Tuesday, 16 December 2014

Talking Plants on the Wireless


Earlier this year landscape designer Jim Fogarty and I were walking back from the ABC Studios after talking to Lindy Burns on 774 ABC Evenings about the upcoming Hampton Court Palace Flower Show. We were bemoaning the lack of a gardening show on radio that covered more than how to garden.

There are some great talk-back sessions by experts in horticulture, and occasionally the chance for them to cover a topic in a little more depth. But where was the place for discussing the big questions in horticulture, a chance to argue and debate about gardens and gardening?

We are very polite in the gardening world and tend to make every segment upbeat and life-affirming. Not that we need biff and blustering but a little prodding and disagreement wouldn't go astray now and then.

Mulling over this the next day I thought a panel show might be the answer. I wanted it to be national, and I wanted it to be done with style and integrity. ABC Radio National (RN) seemed to be the right vehicle.

So I emailed Robyn Williams, presenter of the RN Science Show for 30 years, who has always been supportive of botanic gardens and knew I could at least string a few words together. I thought he would be a good sounding board for a mad idea. This was the pitch.



Within minutes Robyn Williams had forwarded on my email to an RN commissioning editor, and within hours I received the reply via Robyn that there was certainly interest. RN had always had a hankering for a gardening show of some kind and this concept was appealing. Robyn recommended me warmly, which I'm sure helped. 


After some paperwork and internal ABC decision making we were invited to prepare a pilot episode with Amanda Smith (above; presenter of The Body Sphere, and producer of many great RN shows) producing. The show format evolved into a half-hour episode, including a 10-minute panel discussion, a plant of the week (Under the Microscope), a 5-minute outdoor interview (In the Garden) and a final whip around for what was good (laurel) or bad (thorn) in horticulture that week. 

I would host, Jim would be a regular guest and join me from the start of the show. A second guest could come in during our Under the Microscope session and stay for the panel discussion, to be joined by a third guest for that segment and the laurels/thorns. We would build to four of us chatting about horticulture...


For the pilot, we invited Damon Young (above, left), a philosopher, and Teena Crawford (above, third from left), a plant grower, to be our guests, staking out our territory as horticulture expertise within a wider cultural context. The pilot was viewed positively and we agreed to provide a series of six shows to run over Christmas with the pilot becoming the first episode. 

Does it meet the brief? Does it work? Is it any good? It's over to you. I'm Tim Entwisle, on RN, for Talking Plants  You can hear me at 9 am on Sunday mornings, or download the show from the Radio National website

Tuesday, 9 December 2014

Pollen shot a danger to insect life


I've always enjoyed firing off the trigger mechanism of the Trigger Plant (Stylidium) flower and it was one the subject of one of my first posts on Talking Plants, back in 2008. The fused male and female parts of the flower are cocked, ready to flick back into the middle of the flower when an insect (or my twig) makes contact with the sensitive area at the base of the trigger (a form of thigmotaxis, if you recall). This all happens within 20 milliseconds.

There are contenders for the plant speed record. The Bunchberry Dogwood (Cornus canadensis) has what are called 'exploding flowers', with pollen fired off at a reputed speed of 6 metres per second, just under half a millisecond after opening. Impatiens pallida has seeds that reach similar speeds and the Sandbox Tree, Hura crepitans, is faster, with seeds reputedly reaching speeds of up to 70 metres per second.

But let's back track to Cornus canadensis. The Missouri Botanical Garden Angiosperm Phylogeny Group website states that 'the anthers of Cornus canadensis have explosive dehiscence; the maximum acceleration rate of the pollen grains has been estimated at 24,000 metres per second squared (remember that acceleration is a measure of the change in velocity - that is, metre per second, per second...).

Cornus canadensis

To put that in context, this acceleration is 800 times that experienced by astronauts on liftoff from Earth. The pollen is travelling about 4 metres per second (14 kilometres per hour) when it leaves the flower. Botanist Ted Mosquin wrote a charming article on 'the explosive pollination mechanism in Cornus cadensis' in 1985 and summarised it online in 1998, in Botanical Electronic News.

Mosquin explains that the Bunchberry Dogwood is well armed for speed. It has a 'sensitive antenna-like structure' sticking out of one of the petals in the unopened flower, 'petals on a tensile spring' and male parts (stamens) with what are called 'elbow springs'. It's these stamen elbows that fling the pollen upwards and out of the flower.

In most plants, including the Trigger Plant, the firing mechanims involves one (or a fused part) of the flower working alone or perhaps constrained a little by petals. Ted Mosquin cites species of Pilea (the Artillery Plant), Urtica, Kalmia, Medicago, Sarothamnus, Lopezia, Hyptis, Hucuna, Ilex, Odontonema and Ravenala, noting that there are also some with 'less rapid floral movements related to pollination'.

