In the last two months, I have thought about phenology and life cycles of plants more than I ever have.
 
Thinking about this has encouraged me to ponder my own life. For the past two decades, I have strictly adhered to a seemingly endless cycle: school, a break from school, back to school, back to a break, back to school… In this process, I faced challenges and I grew, but I remained entrapped in the rhythm. Then, at long last, the cycle was broken on May 18th of this year when I graduated from Louisiana State University.
 
From days in lecture halls and final exams to endless hours in the foothills and on the peaks of grand mountains, from suffocating humidity to bone dry heat, and from living in a metropolitan area to one with a population of just about 3,000—I had stepped into a whole new world.
 
Each day that I go to the field, especially in the burn scars that are too abundant around me, I see this reflected in the surrounding plant communities. Environmental events, such as fires, strip much of an area, leaving surviving rhizomes, seeds, and plants in a completely unfamiliar place. Still, many plants persist and reemerge, effectively encouraging the propagation of the traits most suited to survival.
 
One plant, in particular, comes to mind. This is Carpentaria californica, a shrub endemic to a select few sites in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada—all in the Sierra National Forest. It thrives in the aftermath of fire, primarily reproducing from stump sprouts after burning. The plant can grow each year, abiding by these cycles, but a radical environmental change is necessary for its significant growth. I can empathize with C. californica as I navigate a completely novel environment.

 
The beginning of my season here marked my first time in the Sierra Nevada, my first time working in a National Forest, and my first time working a real field botany job. I was forced to become familiar with the flora of the Sierra quickly, and I just as rapidly fell in love with it.

That which I have learned about seeds and seed collecting is especially important to me. Seed collecting has proven to be incredibly rewarding; I am overjoyed that my work will one day contribute to the revegetation of this place that I have come to adore. Each day, I work with unbelievable views of the Sierra Nevada, familiarizing myself with a new population of plants that plays the most vital part in this process. Each of these populations are so unique, with different abundances, densities, and environments, not to mention the fascinatingly divergent anatomies of their plants and seeds. I never know quite what to expect when I set out to assess or collect from a population, and each requires much thought and discussion.
 
Recently, my co-intern, Emma, and I collected from large populations of the native grasses Elymus glaucus and Bromus sitchensis variety carinatus. The next week, we approached a new population of these plants, separated by only a couple of miles, to find radically different population specifications. Even more distinct was the population of Lupinus microcarpus variety densiflorus that we had collected a couple weeks prior. The environments and seeds could not be any more dissimilar to the ones that we would discover when navigating those grasses.
 

With each seed I collect, I think about their capacity to repopulate barren environments, and I revisit my thoughts of Carpentaria californica. Just as this plant thrives with a big change in a new environment, so do I. Being in a new place doing new things has taught me so, so much. I have grown as a person and as a botanist, and I can’t wait to keep on learning in this incredible place.

Hugs from SNF!

Elanor 🙂

The primary goal I came into this internship with was to delve deeper into the role that native seed systems are playing within the greater context of restoration efforts both in Alaska and in the greater US.  Investigating various types and methods of restoration has been of central focus of my work and studies for a while now.   Over the past couple years I’ve been curious about what native seeds systems look like on the ground, how people are implementing them, and how they are building them out.  Personally, I can’t help but think at the systems level; a wide angled, zoomed out view of the integrated whole.  Therefore, when I’m learning small details I tend to draw them to the larger context to make sense of them within the greater whole.  Therefore, within the subject of native seed systems, I’m constantly thinking about how they play into greater restoration projects and methods, and how they fit within some of the most pressing global issues of our time like climate change, widespread extinction rates, and deeply embedded social injustices. 

I was able to steep within these questions and contexts during the first couple of weeks of my internship.  My position is based in the Chugach National Forest in Moose Pass, AK, and I work out of the Kenai Lake Work Center.  The setting is quite stunning: old rugged snow capped mountains that fall into the sea.  The interior of the Kenai Peninsula is dappled with many alpine lakes, most of aqua hue.  Some of the rivers run the same color.  I arrived in time to see the snow still reigning in the alpine areas (over 800 inches fell here last winter) and exactly as the red salmon began to run.  As I write now, two weeks later, it is the day after the summer solstice and everything has awakened and is thirsting for life.  Since the summer seasonal window is so much shorter here than the lower 48, the summers really come in a burst of life that makes you come fully and wildly alive too.  I feel like a child again, refusing to sleep because I don’t want to miss a thing.

