A Closer Look at Hyacinths

Photo by Radu Chibzii licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0

They say that our sense of smell is very closely tied with the formation of memories. It is around this time of year that I am strongly reminded of the power of that link. All I have to do is catch a whiff of a blooming hyacinth and I am immediately transported back to childhood where spring time gatherings with the family were always accompanied by mass quantities of these colorful bulbs. Indeed, the smell of hyacinths in bloom will forever hold a special place in my mind (and heart).

Because it is spring in my neck of the woods and because my partner recently came home with a wonderful potted hyacinth to add some springy joy our apartment, I decided to take a dive into the origins of these plants. Where do they come from and how do they live in the wild? Certainly they didn’t originate in our gardens.

To start with, there are surprisingly few true hyacinths in this world these days. Whereas many more spring flowering bulbs were once considered members, today the genus Hyacinthus is comprised of only three species, H. litwinovii, H. transcaspicus, and the most famous of them all, H. orientalis. All other “hyacinths” are hyacinths in name only. These plants were once considered members of the lily family (Liliaceae) but more recent genetic work places them in the asparagus family (Asparagaceae).

All three species of hyacinth are native to the eastern Mediterranean region, throughout the Middle East, and well into southwestern Asia. As you might imagine, there is a fair amount of geographical variation across populations of these plants. For instance, H. orientalis itself contains many putative subspecies and varieties. However, their long history of human cultivation has seen them introduced and naturalized over a much wider area of the globe. Generally speaking, these plants tend to prefer cool, higher elevation habitats and loose soils.

As many of you already know, hyacinths are bulbous plants. Throughout most of the year, they lie dormant beneath the soil waiting for warming spring weather to signal that it’s growing time. And grow they do! Because their leaves and inflorescence are already developed within the bulb, hyacinths can rapidly emerge, flower, and leaf out once snow thaws and releases water into the soil. And flower they do! Though selective breeding has resulted in myriad floral colors and strong, pleasant odors, the wild species are nonetheless put on quite a display.

The flowers of wild hyacinths are generally fewer in number and can range in color from almost white or light blue to nearly purple. Their wonderful floral scent is not a human-bred characteristic either, though we have certainly capitalized on it in the horticulture trade. In the wild, these scent compounds call in pollinators who are rewarded with tiny amounts of nectar. It is thought that bees are the primary pollinators of hyacinths both in their native and introduced habitats.

Of course, all of their floral beauty comes down to seed production. Upon ripening, each fruit (capsule) opens to reveal numerous seeds, each with a fleshy attachment called an elaiosome. The elaiosome is very attractive to resident ants that quickly go to work collecting seeds and bringing them back to their colony. However, it isn’t the seed itself the ants are interested in, but rather the elaiosome. Once it is removed and consumed, the seed is discarded, usually in a waste chamber within the colony where it is free to germinate far away from potential seed predators.

Once growth and reproduction are over, hyacinths once again retreat back underground into their bulb phase. Amazingly, these plants have a special adaptation to make sure that their bulbs are tucked safely underground, away from freezing winter temperatures. Throughout the growing season, hyacinths produce specialized roots that are able to contract. As they contract, they literally pull the base of the plant deeper into the soil. This is very advantageous for plants that enjoy growing in loose soils that are prone to freezing. Once underground and away from frost and snow, they lie dormant until spring returns.

I don’t know about you but getting to know how common garden plants like hyacinths make a living in the wild only makes me appreciate them more. I hope this brief introduction will have you looking at the hyacinths in your neighborhood in a whole new light.

Further Reading: [1] [2]

Dendrologist Squirrels

Gary Cobb licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0

I find it fun to watch squirrels frantically scurrying about during the months of fall. Their usually playful demeanor seems to have been replaced with more serious and directed undertones. If you watch squirrels close enough you may quickly realize that, when it comes to oaks, squirrels seem to have a knack for taxonomy. They quickly bury red oak acorns while immediately set to work on eating white oak acorns. Why is this?

If you have ever tried to eat a raw acorn then you may know the reason. They are packed full of bitter tannins that quickly dry up your mouth and leave an awful after taste. Tannins are secondary chemicals that plants manufacture for protection. Tannins bind to proteins and keep them from being easily digested. This is how leather is made. When you tan a hide you are literally dousing it with tannins that bind to the proteins and keep them from rotting.

Back to the squirrels. The reason they seem to be choosy about how they deal with acorns all comes down to tannins. They bury red oak acorns because acorns in the red oak group have the highest levels of tannins. This is because red oak acorns do not germinate until spring. They have high levels of tannins to fight off fungi and other pathogens over the long, dreary winter. Thus, red oak acorns store better. White oaks germinate in the fall, using a long taproot to pull them into the soil. Because of this, white oaks don't have to dump as much tannin into their acorns. The squirrels seem to know this and simply bite out the white oak embryo before it can germinate. White oak acorns get eaten much sooner than reds because they simply do not keep as long.

There is also evidence that oaks and squirrels have struck a balance. Oaks do rely on squirrels as well as birds like jays to disperse their seeds. These critters can't remember where they cached all of their seeds so some are bound to germinate. What some researchers have found is that oaks place more tannins near the embryos in the acorn than they do at the tips. Why is this? As it turns out, acorns that have had their tips bit off can still germinate as long as their embryo remains unharmed. It is believed that this satisfies squirrels and jays enough to keep them from downing the entire acorn every time. Knowledge such as this puts a whole new spin on backyard ecology.

Photo Credit: Gary Cobb licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0.

Further Reading: [1]

Emus + Ants = One Heck of a Seed Dispersal Strategy

A guest post by Dr. Scott Zona

The emu is a large, flightless bird, a cousin of kiwis and cassowaries. They range throughout much of Australia, favoring savannah woodlands and sclerophyll forests, where they are generalist feeders, consuming a variety of plants and arthropods. A favorite food of the emu is Petalostigma pubescens, a tree variously known as quinine tree, bitter bark or quinine berry. Petalostigma is in the Picrodendraceae, a family formerly included in the Euphorbiaceae. Quinine trees grow in the same open woodlands favored by emus.

The quinine tree bears yellow fruits, 2.0-2.5 cm in diameter, with a thin layer of flesh. The fruits are divided into six to eight segmented, like a tangerine, and each segment contains a hard endocarp or stone (technically, a pyrene). Each endocarp contains a single seed, 6-8 mm long. Left on the tree, the fruits will eventually dry up and open to release their seeds, but if ripe fruits are discovered by a hungry emu, the feasting begins.

