Orchids

extraordinary diversity and behavior

Humans have been fascinated by orchids for ages. When we think about orchids, most of us visualize the flamboyant, exuberant, gaudy floral displays produced chiefly by tropical species or by the activities of avid orchid breeders. Fair enough, but…

All that flamboyance and showiness evolved because each kind of orchid flower is very complex and adapted to particular pollinators. Most of the pollinators are insects, but a few are pollinated by hummingbirds. Each kind of flower is visited, typically, in a very specific way by its pollinating animals. Although some orchids do not require a pollinator but, rather, simply pollinate themselves, the majority set seed after the visit of a pollinating animal. Different kinds of orchids offer different rewards to pollinators, usually nectar, but sometimes special oils or fragrances. Some reward-less orchids rely on fooling visitors, by just looking like they might have a reward and so attracting naïve insects, or (most famously) by looking like a female insect and fooling the male insects into trying to copulate with the flower.

Orchids have actually gone a bit crazy. There are probably over twenty-five thousand species; taxonomists are not sure just how many there are. But there are way more orchids than all the birds and mammals in the whole world, and more orchids than any other kind of flowering plant except perhaps the aster and daisy family. Although they are most common in the tropics, orchids can be found almost everywhere except Antarctica and the very High Arctic, occupying almost any habitat, including on other plants; one even lives entirely underground.

Southeast Alaska has its share of orchids: as near as I can tell, we have about twenty-six species in nine or ten genera (genera is the plural of genus, a taxonomic unit that clusters similar species together). The numbers are a bit uncertain because taxonomists often have differing opinions on how to demarcate the species and how to cluster them. In this space, I intend to introduce each genus that’s found in Southeast, with a bit of information about its name and its biology. Most of our orchids are not as gaudy as their southern relatives, but they share some nifty adaptations with their gaudier cousins. Because I like to know how things work, I’m including information on how the flowers function, that is, how they control the visits of their pollinators—which, after all, is what orchids are famous for!.

Before I launch a discussion of our orchids, it is useful to explain a few things that apply to all or most orchids. By doing so, repetition can be avoided or at least reduced. And, by the way, in case you were wondering, the name ‘orchid’ comes from the Greek word for testicle, because the bulbous roots of some species reminded someone of male gonads.

All orchids produce huge numbers of minute, dust-like seeds that lack stored nutrients for seedling germination and growth. Therefore all seeds depend on forming associations with particular fungi (mycorrhizae) that bring in nutrients from decaying organic matter or from other plants. Finding the right mycorrhiza is a chancy business, and most seeds just die. If a seed finds the right mycorrhiza and germinates, most orchids plants eventually produce green leaves that can photosynthesize carbohydrates, and thus they can live somewhat independently. But some orchids have no greenery and are forever dependent on their mycorrhizae.

I will spare you (and me!) the fine details of the intricate arrangements of orchid flowers, which can be bewilderingly complex. But I will mention one very peculiar and mysterious thing: while an orchid flower is developing, it often (for some odd reason) rotates a hundred and eighty degrees on its axis, so what was up is now down. That is rather mysterious in itself. In one species of the genus Malaxis (at least in the European populations of a species that we have in our area), however, the rotation is a full three hundred and sixty degrees, so what was up is again up. I find this most peculiar—if the goal is to have ‘up’ be ‘up’, why rotate at all? Darwin noted this, and then, to confound all logic, saw that the ripe seed pod UNtwisted itself by three hundred and sixty degrees. Very peculiar. And all of that begs the question: Do those that twist only a hundred and eighty degrees also untwist when seed ripen?? It is all very strange!

Most orchids disperse pollen in clumps, rather than as loose collections of powdery, separated pollen grains (as in most flowers). The clumps of pollen grains are generally held together by sticky material and elastic threads, and sometimes several clumps are stuck together. The clumps are called pollinia. Although some other flowering plants (such as milkweeds) produce pollinia too, this habit is relatively unusual. When they pick up a pollinium, pollinators then carry many pollen grains at a time. This would seem to be very efficient, but actually the seed production of many orchids is limited by too-few pollinator visits.

