Increasers

"Here's the problem with these woods," he says, clutching and gently shaking an old barbed wire fence. Sometimes, going into the woods with my lovely colleagues can be disheartening. They know too much, really. They see things others don't, understand ecological systems and patterns, notice signs of improper land use. Oh, I can tell when woods need fire management, sure, but I'm just exploring the tip of the iceberg in my understanding of other forms of disturbance patterns in Missouri's woodlands.

It all started with a casual stroll through second growth dry chert woodlands on a chilly March afternoon. Excited to see a lush carpet of a diminutive fern (Cystopteris fragilis) covering a hillside, I thought that these woods couldn't be in terrible shape. After all, ferns are fragile little things, surely unable to withstand a lot of land disturbance. "Uh, Allison? I hate to tell you this..." he uttered. My esteemed friend then launched into a poetic explanation about grazing patterns in the Ozark Highlands. The reason pretty little fragile fern carpeted the high ridge, far away from its customary moist outcropping (and therefore way out of context) was directly linked to the open grazing patterns that occurred following European settlement. "You see," he muttered, downcast, "cattle destroyed the understory by overgrazing, but fragile fern was unpalatable, so now it thrives. There's no other competition." Oh. Great. And now, every fence in the woods tells me, immediately, that the land has been compromised.

In April, when the woods were awash in the delicate white blooms of toothwort and the mayapples had just started poking their shiny heads through the leaf litter, I found myself in similar company. "Funny," I said, "I'm not used to seeing mayapple populations on dry ridgetops." In the proper context, mayapples populate streambanks, moist bottomlands, not dry cherty ridgetops. Hesitantly, knowing that I now don't like seeing fragile fern because of an earlier outing, he said about the mayapples: "A sign of grazing. Same with the toothworts. Notice there's not much else around them." Fragile fern, mayapples, toothwort, all charming native woodland plants, all considered "increasers," plants whose populations increase following heavy grazing. I'm sure there are countless others, including cedars, and I realize I'm just scratching the surface of understanding grazing impacts. I likely won't see Ozark woods in the same way ever again.

Knowing that he had, in one sentence, crushed my somewhat pristine view of Ozark woodlands, my companion promised to find fragile fern thriving in the right context, just where it's supposed to be. It took a trip to the Jack's Fork, actually, to find it again. He was excited, as was I, to see it growing in check, not on a dry ridgetop.

I'm a little hard pressed, I've learned, to find Ozark woods that haven't been grazed at all. The more I learn about grazing history, the more I am convinced that despite active management with fire and even thinning, the understory simply can't recover completely. Woods that have been grazed will never be as rich as protected woodlands. Nevertheless, because so many thousands of acres have been grazed, it doesn't mean they shouldn't be actively managed and protected. Sure, they're compromised, but I didn't even notice it until I was told.

Summer's challenge

Every Labor Day, when the cooler air secretly slips in under the cover of night, I start thinking of all of the things I haven't accomplished in my life. My birthday, you see, is in mid-September, and I try to run away from it every year. I launch myself elsewhere, far away from any reminders of failure, usually spending the week with my baby sister, a staunch supporter of most of my choices. I figure if I can't be reached on a cell phone, then my birthday can't find me and the wrinkles won't follow. It's a stupid logic, I know, but it keeps me motivated.

So, every September 18, I set a goal for the year that, when accomplished, will make me feel less like a failure with each subsequent birthday. One year, I read the complete works of two vastly divergent authors, Anthony Trollope and Earnest Hemingway. Another year I translated Ovid's beautiful Heroides (passionate, even in translation) and Virgil's Georgics without the aid of an advisor. Another year I visited every town in Louisiana and Mississippi with a French name, trying to understand settlement patterns. Last year, ringing in the ripe old age of 36, I decided to learn my Missouri ferns. Girded with the beautifully illustrated Field Guide to Missouri Ferns (out of print now, but available at most Missouri state parks), I made flashcards of all of the ferns I could find on Crowley's Ridge. Based on this childish, SAT-based study method, between September and December, 2007 I identified and pressed each species found within the 35 miles of Missouri's Crowley's Ridge.