The flower of the Bunchberry Dogwood is one of those flowers that isn't. What we often call the flower is a collection of a dozen or so inconsicuous flowers, within four big showy bracts. Most of the floral parts (and the bracts) are white, greenish-yellow or generally light in colour. The only exception are the female bits, which are dark purple and therefore quite prominent.


According to Ted Mosquin, the first thing you notice about the Bunchberry flower is that it is either in bud (as all are in the above, with the little antenna pointing skywards) or fully open. If you look closely you also notice that in open flowers the pollen has all been released (from the anthers). This is because when the antenna is prodded by a visiting insect or botanist the flower not only opens but there is an immediate explosive release of pollen. The petals peal back and the anthers spring out - flexing their elbows no doubt - spraying their entire pollen load into the air. The anthers are actually fully open in the bud, so that when the flower is triggered the pollen is ready to fly.

The flower has no need of nectar and this in effect wind pollination, set in motion by an insect, rather than what we would normally call 'insect pollination'. It would hard for an insect to eat the pollen, which might be part of why such a mechanism evolved. This triggering is so sensitive that any insect, even a small midge, can set it off. In fact Mosquin muses that the popping of the flower may well 'pose some theat to the life and limb of the smaller and more fragile of the woodland insects'.

It seems this explosion, or pop, happens extremely quickly and is hard to observe with the naked eye - one moment the flower is closed, the next fully open. It all happens in less than 0.4 milliseconds, 'less time than it takes for a bullet to travel the length of a rifle barrel'! Mosquin's implied concerns would seem warranted, so look out for insects riddled with pollen holes.

Images: unusually I've had to source all my pictures from other sources having never seen this plant myself. The picture at the top from the Adirondack Almanack, the second from White Flower Farm and the last from Portland Nursery.

Tuesday, 2 December 2014

Hop, a wolf in plant's clothing


It's time to return to Hop. Last time it was all about beer. This time, it's only partly about beer.

Seeing pots of Hop for sale at the Diggers garden at St Erth, near Blackwood, I recalled an impressive display by this climber at the Cloisters in New York. You don't have to travel that far to see it thriving, but I've used pictures from that visit back in September.


Humulus lupulus is such a euphonious name, you've got to ask what it means. It's Linnaean, described by Carl Linnaeus back in the eighteenth century. The genus name may, or may not, have something to do with humus and the rich soil it favours. Or it may be from an old German word for hop, humela.

'Lupulus' is easier, from the Latin for wolf lupus. Apparently the first century Roman naturalist, Pliny the Elder, used this term in describing how hop smothered and strangled the plant it grew on, much like a wolf does to a sheep. In fact Hop has been called Willow-wolf after its propensity for wolfing willows in this manner.

Its growth habit is clearly of note: the common name 'hop' is from an early Anglo-saxon word meaning to climb.

There is no need to panic though, noted naturalist Charles Darwin recorded that the stems make one revolution every two hours and eight minutes on a warm sunny day. You have plenty of time to escape, unlike the willow. Darwin also noticed that the twining was clockwise, but more on that in a previous post.

It's a vigorous plant but presumably because viable seed is uncommon, it hasn't become a severe weed in Australia. However it is 'naturalised' in various parts of Tasmania, and in a couple of coastal areas of Victoria. You should also take care where you plant it: the description of Hop in Gardening Australia's Flora includes 'suckers far and wide from its questing rhizomes'.

These days Hop is classified in the family Cannabaceae, along with Cannabis of course, as well as the widely planted and sometimes weedy garden tree, the Hackberry (Celtis). All three genera have more or less hand-shaped (lobed) leaves.

Hop is native to Europe and western Asia (or according to some sources, south-east Asia) and has been used to make beer for around 10,000 years. As is well known, it became part of the beer recipe to stop the drink going sour, back in the days (prior to the eighteenth century) when beer was safer to drink than water.


Plants produce either male or female flowers, not both. And it is the female flowers that are used in beer-brewing. They are what we call hops, and what gives your beer that bewitching bitterness. Unfertilised flowers are best, so crops are either exclusively female or with a few male plants left in to assist with the control of mildew (the receptive part of the female flower, the stigma, is prime site for fungal infection and it withers are fertilisation).

These pictures show clusters of female flowers, or cones, covered in papery bracts. Lupulin glands, containing the sought after oils, are buried within these bracts and then another layer of what we call bracteoles. But you can grow this plant for its horticultural beauty if you like.


Tuesday, 25 November 2014

Deane's Wattle not so high on a hill top


Climbing The Hill at Pyramid Hill earlier this year (in March), I was reminded of the first time I sighted the nearby Mount Witchyproof. At 43 metres, Mount Witchyproof is reputedly the smallest registered mountain, and it doesn't live up to any altitudinal expectation. At least The Hill, at much the same height I think, is just called a hill.

The vegetation is a bit clapped out (that's the technical term) but it has few interesting specimens. Wattle season, sprinter, is now well finished but I thought I'd feature an Acacia. In this case the wattle was in full flower in March so it's one of the many that flowers outside sprinter - sprinter just happens to be the peak wattle flowering season for much of Australia.