OK, now for our Southeast orchids. I’ll start with the smallest and least conspicuous, dealing with each genus in turn, working up to some local beauties.

Listera. The genus is named for a seventeenth century English naturalist (Listera). These diminutive plants are known as twayblades, for the two broad leaves flanking the stem. There are four species in southeast, although two are rare. I have seen good numbers of two species along the rainforest trail near Bartlett Cove, and they should be quite widespread elsewhere in Southeast.

The nectar-bearing flowers are tiny, only a few millimeters across, and they are pollinated by equally miniscule insects such as dance flies, fungus gnats, or minute wasps. Darwin thoroughly studied the pollination mechanism of an English species of Listera, and ours apparently work the same way. When an insect touches a beak-like structure in the flower, a drop of very sticky liquid explodes from that structure, catching the tips of the pollinia and gumming them to the head (often the eyes) of the visiting insect. The sticky fluid hardens almost immediately, so the insect flies away with pollinia stuck on its head. After firing the sticky liquid and the pollinia, the female receptive surface (called a stigma) is exposed and ready to receive a pollinium from the next insect. When an insect bearing a pollinium on its head visits a flower whose stigma is exposed, the pollinium contacts the sticky stigma, so pollen is pulled away from the insect and pollination occurs. For all of this to happen, the beak-like structure actually moves, first to put the pollinia in position to be picked up by the exploding drop, and then to expose the stigma so another insect can deposit pollen.

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frog orchid. Photo by Bob Armstrong

Coeloglossum. The genus name means ‘hollow tongue’; I have not learned the source of this name; one idea was that it derived from the spur that holds nectar, but since this is shaped like a tiny sac and is not at all tongue-like, this name is puzzling. The common name is frog orchid, but it doesn’t look like a frog (to me), so that name is also a puzzle. This is reportedly a short-lived species, able to flower during its first year above ground and seldom living more than about three years. The flowers can be pollinated by small insects of various sorts, but details of how the flower works are not available; self-pollination is possible.

I’ve seen frog orchids on Gold Ridge, where they are not common. Although they can apparently produce many greenish flowers on each stem, the ones I’ve seen have all had only a few flowers on each short stem. These plants on Gold Ridge are at risk by being trampled by the many visitors that walk above the tram.

Malaxis. Once known as Hammarbya, the newer name of Malaxis comes from a Greek word meaning soft or softening, referring to the soft leaves of some species. The common name is, sadly, adder’s mouth orchid or adder’s tongue. Someone must have thought the flower resembled the front end of a poisonous snake (it takes a very unusual imagination!). There are two species in Southeast, mostly in bogs.

The tiny (less than two millimeters) flowers are yellowish green. They have nectar and a sweet odor, which attract very small insects, such a fungus gnats. Darwin studied one of our species, which also occurs in Eurasia. He observed that a sticky drop holds the ends of the pollinia, and when an insect enters the narrow opening of the flower, it runs into that sticky drop and pulls out the pollinia (on lower, front part of its thorax) when it flies on. When the insect then enters the next narrow flower, the pollinia are pulled off, in contact with the stigma. Apparently this species does not self-pollinate but requires an insect to bring pollen from another plant of the same species, achieving cross-pollination; however, the second species in our area may often self-pollinate.

Malaxis orchids reportedly have the peculiar but useful habit of vegetative propagation by means of little bud-like structures on the leaf tips; these little structures can sprout and grow into new plants.

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Dance fly in a coralroot orchid blossom. Photo by Bob Armstrong

Corallorhiza. There are two species of these coral-root orchids in Southeast. Both names describe the appearance of the roots, which are thought to look like branching corals. Both species produce fairly tall flowering stems with multiple flowers, either pink or yellow. Both lack any green pigment, so they cannot produce their own carbohydrates and are therefore dependent on their mycorrhizal associates for nutrients.