Primitive, primordial in origin, ferns captivate me. I own fossils, books, and 19th century illustrations of ferns. I adore their delicate fronds and varied habits which send me searching diverse landscapes for them. One can find ferns in mesic woods, along streambanks, on dolomite glades, and even in muddy banks of ponds (the very rare pillwort [Pilularia americana], known from only two Missouri counties).

So, I've altered my goal for the growing season. Not only will I learn my ferns, a goal that could be accomplished through books and flashcards, but I will locate and identify each fern illustrated in the Field Guide to Missouri Ferns before September 18. This proves to be a fun challenge that will take me into landscapes heretofore untrammeled by my hiking boots. Rumor has it that I could chalk up a whole mess of species on a single visit to my beloved sandstone-based Hawn State Park. Nevertheless, I have a slight advantage in this quest. You see, Paul Nelson only used live material for his Field Guide to Missouri Ferns illustrations. And, you see, he would probably be happy to give me directions to sites so I can fulfill my somewhat manic goal.

Before pestering him, I'll follow the instructions in the field guide: attached to each fern is a description of where the plants can be found. In the case of maidenhair spleenwort (Asplenium trichomanes), for example, I will look in "moist shaded crevices of sandstone, chert or granitic ledges and bluffs, occasionally on limestone; Springfield and Salem Plateaus, St. Francois Mountains." For rare plants like ebony spleenwort Asplenium x ebenoides, known from only a handful of locations, I'll probably have to call Paul.

Last night, I flipped through the field guide to count how many I have seen since my birthday. 26. I won't mention how many more I have to find, but will admit that I have a long way to go. As it was so delicately stated once: "ferns bless nearly every natural place on earth," and the Ozarks are full of them.

Pictured: Woodsia obtusa (common woodsia), found on a dolomite boulder in the Mark Twain National Forest; Cystopteris bulbifera (bulblet fern), found on a limestone outcropping on the Jack's Fork; Polypodium polypodioides (resurrection fern), found on a big swamp chestnut oak in southeast Missouri.

Monday on the Niangua River

A crisp, clear night with stars so near you could kiss them proved the perfect time to rekindle my love affair with the Niangua River. It's been several years now since I first canoed the Niangua; relocation to southeast Missouri allowed easier access to the Eleven Point and Current Rivers, but it was the Niangua, in fact, that made me fall in love with Ozark streams. Fast-moving, clear, cold water. Lots of crayfish, birds, mussel beds, riparian vegetation. In 2003, the Niangua enticed me so fervently that despite the paltry salary I was making, I was staying in the Ozarks. The Niangua is one reason I came back after the storm.

The past five years haven't been too kind to the Niangua. While it meanders its way through dolomite outcroppings, changes in land use throughout the watershed has seriously impacted the river's health. Development along the banks (in the 10 year floodplain, no less) has resulted in cleared riparian woodlands and subsequent erosion. Cattle grazing in the watershed has seriously compromised water quality. The shallow reaches of the river, from Bennett Spring down, are ripe with green-brown cyanobacteria and sediment washed in from pastures. I've never seen anything like it in Missouri. Crayfish were noticeably absent today, but they have to be there somewhere. With all of the sediment in the river caused by the mismanagement of the land around the river, I simply can't imagine Ozark hellbenders thrive here anymore. I was reminded all day of my old saw: you can't manage your wetlands without managing your uplands.

Sometimes it's hard, really, to imagine what Missouri must have looked like before timber harvest, cattle grazing, channelization and all the other veritable lagniappe associated with settlement. I've finally reached a point emotionally where I can enjoy what's left, cherish the natural history of the Ozarks, seek out the least impaired places. It was, after all, a great day to be on the Niangua: Molly enjoyed her time in the shady riparian areas more than her time in the canoe. Worm-eating warblers and red eyed vireos were concentrated in the Niangua Basin today, singing their curiously complex little songs. I spied a dolomite overhang covered in my favorite fern (Woodsia obtusa). We had a good fire, good food, a decent night's rest listening to whip-por-wills, coyotes and barred owls. The heron rookery is still there on the Niangua supporting at least 30 separate nests. We saw, on two separate occasions, wood duck hens followed by tiny ducklings. Too, the big flood event must have flushed elsewhere all of the Bud Light cans and Mardi Gras beads that normally litter the riverbanks. Yes, you look for the good in the landscape and work assiduously to repair the damage.

