Birch-leaved Spirea

Birch-leaved Spirea
Spiraea betulifolia
Rosaceae (Rose Family)

Quick ID

Yarrow (left) vs. Spirea

This wild spirea is usually classified as a shrub, although it doesn't typically take on the shrubby, fit-for-a-hedgerow form of its fancy cultivated cousins.  It is a showy little flower though, borne on a woody stem whose bark tends towards cinnamon colors and gets a bit shredded with age.  The leaves are alternate, oval with coarse teeth along the tips, mellow green with pale undersides.  Don't mistake the leaves for those of serviceberry (Amelanchier alnifolia), which are more heart-shaped at the base.  And don't mistake the flowers for yarrow (Achillea millefolium) either!  Birch-leaved spirea flowers are creamy off-white, arranged in flat-topped clusters called corymbs, and have waggly little stamens that reach out past the petals like so many antennae.  The whole shebang is generally  around 18" tall but grows up to 30" in some places.

Birch-leaved spirea has a showy cousin (Rose Spirea, S. douglasii, aka hardhack) that's a treat to find.  The flowers are a rich pink, arranged in sweet ice cream cone-shaped panicles.  Look for it forming dense riparian thickets up to 6' tall in the far northwest corner of Montana.

Rose Spirea

Where's it Found?

Fall color

Look in mid-elevation foothills and montane zones of the intermountain west.  Eastern WA and OR, western MT, southern ID, even in the Black Hills of South Dakota.  Here in Montana, I think of Doug Fir, Lodgepole and Ponderosa slopes, dappled shade, Ninebark understory.  This is a very adaptable wildflower, growing in moist or dry sites, out in the open or in shaded forests, from the foothills to the subalpine zone.


What's in a Name?
The common name spirea (pronounced spy-REE-ah) comes from the Greek speira for spiral or anything twisted, and references this flower's long tradition of gracing garlands.  The species name betulifolia literally means "birch-leaved," and the leaves do indeed look a bit like a swamp birch.  There are quite a few species of Spiraea, and many of them are known colloquially as "meadowsweet."  Spirea contain salicylates, which are the naturally occurring predecessors of our modern day aspirin.   They were first isolated from the meadowsweet now known as Filipendula ulmaria, which was once classisified as a spirea...hence the name, aspirin!



Tidbits
I first decided to write about birch-leaved spirea because of the drought.  Last summer (2015) western Montana had...no...rain.  Effects on the local flora were impossible to ignore.  An extremely warm winter followed by a bone dry spring sent the wildflowers into a panic.  Fearing doomsday, they flowered and set seed as fast as possible, leaving us botanists harumphing.  We started picking huckleberries in early June, and full six weeks too soon.  By early August the fall colors were already crackling in the 100°+ heat.  A dry and crispy summer where it seemed hardly anything kept its will to bloom...except spirea.  The birch-leaved spirea seemed to be doing fine, even thriving.  I can only imagine how happy the pollinators were for that sweet, elusive sip of nectar.

Wild Gardening
Spirea grows and spreads from its super-strong rhizomatous root system, rather than seeds, for the most part.  If you want to propagating it, try root stock or even layering stems.  Try part shade, although it's pretty adaptable.  Deer will eat it, but they don't LOVE it.  The USFS Fire Effects Information System (a SUPERB reference, btw) lists it as fair to poor forage for all the large grazers.  As a mid-summer bloomer, the native bees absolutely adore spirea, and you can always find a host of interesting bugs investigating the landing-pad flower tops.  Spirea has always made me think of granny cottages and comfy summer afternoons, both of which I love.

Rocky Mountain Juniper

Rocky Mountain Juniper

Cupressaceae (Cypress Family)

Rocky Mountain juniper.  Appressed leaves.

Quick ID
Rocky Mountain juniper is a small conical tree that grows to be around 30' high.  The bark is raggedy and shredding, reddish-brown to gray.  Its leaves are actually made up of thousands of tiny little needles, about 2 mm long.  If you look close, you'll see that some of these needles stick out all over the stem like a Doug Fir.  These are the juvenile leaves.  Mature leaves are squashed up flat against each other (known in the botany world as appressed), layered like shingles on a roof.

