Weeds of Boise: Ahavath Beth Israel Synagogue Garden

Anyone who has maintained a garden or small farm knows that with all the work it takes to keep up on the garden itself, outlying areas can quickly become overtaken by weeds. Low on the list of priorities, areas outside of our garden borders are ideal locations for wild urban vegetation to thrive. Pulling all the weeds within the garden is a big enough task as it is; thus, weeds out of our reach are left to their own devices, occasionally getting mown down by a string trimmer or brush mower (if time allows), but otherwise living largely unscathed. And so, places such as these are excellent for familiarizing oneself with our wild urban flora.

I found an example of this scenario at the Ahavath Beth Israel Synagogue Garden in Boise, Idaho. This community garden is a partnership between Congregation Ahavath Beth Israel (CABI) and Global Gardens, providing refugees in the area an opportunity to grow food for their families and participate in community activities.

When I visited this site, it was clear that the weeds on the edge of the garden had been mowed down at some point. New plants had popped up after the fact while others were in the process of recovering from the “haircut” and putting on new, shrubbier growth. The mowing and the fact that it was late in the summer made identifying remnants of earlier weeds too difficult to bother. Most of the weeds that I did find were either summer annuals or perennials. A visit in the spring would reveal an entirely different cast of characters.

I stayed on the border of the garden, not wanting to invade anyone’s plot or snoop around too much. The point of the visit was to highlight weeds found outside of the borders of a garden anyway. I would imagine that, since the garden is used to grow annual fruits and vegetables, most of the weeds in the beds would be annuals as well. Longer-lived weeds don’t generally tolerate regular disturbance and instead find refuge in unkept areas outside of cultivation.

Below are a few photos from the site along with a preliminary list of the weeds that I found.

salsify (Tragopogon dubius)

puncture vine (Tribulus terrestris)

field bindweed (Convolvulus arvensis)

Siberian elm (Ulmus pumila)

common mallow (Malva neglecta)

black medic (Medicago lupulina)

Weeds found at the Ahavath Beth Israel Synagogue Garden:

  • Amaranthus spp. (pigweed)
  • Bassia scoparia (kochia)
  • Chenopodium album (lamb’s quarters)
  • Chondrilla juncea (rush skeletonweed)
  • Convolvulus arvensis (field bindweed)
  • Conyza canadensis (horseweed)
  • Digitaria sanguinalis (crabgrass)
  • Epilobium brachycarpum (tall annual willowherb)
  • Euphorbia maculata (spotted spurge)
  • Hordeum jubatum (foxtail barley)
  • Lactuca serriola (prickly lettuce)
  • Malva neglecta (common mallow)
  • Medicago lupulina (black medic)
  • Oenothera biennis (common evening-primrose)
  • Plantago lanceolata (narrowleaf plantain)
  • Polygonum aviculare (prostrate knotweed)
  • Rumex crispus (curly dock)
  • Setaria sp. (foxtail)
  • Sonchus sp. (sow thistle)
  • Taraxacum officinale (dandelion)
  • Tragopogon dubius (salsify)
  • Trifolium pratense (red clover)
  • Ulmus pumila (Siberian elm)
  • Verbena bracteata (prostrate vervain)

Like all posts in the Weeds of Boise series, this will be updated as I identify and photograph more of the weeds found in this location.

Flowers Growing Out of Flowers (Things Are Getting Weird Out There)

I’m sure that anyone living through the events of 2020 would agree, these are truly wild times. So, when I stumbled across some purple coneflowers that appeared to be growing flowers out of flowers, I thought to myself, “Of course! Why not!?!” The world is upside down. Anything is possible.

As it turns out, however, this phenomenon occurs more frequently than I was aware. But it’s not necessarily a good thing, particularly if you’re concerned about plant health. We’ll get to that in a minute. First, what’s going on with these flowers?

Flowers in the aster family are unique. They have the appearance of being a single flower but are actually a cluster of two types of much smaller flowers all packed in together. Purple coneflower (Echinacea purpurea) is a great example of this. Its flower heads are composed of dozens of disc flowers surrounded by a series of ray flowers. The minuscule disc flowers form the cone-like center of the inflorescence. The petals that surround the cone are individual ray flowers. This tight cluster of many small flowers (or florets) is known as a composite. Sunflowers are another example of this type of inflorescence.

