My introduction to Wyoming as a CLM intern was marred by an unfortunate incident. The person who was to be my partner abandoned their position on the eve of our first day, leaving me to handle all SOS-related activities in our field office this summer. It was the last thing that I had expected upon my arrival in the little town of Rawlins. We had a big job ahead of us, and the CLM program at this particular field office was crafted for two people. With one, the amount of work allocated to our office would be unmanageable. My mentors and I had two options: cut way down on my workload and not meet the original seed collection quota, or try to make ends meet while CLM worked to hire a late-season replacement.

We chose the latter. I commenced researching the flora of southern Wyoming and my duties as a SOS intern. I gained a feel for the plant community and began work on scouting possible collection sites and gathering voucher specimens from each population. It was a large amount of work that depended on several factors: the existence of suitable populations of our target species in the field office, correct identification of those target species, accurate estimations of population size and seed yield, the site’s relative safety from stochastic factors, etc. If any of these factors went belly-up, I would need to begin the whole process over again. I decided that the only thing to do would be to dive in headfirst with both sleeves rolled up, and make the best of whatever happened.

I quickly found that I had a lot to learn about both BLM work and Wyoming itself. The high desert is a harsh landscape full of hazards that this Tennessee native had never encountered: prairie rattlers, ferocious winds, and a dryness that seems to suck the life out of you. One must be tough and self-sufficient to survive this landscape. Over time, I found that many Wyomingite life skills are skills that are integral to working in the conservation field. Probably the most important of these is field navigation. I had some superficial experience with reading maps in school as part of a cartography class, but for most of my life, Google Maps and plain ol’ familiarity told me how to get to wherever I went. Once in Wyoming, I was faced with a novel landscape, most of which was without cell phone service. To find my field sites, I had to resort to the old-fashioned methods of paper and intuition. There were more than a few wrong turns before I really got the hang of it!

Going hand-in-hand with field navigation was learning to operate 4WD vehicles. “Lucky”, our trusty Chevy Silverado, did not always have the easiest time with us interns behind the wheel. But after a week of being made to drive on steep, rocky, guardrail-less canyon roads (never has Driver’s Ed been more terrifying, emotional, and effective), I felt completely at home behind Lucky’s steering wheel. Trucks such as these are used extensively in federal agencies and other outdoor jobs, so I’m very glad to have this experience now!

The most enjoyable new field skill by far was learning the flora of the Intermountain West. As a botanist in training, it is always a pleasure to apply my skills to another region. I was fortunate enough to have a mentor with a botany background; with his guidance and some research time in the field and the office herbarium, I was able to get a handle on the plant communities in a relatively short amount of time. One of my best memories of the summer was of my first day in the field with him. Second week of work: going out with Frank for some hands-on botanical education. It was the last week of May, when most desert wildflowers are at peak bloom. We drove up through the Cherry Creek valley in the Ferris Mountains, stopping at every new plant we came upon. After copious notes and exploration, we drove down into a small canyon filled with limber pine, currants, blazing stars, and wild greens. I was amazed at the diversity of this austere landscape.

My drive to learn these new skills and the prospect of tackling our collection project alone greatly fostered my independence, a character trait that’s always been crucial to eaking out a living in the West. My mentors were there to help me with anything I asked, but over time I began to manage our project myself. I decided our weekly schedule according to the phenology of our target species, gave reports at project meetings and on conference calls, and handled the data management aspect of our project.

My mentor’s guidance, weeks of preparation, and a lot of new knowledge from the CBG workshop made me feel equipped and determined to tackle our collection task on my own by the time the seeds had begun to cure. Fortunately, the arrival of a replacement intern spared me from doing that (It turns out that collecting seeds can take a long time!). Nevertheless, I feel that my solo work during my first month and a half in Rawlins left me feeling much more confident in my own abilities than I was when I first arrived. This experience allowed me to guide my new partner through our busiest month (July) and wrap up our project in a timely manner.