The search is on

At the joint meeting of the Arkansas and Missouri Native Plant Societies last month, Missourians were saddened to learn that with the recent discovery of an Arkansas population of Missouri bladderpod, our own cherished Ozark Highlands no longer have an endemic. Every plant native to Missouri's Ozarks can be found in Arkansas. Granted, population densities vary between states, such that plants rare to Arkansas are abundant in Missouri and vice versa. But unlike Missouri's somewhat fragmented Ozarks, the highlands in Arkansas stretch for thousands of uninterrupted acres. That Arkansas doesn't have a Branson, a Springfield, or hundreds of other little towns chopping up contiguous woodlands likely accounts (at least in part) for the species richness.

Some of the Missourians on the fieldtrip were jealous of the preponderance of sandstone outcroppings and benches in Arkansas, a substrate which affords a varied plant community rare to Missouri. The fine folks from Arkansas countered with envy over our abundant dolomite, chert and limestone, all rather uncommon in Arkansas. Jealousy aside, our society members were treated to a fieldtrip to see sandstone benches awash in the delicate pink blooms of Claytonia ozarkensis. Well, it was a cloudy day, so the flowers weren't open.


Over 50 years ago, sandstone outcroppings in Jefferson Co., Missouri supported a population of Claytonia ozarkensis. The plant hasn't been seen in Missouri since then. Inspired by the fieldtrip to see it in Arkansas, a cadre of the state's best botanists brought together a search party to scour Jefferson Co. in hopes of finding the sweet little plant again in Missouri. So, once again, I spent the day with incredible ecologists, a brilliant bryologist (one who studies bryophytes) and botanists tromping through the lovely LaBarque Creek watershed. We spent the day walking deep canyons, running into a vast array of ferns and interesting geology, checking any and every little outcropping in the dry/dry mesic sandstone woodlands in hopes of finding the spoon-shaped leaves of Claytonia.


The flower is almost identical to that of the extremely common Claytonia virginiana (which carpets the lawn up the street), but the leaves and growth habit of C. ozarkensis is truly unique. Because it grows between shelves of sandstone, its reproductive phenology must adapt. The plant performs a sort of negative phototropism to deposit seeds; the stems bearing ripe seedheads turn inwards towards the rock rather than allowing the seeds to fall to the ground. (A hearty thanks to the USFS for sharing the photos)

So, we didn't find it this week. The organizer of the trip (one who rediscovered a newsworthy plant recently)remained dubious that we would find it in Missouri. Our sandstone structures just aren't the same as they are in Arkansas. Nevertheless, a few other possible sites are on the docket for next week.

Why, you may ask, am I writing about a failed attempt to locate a spring wildflower? Frankly, I don't know who reads this, but maybe some fine Missourian out there knows of property with sandstone (don't waste your time looking at the LaMotte series...) that just might harbor a population. If so, there's no cash reward upon discovery, but the sheer pleasure and joy such a find would bring to the protectors of our biodiversity is priceless.

Along the Jack's Fork

Somewhere between abandoning my graduate career, loafing in New Orleans, and venturing into a vocation for which I was academically unprepared, I made a great series of decisions. So great, in fact, that they allowed me to spend the past two days on my favorite river with Missouri's leading natural historian, an expert paddler, fire builder, and botanist. Somewhere along the circuitous path I took to get here, I took the high road and ended up parking on that proverbial Cloud #9 this week.

