Mountain buttercups (Ranunculus populago) spread across many parts of the wet meadow.

Mountain buttercup has shiny, unlobed leaves that are oar-shaped to somewhat heart-shaped at the base.

On Tuesday, May 14, I spent a lovely afternoon enjoying the fresh flowers of spring in the newly melted out wet meadows of Patterson Mountain. The long drought was making the rock outcrops too depressing, so after a late start due to the morning fog, I thought Patterson Mountain would be a perfect place to forget about how dry everything had become (hopefully the last couple of days of showers has moistened things up at least a little bit). Some nice people had cleared out both the road and the trail already (thank you!), even though there were still patches of snow in several places. I was pleased to see there was still a little snow because I was really looking forward to seeing the early blooming buttercups. I was not disappointed. The  mountain buttercup (Ranunculus populago) was in its prime and putting on a great show. This beautiful flower is usually seen to the north, with the smaller Gorman’s buttercup (R. gormanii) filling the buttercup niche in most wetlands in Lane and Douglas counties. I spent quite a while taking photographs and looking the perfect plant where the leaf shapes were not hidden by surrounding plants. I did at last find what I was looking for. The only thing that would have made it better was a frog in the photo. I’ve taken photos of frogs among the buttercups before, and I did see a few on this trip but not next to the buttercups. The name Ranunculus is derived from Rana, the latin name from frog, so it just seems appropriate to sneak one into the photo.

With the light coming through them, skunk cabbage flowers look like they are lit from within.

The other big show of bright yellow came from the abundant skunk cabbage (Lysichiton americanus). I’d seen good stands hidden among some of the side thickets of alders, but I didn’t remember there being so many out in the open meadow. I’ve heard them called swamp lanterns, and the way their translucent spathes glow when back lit really does look like a lantern. Yellow stream violets (Viola glabella) and some fresh glacier lilies (Erythronium grandiflorum) near the last patch of melting snow added a bit more yellow to the scene. The next show of color coming on was the pink of masses of alpine laurel (Kalmia microphylla) just beginning to bloom along one side of the wetland. Depending on the weather, they will probably peak in a week or two.

Alpine laurel blooming in the Lone Wolf Meadow

The fresh anthers of alpine laurel are tucked into little depression in the corolla until an insect comes along to spring them, propelling the pollen onto the insect.

After spending most of the day relaxingly photographing in the wet meadow, I headed back toward the trailhead. There really wasn’t time to go to the top, and I didn’t have the heart to see how dry the rocky area was, in any case. But when I got back uphill to where the trail is at its highest, I just couldn’t resist cutting through to check on the southside wet meadows. I’d never gone this way before, but I’ve wandered around on this mountain enough times to know my way around, and I was pretty sure I’d get there fairly quickly. And indeed, it only took me a few minutes of easy walking through the open old growth forest to pop out just where I hoped to, right near a pool of water I think of as the bears’ tub because I’d once seen their trail going in one way and out the other and had seen bears in the area several times before. As if thinking about bears could conjure them up, as I had almost reached the edge of the woods and could finally see through to the upper meadow, I spotted a bear! He/she was a hundred yards away on the far side but had also spotted me or at least heard me clumsily negotiating the vine maples at the edge of the forest. I got off a couple of photos, but unfortunately I didn’t have the presence of mind to check them first—they were out of focus— before I called out in my sweetest, gentlest voice “Hello, sorry to disturb you!”, at which point the bear slowly headed off under the vine maples onto a trail I’ve used many times to reach the seepy meadow beyond.

The lowest meadow on the south side of Patterson is green and lush in spring.

That made my day but also made me feel a little guilty for trespassing on their lovely estate. It really does look like a park on that side of the mountain. There are several areas of sloping meadow, patches of alders, pools of water and small creeks, and lots of pretty flowers. On my way down, I passed lots of bear scat. No doubt they were eating heartily after a long winter’s nap. The skunk cabbages were gorgeous in the lower meadow, and some little white Brewer’s bittercress (Cardamine breweri) dotted the spots with standing water, but other than those and the alders and maples, little else had started to bloom, so after a few more photos, I said goodbye and left the lovely meadows to the bears.

Fritillaria glauca happily grows en masse in the loose rock of a steep slope. The plants spread by little bulb offsets sliding downhill along with the gravel.

Siskiyou fritillary is found from northwestern California to southwestern Oregon. In the last few years, I’ve discovered it in several sites in the Calapooyas in Douglas County, including one other site in Lane County. Flora of North America describes it as growing in “serpentine talus slopes”, but there is no serpentine in this area, and I would describe its habitat as gravel slopes rather than the talus that is formed at the bottom of a cliff, but I guess the word can be used to describe any slope covered with rock debris, and rock debris is certainly what they love. When I find a slippery gravel slope, I keep my eyes out for their small, glaucous, tulip-like leaves. When I first stepped out on the top of the gravelly slope at Heavenly Bluff last year, I was sure I would find it there, but it took me quite a while because most of the plants were drying up, and only a small percentage of any population I’ve been to ever blooms—most plants consists of a single leaf—so it wasn’t until I was most of the way around that I spotted some leaves and some seed capsules. What a thrill! But I really, really wanted to see them in bloom. The other Lane County site, Bearbones Mountain, is just a few miles away, but I’ve only found two flowering plants, one each in two different years. So Heavenly Bluff was high on my list of places to visit this year, and since the fritillary is such an early bloomer, I knew I had to get up there as soon as the roads were clear.

South-facing slopes melt out long before level roads, so it can be tough to access them this early in the season. Here John is checking his GPS before we walk past the tree blocking the road.

Red-flowering currant (Ribes sanguineum) growing along the road

John Koenig was also interested in seeing them and luckily was available to go up to Heavenly Bluff with me on Friday, May 10. We took his truck and my saw—both turned out to be very handy. We made it past Bearbones okay, as someone else had been up on Road 5850 clearing some trees already. But after that we did have to clear some piles of branches, cut a small tree, and cross some small patches of snow partly covering the road. After each obstacle was cleared, we felt a little more confident that we would actually reach our goal. But then we came upon a tree across the road that was far too big to cut with a hand saw, and even if John had remembered his chain saw, it would have taken a lot of time and effort to move such large logs. A look at the map showed us to be only 2 miles from the site, and with only a few hundred feet of elevation change, we decided to walk the rest of the way.