A quinine tree (Petalostigma pubescens) in bloom. Photo by Ethel Aardvark licensed by CC BY 3.0

An emu may eat dozens of fruits in one meal. It swallows fruits whole, digesting the soft, fleshy part and defecating the hard, indigestible endocarps. On an average day, an emu can range over a large territory, spreading endocarps as it goes. In one of science's least glamorous moments, Australian biologists counted by hand as many as 142 endocarps in one emu dropping. If the story ended with Quinine Tree seeds in a pile of emu dung, we would say that the emu provided excellent seed dispersal services for the quinine tree, but the dispersal story is not over.

Quinine tree (Petalostigma pubescens) fruits. Photo by Robert Whyte licensed by CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

The emu dung and endocarps begin to bake in the hot, outback sun. As the endocarps dry, they explode. Just like the pod of a legume, the endocarp has fibers in its tissues oriented in opposing directions.  As the fibers dry, they contract and pull the endocarp apart. The dehiscence is sudden and explosive, sending seeds up to 2.5 m from the point of origin. Launching seeds away from the dung pile is beneficial to seeds: the special separation means that seedlings well be less likely to compete with one another.

But that is not the final disposition of Quinine Tree seeds. Each Petalostigma seed bears a small, oily food body, called an elaiosome, that is attractive to ants. Ants pick up the seed with its attached elaisome and carry it back to their nest. Once at the nest, the ants will remove and consume the elaisome and deposit the inedible seed in midden outside the nest. It is the ants that disperse the seeds to their ultimate site.

The association between emus, exploding endocarps, ants and Petalostigma pubescens probably represents one of the most complicated dispersal scenarios in the Plant Kingdom.

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

Further Reading: [1]

NOTE: Guest posts are invite only

How a Conifer May Hold the Key to Kākāpō Recovery

Photo by Department of Conservation licensed under CC BY 2.0

The plight of the kākāpō is a tragedy. Once the third most common bird in New Zealand, this large, flightless parrot has seen its numbers reduced to less than 150. In fact, for a time, it was even thought to be extinct. Today, serious effort has been put forth to try and recover this species from the brink of extinction. It has long been recognized that kākāpō breeding efforts are conspicuously tied to the phenology of certain trees but recent research suggests one in particular may hold the key to survival of the species.

The kākāpō shares its island homes (saving the kākāpō involved moving birds to rat-free islands) with a handful of conifers from the families Podocarpaceae and Araucariaceae. Of these conifers, one species is of particular interest to those concerned with kākāpō breeding - the rimu. Known to science as Dacrydium cupressinum, this evergreen tree represents one of the most important food sources for breeding kākāpō. Before we get to that, however, it is worth getting to know the rimu a bit better.

Rimu are remarkable, albeit slow-growing trees. They are endemic to New Zealand where they make up a considerable portion of the forest canopy. Like many slow-growing species, rimu can live for quite a long time. Before commercial logging moved in, trees of 800 to 900 years of age were not unheard of. Also, they can reach immense sizes. Historical accounts speak of trees that reached 200 ft. (61 m) in height. Today you are more likely to encounter trees in the 60 to 100 ft. (20 to 35 m) range.

The rimu is a dioecious tree, meaning individuals are either male or female. Rimu rely on wind for pollination and female cones can take upwards of 15 months to fully mature following pollination. The rimu is yet another one of those conifers that has converged on fruit-like structures for seed dispersal. As the female cones mature, the scales gradually begin to swell and turn red. Once fully ripened, the fleshy red “fruit” displays one or two black seeds at the tip. Its these “fruits” that have kākāpō researchers so excited.

Photo by Department of Conservation licensed under CC BY 2.0

As mentioned, it is a common observation that kākāpō only tend to breed when trees like the rimu experience reproductive booms. The “fruits” and seeds they produce are an important component of the diets of not only female kākāpō but their developing chicks as well. Because kākāpō are critically endangered, captive breeding is one of the main ways in which conservationists are supplementing numbers in the wild. The problem with breeding kakapo in captivity is that supplemental food doesn’t seem to bring them into proper breeding condition. This is where the rimu “fruits” come in.

Breeding birds desperately need calcium and vitamin D for proper egg production and they seek out diets high in these nutrients. When researchers took a closer look at the “fruits” of the rimu, the kākāpō’s reliance on these trees made a whole lot more sense. It turns out, those fleshy scales surrounding rimu seeds are exceptionally high in not only calcium, but various forms of vitamin D once thought to be produced by animals alone. The nutritional quality of these “fruits” provides a wonderful explanation for why kākāpō reproduction seems to be tied to rimu reproduction. Females can gorge themselves on the “fruits,” which brings them into breeding condition. They also go on to feed these “fruits” to their developing chicks. For a slow growing, flightless parrot, it seems that it only makes sense to breed when this food source is abundant.

Photo by Department of Conservation licensed under CC BY 2.0

Though far from a smoking gun, researchers believe that the rimu is the missing piece of the puzzle in captive kākāpō breeding. If these “fruits” really are the trigger needed to bring female kākāpō into good shape for breeding and raising chicks, this may make breeding kākāpō in captivity that much easier. Captive breeding is the key to the long term survival of these odd yet charismatic, flightless parrots. By ensuring the production and survival of future generations of kākāpō, conservationists may be able to turn this tragedy into a real success story. What’s more, this research underscores the importance of understanding the ecology of the organisms we are desperately trying to save.

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

Further Reading: [1] [2]

Gymnosperms and Fleshy "Fruits"

Fleshy red aril surrounding the seeds of Taxus baccata. Photo by Frank Vincentz licensed under the GNU Free Documentation License.

Many of us were taught in school that one of the key distinguishing features between gymnosperms and angiosperms is the production of fruit. Fruit, by definition, is a structure formed from the ovary of a flowering plant. Gymnosperms, on the other hand, do not enclose their ovules in ovaries. Instead, their unfertilized ovules are exposed (to one degree or another) to the environment. The word “gymnosperm” reflects this as it is Greek for “naked seed.” However, as is the case with all things biological, there are exceptions to nearly every rule. There are gymnosperms on this planet that produce structures that function quite similar to fruits.

Internal anatomy of a Ginkgo ovule with red arrow showing the integument.

