Purple Aster

The Violet Warrior 

Hoary Tansyaster (Dieteria canescens)

First to rise out of a scorched earth and last to fall victim to the relentless grazing of cattle, the Dieteria canescens, previously known as the Machaeranthera canescens, and commonly known as the purple aster, seems to be the cockroach of the daisy family. It has survived the hundreds of years of grazing that decimated countless other species and has stubbornly managed to hold on to its native roots that extend throughout western and central North America. Its violet hue evokes a sense of royalty that contrasts its scrappy, resilient nature. A plant that is always thinking of its next move, its seeds are quick to mature and are spread easily. Its life is short, no more than a year, but that is plenty of time for it to extend its purple flowers up toward the sun, blooming at the tail end of summer, just as the first cool breeze starts to float through. It harnesses the wind to spread its offspring throughout the desert in late autumn, only four to five weeks after flowering. In that time, it not only sustains itself, but provides habitat and resources for its native community of small mammals and birds. Sage-grouse rely on the insects who reside in the purple aster during brood rearing season. The vibrant purple flowers are frequented by sweat bees, green sweat bees, European honey bees, bee flies, and cabbage white butterflies. The aster is stubborn and persisting, emerging out of the ground to make a home for others even on the most desolate landscapes. 

Purple aster thrive in locations with adequate sunlight, little precipitation, and between 1,000 and 11,000 feet of elevation, but within those conditions they can handle a great deal of adversity. They can survive in gravel pits, along highways, and in areas heavily grazed by livestock. However, at 270 Pope Lane, they do not need to struggle. Here they are provided all the sunshine they could ask for and most are a safe distance from the cheatgrass that covers most of the land and competes with the aster. The perfect resting place for a plant that is always on the move. Unlike many of the other native plants the residents of 270 Pope have so carefully cultivated, the purple aster came there on its own, as if it knew that was where it belonged. For, although the aster can tolerate even some of the worst impacts of human occupation, it would likely prefer not to have to put up such a fight. Purple aster has evolved to protect itself from the hungry mouths of cows, but not from one of their many followers, the highly invasive grass that has taken over the American West: cheatgrass. Purple aster can survive in the most barren conditions, often one of the first species to colonize a sterile landscape, but cheatgrass is making a valiant effort to rid the landscape of this spirited purple flower. The purple aster has tools to fight back, however. Because it is a late bloomer–the last colorful blossom to appear on this piece of land– it germinates at the same time as cheatgrass, allowing the aster to more effectively compete with the species that has so easily suffocated many of the aster’s native partners. Even so, the presence of cheatgrass greatly reduces the biomass of the hoary tansyaster above ground, though it does leave its roots intact. This may explain the height of these purple aster here on Pope Lane, coming up close to my waist, while elsewhere, often surrounded by cheatgrass, the plant barely reaches one foot. 

It seems the purple aster, like many species, is well adapted to survive in the wide range of environments it finds itself in naturally, but falters when it is forced to compete with human-introduced species. Despite the obstacles the purple aster has faced for the last two-hundred years, it has not backed down. It can still be found all over the American West, its violet petals contrasting with the sea of yellow and green. It will not allow itself to be destroyed by humans or cattle, at least not yet. 

By Kaitlyn Salazar

Big Bluestem

Bluestem on 270 Pope Lane

Big Bluestem (Andropogon gerardii)

30 million years before cows ever set hoof on the continent of North America, a family of grasses called Poaceae grabbed hold on the landscape and began to spread rapidly, creating the first grasslands. The method Poaceae uses to convert carbon dioxide (C02) and water into sugars for plant growth was aptly suited to a warm climate with frequent fire. Plants must acquire C02 to photosynthesize but in a hot environment, they risk losing precious water, a deadly tradeoff in arid climate. Poaceae's photosynthetic mechanism produces more energy with less CO2; in short, a game-changer for plant evolution and the success of grasses.

Those millions of years of genetics root firmly into the rusty, loam soil of 270 Pope Lane in the form of an unassuming plant, Big Bluestem - Andropogon gerardii. Several members of Bluestem are scattered about the property, one in view of the house's front door, another nestled between its cousin Side-Oats Grama and a Mormon tea plant, more popping up all around the house. These Bluestems are tall, over 4 feet, and green-blue in stem. They are an integral member of the community which resides on the property. They wave their purple, fine-haired, turkey-foot seedheads in a friendly, welcoming manner as a breeze sweeps across 270 Pope Lane.

Across Big Bluestem's range from Canada to Mexico, it serves as an essential prairie grass. Here in Castle Valley, Utah where 270 Pope is located, Bluestem has a variety of ecosystem interactions, providing forage and cover for a swath of different critters: upland game species, songbirds, and insects. In spring, one might discover newly hatched skipper caterpillars munching on the leaves of Bluestem. While Bluestem uses wind to spread its seeds, not insects or other pollinators, species like skipper butterflies still flit about it, looking for a safe home to lay eggs. 

Big Bluestem grows rapidly in just a few months, from mid to late spring before drying out in the hot summer and in the right soil and moisture conditions, can spread far and wide. It is water limited but does well on a variety of soils, growing best on fertile silt and clay loam. In the Castle Valley - Moab area, the soil is a fine gravelly loam and is dry up to 75% of the time. This does not stop Bluestem from thriving. Its competitive dominance is due in part to mycorrhizal interactions within the roots, a symbiotic relationship where the fungi in Bluestem roots intake nutrients, minerals, and water, providing them to the plant, receiving sugars in return. This relationship lets Bluestem grow quicker, spreading over the land, growing deep fibrous roots. Bluestem's root structure proves intensely difficult to remove from the ground; the roots can extend up to depths of 8 feet and greatly resist the efforts of a shovel. The roots weave together in a clumpy tangle, densely packed, occasionally detrimentally so. Big Bluestem exhibits reduced competitiveness and hosts benefit from the mycorrhizae when crowding occurs.

Like many perennial grasses, Big Bluestem evolved with migratory grazers like bison in parts of its range and with other grazers like elk and white-tailed deer. It did not evolve with the influence of cattle, and over-grazing dramatically reduced the range of the species. It was widespread throughout most of the United States and cattle grazing reduced its prevalence to a fraction of what it once was. It is often described as ice cream for cattle and as such pays the price for being so tasty. To the human palate, it certainly does not taste like ice cream but in the opinions of some, it is one of the more delicious grasses to be eaten. 

At 270 Pope Lane where it is native, Bluestem was completely gone from the land, replaced by cheatgrass as far as the eye could see until the human inhabitants planted two individuals. These two Bluestems on Pope Lane exhibit different distinct characteristics, evidence of the innate variation within a species. The classic turkey foot seedhead of the Bluestem near the front door is dark and maroon-black in coloration, seeping down into the tiller. The other Bluestems are much lighter in stem and seed, greenish and blue. Big Bluestem spreads quickly when given the chance. It is capable of both sexual and asexual reproduction, but its growth is mostly the result of vegetative regeneration. Above-ground portions grow bigger from surviving root structures ⎯its rhizomes. When untouched by cattle, Big Bluestem grows like wildfire.

At 270, the two reintroduced Bluestems have grown into large wonderous bunchgrasses which produced more and more of themselves in turn, enough to the point where human inhabitants regularly remove some individuals. The Bluestem in Castle Valley are hopeful plants. They show that the species could, under the right care and conditions, without the influence of cattle, return to more of its range. Big Bluestem, the hearty, beautiful grass species, has the capacity and history to thrive in the United States and hopefully will do so again, starting in places like 270 Pope Lane, Castle Valley Utah.

By Rachel Husband

Dorr's Sage

Finding Dorrii

Dorr’s Sage (Salvia Dorrii)

Since I was a child, I have enjoyed a passion for cacti and succulents, so I figured there was no better place than the desert to look for and admire one. Familiar with only a few common names of popular garden species, I hoped to find a specimen that I could elaborate on, to further grow my passion into something more articulate. 

Aimlessly wandering in the sun, looking for a cactus of sorts to study, I walk across the red, water-deprived soil, in search of something of interest. A tiny, evenly geometrically stacked sage green and teal-colored, succulent-looking plant meets my eye, tucked behind a taller thin grass. First using the phone application Picture This, I came to an incomplete conclusion that the unidentified plant was indeed not of the succulent variety but was Texas Sage, as I apparently believe everything that my phone tells me. I show Mary my find, but she is perplexed by such a name, as it was never purposefully planted in a yard that is meant to host native pollinator habitat. Texas Sage. We are standing in Utah. Obviously, I thought to myself, this could not be a plant indigenous to this land. My mystery sage is eventually determined to be Salvia dorrii, or Dorr’s Sage, courtesy of the passionate plant-identifier Mimi, who has grown it for years down the sun beaten road at her house in the beautiful Castle Valley.

This woody perennial subshrub, native to both the Columbia and Great Basin, Mojave Desert, northwestern Arizona, is also historically found in southern Utah, given its drought tolerance and need for well-drained soils. A hardy plant, Dorrii can live at low to high elevations, in some areas that may receive as little as a foot of precipitation annually. Yet the plant I am looking down at, compared to what I read off the internet, is a tiny little shrub, struggling to squeeze out of the local rocky soil, already sandwiched four ways in-between larger and more developed plants.

I bend down to one knee and slouch over to better study this peculiar specimen. Dorrii’s toenail sized leaves stem out of the numerous rough, yet delicate branches with each leaf opposite the other and consisting of a color spun from a delicate green and teal, resulting in a silver hue. Forming a spiral-like pattern, the small oval shaped leaves take on the curvature physique of a downward sloping, folded human tongue. The base of the plant, the woodiest portion, tapers outwards into several branches, which grow wide rather than tall, reaching sideways, sprawling up to five feet, and stretching skywards about the length of a baseball bat.