The history of this place, and context of the restoration project where our seed collecting efforts are being funneled, are wrapped within the raw elements that initially formed this unique environment and make this area so awe-inspiring.  65 million years ago when the Kenai Mountains were formed, gold formed load deposits within the rocks during its crystallization.  Due to the weathering and then the glacial formation about 2 million years ago, the gold was further dispersed.  When the glaciers melted, starting about 12,000 years ago and continues to accelerate today, streams especially reworked and uncovered the dispersed placer gold, or gold that has been separated from sand or gravel due to erosion and weathering.  The seemingly disconnected presence of gold on the Kenai Peninsula is the underlying impetus for our seed gathering this season.  This is because our seed collection is for a riparian restoration project on US Forest Service land that is within an active mining claim.

The site of the mining and restoration project is on Resurrection Creek on the Northern coast of the Kenai Peninsula, just outside of a small town called Hope, AK.  This river runs into the sea at the Turnagain Arm and is critical spawning and rearing habitat for a keystone species of this region: salmon.  Chinook, coho, chum, and pink all used to run this river.  But during the gold rush of the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, miners significantly altered stream channels and wetlands of the creek to the extent that it decimated salmon habitat and populations there.  In the early 2000’s, the first USFS restoration project on this mining claim, referred to as “Phase I” took place.  This portion of the project restored a 1.5 mile stretch of the creek to mimic a more natural flow by digging new stream channels which meander, creating pools and side channels, as well as ponds and wetland areas with the intent to create an environment where salmon can run, rest, and spawn once again.  The results were quite successful and almost immediate.  A year afterward, Chinook salmon numbers increased six-fold, and have only continued to increase. Pink and chum salmon have also returned.  During Phase I of this project, the area was largely allowed to revegetate naturally, alongside some monitoring and minimal necessary treatments towards more aggressive invasive plant species that arose.  Twenty years after the implementation of Phase I, the restoration of the riparian native plant community has been largely successful, alongside the restoration of the salmon.

The project that our seed collection efforts this summer will be contributing to is the second portion of this restoration project along Resurrection Creek, deemed “Phase II.”  This phase is an additional 2.7 miles of stream downstream from Phase I to be restored in a similar manner and for the same purposes.  The only difference this time is that this project must be done by standards set by the Army Corp of Engineers.  Due to these standards, the USFS is required to revegetate the restoration area with a certain percentage of wetlands and needs to achieve 75% vegetative cover in the restoration site within 5 years. Given the barrenness of the site and quality of ground material present there now, this seemed like quite a lofty goal to me.  But with all challenges acknowledged, these are where our efforts come in. 

The first day I went to the site, I couldn’t believe how devoid of life it felt and looked, nor the enormity of the project.  Although the force and beauty of the river were present and its wildly meandering movement had been restored, the barren, compact gravel substrate covering the river’s banks and flood plains following its reconstruction made my stomach churn.  It was a gray moonscape, without a drop of green.  We walked the site and saw where the future river would flow.  Not only were enormous amounts of earth and rocks being moved and molded, but we walked down the restoration site for maybe about a mile and it seemed to stretch on and on.  It was truly incredible the lengths to which this project is going to restore habitat for salmon, as well as other species.   My advisor, Peter, pointed out areas of vegetation downstream filled with native riparian species, like horsetail, that we could salvage out of the future river’s path to be transplanted in areas where they could continue to thrive if the transplanting worked.  The project was exciting, interesting, and complex, but needless to say, it felt quite daunting.  This was our garden, but instead rich topsoil, we had nutrient poor gravel and instead of well versed cultivars, we had particular, finicky, yet resilient wild seeds and transplants.

