July was a whirlwind.

I added 23 odonate species to my life list, pulled at least 20 roving ticks from my sweat-soaked body, led a half-dozen programs at Rock Point Center, bushwhacked into no less than 3 bogs, turned 34 and barely noticed.

Numbers don’t capture the depth of it, though. This month has been unlike any other in ways that are unquantifiable: I watched the most badass dragonfly devour a tiger swallowtail, and later that same day held it in my hand. I walked on a floating mat of peat and felt it reverberate beneath me with each step. I cried at the edge of a pond, at the end of a long field day, overwhelmed by the beauty of vesper bluets mating at dusk. I have felt so alive and so myself.

Each of these experiences deserves their own post, and perhaps they’ll get them. For now though, I give you a few highlights from the best month in recent memory.

July 3rd: My first Ophiogomphus— Ophiogomphus mainensis. A total stunner, with an acid green face and thorax, sporty yellow markings down her clubbed abdomen, and two tiny, devilish occipital horns. Even her subgenital plate had cool-girl vibes.

Ophios have about a month long flight period in Vermont, peaking in June. I caught Ophiogomphus carolus the following week, and no more after that.

July 3-27: Somatochlora. There’s this moment after you swing at a dragonfly, a brief pause, when you wait for the sound that means you got it— the papery whir of wings beating inside the net. It’s a mere half-second but in that space the anticipation stretches time. Like watching a kicked ball glide uncertainly towards a goal.

I’ve never been good at sports but I am, to my surprise, excelling at netting dragonflies. Of all the dragonflies I’ve chased, Somatochlora have proved the most difficult. So each Somatochlora I’ve caught this month has felt like scoring a game-winning point, even more so when there are others there to share in the victory. It’s addictive. I caught four Somatochlora species this July: walshii, franklini, forcipata, and elongata.

July 8: Dragonhunter aka Hagenius brevistylus is getting its own post, but I would be remiss not to mention it here because it’s the craziest dragonfly I’ve caught to date and definitely the highlight of July. My first encounter with it was epic— I watched it devour a butterfly. More on that soon.

July 12: Arigomphus villosipes, or Unicorn Clubtail, named for the single occipital projection between the eyes. I spent a gorgeous afternoon at a beaver pond, watching the males guard their individual patches of muddy shoreline. I netted a couple but mostly just enjoyed their company, the sun sparkling on the water, and the little tadpoles that squiggled away each time I drew near.

July 23: Two non-ode observations. First, just about the sweetest thing you can imagine: a little moth tucked into a flower. Primrose Moth, or Schinia florida. If you find this as enchanting as I do, I recommend Bryan Pfeiffer’s essay about them.

And a quick side note— I owe a lot of my odonate observations this month to a couple of experts/mentors: Bryan and Josh. They have graciously shared knowledge with me, joined me in the field, encouraged and facilitated my obsession. I’m very grateful.

Next, a discovery on the opposite end of the cute-to-horrifying spectrum: Bug Sputnik. Josh and I were exploring a sandy clearing when I found one of my favorite trees, a hawthorn. While admiring its thorns, I noticed a bump with strange protrusions. I wondered aloud whether it could be a Cordyceps fungus that had infected a bug inside the little cocoon, or gall, or whatever it was. We took a bunch of photos and I snapped off a twig to take home.

Turns out, it is a fungus closely related to Cordyceps, in the genus Ophiocordyceps— the same genus as the one that is parasitic to ants. But this species infects scale insects living on trees. Ophiocordyceps clavulata, commonly known as Bug Sputnik. There isn’t much information online about it, and there are relatively few observations recorded on iNaturalist (just one other in Vermont). I brought it to work to show my colleagues and we looked at it under the digital microscope. You can see where the fruiting bodies of the fungus have burst through scale insect’s exoskeleton. Wild.

July 23: Finally, Vesper Bluets, or Enallagma vesperum.

A short reflection I wrote after seeing vesper bluets for the first time a couple weeks ago:

At a pond edge on the side of the road, with the noise of cars rushing past and, eventually, the constant groan of an approaching train, the vesper bluets skim gracefully from lilypad to lilypad. The glassy water doubles their elegant flight.

I am tired, and also spellbound. The golden hour light illuminates their yellow bodies, striking them in a way that makes them appear to glow from within. They glide to and fro, tiny dancers in a spontaneous yet synchronized ballet. I could watch them forever. A tandem pair flies away from the group, eventually alighting on a lilypad to rest, maybe, or in preparation to lay eggs. I’m not sure if they’ve mated yet, and maybe they won’t. I wonder what qualities the female looks for before curling her abdomen around, how many males she rejects for each she allows to mate.

The pair takes off again and I shift my weight, feeling the rings of cool water where my legs submerge. I lift one leaden foot and feel the blood rush back into it. The train is really close now, the noise distracting, and I’m happy the bluets can’t hear it, at least not the way we do. The light has faded but I can still see their silhouettes as they fly and settle, their delicate wings shimmering in the amber dusk.

I realize my eyes have welled up a bit. Another minute and it will be time to go.

Thanks for reading. All photos and illustrations are my own unless otherwise noted.

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The star of the day was the abundant Spatterdock Darner, or Rhionaeschna mutata. Spatterdocks are critically imperiled in Vermont, something I didn’t realize until I was reviewing all the species I netted. They are also real stunners, one of the biggest odes flying right now with bright blue markings. The males have these crazy blue eyes that matched the cloudless sky.

I was also lucky to catch both a male and female Calico Pennant, Celithemis elisa. The contrasting wing venation is something else!

I also caught my very first spiketail: Delta-spotted Spiketail, Zoraena diastatops. I feel particularly obsessed with catching clubtails and spiketails this season, so this was a big one for me. They are only flying a little while longer, and I am anxious to find more of them.

The final new-to-me catch from the meadow was a Widow Skimmer, Libellula luctuosa— a pretty common dragonfly that I’d seen before but for some reason hadn’t previously netted.

Later that same day, at a nearby pond, we encountered a real treat: Lilypad Clubtail, Arigomphus furcifer. The glowing teal eyes struck me, kind of like the Spatterdock’s did. You can see the coloration in a photo or in a guide, but there’s a luminosity to odonate eyes that can’t be replicated. You really have to see them in person.

The final new-to-me species of this round-up is the Sedge Sprite, Nehalennia irene. This one showed up in an unexpected place: it was the first insect that came to the moth sheet I’d set up for the Moth & Firefly event at my work. I resisted the urge to grab it and get better photos, because so many people were watching me and I was worried people would think it was okay to grab the moths. When I saw it, I knew it was one of the two sprites we have in Vermont, but I wasn’t sure which one. Luckily an ode expert I know was able to decipher my terrible photos to provide an ID.

That’s it for this Odonate report! Some unrelated notes below.

• I organized a Moth & Firefly Night event work and am so happy with how well it went, aside from there being less moths than we’d hoped. Over 200 people showed up! When I picked the date, I wasn’t aware of how drastically moonlight influences whether moths will show up for a moth sheet, so that’s my only regret. Ah, well. I live and learn!