Flowers are distinct organs. Not only are they the reproductive structures of flowering plants, but unlike the rest of the plant, they exhibit determinate growth. Flowers are, after all, plant shoots that have been “told” to stop growing like other shoots and instead modify themselves into reproductive organs and other associated structures. Unlike other shoots, which continue to grow (or at least have the potential to), a flower (and the fruit it produces) is the end result for this reproductive shoot. This is what is meant by determinate growth. However, sometimes things go awry, and the modified shoots and leaves that make up a flower don’t develop as expected, producing some bizarre looking structures as a result.

An example of this is a double flower. Plants with double flowers have mutations in their genes that cause disruptions during floral development. This means that their stamens and carpels (the reproductive organs of the flowers) don’t develop properly. Instead, they become additional petals or flowers, resulting in a flower composed of petals upon petals upon petals – a look that some people like, but that have virtually nothing to offer the pollinators that typically visit them. Because of their ornamental value, double-flowered varieties of numerous species – including purple coneflower – can be found in the horticultural trade.

double-flowered purple coneflower

Genetic mutations are one way that odd looking flowers come about. It is not the cause, however, of the freak flowers that I recently came across. What I witnessed was something called phyllody and was the result of an infection most likely introduced to the plant by a leafhopper or some other sap-sucking insect. Phyllody, which has a variety of causes, is a disruption in plant hormones that leads to leaves growing in place of flower parts. As a result, the flowers become sterile and green in color. In the case of purple coneflower, leafy structures are produced atop shoots arising from the middle of ray and/or disc florets. In other species, shoots aren’t visible and instead the inflorescence is just a cluster of leaves. In a sense, the reproductive shoot has returned to indeterminate growth, having switched back to shoot and leaf production.

Phyllody can have either biotic or abiotic causes. Biotic meaning infection by plant pathogens – including certain viruses, bacteria, and fungi – or damage by insects. Abiotic factors like hot weather and lack of water can result in a temporary case of phyllody in some plants. Phyllody plus a number of other symptoms made it clear that the purple coneflower I encountered had a fairly common disease known as aster yellows. This condition is caused by a bacterial parasite called a phytoplasma, and is introduced to the plant via a sap-sucking insect. It then spreads throughout the plant, infecting all parts. The phyllody was a dead give away, but even the flowers that weren’t alien-looking were discolored. The typical vibrant purple of the ray flowers was instead a faded pink color. The flowers that had advanced phyllody – along with the rest of the plant – were turning yellow-green.

This inflorescence isn’t exhibiting phyllody yet, but the purple color in the ray flowers is quickly fading.

Hundreds of plant species are susceptible to aster yellows, and not just those in the aster family. Once a plant is infected with aster yellows, it has it for good and will never grow or reproduce properly. For this reason, it is best to remove infected plants from the garden to avoid spreading the infection to other plants. As cool as the flowers may look, infected plants just aren’t worth saving.

Further Reading: 

Party Time for Puncture Vine During COVID Times

In spite of a global pandemic, the third annual Boise Goathead Fest took place last Saturday in Boise, Idaho. In order to make it happen, organizers had to think creatively, completely reenvisioning the event in order to keep the community safe and healthy. This, of course, meant no giant bike parade and no large gathering in the park. Instead, members of individual households embarked on their own socially-distanced bike rides, meeting up in small groups for a wide variety of mini-events across town. An online radio show made possible by Radio Boise provided the day’s soundtrack and kept us all up to date with regular live announcements.

On Saturday morning, Sierra and I decorated our bikes and ourselves and headed out on our two-person bike parade. Our first stop was the Goathead Monster’s Lair located in the alley behind Boise Bicycle Project. There we picked up food, beverages, and a map. The list of places to go and things to see was extensive. At our relaxed pace, there was no way we were going to see it all, which wasn’t really our goal anyway. Times are strange, and we were just happy to be out in the world taking part in another Goathead Fest.