Both species are visited by small insects, including flies and wasps and bees, that can carry some pollen from plant to plant. However, most seeds are apparently produced by self-pollination, without a visit from an insect bringing pollen from another plant.

The pink-flowered species is often seen in conifer forest, but the yellow-flowered one seems to prefer more open, often deciduous woods.

Goodyera. The genus bears the name of a seventeenth –century botanist. The common name is entirely ridiculous; it is called rattlesnake plantain, although it has nothing to do with snakes of any kind nor is it a plantain. Because the leaves are sometimes mottled with white, some early pioneers may have been reminded of snakeskin and thought, by simple association, it could be used to treat snakebite. However, there aren’t many rattlers where our species lives, so the name seems doubly foolish.

One species of Goodyera grows in our forests. The flowers are white, borne on a tall spike. Each flower is first male, with mature pollen, and then female, with a sticky, receptive stigma (this sequence is called protandry, or first-male). Internal parts of the flower rearrange themselves slightly to better expose the stigma after pollen is removed. Pollination is reported to be accomplished by bumblebees, which first visit the older, female-phase flowers low on the spike, depositing any pollinia they may carry. Then the bees move up the spike, reaching the male-phase flowers and picking up pollinia, on their heads or tongues, to carry on to the next plant. Thus, seeds are typically produced by cross-pollination between different plants.

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Platanthera. Photo by Pam Bergeson

Platanthera. There are at least eight species in Southeast. Some produce white, very aromatic flowers, while others make greenish flowers, but all bear the flowers on an elongated stalk. These orchids formerly were classified as species of Habenaria, from the Latin word for strap or rein (probably because one of the main flower parts is flat), hence the common name of rein orchid; an alternative name is bog orchid (although some also grow in wet forests). The current genus name seems to mean ‘flat flower’, perhaps referring to the same flower part.

Bog orchids are pollinated by a variety of insects, some mostly by moths or both moths and butterflies, others probably by bees, some by small flies and mosquitoes, and some by almost any insect of the right size and inclination. Our white, aromatic bog orchid is pollinated primarily by moths, at night, and our green bog orchid may have several possible pollinators. Certain species exhibit regional variation in the length of the nectar spur, odor of the flower, and the type of insect pollinators, even within the same species.

Platantheras present nectar in a nectar spur, which is visited by a foraging and pollinating insect, when it enters the flower in the proper way, from the front, and encounters the sexual parts. But at least some species also produce small dollops of nectar on other parts of the flower, perhaps to increase the allure of the flower to insects that subsequently enter the flower in the proper way.

The pollination mechanism is simple: the insect shoves it head into the flower, reaching into the nectar spur, and bumps into the sticky parts of the pollinia, which then attach to the eyes or tongue of the insect. Although cross-pollination is usually the norm, many of them may simply self-pollinate, if no pollinator visits them.

Piperia. Named for an American botanist, two species occur here; they are widespread but rare. They are similar to and sometimes classified with Platanthera, but sometimes they are classified in their own genus. They typically live in open woods. The flowering stem bears a number of small, green or white flowers that are reported to be aromatic especially at night, when they are pollinated by moths. A visiting moth can poke its head and tongue a short distance into the flower, and pick up pollinia on the tongue; an older flower is more open, and a visiting moth bearing pollinia can insert its head far enough to deposit pollinia on the stigma. Piperias are thought to be chiefly cross-pollinated.