It was quite a pleasant walk. Everything was very fresh from the recent snow melt. There were perfectly blooming Trillium ovatum and Anemone lyallii and beautiful dogwoods (Cornus nuttallii) and red-flowering currant (Ribes sanguineum) decorating the roadsides. It didn’t take us long to get to the spur road that leads to Heavenly Bluff. Another tree was down along this little road, so we would have had to walk some of it anyways, but we didn’t mind because we saw lots of things we might have missed in a car. At the end of the road where we entered the woods, the ground was carpeted with fresh snow queen (Synthyris reniformis). I was pretty hopeful that we were early enough to catch the precocious fritillaries still blooming.

These little cuties look a lot like dwarf tulips with nodding flowers.

But when we popped out of the woods onto the rocky opening, my confidence slipped. It was so dry already. The moss was already baked and brown. After a bite to eat in the shade on this warm day, we went to where I remembered seeing the most fritillaries. It only took a minute to spot the first dried up flower, and then another, and another. I was glad to see they had bloomed so well, but surely we couldn’t be that late when we had crossed patches of snow to get here! Moving about on this steep slope of deep gravel is no easy task, so I pulled out my binoculars to see if I could find even a single flower still in bloom. And there they were farther down the slope—four of them side by side—”thank you, thank you!” I thought. We scratched our heads a bit trying to figure out the best and safest way to get to them. When I reached the spot, I spent quite some time taking photos. I wanted to make sure I came home with some good ones, so I shot from every angle, horizontally and vertically, close up and wide angle. I was not counting on finding anything better than this or having any better luck on another year. While I obsessed over my little quartet, John disappeared farther downslope and then around the east side. He managed to find a few more still in bloom here and there, and after I finished at this spot, I went around and took photos of several others. They are so adorable, it is hard not to want to get a picture of every one.

The new fronds of Sierra cliffbrake (Pelleaa brachyptera) do not yet have the glaucous coating that makes the plants so distinctive.

With the main goal of the day successfully completed, we wandered around the whole area looking for plants I hadn’t seen on my July trip last year. You’d think that two months earlier, it would have seemed very different from when I was there last year, and we would have seen some earlier flowers that were gone by July, but this is turning out to be such an early year, and last year was a late one, so we only added a few plants to my list. We also decided the lack of diversity is probably because of the small area’s fairly uniform habitat. There are no really moist, seepy areas and only a bit of accessible north-facing rock in this predominantly south-facing slope. Still, what is there is wonderful, and the habitat is one you don’t see all that much in the mainly forested Western Cascades. The Sierra cliffbrake (Pellaea brachyptera) was just unfurling delicate new fronds, and the other unusual plant for this area, Mahala mat (Ceanothus prostratus), was in perfect bloom in shades of deep lavender blue to white. A few pretty paintbrushes (Castilleja pruinosa) were coming into bloom. The drought didn’t seem to have much of an effect yet on these perennials. The lack of water was most clearly evidenced in the multitudes of dwarfed, sparsely flowered blue-eyed Mary (Collinsia grandiflora). They were in a hurry to get at least some seeds made before it was too late. My photographs from last year show they were quite a bit taller and showier. I remember how frustrated I was the last few springs waiting for a sunny day to go out on. Now all I want is a really good soaking rain. I feel like Goldilocks—always hoping for the perfect season.

My best guess is that these are the seeds of spreading dogbane (Apocynum androsaemifolium).

Fresh glacier lilies (Erythronium grandiflorum) glowing in the setting sun

On our way back to the truck, we were surprised to see several things we had missed entirely on the walk in. Along the short stretch of the main road, 3831, there were yards of white fluff. John’s first reaction was that some bird had met its demise there. It turned out to be the fluff of seeds in narrow pods that seemed to have just dehisced. The plants had not yet emerged, so these had to be from last year, but why would they be just opening up now? Could we possibly have missed them this morning or had they opened during the day? What were they that was so unfamiliar to both of us? The silky fluff reminded me of milkweed, but the seeds were much smaller. Then it hit me that dogbane (Apocynum spp.) is related to milkweed and is fairly common growing along roadsides. That night I checked the internet for photos of dogbane seed capsules, and they sure looked similar. I wonder why I’ve never seen dogbane in seed before? On the last stretch of road where the truck was parked, there was a small meadow where we had noticed the emerging leaves of bluebells (Mertensia paniculata) earlier in the day. As we passed by, some yellow caught my eye, and I realized it wasn’t more violets but glacier lilies (Erythronium grandiflorum). We turned around and went back to see them and found a number of western springbeauty (Claytonia lanceolata) in bloom as well. The clouds had been increasing all afternoon, and it was already about 7pm, but then one last shaft of light shone on some gorgeous glacier lilies for the perfect photo and a fitting end to the day.

Phlox diffusa and Lomatium hallii light up the rocks on the summit ridge.

Fawn lilies, fairy slippers, fritillaries, and phlox were the floral highlights of my trip to Heckletooth Mountain on Saturday (May 4). I’m sure there’s something clever to be written with that wonderful alliteration, but my brain isn’t at its best lately, and I’m a bit out of practice writing, so this entry may be rather dry. That sounds like a not so clever segue to the weather we’re having. It’s been like summer, and it’s only the first week of May. It even hit 90° at my house yesterday! After the last few years of cold, wet, springs (see Heckletooth Times Two for how miserable it was in 2010), I think we’ve forgotten how warm and dry it can be in May. For a comparison, I went to Heckletooth on May 11, 2007, and my photos from that trip look very similar to this one, with just a few of the perennials not as far along. So it may not be that abnormal. But while this weather has been great for hiking and other outdoor activities, it is really taking its toll on the mossy outcrops I love so much, and I’m about ready to do a rain dance. I fear it is going to be a long, hot, dry summer, with a very real threat of forest fires.

Fresh fawn lilies (Erythronium oregonum) blooming in the burned area. Their mottled leaves can be as showy as their flowers.

