Jack Frost and Aeolus – Partners in Art

On the crest of the Medicine Bow Mountains, just 50 miles west of Laramie, Wyoming, stands the Snowy Range—a sharp-edged thousand-foot-high six-mile-long ridge of quartzite that glistens in the sun. Trails run along its base, cross it at the Gap, and climb to various points along the summit, including Medicine Bow Peak, the high point at 12,014 ft. Though the trailheads are in the subalpine zone, they're just an hour’s drive from town, making the high country surprisingly accessible. And the scenery remains spectacularly photogenic, even after thirty years of hiking there.

But with hundreds of photos of “the Range” already, do I really need to carry a camera? This is one of life’s persistent questions. Fortunately, I can still convince myself there’s a chance of finding something new, fascinating, or at least entertaining.

Emmie's first visit to the Snowy Range.

Contemplating the final push to the summit of Medicine Bow Peak, just out of view on right.

The Snowy Range is a very popular hiking area in the summer, but my favorite time to visit is early fall, especially on weekdays. Temps are cool, and the lower light makes for richer scenery. Usage is low, parking is no problem, and well-mannered dogs can hike off leash.

Looking back toward trailhead at Lewis Lake, below Sugarloaf (on right).

Last Thursday we hiked one of the most popular trails in the Snowy Range, the short but nontrivial jaunt from Lewis Lake up to the Gap Lakes. There were just four cars in the parking lot, and two people along the trail, enjoying lunch at the Gap. The only other creatures seen were a marmot, a chipmunk, two pikas and a seagull. It was a quiet fall day aside from the wind, which wasn't bad.

From North Gap Lake, a short trail east led to the Shelf Lakes—small shallow sparkling lakes below immense piles of quartzite talus. It was here that I was happy to have brought the camera.

View west from Shelf Lakes; Medicine Bow Peak is bump at left end of ridge, above and right of snowfield.

From a distance, I saw that the far end of the first lake was rimmed with white, looking like salt along the shore of an alkaline lake, as we would see down in the Laramie Basin.

Note white line along vegetated lakeshore mid photo (not rocks on right).

But it wasn't salt. Each of the Shelf Lakes was lined with ice sculptures at the east end—which happened to be the downwind end. Apparently it was cold and windy enough recently for waves breaking against the shore to build up ice on plants and rocks.

We spent about an hour admiring the artwork, and then ate lunch by one of the lakes, sitting next to the downwind side of a giant boulder.

Botany geeks—if you look closely (click on images below), you can see that the graminoids encased in ice are mostly sedges (Carex), not grasses.

The branchlets of low shrubby willows (Salix) were strong enough to support long artistic drips. And with their stems encased in ice, a few willows appeared to be dancing.

As always, Jack Frost disappeared after creating his sculptures, so I was left to speculate as to the process. However, his hypothesized collaborator, Aeolus, was still very much present—whispering, whining, and even howling a bit, as he stirred up eastbound wavelets on the lakes and confirmed my theory, at least in part.

Click on image to see a few tiny white caps in the distance (shallow lake).

A walk up the Plant Evolutionary Ladder … all the way to flowers

Willow Canyon ahead, what will we find?

On February 12—midwinter—we headed for “Willow Canyon” on the east side of the Laramie Basin, at 7200 feet, in the interior of the continent far from moderating marine influences. Yet it felt like spring … sunny, warm (40º F!), and no wind.

The prairie was brown except for occasional small green blades along the dirt road. Aside from limber pines and Rocky Mountain junipers, trees and shrubs were bare. But after entering the canyon we found much of interest. Emmie wore herself out in her usual futile pursuit of rabbits (enthusiasm far exceeds ability). I was more successful, finding everything from mosses to flowers in what appears to be just another small dry limestone canyon in the foothills of the Laramie Mountains.

Starting low on the evolutionary ladder …

Mosses—no seeds, no vascular tissue.

Mosses lined rock ledges in a shady alcove in the canyon wall. They were surprisingly lush, rich green and moist with recent snowmelt. I saw only gametophytes, with no sign of this year's sporophytes (the two phases of the moss life cycle). The mix of shade and light made photography difficult, so I just shot and hoped for the best.

Mosses reside low on the evolutionary ladder because they produce spores instead of seeds, and they have no vascular tissue—which explains why they’re short. Conducting water very far is difficult without plumbing.