Acacia deanei, or Deane's Wattle to its friends, is one of the feathery leaved wattles. Most wattles have what are called phyllodes, flat blades that are actually modified leaf stalks rather than true leaves. They start off with feathery leaves when young but the mature plant has only phyllodes (think Golden Wattle, Acacia pycnantha).

A Deane's Wattle plant starts and finishes with feathery leaves. Each leaf consists of 2-8 pairs of what are called pinnae, and each pinna (singular) has 10-30 pinnules (littler pinnae...). You find this kind of structure in some ferns and in other wattles, like the common Black and Silver Wattle.


But Deane's Wattle is not so common, at least in Victoria. There are two subspecies, one called deanii (like the species, name after Mr Deane who first collected the species from Gilgandra in New South Wales) and one paucijuga (meaning fewer of the pinna or pinnules, but in this case also a reference to the smaller pinnules).

In Victoria, the first subspecies is only found near Chiltern, on the Murray River. It is more common in New South Wales and into southern Queensland. The paucijuga subspecies is scattered around the State but primarily in the north-central parts, and extending up into New South Wales. This is the one we saw on and near Pyramid Hill.

At first glance both subspecies might look like the Black Wattle, Acacia mearnsii, but that species has more pinnae and more pinnules, and the pinnules are smaller.Their ranges overlap a bit but Deane's Wattle is the only one you'll find growing naturally up towards the Murray.

We have preserved collections in the National Herbarium of Victoria from plants in flower (of both subspecies) pretty much anytime of the year, although mostly in summer. Which is a good thing. Apart from a few salt-bushes and a weed or two, it was one of the few colourful plants in flower at that time of year in the hills and mountains of northern Victoria.

As we enter the final week of sprummer, there is plenty in flower at the moment in our gardens and in the bush. The purple haze of jacaranda flowering has at last made its way to Melbourne and the Cape Chestnut is pretty in pink. The Sydney Red Gum, Angophora costata, is particularly stunning in nature and in nature-strips. 

The 4-month long summer that I favour for much of southern Australia is about to begin. This is 'down time' for many of our Australian plants, with notable exceptions such as the Hyacinth Orchid (Dipodium). By the time we get to March there will be little in flower so we need to savour the likes of Deane's Wattle.


Tuesday, 18 November 2014

Cultivating Cancer Weed


For someone who loves to tell stories about plants that change the world for the better - Cinchona (quinine), Salix (asprin),  Hevea (rubber) and of course Coffea (ahhhh) - you think I'd be thrilled to discover that active chemical in the gel I smeared over my face to fix some skin blemishes was discovered in a plant.

Instead I started to doubt its efficacy. Was Picato really something to cure my latent skin cancers or was this something just to make me feel better? But then I thought about quinine and asprins, and decided it was a good thing as long as it was well tested and the extract was carefully measured. Not for me a tea made of some local weed with the hope that it might contain just the Goldilocks amount of an elixir. I don't want to be poisoned, misled or conned. And thanks to an Australian scientist, Professor Jim Aylward, and his mother, that doesn't have to be the case.


But first let's look at the plant in question, Euphorbia peplus. It's a small herb native to northern Africa, Europe and western Asia but now naturalised widely around the world, including much of southern and eastern Australia, and doing quite nicely in my backyard. It arrived in Australia shortly after European settlement and has become a common weed of gardens, paths and crops. Although well established it is generally not an aggressive invasive, except in few localised areas (e.g. it is listed as one of top 10 coastal weeds of concern in southern Western Australia).

The plant is soft and bright green, up to about 20 cm tall, with oval or spade-shaped leaves and umbrella-like clusters of green flowers or fruits at the top. The stems are usually reddish at the base. I'm sure you've pulled them out of your brick work or path at some time.


Common names include Petty Spurge or along with lots of other euphorbs, Milk Weed. It's even called by some, Cancer Weed - in a curative rather than causative sense I think - or Radium Weed. I'm presuming 'radium' again refers to its powers of good, rather than evil.

I should point out here that the plant is poisonous to us, and to many animals, and should not be ingested. Although unspecified mild doses have been used as a laxative you might keep in mind that seventeenth century herbalist Nicholas Culpeper described its action as 'working violently by vomit and stool'.  And as with most euphorbs, skin contact with the milky sap can cause dermatitis.


Ironically, or not, it is the sap that has been used for centuries to cure skin problems, particularly warts. There are plenty of reports of people using sap direct from the stem to fix all kinds of blemishes and more serious ailments, and many of us have dobbed a dab of white latex from this plant onto a wart just to see what happens. Although far more expensive, I prefer and would always recommend clinically tested and precise dosages for the face.

Back to our Australian scientist, Professor Aylward. In a radio interview in 2009, he said his mother cajoled him into studying the properties of this plant after she found it successful home remedy for treating sunspots. That was in 1997 when Aylward and his team of Queensland scientists discovered and isolated the active compound in Euphorbia peplus.

