab was the critter below.

My eye is always captured, it seems, by the red or orange stars, and just below Cancer, alone in the field, was Alphard, the Solitary One. Alphard, a mid-2nd magnitude star, is also known as Cor Hydrae, the heart of the Hydra, a vast sea monster that stretches across the otherwise quiet space between Cancer and Virgo, ending far east below Spica. The brightest star in a dim constellation, Alphard is more impressive than it looks from here: 175 light-years away, 40 times the Sun's diameter, and burning 400 times brighter. Alphard is an orange giant nearing the end of its life.

Although most of the Hydra was invisible, Spica itself is easy to find, being south of Arcturus, another of my favorite red stars, who was just rising. In fact, Arcturus and Spica were about the only stars visible in that lightening part of the sky. (And, of course, we get to Arcturus by "arcing" along the handle of the Big Dipper and following the arc on to Spica.)

Harry Potter fans might prefer to think of Hydra as the giant and evil basilisk; the resemblance is certainly compelling for a latter-day mythology. Other constellations have been translated to modern times (still looking for that link), so why not Hydra? As the largest constellation, the Water Serpent stretches one-quarter of the way around the sky.

* Please note: Early morning stargazing throws me off schedule with more "normal" evening observers, who should look for the Hydra crossing southern skies February through April.

Hydra may be the largest, but it is not the only, monster up there. There is, to name one example, another sea monster, Cetus, off on the other side of the sky just below the raging bull, Taurus. The story of that monster is well displayed in Watcher's most-thorough post on Andromeda (and almost everything else), which takes in the mythology of Perseus and Cetus and the entire cast of characters in this part of the sky. Here's Perseus as it appears in the east on a fall evening.

Speaking of Perseus (nice seque, eh?), another demon appears in that constellation— as Watcher will explain, the hero Perseus is carrying the severed head of Medusa the Gorgon, she of the serpentine coif. The star Algol represents Medusa's head or eye, and glares in our direction with great malevolence. The name Algol, in fact, is from Arabic for "the ghoul" or demon, and she is an appropriate visitor for the Halloween season.

Algol's gaze, like Medusa's, is considered unlucky. The system is actually a double star, with a bright blue primary and a yellow secondary. As the two stars circle, one eclipses the other every three days, causing the brightness we see to dip from magnitude 2.1 to about 3.4. This eerie blinking of the demon's eye gives the star its unsavory reputation, although it happens so quickly I've yet to catch it in action (or, likely, my ability to judge its relative brightness is underdeveloped). No matter, it gives me something to watch for...

Morning Stargazing

2010-10-28T06:38:00.008-06:00

6:30 a.m. A quick update on the fun sky this morning, just a few minutes ago, and the sheer luck of stargazing at dawn. I was late looking, almost missed the whole show. Sure wish I could post a picture! Maybe I'll have to try drawing it.

The brilliant Winter Hexagon was aloft, as noted earlier, but now the waning Moon was near its center at Castor's feet. And "last night the Moon had a golden ring" (two points for pegging that poetic allusion!*), giving the hexagon a special glow. The ring stretched from Procyon to Bellatrix (Orion) and Menkalinan (Auriga), but left Aldebaran and Rigel outside its circumference, something like this.

As I glanced at Aldebaran, a sizable satellite cruised between the horns of the bull, and crossed the southern end of the hexagon! Definitely worth getting up early for...

*And three more for telling us what that forebodes! (What, no bites? Okay: Wreck of the Hesperus, by H.W. Longfellow. And hurricane.)

Update: November 4, 6:15 a.m. I'm pretty starstruck these darker mornings, and it seems I can't get enough of looking at the Winter Hexagon. This morning the sky was glorious (with less than 5% of crescent Moon just rising), and a few meteors flared across the hexagon's field. Another satellite zoomed in about the opposite direction to the one mentioned above, exiting the hexagon just to the right of Capella. Then lo! a simultaneous satellite appeared, so I watched as the two made near-parallel, but increasingly divergent paths off to the north.

Alas, another starry post is in the works. Maybe I'll get back down to Earth one of these days.

Winter's in the Southern Sky

2010-10-21T07:00:00.016-06:00

6:50 a.m. Already the starlight from our nearby planetary space heater is washing out the light of more distant stellar fires. Practice these last few years is now the only means I have of picking out old friends in the bluing sky. But I can see them now and know that they'll be moving unseen across the sky all morning as we go on with our daily activities.

I count, at first, sixteen or seventeen visible stars in the great Winter Hexagon this morning. Soon the coming Sun fades out all but the brightest, the eight stars that give this configuration its name and define its shape. Remarkable to me has been this new lesson that the darker the night, the more difficult it is to find stars, or rather, to pick out a particular star. Just as it's easier to find a familiar face in a small group than in a crowd, getting to know the stars in moonlight or dawn trains my eye and improves my chances of finding them in darker skies.

As the World Turns
To compound the challenge, my spatial sense of what happens in the sky during daylight or when I'm asleep is developing only slowly. I have a real problem visualizing the whole rotation business. For example, last night at bedtime, the eastern sky looked something like this. No problem with Cassiopeia, she's circumpolar and always a good guide. As my eyes adjusted, I was able to pick out the fainter stars of Perseus just below her. Huh?

But then what in the universe is this next bright star, just above the horizon? And, off to its right, the orange one just cresting the hogback? Nothing looked right, despite the faint cluster above "orange" that could only be... the Pleiades. (Somehow it was easier to see them than to make out the closer stars that would have instantly told me who "orange" was!)

I know you're all ahead of me here, and I should know, no matter what, that if the "handle" of the Pleiades (which looks a little like a miniature Big Dipper) points to an orange star, that star has got to be... Aldebaran!

And that means Star-So-Bright must be Capella, in the constellation Auriga. My friendly face, the Winter Hexagon, is just peeking above the horizon and is somewhat disoriented (or, clearly, I am!). It's these puzzles that make figuring out the night sky so much fun.

Back to the Hexagon
But this morning the Big Sky Geometer is "right" side up, even if only a few of its stars remain visible in the dawn. The discovery of the Winter Hexagon* was, for me, a great stride forward in placing myself, finding my way around, in starry skies. Let's take a quick look at what else is out there.

*Introduced to me by astronomer Aileen O'Donoghue, in her lovely autobiography, The Sky is Not a Ceiling.

If we can just darken the sky a bit, and we accomplish this by getting up a half-hour earlier, we look for the Winter Hexagon and see more clearly its components—the six constellations whose brightest stars outline the figure. Each constellation has, of course, many more stars than I can show here.

Castor and Pollux, the twins of Gemini, dangle their feet toward the center of the hexagon. Capella, the She-goat, is joined now by her kids and several other stars. Continuing clockwise, we meet Aldebaran, now accompanied by the Hyades, a true open cluster of stars so near to us (150 light-years) that it spreads into a bigger area than the tightly bound (and more distant at 400 light-years) Pleiades.

Then of course, Orion—everyone's favorite, always recognizable—strides across the celestial equator and dominates winter skies here in the Northern Hemisphere. Innumerable stars, globular clusters, and several nebulae, especially in his "belt" and "sword," provide a lot of entertainment for observers. At his feet, behind my neighbors' house, lies Lepus the Hare, and behind Orion trails his faithful dog, Canis Major with bright Sirius, the brightest star in the winter sky. Around the final corner, Procyon (in Canis minor, another dog) completes the hexagon.

In a few more hours, I'll try to picture the invisible Winter Hexagon hanging above the western horizon, rotated another click and preparing to set. That's the exact position in which I found our summer sky-map, the Summer Triangle (see Watcher's excellent post for more on this one) several dark nights ago.

That's the framework, but even with practice I can't help being startled when I go out early to wave The Husband off to work, as I did one day recently, and find a dark sky so sprinkled with stars it literally leaves me breathless. Then all the names I've been struggling to learn leave me completely and only wonder is left behind.

Surprise! Off to the Gardens

2010-10-20T09:58:00.000-06:00

Herp Lady called on Friday, and suggested a trip to the Denver Botanic Gardens! Quite a treat, as I hadn't been there in quite some time. I daren't confess how long, or I'd lose my credentials as a plant lover! The attraction, for her, was a special exhibit of sculptures by Henry Moore. I have no credentials as an art patron, so can freely admit I'd never heard of him or the exhibit.

DBG, as it's fondly known, has an impressive amount of hardscape... and water! Despite the ever-presence of concrete and H₂O, plants were everywhere. Just what we expect from a botanic garden. Oval with Points.

