The First Genus (Alphabetically)

Photo by Eric in SF licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

One thing I love about orchids is that they are so diverse. One could spend their entire life studying these plants and never run out of surprises. Every time I sit down with an orchid topic in mind, I end up going down a rabbit hole of immeasurable depth. I love this because I always end up learning new and interesting facts. For instance, I only recently learned that there is a genus of orchids that has been given the unbelievably complex name of Aa.

No, that is not an abbreviation. The genus was literally named Aa. As far as I have been able to tell, it is pronounced “ah” rather than “ay,” but if any linguists are reading this and beg to differ, please chime in! Regardless, I was floored by this silly exercise in plant naming and had to learn more. I had never heard of this genus before and figured that it was so obscure that it probably contained, at most, only a small handful of species. This assumption was wrong.

Aa maderoi. Photo by Dr. Alexey Yakovlev licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0

Though by no means massive, the genus Aa contains at least 25 recognized species. A quick search of the literature even turned up a few relatively recent papers describing new species. Apparently we have a ways to go in understanding their diversity. Nonetheless, this is an interesting and pretty genus of orchids.

From what I gather, Aa are most often found growing at high elevations in the Andes, though at least one species is native to mountainous areas of Costa Rica. They are terrestrial orchids that prefer cooler temperatures and fairly moist soil. Some species are said to only be found in close proximity to mountain streams. Some of the defining features of the genus are a tall inflorescence jam packed with tiny inconspicuous, greenish-white flowers. The flowers are surrounded by semi-transparent sheaths that are surprisingly showy. All in all, they kind of remind me of a mix between Spiranthes and Goodyera.

Close up of an inflorescence of Aa maderoi showing the small, white flowers and large, semi-transparent sheaths. Photo by Dr. Alexey Yakovlev licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0

But what about the name? Why in the world was this genus given such a strange and abrupt moniker? The answer seems to be the silliest option I could think of: to be first. This genus was originally described in 1845 by German botanist Heinrich Gustav Reichenbach who recognized two species within the genus Altensteinia to be distinct enough to warrant their own genus.

According to most sources I could find, he coined this new genus Aa so that it would appear first on all taxonomic lists. There is at least one other report that the name was given in honor of a man by the name of Pieter van der Aa, but apparently this is “highly” disputed. However, all of this should be taken with a grain of salt. Though I can find plenty of literature describing various species within the genus, I could turn up no actual literature on the naming of the genus itself. All I could find is what has been repeated (almost verbatim) from Wikipedia.

So, there you have it. Not only does the genus Aa exist, it is still top of the list of all plant genera. If that truly was the goal Heinrich Gustav Reichenbach was aiming for, he certainly has succeeded!

Photos via Wikimedia Commons

Further Reading: [1]

The Succulent Passionflowers

Photo by Wendy Cutler licensed by CC BY-SA 2.0

Succulent passionflowers?! It took me a minute to get my head wrapped around the idea. It wasn’t until I saw one in flower that I truly understood. The genus Adenia is found throughout east and west Africa, Southeast Asia, and hits its peak diversity in Madagascar. It comprises approximately 100 species and, as a whole, is poorly understood. Today I would like to introduce you to this bizarre genus within Passifloraceae.

Adenia glauca Photo by Karelj licensed under the GNU Free Documentation License

Adenia is, to date, the second largest genus within the Passionflower family and yet delineating species has been something of a nightmare for botanists over the years. At least some of this confusion lies within the diversity of this odd group. It has been said that few angiosperm lineages surpass Adenia in the diversity of growth forms they exhibit. Though all could be considered succulent to some degree, Adenia runs the gamut from trees to vines, and even tuberous herbs.

Even within individual species, the overall form of these plants can vary widely depending on the conditions under which they have been growing. Their succulent nature and that fact that many species can reach rather large proportions means that herbarium records for this group are scant at best. Many are only known from a single, incomplete collection of a few bits and pieces of plant. Also, juvenile plants often look very different from their adult forms, making timing of the collection crucial for proper analysis.

To complicate matters more, all Adenia are dioecious, meaning that individual plants are either male or female. Male and female flowers of individual species look pretty distinct and differ a bit from what we have come to expect out of the passionflower family. Often collections were made on only a single sex. This is further complicated by the fact that these plants often exhibit very short flowering seasons. Most come into bloom right before the onset of the rainy season and are entirely leafless at that point in time. Because of this, it has been extremely difficult to accurately match flowering collections to vegetative collections. As such, nearly 1/4 of all Adenia species are missing descriptions of either male or female flowers and their fruits.