When in bloom, it forms purple, nugget-like spike clusters that harbor delicate, violet hued, bilaterally symmetrical flowers, like the shape of a butterfly. A part of the sixth largest angiosperm family, Lamiaceae, also known to be the Mint or Salvia family, Dorrii sits in a group of other salvias, many of which are known for their aromatics. Some family members include oregano, rosemary, mint, thyme and even lavender, all known for their distinctive aromatic qualities utilized in both culinary settings and medicine. They too boast flowers that take the form of an elegant, tiny butterfly. Dorrii itself emits a pleasant but pungent scent to deter predation, as I cannot help picking some to smell in my hands. Crumpling it between my fingers, big sagebrush woven with a funky, but welcome scent of mint meets my inhaling nostrils.

Dorr’s Sage, aside from its distinctive physiological components, lends a helping hand ecologically at 270 Pope, by attracting native bees and working as a larval host for sphinx moths. These local moths, also attracted to the purple flowers for pollination purposes, utilize the plant as a place for larval growth, given the shelter Dorrii provides for caterpillars to grow into a moth. 

Not quite the succulent I originally envisioned to find, I do however find my horizons expanded, all from that of a simple breeze. The mother plant down the road cast her seed into the air. Airborne by pure chance, it found haven in Mary's yard, and through its unique grace, met my curious gaze. 

By Leo Cohen

Sand Sagebrush

Grandchildren Strewn Across the West

Sand Sagebrush (Artemisia filifolia) 

Dappled across the yard at 270 Pope Lane, Artemisia Filifolia’s, feathery fronds are rustled by the blustery, September wind. Their seeds are nestled securely within the hundreds of flower heads restlessly waiting to unfurl in the last wisps of fall warmth. The slightest hint of buttery yellow petals peaking out. Their silvery green leaves shine against the red soil blown off the sandstone hills that erupt out of the valley floor on either side. Below the surface a long sturdy tap root weaves its way down through duff, sediment and rocks searching for hidden moisture. This root allows Filifolia to thrive in arid regions, not depending on precipitation to dampen the soil. It has adapted to sustain itself  in sandy soils where water seeps through quickly, coming to rest deep underground. Once discovered, water will be drawn upwards and distributed near the surface where a network of smaller roots will absorb it for use. This taproot gently anticipates being needed as drip irrigation satisfies its upstairs neighbors.   

Once, Artemisia Filifolia swathed the valley floor, a sagebrush sea, fortifying the landscape; welcoming the company of forbs and grasses in their shadows. Filifolia need each other. Generations standing side by side nurture one another. Young sprouts bounce to life in the pockets of light left between the shadows of their elders, learning the way of life in the steppe. How to find water, when to flower and seed, when to release their vibrant musky scent in the air, when to hold it in. This coterie of neighbors supplemented the diet and habitat of over 350 species. Today, at 270 Pope Lane, Filifolia is sparse in comparison. They stand, stoic, filling in gaps and affording a pastel backdrop to the cheerful faces of purple aster and the warm yellow glow of broom snakeweed. Estranged from their community they concede to embosom the light sandy soil dusted upon the five acres of 270 Pope Lane as wind and water battle to carry it away. 

When winter fades and the warmth of the sun can be felt again on their hardily delicate leaves, new growth will begin to emerge. These leaves however will not be like those that were nibbled on throughout the winter. They will be freshly pungent, brimming with chemistry to produce a defense against any creatures venturing for an early spring snack. They have developed chemicals in their leaves to be toxic to unlucky browsers. Only a few species have adapted along with Filifolia, passing by their defense mechanisms. In The Sagebrush Sea, Filifolia would have been called on throughout the seasons by an eclectic mix of creatures. Sage grouse would nest and rear their young in the throws of the thin woody stocks, and indulge in the tender spring leaves. Pygmy rabbits would burrow in abandoned prairie dog holes concealed from predators above. And nearly a hundred species of birds would stop to satiate on their migratory path. But now scattered this way, Artemisia Filifolia cannot cultivate the lives of their dependents in the way they once did. Species that call The Sagebrush Sea home can’t visit 270 Pope Lane. While Fililolia add a diversity of food and habitat to the curated garden, it does not replicate the five acres of carpet sagebrush habitat obligate species would need to survive. Omnipresent as it is, sprawling alongside highways and over hills, it is hard to imagine that over the last fifty years, fifty percent of this Sagebrush Sea has disappeared, fragmented with the development of settlements and roads weaving across the West. 

As fall winds grow colder and blow in flurries of snow, Artemisia Filifolia will create a canopy protecting a pocket of warmth on the ground. Birds and other small creatures will find refuge here from the bitter elements. Their leaves will withstand the cold and provide essential sustenance for any beings hunkering down for the winter. They have learned from their grandmothers how to nurture a home. Though they are separated in time and space, their memories live on in the seeds planted here by caring hands. These hands mingled in a bit of their own mothering wisdom coaxing each new sprout to grow. Now, seasons later what were a few small sprouts have grown to a community strewn across the yard. Like they have each year at the end of fall, the seeds hunkering inside those buttery yellow flowers will find passage to new resting spots in gracious animal hosts. 

By Mosley Lerner

Western Whiptail

The Tigers of 270 Pope

Western Whiptail (Aspidoscelis tigris)

Beside the tire of an SUV parked at 270 Pope Lane, a drama of life and death is about to play out. A large black beetle makes its way over a reddish patch of dry, bare soil in the midmorning sun. Suddenly, reptilian jaws snap over it. The bite partially crushes its exoskeleton before rapidly withdrawing. A Western Whiptail lizard, perhaps six inches long and decorated with a sextet of honey-hued stripes, has targeted the beetle. The whiptail strikes again, leaping twice or thrice its own body length before nimbly springing back. It pounces again and again in this manner until at last the beetle ceases to twitch.

The dance of saurian hunting that has played out under the SUV is millions of years old, dating back to the initial evolution of reptiles. And indeed the Western Whiptail has a proud heritage: whiptails are in the broader Teiidae family, which emerged around 125 million years ago. The exact place of whiptails within this family has been a disputed matter among humans for the geologic eyeblink of the last century. Around twenty years ago, the genus name Aspidoscelis, meaning shield-legged, emerged triumphant. The Western Whiptail’s species, ‘tigris’ or tiger, derives from the striped back of the lizard. Considering the ferocity with which it hunted the beetle, however, the comparison to a big cat is appropriate on multiple levels.

The illustrious clan of Teiidae includes New World lizards such as the Western Whiptail, the six-lined racerunner of the American South, and the tegus lizards of Central and South America. Back in the Cretaceous Period when Teiidae arose, the landscape around 270 Pope Lane was under a vast, shallow ocean. The forefathers of Aspidoscelis tigris must have been delighted to colonize as the water slipped away and the igneous intrusions of the La Sal Mountains were exposed from under crumbling layers of sedimentary rock. The imposing pillars of stone that give Castle Valley its namesake are far younger and more fleeting than the six-inch lizards that hunt in their shadows.

Oblivious to this, the tiger of 270 Pope keeps all attention upon its insect prey, which is far too large to fit down its small gullet. Basking in the sun, it begins to rip the carcass apart. First come the legs, which it pulls one by one with ravenous bites. Then, it severs head from torso and chews meditatively on the former, seeming to savor it. A gust of sand laden-wind kicks up, but the tiger resolutely clings to its meal, anchoring its four-clawed feet into the cheatgrass duff on the edge of the road until the storm passes. Unperturbed, it tears the beetle’s abdomen in half, swallows each piece, and then, flicking its tail, hides under the unmoving vehicle nearby.

The lizard which has hunted this beetle is hardly alone on this five-acre territory. Numerous whiptail lizards live at 270 Pope Lane, hunting insects and arachnids which dwell close to the ground. Whiptails like open space and places to bask in the sun interspersed with cover they can hide beneath, and so they gather here in the stand of native plants and open ground that human residents have cultivated. Here, they can escape the surrounding cheatgrass sea, whose crowded, choking duff obscures their hunts and leaves them vulnerable to predators. 

Whiptail lizards are largely unafraid of humans and their habitations. As the day wears on the tiger and its kin gather at the edge of the adobe patio or on the metal cap over the septic tank, where they crawl about the edges, searching under the cracks for invertebrate morsels. Shadows passing over the whiptails will drive them into alarm, recalling their healthy fear of predatory birds. 

The whiptails’ family tree includes unisexual branches, populations consisting entirely of females. In these subspecies, mother lizards lay eggs which hatch into their identical daughters, clones which can perpetuate their genetics without the help of men. This process is called parthenogenesis. (Sometimes these virgin births require a ritual of ‘simulated copulation’ between two females in order to induce them, which distinguishes parthenogenesis from the asexual reproduction of many simple organisms.) The sapphic societies of whiptails typically last a million years or so before their genetics fail or they rehybridize into a bisexual species. This trick may allow Aspidoscelis to survive hostile or unknown environments, preserving itself until sexual reproduction can begin anew. Or, it may be a simple quirk of evolution without a specific purpose. Either way, this trait reflects the essential mutability which has allowed whiptailed lizards to endure across many environments for millions of years, and which will likely ensure their survival long after the humans, SUVs, and even the stones of Castle Valley have crumbled to dust.