We were impressed at the number of species still blooming outdoors so late in the year, even tender Desert Willow (Chilopsis linearis it was in my long-ago Arizona lifetime). All those flowers I pretty much ignored in favor of more subtle plants (except a patch or two of purple jewelweed, aka touch-me-not, ripe for the touching).

Everywhere we went, water flowed and bubbled and reflected. Quite a change from the unrelieved aridity the Foothills Farm has displayed lately. Needless to say, I spent a lot of time looking at the water; in quantities more than a rainbarrel-full, it's so foreign to me!

El Pomar Waterway, with interspersed fountains and, oddly, pots of Cereus and Crassula poised above the water.

I picked up some plant-display tips, too, and was quite captivated by this slope of partially submerged pots. It looked like a hobbit village! I can imagine it would help define plant spaces, as well as provide a little shade in full-sun spots. Can't wait to try this one at home. A nice inventory of broken pots should adapt well to this approach.

If not flowers, what? There was this lovely Dawn Redwood (Metasequoia glyptostroboides) in or near the Asian Garden. With foliage still soft green and vernal, we wondered how it weathers our winters. Apparently fine, as it appeared to have been there a while, although too young for coning. Here, Herp Lady gives it a closer look.

I was also drawn to another conifer, the lovely larches. These are captivating because of their unusual habit of deciduousity, although these particular trees also remained in springlike mode so far, showing little sign of the coming seasonal change.

The sun on their needles was particularly appealing, and the day was warm enough that we understood their reluctance to show color.

Although flowers were still everywhere, as shown below, the colors of the Little Bluestem (Schizachyrium scoparium, grass in foreground) testified to the coming winter. It's one of my favorite foothills grasses, here thriving in captivity.

Another sign of seasonal change was the occasional evidence of harvest. A pile of gourds here and there, trailing vines with beautiful gourds still attached, and the glow of the fruits and leaves of this Castor Bean plant (Ricinus communis), below, in the Euphorbiaceae.

Considered poisonous, as are most drugs, this plant also has had a host of pharmaceutical applications. Not one to mess with.

Paracelsus: Poison is in everything, and no thing is without poison. The dosage makes it either a poison or a remedy.

So much to see... more photos soon!

First, Last, Always

2010-10-17T08:44:00.010-06:00

Challenges always present themselves, and the one I find hardest to meet among nature observations is catching the last Hummingbird of summer, or the first returning Junco. You just never know. One day hummers are here, and you can assume you'll see them the next, but Poof! No more hummingbirds. This year it happened, I believe, the last week of September—a very late departure for hummingbirds.

A bit more than a week later, on October 9, I saw this little guy poking around in the weeds. He brought friends. If he wasn't the first Junco, he was definitely in the first returning wave.

It's mid-October now, and we've yet to have our first real frost. A cold spell last weekend brought rain and temps as low as the 40s (3-5C), but most days have been warm and sunny and nights rarely below 50 degrees (10C) in recent weeks. Without a frost, we can't even call it Indian Summer. Brought the house plants in last weekend; the geraniums are still outside enjoying 80-degree days (25C).

Others are "always with us, late and soon." First in the morning, last in the afternoon, or until it runs dry. This time of year, the Scrub Jays empty the sunflower feeder as fast as I can fill it.

Are they hungry? Not particularly... but they recognize opportunity and find it hard to pass up. First one, then two...

Four years ago, when this blog was new and posting perhaps more regular, I offered this little treasure about our ubiquitous Scrub Jays. I still think limericks have great potential as tools for environmental education! (Haven't been able to persuade anyone else, though!)

In case you missed it back then, here's our backyard version of

The Circle of Life

A garrulous bird is the Scrub Jay
He sits and he cackles all day
   For sunflower seeds
   To meet his winter needs
Then hides them wherever he may.

From sunflower seeds put away
By Scrub Jays against a cold day
   And never
   recovered
   My yard is now
   smothered
With sunflower plants gone astray.

If Scrub Jays could plan while they play
I’m sure they’d be happy to say
   These sunflowers reseeding
   Are going for feeding
A new crop of Scrub Jays next May.
      —S.L. White

Farewell to a Wilderness Troubadour

2010-09-15T08:14:00.006-06:00

Walkin' Jim Stoltz
June 1953–September 2010

We can't afford to lose people who are passionate about wilderness and its preservation, planetary stewardship, and all things wild and free. But we do. With the death of Walkin' Jim, an important voice for the Earth has gone too soon, but his message and his memory lives on through a legacy of music he left with us.

And what a voice! Deeper than a shadowed mountain valley, headlong as a mountain stream, that voice rattles your bones like a blast of high-country wind. The wild wind he celebrated his whole life. I urge you to experience his songs yourself and see just why this advocate will be missed so much by those who loved him and all who knew his music. Listen, and consider buying a CD or download to remind you of the Forever Wild his life celebrated so well... Like the buffalo, his spirit is still on the run.

The message in my inbox said it all: "Legendary American Folksinger, Backcountry Traveler, and Wilderness Advocate James "Walkin' Jim" Stoltz Returns to Earth." A "troubadour," Webster tells me, is a "class of poet-musicians... whose major theme was love." Jim's love of Earth was his guiding principle and the focus of his lifework. Live each day like you mean it, he said, and he did.

I've been the lone wanderer, ramblin' free,
But there's more to this life that I want you to see,
For around every bend, a kind thought and a friend,
Has been there uplifting me.

It's the good hearts that spring from the salt of the Earth,
They inspire and brighten my days,
And I owe it all to the spirit of love,
And the friends along the way.
-- from "Friends Along The Way" on The Long Trails CD

This life is so rich I can taste it,
And I’ve given my heart to the wind,
And when the rain falls down,
And the sun rolls round,
I’ll be thinkin’ like a mountain once again.
—from "Thinkin' like a Mountain" on The Vision CD

Like Loren Eiseley, he "loved the Earth but could not stay."

——
Photo above: Jim (right), with my friend Eric, another defender of wilderness, at Red Rocks in March 2006. When Eric died in June 2008, I wrote Jim to ask to use his songs in a tribute. Typically generous, he replied:

...another good man gone too soon. Yes, please feel free to use any of my songs or lyrics in any way you see fit. I'd be so honored if they were used to celebrate him in some small way.

I send my sympathies to you in this time of loss. Time to sing to the mountain and listen for that echo...the spirits of Eric and all wilderness defenders reminding us to keep on.

Despite cancer, Eric and now Jim kept on... Let's make sure something wild outlives them, outlives all of us.

Adventures in Geo-Browsing

2010-09-04T12:54:00.008-06:00

You never know where the current edition of Berry-Go-Round (now hosted by Laurent at Seeds Aside) will take you!

After browsing several of the fascinating offerings, my love of lichens took me to Botany for Geologists where David at History of Geology does a great job of explaining lichenometry, or the use of lichens to date exposed rock surfaces.

In his sidebar, I discovered Eat.Sleep.Geology., by a neogeoblogger whose nom de plume is GeoGirl. She soon led me to the geologists' blog carnival over at The Accretionary Wedge, which provided great ideas for future Berries as well as a long list of future reading.

Geology class at a local outcrop.

David also tipped me off to Riparian Rap, whose series on geomorphically incorrect art is mind-bending entertainment.

As always in the blog world, you can make your way around the planet and back again in a few clicks, and learn a lot about how it's put together in the process.

Legal at Last!

2010-09-02T08:40:00.008-06:00

And I missed it!

All these years we’ve been capturing illegal Colorado rainwater here at the homestead, and it turns out that, just last year, Colorado water law reversed itself on this issue.

That’s right, home gardeners and flower lovers, now you can capture and beneficially use any drop of rain that falls on your property without fear of being hauled off to jail! (But please see the fine print below.)

As High Country News explained recently:

“…last year's House Bill 1129 authorized large-scale rainwater harvesting test projects like Sterling and loosening restrictions on individual collection of rainwater. Well owners, for example, can now legally harvest their rain for personal use. We non-well-owning proletarians (and by extension, basically everyone living in a city) are still operating outside the law if we fill a rain barrel, though.

Despite the changes, the original law was hardly enforced on individuals back when rain was contraband. It seems intuitive that the people inclined to harvest their own rainwater for personal use would be little-impeded by a badly made, artifact of a policy.”

The rationale for the change rests on a 2007 study that revealed how little water (3%) actually makes it into the stream systems, the remaining 97% being lost to evaporation or put to beneficial use by plants. Probably any ecologist could have told them that years ago.