I’ll admit, when I first accepted this internship, I really didn’t understand the magnitude of what I would be doing. The importance and scope of the SOS program didn’t become clear to me until I attended the workshop in Chicago. The JMP Symposium especially hit home the dire need for a national native seed program. I understood the importance of restoration research, but had no idea of how much networking and coordination is needed to make native plant restoration a reality. I also didn’t realize the precarious state of plant conservation and botanical training in the U.S.; learning that my desired profession is itself on the brink of extinction shook me to my core, and made me feel more committed than ever to advocating for plant conservation measures. Plants are the literal ambassadors between Earth’s main energy source and the inhabitants of this planet; their communities cannot continue to be sidelined in the way that they are now.
I don’t know exactly where I’ll end up next year, or even next month, but one thing is for sure: I am a much more equipped conservation worker than I was this spring. If the West has taught me anything, it is that with enough knowledge and persistence, the battle can be won.

As the seed-collecting season winds down, the SOS team of Rawlins is once again on the hunt for treasure. As it turns out, Penstemon haydenii was only the beginning.

Colorado Butterfly Plant, one of the most exquisite blooms I’ve seen all summer!

In mid-August, I accompanied a team to the Laramie area to find Ute’s ladies-tresses, a threatened orchid with very particular tastes in habitat. This little monocot prefers the sunny peripheries of gravel bars in shallow streams (sans riparian shrubs), an environment that is extremely few and far between in southern Wyoming. Unsurprisingly, we did not find the orchid. However, we did stumble upon something just as exciting: a new population of Colorado butterfly plant. There are only a few populations of this species left in the Rockies, and our discovery was the westernmost yet. It was terribly exciting to be a part of a groundbreaking discovery such as this!

Hours of searching are finally rewarded!

Besides these precious stones of the south-central Wyoming plant kingdom, I got to work with two “BLM sensitive” species. Penstemon gibbensii, Gibbon’s penstemon, is greener and less showy than its dune-dwelling congener, and prefers soils with a bit more stability. A long, tiring day of trekking 100-foot clay dunes was rewarded with a lot of new experience with line transects, but only two flowering individuals. 

Intrepid biologists in search of P. gibbensii.

The alkai Chain Lakes of southern Wyoming, A. diversifolius‘ preferred habitat.

Astragalus diversifolius, a milkvetch with an unusual growth form and a penchant for alkali lakes, was another that was difficult to find. I suspect that many of these “sensitive” species are ones that are poor competitors and are highly picky about their habitat. Unfortunately for them, this combination is not a recipe for biological success.

The crown jewel of my Wyoming T/E monitoring was not a plant at all, but the famous Wyoming toad, Bufo baxteri – the most endangered amphibian in America. Like many aquatic species around the world, Wyoming toads are suffering from Chytrid fungus. Keratinized amphibians, like toads, are particularly susceptible to fungal infection, and the limited range of this species doesn’t help its chances of survival. Reintroduction efforts are underway, and annual surveys are crucial to determining the success of this program.

A juvenile specimen of B. baxteri.

Bufo baxteri’s preferred haunt.

For two weeks, we patrolled the shores of lakes that lay in the the shadow of the picturesque Snowy Range. I came to appreciate a valuable skill of wildlife work: the ability to spot tiny creatures in thick vegetation. My eyes, being trained to spot cues of color and shape rather than movement, had a hard time distinguishing thumbnail-sized toads from grasshoppers, voles, and spiders. Every accurate ID felt like a victory. For all the toads we caught, we would take their measurements and note the colored pit-tags on the bottoms of their legs. The larger toads would be examined for signs of Bd, swabbed with cotton, and photographed. My favorites were the adult males, who chirp and vibrate when threatened. Amphibians are amazingly endearing when they’re quivering in one’s hand like a joke buzzer.

As many of my fellow interns can tell you, the sagebrush steppe of the intermountain west can easily feel barren. Lion-colored hills and austere rock outcrops rise from the sage like islands. Trees are rarer still, only to be found in the faraway mountains and remote waterways. Blooms are bright but brief, shriveling into brown husks in the unrelenting dryness. But, as Tolkien wrote, “all that is gold does not glitter”. Though the days of gold-panning have gone, there is still treasure to be found among the ridges and buttes, if one comes at the right time, and knows where to look.  

