Wavyleaf Thistle: Sometimes a Thistle Is Supposed to Be There

Mention the word “thistle,” and for a lot of us, the first thought is probably weed.

Something prickly growing where it isn’t wanted. Something to mow down, dig up, or spray before it spreads.

But not every thistle is an invader.

This one is the wavyleaf thistle, Cirsium undulatum, a native North American plant—and when you get close enough to really look at the flower, it becomes considerably harder to dismiss it as just another weed.

I took the photograph at the Aldo Leopold Vista Picnic Area along U.S. 180 in western New Mexico on October 10, 2011. I recently ran across the image again and put it through PictureThis, which identified it as wavyleaf thistle.

The identification certainly fits what we’re seeing.

What appears at first glance to be one enormous purple flower is actually a flower head made up of many individual tubular flowers called florets. They crowd together into that wonderful explosion of pink, magenta and purple. Some of the long florets are tipped with pale pollen, giving the flower an almost frosted appearance.

Then there is the business end of the plant.

Below all that color is a formidable collection of spines.

Thistles aren’t subtle about discouraging animals from eating them.

A Native, Not an Invader

That’s an important distinction.

Several thistles found in the United States were introduced from Europe and Asia and can become serious agricultural or ecological pests. As a result, “thistle” has acquired a pretty bad reputation.

Wavyleaf thistle is different.

It is native to North America and occurs across a broad portion of the continent, particularly in the Great Plains and West. It grows in open country—prairies, grasslands, roadsides, dry slopes, and other sunny places.

Its common name comes from its leaves, which have noticeably wavy margins. The foliage often looks grayish or silvery because of the fine hairs covering it.

The plant is well adapted to exactly the sort of dry landscape visible behind the flower in this photograph.

And unlike an introduced invasive plant occupying a landscape where it doesn’t belong, native thistles are part of the ecological community that developed around them.

A Little Restaurant With Spines

To us, that flower is attractive.

To an insect, it’s a restaurant.

Native thistles provide nectar and pollen for bees, butterflies, and other pollinating insects. Later, when the flowers mature and produce seed, birds can use them as a food source.

That makes the plant a good example of something we sometimes forget when deciding which plants are “good” and which are “weeds.”

Nature doesn’t organize plants according to whether they’re convenient for people.

A plant can be prickly, inconvenient, and decidedly unpleasant to step on while still having an important place in its environment.

Getting Close Changes Things

That’s one reason I like photographs like this.

From twenty feet away, it’s a thistle.

From two feet away, it’s a purple flower.

Get close enough to photograph it like this, though, and suddenly there’s an extraordinary amount of structure packed into a few inches.

Hundreds of lines radiate outward from the center. Colors shift from deep magenta near the base to pale lavender at the tips. Pollen clings to individual florets. Beneath it all is that armored green flower head.

The second thistle in the background strengthens the photograph. It’s far enough out of focus that it doesn’t compete with the main subject, but it shows the flower in front isn’t standing alone. We’re looking at a plant living in its landscape.

I took this photograph fifteen years ago.

At the time, it was probably simply an interesting flower worth pointing a camera at.

Now I know its name.

Wavyleaf thistle.

And perhaps the more interesting thing I learned is that sometimes a thistle isn’t a weed that needs to be gotten rid of.

Sometimes it’s exactly where it belongs.


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Fairyland Point, Bryce Canyon National Park, Utah

Some places have names that sound as though the tourism department worked a little too hard.

Fairyland Point is not one of them.

Standing at the northern end of Bryce Canyon National Park, itis hard to find a better word for what spreads out below. The landscape looks less like something carved by ordinary erosion than something imagined—ranks of hoodoos, towers, fins and broken walls in shades of cream, gold, orange and red.

And then there is the scale.

A photograph can show the formations, but it struggles to convey just how much country is out there. In the foreground, individual pinnacles rise from the slopes. Beyond them are ridges and valleys, then still more ridges fading toward the horizon. What first looks like a collection of unusual rocks turns out to be an entire landscape built from them.

Fairyland Point sits a little apart from the busier overlooks along Bryce Canyon’s main scenic drive. That seems appropriate. The view feels less like looking into a single amphitheater and more like looking across a vast piece of southern Utah.

The hoodoos are the stars, of course, but they are only part of the picture. Dark green pines cling to slopes and ledges that seem barely able to hold them. Farther away, the colors soften into muted bands beneath a huge western sky.

On the day this photograph was taken, the clouds added another layer. Sunlight broke through in places while other parts of the landscape remained in shadow. That constantly changing light is part of what makes Bryce so difficult to photograph—and so hard to stop photographing.

Geologists can explain what happened here: layers of sediment, uplift, frost, rain, and millions of years of erosion. Water entered cracks, froze, and expanded. Softer rock disappeared faster than harder rock. Walls became fins. Fins became windows and eventually isolated spires.

All perfectly reasonable.

Then you stand at Fairyland Point and look at the result.

“Reasonable” isn’t the first word that comes to mind.

Fairyland will do.

Photo: October 5, 2015


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Flag at Alpine Visitor Center, Rocky Mountain National Park

September 2, 2009

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Memory efficiency


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Jellyfish


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What’s Hitler Got?

The Big Question this Spring - What's Hitler Got?

The Big Question this Spring – What’s Hitler Got?1

This illustration is a famous American political cartoon created by illustrator Robert Malone.

The illustration was published in April 1939 in the anti-fascist literary and political magazine Ken. It captured the deep geopolitical anxiety of the Western world during the spring leading up to the outbreak of World War II, as European powers and the public watched Germany’s rapid territorial expansion and wondered what Adolf Hitler’s next aggressive military move would be.

Read more at The Hard Years.


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Self-Driving


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Into darkness

Black Sunday: The Day the Great Plains DisappearedOn April 14, 1935, a beautiful spring afternoon turned into midnight.

An enormous wall of dust swept across the Great Plains, swallowing entire communities and plunging thousands of Americans into darkness. History would remember it as Black Sunday.

But the disaster had begun long before that afternoon. Just three days earlier, an Arkansas newspaper was reporting that families were abandoning their farms, livestock were dying, and dust from the western plains was settling over Fort Smith.

And the worst was yet to come.

The story of Black Sunday is about much more than a spectacular dust storm. It’s about what happens when drought, economic desperation, and human decisions collide.

Read: Black Sunday: The Day the Great Plains Disappeared


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Health Update


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Spotlight Sketchers


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