The Pacific Chorus Frogs already laid eggs in the kiddy pools; an occasional tardy frog sings now. The Juncos have paired up; one is busy building a nest in the nursery. The Varied Thrushes and Robins sing through the raindrops. Hummingbirds buzz the Salmonberries (Rubus spectabilis), and a Sapsucker uses a telephone pole for a tapping post. The pole is right next to the wood-chip pile. The Sapsucker clings to the pole and taps on a piece of metal that is about a foot below the top. Then he hops up to the top of the pole and looks around before jumping down to tap some more.

Wouldn’t it be fun if we humans could hear PLANTS? Just imagine the satisfaction of hearing them grow…

I’m walking through the nursery, minding my own business, when I hear a series of exploding pops! I turn around to notice that a Snowberry’s (Symphoricarpos albus) tiny leaves are suddenly bigger. Overhead, I hear a series of sticky -sounding smacks that turn into soft bubbling noises as the big Cottonwood’s (Populus trichocarpa) buds open and begin to release their leaves. I walk over toward the big Douglas-fir (Pseudotsuga menziesii) trees which, for all their size, are only emitting tiny low-frequency grunts from their branch tips. Under the trees, the Lady Fern’s (Athyrium filix-femina) fronds are creeeak-creeaking as they unfurl. Isn’t that cute? I think, when a shrill squeal accosts my ears – the Wild Lily-of-the-Valley’s (Maianthemum dilatatum) newly emerged shoots are unscrewing themselves, beginning to open their shiny leaves. I have to stop for a minute, take off my work gloves, and clean out my ears, open my jaw and shift it back and forth a couple of times to get my eardrums back to normal.

I think things have calmed down, when from my left a deafening roar sends me to my knees! Beside me, the False Solomon’s Seal (Maianthemum racemosa) is rocketing up from the soil!

Well, I’ve heard (from better smell-ers than I) that False Solomon’s Seal’s long white flower clusters emit a beautiful fragrance; I know that their juicy red berries appeal to birds and look pretty; I knew that they are a showy perennial for shady spots, even somewhat dry shady places; and that they often hang out with Cascade Oregon Grape (Mahonia nervosa). But I had no idea they could raise such a ruckus!

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I drove across the Snoqualmie Valley this morning – early – in a foolish attempt to beat the traffic, all funneled onto Woodinville-Duvall Road because of Snoqualmie River flooding.  The road was a causeway across “Lake Snoqualmie” which flowed and roiled near the shoulders of the road.  The flooding always reminds me of my place in nature.  Of course, humans build dams to control rivers, but locally, our experience with the Howard Hansen Dam and the Green River should remind us of our tenuous grip on the reins of power when it comes to driving nature.

We can change nature deliberately to our liking, and we do change nature unintentionally through lack of attention and care.  But nature always has the last word.  We are part of nature, not masters, NOT owners in the larger sense.  Earth owns US. 

One of my favorite movies, Out of Africa, evokes early 20^th Century Kenya, when colonization was dramatically changing the landscape.  “We are not owners here,” cautions Dennis, the Robert Redford character, responding to the Baroness’s casual possessiveness of “her” farm, “her” stream, “her” Kikuyu people who lived there.  “It WILL go wild,” he says.  Humility – a recognition that we are not really in control – helps us choose a healthier, more cooperative way along our own temporary sojourn here on earth.  We are not owners here.

This has EVERYTHING to do with native plants.  No fooling, I could take any number of angles to link these thoughts to native plants!  But I will focus on two plants, one which lets us jokers know who’s really in charge, Salmonberry (Rubus spectabilis) and a second, Twinflower (Linnaea borealis), which allows a needy human ego to carry on with the illusion of control.

Salmonberry forms thickets by sending out underground rhizomes that send shoots up around the mother plant.  The shoots eventually form their own root system and rhizomes and turn into more 6-8-foot bushes.  They are “edge” plants – you’ll see them along the edge of forests or wetlands.  The shade of trees can keep Salmonberry under control; it needs light.  Very dry or very wet soil will act as a brake on its spread.  Or an active gardener willing to dedicate time each year to tug up the new rhizomes before they get too solidly rooted can, conceivably, keep Salmonberry corralled in a corner of the backyard.