Photo copyright Bruce Kirchoff, Licensed under CC BY 2.0

The key to understanding this evolutionary convergence lies in understanding the benefits of fruits in the first place. Fruits are all about packing seeds into structures that appeal to the palates of various types of animals who then eat said fruits. Once consumed, the animals digest the fruity bits and will often deposit the seeds elsewhere in their feces. Propagule dispersal is key to the success of plants as it allows them to not only to complete their reproductive cycle but also conquer new territory in the process. With a basic introduction out of the way, let’s get back to gymnosperms.

“Fruits” of Cephalotaxus fortunei (Cephalotaxaceae)

There are 4 major gymnosperm lineages on this planet - the Ginkgo, cycads, gnetophytes, and conifers. Each one of these groups contains members that produce fleshy structures around their seeds. However, their “fruits” do not all develop in the same way. The most remarkable thing to me is that, from a developmental standpoint, each lineage has evolved its own pathway for “fruit” production.

Ginkgo “fruits” are full of butyric acid and smell like rotting butter or vomit. Photo by H. Zell licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

For instance, consider ginkgos and cycads. Both of these groups can trace their evolutionary history back to the early Permian, some 270 - 280 million years ago, long before flowering plants came onto the scene. Both surround their developing seed with a layer of protective tissue called the integument. As the seed develops, the integument swells and becomes quite fleshy. In the case of Ginkgo, the integument is rich in a compound called butyric acid, which give them their characteristic rotten butter smell. No one can say for sure who this nasty odor originally evolved to attract but it likely has something to do with seed dispersal. Modern day carnivores seem to be especially fond of Ginkgo “fruits,” which would suggest that some bygone carnivore may have been the main seed disperser for these trees.

“Fruits” contained within the female cone of a cycad (Lepidozamia peroffskyana). Photo by Tony Rodd licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

The Gnetophytes are represented by three extant lineages (Gnetaceae, Welwitschiaceae, and Ephedraceae), but only two of them - Gnetaceae and Ephedraceae - produce fruit-like structures. As if the overall appearance of the various Gnetum species didn’t make you question your assumptions of what a gymnosperm should look like, its seeds certainly will. They are downright berry-like!

Berry-like seeds of Gnetum gnemon. Photo by gbohne licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0

The formation of the fruit-like structure surrounding each seed can be traced back to tiny bracts at the base of the ovule. After fertilization, these bracts grow up and around the seed and swell to become red and fleshy. As you can imagine, Gnetum “fruits” are a real hit with animals. In the case of some Ephedra, the “fruit” is also derived from much larger bracts that surround the ovule. These bracts are more leaf-like at the start than those of their Gnetum cousins but their development and function is much the same.

Red, fleshy bracts of Ephedra distachya. Photo by Le.Loup.Gris licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

Whereas we usually think of woody cones when we think of conifers, there are many species within this lineage that also have converged on fleshy structures surrounding their seeds. Probably the most famous and widely recognized example of this can be seen in the yews (Taxus spp.). Ovules are presented singly and each is subtended by a small stalk called a peduncle. Once fertilized, a group of cells on the peduncle begin to grow and differentiate. They gradually swell and engulf the seed, forming a bright red, fleshy structure called an “aril.” Arils are magnificent seed dispersal devices as birds absolutely relish them. The seed within is quite toxic so it usually escapes the process unharmed and with any luck is deposited far away from the parent plant.

The berry-like cones of Juniperus communis. Photo by Piero Amorati, ICCroce - Casalecchio di Reno, Bugwood.org licensed under Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.

Another great example of fleshy conifer “fruits” can be seen in the junipers (Juniperus spp.). Unlike the other gymnosperms mentioned here, the junipers do produce cones. However, unlike pine cones, the scales of juniper cones do not open to release the seeds inside. Instead, they swell shut and each scale becomes quite fleshy. Juniper cones aren’t red like we have seen in other lineages but they certainly garnish the attention of many a small animal looking for food.

I have only begun to scratch the surface of the fruit-like structures in gymnosperms. There is plenty of literary fodder out there for those of you who love to read about developmental biology and evolution. It is a fascinating world to uncover. More importantly, I think the fleshy “fruits” of the various gymnosperm lineages stand as a testament to the power of natural selection as a driving force for evolution on our planet. It is amazing that such distantly related plants have converged on similar seed dispersal mechanisms by so many different means.

Photo Credits: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8]

Further Reading: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7]

Fluorescent Bananas

Photo by endolith licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0

Bananas are one of the most popular fruits in the world. Love them or hate them, most of us know what they look like. Despite their global presence, few stop to think about where these fruits come from. That is a shame because bananas are fascinating plants for many reasons but now we can add blue fluorescence to that list.

Before we dive into the intriguing phenomenon of fluorescence in bananas, I think it is worth talking about the plants that produce them in a little more detail. Bananas belong to the genus Musa, which is located in its own family - Musaceae. Take a step back and look at a banana plant and it won't take long to realize they are distant relatives of the gingers. There are at least 68 recognized species of banana in the world and many more cultivated varieties. Despite their pan-tropical distribution, the genus Musa is native only to parts of the Indo-Malesian, Asian, and Australian tropics.

Photo by Forest & Kim Starr licensed under CC BY 3.0

Banana plants vary in height from species to species. At the smaller end of the spectrum you have species like the diminutive Musa velutina, which maxes out at about 2 meters (6 ft.) in height. On the taller side of things, there are species such as the monstrous Musa ingens, which can reach heights of 20 meters (66ft.)! Despite their arborescent appearance, bananas are not trees at all. They do not produce any wood. Instead, what looks like a tree trunk is actually the fused petioles of their leaves. Bananas are essentially giant herbs with the aforementioned M. ingens holding the world record for largest herb in the world.

When it comes time to flower, a long spike emerges from the main growing tip. This spike gradually elongates, revealing long, beautiful, tubular flowers arranged in whorls. For many banana species, bats are the main pollinators, however, a variety of insects will visit as well. In the wild, fruits appear following pollination, a trait that has been bred out of their cultivated relatives, which produce fruits without needing pollination. The fruits of a banana are actually a type a berry that dehisce like a capsule upon ripening, revealing delicious pulp chock full of hard seeds. Not all bananas turn yellow upon ripening. In fact, some are pink!

CC0 Public Domain

For many fruits, the act of ripening often coincides with a change in color. This is a way for the plant to signal to seed dispersers that the fruits, and the seeds inside, are ready. As many of us know, many bananas start off green and gradually ripen to a bright yellow. This process involves a gradual breakdown of the chlorophyll within the banana skin. As the chlorophyll within the skin of a banana breaks down, it leaves behind a handful of byproducts. It turns out, some of these byproducts fluoresce blue under UV light. 