Female flower of Adenia reticulata. Photo by C. E. Timothy Paine licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0

Male flowers of Adenia digitata. Photo by Joachim Beyenbach licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

Flowers of Adenia firingalavensis. Photo by voyage-madagascar.org licensed under CC BY 2.0

Fruits of Adenia hondala

Even genetic work has failed to clear up much of the mysteries that surround this group. Some studies suggest that Adenia is sister to all other genera within Passifloraceae whereas others have even suggested it to be nestled neatly within the genus Passiflora. The most recent work hints at a placement among the tribe Passifloreae. If this confuses you, you are certainly not alone. Until a more complete sampling effort is done on Adenia, I think it is safe to say that this genus will be holding onto its taxonomic mysteries for the foreseeable future.

Adenia globosa photo by KENPEI licensed under the GNU Free Documentation License

All Adenia are perennial plants but how they manage this differs from species to species. Some put all of their energy into underground tubers, producing annual stems and leaves that die back each year. Others don’t produce any tubers and instead store all of their water and nutrients within thick stems. This has made at least a handful of species a hit with succulent growers around the world. It is always an interesting sight to see a giant caudiciform trunk or base with bunches of spindly stems spraying out from the top.

Leaves and fruit of Adenia cissampeloides. Photo by International Institute of Tropical Agriculture licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0

Juvenile Adenia glauca. Photo by laurent houmeau licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0

Adenia are also extremely toxic plants. The conditions under which these plants evolved are tough and it appears that this group doesn’t want to take any chances on losing any biomass to herbivores. The main class of compounds they produce are called lectins. These proteins cause myriad issues within animal bodies including rapid cell death, blood clotting, inhibition of protein synthesis, and a disruption of ribosome and DNA function. Needless to say, its in any critters best interest to avoid nibbling on any species of Adenia. Even handling and pruning of these plants merits caution.

Photo by Wendy Cutler licensed under CC BY 2.0

Whether you’re a botanist, taxonomist, gardener, or just curious about plant diversity, Adenia is a wonderful example of just how many unknowns are still out there. Regardless of their taxonomic status, these are fascinating species, each with a wonderful ecology and intriguing evolutionary history. These plants are hardy survivors and a great example of the lengths a genus can go to when presented with new opportunities. Undoubtedly many more species await description but the plants we currently know of are fascinating to say the least.

Adenia pechuelii. Photo by Ewald Schmidt licensed under public domain.

Photo Credits: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13]

Further Reading: [1] [2]

The Celery-Topped Conifers

Photo by RTBG licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

I am only just starting to fully appreciate the diversity in form and habit exhibited by the gymnosperm lineages alive today. What I once thought of as a unidimensional group of plants is proving to be wonderfully diverse, despite being overshadowed by the angiosperms. For instance, imagine my surprise when I first laid eyes on a member of the genus Phyllocladus.

At first glance, these weird conifers look more like a broad-leaf angiosperm. This similarity is superficial, of course. Before we get to why they look the way they do, it is worth considering this group from a as a whole. The genus Phyllocladus comprises roughly 5 species spread out among New Zealand, Tasmania, and Malesia. They are somewhat variable in form but usually settle out somewhere between a good sized shrub and a medium sized tree. Where exactly this genus of oddball gymnosperms fits on the tree of life is subject to some debate.

Phyllocladus trichomanoides licensed under public domain

For many years after its initial description, Phyllocladus was placed in a family of its own - Phyllocladaceae. Subsequent molecular work has only managed to add to the confusion. Despite its unique morphological characteristics, some authors feel this genus fits nicely into the family Podocarpaceae. At least one other study suggests that it doesn’t belong in Podocarpaceae but rather is situated as sister to the family. By the looks of it, this will not be cleared up any time soon. So, for now, let’s focus in on why these plants are so strange.

For starters we have the “leaves.” I place the word ‘leaves’ in quotes because they are not true leaves. The correct term for these structures are phylloclades (hence the generic name). A phylloclade is a flattened projection of a branch that takes on the form and function of a leaf. What we know of as leaves have been greatly reduced in the genus Phyllocladus. If you want to see them, you must look closely at the tips of the phylloclades. Early on in their development, the leaves exist as tiny brown scales. These scales are gradually lost over time as they serve no function for the plant.

