Summer has officially begun, although to my mind, it began when the paddleboard went up on the car and the loons arrived on Miller Pond. Summer really begins when the air softens enough for my cotton tee shirts to replace those tired out woolly ones, and flowers turn the dull yard into a rainbow of poppies and lupines, and when the windows are forced open and breezes blow into the corners of the house, unhoming spiders and dust bunnies.
Summer is like a greyscale chart with flowers slowly emerging, showing off their colors, then fading away, with species overlapping, so we are never without a burst of beauty. The woodland flowers begin the show — hepaticas and blue cohosh at the starting gate, while around the house, the snowdrops and daffodils sound the gun for flowers to begin. From then on, it is just a riot of color in the woods and in the village.
Justin Morrill, the famous senator from Strafford, was very fond of gardens. His gardening tradition spilled over to the villagers and persists to this day. Unfortunately, he was also fond of exotic plants from Eurasia, so we spend a good chunk of our lives digging out the buckthorns, knotweed, and burning bush that he enthusiastically planted. A few miles from the Strafford Village, up a class 4 road lies our town forest, a hundred acres of upland forest and some very wet and boggy places that in a former world would have been called wastelands and drained for proper agriculture—foods that humans and domestic animals consume. Fortunately, these wetlands are up some rough roads and were never “improved”. The plants that grow in these fens and bogs can tolerate very wet and very dry conditions, for they are places of extremes. They are also home to some flowers of extreme loveliness, like orchids.
Orchids are finicky, dependent on their fungal partners to germinate and nurture their tiny “dust seeds” and they are dependent on mycorrhizal relationships with other plants in the fen. If one were to dig up an orchid and plant it in the home garden, it would die for a lack of friends. Sexual reproduction of showy lady’s slipper orchids is a wonder, for many orchids, including the showy ladies, offer no edible rewards.
Pollinators are drawn inside by the flower’s size, colors, fragrance, and by the purple spotted pathway into the labellum. To be successful the bee, beetle, wasp, or syrphid fly must be the optimal size, squeezing into the flower so that they are coated with pollen, then exiting the rear orifice, going on to a same species flower. Too small, and the insect will not contact pollen. Too large, and it will become trapped inside.
Early in spring, in late May, there are a few hearty moccasin orchids scattered about a shady wet area of forest. Cypripedium acaule, resembles delicate pink (or sometimes white) slippers. Cypripedium parviflorum has a bright yellow pouch and brownish petals that curl down the sides, resembling wavy locks of hair. A month later, in the fen, some fuzzy green plants with thick, overlapping leaves push up through the sphagnum, and soon white balls appear on the stems as the Cypripedium reginae, showy lady’s slippers, take their turn. Some weeks pass before they grow into the deep reds and pinks that are so striking. I am often asked when is peak, as if there was only one short window that will be worth the long, wet hike.
Nature is not part of the prediction markets, and that is why I find her so fascinating, so full of surprises. An orchid just pushing up out of the ground is promising. Its bulbous white bud is like a newborn baby. As it begins to fill with colors and unfurl, it is sensuous. Then, barring any huge rains and winds, those petals will fill with deep colors and persist. Slowly fading out, yet still fine, even after the petals have turned brown and dropped and only the stem remains, they are exquisite. And after all of that, when August arrives, the white turtleheads that do resemble the heads of turtles, and the lesser purple fringed orchids that look like tiny flying angels have their day. To my mind, every day out in nature with our eyes open wide is peak.
There is a sign that gets nailed to a tree along the road leading into Groton State Park that reads, “Peak foliage 2PM Friday”. The prankster puts it up every year in October and every year I have a good laugh when I read it. Busloads of tourists come to the park every fall and make the half mile trek up to Owl’s Head and the CCC-built stone shelter. The view looks over Kettle Pond and the park’s granite hills. Tourists carry drones and large-lensed cameras hoping to get their money’s worth and see peak colors, as if there were such a thing.
And back in the fen, fall will arrive and the flowers will fade. But it will still be stunning, with fuzzy cattails and spires of tall dark black spruce, and I will get up there to see whatever persists as soon as I can find my long-sleeved woolies.
Micki Colbeck is a writer and naturalist who chairs the Strafford Conservation Commission. mjcolbeck@gmail.com.