• I haven’t given up on my natural community project, but I am too obsessed with Odonates right now to spend a single sunny day doing anything other than chase them. So I’m going to keep doing that!

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I dutifully visited a few locations over the months of April and May, waiting for signs of Odonates (dragonflies and damselflies). I stalked iNaturalist every day to see if there were any new observations of Odonata in Vermont. I even bought a small aquatic net, like the ones for fish tanks, and dipped for nymphs in the marsh at my workplace thinking I could find out what species I might find there later in the season. Turns out nymph ID is trickier than I imagined.

I caught my first dragonfly of the year on April 24th, a common green darner, or Anax junius. It’s a migratory species that flies to Vermont before the non-migratory species have emerged. I made a short video about it on Instagram and woke up the next morning to thousands of views and more than a few angry comments. How could I be so cruel as to catch and release a dragonfly?! Jeeze.

On May 17th I was at one of my favorite natural areas searching for early season odonates and came upon a pair of springtime darners, Basiaeschna janata, eclosing. I made short video about that, too.

Since then, I’ve spent every sunny day outside netting and learning, wading in ponds and sinking in marshes, following woodland streams and soaking in the ethereal, timeless magic of bogs. It’s bliss.

You may remember my Odonate round-up post from last year, where I listed all the species I found during my first season. At the end of last summer, I’d logged 36 species. This season I’ve already added nearly 20 species to that list, including some major bangers! It’s hard to give highlights, because I get hyped on every new-to-me species, but here’s a few that come to mind:

Harlequin Darner, Gomphaeshna furcillata: It landed on my coworker as we were taking a walk and I was able to just gently grab it, no net required.

Ebony Boghaunter, Williamsonia fletcheri: Is there a cooler name than Boghaunter? I don’t think so.

Elfin Skimmer, Nannothemis bella: The tiniest dragonfly in North America. Little fairies!

I’ve been really lucky this season to continue dragonflying with my friends Cindy & Wally. And last week I got to go with Bryan, who taught the class that got me crazy for odes in the first place. I love exploring and learning on my own, but there’s something really special about finding people as obsessed as I am to share the experience with. Not to mention all the passed-down knowledge that would have taken me ages to figure out on my own: ID marks not listed in my field guide, behaviors and locations of particular species, extremely localized phenology observations. And of course, the sheer joy of catching something cool and screaming “Hell Yeah!” to another person.

More soon!

All photos are my own unless otherwise noted.

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Wood Anemone flowers are mostly white, but sometimes pink. Finding a pink one feels special— like finding a four-leaved clover.

The flowers close up when it’s cloudy, and at night. Sometimes you’ll even see a few closed up in the shade of a tree trunk, mere feet away from fully open blooms receiving more direct sunlight.

Anemone quinquefolia grows in groups, you’ll most commonly see patches of them rather than rogue individuals. Look closer at these groupings and you’ll notice not all individuals produce blooms. Some plants will only produce a leaf, divided into five leaflets, while the flowering individuals have three leaves divided each into three leaflets.

Wood Anemone is yet another spring ephemeral whose seeds are dispersed by ants in a process called myrmecochory. See my post on Hepatica for a detailed description of this.

You’ll find Wood Anemone where you find many other ephemerals: in rich woodlands. It shows up on mossy ledges, near rivers and streams, at the base of trees.

Just follow your intuition: where would the fairies be?

All illustrations and photos are my own.

Note: This is the fifteenth in a series of posts on spring ephemeral wildflowers.

Previous posts:

• Skunk Cabbage

• Hepatica

• Bloodroot

• Blue Cohosh

• Dutchman’s Breeches

• Yellow Trout Lily

• Carolina Spring Beauty

• Red Trillium

• White Trillium

• Early Meadow Rue

• Large-flower Bellwort

• Wild Ginger

• Two-leaf Miterwort

• Jack-In-The-Pulpit

Subscribe to get a wildflower in your inbox 1-2 times a week from now through the end of May. And send this post to a friend who could use a wildflower today!

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I originally published this piece last Spring, and instead of writing a whole new post on my favorite late-spring ephemeral, I present it to you again! This essay was so much fun to investigate and write. I hope you enjoy it, and more importantly, that it inspires you to go peer into a nearby Arisaema triphyllum.

note: I’ve included a small glossary of plant terminology at the end, and have also inserted some definitions along the way so you don’t have to interrupt your reading to scroll down. The words defined in the glossary are bolded where they first appear in the text.

Jack-in-the-pulpit is a peculiar plant.

The hollow, hooded form is striking— it’s hard to resist making a closer inspection. As you examine the mysterious flower, you’ll undoubtedly find yourself lifting the striped mantle to reveal the smooth, elegant spadix within.

The coloration of the spadix and striped spathe varies from a dark near-black to a pale, fleshy green. Sometimes when you peer beneath the spathe’s veil, the spadix trembles, bringing to mind a cloaked figure or a snake poised to strike. Three upright leaflets fan out behind the inflorescence, adding to the drama.

Spathe: a single bract that surrounds the spadix— on jack-in-the-pulpit, this is the entire striped outer “pulpit” that encircles the “jack”
Spadix: a flowering spike, on jack-in-the-pulpit it’s the “jack,” which has many small flowers hidden at its base
Bract: a modified leaf
Inflorescence: the entire flowering structure of a plant— on jack-in-the-pulpit, the actual flowers are hidden inside the spathe at the base of the spadix. The entire structure pictured below (minus the leaf) is the inflorescence.

Jack’s bizarre shape is often compared to that of a pitcher plant. And although it is not carnivorous, it does trap the fungus gnats that pollinate it, which die inside the spathe after futile attempts to escape. Let’s back up for a second though.

Jack-in-the-pulpit is dioecious, a word stemming from the ancient Greek dioikía, which translates to “of two houses.” It means that the male flowers and female flowers are on separate plants, preventing self-pollination. This is uncommon in and of itself: only ~6% of flowering plants are dioecious. But Jack-in-the-pulpit takes its rare sexual expression one step further, possessing the ability to change sex from year to year.

Jacks start out as single leaves, absorbing nutrients and sunlight that will eventually help them bloom. When they first muster the energy to put out an inflorescence it’s male, with flowers that consist of stamens and pollen– this takes less energy than producing female flowers. After a couple more years, when the plant has stored up enough energy in its corm, it produces the female flowers that when pollinated create fruits and seeds. If the plant’s energy is depleted, for example if there’s poor conditions or if it used up its stores producing fruits, it can revert back to male the following year, and so on.

Self-pollination: pollination in which a flower is pollinated by its own pollen or that of a flower on the same plant
Stamens: the male fertilizing organ of a flower, usually possesses pollen
Corm: a modified underground plant stem that serves as a storage organ

The females are often larger and sometimes have two leaves vs. the typical single compound leaf of males. The two sexes differ in another key characteristic– the males have a small hole in the base of the spathe that allows pollinators to exit the plant, while the females have no hole, trapping the pollinators that visit them.