Common juniper.  Nothing appressed about these leaves.

There are three other species of juniper native to Montana.  Common juniper (J. communis) is a small shrub that's easy to recognize.  Its needles aren't apressed; they go poking out all around the stem in whorls of three, and have distinctly white undersides.
Creeping juniper (J. horizontalis) has leaves much like the Rocky Mountain juniper, but it grows in dense mats, never more than 2' tall.  The leaves are usually a dark green, whereas J. scopulorum tends to be more blueish-gray.  And finally, the Utah juniper (J. osteosperma) is another 30' tree.  Everything about it somehow seems more blunt: broader needles, a squarish crown, and a generally more squat appearance.  In Montana, you'll only find it in Big Horn and Carbon counties, south of the Pryor mountains, where it's at the northern edge of its range.

~Western Red Cedar~

You might confuse juniper with the western red cedar (Thuja plicata) in northwest Montana.  The leaves are similar, but the branches are more flattened, spray-like and brighter green.  The cones are also woody, whereas juniper bears seeds in what look like blue berries (they're technically female cones).  Juniper "berries" form in May or June and take two years to mature; you'll find green immature berries all over the branches along with the blue ones, which are usually covered with a white bloom.  If you're looking to harvest the berries, remember that, unlike most trees, junipers are dioecious (from the latin for "two houses"), meaning that individual plants are either male or female.  

"Male Bark"

Only the female plants have berries; the male ("staminate") cones just look like little brown nubs at the tips of branches, which scatter pollen to the wind.  Female trees also tend to have shreddier bark, as opposed to the patchier bark on males.

What's in a Name?

The species name of Rocky Mountain juniper, scopulorum, comes from the Latin 'scopul'  meaning rocky crags or cliffs, which is just where you'll find these bristly trees on your botanical field excursions.The origin of the common name juniper (and genus Juniperus) is shaky.  I've been combing through a lot of suggestions this morning, some silly and some sensible, and I'm not sure who to believe.  I do love the salty old etymologist Bill Casselman's take on the topic as a whole, and found this article pretty enlightening.Juniper is also becoming a popular baby name.  Ultimately, the given name is probably not derived so much from the plant as from the Welsh name Guinevere (which also gave rise to the name Jennifer).

Gorgeous juniper habitat on the Madison river

Range

Look for Rocky Mountain Juniper in dry, rocky foothills and montane regions from BC and Alberta south to New Mexico and east to the Dakotas.  The range is extended somewhat due to the fact J. scopulorum hybridizes regularly with other juniper species and horticulturally cultivated varieties. 

Tidbits

Junipers, along with other members of the cypress family, have been around for a looooong long time.  Ever since the earth's land masses were clumped together in the super-continent  Pangaea, 250 million years ago.  This is why you can find the very same species, Juniperus communis, as a native shrub in North America, Asia and Europe.  This ancient plant, as you might expect, has a rich and fascinating history.Juniper's light, durable wood is naturally streaked with a lovely red and white grain, and makes fine tools and decorative utensils.  The shredded bark has been used in rope-making and padding for diapers.  The dried berries can be dried and strung into necklaces; Navajo mothers are said to have given these "ghost beads" to their babies to prevent bad dreams.

The berries and aromatic branches of the juniper have also been used medicinally since ancient times (the Greek physician Galen mentions it as early as the second century AD), for a list of ailments too long to go into here.  The essential oil does contain the diuretic compound terpinen-4-ol, as well as Amentoflavone, which has antiviral properties.  Juniper berry tea has a long, complicated, sometimes dangerous association with child-bearing.  It was used by Shoshone women as a contraceptive, and Zuni and Apache women drank the tea to promote muscle relaxation during labor.  Juniper oil does increase uterine contractions, and many native tribes (and pioneer women) used it to induce abortions, sometimes with fatal results.The berries are not particularly edible on their own, but they do lend their distinct flavor to that most delightful spirit, gin.  The earliest juniper-flavored alcohols were medicinal concoctions,  and would have borne little resemblance to our modern take on gin.  The species most often used in gin production today is the long lived Juniperus communis communis.

