Skunk-cabbage: Hope to the winter-weary

Skunk-cabbage (Symplocarpus foetidus) in full flower this morning, February 13, 2022. This is a true harbinger of spring and the first of our native wildflowers to bloom. The fleshy liver-splotched spathe encloses a club-like spadix, visible through the opening. The little dots speckling the spadix are the flowers and their yellowish color is the pollen. It didn't feel much like spring when I made this image, though: 19 F and snowing. Franklin County, Ohio.

Skunk-cabbage and an icy waterfall

I hadn't tripped the shutter on a real camera for several weeks, due to lots of more important things taking place, so getting out a bit last Monday was very photographically therapeutic. Time was short, so I ran over to two local spots. The first was Kiwanis Riverway Park, a postage stamp of a natural area but full of biodiversity. Kiwanis sits on the east bank of the Scioto River in Dublin, Ohio, and to me at least it is defined by the artesian springs that feed its wetlands. The boggy soil created by the springs is wonderful habitat for the first of our native spring wildflowers to bloom, the skunk-cabbage, Symplocarpus foetidus. 

I was pleased but not surprised to find the skunkers lunging from the boggy mire, and a check of the more mature specimens revealed pollen adorning the tiny flowers. Full bloom, on February 11. I was especially pleased to be able to make photos of the plants in the snow. In this image, we can see evidence of the thermogenic nature of this odd arum. Skunk-cabbage generate heat as a byproduct of their growth, and self-warm enough to melt away the snow around the fleshy liver-dappled spathe - the fleshy hood that encloses the true flowers.

Spring has sprung.

As always, click the photo to enlarge

Only a few minutes from Kiwanis Park is one of central Ohio's most iconic waterfalls, Hayden Run Falls. So, over I dashed to try my hand at a landscape image. Abundant snowmelt and lingering ice formations cast the falls in an especially pleasing light, and I was glad that I made the short detour. If you've not seen this place, make a visit sometime, especially after rainfall has swollen the small feeder creek.

Sometimes when reviewing winter waterfall shots, I find that I don't particular like the colorized versions. That was the case here. The Columbus limestone has an orangish tinge in places, and the juxtaposition of mossy greens and various browns was a bit unpleasing to my eye. So I converted the image to black and white and was much more pleased with the end result. Ice, snow, and water often lens themselves well to B & W interpretation. I always shoot in color, though, even though I have the option of shooting in black and white with my cameras. Converting images to B & W is simple, and as I ALWAYS work off copies of original images, I will always have the original color versions should I ever want to use them.

Irregularly semi-annual skunk-cabbage post

A fine passel of skunk-cabbage, Symplocarpus foetidus, rises from the mire of an ultra-soggy spring-fed quagmire. It is a rite of early spring - for me - to stop in and check for the first flowering of this odd arum, the first of our native wildflowers to truly bloom.

I'm fortunate to live near a wonderful skunkery; a gorgeous spring-fed wetland that teems with the plants. So, in less than ten minutes I can be wetting my feet in the springy mire and ogling one of our strangest plants and a harbinger of spring if there ever was one.

The skunk-cabbage is usually right on time. Mid-February is very typical for the beginnings of a mass emergence, and finding the first flowering specimens. This is a 'tweener season; winter is still much in the midst of throwing off its shackles of snow and ice, slowly losing the battle with spring, which is rolling steadily north like a vernal steam roller.

One can be assured that these skunk-cabbage will be powdered with snow and crusted with ice, probably several times more. No matter, Symplocarpus foetidus is thermogenic - it creates its own heat, and thus defrosts itself. Nothing that dying Old Man Winter can throw at it is liable to do harm.

Proof is in the spathe. If we peek through the gap in the fleshy hood (spathe) of the closest plant, we can glimpse the summit of the columnar spadix - the structure that holds the tiny yellowish flowers. Several of the Lilliputian blossoms are visible, each dusted with pollen.

Take hope, winter is nearly vanquished, as the botanical skunks do not lie.

First spring wildflower in bloom!

In my quest to deliver the coming gospel of spring and all things vernal, I offer up the news of our first spring wildflower, which is in full bloom. Yesterday, butterflies, today, flowers.

It is February 21. But while calendars and convention may proclaim that it's still winter, the flora and fauna know better. The tidal wave of spring's flora and fauna is in its gestation period, and visible diversity will only increase in the days to come. The early vanguards of spring are evident right now, especially birds. Migrant flocks of blackbirds are sweeping north, as are Killdeer and Turkey Vultures. Meadowlarks are conspicuously singing, and someone will soon hear singing Eastern Phoebes in southern Ohio.

And, the Skunk-cabbage is in bloom. I took this series of images today, in a local quagmire that sports hundreds of these odd arums.