The primary pollinators of Jack-in-the-pulpit are fungus gnats. They’re attracted to a scent the plant emits that mimics fungus. Don’t bother trying to get a whiff though— this scent is imperceptible to humans.

Compound Leaf: a leaf comprised of two or more distinct leaflets joined by a single stem (in the case of Jack-in-the-pulpit, each leaf has three leaflets)

How it works: a gnat finds its way into the hollow spathe of a male plant and searches for fungus, bumping into the pollen-laden stamens along the way. The gnat, finding no fungus, decides to exit the plant. But if it tries to fly up and out the way it came in, it strikes the hood and falls back down to the bottom of the tube. It becomes disoriented; the hood also blocks the light which makes it hard for the gnat to navigate. The slippery walls prevent the gnat from crawling out. It might repeat its exit attempts any number of times, collecting more and more pollen, before eventually finding its way out of the small hole at the base of the spathe.

Ideally, the gnat continues its search and is soon duped again– this time by a female plant. The gnat enters the plant the same way, bumping into the female flowers and depositing the pollen it collected earlier, pollinating the plant. But with no exit this time, the gnat eventually dies inside the spathe. The prevailing theory is that the female plants evolved this adaptation to force the gnats to stay inside them for as long as possible– increasing the chances of successful pollination.

While reminding myself of the details of this fascinating pollination process, I stumbled on a small mystery. All of the sources I found online maintain that Jack-in-the-pulpit is dioecious, as I described above. However, as I searched, I came across a few sources that mentioned that an individual plant can sometimes produce a combination of male and female flowers on a single spadix. The proportion of male to female flowers in that case determines the functional sex of the plant. These sources state that despite Jack-in-the-pulpit’s ability to occasionally produce both sexes of flower on one spadix, it still cannot self pollinate because either the male or the female flowers on such a plant are inert. A couple sources went into greater detail, saying that when there are two sexes of flower on one individual, they mature at different times, making self-pollination impossible.

This raised so many questions: how commonly do Jacks actually produce both male and female flowers? When an individual does possess both male and female flowers, will it have the escape hatch typically found in unisexual males? What about the way these plants are categorized– if they have the ability to produce both male and female flowers on the same individual, are they truly dioecious? And does the staggered male vs female bloom timing ever effect cross-pollination?

I’m sure a botanist could answer these questions, but I don’t personally know any botanists. And besides, when presented with a puzzle I would almost always rather investigate myself— to the extent that that’s possible, anyway.

Unisexual: when a plant only has the reproductive organs of one sex— dioecious plants are unisexual
Cross-pollination: pollination in which a flower is pollinated with pollen from a separate plant

Luckily, the opportunity to answer some of these questions arose spontaneously. I was out doing a natural community visit a few days ago (this time to a Mesic Clayplain Forest and a Sand-Over-Clay Forest– summary forthcoming), when I happened upon dozens of Jack-in-the-pulpits. This natural community provided the perfect conditions for them: moist, nutrient rich soil, with the right combination of shade and sunlight. I decided to do a quick survey and see how many were male, how many female, and whether I could find any possessing both male and female flowers.

I started looking around and quickly realized that there were far more male than female plants. I gently unfurled a few of the spathes and peered inside— the actual flowers are clustered at the base of the spadix. It’s really easy to tell the male flowers from the female flowers once you’ve seen them: the female flowers each have a bright green ovary and a fuzzy white stigma, while the males are pale cream to purple with teensy u-shaped stamens and pollen.

Stigma: the part of the flower that receives the pollen

I was able to see the male escape holes in-person for the first time too, and compare those to the corresponding area on the females. I’d always wondered what these “holes” looked like, and they weren’t what I was expecting. They were more like indentations than actual holes.

After carefully examining several Jacks, I found what I was looking for: a plant that possessed both male and female flowers. Looking closely, it appeared that the male flowers were not producing pollen.

I walked around more and noticed a few patterns. Some of my observations confirmed what I already knew: the female flowers were larger and tended to have two compound leaves, while the males were smaller and greater in number. My exit hole question was answered— the few individuals I found that possessed both male and female flowers all lacked an escape hatch. Surprisingly though, as I examined more of them, I noticed that some of the male flowers on these individuals seemed to possess both pollen and fully formed female flowers. I say seemed because that’s how it appeared to me, but I can’t be sure, I am not an expert. Though even if the male flowers died before the female flowers matured, isn’t it likely there would still be plenty of pollen sitting in the bottom of the spathe, ready to be transferred to the female flowers by an unwitting gnat?

I have more questions now than I did before I investigated. I’ve come to expect that both from nature and from self-study, though: the more you learn, the more you understand how much you don’t know. I am at the very least glad to have finally peered into the guts of these clever plants and seen the place where so many brave gnats have met their untimely ends. And when clusters of bright red berries appear amidst the lush forest floor in late summer, I’ll think about the sacrifice they required, the tiny green flowers they once were, and the years of stored energy it took to create them.

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All illustrations and photos are my own.

Note: This is the fourteenth in a series of posts on spring ephemeral wildflowers.

Previous posts:

• Skunk Cabbage

• Hepatica

• Bloodroot

• Blue Cohosh

• Dutchman’s Breeches

• Yellow Trout Lily

• Carolina Spring Beauty

• Red Trillium

• White Trillium

• Early Meadow Rue

• Large-flower Bellwort

• Wild Ginger

• Two-leaf Miterwort

Subscribe to get a wildflower in your inbox 1-2 times a week from now through the end of May. And send this post to a friend who could use a wildflower today!

GLOSSARY

Spathe: a single bract that surrounds the spadix

Spadix: a flowering spike

Bract: a modified leaf, sometimes showier than petals

Inflorescence: the entire flowering structure of a plant

Dioecious: having male and female flowers on separate plants

Monoecious: having male and female flowers on the same plant

Self-pollination: pollination in which a flower is pollinated by its own pollen or that of a flower on the same plant

Cross-pollination: pollination in which a flower is pollinated with pollen from a separate plant

Stamens: the male fertilizing organ of a flower, usually possesses pollen

Stigma: the part of the flower that receives the pollen

Pistil: the female reproductive part of a flower

Corm: a modified underground plant stem that serves as a storage organ

Compound Leaf: a leaf comprised of two or more distinct leaflets joined by a single stem (in the case of jack-in-the-pulpit, each leaf has three leaflets)

Unisexual: when a plant only has the reproductive organs of one sex— dioecious plants are unisexual

If there’s one flower you really must get up close with though, it’s this one.

Two-leaved Miterwort aka “bishop’s cap” has tiny, spidery flowers, each with five fringed petals that curl back to reveal a golden ring of stamens within. Each plant has one opposite pair of leaves situated on the stem below the flowers, which is where the “two-leaved” name comes from. There are also a number of basal leaves borne on separate stalks.