Camped out at my favorite (top secret) juniper picking spot

For the most part the berries (a thousand tons a year or more!) are still wild-harvested, coming principally from Tuscany, Morocco and eastern Europe.  Hand picking is long, laborious work because remember, there are berries in all stages of ripeness on each branch.  To only pick off the dark blue berries and leave the green fruit alone requires a lot of elbow grease and some skill with a good whacking stick. Once harvested, the berries are infused into a neutral base spirit (vodka) and violá!  Oh Captain, my Captain.  Distillers can be a little secretive about their recipes, but common additions often include angelica, orris root (a type of iris that acts as a fixative for other flavors), cardamom, bay leaf, citrus, ginger, grains of paradise (in the ginger family Zingiberaceae), lavender, coriander, fennel and cubeb (similar to black pepper). 

Hogarth's Gin Lane

We could go on and on about the history of gin.  It's production as "medicine" during prohibition.  England's 18th century Gin Craze.  The fascinating story of quinine.  Jenever, Old Tom and London Dry.  Bathtub gin.  So on and so forth.  If you'd like to read more, and in fact discover a whole incredible world of botanicals as they relate to alcohol, please do pick up a copy of Amy Stewart's The Drunken Botanist.  You'll be glad you did.

Wild Gardening

The Garnet Range is a great place to see giant J. scopulorum

The Rocky Mountain juniper is one of our toughest little trees, and is a perfect choice for natural gardens.  The tiers of branches, loosely woven, call the eye upward and beyond the borders, providing structure and texture in every season. Waxy-coated leaves make it incredibly drought resistant and winter hardy.  Junipers want full sun or part shade, and very little water.  If you are going to irrigate, mke sure the soil is really well drained.  Although very slow-growing, give it enough space to accommodate its mature size (about 20-30' high with an eight foot spread).

Try propagating juniper by taking heel cuttings after a couple of hard freezes, and using a rooting hormone.  If you want to try growing it from seed, sow them in the fall and cross your fingers.  It's possible, but expect your germination to be pretty low.  Plants are also readily available at nurseries, but ask questions to be certain you're getting the true native species.  There are a ton of Juniperus cultivars and ornamental varieties.  There might be nothing wrong with that per se, but as a general practice, the more your garden plants resemble the native species found in your area, the better they'll be at providing food, shelter and nesting sites for your local insects and other wildlife.

Juniper berries are relished in fall and winter by many small birds, especially waxwings and grosbeaks.  Junipers are larval host plants for the Juniper Hairstreak butterfly (Callophrys gryneus).  Watch for males perching amidst the branches on your next summer excursion.

Rabbitbrush

Rubber Rabbitbrush
Ericameria nauseosa
Asteraceae (Sunflower Family)


Quick ID

In general, rabbitbrush looks a bit like Big Basin Sage--a scrubby shrub with grayish-tinged, woolly leaves.  Like sagebrush, it's found in dry, open plains or disturbed sites, and grows from 1 to 6 feet high.  The leaves are linear and alternate on flexible stems.  The yellow flowers bloom late (August-October), blanketing the plains and slopes with the type of brilliant display most flora exhausted months ago.  Being in the Asteraceae family, each flower is actually a loose cluster of mini-blooms known as "disc flowers", like the ones in the eye of a sunflower or daisy.  The "ray flowers" that we know as petals in other Asteraceae species are absent in rabbitbrush.  

Range
Found up to 10,000', from Canada to Mexico, east of the Pacific mountain system and stretching to the Great Plains.  Look for it growing near dryland bunchgrasses and shrubs like Big Basin Sage (Artemesia tridentata), Basin Wildrye (Leymus cinereus), Mountain Mahogany (Cercocarpus ledifolius) and Bluebunch Wheatgrass (Pseudoregenaria spicata).