Spiranthes. As the name suggests, the flowers spiral up in a tall spike. The common name is ladies’ tresses, because someone thought the inflorescence looks a bit like a woman’s braids. The white flowers are pollinated principally by long-tongued bumblebees. As in Goodyera, the flowers are typically protandrous (first male, then female), and when nectar-foraging bees work their way up the spike, from older flowers to younger ones, the last flowers they visit stick pollinia onto the bees’ tongues. As observed in detail by Darwin on a similar species, the pollinia are attached to a sticky disc, whose stickiness is activated by the bee’s tongue as it passes through the narrow opening to the pool of nectar. When the bee’s tongue is withdrawn, the pollinia are pulled out. On older flowers, the internal parts of the flower have been rearranged slightly, widening the opening where the bee inserts its head and exposing the receptive stigma. Flowers are usually out-crossed, but when there are few pollinator visits, male and female phases of each flower may overlap more, and some self-pollination may occur if a bee does visit. There is one species in Southeast. A study of our species on Vancouver Island, B. C. found that flowers received abundant bee visits and set seed accordingly, but visitation rates and seed production have not been studied here, where bee populations may be less dense.

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Sparrow’s-egg orchid. Photo by Kerry Howard

Cypripedium. The genus name of ladyslippers or moccasin flowers comes from classical mythology. It refers to the foot of Aphrodite (or Venus), who was formerly called Kypris. Presumably an inventive observer imagined that the foot of a goddess of love might wear a floral slipper. We have at least one species (with white flowers), mostly in open woods in scattered locations, and two others may creep in to the northernmost part of Southeast.

Ladyslippers have no nectar, but they are often aromatic. The flower acts like a trap. When a small bee enters the pouch-like slipper, it cannot get out the same way because of the slippery sides and in-rolled margin of the pouch. So the bee has to exit through the upper part of the flower and, in so doing, it passes by the sexual parts of the flower. In general, Cypripedium pollen is very sticky and readily adheres to the crawling bee, which picks up pollen as it leaves the flower. When the bee enters and exits another ladyslipper, it encounters the female parts first, brushing off pollen on the stigma.

Some species of ladyslippers can become dormant for as long as three to five years, not showing above-ground shoots at all during that time. Prolonged dormancy can be induced by stress, perhaps from a bad growing season or the cost of making many seeds. These dormancy periods sometimes presage mortality, but in other cases, the shoots come up again and the flower blooms after its rest period.

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Calypso. Photo by Bob Armstrong

Calypso. The common name of fairyslipper was no doubt inspired by its delicate and lovely shape, suitable perhaps for an ethereal, light-footed creature. The genus name comes ultimately from the Greek word for concealed and more immediately from the mythological goddess, Calypso. She was a beautiful nymph that lived in the forest. According to Homer’s Odyssey, she found Ulysses (Odysseus) when he was shipwrecked on her island, and she kept him for seven years.

The showy, pink-purple flower, usually one per stem, is said to be very aromatic, but it has no nectar. Bumblebee queens are the principal pollinators. Naïve queens (with no previous experience with this flower) visit calypsos but each queen soon learns that there are no nectar rewards to be found there, although the aroma might suggest otherwise. Such pollination by deception is characteristic of many orchids. Supposedly the queen bees learn quickly, so many calypsos are visited only once, and pollen may be removed but not deposited on another flower. Some researchers suggest that the slight variations in color and aroma that calypsos exhibit might facilitate fooling the bees into visiting more than one flower and accomplishing pollination.

The bees enter the open flower but discover no nectar and then back out. When they back up, apparently they hunch their backs and if, on the back of the thorax, they carried a pollinium from a previously visited flower, it gets brushed off on the stigma. A little farther toward the front of the flower, the backing-up bees encounter the pollinia of that flower, which in turn sticks to the back of the thorax, to be carried to another flower—unless the bee has learned its nectarless lesson. Calypso flowers may last more than eight days if not pollinated, but they wither in three or four days if pollination was successful. Apparently, fruit productions in calypso is generally poor, reflecting a low level of successful pollination.

We have one species of calypso here. I have seen it rarely, mostly in open, relatively dry areas. It is a temptation to pick Calypso flowers when one finds them, just because they are so lovely. But that seemingly simple act is likely to kill the plant, because the little, plucking tug can break the extremely delicate roots. So please don’t pick them!