These moss clumps are aggregations of small individual stalks, gametophytes. There may be sex organs hidden at the tips of the gametophytes. If fertilized, female ones will grow into sporophytes (there's more in the elegant life cycle diagram mentioned earlier).

Clump of moss gametophytes, with a few dead sporophytes from last year.

An abundance of sporophytes; fairy for scale.

Lichens also thrived on the limestone ledges (orange and yellow mats above). I couldn’t place them on the plant evolutionary ladder as they’re not a single organism but three, in a beneficial partnership: an alga, a fungus and a yeast (the last is a recent discovery).

I found a few ferns too, though not in the shady alcove as you might expect but rather on exposed rock faces. Tough little cliffbrakes with thickish dull green fronds seem to grow directly out of the rock. This is western cliffbrake (Pellaea occidentalis), which is calciphilic as well as xerophytic—limestone-loving as well as drought-tolerant. [See Plants on Rock for more about plants of Willow Canyon.]

Plant is about 2 in across.

Ferns are vascular plants so are considered more advanced than mosses, but they too produce spores, not seeds. Below is a seed-producer. However its seeds are naked, indicating we still haven't reached the top of the ladder.

My favorite gymnosperm (“naked seed”) in the canyon is this limber pine (Pinus flexilis). It’s a really small “tree” but its life history is impressive: a seed germinated in a dry shallow crack, grew into a seedling, and managed to keep growing with just a bit of moisture and debris each year! The annual rings must be microscopic. Any guesses as to age?

Nearing the top of the evolutionary ladder, I found an angiosperm (“enclosed seed”)—a flowering plant. And it was flowering! This may be the only native species blooming in the wild in the Laramie Basin right now (can’t think of any other possibilities).

Well … barely blooming. White hairs were just starting to emerge beyond the bud scales.

North American pussy willows (Salix discolor) bloom long before leafing out. I followed this one in 2015, after discovering flowers on February 26. Leaves didn’t show up until May. It's a male, and the only willow in the canyon. It thrives in an alcove shaded by junipers, with moss at its feet, next to a small waterfall that runs after heavy rains.

Willow Canyon pussy willow two years ago, on February 26.

The willow thrives thanks to great habitat. Water runs off the rock wall, and large junipers provide shade.

I easily walked to the head of the canyon (almost no snow!) and then returned by way of the rim, stopping for a few more views of the willow of Willow Canyon.

Eponymous willow peeks above the canyon rim (center of photo).

Of course, these plants pale in comparison to those being posted by bloggers from warmer zones, where gardens already are filled with color, or from moister climes where walls and nooks are lush with mosses and ferns. But this is southeast Wyoming. This time of year, even the most modest plants thrill us! At the same time, I hope this crazy weather doesn’t prompt more plants to grow and bloom … and then get zapped by repeated hard frosts.

Coda

Though it felt like a spring day, winter made its presence known—best of all, in the form of ice art. Jack Frost produces terrific abstracts. Fortunately, several were still in place.

Jack can turn even the most mundane object into a thing of beauty … like a mud puddle:

Thanks to Beth of Plant Postings for the inspiration to look for plants on rocks in midwinter: It's Only a Rock Wall ... Or Is It?

Of Anchor Ice & Cottonwood Flowers

It was the first of February, 8:30 AM, and 17º F after a cloudy night with light snow.  When I reached the river, I saw two men with poles standing in the water as ice floated by.  What were they doing?!  Fishing? hunting crawdads? collecting garbage? maybe playing ice golf, an ancient Scandinavian sport?

Will this be the final putt?

The men intently studied the river as my lanceleaf cottonwood tree stood by.

This month’s tree-following post was to be about my search for a new tree, but the cottonwood I've followed for a year now led me to two unexpected and interesting things. First there were the men who were taking photos of ice on the river bed.

They used a GoPro action camera – the kind folks wear to record adrenalin-inducing activities.

Ice on the river bed?  How can that be?  Ice floats, being less dense than water.  True ... but as I now know, under the right conditions a special kind of ice forms – anchor ice.  It’s really interesting and worth keeping an eye out for.  I’m glad I asked those guys what they were doing.