Phyllocladus alpinus. Photo by MurielBendel licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0

Though no one has tested this directly (that I am aware of), the evolution of phylloclades over leaves likely has to do with energy conservation in one form or another. Why produce stems and leaves when you can co-opt stem-like structures to do the work for you? Oddly enough, some suggest that to consider them stems in the truest sense of the word is erroneous. Morphologically speaking, they share traits that are intermediate between branches and stems. However, I am going to need to do more homework before I feel comfortable elaborating on this point.

Only when it comes time for reproduction does their place among the gymnosperms become readily apparent, that is before the ovules are fertilized. All members of the genus Phyllocladus produce cones. Male cones are tiny, cylindrical structures located at the ends of their side branches whereas female cones are clustered into groups along the axils or margins of the phylloclades. Once fertilized, however, these plants offer another point of confusion for the casual observer.

Phyllocladus is yet another genus of conifers that has converged on a fruit-like seed dispersal strategy. As the seed cones mature, the scales gradually swell and become berry-like. Poking out of the bright red and/or white aril is a single seed. These fleshy arils function in a similar way to fruit in that they attract birds, which then consume them, dispersing the seeds later on in their feces.

Another intriguing aspect of their morphology occurs below ground. The roots of this genus form nodules, which provide a home for bacteria that specializing in fixing atmospheric nitrogen. In return for a home and some carbohydrates from photosynthesis, these bacteria pay these trees with nitrogen that would otherwise be unavailable. Pretty remarkable stuff for a such an esoteric group of conifers!

Photo Credits: [1] [2]

Further Reading: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

Meet the Pygmy Clubmoss

Photo by Leon Perrie licensed under CC BY 4.0

No, these are not some sort of grass or rush. What you are looking at here is actually a member of the clubmoss family (Lycopodiaceae). Colloquially known as the pygmy clubmoss, this odd little plant is the only species in its genus - Phylloglossum drummondii. Despite its peculiar nature, very little is known about it.

The pygmy clubmoss is native to parts of Australia, Tasmania, and New Zealand but common it is not. From what I can gather, it grows in scattered coastal and lowland sites where regular fires clear the ground of competing vegetation. It is a perennial plant that makes its appearance around July and reaches reproductive size around August through to October.

Reproduction for the pygmy clubmoss is what you would expect from this family. In dividual plants will produce a reproductive stem that is tipped with a cone-like structure. This cone houses the spores, which are dispersed by wind. If a spore lands in a suitable spot, it germinates into a tiny gametophyte. As you can probably imagine, the gametophyte is small and hard to locate. Indeed, little is known about this part of its life cycle. Nonetheless, like all gametophytes, the end goal of this stage is sexual reproduction. Sperm are released and with any luck will find a female gametophyte and fertilize the ovules within. From the fertilized ovule emerges the sporophytes we see pictured above.

As dormancy approaches, this strange clubmoss retreats underground where it persists as a tiny tuber-like stem. Though it is rather obscure no matter who you ask, there has been some scientific attention paid to this odd little plant, especially as it relates to its position on the tree of life. Since it was first described, its taxonomic affinity has moved around a bit. Early debates seemed to center around whether it belonged in Lycopodiaceae or its own family, Phylloglossaceae.

Recent molecular work put this to rest showing that genetically the pygmy clubmoss is most closely related to another genus of clubmoss - Huperzia. This was bolstered by the fact that it shares a lot of features with this group such as spore morphology, phytochemistry, and chromosome number. The biggest difference between these two genera is the development of the pygmy clubmoss tuber, which is unique to this species. However, even this seems to have its roots in Lycopodiaceae.

If you look closely at the development of some lycopods, it becomes apparent that the pygmy clubmoss most closely resembles an early stage of development called the “protocorm.” Protocorms are a tuberous mass of cells that is the embryonic form of clubmosses (as well as orchids). Essentially, the pygmy clubmoss is so similar to the protocorm of some lycopods that some experts actually think of it as a permanent protocorm capable of sexual reproduction. Quite amazing if you ask me.

Sadly, because of its obscurity, many feel this plant may be approaching endangered status. There have been notable declines in population size throughout its range thanks to things like conversion of its habitat to farmland, over-collection for both novelty and scientific purposes, and sequestration of life-giving fires. As mentioned, the pygmy clubmoss needs fire. Without it, natural vegetative succession quickly crowds out these delicate little plants. Hopefully more attention coupled with better land management can save this odd clubmoss from going the way of its Carboniferous relatives.

Further Reading: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

The Carnivorous Dewy Pine

Photo by David Eickhoff licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

The dewy pine is definitely not a pine, however, it is quite dewy. Known scientifically as Drosophyllum lusitanicum, this carnivore is odd in more ways than one. It is also growing more and more rare each year.