Amazingly, the fluorescent properties of bananas was only recently discovered. Researchers studying chlorophyll breakdown in the skins of various fruits identified some intriguing compounds in the skins of ripe Cavendish bananas. When viewed under UV light, these compounds gave off a luminescent blue hue. Further investigation revealed that as bananas ripen, their fluorescent properties grow more and more intense.

There could be a couple reasons why this happens. First, it could simply be happenstance. Perhaps these fluorescent compounds are simply a curious byproduct of chlorophyll breakdown and serve no function for the plant whatsoever. However, bananas seem to be a special case. The way in which chlorophyll in the skin of a banana breaks down is quite different than the process of chlorophyll breakdown in other plants. What's more, the abundance of these compounds in the banana skin seems to suggest that the fluorescence does indeed have a function - seed dispersal.

Researchers now believe that the fluorescent properties of some ripe bananas serves as an additional signal to potential seed dispersers that the time is right for harvest. Many animals including birds and some mammals can see well into the UV spectrum and it is likely that the blue fluorescence of these bananas is a means of attracting such animals. Additionally, researchers also found that banana leaves fluoresce in a similar way, perhaps to sweeten the attractive display of the ripening fruits.

To date, little follow up has been done on fluorescence in bananas. It is likely that far more banana species exhibit this trait. Certainly more work is needed before we can say for sure what role, if any, these compounds play in the lives of wild bananas. Until then, this could be a fun trait to investigate in the comfort of your own home. Grab a black light and see if your bananas glow blue!

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

Further Reading: [1] [2]

Rein In Those Seeds

Photo by Stan Shebs licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

Plants living on islands face a bit of a conundrum. In order to get to said islands, the ancestors of those plants had to exhibit extreme seed or spore dispersal strategies. However, if plants are to persist after arriving to an island, long-distance dispersal becomes rather risky. In the case of oceanic islands, seeds or spores that travel too far end up in the water. As such, we often observe an evolutionary reduction in dispersal ability for island residents. 

Islands, however, are not always surrounded by water. You can have "islands" on land as well. The easiest example for most to picture would be the alpine zone of a mountain. Species adapted to these high-elevation habitats find it hard to compete with species native to low-elevation habitats and are therefore stuck on these "islands in the sky." Less obvious are islands created by a specific soil type. 

Take, for instance, gypseous soils. Such soils are the result of large amounts of gypsum deposits at or near the soil surface. Gypseous soils are found in large quantities throughout parts of western North America, North and South Africa, western Asia, Australia, and eastern Spain. They are largely the result of a massive climatic shift that occurred during the Eocene, some 50 million years ago. 

Licensed under public domain

Massive mountain building events during that time were causing large reductions in atmospheric CO2 concentrations. The removal of this greenhouse gas via chemical weathering caused a gradual decline in average temperatures around the world. Earth was also becoming a much drier place and throughout the areas mentioned above, hyper-saline lakes began to dry up. As they did, copious amount of minerals, including gypsum, were left behind. 

These mineral-rich soils differ from the surrounding soils in that they contain a lot of salts. Salt makes life incredibly difficult for most terrestrial plants. Life finds a way, however, and a handful of plant species inevitably adapted to these mineral-rich soils, becoming specialists in the process. They are so specialized on these types of soils that they simply cannot compete with other plant species when growing in more "normal" soils. 

Essentially, these gypseous soils function like soil or edaphic islands. Plants specialized in growing there really don't have the option to disperse far and wide. They have to rein it in or risk extirpation. For a group of plants growing in gypseous soils in western North America, this equates to changes in seed morphology. 

Mentzelia is a genus of flowering plants in the family Loasaceae. There are somewhere around 60 to 70 different species, ranging from annuals to perennials, and forbs to shrubs (they are often referred to as blazing stars but since that would lead to too much confusion with Liatris, I will continue to refer to them as Mentzelia).

For most species in this genus, seed dispersal is accomplished by wind. Plants growing on "normal" soils produce seeds with a distinct wing surrounding the seed. A decent breeze will dislodge them from their capsule, causing them blow around. With any luck some of those seeds will land in a suitable spot for germination, far from their parents. Such is not the case for all Mentzelia though. When researchers took a closer look at species that have specialized on gypseous soils, they found something intriguing. 

Mentzelia phylogeny showing reduction in seed wings. [source]

The wings surrounding the seeds of gypseous Mentzelia were either extremely reduced in size or had disappeared altogether. Just as it makes no sense for a plant living on an oceanic island to disperse its seeds far out into the ocean, it too makes no sense for gypseous Mentzelia to disperse their seeds into soils in which they cannot compete. It is thought that limited dispersal may help reinforce the types of habitat specialization that we see in species like these Mentzelia. The next question that must be answered is whether or not such specialization and limited dispersal comes at the cost of genetic diversity. More work will be needed to understand such dynamics. 

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

Further Reading: [1] [2]

Cockroaches & Unexpected Partnerships

Photo by Alpsdake licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0

Say "cockroach" and most people will start to squirm. These indefatigable insects are maligned the world over because of a handful of species that have settled in quite nicely among human habitats. The world of cockroaches is far more diverse than most even care to realize, and where they occur naturally, these insects provide important ecological services. For instance, over the last decade or so, researchers have added pollination and seed dispersal to the list of cockroach activities. 

That's right, pollination and seed dispersal. It may seem odd to think of roaches partaking in such interactions but a study published in 2008 provides some of the first evidence that roaches are doing more with plants than eating their decaying tissues. After describing a new species of Clusia in French Guiana, researchers set out to investigate what, if anything, was pollinating it. The plant was named Clusia sellowiana and its flowers emitted a strange scent. 

Cockroach pollinating C. sellowiana. [SOURCE]

The source of this scent was the chemical acetoin. It seemed to be a rather attractive scent as a small variety of insects were observed visiting the flowers. However, only one insect seemed to be performing the bulk of pollination services for this new species - a small cockroach called Amazonia platystylata. It turns out that the roaches are particularly sensitive to acetoin and although they don't have any specific anatomical features for transferring pollen, their rough exoskeleton nonetheless picks up and deposits ample amounts of the stuff. 

It would appear that C. sellowiana has entered into a rather specific relationship with this species of cockroach. Although this is only the second documentation of roach pollination, it certainly suggests that more attention is needed. This Clusia isn't alone in its interactions with cockroaches either. As I hinted above, roaches can now be added to the list of seed dispersers of a small parasitic plant native to Japan. 