Does it make a difference? It's amazing how much water a modest roof can produce from a 10-minute Colorado dust-settling rain that doesn't even get the soil wet. My substantial collection of house plants gets watered most of the year from harvested rainwater. Even in much of the winter, the effective snowmelt cycle makes it possible to use the rainbarrels, except when they turn into 55 gallon icecubes.

Of course, we rainbarrel lovers still have to deal with rampant mosquito larvae and the occasional drowned mouse (today’s find) in the rainbarrel. And, equally obvious, it has to rain now and then for this system to work.

And it doesn’t protect your cherished home-grown heirloom tomatoes (which will cost more than $3 each, we calculate, assuming we get any) from the depredations of passing deer (for the second time this season).

Photo from the Why I Don't Garden series.

Berries and Bridges

2010-08-01T13:35:00.006-06:00

Hello from Pittsburgh, city of 1700 bridges! (I think that's what the sign said as I was driving in too late last night and getting lost somewhere in or under one of them.)

The 95th Annual Meeting of the Ecological Society of America is taking place here at the Conference Center, but only two bridges are visible from its deck overlooking the Allegeny River. Here's one of them, looking downstream toward the Monongahela River, which is just around the corner somewhere.

Actually, I think that photo captured two or three of them! And here's another one, looking upstream.

Two down, 1698 to go! Actually, about 5 more are visible from the hotel room, so that trims it down a bit.

We also have boats. Kayaks, Mississippi-style tour boats, speed boats, and so on. Here are the human-powered ones.

Speaking of human power, the Convention Center encourages exercise, especially in the form of lots of walking! It's also, to get a little eco-note into this post, an LEED-certified green building. In fact, they say the whole town is going green, now that it's over its coal-mine-and-steel-mill past. The Westin Hotel is also doing its part for the environment: They even turned off one of the two shower heads in the hotel room so you have the option of saving water, if you don't turn it back on.

Back at the Berry-Go-Round, Jade at Brainripples.com has done a fabulous job as host of her first plant carnival. Too rich for words, you must explore it yourself! Be sure to allow plenty of time for the diverse offerings she's rounded up...

Take care, all!

Nature Today: Attempted Prey Piracy

2010-07-19T18:20:00.007-06:00

Drama unfolds on a short hike today with Book Lady. I think I saw the spider first, curiously immobile in a crevice. Then the wasp. Then mayhem. Eventually we left them to it, so I'm afraid I can't tell you the outcome. Perhaps a duel to the death; perhaps capitulation with the spoils to the victor.

First, borrowed from Wikipedia courtesy Blazeblaze, the participants in today's event looked a lot like these two below. Due, in part, to the fast action, the rest of the photos (mine) will be a bit more blurry.

My first thought, when I see an unusually large spider with an unusually large wasp, is "Pepsis" (for the latter). Turns out Pepsis, the tarantula hawk, is even larger than these gals—a full two inches (50 cm). And Pepsis has an opposite fashion scheme, a blue-black body and rusty wings.

It's true, this time even I know that wasp is a gal. She is, after all, engaged in feeding her family, or rather, expected family. She is also most likely Tachypompilus ferrigineus, a spider wasp of a different color. Spider wasps, of course, see spiders as material to be stung (as this one is) into submission and stuffed into nests where one can lay upon them an egg, which will hatch into a larva that then devours the providentially provided sustenance. (She is about 35 mm long; the spider is probably 50 mm.)

If it were only that simple, she may be saying. As I mentioned, the spider was in a crevice. Above she's on the trail, having arrived there under the influence of gravity and some unknown propellant...

Which turned out to be another wasp, with clear designs on the same spider. In the ensuing brawl, it was hard to keep the two combatants straight, and impossible to tell which was the original possessor of the prize.

I tried to separate them a time or two with a walking stick but they only had eyes for each other and couldn't be distracted. Eventually we decided not to risk attracting stings, and left them to sort it out. Whatever the outcome, we have to suspect it ended badly for the spider.

Timely Intervention

2010-06-13T08:27:00.013-06:00

Just when it looked like summer might cut the green period short, we welcomed a weekend of wet. It all started with a hailstorm Friday that left my car with a fashionable textured look and stripped twigs from the oaks at the county courthouse. Green streets takes on a whole new meaning. I'd driven north just a few miles to Golden, fortuitously arriving at a traffic light just in time to meet the storm, not one golf ball of which settled on the home turf. Sitting duck, listening to it thunder against the car, no camera.

Friday night it arrived, a steady downpour most of the night, threatening floods in various Front Range communities, flushing algae and, I hope, mosquito larvae out of rainbarrels, and setting everything outdoors awash. Yesterday, waves of gentle rain passed through, separated by misty intervals—all very Pacific Northwest. More of same today, as it looks. Tomorrow, or whenever this lifts, is going to be VERY good for weeding! (Honey, looks like the lawn needs mowing again.)

All this rain also makes the rhubarb very happy, if not the celebrants at the 23rd Annual Pine Rhubarb Festival, where I spent most of yesterday. Though the crowd was reduced in size, its spirits were undampened, and the crowning of the Rhubarb Queen ("best ever rhubarb pie") happened right on schedule, as did all ten minutes of the parade. Between the all-you-can-eat pancakes with rhubarb sauce and the highly diverse bake sale that followed the judging, it was a delicious place to be on a rainy day.

Obligatory botanical note: Rhubarb, Rheum rhabarbarum (formerly R. rhaponticum), is a member of the Polygonaceae, not native to the U.S. but widely grown in the east and midwest and, yes, Colorado. Its stout petioles are edible, but its large leaves contain higher concentrations of oxalic acid and are considered poisonous. When cooked with sugar, the stems are used in "fruit" pies and other pastries, but lately I've had two reports of children in Mexico and other places enjoying the stems raw, difficult as it may be to imagine. (One entry in yesterday's bake-off was a rhubarb salad (not baked), but I didn't get a taste.)

Incidental personal revelation: Rhubarb also had a peripheral role in our courtship, via a Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie, which must have been pretty basic as I don't even remember the recipe. I think it may have been not so much the substance of the pie as the fact that I could even make a pie that captured Darling Husband's attention.

Bonus link: A fun read on the 17th annual Rhubarb Festival.

Getting Down... and Busy

2010-06-10T17:22:00.011-06:00

Happy Pollination Season! If you notice a sudden jump in the quality of photography in today's post, call it punctuated equilibrium. It's because ALL photos are courtesy of (and copyright to) The Chemist. (Let me know if you want more formal acknowledgement, buddy!) And, of course, his trusty sidekick, a new camera with which he's obviously having way too much fun! You should also know, perhaps, that all this botanizing took place in his own backyard, where he maintains a native garden that offers a seasonal smorgasbord to members of the Apidae. (The botanist left in me wants to say Apiaceae, but that's a whole 'nother subject.)

First up, and earliest in the season (4/15/2010) after a long hungry winter is the Willow (species unspecified). Can't you just hear this honeybee: "Ummm... Yummmm!"

Along about the 24th of May, The Chemist was out in the garden one day, when he realized he was being watched. This diminutive peeping tom declares: "No pollen for me; I'm here for something else altogether." Crab spider in ambush mode on Vicia americana (American vetch).

Then came Mertensia lanceolata (chiming bells, 5/31/2010). Still hungry, but a whole different bee (Bombus sp. or at least that group).

Fast forward to today: yep, they're still at it out there among the flowers! The Chemist reports: "This honeybee put in a great deal of effort trying to squeeze into the tight flowers of Hedysarum boreale [Utah sweetvetch]." Remember, bees, no means no!

Competition (or something) is heating up though. As he watched, this wasp zoomed in aggressively. The Chemist describes the action: "The wasp/hornet? also was apparently getting nectar but a pair of them seemed more intent on patrolling around the plants (looking for nest provisions?) than foraging for nectar. At one point one of them, apparently intentionally, gave a honey bee a good ramming although the honeybee seemed pretty unperturbed by the collision."

Meanwhile, serenity prevails over at the Orobanche fasciculata (broomrape) [now known by some as Aphyllon fasciculata, but let's not go there*], a parasitic plant nestled quietly amid its host, in this case Artemisia frigida (pasture, silver, or fringed sage). Perhaps these gals were done with the business of agent-assisted courtship, and ready to settle quietly into motherhood-mode.

*I'm old-fashioned, I know, but I still subscribe to the theory that scientific names are supposed to be more permanent and useful than common names.

