Aspen Fleabane! Erigeron speciosus! Lost in a sea of purple Erigerons, where is the species we need? 

It’s month number two of the CLM internship for us here on the Big Horn National Forest. Things are heating up (to nearly record high temperatures in Sheridan, WY , at 105 degrees Fahrenheit!) which means things are approaching full swing up on the mountain, floristically. Several plants that are on our collection list have gone to seed. Many more are now in full bloom—including those in the genus Erigeron. 

The botanically uninitiated are faced with the “green wall” when first looking out on a leafy landscape, before learning to differentiate between the many plants that make up the community. With these fleabanes, we’re facing a new frontier—the “purple wall”. In some genera, there are only a few species in the state’s flora. In the genus Monarda, for example, there are only 2 species native to Wyoming, Monarda fistulosa (a plant on our target species list for collection!) and Monarda pectinata. This makes it pretty easy to be confident when we see our Monarda out in the field. Not so with fleabane. There are over 50 species in the Wyoming flora, and almost every single one has bright yellow disk flowers, and purplish to whitish ray flowers. 

We’ve found that quite a few of the other plant enthusiasts on iNaturalist share our confusion; we’ve showed up on the sites of several iNat observations of Aspen fleabane, and have found several different versions of plants that match the description of yellow disk, purple rays—so which is really Aspen fleabane?  

In this case, a pretty cool clue for where to look can be found in the common name! We’ve found many purple fleabanes that don’t look quite right when wandering through sagebrush, along lake shores, or up on rocky outcroppings; but when we find ourselves in stands of aspen, we find that the plants start to line up closer with our description of Aspen fleabane! That being said, there are still subtle distinctions between species that we have to watch out for—Erigeron subtrinervis, or Three-veined fleabane, looks very similar to Aspen fleabane and can also be found growing in stands of aspen, but instead of a smooth stem and leaves, it will have hairy stems and leaves. It’s a minute detail, but when we send our seeds to the seed nursery and extractory in Couer d’Alene, they’ll want to see a voucher specimen that fits the bill. 

It’s tough to find what we need, but we’ve still got a moment before these tricky purple flowers go to seed. In any case, a shady, lush stand of aspens is always a great place to be, so I won’t mind the search! 

These past few weeks, the nodding onions have exploded from their papery cocoon, dotting the understory with cute purple bundles. To me, these flowers seemed to come out of nowhere. During early surveys I glimpsed the little white bulb and marked down Allium cernuum in my survey form, barely sparing a thought for the plant. Then it seemed, all of a sudden, like beautiful fireworks were all around me.

I though for a moment that because they were so pretty, these plants might be the other rare onion in the Bitterroot Forest, Allium acuminatum. They were not. They were just regular old nodding onion.

As the fireworks of nodding onions began, the onion I overlooked became one of my favorite plants in the forest. I started to appreciate the bulb before the flower bloomed. When I looked closely I was able to see a neatly wrapped and protected umbel of flowers, reminding me of a caterpillar in a cocoon before it emerges in a display of beauty. I liked how the buds swelled and broke through the thin membrane surrounding them, how the buds hung in perfect little drops from the stem, how they then exploded into a ball, each bud stretching away from the others, how the petals slowly darkened from white to pink, and how green fruits swelled in the middle of each flower as the petals faded back to a wispy white. I loved that each plant seemed to go at its own speed, meaning every day I saw each step of the development in different parts of my survey, or even in a small clump of plants.

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Besides admiring the nodding onion, we have done some bee surveys, seed collection, and more rare plant surveys.

The bee surveys are a part of Xerces’ Montana Bumble Bee Atlas project. The goal of this project is to track bumble bees across all of Montana. They do this by splitting the state into a grid and having trained volunteers adopt and conduct bee surveys in a grid-cell.

To conduct the survey, we find a spot to survey and time ourselves for 45 minutes. When we spot a bumble bee we catch it in the net, place it in a vial, and then put it in a cooler so it goes to sleep. Then we take pictures of the bee and record data about the flower the bee was on, the surrounding flora, and environmental conditions. When we are done taking pictures we let the bee fly away.

