Resurrecting Prairie Ghosts

“O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again. “–Thomas Wolfe

***

Pulling sweet clover and giant ragweed from the prairie on hot June mornings can seem endless. On one workday, sweating and tired, a volunteer turned to me and sighed. “Tell me again–why are we doing this?”

I can’t remember exactly what I said. But this is what I wish I’d said.

Just a few hundred years ago, more than half of Illinois was prairie.

Settlers moved in,  looking for adventure and a better life. Agriculture and the John Deere plow soon turned prairies into acres of corn and soybeans. There was good in this–we need places to live, and food to eat. But we didn’t remember to pay attention to what we were losing.

And when we forget to pay attention, our losses can be irreplaceable.

For a while, it looked as if the prairie would become nothing more than a ghost. A distant memory.

But, just as the tallgrass had all but vanished, a few people woke up to what we had. They panicked when they saw how little of the Illinois prairie was left…

Then, they sounded an alarm to save those few thousand acres of original tallgrass that remained.

They persuaded others to reconstruct prairies where they had disappeared, and to restore degraded prairies back to vibrant health. Soon, prairie wildflowers and their associated insects returned. Purple milkweed and bees…

Wild quinine and tiny bugs…

…the prairie’s roses and crab spiders…

The drain tiles that piped the wet prairies dry were broken up.  The land remembered what it once was.

Dragonflies returned and patrolled the tallgrass.

The rare glade mallow raised her blooms again in the marshy areas, with a critter or two hidden in her petals.

These reconstructed and restored prairies are different, of course. Bison roam…

…but within fenced units. Power lines and jet contrails scar the skies that were once marked only with birds and clouds. Today, you may see houses along the edges, where once the tallgrass stretched from horizon to horizon.

It’s not perfect. But when we made a promise to future generations to bring back the prairies for them, we crossed a bridge of sorts.

 

We put aside our own instant gratification.

Every weed we pull; every seed we collect and plant, is in hopes that the Illinois prairie won’t be a ghost to the children who grow up in Illinois in the future.

Rather, it will be the landscape they love and call home.

Photos (top to bottom): bison (Bison bison), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; old barns, Flagg Township, Ogle County, IL; moon rising over Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; Scribner’s panic grass (Dicanthelium oligosanthes), The Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; white wild indigo or false indigo (Baptisia alba macrophylla) and pale purple coneflowers (Echinacea pallida), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; purple milkweed (Asclepias purpurascens) Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; wild quinine (Parthenium integrifolium), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; pasture rose (Rosa carolina) with a crab spider, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; female calico pennant (Celithemis elisa), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; glade mallow (Napaea dioica), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;  bison (Bison bison), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; child crossing the bridge, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prairie ragwort (Packera plattensis) Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, I; sunset over Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL.

The introductory quote is from Look Homeward Angel, by Thomas Wolfe, an American novelist in the early 20th Century. This quote is used to describe the lost prairie by John Madson in his seminal book on tallgrass, Where the Sky Began: Land of the Tallgrass Prairie.

Tallgrass Time

“Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.”— John Lubbock

June – and summer arrives on the prairie.

 

As the prairie heats up, we slow down and observe more closely.

 

On one side of the trail, purple meadow rue shakes out her tassels.

 

On another, scurfy pea tumbles out its blooms.

 

Everywhere, bedstraw laces the prairie with white.

Occasionally, Scribner’s panic grass explodes in electric profusion.

Nothing to panic about. It all speaks of summer. A time to walk, to look, and to marvel. A time to pay attention.

The big story on the early June prairie is pale purple coneflower.

Hairy…

… alien-esque. The flowers bend and turn.

Petals emerge, sharp looking and spiky…

…then drop softly to the sides.

 

The plant takes on a new look, more badminton birdie than alien.

 

And you can’t help but feel joy in the presence of all that bright pinky-purple.

It’s the joy of the flowers. The happiness of the season. The delight in idling for a while on the prairie, and seeing what unfolds.

It’s summertime.

All photos by Cindy Crosby at the Schulenberg Prairie,  The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL (top to bottom): the prairie in June; red-winged blackbird with white wild indigo (Baptisia alba) ; purple meadow rue (Thalictrum dasycarpum) ; scurfy pea (Psoralidium tenuiflorum); Northern bedstraw (Galium boreale); Scribner’s panic  grass (Dichanthelium oligosanthes scribnerianum); all other photos pale purple coneflowers ((Echinacea pallida).

John Lubbock (1834-1913), whose quote begins this essay, was an English writer, botanist, archeologist, and contemporary of Charles Darwin.

Rush Hour in the Tallgrass

Sure, it may look tranquil– from a distance.

But on the last day of May, you can feel the urgency on the prairie. Things get a little crowded; plants begin to jostle each other for available space.

The urgency is there in the alien-looking pale purple coneflowers, which merge into the tallgrass. Then they push, push, push their petals out into the fast lane.