What's in a Name?
The genus name Ericameria is relatively new to rabbitbrush.  I'll spare you the taxonomy rant this time, and just say that I learned this plant as Chrysothamnus, a "golden thicket".  Makes sense, right?  But now this lovely Latin name that I've been sneakily slipping into casual conversation and engraving on my garden signs is no more, and we have Ericameria in its place.  Erica is Greek for the heath plant, whose leaves are said to resemble those of the rabbitbrush.
The "nauseous" root in the species name is in reference to the strong smell the plant gives off, rather than the idea that ingesting it will make you sick.  In fact, the plant's thick latex has been used for centuries as a sort of chewing gum (hence the "Rubber" part).  It provides shelter for and is eaten by rabbits and other small mammals.
In some southern parts of the country, Rabbitbrush is known almost exclusively as Chamisa, from the Spanish word for brush or kindling, and ultimately derived from the Latin chama (--> flamma--> "flame").   

Tidbits 
The presence of rabbitbrush, which often grows on very poor soils, is considered a useful indicator that land is eroded or overgrazed.  It can be an important winter forage for antelope, mule deer and elk on depleted rangelands, but is sometimes reported to be toxic to livestock.
The plant has a few adaptations that allow it to thrive in arid, inhospitable places.  It's tolerant to a wide range of soil types, alkalinity, salinity, cold and drought.  The felt-like fuzz covering the stems (technically known as trichomes) acts as insulation and reduces water loss.  The light gray stems also reflect more heat than dark green leaves would, keeping the shrubs cool as a cuke in the harsh summer sun of the open prairie.
Historically, rabbitbrush has been used to make yellow or green dye, and prepared as a tea to help coughs and colds.  The flexible twigs are good for baskets, and the seeds can be ground and used much like cornmeal.  
People have been looking for a way to use the natural latex found in the roots and inner bark to produce rubber since the 1930s, but haven't found a commercially viable way to extract it.  There is currently an investigation underway by the University of Nevada, looking at the potential of rabbitbrush as a multi-use industrial crop for biomaterial and bioenergy applications.  Here's the interesting project summary.

Wild Gardening

Plants need about 4' of space, and take about 4 years to mature.  They tend to produce a million branches, generally arising from a common point and not overtaking neighbor plants.  New plants sprout up from the roots and can be divided, and the seeds germinate easily.These plants thrive in poor soils, and overwatering or fertilizing can produce leggy, sprawling growth.  If your rabbitbrush is getting a little wily from growing in moist, rich soil, go ahead and give it a heavy pruning in early spring.  Trimming till the branches along the stems are about 6" will make for more compact, bushy growth the next season.  
Being a late bloomer, rabbitbrush fills an important niche both as an ornamental perennial and a fall pollen source for bees, flies and butterflies.  To see this plant in late fall, spilling over with brilliant color and buzzing with hundreds of hungry and deprived insects, is really incredible.  It tolerates fussing-over, but seems to delight in neglect: no extra water, no soil amendments, no pruning or deadheading.  The soft, pale branches complement the muted palette of a xeric landscape perfectly, and provide a safe haven for nesting birds and other small animals.

The rubber rabbitbrush planted here provides a strong structural element to this native thicket.  In the foreground  is green rabbitbrush (Ericameria viscidiflorus), which tends to be a more compact shrub with lush yellow blooms.

Western Yarrow

Western Yarrow
Achillea millefolium
Asteraceae (Sunflower family)

Quick ID
Yarrow forms a spreading carpet of soft, fern-like leaves that grow 3-5" long and have a little silvery tinge to them.  The flower stalks can get to be 3' tall (shorter where it's shaded) and are topped with clusters of creamy white flowers.  Leaves and flowers alike have a distinctive smell, kind of sharp and pungent.

