Wild Geranium

Sticky Geranium
Geranium viscosissimum
Geraniaceae

Quick ID
This perennial herb rises 1-3 feet up from thick, meaty rhizomes at the ground, with stem nodes swollen like arthritic knuckles.  Two-inch flowers are scattered atop, often nodding tipsy above the leaves, their five round petals ranging from gentle pink to an earnest fuchsia.  In time the blossoms give way to fruit capsules, their styles elongating into a distinctly pointed 1-inch 'beak' that eventually splits open, catapulting the seeds out and away from the plant.  Pow! Genius.  Leaves are palmate, with 5-7 toothy lobes divided almost to the base, arranged opposite along the flower stem and then alternating below.  The bracts (below the flowers), upper stems and leaves are glandular and sticky.  We wouldn't go so far as to say "gooey"...they feel more like they've been sprayed with an aerosol adhesive and never dried.  

There are seven Geranium species in Montana, the most similar being G. richardsonii, the White Geranium, whose flowers are...white.  But before you get too comfy boasting your botanical prowess, remember that this genus is notoriously difficult to label.  If you're picky-picky (I am not) check out SW Colorado Wildflowers' awesome article on the nitty-gritty details of telling geranium species apart, along with other interesting taxonomic morsels.

Range
Found commonly in foothills to montane, from south-central BC and Alberta to Colorado, Utah and Nevada.  Like me, this species is not picky, and will be found in forests and prairies and open meadows, dry or soggy, shaded or in full reach of the sun.

What's in a Name?
In 1753, Linnaeus chose the genus name Geranium from the classical Greek word for a crane, geranos, in reference to the long beak-shaped fruits of late summer...today you'll often hear geraniums called "cranesbill" or "storksbill,"  The species name viscosissimum points to this species' sticky leaves and stems.  Viscum is the late Latin name for birdlime (a sticky goo spread on twigs to trap little birds) and ultimately comes from the ancient root weis-, meaning to melt or flow away.
Incidentally, the good old All-American Geranium we know and love (or loathe, depending on our moods), stocked so liberally in garden centers and windowboxes across the country, is not a geranium at all but rather a Pelargonium, evergreen and native to the tropics.   

Tidbits

Still going strong, first week of November

Sticky geraniums have a luxuriously long bloom time, opening blossoms dependably from May to August (depending on elevation of course).  This past fall (2016) was delightfully long and warm in central Montana, extending the blooming season clear into November.
As with most of our native species, the plant has a lengthy list of long-ranging medicinal uses.  It's edible but astringent and reportedly "unappealing".  We also need to take care not to confuse geraniums with monkshood (Aconitum columbianum), whose leaves are very similar and very poisonous.
         And finally...are geraniums carnivores?  May well be.  You'll certainly find wispy little bugs stuck on them, and to me that's an indicator that at least something's going on.  And some 20 years ago, a certain G. G Spomer's studies pointed to the fact that G. viscosissimum produces an enzyme capable of breaking down and digesting proteins.  As with everything, the question begs more study, but if you're interested you can check out his piece and see for yourself (Spomer, G.G. (1999). Evidence of protocarnivorous capabilities in Geranium viscosissimum and Potentilla arguta and other sticky plants. International Journal of Plant Sciences, 160(1): 98-101).

Wild Gardening
This is an excellent choice for native landscaping, as it's tolerant to a wide range of conditions and quick to produce blooms.  It's relatively easy to grow from seeds using a cold moist stratification method, but remember that the ripe fruits actively toss their seeds onward and outward, so collection can be tricky.  On the other hand, vegetative propagation through cuttings and rhizome divisions is a snap in the spring.  Give them dappled shade and not much water, and sit back ready to watch the pollinators come running.  Sticky geraniums are a great venue to observe all kinds of fascinating insect species...bees and beetles and butterflies all love them.  The petals are lined with dark-hued stripes that reflect ultra-violet light and guide insect towards the nectar source. Here, a scarab beetle that's evolved to mimic a bumblebee poses happily for a photo.  The resemblance is striking, but you can't fool me!  

Paintbrush

Paintbrush
Castilleja sp.
Orobanchaceae (Broomrape Family)



Quick ID
Castilleja blooms in early summer in a wild assortment of reds, oranges, pinks, yellows, even purples.  The colorfully painted brush atop each plant is not actually the flower, but rather the plant's leafy bracts that gradiate to green towards the base.  The actual flowers at the tips of these petal-like leaves are not much to speak of.  Paintbrush tends to be a moderately sized perennial herb, upright and with a woolly quality.  The narrow leaves  are alternately arranged, without stalks, clustered along a stem that can get woody at its base.  Castilleja could easily be confused with the closely related owl clover (Orthocarpus) or even the not-closely related Liatris, if one isn't careful.