One of the strangest aspects of dewy pine ecology is its habitat preferences. Whereas most carnivorous plants enjoy growing in saturated soils or even floating in water, the dewy pine's preferred habitats dry up completely for a considerably portion of the year. Its entire distribution consists of scattered populations throughout the western Iberian Peninsula and northwest Morocco.

Photo by Javier martin licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

Its ability to thrive in such xeric conditions is a bit of a conundrum. Plants stay green throughout the year and produce copious amounts of sticky mucilage as a means of catching prey. During the summer months, both air and soil temperatures can skyrocket to well over 100°F (37 °C). Though they possess a rather robust rooting system, dewy pines don't appear to produce much in the way of fine roots. Because of this, any ground water presence deeper in the soil is out of their reach. How then do these plants manage to function throughout the driest parts of the year?

During the hottest months, the only regular supply of water comes in the form of dew. Throughout the night and into early morning, temperatures cool enough for water to condense out of air. Dew covers anything with enough surface area to promote condensation. Thanks to all of those sticky glands on its leaves, the dewy pine possesses plenty of surface area for dew to collect. It is believed that, coupled with the rather porous cuticle of the surface of its leaves, the dewy pine is able to obtain water and reduce evapotranspiration enough to keep itself going throughout the hottest months. 

Dewy pine leaves unfurl like fern fiddle heads as they grow. Photo by Mark Freeth licensed under CC BY 2.0

As you have probably guessed at this point, those dewy leaves do more than photosynthesize and collect water. They also capture prey. Carnivory in this species evolved in response to the extremely poor conditions of their native soils. Nutrients and minerals are extremely low, thus selecting for species that can acquire these necessities via other means. Each dewy pine leaf is covered in two types of glands: stalked glands that produce sticky mucilage, and sessile glands that secrete digestive enzymes and absorb nutrients.

Their ability to capture insects far larger than one would expect is quite remarkable. The more an insect struggles, the more it becomes ensnared. The strength of the dewy pines mucilage likely stems from the fact that the leaves do not move like those of sundews (Drosera spp.). Once an insect is stuck, there is not much hope for its survival. Living in an environment as extreme as this, the dewy pine takes no chances.

Photo by Strombus72 licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0

The taxonomic affinity of the dewy pine has been a source of confusion as well. Because of its obvious similarity to the sundews, the dewy pine has long been considered a member of the family Droseraceae. However, although recent genetic work does suggest a distant relationship with Droseraceae and Nepenthaceae, experts now believe that the dewy pine is unique enough to warrant its own family. Thus, it is now the sole species of the family Drosophyllaceae.

Sadly, the dewy pine is losing ground fast. From industrialization and farming to fire suppression, dewy pines are running out of habitat. It is odd to think of a plant capable of living in such extreme conditions as being overly sensitive but that is the conundrum faced by more plants than just the dewy pine. Without regular levels of intermediate disturbance that clear the landscape of vegetation, plants like the dewy pine quickly get outcompeted by more aggressive plant species. Its the fact that dewy pine can live in such hostile environments that, historically, has kept its populations alive and well.

Photo by Javier martin licensed under Public Domain

What's more, it appears that dewy pines have trouble getting their seeds into new habitats. Low seed dispersal ability means populations can be cut off from suitable habitats that are only modest distances away. Without a helping hand, small, localized populations can disappear alarmingly fast. The good news is, conservationists are working hard on identifying what must be done to ensure the dewy pine is around for future generations to enjoy.

Changes in land use practices, prescribed fires, wild land conservation, and incentives for cattle farmers to adopt more traditional rather than industrial grazing practices may turn the table on dewy pine extinction. Additionally, dewy pines have become a sort of horticultural oddity over the last decade or so. As dedicated growers perfect germination and growing techniques, ex situ conservation can help maintain stocks of genetic material around the globe.

Photo Credits: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

Further Reading: [1] [2] [3] [4]

Leafy Cacti?

Pereskia aculeata photo by scott.zona licensed under CC BY 2.0

At first glance, there is little about a Pereskia that would suggest a relation to what we know as cacti. Even a second, third, and forth glance probably wouldn't do much to persuade the casual observer that these plants have a place on cacti family tree. All preconceptions aside, Pereskia are in fact members of the family Cactaceae and quite interesting ones at that.

Most people readily recognize the leafless, spiny green stems of a cactus. Indeed, this would appear to be a unifying character of the family. Pereskia is proof that this is not the case. Though other cacti occasionally produce either tiny, vestigial leaves or stubby succulent leaves, Pereskia really break the mold by producing broad, flattened leaves with only a hint of succulence.

