WATER LILY

Not all plant inhabitants in the bog are killers.

Some are simply beautiful and benign - like this water lily. Something about lilies makes me think of haiku. 

Wait...I feel...I feel...inspired!

Floating Nymphea

Elegant; ephemeral

capturing the sun.

OK, I admit it. It's much easier feeling inspired to write a haiku after seeing water lilies rather than, say, paint a large impressionist mural depicting them.  How easy is it? Well, why don't you give it a shot.

In case you don't remember, Haiku is an ancient Japanese form of poetry that has the following structure: first line 5 syllables, second line 7 syllables, third and final line 5 syllables.

Please write a haiku based on your observations of the water lilies in the photo above as your comment to this post. 

Arigato!

MEAT EATING PLANTS

As I mentioned in the previous post, the ombrotrophic nature of bogs means that they provide an acidic, nutrient poor environment for plant life. Some plants have made some extraordinary adaptations to survive in this type of environment. Among these, are the the carnivorous plants.

Carnivorous? Indeed they are. These plants complement their diets with insects that they capture from their environment. you've probably heard of the famous Venus Fly Trap that closes its  on flies that land on its trigger hairs. Venus fly traps aren't found in New England. But other carnivorous plants, like pitcher plants I found, are.

Pitcher plants are aptly named. Unlike most plants, they don't have a typical stem or leaves. In its place, is a pitcher-like tube with an opening, the peristome. Rainwater falls into and fills part of the pitcher, creating a little pond at the bottom of the tube.

Insects attracted to the plant walk into the opening, and begin crawling down towards the tempting (and perhaps fragrant?) water below. At this point, many of them are doomed.

The inside of the pitcher's tube is lined with hairs. These hairs point in one direction - downward. The insect who tries to walk out of the pitcher is encounters a maze of rigid column-like hairs. Turning the other way, the insect finds the hairs pointed in the "right" direction. At least from the plants perspective.

At the bottom of the pitcher, the insect meets its final fate. It falls into the pool of water and digestive juices. The pitcher plant digests its food, supplementing the meager nutrition available from the sphagnum/peat environment.

Its victim's remains sink downward and remain in their watery tomb until they are joined by the plant's next victim.

The Bog

Bog.

A small word. A simple word.

It derives from the Gaellic term "bogach", meaning a soft marsh. In Anglo slang it was a common vulgarity used to describe the outhouse of the times. In currently use, we say that a puzzle boggles the mind. Spend too much time trying to solve the puzzle, and we say that you've become bogged down. Take a break by shaking the inscribed dice in their plastic enclosure to spell out words with the resulting letters. You're playing Boggle. But go into the woods and find a basin filled with water, sphagnum, and peat - congratulations! You're standing in, or should I say on, a bog.

Bogs are beautifully, delicate environments. Smalls plants in all shades of greens and red hues are occasionally interrupted by unexpected bursts of yellows, violets,  and ombres. Surrounded by coniferous forests, the basin of the bog represents an ever-shifting balance between land, sphagnum, peat, and rainwater that flows into the basin. Typically, there are no streams that feed water to bogs, only precipitation. For this reason, bogs are considered to be ombrotrophic, and the water they contain is quite acidic and lacking in mineral nutrients.

This environment suits certain types of life quite nicely. This is especially true for sphagnum moss. You've probably seen sphagnum in you florist shop, especially if you've looked at large ferns in wire hanging baskets. These ferns' roots are usually encased in sphagnum.  Or perhaps you've seen the moss in my millipede's tank. That too is sphagnum. Both the fern and the millipede benefit from sphagnum's primary characteristic: it is capable of holding a large volume of water. In that sense, it is like a sponge.

Over time, sphagnum compresses and solidifies into peat. Newly formed areas in the bog are covered with a relativly thin layer of  sphagnum and peat. Older areas contain more peat, and are thicker. These areas provide greater support. The sphagnum/peat layer floats on top of the water contained in the bog. Over long periods time, areas in the bog become filled in with peat, and turn into terra firma. Eventually this land provides a foundation for the ever-encroaching coniferous forest that surrounds the bog. In time, the bog will disappear. 

Standing on a layer of sphagnum/peat in a bog is like standing on a waterbed. Some areas are simply squishy. Some are quite dry. But many areas allow a person to gently shift their weight up and down, to and fro, while the ground seems to sway in waves beneath you. It takes a little getting used to.  Just imagine yourself walking on a large bowl of Jell-O. Or perhaps a cracker floating on a bowl of soup. It's great fun, just as long as you exercise a degree of caution.

The temptation to edge just a little bit closer to take a close-up picture of that beautiful plant on the water's edge is always there. Just a little closer. "Yes, I'm sinking, but just a few centimeters. Just a little more." ("Gary....") "I'm OK...just a little closer...." ("Gary you really don't want to go there") Good student that I am,  I always listen to my instructor's sage advise. Especially when he has nearly three decades of botanical experience.

It's one thing to walk near the edge of land. It's another thing to fall off the edge. I feel like Alfred Wegener on tectonic plates of Jell-O, searching for the boundaries of Pangea.

 The very thought boggles the mind.