Cold nights are best, well below freezing.  Where the river is fast-moving and shallow, water may become super-cooled and stay liquid below its normal freezing temperature.  The sand, gravel, rocks, etc. that it’s flowing over also cool to that temperature.  The water is moving right along so surface ice doesn't form, but floating crystals (frazil) freeze out.  They stick to material on the river bed and to each other, making gray-green soft slushy ice.  When the day begins to warm, anchor ice begins to break free and float downstream.  Soon it’s all gone.  [Here’s a summary with clear explanations, and another in PDF format.]

Top: gravel and small rocks on bottom of anchor ice removed from river bed

Middle: anchor ice anchored to river bed

Bottom: anchor ice breaking free from river bed 

(modified from Kempema et al. 2008; click on image to see more detail)

Gray-green detached anchor ice floating downstream.

For years I’ve watched murky globs of ice float down the river on cold mornings.  I always thought they had broken off from ice along the river margins.  Now I know better.  The things you learn when you follow a tree!

Anchor ice was pretty minimal that day and has been for most of this unusually-mild winter.  But it can be dramatic with significant impacts, like creating dams and scouring river beds.  “Seeing is believing” so have a look at this anchor ice video – a “nature treat for the day” from the northeast USA.

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The second thing of interest is actually quite amazing ... my tree is blooming in February!

Cottonwood in full bloom; click on image to see fringed bracts, young ovaries and stigmas as in diagram below.

Suspicious?  You should be.  It is blooming ... but in my kitchen.

Last month when I was wondering if my cottonwood was the bitter kind, I collected twigs with buds to examine at home.  The true bitter cottonwood, the narrowleaf, has very resinous buds, but those on my tree aren’t – this suggests it's a hybrid.  When I was done, I put the twigs in a small container with water to see if maybe something interesting would happened.

Something did.  Now there are two female catkins (flower clusters), other buds have tiny bits of green at the tips – leaves? – and little twigs have grown roots!  Of course now I will put them in a pot.  Maybe something interesting will happen ...

I’m not surprised to find flowers out of season and roots growing from tiny twigs.  Cottonwoods are notoriously opportunistic.  They produce prodigious amounts of cottony seeds and cast them to the wind.  Maybe – just maybe – one  will land in a suitable place and grow.  Some species sucker and spread readily, as does mine.  Fallen live branches can root and grow.  And they grow fast.  My tree may look majestic, with all the noble characteristics we associate with trees – strength, great stature, longevity, steadfastness.  But it’s really more like a scrappy nine-lived alley-cat, resigned to (and ignoring) the capricious hand of fate.  Try anything and everything ... be ready ... live fast and die young ... wotthehell, wotthehell

Mehitabel (by Don Marquis).

More about anchor ice in the Laramie River:

Kempema, E, Ettema, R, and McGee, B.  2008.  Insights from anchor ice formation in the Laramie River, Wyoming.  19th IAHR International Symposium on Ice.

Kempema, E, and Ettema, R.  2010.  Anchor ice rafting:  observations from the Laramie River.  River Research and Applications 27:1126-1135.

A visit to the First Ice Art of the Season exhibition

As you may have heard, the jet stream curved far north around a ridge of good weather and then curved south, followed by the infamous polar vortex ... or “winter” as we call it.  Indian Summer had been soooo beautiful, with highs in the 50s!  Then Winter came screaming in.

“I’M HERE!!!” announced Winter.

It was -22º F, but my new field assistant insisted we do our daily investigation of the river.

Winter's sudden arrival was a shock, and I can’t say I’m feeling all that great about it.  But there are antidotes.  One will be skiing once there’s enough snow.  Another is ice art.  Jack Frost followed close on the heels of Winter, and has been making his beautiful hoarfrost sculptures on the river ice.

Ice ferns, needles and stars (click on images to view).

The river was completely open three days ago.  Now it's mostly frozen over.  There are a few small openings with flowing water, but they won’t last.

A bit of open water.  Wood things in ice are anchored logs – fish habitat.

The frozen surface is covered with a mix of snow and hoarfrost.

What do beavers do in winter when the river freezes?  Hibernate in their lodge?  UPDATE:  Beavers don't hibernate; see note from Nina F in Comments.

Pile of sticks on left is a lodge.  Beavers were busy here earlier this year, what are they doing now?

The cottonwood tree on the left is the one I’m following.

I post about ice art every winter.  We are so lucky to have it ... thanks, Jack!

Jack Frost, from Central Park in Winter by Thomas Nast, 1864.