 

You can feel the nature putting her foot down on the gas pedal. Dragonflies shed their underwater nymph status, pump out wings, then lift to the sky. What a ride!

Other commuters, like the damselflies, are deceptively still. They startle you when they suddenly dart out into air traffic to snag an unwary insect near the water’s edge.

New blooms appear each day, bumper to bumper. Each has its host of pollinators. They fuel up, then collect their tiny bags of gold dust. They share the wealth, from bloom to bloom.

 

The flowers range from jazzy, eye-popping hoary puccoon…

..to the pale, meadow rue buds; unnoticeable like a family sedan…

…and prairie alum root flowers, that sport some extra detail work, if you look closely.

 

The earliest spring bloomers signal the work of flowering is over, and drive home seeds.

 

Deep within the fast lane; amid the crush of the prairie blooms…

 

…a thousand insect motors are idling. They accelerate into a buzz of activity, a hum of new adventures unfolding.

It’s the last day of May on the prairie. Summer is on the horizon. What adventures await you in the tallgrass?

This is one rush hour you don’t want to miss.

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): Schulenberg Prairie Visitor Station area, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; pale beardtongue (Penstemon pallidus), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; three photos of pale purple coneflower  (Echinacea pallida) opening, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; female calico pennant (Celithemis elisa), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; eastern forktail (Ischnura verticalis), Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; spiderwort (Tradescantia ohiensis) with a pollinator, author’s backyard prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; hoary puccoon (Lithospernum canescens), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; purple meadow rue (Thalictrum dasycarpum), author’s backyard prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; prairie alum root (Heuchera richardsonii), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; bastard toadflax (Comandra umbellata) going to seed, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prairie phlox  (Phlox pilosa) and spiderwort (Tradescantia ohiensis) with grasses, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;  bee on wild white indigo or false indigo (Baptisia alba v. macrophylla).

A Corner Turned

Have you heard them? Listen. The crickets sing a rhythmic “shhh—shhh–shhh–shhh” like an oscillating yard sprinkler. Cicadas tune up.

Summer hears the sounds and begins to exhale.  July ends with a blue moon; the traditional name for the rare second full moon in a single month. August opens hot and stormy.

The prairie — responding to temperature, the slant of light, a million unseen signals it has tuned into since the dawn of time —begins to count down the days toward autumn. Urgently, it pumps out surges of color: yellows, purples, whites.

The first goldenrod bursts into bloom.

Rattlesnake master seedheads glow pale and prickly. The fragrance of prairie dropseed permeates the air. Mmmmmm. Smells like buttered popcorn.

Prairie dock punches its flower bud fists into the sky, 12 feet high. All the plants on the prairie shout — “make seeds!”

Compass plant sap drips in the daytime heat, then crystalizes in the cool  August evenings. Native American children chewed the sap like Wrigley’s Spearmint gum.

Dusk begins to fall. The hummingbird moths blur their way through lush stands of bee balm, fueling up for the night.

The first big bluestem seedheads unfurl, turkey-footed against the sunset.

Turn the corner into the savanna and admire the Joe Pye weed, Queen Anne’s lace, and woodland sunflowers as they spread their tall carpet under the oaks.

The grasses and trees become a little pixelled, a little grainy as the sun drops over the horizon. The cool breath of twilight rises up from the trail to meet you. Somewhere, a seasonal switch is flipped. A corner turned.

Summer, we’re not ready to let you go.

Please. Stay a little longer.

(All photos by Cindy Crosby. Top to bottom: Full “blue” moon, Glen Ellyn, IL; James “Pate” Philip State Park Prairie, Bartlett, IL; stiff goldenrod (Solidago rigida), Schulenberg Prairie at The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; rattlesnake master, (Eryngium yuccifolium) SP; prairie dock (Silphium terebinthinaceum) SP;  compass plant sap (Silphium laciniatum), SP; hummingbird month on bee balm (Monarda fistulosa), SP; big bluestem (Andropogon gerardii) , SP; oak savanna, SP; oak savanna trail, SP.)

More than Bison

The flower-fed buffaloes of the spring

In the days of long ago,

Ranged where the locomotives sing

And the prairie flowers lie low…

–Vachel Lindsay

I went for a hike a few days ago at Nachusa Grasslands, 90 miles west of Chicago, where I volunteer as a dragonfly monitor. Nachusa has been in the news in Illinois quite a bit over the past several months.

The spotlight on this amazing 3,200-acres-plus mosaic of prairie, wetlands and woodlands revolves around Nachusa’s successful bison introduction last fall.

The first baby bison birth announcements have hit the front pages of the newspapers. There’s a lot of excitement over these charismatic megafauna and their cute offspring, and deservedly so. But, it’s easy to forget some of the more humble inhabitants — more than 700 species — who live at this beautiful place.

One of these inhabitants – and one of the first prairie wildflowers to bloom at Nachusa — is one of the most fleeting and difficult to see.