Entrance to the Goathead Monster’s Lair

2020 COVID Edition Boise Goathead Fest Map

Learning some facts about goatheads with Mr. A on guitar and violin

Sierra and I next to one of many goathead-themed art installations featured around town

Bikes were allowed at Idaho Botanical Garden for one hour only – a Goathead Fest exclusive!

Not only is the Goathead Fest a celebration of bicycles and community and an opportunity to raise money for pedal-powered non-profits in the Treasure Valley, it’s also a way to bring awareness to a noxious weed responsible for countless flat tires year in and year out. Tribulus terrestris is the bane of bicyclists. Its round, spiky fruits lie in wait to royally ruin our rides. Thanks to collection efforts that take place in the months leading up to the Goathead Fest, thousands of pounds of puncture vine are removed from our streets each year.

This year, another round, spiky ball threatened to ruin our ride. This threat is much smaller and considerably more damaging. Invisible to the naked eye, it has infected hundreds of members of our community, killing many of them, much like it has done in communities across the world. With the threat of COVID-19 looming over our heads, the Boise Goathead Fest felt and looked much different. We masked up and tried to keep our distance from each other. We dispersed ourselves across the city and enjoyed the company of much smaller crowds. As someone who, apart from work and occassional trips to the store, has largely removed himself from social gatherings, I felt nervous to be out. Thanks to the thoughtfulness and awareness of Goathead Fest organizers, my fears were largely soothed. It was important for me to, once again, be together with Boise’s bicylce community and feel a renewed sense of hope for the future.

We are all looking forward to the day when the only round, spiky ball that threatens to keep us off our bikes are those blasted goatheads, and even those – if we keep at it – might someday be a thing of the past.

More Party Time for Puncture Vine on Awkward Botany

Awkward Botanical Sketches #4: Boise Goathead Fest Edition

Covid-19 be damned, Boise Goathead Fest is happening in 2020. However, since we’re in the middle of a pandemic and the number of infections in Idaho have been far greater than we’d like them to be, this beloved, summertime event (now in its third year) is going to look quite a bit different this time around. No giant bicycle parade snaking through downtown Boise, no big gathering in the park to celebrate bicycles and recogonize all who helped pull goatheads across the Treasure Valley, and (I have to assume) no bike sumo. But we’re still going to decorate our bikes and ourselves like a noxious weed and go for a bike ride, and even though we won’t all be able to gather together in one spot, the sentiment will undoubtedly be the same.

I’m a big fan of the Goathead Fest, and not simply because I love bicycles and bike-culture. In fact, it’s mostly because a plant – while despised by all who ride bikes in this area – takes centerstage in the celebration. Not too many plants get this kind of attention. And sure, it may only find itself in the spotlight because of its bad behavior, but at least it has people paying more mind to green things.

In anticipation of this year’s Goathead Fest, I decided to make a few attempts at drawing Tribulus terrestris. Goathead art has played a big part in the festivities since year one, and this year is no exception. In a normal year, all of the artwork would be displayed together in Cecil D. Andrus Park. This year, pieces of art will be displayed around town for us all to happen upon as we embark on our socially distanced bike rides. However, you won’t see any of my artwork out there (for good reason). Maybe someday (one can dream, I guess). Until then, I’ll include a few of my awkward attempts below.

the flower of Tribulus terrestris

an attempt to color the flower of Tribulus terrestris

goathead nutlets #1

goathead nutlets #2

Tribulus terrestris leaf rubbing

Goathead Monster #1

Goathead Monster #2

More Awkward Botanical Sketches: 

Book Review: The Gyroscope of Life

Gyroscopes are entertaining toys and incredibly useful tools. They retain their balance and resist changes to their orientation as long as their flywheel is spinning. As the flywheel slows or stops, the gyroscope wobbles out of control and ultimately quits. Considering their design and function, it’s easy to find parallels between gyroscopes and living systems. Consistent energy inputs keep living things alive. Changes can bring imbalance; major disruptions can lead to death. There is a reason we often describe the natural world as a sort of balancing act. It is the work of an ecologist to make sense of this balancing act. The better we understand it, the more equipped we are to protect it and operate responsibly within it.