When I took on this internship, I knew that I would branch out into non-SOS duties during the course of my internship: wildlife monitoring, organizing the herbarium, etc. I didn’t, however, anticipate that I would be treasure-hunting. While it’s true that gold fever once struck these hills (along with coal, uranium, oil, and natural gas fever) what little precious metal here was picked away be prospectors long ago. Nevertheless, I’ve found that Wyoming still has many unique treasures hidden within its landscape.

The first precious gem we set out to find was a periwinkle-coloured penstemon, hiding up amongst the dunes of the Ferris Mountains. Penstemon haydenii, the Blowout penstemon, was re-discovered by my mentor in these dunes twenty years prior. This species only occurs in two places on Earth; here in southern Wyoming, and in the Sandhills of north-central Nebraska.

Penstemon haydenii in flower.

Dune ecosystems remind me of the limestone glades of my native Tennessee; they are confounding, entrancing patches of desert tucked into the prairie. Standing at the crest of a long line of majestic dunes, I no longer felt like I was in southern Wyoming, but in the Sahara or the Kalahari.

One of the many dunes flanking the Ferris Mountains of southern Wyoming.

Penstemon haydenii thrives at the edges of blowouts, great sand bowls that are carved out by the wind, creating the classic “dune” shape. Researchers at Wyoming Natural Diversity Database and University of Wyoming believe that P. haydenii is highly disturbance-dependent. The active dunes of the Ferris Mountains maintain the sparsely vegetated “blowouts” this species calls home. The constant shifting of the sand reduces competition, leaving a sparse community of specialized survivors: Redfieldia flexuosa, Psoralidium lanceolatum, Rumex venosus, and Penstemon haydenii. Through a unique combination of geology, climate, and physical forces, a one-of-a-kind assemblage of desert plants has come together.

Typical habitat of P. haydenii.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the Nebraska Sandhills. Management practices dating back to the Great Depression have put P. haydenii populations at a disadvantage. After the Dust Bowl, the Sandhills, along with every other plot of land in the Midwest, were planted out to anchor loose soil. This frenzy for erosion control is understandable, but it wasn’t always appropriate. The dunes were, effectively, put to sleep. As they lay dormant, more competitive species colonized the ecosystem, crowding out P. haydenii and other specialists. Despite the efforts of a local reintroduction program, populations are dwindling.

My mentor, who re-discovered the Wyoming populations of P. haydenii, inspecting a specimen.

Led by Bonnie Heidel of the Wyoming Natural Diversity Database, our team trekked the dunes in search of data for the biennial P. haydenii survey. Vegetative plants are difficult to spot, particularly in patches of R. flexuosa, the blowout grass. Identification hinges on careful attunement to the the plant’s blue-green foliage and slender leaves. Every sighting was sounded with whoops of excitement, particularly when the individual was flowering. But the best was yet to come.

It is quite rare to find P. haydenii seedlings, partly due to their small size (imagine spotting a green toothpick in the sand) and partly due to high predation of seeds. But, as luck would have it, on my first day of monitoring, we ran across a bona-fide nursery! A spray of tiny seedlings tumbled down the bowl, coming to a halt along another ridge of sand. We speculate that the cache of some luckless rodent was uncovered by the wind, giving the seeds another chance at germination. Seeing this trail of young plants gave us hope that this species, whose rarity alone has left it on the brink, will have enough resilience to handle any new factors our changing world throws at it.

Hope for the future!

July hit us with a collection frenzy.

Within a couple weeks, the unusually cool, wet spring I enjoyed my first month here evaporated into a blazing hot summer, and with it, our collection timetable. We had expected many species to set seed later; instead, they ripened on double-time. Just another reminder that Mama Nature isn’t interested in sticking to our silly human schedule.

For five weeks, we worked around the clock, trying desperately to keep up. Hot spells, dry winds, and a general lack of predictability kept me on our toes, continually visiting sites, always with a paper bag in hand in case today was the day. Fortunately for me, I now had help. On July 1, my new partner, Justyna, rode into town. With twice as many hands at work, our original goal of 25 collections seemed manageable again.

Time passes quickly when you have a lot on your plate, and as quickly as it began, our main project is now wrapping up. We are now turning our attention to other things, some botany-focused, some not. I’m looking forward to gaining new experiences as the summer wraps up!