At first glance, the flowers of the native White Spiraea (Spiraea betulifolia) look an awful lot like yarrow, but on closer observation they're pretty different.  Spiraea flowers (on the right in the photo above) have long stamens that waggle out past the petals, and the leaves are broad and toothed.

Tansy, blech!

There are plenty of non-native yarrows grown and sold at nurseries.  These are the yellow and pink-flowered varieties, and they have a strong tendency to be weedy in gardens.  There is also an invasive weed called Common Tansy (Tanacetum vulgare) that's often mistaken for yarrow.  It looks similar, but only in the crudest sense.  Tansy is a pretty plant, but, ahem, a HUGE pain in the ass, devastating to native plant communities, impossible to get rid of, etc etc.  Don't grow it.  Don't pick a bouquet and give it to your honey.  I see you looking at it with those doe eyes.  But it's so yellllowww...!  Quit it.  It's bad.  Tell your neighbors.

Range
Western yarrow is circumboreal, meaning it occurs all throughout the northern (boreal) latitudes of the globe, including every state and province in North America.  You find it especially in the west and central parts of Montana, in habitats ranging from streambanks to open hillsides to wooded forests.

What's in a Name?

Everything about yarrow is steeped in rich history, and its name is no exception.  The common name comes directly from the old Saxon word for the plant, gearwe. The genus Achillea honors the Greek hero Achilles of the Trojan wars, and hints at this plant's long importance as a medicinal herb.  Achilles was taught of yarrow's healing properties by Chiron, his centaur tutor.  Achilles had no need of it himself, of course, having been rendered invulnerable to wounds due to a good dunking in the river Styx as a baby.  The only spot that remained vulnerable was the small place where his mother Thetis pinched his heel as she dipped him in the water, and this is where Apollo shot the arrow that was the death of him.  (Turns out Apollo was also the one who taught Chiron all that good stuff about plant medicines!  Hmmm...)  Anyhow, during his life as a war hero, Achilles is said to have carried the yarrow plant with him into battle to heal his soldiers' wounds.  The fresh leaves are indeed a clotting agent, and can be used to staunch nosebleeds and bloody scrapes.   For this reason, yarrow has also been known in the past as bloodwort, sanguinary, soldier's woundwort, stanchweed and thousand seal.  The name for this blood-clotting alkaloid is achilleine, which is still used in modern medicine to suppress menstruation.
The species name millefolium literally means a thousand leaves, and leads to another common name for yarrow, "milfoil".  Also included in the long list of traditional names is death flower, eerie, bad man's plaything (!), old man's mustard, seven year's love, knyghten, snake's grass and devil's nettle.

Tidbits
Yarrow isn't considered a great grazing plant for domesticated or wild animals.  It's one of those "they'll eat it if they have to" plants, which makes it good for landscaping where deer are a problem.  Milk from cows that graze on yarrow is considered "disagreeable" tasting, and I can tell you from experience that honey from a yarrow patch tastes...really weird.  Very strong.  Disagreeable, you might say.  In fact, the alkaloids, volatile oils and glycosides in yarrow are so apparent, so in your face, that some people just can't stand it.  Late in the summer, when the white flower clusters are starting to brown, the smell coming off a yarrow stand is strong.  "Literally smells like vomit," says a friend of mine.  Whelp, says I.  Smells like yarrow.  You either love it or you hate it.  For me, it's both at the same time.

Those same smelly chemicals are what has made yarrow such an illustrious plant for thousands of years.  The medicinal properties go on and on.  Besides being a blood coagulant, it's also reported to be a good anti-inflammatory chest-rub for colds, induces sweats to break a fever, eases toothaches and earaches, soothes burns, brightens your eyes and repels mosquitoes.  I believe it.  If you dig up a bit of yarrow, you'll see little pink tips on the roots.  Chew on these.  They taste like carrots and make your tongue go all numb and tingly.  There are powerful chemicals at work in this plant.  I've never seen anyone poisoned from it, but it could happen.  Don't say I didn't warn you.  I have seen it be irritating to some people's skin.