Pereskia spines are produced from areoles in typical cactus fashion. Photo by Frank Vincentz licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

What's more, instead of clusters of Opuntia-like pads or large, columnar trunks, Pereskia are mainly shrubby plants with a handful of scrambling climbers mixed in. Similar to their more succulent cousins, the trunks of Pereskia are usually adorned with clusters of long spines for protection. Additionally, each species produces the large, showy, cup-like blooms we have come to expect from cacti.

They are certainly as odd as they are beautiful. As it stands right now, taxonomists recognize two clades of Pereskia - Clade A, which are native to a region comprising the Gulf of Mexico and Caribbean Sea (this group is currently listed under the name Leuenbergeria) and Clade B, which are native to regions just south of the Amazon Basin. This may seem superficial to most of us but the distinction between these groups has a lot to teach us about the evolution of what we know of as cacti. 

Pereskia grandifolia Photo by Anne Valladares (public domain)

Genetically speaking, the genus Pereskia sorts out at the base of the cactus family tree. Pereskia are in fact sister to all other cacti. This is where the distinction between the two Pereskia clades gets interesting. Clade A appears to be the older of the two and all members of this group form bark early on in their development and their stems lack a feature present in all other cacti - stomata. Stomata are microscopic pours that allow the exchange of gases like CO2 and oxygen. Clabe B, on the other hand, delay bark formation until later in life and all of them produce stomata on their stems.

The reason this distinction is important is because all other cacti produce stomata on their stems as well. As such, their base at the bottom of the cactus tree not only shows us what the ancestral from of cactus must have looked like, it also paints a relatively detailed picture of the evolutionary trajectory of subsequent cacti lineages. It would appear that the ancestor of all cacti started out as leafy shrubs that lacked the ability to perform stem photosynthesis. Subsequent evolution saw a delay in bark formation, the presence of stomata on the stem, and the start of stem photosynthesis, which is a defining feature of all other cacti.

Pereskia aculeata Photo by Ricardosdag licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0

If you are as excited about Pereskia as I am, then you , my friend, are in luck. A handful of Pereskia species have found their way into the horticulture trade. With a little luck attention to detail, you too can share you home with one of these wonderful plants. Just be warned, they get tall and their spines, which are often hidden by the leaves, are a force to be reckoned with. Tread lightly with these wonderfully odd cacti. Celebrate their as the evolutionary wonders that they are!

Photo Credits: [1] [2] [3] [4]

Further Reading: [1] [2]

Are Algae Plants?

I was nibbling on some nori the other day when a thought suddenly hit me. I don't know squat about algae. I know it comes in many shapes, sizes, and colors. I know it is that stuff that we used to throw at each other on the beach. I know that it photosynthesizes. That's about it. What are algae? Are they even plants?

The shortest answer I can give you is "it depends." The term algae is a bit nebulous in and of itself. In Latin, the word "alga" simply means "seaweed." Algae are paraphyletic, meaning they do not share a recent common ancestor with one another. In fact, without specification, algae may refer to entirely different kingdoms of life including Plantae (which is often divided in the broad sense, Archaeplastida and the narrow sense, Viridiplantae), Chromista, Protista, or Bacteria.

Caulerpa racemosa, a beautiful green algae. Photo by Nhobgood Nick Hobgood licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

Taxonomy being what it is, these groupings may differ depending on who you ask. The point I am trying to make here is that algae are quite diverse from an evolutionary standpoint. Even calling them seaweed is a bit misleading as many different species of algae can be found in fresh water as well as growing on land.

Take for instance what is referred to as cyanobacteria. Known commonly as blue-green algae, colonies of these photosynthetic bacteria represent some of the earliest evidence of life in the fossil record. Remains of colonial blue-green algae have been found in rocks dating back more than 4 billion years. As a whole, these types of fossils represent nearly 7/8th of the history of life on this planet! However, they are considered bacteria, not plants.

Diatoms (Chromista) are another enormously important group. The single celled, photosynthetic organisms are encased in beautiful glass shells that make up entire layers of geologic strata. They comprise a majority of the phytoplankton in the world's oceans and are important indicators of climate. However, they belong to their own kingdom of life - Chromista or the brown algae.

To bring it back to what constitutes true plants, there is one group of algae that really started it all. It is widely believed that land plants share a close evolutionary history with a branch of green algae known as the stoneworts (order Charales). These aquatic, multicellular algae superficially resemble plants with their stalked appearance and radial leaflets.