But as long as it is beautiful outside now, and the plants haven’t dried up yet, I’m determined to enjoy whatever the mountains have to offer. On Heckletooth, that was plenty, even though peak season won’t be for a while yet. The first pretty flowers to catch my eye were the small but regal fairy slippers (Calypso bulbosa). They were blooming all along the trail, many catching a ray of light, begging me to take their photo (How could I say no?). Fawn lilies (Erythronium oregonum) were also blooming well in places, but the fabulously thick spread by the small northerly opening were barely in bud. Up along the top ridge, there were many in bloom but still more in bud. No doubt the cool, protected, middle area was where the snow remained the longest. It was about the only place with any real moisture apparent in the soil. California mistmaiden (Romanzoffia californica) and rustyhair saxifrage (Micranthes rufidula) were coming into bloom there.

small-flowered prairie star blooming abundantly in the large meadow

In the largest meadow on the west side, the manroot or wild cucumber (Marah oreganus) were in flower. They are abundant on this steep slope. Gold stars (Crocidium multicaule) were still blooming well along the edges, and other sweet annuals, including Tonella tenella, were blooming well along the trail. Small-flowered prairie star (L. parviflorum) was sparkling out in the meadow, and I also found a few of the earlier blooming smooth prairie star (L. glabrum) in the cooler meadow where the saxifrages were blooming. That was a nice addition to my plant list. I saw my first mission bells (Fritillaria affinis) here, but there were even more along the ridge top.

The gorgeous spreading phlox (Phlox diffusa) is the most striking plant in bloom on the upper ridge. It has a beautiful manner of clothing the rocks with its lavender pink mats. Coincidently, this morning I discovered the Phlox diffusa plant in my rock garden that I grew from seed had its first ever blossom! It’s probably 3 years old now and has weathered low elevation winters well so far, so maybe someday it will look as beautiful as those in the wild—well almost. Lomatiums are the most abundant flowers on the ridge at this time. Three species, L. hallii, L. utriculatum, and L. macrocarpum were all blooming well. The latter is seldom seen in the Western Cascades. The frothy foliage of fern-leaved lomatium (L. dissectum) could be seen growing under the still leafless oaks that grow along the spine of the ridge. Also enjoying the partial shade the oaks will soon provide were many fawn lilies, fritillaries, and a healthy population of heart-leaved arnica (Arnica cordifolia). I could only find one bud, but there are always far more leaves than flowers on this rhizomatous species.

The anise swallowtail laid her single perfect little egg on the top of the Lomatium dissectum leaf.

The crab spider remains hidden, holding its prey.

While the flowers were pretty, and I got a lot of the photographs I was hoping to get, the most interesting sights turned out to be the insects. Several crab spiders had been fortunate enough to nab some prey. One had parked itself on a fairy slipper where it caught a fly. I rarely ever see any pollinators on fairy slippers, so this was of particular interest. I was disappointed there weren’t more butterflies to be seen, but this was more than compensated for by a lucky sighting of an anise swallowtail laying her eggs. I spotted her in the large meadow, fluttering about low to the ground, often disappearing behind a rock. Then suddenly she drifted right over my head and landed briefly on the leaf of a Lomatium dissectum. When I got to it, there it was, a tiny, spherical egg. How exciting! I wanted to see if she was choosing only the very large-leaved dissectum or also using the smaller Lomatium species, but unfortunately I lost track of her while I kept my eye focused on the leaf until I got close enough to spot the egg. Hopefully she was making sure there will be many more butterflies later in the season.

Gold stars likes the moss along the road. Unfortunately the highway department does not.

Last Wednesday, April 3, Nancy Bray and I went to see what was blooming on the cliffs along Cougar Reservoir in northeastern Lane County. I frequently explore the similar habitat along Hills Creek Reservoir, about 30 miles to the south, but had never spent any time along Cougar Reservoir until last year (see Laid Back Botanizing Along Cougar Reservoir). This is probably in large part because the trails I frequent near Cougar Reservoir (Lowder Mountain, Quaking Aspen Swamp, and Olallie Mountain) are accessed by the road that crosses the dam, missing much of the good habitat along the west side of the reservoir, and by the time the higher elevation blooming season is in gear, the roadside plants are mostly finished. On the other hand, at Hills Creek Reservoir, most of my favorite hikes, including the Calapooya Mountains sites, require that I drive past the roadside cliffs on the west side, which I seem to do on a weekly basis. I’ll have to add Cougar Reservoir to my favorite early season botanizing sites because it is really floriferous and has more seepy cliff than I’ve seen anywhere else.

Looking up the cliffs at rustyhair saxifrage (Micranthes rufidula) blooming in profusion

The Aufderheide (Road 19) snakes along the windy perimeter of Cougar Reservoir for over 7 miles, passing quite a number of cliffs. We were thrilled to see that almost every one of them was covered with the lovely white flowers and shiny deep green and red leaves of rustyhair saxifrage (Micranthes [Saxifraga] rufidula)—more than I’d ever seen before. This was peak season for this pretty sax, but its cousin, Merten’s saxifrage (Saxifraga mertensiana) was just starting to bud. Also budding up, and looking to be equally spectacular in a few weeks, was a copious amount of California mistmaiden (Romanzoffia californica). While it did seem like the majority of the plants were white-flowered, in two spots several miles apart, the mossy ledges and banks were blanketed with the lovely yellow flowers of gold stars (Crocidium multicaule). As at Hills Creek Reservoir, they also grow along the very edge of the pavement, where they sometimes fall victim to the road crew scraping of moss. We wondered why they didn’t grow on more of the cliff areas, especially as there was much seemingly suitable habitat in between the two sites.

A mourning cloak and a green comma sharing a meal on some littered toilet paper—how romantic! Both of these species are usually found near water because their caterpillars live on willows.

Early in the season, willows like this Salix sitchensis are a great source of nectar for insects.