Later that week, Peter and I took two trips to Anchorage to pick up over 7,000 native plant starts to be planted at the restoration project this summer.  These were grown from the seeds that Chicago Botanic Garden interns had collected the previous season here in the Chugach.  The transplants were grown by the Soil and Water Conservation Districts centralized in Anchorage.  When we arrived to pick up the plants, it was a circus of volunteers carrying large flats of plants you usually don’t see grown as plugs.  The regular gardener might not have been very impressed as many of the plants weren’t as showy as you usually expect to see grown in a cultivated manner.  But to the seasoned eye, this was something extra special.  Native sedges and grasses that are particular and finicky about their growing conditions and habits were big, bushy, and beautiful.  Carex mertensii, carex aquatalis, carex canascens; flats of sedges that you typically only see growing in the wild, had emerged rapidly after being cold stratified and were anxiously waiting to get to their new home.  The managers and volunteers were very excited about the gift that they had grown as well.  I learned that much of it had been trial and error, as so many of these species had no previous protocol on how to be grown from seed.  It was quite the puzzle loading the plants in the trailer and carting them 2 hours southwest to the restoration site.  But almost all of them made the journey, and there was a SCA (Student Conservation Association) crew there ready to plant and water them over the next couple of months as they get established in their new home along the river at the restoration site.

Later that week I helped plant these transplants into a makeshift wetland area.  A few weeks previously, thousands of willow stakes had been planted around the terrestrial perimeter of the future wetland.  These stakes were already beginning to bud.  Below the stakes, where slow moving water met muck, we planted several sedges and a forb including carex mertensii (Merten’s Sedge), carex aquatilis (Water Sedge), and Mimulus guttatus (Monkey Flower). I’ve spent seasons working on farms and planting gardens, but I had never planted in the muck before.  Surprisingly, it was incredibly enjoyable and satisfying.  A feeling of gratification swept over me afterwards when I got to see a previously gray and brown mudscape promisingly carrying dapples of bright green life.

 It was captivating to think about how the species we just planted on the landscape might exist and maybe even thrive and adapt there for potentially hundreds or thousands of years to come.  It felt strange to play such a powerful role in the future of a landscape like that, though.  We were shaping and cultivating the foundation of an ecosystem.  Something about that felt like we were wielding too much power and control.  But simultaneously, the feeling that came after planting those riparian species caught me off-guard.  Whether that was because my actions were truly beneficial to the ecosystem at large or simply because I perceived them to be, I’m not sure.  But it was surprising that such a seemingly small action could have such a palpable and positive impact on my spirit.  Because of the scale and complexity of environmental and social issues we face in the world today, I am deeply critical about the actual and longterm effects that restoration projects have in an area.  But I must admit that I felt cautiously hopeful after the planting…maybe humans can have a truly beneficial impact on their surroundings, I thought.  Maybe this is an example of it.

One thing I can say for sure is that after planting native sedges and grasses in Resurrection Creek, I suddenly felt an incredibly deep connection with, and a building sense of care for the wellbeing of this place and ecosystem.  I felt ready and inspired to begin getting to know these native plants on a more intimate level, and to start gathering their seeds for the future foundation of this ecosystem.

June 2024

At a little over three weeks in the Malheur it both feels like I’ve been working here for years, and like I have no idea what I’m doing. We hit the ground running on our first day compiling data on our target species and have since been out in the field scouting nonstop. We’re looking for a series of grasses and forbs in the forest with large enough populations to collect seeds from for future restoration projects. Our primary focus this season is riparian species, so we’ve been searching through wet meadows, streambanks, and springs. As you can imagine, the mosquitos have been insufferable and seem to have a special affinity for my blood. Yet, we persevere! 

I’ve never lived in a town as small as John Day, and within my first 4 hours in the area, a man who called himself ‘the candyman’ gave me free fudge (creepy? maybe! But it was good fudge), four deer ran past me and crossed the street at the crosswalk, and at least six deer were laying around in our front yard. This may seem commonplace to those of you who grew up in smaller towns, but as someone who has only lived in cities, I was pretty pumped. If I didn’t know about the issues with habituation, they would be my buddies by now.  

We’ve had several run-ins with animals in the field. On our second day, we helped with a bumblebee survey and a bold little chipmunk posed for us for our entire lunch break. One week in, we accidentally herded a group of humongous cows for at least two miles because they couldn’t figure out how to move to the side of the road. While scouting in the Murderer’s Creek area, Ivy and I encountered wild horses. I knew they existed in the area from a little anecdote about them on one of our maps, but it was completely different seeing them in person. I’d never seen a group of horses all the same color together, and it was hard to believe they were real.  