View fullsize

 (A) M. humile fruit showing many minute seeds embedded in the less juicy pulp. (B) Fallen fruits. (C) Blattella nipponica feeding on the fruit. (D) Cockroach poop with seeds. (E) Stained cockroach-ingested seeds. [SOURCE]

Monotropastrum humile looks a lot like Monotropa found growing in North America. Indeed, these plants are close cousins, united under the family Ericaceae. Interestingly enough, it was only recently found that camel crickets are playing an important role in the seed dispersal of this species. However, it looks like they aren't the only game in town. Researchers have also found that a forest dwelling cockroach called Blattella nipponica serves as a seed disperser as well. 

The roaches were observed feeding on the fruits of this parasitic plant, consuming pulp and seed alike. What's more, careful observation of their poop revealed that seeds of M. humile passed through the digestive tract unharmed. Cockroaches can travel great distances and therefore may provide an important service in distributing the seeds of a rather obscure parasitic plant. To think that this is an isolated case seems a bit naive. It seems to me like we should pay a little more attention to what cockroaches are doing in forests around the world. 

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

Further Reading: [1] [2]

Of Acorns and Squirrels

I find it fun to watch squirrels frantically scurrying about during the fall. Their usually playful demeanor seems to have been replaced with more serious and directed undertones. If you watch squirrels close enough you may quickly realize that, when it comes to oaks, squirrels seem to have a knack for taxonomy. They quickly bury red oak acorns while immediately set to work on eating white oak acorns. Why is this?

Music by:
Artist: Botanist
Track: Stargazer
https://verdant-realm-botanist.bandcamp.com/

Understanding the Cocklebur

Photo by Dinesh Valke from Thane, India licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0

Spend enough time in disturbed areas and you will certainly cross paths with a cocklebur (Xanthium strumarium). As anyone with a dog can tell you, this plant has no problems getting around. It is such a common occurrence in my life that I honestly never stopped long enough to think about its place on the taxonomic tree. I always assumed it was a cousin of the amaranths. You can imagine my surprise then when I recently learned that this hardy species is actually a member of the sunflower family (Asteraceae). 

Cocklebur doesn't seem to fit with most of its composite relatives. For starters, its flowers are not all clustered together into a single flower head. Instead, male and female flowers are borne separately on the same plant. Male flower clusters are produced at the top of the flowering stem. Being wind pollinated, they quickly dump mass quantities of pollen into the air and wither away. The female flowers are clustered lower on the stem and consist of two pistillate florets situated atop a cluster of spiny bracts. 

After fertilization, these bracts swell to form the burs that so many of us have had to dig out of the fur of our loved ones. Inside that bur resides the seeds. Cocklebur is a bit strange in the seed department as well. Instead of producing multiple seeds complete with hairy parachutes, the cocklebur produces two relatively large seeds within each bur. There is a "top" seed, which sits along the curved, convex side of the bur, and a "bottom" seed that sits along the inner flat surface of the bur. Studies performed over a century ago demonstrated that these two seeds are quite important in maintaining cocklebur on the landscape. 

Photo by Dinesh Valke from Thane, India licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0

You see, cocklebur is an annual. It only has one season to germinate, grow, flower, and produce the next generation. We often think of annual plants as being hardy but in reality, they are often a bit picky about when and where they will grow. For that reason, seed banking is super important. Not every year will produce favorable growing conditions so dormant seeds lying in the soil act as an insurance policy. 

Whereas the bottom seed germinates within a year and maintains the plants presence when times are good, the top seed appears to have a much longer dormancy period. These long-lived seeds can sit in the soil for decades before they decide to germinate. Before humans, when disturbance regimes were a lot less hectic, this strategy likely assured that cocklebur would manage to stick around in any given area for the long term. Whereas fast germinating seeds might have been killed off, the seeds within the seed bank could pop up whenever favorable conditions finally presented themselves. 

Today cocklebur seems to be over-insured. It is a common weed anywhere soil disturbance produces bare soils with poor drainage. The plant seems equally at home growing along scoured stream banks as it does roadsides and farm fields. It is an incredibly plastic species, tuning its growth habit to best fit whatever conditions come its way. As a result, numerous subspecies, varieties, and types have been described over the years but most are not recognized in any serious fashion. 

Sadly, cocklebur can become the villain as its burs get hopelessly tangled in hair and fur. Also, every part of the plant is extremely toxic to mammals. This plant has caused many a death in both livestock and humans. It is an ironic situation to consider that we are so good at creating the exact kind of conditions needed for this species to thrive. Love it or hate it, it is a plant worth some respect. 

Photo Credits: [1] [2] 

Further Reading: [1] [2]

Birds Work a Double Shift For Osmoxylon

Photo by Forest & Kim Starr licensed under CC BY 3.0

Plants go to great lengths to achieve pollination. Some can be tricky, luring in pollinators with a promise of food where there is none. Others, however, really sweeten the deal with ample food reserves. At least one genus of plants has taken this to the extreme, using the same techniques for pollination as it does for seed dispersal. I present to you the genus Osmoxylon.

Comprised of roughly 60 species spread around parts of southeast Asia and the western Pacific, the genus Osmoxylon hail from a variety of habitats. Some live in the deep shade of the forest understory whereas others prefer more open conditions. They range in size from medium sized shrubs to small trees and, upon flowering, their place within the family Araliaceae becomes more apparent.

Photo by Mokkie licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

Look closely at the flowers, however, and you might notice a strange pattern. It would appear that as soon as flowers develop, the plant has already produced berries. How could this be? Are there cleistogamous flowers we aren't aware of? Not quite. The truth, in fact, is quite peculiar. Of the various characteristics of the genus, one that repeatedly stands out is the production of pseudo-fruits. As the fertile flowers begin to produce pollen, these fake fruits begin to ripen. There aren't any seed inside. In truth, I don't think they can technically be called fruits at all. So, why are they there?

Although actual observations will be required to say for sure, the running hypothesis is that these pseudo-fruits have evolved in response to the presence of birds. They are pretty fleshy and would make a decent meal. It is thought that as birds land on the umbel to eat these pseudo-fruits, they invariably pick up pollen in the process. The bird the exchanges pollen with every subsequent plant it visits. Thus, pollination is achieved.

The relationship with birds doesn't end here. Like other members of this family, pollination results in the formation of actual fruits full of seeds. Birds are known for their seed dispersal abilities and the Osmoxylon capitalize on that as well. As such, the reproductive input of their avian neighbors is thought to be two-fold. Not only are birds potentially great pollinators, they are also great seed dispersers, taking fruits far and wide and depositing them in nutrient-rich packets wherever they poop.