A nice example of a stonewort (Chara braunii). Photo by Show_ryu licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

It is likely that land plants evolved from a Chara-like ancestor that may have resembling modern day hornworts that lived in shallow freshwater inlets. Estimates of when this happen go back as far as 500 million years before present. Unfortunately, fossil evidence is sparse for this sort of thing and mostly comes in the form of fossilized spores and molecular clock calculations.

Porphyra umbilicalis  - One of the many species of red algae frequently referred to as nori. Photo by Gabriele Kothe-Heinrich licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

Now, to bring it back to what started me down this road in the first place. Nori is made from algae in the genus Porphyra, which is a type of Rhodophyta or red algae. Together with Chlorophyta (the green algae), they make up some of the most familiar groups of algae. They have also been the source of a lot of taxonomic debate. Recent phylogenetic analyses place the red algae as a sister group to all other plants starting with green algae. However, some authors prefer to take a broader look at the tree and thus lump red algae in a member of the plant kingdom. So, depending on the particular paper I am reading, the nori I am currently digesting may or may not be considered a plant in the strictest sense of the word. That being said, the lines are a bit blurry and frankly I don't really care as long as it tastes good.

Photo Credits: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

Further Reading: [1] [2] [3] [4]

Everlasting or Seven Years Little

Photo by Andrew massyn licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

Common names are a funny thing. Depending on the region, the use, and the culture, one plant can take on many names. In other situations, many different plants can take on a single name. Though it isn't always obvious to those unfamiliar with them, the use of scientific names alleviates these issues by standardizing the naming of things so that anyone, regardless of where they are, knows what they are referring to. That being said, sometimes common names can be entertaining.

Take for instance, plants in the genus Syncarpha. These stunning members of the family Asteraceae are endemic to the fynbos region of the Eastern and Western Cape of South Africa. In appearance they are impossible to miss. In growth habit they have been described as "woody shrublets," forming dense clusters of woody stems covered in a coat of woolly hairs. Sitting atop their meter-high stems are the flower heads.

Each flower head consists of rings of colorful paper-like bracts surrounding a dense cluster of disk flowers. The flowering period of the various species can last for weeks and spans from October, well into January. Numerous beetles can be observed visiting the flowers and often times mating as they feed on pollen. Some of the beetles can be hard to spot as they camouflage quite well atop the central disk. Some authors feel that such beetles are the main pollinators for many species within this genus.

Photo by JonRichfield licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

Their mesmerizing floral displays are where their English common name of "everlasting" comes from. Due to the fact that they maintain their shape and color for a long time after being cut and dried, various Syncarpha species have been used quite a bit in the cut flower industry. A name that suggests everlasting longevity stands in stark contrast to their other common name. 

These plants are referred to as "sewejaartjie" in Afrikaans, which roughly translates to "seven years little." Why would these plants be referred to as everlasting by some and relatively ephemeral by others? It turns out, sewejaartjie is a name that has more to do with their ecology than it does their use in the floral industry.

As a whole, the 29 described species of Syncarpha are considered fire ephemerals. The fynbos is known for its fire regime and the plants that call this region home have evolved in response to this fact. Syncarpha are no exception. They flower regularly and produce copious amounts of seed but rarely live for more than 7 years after germination. Also, they do not compete well with any vegetation that is capable of shading them out.

Photo by Andrew massyn licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

Instead, Syncarpha invest heavily in seed banking. Seeds can lie dormant in the soil for many years until fires clear the landscape of competing vegetation and release valuable nutrients into the soil. Only then will the seeds germinate. As such, the mature plants don't bother trying to survive intense ground fires. They burn up along with their neighbors, leaving plenty of seed to usher in the next generation.

Research has shown that its not the heat so much as the smoke that breaks seed dormancy in these plants. In fact, numerous experiments using liquid smoke have demonstrated that the seeds are likely triggered by some bio-active chemical within the smoke itself.

So, there you have it. Roughly 29 plants with two common names, each referring back to an interesting aspect of the biology of these plants. Despite their familiarity and relative ease of committing to memory, the common names of various species only get us so far. That's not to say we should abolish the use of common names altogether. Learning about any plant should be an all encompassing endeavor provided you know which plant you are referring to.

Photo Credits: [1] [2] [3]

Further Reading: [1] [2] [3]

Red or White?