Wild Gardening
In many ways, yarrow is a wild gardener's dream.  It's so easy to grow from seed.  Just wait till the flower heads are brown, shake them off into a bag, and make sure they're good and dry so you don't get mold.  The seeds don't even need cold stratification; you can just sprinkle them on any old soil and they'll grow like gangbusters.  They also transplant like nobody's business.  I've literally yanked yarrow out of my yard, thrown it onto a patch of roughed up ground, done a two second "cover up, smoosh down and water," and had a healthy new yarrow patch within a week.
Obviously, this plant is tenacious.  In an irrigated yard, it will take over if you let it.  Maybe that's a good thing!  I'm letting a chunk of my lawn get taken over this summer.  It's nice because you don't have to mow it (it's a wildflower!) but if you do, it's fine.  Just nice soft ferny lawn.  Never have to water or fertilize.  But this tenacity also means that stray yarrow plants are constantly popping up in every other part of my yard.  I'm semi-okay with it, because the foliage is nice and I don't have to feel bad about ruthlessly yanking it out when it's gone too far.  And it will go too far.  So if you want a tidy controlled environment where everybody follows the rules and steps in time, yarrow's probably not for you.  If you want a crazy-easy native plant that needs next to nothing in terms of upkeep, look no further.  In fact, if you don't irrigate at all (and live in a really dry climate like ours) yarrow will be much less of a pain.  So really what you should maybe do is go native, quit watering, and embrace wholeheartedly the plants like these that thrive on neglect.
Also, make sure you like the smell before you plant a bunch.  Some people don't.
The pollinators love it though!  Prolific flowers, nice big landing pad for bees and butterflies, and a long bloom season.  The seed heads look really nice if you don't cut them, too, and add great winter interest to your landscape.  Oh, yarrow.

One More Thing...
I don't suppose I've mentioned, here on Flora montana, my great love of story songs and old folk ballads, but there, I've said it.  Oh I love them, and an old Scottish standard, The Dowie Dens of Yarrow, just happens to be one of my favorites.  Especially Ewan MacColl's version.  So good.

Penstemon

Penstemon

Scrophulariaceae (The Figwort Family)

What's in a Name?
It's most often told that "penstemon" is from the Greek for five stamens,  but the word may actually be derived from the Latin for "almost a thread (stamen)," in reference to it's sterile fifth "staminode".  And while the new family, Plantaginacea (more on all this later...), is from Plantago (L. "plantain"), the Scrophulariaceae family has a much more interesting naming story.

Now, a word about names.

Am I allowed to love etymology and loathe taxonomy?

Meriwether Lewis' 1806 specimen 

I remember when I started to learn botanical Latin; how the whole world opened up in a new way.  I love the roots hidden in the names of plants, and the puzzles.   In them, we can hear the real words of Pliny and Virgil and Theophrastus. Cornus. Acer. Betula. Salix.  There's Greek and Latin, medieval history and ancient mythology. Calypso. Achillea. Hypericum. Traditional languages and foods and medicines. Poisons.  Camassia. Lavandula. Apocynum. Many names are metaphorical, a poetic interpretation of the plant.  Echinops. Pteris. Ipomoea.  We learn their color, their parts, the way they hold themselves, where they come from and how they grow.  The way they taste. Ranunculus. Sylvestris. Aquilegia. Saccharum.  We learn who has stolen the botanist's heart.  Aloysia. Luciliae.  Many were named during the surge of scientific curiosity that marked the Age of Enlightenment, when botanical exploration was much more harrowing than it generally seems today.  The explorers who "discovered" and documented and named these North American species often had epic, adventurous times doing so, and the tales of their expeditions are full of drama, danger and mystery.  Charles Darwin and Lewis and Clark are famous for their discoveries, but there are tales to tell in all the lives of David Douglas, Thomas Nuttall, John Lindley, John Charles Fremont, William Baldwin, William Darlington, Frederick Pursh, Joseph Dalton Hooker, John Torrey, Archibald Menzies, John Bartram...and so many others.  There's a lifetime of stories behind these plant names, and I tend to grow attached to them.  They're part of my story too, of my growing and learning and exploring my own world.