The pasque flower.

Also known as the Easter flower, wild crocus, prairie crocus, or windflower, pasque flowers (Anemone patens) bloom for a week or two in early spring. The pale lavender blooms are almost invisible against last year’s prairie grasses. Then, before you can blink, they’re gone.

We’re at the southeasterly boundary of the hairy pasque flower’s range in upper Illinois. Looks furry, doesn’t it? Native Americans said the Great Spirit gave the pasque flowers those hairs to serve as a warm furry robe, in gratitude for helping a young man.

In “Wildflowers of the Tallgrass Prairie: The Upper Midwest” authors Sylvan Runkle and Dean Roosa tell us the pasque flower is highly toxic; none-the-less used by Native Americans and early settlers medicinally. Various concoctions were used to treat “nervous exhaustion.”

Runkle and Roosa also tell us when the Dakota Indians spotted the first pasque flower, they sang a special song.  Singing was believed to encourage the rest of the prairie to bloom.

Paying attention, noticing the wildflowers, composing songs in honor of their blooms and the blooms to come…

After a long cold winter, perhaps this pasque flower tradition — singing the prairie to life — is  the best medicine of all.

Thanks to Thomas Dean for introducing me to the poem, The Flower-Fed Buffaloes by Vachel Lindsay, excerpted above. The complete poem is available online at The Poetry Foundation: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/242582. The Native American story of the hairs of the pasque flower is found at http://galileo.org/kainai/pasque-flower/.

All photos above by Cindy Crosby, taken at Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL: Nachusa headquarters; two photos of bison; Prairie Pot Holes Unit;  and six different photos of pasque flowers in various stages of bloom and post-bloom.

Prairie Possibilities

Two weeks ago the prairie was a smoldering ruin. Now, it brims with possibility.

There’s a surge of energy as green shoots push against ash and earth to break through to sunshine. Wood betony is immediately recognizable.

All that curly red!

Ditto for the rattlesnake master, whose yucca-like leaves are ID-friendly from the tiniest sprouts. The scientific species name, yuccifolium, speaks volumes about how the leaves appear. Yucca! Of course.

Despite all the new growth, the prairie is at least a week behind last season’s flowering schedule. Not a bloom in sight. However, there’s plenty of floral action in the adjacent edges of the prairie savanna. Bloodroot is opening under the trees.

An evocative name, isn’t it? Earned because of the reddish sap that flows when you break the root. Artists use the sap to create a natural red, pink, or orange dye for baskets and textiles.

Bluebells are budding. Wild ginger leaves emerge. Striped spring beauties splash the grass with pink, making a starry carpet under the oaks. Spring beauties are sometimes called “fairy spuds” as foragers treat the small roots of some species like miniature potatoes. I think they’re too pretty to eat.

The umbrellas of mayapples gradually unfurl.

Everywhere you look is the promise of something exciting. It’s the start of a new prairie year.

And you begin to believe that anything is possible.

(All photos by Cindy Crosby taken at The Schulenberg Prairie at The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prairie greening up; wood betony; rattlesnake master, bloodroot; bloodroot in full bloom; spring beauty; mayapple.)

After the Fire

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

The Schulenberg Prairie is blackened after a prescribed burn that torched the tallgrass a few days ago. The landscape lies in ruins. Or so it seems.

In other areas of The Morton Arboretum, hundreds of thousands of daffodils are beginning to bloom. It’s no surprise that this is where visitors focus their attention and their cameras.  A burned landscape holds little attraction.

After the flames pass over the tallgrass prairie, it’s difficult to believe anything will ever grow there again. And yet.

My hiking boots crunch into the charred surface of the prairie, as I look for signs of life. Instead, I find interesting objects revealed by the flames that have erased the tallgrass.

 

There are bones from a tiny mammal that didn’t scamper quite fast enough when the fire moved across the grasses. Snail shells. Metal tags marking some research experiment, now defunct.

 

Prairie dropseed hummocks, shorn of all green, look like a squadron of UFO’s that touched down on the landscape. It’s no wonder the early pioneers called dropseed “ankle breaker,” and took care not to trip over the mounds hidden in the tallgrass.

Anthills are suddenly everywhere, like fantastic dirt castles spun out of soil. Some scientists believe these anthills and other disturbances that change the topography increase the number of different species of plants found on the prairie. Without disturbance, the life of the prairie might be less rich.

I inhale the smell of soot and smoke; brush ashes from my jeans. The old prairie I knew is gone. The landscape is at ground zero.

Could anything good come out of this devastation?

It seems impossible. 

.

Certum est quia impossibile est.

It is certain because it is impossible.

(All photos above by Cindy Crosby are of the Schulenberg Prairie at The Morton Arboretum in Lisle, IL, except: daffodils on The Joy Path, The Morton Arboretum; white ashes, the author’s backyard prairie spot in Glen Ellyn, IL. The quote is from Tertullian, 160-225 AD.)