Photo Credits: [1] [2]

Further Reading: [1]

Seed Anchor

[SOURCE]

Epiphytic plants live out their entire lives on the trunks or branches of trees. Using their roots, they attach themselves tightly to the bark. Spend any amount of time in the tropics and it will become quite clear that such a lifestyle has been very successful for a plethora of different plant families. Still, living on a tree isn't easy. Epiphytic plants must overcome harsh conditions among or near the canopy.

Photo by faatura licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

One of the biggest challenges these plants face starts before they even germinate. This is especially true for orchids. Orchid seeds are more like spores than they are seeds. They are so small that thousands could fit inside of a thimble. Upon ripening, the dust-like seeds waft away on the slightest breeze. In order for epiphytic species to germinate and grow, their seeds must somehow anchor themselves in place on a trunk or branch. Inevitably most seeds are doomed to fail. They simply will not land in a suitable location. It stands to reason then that any adaptation that increases their chances of finding the right kind of habitat will be favored. That's where the strange coils on the tip of Chiloschista seeds, a genus of leafless orchids native to southeast Asia, New Guinea, and Australia, come in. For these orchids, this process is aided by some truly unique seed morphology.

Unlike most orchid seeds that are nothing more than a thin sheath surrounding a tiny embryo, the seeds of Chiloschista have additional parts. These "appendages," which are specialized seed coat cells, are tightly wound into coils. Upon contact with water, these coils shoot out like tiny grappling hooks that grab on to moss and bark alike. In doing so, they anchor the seed in place. By securing their hold on the trunk or branch of a tree, the seeds are much more likely to germinate and grow. This is one of the most extreme examples of seed specialization in the orchid family.

Photo Credit: [1] [2]

Further Reading: [1]

Lizard Helpers

Photo by Tatters ✾ licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

The beauty of Tasmania's honeybush, Richea scoparia, is equally matched by its hardiness. At home across alpine areas of this island, this stout Ericaceous shrub has to contend with cold temperatures and turbulent winds. The honeybush is superbly adapted to these conditions with its compact growth, and tough, pointy leaves. Even its flowers are primed for its environment. They emerge in dense spikes and are covered by a protective casing comprised of fused petals called a "calyptra." Such adaptations are great for protecting the plant and its valuable flowers from such brutal conditions but how does this plant manage pollination if its flowers are closed off to the rest of the world? The answer lies in a wonderful little lizard known as the snow skink (Niveoscincus microlepidotus).

The snow skink is not a pollinator. Far from it. All the snow skink wants is access to the energy rich nectar contained within the calyptra. In reality, the snow skink is a facilitator. You see, the calyptra may be very good at shielding the developing flower parts from harsh conditions, but it tends to get in the way of pollination. That is where the snow skink comes in. Attracted by the bright coloration and the nectar inside, the snow skink climbs up to the flower spike and starts eating the calyptra. In doing so, the plants reproductive structures are liberated from their protective sheath. 

Photo by Tindo2 - Tim Rudman licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0

Once removed, the flowers are visited by a wide array of insect pollinators. In fact, research shows that this is the only mechanism by which these plants can successfully outcross with their neighbors. Not only does the removal of the calyptra increase pollination for the honeybush, it also aids in seed dispersal. Experiments have shown that leaving the calyptra on resulted in no seed dispersal. The dried covering kept the seed capsules from opening. When calyptras are removed, upwards of 87% of seeds were released successfully. 

Although several lizard species have been identified as pollinators and seed dispersers, this is some of the first evidence of a reptilian pollination syndrome that doesn't actually involve a lizard in the act of pollination. It is kind of bizarre when you think about it. As if pollination wasn't strange enough in requiring a third party for sexual reproduction to occur, here is evidence of a fourth party required to facilitate the action in the first place. It may not be just snow skinks that are involved either. Evidence of birds removing the calyptra have also been documented. Whether its bird or lizard, this is nonetheless a fascinating coevolutionary relationship in response to cold alpine conditions. 

Photo Credits: [1] [2]

Further Reading: [1]

On Crickets and Seed Dispersal

Photo by Vojtěch Zavadil licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0

The world of seed dispersal strategies is fascinating. Since the survival of any plant species requires that its seed find a suitable place to germinate, it is no wonder then that there are myriad ways in which plants disseminate their propagules. Probably my favorite strategies to ponder are those involving diplochory. Diplochory is a fancy way of saying that seed dispersal involves two or more dispersal agents. Probably the most obvious to us are those that utilize fruit. For example, any time a bird eats a fruit and poops out the seeds elsewhere, diplochory has happened.

Less familiar but equally as cool forms of diplochory involve insect vectors. We have discussed myrmecochory (ant dispersal) in the past as well as a unique form of dispersal in which seeds mimic animal dung and are dispersed by dung beetles. But what about other insects? Are there more forms of insect seed dispersal out there? Yes there are. In fact, a 2016 paper offers evidence of a completely overlooked form of insect seed dispersal in the rainforests of Brazil. The seed dispersers in this case are crickets.

Yes, you read that correctly - crickets. Crickets have been largely ignored as potential seed dispersers. Most are omnivores that eat everything from leaves to seeds and even other insects. One report from New Zealand showed that a large species of cricket known as the King weta can disperse viable seeds in its poop after consuming fruits. However, this is largely thought to be incidental. Despite this, few plant folk have ever considered looking at this melodic group of insects... until now. 

The team who published the paper noticed some interesting behavior between crickets and seeds of plants in the family Marantaceae. Plants in this group attach a fleshy structure to their seeds called an aril. The function of this aril is to attract potential seed dispersers. By offering up seeds from various members of the family, the research team were able to demonstrate that seed dispersal by crickets in this region is quite common. Even more astounding, they found that at least six different species of cricket were involved in removing seeds from the study area. What's more, these crickets only ate the aril, leaving the seed behind.

[SOURCE]

The question of whether this constitutes effective seed dispersal remains to be seen. Still, this research suggests some very interesting things regarding crickets as seed dispersal agents. Not only did the crickets in this study remove the same amount of seeds as ants, they also removed larger seeds and took them farther than any ant species. Since only the aril is consumed, such behavior can seriously benefit large-seeded plants. Also, whereas ant seed dispersal occurs largely during daylight hours, cricket dispersal occurs mostly at night, thus adding more resolution to the story of seed dispersal in these habitats. I am very interested to see if this sort of cricket/seed interaction happens elsewhere in the world.

