Belly Willows

Being a fan of NPR’s A Way with Words, I was pleased to discover that the July 10, 2017 program included belly flower! As Martha Barnette explained, “it’s a term for a small low-growing wildflower, the kind that you have to get down on your belly to see.”

But I already knew this. I was looking for a term for belly flowers no longer in flower—instead with fruits or seeds. I didn't have much luck. Because “belly fruit” and “belly seeds” sounded too much like New Age remedies, and “belly plant” was already in use, I decided on “belly willow”.

Belly willows are my favorite willows, mainly because they grow in spectacular settings high in the mountains (they're also easy to identify). Arctic Willow, Salix arctica, is common in the Medicine Bow Mountains just 50 miles west of town. Plants are typically just a few inches tall, forming a low cover of leaves above stems winding along the ground. Being a belly willow, Arctic Willow is wonderful to stumble upon if one is used to willows as trees or shrubs—a really fun discovery: “Oh my, willow catkins and leaves at ground level!”

Male flowers of Arctic Willow (like all willows, it’s dioecious). Matt Lavin photo (cropped).

Arctic Willow in fruit (specifically capsules). Andrey Zharkikh photo (cropped).

True to it’s name, Arctic Willow is common and widespread in the Arctic. But it also occurs further south at high elevations, for example in the Sierra Nevada of California, and in the Rocky Mountains as far as New Mexico. Adapted to short seasons, it grows slowly and is long-lived (one individual in Greenland was determined to be 236 years old).

Late-season meadow at base of Snowy Range, crest of Medicine Bow Mts., Wyoming.

Last week I was sprawled belly-down at 10,500 feet above sea level in a “wet” meadow (now dry) in the Medicine Bow Mountains, communing with Arctic Willows. Autumn had arrived—their leaves were a mix of green, yellow, orange and red. Only a few plants still had intact capsules; most had split open to release their seeds. Scattered across the meadow were wads of fluff embedded with tiny willow seeds, waiting for wind.

Each tiny willow seed has a tuft of fine cottony hairs for flying with the wind (American nickel for scale, about 2 cm across).

Dried split capsules stay on the plants after releasing seeds. They're visible in the wad of seed hairs below.

Of course most of our willow species sent their seeds off long ago, in late spring or early summer. But snow melts late at 10,500 feet—the season is short, and plant phenology is compressed. The  belly willows in this meadow had only about two months to go from flower to fruit to seed.

“gentians don't mind the first frost …”

Late summer on upper Deep Creek; Medicine Bow Mountains, Wyoming.

The wet meadow along Deep Creek was mostly dry. I walked through tall grasses and sedges topped with brown seed heads, their leaves turning yellow, and low shrubby willows with lusterless-green upturned leaves. But my feet stayed dry. Tiny ponds and mud holes were the only surface moisture. This is typical for September in the higher mountains.

Short field assistant deals with tall sedges and grasses.

What caught me by surprise were all the rich blue patches of life scattered about—a beautiful contrast!

But I shouldn't have been surprised. Pleated Gentians (Gentiana affinis) are always late bloomers. Yet I was caught off guard. It’s not that they were unexpected; they just aren’t part of the seasonal picture until I’m reminded.

Pleated Gentian, Gentiana affinis. Both flowers and buds were common. 

Gentiana is a large cosmopolitan genus, with on the order of 400 species. Most are native to the Northern Hemisphere. Many grow in montane to alpine habitats, where mountaineers love them for their showy displays on harsh sites, and their proclivity for blooming even as summer winds down.

Arctic or Whitish Gentian, Gentiana algida, “common to alpine settings in the Rocky Mountains.”

Matt Lavin photo.

The Pleated Gentian is widespread in western North America, in moist habitats ranging from montane to alpine. Other common names include Trapper’s Gentian and Marsh Gentian (and there are probably more).

It’s odd that this gentian is designated "Pleated".  True, it does have folds or pleats between the petal lobes. But then so do all true gentians—members of the genus Gentiana (for example the Alpine Gentian above). The botanical term for this flower form is “plicate” meaning folded, like the pleats of a curtain.

Larger blue lobes are petal tips; smaller ones in-between are pleats.

Ragged tips of pleats show nicely in photo of Gentiana affinis by Rolf Englestrand [cropped].

When I first tried to identify this gentian, the flowers led me astray. I assumed that the dull green covering of the buds, which “persists” when the flower opens, was sepals—the outermost whorl of flower parts, usually green. But no … that green tissue is part of the petals. The sepals are indeed green, but they’re tiny and hidden under leaf-like bracts.

Pleated Gentian flower bud; just the green petal tissue is visible (see flower parts below).

Gentians were a favorite of the great mountaineer, naturalist and conservationist, John Muir. He often mentioned them in descriptions of mountain meadows in the Sierra Nevada of California. Muir especially appreciated their habit of blooming so late in the season, providing much-welcomed color.

“The gentians don't mind the first frost though their petals seem so delicate; they close every night as if going to sleep, and awake fresh as ever in the morning sun-glory.” from My First Summer in the Sierra (Chapter 10)