It is through this lens that David Parrish writes about the biological world in The Gyroscope of Life, a book that Parrish refers to as “a love song to the field of biology.” Parrish has spent much of his life observing and studying the natural world and, as professor emeritus of Crop and Soil Environmental Sciences at Virginia Tech, undoubtedly shared much of what he presents in his book with countless students over the years. The Gyroscope of Life reads like part memoir and part last lecture, and is the work of someone who has an obvious passion for science and nature.

Parrish spends the first few chapters of his book writing mostly about his life and how he came to be a biologist. He acknowledges his privelege – “born male, white, and American in an era where each of those attributes provided me major advantages” –  having essentially been placed on third base from the start, “well down the third base line.” An aspiring zoologist turned botanist, he spent his early years in graduate school studying seeds and seed dormancy. It’s a topic that obviously interests him, as several pages of the book are spent considering what’s going on inside of a seed. “Seeds provide the widest-spread examples of suspended life,”  Parrish says. Are they alive or dead or neither?

Two additional, major life events play a prominent role in the arc of Parrish’s book. One being his break from organized religion and the other his battle with advanced prostate cancer. He grew up in an orthodox Christian home with a very literal understanding of the Bible. His education put him at odds with what he was taught growing up about (among other things) the age of the earth and its creation. Eventually he came to understand that science and religion “exist in separate non-overlapping spheres – the physical and the metaphysical.” He doesn’t necessarily see science and religion as being inherently at odds with each other, but his understanding of science makes it difficult to “find resonance in religion” due to the “cacophony of dissonance” it offers.

In addressing his prostate cancer, Parrish underwent an operation that gave him a newfound perspective on gender. Freed from “testosterone poisoning,” he was able to more fully consider sex and gender from a biological perspective, which he says he had been doing for decades prior to the operation. He spends a good portion of the book “demystifying sex and gender.” One compelling example he offers involves avocado flowers, which actually change gender over time, a phenomenon known as synchronous dichogamy.

avocado flowers (Persea americana) via wikimedia commons

Over the course of its pages, The Gyroscope of Life covers a significant number of topics in the fields of biology and ecology. It’s a relatively short book, but as it careens through such wide-ranging material, it does so in an approachable and suprisingly succint manner. Parrish’s sense of humor, which doesn’t waver despite how bleak the discussion sometimes gets, helps carry the story along and keeps things interesting. Parrish covers evolution (“[Biologists] argue that, if evolution didn’t happen, it should.”), taxonomy (“the name for naming things”) and sytematics, ecological niches (“[humans] are essentially living niche-free and ecosystemless”), domestication, and so much more. The last chapter is spent discussing agroecosystems (“the organisms and abiotic environment that interact in a human-managed agricultural setting”), a topic he spent much of his career studying.

The underlying message of this book, as I see it, is a simultaneous celebration for life on earth and a concern for the direction things are going considering how humans have managed things. Parrish has some admonition for humans in light of how we’ve treated our home planet, but he isn’t too heavy-handed about it. Overall, reading the book felt like sitting in on a lecture given by a friendly and dynamic professor who has obviously given a lot of thought to what he has to say.

Check out the following video to see David Parrish describe the book in his own words.

More Book Reviews on Awkward Botany:

The Hidden Flowers of Viola

Violas keep a secret hidden below their foliage. Sometimes they even bury it shallowly in the soil near their roots. I suppose it’s not a secret really, just something out of sight. There isn’t a reason to show it off, after all. Showy flowers are showy for the sole purpose of attracting pollinators. If pollinators are unnecessary, there is no reason for showy flowers, or to even show your flowers at all. That’s the story behind the cleistogamous flowers of violas. They are a secret only because unless you know to look for them, you would have no idea they were there at all.