Miterwort is another ephemeral that can be hard to spot. They tend to grow in clusters, and I find the best way to spot them is to look for a group of their upright stems flecked with the tiny white blooms. Anecdotally, nearly all of the Two-leaved Miterwort I’ve seen has grown near mossy rocks, often on a slope.

Small bees and flies are often pollinators of Mitella diphylla, which makes sense given the size of the flowers. Larger pollinators have trouble accessing the nectar because there’s no place for them to land.

I’m hoping to spend a little more time with this plant this season, including after the bloom is done. The plant forms these enchanting little cups filled with teensy black seeds. I’ve never seen the seeds, but luckily there’s some Miterwort at my work so I will revisit and photograph them as they develop. Stay tuned for an update.

Mitella diphylla is one of my favorite wildflowers to point out to people. The first time they see it, they’re astounded by the bizarre, intricate little flowers. And more importantly, they’re reminded of how very much there is around us worth paying attention to.

All illustrations and photos are my own.

Note: This is the thirteenth in a series of posts on spring ephemeral wildflowers.

Previous posts:

• Skunk Cabbage

• Hepatica

• Bloodroot

• Blue Cohosh

• Dutchman’s Breeches

• Yellow Trout Lily

• Carolina Spring Beauty

• Red Trillium

• White Trillium

• Early Meadow Rue

• Large-flower Bellwort

• Wild Ginger

Subscribe to get a wildflower in your inbox 1-2 times a week from now through the end of May. And send this post to a friend who could use a wildflower today!

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Wild ginger has lovely, heart-shaped leaves.

Like skunk cabbage and red trillium, wild ginger mimics carrion to attract its pollinators. Its deep red flower sits on the ground, shaded by its two leaves. Unlike skunk cabbage and red trillium, I’ve never noticed their flower to have a scent (and I’ve sniffed them many times).

You’ll notice the leaves of Wild Ginger before you notice the flower. I often see it in rich, rocky areas, growing on a slope. Sometimes there will be a huge patch of them, their slightly fuzzy paired leaves lighter and mintier in color than the greens around them.

Wild Ginger is not conventional ginger, so don’t eat it. Get up close with it instead: lay on the ground, look into its strange eye, enjoy the perspective of a beetle searching for food.

All illustrations and photos are my own.

Note: This is the twelfth in a series of posts on spring ephemeral wildflowers.

Previous posts:

• Skunk Cabbage

• Hepatica

• Bloodroot

• Blue Cohosh

• Dutchman’s Breeches

• Yellow Trout Lily

• Carolina Spring Beauty

• Red Trillium

• White Trillium

• Early Meadow Rue

• Large-flower Bellwort

Subscribe to get a wildflower in your inbox 1-2 times a week from now through the end of May.

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Over the past couple weeks, bellflower bloomed in droves. This butter-yellow beauty, like many of the ephemerals I’ve featured here, is an indicator of rich woods and calcareous soils. And we’re lucky to have it here in Vermont— in nearby NH and CT, Uvularia grandiflora is endangered. Deer browse is a significant factor in its decline in many places.

The flower dangles delicately, its twisting petals surrounding long stamens and an even longer pistil. Bellwort attracts a variety of pollinators but especially bumble bees.

My favorite feature of Bellwort is not the flower though, however beautiful. It’s the plant’s leaves, which appear to be pierced by the stems (this is called perfoliate). The leaves tend to curl up and twist a bit, like the flower petals, and the whole thing reminds me of an elegant, sophisticated lady.

BONUS PLANT: Sessile Bellwort, Uvularia sessilifolia. Often called Wild Oats.

This is another early-blooming bellwort we have in Vermont. The pale, sweet flowers are bell-shaped. Unlike many bell-shaped flowers, Sessile Bellwort’s petals are not fused together. You can see the resemblance between these two species: both have petals that curve, flowers that droop from the stem, their stamens and pistils look very similar, and both have oblong, alternate leaves that sort of shade the flower. You can tell them apart before (and after) they bloom by Large-flower Bellwort’s perfoliate leaves, which is a characteristic Sessile Bellwort lacks.

All illustrations and photos are my own.

Note: This is the eleventh in a series of posts on spring ephemeral wildflowers.

Previous posts:

• Skunk Cabbage

• Hepatica

• Bloodroot

• Blue Cohosh

• Dutchman’s Breeches

• Yellow Trout Lily

• Carolina Spring Beauty

• Red Trillium

• White Trillium

• Early Meadow Rue

Subscribe to get a wildflower in your inbox 1-2 times a week from now through May.

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You’ve probably walked past Early Meadow Rue hundreds of times, unaware of the delightful, teensy flowers blooming at your feet. But get up close with them, and a fascinating story unfolds.

Most angiosperms have perfect flowers, which are also referred to as homoecious, bisexual, or hermaphroditic. This just means that each flower has both male and female reproductive parts. The male parts are called stamens, and the female parts are called pistils. Because bisexual flowers have both pistils and stamens, they can produce pollen and be pollinated to form fruit/seeds. Like I said, this is how most flowering plants operate.

A small percent of flowering plants do not follow this convention, however, and Early Meadow Rue is one of them. Early Meadow Rue’s flowers are either male or female (unisexual), and additionally, the male and female flowers occur on separate plants. Species that exhibit these characteristics are called dioecious. Sounds a little similar to their species name, right? Well, dioicum is a latin word derived from Ancient Greek, meaning "of two houses."

A flowering plant can also have unisexual flowers that occur on the same plant— that would be called monoecious.

Generally, an angiosperm species will exhibit one of these three flower structures. Like I mentioned, most are homoecious (85-90% of angiosperms), with a few monoecious (7-10% of angiosperms), and even fewer dioecious (6% of angiosperms).

But like all things in nature, there are exceptions. Red and silver maples, for example, can be dioecious or homoecious, depending on age and other unknown factors. Check out Bryan Pfeiffer’s essay First in Flower for more on that. And for another spring ephemeral that subverts the norm, read my investigative piece on Jack-in-the-Pulpit.

I hope I haven’t lost you with all the technical jargon about plant parts. Let’s get back to Early Meadow Rue.

If you squat down and look closely at a male Thalictrum dioicum, you’ll see the tiny stamens, comprised of pollen-coated anthers dangling from thin filaments. You barely have to breathe on them and they jostle delicately, like wind chimes. And like wind chimes, they’re meant to: Early Meadow Rue is wind-pollinated, requiring a little breeze to carry their pollen from a male plant to a nearby female plant. My guess is that the stamens gently bumping into each other serves a purpose: when the wind blows and the anthers bump, pollen is dislodged and floats away.

Make sure you find a female plant to look at, too. Notice the way their velvety pistils reach out in many directions. Again, makes sense when you think about it— if they’re trying to catch pollen from the air as it blows past them, having a single receptive point of contact isn’t a great bet. Not only does Early Meadow Rue have many pistils, but the the receptive part of their pistil (the stigma), extends down the side of the style. This is unusual— most of the time, the stigma is at the tip of the pistil, at the very end of the style. All plants in the genus Thalictrum exhibit this elongated stigma.

