A flora of western Norway

"So quickly, without a moment's warning, does the miraculous swerve and point to us, demanding that we be its willing servant."             - Mary Oliver

Top of the waterfall at Kjeasen, end of the Eidfjord

After a combination of driving and hiking, we made it to an improbable cluster of stone dwellings set on a ledge 1,800 feet above sea level. Still a working farm, we found vegetables, grains, animals - and a range of plants common to the places that have long known humans. In the surrounding forests, where glacial runoff feeds an endless stream of water during the warmer months, we also found bogs with more rare, wonderful plants.

Lupinus perennis, common lupine

Impatiens noli-tangere, touch-me-not

In late July, the waters of the fjord - far below us, a dizzying drop - are fully opaque, a light turquoise color. We had been out on the water in small boats before climbing to our vantage point, and had run our hands through it. It was so cold! I cupped some of it and brought it to my lips, expecting the familiar saltiness of the sea (the fjords are, after all, fingers of the Atlantic ocean reaching over 100 miles inland), but the water tasted soft, and sweet.

Rosa rugosa

Artemisia vulgaris, mugwort

Alchemilla vulgaris, lady's mantle

Valeriana officinalis, valerian

A mess of nettle and cleavers (Urtica dioica and Galium aparine)

The milky turquoise whiteness comes from the glaciers. The fresh water runoff - more than six feet of it in the summer - floats, frigid, over the warm, dense salty sea below. The white comes from anorthosite, a bright mineral deposit that's mostly feldspar, found only here in Scandinavia and in parts of Newfoundland (once the same land mass). The glacier, grinding boulders beneath its huge weight, powders it into a fine flowing dust, and the melt waters wash it away.

Geranium robertianum, herb Robert

Rhodiola rosea, rose-root

Corydalis lutea, fumewort

Alchemilla alpina

But the anorthosite deposits may have a deeper, fantastic origin: long ago, when the Earth was very young, a gigantic rock covered almost entirely in this mineral slammed into her, and the moon (who still glows white with anorthosite) was born. Perhaps the rocks that are here are part of a smudge, a scar left over from that early, seminal encounter.

Pinguicula vulgaris, butterwort (purple flower on the left)

Eriophorum angustifolium, swamp cotton-grass

Melampyrum sylvaticum, cow-wheat

Dactylorhiza maculata, bog orchid

But it's not a scar: it's turquoise water and it's sweet and now I'm standing almost two thousand feet above it, at the edge of this waterfall that's pushing moondust past my feet. And it's then I become fully aware of the plants around me. They are suffused with an inner light, like a glow that makes them seem to stand much taller than the eye reports.

Achillea millefolium, yarrow

Hypericum perforatum, St. John's Wort

Angelica archangelica

Galium boreale, bedstraw

And there is yarrow, and angelica, St. John's, clover, bedstraw, daisies and dead-nettle, thistles and the lanky speedwells, rising tall and bright, aware of me as much as I am of them. A quick nod, the gratitude for the time we took to get to know each other, then they return to bending in the wind, and I begin the climb back down.

Fungal mycorrhizae: ecosystem modulators

A nice article from Nature magazine shares some interesting research on the mycelia of mushrooms (the main growing part, usually underground, which produce the spore-bearing fruiting bodies we harvest and eat). We've known for a long time that mycelia are everywhere, almost saturating soil and contributing to the ecological balance of forest and field alike. We've even studied how some plants, like orchids for example, engage in a delicate balance with the root-like tendrils of fungal mycelia (known as mycorrhizae), benefiting in both nourishment and protection. Recent research has focused on how the web of fungal roots in the soil of the forest acts as a literal 'network', sharing and balancing resources between itself and different species of green plants. It seems quite likely, in fact, that many plants could not exist without their fungal symbiotes: but the story goes deeper than that.
Mushroom mycelia can take nutrients, especially sugars, from the roots of strong, green plants (like established trees) and "feed" them to weaker understory herbs and seedlings who have less access to light for photosynthesis. A neat example: in the spring, mycorrhizae shunt nutrients from the early trout lily to feed new maple seedlings, while the reverse occurs in the fall. Inter-species nutrient balance is maintained by these fungal networks!
This research continues to increase my respect for the Kingdom Fungi, and I am beginning to suspect that these organisms are the great modulators and networkers of the living world. It is no wonder to me that they are so effective in modulating the function of human physiologies as well, helping to balance immunity and inflammation so effectively. Hopefully more research on this subject will be forthcoming -- it is a field we know woefully little about.
In the meanwhile, Paul Stamets is the man.