Cleistogamy means closed marriage, and it describes a self-pollinating flower whose petals remain sealed shut. The opposite of cleistogamy is chasmogamy (open marriage). Most of the flowers we are familiar with are chasmogamous. They open and expose their sex parts in order to allow for cross-pollination (self-pollination can also occur in such flowers). Violas have chasmogamous flowers too. They are the familiar five-petaled flowers raised up on slender stalks above the green foliage. Cross-pollination occurs in these flowers, and seed-bearing fruits are the result. Perhaps as a way to ensure reproduction, violas also produce cleistogamous flowers, buried below their leaves.

an illustration of the cleistogamous flower of Viola sylvatica opened to reveal its sex parts — via wikimedia commons

Flowers are expensive things to make, especially when the goal is to attract pollinators. Colorful petals, nectar, nutritious pollen, and other features that help advertise to potential pollinators all require significant resources. All this effort is worth it when it results in the ample production of viable seeds, but what if it doesn’t? Having a method for self-pollination ensures that reproduction will proceed in the absence of pollinators or in the event that floral visitors don’t get the job done. A downside, of course, is that a seed produced via self-pollination is essentially a clone of the parent plant. There will be no mixing of genes with other individuals. This isn’t necessarily bad, at least in the short term, but it has its downsides. A good strategy is a mixture of both cross- and self-pollination – a strategy that violas employ.

The cleistogamous flowers of violas generally appear in the summer or fall, after the chasmogamous flowers have done their thing. The fruits they form split open when mature and deposit their seeds directly below the parent plant. Some are also carried away by ants and dispersed to new locations. Seeds produced in these hidden flowers are generally superior and more abundant compared to those produced by their showy counterparts. People who find violas to be a troublesome lawn weed – expanding far and wide to the exclusion of turfgrass – have these hidden flowers to blame.

That being said, there is a defense for violas. In the book The Living Landscape by Rick Darke and Doug Tallamy, Tallamy writes: “Plants such as the common blue violet (Viola sororia), long dismissed by gardeners as a weed, can be reconstituted as desirable components of the herbaceous layer when their ecosystem functionality is re-evaluated. Violets are the sole larval food source for fritillary butterflies. Eliminating violets eliminates fritillaries, but finding ways to incorporate violets in garden design supports fritillaries.”

sweet violet (Viola odorata)

In my search for the cleistogamous flowers of viola, I dug up a sweet violet (Viola odorata). I was too late to catch it in bloom, but the product of its flowers – round, purple, fuzzy fruits – were revealed as I uprooted the plant. Some of the fruits were already opening, exposing shiny, light brown seeds with prominent, white elaiosomes, there to tempt ants into aiding in their dispersal. I may have missed getting to see what John Eastman calls “violet’s most important flowers,” but the product of these flowers was certainly worth the effort.

Fruits formed from the cleistogamous flowers of sweet violet (Viola odorata)

Up close and personal with the fruit of a cleistogamous flower

The seeds (elaiosomes included) produced by the cleistogamous flower of sweet violet (Viola odorata)

See Also:

Revisiting the Moon Tree

I first learned about Moon Trees in the fall of 2015. One of the trees – a loblolly pine – had been planted at an elementary school just down the street from where I was living at the time. It wasn’t a new thing – it was planted back in 1977, during the period when most other Moon Trees where being planted around the country and the world – but because it wasn’t doing too well, it was in the news. Members of the community, concerned about its long-term survival, were pitching in to help keep it alive. Once I was made aware of it, I also became concerned and decided to go check on it. I even wrote a post about it, which you can read here.

Now that nearly 5 years have passed, I figured I should go check on it again. I hadn’t heard any more news about it, so I assumed it was still hanging in there, but who knows? Maybe not. Since I was going to be on that side of town for Father’s Day, I made plans to stop by. My dad hadn’t seen the tree yet, so he decided to join me.

As we approached Lowell Elementary on our bikes, I was half-expecting the tree to be gone. It was in pretty sad shape when the community stepped in to help it. Braced for this possibility, I anxiously peered down the street as we biked closer. When the tree came into view, I felt relief and announced, “There it is!”

All this time later, it still looks a little rough. The majority of its bark remains largely obscured by crusty, dried up sap, and its canopy isn’t as full as it likely would be if it was a picture of health. But it’s alive and, surprisingly enough, still growing taller, reaching for the moon.

