A Prickly Parable

When is a thistle not a weed? You may say any is a scourge to be sought and destroyed by blade, toxic potion, or carbon-swilling mechanical executioner. But what if the spiny one is as part of natural lore as the quail, or poppy, or oak, here for years ‘ere humans cast long shadows across the land? What if our feathered friends and buzzing ones, too, relied upon these prickly plants for sustenance, shelter, and sociability? That they are well defended is scant reason to regard them with disfavor.

Weeds are simply so in the minds, the eyes, and the oft’ idle hands of the beholder. While many fall prey to righteous zeal, in attempts to repel invaders that squat in forest, glade, or meadow, too many of the vitally indigenous also perish, victims of mistaken identity. Thusly do so many native thistles suffer the indignity I plead you reserve for those oh-so-lovely ochre-blossomed peas from the East – you name the broom – or the hordes of red-berried, black-druped, fleshy fruited, woody-capsuled, parchment-podded, slimy or seedy, pompously plumed, nursery-groomed, creepily rhizomed, strangling, entangling, ecologically mangling, horticulturally-pimped-for-your-conspicuous-consumption garden wretches (Acacia, Arundo, Carpobrotus, Cotoneaster, Cortaderia, Delairea, Eucalyptus, Hedera, Ilex, Ligustrum, Pyracantha, Vinca, Watsonia, et al., ad nauseum). But I digress!

Truly, with so many prickly pranksters infiltrating our fabulous thistle flora, the native sticklers can confound the otherwise noble restorationist, leading to their untimely demise (meaning that of the thistles, but who knows the vengeance that might simmer in the hearts of artichokes?). So, by way of telling tales (not tall), I must warn those who weed – one and all – know thy thistles! Seek counsel for taxonomically tantalizing tricksters! Grope and grab with all due caution amongst the spiny thickets, for the bite may be worse than the bark, and harbor botanical booty, to boot! Now will I share fair warning, from mountains far and near, of the blight those who vie to do good deeds can deliver, for alas, they know not foe from friend. These are dark fables of woe for thistles that, having peacefully plied verdant slopes for thousands of years, were tragically separated from their earthly heritage.

In Yosemite, the summer past, as I traipsed the slopes of Dana and Lyell, I was beset with the withering corpses of countless Cirsium scariosum (elk thistle), rent asunder and lying wasted along the way. Surely this could not be the work of an evolutionarily wayward deer, time and again mistaking the spiny herbage for more palatable fare? No, for I soon happened upon another traveler, also aghast, who shared with me the spying of the perpetrator's deeds. Apparently, these thistles manifested as a pestilence pirating resources from the more becoming native posies, and thus deserved to die! Yet, in these alpine climes, nary an invader has been known to survive winter's wrath, yet the unenlightened deed-doer didst mistakenly slay the indigenous herbs, whereupon the park's learned ones did lament by decree, "Let the natives be!"

As the days fell to chill, I returned to the hill called Hood, above Valley of the Moon. My heart did start me in a hurry and with a thrill, along the trail through these peculiar woods, where serpentine mineral and infertile till keep invaders at bay. Had but a few fortnights passed since I last trod these trails, and thence had made the dear acquaintance of Cirsium douglasii, the denizen thistle of western swamp. Soon, and alas, tears doused my cheer, as in the ultramafic muck I fell upon a field of gore – no, neither Al nor Vidal, but a sickening scene of Cirsium -slaying! With haste to sound the alarm of this errant slaughter, I soon learned the terrible truth that I must tell: citizens worthy, if not well informed, wreaked the havoc, fearing an invader had designs for the entire mountainside. So did another native thistle perish, for crimes of encroachment never committed.

Well, fear not – these natives are tough, as well as perennial; in resiliency they will long outlive us! I know well that the weeders had love for habitat in mind, if not in the hand. But, please, take these tales to heart, and spend not your time wrenching from Earth those plants that precede us. Seek twice, nay, thrice, the advice, of a thistly sage, for knowing what weeds to cull from forest and field.

Posted on March 7, 2011 12:37 AM by pjwbotany