Our seed collection season has also begun. This means driving around the forest and looking for populations of target species that are big enough to collect, and also timing the collection when the seeds are developed but have not dispersed.

And, we have done a lot more rare plant surveys.

Here, Li and I are getting the aspect (cardinal direction) of the slope of a rare plant population.

And this is Li and me at the top of a very tall and steep hill.

This past month has been a lot of fun and I’m looking forward to our transition towards seed collection and vegetation monitoring.

The second month of my stay here in Dillon, MT is coming to a steady end. Work has definitely picked up quickly in terms of seed collection, with various species predicted to seed here in the next few weeks. There’s been a lot of prep work and anticipation, since most of our collection species at Beaverhead-Deerlodge seed later in the season. It feels like the season has been working in multiple stages as work ebbs and flows, and I can feel a new stage approaching. I’m eager to focus more on seed collection, since a lot of the scouting so far has been more of a multitasking effort.

Working with the botany crew has given me many opportunities to explore Beaverhead-Deerlodge National Forest while scouting for collection sites. I’ve found it super exciting to come in everyday knowing I’ll see and definitely learn something new. We got to join on a wildflower tour earlier this month, which was quite beautiful and made for a great scouting experience.

One of my favorite things we did this month was camping out in Maxville. There was a beautiful lake directly across the street from our campground, and it was great to cool off from the heat every night. We also went to this amazing candy shop in nearby Philipsburg. I was not like a kid in a candy store, I was better. My life has been changed. I’m also incredibly excited to share that my dream for the season has been fulfilled. I saw a moose! Unfortunately, I was so excited that my photos were very shaky, but I do have witness accounts.

July has gone by much faster than expected. It’s taken me a while, but I’m finally feeling adjusted here in southwest Montana. Some days I miss the Appalachians. The green lush mountains and summer tomatoes (there are tomatoes here too, but if you know you know), or the muggy sweet smells of the forest. But I also know that, someday, I’ll miss the smell of sagebrush, or the tart yet sweet taste of a fresh-picked huckleberry. I’ve completed field seasons far from home before, but this year has brought me a greater appreciation for the importance and uniqueness of place.

P.S. Cat update: she is doing absolutely fabulous. Her favorite summertime activity has been watching the black-billed magpies from the window and clawing at it. She has an unmatched focus face.

This month, I have been reminded of the resilience and beauty of the desert. I love seeing the giant tarantulas crossing the campsite roads in Payson and seeing the wild Palo Verdes reminiscent of a certain Dr. Seuss book. It’s striking to me the amount of life that lives and thrives in a place that regularly saps my strength at over 90 degrees every day. I put my hand into the soil at a site in the Tonto Forest the other day. The site is called Leo Grove, and over the last few weeks, we’ve been weeding, fencing, and making transects to turn it into an experimental plot. It’s been thinned, but has Ponderosa Pines all around the area. It was striking to me that I could very nearly slip my hand into the soil almost without needing a shovel, and seeing how soft and moist it was under the surface beneath the pine needles. I thought it was funny how consistent Arizona was with spiky things- spiky plants, spikey snakes and insects, and even spikey dirt. Under the surface, however, everything is soft, delicate, and full of life, waiting to sprout. I think that seeing the resilience of the things here gives me hope for the life to come in the future, and maybe, more things could benefit from being a little prickly.

It seems like all of a sudden it is the end of July.  The fireweed started blooming about a week ago, marking the height of summer.  Some days, when it’s rainy and cold for days on end, I have to remind myself that it is actually the middle of summer.  Sunny days are like gold here, where everyone tries to take full advantage of them and they are not taken for granted.  The other day I heard the wind blow through the aspens and they seemed to say that fall is drawing near.  The seasons go so quickly in Southcentral Alaska, it’s astounding.  These urgent reminders of time passing are also reflected in the plants which seem to appear full grown suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere.  I try not to feel anxious, but these signs tell me that our seed gathering season is right around the bend and it will be go time any day now.