Hall’s lomatium (Lomatium hallii) also added a touch of yellow to most of the rocky areas. It looked like it had been blooming for quite a while in some places. Lori Humphreys included a photo of this in a post to the NABA Google Group about the butterflies she had seen near Cougar Reservoir 10 days earlier. She had also photographed a Moss’s elfin, a small butterfly whose caterpillars live on the Sedum spathulifolium that is abundant on these cliffs. I was surprised to see 3 of them at our very first stop when it was still quite chilly. No doubt these early flying butterflies can take the cold better than the species that come out in the summer. At this spot we also discovered an osprey nest across the lake, after the pair’s repeated squawking caught our interest. The high overcast in the sky waxed and waned, but it never quite cleared up. Still it was warm enough in some spots out of the wind, and we did see a few more butterflies, including more Moss’s elfins. The best site turned out to be at the campground at the southern end of the lake where we wandered around for a while before turning around. The Sitka willows (Salix sitchensis) were in full bloom and attracting hordes of little flies, some bees, and at least a couple of what are now called echo azures (Celastrina echo—now split from spring azures, C. ladon). The real hotspot, however, was the outhouse, where at least 6 green commas and a mourning cloak were enjoying the added warmth, among other things!

On the right is chickweed monkeyflower (Mimulus alsinoides). On the left is the unusual small-flowered monkeyflower. It will grow much taller than it is here.

These strange stalkless mushrooms (perhaps false morels?) were growing in the planted areas by the dam parking area. (Jake, this is for you!)

While I had already seen many of the plants here last year—though past bloom—we were able to make a few additions to my plant list. One of the cliffs, just a bit over a mile south of the dam, has an accessible meadow at the top. Most of the meadowy habitat elsewhere is just too steep or there is no way to reach it. This one tapers down along one edge until you can climb up it from the road. I still plan to check out the top on another trip, but nothing much seemed to be happening at the top yet. On the cliff, however, froths of the tiny white flowers of Thompson’s mistmaiden (Romanzoffia thompsonii) caught my eye as we drove by. They were mingled among the rustyhair saxifrages. What a pretty sight. Oddly, this was the only spot where we found them. Growing on the damp mounds of gravel and rocks collecting below the cliffs, we saw another early bloomer, the darling meadow nemophila (Nemophila pedunculata). Another plant of particular interest to me was a very small-flowered monkeyflower. Both this and the equally small-flowered chickweed monkeyflower (Mimulus alsinoides) were just beginning to bloom. I had been tentatively calling this small-flowered, large-leaved monkeyflower Mimulus nasutus, although many believe it is just one of many forms of the common monkeyflower (M. guttatus). From a paper I read over the winter, it looks like this may be a newly named species, shy monkeyflower (M. sookensis). Mimulus is a difficult, though fascinating, genus because it seems to still be evolving rapidly. While the common forms of M. guttatus have large flowers that are quite attractive to bees, not only do these odd ones have very small flowers, their throats are also closed. Not that a small bee couldn’t push its way through, but it does seem to be rather unwelcoming—you might indeed call it “shy”. This is a good indication it is probably self-pollinating, which would eventually effectively separate it from the large-flowered, insect-pollinated types, creating a new species. I’ve been looking at these funny monkeyflowers on damp cliffs along several of the other reservoirs the last few springs, and I’m still not quite sure what is going on. Something else to study this spring!

What a joy it is to see gold stars (Crocidium multicaule), one of the very first wildflowers every year.

We stopped at many of the same places I check every spring, but the main thing I wanted to see was whether any of the darling gold stars (Crocidium multicaule) were out yet. We were thrilled to find a number of their cheery, bright yellow blossoms dotting the mossy ledges of the cliffs and road banks along the west side of Hills Creek Reservoir. While there are many spots in this area where they grow, the section between milepost 7 and 8 was the only place they seem to have started so far this season. With enough rain, the show can become quite stunning and last for several months. We were also surprised to have scared a meadowlark along the cliffs. I’ve never seen one in the area before and we weren’t near what I would think was its habitat.

At the end of the day, after several hours in the shade, the flower heads of gold stars begin to close up.

During our lunch stop at Youngs Flat Picnic Area, we found a single Piperia (most likely elongata on the north side of area) just emerging. While these orchids are very late bloomers, the leaves are some of the first of the ephemerals to show their faces. A snow queen (Synthyris reniformis) was in bud but nothing else so far. Without a lot of flowers to distract us, we noticed quite a number of lichens, including one unfamiliar pubescent, gray, leafy one growing on the mossy ground. Not knowing much about lichens, about all I can surmise is that it is some sort of Peltigera. Nancy spotted some animals hurrying out of the damp spot down in the woods, and I’m pretty sure the glimpse I caught  was of the beige hindquarters of an elk. Certainly their scat was everywhere. I imagine they’ll still be down at these low elevation sites for a while until the snow starts to melt higher up.

A lovely green comma (Polygonia faunus), warming up in the afternoon sun.

After a very pleasant stop at Campers Flat Campground, where we spotted some buds but no flowers yet on the early blooming Montia fontana and Nemophila pedunculata, and a quick look at Mutton Meadow, where nothing had started yet, we ended up at Rigdon Meadow. We hadn’t seen anyone for hours, but here we ran into fellow NPSO member Diane English and her husband. They were very knowledgeable about the area, so I listened happily to stories about nearby places they’d been. It had been warming up very nicely all day, and by now it was really pleasant. I had mentioned to Nancy earlier in the morning that if the forecast for Oakridge was right—over 60°—we might get lucky and see the first butterfly of the season. It only took a few minutes after we arrived at the meadow that he/she appeared—a gorgeous green comma. Any butterfly would have been a gorgeous sight after so many months without them. Now I know spring is on its way, and I’ll be able to get through whatever rain, cold, or snow is yet to come. Yahoo!

Swamp currant (Ribes triste) has really beautiful, deep red inflorescences, large, maple-like leaves, and no prickles.

For me, the dark and damp winter is usually a time of looking back over the past year and organizing for the coming one. I update my plant lists, catalog my photos, and do some research on plants I’m learning about. I recently finished going through all my photos from 2012 (over 12,000!). Now I’m upgrading the photos in my book, replacing really old photos with newer, better ones from my current camera. I miss the excitement of spring and flowers coming up every day and the thrill of discovering new plants in the mountains. By comparison, computer work is not very exciting, but it is pleasant enough, and it is necessary if I’m going to know which photos I still need to get for the coming year.

