Bog Blog

Bogs, swamps, fens, marshes – how I like to spend time in them. Especially bogs, with their limited number of species and expanses of sphagnum moss. When the wind blows over the various grasses, sedges and snags, it simultaneously lulls and quickens me.

There is a quiet in these wetlands. The quiet of frogs and dragonflies and all the life that has chosen to live in these nutrient-poor waters. What initially seems like a not-very-livable habitat is transformed when you spend time and wait for the smaller inhabitants to present themselves. As you wade through what appears to be solid earth, you will occasionally wonder what other dimension your leg has disappeared to when you look down and all you see is moss up to your waist. So prepare for this mucky adventure, dress (or undress) for it. Once you realize that being covered in bog muck is inevitable, there is a relaxing into it, enjoying the tannin-rich water and earth on your skin and clothing. Yes, it will weigh you down, but there is nothing but bog around you here, and the damselflies don’t mind. Have some extra clothes nearby, and then this will be a filthy experience of the best kind.

First, a quick discussion on different wetlands. A wetland is a place whose soil is permeated with water. This can be year-round or seasonal. Wetlands include bogs, swamps, marshes, fens and others. Each one of these categories has its own sub-categories. The easiest differentiation here is to separate bogs from all the others. Bogs are ombrotrophic, which means they get all of their water from clouds, in the form of rain, snow and other atmospheric precipitation. All of the other types of wetlands get some groundwater from springs, lakes, streams and other water sources. As these other waters drain in, they bring fresh nutrients. Since bogs receive all of their water from the sky and not from other water sources, they do not receive nutritional replenishment. This greatly reduces the number of species that can thrive there, and gives them their characteristic look. The other wetland types have many more species of plants and accompanying wildlife. Many of these grade into each other. For example, there may be a lake with a swamp on its fringes and a bog outside of that. There are many types of bogs, with variations dependent on climate and topography

Bogs are primarily circumboreal (that is, in the more northern reaches of the earth), and the different types share commonalities, mostly centered around nutrient-poor, acid-rich waters, with little in-flow of new minerals and specialized plants that tolerate this unique habitat. Well, unique may not be exactly the right word, as about 2% of the earth’s land mass is bog (didn’t know that, did you?). These days there is quite a buzz about peatlands (places with high amounts of decaying vegetation, such as bog and fens) – they are water sinks, and as glaciers melt, not all of the water is destined for the ocean. No, some of that water is held in these terrains, at least for the present. Yet another thing to like about bogs.

They are also the main source of ‘peat’ (that’s turf to you Irish). Peat is made up of decomposing plant matter. It is fuel for many people in places where there is a lack of other sources, such as trees. There is an abundance of peat on this here planet. If you put it into the reductionist terms (and why not?) it contains 8 billion terajoules of energy, which to put simply, is a shit-ton (there is the inevitable comparison to the atomic bomb, but why bother). This stuff is pre-coal by the way. Give it some time.

I like that bogs have such popular appeal in descriptive terminology. While it often reflects seemingly negative attributes, they still conjure the Primordial Bog.
Getting bogged down is the case when actually walking in bogs. Each step may have feet sinking deeper and deeper, until you finally find a place of some sturdier earth stuff that will support your weight. But it’s usually just a short matter of time before you sink back into the quagmire (another word for bog).

The term ‘bogginess’ shows up in health care, as a sort of constitutional diagnosis. A boggy constitution is one where everything moves slowly, whether it is gastrointestinal enzymes, immune competency or ways of thinking. It seems an apropos description, for this is how bogs work. With little in-flow adding to the water table there is little movement. It is easy to consider this scene in someone who has sluggish conditions. The difference here is that the bog ecology is healthy in itself and doesn’t require any alteration.