Thanks, Chemist! Bee Lady has been equally busy observing pollinators, so we may have more decent photos to share soon... (The Phylogenist taught me something new about my own camera last week, but trust me you don't want to see my first attempts!)

When is Spring?

2010-06-01T11:55:00.006-06:00

The calendar tells us Spring "begins" on March 21, the spring equinox, but of course, the world works on its own schedule. Lately, we've all noticed, that schedule seems a little wacky.

In Colorado, as in much of the West, Spring is relative: it all depends on where you are, especially on how much vertical distance you've managed to put between you and sea level. In the course of the last few weeks, here at the Foothills Fancies homestead, we've jumped from winter into late spring in a hurry. Most of the early spring wildflowers are gone, and, judging from what's blooming, we're well on the way to summer. Sigh.

So when I went West to Talented Sister's on May 22nd, I got to visit an earlier version of Spring, places where the ground is just emerging from snow cover. She lives in the midst of Aspen and Gambel Oak woodlands on a high mesa in southwestern Colorado, very different from here. The up-and-down of the trip also gave me an opportunity to sample the varieties of season available now.

All this is too much prelude to an actual topic. Quaking Aspen (Populus tremuloides) and Gambel's Oak (Quercus gambelii) are both species that "reproduce" mostly vegetatively, forming huge clones of interconnected stems that look like individual trees. So how can you tell where one individual leaves off and another one starts? Because different clones respond differently to seasonal cues, Spring is often a great clue. It's a time of year when you can catch aspen, especially, displaying their individuality. (The oak wasn't displaying anything just yet.) How many, then, do you see in the photo below?

These photos were all taken in two quick stops along Hwy 62 as it crosses the Dallas Divide between Ridgway and Placerville. I'm thinking we're seeing at least three, maybe even five, individual aspen among the many trees present above. That is, of course, a wild guess totally unsupported by DNA evidence. Me, I was just there for the scenery.*

* Much of the scenery is, by the way, brought to us by Ralph Lauren, whose ranch, the Double RL, occupies 16,000 acres (that's 25 sq miles, people) and a good deal of linear footage along this route. It's nice when vast wealth benefits the rest of us. Thanks, Ralph! If you pass this way, you'll recognize Ralph's property by the tasteful 4-rail fence on the south side of the highway (see photo 2).

Such aspen clones are in the running for a world record, if not still holding. The Watcher, saving me a lot of time and trouble, tells us all about cloning and Pando, a giant aspen in Utah that's thought, so far, to be the world's largest organism, in his several posts on the topic. Wikipedia agrees, and so does Wayne's Word, though that site offers a few other contenders in the "most massive" category.

I especially appreciated these Sunday morning views in contrast to the previous evening, when I drove from Montrose to Sister's in a haze of yellowish gray smoke from the Beaver Fire near Norwood, caused by powerlines downed by the phenomenal winds that plagued my 580-mile trip that weekend. Another 3200 acres reclaimed for aspen, perhaps.

Fire is closely associated with aspen, whose cloning habit enables it to be resilient in the face of loss of its aboveground parts. Oak, too, abides below through fires. Scenes like this, with the light spring green and pale grey of aspen set off by darker grey of oak and conifers, depend on fire for the aesthetic pattern we find so appealing.

Of course, getting to see the San Juan Mountains in the background doesn't hurt either! Enjoy the view...

Latest in Berries

2010-05-31T11:51:00.003-06:00

The current Berry-Go-Round plant carnival is now posted at Greg Laden's blog. Thanks, Greg, for a great job assembling some very intriguing plant posts—I look forward to applying more of a K-strategy to them soon! We appreciate your squeezing in the post below, on our long-awaited wisteria blossoms.

The Green Scene, and a Spring Surprise

2010-05-30T10:10:00.010-06:00

Our season of green has arrived in full force, and greatly appreciated in part because it's so brief! For a day or two this week (especially Friday and yesterday morning when temperatures suddenly soared to 92 and 94F, or about 35C), it seemed like we were going to plunge straight from May into the middle of July. Clouds, a moderate wind, and a 20-degree drop into seasonable 70s yesterday afternoon salvaged a few more days in which to relish this shortest season.

As you may recall, we've been nurturing an unusual (for Colorado) vine here these last few decades, and it has, in other even-numbered years of recent memory, attempted to bloom. Third time's the charm, they say.

This year's promises, a vine extravagantly covered in buds, did not disappoint. And thus, after nigh 30 years spreading its tendrils and withes 'cross trellis and soffit, we have, for once, Wisteria.

I was relieved when the leaves began to catch up with the flowers, as the latter looked forlorn against a backdrop only of brown tangled branches. But now, ahhh...

No doubts about family here! Note, to the right, the stamens peeking from within the keel as the banner stands guard.*

Ummm... wish I could post the fragrance for you too!

——
Need a refresher on the Fabaceae? Courtesy Wikipedia, more details on this very flower, Wisteria sinensis.

Addendum: Since singing the praises of this critter far and wide, I've learned there are others in Colorado. But they're coddled in greenhouses and nurseries, or in town where there's ample water and shelter, not out here in the foothills, trying to make do on what nature offers and wracked by 50 mph winds. (In case you were wondering why it took so long to bloom! And yes, I'll try to coddle a bit more henceforth.)

Collection of Carnivals; Bird Update

2010-05-07T07:55:00.008-06:00

It's a feast indeed for fans of natural history out there this month. As the world wakes, so does the nature blogosphere.

The notable 50th edition of Circus of the Spineless is recently up at Arthropoda, and Mike does a great job. His site is new to me, I found myself exploring more thoroughly, and learned a lot! Check out his "Favorite Posts" tab for starters.

The Geek in Question (TGIQ) from Fall To Climb is hosting two of the newer blog carnivals this month. TGIQ tackles herpetology with House of Herps #5: Slime Poetry, an excellent edition as critters emerge for spring. I had to go there to see scales; we've yet to encounter any here (though others have in town).

Next, head over to An Inordinate Fondness, to experience The Shining and learn why TGIQ is so taken with beetlemania.

Nature's Whispers is host for this month's Festival of Trees (#47). Jasmine brings on a multimedia Beltane extravaganza, with art, poetry, video, and much more. Do scroll down to celebrate May Day with the feature film: dancing the Maypole in Glastonbury (and what better place!)...

And that brings us to the 27th edition of Berry Go Round, by Mary over at Neotropical Savanna; a great spot to get your fix of spring wildflowers, like Trilliums, also emerging from hibernation. BGR is itself springing to new life, after a great email discussion, and will carry on with Mary and Sarcozona (of Gravity's Rainbow) as ringleaders.

And Now, Closer to Home

Today: We're ignoring, for the most part, the half-inch of snow this morning. It is May 7th, after all. (I did take the teakettle out to defrost the openings on the hummingbird feeder.) Darling Husband yelled "Come quick!" to make sure I got to see the first Bullock's Oriole of the season. He spotted a pair in the ash tree; I saw only the male.

Yesterday: A drab brown bird puzzled me yesterday, hiding behind the trunk as soon as I brought out the binocs. No distinguishing features whatsoever. Page by page through the bird book this a.m. suggests she could only be a Brown-headed Cowbird (my first!). No wonder she didn't want to be spotted!

The first Western Kingbird of the season perched on the far fence yesterday. DH also reports a male Lesser Goldfinch in seasonal plumage a few days ago.

Last week: The Mourning Doves are back, of course, and billing and cooing like lovebirds. But last week, something different: a lone Ring-necked (aka Collared) Dove. I thought it was an escapee; Bee Lady says they're increasing in our area.

Oh–and Grackles. Since when do we have grackles? They're learning to use the sunflower feeder.

The hummingbirds have been around for weeks, disappearing when it snows, and reappearing. I had three fighting over the feeders a couple weeks ago, until it snowed. Now I see the little hummers occasionally, but not in numbers. Soon, though, they'll be here in force.

More spring to be reported here soon!

The Garden Gnomes

2010-04-24T15:57:00.003-06:00

Earth Day came and went, but for the most part we celebrated today. The native garden we've been working on at Red Rocks Park got a makeover, thanks to Carol, Vivian, Renae, Dana, and a crew of volunteers (including a contingent from NCCC Americorps) they organized. Where was I, you ask?*

Here's "Before" -- taken just before St. Patrick's Day, when we were planning a new shrub bed—all natives—on this plot that is usually either bare or overrun by weeds of the burdock, hemlock, and other nasty persuasions.