Photo by Msact at English Wikipedia licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

Who doesn't love a nice oak tree? One cannot overstate their importance both ecologically and culturally. Although picking an oak tree out of a lineup is something many of us are capable of doing, identifying oaks to species can be a bit more challenging. This is further complicated by the fact that oaks often hybridize. Still, it is likely you have come across some useful tips and tricks for narrowing down your oak choices. One such trick is distinguishing between the red oaks and the white oaks. If you're anything like me, this is something you took for granted for a while. Is there anything biologically or ecologically meaningful to such a split?

In short, yes. However, a true appreciation of these groups requires a deeper look. To start with, oaks are members of the genus Quercus, which belongs in the family Fagaceae. Globally there are approximately 400 species of oak and each falls into one of three categories - the red oaks (section Lobatae), the white oaks (section Quercus), and the so-called "intermediate" oaks (section Protoblanus). For the sake of this article, I will only be focusing on the red and white groups as that is where most of the oak species reside. The intermediate oak group is made up of 5 species, all of which are native to the southwestern United States and northwestern Mexico.

As is common with oak identification, reliable techniques for distinguishing between the two groups can be tricky. Probably the most reliable feature is located on the inner surface of the acorn cap. In white oaks, it is hairless or nearly so, whereas in red oaks, it is covered in tiny hairs. Another useful acorn feature is the length of time it takes them to germinate. White oak acorns mature in one season and germinate in the fall. As such, they contain lower levels of tannins. Red oak acorns (as well as those of the intermediate group) generally take at least two seasons to mature and therefore germinate the following spring. Because of this, red oak acorns have a much higher tannin content. For more information on why this is the case, read this article.

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Tyloses in white oak xylem. Photo by Dr. Michael Rosenthal, Technische Universität Dresden via Rosenthal, M.; Bäucker, E. (2013): Zur Anatomie des Holzes der Weiß-Eichen. Rasterelektronenmikroskopische Bildtafeln zu den drei holzanatomischen Schnittrichtungen. licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

Less apparent than acorns is the difference in the wood of red and white oaks. The wood of white oaks contains tiny structures in their xylem tissues called tyloses. These are absent from the wood of red oaks. The function of tyloses are quite interesting. During extreme drought or in the case of some sort of infection, they cut off regions of the xylem to stop the spread of an embolism or whatever may be infecting the tree. As such, white oaks tend to be more rot and drought resistant. Fun fact, tyloses are the main reason why white oak is used for making wine and bourbon barrels as it keeps them from leaking their contents.

More apparent to the casual observer, however, is leaf shape. In general, the white oaks produce leaves that have rounded lobes, whereas the red oaks generally exhibit pointed lobes with a tiny bristle on their tips. At this point you may be asking where an unlobed species like shingle oak (Quercus imbricaria) fits in. Look at the tip of its leaf and you will see a small bristle, which means its a member of the red oak group. Similarly, the buds of these two groups often differ in their overall shape. White oak buds tend to be smaller and often have blunted tips whereas the buds of red oaks are generally larger and often pointed.

Tricky leaves of the shingle oak (Quercus imbricaria). Note the bristle tip! Photo by Greg Blick licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Despite this broad generalizations, exceptions abound. This is further complicated by the fact that many species will readily hybridize. Quercus is, after all, a massive genus. Regardless, oaks are wonderful species chock full of ecological and cultural value. Still, oak appreciation is something we all need more of in our lives. I encourage you to try some oak identification of your own. Get outside and see if you can use any of these tricks to help you identify some of the oaks in your neighborhood.

Photo Credits: [1] [2] [3] [4]

Further Reading: [1] [2] [3]

Meet The Powder Gun Moss

I get very excited when I am able to identify a new moss. This is mainly due to the fact that moss ID is one of my weakest points. I was sitting down on a rock the other day taking a break from vegetation surveys when I looked to my right and saw something peculiar. The area was pretty sloped and there was some exposed soil in the vicinity. Covering some of that soil was what looked like green fuzz. Embedded in that fuzz were these strange green urns.

I busted out my hand lens and got a closer look. This was definitely a moss but one I had never seen before. The urns turned out to be capsules. Later, a bit of searching revealed this to be a species of moss in the genus Diphyscium. This genus is the largest within the family Diphysciaceae and here in North America, we have two representatives - D. foliosum and D. mucronifolium.

These peculiar mosses have earned themselves the common name 'powder gun moss.' The reason for this lies in those strange sessile capsules. Unlike other mosses that send their capsules up on long, hair-like seta in order to disperse their spores on the faintest of breezes, the Diphyscium capsules remain close to the ground. In lieu of wind, a powder gun moss uses rain. In much the same way puffball mushrooms harness the pounding of raindrops, so too do the capsules of the powder gun moss. Each raindrop that hits a capsule releases a cloud of spores that are ejected into an already humid environment full of germination potential.