There are, of course, plants to see here. What more interesting group of plants are there than the carnivorous ones? It is amazing how a group of phylogenetically unrelated plants could evolve diverse novel strategies to acquire the food they cannot obtain the way most plants do. That is, they have learned to trap various small organisms, such as insects, nematodes and other diminutive life-forms to supplement their meager soil food. All of the below descriptions are just snippets of how these plants do the deed, there are many excellent resources available for further elucidation of these fascinating contrivances,.

While the Venus fly-trap is often the plant most conjured in people’s minds with its teethy leaves, it actually has a very small growing region restricted to the Carolina’s. The most common carnivorous bog plants are the Sundews (Drosera species, Droseraceae). While they are not all that big and showy, they are handsome plants. The flowers are attractive but it is the leaves that lend them their elegance. Their shiny dewdrop nature with bits of enticing fluid on the tips of the hairs which help trap prey. Yes, prey – plants trapping animals. This helps give life on earth a fresh balance. After the insect lands, it becomes entangled in the sticky hairs and is further trapped as it tries to free itself. The leaf then starts to curl up to further ensnare the insect and begin the process of protein digestion until just a skeleton is remaining. Isn’t nature lovely?

I like the look of Drosera, the bright red leaves against the green and red sphagnum. Sometimes large swaths of it color wetland landscape. There are a number of species, usually obvious by the shape of its leaves. All of them designed to grab a meal, so next time you are in a bog take a closer look at these beauties and perhaps you will see one in action.

Two other common carnivorous plants are the Bladderworts and Pitcher Plants. Pitcher plants (Sarracenia purpurea, Sarraceniaceae) often capture people’s attention right off with their lovely towering pitcher-like leaves. And while the petals fall off the flowers early, the rest of the inflorescence (flowering stem) is conspicuous and adds to this plants allure. Like Sundew, the colors of Pitcher Plants are red and green, but the red is more of a brick red, and is beautifully mottled on the leaves.

While sticky hairs entrap little critters in the sundews, the pitcher plant has a different strategy (but same ends, more food). The leaf is shaped in a way that holds water. And within this water there are proteolytic enzymes that break down those creatures that cannot escape. Adding to this device, there are downward pointing hairs along the leaf making it harder for anything of a certain size to crawl out. And below that it gets mighty slippery. The insect that is drawn to the color and venation of the leaf lands and starts getting moved down the pitcher by the hairs and then starts sliding into the watery cup. From there it drowns and enzymes and bacteria do the rest of the work to help dissolve it into a Sarracenia-sized meal. You can often see remnants if you look in the prominent leaves. I don’t know if I have ever taken any group to a bog without someone inquiring about sticking their finger into the water at the bottom of the modified leaf (the more adventurous inquire about drinking it… bad idea, chaps).

The Bladderworts (Utricularia species; Lentibulariaceae) have a very different sort of entrapping device. They use small bladders attached to their water-submerged parts that open quickly, sucking in both nearby water and the varmint that sets off this trapping mechanism. It then shuts close, thereby diabolically ensnaring the unsuspecting creature. And once again, enzymes and bacteria do their work. The whole trap takes a thousandth of a second or so to do this. Yup, that fast. Later, it will open up and discharge the skeletal remains, alter its internal pressure and prepare for its next meal. There are many of these nodule traps scattered along the underwater parts of the plant (I say parts as they are not very well delineated in Utricularia). The size of the bladder (the ‘utricles’) determines the size of the prey it can capture. Some are large enough to suck small tadpoles in, though the critters tend to be much smaller, something our eyes may barely discern.

While carnivorous plants are one of the more unique plants of bogs, there are others that have evolved to live in this environment. The Ericaceae -the Blueberry family-have many bog-tolerant species. Some of these are quite tasty and have been drawing humans and other animals to snack here for a while, the most notable being cranberries and blueberries (Vaccinium spp). Other members of this family include Bog Rosemary (Andromeda polifolia), Leatherleaf (Chamaedaphne calyculata), the aromatic Labrador Tea (Ledum groenlandicum) and the especially lovely Bog Laurel (Kalmia polifolia). The Ericaceae are acid soil tolerant plants in general so I guess it is not such a big jump to find them in this acidy ecosystem. But still, it is interesting to see how a family of plants have evolved with their habitat.