By Sam Allen

Sacred Datura

Sacred Datura

A hawk moth moves through the summer sky, his brown and pink wings slicing through the fog of a simmering evening in Castle Valley, Utah. Unlike the dozing mule deer and dozens of pinyon jay that flock to their nests overhead, the hawk moth’s night is only beginning. He flits his way through evening primrose and around the spines of a prickly pear, making his way to the heady, sweet scent of a white bud on the verge of blooming. Hovering like a hummingbird, he waits for the slow, slow opening of his favorite blossom; the Moonflower. 

This bloom is as beautiful as its name, spiraling out from its trumpet-like center as if reaching out, calling to any passerby to stop and sit with it for a moment. Each flower is a delicate, ephemeral thing, only opening to soak up the light of the moon for one night before slumping limply on its stem. This particular plant, nestled beside a patch of purple aster, is low and winding. Velvety green leaves sprawl from a purple stalk that roots in loose, disturbed soil, drawing water up from deep taproots. Its leaves bear visual evidence of its close relationship to the Hawk Moth, riddled with lace-like holes made by the mouths of tiny larvae. There's something enticing about this plant, a soft, cool vision in the harsh oranges and browns of Castle Valley. Yet, like the thorny seed pods concealed beneath its teardrop-shaped leaves, there's a danger lurking under its sweet scent and pearly blossoms. 

No one knows this danger better than the tiny Hawk Moth, who flocks night after night to the Moonflower, or Sacred Datura. The nectar of this plant is not only sustenance for him, but an addiction that keeps him enthralled. Hailing from the same family as nightshade and mandrake, Datura contains toxic alkaloids such as hyoscyamine, atropine, and scopolamine, making it a lethal snack for most inhabitants of the Moab desert. The leaves, flowers, roots and even seeds of the Datura plants contain these chemicals, giving them folknames like the Devil’s Work and Mad Apple. But some animals, like the Hawk Moth, have developed a delicate truce with the toxins, flirting with death in order to experience their intense hallucinogenic effects. Though he enjoys the Evening Primrose and Colorado Four O’Clocks that bloom nearby, it's Datura's narcotic high that the Hawk Moth is waiting for, beating his wings impatiently over the late-blooming flower. In exchange for its intoxicating nectar, he will bumble drunkenly from flower to flower, spreading pollen and propagating more Datura. Though this plant found its way to Castle Valley by human hands, traveling from a native plant nursery to find its home in the red soil of the valley floor, a small, younger plant about fifteen feet from where the Hawk Moth hovers is evidence of this pollination scheme’s success. 

Moths are not the only ones who have learned to benefit from Datura’s chemical effects. Three-lined potato beetles use the poison as a defense, eating leaves and then covering themselves in their excrement to ward off predators. Humans, also, have used the plant for generations, both as a potent ritual drug and simple decorative addition to their gardens. These relationships speak to the complicated nature of the Datura. There’s a duality to be found in almost all aspects of this plant. Soft petals grow right beside prickly seed-pods and fragrant flowers stem from acrid-smelling stalks. The hallucinations it causes are often frightening and dangerous, but it has played an important role as a sacred healer and ritual enhancer for countless human cultures. Even its relationship to the Hawk Moth is contradictory. On one hand, it seems to take advantage of the moth, forcing a dependence in order to ensure pollination. But it also provides sustenance and shelter for the moth’s young, letting them feed on its leaves as they grow. It is not entirely a helpful plant, but neither is it an entirely harmful one. Like much in the desert, it carries both the promise of beauty and danger, abundance and death. 

As the petals of the Moonflower finally open, though, its becomes hard to remember anything besides its beauty. The Hawk Moth, his patience rewarded by the slow bloom of this desert flower, unfurls his long tongue and takes a cool drink in the evening sun. He brushes some of the pollen on his head against the flower's stigmata as he lingers, fulfilling his role as the Datura’s primary pollinator. Satisfied and drowsy, he buzzes away to enjoy his high, leaving the white blossom in silence. Its petals held high against the setting sun, it begins its singular night of full, fragrant life in the Castle Valley stillness.

By Hannah Cuvin

Curly-Cup Gumweed

The Curlycup Gumweed Loudly Proclaims: “Chew on this!”  

Curlycup Gumweed (Grindelia squarosa)

Oh, what a wonderful thing for such sweetness to grow out of such corruption, for yellow petals to reside among blackened tar, for a green sticky bulb to arise from abandoned asphalt. One may see a healthy bunch of Curlycup Gumweed, capitalizing off the uninhabited soil underlying the hard concrete road, emerging through snaking cracks, unphased by the hurling motor vehicles mere inches away. Upon seeing this plant, on a roadside, vacant lot, or pasture, someone may exclaim, “You see, silly! We aren’t doomed; plants thrive on our industrialization!” Amidst the scorched remnants of natural fire or among the monotonous cheatgrass of a poorly managed rangeland, the Curlycup Gumweed grows out of disturbance, sprouting where no other vegetation has the chance to. 

This is not to say that Curlycup Gumweed can’t also be a product of soft soil cultivated by loving hands, as it is on 270 Pope Lane. Its condition of growth is almost as expansive as its native range, spanning most of western and southwestern North America. Here, it is speckled in bunches amidst an array of native and non-native species that have been intentionally placed or fortuitously found on this plot at the base of Castle Valley. While the vibrant growth on this land lies in opposition to the pale plains of cheatgrass that Curlycup is often associated with, it flourishes here, too. However, its success may not be evident in late September.

Today, its leaves are dry and cracking, twisting around itself, its flowering season is coming to a close. Weeks prior, you may have seen one of the 40 species of native bees it hosts hopping from a neighboring Showy Milkweed to the Gumweeds inflorescence, indulging in its glucose-heavy nectar. Its flower heads are the size of buttons, runtish as compared to their more acclaimed siblings in the sunflower family. The buds that haven’t already shriveled and browned are mostly pedal-less; only a few of its tops still shine yellow and flicker in the pounding Utah sun. 

While its bright yellow petals on top are readily depleting, its sticky, green, leaf-life, bracts are largely intact. Protruding in short tendrils that curve downward, they exude gummy resin. While this resin releases a sweet aroma, it is unpalatable to grazing insects who would otherwise see the weed as an addition to the herbaceous feast 270 Pope has to offer. It is not only insects that are deterred, but also creatures much larger. The Gumweed absorbs copious amounts of selenium from the soil, a chemical that is poisonous to ungulates. To this point, the same someone who took Gumweed to be a testament to the fallacy of climate change, may also exclaim; “Grazing can’t possibly be that detrimental to public land, look at this wonderful native plant left in abundance!” They have unfortunately failed to notice the myriad of other native grass and weed species that have been devastated by livestock. Capable of concentrating selenium 500 times the concentration of the soil, the Curlycup Gumweed simply got lucky in the face of cattle herds. 

Its sticky resin coating also allows the plant to absorb the UV-B spectrum from the sun, ensuring that its shadeless basking doesn’t lead to scorching. This absorption of the sun is not only a form of protection but of production the UV-B rays catalyze further secretion of resin. However, the resin doesn’t protect the plant from the increasingly colder days.

This seeming finale to a vibrant life, may or may not be deceiving. Curlycup Gumweed can be both biennial and perennial. If this particular plant is biennial, the closing of this flowering season may also be the closing of its two-year life span. However, it is possible that this Gumweed is a short-lived perennial, growing back a year or so more as its roots stay locked beneath the soil during months in which it’s too cold to be anywhere else. Its roots are both shallow and can extend deep - more than six  feet - within the soil, stretching itself out from a short, vertical, rhizome. This extensive root system collects and maintains moisture, allowing the plant to withstand long stretches of drought.  

Even if it’s the end for this particular plant, wedged next to a swaying Apache Plume, it has creatively ensured its future reproduction. One flavor of seed just isn’t enough for this resistant sunflower. Its seeds cluster to comprise the center of the flower head, as well as rim the perimeter at the base of its delicate petals. The center disk’s seeds germinate more quickly while those from the outside can hold longer in the soil, allowing germination to occur in different seasons and conditions. A gust of wind swooping down from the La Sal mountains may collect both the center seeds and the ray flowers’ seeds , depositing them in a nearby piece of disturbed bare soil, establishing a new plant in the exact same way this one had been.

By Tali Hastings

Showy Milkweed

One Small Step for Seed, One Giant Leap for Milkweedkind

Showy Milkweed – Asclepias speciosa

On a warm late-summer day, several years ago, a small oval was released from a showy milkweed in the north end of Castle Valley. The wind was swirling that day, and it pushed the seed through the air, before it landed on the south-facing side of a small house at 270 Pope Lane. When the seed landed, the dry clay soil greeted it with open arms. Soon after, the seed began sending roots downwards and a stalk upwards. Before a year passed, the seed had sprouted into a small but impressive showy milkweed. The first of its kind on 270 Pope. One small step for seed, one giant leap for milkweedkind.

Once the first stalk grew robust enough, it began to send out smaller roots, called rhizomes, horizontally, much like aspen does. These roots eventually sprouted upwards too, resulting in a small clump of milkweed. At first glance, one might not expect this small plant to be able to survive at 270 Pope. The air is hot and dry, and the ground is cracked by the lack of water in the desert climate. But these are the exact conditions that showy milkweed likes to live in. In the summertime, these small plants only need water a maximum of twice per season, and they can survive with close to no water for the entire season. But don’t let their current size fool you. Fast forward to 2022, and these plants are around four feet tall. Fast forward a few more years, and they will be close to 6 feet tall.

Showy milkweed is an impressive plant at full size. Growing together in clumps, the stalks have leaf pairs opposite each other, alternating on either side of the stalk. These leaves are heavy and soft, yet durable, almost like leather. They contain a thick liquid, called a latex. The latex has a chemical in it called cardenolide, which is toxic to many species. This is the milkweed’s defense mechanism. Monarch butterflies, however, are resistant to this chemical. They flock to milkweed clumps to lay their eggs.