In real news, our first few weeks have been very productive. We’ve identified over 75 populations of our target species, taken over 30 vouchers of suitable populations for collection, and started our first seed collection. An hour of collecting from a population of Ranunculus occidentalis yesterday gave us about 10g of seed. While this is a long way away from the nursery’s aim of 500g (a loooong way away), it’s a start!  

That’s all for now!

Until next month,  

Emma 

The landscape of the Chicago region has gone through extensive changes since the last glaciation. If the land was not covered in glaciers it was tundra. Over the course of millennia the climate got wetter and warmer creating a taiga filled with boreal flora and fauna. Then getting drier and warmer it slowly morphed into prairie. The recession of the glaciers created almost all of the notable geographic features around Chicago, moraines, drumlins, and eskers. The Great Lakes and glacial outwash make up significant habitats such as the lakeshore, dolomite prairies, and the sand along the Kankakee River. Each has their own slough of life that highlights the geological significance.

During the past 2 centuries European settlers have created the most significant changes in the landscape. Farmers quickly transformed vast amounts of prairie in to pastures and buried just as much with the plow. Today only 6,100 acres out of the 21 million that were originally here remain. Some of these remnants are still under threat from human development. Recently a gravel prairie remnant, Bell Bowl prairie, was destroyed by the Rockford airport for a parking lot. Many of these remnants are fragmented from each other only surviving along edges such as railroads, power line easements, and fence rows. The disjunction creates islands of habitat that many valuable species cannot survive in. Mead’s milkweed and Hill’s thistle have almost completely vanished from our region due to their need of genetic diversity to reproduce. Much of the fauna has disappeared due to human development. The Eastern Meadowlark has faced significant decline due to habitat loss. The Meadowlark needs the grasslands here, whether it’s prairie or pasture, it just has to be large enough to. The reintroduction of bison back to Illinois is one of the most significant events for restoration as they readily capture the attention and imagination of those ignorant to what Illinois is. An interesting plant we monitored while at Midewin was Buffalo Clover. The clover survives primarily along the trails of Bison because the trampling scarifies the seeds allowing them to germinate. However, the only grazers the clovers see are deer so the only way the population is surviving is human management with fire. While humans have destroyed and disturbed all but a sliver of our natural areas, we are the only way that our ecosystems can change and continue to survive.

Everything that has followed the training in Chicago has been a wild ride with some big ups and downs, it wasn’t all bad but it was definitely not how I pictured my first month of fieldwork (which I suppose is fitting for the job).
My first week in the Lincoln NF was amazing! The whole team consists of silly gooses and sweethearts which made acclimating to the new area much easier than I had anticipated. We spent most of the week tagging along with the wildlife crew on Mexican Spotted Owl and various Hawk surveys to get a better feel for the region and the types of terrain we’d be facing this season. We apparently got to experience a New Mexico Birder’s fantasy when we spotted a mating pair of Zone Tail Hawks and a Black Hawk within just a few hours of each other, and I had seen many pictures of the Mexican Spotted Owl, but it is not the same and getting stared at by one in real life.

I felt ready for the second week of work, we had found a good handful of plants we wanted to assess for collection and were ready to do some more in-depth scouting, but Monday didn’t quite turn out that way. We started the day like normal, and were invited to join on a night owl survey (which involved hiking with mice and getting a much closer look at the owls) so of course we were interested. This meant we took a good break after lunch to catch up on rest and were to return to the office at 4pm to commence the evening survey. We had heard of a small 5-acre fire starting that morning but didn’t think much of it as we heard no updates. I went to take a nap and rest up for the night’s adventures, but as soon as I lay down, a strong gust of wind blew my curtains open. This wind was immediately followed by sirens and helicopters.
I left my room to find the rest of my housemates already gathered in the living room, I asked if the sirens were for the fire and all they said was “look outside”.