So you can imagine my surprise and thrill this morning when I discovered a new plant at Gordon Meadows—and I never even got up out of my chair! I was trying to find a replacement photo for an old one of Anemone oregana. According to my database records, I had taken a good one at Gordon Meadows in June of 2009 (I posted a report about the trip at Aquatics at Gordon Meadows, but it was originally written as an e-mail to some other botanists before I started my website, so it is not as long-winded thorough as my usual blog entries). I’m still using the same camera from 2008 (Panasonic Lumix FZ50—still love it!), so anything from 2009 is as good as my newest ones. Photos older than 2008  looked good at the time but pale in comparison to the higher resolution newer ones. Upon opening the folder in Bridge (sort of Adobe’s version of iPhoto), I was immediately stunned to see several lovely photos of swamp red currant (Ribes triste), one of my special target plants of the last couple of years.

Swamp currant blankets the feet of a thicket of Douglas’ hawthorn (Crataegus suksdorfii) at Gordon Meadows.

The thing is, the first time I discovered Ribes triste was a year later in the fall of 2010 (see Unexpected Find at Warfield Creek Wetlands). I’d never even heard of the species before that. I found some unusual leaves at the edge of the wetland and, after finally guessing it was a currant, I managed to turn up some berries. Yet over a year before, I had evidently seen this much larger population in full, beautiful bloom without even recognizing it as a different species. And upon “finally” seeing it in full bloom at Park Creek last spring (see Park Creek Coming Into Bloom), I still did not remember ever seeing it in bloom before. I really have no explanation for this black hole in my brain. Somehow, upon seeing it at Gordon Meadows in 2009, I managed to dismiss it as one of the other currants and never gave it a second thought. I remember thinking it was pretty and photographing it. But that’s all. Perhaps the question is why did I recognize it as something new and exciting the following year when I’d already seen it and thought little about it? Perhaps it is a result of the extra knowledge I’d gained in a year. Or maybe just a better night’s sleep the night before. Who knows?

While I wasn’t appropriately excited about it at the time, now I’m thrilled to have found another location for this uncommon shrub. I’ve seen it in 5 different locations now, and the Oregon Flora Project Atlas shows 5 more. That’s still only 10 in the state, but I’m quite sure there’s more out there. I’ll keep looking. And I can’t wait to get back up to Gordon Meadows this summer to take a better look at this population I “just” discovered.

View of Oakridge and Hills Creek Reservoir. You can see the dirty air sitting down low in valleys and obscuring the reservoir. A glimpse of a small forest of oaks can be seen a little left of the trees in the center at what appears to be the base of the meadow.

Rain at last—what a relief! Not that I wasn’t enjoying the glorious weather we’ve had lately, but things were getting bone dry, the air was dirty, and the roads were terribly dusty (as is my car both outside and in!). On Thursday (October 11—10/11/12 for those of us who love numbers), I went to Tire Mountain to enjoy the weather before the promised rain. It was dry—really dry. It is normal this time of year, especially at that elevation (under 4000′), for most of the meadow plants to be dried out and the woodland plants to be yellowing, but after so many weeks of drought, even the sword ferns—arguably one of our toughest plants—were badly wilted. I’ve been to Tire Mountain in the fall in the past and marveled at the abundance of tiny green seedlings covering the ground. These will be many of the annuals that will put on a show the following spring. Without a drop of water to set them off, the seeds are still dormant in the soil this year. How long it will take for them to germinate now that the rains have started? It might be worth a return trip soon to find out.

Cat’s ears are still beautiful even when nothing remains but their dried, dangling seed capsules.

On this trip, however, I focused on “forensic botany”, studying the often skeletal remains of what is left at the end of the season after all the wonderful flowers are gone. Many interesting things caught my eye. There must have been another amazing show of farewell-to-spring (Clarkia amoena). Now, in addition to masses of their narrow, four-parted seed capsules, there were scattered dried petals, looking white except for the bright pink blotch still evident though quite shrunken. Perhaps these flowers were caught off guard and dried quickly while still in full bloom.

There are many annual clovers in the meadows. Their leaves were too shriveled up to recognize, for the most part, but the dried up flowers looked quite similar to when they were fresh. I was surprised that the small-head clover (Trifolium microcephalum) pricked my fingers when I tried to collect seeds. Though the flowers are soft and fuzzy when fresh, their pointed calices seemed to have become needle sharp as they dried. The abundant tomcat clover (T. willdenovii) was also somewhat sharp, but the seeds could be seen plainly in open slots and collected by tipping the flowers, while those of the small-head clover had to be dug out. They both have tiny dried bean-like seeds like most legumes.

Looking up from the bottom of the large meadow. The little oak forest can now be seen in the upper right.

My plan was just to walk the trail and enjoy the day, maybe collect a few seeds but not to do anything strenuous. Hah! For most people this is fine, but exploring seems to be in my blood. I simply can’t resist checking out places I haven’t been. When I reached the large southeast-facing meadow near the beginning of the trail, the pull to check out the base was just too strong. Ten years or so ago, I “adopted” Tire Mountain when Oregon Wild (then ONRC) was looking for people to groundtruth unprotected roadless areas. In addition to driving all the roads in the area to see which were still in use, I checked out off-trail meadows below the summit and elsewhere and climbed most of the ridge above the trail. I guess the slope always seemed too steep because I had never done this before in any of my previous 30 trips to this wonderful mountain. So off I went down the hill. The pitch really wasn’t bad at all. Beyond a small stand of trees was a miniature oak forest, the dead brown leaves still gracing the branches. When I reached the oaks, I could see the slope went down even farther, so I continued on to where it becomes more rocky, about 400′ below the trail, and drops off steeply perhaps another 100′. From here, I could see another meadow just to the west. I assumed it was the smaller bit of meadow that one reaches quickly after passing the large meadow on the trail. I had to cross a small ravine to get to it, but it was relatively easy.

From the lower half of the hidden meadow, you can see the part of the lower half of the main meadow, most of which can’t be seen from the trail 300′ farther upslope.

Fall knotweed (Polygonum spergulariiforme) has pretty clusters of flowers at the ends of many delicate branches.