Liatris (right) and owl clover above...both native, neither one a paintbrush!

At any rate, the species can be exceedingly difficult to tell apart, as they hybridize easily.  Even the most authoritative taxonomists in the business use caution with this genus.

Range
Around 200 species of Castilleja evolved in the Americas and northern Asia.  Most of the diversity is found in the Northwest region of the US and Canada, although species range down to the Andes.  Plants grow in a wide range of ecosystems. Look for them in forest meadows, rarely in dense stands but instead sprinkled in among other wildflower communities.

What's in a Name?
One used to commonly hear this plant called Indian paintbrush (although most gardeners and botanists I know have come to find the term distasteful) or prairie-fire. The genus name Castilleja was first published in Carolus (the younger) Linnaeus's Supplementum Plantarum in 1782, after Professor of Botany Domingo Castillejo of Cadiz, Spain.  The name was chosen by Jose Celestino Mutis, a world-class botanist in his own right, who must have been one of Castillejo's admirers.  The surname, incidentally, means "little castle".

Around 2001, the botanical family Scrophulariaceae started to get a major makeover.  To put it simply, improved research methods started revealing that as far as genetic relationships are concerned, way too many plants were being included in the family.  So taxonomists kicked a whole bunch of genera out of the group, squeezing them in with Orobanchaceae, Plantaginaceae and some other families.  This sort of taxonomic restructuring can get really technical...and really messy.  Take, for example, the Wiki entry on Scrophulariaceae (which, admittedly, has always been something of a mishmash family) :

Fischer (2004) considered the family to consist of three subfamilies; Antirrhinoideae, Gratioloideae, and Digitalidoideae. He further divided the Gratioloideae into five tribes; Gratioleae, Angeloniaeae, Stemodieae, Limoselleae and Lindernieae. He then divided the Gratioleae, with its sixteen genera (and about 182 species) into three subtribes; Caprarinae, Dopatrinae and Gratiolinae. The Gratiolinae had ten genera (about 121 species) distributed through temperate and tropical America; Bacopa and Mecardonia (formerly Herpestis), Amphianthus,Gratiola, Sophronanthe,  Benjaminia, Scoparia, Boelkea, Maeviella and Braunblequetia. Many of these were transferred to the family Plantaginaceae, in the tribe Gratioleae.

 Yikes!  While some folks, bless their hearts, really get excited with this level of nit-picky detail, the rest of us are left throwing our forever-outdated field guides up in the air, exasperated.   What's cool about the binomial nomenclature system (Genus species) is that everybody all over the world can use the same name for an organism, no matter what language you speak or what region you hail from.  Nice and simple.  All the new (yes yes, more accurate) swip-swapping of names can get complicated, and intimidating for the budding botanist.
At any rate Castilleja, formerly a scroph, is now in the Orobanchaceae (Broomrape) family.  This actually does make sense, as the broomrapes, like paintbrush, are largely parasitic plants.


Tidbits

Castilleja is what's known as a hemiparasite.  Unlike true parasitic plants, it has the chlorophyll to photosynthesize on its own.  It can even live on its own, but will be stunted and miserable.  It would much prefer to worm its haustoria (special roots for plants looking to borrow a bit from their neighbor) into their host plant's root system and pick up a little water- and nutrient-boost.  I thought Tracey Switek's post in The Olive Tree explained it really nicely, so give it a look-see to learn more about paintbrush's fascinating parasitism.

And before you cast it aside as a thieving rascal, take heart in the benefits the paintbrush brings to its environment.  Besides the utterly lovely burst of color it provides, this is an excellent pollinator plant, full of nectar and visited by all manner of bees and hummingbirds.  It's also an important larval host for Schinia moths and checkerspot (Euphydryas) butterflies.  The flowers are theoretically edible for people too, and have historically been used to treat various ailments (including love-sickness).  The plant's tendency to accumulate potentially-toxic levels of selenium in the leaves, however, means would-be foragers should go forth with caution.

Wild Gardening
Because paintbrush naturally grows in complex relationship with other plant communities, it's notoriously difficult to cultivate in the garden.  But not impossible!  Collect seed capsules midsummer to fall and dry them in paper bags.  Try giving the seeds a month or so of cold moist stratification...different species will respond to this treatment differently.  You could also try sowing seeds outdoors in fall so they're exposed to naturally fluctuating temperatures.  Start spring seeds in pots or again, try sowing them straight into the ground.  You should see germination within a couple weeks.  A host plant is not required to get seeds to germinate, but your paintbrushes will languish soon without.  Your best bet is to grow it near other native plants that it would be found alongside in nature.  Time to start building that native wildflower meadow you've always wanted!  Good luck!