It looked apocalyptic. We had a clear view from our front yard, and it appeared as if it were only miles from the house. We were on “SET” status, and soon we were on “GO”. We packed up all our belongings in less than an hour and we left. We were one of the first areas to be evacuated. I didn’t know what was going to happen but seeing the the mushroom cloud from 100 miles away was not the greatest comfort. We spent the rest of the week working from home and checking the wildfire apps every 30 minutes to see it reach closer and closer to town. It was devastating. Nearly all the areas we had just visited in our first week were within the red lines, and within the week, over 1000 structures in the area were lost. I honestly wasn’t sure if I was going to have a job after this, or if I would be moved to an entirely new place. But Ruidoso and the Lincoln team are a tough bunch.
By the next week, we were sent to the Guadalupe Ranger District which is about an hour from Carlsbad NM. We ended up here for a week and a half surrounded by rocks, rattlers and ocotillos that happened to be green and in bloom (which I’d never thought I’d see). This was a whole new adventure, we learned about new desert plants and had the opportunity to explore a cave not open to the public, as well as experience an oasis in the middle of the Chihuahuan desert that I would have thought was folklore if I hadn’t seen it myself. It was an amazing opportunity granted by the most unfortunate of circumstances.
We get to return to the Smokey Bear office this coming week, and this whole experience has made me unbelievably grateful for what I have and those around me. I am part of an amazing team and could not have asked for a better group to work with. I am more aware than ever of the importance of the work we are here to do and am ready to help the community I am so newly a part of in any way I can.

Moving: frequently underestimated

Moving always comes with unexpected problems. After living in Missoula, MT for the last two years, I moved up to Kalispell for this internship. I uprooted quite an extensive system of familiarity, but there are some connections that withstand the uprooting and room is made for new ones. I have had to regroup and reassess what relationships sustain me, and what resources and opportunities to pursue. The relationships built in human and ecological communities can both sustain and harm the player/actor and it is impossible in either world to live outside the web of connections. My co-intern and I have seen and learned a lot since we started a month ago, and below I share some stories of plants we encountered in their interconnected ecological webs, and the unusual and unique ways of life they devise to survive in their communities.  

Busy bees and toxic pollen

Flowering plants can develop intimate relationships with their pollinators, like the bumble bee. Some plants require a physical vibration to release pollen held tightly to their anthers, and bumble bees, unlike honeybees, can perform the essential “buzz pollination” that can shake this pollen loose (Dolan et al. 2021). Montana is a uniquely diverse state for bumble bees, with 28 species documented in Montana out of the 45 total found in North America (north of Mexico). This month we participated in the Montana Bumble Bee Atlas project, a community science project gathering data for tracking and conserving bumble bees (Bumble Bee Atlas). We traveled up the gravel road running alongside the North Fork of the Kalispell River (west of Glacier Park) to reach meadows of lupine and buckwheat flowers. The catch-and-release survey we conducted was a small data point in this comprehensive project aimed at sampling hundreds of locations across Montana.

Some plants may require buzz pollination, but at least there are several different species of bumble bees to do the job. The Mountain death camas, Zigadenus elegans, has only one pollinator: the miner bee. The death camas is flowering right now, and the plant’s cream-colored flowers, dotted with green nectaries, look inviting. True to its name, however, the entire plant is toxic. Everything from the bulbs to the nectar and pollen contain the deadly neurotoxin zygacene. All pollinators but the miner bee, Andrena astragali, would drop dead if they tasted from this flower. A single bulb is enough to kill a human. Why would a plant kill all but one of its pollinators? The answer lies in the usefulness of the toxin to the miner bee. The kleptoparasitic cuckoo bee lays its eggs next to the miner bee eggs, expecting a meal from the food cache the miner bee left for its own young. Once hatched, the cuckoo bee eats the toxic food cache, laced with zygacene poison from the death camas plant. Only the miner bee has an innate immunity, so the kleptoparasite dies, ridding the miner beehive of the pest. In return, the mountain death-camas gains a loyal, mutually codependent pollinator (Mitton 2022).