One day, a monarch flew to this particular showy milkweed at 270 Pope. It laid one singular egg on the plant, near the top, on the underside of a leaf. All monarchs do this. Five days later, the egg hatched a larva. For the next ten days, the larva feasted on its own egg for sustenance, before turning to the soft leaves of the milkweed. While most insects do not eat milkweed because of the toxic latex, the monarch larva loves it. After the larva grew into a caterpillar, it faced a choice that all caterpillars face: leave the plant or stay for metamorphosis. This caterpillar decided to leave. Whether it made the right decision we will never know. It may not have survived the dangerous landscape, full of predators and harsh weather.

In 2022, the flowers of the milkweed bloomed in spring/early summer. Its flowers faced away from the reddish orange house, pointing towards the sun, in a beautiful crownlike mosaic of white, pink, and purple. The flowers are long gone by mid-September, withered away in the unrelenting sun. After the flowers bloomed, seed pods developed. These pods are hook-shaped and look almost spiky, as if Captain Hook upgraded his hook for extra intimidation. In late summer to early fall, these pods too crack under the intense heat and sun. When they crack, the seeds are let loose, carried by the wind to different five-acre plots throughout Castle Valley. Before this happens however, the flower must be pollinated by an insect.

One day in the summer of 2022, in the middle of June, a bee was attracted to the milkweed. The bee landed on the top of the flower, and its leg slipped into one of five vertical slits. The milkweed then attached a pollen sac to the bee’s leg, before releasing it. The bee happily flew off to bring the pollen to another plant. On the same day, another bee visited the milkweed. Carrying pollen from another plant, this bee landed on top of the flower. One of the bee’s legs landed in a slit, and the milkweed latched on. Desperate to escape, the bee put up a mighty struggle and flew away, but not before losing its leg and all of the pollen attached to it. But despite this venus flytrap-like design, the showy milkweed is not a vicious plant. It plays a critical role in the ecosystem, providing habitat for everything from butterflies to hummingbirds to native bees. Caterpillars even get protection from milkweed, because they pick up its toxins, making them taste bad to predators. And of course, the biggest benefit of showy milkweed, at least in the eyes of a human, is its ability to provide habitat and food for the iconic, large monarch butterflies.

So now our showy milkweed continues on, living through the unforgiving sun and this years’ climate-change induced drought. On 270 Pope, the milkweed is ever growing, searching for the next direction to send its rhizomes, pollen, and seeds to propagate its population.

By Henry Roller

Tall Evening Primrose

A Cyclical Nature

Tall Evening Primrose (Oenothera elata)

As a little girl I would run through the forest, hiding in the branches of trees taller than any building I’d seen, looking for flowers: flowers so small I would almost step on them before I noticed they were there and flowers so big they’d draw my attention from fifty feet away; flowers that smell good, and flowers that don’t, bushes with lots of flowers and stems with only one. I was enchanted with the flowers I found, often picking them all out of the ground, my grimy little fingers eager to get my eyes closer and see if I could find something new. I loved them all. 

With the blink of an eye, I flash to an early September morning twelve years later; I was walking with my eyes intensely fixed on the ground to make sure my slippers wouldn’t get caught in the cacti hidden among the cheatgrass and sagebrush, straining my eyes to try and find a cleared path as the sun crowns over the ridge of the canyon. As I walked from my sleeping pad to our kitchen, I strayed from the path and wove through patches of purple flowers, tall bushy plants, and short solar lights still on from the night before - and noticed a set of vibrant yellow flowers. 

I was immediately transported from 270 Pope Lane back to the forest next to my childhood home. My body turned from its tired 19-year-old self, back to the eager seven-year-old I used to see when I looked in the mirror. In twelve years, I must’ve learned to resist my urges because instead of plucking the plant from the stalks that reach my chest, I leaned in to take a closer look at those familiar yellow flowers. I was astonished at what stared back at me: four heart-shaped petals, not a grain of pollen left in the dixie cup sitting delicately in the center of them. My heart skipped a couple beats as I was confident that I was standing, mouth-agape, in front of an Evening Primrose; I’m captivated by them... my mind floods with memories of sitting in a lawn chair at dusk staring at the plant. 

Each year I would have to toggle my watch spot with the growth of the plants, from outside my bedroom window, to the front of my house, and every summer night, like clockwork, I would find myself outside waiting. Creating small data sheets of how many buds would metamorphose into flowers each evening from June to early September. My birthday, July 13, often ended up being one of the nights with the most blooms of the summer - sometimes almost two dozen flowers on one stalk. Early June and September were scarce, sometimes I’d sit there for almost an hour, waiting for the stalk of the plant to start shaking and cue me that they were about to begin the familiar dance I watched all summer. Those nights only a handful would dance. 

Though their stems are tall and narrow, following a straight path through the world, the flowers are not. Each one willing to share their pollen with the hawkmoths, patiently waiting around the corner, and each one willing to receive pollen from the plant next door. The leaves along the stem range from the ground to the tip and are as short as my middle three fingers pressed together or as long as the length of my stretched hand, tip of my thumb to end of my pinky. 

They are much more than just a plant to me. I feel connected to them; each time they bloom, a part of me expands. Evening Primroses are often overlooked, as they are a meter-tall bushy plant of plain green leaves in the mid-day and afternoon. But at night, if you take a moment to stop and pay attention, they share themselves with you. They teach you to keep questioning, never stop learning, looking, and growing; they are bold enough to live an un-average life cycle: each flower alive for less than half a human day, confident they can fulfill their duty in just twelve short hours. Each September their last flower will bloom and their stalks will die, and each June, like clockwork, they will return.

By Gwen Empie

Cheatgrass

Cheatgrass, Bromus tectorum

To some ears, this is a story of evolutionary victory. To some, a story of human failure. But of whom it concerns, this is a story simply of survival, and besides—that whom it concerns is without the ears required to celebrate territory won or to mourn ecosystems lost. At 270 Pope Lane, cheatgrass, Bromus tectorum, has, inarguably, found the best way to survive on the arid landscape. And, as far as cheatgrass is concerned, that’s all that counts. Survival, plain and simple. 

To those who witness, interplay, and compete with cheatgrass, it is harder to take such a hands-off stance. Cheatgrass was born in the arid regions of North Africa, southern Europe, and southwestern Asia—a plant that straddled three continents, with the dream to tackle more. As apes learned to stand on their hind legs, walk, and from there to travel, cheatgrass found the perfect vector—and, hitching a ride on these eager explorers, cheatgrass expanded its range. From the greater Mediterranean area, cheatgrass traveled by seeded dirt on ships, on animal furs, on the cuffs of pants onto which it would latch with its barbed seeds—gripping for the life of its DNA, gripping with the intensity of its will to power. Cheatgrass found many homes—in the mountain steppes of Japan, in the sheep hills of New Zealand, along roadsides in Appalachia, amongst glaciers in Greenland. In all these places, cheatgrass prioritized being neighborly, taking what it needed, but not more—for cheatgrass knew this isn’t where it would settle and spread. But when cheatgrass found the American West—dry desert, rolling plains, and arid mesas—it sank its thin roots in and took hold, and the West bent to it. Juniper, sagebrush, blue grama, switchgrass—all these took issue with their new aggressive neighbor, and as they were pushed out, cheatgrass transformed the West. And the plant found a partner in the most powerful player of the region: cheatgrass’ thin stalk and downturned seeds aren’t nutritionally dense enough for the rugged native grazers of the West, but the West was turning itself over to cattle, and cattle and cheatgrass couldn’t get enough of each other. The short lifecycle and quick turnover rate of the plant lent itself well to the unending appetite of these massive ungulates, and cheatgrass grew and was grazed, again and again, doing anything to hitch a ride for its seeds in the migrating stool the cows and bulls dropped. Cattle and cheatgrass, in hushed tones, silently and successfully spread their way across the West, changing the landscape to suit their needs. Cattle liked cheatgrass’ high protein and prolific spread; cheatgrass liked how the cattle dried out  riparian areas that are too wet for the plant to take root. Where the two went, the West bent to fit them, and they found other unlikely allies: while native species like juniper and sagebrush are resistant to wildfire, cheatgrass burns hot and fast—and after the ashes have cooled, cheatgrass is the quickest to seed and replenish the ground. As the dry West turned drier under drought, cheatgrass also found an ally; needing very little water, the plant was able to outcompete native species who are accustomed to a baseline of hydration. For sagebrush, for blue grama, four ’o’clock, for Indian ricegrass—cheatgrass saw an opportunity, and gentrified the neighborhood. 

At 270 Pope Lane, there are many species, living in somewhat harmony. And then there is cheatgrass, who takes up the most rent, but whose range is pushed to the outskirts, away from walking paths, away from windows. Some call the plant pathetic, the way its weak stem folds over under the weight of its own seeds. But cheatgrass, like the country it has taken foot in, knows how to capitalize on an opportunity. It saw that opportunity in the American West, and with very few attempting to stop it, it kept on going. And so, cheatgrass reigns dominant at 270 Pope Lane. Some may call this a failure; some may call this a success. For the American West, this is the new reality—cheatgrass is here, sinking its thin roots in and gripping tight.