I learned the Penstemon species when they were in the Scrophulariaceae family, as they have been for 150 years.  For me, penstemon is the poster-child scroph, with its puckered, pouty lips.  In my heart, this is where they belong, alongside the monkeyflowers and blue-eyed marys.  But while the sport of taxonomy is full of mysteries and stories of its own, it's also a notorious pain in the ass.  Full of unpronounceable, impossible to remember words that are always changing. For a word-romantic like myself it could be maddening, if not for this simple, secret coping mechanism:  I just ignore it.  It's very un-scientific of me, I know, and very stubborn.  But as far as I'm concerned, penstemons are figworts and not plantains and in my heart of hearts, there they shall remain.  Molecular phylogenies be damned.
 
Quick ID

There is a bit of variation in this genus, but the flowers are distinct.  Most are shades of purple, some leaning more towards blue or pink (even red).  White flowers are pretty common too, and there are a couple of yellow species.  All have five petals, fused into a tube at the base and flared out into two upper and three lower lips at the ends.  Inside the tube you'll find five stamens--one sterile (the staminode), the other four bearing anthers.  The plants are usually anywhere from 3" to 30" tall, some woodier than others, with simple, opposite leaves growing in clusters near the base of flower stalks.

Tidbits
Penstemon is the largest genus of flowering plants in North America with over 270 species.  Thirty-six of them are listed in Montana, with many of these designated as "species of concern" and only found in very localized areas.  They are also commonly called beardtongues.  Flowers in the genus Keckiella, found in the southwest, are also commonly known as penstemons or beardtongues, and are actually the progenitors of the Penstemon genus we have today. The ones I encounter most often in western Montana are Wilcox (P. wilcoxii), small blue (P. procerus) and fuzzytongue (P. eriantherus).  They're easy to tell apart, although you might encounter plants that look very similar to each that are a different species entirely.
In general, Wilcox penstemon is the classic, tall, super showy blue-lipped flower that you see all over rocky slopes just about the time the larkspur are beginning to fade.  They form basal rosettes of glabrous (hairless), narrow eye-shaped leaves, a couple inches long, that tend towards a reddish-purple edge.  Flower stalks generally reach ~12-18", but can be over two feet tall if the plants have access to more water.  The flowers are light-bluish to deep purple and are just stunning.

The small-flowered, somewhat woody Penstemon procerus is also common, with its stalks standing at attention.  You'll find this one in wetter places like meadows and gullies.  The plants and individual flowers are about 1/3 - 1/2 the size of the larger Wilcox variety, and tend to be darker shades of purple.  The leaves are also much more narrow and lanceolate.

Fuzzytongue penstemon is a knockout--one of my all-time favorites.  It's soft, small, and has a mesmerizing flower.  The tube formed by the petals is cavernous and very mouthlike, with the four anther-bearing stamens curved like fishbones around the bearded tongue of the fifth sterile stamen.  They grow in the toughest of conditions, on the driest, highest, windiest mountains.  They're incredible.

Wild Gardening

Penstemon is a snap to grow and propagate, thriving in difficult soils, drought and heat.  The many-seeded fruit capsules are easy to collect.  When the capsules start to split open the seeds are ready; just cut off the stalks and collect them in paper bags.  These plants need cool moist stratification to germinate, so either sow seeds outdoors in fall, or in pots that will be left outside for the winter. Once the leaves are up they transplant well, and are perfect rock garden specimen plants for an early summer show of color.  And the bees adore them.  I've spent many hours in my backyard watching the hubbub of activity around the Wilcox' penstemon in particular.  On a sunny afternoon, you're guaranteed to find dozens of native bees happily dipping their heads into each purple tube for a sip of nectar.