The most plentiful plant of bogs is that non-vascular, spore-producing bryophyte: Sphagnum moss (Sphagnum species-Sphagnaceae). Basically a bog is this moss. It acts as a sponge to hold the atmospheric water in place. This moss is also the substrate for many of the other plants. While peat and sphagnum are not synonymous, most peat is mainly decayed sphagnum moss. It is the sphagnum that you sink into, and the moss that keeps the water acid so that humans who have fallen in 2000 years ago are well-preserved. The sphagnum moss (of which there are numerous species) make the luxuriant growth the spreads out in all directions and lets you know you’ve arrived.

Personally, I like all of the types of wetlands. While generally a slog to move through them, there is much to be seen once in their clutches. It is just a matter of being prepared and enjoying the feeling of wet clothing and avoiding the buggiest hours. That said, I still like bogs best. Their vista allows ones head to roam elsewhere and still be present in the quagmire.

I will draw to a close here. It is tempting to write about the other bog inhabitants. The various dragonflies and other insects, the amphibians, the way that the spores are shot out of the spore-producing capsules of the sphagnum moss. The showy orchids. All very intriguing. But what I most recommend is to find the closest bog, and immerse yourself there. Try to get there at different times of the year. The seasonal change here is evident, each one with a ravishing beauty. Be prepared for sinking up to your waist, for the biting insects, for the wonder to be found. Have fun and say hello to a damselfly for me.

For those of you knew him, my long-time student and friend Frank Cook recently died (perhaps from Neurocysticercosis). I wrote this about him on the plane ride home from his memorial service.

(Note-like most of what I write this is probably more about me than Frank, and I have not wavered from writing what I feel to be true about Frank within the context of our long-term relationship. This is a warning.)

I’m in the airport, on my way home after flying to Asheville, NC for Frank Cook’s memorial service. Frank Cook is dead. Good-bye Frank, I miss you already.

I am tired, but feel good about my last minute decision to scrap a bunch of plans (sorry Bevin) and moolah and go to this event. In the midst of all these last minute preparations and travels, it all feels a bit unreal. And I get the feeling that some distant day I will reflect on Frank and be thankful to have been a part of this event with so many of Frank’s friends and family. So many of them are my friends too. I reckon this speaks to the nature of Frank’s and mine relationship, that is, our relationship to each other, our relationships with the people we meet and share time with, and with that abiding fascination we both shared about plants.

I am coming to learn how much Frank meant to me, thinking about his future absence in my life. It is sad to imagine being at the Rainbow Gathering, treating leaky butts and buggy feet, and not having Frank show up with his big deep rumbling voice, giving me a hearty salutation. And of course our immediate discussions on the plants around us. The plant families, genera and species as well other aspects of the local flora, with Frank generally being enthused about something plant-world like. It could be some plant we have not seen before together (perhaps a Saxifragaceae or an under-explored species of Ligusticum). But generally Frank would be excited about the diversity, meaning just glad to be around the plants, wherever we were. This of course was a balm to the stress I would be having treating people in the first aid station. Here was a fellow plant-enjoyer. And a friend as well as solidifying our long-term relationship with the ever-growing panoply of plants in our lives.

When it comes to the number of plants actually seen I don’t hold the metaphoric candle to Frank. What with his worldwide travels and devotion to seeing a member of each family of plants. A worthy goal and enviable to me. Not that I would choose his lifestyle; constant traveling and having a personal relationship with the likes of Malaria, Ross river virus, and any number of bacteria, viruses and protozoa infiltrating his tissues. And eventually infiltrating his good brain. Shit. It’s not like I haven’t seen Frank look and cough like the specter of death wasn’t a few feet away polishing her nails and waiting for the soon-to-be corpse of this good man.  But of course he would fight back, stubborn as the former jock he was, and look reasonably good again. Perhaps a bit thinner (also enviable during this metabolic slow down in my life), but the coughing would decrease, and his pantheonic energies would rise again.