And here, today, is AFTER. Although it's sunny and a pleasant 60 degrees (15 C) as I write this, it was nothing like that at 9:30 this a.m. when the garden gnomes got together to make this happen. Snow whizzed around their heads, and chill winds blew all warmth from their frames as they worked in muck up to their kneecaps. Barely more than 2 hours later, when I turned up to render gratitude and acknowledge their vast effort, these garden wizards had disappeared, their task complete.

Okay, this "After" is a bit too fresh to be properly impressive, but there are 27 sizable shrubs in and around this photo, plus a dozen flowering perennials. I'll try to bring you an update when everything gets to its full summer glory.

So thanks everyone! This transformation will be a tremendous asset when we finish the interpretive signs and can show Red Rocks visitors how incredible native plants are in the landscape! We hope the garden will be a wonderful way for everyone to connect with, and learn something about, the native plants that make Red Rocks Park such a special place.

*I was on another project, a less visible clean-up at the local CCC camp, in preparation for another tour season at that historic site. (I did, however, brave blinding snow and slush and driving rain yesterday to collect said shrubs from the wholesale nursery some 30 mi (49 km) away whence I'd ordered them. )

Glorious Spring!

2010-04-22T08:14:00.007-06:00

Are you as tired of that snow scene (below) as I am? I went away for a few days last week, and in my absence Spring has clearly sprung.

Look at that green! It doesn't rival Ireland yet, but tender green is peeking out on branches, daffodils are in full bloom, and things are definitely looking hopeful.

(Look at those chickens, waiting by the gate for breakfast...)

Today is the 40th anniversary of the very first Earth Day. As I did last year, I had thoughts of making April "Earth Month" and going to town on related posts. As with last year, I didn't get very far, but after all, Earth deserves more than a day—or a month. It should be in our thoughts, and especially in our actions, every day.

None of us needs a sermon today, but if you're reaching the Age of Wisdom, the Time of Reflection, think back to what you were doing 40 years ago today. Think about the feeling of Hope we had that what we did—for the cause of Peace, for the Planet, for Something That Mattered—would make a difference.

That feeling is what Earth Day was—and IS—about, and it's exactly what Spring is about! The world is waking up; we should be too.

This Morning and Recent Sightings

2010-04-07T07:22:00.007-06:00

Yes, again. Why do I always seem to take pictures when it snows? I'm sure it's partly because the continued brown scene gets old, and then of course, snow means movement in the landscape as well as lots of activity at the bird feeders...

We have very fine stuff still drifting down this morning, and only about two inches on the ground. This follows days of boisterous winds, especially yesterday, which was enough to rearrange lawn furniture and anything else not firmly battened down. Winds like that quickly wear out their welcome, making even snow a great relief! Tomorrow is expected to be in the 50s again, and Friday even lovelier.

Catch-up on recent developments re: spring:

–Yes, there are hints of green buds on shrubs (lilac, native currants, etc.) and tree pollen is kicking off the spring allergy season most effectively
–Friday, April 2nd, was the first Great Blue Heron sighting
–Monday, April 5th, the first Turkey Vulture sighting

All these firsts are, of course, only the ones I know about... No hummingbirds yet, but juncos are still prevalent. Bluebirds and meadowlarks are in state, but not in vicinity.

In totally novel news (guess that's a bit redundant), the Easter Sunrise service at Red Rocks took place as planned, with the added element of a helicopter crash on Mt. Morrison. We somehow missed it...

Honoring Stewart Udall

2010-04-01T08:21:00.005-06:00

One of the heroes of conservation during my formative years was Stewart Udall, who died last weekend. High Country News honored him in this tribute written by Gary Nabhan.

The 1960s were heady times, of course, and to be honest I was a little young to appreciate their full effect. But I heard of Udall even then, and (as Secretary of Interior under Presidents Kennedy and Johnson) his name was synonymous with strong environmental protection in a much different, even inconceivable, era. For example, one of the things he stopped was the idea of a jetport in the Florida Everglades. He also helped make the Great Swamp (New Jersey) a National Wildlife Refuge and wilderness area instead of another regional jetport. In fact he helped add almost 4 million acres to U.S. public lands, including Canyonlands and three other national parks. He brought Wallace Stegner to Washington as Interior's writer-in-residence, and supported Rachel Carson when she alerted us to the dangers of pesticides.

Another inconceivable idea, the Trans Alaska Pipeline System, came later, but by then Rogers Morton was Secretary of Interior (after a brief tenure by Alaska's Wally Hickel), an "oil crisis" was in full swing, and U.S. policy had not-so-subtly shifted. Then came the infamous James Watt (under Reagan)... Anyway, so Udall's record at Interior remains outstanding, and not just in comparison with his successors. [Photo credit: Luca Galuzzi]

Interviewed earlier (2004) by the same publication, Udall commented on the fate of conservation in these subsequent political climates:

From 1961 until the Reagan administration, all of the presidents gave strong support for conservation. It was like a relay race in the Olympics. You would pass the baton, and Nixon took it and ran, and Ford and Carter, but when James Watt took over [the Interior Department] for Reagan, he didn’t want the baton, it just dropped to the floor, and" — with the exception of the Clinton administration — "that’s where it’s been since then."

Udall also saw his errors, as he wrote, with wife Lee, in an open letter to their grandchildren in 2008:

As a freshman congressman in 1955, I regrettably voted with my unanimous colleagues for the Interstate Highway Program. All of us acted on the shortsighted assumption that cheap oil was super-abundant and would always be available. This illusion began to unravel in the 1970s, and it haunts Americans today.... I am convinced that the American people will tighten their belts if a president forges a national strategy to stretch the life of our oil reserves and to adjust to a long-range plan of energy conservation....

Foster a consciousness that puts a premium on the common good and the protection of the environment. Give your unstinting support to all lasting, fruitful technological innovations. Be steadfast enemies of waste. The lifetime crusade of your days must be to develop a new energy ethic to sustain life on earth. ... Go well, do well, my children. Cherish sunsets, wild creatures and wild places. Have a love affair with the wonder and beauty of the Earth.

A Taste of Spring at BGR#26

2010-03-30T09:12:00.005-06:00

We're sampling spring-like weather here this week, at long last. Our third storm, threatened by forecasters last Friday night, never materialized in white form, but remnants of the second are still lying about.

But for a real taste of spring, drop in on Berry-Go-Round #26, where Sarcozona at Gravity's Rainbow has rounded up an incredible collection of botanical marvels, from pawpaws to algal balls, moss to magnolia.

Here at home, the maples are blooming, and I ought to go looking for wildflowers. Indoors, the sweet smell of waxplant (Hoya carnosa) in bloom wafted through the house last night in a vain attempt to attract some insect. Only two intricate inflorescences, but a very nice preview of things to come outdoors. The season of flowering and fruiting is coming.

Second Storm

2010-03-25T06:54:00.007-06:00

The second spring storm of the week arrived Tuesday night, and Wednesday was another big "digging out" day.* Some days it seems like the forecasters are getting better. They pretty much hit this one on the head; it hit us just as scheduled. These spring upslopes (see below) must be easy for them.

Tuesday was a fine spring day, warm and sunny, til about 4:30 p.m. when the air got fuzzy. An hour later a full-on blizzard was in effect, sideways snow and all. Stomping out to lock up the chickens was great fun!

Wednesday morning, it was quite lovely, for those who don't have to be anywhere. (As almost everything was closed, that meant most of us.) We have a foot (30cm), give or take, but by 8:30 a.m. (above), paths were shoveled, feeders were filled, suet was hung by the ash tree with care, and the birds were well content.

The first bird to arrive was the BIG one... "Hey, I put that out there for the other birds!"

The siskins were at their acrobatic best early on, even before we refilled the "upside down" feeder. Fuller feeders means fuller perches, and sometimes a waiting line forms nearby. Patience rarely prevails; they're so feisty jostling for spots that it's almost impossible not to catch them in the air!

Even the juncos were lively and quick! I always worry they'll disappear without a fare-thee-well one of these days. But the Last Junco isn't just yet.

What's the story with "upslope" storms?
This time of year, each low pressure system that crosses Colorado creates a huge counter-clockwise vortex of moving air. Here's Colorado, a giant postage stamp of a state with a swath of high mountains running through the center.

This low, Tuesday night, circled the whole state. It scooped up moisture from the Texas/Gulf end at the south and threw it up against the Front Range, right about here at Denver latitude. Meanwhile, nice cold air just happened to be moving down into the state from Wyoming and north-abouts.

And BAM! Here we are, digging out from under stuff that weighs at least 20 pounds per shovelful! By mid-day, sun was out and roads were clear. The piles will last a while longer...