A spearlike leaf juts from the mire, next to a liver-spotted Skunk-cabbage spathe. The leaves emerge and unfurl after the spathes have largely withered away. The foliage is far more conspicuous, too - massive cabbagelike leaves that form a malodorous carpet over the soggy seeps from which they spring.

The curious-looking spathe of the Skunk-cabbage, which looks like some sort of malformed witch's hat, is of course not the flower. To see those, one must probe into the depths of the spathe. For this photo, I peeled away part of the thick, leathery spathe so that we might see the spadix, which is the oblong column that bristles with tiny simple flowers all producing yellowish pollen.

I had a higher purpose for opening this spathe, other than just to showcase the true flowers for this post. Small flies and beetles are supposed to be the primary pollinators, and I've seen precious few (any?) really good photos of these bugs in action. So I parked my tripod-mounted Canon macro rig lasered in on the flowers, hoping for some action. Alas, nothing came in my short window of time in this bog, but someday I'll try this again.

Skunk-cabbage is up, spring is here

I post on this subject nearly every year, and make no apologies for redundancy. Come mid-February, our first true wildflower springs from the mire and goes about blooming in its own inconspicuous way. I am fortunate that I have a patch of Skunk-cabbage, Symplocarpus foetidus, just ten minutes from my house. So, come sometime in the midst of our second month, I make my way to the undistinguished piece of mire pictured above. Donning muck boots, I plod in, camera in hand.

I was at the cabbage patch last Saturday morning, and was not disappointed. A great number of the odd arums had thrust forth, and many of the liver-spotted spathes were fully developed. There isn't much variation in blooming time. You can pretty well be assured of finding the skunks in bloom, at least at this patch, in the second or third week of February. This winter has been brutal, with lots of cold and extended snow and ice cover. Had I gone here the prior weekend, much of the quagmire probably would have been covered in a sheet of snow. Nonetheless, the Skunk-cabbage would have been pushing out of the muck even then. This plant is thermogenic, or capable of producing its own heat. That's a huge advantage when trying to get a big jumpstart on spring. I've written in more detail about the curious workings of Skunk-cabbage HERE.

By looking down into the gap in the spathe, we can see the club-shaped spadix. It is covered with very simple, tiny yellowish flowers. And there they are: The first true wildflowers of spring. Nothing grandiose, like a trillium, bluebell, or wood poppy, but these little flowers precede the better known and more conspicuous wildflowers by a month or more.

 

I dipped my finger into one of the fleshy hoods and brushed a spadix. And there's the proof of flowering, Skunk-cabbage pollen. Not only is this pollen evidence of the skunker's flowering, it is indisputable proof that spring has sprung - a far better and more accurate marker than the prognostications of some groundhog.

The skunks burst forth - it is offically spring!

A springy quagmire a mere seven minutes from my house, and a place to which I make an annual pilgrimage each year to confirm spring's arrival. I know that I write about this every year, but I cannot help myself. This has been a long wintry winter, and I and many other northern tundra-boys and girls eagerly seek out definitive signs of spring.

Speaking of the title of this post, and skunks, the mammalian form is also in full spring fever. You'll be smelling their pungent musk frequently, and seeing the aftermath of skunks who were unsuccessful in crossing the road. But this story is about Skunk-cabbage.

The aforementioned boggy spring is Kiwanis Park, and I was there this morning to document the full-fledged emergence of the Skunk-cabbage, Symplocarpus foetidus. I was at this spot for other purposes back on January 16, and was shocked to see that at least one of the Skunk-cabbage plants was already in full bloom. That one jumped the gun by a longshot; today, hundreds of plants were up and the colony was at or near its peak of bloom.

If you are a plant bold enough to thrust from the mire in February, it helps to be thermogenic. Skunk-cabbage produce their own heat as a by-product of growth, and the immediate environs of an actively growing skunk is plenty warm enough to melt away the snow and ice.

A luxuriant passel of Skunk-cabbage. Each of those curious fleshy conical spathes harbors the flowers. The purple and green hoods provide a toasty warm tent that shields the pollen-producing parts from the often much chillier conditions outside. It might be several dozen degrees warmer inside the spathe! While Skunk-cabbage's choice of habitat often limits who might see them - casual hikers tend to avoid boot-sucking quagmires in late winter - I'm sure the unititated occasionally stumble into them. I wonder what someone who has no idea of their existence thinks when they clap eyes on a flowering skunker. Probably think it's a weird fungus of some sort, rather than a close relative of one of our most beloved spring wildflowers, the Jack-in-the-pulpit, Arisaema triphyllum.

Proof of flowering is in the pollen, as botanist Daniel Boone would say. To see the true flowers of Skunk-cabbage, one must peek through the flap in the spathe. If you do, this is what you will see. The oblong-shaped club is the spadix, which is littered with the tiny greenish flowers. Look closely and you'll see pollen grains on the flowers and the surface of the spadix.