It was his enthusiasm, wasn’t it? His personal engagement with life. His constant admonishment to live. Or not just live, but to be engaged with your life. “Look around you!” I don’t know how many times I have heard Frank herald this call. “Look around you!” he would say to all those attending his words. “Look around you!”, and indeed we did, and would see whatever it was that we saw around us. Generally I saw plants, the plants around me. And I would smile that smile that comes from having a connection with my environment and knowing the plants by their names. “Hello Pinus ponderosa” I might say quietly. “Hello Veratrum californicum” And these hello’s came to me after hearing Frank once again give voice to see those ‘beings’ around us.

Ah yes, the word ‘beings’. This drove me crazy. I’m not sure why, perhaps my instinct to not lump all of life together. Or perhaps a knee-jerk reaction to spirituality. But the ironic aspect is that this particular wording caught on. For the past few years while giving plant walks I hear participants talk about plants as ‘beings’, even using the inflection that Frank gave. This is another way that Frank lives on, offering another way to view and describe the plants around us. The term now has an endearing quality, hearing Frank’s voice through people uttering this word.
  
Now. I guess even here, in the busy Charlotte airport Frank might be saying to look around me. But it would be entirely different. It would show Frank’s more critical, judgmental side. We would be looking around us here and seeing people hurrying about, not really seeing the humanity around them. Seemingly closed, purchasing crap food from feckless industry dispensers, he would probably pontificate about the pointlessness of this type of lifestyle and their inability to see around them. Frank and I might get into one of our many arguments here. But even if our voices got raised, we would end with a faux toast to the stream of individuals passing before us, wishing them all well as they passed by.

Frank’s life was a well-lived one, no? This guy met thousands of people, many of whom lives he altered. I can surely vouch for this, as people often tell me how much Frank has changed their perspective.  (I reckon I am some kind of Frank Cook sounding board). And I like to hear it. I am proud to have been a teacher in the continual learning process of Frank Cook.

Frank the Human.  At the memorial we all learned this well as family members and friends stepped to the dock on the pond and spoke their recollections of Frank. And what a Frank he was. It seems that Frank has always been an intense (understatement, right?) individual. Focused. And idealistic. I liked those qualities, along with all the other aspects of the Frank experience. I generally appreciated the humanness in Frank; his foibles and frailties as well as obvious strengths. I guess they make me feel better about my own. While Frank was often a larger-than-life person for many, it was the human Frank I watched grow for 15 years that I now hold in my heart.

I am appreciative that I got to watch Frank grow into his most recent, ever-expanding, incarnation. Watching Frank struggle with parts of himself, looking to accommodate competing aspects of his psyche and body. Bully for you Frank, integrity does not come easy, and the struggle for it is also an inspiration for all of us trying to be better people.

Good-bye Frank Cook. I did not get to say it while you were laying in the hospital bed dying, but I am saying it now. To myself, but that is where you live now for me, in the neurotransmitters and neurons that make up my thoughts. I am glad you are there.
 

I am inspired to write this morning due to the article on my work at the Ithaca Free Clinic. (Click here for the article). I am honored to receive this award, and more so to be able to share what I know as an herbalist with the Ithaca community.

 It’s strange, so many years ago (1981) when I began studying in California, herbalism was such a fringe idea. Waaaay to the hippie side. And as it steadily rose in prominence, at first I was gratified, as lots more people began taking it more seriously.  But then something I hadn’t thought about, but I reckoned I should have seen coming began.  And that was/is, the commercialization of herbal medicines.

