botanizing

In the Wenaha River canyon

In the canyon of the Wenaha River, distance is sufficient to make the sable slopes seem like fur.  At foot, however, the volcanic stone is rough.  This stone, where it outcrops, is matte umber, and, yet, I can think that and then see a cleanly split stone with sun sheen and a glaze of yellow ochre dotted with bright yellow.   At hand, when we stop for a moment, I find retted rock banded in red that looks as if it had been held together by rubber bands.  Another stone might have had cans first of pink paint and then green paint dumped on it.

The first blush of fresh green is on the slopes.  We find biscuit roots with their balls of flowers tucked inconspicuously among crispate leaves, pale leaves of waterleaf waiting for their flowers to emerge, star-like leaves of lithophragmas, and one little, leaning bluebell with a line of pendant, open flowers.  A few shiny buttercups sit among the rocks.  In nearly barren patches of moist soil, where thin vegetation lies matted, where I imagine snow must have lain until recently, fritillaries stand, their flowers nodding.  In the thatch of last year’s dried grasses are threadlike stems of spring whitlow grass, which is actually a tiny mustard, that bears small white flowers—these are now like white dots, closed today, atop the thin stems.

The flush of buds gives a rufous cap to the still leafless cottonwoods.  The silvery gray cottonwoods stand on the river’s beaches, and we see them largely from above.  The trail, except for a short traverse through a moist meadow on muddy path, holds to the slope well above the river.

A helicopter flies up the canyon and then back about fifteen minutes later.  Soon it returns upriver, but holds short of us, sitting over a side canyon before moving up to the next side canyon, which is opposite us.  We scan the slope below the helicopter for animals for which we assume they are searching.  Three bighorn sheep burst from a rock outcrop, but they run only a few years—stop—then run again, going up slope toward the protective cover of conifer forest. The helicopter remains.  Its motor drones, and its blades chop the sky.  Twacktwacktwack.

The available seat

Our studies of blazing stars, plants of the genus Mentzelia, revealed a new species a few years ago.  The new species, which we called Mentzelia hualapaiensis, was known from a few populations scattered along the bottom of the Grand Canyon.   During our studies, we had found several herbarium specimens of this then unknown species, which composed a small pile of material that we used to prepare the formal taxonomic description of the species.  Most of the specimens in that pile were consistent with each other, but one was a little odd.   We set the odd one aside.

New collections later sent to us by our collaborator in Arizona matched the odd one that we had set aside.  We began to wonder seriously whether we had another new species.  DNA sequencing had already revealed to us that the odd one was a little different from M. hualapaiensis and other close relatives.

Last winter—in November!—we received another batch of fresh collections that the National Park Service had made in a remote branch of the Grand Canyon, and they, too, matched the form of our odd specimen.  This led us to begin scrutinizing the differences between the few populations of the odd specimen and the similar M. hualapaiensis.  We have wanted more material of the odd one to understand better its characteristics, ecology, and distribution, but it’s not an easy task to get more samples of uncommon plants that grow on the loose stones of steep cliffs near the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

To help search for those samples, I was offered last week an available seat on a boat in the Grand Canyon as part of a National Park Service vegetation survey.  I filled out the requisite forms and bought an airplane ticket to Arizona.  I’ve gone through the equipment list and begun to make a pile of my gear.  Headlamp, rain gear, broad-brimmed hat, fleece sweater, pants that convert to shorts, and I am just started.  I put a new sketchpad notebook on the gear pile and then, late last night, turned to my bookshelves.  What do I want to read during the trip?  What should I read before the trip?   I pulled Joseph Wood Krutch’s 1957 Grand Canyon and Ann Zwinger’s 1995 Downcanyon.  I know, too, that it’s now time to get a copy of Clarence Dutton’s Tertiary History of the Grand Canyon District.  My preparation to make the most of the available seat begins.

Taken by Shadows

Portland, where we spend a weekend, is a city of few shadows.  It is a city of overcast, where light filters frequently through fine mist.   In the Portland Art Museum, a contrasting—hard, bright—light surprises me.  I sit in one gallery, resting my back, where my attention is drawn more to shadows than to the artworks on the walls.  Beams from ceiling lights strike the art at acute angles, and the ornate frames from the 19^th century cast hard, distracting shadows.

The shadows are like tableaux, emblematic arrangements set not to be enactments or exact replicas but more as evocations.   Some shadows evoke stone eroded by the actions of waves and others the mosaic of stem, leaf and sky that I might see when looking through a forest.  Another shadow evokes the New York cityscape seen across Central Park from the top of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I watch other visitors to the gallery look at the shadows.  They point to the shadows.  People touch the shadowy grades on the walls.  Some think the shadows are part of the art—like gray drapery suspended from frames. People talk about the shadows. The curious crane necks to find the light source and point to the light and then the shadow to show companions.