By Apple Lieser

Broom Snakeweed

Sketching Snakeweed

Gutierrezia sarothrae – Broom Snakeweed

My knees tucked into my chest, I sit curled under a bushy sagebrush to find refuge in the snippet of shade shared by the bush’s soft green leaves. I sketch the small yellow blossoms of Gutierrezia sarothrae, broom snakeweed. They grow in clusters atop the green stalks branching off the shrub’s woody base, barely bigger than my pencil eraser and matching its bright golden color. Each bloom has tiny round disc flowers with the plant’s male stamens and female pistil poking up out of a ring of oval ray flowers, bright yellow color drawing insect pollinators that linger nearby. Most of the petal-like ray flowers have unfurled on the plant I’m drawing, creating a sunny mosaic of blooms and buds. Layers of tiny green bracts that look like scales connect each blossom to their stems. These bracts, along with the composite flowers made of numerous, individual ray and/or disc flowers, make broom snakeweed a member of the Asteraceae or sunflower family. 

The broom snakeweed plants spent this summer soaking in the sun, growing into round yellow domes about a foot tall. The plants look small compared to the plants they neighbor, intertwining with stalks of Indian ricegrass, sprawling Colorado four o’clock, and fronds of sagebrush. Broom snakeweed nestles into distinct communities of plants throughout the West, growing in a variety of ecosystems. In sagebrush-strewn intermountain desert regions, like Castle Valley, broom snakeweed accompanies shadscale, black sagebrush, sand dropseed,, and gramas. The same plant might grow alongside big sagebrush, rabbitbrush, and downy chess on foothills and in juniper-pinyon forests, or with mesquite and soapweed in Southwestern oak forests and lower ranges. 

I burrowed a shovel into the rust-red soil in the yard, digging up one of the many broom snakeweed plants to peek at its roots. One main taproot extends downward, with a halo of smaller periphery roots holding on to clumps of soil. The taproot reaches down to draw in water, extending as far as two feet deep, while the smaller roots anchor the woody stem. The dual root system provides an advantage over grasses’ shallow roots, allowing broom snakeweed to take up moisture before it’s sucked away by other plants. Sketching the roots, I move to the long, thin leaves twisting out from the stem in every direction. Each leaf has miniscule pores, called stomata, that draw up moisture and transpire. Seeking water despite the arid soil, they strive to quench the plant’s thirst during the summer but can drop off if drought becomes intolerable. Without leaves, broom snakeweed can still photosynthesize through their green stems, adapted to the baking sun of the West. 

The plants sprouted in early spring, jumping at the invitation to root in the red soil when the two people who live at 270 Pope cleared cheatgrass away from parts of their yard to let native plants establish. In other areas of the West, broom snakeweed sprouts after fires, heavy grazing, or road construction, seizing the opportunity to spread without competition from grasses, sagebrush, or rabbitbrush. 

The plants were dormant seeds lying in the soil at 270 Pope, buried under a layer of cheatgrass duff. Though the seeds were mature after 6 months, they waited – perhaps for years – for a disturbance, to reach the light they need to germinate and poke up through the soil. The seeds also sought moderate temperatures, waiting for 59- to 86-degree weather to start to grow.

The winter wind that blew seeds to 270 Pope spreads broom snakeweed throughout its range across western North America, from Alberta in Canada to Texas. Without wings or insect carriers to direct the spread of seeds, broom snakeweed flies on gusts of wind for dispersal and often grows in clustered groups. Though the seeds hope to land on well drained, limestone clay loam, broom snakeweed can tolerate a variety of soils – sandy, shallow, rocky, or gravelly, if the soil is well drained. Here at 270 Pope Lane, broom snakeweed found brick red river-deposited sediment, matching the warm glow of Castleton Tower. 

My pencil sketch doesn’t capture the vibrant yellow and green of broom snakeweed, standing out against the rust-colored soil and brilliant blue sky. Though they’ll die back in the winter, these plants scattered around 270 Pope will cling to some of their sunny color as they dry out and linger in the cold, growing again when spring comes to Castle Valley. As I stand up from my patch of sagebrush shade, shaking the pins and needles from my legs, I walk across 270 Pope to encounter broom snakeweed plants scattered all over the plot. They’ll grow for four to seven years, reaching up to a yard high – tall enough, perhaps, to cast a shadow for me to crouch under as I sketch a new resident of 270 Pope Lane.

By Ellen Haney

Mormon Tea

The Tea of Hope 

Mormon Tea (Ephedra viridis)

Southeast of the chocolate, muddied waters and nestled in a red rock cradle, resides a thriving ecosystem. This ecosystem of flora and fauna dwells at 270 Pope Lane in Castle Valley, Utah. The southwestern sun illuminates the sides of the rocky crib, casting light from the tops of the canyon walls, down to the Juniper trees that lay midway down, slowly illuminating the entire space as the day approaches noon. On the valley floor, the 270 Pope residents welcome the light after a dewy dawn. 

 On a flat rock slab, the Western Whiptail soaks up the sweltering midday sun. On sensing the contrasting shadow of an approaching footstep, the desert lizard darts away in a flash. On a diagonal pathway from the driveway to the back side of the house, the Pinyon Jay flaps to a tall garden pole, and perches atop it, remaining still as if a statue. At first a black buzzing ink splot, then clearer as it approaches, the Montana Beetle clumsily hovers, then lands on my toe. This sets the fauna scene as I sit in the presence of the mighty, stoic Mormon Tea shrub, wondering about its duties as a floral resident of 270 Pope. 

  With my colored pencils in hand, I sketch the Mormon Tea as questions swirl in my mind. How did this craggy claw-like spray of a plant get here? Did Mormons really use it to make tea? Why does it so closely resemble horsetail, a plant I associate with wetlands, the opposite climate and setting? Luckily, I have the tools to answer these questions. 

 Sitting with the Mormon Tea, my companionable shrub, I flip through several horticulture books, settled in the shade of the large Sand Sagebrush and next to the Broom Snakeweed. A strong gust of wind shoots through the red rock cradle, disrupting the upright nature of the dry, desert flora. The plants lean with the wind, seemingly defeated by the gale force—all but the Mormon Tea, which stands stout and solid.

 This sturdy shrub stands no more than four feet tall and is almost spherical in appearance, like a huge, skeletal yoga ball. Its gnarled woody trunk diverges into several thick woody stems that branch outward and then upward. But this skeleton seems invisible, as its clusters of rigid upward-facing, green needles encase it, creating the spherical shell. With a closer look, one notices that the needles are jointed, a new set of two symmetrical ones sprouting from the original joint.

 If it were not for the current human residents planting these few Mormon Tea shrubs here, the plant would have likely populated itself via wind pollination, perhaps on a gusty day such as this. Ephedra viridis, or Mormon Tea, is one of 40 species within the genus Ephedra. This plant is “large-seeded” and the seeds spread by wind. Besides wind propagation, the sprightly kangaroo rat, indigenous to the region, also contributes to the growth of Mormon Tea populations by caching large seeds to later disperse throughout the land. 

 It would be a happy day were that kangaroo rat to scatter some seeds. Mormon Tea is native to the American Southwest after all, and serves essential ecological roles. For example, as the West has become drier and warmer with climate change, the land has experienced dramatic weather fluctuations with hotter hots and colder colds. As a product of these changes, the land has been altered—more flooding, more erosion. Mormon Tea serves as a staple in the land that sends roots down to secure loose sediment and prevent it from crumbling and creating further erosion. But as things erode, they also evolve. Mormon Tea can say this of itself. 

 Mormon Tea evolved to be able to photosynthesize in a way that fit its anatomy. While most plants intake carbon dioxide and sunlight through their leaves to fuel themselves, this woody shrub adapted to absorb carbon dioxide and sunlight via tiny scales on its needles. Even more than purely intaking energy for survival, Mormon Tea has learned how to undergo “secondary growth ,” a process by which the needle’s girth increases, making the plant much more likely to survive wildfires, a common process in the West. Finally, Mormon Tea has also outsmarted part of the threat of browsing that western plants face. By producing toxic tannins, Mormon Tea poisons livestock that choose to nibble its needles, making it a more resilient plant likely to survive.  

In the 270 Pope community, Mormon Tea represents resilience. It demonstrates steadfastness. It suggests hope. Mormon Tea stands solid and sturdy, not easily taken down. While the West undergoes change, surely so does Mormon Tea. But while it sometimes appears that our surroundings are only eroding and breaking down, in the natural world they are also evolving and building up. So may I suggest, go steep yourself a bunch of needles, and have a sip of some of the tea of hope, Mormon Tea.

By Katie Spegar

Blue Grama

Oh Grama, Where Art Thou

Blue Grama (Bouteloua gracilis)

Midafternoon sunlight plasters the red canyon walls. It bakes the cheatgrass an iridescent gold and barrages the iron-tinted dirt blanketing 270 Pope Lane, an unassuming property resting quietly on the Castle Valley floor. Tucked behind a barn-red tool shed lies a native grass, Bouteloua gracilis or Blue Grama, standing erect and poised. Once littered with cheatgrass, like much of the grazed West, 270 Pope is now a 5-acre haven for species native to the Southwest region of North America. Blue Grama, a pioneer species, found its way to the property as soon as the invasive outlaws were removed, setting its roots in the arid soils and eventually proliferating in scattered bushes across the property. 

The bunches that litter 270 Pope are not grazed by cattle, and hence appear as their namesake implies, tall and graceful. Their roots are strong, fibrous, yet shallow for a perennial, residing in the top 6-18 inches of the soil. Thus, the compaction of soils by grazing herbivores in Castle Valley had been unproblematic for them. Water will rest in the very top layers of soils after large herds have compacted the soils. But despite the lack of percolation, the shallow root system of Blue Grama allows for the gathering of water, making them well adapted to the cattle grazing of the last two centuries. 