In February, I wrote about the populations of glacial relicts found on the north facing cliffs of the Jack's Fork River, plants found nowhere else in Missouri. I guess I've been obsessing over them for the past few months, waiting for the rivers to recede a little and for spring green up to make these special plants visible. I've floated past them before, not realizing where they grew. Every canoe trip in the Ozark Highlands is special to me, so each one is designated a theme. This one was undoubtedly the "Glacial Relict Tour." My trusty fellow paddler knew exactly where these plants were located: moist seepy limestone/dolomite cliffs about 8 miles into the 23 mile float. False bugbane (Trautvettaria caroliniensis, pictured) wasn't in flower yet, but its wet leaves provided testament to the cool, moist climate that has allowed it to thrive in this one place for millions of years since the Pleistocene. Others, like a campanula that (according to my colleague) "grows like a weed in Minnesota," was perched so high on the cliff that we couldn't see it. We found no trace of others, perhaps due to the same raging flood waters that seriously knocked back the delicate Southern maiden hair fern population, hanging dessicated on the moist cliff face.

Since the 12 inch rain in March (followed by another 5 inches in April), the Jack's Fork River has changed its character since the last time I saw it. The high water mark, as evidenced by the debris in trees and shrubs, was at least 15 feet higher than the current level. We encountered huge piles of debris, trees literally peeled back from the banks, rootwads waiting for an inexperienced paddler to go crashing into their deep dark hollows, eroded shorelines, gravel deposits where before was exposed bedrock. We saw only one snake the whole time, whereas in the past, one can see at least 30 Northern watersnakes and water moccasins on this river. We assumed the flood likely impacted the populations, but hopefully, we're wrong...

Over our three day adventure, there was little discussion about work. Pressing questions involved favorite Star Trek episodes, which gravel bar to stop on for a wine and cheese break, and how to stop the spread of the exotic garlic mustard from completely ruining the woodland fabric of the adjacent woods. It was truly remarkable to share my time on the river with those who could name every plant that I couldn't, who could identify the different dolomites, limestones and sandstones, who also appreciated the riparian corridors carpeted in bluebells and who (hopefully) didn't judge me as I childishly threw big handfuls of oak leaves into the fledgling fire just to watch as they positively impacted flame lengths.

As the float trip came to a close around the final bluff near Alley Spring, the late afternoon sun sent long shadows through the stately white oak-dominated dry mesic chert woodlands.
All awash in dogwoods, redbuds and bluebells, I found the Jack's Fork riparian zones so captivating that I didn't want to leave them. So emotionally spent from days immersed in the exquisite Ozark waterway learning natural history and swimming in pristine waters, I quietly wept for a few moments upon seeing the vast stretches of woodlands and bluffs from the high road that we could see from the river. Yes, Ozark woodlands are in spring bloom now and they couldn't be more lovely.

My beloved dry chert woodlands

I've spent the past week immersed in the Niangua River Hills region of the Central Ozark Highlands. An area rich with dolomite glades, karst topography and my cherished dry and dry-mesic chert woodlands, the Niangua River Hills hold a dear place in my heart. I cut my teeth on Missouri's woodlands here, learning all of the plants from my first Missouri boss, Larry (whom I still address as "boss"), a devotee of the landscape. I think he's only 27 now, but he has actively managed his own private dry chert woodlands with prescribed fire every 3-5 years since he was 20. (He has separated his property into 3 named woodland burn units: one after his dog, Maverick, one after the main hollow, and the other named after his daughter).

It's been a great week out here: A big raging fire, bright enough to embroider by, made with wet wood by a master of fire. An uncustomarily well-behaved dog companion in Molly who didn't push me out of the sleeping bag.
Good, rich campfire coffee. A thick bed of white oak leaves to sleep on (I'll wager 5 years' worth? This area desperately needs a good burn). And, the coup de grace, the first morels of the season, found only yards away from my tent.


But it dawned on me earlier today as I was combing through my 200+ pictures of dry chert woodlands from every angle that all of these recent photos of winter woods might not inspire the same awe in my fair readers as they do in me. When you see these sepia-tinted pictures of open woodlands in winter dormancy, do you see the topography? The relief? The ancient sedimentary layers deposited on the Ordovician bedrock? The dolomite outcroppings so intricately associated with chert woodlands? Do you see a landscape? As spring crept through the area in the course of four days, I watched as dogwoods bloomed, as a common dry chert woodland sedge (Carex albicans var. albicans) transformed from its flowering structure to fruit, as my favorite phlox (divaricata) opened up, and as the first flush of green moved into the understory. Utterly breathtaking.