Any loblolly pine would feel out of place in Idaho – it’s a species whose distribution spans the southwest region of the United States, which is starkly different from the northwest – however, this individual in particular is an anomaly. The seed it sprouted from took a journey into space, circled the moon a number of times and then, as a sapling, was planted in Idaho (of all places). Now, over 40 years later, it stands as a symbol of resilience. Something we could all use right now, I’m sure.

This sign was installed shortly after my original Moon Tree post.

Boise, Idaho’s Moon Tree in June 2020

My dad by the Moon Tree in Boise, Idaho

Me by the Moon Tree in Boise, Idaho

———————

Was a Moon Tree planted near you? Is it still around? Tell us about it in the comment section below.

 

Podcast Review: Plants and Pipettes

Gardening was my first introduction to plants. I enjoyed growing plants so much that I decided to study them. Or rather, I studied the growing of them, i.e. horticulture. During my studies, I became increasingly interested in botany, a vast scientific field that investigates all things plant related, from their evolutionary history to their cellular biology to their interactions with other organisms, etc. Now I am obsessed with pretty much anything to do with botany. However, the molecular side of plant science has never been much of a pursuit of mine. Until now.

What has piqued my interest in this isn’t a university course or a dense textbook on the subject, but instead a podcast hosted by two molecular biologists – Tegan and Joram – who make learning about molecular plant science considerably more interesting than I had previously found it to be. Their podcast (and blog of the same name) is called Plants and Pipettes, and they have been consistently publishing both written and audio content on their site for well over a year now.

The bulk of the Plants and Pipettes podcast consists of Tegan and Joram summing up and discussing a recent plant science research article. While I occasionally get lost in the discussion (particularly when the research delves deep into molecular biology), they both do an exceptional job explaining the science and offering insights that I would not get if I attempted to read the papers on my own. When listening to this portion of the podcast, it helps to have a basic understanding of molecular biology, but it isn’t entirely necessary as the hosts often review basic concepts while discussing the research.

Over the course of the podcast’s history, additional segments have been added. These rarely have anything to do with molecular biology, so if you don’t see yourself tuning in for the research discussion, definitely tune in for the rest. One segment is called My Favorite Plant in which one of the hosts talks about a plant they are interested in that week. Next is Diversity in Plant Science, in which they pick a person that is not a white male and talk about their life and contributions to science (George Washington Carver, for example). After that they define and discuss a cognitive bias, and then they share random things (sometimes science-y, sometimes not) that they find fun or interesting or important to share. Each episode typically ends with a cat fact, as they both have a profound love for cats (although everything is a cat to Joram, apparently).

grass triggerplant (Stylidium graminifolium) was Joram’s favorite plant in episode 12 of Plants and Pipettes (image credit: wikimedia commons)

A highlight among the early episodes was an interview they did with a researcher at the University of Minnesota who is working with pennycress (Thlaspi arvense). This plant is a common weed, but it shows potential for being a productive and useful oilseed crop, similar to a few of its relatives in the mustard family. Speaking of weeds, a fun fact in episode 29 caught my interest, in which Tegan shares an example of Vavilovian mimicry involving rice and barnyard grass (Echinochloa crus-galli). A great introduction to their ongoing series about cognitive biases is episode 37 in which they discuss the Texas sharpshooter fallacy. And of course, I have to recommend listening to episode 48, in which Tegan gives a shout out to Awkward Botany and my new zine Dispersal Stories. How cool is that!?

pennycress (Thlaspi arvense) discussed in episode 8 of Plants and Pipettes (image credit: wikimedia commons)

While I am not always able to keep up with the discussions about molecular plant biology, I still really love listening to this podcast. Apart from the interesting content, the hosts are the real appeal.  Not only do I appreciate their social justice rants and their support for open science, but I also find their sense of humor and lack of pretension refreshing. They are excellent models of the way that science communication should be done. 