Photo Credits: [1] [2]

Further Reading: [1]

A Recently Discovered Species From Brazil Plants Its Own Seeds

Photo Credit: Alex Popovkin [SOURCE]

Life on the ground is tough in the rainforest. There is ample competition and extremely fast rates of decomposition. Anything that can give a plant an advantage, however slight, can mean the difference between death and survival. For a recently discovered plant, this means planting its own seeds.

Spigelia genuflexa was first described in 2011. It was found in northeastern Brazil in an area known as Bahia. It is a small plant, maxing out around 20 cm in height. In actuality, two growth forms have been recognized, a tall form, which produces flowers at heights of 10-20 cm, and a short form that produces flowers at heights of about 1 cm. It has been placed in the family Loganiaceae, making it a distant cousin of the North American Indian pink. It blooms during the rainy season, throwing up a couple of small white and pink flowers. At this point, no pollinators have been identified and morphological evidence would suggest it most often self fertilizes. Overall it is an adorable little plant.

The coolest aspect of this new species is how it manages seed dispersal. S. genuflexa exhibits an interesting form of reproduction called "geocarpy." In other words, this diminutive species plants its own seeds. After fertilization, the flowering stems start to bend towards the ground. In the tall form, the ripe fruits are deposited on the soil surface. The small form does something a bit different. It doesn't stop once it touches the ground. The stem continues to push the fruits down into the soil. This behavior was only discovered after the plant had been collected. Back in the lab, the researchers noticed the flowering stems ducking down under the moss they were growing in. By doing this, the parent plants are helping their precious seeds avoid predation and the myriad other threats to seed survival, thus giving them a head start on germination.

Photo Credit: Alex Popovkin [SOURCE]

Photo Credit: Alex Popovkin

Further Reading: [1]

Sequential Ripening

Photo by Nicholas A. Tonelli licensed under CC BY 2.0

There are few things better than hiking on a hot summer day and coming across a big patch of ripe blackberries and/or raspberries. If you're anything like me then you promptly gorge yourself on handfuls of these sweet aggregate fruits. However, the genus Rubus never gives its fruit away all at once. Although this may seem like a pain for us humans, there is good reason for it.

The answer to this ripening strategy lies in the seed dispersers. A multitude of animals feed on the fruit of the genus Rubus but by and large the best seed dispersers are birds. Rubus fruits begin to ripen around the time when many birds are beginning to ramp up their food intake to prep for either migration or the long winter to come. Regardless, birds can travel great distances and thus can spread seeds via their droppings wherever they go.

If Rubus were to ripen their fruit all at once, only a handful of birds would make use of the entire seasons reproductive effort. This means that all the seeds of an individual plant would likely fall to the ground in the general vicinity of the parent. By sequentially ripening their fruit, Rubus ensure that their seeds will not only be available for a few weeks to a couple of months, it also ensures that birds, as well as many other animals, will be involved in the distribution of seeds. It's not just the genus Rubus that does this either. Plenty of other berry producing plants ripen their fruitss sequentially. It is a wonderfully successful strategy to persuade mobile organisms to do exactly what the plants require. 

Photo Credit: Nicholas A. Tonelli (http://bit.ly/1q6Gvja)

Further Reading:
http://bit.ly/29ghcwL

Dung Seeds

Midgley, J., White, J., Johnson, S. et al. Faecal mimicry by seeds ensures dispersal by dung beetles. Nature Plants 1, 15141 (2015). https://doi.org/10.1038/nplants.2015.141

Photo by Nicola van Berkel (Nicky vB)

There are a lot of interesting seed dispersal mechanisms out there. It makes sense too because effective seed dispersal is one of the most important factors in a plant's life cycle. It is no wonder then that plants have evolved myriad ways to achieve this. Everything from wind to birds to mammals and even ants have been recruited for this task. Now, thanks to a group of researchers in South Africa, we can add dung beetles to this list.

That's right, dung beetles. These little insects are famous the world over for their dung rolling lifestyle. These industrious beetles are quite numerous and play an important role in the decomposition of feces on the landscape. Without them, the world would be a gross place. They don't do this for us, of course. Instead, dung beetles both consume the dung and lay their eggs on the balls. They are often seen rolling these balls across the landscape until they find the perfect spot to bury it where other dung-feeding animals won't find it. It is this habit that a plant known scientifically as Ceratocaryum argenteum has honed in on.

The seeds of this grass relative are hard and pungent. Researchers questioned why the plant would produce such smelly seeds. After all, the scent would hypothetically make it easier for seed predators to find them. However, the typical seed predators of this region such as birds and rodents show no real interest in them. What's more, when offered seeds directly, rodents only ate seeds in which the tough, smelly coat had been removed. Using cameras, the researchers studied the behavior of these animals time and time again. It was only after viewing hours of video that they made their discovery.

Although they weren't big enough to trip the cameras themselves, incidental footage caught dung beetles checking out the seeds and rolling them away. As it turns out, the scent and appearance (which closely mimics that of antelope dung) tricks the dung beetles into thinking they found the perfect meal. As such, the dung beetles do exactly what the plant needs - they bury the seeds. This is a dead end for the dung beetle. Only after a seed has been buried do they realize that it is both inedible and an unsuitable nursery. Nonetheless, the drive for reproduction is so strong that the plant is able to successfully trick the dung beetles into dispersing their seeds.

Photo Credit: Nicky vB (bit.ly/1WVgs0G) and Nature Plants

Further Reading:
http://www.nature.com/articles/nplants2015141

Fiery Peppers - Evolution of the Burn

Photo by Ryan Bushby licensed under CC BY 2.5

Love them or hate them, one must respect the fiery chili pepper. If you're like me then the addition of these spicy fruits can greatly enhance the culinary experience. For others, spice can be a nightmare. Peppers are so commonplace throughout many cultures of the world that it is easy to overlook them. As a plant fanatic, even the simple act of cooking dinner opens the door to so many interesting questions. What is a pepper? Where do they come from? And why are some so spicy?

Peppers evolved in the Americas. The genus to which they belong, Capsicum, is comprised of somewhere around 27 species. Of these, five have been domesticated. They have no relation whatsoever to black pepper (Piper nigrum). Instead, the chili peppers are relatives of tomatoes, potatoes, and eggplants - family Solanaceae.