Don’t get me wrong – I LIKE Salmonberry.  It provides much more than an exercise in humility.  Thickets of Salmonberry and other spreading shrubs like Thimbleberry (Rubus parviflorus), Nootka Rose (Rosa nutkana) and Snowberry (Symphoricarpos albus), are VERY important to small creatures.  The tangle of branches and foliage shelter animals and birds from predators.  The big orange berries feed birds and all sorts of mammals, including humans.  I find them quite tasty when ripe.  Their flowers are a wonderful bright magenta, about 1½” across, and attract hummingbirds and bumblebees.  Do you have an appropriate place for a Salmonberry thicket?

On the other end of the spectrum lies Twinflower (Linnaea borealis), my favorite plant.  An evergreen groundcover, Twinflower has read all the plant etiquette books and behaves nicely.  But that’s not why I love it.  I love it because it forms a dark green carpet of shiny round leaves which max out about the size of a dime.  I love it because the tiny pairs of fragrant pink flowers are exquisite, old-fashioned street lamps in miniature.  I love it because it is sexy, in a demurely sensuous ground-hugging four-inch-tall way.  Twinflower takes a couple of years to establish before it begins to spread at a moderate pace.  It needs shade, but not deep shade.  It does fine with morning sun or dappled sunlight.  It needs moderate amounts of moisture in the soil.  Read more about Twinflower in my COOL PLANTS post from March 2010.

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The early morning sun is too bright in my eyes.  I can barely see the ducks and cormorant I’ve disturbed as I walk out onto the icy dock.  I turn my back on the pond and the sun and let the heat penetrate my jacket.  The sun illuminates bright green cones of emerging Yellow Pond Lily pads sticking up in clusters near the shoreline.  Foraging ducks have already tattered their tips.  A robin in the 20-acre patch of forestland sings vigorously, not even stopping for air.  When I leave the pond to walk back to the nursery, a raccoon or some other creature with a big tail – I didn’t get a good look – clambers down from an old broken Pacific Yew.  These creatures have not a care for me except to stay out of my way.

 I’m grateful that my forebears – out of foresight or lack of ambition – left a small wild place behind.  To keep small and large wild places, it’s not enough anymore to count on the benevolent neglect of their owners.  If we are owners, we need to actively support our wild places – 20 acres or 20 square yards – and re-create wild spaces if we have over-civilized our land.  These places bring beauty and healing to humans, too.

We are all owners; even if you live in an apartment in the city, you own your city’s parks.  We all own vast tracts of state and federal forestland.  Private land or public, benign neglect is not enough to provide for wild places.  They need our help and protection.

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The echoey call of the Varied Thrush reminds me how  fortunate I am to work surrounded by forest.  I have been slow to learn birds, maybe because I’ve always had dogs with me when I’m outdoors.  But PJ The Springer Spaniel is getting old and I have to put her inside to rest for most of the day.  So I see more birds now.   I don’t see the Varied Thrush very much; they are quite shy.  But I hear them.  One or two have been calling this morning off in the distance, a long single note.  This beautiful song inspired me to read up on them.  They winter in the lowlands and will soon be heading for the mountains to breed.  Seattle Audubon has a good description and the song at http://www.birdweb.org/birdweb/bird_details.aspx?id=355#wa_map.

The Varied Thrush, like most birds, needs lots of cover: native trees and shrubs, especially conifer trees. They are not very common in urban areas where there is not much cover.  During the winter, they depend on seeds and berries that they glean from shrubs and the forest floor.  In warmer seasons, they also eat insects and worms. 

Russell Link’s book Landscaping for Wildlife in the Pacific Northwest gives tips on “managing your property for birds”, including ensuring that you keep a variety of levels or “layers” of vegetation: groundcovers, short and tall shrubs, short and tall trees that together fulfill a variety of habitat needs for different birds even in a relatively small area.   And you know from an earlier blog post (“Leaving”) about the value of leaving leaves on the ground.  Native birds need native plants!