This other meadow was larger than I expected and had some nice rock outcrops. I wandered around looking at all the dried flowers of bulbs. There were many of elegant cluster-lily (Brodiaea elegans), a plant I hadn’t even seen before at Tire Mountain. There were also some ookow (Dichelostemma congestum) in tight heads and hyacinth cluster-lily (Triteleia hyacinthina) in loose heads on long pedicels. They all had shiny, wrinkled black seeds similar to but smaller than their relative camas (they are all now in the family Asparagaceae), but there were differences. Those of Triteleia are rather plump while those of Dichelostemma are elongated. The Brodiaea seeds are somewhat angled with some relatively flat surfaces and pronounced edges. Among all these dead plants, there was one plant still blooming. This was another addition to my plant list, the well named fall knotweed (Polygonum spergulariiforme). It really does bloom in the fall. There are even fresh flowers of this pretty plant on my property right now—mid-October—that really is a late bloomer! No wonder I’d missed it there before.

This is the upper half of the meadow that is hidden from the trail. A lovely berry-covered madrone sits on one of the outcrops near the top.

I was surprised when I reached the top of the meadow that the trail wasn’t in sight. I knew it couldn’t be that far, so I headed up through the woods for a little ways (perhaps 200′ or so) and popped out very close to the small meadow at the intersection of the Alpine and Tire Mountain trails. I sign at the intersection said the Alpine Trail was closed because of the Buckhead Fire, but I couldn’t see any evidence of fire from this sid e of the mountain. And having left late in the morning, I didn’t have enough time to go any farther. Turning around, there was no evidence of the meadow as I walked back to where I had popped out. So this was not the meadow I thought it was but a new meadow, hidden from the trail. I had seen these meadows from nearby points such as Heckletooth Mountain a number of times, but I never realized how they related to the trail. The small meadow along the trail just west of the large one is actually just an upper sliver of the main one. It doesn’t go down very far, but it is steeper. You can see this on Google Earth (look at the bottom of my Tire Mountain description.) Both meadows reach almost down to Road 1910, but when I decided to drive back that way to look up at them, I couldn’t see either of them. Next year, when the meadows are once again bursting with color, I will have to go back and explore this meadow further.

The sphagnum moss on the mounds by the lake takes on a gorgeous copper color as the summer fades.

This late in the year, I didn’t expect to see much still in bloom, but the wildlife was exciting enough to make up for the lack of colorful flowers. Probably the most thrilling for me was a beautiful brown-tinged bear that ran across Road 21 right in front of us. That was my first bear sighting of the year. It breaks my heart to know that some of these handsome creatures will not survive the coming hunting season. The Calapooyas especially will be overrun with hunters—I’ve already had my first encounter with bowhunters this season. I so wish they could be content to stalk the animals for photos and then just leave them in peace—I’m an idealist, I know.

This salmon has worked hard to get to this spot!

Molly had us stop at a bridge across the Middle Fork of the Willamette upstream where it is still merely a creek. There, below the bridge, were a number of large salmon. I know very little about fish, so this was exciting to see these amazing animals who travel such a long way to reach their spawning grounds. A dead fish floating upside down on the other side of the bridge was testament to the finality of this journey.  They seemed content swimming in place against the flow, but, every once in a while, one would suddenly nip at a nearby fish’s tail or dart under the bridge quickly before turning around and resuming its place. We watched them for a while. I bet the bear would like to have joined us. He might have just come from lunching on other salmon heading up river.

A blond Northern Pacific treefrog (Pseudacris regilla) in one of the small channels in the bog.

We also saw several deer and more chipmunks and squirrels along the road than I like to see, waiting to dart kamikaze style in front of us. When we arrived at the small wetland near the lake, Nancy saw some small animal, maybe a vole. She also found a snake skin that had been shed on one of the mossy mounds right by the lake. I occasionally see small garter snakes in these kind of wetlands, but this looked like it might have been larger than most of those. There were a great many small treefrogs all over the bog by the lake. They come in such an amazing variety of colors and patterns, ranging from dark brown to bright green to almost silver. They can be mostly one color or highly marked, but they always have the cute dark mask. At the smaller lake, we didn’t see any elk, but they had surely been there. Not only were there large hoof prints evident in the mud, but the stench of where they had bedded down could not be missed. At our final spot, the cliff area, we watched for pikas. I was busy studying the contents of one of the large pika hay caches and didn’t see any out and about, but thankfully my friends got to watch one on the other side of the talus. I did see one of the many golden-mantled ground squirrels, however, and with all the wildlife we saw over the day, I was not in any way disappointed.

Sitka clubmoss (Lycopodium sitchense) is smaller and much less common than ground-pine (Lycopodium clavatum).

The winged seeds of flatseed rockcress (Boechera howellii) are still attached to the wide silique.

While the animals were surely the highlights of the day, I did see some interesting plants. Although the seemingly random route we took over to the large lake on the east turned out to be almost identical to the one John and I took a few weeks earlier—we passed by the same patch of unusually short-leaved pink mountain-heather (Phyllodoce empetriformis)—last time I had apparently missed a large area of Sitka clubmoss (Lycopodium sitchense). This time the strobili (fertile parts) were ripe and covered with cream-colored spores (tap them and it looks like a puff of smoke), so it was much easier to spot. I usually see it near high elevation or more northern wetlands, such as Gordon Meadows. There were also a few one-flowered gentians (Gentianopsis simplex) still in bloom and the ones John and I saw last month were now in seed, something I’d wanted to collect. Surprisingly, there were also a few hooded ladies’ tresses (Spiranthes romanzoffiana) still in bud, but all the starry ladies’ tresses (S. stellata) were finished. And I was very surprised to find a large population of flatseed rockcress (now Boechera howellii) in the level area at the bottom of the pika’s talus slope, not far from the sole western boneset, (Ageratina occidentalis), which was now in bloom. I’ve walked around this area half a dozen times. How I missed the rockcress before, I don’t know. While most were in seed, several were reblooming, with more buds on the way. The flowers start out white and turn dark purple; often both colors are on the plant at the same time. They are most easily recognized by their very wide siliques (seed pods). The extra width is to accommodate the large wing on the seeds. This is why I never mind returning to the same places over and over again—there’s always more to see!