There you have our orchids, and a lovely array it is. It is best not to try to transplant them, because many are delicate, and some are rare, so they should be left where they find themselves naturally. We can enjoy them in their natural places.

Thanks to Mary Stensvold and Ellen Anderson, USFS botanists, who provided helpful consultation.

Gustavus meadows

orchids, moonworts, and a plant that gives “live birth”

I recently visited Gustavus for a few days, so I had a chance to do a little exploring on a landscape very different from that of Juneau. After watching, from the convenience of the front deck of the cabin, all the young cedar waxwings (four of ‘em!), song sparrows, tree swallows, robins, hummers, and even two very new, tiny spotted sandpipers in the garden, plus a nest full of barn swallows almost ready to fledge, we set out to poke around in some of the wet meadows that lie on the forelands.

These long, narrow meadows probably occupy old stream beds that crossed the glacial outwash plain before the glaciers retreated to the upper reaches of Glacier Bay. The meadows are now surrounded by young spruce forest, where the mossy forest floor supports thousands upon thousands of twayblade orchids.

The meadows held odd assortments of plants. Nagoonberry and strawberry plants grew abundantly, side by side, with columbine and baneberry and soapberry mixed in, here and there. The plant known as sticky false asphodel was more common than in any other place I’ve explored. Ladyslipper orchids had finished flowering but were developing ripe fruits, and ladies-tresses orchids were in prime bloom. We found a weird fern that is related to the moonworts, which were reputed to have a variety of supernatural powers; among other things, they could make you invisible and unlock doors! These kinds of ferns bear all the spores on one shoot, not on the fronds like typical ferns.

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Moonwort. Photo by Pam Bergeson

The small plant known as alpine bistort is not restricted to alpine areas, apparently, but the specimens here were considerably large than those I’ve seen on Mt Roberts. This little plant is distinguished by being ‘viviparous’, meaning that it produces ‘living’ young, as opposed to seeds or eggs. The lower flowers on the stem produce bulblets, which are capable of sprouting while still on the mother plant. When they drop from the mother plant, the young plants will be just like the mother, genetically, unlike offspring coming from seeds. A very unusual habit, which makes me wonder why it does so.

As we wandered along, we were roundly scolded by a greater yellowlegs, perched on top of the shore pines; it probably had a nest or chicks nearby. Moose had browsed the highbush cranberry bushes and perhaps a porcupine had nibbled the dwarf fireweeds. Sticklebacks darted about in a rivulet. And we found an abandoned winter nest of a vole, nestled on top of the moss; of course it was blanketed in snow in the winter.

Perhaps the most captivating find was a good population of long-leaf sundews, which are far less common than the round-leaf species. The round-leafs can be found by the millions in many meadows and muskegs, but the long-leafs tend to be concentrated on relatively barren ground, often near a pond, and are much less widely distributed. The fascinating thing was that the long-leafs had captured lots of insect prey on their sticky leaves, and the leaves were folded over as the successful captors digested the prey. In contrast, most of the round-leafs held no insects. Now why would that be so?

Some other sightings of interest: in the young spruce forest near the meadows, there was one very large hemlock tree, which must have got started before the smaller spruces. Usually hemlocks come in after the spruces, which favor mineral soils for germination and establishment. A big old hemlock amid all the young spruces was unusual. In another place, way down toward the beach where alders and tiny spruces have moved in, we found a single birch tree, a bit lonely in a stand of alders. It seemed very out of place there. If only it could tell us its story!

Just inside the edge of the forest, we found a yellow slime mold, with a brown slug wedged into one side. I presumed that the slug was eating the slime mold, and not vice versa—but who could tell?

That’s just a sample of things we found on our little voyage of discovery. As always, there were many observations of interest to curious naturalists, and our little explorations are always rewarding.

