This fickle spring season started its tease in February. Warm days were followed by frigid days.
A snow in April delighted some and discouraged others. But the signs kept coming: spring peepers calling, daffodils persisting, and phoebes nesting.
I am hopeful that spring is finally here.
One of my greatest joys is watching a season unfold. This spring, my friend and I have been walking our dogs along the same path in the woods almost every day. The cooler weather is allowing the spring wildflowers to persist longer, and the ongoing bloom on the forest floor has been spectacular. Every day we notice what is new, from the earliest flowering spring beauties and trout lilies, to the most recent jack-in-the-pulpit and wild ginger.
[sc:text-divider text-divider-title=”Story continues below gallery” ]It is easy to see beauty among the snazzy spring wildflowers, but a more subtle beauty is also unfolding. After a winter of dormancy, ferns are growing new fronds (leaves). These fronds emerge as tight coils that slowly push through the leaf litter and unfurl. Many people call them “fiddleheads” due to their shape similar to the top end of a violin, and some species are considered delectable edibles.
Ferns are characterized by the shape of their fronds and the arrangement of leaflets on the fronds. They belong to a special category of non-flowering plants that reproduce using two distinct stages on separate structures (alternation of generations). The ferns that we see in the forest represent the sporophyte stage. On the underside of some of the fronds clusters of sporangia will form, which will produce hundreds of spores. When the spores mature, they will disperse by wind across the forest floor. The lucky ones that land in a suitable growing spot will grow into a small heart-shape structure known to botanists as the gametophyte.
What seems to be a tiny and inconspicuous stage to us has great significance to the fern. The gametophyte produces both sperm and eggs for sexual reproduction. The tiny flagellated sperm require water to wiggle to another gametophyte of the same species and for fertilization to occur. After fertilization, the second structure (the sporophyte) grows, and the first frond of a new plant unfolds in the spring.
This elegant fern life history has repeated itself over millions of years. Ferns dominated the landscape during the Carboniferous Period, 360 million years ago, long before the appearance of flowering plants.
As I walk along the trail, I am struck by the beauty of what we don’t see. The tiny gametophytes of the fern, germinating spores and sprouting seeds are all hidden in the dense leaf litter. But what we do see brings ongoing discoveries. The lacy light green fronds of the fragile fern, tall fiddleheads of the leathery Christmas fern, and dark green compound fronds of rattlesnake ferns pop up among the spring wildflowers. Every day brings something new.
By walking the same path on a regular basis, we know where the sunny patches are with the vibrant yellow wood poppies and which gently sloping creek bank will be covered in lacy white rue anemones. We know the twists and turns of the trail, the pools and ripples of the creek, and the best places to linger and watch.
This familiarity brings a comfort, like meeting an old friend and immediately connecting. The characteristics of a place reveal themselves slowly over time. The flora and fauna, the geology, the weather patterns, and the pattern of creek flow all provide opportunities for deeper observation and for defining the specialness of the place. And the knowledge, or “sense of place,” becomes an anchor or a grounding in these chaotic times.
My dog tells me it is time to walk. The creek trail is calling — the first mayapple is blooming today. The fragile ferns survived the last frost.