*Blogger wouldn't cooperate with the longer post I worked on most of the day yesterday, so this is an abbreviated (and less immediate) version. Title refers to the 9 inches of snow I missed over the weekend, all of which was gone by the time I returned Sunday afternoon. Here's this morning's updated view.

Dark o' the Morning

2010-03-17T06:55:00.004-06:00

Just last week at this hour it was bright and the chickens were already out romping in the sunshine.

Oh well, must be we're saving daylight at the other end of the day!

Have a Happy St. Patrick's Day (but remember the snakes)!

A Little Birdwatching, Creekside

2010-03-09T08:58:00.004-07:00

Let's have another round of "spot the dipper," shall we? I finally started walking on the creek trail again last week, and one of the winter highlights is sure to be dippers, or Water Ouzels, that frequent these lower stretches in the winter. This little guy was the only one I saw on my brief hike last Tuesday, but the next day they seemed to be everywhere! And what fun they are to watch, as they plunge into the icy waters to hunt. This one even stepped out on the nearby ice floe for a bit, but I missed that shot.

In and out of the water, over and over again, he's gobbling up the larvae of next summer's trout food—stone flies, caddis flies, mayflies, and who-knows-what else? All near-frozen treats, but he doesn't seem to mind.

We previously visited with dippers more than a year ago; stop in there for more on these delightful birds.

There were a few other birds out enjoying our spring weather, as I was. A Nuthatch, white-faced, escaped my attempts to capture it with the camera, but this little Downy Woodpecker posed politely while searching for her next meal.

Valentines for Plant Lovers (BGR #25)

2010-03-03T09:00:00.001-07:00

Valentine’s Day normally passes without a blip around here, but this year was outstanding! As beautiful heart-shaped boxes arrived in my inbox for Berry-Go-Round this month, I was reminded that botanical carnivals are like a box of chocolates: You never know what you’re going to get, but it’s bound to be delicious! I did a little very tasty research, and I can confidently report that you’ll find plenty of good eatin’, er, reading here for our February edition. It's highly caloric, though—you just might not want to consume the whole thing in one sitting.

Remember: If you enjoy these sites, do leave a comment for the authors, and tell them Berry-Go-Round sent you! Links back to the carnival are also appreciated.

Ted, at Beetles in the Bush, breaks with the Valentine’s Day tradition of red roses and offers us white orchids instead. No complaints here, with his gorgeous photos of the Great Plains Ladies'-tresses orchid (Spiranthes magnicamporum), which he observed on a dolomite glade in the White River Hills of southwestern Missouri last October.

Ted also sent something extra (looks like a chocolate lollipop or tootsie roll to me), which he found at Digital Botanic Garden. This new site is well worth exploring-- I don’t think you’ll be disappointed by any of the gourmet chocolates in this box; Phil’s plant photos are all incredible.

The melt-in-your-mouth flavor of Diane’s contribution from Hill-stead’s blog belies its less-than-tempting smell, which is not what most might prefer in their holiday confections. There’s a good reason her skunk cabbage is a bit on the foetid side. Learn why, and much more, as she welcomes this early sign of spring and encourages us to get out and take a look around too.

Oh dear, a few of our chocolates seem to have gotten a little stale, and here it’s only been two weeks since Valentine’s Day. Despite being 350 million years old, Sarcozona’s contribution on Archeopteris (and Archaeopteryx!) is surprisingly rich and delectable, and includes a wonderful fossil play on words. Look for it at Gravity's Rainbow.

Phytophactor also brings us a treat that’s a bit past its expiration date, a 400-million-year-old enigmatic fossil, Prototaxites. He makes up for it by refreshing us with something fresh and flowery for Ash Wednesday. If chocolate’s not enough to nudge you out of the winter doldrums and you missed his January prescriptions for relief, his recent suggestion to visit a greenhouse may do the trick.

You could always get away from the cold and snow by trotting off to some sunny place, as John did at Kind of Curious, where he blogs about what is out there in our world and how/why we should protect it.

The valentine he sent from Hawaii tells us 11 amazing things about Haleakala silversword. It turns out that not all of Hawaii is warm and sunny, so silversword has a special trick for beating the cold.

Of course, chocolate is a specialty of Mexico, and Jeremy and Luigi at Agricultural Biodiversity share an assortment of new scientific results in the search for agricultural origins in Mexico and Italy and review how genebanks are doing in preserving crop and wild relative diversity. As long as they preserve chocolate, we'll be fine.

You won't find any additives in Emily's valentine. No seeds, no fruits, no flowers, and definitely no problem with her post on old timey fern guidebooks, just decadent dark chocolate. Ummm... and remember, dark chocolate is rich in bioflavonoids, so it's good for you too!

But maybe you'd prefer a little fruit in your chocolate (extra antioxidants, right?), and don't we all recognize those chocolate-covered cherries? As host of this edition, Sally here at Foothills Fancies takes us over to Small Wonders for her essay on getting birds to help in the garden.

It's hard to believe, after all these boxes of chocolates, that I still wasn't satisfied. I just needed to round up something a little nutty, and I found it at Watching the World Wake Up. Who but the Watcher could turn a pie-tasting contest into a botanical lesson?

Through my research, I discovered that purveyors of chocolate talk in lusciously smooth and creamy phrases, with a special vocabulary, as do wine connoisseurs. Can chocolate be a bit resinous as this hackmatack post at Blogs Monroe is? Is “oakey” just in wine, or does it come in chocolates too? If so, Ted offers us a taste of oak at Hawn State Park in Missouri, and Swampy echoes the flavor with quirky Quercus. Swampy also turned up the first dandelion of spring over at Swamp Things.

Want to get depressed so you have a reason to Eat More Chocolates? Check out not so looming Anthropocene extinctions at Conservation Bytes; it'll help you develop a craving!

A Few Final Bites

The pink and red of valentines reminded me of the colour of spring over at Rock Paper Lizard.

Jessica, at Moss Plants and More, shares a great idea with the latest moss gardening book, and gives us a most intriguing tip to visit the mosscam, where you can enjoy mosses in action.

Lindsay's series of posts (February 18-26, with closing statement on March 1) on biodiversity and sports (think Olympics, not botanical) forges more connections between plants and athletics than we might expect. See how at Botany Photo of the Day, from the University of British Columbia Botanical Garden. If you're still in a valentiney mood, check out Daniel's timely post on Rose hybrids while you're there.

Over at Seeds Aside, Laurent tells us that Orthoptera can pollinate too.

Witch’s brooms are featured in the Annotated Flora, a collection of more than 100 columns on native plants by Ken Moore, as published in The Carrboro Citizen, a newspaper from Carrboro, North Carolina.

Wow—with history, heart-health benefits, diversity of forms, and outright deliciousness, chocolate has to be one of the world's favorite plant-based products. By now, you've probably worked up an appetite. I'd be remiss if I didn't send you over to Chocolate and Zucchini, where you can find Clothilde's cake of the same ingredients, and to the Chocolate Gourmand, where Brian will treat you to dark chocolate gelato.

That wraps up our belated summary of this year's valentines. Whew, I think I've gained five pounds! I hope you found something new to enjoy among your old favorites, and that you'll find this assortment of goodies richly rewarding and well worth those extra calories!

Confessions of a Nongardener

2010-02-27T08:45:00.007-07:00

Anticipations of spring, for me, don't truly come with anticipations of gardening, alas. I'm a gardener-wanna-be, perhaps too lazy-daisical for the true thrill of gardening. And that's a good thing, because if I was a gardener, after 30 years of living here, I'd be an extremely frustrated individual. Or perhaps I'd have mastered this inhospitable habitat, and would be the most sought-after expert in the field of Xeriscape®* gardening. Fortunately, I am neither.

Laziness, it seems, applies not only to my approach to gardening, but to my blogging! Very soon now, a new edition of Berry-Go-Round will be posted here at Foothills Fancies. Rather than creating a new post for my contribution, I'll be recycling one of my essays that outlines what I think is a very creative approach to gardening. It's posted over on Small Wonders**, where longer stories go. Unless you're completely committed to the hard labor approach, you might want to check it out.

*Xeriscape® is a registered trademark of Denver Water, who coined the phrase in the late 1970s.^a It is, wikipedia tells us, a portmanteau^b made from "xeri" (dry) and "scape" (from landscape).

^aThe URL "xeriscape.org" now goes to "Colorado Waterwise," which wasn't delivering Xeriscape information for me earlier but seems to be fine now.