Orchid variations

the complex lives of some fascinating flowers

Southeast Alaska has several species of orchid, which are not as gaudily showy as the types cultivated by orchid fanciers, but they have their own allure. Many local folks are familiar with the white bog orchid, whose tall inflorescences send out such a lovely aroma. This species is probably pollinated by moths that come to collect nectar. The calypso or fairy slipper orchid draws in bumblebee pollinators by looking lovely and smelling sweet, as if it offers nectar, but it has none. Visiting bees learn quickly that these flowers offer no food reward, so successful pollination depends on a supply of inexperienced bees. (Calypsos, and perhaps other orchids, should not be picked, because that tweaks the delicate root system and is likely to kill the plant.)

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Calypso orchid. Photo by Bob Armstrong

In addition to a wide variety of relationships with pollinators, orchids and many other flowering plants have an intimate relationship with fungi that connect with their roots. This mycorrhizal (fungus-root) relationship is classically thought to be mutualistic: both partners get something from it. The fungus gets carbohydrates from the plant, which typically has chlorophyll (green pigment) and synthesizes sugars that the fungus cannot make for itself. The flowering plant gets nutrients that the fungus gleans from the soil or decaying organic material. Some researchers suggest that mycorrhizal associations were probably essential when plants began to colonize land, millions of years ago.

Orchids, however, take mycorrhizal relationships to new levels of complexity. All orchids produce minute, dust-like seeds. The seeds are so tiny that they contain almost no stored carbohydrates or other nutrients that are needed for germination and growth. They rely on mycorrhizal associations to provide the nutrition needed for germination and initial growth. Thus, all orchids begin their lives as parasites, not mutualists, of fungi (the fungus gets nothing from the seed).

Now the fun begins! Some orchids have no green pigment, so they can’t photosynthesize carbohydrates to give to the fungus. These species remain parasitic on their fungi throughout their lives. The fungus may extract nutrients from the soil and decaying vegetation. However, in many cases, the root-associated fungus acts as a conduit for carbohydrates and other nutrients from a tree (which does have green pigment and can synthesize carbohydrates). So the orchid then is also indirectly parasitic on the tree to which it is connected. For example, in the yellow coralroot orchid (Corallorhiza trifida), which grows here, the fungal associate connects the roots of several species of tree to the orchid, and the orchid thus pirates nutrients from the trees. Even orchids with green pigment and photosynthetic ability may extract carbohydrates from the associated fungus (and a connected tree) without giving anything back, so they, too, are at least semi-parasitic, in many circumstances.

In a further evolutionary complexity, many orchids ‘eat’ their fungal associates, digesting the ends of fungal filaments that connect to the orchid. If the orchid does no photosynthesis, it thus seems to be destroying at least part of its essential source of nutrition. Even if the orchid can photosynthesize carbohydrates, digestion of filaments would interrupt the derivation of materials by the orchid from the fungus or a connected tree, at least partially.

The digestion of fungal filaments opens up many questions, to which I’ve found no concrete answers in the literature (although this fact has been known for over a hundred years): Why would the orchid destroy a major source of nutrients? Is it not needed any more? Or are only certain filaments eaten? What is the contribution of the digested filament itself to orchid nutrition, compared to what the filament delivers from a tree? What is the effect of filament digestion on the fungal organism? Does destruction of the orchid-connected filament tips affect the growth and reproduction of the fungus, as well as limiting its expansion in the orchid roots?

Whether parasite or mutualist, some orchids keep their mycorrhizal associations all their lives, some change their fungal associates as they grow, and some apparently become independent of fungi as they mature (especially if they grow in rich soil with good sunlight).

Things get still more complex: Within some orchid species, genetically different individuals have their own, specific mycorrhizal associates. For example, different genetic types of the spotted coralroot (Corallorhiza maculata), another local species, are reported to have different mycorrhizal associates, accompanied by subtle differences in floral shape. A given population of this coralroot orchid may contain several genetic types (or races) of the orchid, each with its own floral features and fungal associate, potentially deriving nutrients from a variety of trees.