However, Castle Valley is exceptionally dry, regardless of cattle presence. But, Blue Grama resists the urge to overindulge in the little liquid that rests in their arid home. Their callous roots  can remain dry through long, waterless stretches, making them incredibly tolerant to the droughts that plague the valley of 270 Pope. When waters flee for prolonged periods of time, Blue Grama will enter a deep stupor, clinging on to life in a breathless dormancy, shedding exterior stems until the moisture levels of the body equilibrate with the soil.  And, when rains return, they will spring back in force, unapologetic in their fullness, in vibrant greens and beet purples.

The Blue Grama on 270 Pope breathe a sigh of relief. Residing in a mostly fenced enclosure, far from prying cattle, they are unfazed  by the prospect of grazing. While very well adapted to the soils compacted by grazing cattle herds, Blue grama do not thrive under such conditions. Overgrazing from cattle will leave them unimaginably stout, stripping them of the grace after which they were named.

Ungrazed, Blue Grama will build beautiful homes, starting from a single stem and expanding cyclically through tillers, rhizomatous or above ground. As they continue to clone outwards, the initial stems will fade into a quiet death, resulting in a grassy periphery ring, hugging the exposed dirt left in the wake of the brittle elder stems. And, as if its graceful stiffness and homebuilding prowess weren’t enough, they produce a wildly decorative flower head (for a grass, that is), comb-like and purple, due to horizontal alignment of seeds along one side of each spike. Once mature, each spike will curl upwards, revealing its purple underbelly, and spreading the teeth of its comb to reveal pollen-containing anthers, releasing their pollen to winds.

In late summer, the Blue grama nears the end of its growing season. It’s late September and they will grow until the first winter frosts which can engulf the valley in a month’s time. They have been photosynthesizing for a mere 40-50 days this year, since late spring, when the cool temperatures receded and the soils exposed themselves to the warm rays of sunlight, reflecting off the stone monolith, visible from the heights of their flowering heads, standing erect and graceful, mimicking the posture of the Blue Grama’s desire. They are finally reaching maturity, dispersing their seeds, beginning the upward curl of their seed stalks, and losing their rich colors. It will be many months before they begin their regrowth, but on 270 Pope they will be safe, free from cattle grazing, and nurtured.

By Jonah Rosen-Bloom

Pinyon Jay

Pinyons and Pines 

Pinyon Jay  (Gymnorhinus cyanocephalus)

Somewhere along the edges of the pinyon and juniper-lined slopes of eastern Castle Valley, you’ll find a strange little bird. It might be walking, not hopping, along the forest floor, searching for one of its thousands of seed caches. Or it might be roosted in the shrubby branch of a juniper tree, along with hundreds more of its flock nearby. This bird is the Pinyon Jay, a seven-to-nine-inch, pale blue bird with a strong black beak, specialized in extracting the seeds from pinyon cones. Pinyon Jays belong to the Corvidae family, along with Crows, Ravens, Clark’s Nutcrackers, and other Jays. Pinyon Jays, Ravens and Magpies are the most common Corvids in Castle Valley. All the birds in this family share the bold and noisy behavior, food caching abilities, and stiff feathers around the nostril. However, the Pinyon Jay is the unique exception: it lacks the nose feathers, coining it the Gymnorhinus or… “naked nose”. The Corvids are a dominant family of birds and at least one species can be found in every terrestrial North American habitat. Pinyon Jays are monogamous (meaning may mate for life) and will live with up to 300 other PJs in one flock. Both sexes (indistinguishable by plumage) with help in creating the nest where the female will lay 2-5 sub-elliptical eggs, incubating the penultimate egg first. PJs have only one brood a year and the average adult survival is 75-90% annually. All Corvids stash food in either trees or buried in the ground, digging them up regularly to check/remember where they left them. These seeds will be their source of food in winter. PJs are known to have the greatest memory of the Corvids, stashing well over 1000 caches each.

The Pinyon Jay is fundamentally intertwined with the pinyon-juniper forests that it inhabits. As for Castle Valley, the juniper dwell at lower elevations than the pinyon, mainly on the lower margins of the cliffs and up valley. The main source of food for the birds is the seeds inside the pinyon pinecones, holding lots of fat and calories. Pinyon Jays will travel together in their 50-75 bird flocks to a section of trees on the outskirts of pinyon-juniper forests and gather up to 50 or so seeds. They hold them all in a specially adapted neck pouch and then together they’ll fly five to eight kilometers away from their nesting site to a more exposed sage section of the forest to cache them in the ground. Having the pinyon seeds and juniper berries as their primary food source, the Pinyon Jays population is following the decline of these forests. Climate change is introducing more intense droughts to the already arid Southwest and Colorado Plateau and is forcing these forests’ population to drop. Century-long fire suppression in the West has led to increased fuel for megafires to rip across the country and burn pinyon-juniper forests, forcing thousands of Pinyon Jays to relocate. In a masting year (when the crop of seeds in pinyon-juniper forests is dramatically higher than the year before) Pinyon Jays will work extra hard to bury and remember every seed they can get. Even in doing so, come spring, they will have forgotten or left up to 5% of seeds in the ground, successfully dispersing the forests seeds. Pinyon Jays select caches in favorable locations in light of  hospitable habitats, which closely matches with the forest's ideal habitat in turn, allowing the perimeters of pinyon-juniper forest to move towards a more habitable environment in the face of climate change.

If you were to sit on the front porch of the house at 270 Pope Ln, you could watch flocks of Pinyon Jays fly directly overhead, flapping intermittently with strong, fast strokes, calling to each other with every alight. They’d be headed east, towards their pinyon pines and junipers. Being Corvids, one of the smartest family of birds, they move across the sky with swiftness and direction, sentinel birds on lookout for danger or food.  In your case, you might witness one of these sentry birds see the large amount of corn kernels or sunflower seeds you left in a feeder in the yard and change its course. You’d watch as all the little LBJ’s (little brown jabbies) scatter into hiding places amongst the Curl Leaf Mountain Mahogany or Fremont Cottonwood, giving up their space for these larger avian friends. The Pinyon Jays would roll up like a motorcycle gang, sentinel bird thrashing the corn to the ground where its family picks up the sweet seed. You’d watch the bird feeder slowly empty, and once it did, the Jays would continue their pursuit towards the familiar forests that skirt eastern Castle Valley. Their favorite candy shop at 270 Pope Lane, right on the way home. Cautiously, the Sparrows and Meadowlarks return to the feeder to clean up the scraps of the afternoon calamity. Tomorrow you’ll fill the feeder again and wait for the strange little birds to come again.

By Thomas McElfresh

Apache Plume

Adventures of a Water Molecule

Apache Plume (Fallugia paradoxa)

Time and weather chip away at the massive rock formations that give Castle Valley its name, slowly grinding the bright red structures into the sand and soil. Nestled in this auburn sand is the tip of a taproot that belongs to an Apache Plume, or Fallugia paradoxa, on a five-acre plot of land called 270 Pope Lane in late September. 

The taproot reaches through the soil searching for water and nutrients. It needs water to convert the ample sun and fresh air from the valley into useable energy. However, the dry, rust-colored soils of 270 Pope do not fully satisfy the Apache Plume. Its ancestors evolved in sites closer to water, dwelling next to rivers and streams across the American Southwest. Its undomesticated brethren thrive in semi-riparian areas with more moisture than this Apache Plume’s current location. Another plant in the Apache Plume’s family, the cliffrose, would happily thrive in this dry area. While both are members of the Rosaceae family, the cliffrose only needs the amount of water provided by the pinyon and juniper shrublands next to 270 Pope Lane. 

But this Apache Plume never lived at the mercy of wild, irregular precipitation. It grew up in a nursery with regular watering cycles before getting transplanted to its current location. Even now, it suckles the precious liquid from black, plastic driplines.

Once the roots collect water, the liquid shoots upwards through specialized tubes into the trunk. From there, the water follows the Apache Plume’s structure as it divides into a handful of branches. The sun-bleached branches rise a few inches, then some bend eastward. At this point, the layered, silvery bark smooths itself out into more continuous, slightly darker bark. Occasionally, the branches provide shade to the desert’s lizards and other organisms during the hottest part of the day. The Apache Plume has no qualms about having visitors, assuming they leave its bark and roots intact.

The water continues pushing upwards through the myriad paths within the Apache Plume’s twigs towards the leaves. Not much larger than the size of a pea, the leaves vary in design, with younger ones bearing only three points and modeling a yellowish or sometimes lime green color. Those that have spent more days under the sun have had time to divide themselves into more points and acquire a deeper green color. The water ends its journey as it enters the leaf’s cells where it will be used for photosynthesis.

Some of the resources that the Apache Plume produces through photosynthesis go towards the plant’s most well-known endeavor: producing flowers and fruit. Starting in late Spring, the Apache Plume starts growing pastel green flower buds. Out from each of these, a bloom slowly unfurls five, delicate white petals. They stagger their appearances, with some starting earlier in the season and others waiting for a few weeks. Right now, in late September, the Apache Plume still displays a few small white blooms. A pair of mountaineering ants climb up the Apache Plume into the remaining open flower in search of the sweet, nutritious nectar it provides for them. Many of the bees and butterflies in the valley also covet this blossom. Some of the visitors the Apache Plume expects are the painted lady, checkered white, and two-tailed swallowtail butterflies. The Apache Plume expects many honeybees to visit as well, though few are present at this site.. However, the Apache Plume is more familiar with native bees, like the California Carpenter Bees, because its ancestors spent time with them. 