This past month has been a crash course into the native flora of the Chugach National Forest on the Kenai Peninsula.  I’m pleased with the amount I’ve learned over the past two months, and grateful to get to know an area through this lens.  I remember when I got here in the end of May, I maybe recognized three to five plants.  Now when I walk through the forest I see dozens of familiar faces.  The list of ~30 priority plant species along with their Latin names that our mentor Peter handed us the first week sent my mind spiraling at the time.  Now my co-intern, Sam, and I are using their latin names left and right as we hunt for good patches of them to harvest from, map their size and location, and dig voucher specimens to help confirm the ID of the plant before putting in an herbarium later on.

At first, Peter, our mentor, wanted us to simply become familiar with the plants and ecological makeup of the region and so we utilized a combination of identifying plants through iNaturalist, an Alaska Wildflowers plant app, and keying them out with local floras (especially the grasses and sedges).  Hands on experience makes such a difference in this step.  Initially, I researched plants on our priority species list online before we went out and found them in the field.  This type of memorization is quite taxing and not incredibly effective, though.  Although not for the first time, I was reminded that that something special happens when you get to know a plant in person within its native habitat.  A special type of memory and recognition lodges deep within the heart when I meet a plant in person that I cannot receive by putting information into the memory bank in my mind through a book or computer alone.

Valeriana capitata, Capitate Valerian.  Vibernum edule, Highbush Cranberry.  Elliottia pyroliflora, Copperbush.  Arinica latifolia, Broadleaf Arnica. Eriophorum angustifolium, Tall Cottongrass. Aconitum napellus, Monkshood. Delphinium glaucum, Sierra Larkspur. Heuchera glabra, Alpine Alumroot.

I’ve been quite astounded by one of the first plants I noticed in Alaska.  When I arrived here in the end of May, just as the plants were beginning to grow, there was an odd thick green pad growing from a woody, spiny stalk at about the height of my knee.  It surprised me, as it almost looked like a cactus.  I was very drawn to it and intrigued.  Once it started growing past it’s sprouting/reawakening stage, this plant transformed completely, growing broad wide leaves larger than dinner plates, with incredibly spiny stalks that pushed up 7-8+ feet above the ground with a wing span beyond 10ft in diameter.  I began noticing this plant everywhere, and later realized what a prevalent species it is to the region, abundant in almost every understory.  I very quickly learned that the common name for this plant is Devil’s Club, due to the large spines that cover the stalks and leaves of this plant. With a latin name of, Oplopanax horridus, both of its names are teaming with intimidation.  But despite the evil connotations embedded within its names, I have come to respect this plant deeply, due to its resilience, abundance, and formidable nature. 

Additionally, I’ve come to appreciate this plant the more I learn about its ecological functions and healing properties.  Although the berries are toxic to humans, they are an important food source for bears.  This is true to the extent that bears, more so than birds, have been found to have the greatest impact on spreading the seed of devil’s club, in turn affecting its population size and prevalence across the landscape.  The plant is also said to grow in areas that have been disturbed by humans, especially those impacted by logging.  Indigenous and local people utilize the stem and the root of this plant medicinally.  It is said to have a wide range of potent healing properties, including a strong anti-bacterial and anti-inflammatory.

Because we are working to restore a riparian area and build several wetland areas, the primary species we are looking to gather seed from are also riparian and wetland species.  This includes many sedges and grasses, a couple rushes, and a few forbs.  Thus, as a side effect of trying to find and identify the primary species on our list, my co-intern, Sam, and I have grown an unexpected love for sedges over the past month.  Upon first glance, sedges aren’t as wow-ing as wildflowers or trees.  But needing to utilize a microscope to key out these special plants has deeply developed our appreciation and admiration for these special plants.   

