WILDFLOWERS IN THE RAIN

posted 04/22/08
I had planned on writing about wildflowers at the end of March, but it was snowing. Not much, mind you, but enough that when I stepped out on my porch to replenish the suet feeder, the Golden-crowned Sparrow’s three-note call, which some interpret as "Oh Dear Me," seemed an appropriate sentiment for the day. Glancing toward Orcas Island, I could see a dusting of snow on the slopes of Mt. Constitution. Maybe the column should wait.

Still, undaunted by the unseasonably cold weather, I have taken many of my customary wildflower walks, usually under overcast skies, and sometimes in the rain. It is spring, after all. The white fawn lilies are peaking at lower elevations now, the calypso orchids are still emerging from the duff in our woodlands, and western buttercups are coming on strong. Even these early blooming plants, while reluctant to make their debut, have thrived under darkened skies.

For the last two weeks, I have been hoping for sunshine to begin a butterfly survey. A week ago Saturday seemed a breakthrough of sorts as temperatures shot into the 60s, and it was shirt-sleeved weather for a day. Several common butterflies including Sara’s orangetip, silvery blues, satyr anglewings, and cabbage whites nectared on newly blooming plants; by the first of the week, the wind and rain returned and the butterflies took cover. More storms commenced, interspersed with only the slightest of sun breaks.

By April 17th I was getting grumpy, and about 2 o’clock I decided to dispel my self-imposed gloom by driving to Deadman Bay Preserve, on the west side of San Juan Island. I would seek a tiny yellow monkey-flower that I knew should be coming up in the rock crevices of the south-facing slopes. It poured rain all the way to the preserve. I shook my head and kept going. Surely the universe would provide some botanical delight to lift my spirits.

Haro Strait was full of white caps as I watched a cargo ship plow its way north through the dark waters heading for Vancouver. Heavy cumulus clouds hovered overhead, and even the White-crowned Sparrows in the brush – usually enthralled with their own songs - were singing in subdued tones. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

But once I got to the preserve, I knew immediately all was well. The big-leaf maples were in full bloom along the rocky border of the bay. Acer macrophyllum is a magnificent tree, our largest native maple. Their boughs were literally bowed under the weight of shimmering greenish-yellow blossoms hanging in clusters beneath celery green leaves sheathed in coral; the blooms are a magnet for the bees. All along the cusp of the cliffs, the maples made a clear statement that spring – rain or shine – was definitely here.

I started down the rocky slope and immediately spied small-flowered woodland stars (Lithophragma parviflorum) perched in the tall grass buffeted by the breeze. I love this plant, and call it ragged starflower because of its deeply-lobed white petals sitting atop a long, purplish stem. They were in their element along the rugged coastal bluff.

Nearby, I found field chickweed (Cerastium arvense) growing in clumps near rocky crevices. The chickweed is a favored nectar plant of our rare Island Marble butterfly, and I was relieved to know that – once the sun does shine again and the butterflies emerge – they will be well fed by this handsome plant – a member of the pink family.

But I was on a mission to find the chickweed monkey-flower (Mimulous alsinoides). I knew, from past experience, just where to look: down by the edge of the bluff growing out of a rock crevice near a cluster of maples. It took a few minutes to find the bright yellow sprit, but eventually I did – so fine a plant I needed a magnifying glass to appreciate the delicate reddish-brown pattern on the lower lip of the little figwort. There were not many buds in bloom yet, but the buttery yellow sheen of the snapdragon brought spring clearly into focus. Alas, hiding in that crevice it was too tiny to photograph well.

As I turned to head back up the slope – being careful not to step on any botanical treasures – I was delighted to find the buds of blue camas sprouting from green grass next to my footholds: one, two, three stalks. Fantastic! Then, as I continued up the slope and my eyes adjusted to the new search image, I realized there were dozens of camas emerging through the glacially-tilled soil. This rocky slope is an ideal habitat for the quamash, historically an important plant to First Nations People who visited the islands each spring and summer, in part, to gather the bulbs of this cherished lily. I had not expected to see the camas for another week, but perhaps that was because I am used to seeing its exquisite blue sheen reflected in the bright sunshine that has yet to appear. Later, checking my field journals from past years, I found the camas was right on schedule.

Making my way back up the slope, I found other splashes of spring color: tiny blue and white lupine (Lupinus bicolor), the last fading shooting stars (Dodecatheon hendersonii.), non-native filaree (Erodium cicutarium), dovefoot geramium (Geranium molle) another introduced species, and a sweet little cream-colored saxifrage.

By the time I got to the top of the hill it had begun raining again – just a few sprinkles but enough for me to contemplate heading home. But wait, what was that flash of blue under the big-leaf maple? Ah, a single blue camas in full bloom – my first of the season. The day was complete.

I smiled to myself as I got into my car. I had been grumpy for days – waiting out the rain and mourning the delay of the wildflowers. And, they had been here all along: in the grass; along the slopes; and hidden in rock crevices just waiting for me to dispel my own gloom and get out on the trail. What is a little drizzle – or even a snow flake or two – in comparison to the joy of finding that first blooming camas, or the smiling face of a little yellow snapdragon peering out from beneath rocky crags? The wildflowers are here -- if dripping with raindrops from time to time. They don’t seem to mind the rain – nor should we. Happy Spring!

Note: The San Juan County Land Bank is currently engaged in a habitat restoration project at their Deadman Bay Preserve. Volunteers are welcome to participate in this valuable program. It is a fine opportunity to see these wildflowers in bloom, and to support the restoration of an important natural area. Contact Doug McCutcheon for details.

Susan Vernon is a writer and naturalist who lives on San Juan Island.

San Juan Nature Notebook, Wildflowers in the Rain, photos and text copyright 2008 by Susan Vernon. No part of this article may be reproduced, except for personal reference, without the expressed written permission of the author.

news @sanjuanislander.com

ABOUT US | ADVERTISING INFO | CONTACT INFORMATION |