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Indian Plum Blooms, Winter Slinks Away

Paradise Valley, Washington — The Indian Plums are blooming in Ravenna Park, according to a well-placed Seattle source, Zach Andre.  Indian Plums in cooler areas like Paradise Valley are also springing to life.  The annual phenomenon illuminates forests up and down the Pacific Coast from northern California to British Columbia, driving winter from the forest and lighting the way for other native upstarts.   

“The buds began to enlarge on the Winter Solstice,” observed Shirley Doolittle, proprietor of Tadpole Haven Native Plants, a Paradise Valley nursery.  “They can tell as soon as the days lengthen by even a few minutes.”

Doolittle recommends that the public take notice of the dangling, greenish-yellow blossoms as a first step in preparing for Spring.  Paying attention to this particular natural transformation in heretofore dark forests will tend to result in other observations as well, such as the emergence of the native Trillium. This observational practice causes citizens to step off sidewalks and paths, and may cause localized anarchy in parks and natural areas.  This is no reason for alarm, she says, noting that people can use this event as a way to affirm that humans are part of nature, too. 

“This can improve psychological health for sufferers of Seasonal Affective Disorder (S.A.D.),” she stated, adding that quests for connections with nature are especially important in wintertime, when most people avoid damp and chill in favor of artificially warm built environments.  “Go play outside.”

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Birds are chirping and rummaging through the duff and leaves for insects.  The valleys are brimfull of water.  Snow geese honk overhead as they move to a new foraging site.  The nights are growing shorter.  Indian plum buds are swelling and Hazelnut catkins shake in the breeze.  Could this be spring?  A nice thought

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Plants have been flying out of the nursery, going to various restoration projects.  They will help restore life to hillsides, parks, construction sites, disturbed watersheds and neighborhood green belts.  On a smaller scale perhaps, your yard contributes to the region-wide effort to bring healing to the land.  It is a daunting task, mainly due to various forms of “development”. 

That term generally means that nature loses out.  Even if you have only lived in the area for a few years, you know what I’m talking about.  People put their mark on the landscape, whether it involves building a new deck or new shopping center, taking down trees for the sake of lumber or cleaner gutters.  And of course, there are many, many benefits to development.  But hopefully our culture is moving in the direction of a renewed form of development: developing a culture of conservation and balance.  There is very little balance right now.  Since settlers began displacing native cultures with our current culture of extraction from and dominance over nature, the natural ecosystems have been suffering.  We have a long road to travel, both in terms of reshaping our attitudes toward nature and in terms of reshaping our man-made landscapes to bring tangible healing to the land. 

Just in case this sounds like liberal – even radical – claptrap to some, I’d like to remind people that I’m advocating a conservative concept: conservation.  Conservation means using nature while protecting it.  We are humans.  We need to use nature.  But in the past 150 years, we have been engaged in a truly radical reshaping of the natural world in the Pacific Northwest that has destroyed whole populations of species.  And to our own detriment; we’ve brought physical and mental ills upon ourselves.  The book Ishmael, a somewhat woo-woo tale about a talking(?) gorilla, teaches about the difference between “Takers” and “Leavers”.  We are, overall, a society of “Takers”.

The good news is that we each have some power to change things, to help heal our bit of this planet.  You have some bit of land that you have responsibility for.  Find ways of enriching the natural life that is already there.  Work with your spouse, your neighbors, your church, your homeowners association to create large and small swathes and patches of healthy, life-filled land.

 I was loading Cedars and Ninebark into the truck for delivery to a project site and spotted a Long-toed Salamander curled in the spaces between the pots. I carefully picked it up and set it under the big quince bush (not a native, but great hiding place for birds, bunnies and other critters).  It instantly disappeared, blending in perfectly with the golds and browns of the decaying leaves. 

Yesterday under a pile of Sword Fern fronds, I found another one.  In some ways, our daunting job of restoring balance to damaged nature is simple and easy.  As Brian Bodenbach (my inspiring partner and owner of Biosphere, a landscaping company) likes to tell people, “Leave the leaves!”  How easy is that?  Leaf litter provides protection and nourishment for a host of creatures, which in turn provide food for birds, for example.  Wherever you can, take that one simple step of healing! 