The making of a unique community: the fen and friends

Many of the rare plants we are searching for are encountered in wetlands, particularly fens. A fen is characterized by the presence of peat (sphagnum moss), a pH greater than 6 (neutral to basic), and a year-round supply of mineral-rich groundwater (Keddy 2010). The groundwater chemistry of a fen system determines the fen’s pH, with more basic fens considered “rich” in terms of species richness and more acidic fens considered “poor” (Wassen et al. 1996). Rich fens are often fed by groundwater running through limestone, which produces a bicarbonate buffer against acidity.

We surveyed a rich fen and a poor fen this month. The rich fen was a checkerboard of little microclimates, each inhabited by distinct species carving out little niches. We saw the rare orchid Liparis loeselii, a picky plant, that requires the convergence of many conditions: mossy tussocks to create microtopography, open vegetation, calcareous waters, and specific mycorrhizal fungi associations (Maris et al. 2023). Mycorrhizal associations are of particular importance to orchids. The dust-like seeds of orchids lack energy reserves for the embryo to germinate (Jacquemyn et al. 2017). During orchid germination, mycorrhizae send out hyphae that penetrate the cell wall and feed carbohydrates and nutrients to the tiny orchid. Without this intervention, the orchid lacks the fundamental building blocks to continue development. Different studies have shown the specificity of these associations, revealing the Liparis loeselii preference for a specific saprotrophic fungi in the Tulasnellaceae genus (Maris et al. 2023).

We also surveyed a poor fen composed predominantly of sphagnum (peat) mosses. The sphagnum mosses acidify and lower the nutrient availability of fens. Both the rich and poor fen contained Drosera rotundifolia, a sundew, but the poor fen contained larger patches. Sundew associate with sphagnum moss, which create floating mossy tussocks of desirable sundew habitat. The high-water table of a fen creates unique challenges for plant species, since nutrients from the soil are not easily attained. Sundew supplements its nitrogen needs by carnivalizing insects (Millett et al. 2012). The plants attract insects with a sugary, sticky mucus that coats the end of many little red stalks on their leaves. Once prey makes contact, the plant can move its tentacle-like leaves, a response called thigmonasty, to place the insect in contact with as many stalks as possible. The plant secretes digestive enzymes that dissolve the insect, and the leaf surface absorbs the nutrient-rich ex-insect soup.

Turning tables: myco-heterotrophic and parasitic plants

Almost all orchids are myco-heterotrophic at some point in their lifecycle and with maturity they produce chlorophyll and begin making food of their own. Some orchid species, like those in the Corallorhiza genus, never “grow up” and they remain fully to partially myco-heterotrophic throughout their lifespan. Myco-heterotrophy are reversed plant-mycorrhiza relationships, where carbon exchange goes from fungus to plant (Trudell et al. 2003). These plants are sometimes referred to as “mycorrhizal cheaters.” Lying in the subterranean darkness for most of their lives, these plants mimic their mushroom host’s life cycle, popping up from the ground only to produce a reproductive structure (Zimmer et al. 2008).

While Corallorhiza and other myco-heterotrophic orchids parasitize fungi, the plant species of the Broomrape family (Orobancheae) parasitize other plants. The seeds of Orobanche uniflora stay in the soil for years, lying in wait until certain chemicals released from nearby plant hosts stimulate germination. The seedlings put out haustoria, rootlike structures, which delve into nearby host root tissue, siphoning off water and nutrients (Kokla & Melnyk 2018). The Latin work “haustor” translates to “the one who drains” and these little vampiric plants have an apt common name: cancer root.

References

Dolan, Amelia., et al. “Bumble Bees in Montana.” MSU Extension, Aug. 2021, https://apps.msuextension.org/montguide/guide.html?sku=MT201611AG

Jacquemyn H, Waud M, Brys R, Lallemand F, Courty P-E, Robionek A and Selosse M-A (2017) Mycorrhizal Associations and Trophic Modes in Coexisting Orchids: An Ecological Continuum between Auto- and Mixotrophy. Front. Plant Sci. 8:1497. doi: 10.3389/fpls.2017.01497

Keddy, Paul A. (2010). Wetland ecology: principles and conservation (2nd ed.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ISBN 978-1-139-22365-2. OCLC 801405617

Kokla A., Melnyk C. W. (2018). Developing a thief: Haustoria formation in parasitic plants. Developmental Biology, 442 (1) (2018), pp. 53-59, 10.1016/j.ydbio.2018.06.013

Maris, Louise & Petrolli, Rémi & Selosse, Marc & Legland, Thomas & Pache, Gilles & Griveau, Chantal & Torre, Franck & Lopez-Pinot, Dominique & Marciau, Roger & Bonnet, Véronique. (2023). Impact of the local environmental factors associated to plant-fungi communities on the conservation of Liparis loeselii (L.) Rich. In the French Rhône-Alpes region. Acta Oecologica. 120. 10.1016/j.actao.2023.103929.