Named ingenol mebute, this chemical kills rapidly dividing and growing cells, of the kind you find in a sun spot or potential cancerous cluster.

By 2009 clinical trials were in place and in 2013 the product was released for general use in the form of three tiny tubes of gel to be applied one each day for three days. After fifteen days of ruddy complexion your skin becomes blotch and cancer free, at least for a while.

Well, I did it and it seemed to work just fine. In the backyard the Euphorbia peplus thrives, no matter how many times I rip it from the garden. Presumably its toxic sap wards off other predators, and the ability to produce these flowers and fruits within weeks of germinating must help.


Images: The shots of Euphorbia peplus are all taken in my backyard, the tiny tube of Picato gel in my kitchen. The last two pictures may help you work out whether it is the paired leaves or the tucked and pleated fruits that inspired the species name, a reference to the simple peplos garment worn by women in Ancient Greece.

Tuesday, 11 November 2014

Better to have foraged for Fairy Lanterns and failed…


I gather the thrill of shopping is as much about the planning, the anticipation and the hunt, as it is about the purchase. Still I suspect without an occasional purchase it might become a little anticlimactic.

Plant foraging is a bit similar, particularly if you are looking for native ground orchids. On Melbourne Cup weekend last year, Lynda and I took up the ultimate botanical challenge, a native under-the-ground plant closely related to orchids.

We were in the Otway Range, rummaging around one of only six known localities for Fairy Lanterns, Thismia rodwayi, in Victoria. And we were unsuccessful. Not a tentacle to be seen. Perhaps we were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the right place at the wrong time. And so on. It’s not easy to find something that lives its entire life underneath the leaf litter.

If we had found it, it would have looked like this (each lantern-like flower is about 3 cm long):


We seem to have only one species of Thismia in Victoria, but when a plant is this hard to locate and study, who knows? Ten years ago a new species was discovered in Morton National Park, near Bundanoon in New South Wales. It was only the second report of Thismia from New South Wales.

Local naturalist Pat Jordan was part of a community fungal survey, Fungimap, in her local National Park. She thought the flower was a fungus and sent it our fungal expert here in Royal Botanic Gardens Melbourne, Dr Tom May. Recognising it as a Thismia, Tom showed it to visiting botanist Kevin Thiele, based in East Gippsland where the genus is relatively well known. He declared it a new species.

Thismia grows almost entirely underground and produces no leaves. It bears a single red to orange tubular flower, with a mitre-like cap and tentacles just emerging into the leaf litter. The whole plant is about 3 cm long. And only a few people have ever seen them in the field in Australia.

There are 30 known species of Fairy Lantern, mostly in South-east Asia and South America. Before this species was discovered there were only two known from Australia – one in Cape York, the other scattered around southern Australia.

Fairy Lanterns are closely related to orchids. The huge orchid family, Orchidaceae, includes over 20,000 species, of which only two grow underground. They both belong to the genus Rhizanthella, first discovered in 1928 near Corrigin in south-western Western Australia, and so far unknown outside Australia.

Fairy Lanterns and these orchids rely on fungi growing on the roots to get all their food and nutrients – they are mostly underground and don’t have any green parts so they can’t photosynthesise their own sugars and energy.

How are they discovered? Usually by accident. But also after very careful and intensive searching of likely areas.

The species are distinguished from one another mostly on the type of tentacles on the mitre-like cap. The Bundanoon species has been named clavarioides due to the resemblance of these tentacles to the ‘coral fungus’ Clavaria. When Pat Jordan first saw the tentacles of these flowers she thought they were a coral fungus.

The complete distribution of such underground plants is not the only mysterious thing about them. So too is their method of pollination. The flowers of fairy lanterns and underground orchids appear to rely on tiny flies, ants and termites, or other insects that flit about in the litter layer. Yet many ants—the most common visitors to the Western Australian underground orchid—secrete a potent antibiotic called metapleurin that should kill pollen. How the orchid overcomes this, we don’t know.

In the case of fairy lanterns the flowers are designed like yabby traps. Kevin Thiele postulates that insects can escape the trap but only after squeezing past a gland (that may secret glue) and the pollen sacs. The fruit of all these underground plants is probably dispersed by small marsupials searching for underground ‘truffle-like’ fungi such as truffles, but again we can’t be sure.

So plenty to discover about the Fairy Lanterns, as well as where they live. On balance I think its best I didn’t find one on my first search. Like travel, rather than shopping perhaps, it’s good to miss a few things so that you still have things to plan, anticipate and hunt.

And I'm well used to this kind of unfulfilled potential from above-ground orchid hunting. I saw a few orchids in flower over the Melbourne Cup weekend, but not great display. Although at least with above-ground orchids you often find a leaf, or a spent flower. These two are from Anglesea, on the return trip from the Otway Range. They will be readily recognisable to those with the bug.