If you check out Plants and Pipettes and decide you need more Tegan and Joram in your life, check out a new podcast they just started with Ellen from Plant Crimes podcast called Plant Book Club, in which they choose a plant-themed book to read and discuss. You can also watch/listen to Tegan and Joram talking about their podcast on Career Conversations

More Podcast Reviews on Awkward Botany:

Weeds of Boise: Northwest Corner of Ann Morrison Park

The Boise River, which winds its way through the City of Boise, is flanked by a series of parks known collectively as the Ribbon of Jewels, named in honor of prominent women in the community. Most of these parks are vast expanses of turfgrass scattered with large trees and are meticulously maintained, except near the river where the vegetation is allowed to run a little wild. It is within these narrow strips of land, bordered on one side by the river and the other by regularly mowed turfgrass, that a veritable nature walk can be had right in the heart of the city.

While a few native plant species can be found in these strips, much of the vegetation is introduced. Some of the non-native trees and shrubs may have been intentionally planted, while others came in on their own. Most of the grasses and forbs in the understory are weedy plants commonly seen on all manner of disturbed lands. There are also, of course, a few weeds specific to riparian areas. Due to the wild nature of these strips and the abundance of introduced plants, the river’s edge makes for a great place to become acquainted with our wild urban flora.

Looking at the northwest corner of Ann Morrison Park from the Americana Boulevard Bridge

Because these parks (which include the Boise River Greenbelt) stretch for miles through the city, practically any spot along the way could be a good place to look for weeds. I chose to narrow my search to the northwest corner of Ann Morrison Park. What follows are a few images of some of the plants I found there, along with a list of what I was able to identify during my brief visits this spring. The list will surely grow as I check back from time to time. If you’re interested in learning more about the Boise River and its importance – not just to the humans who call Boise home, but also to myriad other living organisms – check out Boise River Enhancement Network and the work that they are doing to help protect and preserve this invaluable ecosystem.

yellow flag iris (Iris pseudacorus)

Russian olive (Elaeagnus angustifolia)

common mullein (Verbascum thapsus)

climbing nightshade (Solanum dulcamara)

cleavers (Galium aparine)

a strip of cheatgrass (Bromus tectorum)

seed head of dandelion (Taraxacum officinale)

western salsify (Tragopogon dubius)

bull thistle (Cirsium vulgare)

Amur honeysuckle (Lonicera maackii)

creeping buttercup (Ranunculus repens)

Weeds found at the northwest corner of Ann Morrison Park (while several of the trees and shrubs at this location are introduced, I only included those species that are generally considered to be weedy or invasive):

  • Amorpha fruticosa (false indigo bush)
  • Anthriscus caucalis (bur chervil)
  • Arctium minus (common burdock)
  • Bromus tectorum (cheatgrass)
  • Capsella bursa-pastoris (shepherd’s purse)
  • Cerastium vulgatum (mouse-ear chickweed)
  • Cirsium arvense (creeping thistle)
  • Cirsium vulgare (bull thistle)
  • Chondrilla juncea (rush skeletonweed)
  • Convolvulus arvensis (field bindweed)
  • Conyza canadensis (horseweed)
  • Descurainia sophia (flixweed)
  • Elaeagnus angustifolia (Russian olive)
  • Erodium cicutarium (redstem filaree)
  • Euonymus fortunei (winter creeper)
  • Galium aparine (cleavers)
  • Hordeum murinum ssp. glaucum (smooth barley)
  • Iris pseudacorus (yellow flag iris)
  • Lactuca serriola (prickly lettuce)
  • Lamium amplexicaule (henbit)
  • Lonicera maackii (Amur honeysuckle)
  • Malva neglecta (common mallow)
  • Medicago lupulina (black medic)
  • Parthenocissus quinquefolia (Virginia creeper)
  • Plantago sp. (plantain)
  • Poa bulbosa (bulbous bluegrass)
  • Polygonum aviculare (prostrate knotweed)
  • Ranunculus repens (creeping buttercup)
  • Rumex crispus (curly dock)
  • Sisymbrium altissimum (tumble mustard)
  • Solanum dulcamara (climbing nightshade)
  • Sonchus sp. (annual sow thistle)
  • Taraxacum officinale (dandelion)
  • Tragopogon dubius (salsify)
  • Trifolium repens (white clover)
  • Ulmus pumila (Siberian elm)
  • Verbascum thapsus (common mullein)

Like all posts in the Weeds of Boise series, this will be updated as I identify and photograph more of the weeds found in this location.