Luckily for moss lovers like myself, the two species of Diphyscium here in North America tend to enjoy very different habitats. This makes a positive ID much more likely. D. foliosum prefers to grow on bare soils whereas D. mucronifolium prefers humid rock surfaces. Because of this distinction, I am quite certain the species I encountered is D. foliosum. And what a pleasant encounter it was. Like I said, it isn't often I accurately ID a moss so this genus now holds a special place in my mind.

Further Reading: [1] [2]

The Fuzziest of Flowers

Photo by Andreas Kay licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Describing plants can be quite a task for taxonomists. When a new species is discovered, the honor of naming it often goes to the discoverer. At the very least, they have some input. Some folks go for the more traditional rout and give the plant a descriptive name rooted in either Latin or Greek. Others decide to name the plant in honor of a botanist of the past or perhaps a loved one. Still others take a stranger approach in order to immortalize a famous celebrity. However, in doing so they risk taking something away from the species in question.

Instead of a descriptive name that clues you in on specific features of the plant, instead you hit an etymological dead end in which you are stuck with nothing more than a last name. This became quite apparent to University of Alabama botanist John Clark when it was time to name a newly discovered plant species from South America. 

Had things been slightly different, the recently discovered Kohleria hypertrichosa would have been named after Chewbacca. One look at the flowers of this species and you can understand why. The long tubular petals of this gesneriad are covered in dense, fuzzy hair. This is unlike any other plant known to science. The appearance of these odd fuzz balls may seem puzzling at first but considering where this plant was found growing, it quickly becomes apparent that these flowers are a marvelous adaptation in response to climate. 

Kohleria hypertrichosa is only known to grow in a very narrow swath of mountainous cloud forest in the Ecuadorian Andes. At home between elevations of 3,600 and 6,600 feet above sea level, this wonderful gesneriad experiences some pretty low temperatures for a tropical region. It is likely that the thick layer of hairs keeps the flowers a bit warmer than the surrounding air, offering a welcoming microclimate for pollinators. This could potentially make them much more likely to be pollinated in a habitat where pollinators may be in short supply. 

At the end of the day, Clark decided to stick with a more traditional name for this new species. Its scientific name is no less interesting as a result. The specific epithet 'hypertrichosa' is derived from a condition in humans known as hypertrichosis, or werewolf syndrome, in which a person grows excessive amounts of body hair. 

Photo Credit: Andreas Kay [1]

Further Reading: [1]

How North America Lost Its Asters

It's that time of year in northern North America where many of the most famous and easily recognized species come into flower, the asters. Some of my favorite plants once resided in this genus, but did you know that referring to our North American representatives as "asters" is no longer taxonomically accurate?

Since the time of Linnaeus, plants and animals have been categorized based on morphological similarities. With recent advances made in the understanding and sequencing of DNA, a new and more refined method of classifying the relationships of living organisms has been added to the mix. Much of what has been taken for granted for the last few decades is being changed. One group that has been drastically overhauled are the North American asters. At one time there were roughly 180 species of North American flowering plants that found themselves in the genus Aster. Today, there is only one, Aster alpinus, which enjoys a circumboreal distribution. 

Because the concept of "Aster" was developed using an Old World species (Aster amellus), New World asters were not granted that distinction. The New World species have shown to have their own unique evolutionary history and thus new genera were either assigned or created. By far, the largest New World genus that came out of this revisions is Symphyotrichum. This houses many of our most familiar species including the New England aster (Symphyotrichum novae-angliae). Some of the other genera that absorbed New World aster include Baccharis, Archibaccharis, Ericameria, Solidago, and Machaeranthera, just to name a few.

Taxonomy is often a difficult concept to wrap your head around. It is constantly changing as we come up with better ways of defining organisms. Even the concept of a species is something biologists have a hard time agreeing on. Surely, genetic analyses offer some of the best methods we have to date, a fact that the Angiosperm Phylogeny Group is constantly refining.

For some, this is all a bunch of silly name changes but for others this is the most important and dynamic form of natural science on the planet. Having a standard for naming organisms is a crucial component of understanding biodiversity. With a name, you can take the next step in getting to know and understand a beloved species. One thing to consider is that, as species are split and regrouped, often times what was thought to be one species turns out to be many. In the case of organisms which are threatened or endangered, a split like that can unveil a disastrous elevation into a far more dismal ranking.

Further Reading: [1] [2]