I feel so naive not thinking that where there was a profit, there was a corporation. And so while I have mixed feelings about herbal medicine being available in Wal-mart and  large store outlets, I worry more about  the reductionism of herbal medicine. What many of us saw as a holistic model of medicine, became the simple trope of take this for that. A herb/drug for a symptom. And  while this does occasionally work, this simplistic notion was then used to sell a wide array of products. But of course! With little thought about the consumer/patient

But somehow back there in the 1980’s as we thought about herbal medicine perhaps entering the mainstream (never thinking it would happen so soon) (and with such a cash influx), it was seen as an alternative to more conventional symptom-treating paradigm. Well live and learn.

This is one of the reasons I really appreciate working at the Ithaca Free Clinic. Many of the folks who come there are looking to enter the world of herbalism without knowing much about holistic medicine. And so gently, we can introduce the concepts of connecting the symptom patterns and perhaps taking more control of their health care. And taking herbs.
So I appreciate this award if it brings more people to the clinic (and of course it makes my mom happy, no little thing that). And I hope we can bring holistic medicine, particularly herbalism, into other free and conventional clinics. So when people see the wall of herbs at Wal-mart, they go beyond thinking just about symptom treating, but how they can be a healthier individual

Well I reckon I am not a very good blogger, I will try to keep this a bit more up to date, though I’m not sure if it’s that interesting or if anyone reads this.
This has been a hard winter, as far as important male figures in my life. My father, at 85, died of brain cancer on January 23. I miss him, especially now as I sit in my old bedroom on Long Island, New York. Good-bye dad, I miss and love you.

Michael Moore, the herbalist, died of kidney complications on February 20.  I wrote a tribute to him here.
This is only a small bit about how I feel about Michael. Like all relationships, it is complicated. Fourteen years after initially studying with him, it is obvious how important his impact has been on my life as an herbalist. For me, he was a major permission-giver. That is, after being in a classroom and watching how others reacted to him, I realized I can be more myself in a classroom, with little pretension. Of course I am no Michael Moore, but I feel that I can contribute a little something to the way we practice herbal medicine in the United States. And cursing all the way through.

Today I will be teaching at the local high school, for the ’special needs’ kids (my kind of people). I did this once before for this class. The teacher wants me to come in to talk about wildcrafting and herbal medicine in general because the students are reading a book "Where the Lilies Bloom" which features a character gathering plants. So I am there as the modern-day continuation of this character. I like doing the class. I will be bringing in lots of show-and-tell items, my first aid bag, just-gathered branches of Prunus serotina, Hamamelis virginiana, Rhus typhina, Betula lenta, and a Salix spp with catkins just emerging. Last time, the item that got the most attention is my old friend, a large cleaver, whom I named Pinky. Pinky, you may ask, what a name for a cleaver! Ahh, but as may be construed from such a name, is that I in fact did chop off a piece of my pinky (and ate it, but that’s a story for a latter time) with this cleaver. And you can imagine the students getting a kick out of this (and perhaps you too not-so-gentle reader).

So I will come in with branches and chopping tools and a bag of herbal medicines and see what we can learn from each other with such an array.

Blog time. For anyone out there reading this, I’m going to use this area for writing about thoughts I have as it somewhat pertains to herbalism, herb medicine, plants, clinical practice, and basically the daily ins and outs of being an herbalist in the United States in the early part of the 21st century.
It won’t be too polished, as this is place where I can jot down thoughts as they pass through, rather than putting them in the official biography on my website. But to be frank, this may be a good place to read from if you are interested in coming to my school and understanding my bias and perspective on things herbal.
I don’t really care for the word herbal medicine or herbalist much, as I am someone who loves plants in general and looks to incorporate items of natural origin (ino)  in my medicine, including  fungi,  lichen, and woody plants, which are by definition, not herbs. If it was up to me, I think I would call myself something like a Medical Plantist. I realize that it does not role off the tongue well, but since I’m probably going to be called an herbalist no matter what, I thought I’d put it out there. In the late 1800’s the term Medical Botanist was bandied about , and I can get behind that pretty well.