First off, sedges are incredibly unique and gorgeous on a microscopic level.  Their reproductive structures, otherwise known as the perigynia, are full of trichomes throwing light every which way and creating brilliant hues of subtle earthen colors.  The perigynium, which encapsulates the seed, often has a beak coming off of it, from which the stigma emerges.  The stigmas are also beautiful and feather-like.  Some sedges have bisexual flowers and others have unisexual flowers, giving them vastly different and interesting appearances.  Lastly, sedges, obviously, have edges, which never cease to amaze me with their triangular stem shape.

Sedges are also important to the greater ecological function of an environment.  First, sedges are an important source of food for many animals in the area including bears, muskrats, mountain goats, musk oxen, geese, ducks, and insects.  Sedges also provide crucial transitional habitat in the zone between aquatic and terrestrial environments and important nesting habitats for geese, waterfowl, raptors and songbirds, as well as habitats for macroinvertebrates.  Some species provide important habitat and food for salmon.  In additional to being a pillar of the food web and providing critical habitat, sedges also are important to warding off erosion, stabilizing riparian banks, and filtering out toxic material from the water.  They remove pollutants and sediments from the water, improving its quality.  Two of the sedges we are gathering the seed from – Carex lenticularis and Carex aquatilis – have been identified as an early plant successional stage plants.  They are also deemed pioneer species of exposed mineral substrates that will persist indefinitely once established and limit the presence of other species.

The last plant that I want to highlight is another one that is on our list of priority species to gather seeds from. It has been interesting getting to know, within the broad category of riparian species, some more specific aspects and niches that certain plants prefer. This particular plant that I’ve been especially drawn to is named Angelica lucida, or Seacoast Angelica.  It is a species that is native to this region but present only in certain areas.  The first few weeks I didn’t see any.  Then, one day when I was working alone and Angelica was on the top of my list of plants I wanted to find that day.  During the middle of the day, I decided to sit down at a picnic table next to a lake to have lunch.  I had been hiking around all morning, identifying and mapping plant populations near Trail River, finding interesting plants, but no Angelica.  Then, as I sat at the picnic table, I happened to look over and there was one lone Angelica lucida standing regally in front of a tree.  It almost felt like a joke or a beautiful coincidence, or something in between. And although I took pictures to confirm with my mentor when I got back, I had a deep surety that this was the plant I’d been looking for.

I have to say, I love it when this happens.  When you’ve been looking for a plant for a while, one you’ve never seen before, you don’t know exactly what it looks like but once you finally stumble upon it there comes a deep surety, a deep knowing, bordering on intuition, that you’ve found it.  I’ve since found this plant in select areas but it has definitely increased in quantity as the season has progressed.  It seems to prefer a little bit more of either alpine conditions or proximity to seacoasts.  I later found out that this plant also has strong medicinal qualities including being a strong antibacterial, digestive, and stimulant to the circulatory system. 

As the blueberries begin to ripen here on the Kenai Peninsula, we are hastily mapping out as many populations of our priority species as we can before the seeds are ready.  Based on phenology and timing of harvest last year, it seems the lupine will be the first that we will harvest, starting as soon as the end of this week.  I presume we will then enter into a frenzy period where we will harvest as much as quickly as possible before the dormant period hits.  I foresee quite a bit of harvesting during the next month, both in and outside of work.  As the grass and sedge seeds ripen, so will the blueberries, salmonberries, nagoon berries, highbush cranberries, bunch berries, raspberries, and watermelon berries.  Additionally, salmon fishing is in full swing here on the Peninsula, and I hope to harvest some of those as well.  This next month is going to be a very wild and busy time, as we try to soak up the last strong rays of that warm golden light, and bask in the abundance that is so prevalent in Alaska this time of year!

Now that I am well settled in my forest and becoming more experienced with the botanical landscape of the region, my co-intern and I have begun conducting more in-depth scouting of target species for seed collection. Although I get nervous hearing that interns at other forests have already been collecting seed, LTBMU seems to be unique in that a lot of its native plants will begin seeding within the next month or two.