Antifungal activity of orchids

In a fascinating description of a "love-and-hate" relationship between orchid rootlets and their fungal symbiotes, Phytochemistry shows us yet again why many plants evolved the medicinal constituents we find and use. The study involved a species of Cypripedium, our local Northeast ladyslipper orchid.

Germination of orchid seeds fully depends on a symbiotic association with soil-borne fungi, usually Rhizoctonia spp. In contrast to the peaceful symbiotic associations between many other terrestrial plants and mycorrhizal fungi, this association is a life-and-death struggle. The fungi always try to invade the cytoplasm of orchid cells to obtain nutritional compounds. On the other hand, the orchid cells restrict the growth of the infecting hyphae and obtain nutrition by digesting them. It is likely that antifungal compounds are involved in the restriction of fungal growth. Two antifungal compounds, lusianthrin and chrysin, were isolated from the seedlings of Cypripedium macranthos var. rebunense that had developed shoots. The former had a slightly stronger antifungal activity than the latter, and the antifungal spectra of these compounds were relatively specific to the nonpathogenic Rhizoctonia spp. The level of lusianthrin, which was very low in aseptic protocorm-like bodies, dramatically increased following infection with the symbiotic fungus. In contrast, chrysin was not detected in infected protocorm-like bodies. These results suggest that orchid plants equip multiple antifungal compounds and use them at specific developmental stages; lusianthrin maintains the perilous symbiotic association for germination and chrysin helps to protect adult plants.

Some plants from Cape Breton

Our camping excursion to the Highlands National Park on Cape Breton island offered a wide diversity of environments to explore. Lots of terrain had poor, thin soils and supported acidic "barrens", covered in heaths and moss.
The few black spruces are probably over 100 years old, and though barely 10 feet tall are covered in Usnea.




















Heath groundcover






















Reindeer moss

















In places where the barrens got more soggy, fens developed and more specialized plants thrived, like this Sundew (Drosera intermedia, the spoonleaf sundew).
















Pitcher plant (Sarracenia purpurea)





Dragon's mouth (Arethusa) orchid





Labrador tea (Ledum palustre)




Bogbean (Menyanthes trifoliata) a.k.a. Buckbean




Local Larch (Larix)










Out by the coast, we find familiar friends.




Yarrow (Achillea millefolium)




Red Clover (Trifolium pratense)




A Campanula (C. rotundifolia, perhaps)



And, a bit further into the woods, a white bog orchid (Habenaria dilatata)

Plants recognize their siblings

We already know that the rhizosphere, the zone of soil around the roots of plants, is teeming with chemical signals from the plants themselves as well as from symbiotic bacteria, fungi, and other life. This chemical crosstalk is akin to the air-based communication accomplished through pheromones (in humans, other mammals, insects, etc...), and undoubtedly provides a rich, stimulating and ongoing dialogue for the plants.
In many cases, chemicals secreted from plant roots contribute to survival: witness allelopathy, the ability of some plants such as wormwood, goldenrod, or many cover crops to inhibit the growth of other species in their rhizospheres. It has always fascinated me that the plants can recognize members of their own species and selectively inhibit the growth of everything else -- but after all, they are different species, and a genetic resistance to a poison is not difficult to imagine.
Now, in a beautiful study published in Biology Letters, we learn that members of the same species alter their competitive behavior based on whether or not they are growing next to their siblings (plants grown from seed that came from a single parent). Seedlings of Cakile edentula, a variety of wild mustard, grow much more dense and aggressive root structures when next to members of their own species that come from different parents. This is a remarkable level of sensitivity to a very slight variation in genetic structure -- but should come as no surprise to herbalists who are quite familiar with plants' ability to sense, perceive, process, and alter their behavior in concert with their environments.