Because Early Meadow Rue does not rely on insect pollination, it doesn’t need to produce nectar. And because the flowers lack nectar, you won’t often see pollinators visiting them. Early Meadow Rue is a host plant to a variety of caterpillars though, and some bees and flies may still be attracted to the pollen on the male flowers.

So next time you’re oohing and ahhing over a glorious patch of white trillium, or basking in a glowing grove of yellow trout lily, look around for the distinct leaves and less conspicuous flowers of Thalictrum dioicum. Watch as they chime their silent music, bravely surrendering their invisible pollen grains to the whims of the wind.

All illustrations and photos are my own.

Note: This is the tenth in a series of posts on spring ephemeral wildflowers.

Previous posts:

• Skunk Cabbage

• Hepatica

• Bloodroot

• Blue Cohosh

• Dutchman’s Breeches

• Yellow Trout Lily

• Carolina Spring Beauty

• Red Trillium

• White Trillium

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There is nothing more magical than a hillside filled with white trillium.

This time, instead of telling you about them, I’m leaving you with photos, illustrations, and a poem:

Trilliums
Mary Oliver

Every spring
among
the ambiguities
of childhood

the hillsides grew white
with the wild trilliums.
I believed in the world.
Oh, I wanted

to be easy
in the peopled kingdoms,
to take my place there,
but there was none

that I could find
shaped like me.
So I entered
through the tender buds,

I crossed the cold creek,
my backbone
and my thin white shoulders
unfolding and stretching.

From the time of snow-melt,
when the creek roared
and the mud slid
and the seeds cracked,

I listened to the earth-talk.
the root-wrangle,
the arguments of energy,
the dreams lying

just under the surface,
the rising,
becoming
at the last moment

flaring and luminous -
the patient parable
of every spring and hillside
year after difficult year.

All illustrations and photos are my own.

Note: This is the ninth in a series of posts on spring ephemeral wildflowers.

Previous posts:

• Skunk Cabbage

• Hepatica

• Bloodroot

• Blue Cohosh

• Dutchman’s Breeches

• Yellow Trout Lily

• Carolina Spring Beauty

• Red Trillium

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I’ve always thought it funny that Red Trillium’s scientific name is Trillium erectum— its flower stalk is notably flaccid. Unlike the flowers of White and Painted Trillium, which sit on upright stalks, Red Trillium’s stalk leans, its flower drooping to the side.

The flower angle likely has something to do with the pollinators it attracts: beetles, flies, and other carrion-seeking insects. Trillium erectum’s red color and characteristic stink mimics rotting flesh (a strategy skunk cabbage and wild ginger also employ). It makes sense for the flower to face downwards towards these ground-dwelling pollinators, then, so they see the meat-like color and decide to investigate.

As the name implies, all of Trillium erectum’s above-ground parts occur in threes. Three each of leaves, sepals, petals, and their reproductive parts occur in multiples of three: six stamens, a six-lobed ovary, a three-part stigma. Like many of the other ephemerals I’ve written about, Red Trillium relies on ants for seed dispersal.

I’ve always felt Red Trillium to possess a sinister sort of beauty, its deep bloody red in stark contrast to the dull leaf litter. The maroon bloom appears mouth-like, pale stamen-teeth lining the center. I don’t know how this association came to be but I often picture the evil queen from Snow White when I see one.

If you come across Trillium erectum, you owe yourself a whiff. They smell like a wet dog, but pleasantly so— there’s a refreshing, floral note that lingers after the initial scent.

All illustrations and photos are my own.

Note: This is the eigth in a series of posts on spring ephemeral wildflowers Previous posts:

• Skunk Cabbage

• Hepatica

• Bloodroot

• Blue Cohosh

• Dutchman’s Breeches

• Yellow Trout Lily

• Carolina Spring Beauty

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Note: after writing and scheduling this post I found myself in a place more filled with Springbeauty than any place I’ve ever been. I didn’t have my camera with me, but I did get this video of a tricolor bumble bee flying from flower to flower, pulling each bloom down as it fed.

Carolina Springbeauty brings to mind one of the best human encounters I’ve had while trail-walking.

Last year, I brought a friend to one of my cherished ephemeral sites and we met an older man who walked with us for a while. The three of us appreciated the abundant Springbeauty and listened to the birds together, and I shared the spot where, each April, I go to hear the rose-breasted grosbeak sing. The man told us eagles were good omens, and delighted in the early meadow rue I showed him. He showed us his favorite spots to sit and listen to the creek and revealed that he’d been placing small chairs and benches along the trails here for years despite their inevitable disappearance.

His joyful, wise energy reminded me of Bilbo Baggins— a comparison strengthened by his small stature and bare feet (Did I imagine his bare feet? He must have had bare feet). When we asked him his relationship to this place, he told us about leaving his rural home and serendipitously ending up next to this wild, beautiful preserve when he followed his heart and moved in with the love of his life just up the road. I ended up sending him a copy of my spring wildflowers illustration, and in return he sent a recording of him playing the dulcimer.

I know this post is about Carolina Springbeauty, and we’ll get to that, but when I sat down to write this memory surfaced. And although I’m not sharing each experience these ephemeral wildflowers bring up for me, they are all connected to distinct moments in my life. I can tell you where I’ve seen each of them not because I have a great mind for navigation or geography (quite the opposite), but because I remember how I felt when I saw them: what happened before and after, the friend I was with, the mood the small blooms evoked within me.

When you appreciate a flower (or a dragonfly, a tree, whatever it is), it becomes more than a flower to you. And the only way to build these sense-memories is to go out and find them— I provide pictures and illustrations not as a substitute to the real thing, but as an enticement for you to go looking for them yourself.

Carolina Springbeauty can be found in rich hardwood or mixed forests throughout Vermont. They have five petals, each adorned with hot pink stripes that serve as “nectar guides,” which direct pollinators to the plant’s nectar and pollen— kind of like the painted lines that guide planes to an airstrip. They have a single pair of opposite leaves about halfway up the stem, and sometimes possess a couple leaves at the base of the stem, too.

The stalked flower buds attach to the stem in a formation called a raceme, which is when each stalked bud is attached directly to the main axis of the inflorescence. While the flower stalks attach at various points along the stem, there tend to be more of them clustered at the top of the stem. You’ll often see a few erect, open flowers with some buds nodding beneath them. Like many spring ephemerals, their seeds are dispersed by ants in a process called myrmecochory (you can find a description of this process in my Hepatica post).

You might come across Carolina Springbeauty’s close relative, Virginia Springbeauty. In Vermont, C. virginica is much less common though— its range is limited mostly to the Champlain Valley, and it’s listed as an S2 rare species. You can tell the two apart by Virginia Springbeauty’s much narrower leaves, compared to Carolina’s broader, paddle-shaped leaves. I’ve only found it once.

