Gentians Herald Autumn
- Jen Toews
- Sep 15, 2017
- 6 min read
"Thou waitest late and com’st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end."
-- William Cullen Bryant
"To the Fringed Gentian"
It is no secret that one of my favorite plant families is the gentian family or Gentianaceae. Members of this family often have deep blue to purple flowers that, along with the seasonally red leaves of alpine avens, rose and king's crown, dazzle the Rockies in late August, announcing the coming of autumn. I feel melancholic as wildflower season wanes. Summer in the Colorado high country is fleeting -- especially when trying to balance the demands of an overly busy modern life with as many escapes to the high country as possible. As a plant nerd and a botanical photography hobbyist I have impatiently waited for the snow to melt on the highest peaks, exposing early blooming flowers such as Eschscholtz's buttercup that were impatiently waiting beneath a blanket of snow. Sometimes this does not occur until the beginning of July. However, once it does, a frenzy of activity follows as many alpine plants with short growing seasons bloom seemingly at once, producing an explosion of color. Then just like that it is over. Well almost. Apart from the occasional faded and frowsy wildflower that stayed at the party too long, there's still late flowering asters and a parade of gentian: a purple farewell to summer on a muted landscape.
I remember the first time I saw a gentian. It was the rather chunky Parry's gentian (Gentiana parryi) and the flower was such a striking blue that my breath was taken away. The American romantic poet, William Cullen Bryant, was so moved by this color (and other characteristics of the gentian) that he wrote a love poem "To Fringed Gentian." One of the stanzas reads: "Blue-blue-as if that sky let fall/A flower from its cerulean wall." I've seen Parry's gentian many more times and still have the same reaction.
Above left is a photo I took on Loveland Pass, CO in a moist, alpine meadow. I have good memories of that day as I was taking a Native Plant Master class from instructors Lenore and Wendy, and we all had the same level of enthusiasm for gentian. Notice this plant's diminutive stature. The photo on the right depicts a taller plant of the same species growing in a mossy habitat in the upper montane of the Mt. Evans Wilderness. Happily this beauty is fairly common, so you have a good chance of seeing it too. Look for Parry's gentian along streams, in moist meadows, and forest openings in the montane, subalpine, and alpine life zone.
Another common, adorable gentian is dwarf autumn gentian or Gentianella amarella. What makes this species so cute is the soft, eyelash-like fringes that project from the inside of the corolla (a collective term for the petals of the flower). This is the other morphological trait that prompted Bryant to write his gentian poem. "Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye/Look through its fringes to the sky." I have bent down many a time to observe what Bryant described in his poem and have stood up way too quickly, my vision turning gray, I begin to sway from side to side before I finally catch my balance and narrowly avoid falling off the mountain.
The photo to the left was taken around 12,400 feet in in the Lost Creek Wilderness. The day was late August and this species was scattered about, twinkling throughout the fell field like little purple stars. I have also seen G. amarella as low as the upper foothills on the Colorado Trail near Durango and it was of course much taller and leggier (and not quite as adorable, in my opinion).
If you would like a challenge, try to find another species of Gentianella: Gentianella tenella or Dane's dwarf gentian (right photo). This minute species is an example of a belly plant because you need to be on your belly to see it. Good luck with that. I accidentally saw this gem of a wildflower when I stooped to look at the last fading alpine primrose and I haven't seen another since.
An easier-to-spot member of the gentian family is the monument plant (Frasera speciosa), which has a commanding presence as it often towers over 5 feet tall in its montane habitat (it's also found in subalpine). This plant is a monocarpic perennial, which means it only flowers once during its lifespan and then dies. Until recently, the monument plant was assumed to be a biennial; however, research done by David Inouye of the Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory revealed that F. speciosa can live 20-80 years before it blooms and dies. Also interesting is that populations of this plant sometimes bloom in unison (Southwest Colorado Wildflowers), which apparently is quite a sight to see. I hope I get to witness this some day.
Several years ago, I was hiking along the Colorado Trail before it crosses Highway 550 and Molas Pass near Silverton. I couldn't help but notice a particularly tall monument plant next to the trail. I stopped to admire it and the image was imprinted in my mind. I continued hiking for awhile, distracted by the rugged beauty of the San Juan Mountains. By and by I realized I was no longer on the Colorado Trail. My palms started to sweat and I got that sick feeling in my stomach caused by the anxiety of not being in control. I tried to push back the tragic stories I had heard since childhood of people getting lost in the wilderness. After calming down, I carefully retraced my steps until I intersected with the CT at a hairpin turn. Disoriented, I started off in the wrong direction again, back towards Lake City and Creede. Everything looked the same. That is until I spotted that 5 foot tall gentian, a welcome beacon of greenish-white flowers telling me to turn around. Relieved, I wanted to write a love poem about gentian.
That love poem I keep quoting was actually written about the fringed gentian, which is from the genus Gentianopsis. There are three fringed gentian species in Colorado according to Flora of Colorado (Ackerfield), however one of them, Gentianopsis procera or the Great Plains fringed gentian, is rare along creeks in one central county of Colorado and I may never see it. The other two are common to locally abundant in our lovely state. G. thermalis (Rocky Mountain fringed gentian) prefers moist subalpine meadows and I saw this along the Colorado Trail, deep in the San Juan Mountains. Its petals are fringed and widest at the apex.
While the previous species of fringed gentian prefers moist meadows, Gentianopsis barbellata, or perennial fringed gentian, prefers drier habitats. I saw it scattered on a dry, subalpine slope on a charming hike I did in the Mt. Evans Wilderness called Three Mile Creek. Notice that its fringed petals are tapered at the apex. The color is also more of a blue-purple, compared to the true purple of Rocky Mountain fringed gentian.
Now for a really sweet gentian: Star gentian or Swertia perennis, which the autocorrect on my computer keeps changing to Sweetie perennis. Usually I would be annoyed but Sweetie perennis makes me smile. I've only seen star gentian one time and perhaps this is because it shyly hides behind vegetation in verdant, moist subalpine meadows. This photo was taken at Loveland Pass toward the end of August 2016. Notice the bumblebee exchanging pollen transfer for nectar.
Gentians herald autumn. This is especially true with the arctic gentian, Gentiana algida. Algida means 'cold' in Latin and this plant thrives even after the alpine nights become chilly and long after other flowers have turned in for the season. In her book, Song of the Alpine, Joyce Gellhorn writes of the appearance of arctic gentian forebodingly: "icy...white goblets streaked with black [are] a warning that winter is less than six weeks away."
On the left is a photo I took of G. algida on August 26th, 2017 on the Blue Lakes hike in the San Juan Mountains. Can winter really be less than six weeks away up here, I asked myself as I stopped for one of the last times until spring to admire a wildflower. The ice-colored, tissue paper-like petals were folded and creased. Dotted and streaked an inky blue, they appeared to be a work of art. I stood to take it all in, the backdrop a rugged glacial cirque, the foreground the alpine tundra strewn with hundreds of arctic gentian, their cup-like corollas facing skywards. The alpine had saved the best for last.
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