After the flowers get their time in the spotlight, the true pride of the Apache Plume emerges: the signature white and pink feathered tufts that gave its common name.  The buds containing the plant’s fruits open to uncover a swirl of striped cotton candy, the feather-like structures. With red shafts and white plumes, they uncurl and assemble into a fan-like pattern in the wind. This produces a shimmery pink tuft, many of which are present on the ends of the Apache Plume’s higher limbs today in late September. These are among the last of the season, but they still entice attention from several creatures in the valley, including the pollinators that helped produce them. 

In a few weeks, the last of these fruits will fall off the branches and the colder weather will set in. Come winter, snow will arrive, driving the deer and elk down from the mountains. A third of the La Sals herd passes through the valley, and they like to munch on the Apache Plume’s leaves during their journey. The Apache Plume tolerates this and grows back after the weather warms up. Eventually, it will start preparing to grow flowers again once the spring comes.

By Sonia Burns

Narrowleaf Yucca

A Moth and her flower

Narrowleaf Yucca (Yucca angustissima)

It is springtime in Castle Valley. Birds start to return, trees begin to replace their leaves, and the Narrowleaf Yucca unfurls its petals. A Tegeticula yuccasella moth crawls out of an underground cocoon, exposing her newly grown wings to the air for the first time. Noticing the Narrowleaf overhead is open for business, the moth sets out on her maiden voyage, her destination hanging three feet in the air. Alighting on a soft white petal, , the moth waits for a male counterpart to do the same. Mating season for the Tegeticula moth is off to a slow start.

The Tegeticula moth has mated solely in the flowers of the Narrowleaf for over thirty million years. The moth has a mutualistic relationship with this Yucca, acting as its sole pollinator. The moth and Yucca’s successful mutual relationship spread across the American Southwest, including into Castle Valley. After millions of years of peaceful existence, cows arrived in Castle Valley, decimating the Narrowleaf population. Both ranchers and cows dislike its sharp and waxy leaves. The plant’s removal and the subsequent proliferation of cheatgrass blanketing the valley in a thin but impenetrable layer of biomass for the Narrowleaf greatly reduced its numbers. As a result, Tegeticula moth habitat in the valley decreased substantially. 

Finally, a male moth finds his way into the blooming Yucca, commencing the simultaneous act of moth mating and Yucca pollination. Finishing his job of fertilizing the female Tegeticula’s eggs, the male dies, leaving the female to finish the pollination job. The newly solo Tegeticula collects pollen and sticks it under her head for safe keeping. With her cargo, the Tegeticula embarks on her final voyage, searching for a new flower to lay her eggs in. For decades, this has been a difficult search. The sprawling blanket of cheatgrass successfully crowds out any Narrowleaf that wants to welcome the moth to its flower. 

This time however, after a lengthy search, the Tegeticula finds a solitary three-foot stalk, alone on an island of red dirt surrounded by a barren ocean of cheatgrass. White flowers adornthe stalk, rising out of a rosette of narrow, sharp, green leaves. At last, the Tegeticula can finish her tasks. Making one last push of her wings, the Tegeticula lands on a petal, quickly walks deep into the flower, and deposits her eggs in the ovary. In her dying act, she walks back up the flower to the stigma and places the pollen carefully in the opening. The Tegeticula’s job is done. 

The Narrowleaf begins to develop its seeds over the following week, while the Tegeticula eggs develop a larva inside. After a week, Tegeticula larvae hatch and begin to eat the developing seeds. The Narrowleaf is different than other species in the Yucca genus because it holds more seeds than most, and consequently can host the highest number of Tegeticula larvae. These larvae will eat 15% of the Narrowleaf’s seeds and accumulate an entire life’s worth of biomass prior to bursting out of the fruit and retreating to the ground to build their winter cocoon. The other 85% of the seeds will be dispersed by other animals, insects, and birds throughout the summer, reaping the benefits set in motion by the Tegeticula during the spring. 

The work of one moth began a long chain reaction that feeds an ecosystem with the fruit of the Yucca. Before the fruit can develop, it must be pollinated. In order for the Yucca to continue its genetic legacy, it must offer its seeds to the loyal moth who pollinates it, and after the moth eats its fill, the rest of the animals in Castle Valley can come and shop at the grocery store of the Narrowleaf. These animals will soon drop a seed a distance away, beginning the process for another Narrowleaf to sprout and provide more than just one solitary stalk for the Tegeticula to land on, as the process begins all over again.

By Nat Lange

Colorado 4 O'clock

Inter-kingdom Symphony

Colorado Four O’clock (Mirabilis multiflora)

As the sun rises above Castleton Tower on the eastern border of the valley, another day is just about to begin. Seas of plants nestled on the five-acre-plot in Castle Valley, Utah are about to embrace another day of sunlight. There are a few things that are abundant in this small ecosystem—sunlight, carbon dioxide, and nutrients. Beyond the irrigation dripline laid down by Homo sapiens, water—the quintessential source of life—appears at first glance to be almost absent from the five-acre plot. That important characteristic defines the plants that thrive on 270 Pope. Each individual plant species has to have developed ways to counter the lack of water and that certainly includes the Colorado Four O’clock.

Scientists call the Colorado Four O’clock Mirabilis multiflora—characteristically named after multiple flowers blossoming on a singular root. A single Four O’Clock can have its flowers spread up to 4-6 feet wide, stemming from just one root. With the sun high over the horizon, the Four O’clock sees this as an opportunity to store as much energy as possible for the grand reveal that happens later in the evening. With petals and sepals closed, the leaves of the Four O’clock are the workhorse in the searing sun, turning carbon dioxide and water into energy. That desert sun comes as a double-edged sword: plants need sunlight to photosynthesize, however the sun also makes water evaporate more easily. The sun swipes across the horizon as the day goes by. For the Colorado Four O’clock, the day isn’t ending quite yet. Colorado Four O’clock spreads throughout the 5-acre property, soaking the last bit of sunlight, getting ready for the symphony that occurs right after dark. Soon, Castleton Tower turns from bright red to mellow pink just as stars in the sky reveal their faces. The darkness of the night provides another opportunity for the Colorado Four O’clock to shine. As photosynthesis ceases in the darkness, hormones in the Four O’clock instruct its flowers to open, in preparation for the start of the next generation. 

When the darkness arrives on 270 Pope Lane, Colorado Four O’clock is running against the clock of time. The stage for an inter-kingdom symphony is set and ready to go. The bright pink flower gently opens, revealing its reproductive structures. Meanwhile, a fleet of aerial pollen dispersers are about to descend onto a field of freshly made foods. For the Colorado Four O’clock, Hawkmoths are the exclusive partners in this symphony. Colorado Four O’clock uses the energy produced during photosynthesis in the daylight to produce nectars—a sugary part of the flower that attracts pollinators like the Hawkmoth. For the flowers themselves, this is a once in a lifetime experience; these flowers will never bloom tomorrow night. The production of nectars is nothing short of rocket science; it is the only tool available to the Four O’clock to control hawkmoths’ behaviors as pollinators. Producing sugary parts like nectars is incredibly energy intensive for the four o’clock. Meanwhile, producing a larger volume of nectars does not necessarily come with more benefits to the four o’clock. As a plant with multiple flowers, large nectar volumes increase the probability for hawkmoths to visit flowers in the same plant, making self-pollination more likely, which decreases the genetic variability of the whole species. And yet, producing small amounts of nectar decreases the probability for enough hawkmoths to visit a number of the four o’clocks in order for cross pollination to occur. For the Colorado Four O’clock, getting the nectar size just right is essential to the genetic fitness of the species. 

Perhaps the Colorado Four O’clock is teaching the rest of the ecosystem an important lesson—things have to be just right. The success of an ecosystem depends on a myriad of factors working in concert to ensure the checks and balances of all species. This carefully calibrated ecosystem requires everything to be perfect. Either too much or too little will wreak havoc in the system. This deliberate equilibrium results from generations of evolution. Each generation’s attempts at trying new things ultimately culminates in the magical symphony performed by forbes and moths. That inter-kingdom collaboration not only displays the interwovenness of the biological world, but perhaps the fundamental beauty of everything depending on one another to thrive.

By Jake Wang

Curl-Leaf Mountain Mahogany

An Evergreen Bridge

Curl-leaf Mountain Mahogany (Cercocarpus ledifolius)

Curl-leaf Mountain Mahogany is found in every county in Utah, so it's not surprising to see it shooting from the red soil here in Castle Valley. The red soil underneath it and the red of  Castleton Tower looming over is bridged by the mahogany’s feral uncultivated limbs, its chaotic reach being one of the few links of green that extends from the soil to the towers. Cercocarpus ledifolius likes it best that way, with little competition aside from herbaceous plants and grasses immediately surrounding it. It could thrive without those low lying partners as well, as it does on the southernly slopes of many exposed ridgelines, but at 270 Pope Lane, its immediate radius is filled with forbs. Other woody plants aren’t far, but were they closer, Cercocarpus might not be thriving as it is now, curled leaves like miniature spear blades shooting off of every available nodule, the majority aimed at the sun in the southern sky.

At higher elevation, the overstory of the aspen is turning brilliant, shades of bright green and gold lit by flashes as the sun pokes through hovering mist. Closer to the clouds, groves of curl-leaf refuse to turn. They’re evergreen, and while the aspen struggle to repopulate through the hordes of ungulates underneath them and lack forage in the winter, Cercocarpus ledifolius endures browsing throughout the year, providing forage when the deciduous sources are gone and the forbs are covered in snow. Curl-leaf also struggles to repopulate through browsing pressure, but on 270 Pope, the mahogany sees far less of that browsing. Without as strong of a natural pruning pressure, the low tree takes on a shrub’s demeanor, extending every which way, limbs mishap and uncultivated. The specimen itself, however, is not. In a functioning stand of curl-leaf, propagation spirals from seed, its striking, curly-tailed fruits providing hope after mortality. There’s not much to kill it here on this property in Castle Valley, and not much to cull its growth either. No fire, little browsing, and nothing around to shade it out. Its plight in grazed areas is a lack of new growth, yet its lifespan leaves Curl-leafs’ prosperity dependent not on aging out, like aspen, but on stand level disturbance, such as fire.