The blooming and leafout of Skunk-cabbage is largely asynchronous: the leaves do not emerge and reach full luxuriance until after the flowers are done and withered. Only a few leaves were in the early stages of unfurling today. Come back later in spring and it'll resemble a well fertilized cabbage garden in this spot.

The botanical skunks long get the jump on more traditional wildflowers. This raggedly looking rosette of Swamp Buttercup, Ranunculus hispidus, leaves was growing with the Skunk-cabbage, but it'll be two months or so before their glossy lemon-yellow flowers show themselves. The birds know that spring is here, though. Well making my photos, I was serenaded by Northern Cardinals, Carolina Wrens, Northern Flickers, Song Sparrows, Mourning Doves, and others.

While it may only be late February, now that the Skunk-cabbage are at the pinnacle of bloom, there is no denying the impending Spring.

Skunk-cabbage in bloom?!?!

One of our weirdest flowers and the true harbinger-of-spring, the fleshy liver-spotted spathe of a Skunk-cabbage, Symplocarpus foetidus, thrusts from the mire. I was at a local patch yesterday, Kiwanis Park in Columbus, and was at least semi-shocked to see the skunkers up and doing their thing. This is the earliest that I've seen them in bloom, by nearly a month. I usually make my annual trek into the supersaturated springy sites where Skunk-cabbages thrive in late February, and am sure to find them beginning to bloom by then. To be fair, I'm not sure that I've been anywhere I'd cross paths with these foul-smelling members of the Arum Family this early in the year. Nonetheless, I can't imagine that they'd be this far along in a "normal" year. And for the most part, this crop of botanical skunks was not yet in full flower, but a few surely were. The strange dunce cap looking thing in the photo is NOT the flower - that is the protective spathe, which forms a tent in which dwells the spadix. The tiny flowers speckle the exterior of the spadix, and to see them one must peer into the gap in the spathe. I've written more about the workings of these vegetative oddities HERE.



I had but a few minutes to snap a some shots of the Skunk-cabbage, because I was at Kiwanis Park to do an interview with fabled NBC4 TV weatherman Ben Gelber. We were ostensibly there to talk about conservation of riverine habitats, but when I saw that the skunks were up, we couldn't let the opportunity pass by.

Ben Gelber is a real jewel. He's very keen on the environment and natural history, and works in pieces about nature when he can. Kudos to the leadership at NBC4 for running these sorts of stories on a regular basis, too. Our brief Kiwanis Park clip is above.

Spring has sprung, botanically speaking

Like some sort of alien claw reaching from the mire, the liver-spotted spathe of a skunk-cabbage, Symplocarpus foetidus, pops forth. This odd member of the Arum Family (Araceae) is our true harbinger-of-spring; the first of the native wildflowers to burst into bloom.

This place, Kiwanis Park, is one of my local patches. It's less than ten minutes from my dwelling, and when time is limited I sometimes go there to look for photographic subjects. I ALWAYS hit Kiwanis in late February, as the park contains a nice little spring - home to dozens and dozens of skunk-cabbage.

Here is the aforementioned spring. It's just a tiny woodland opening, well under a quarter-acre. Strong subterranean rills burst from the limey banks on the uphill side, keeping the spring perpetually saturated. The rough-stalked bluegrass, Poa trivialis, has already greened, helping to define the wettest areas. This place is a sog-fest, and a visitor better wear Wellies.

In spite of being February 20th - one full month in advance of the vernal equinox, our offical mark of spring - the skunk-cabbage was up in profusion. This trio of chubby little skunkers shows varying stages of development. The flower at bottom left is not quite prime. The center flower is in peak bloom, and the one on the right is past and withering. The little green rocketlike spike, foreground, is a leaf that is starting to unfurl.

We take a peek into the womb of a skunk-cabbage. The thick fleshy spathe enfolds a structure known as a spadix, visible in the gap between the turbanlike wrapping of the protective spathe. The flowers dot the spadix.

A closer view of the skunk-cabbage's reproductive parts. The minute greenish-white flowers are little more than dusty specks of tiny anthers. After maturity, the spadix will be a dense roundish spike of tightly packed greenish fruit - reminiscent of the fruit of a well known ally, the jack-in-the-pulpit, Arisaema triphyllum.

I was surprised to see some leaves in this advanced stage of development. This leaf, while still scrolled, will soon expand to an impressive swath of tissue. Normally skunk-cabbage flowers bloom well in advance of the leaves, and have largely withered to nothingness by full leafout.

By May, the cabbage patch will look like this. No strange fleshy flowers to be found, only a sea of jumbo leaves. Numerous times I have been afield with skunk-cabbage illiterati, who have quite reasonably asked about the identity of the massive leaves. I usually suggest they pluck a piece of the foliage and take a whiff. Funny, nearly everyone quickly mentions the malodorous black and white mammal. Skunk-cabbage is well named, and not an ingredient for your potpourri bowl.