Images: The Thismia picture was taken by Neville Walsh, and is from the Otway Range. Note also that some of the information in this post is taken from a story I wrote for Nature Australia magazine in 2004 (not available on-line).

Tuesday, 4 November 2014

Floral headbangers, plants that like metal


Some plants need extra metals in the soil to survive. They are called, quite logically, metallophytes. Others can take or leave the metals. and they are called, more dubiously, pseudometallophytes. Either way the plant excludes or accumulates the metal, although mostly the pseduometallophytes exclude and the metallophytes accumulate.

While I was in the UK earlier this year I took an overnight trip to Durham. I was there to help with a freshwater algal identification course but along the way I saw a whole lot of metallophytes and pseudometallophytes in the tailings from the mining of lead and other minerals in the West Pennines.


The metal tolerant plants are spread across 34 or so families but Brassicaceae, the cabbage family, is commonly represented. This Arabidopsis haleri was the most commonly encountered Brassicaceae I noticed in the West Pennines.

Like plants living in very salty soils, some (pseudo)metallophytes excrete the metal through glands and hairs. At least some forms of the pansy illustrated at the top of this post, Viola tricolor, are known to to accumulate metals in their hairs and then shed them. So they kind of accumulate then exclude.


These are three other pretty flowers present in the metal rich meadows: the Eyebright (Euphrasia officinalis), the Common Bird's-foot Trefoil (Lotus corniculatus) and what I think is the White Common Spotted Orchid (Dacylorhiza fuchsii subspecies okelleyi). I don't know whether thery accumulated, excluded or both, or how. I also couldn't get a clear answer on whether these species were all native to what may have been naturally mildly metal-rich soils or whether they colonised during and after the mining.

Elsewhere (pseudo)metallphytes are being used to not only restore vegetation after mining, such as Pig Face (Carpobrotus rossii) to clean up cadmium in Australia, but sometimes to prospect for metals like gold.

One day we might even be able to harvest rather than mine our metals. Earlier this year New Scientist journalist Katia Moskvitch reported on attempts to extend decontamination of a nickel-rich site to extracting the metal from a species of Alyssum (a Brassicaceae). The plants concentrate the metal in their leaves, which are harvested and burnt, with the ash then processed in a smelter or refinery.

Nickel yields of more than 100 kilograms per hectare are possible with the right fertilisers and herbicides (the latter to kill off competing plants and something that would need to be carefully monitored from an environmental perspective you would imagine). Alan Baker, a leader in this study, is now based at the School of Botany, University of Melbourne.

As for metal that doesn't end up in a plant, well in the West Pennines anything mobile finds its way into this river which locals proclaim proudly to be their one and only pea-green river. No where else, I was told, would you find a river so green.


Postscript: From Facebook:

Jim Croft Symplocos accumulates so much aluminium, leaves of herbarium specimens can be bright yellow.

Tuesday, 28 October 2014

Western Australian Christmas Tree not so sweet in the east


Two months ago I was in the Australian Garden at Royal Botanic Gardens Cranbourne - part of mighty Royal Botanic Gardens Melbourne empire - with Steve Hopper and his wife Chris. Steve is a Professor at the University of Western Australia and previously Director of Perth's Kings Park and Botanic Gardens as well as that little old garden in London, Royal Botanic Gardens Kew.

So he knows something about plants and in particular the plants of Western Australia. I was keen to show him Howson Hill, part of the second stage of the Australian Garden. Steve had been there for the opening of Stage One but hadn't seen the recent developments.

He was impressed by it all but enjoyed seeing Western Australian plants thriving on Howson Hill, including some he had named himself. One he certainly hadn't named, but I wanted him to see was our Western Australian Christmas Tree, Nuytsia floribunda, the largest (semi)parasitic plant on Earth.

Nuytsia in in the mistletoe family, Loranthaceae, and has only one species which occurs naturally in the south-eastern corner of Western Australia. It gets to 10 metres tall, and is covered in yellowy orange flowers around Christmas time.

This is one amazing plant. It's a semi-parasite (that is, it also has green leaves and does some of its own food production) that connects to the roots of any nearby plant. It's not choosy - annuals or perennials, grasses or shrubs, plants or powerlines... To get inside the root of the plant it cuts half way through and then penetrate into the food and water transport system within. Steve said that in Western Australia Nuytsia has been known to black-out houses when it cuts through an underground power-line instead of a root.


This Western Australian Christmas Tree at Cranbourne is one of the first plantings on the site, moved there not long after it was purchased, in the 1970s. Thanks to the horticultural expertise of Warren Worboys, Curator of Horticulture, seedlings were germinated and attached to willing hosts. Three were planted out at Cranbourne, only one surviving to maturity.