For a ton more information on growing penstemon, check out Susan Greer's Native Penstemons in our Gardens.  If you want to dig deeper, don't miss Myrna Jewett's really great article about growing shrubby beardtongues for rock gardens, with additional insight into the North American evolution of the Penstemon genus.  In it, she points out that penstemons are shifting slightly toward being hummingbird-pollinated, with an interesting discussion on why that might be. 

Arrowleaf Balsamroot

Arrowleaf Balsamroot
Balsamorhiza sagittata
Asteraceae (Sunflower family)

Quick ID
In late spring, arrowleaf balsamroot covers open hillsides in an unmistakable blanket of golden, sunflower-like flowers.  The fuzzy, silvery-green leaves can be 6" wide and over 12" long, arising from from the base of the plant in tufts like bunchgrasses.  Flowers bloom May-July, and are borne singly on stalks that can get 3' tall.
Flowers like these are known as "composites" and are actually made up of two different types of inflorescence.  Tiny tubular disc flowers cluster together to form the central eye, while the "petals" are actually a ring of ray flowers.  Some species in the Asteraceae family have only ray flowers (like dandelion), some have only disc flowers (like rabbitbrush) and some have both together!

Range
Native to western North America, you can find arrowleaf balsamroot growing in meadows, sagebrush steppe and conifer forest openings at low elevations (most commonly 3500-7000') as far east as the Dakotas, south to Arizona and north at least to BC and Alberta.

What's in a Name?
Nice and straightforward.  The leaves are shaped like arrows.  Sagittata comes from the Latin word for arrow, "sagitta".  Balsamorhiza is named for the large woody taproot, which produces a thick sap that smells like balsam fir.  "Balsam" basically indicates any nice-smelling plant, and rhiza is the Latin word for root.

Tidbits

Did you know that arrowleaf balsamroot, with its cheery flowers up to 4" wide, is our biggest wildflower here in Montana?  And such an important species in western landscapes.  Balsamroot is rich in protein, providing excellent graze for deer, elk, bighorn sheep and pronghorn.  The nutritious oily seeds are important to birds and rodents, and the open-faced flowers are perfect for native pollinators.  Every part of the balsamroot plant is edible, and has been used as food and medicine across its native range for thousands of years.  The massive taproot, which can be eight feet deep and as wide as your hand, makes it especially well-equipped to withstand fire, grazing, weeds and drought.  I love looking up at a hillside blooming in full force, picturing the massive roots drilling into the earth deeper than I am tall, opening tunnels for underground excavators, lending a foothold to the sloping soil, casting about for that fleeting sip of moisture.  If I had x-ray eyes, I have a feeling I'd keep them trained downward.
Lewis & Clark's Corps of Discovery collected arrowleaf balsamroot near present-day Lincoln, MT, in July 1806.  Their specimen sheets, prepared by the fascinating botanist Frederick Pursh, are still housed at the Lewis & Clark herbarium in Philadelphia.

Wild Gardening
As a tremendously showy, long-lived specimen plant that can withstand nature's brutality with the best of us, arrowleaf balsamroot should be a wild gardener's dream.  This is not, however, a species for the weak-willed or fickle-hearted.  Balsamroot requires steadfast determination and cooperation.  The massive taproot makes transplanting nearly impossible.  They can be grown from seed, but like many of our native wildflowers, they need to go through cold stratification.  No worries though; this isn't as technical as it sounds.
My personal wild gardening strategy is based on equal parts logic and ease: just watch what the wildflowers are doing, and copy them.  If the balsamroot at my elevation is dropping seed in mid-July, my own planting won't be far behind.  I'll put extra seed down, figuring some will get carried off by insects and other critters, and many just won't take at all.  The winter weather will naturally take care of the required cold stratification, and when temperatures warm up, the seeds will sprout when they're good and ready.  I'll be patient, knowing that even in perfect conditions, it will take five years for my seedlings to flower.  But when they do...ohhh baby.  My happy little bees are bound to buzz right up and kiss me on the nose.