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Melanthera nivea

(Melanthera means “black anthers,” and nivea means “snow”)

Asteraceae

SQS by John Bradford

Around here I tend to think of Snow Squarestem as a modest, attractive little native wildflower encountered occasionally trailside in moist areas.  But in some ways it looms a little larger.  The plants likes disturbance, and my encounter with it yesterday was along a wetland trail with the marginal soil torn asunder by feral hogs, which seemed to favor the plant. It comes up from the soil seedbank when the hogs or other disturbers disturb. I wonder how long the seeds (achenes) can sleep awaiting their moment.

By JB

Why think it rises from disturbed seedbanks?   There are places in Southern Mexico where slash and burn agriculture is practiced.  Farmers cut forest, burn the residue, grow crops over a limited period, and then move on.    Looking at post-abandonment recovery of such sites, ecologist Jorge Meave and others found Snow Squarestem to be the most abundant re-invader.  

To go from unsurprising to weird, in Nicaragua biologist Hilary Erlener and collaborators reported (in Pan-Pacific Entomologist Vol 92 2016) a species of ground-nesting bee to live adjacent to an active volcanic vent spewing poison gas and nasty ash.    The only plant nearby on the volcano, and feeding the hotfooted bee was Snow Squarestem.

Rising opportunistically from churned soil from the Central U.S. to Brazil,  you might say Snow Squarestem is a mighty colonizer, despite its humble aspect.  Mighty colonizers must make a ton of seeds to deposit in the seedbank.  Some weeds, such as Dandelion, do that by skipping pollination altogether. But maybe a “more textbook”  approach is to be very good at getting pollinated, as pollination spawns seeds—whether in Kentucky, Mexico, or Guyana.   That wide range of places might imply “welcoming” a corresponding wide range of pollinators.   Seems true.  Below are those I managed to snap standing like paparazzi a few minutes yesterday by a clump (and that was merely one clump in  one place at one time,  and I missed some).   The plant most certainly entertains all visitors.

Yesterday:

Potbelly AP by John Bradford

Ever notice, especially around Pond Cypress, how the Airplants, mostly Northern Needleleaf (Tillandsia balbisiana) and sometimes Potbelly Airplant (T. paucifolia) tend to be spaced far apart as if they don’t like each other?  

Often a foot apart or more, or one to a branch?   That’s just odd with no “yea that’s it” explanation.

I am a rock, I am an island

I’ve read the contention that they land and sprout infrequently, so that the wide separations are merely a random pattern.  Great from the armchair, until you go ground-truthing.  It is easy to find young Tillandsias close together on Pond Cypress branchlets, with under an inch separation, far closer than any big ones.  Some of the small individuals might be Ball-Moss (Tillandsia recurvata), the seedling identifications needing a better look.  The separation of large individuals seems likely to result from deaths of little losers in between.  

Young tillandsias just inches apart on Pond Cypress.

It’s been suggested that the larger tillandsias shade out the small ones, but there is no appreciable shade from a Tillandsia. AI, when consulted, cooked up the idea that the tree branches have “just so many” suitable establishment spots, but even if so, why would they be widely spaced?    And I can’t find anything special about the attachment spots, unless emerging Pond Cypress branchlets knock some off.

Does it have to do with the pattern of lichens on the branches, maybe some lichens eliminating tillandsias perched on the lichens?   That would be interesting, but I can’t find lichen kill zones. Do the tillandsias compete for nutrients or water running along the stem in rainwash, forcing the competitors to “spread out”?   But tillandsias use their roots for clinging, not to my knowledge for taking in nutrients, that seems implausible. What about toxin released by bigger tillandsias into the stemwash knocking off smaller competitors?   However, how often is there stemwash, and look how tough those non-absorbent roots are.   Naw, I don’t think so.

Maybe the spaced-out pattern has to do with wind and storms?   Do Pond Cypress branches with multiple tillandsias  “catch” too much wind and then twist, twerk, bust, sag, greenstick fracture, snap, or decay off?   Is one more airplant the last straw?   HMMMMMMM. Seems stretchy, but when you’re out of better ideas.  After all, the Tillandsias do have to grow exposed “out on a limb” (skinny twig) with few cypress leaves leaves where there’s plenty of sun (and wind).  One additional point in favor of this explanation:   the boring explanations often turn out to be right.  I learned that from Forensic Files!

So to sum it up. I don’t know. The “literature” doesn’t seem to know.  Generative AI generates bad ideas. Grasping at straws, I’m grasping at violent thunderstorms over-stressing over-loaded brittle exposed Pond Cypress branchlets. If you come up with the right answer, judged by its obvious “Eureka” correctness, you win a bushel of bragging rights.

Is that upstart right of center a “little too close” to the bad boy on the right? Trouble brewing?

Brave work by John Bradford

You ever see those questions on social media along the lines of, “if you had a billion dollars what would you buy”, or,  “if you could go back in time what would you change,” or how about, “is there anything you would exterminate if you could?”    That’s easy:  Imported  Fire Ants!

Well, not so fast now, something I noticed today exploring a swampy shoreline in Cypress Creek Natural Area is how much some plants loves big ant mounds.   Several species seemed to benefit, with the most bodacious beneficiary being  Yellowtops (Flaveria linearis).  All along the shoreline millions of Yellowtops were dead-ish aboveground and defeated.  But not around the bases of the ant mounds.   There the Yellowtops and associates are thriving…big, green, plump, expanding.   Would you expect a species typical of nutrient-poor soils to be opportunistic when it comes to “bonus” nutrition?   Yes, that is a big problem with cat-tails, and harmful algal blooms.    But Yellowtops never hurt anybody.  In fact, they have a star role in contemporary photosynthetic-nutritional research. That probably ties in to their big boost from fire ants.