Cercocarpus ledifolius may have been shaking when lightning ignited cheatgrass just a few acres away, but the low-fuel area around the home on 270 Pope lent it a relatively safe haven. Unlike its closest relation, True mountain mahogany, curl-leaf rarely survives fire. Stand replacing events are the norm in the fire regime, but given its acceptance of poor, well-drained soils, stands often grow in areas of little fuel. It isn’t totally foreign then to longevity like it may see on 270 Pope. Cercocarpus ledifolius is one of the longest lived flowering plants, its millenia of life putting the comparative life of the two small houses on 270 Pope in doubt, and possibly reaching beyond the limit of the parcel, as the property lines and fences fade with time. Having originated in a local nursery, it had none of the struggles of competition in early stages, yet its deep roots have reached far into the deposits of alluvium here, fixing nitrogen, cementing its role and place in this corner of Castle Valley. Its leaves curl over at the edges, feigning wilt, yet persisting through the extremes of drought that have passed and will inevitably continue. Given more seasons, this Cercocarpus ledifolius in old age might lead to a multi-age stand, restoring its native presence and role at a greater scale.

By River Woodruff

Fremont Cottonwood

The Naiads of Castle Valley

Fremont Cottonwood (Populus fremontii)

Pope Lane in Castle Valley, Utah is hardly what comes to mind when one thinks of a more “traditional” street. Rather than your average concrete-entombed thoroughfare in the suburbs of some metroplex, Pope Lane is more a path of gravel, stretching forth from the eastern walls of the valley before it ends in a sagebrush-lined cul-de-sac nearly a mile from the opposing valley wall. As you turn left onto Pope Lane, Castleton Tower, a large monolith of sandstone, is seemingly perfectly aligned with the road on the horizon. The forlorn behemoth seems to keep watch over the valley, separated from its kin at Fisher Towers, standing solemnly through sun-arid days and frigid nights. 

Within the brushy five acres of 270 Pope Lane, amongst the bottom land dwellers of cheatgrass, rabbitbrush and big bluestem, stands a lonesome Fremont Cottonwood sapling, known to western science as Populus fremontii. The name Populus derives from the Latin word for “the people,” of which trees are notably not a member. Yet, what does the tree care for frivolous names derived from European antiquity? Even more, does the tree begin to care for the other half of its scientific nomenclature, ironically having obtained it from American politician and explorer John C. Fremont, who, by virtue of his desired westward expansion, helped to encourage people to homestead in the West, thus bringing about the destruction of his eponymous tree’s native riparian habitat.

The cottonwood, either unaware or indifferent towards the gratuitous names and classifications bestowed upon it by humans, chooses instead to let its heart-shaped leaves glisten in the salubrious breeze. In a manner quite reminiscent of its cousin, the quaking aspen (Populus tremuloides), the Fremont Cottonwood’s leaves flutter in the wind, giving off an almost iridescent shimmer that is distinctive amongst most plants upon these five acres. 

Down the valley from Pope Lane, where collected runoff from the La Sal mountains makes a final gathering before flowing into the Colorado River, stands a large grove of both mature and infantile Populus fremontii alike. Sinking their shallow roots into the subsurface water table connected to the sinuous Castle Creek, this riparian ecosystem is an optimal living space for the native Fremont cottonwoods. Another cottonwood, the narrowleaf (Populus angustifolia), also makes its home in this shaded refugium, often crossbreeding with the Fremont and leading to hybridization of the two species. Within this water-sculpted ecosystem, the cottonwoods provide stability; their roots prevent frequent erosion of banks and their leaves provide ample shade to cool the gentle waters below. Even in death, the fallen trunks of cottonwoods, whether by their own faculty or gnawed upon by beaver, provide complexity and sinuosity to the stream. Perhaps it is within a certain justification to think of cottonwoods as the closest animate equivalent to the Naiads, the Greek mythological beings who presided over rivers.

It is here within this riparian grove where many Spring seasons ago a single diecious cottonwood, with its reproductive catkins propagating from its deeply furrowed trunk, began to disseminate its thousands upon thousands of seeds. From March to April, the many cottonwoods spread their gentle white seeds amongst the windblown valley. One singular seed, by some unfortunate stroke of luck, blew to the southeast, settling amongst the tired, formerly cattle-grazed land of 270 Pope Lane. Yet, the seed was not as unlucky as it originally may have seemed, for the seed’s final resting place was below a rain gutter attached to the roof of a house built of straw. Fremont Cottonwood requires almost complete inundation in moist soil in order to germinate. For our seedling, the conditions within the silt-sandy soil beneath the water spout were practically the most favorable conditions for germination one could ask for a little cottonwood seed.  At 270 Pope Lane, the future cottonwood seedling would be protected on almost all sides from any pesky ungulates who might to decide to take a nibble upon its tasty buds. And so, with a veritable goldilocks’ conditions for growth, the seedling began to grow. 

From the Fremont Cottonwood sapling’s current vantage point, it is well within clear line of sight of Castleton Tower. In a certain sense, the bare exposed sandstone of Castleton tower and the little Populus fremontii sapling share several things in common. Isolated and lonely from their kind, they stand, baking in the heat of the Utah sun. Although in different time scales, they someday will both fall after being subjected to the forces of wind and water, disseminating smaller fragments of themselves on the wind, propagating themselves across the open valley floor.

By Nathaniel Martin

Indian Ricegrass

Fairy Grass

Indian Rice Grass (Achnatherum hymenoides)

270 Pope Lane is a five-acre lot in the small southeastern Utah town of Castle Valley, near Moab. When most people arrive here, they may be looking for one or both of its two human residents. Many of these visitors may fail to recognize the many other residents that reside here as well. When the two residents bought this parcel, there was nothing but cheatgrass. The yellowish golden invasive grass covered 99% of the ground. Today cheatgrass still occupies a large percentage of the property, however now there are many more species as well. Native forbs, grasses, shrubs, trees and animals all call 270 Pope Lane home. Indian rice grass is an example of one of the “new” native residents. After the parcel’s owners built their straw-bale house they decided that they wanted to restore some of the native species that would have been there before cheatgrass took over. Some species were brought in intentionally while others gradually found their way to 270 Pope Lane as well. 

Castle Valley’s hot and dry climate is intense. Indian rice grass is well adapted to live here though, being extremely drought and fire resistant. In fact, it is not found in areas that are wet or poorly drained. Rather, it prefers to grow on sandy, stony, gravelly and shallow soils. Indian rice grass also has a fibrous root system which makes it good for erosion control in areas that are prone to extreme flash flooding such as western deserts. Indian rice grass grows in upland and semidesert climatic zones. Indian rice grass is a perennial bunchgrass that is native to western North America found between 3,000 and 10,000ft in elevation. Its range is large, spanning from Minnesota to Texas, to California, Washington and up into Canada.

When the two current human residents first seeded Indian rice grass on this lot, they did so behind their house where there was a patch of bare ground. Today it can be found in many other locations. The grass welcomes visitors who stroll down the dirt paths around the property, or rest in the shade by the front patio, keeping in touch with companion species such as winterfat, big sagebrush and galleta grass. Spring in Castle Valley welcomes many species to life. Indian Rice grass begins growing in the early spring and then flowers in the late spring. It has numerous basal leaves, meaning they grow near the bottom of the plant. It usually grows to be 1 to 2 1/2 feet tall. Indian rice e grass typically has slender blade like leaves that can be rolled/curled. Indian rice grass reproduces through seed sand tillers. The seedhead is solitary at the end of a panicle branch stretching out in a skeletal way from the plant. Each spikelet contains one floret. Indian rice grass is well adapted to changing climates as it has two ways of pollination. When mesic (stable moisture balance) conditions are persistent the anthers of the plant will be exerted permitting cross pollination by wind. This is the grasses’ preferred method of pollination however under dry hot extreme conditions, the plant can be self-pollinated before the flower opens. This is known as ecological cleistogamy. This trait is extremely helpful for sustaining the species of Indian rice grass as it can adapt its pollination to the current climate. However, self-pollination is less ideal because it is essentially cloning and decreases biodiversity. So, if dry and hot conditions always exist it will decrease the genetic diversity and weaken the species over time. 

Before the two recent human residents began to restore their land, the cheatgrass ran rampant and wildlife were sparse. However, the addition of native species to the land helped to welcome back other species and reinstate the natural relationship of the environment. Indian rice grass is an important part of the ecosystem for several reasons. As previously mentioned, it is crucial in improving soil stability and preventing erosion. Indian rice grass is often one of the first species to establish on cut and fill slopes. It is also an important habitat, cover and food for various species. Indian rice grass is highly palatable. Elk forage on it year-round while deer and antelope graze on it throughout fall, winter and spring months. The grass also provides cover from predators for small mammals and birds. The seeds are also highly nutritious to these smaller animals.

While Indian rice grass is still sparse on this 5-acre lot, its presence is becoming known. The rice grass’s thin spindled branches exploding in small bunches have slowly begun to spread around the house. Although cheatgrass is still prominent, the rice grass and other native grasses are crucial to the ecosystem and native wildlife.

By Abigael Carron