The shallow lake has many pond lilies (Nuphar polysepala) and is surrounded by bog-loving sedges.

We started out the day by walking down the old road to the shallow lake to the east of Hills Peak. I didn’t have time to check it out on my earlier trip this year (see Hills Creek to Hills Peak). Although the majority of flowers were finished, there was still plenty to see. Poking around a small wet meadow beside this old road, we found dozens of one-flowered gentians (Gentianopsis simplex), including a few plants whose petals were twice the normal length. There were also a great many starry ladies’ tresses (Spiranthes stellata). I’ve seen these both here before, but one of these days I’ll come back earlier enough to see what must be a lovely display of mountain shooting stars (Dodecatheon jeffreyi).

Mud sedge (Carex limosa) has drooping female flower heads and a male spike above.

We cut through what was clearly a forest once but was mostly open now with stumps, small trees, and numerous fruiting grouseberry (Vaccinium scoparium). This is a common understory shrub in the High Cascades, just a stones throw away from here. While most had the typical bright red berries, we noticed some were a darker purple. I’d seen this once before and wondered if that was unusual or not. When we arrived at the edge of the lake, we noticed the pond lilies (Nuphar polysepala) were finished, as were the pond weeds (Potamogeton epihydrus). Later we discovered some much fresher leaves of what looked like the other common pondweed (P. natans) in the drying east edge of the lake. There were many sedges and other graminoids in the wetland and lake, and John knows so much more about these than I do that I had to take advantage of his expertise. Of the few sedges I know, one of my favorites is mud sedge (Carex limosa). It loves this kind of habitat and was growing all around the wet edges of the lake. Another interesting one here is brown bog sedge (Carex buxbaumii). It has glaucous leaves and inflorescense with pale perigynia. It is not very common, limited to boggy areas like this near the crest of the Cascades.

The unusual flowers of lesser bladderwort (Utricularia minor) are flatter than the other species. It’s quite surprising to see a flower like this attached to the tiny underwater stems of this odd plant.

Another uncommon bog plant is the smallest of our bladderworts (Utricularia minor). Bladderworts are parasitic aquatic species that get their nourishment from microscopic creatures they collect in small bladders. I had found this species here before as well as at several other bogs in the Western Cascades. While we were looking at them, I told John how frustrated I was that I’d never seen it in bloom. Recently, I’d been in e-mail contact with Barry Rice, whose website Sarracenia.com has lots of great photos of carnivorous plants, including bladderworts, from all over. He showed me photos of the little flowers, so I had a search image in my head. We looked at them in one side channel of water, then in another. Then, unexpectedly, there they were! Once I spotted the first flower, they appeared as if by magic all through this shallow pool of water. We went back to the first spot, and there were lots of them in there as well. The search image was like some potion that allowed us to see what was invisible to us before. What a thrill! At least for a botanist. We couldn’t help chuckling about how little this would excite 99.9% of the population.

The flowers are very small, much smaller than the other species I’d seen (minor indeed!). They are about 1/4″ long and only 1/8″ wide. No wonder they were so hard to spot. It made me wonder if other populations I’d visited had been in bloom, but I was just too blind to spot them. As Barry had said, they are somewhat transparent, appearing rather pale yellow. The other species I’ve seen (U. intermedia and macrorhiza) have very bright yellow flowers, reminiscent of a monkeyflower (Mimulus sp.). The red stems stick up out of the water above the delicate bladder-covered stems. These must have a number of flowers on a stem, but most of them had finished.

Lesser bladderwort (Utricularia minor) grows in shallow water in the bog and on the edges of the lake. Here it is growing under Carex buxbaumii. The cute frog on the left was quite small. The strange well-branched stems in the water are those of the bladderwort. The tiny dark spots are the bladders. Be sure to click on the photo to see a larger version.

After taking a look at the smaller west lake and bog where we saw many of the same plants (no bladderworts in the water, but there some interesting Ranunculus aquatilis blooming below the surface), we headed over to the talus slope at the base of the north side of Hills Peak itself. We climbed up the side of the slope on what was most likely the remains of a road used when this was quarried. Now it was covered with plants. More Cascade fleabane (Erigeron cascadensis) grows here than anywhere I’ve ever been. While most were in seed, closer to the cliff base was a section that must have melted out last. Here they were in bloom along with a large population of some kind of Arnica. I had decided they might be A.diversifolia some time ago, but I am never sure with arnicas. John took a piece home to ID, saying it ought to be easy to figure out—I laughed. After working on it at home, I think he now sees how difficult this genus is. Some species may have formed from hybrids and are quite variable. We also saw some blooming Scotch harebell (Campanula rotundifolia). This was a plant I wanted to look at on the cliff, but seeing plants lower down absolved me from any guilt about being too tired to climb the rest of the way up the rocky slope.

A young golden-mantled ground squirrel (Callospermophilus lateralis) picks ripe red elderberries (Sambucus racemosa).

A yawning pika shows his front teeth.

And what we really came here to see were the pikas. We heard some under the rocks, but it wasn’t until after we settled down near the base of the talus that one brave soul came up to check us out. He went under a couple of times, but eventually he stayed out in the open and let me get fairly close. He was even relaxed enough to clean, scratch himself, and yawn before disappearing. He (or she?) was not the only wildlife out and about. For hours we had been hearing and seeing an unidentified hawk above us. Now we saw and heard two flying right in front of the cliff, one clearly a redtailed hawk. John eventually realized the other must be a juvenile. With the large cliff on this north end of the mountain, we thought it might be a good place for peregrines to nest. While watching the pika, we also had the pleasure of watching an adorable young golden-mantled ground squirrel picking off red elderberry (Sambucus racemosa) fruit not too far away. And the oddest sound was coming apparently from under the rocks—the squawking of a frog! Could he have been the pet of a pika?!

This pretty hedgerow hairstreak was nectaring on cow parsnip (Heracleum lanatum), not usually a big favorite with butterflies around here.