Flaveria (not this season) by JB.

What are the ant-loving plants getting?   Easy to guess.  Fire ants tote all manner of organic matter back to the nest, enriching the earth with food debris and ant waste. Benefits to mound-side plants are documented for potassium and phosphorus, interesting given that phosphorus tends to be limiting in Florida wetlands.  I’ll bet the plants are getting nitrogen aplenty too.

Hell with a yellowtops halo today

They are also getting soft “tilled, raised, and aerated” soil, obviously dandy at a waterlogged shoreline.   That porous mega-mound looks like it sponges up water at dry times, and drains freely when wet. An then of course there is that defensive perimeter!   What herbivore is going to bother a fire ant ant garden?

Doing today’s photography I kinda made that mistake.  Did you know those odious ankle-biters have secret tunnels radiating from the main mound?    When you ease up close with camera, they sneak up behind from their subway and strike with no appreciation for the one moment they are being appreciated!

Osmunda spectabilis  (and additional species)

The genus Osmunda, containing Royal Fern and Cinnamon Fern, both native locally in swamps, dates back to the Triassic Period and probably before.  How long ago was that?   Oh, roughly 250 million years, underfoot with dinosaurs and almost  twice as far back as flowering plants.   Depending on how you define “humans,”  very roughly  100 times older, gve or take a few eons.   Turtles first appeared during the Triassic. Florida was separating from Africa.   Been awhile.

Spore-producing portion, John Bradford

Given that they predate the full separation of the continents, and given that dust-sized fern spores fly on the wind, no surprise Osmundas are almost worldwide, although mostly in the Northern Hemisphere.

Top: Modern Osmunda by John Bradford. Bottom: Mesozoic Osmunda by Carlie Phipps, Am. Journal of Botany 1998

Being a living fossil is marvelous, sure, but what fascinates me more are extinct Osmunda tree ferns.   Among modern ferns, not in Florida, there are tree ferns as large as palms.  These modern tree ferns are not related to Osmundas.  But…..long ago and far away Osmunda ancestors were themselves tree ferns, having evolved tree-ness on their own.

Then they lost their trunks. (Almost.)   The thumbnail history probably goes somewhat like this:

1. Ferns, including Osmunda ancestors evolved dismayingly before flowering plants. Having no flowering plant competitors, in suitable habitats they assumed the role of trees.
2. As the Flowering Plants took over, somewhat over 60 million years ago, they competed ferns into narrower, non-tree niches.
3. In fact, the meteor strike some 66 million years ago might have been the nail in the coffin of big tall Osmundas.
4. In very rough terms, the demise of the tree-sized Osmundas  kinda coincided with the rise of the unrelated modern unrelated Tree Ferns, limited to moist tropics.

Thank you AI. On the left, Mesozoic Osmunda (compare the trunk roots with the bottom photo below—nothing changes in 250 million years). On the right, modern unrelated Tree Ferns. (Generated by Nano Banana).

And now to get to the good stuff!  Osmundas still yearn to be trees,  even of just a bit stumpy.   They haven’t given up.  Now in the Florida “dry” season you can see in dried swamps Royal Ferns with broad trunks, usually hidden the rest of the year by water, mud, debris, herbaceous growth, and sullen cottonmouths.  When the view becomes unobstructed the trunks can well over a foot in diameter and up to 2-3 feet tall .   The photos below were taken today in the Jupiter Ridge Natural Area. These trunks are not cut open, and they are not covered with mud. That is their natural black surface color. They are in the middle of a temporarily dry marshy pond. The covering is a mantle of dead (or some living) roots and leafy scales. Diehard throwbacks to continental drift and soaring Pterosaurs!

They can even branch in a stubby way, as seen to the right above.

Living roots on trunk

Sure is a lot of chatter these days about Greenland.   I’d like to contribute an otherwise unknown Florida tidbit to the discussion.  Who knows, maybe useful “inside info” for high- level negotiations and deliberations.   Although today’s 41 degree morning may raise doubts, we think of South Florida as sweaty subtropical with pythons, and Greenland as frigidly Arctic with walruses. Botanically speaking, whatever could link such contrasting lands?  Here’s a hint:  Greenland has hot springs housing  plants you don’t associate with glaciers.

I’ll bet the Vikings enjoyed a warm soak in those natural hot tub springs after pillaging across the North Atlantic.  While they were skinny dipping blissfully with a frosty tankard of mead among the polar bears,  the aquatic foliage tickling their toes might have been Little Pondweed, aka, Potomogeton pusillus.    It could tickle your tootsies here too, but good luck finding any:   the species is super-rare locally, having one known population in Lake Okeechobee, and a nearby clump near Barley Barber Swamp adjacent to Lake O.   There’s probably plenty more than that about, but who’s going swimming with the gators to look, and even if encountered, not so easy to recognize.

Photo courtesy of Gabriel Campbell

Similar problems have afflicted the pondweed in Greenland.  I don’t want to go down a boring classification icy path, but when first discovered in Greenland, the specimens had no fruits or flowers, so were named as a separate species, Potamogeton groenlandicus. Whether this should be considered distinct from the broadly widespread Potamogeton pusillus is a little unclear, but that point of confusion is not important for our outrageous cross-latitudinal botanical bridge to Greenland.