Millett, J.; Svensson, B. M.; Newton, J.; Rydin, H. (July 2012). “Reliance on prey-derived nitrogen by the carnivorous plant Drosera rotundifolia decreases with increasing nitrogen deposition”. New Phytologist. 195 (1): 182–188. doi:10.1111/j.1469-8137.2012.04139.x. PMID 22506640

Mitton, Jeff. “A Rare Relationship between Death Camas and Death Camas Miner Bees.” Colorado Arts and Sciences Magazine, 1 Apr. 2022, www.colorado.edu/asmagazine/2022/04/01/rare-relationship-between-death-camas-and-death-camas-miner-bees.

Trudell, SA; Rygiewicz, PT; Edmonds, RL (2003). “Nitrogen and carbon stable isotope abundances support the myco-heterotrophic nature and host-specificity of certain achlorophyllous plants” (PDF). New Phytologist. 160 (2): 391–401. doi:10.1046/j.1469-8137.2003.00876.x. PMID 33832180.

Wassen, M.J., van Diggelen, R., Wolejko, L. et al. A comparison of fens in natural and artificial landscapes. Vegetation 126, 5–26 (1996). https://doi.org/10.1007/BF00047758

Zimmer K, Meyer C, Gebauer G (2008) The ectomycorrhizal specialist orchid Corallorhiza trifida is a partial myco-heterotroph. New Phytol 178:395–400. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1469-8137.2007.02362.x

I think it’s finally beginning to sink in that I work in a national forest. I’ve had a lot of jobs in my lifetime. Many of them were less than noteworthy- like the fast food places I worked at in high school. Others, I really enjoyed, like the ones related to my degree that I had in college. Perhaps the best of those, was the job I had working at the Crop Physiology Laboratory for my university. I have always enjoyed being in the lab, and in the greenhouses. But nothing compares to the national forest. It’s my favorite office I’ve had so far. Sure, sometimes it can be quite a walk to the nearest coffee machine, and the bathrooms aren’t always stocked with all of the amenities that one typically requires, but the views are spectacular- better than all of the high rise offices in New York City, no doubt.

Things are going really well here around the office. We’ve been able to get quite a bit done the last couple of weeks. At this point, I find myself wishing that the seeds would ripen faster. We are adding to our queue of harvestable populations faster than we can harvest them. Most of this is attributed to the fact that many of our species will not set seed until late summer. So we wait, and scout for more populations, and wait more. Certainly, we will be very busy with seed collecting once early fall rolls around.

Luckily, there are a few species that we have been able to harvest from this early in the season. There is nothing more satisfying than harvesting seed from a population that you have been monitoring. It’s so rewarding seeing the process from beginning to end: scouting the population, counting it, mapping it, photographing it, doing return visits on it, and then finally, when the time is right, harvesting it.

Last week, we collected again from a Lomatium dissectum species that we found our first day out in the field. We had monitored it for weeks. While we were happy that we were able to get seed, we were a little disappointed that we hadn’t found more harvestable populations of this species before they set seed. This particular plant matures and sets seed quite rapidly and early in the season. Luckily, before we were able to get too down in the dumps about it, we discovered the magic of higher elevation.

We knew of course that plants at higher elevations experience cold temperatures later into the year, and thus take longer to germinate, sprout and set seed than plants at lower elevations. But we hadn’t considered this in the context of seed collection. Not until we came across a huge, and still very much blooming population of Lomatium dissectum in one of the highest elevation areas on our forest. It felt like a second chance! This particular population appears to be months behind the population that we harvested last week. We will get to harvest more Lomatium dissectum after all!

Life is good. The forest is beautiful. Seeds are coming!