Out of my enormous collection of pictures from the past few days, I'm sharing Rose verbena (Glandularia canadense), Wild sweet William (Phlox divaricata), a little dolomite creekbed, from which Molly drank, and the final picture of a dry chert woodland in its winter glory. Spring has reached the Ozarks, reigning in another lovely season for this dynamic, cherished landscape.

White River Hills

Within the first 24 hours of my residency in Columbia, I joined the local gym. Barring the past painful couple of weeks while recovering from a nerve-wracking injury, I went to the gym everyday since I joined, trying to rebuild what I had lost while living in southeast Missouri (that landscape without hills, physical challenges or even good bike routes). I knew I needed to be in shape to work in the Ozark Highlands; I definitely knew that I did not want to be considered an office-bound bureaucrat who couldn't keep up with fieldstaff as they scamper through the hills. So, I routinely set the treadmill at an incline, increasing the grade weekly, pushing myself to the point where I could track a mountain goat over the St. Francois Mountains, if the Ozarks had mountain goats.

It all paid off this week on my first visit to the southwestern White River Hills region of the Ozarks. Some of the steepest topography in Missouri is found here, with local relief averaging 300-800 feet. Nevertheless, I comfortably scampered up dissected hills to incredible vantage points overlooking Arkansas' Boston Mountains and never lost my breath (though fieldstaff remained several steps behind, red-faced and short of breath upon summit). Huzzah, I thought, I'm not an office-bound bureaucrat.

A distinctive limestone bench called the Burlington Escarpment separates the Salem Plateau from the Springfield Plateau in southwestern Missouri. It provides the northern border of the White River Hills, an area defined by steeply dissected wooded slopes, narrow valleys, glades (those dry, rocky, normally south facing slopes that harbor prairie species and few trees) and areas dominated by karst topography. The White River Hills represent Ordovician and Mississippian formations: on the eastern side, spring fed streams and creeks cut into the Ordovician dolomites and limestones, providing a gentle topography that includes caves, springs, seeps and other typical karst relationships. On the western side, cherty limestones of the Mississippian formation encourage the rather continuous band of glades and bald knobs, rich in warm season grasses and wildflowers, that wrap around the higher reaches of the steep hills.

A significant acreage of the White River Hills is publicly owned, allowing uninterrupted views of hills, valleys, glades and hollows. Plant diversity is high here, with large populations of Ozark endemics and several plants represented in the northern or western reaches of their range. In Barry Co., for example, the casual driver can witness the end of the North American range for shortleaf pine; small mixed pine-oak woodlands morph into oak-hickory woodlands and savannas within a matter of yards. My beloved Ozark least trillium, that exquisite flower I first saw in Arkansas, grows here in a couple of isolated populations. In fact, it was the Ozark least trillium that allowed me to test the theory I developed while living in southeast Missouri.

Unlike the White River Hills, southeast Missouri has been so greatly altered by agricultural practices and ditching exercises that only a handful of the native cypress swamp/sand prairie/oak woodland communities remain in tact. Because one can drive for over 100 miles and see nothing but corn and soybean fields- with nary even a fencerow of trees in sight- I believed that the lack of natural landscapes had a direct impact on the emotional and sociological well-being of the area's residents. They had, in fact, ruined their recreational hunting, fishing, hiking, exploring grounds. Economic development was relegated to the few farmers who consolidated into corporations, leaving an entire community impoverished, and, more importantly, with no semblance of the natural history that likely brought their ancestors to the area to begin with. Domestic violence rates were through the roof here. Barns, empty because small family farms no longer exist here, became the unwitting property of methamphetamine addicts.

Friday night adventures included driving a circuit from sad little town to sad little town, tossing beer cans out the window into the corn fields. In a community where no natural resources inspire protection of what semblance may remain, destruction and unhealthy living conditions abound. Diabetes rates were ridiculous here. Poverty levels in my county were Missouri's second highest. All the while, hunters complained that "...then one day, all the wildlife just vanished!" Hm. That moment coincided with the day the logging machinery denuded the last acre of stately oaks and the dipper dredge ditched off the last swamp, shunting water into the Mississippi River, leaving no room for amphiumas, cypress minnows or associated prized game fish.