There are very few examples of this species growing in cultivation, particularly in the east. We promote ours as the most southerly specimen in the world, and sometimes as the most easterly.  Steve Hopper reminded me that one of the early Directors in Sydney, grew it to at least cotyledon stage (that is, with seed leaves), discovering to his surprise that it had three or four of the damn things. It's a 'dicotyledon' which tells you how many cotyledons you should expect (usually) - two!


On our visit, in late August it was exuding this transparent to amber coloured resin. With a texture, and as it turns out taste, like silicon sealant, there were half a dozen 3-5 cm in diameter blobs (about the size of a fat cicada) hanging from the trunk. Steve was familiar with them from Western Australia and said the the Noongar, the Aboriginal people living near Perth, ate them as a sweet.

As we tasted a small sample, we regaled each other (and Chris) with stories of how many bushfoods have to be pretreated in some way to remove poisons. In a botanic garden one must also have the permission of someone like the Director and Chief Executive to sample and eat any plant material. Lucky I was on hand.


As you can perhaps surmise from this picture of Steve sampling a fragment, it wasn't sweet. In fact it wasn't anything. Just like I imagine silicon sealant would taste without the drying spirit added to it. We didn't die or fall ill. We just didn't want to eat any more. Checking later on the internet I find it reported as a 'sweet gum', eaten raw by people indigenous to its natural area.

Clearly we need some help from Aboriginal people who know more about this plant. Of course it may be that while proud of our achievement, growing Nuytsia at its most southerly and easterly limit isn't good for the production a sweet gum.

Tuesday, 21 October 2014

With Don Watson in search of lost Mallee (Plant Portrait X*)


I was born in the Nhill Hospital but because my parents moved on when I was only two, I can't really say I lived in any remembered way in Nhill.

Still, I experienced Victoria's Mallee as a child through regular visits to my cousins' house, a few miles (as it was then) out of Hopetoun. After my father died when I was six, and we had moved to Euroa via Wangaratta, my two younger brothers and I spent even more time there, enjoying an odd mix of dusty, anarchic adventure and access to a vast library of mostly humorous English writing, all in paperbacks.

Don Watson also spent time in the mallee, but mostly as a contemplative adult, long after his childhood in Gippsland. I've just finished reading his The Bush: Travels in the Heart of Australia and there is plenty in the book that resonates and causes me to reminisce.

Book Cover: The Bush

Watson's family, like many who farm, say they come from The Bush. I've always said I come The Country. My rural life was in country towns, the son of teachers. Don Watson's was from a farm, or two. In his book Watson travels from his childhood to his penultimate home in Mount Macedon (he has recently moved back to the city), via much of eastern Australia.

Watson's description of the Mallee, in particular, rings true. The mice plagues, I remember well. He mentions tails dangling from cracks in the ceiling (one of the more savoury stories amid the mass slaughter of these rodents). I remember lying awake at night waiting for them to drop to the floor and during the day lifting up sheets of corrugated iron to shriek in horror/excitement at the seething mass of whiskers and tails beneath.

And Don Watson marvels, as he should, at the plans of the 80-year old Bosisto company to increase their eucalypt oil production in the Bendigo whipstick, just east of the Mallee, to not only out-compete China (today's leading producer of eucalypt oil) but to one day produce a substitute to petroleum. (Bosisto's fascinating story was also featured on a recent episode of ABC's Landline.)

Mostly, though, the Mallee is and was about wheat and sky. One of my stronger childhood memories is waiting on the station at Sea Lake, with no other soul around that I remember, watching the sun rise and then the dust from my uncle's car grow closer, all in relative silence before I was enveloped into the noise of the Hopetoun household.

I also remember sitting on the veranda of a house not far from my cousin's place, with farm junk scattered around, watching a sunset I think. It's often about watching, and about the softer edges of the day, when it's not so hot and not so harsh.


In the early years I would be viewing the Mallee from a caravan placed somewhat arbitrarily in the one or two hectare, square property plonked in the middle of the wheat fields (not, I should add, in the middle of this road somewhere in Victoria - this is clearly just a toilet stop for me). My uncle was a lawyer with offices in various of the local towns. He had a huge, and to his children greatly wearing, knack for funny stories and he liked to grow Australian plants in a fairly haphazard but courageous style,

Not every one likes the mallee. Watson says that the first Director of Melbourne's Botanic Gardens, Ferdinand von Mueller, bypassed it on his way to collect plants further north in Australia.

The book is about much more than the Mallee. It reaches from the soggy forests of Gippsland to the lonely interior of the continent. From Aboriginal care to European distrust. I like that Don Watson sees his later search for imperfections (in life and language we presume) as coming from being taught to 'spot the thistle in the daffodils'. This kind of upbringing, he muses, make you see faults before loveliness.

It's a meandering story, at times as tangled as the weedy scrub European settlers have allowed to replace the bush they cleared. That's not a bad thing and I have a tendency to stray a little myself. Here, for example, is my uncle's Valiant in which I later learnt to drive (in this picture I am a small boy talking to my mother in the back seat, while my father I suspect is taking the picture). It is parked next to what I presume is Lake Lascelles, just out of Hopetoun, on which my cousins sailed every now and then, when it filled. Or perhaps it is Lake Albacutya further to the west. As Watson notes, like Lake Eyre, these Mallee lakes are remnants of the long departed inland sea.