Columbine

Columbine
Aquilegia sp.
Ranunculaceae (Buttercup Family)

Quick ID

Ternately divided leaves

Columbines are upright, rather delicate looking plants with basal leaves generally around 6" tall, and flowering stalks that can reach 2 1/2'.  The fruits are a distinctive follicle of five slender pods with extended pointy tips, clustered together and splitting open to release rather large black seeds.  Leaves are usually two times divided into threes (making nine leaflets per leaf), and mostly clustered at the base of the plant.  The flower stalk sports a few smaller leaves; for the most part they're fairly insignificant.

Pod-like fruits

The flowers, however, are unmistakable. Five colorful sepals encircle five (usually) lighter colored petals whose bases sweep back into knobby spurs.  Colorado columbine (A. coerulea) has light purpley-blue sepals, with straight spurs twice as long as the petals.  Another species  common in Montana, yellow columbine (A. flavescens) has lemony yellow sepals that sometimes run towards pink,  and the spurs are much squatter and more curled in.  Both have a waggly tuft of stamens and styles poking down from the center of the blossom.

Meadowrue - same leaves, different flower

Aquilegia leaves can be easily mistaken for another Ranunculaceae member, the meadowrue (Thalictrum sp.) that grows in similar spaces.  Once they're blooming it's easy to tell them apart; Thalictrum has inconspicuous flowers that can't compare to columbine's showy blossoms.
There are many species of Aquilegia in the US (five in Montana), with lots of varieties within themselves, and the species have a tendency to hybridize with each other as well.  That being said, color is not always a great way to tell species apart.  The morphology of the spurs and where the plant is found growing can provide better clues. 

Range
Look for columbines in moist meadows and forests.  In Montana, A. coerulea has a smaller, more southerly range (extending from the lower quarter of the state and down to New Mexico) and prefers shadier sites.  A. flavescens can take more sun, and is pretty widespread in high elevations throughout western and central MT, on down to Utah and Colorado.

The pink sepals hint that this may be a hybrid of A. flavescens and A. formosa  (red columbine), a less common species that grows at lower elevations.  This photo was taken at Pine Creek in the Paradise Valley.

What's in a Name?
This plant is totally named for its looks.  Aquilegia probably comes from the Latin aquila, "eagle," for the spurs that look like talons.  Other sources claim the genus is derived from aqua (water) and lego (to collect), for the spurs' resemblance to ancient water urns.  The species name coerulea is quite common in the plant world, and means blue, while flavescens (and its equally common root flavens) means yellow.  The name "columbine" itself comes from the Latin word for dove, columba.  People say the flower looks like five little doves sipping from a water bowl together, tails poking towards the sky.

Tidbits
Columbines are pollinated by hummingbirds and hawk moths, who can reach deep into the flower to get at the nectar.  I've also seen plenty of bumblebees in my garden burrowing down into the tubes.  Growing up in Minnesota, red columbines (probably A. canadensis) were common, but we always knew them as "honeysuckles."  Indeed, it was my favorite thing as a wee one in the woods, to bite off the sweet little nectar-filled spur tips of these flowers.  Of course now I know that, like all these Ranunculaceae characters, Aquilegia can be pretty poisonous.  Eating a large enough quantity of the seeds, especially, can be dangerous and even fatal.  These toxic little seeds have been used in the past as a parasiticide to treat lice infestations as well.  Beautiful and deadly...

Wild Gardening

A. coerulea fitting into a shady woodland garden nicely, along with alumroot (Heuchera cylindrica), hosta, bleeding heart and bedstraw (Galium odoratum)

According to Lone Pine's totally awesome new Alpine Plants of the Northwest field guide, yellow columbines are Montana gardener's number one favorite native perennial herb.  And for good reason.  Most of us are forever on the lookout for an easy-to-grow plant with gorgeous blooms that does well in shady spaces.  These perennials are tolerant and adaptive, very easy to start from seed, and bloom in the thick of summer, late June to August.  I've noticed mine spreading over the years, filling in their shady nook, but not to the point of being obnoxious.  I've also noticed that, as the flowers start to fade, their almost always seems to be a collection of aphids gathered on the developing fruits.  This has never caused any problems in my garden whatsoever, but it does tend to make the protruding flower stalks look a little yucky.  At this point I usually snip those stalks off at the base, and enjoy the pretty foliage for the rest of the season.

Pasqueflower

Pasqueflower
Pulsatilla patens
Ranunculaceae (Buttercup Family)

Quick ID
Look for tufts of silky leaves growing from a perennial root crown, about 6" tall.  The leaves are divided into wispy leaflets, generally in threes.  The silver dollar sized flowers lack petals; what a "normal" person would call the petals are technically sepals, forming a cup-shaped calyx around a cluster of waggly yellow stamens.  (Calyx is what the sepals are called collectively.  If they were petals, it would be called a corolla.  Botany, boom.)
Flowers, which come up before the leaves, are shades of purple, from deep mauve to pale lavender.  They have silvery hairs on the outside, with smooth, lighter colored inner surfaces.  Although you might find a rare white P. patens, it's more likely what you're seeing is the western pasqueflower, P. occidentalis, or one of the Anemone species.

