Flowers Galore

During this spring and summer of plentiful rain and then sunshine, it’s easy to get overwhelmed by the bounty of wildflowers. I’ve seen whole hillsides of blue and purple penstemon (right) in the foothills.

At the cabin, the front yard is filled with blue lupine, yellow cinquefoil and pink geraniums. I can barely see some of the flowers hidden in the tall grasses through which the chipmunks, ground squirrels and rabbits move stealthily, so I only know they are there by the sudden jerk of the grass.

 

 

 

In the wetter areas are patches of wild iris (purple flag), more than I’ve ever seen here, sometimes mixing it up with golden banner (top).  Another flower that likes the marshy fields is the tall angelica. Every week it seems to grow another few inches, rising above the surrounding grasses. This week the round buds are starting to unfold.   

Most people don’t notice stonecrop (above), because it’s low to the ground and not a traditionally beautiful flower, but anything that can grow seemingly out of rocks has my admiration. I especially love their strangely twisted stems. This year they’ve taken over whole layers of rock.  

Last week, the cow parsnip (right) suddenly emerged, its branches floating above the grasses. It’s an unattractive name for delicate looking flower that raises its arms in a beseeching way. This week, the wild roses are blooming everywhere, a delicate pink that is more subtle than their flashy cultivated cousins; their smell is faint, so I have to lean over to catch it.

 

 

On one of my favorite paths at the cabin, past Fritz’s pond, the columbine (left) border the path for hundreds of feet, climbing up the hillside, draping themselves around the aspen and protruding from a juniper bush. When I stop to admire them, I try to refrain from just taking photos and moving on.

I want to absorb their beauty and complexity:  how two in one cluster are open while the others are still buds, tightly folded; how the white petals and purple sepals are positioned for maximum aesthetic effect; and ponder the purpose of the purple sepals that curl up from the main flower. I stand here because a photo can’t capture everything else going on: the wind through the aspen leaves, which tenderly sway the flowers; the bird calls all around me; how I feel sunk into this earth and enclosed by the  mountains.

If I let myself be swayed by these flowers, I also become aware that the next week, or the week after, when I stop to admire them again, they will be dying or gone. And I will have to wait for another year to enjoy their splendor.

 

 

 

 

While the flowers here at 8,500 feet are cycling through their weekly changes, above 10,000 feet the flowers are just starting to emerge. Where the snow has recently melted, patches of the tundra are still brown. Yet with a growing season that can only be a month long, the flowers can’t wait for the tundra to green up.

Some of these flowers are miniature versions of flowers that grow tall down in the lower valleys and meadows. The chiming bells (above) are only inches high, although the blue/purple color is more intense than its bluebell cousins down in the valley. The alpine sunflowers, marsh marigolds, buttercups and forget-me-nots hug the ground to stay out of the fierce winds and cold at this high altitude.  

Or they find shelter next to or under boulders, which also protect them from the intense sun while providing moisture that gathers alongside the rocks. Small rock gardens are created out of the rocks covered with orange, green and blue lichen. Winter’s freezing and thawing have pushed some of the rocks straight up, forming waves of rocks and flowers.

The phlox (above and right) and moss campion survive by forming mats of moss, which holds these small plants in place and allow moisture to collect. It seems a brilliant survival tactic up here on the tundra, with the short growing season, temperatures that average 50 during the day and 30 at night, and strong winds.

Yet somehow they survive, using taproots that go deep into the soil, which is more rock than dirt, while dense hairs on the stems and leaves protect against the winds. These small flowers demand attention, so I bow down to greet them. The alpine sunflower beams back at me so brightly, especially on a cloudy day, that I’m cheered beyond rational measure.

Comments

[SusanR]

You know them all by name. Appropriate for longtime friends. :)

[Jennifer Woodhull]

Fabulous photos, Kathy. Thanks so much for these. I'm reminded of the legend of the Zen patriarch Dogen, who is said to have particularly enjoyed looking at the plum blossoms because he knew they'd so soon be gone …

[Sally Hanson]

Beautiful 🤩❣️ isn’t spring glorious 👍 Great pictures Kathy, and jealous that you have spring, ours was over months ago😕

[Kathy Kanda]

Wish you were with Rainbow and me to identify the wildflowers we saw on our hike. They are extra prolific and intensely colored this year!

[Julene Bair]

The joy you take in natural beauty is infectious. It is not irrational but simply attentive. Thanks for reminding me to look closely and take time enjoying it all. TV

[Kathy Kaiser]

Kathy, it's taken me some 50 years to learn the flowers, and every year I have to relearn. But this year was a great one.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Thanks, Julene. I think we're rewarded by being attentive because nature becomes so much more complex.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Sally, I am enjoying this long spring/summer, but you'll have spring earlier than us.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Thanks, Jennifer. I do think about the impermanence of the flowers, which makes them more precious, as you say.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Susan, I like your thoughts that I'm friends with the flowers. I hope to make friends with all the trees and streams, too.