The fruit that they produce is actually a type of berry. In the wild, Capsicum fruits are much smaller than the ones we buy at the farmers market or grocery store. Centuries of domestication has created such gaudy monsters. The spicy effect one experiences when biting into a pepper is the result of a chemical called capsaicin. It is mainly produced in the placental tissues and the internal membranes. It is in its highest concentrations in the white pith that surrounds the seeds.

As with any fruit, the main goal is seed dispersal. Why then would the plant arm its fruits with fiery capsaicin? The answer to this riddle lies in their wild relatives. As mentioned, the fruits of wild peppers are much smaller in nature. When ripe, they turn bright shades of reds, yellows, and oranges. Their small size and bright coloration are vivid sign posts for their main seed dispersersal agents - birds.

As it turns out, birds are not sensitive to capsaicin. Mammals and insects are, however, and that is a fact not lost on the plants. Capsaicin is there to deter such critters from feeding on the fruits and wasting hard earned reproductive efforts. As such, the well defended fruits can sit on the plant until they are ripe enough for birds to take them away, spreading seeds via their nutrient rich droppings.

It may be obvious at this point that the mammal-deterring properties of Capsicum have been no use on humans. Many of us enjoy a dash of spice in our meals and some people even see it as a challenge. We have bred peppers that are walking a thin line between spicy and dangerous. All of this has been done to the benefit of the five domesticated species, which today enjoy a nearly global distribution. Take this as some food for thought the next time you are prepping a spicy meal.

Photo Credits: Ryan Bushby, André Karwath, and Eric Hunt - Wikimedia Commons

Further Reading:
http://link.springer.com/article/10.1007%2FBF00994601

http://www.jstor.org/stable/4163197…

http://www.press.uchicago.edu/ucp/journals/journal/ijps.html

The Largest Seed in the World

Photo by Reed Wiedower licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0

For Lodoicea maldivica, better known as coco de mer, producing the largest seeds in the world may seem like a cool fact for the record books but it certainly has its drawbacks. However, as with anything in nature, selection would not allow for wasteful traits to be passed on. Costs must be offset by a reproductive advantage on some level. A recent study looked at what these tradeoffs might be for L. maldivica and what they found is pretty incredible.

With seeds clocking in at upwards of 30 kg (66 lbs.) one has to wonder what L. maldivica is up to. It was long thought that, like the coconut, seeds of this palm must be dispersed by water. However, they are simply too dense to float. Instead, seed dispersal for this peculiar species of palm is actually quite limited. They simply fall from the tree and germinate below the canopy.

Photo by Wendy Cutler licensed under CC BY 2.0

This may explain why L. maldivica is endemic only to the islands of Praslin and Curieuse in the Seychelles. It's not just the seeds that are huge either. The female flowers, which are borne on separate trees than the males, are the largest female flowers of any species of palm. At 10 m (32 ft.) in diameter, the leaves are also massive, fanning outwards on petioles that can reach 2 m to 4 m (6.5 - 13 ft) in length. It goes without saying that L. maldivica is a palm full of superlatives.

Counterintuitively, the habitats in which they grow are notoriously low in nutrients. Why then would this palm invest so much energy into growing these gigantic structures? Because they tend to germinate and grow beneath their parents, the offspring of L. maldivica would appear to be at a disadvantage from the start. A recent study suggests that the answer lies in those massive leaves.

Researchers found that the areas directly beneath the adult trees were wetter and had more soil nutrients compared to the surroundings. As it turns out, L. maldivica modifies its own habitat. Those massive leaves do more than just collect sun, they also act as giant funnels. In fact, most of the water that rains down onto the canopy is collected by the leaves. In this way, everything from water, debris, and even excess pollen is funneled down to the base of each tree.

Photo by Ji-Elle licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

Not only is this good for the parent tree, it is also a boon for the dispersal-limited offspring. Coupled with the considerable endosperm in those massive seeds, all of this additional water and fertilizer means that seedling L. maldivica enter into the world at a distinct advantage over many other plants on the islands. All of that endosperm serves to help fuel seedling growth while it is still shaded by its parent.

Sadly, over-harvesting of the seeds has crippled natural reproduction for L. maldivica. This coupled with habitat destruction paints a bleak picture for this record-holding palm. It has already been lost from three other Seychelles islands. Luckily there are many conservation efforts underway that are aimed at saving L. maldivica. The Seychelles are now considered a World Heritage Site and many of the wild populations of this palm lie within national parks.

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

Further Reading: [1] [2]

A Real Cliffhanger

Cliff faces are some of the most interesting habitat types on the planet. Few places in the world are as inhospitable. They are low in nutrient levels, they have limited space for root growth, and offer very little for recruitment. Cliffs do offer some benefits though. They are often sheltered from extremes in climate and can be inaccessible to large herbivores. With that in mind, it is understandable how they can be a haven for some very unique and equally extreme life forms.

One such life form that comes to mind is Borderea chouardii. This strange plant grows only on a couple cliff faces in the Pyrenees mountain range in Spain. It is critically endangered as it represents a relict population of a once tropical Tertiary environment. What makes it more interesting is the double mutualism it has formed with ants. As we have touched on a few times in the past, ants are often recruited as seed dispersers. Borderea chouardii does just that. In many of the observed cases of seed dispersal, researchers found that ants were the culprit. Interestingly enough, a majority of the remaining cases were due to the plant literally planting its own seeds. Known as "skototropism," the stems of the seed cases grow into dark crevices, which are perfect spots for seed to germinate and grow. Surprisingly, gravity plays a very small role in the reproduction of this species.

Let me back up for a bit here. I did mention this plant has a double mutualism with ant species after all. Based on years of observation, researchers found that ants actually served as the most efficient pollinator for Borderea chouardii. This is not a common thing. Generally speaking, ants do not make for effective pollinators. Most species have glands that secrete substances that destroy pollen. However, in a mountainous cliff setting, winged insects are relatively rare, so Borderea chouardii and ants have evolved together into this oddball double mutualism. To add an extra layer of complexity to the system, dare I mention that it isn't just one ant species that Borderea chouardii relies on, but rather 3. Two ant species serve as the pollinators while a a third ant species serves as a seed disperser. This is one risky plant species. The plant gets around the rarity of successful recruitment by living a long time. Individual plants can live upwards of 300 years, which is quite possibly the record for a non-clonal forb species.

Photo Credit: María B. García, Xavier Espadaler, Jens M. Olesen

Further Reading:

http://www.plosone.org/…/info%3Adoi%2F10.1371%2Fjournal.pon…

http://www.iucnredlist.org/details/162110/0