I hope that like the pollinators, you’re drawn in by these delicate, neon-striped flowers. Get up close with them and picture little bees and butterflies brushing up against the hot pink anthers as they enjoy their fill of nectar. Maybe you won’t have to imagine— maybe they’ll be there, coating themselves in pollen, flying from bloom to bloom under the luminous spring sun.

All illustrations and photos are my own.

Note: I’ve seen it’s name written a few different ways— “Springbeauty” (like I’ve done here), “Spring-beauty,” and “Spring Beauty.” I use them interchangeably and I think any are acceptable.

Also Note: This is the seventh in a series of posts on spring ephemeral wildflowers. Previous posts:

• Skunk Cabbage

• Hepatica

• Bloodroot

• Blue Cohosh

• Dutchman’s Breeches

• Yellow Trout Lily

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Yellow Trout Lily’s green and brown leaves, mottled like the brook trout the plant is named after, have emerged from the leaf litter. If you spot one, look around and you’ll undoubtedly see many more.

Trout lilies reproduce primarily asexually through shoots called stolons. These horizontal stems grow just along the soil surface, emerging from one bulb and reentering the soil to form a new plant. You’ll often see these stolons in the summertime, after the rest of the plant has died back. They look like little white worms snaking their way in and out of the forest floor.

Trout lilies can (and do) reproduce sexually too, their sexual reproduction just isn’t as successful: only about 10% of pollinated flowers develop seeds. Because of this, they tend to form large clonal colonies of genetically identical individuals. Like I said, where you see one trout lily, there are almost certainly going to be many more.

Within these large colonies, however, only a small percentage of individuals bloom each year— somewhere around 0.5%, or 1 in every 200 plants. It can take an individual seven years to bloom. You can tell if an individual will produce a flower that year by the leaves: plants that are going to flower produce two basal leaves, and plants that won’t have just one upright leaf.

The few seeds that are produced are distributed through a mutualistic relationship with ants called myrmecochory— see my previous post on Hepatica for a description of this.

Yellow Trout Lily’s pollen, like that of all ephemerals, is an essential source of food for early pollinators. Their stamens range in color from yellow to a deep, rusty red. In my observation, all of the trout lilies in a colony will have the same color of stamen, I’m guessing because of them being mostly genetically identical.

A yellow trout lily colony is a thing of beauty: the bright yellow flowers are a flash of color within the drab early spring landscape. The dappled leaves mimic the dappled sunlight that reaches them through the canopy’s still-bare branches. Their petals close in cooler weather and then, like magic, curl back— a golden crown embracing the sun. They take my breath away.

All photos and illustrations are my own.

Note: This is the sixth in a series of posts on spring ephemeral wildflowers. Previous posts:

• Skunk Cabbage

• Hepatica

• Bloodroot

• Blue Cohosh

• Dutchman’s Breeches

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Every ephemeral is magical, and Dutchman’s Breeches is no exception.

These flowers are often compared to tiny trousers drying on a line. I like to imagine fairies shading themselves beneath the plant’s lacy leaves while they wait for their pants to dry.

Dutchman’s Breeches are adapted to rely heavily on bumblebees for pollination, primarily the early-flying queens who have overwintered and are busy preparing their nest. And that was in evidence yesterday when I went to get a few more photos of them! I saw not one, not two, but three separate queens foraging on them— and got some pretty great pictures.

Like many spring ephemerals, Dutchman’s Breeches depends on ants for seed dispersal. This fascinating process, called myrmecochory, benefits both the ants and the plant: the ants get the nutrient-rich parcel (called an elaiosome) attached to the seed, and the plants get their seeds dispersed. Seeds dispersed by ants are often stashed underground by the ants, which protects them and provides a good place for them to germinate.

Squirrel Corn (Dicentra canadensis), its close relative, looks very similar except for one notable difference– they are heart-shaped, like bleeding hearts, rather than pointy like Dutchman’s Breeches. It is named for the yellow color of its tubers, which look like corn kernels. Squirrel Corn is less common here in Vermont, but it is out there if you look.

Look for Dutchman’s Breeches and Squirrel Corn in rocky, moist woodland areas. They especially love growing on mossy rocks. Get out there and find these ones soon though-- they are blooming now and don’t stick around long!

All photos and illustrations are my own.

Note: This is the fifth in a series of posts on spring ephemeral wildflowers. Previous posts:

• Skunk Cabbage

• Hepatica

• Bloodroot

• Blue Cohosh

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Blue Cohosh (Caulophyllum thalictroides) & Early Blue Cohosh (Caulophyllum giganteum) rise from the leaf litter like gnarled hands from a grave.

Witch hands, is how I think of them. I love them.

Early Blue Cohosh blooms slightly earlier than Blue Cohosh, though there is overlap in bloom time. Early Blue Cohosh’s flowers generally open before its leaves unfurl, though, which can be a helpful way to distinguish it from Blue Cohosh, whose flowers open around the same time or after its leaves unfurl. They are pretty much identical in appearance, otherwise.

The flowers, stem, and leaves of both species can range from yellow-green to deep indigo. The way they turn green with age reminds me of indigo dyeing, but reversed— the deep blue vanishing as its leaves absorb the light. They eventually produce a blue fruit not unlike a blueberry in appearance (poisonous to humans). Their seeds are primarily dispersed by birds, who eat the fruits.

Blue cohosh is particularly fairy-like, in my opinion. Maybe it's the tiny, whimsical blooms, or maybe it's the delicate leaflets, which look like clusters of little fairy wings. Look closely at the flowers— six small, petal-like sepals elegantly spaced, the ovary at the center crowned with the tiny true petals and bright yellow stamens.

They can be hard to spot. Despite their coloring, they often blend in really well with the leaf litter, especially in the “witch hands” stage before their leaves unfurl and turn green. Look for them in rich woodlands, where they often bloom alongside other spring ephemerals.

All photos and illustrations are my own.

Note: This is the fourth in a series of posts on spring ephemeral wildflowers. Previous posts:

• Skunk Cabbage

• Hepatica

• Bloodroot

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Bloodroot is at once delicate and formidable. Its lacy leaf brings to mind a doily yet functions more like a shield, protecting the plant’s single flower from the frigid early spring weather.

Bloodroot gets its name from the arterial red sap that seeps from its stem and rhizomes when broken. You do not want its blood on your hands, though: each plant can take years to bloom, and its flowering period is brief even compared to other ephemerals.

The flower and leaf emerge on separate stalks, the leaf swaddling the flower until it opens. It blooms for just a few days. Then the petals fall off, the fruit forms, and the seeds are dispersed by ants in a process called myrmecochory (see my post on Hepatica for a description of this).

Bloodroot’s reproductive structure dies back after it has gone to seed, but its leaves continue to grow well into the summer. Because of this, it is not considered a “true ephemeral,” though like I explained in a previous post, I use the term “ephemeral” loosely to refer to any wildflower that emerges and blooms in the early spring.