Be a “Leaver”!

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Morning. Still dark. Cozily curled in the fetal position, I reluctantly come to terms with the clock.  I think it will be another beautiful day.  The Cottonwood leaves are on the ground now.  Yesterday I crunched through them on the way to the lake, where I found raccoon footprints and a partly devoured, decaying salmon carcass.  The air is crisp and Jupiter still rises in the early evening.  Last night it hung like a pearl from the neck of  Sister Moon.  Aaah, Autumn…

That’s right—it’s Fall!  Time to wake up and think about Spring!

“WHAT? It’s not even Halloween!” you say.  “That Tadpole woman is worse that the stores that start hawking Christmas three months ahead!  Spring is FIVE months away!”

But Fall IS the ideal time to plant, because roots have a chance to get established before the summer drought.  SO no curling up in a fetal ball for you!

You have to plan now for Spring gratification.  Goatsbeard (Aruncus dioicus) must have been designed to satisfy the lazy gardener.  Right now it is yellowing and starting to die back.  In another month, nothing will remain but brittle stalks, perhaps holding a few seedheads.  Hunkered down in the earth, the pinkish crown of the plant waits for warmth.  Once it begins to grow in the spring, it shoots up rapidly.  Its bright green tower of fine, astilbe-like foliage reaches 6-7’ tall.  The name comes from its flowers – white tassels.  The male flowers are fuzzier than the female flowers, which are on separate plants.

 Goatsbeard tolerates full shade and thrives in partial sun.  It can handle pretty damp places, but doesn’t require that. In full sun, it will do fine if it has “wet feet”.  If you have both male and female plants, you will get lots of Goatsbeard “kids”.  

 Plant first, curl later!

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Yesterday afternoon, the rustle – almost clatter! – of Cottonwood leaves soothed me as I worked in the nursery.  I worked until dark.  That was a worry to PJ, my Springer Spaniel.  She was close on my heels, sitting practically on my feet whenever I stopped.  She knows that night belongs to wild things and she doesn’t want to meet ANY of them!  As I walked across the field to the little cabin that houses my office, I noticed a brilliant star in the east – the planet Jupiter.  This morning I woke to fog on Planet Earth.  I can barely see across to the shoreline where the White Pines grow.

Western White Pine (Pinus monticola) is big; it CAN grow up to 150 feet tall. Evenly spaced whorls of  branches give the tree a majestic symmetry. On my property, it’s growing in the wet fen, but it is commonly found in seemingly opposite conditions, in dry gravelly spots.  A deep, wide root system binds the soil together, making it excellent for erosion control on steep slopes.

Over the last century, we have lost many of our Western White Pines to White Pine Blister Rust, a fungus which requires two different plants to host it in different phases of the disease cycle. The disease  moves back and forth between white pines and species of gooseberries and currants (Ribes species).  The plants that I currently have in the nursery are specially bred to be 90% resistant to this disease.

 Keep your eyes peeled for Jupiter and White Pines.  Enjoy your Planet.

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I’ve been reading a good book, Gardening with a Wild Heart: Restoring California’s Native Landscapes at Home by Judith Larner Lowry.

Though she works with a different set of landscapes than the landscapes of the maritime northwest, the principles work anywhere.  She strives to reconnect people with the land around them.  Environmental healing depends on that connection.  I think we can take it one step further: that our own mental and physical health depends on our connection to the land, to the earth.  Nurturing native plants in your own garden is one way to reconnect.  We can observe and participate in the natural interactions of the living soil, birds and insects with plants that have been part of their home since time immemorial.

 Lowry writes of plant propagation – planting native plant seeds – as a crucial life-giving work.  I will use her words to encourage myself as I take on the task at Tadpole Haven of sowing seeds for future crops.  My tools and techniques are very low-tech.  The job can be tedious and slow, with no guarantee of success.  Collecting seed is fun – it requires getting out into the great outdoors, often into new territory.  But it is hard for me to stand at a counter and fill flat after flat with the seeds I have gathered.  Lowry reminds me that planting seeds heals, gives life.  By planting, I take a stand in favor of life.

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