As you'd expect, Watson's book has some lovely writing, with sparkling sentences and sentiments such as this, describing those in search of Red Ceders in the Big Scrub in the mid-nineteenth century: "We don't know how far they regressed, if at all, but if they are indeed among the progenitors of the national character and values, it might be a calculation worth making."

One of the best is almost lost in a bracketed aside after a story of a boy's lie about checking a windmill leading to the death of a hundred cattle: "Along with birdsong and room to roam, it is one of the privileges of a country childhood to live in permanent fear of a biblical drubbing should one neglect to shut a gate or turn off a tap". That same privilege seeped through to us townies who schooled and played with kids from the farms.

Notes: After writing this I interviewed Don Watson for the radio version of Talking Plants, to run over the Christmas break on ABC Radio National. Turns out he's a keen gardener and, as you'd expect, able to link gardening and plants to the bigger questions in life. (You'll note the images here contain few attractive plants, reflecting accurately my memories of the Mallee.)

Tuesday, 14 October 2014

No great wine escape


Botanical colleague Neville Walsh was wondering, aloud, why you don't see grape vines taking over the Victorian bush. They grow well in many parts of the State, they produce plenty of fruit, and the seed-containing pomice from wine and juice making is often discarded outdoors. Yet there are only a handful of reports of its escape into natural vegetation.

Neville presumed, aloud, that the seed was most likely infertile. My extensive sleuthing on the internet supports this presumption, sort of. Growing grapes deliberately from seed it not easy. It can, according to one experienced grower, take up to three years. Firstly, only a small number of seeds will germinate. It may be that they are mostly infertile but also because they require 'stratification'.

That is the seeds need to be pretreated in some way before they germinate. Only by subjecting them to few months of cold temperatures to trigger the plant to force it's way through the tough seed coat.

According to this same source, Danie, once extracted from the fruit pulp, the seed need two to three months at just above freezing (1-3 degrees C). This alone would make most of Australia unsuitable for colonisation by a rogue grape.

Seed will still take a few weeks to germinate, and there are reports of it taking up to eight. Even after stratification the strike rate is low.

Other people simply recommend sowing the seed and then waiting for three months, presumably in places where temperatures drop a little and help the seed break its dormancy.



This is presumably why Vitus vinifera, the wine grape, is only 'sparingly naturalised' in Victoria. I notice that it's described as full-on naturalised (i.e. established and spreading in the bush) in Western Australia, South Australia and New South Wales (and 'doubtfully naturalised' in Australian Capital Territory).

That summary may over inflate the real situation given that in New South Wales, for example, the distribution based on vouchered (herbarium) records is 'occasionally naturalised' and there are only three records on the PlantBank database. How close these are to domesticated vines I don't know but the dots seem to be in established wine growing regions (e.g. Hunter Valley).

There are more dots (on the map) in Western Australia but mostly hugging around Perth with just a few in the Margaret River area. In South Australia there are 18 records, scattered around the south-west wine growing areas.

I don't get the impression it's a sleeper weed, with the potential to break out and rampage through our native vegetation. But if the climate changes to its advantage and we are careless in where we toss our pomice, who knows.

Images: The vineyard at the top is beautiful Tarrawarra in the Yarra Valley, where I saw no evidence of escaping wine vines. The other picture is of a single plant, one of the oldest and biggest in the world, growing inside at Hampton Court Palace and therefore unlikely to escape.

Tuesday, 7 October 2014

Close encounters with the Teddybear Cholla


The sign was clear. Don't touch. Don't even think about touching the Cylindropuntia bigelovii, even though its common name is the Teddybear Cholla (pronounced choy-yah).

So I picked up a small piece. Swore. Flicked it onto my foot where it attached itself securely to the front of my shoe. I eventually managed to scrape it off on a rock and then break the remaining spines back to the rubber in my shoe. This was two weeks ago, while in the Joshua Tree National Park south-east of Los Angeles. The spiny remnants reside in my shoe still today.


Back in the desert as temperatures hit 96 degrees F (around 36 degrees C) in what is quite appropriately called the Cactus Garden, Lynda mumbled something about signs and kids. I licked my wounds.

The Teddybear Cholla is by far the most common species of cactus in the park and pretty successful at getting around. It's a close relative of the prickly pear and in fact used to be included in the same genus, Opuntia. The most obvious difference is that the chollas (there are others in this group) have cylindrical stems (i.e. the green blades that make up most cacti) while the prickly pears are flattened ones.

The spines are also different, as I experienced. Many opuntias (as I can also attest) have clumps of tiny 'glochids' which look innocuous but persist and irritate long after any contact with the cactus. The chollas have pretty obviously aggressive spines and you'd be an idiot to even touch them.