Every time I encounter a bloodroot, I find myself in a state of reverence. When the brave solitary flower bud grows up towards the sun, it reminds me of a single tear-drop, or a pearl earring. The short bloom time makes each sighting feel fated: I had to be in this place in this moment to witness its full, fleeting beauty.

All photos and illustrations are my own.

Note: This is the third in a series of posts on spring ephemeral wildflowers. Previous posts:

• Skunk Cabbage

• Hepatica

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Hepatica was the first spring ephemeral I learned.

When I did Vermont Master Naturalist Tier I (five years ago now— wow!) we were each assigned a spring wildflower to study and briefly present on. Hepatica was mine, and has held a special place in my heart ever since.

Note: this is the second in a series of spring ephemeral wildflower posts I’ll be sharing this season. Subscribe to get a wildflower in your inbox a couple times a week now through May! My previous post on skunk cabbage can be found here.

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Hepatica (sharp- and round-lobed), Anemone acutiloba & Anemone americana.

After skunk cabbage, Hepatica is one of the first wildflowers to bloom each spring. They have ethereal, hairy stems that help shield them from the cold, and distinct three-lobed leaves. Their flowers range in color and can be white, pink, purple, or blue. When they first emerge, before the flowers open, they remind me of little unicorn hooves.

As you might have assumed, sharp-lobed hepatica’s leaves have sharp lobes, while round-lobed hepatica’s leaves have round lobes. Hybridization can occur where populations overlap. The two species have different habitat preferences, though: A. acutiloba (sharp-lobed) prefers calcareous soils, while A. americana (round-lobed) prefers more acid soils. I’ve seen them overlap, but more commonly I see one and not the other in a given location.

Hepatica is one of many spring wildflowers whose seeds are primarily dispersed by ants in a process called myrmecochory. Both plant and ant benefit from this process: attached to each of the plant’s seeds is a tasty ant treat— a fatty sac called an elaiosome. The ants carry this sac (and the attached seed) back to their nest and eat the elaiosome, then discard the seed in their nest’s “compost heap.” This happens to be an excellent place for it to germinate, protected from the above-ground critters that might eat it and nestled among decaying organic material.

Hepatica’s liver-shaped leaves remain year-round and do not die back until the fresh blooms and leaves emerge the following year. For this reason, they’re not considered a “true ephemeral,” though I often use the term “ephemeral” loosely to refer to plants whose flowering occurs very early in the season.

Hepatica are just starting to poke through the leaf litter now in Vermont. Look for them in well-drained, rich woodland environments and enjoy the way their delightful, furry stems tremble in the wind.

All photos and illustrations are my own.

This is the second in a series of spring ephemeral wildflower posts. My previous post on skunk cabbage can be found here. Subscribe to get a spring wildflower in your inbox a couple times a week from now through May!

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Note: I’ll be sending out a brief introduction to each of my favorite ephemeral wildflowers over the next couple months— mostly to share my photographs and illustrations. I got a little carried away with this one, but most of these will be short and sweet: an invitation to seek out these spectacular plants or spend a little more time with them.

Last spring I wrote a reflection on frog song & phenological traditions. I thought about it this week when I went out to see if the skunk cabbage had emerged yet— a yearly pilgrimage that, along with the amphibian migration, marks the beginning of the natural year for me.

All winter I’ve been yearning for summer, despite the bountiful snow and frozen lake we were lucky to experience this year. Yet the past couple weeks as the weather has warmed, I’ve been overwhelmed by a feeling of not-quite-readiness. There’s so much I wanted to study up on before the season hit, so many things I’d planned to draw, read, and learn. I haven’t gotten to most of it.

So when I discovered the spiky, swaddled skunk cabbage spathes poking up out of the leaf litter, I felt a flash of panic— how had I let so much time pass unremarkably? I cringed thinking of all the evenings I’d piddled away watching reality tv, the useless stretches of time spent contorted on the floor, phone-scrolling next to the heater.

Skunk cabbage, indifferent to my self-loathing, has emerged regardless. As I picked my way carefully among these audacious little plants, I thought about the energy it takes to make such a brave entrance each year: to bloom despite snow, cold weather, and frozen earth. The months of below-ground preparation and stored energy that each spring produces this remarkable, brief appearance.

Perhaps unfairly, I compare my own fallow season to that of Symplocarpus foetidus. I didn’t memorize many dragonflies, or make much artwork, or even keep up with this Substack as much as I’d have liked. But I followed my own natural cycle: I walked slowly on the serene, frozen lake. I searched for deer beds in the snow. I cooked many nourishing meals. I allowed my body and brain to rest.

Like the skunk cabbage, I have to trust that as I emerge into spring I will generate what I need to make the most of it— come sunshine or snow. I’ll soon be swept up in the familiar momentum of ephemeral wildflower visits and nighttime amphibian adventures. Learning will come easier when complemented by time spent outside, and the long days will share their energy.

Proof of this inevitable vigor is blooming now: Symplocarpus foetidus melts the snow that settles around it. Things are heating up already. It has begun.

Eastern Skunk Cabbage, Symplocarpus foetidus

Skunk Cabbage is aptly named, as it emits a foul, pungent odor. I compare it to the smell of rotting vegetables, or a wet dog. If you catch it at the right time, you’ll get a rank, deliciously skunky smell. Skunk cabbage is one of several spring wildflowers that mimics dead flesh in order to attract its pollinators, which include beetles, flies, bees, and other insects. They are found in wet areas, and when conditions are desirable, they can form fairly large colonies. The patch I visit each year numbers in the hundreds.

When we look at skunk cabbage’s bloom we’re looking at an inflorescence, or a flowering structure of the plant which contains many individual flowers. These individual flowers are petal-less and clustered on a fleshy, otherworldly orb called the spadix. This spadix sits within the speckled, maroon sheathe called the spathe. Skunk cabbage’s leaves emerge soon after the inflorescence, and continue to grow well into the summer. I often spot their broad, bright leaves near waterways while I kayak.

Perhaps the most uncanny quality of skunk cabbage is its ability to warm itself by producing its own heat, a process called thermogenesis. It is one of only a few plants to possess this capability, literally melting through snow and ice as it emerges in early spring. The spadix generates heat within the spathe, which can reach ~20 degrees above the outside temperature. This creates an hospitable environment for pollinators, in addition to protecting the plant’s own tissues from the cold.

Skunk cabbage is blooming now, at least here in Vermont. Seek it out to witness its bizarre beauty for yourself, and don’t forget to get up close for a warm whiff.

Happy ephemeral season!

All photos and illustrations are my own.

For more on ephemerals and skunk cabbage:

• A fascinating article on skunk cabbage’s life cycle

• Go Botany’s Symplocarpus foetidus species profile

• A post from last year’s spring ephemeral season, featuring my illustrated spring ephemeral guide and a list of ephemeral spots for locals

• A deep-dive I wrote last year on Jack-in-the-Pulpit and its ability to change sex

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Snow fleas are not actually fleas, nor are they insects, though they share a common ancestor. They are a type of springtail, which is a widespread group of non-insect, wingless hexapods.