But in the White River Hills, I discovered a local community that genuinely cherishes the very landscape in which they live. Waitstaff at the good restaurant in town, learning that I was from Columbia, asked if I came for the fishing. "I know a great spot," the owner tells me. He and the rest of the staff live there for the landscape, for the woodlands, for the quiet country life, for the trout fishing. While the owner wished more patrons knew what spring mix was or ordered wine (thereby forcing him to learn how to operate a wine key), he loved life in the White River Hills.

The following day, belly full of well-steamed asparagus and a mediocre pinot noir, we set out in an effort to find the Ozark least trillium in my own state. After badgering one of the citizens for the well-known location, we drove to a series of 1950s resort cottages just outside of town. One of two known populations exists here, but our guide couldn't tell us whether it was in flower or not. Nevertheless, we pulled into the cabin parking lot and came across a grizzled 50 year old woodworker working in the back shop. Barely looking up, he told us that he had heard "something" about "some rare plants" that he wasn't "supposed to mow over." Yep. We had found the spot.

My fearless leader reassured the woodworker that we could find the plants without his assistance if he pointed us in the general direction. No, we meant no harm to this rare population, we just wanted to see it. Within moments we found the first of hundreds, literally hundreds, of plants behind this small cabin development. We showed the smoking woodworker the plant, explained its significance, its rarity in Missouri, why it shouldn't be paved over (but mowing after it goes to seed isn't a bad idea). Within moments, the proprietors of the charming cabins pulled up and quickly bailed out of their truck, happy to see that, indeed, there were others who appreciated these truly exquisite plants.

Last year, a member of the Missouri Native Plant Society approached the cabin owners to explain the significance of their population. This small population is the one for which the variety of T. pusillum var. Ozarkanum is named. The highly esteemed Julian Steyermark, author of the Flora of Missouri, chose this very spot to name the plant. Genetic work has been done on this population. Annually, a handful of visitors descend on the area to take pictures and to make sure the population is being cared for. The owners, both kind, gentle folk, reassured us that they intend to preserve and protect their trillium population. They've been clearing brush from the understory to give the plant more room to spread in the degraded third growth oak-hickory-maple woodlands.

They wanted more from us. They wanted to know what they can do to help the rare population. They wanted to know more about Julian Steyermark. They wanted to know the natural history of the rare plant in their care. Leave it to my trusty leader to whip out his copy of the hefty Flora (which remains on my desk because it's too heavy for my backpack) and turn right to the page describing that very population. The landowners were happy, as were we, all of us able to gaze upon this exquisite blooming flower, one among hundreds, surviving in this compromised landscape.

The cabin owners promised to rope off the area, to not allow RVs to park anywhere near where Ozark least trillium grew. They wanted to, in fact, rename their business "something with 'Trillium' in the name," but, like me, they didn't want to call attention to the location. Part of me wanted to post the name and website of the landowners to help drum up business in an economically challenged area, but the other part of me didn't want people descending on the area with shovels in any attempts to collect these deep rooted plants (which seldom, if ever, survive transplanting). If you want to see them in bloom this year or next, write to me directly, let me know that your aim is good and true and that you will only take pictures, stay in the cabins, or that you'll tell the landowners that they are, in fact, doing a fine job of ecological stewardship for their relictual population...then I'll tell you how to get there.

So, while I posted a picture of the same plant a mere week ago, I'm posting another one. This one is from the White River Hills of Missouri rather than from the Lost Valley in Arkansas. My fearless leader pointed out that this picture speaks volumes. It represents the stalwart nature of the delicate species, that even though the land around it is totally disturbed (as evidenced by the surrounding population of white blooming chickweed and dead nettle), the Ozark least trillium thrives. This population has a protector. The rest of the unimpaired White River Hills do, too, in the form of state and federal agencies. Local citizens live in the area so they can fish, hunt, live around "woods." People I met in the White River Hills were very happy to see us, to see that others were taking note of their exquisite landscape and natural history. The folks of the White River Hills were kind, gentle souls who called me either M'am or honey, both terms I never once heard directed my way in other parts of Missouri.