Worldwide, the orchid family encompasses many thousands of species, hugely diverse in floral structure, as well as habitat, leaf shape, life history, and so on. The traditional explanation for the great diversity is adaptation to an equivalent diversity of pollinators. For instance, both of our local species of coralroot orchids are pollinated by small insects such as dance flies, in contrast to the bee-pollinated calypsos and the moth-pollinated bog orchids. However, it has recently been suggested that some of the great diversification of orchids may be related to adaptations to different fungal partners. The variety of floral design and fungal association within the single species of spotted coralroot suggests that this may be a step toward the origin of several new species.

An extended day…

expected and unexpected discoveries

When the day began, we only intended to stroll to Outer Point on Douglas in search of the spotted coralroot orchid. Rubber boots were needed for crossing Peterson Creek, but by the end of the day, I was wishing I had a change of footgear. Searching through the understory for some time, we finally noted some small spikes sticking up out of a old rotten log–a limited success, because they were not yet blooming. We’ll have to wait a week or two to get a good picture of the pinkish flowers.

Because the tide was low, we then ambled out along the long storm berm to Shaman Island. Dodging the war games of some rambunctious kids, I learned where to look or some super-sized barnacles down near the low tide line. I’d like to know more about these—are they a different species from the usually types that cluster all over the stones and mussel shells, or are they just unusually happy? (In Chile, where I spent many months in the austral springs, the giant barnacles are considered to be a delicacy!)

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Photo by Bob Armstrong

By now, it was well past noon and both of us felt hungry and a little frail. But we decided to go up the Eaglecrest road to check on a willow tree that has been much used by sapsuckers, which drill sap wells in the bark and lap up the sap and any stuck insects. We found the tree, and a sapsucker arrived while we watched, so all the recent construction at this spot hadn’t destroyed the bird’s favorite lunch stop.

Best of all, a group of Plein Rain artists were gathered nearby, enjoying a chilly workshop with a visiting artist—and they had food! By managing to appear really wan and wobbly, we persuaded these very kind folks to feed us too! Many thanks to these good Samaritans! And the art work spread out along the walkway was very nice too—Juneau talent at work!

Reinforced by serendipitous sustenance, we decided to check out a bird nest down along Fish Creek. A short walk by the stream and a brief sit-down on the bank let us get a good look at the nest. At this point the sit-down was welcome, because my feet do not like walking or standing around in rubber boots.

Returning to the car over the new footbridge over Fish Creek, we hailed two other friends, also out for a walk. They had recently seen a female common merganser with eight chicks on one of the nearby ponds, and some of the little ones were riding on mama’s back. We inspected a beaver lodge and some recent beaver cuttings, and enjoyed a long chat.

Thus the day turned out to be much longer and far more social than initially planned. But that is not a complaint (even though my feet said otherwise…)!

 

The next day, three friends hitch-hiked a ride out to Portland Island. The crabapple trees were blooming, although they looked decidedly weather-beaten. The oystercatchers and Arctic terns had eggs and were incubating. Their nests in the sands of the upper beach are nothing more than a saucer-shaped depression, very difficult to spot and easy to crush accidentally, so it is not a good place to walk. One oystercatcher was implanted with a tracking device a few years ago, in order to learn a bit about migration patterns, but she is back again, nesting in almost the same location as in previous years, and incubating three eggs. For some reason, the wire antenna extended from her backside does not seem to interfere with mating or anything else. We got too close to her nest, and she put on a great broken-wing act, with much shrieking in protest. We left in a hurry!

The density of song sparrows was notably high. Some were feeding fledglings, which shrilled their begging calls from deep in the dense vegetation, and others were still feeding nestlings. Because they were still singing frequently, I suspect that they intended to start second broods.

A gang of gulls loafed around on a sandbar. They seemed very nervous, lifting off en masse every few minutes. Some of these flights were probably in fear of an eagle flying by, even if the eagle was far away and seemingly intent on something in the distance. Perhaps the gulls know from experience that eagles can look deceptively innocent but quickly become malevolent.