^bAs defined by Humpty Dumpty, this is when "there are two meanings packed up into one word," which happens a lot in Jabberwocky, the poem he's explaining to Alice.^c

^c My goodness, it's amazing the things you can find on the web!

**When I started Foothills Fancies, my hope was it would keep my writing skills exercised. Small Wonders includes essays I wrote in the mid-1990s (and was paid for, speaking of small wonders!) that represent my only real body of creative work in the world of publishing. The essay linked here for BGR is one of the few that actually got me a response from a reader—she sent me some plum seeds!

Must Be Spring Is Coming!

2010-02-18T18:20:00.005-07:00

The hens are laying again (and the skunks are squabbling under the coop), and today I heard a flicker calling for a lost (or hoped for) love. No drumming yet, happily.

Never mind the snow that started about 2:15 this afternoon; spring is on its way. And one sign of spring is that Berry-Go-Round will be back here at Foothills Fancies next week. Please send contributions—yours or someone else's—to me at ffnaturalist. That's on gmail, which is a dot com. Or leave links to plant-related posts here in comments—by Friday February 26th, please.

THANKS!

Liver for Breakfast?

2010-02-11T08:20:00.004-07:00

Our part in this little saga began 24 hours ago, early yesterday morning when Dog #2 brought a frozen lump of something to the door. Upon examination, it was discovered to be the remains of a pigeon, headless and bloody but largely intact. I quickly put it out of dog-reach, intending to return it, only to discover within a half-hour that its owner had already been back to look for it. I wasn’t quick enough.

The Husband is convinced that Cooper’s Hawks aren’t carrion-eaters, but we now have satisfactory, albeit anecdotal, evidence otherwise. A disappointed Cooper’s Hawk stood on the discrete pile of feathers on bloody snow that marked his kill site from the day before. I ran to fetch his prize. Our resident friend watched me from a nearby tree, well, like a hawk while I replaced his frozen instant breakfast back where he’d left it Tuesday afternoon, exactly where he clearly expected it to be.

[Warning: Moderately graphic images below. How bad can it be? I'm pretty squeamish myself.]

But he didn’t return to it. Instead the presence of our smaller flocks let me know ‘Coop’ had left the area. Came the Magpies, observing the corpse from a distance, but not approaching. Perhaps some residual avian threat lingering with the carcass kept them at bay. When I left for the day, a couple hours later, it was still untouched.

By late afternoon when I returned, the scene had changed. I first suspected the Magpies had overcome their hesitation, but something about the site suggested otherwise. The pigeon was reduced to a fist-sized red lump, consisting of a pair of feet, a dark red chunk of organ meat I took to be liver, and perhaps a piece of backbone. The feathers were now spread over a larger area, thoroughly but methodically dispersed. To me, the method suggested it wasn’t the Magpies who returned to finish this meal.

This morning I again stepped out without checking, only to see Coop flush from the carcass. Seems I have to learn to look first, so I don’t startle our guests. It no longer mattered; nothing edible remains.

I am NOT a Mouse!

2010-02-06T16:30:00.005-07:00

Okay, I know I'm cute, I get that, but please don't think I'm a mouse. (Smelly pesty little rodent...) Au contraire, I'm a "fastidious, beautiful animal" and "hardly deserve the negative stereotype most people have" of my kind. And that's according to the Colorado expert on such things. Photo credit: National Park Service.

When The Husband called me to look at a little critter jumping in and out of the chicken feed bucket late last month, I leaped to a quick conclusion. Despite my hasty conviction that the little guy is a Woodrat, I'm open to corrections.

Historical Perspective: Back in 1877, while hunting dinosaurs near Morrison, Colorado, Arthur Lakes preferred the outdoor life:

For myself I still adhered to my tent life & adjourned every evening to my canvas dog tent pitched by the side of the stream. At last however after one or two snowstorms it became rather dismal to leave the warm stove and go out through the snow to the cold tent & so I cam in & for the first night slept on the floor but the mountain rats kept up such a racket that sleep was impossible. So I turned my tent into a swinging hammock & swung myself up into the rafters above the boys head.

In annotating this journal excerpt for a local publication, I wrote:

Bushy-tailed Woodrat (Neotoma cinerea)
Lakes' "mountain rat" is likely to be the bushy-tailed woodrat, better known as the packrat of western lore. Of some 20 species of woodrats in the west, five [six*] occur in Colorado. The other 15 species occur mostly in Mexico and Central America, where some subspecies are considered endangered.

The bushy-tailed woodrat, as its alternate name implies, is best known for its acquisitive habits. The Mexican woodrat occurs in southern Colorado and extends its range northward through our area, taking advantage of the milder microclimates provided by the hogback and adjacent foothills. The larger, more common bushy-tailed woodrat occurs well into the mountains and ranges from Alaska to Mexico. Woodrats eat a variety of plants, preferring the leaves, quantities of which are stored in crevices for winter use. Woodrats generally nest among rocky outcrops in vertical cracks, caves, or shelves, although they also use old mines and outbuildings, as Lakes discovered.

*According to my favorite mammalogist, there are six species of woodrats in this state: Mexican, gray, white-throated, eastern, desert... (I can't figure out his sixth from that article, and don't have his book handy.) Most sources I found neglected to distinguish among—or provide a scientific name for— the species, but here's a Colorado list, courtesy NatureServe:

White-throated Woodrat Neotoma albigula
Bushy-tailed Woodrat Neotoma cinerea
Eastern Woodrat Neotoma floridana
Desert Woodrat Neotoma lepida
White-toothed Woodrat Neotoma leucodon

Other sources do list a gray woodrat, the Southern Plains Woodrat (N. micropus), so that or the white-toothed may be the sixth species in Armstrong's list. I'm guessing these little guys are tough for a novice to tell apart.

Meanwhile, back to Our Story:
As you can tell from the previous post, it took several tries before we were able to capture this little fellow at all clearly (window and screen notwithstanding). Mostly my shutter finger was not quick enough. I got several nice photos of the empty bucket, though.

But as he traveled back and forth from the feed bucket to the stash many times, we were finally able to catch him going in... and out of... the bucket. He was quick!

(The feed bucket is 9.5 inches/24 cm in diameter. Armstrong says the smallest Colorado species of woodrat is 12 inches/30 cm long. Is he including the tail? I can't imagine a local rodent more than 12 inches long, except rock squirrels and marmots. Anyway, bigger than a mouse, for sure.)

We weren't the only ones appreciating the show! The cats, trapped behind glass, enjoyed it even more!

The first personal encounter I recall with woodrats was a sad one many years ago. A woman, startled by the appearance of this creature in her brand new foothills mansion, captured it in a glass canning jar and brought it to the museum where I worked at the time to get an ID. Without punching holes in the lid. Horrified, I told her what the freshly suffocated creature was, but was not nearly as welcoming as I would have been with most visitors. An educational opportunity lost: I suspect she never set foot in the place again!

For some time, we've known that woodrats occupied the peripheral spaces of the chicken coop. Sometimes I even see (more often, hear) them in the ceiling or under the floor when I collect eggs and count beaks each evening. Occasionally one of the cats leaves a half woodrat on the doorstep. Last week, the entire ceiling of one part of the coop collapsed, exposing a collection of mummified lilac twigs complete with leaves, chewed foam panels, nesting material, and a vast accumulation of waste material. We were on our way to a veritable packrat midden.

Yes, woodrats, aka packrats aka trade rats, particularly in the southwest, are benefactors to humankind. Their middens, one of which is pictured here, are archeological time capsules that record vegetation, climate (via pollen trapped therein), and other conditions dating back as far as 40,000 years! Being fastidious, as Armstrong says, they deposit their refuse in discrete areas, where it accumulates to form deposits that are almost geologic in scope. Cemented and preserved by crystallized urine, the mass is capable of preserving most anything in it and, thus, a boon to researchers. More on this photo.

Our woodrat continues to live under the front step, where I hope he will elude the cats, live long, and prosper. He still enjoys sunflower seeds and chicken scratch, although to date he's shown no signs of leaving us any shiny baubles in return.

More on woodrats:

Nice writeup on the Colorado species of Neotoma.

At Wikipedia (see also species pages and links)

Species of concern, on Univ. of Calif Santa Cruz campus, which has some good photos of the "stick-pile" nests they build when not living in rocky cliffs. We saw a lot of these in the deserts of Arizona.