The Teddybear Cholla is also called the Jumping Cactus due to its propensity to find its way from the ground to some part of our body. It can seem at times like it jumps at you. All these detached bits and pieces readily root and settle in as new plants, sometimes after being transported rather long distances (e.g. to Australia; although I should say that personally I may have carried fragments of spines, but not flesh of the cactus).


I gather the easiest way to remove the reverse-barbed spine from your skin is to use a comb and to 'quickly jerk it away'. I wasn't carrying a comb and in any case, due to the force required I gather there is also a risk it flies straight into your companion, making a fresh connection.

A mature specimen is about one to two metres tall, with the base becoming trunk like with age as lower branches die and fall off. The spines cover pretty much the entire surface of the plant, which must make it difficult for sunlight to reach the green photosynthetic tissue. Presumably protection from desiccation and predation are more important.


Young spines are yellow. Old ones black. Yellow-green flowers appear in spring with the fruits, as illustrated here from mid-autumn, mostly without fertile seeds. It does nicely without resorting to sexual reproduction it seems. In fact according to the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum, many plants have three rather than two sets of chromosomes, and are completely sterile. These sterile plants can still cover up to two square miles desert excluding nearly all other plants.

This species is common in the Mohave Desert and hotter parts of the Sonoran Desert, both of which intersect in the Joshua Tree National Park. And I can't really post about the Joshua Tree National Park without a picture of the striking Joshua Tree (Yucca brevifolia) so here it is!


Notes: Thanks Lynda for the final picture, and yes I lied when I said my last post was the final one from my US holiday. This one, almost certainly, is. 

Tuesday, 30 September 2014

It's tough at the top of the world's tallest trees


This is the second (and last) of my holiday posts from North America, in this case researched a little before I left Australia. It's a long one, pictorially, due to the elongated plant subject. I've traveled across the country (by plane), from giant topiary in New York last week to giant trees in California today. From the ridiculous to the sublime.

Back in 2005 when I wrote an article for Nature Australia magazine called 'Size matters', I reported that the world’s tallest plant was a 112.7-metre-high Coast Redwood growing in Humboldt Redwoods National Park, California. I think it still is the tallest but presumably plus or minus a metre or two now. It grows a few hundred kilometres north of where I saw and photographed this Giant Redwood.


Just for the botanical record, the Coast (or Californian) Redwood is Sequoia sempervirens, the only species in this genus. A closely related and equally 'big tree' is called the Giant Redwood, Sequiadendron giganteum, and it is also the only species in its genus.

Despite its common and botanical names, the Giant Redwood doesn't grow quite as tall as the Coast Redwood, but it achieves bigger bulk - that is, the volume of its trunk is the largest in the world (the Montezuma Cypress, Taxodium mucronutum, in Mexico has the largest girth - over 15 metres in diameter). Both Redwood species frequently top 100 metres in height but the tallest conifer ever recorded was a 126-metre Douglas Fir, Pseudotsuga menziesii.

All these conifers are clearly big trees. Flowering trees, like our gums, also grow tall of course. Although there are claims of Mountain Ashes (Eucalyptus regnans) in southern Australia being over 120 metres, the tallest ever measured officially was 107 metres. Today the tallest living specimen is I think still a 97 m tree called ‘Icarus Dream’ in the Styx Valley in Tasmania. It's quite possible this tree will reach 100 m over the next few decades.

But don't expect it, or even the Coast Redwood, to ever get to 130 metres. As I reported back in 2005, what limits their size is a plumbing problem: how do you get water from the ground to a leaf fluttering 100 or so metres above?

George Koch from Northern Arizona University, and his associates, reckon we'll never see a redwood over 130 meteres tall. They climbed the world’s tallest trees to measure water potential and photosynthesis in the highest branches, followed by more detailed analysis of leaves transported back to the laboratory. Water is drawn up the tree (what we call transpiration) in a continuous column as it evaporates from leaves into the atmosphere. They found that gravity starts to win out against water cohesion at around 110 metres.


It turns out the leaves most distant from the base of a gigantic Redwood such as this one are under extreme water stress, and their small size and low photosynthetic rates may be due to the plant closing some of its breathing pores (stomata). This would not only retain precious water, but also slow down the rate of water transport through the plant, reducing the possibility of deadly air bubbles being formed—a break in the water chain would be permanent and mean death for a lofty limb.

They also found that to keep one of these big trees alive and transpiring healthily, the surrounding forest must remain intact to maintain high moisture levels and buffer the trees against storm damage. So if we want to see big trees in California, or in Australia, look after the forests that surround them. The recent drought in California is putting some of these big trees under additional stress, so doing what we can to reduce the severity and impact of climate change will also help our botanical giants survive.


Images: All from Mariposa Grove, at the southern end of Yosemite, taken last Wednesday (I'm now back on Melbourne). Lynda very kindly photographed the top picture.