The flowers poke upright when they're new, then hang down like a bell as they mature, and finally give way to little smokebombs of tufted hairs as they set fruit.

Range

P. patens is found in the boreal zone (45°-65° latitude) all around the northern hemisphere.  It's fairly common in the the western region of North America, from Alaska down to New Mexico.  The pasqueflower prefers drier places than many of its Ranunculaceae cousins.  Look for it in grasslands or open rocky (often south-facing) slopes, in steppe to subalpine zones. (Side note.  Steppe communities are basically grassland prairies and plains, where the only trees found are the ones growing by water, and the subalpine region is found just below the treeline.  The elevation of these zones can vary dramatically based on where you are in the world.)

What's in a Name?
"Pasque" is from the original Latin word for Easter, Pascha.  You can usually find these flowers blooming around the Easter holiday...oftentimes before the snow is even off the ground.  The species name patens means "spreading," and is one you see a lot in the plant world.  Pulsatilla is derived from the Latin pulso, meaning battered or beaten.  This might be because the flowers, top-heavy on their delicate stems, bob around and seem battered by the wind.

This segues nicely into a quick chat about anemones.  Most (but not all) sources agree that anemones were named for the Greek anemos, "wind," hence the common name of windflower.  Maybe, as some say, it's because the flowers only open when they're beaten by the wind, or on the other hand, won't open if the wind is blowing.
Maybe the Greek wind gods, the Anemoi, use these flowers to herald their arrival in spring.  Or maybe (and this is the one I like to believe) they're windflowers because their seeds are so obviously and perfectly adapted for wind dispersal.  Their tiny nut-like achenes (a one-seeded fruit) sport feathery plumes that just beg to be blown and tumbled across an open prairie.  Pulsatilla patens shares pretty much all characteristics with those of Anemone, except the hairy tails of their fruits are long like a kite.  Indeed, pasqueflower is often cited as Anemone patens.  

Common names for this plant can be confusing.  It's sometimes called prairie smoke (in reference to the hairy fruits), although this is more widely accepted as the common name for Geum triflorum.  Many sources list it as prairie crocus, although the garden-variety crocus we all know and love is actually in the iris family.  It's also known as the Easter flower, May Day flower, cutleaf anemone, and probably a host of other regional names.  

Tidbits
As with all of the Ranunculaceae crew, the pasqueflower contains poisonous compounds that can make you really sick, causing nausea, dizziness and a drop in blood pressure.  And as with pretty much all poisonous plants, there are numerous accounts of people using it medicinally to treat an array of ailments.  Here's what Montana Plant Life has to say...

Use of pasqueflower reportedly lessens sexual excitement. It does not diminish sexual power but rather strengthens it by lessening excitement. A drug derived from the chopped whole plant induces vomiting and irritation of the kidneys. In high doses it acts as a depressant on the central nervous system and the heart. A decoction of the plant was used by the Blackfoot Indians to speed delivery of a child.

Yeesh.  As always, proceed with caution.  Plants are crazy dangerous.  Durr.
I did think it was interesting, however, to find so many references to using mashed pasqueflower leaves as a "counter-irritant" for bruises, sore muscles and rheumatic joints.  Is this like when you have a toothache and someone offers to stomp on your foot to distract you from the pain?  Must be!  I do know these leaves are covered in little hairs, and handling them too much can be really irritating to sensitive skin.

Being a common plains wildflower, the toxins in pasqueflower can be a problem for domestic grazing animals.  I've also read that dense stands of pasqueflower is an indication that the land has been overgrazed, but can't find any decent explanation as to why this is.  Are they pioneer species, the first to colonize the disrupted ecosystem, or are they just growing in abundance because grazers selectively avoid them?
I did find some interesting reading on the decline of P. patens populations in boreal forests due to decreased grazing and increased fire suppression.  As domestic grazing declines and normal forest fire cycles are disrupted, the vegetation undergrowth gets thicker and more closed-in.  This has a pretty drastic effect on many species in the boreal ecosystem, especially those that grow in open sites with relatively small amounts of forest litter. 

Wild Gardening
By all means!  Seeds are easy to collect and don't require cold stratification, although the Native Plant Network does recommend a 60 day cold spell.  You can also divide clumps or take root cuttings in spring or late fall.  Keep them in the sun, in fairly dry soil, and know that plants might go dormant in drought conditions.  The flowers are lovely, and the feathery leaves last well into the summer.  Being such an early bloomer, pasqueflowers provide crucial nectar reserves for early emerging wild bee pollinators.  Try some in your rock garden!  Send me pictures.

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.