As the name would suggest, most springtails have an appendage that allows them to launch themselves into the air. The snow flea’s tiny forked “tail,” called a furcula, is clasped under tension until it senses danger. Then, the clasp releases and the spring-loaded furcula whips downward, sending the little speck flying.

You won’t be able to see any of this, though— it happens quicker than our human eyes can process. When you see a snow flea jump, it will appear simply to have vanished.

I’m telling you about the snow fleas because they were a gateway to wonder this week.

I went on a long walk with a good friend at Niquette Bay State Park, and the snow fleas were one of the first things we were drawn to. We peered at them through my hand lens and I photographed them. It was frustrating at first: every time I tried to pick one up or get close with my camera it would disappear. Eventually I figured out that I had to be calm, and still. I started to notice that just before they jump, they curl their body a bit and angle their abdomen towards the ground. I delighted in the way their little antennae move to and fro, sensing the air and snow.

Snow fleas are active year-round, we just miss them when we don’t have the visual aid of the starkly contrasting snow. They live in the leaf litter and soil and feed on fungi, pollen, algae, soil bacteria, and other organic matter. This time of year, they make their way up through breaks in the snow. There isn’t a consensus as to why they do this— possibly to find food. They have a high tolerance for cold temperatures, and produce their own “anti-freeze” which prevents their cells from freezing.

As I watch them I’m struck, as I often am, by how much around us goes unnoticed, the many unseen life cycles churning alongside ours. How many times have I hiked through winter landscapes, unaware of these minute beings flinging their tiny bodies in response to my approach?

The little snow fleas set a precedent for our walk— they were not the only small wonders we found. I am grateful we made time for each of them: sunshine on moss, a beautiful shell, the lake ice sparkling under clear blue skies.

It’s always worth it to get outside and find something wild to wonder about.

For more on springtails and snow fleas:

• This video showing them jumping in slow motion

• This Wildlife In Winter feature

• This Northern Woodlands Article

Upcoming:

• I’m still working on my logo! It’s coming soon.

• I’m planning (but not promising) to send out short posts featuring various spring ephemerals I’ve photographed and illustrated. I posted these on notes last year but who doesn’t want an ephemeral wildflower in their inbox?

  ---

  All photos are my own.

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I am grateful to be able to share some exciting news: I have accepted a position at Rock Point Commons! My title is a mouthful: Naturalist, Communications & Programs Leader, but essentially my role is a combination of communications, creating exhibits for Rock Point Center, and leading community programming.

This is a really big deal for me— I never thought I’d get here. It has been nearly seven years since I first decided I wanted to shift careers and become a naturalist. At the time, I had no idea how long a journey it would be. I figured it was as simple as going back to school for additional training, then maybe doing some volunteering or an internship. If only!

I applied (and did not get into) the Field Naturalist Program at UVM, I cold emailed many people and organizations offering my nature illustration services, applied to internships and entry level jobs in this field, and time after time was met with rejection or (more often) no response at all.

I didn’t give up. I decided if I couldn’t get into grad school or get entry level job experience, I would just teach myself and see what happened. Regardless of whether I could make this a career, I had an intense thirst for knowledge. So I kept putting myself out there and saying yes to any opportunity to learn. I did Vermont Master Naturalist twice and it changed my life both times, no exaggeration.

I have sometimes felt alone trying to teach myself things, but the time spent on my own immersed outside has also led to some pretty magical moments. Like the time I stumbled on a heron nesting site and watched dozens of the dinosaur-like birds as they peered from their giant nests of sticks. Or the time a young deer walked nearly within arms length of me while I was sitting quietly in the woods, its cinnamon coat alive with dappled sunlight. I’ll never forget when, alone on a forested trail, I watched a tree fall.

Self-teaching, though difficult and slow, has also been really empowering. I wrote about this more extensively in my guide to learning trees in winter, but tldr: it has buoyed my self confidence and self reliance far beyond the scope of knowledge I gained.

A personal mantra of mine, lately, has been “fuck around and find out,” by which I mean: don’t wait for anyone’s permission or approval to learn the things you want to learn or explore possibilities that excite you.

I’m not an expert, I’m certainly not a scientist and I wouldn’t classify myself as anything other than an enthusiastic beginner in my study of ecology and the natural world. But I wouldn’t even be that if I didn’t just get out there and do it.

The mantra also means: don’t be afraid to be wrong, or to be bad at something. Let people in while you learn, broadcast that you’re a beginner. Ask questions, even stupid ones— especially stupid ones. How else will you find the answer?

Several months ago, I brought home a caterpillar one of my VMN classmates had spotted traversing a parking lot. I didn’t know what species it was, its diet, or how to overwinter it. Heck, I didn’t even know if it was one of the ones that would irritate my skin. But I was excited by the idea of watching it pupate and eventually emerge, and I had faith I could figure it out.

I found a few of its host plants and created the ideal habitat for the creature to pupate: a partially-covered bin filled with dirt. I got to watch as, over the course of a couple days, the caterpillar created a little nest in the bedstraw and began to change. Its body undulated and contracted, slowly sloughing off its skin to reveal the pupa beneath.

Once it hardened, I packaged the pupa like I’d seen online and put it in my fridge to simulate diapause. I dutifully checked the temperature and moisture levels, and unwrapped it once a week to make sure there was no mold. Then one week I found a brown stain on the inner layer of its wrapping. To my horror and fascination, four small, pale grubs writhed within the ruined pupa, which was now reduced to a crusty brown goo.

Turns out my caterpillar had been parasitized by a tachinid fly. These flies lay their eggs on or within the caterpillar, or on food the caterpillar eats. The eggs hatch into larvae, which wait to emerge from their host until around pupation time.

So my caterpillar had most likely been doomed before I adopted it. And though I was disappointed I wouldn’t get to see the elegant, velvety sphinx moth, what a wild opportunity this was to learn about parasitic flies. When else would I have gotten to behold this bleak exchange of life up close?

I placed the tiny larvae outside so they could carry on with their own life cycle, the next step of which was, ironically, to pupate. I wondered what dangers they would encounter in their own vulnerable metamorphic state. Another thing to get curious about, another opportunity for wonder.

All this is to say, once again: fuck around and find out.

You never know what could happen.

Up Next:

• I named my blog! After a year of writing random shit when I feel like it, dipping my toes in and seeing what sticks, I am ready to commit to making this space more than just “Lorna’s Substack.” I’m working on a logo and will share it with you soon.

• I backed off of Twig Tuesday posts— I was excited about my idea to use the chat feature to give folks a twig quest each week, but no one participated. That’s okay! Fuck around and find out, amiright?

• As I transition into my new work position, I’m keeping an open mind about how active I’ll be on here. I love writing and connecting with people, and I’m not going anywhere, but I’m accepting that I might not have a lot of time right away. We’ll see.

All photos are my own unless otherwise noted.

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