Many of you know Gerry Carr’s fabulous plant photos that he donates to the Oregon Flora Project Gallery, the WTU Image Collection (the Burke Herbarium’s gallery of Washington plants), and posts on his own site, Oregon Flora Image Project. If you don’t, be sure to click on the links! Trying to photograph almost every species in Oregon is a huge undertaking, and I’ve enjoyed helping Gerry find plants in the Western Cascades that he hasn’t photographed yet. Several species still on his to do list grow in the wonderful area of southeastern Lane County that I spend so much time in. It seemed like it might be the right time to find some of those late blooming plants, so on Friday, August 10, I picked Gerry up in Lowell and headed down along Hills Creek Reservoir yet again.

Mountain campion (Silene bernardina) is covered with sticky, glandular hairs. You’ll have to wait for Gerry’s exceptional closeups.

Our first stop was Moon Point. Last year we spent the whole day at Moon Point (see Moon Point Melting Out), so this trip, we were only heading to the upper part of the Youngs Rock trail, which is easier to access from the top. With thousands of plants to photograph, one must be as efficient as possible! On the way to the trail intersection, I went poking around looking for the rare green-flowered ginger (Asarum wagneri), one of Gerry’s targets last year. I was surprised to find several still in bloom and was thrilled to find a couple of ripe seeds. The common long-tailed ginger (A. caudatum) was also still displaying flowers, and I found plenty of ripe seed. I’ve posted scans of the latter in the Seed Gallery or you can click here to see the neat fleshy appendages on the seeds. While I was searching for ginger seeds, Gerry discovered his first target plant of the day, mountain campion (Silene bernardina var. rigidula). This is a rare species I’ve only seen here, at nearby Groundhog Mountain, and at Abbott Butte. Silene species are often called catchfly and, indeed, these are sticky enough to catch insects. We photographed some really nice specimens in the shade just after the split in the trails. It was a good thing we did it then because on our way back they were in the sun and had shriveled up. I’ve noticed this with the fairly common Douglas’ campion (S. douglasii). They seem to look their best on cloudy days or first thing in the morning. Not sure why this is true, but I’m sure there’s a good explanation.

Broad-lipped twayblade is a rather inconpsicuous orchid with translucent flowers.

Our destination on the Youngs Rock trail was the uppermost creek. Unlike the portion of trail below the imposing rock itself, the upper part of the trail is mostly wooded and is crossed by several creeks. Several years back, I had been very surprised to come across a large population of broad-lipped twayblade (Listera convallarioides), growing right beside the trail where the creek overflowed. At the time, this species was pretty new to me. I have found many populations since then, but it is still special to me. Unlike the two more common twayblades (L. caurina and L. cordata), it likes having its feet in water. It didn’t take too long to find the creek and some twayblade, but the first plants were already finishing. After some more searching, we found several patches of fresh flowers on the downhill section of the creek and spent a while trying to get good photos without squishing any of the little plants. Yay! So far we were two for two. We also saw one blooming leopard lily (Lilium pardalinum), a rare lily that also grows in a wetland near the beginning of the Moon Point trail, and a gorgeous pair of phantom orchids (Cephalanthera austiniae), so it was well worth the trip down, despite having to go uphill on the way back.

Having “bagged” our plant, we headed back up the trail. After Gerry went on ahead, I discovered some of the as-yet-unnamed bright yellow broomrape (Orobanche sp.) that grows among Oregon bedstraw (Galium oreganum). The farthest north I’d seen it before was lower down the trail, so this was a tiny bit farther north. I also hadn’t seen it for a couple of years, and it is a plant of particular interest to me, so I was pretty happy. I have discussed it with Alison Colwell, Park Botanist for Yosemite National Park, who co-authored the new Jepson Manual treatment and is working on the treatment for the Flora of North America. She told me she sees something like this down in California growing on a different woodland bedstraw. In the Jepson Manual description for Orobanche fasiculata (clustered broomrape)—what I originally thought it was—it says “Undescribed plants intermediate to Orobanche uniflora, with prominent red nectary gland at base of ovary are scattered in CA-FP [California Floristic Province], on Galium.”

The unusual bedstraw (Orobanche sp.) is parasitic on Galium oreganum. The inset photo (from the Calapooyas) shows the ovary with a red nectary and the persistent dried flower.

Several days after this trip, while up in the Calapooyas with my husband, I came across more of these in fading bloom. I took a couple of seed capsules, to see if the seeds might be different from O. uniflora or fasciculata, which I’d already collected, and there was the bright red spot that is mentioned. The California Floristic Province transitions to the Northern Floristic Province in Lane County, so it makes sense I’ve never seen this plant farther north. I hope someday someone comes up with a good name for this species, as I believe it is a different taxon from the other two. While other plants tend to speciate from geographical isolation, these parasitic plants seem to split when they find a new host species. This one grows in a completely different habitat than the two similar species. And although this is yellow-flowered like our pale yellow O. fasiculata, it has rounded lobes like O. uniflora. Unfortunately, the seeds all look very similar, like tiny Castilleja seeds with a mesh wrapping. I haven’t scanned them because they are too small for my scanner.

Nodding arnica (Arnica parryi) has no ray florets.

Another of Gerry’s target species was nodding arnica (Arnica parryi). It’s one of two discoid arnicas in the Cascades (to tell these two apart see Rayless Arnicas). I’d seen it blooming along the west side of Groundhog Mountain in late summer. Since it was only five miles away (all gravel, however), we headed over there. After some quick stops elsewhere in the area, we walked down Road 451 to look for the arnica. There were a lot more butterflies over here, so I split my focus between plants and butterflies. We had a good view of the fire still burning on Buckhead Mountain by Westfir. I hope it doesn’t do too much damage to the summit where there are some interesting rock plants. I was getting a wee bit worried that the arnica might be farther down the road than I thought. But suddenly, there it was in front of us, and it was quite fresh. Some plants farther down the road hadn’t even started blooming. It looked like our timing was perfect, for if we had done this trip any later, we would have missed the twayblade. I also showed Gerry a tall rockcress (Boechera formerly Arabis spp.) I had been wondering about for a few years. He brought some home and keyed it out to Boechera platincola, a very rare species! Groundhog never fails to surprise me. I wish we’d had more time to keep exploring, but having succeeded in finding all our target species and even more, it was a very satisfying day.