Dispersal by Bulbils – A Bulbous Bluegrass Story

The main way that a plant gets from place to place is in the form of a seed. As seeds, plants have the ability to travel miles from home, especially with the assistance of outside forces like wind, water, and animals. They could also simply drop to the ground at the base of their parent plant and stay there. The possibilities are endless, really.

But what about plants that don’t even bother making seeds? How do they get around? In the case of bulbous bluegrass, miniature bulbs produced in place of flowers function exactly like seeds. They are formed in the same location as seeds, reach maturity and drop from the plant just like seed-bearing fruits, and are then dispersed in the same ways that seeds are. They even experience a period of dormancy similar to seeds, in that they lie in wait for months or years until the right environmental conditions “tell” them to sprout. And so, bulbils are basically seeds, but different.

bulbous bluegrass (Poa bulbosa)

Bulbous bluegrass (Poa bulbosa) is a Eurasian native but is widely distributed outside of its native range having been repeatedly spread around by humans both intentionally and accidentally. It’s a short-lived, perennial grass that can reach up to 2 feet tall but is often considerably shorter. Its leaves are similar to other bluegrasses – narrow, flat or slightly rolled, with boat-shaped tips and membranous ligules – yet the plants are easy to distinguish thanks to their bulbous bases and the bulbils that form in their flower heads. Their bulbous bases are actually true bulbs, and bulbous bluegrass is said to be the only grass species that has this trait. Just like other bulb-producing plants, the production of these basal bulbs is one way that bulbous bluegrass propagates itself.

basal bulbs of bulbous bluegrass

Bulbous bluegrass is also propagated by seeds and bulbils. Seeds form, like any other plant species, in the ovary of a pollinated flower. But sometimes bulbous bluegrass doesn’t make flowers, and instead modifies its flower parts to form bulbils in their place. Bulbils are essentially tiny, immature plants that, once separated from their parent plant, can form roots and grow into a full size plant. The drawback is that, unlike with most seeds, no sexual recombination has occurred, and so bulbils are essentially clones of a single parent.

The bulbils of bulbous bluegrass sit atop the glumes (bracts) of a spikelet, which would otherwise consist of multiple florets. They have dark purple bases and long, slender, grass-like tips. Bulbils are a type of pseudovivipary, in that they are little plantlets attached to a parent plant. True vivipary occurs when a seed germinates inside of a fruit while still attached to its parent.

Like seeds, bulbils are small packets of starch and fat, and so they are sought ought by small mammals and birds as a source of food. Ants and small rodents are said to collect and cache the bulbils, which is one way they get dispersed. Otherwise, the bulbils rely mostly on wind to get around. They then lie dormant for as long as 2 or 3 years, awaiting the ideal time to take root.

bulbils of bulbous bluegrass

Bulbous bluegrass was accidentally brought to North America as a contaminant in alfalfa and clover seed. It was also intentionally planted as early as 1907 and has been evaluated repeatedly by the USDA and other organizations for use as a forage crop or turfgrass. It has been used in restoration to stabilize soils and reduce erosion. Despite numerous trials, it has consistently underperformed mainly due to its short growth cycle and long dormancy period. It is one of the first grasses to green up in the spring, but by the start of summer it has often gone completely dormant, limiting its value as forage and making for a pretty pathetic turfgrass. Otherwise, it’s pretty good at propagating itself and persisting in locations where it hasn’t been invited and is now mostly considered a weed – a noxious one at that according to some states. Due to its preference for dry climates, it is found most commonly in western North America.

In its native range, bulbous bluegrass frequently reproduces sexually. In North America, however, sexual reproduction is rare, and bulbils are the most common method of reproduction. Prolific asexual reproduction suggests that bulbous bluegress populations in North America should have low genetic diversity. Researchers set out to examine this by comparing populations found in Washington, Oregon, and Idaho. Their results, published in Northwest Science (1997), showed a surprising amount of genetic variation within and among populations. They concluded that multiple introductions, some sexual reproduction, and the autopolyploidy nature of the species help explain this high level of diversity.

———————

Interested in learning more about how plants get around? Check out the first issue of our new zine Dispersal Stories.