Homely as it may be, the emergence of skunk-cabbage marks true spring and the rush of life that will soon follow.

Skunkers and whistlers herald spring

A boggy spring, only minutes from my hutch. Visiting this gooey mire is a major spring ritual for me, and today was the day. Just as the famous groundhog Puxatawney Phil (or whatever his name is) is watched closely in a rather foolish shadow-watching ritual, I visit this spring in late winter to witness the botanical counterpart to the wedge-headed Pennsylvanian squirrel.

Yes, my peeps! Although it is only February 13, I declare Spring is Sprung! Out they were, our first true native wildflower to poke forth, the vegetable version of the groundhog. Skunk-cabbage!

Good ole Symplocarpos foetidus is thermogenic, meaning it produces heat. This gives it the ability to deal with low temperatures and persistent ice and snow. I've written about this oddball plant's mechanics in past posts, should you be interested.

Proof is in the pudding, or spathe in this case. Here, we peek through the doorway in this Skunk-cabbage's thick leathery and liver-spotted spathes, to the spadix. Those little sugar granule-looking things peppering the spadix are the skunker's flowers - the very first to be found in spring amongst our native plants.

Take heart, plant-seekers. The appearance of Skunk-cabbage truly heralds the opening of spring's floodgates, and it won't be long before lots of other greenery shoots forth.

That Skunk-cabbage spring drains into this, the mighty Scioto River, arguably the greatest stream within the State of Ohio. There are almost always ice-free sections and I went streamside to have a look.

It was a trip well worthwhile. A good smattering of ducks bobbed in the icy waters, including this flotilla of Common Goldeneyes. If the Skunk-cabbage is the plant world's harbinger of spring, and that groundhog the mammal kingdom's, the goldeneye is the bird world's sign of earliest spring.

Not because goldeneyes emerge from the mud about this time after a long winter's hibernation, or are now just returning from some Caribbean vacation - they're tough as nails and overwinter in Ohio wherever open water can be found.

A chocolate-hooded female goldeneye follows a discreet distance behind a showy male.

Goldeneyes herald spring because now is when they enter, hot and heavy, their truly insane courtship antics. This pack of studs was going at it full throttle today, and I spent quite some time watching and perhaps picking up pointers.

These boys really pull out all of the stops to woo the girls. Like desperate lounge lizards in a watery fern bar, the male goldeneyes throw their necks back and bill skyward, and emit comical nasal buzzes. Then, in a spectacular display of aquatic break-dancing, a displaying drake kicks his brilliant orange feet forward and out of the water.

While the males in courrtship mode emit buzzy calls that sound like a nighthawk being strangled, they sound really cool in flight. Their wings produce a loud clear whistling, hence the colloquial name "whistler". If you want to read more about goldeneyes, I wrote a piece on them HERE.

I hope that these positive reports on the signs of spring give you hope, fellow Tundra-people.

Spring thrusts from the quagmire

Where I live, in Columbus, Ohio, it's been one tough long winter. A blanket of snow has hidden the earth's crust all winter it seems. February's snowfall was a record, and there's still a foot or so of the white stuff cloaking everything on this first day of March.

I like snow and winter, but am totally ready for the end. Needing a major botanical fix - and desperately seeking some sign of winter's end! - off I went to a local spring today at lunchtime. Bingo! Our first true wildflower of spring was in flawless condition in all of its fleshy elegance.

The liver-spotted horns of Skunk-cabbage, Symplocarpus foetidus, thrust from the mire of a central Ohio spring. It's right on schedule, a blanket of snow not being any impediment to its growth.

This plant is THE true harbinger of spring, although another wildflower in the parsley family (Apiaceae) carries that common name. The skunks at this locale were all in fine form, and had probably started blooming a week or two back.

The bizarre fleshy hood of a Skunk-cabbage is called a spathe, and it conceals an odd clublike structure known as a spadix, visible in this shot. Those are the tiny yellowish flowers peppered over the spadix, each with a full complement of pollen. Early-emerging insects such as stoneflies pollinate skunks. The vining plant with opposite leaves is Moneywort, Lysimachia nummularia, which is an abundant Eurasian species of damp areas whose leaves are semi-evergreen.

Even where snow still covered the springy saturated soil, the skunks still pushed forth. This photo clearly shows an odd talent exhibited by Skunk-cabbage, but few other plants. Through a process of cellular respiration, this species produces heat: thermogenesis. Actively growing skunks may be many degrees warmer than surrounding soil, thus warming their immediate environment and enabling the plant to push through frozen snow crusts like a hot knife through butter.

Take heart, when the Skunk-cabbage are in bloom, we are in winter's final death throes, and the rush of spring and all its life is hot on the skunk's heels.