One species that I have been seeing a lot is Anderson’s thistle (Cirsium vulgare). This Asteraceae member has bright pink flowers and is mildly spiny. It also grows from one to a few stems, whereas the invasive bull thistle (Cirsium vulgaris) is generally much more highly branched. The majority of the populations I have seen are in the process of flowering, with only a few individuals in each beginning to seed. Interestingly, some of the largest populations I have visited are growing in an area burned by the Caldore Fire in 2021, which was among the largest known in California.

A target species that has become one of my favorites is Eriogonum wrightii. This low growing, silver-leafed member of the family Polygonaceae likes dry and rocky areas. Its small white flowers and small, matting habit make it, in my opinion, a very adorable plant.

Other collection plants we have scouted include squirreltail (Elymus elymoides), spreading dogbane (Apocynum androsaemifolium), Brewer’s lupine (Lupinus breweri), and heart-leaf milkweed (Ascelpias cordifolia, which showed signs of possible monarch butterfly herbivory). Besides that, I have been enjoying the amazing views whenever I get the chance.

It sucks when it’s really hot. It sucks when you’re outside all day and you have to wear long sleeves because you are clamoring through seven foot tall woody shrubs. You start realizing that your brain only knows where your foot ends and not where your boot ends, so you keep tripping and almost falling into the mud below. At some point though in your grumbly stampede, you feel the sun radiating on your skin and the shrubs falling away- heaven is that you?

No, it’s a meadow.

I look around, blinded by the sudden light shift. To my left – yarrow. To my right – more yarrow. A plant that we have found so often, it is practically of no use.¹ I walk five more feet and feel myself sinking. My boot is ankle deep in mud and in order to get out, I’m forced to rely on the strength given to me by the hit workout series that my coworker and I have been tearing up in the gym – Hip Hop Abs. We plunge onward in our squishy search for a diamond in the rough. Mosquitos pimple my face as we scout for what seems like hours. The sun is scorching us, and in fear of heat exhaustion, we decide to call it and head back through the shrubs. In our retreat, one particular shrub has had enough of my stomping, and she scratches me right across the face. At this point, my frustrations reach such a high that I find myself in the midst of an inner crisis. I’m tired. I’m stinky. My protein bar has melted. My water has dirt in it, and I’m beginning to question why I even came out here.

Then, like angels coming down from the heavens, I hear the operatic voices of my darlings, Katie and Ella, as they call out, “Let’s work it on the remix.” The words strike my ears in such bliss that I am compelled to join in, and we continue to sing a perfectly-tuned rendition of “The girl, so confusing version with Lorde.” The shrubs no longer seem so tall, my thirst recedes, and as we emerge from the brush, I look around. In front of me lies blueberries – Mother Nature’s nourishment after a weary journey. I thank her for her gifts and beg for forgiveness for my tude (and the murder of her twiggy children).

Most of our days go something like this. We spend lots of time researching meadows and finding previous recordings of native plants. We drive down bumpy roads, trek through the forest in the midst of the hot summer, only to find ourselves entrenched in wet meadows. It gets really miserable. However, the magic lies in whistling while you work. I am forever grateful to have two wonderful coworkers who are always down to sing and laugh at our situation. We make up our own little songs and currently have about 12 ideas primed for an album. All this just to say that the Willamette Forest crew is staying strong. We have actually found a couple of good native plant populations, and our yarrow identification skills are breaching on mastery. We will prevail, and we will emerge not only with beautifully pressed monkey flowers and bountiful fireweed harvests, but also with an album that will (most likely) go triple platinum in every country. 

¹ I hate defining organisms as “useful” or “use,” but my limited vocabulary has me stumped. To elaborate, I disagree with the idea that nature should only be valuable when it is inherently valuable to humans. Whether that be because it’s beautiful, it has medicinal properties, or it provides some ecosystem service. I hear it all the time when people joke about extinguishing mosquitos. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve heard something along the lines of, “What purpose do they even serve? They’re annoying, they spread disease, and they’re not even a primary food source for anything.” I don’t think species protection should be based on how useful we find them. Does life not have a right to exist simply because it does?