——

Okay, it must have been a really lousy photo. I'm awarding the prize to Swampy, at Swamp 4 Me, who at least got it to the right Order (Rodentia). Thanks, everyone, for chiming in! Swampy, send me your address to claim your original historic postcard of this fabulous local spot where you can see packrat middens.

A Small Saturday Challenge

2010-02-06T10:33:00.003-07:00

Simultaneously displaying my amazing skills as a wildlife photographer and giving you a little something to puzzle over this morning-- check out this terrific shot from last week.

Got ideas? I'll be back later with the full post, just packed with information and (yes, promise!) better photos. Oh, guess I'd better be thinking of a prize for the first correct guess, too. Hmmm...

Feeling Picked On?

2010-01-30T15:28:00.007-07:00

At home?

Or maybe at work?

Actually, I'm fine, thanks, just couldn't resist sharing these!

Have a great weekend...

Of Vermin and Varmints

2010-01-26T07:30:00.001-07:00

How often have you heard the two words in the title in recent decades? Not much, I hope, though I know they are still used. I'd never thought of wildlife in these terms until I moved to Arizona in grad school, and discovered "varmint hunting." Say what?

Wikipedia does an intriguing etymological job on vermin, albeit relatively citation-free, pointing out that both words have evolved from the root (verm-, meaning wormlike), which originally included mostly insect pests, to cover pests that range in size from rats to small or medium-sized predators, such as (in Arizona's predominant case) coyotes. Soon I found myself writing letters to editors (okay, one, in response to a Paul Harvey diatribe) and hanging out with HSUS types occasionally. I wanted a chance to see coyotes, alive and without holes in them. And that, in the category of "things you can see while hiking in Arizona," is putting it mildly.

"God's dog," it turns out, is persona non grata in the Southwest, where hunting is regulated not as a game animal, but in a special class for predators.* I'd say "was" but here's what the AZ Game & Fish Dept has to say on their website today:

The take of coyotes by hunters has been relatively stable during the past 10 years, about 13,000 hunters taking an average of between 30,000 and 40,000 coyotes a year. Most of these animals are taken while "varmint calling," while hunting other game, or simply as opportunities arise...[updated April 2009]

* "Predatory mammals as defined by A.R.S. 17-101 are coyotes, bobcats, foxes, and skunks. Bobcats are the only predator also classified as a furbearer with an export tag required to ship a bobcat pelt out of state.
August 1 - March 31 is open season for Bobcat and Foxes as authorized in Commission Order 13. The season for Coyote and Skunk is yearlong." [Emphasis mine.] If you like this one, you'll probably want to read their Predator Management Policy.

From the immediate at that time, my interest shifted to the historical today. Just last month I encountered an arresting tidbit: this account of pests destroyed at a bird sanctuary in 1929-30, from Bug Girl's blog. I hope she won't mind my repeating it here for those who may have missed it.

A Disgraceful Tally

You really should click to enlarge this—it gives you an idea of the real abundance and variety of wildlife, even into the early decades of the last century, if so much can be destroyed on one small 700-acre preserve. (Note, however, that the take of most every group was down substantially the second year.) I've no doubt the taking of 174 snakes and 58 owls necessitated the killing of the 2,644 mice!

"Such birds and animals as were poisoned have not been included in these totals." Gee, that's good to know.

I quite agree, Bug Girl—things have changed, thank goodness! Else we couldn't have enjoyed last week's Cooper's hawk without fears, so close to "civilization," for his life.

——
In related news, on March 6th Dyana Furmansky, author of Hawk of Mercy, a biography of Rosalie Edge, will discuss her book. In the early 20th century, Edge earned the title "Nature's hellcat" by campaigning against such prejudicial practices on the part of conservationists who protected sport species (think ducks) at the expense of hawks and snapping turtles. Details here, and a great story on Edge by the author here.

Note: Illustrations, from a collection I did years ago, are copyright S.L. White and not to be used without permission, as are photographs. Thanks!

Two for The Watcher

2010-01-19T14:36:00.013-07:00

Sometimes the work of a fellow blogger so moves us we simply must comment. Other times, it may trigger something that's too involved for the mere comments field on the subject post. Such has been the case lately for me. A couple of The Watcher's recent posts triggered memories of a favorite author, Loren Eiseley. I've no idea whether The Watcher reads or has ever read Eiseley, but I want to share a couple tidbits of Eiseley's work with you.

Inspired by The Watcher’s post of December 30th on why birds are “God’s favorite children”, I wanted to contribute another reason—they OWN the planet.

It happens every spring and nobody seems to take any notice at all. There are no congressional investigations, no cross-examinations of witnesses before television, no one hurls himself out of a window. Nevertheless, it happens every spring and there is no doubt that it smacks of sheer communism. I refer to the expropriation and reassignment of land in these states and the incredible way in which even city properties fall victim to it. Yesterday morning I could hear conversations about it just outside my window, and somebody over my rooftop was expropriating in at least half-mile sections. … The whole thing smacks of subversion and disrespect for the laws of private property. It may well merit an investigation. It should begin by a thorough and painstaking investigation of the birds.

—Loren Eiseley, from The Lost Notebooks of Loren Eiseley (K. Heuer, ed.)

I suspect he was under the influence of the McCarthy hearings when he wrote that one, don't you? Perhaps that explains why this vignette was (I believe) never published. Fellow Eiseley fan Gary Raham (see below) suspects Eiseley would not have wanted the unfinished material in his notebooks to see light, but such is often the fate of the illustrious. I only regret that I can't share the incredible sketches of The Lost Notebooks with you as well. If you're a follower of Eiseley's work, you need to see this book!

Inspired by The Watcher’s post of January 18th, in which he waxes poetic about exozoochory (we love that word!), here's Eiseley’s own eloquent testimony on seed dispersal:

When I climb I almost always carry seeds with me in my pocket. Often I like to carry sunflower seeds, or an acorn, or any queer “sticktight” that has a way of gripping fur or boot tops as if it had a deliberate eye on the Himalayas and meant to use the intelligence of others to arrive at them. More than one lost mountaineer lying dead at the bottom of a crevasse has proved that his sole achievement in life was to inch some plant a half-mile further toward the moon. His body may have been scarcely cold before that illicit transported seed had been getting a foothold beneath him on a patch of stony ground or writhing its way into a firm engagement with the elements on the moisture of his life’s blood. I have carried such seeds up the sheer walls of mesas and I have never had illusions that I was any different to them than a grizzly’s back or a puma’s paw.

—Loren Eiseley, from The Lost Notebooks of Loren Eiseley (K. Heuer, ed.), though I suspect this one may have been published in an essay somewhere

Leaving aside his disregard for the evils of introducing plants where plant dictators (like FF) think they don’t belong, I’ve always appreciated Eiseley’s writing for its poetic combination of science, introspection, observation, and outright nature mysticism. It’s an appreciation I share with one of my research enthusiasms, Paul B. Sears, who wrote in a review of Eiseley’s The Mind as Nature:

It is well that we are increasingly respectful of quantitative method and its results. But this respect should never blind us to the fact that no man [or other living thing] is a mere statistic. There is an essential place, not least in science, for those precisely individual accounts, too often lightly—even scornfully—dismissed as “anecdotal.”

—Paul B. Sears, 1963, The Exception is the Rule, American Scholar 32(2):321-322.

Foothills Fancies, you’ve perhaps noticed, is all about anecdotal! Though far less eloquently than Loren Eiseley, who by the way is the topic of an upcoming talk here in the area (and wasn't that a smooth seque):

Wednesday, Jan. 27, 7:00 p.m., "Fireside Chat" sponsored by the Friends of Dinosaur Ridge: “Loren Eiseley – A Poet Wearing the Fox Skins of a Scientist,” by Gary Raham; Dinosaur Ridge Visitor Center, 16831 W. Alameda Parkway, Morrison.

Loren Eiseley (1907-1977) wrote for Harper's Magazine and Atlantic Monthly, penned best selling books, both non-fiction and poetry, but also served as Provost and Benjamin Franklin Professor of Anthropology at the University of Pennsylvania. In 1960, his The Firmament of Time only lost out to the Rise and Fall of the Third Reich for the National Book Award. As a graduate student he discovered a Folsom Point embedded in the vertebra of the extinct Bison antiquus at the Lindenmeier site north of Fort Collins. Yet he struggled his entire career to find the balance between the objective pursuit of science and exercising his ability to explain and dramatize science with the written word. He felt awe contemplating deep time and man's place in the natural world. This event is not recommended for children.

Note: Illustrations, from a collection I did years ago, are copyright S.L. White and not to be used without permission, as are photographs. Thanks!