Featured Creature: Staghorn sumac

What berries grow in crimson towers,
With tangy taste that puckers and sours?

Staghorn sumac! (Rhus typhina)

Staghorn Sumac (By Alicja via Pexels) 

Growing up, the slim outline of the staghorn sumac lined the perimeter of my backyard, reaching out its limbs, dotted with dark red berries. In the bored heat of summer, my brothers and I would grab the plant’s thin trunk and shake, raining berries down on us and gathering as many in our hands and pockets as we could. 

These wide and angular branches give the staghorn sumac its name, resembling the sharp antlers of a deer. And much like the thin, soft velvet that covers young antlers, the staghorn sumac’s stem is lined with a fine velvety layer of hair (or trichomes). In addition to serving as a protective layer from insects and the elements, this fuzz distinguishes the staghorn sumac from its common relative, the smooth sumac. These two plants share quite a few traits, both having pinnate (feather-like leaves) and producing red fruit. However, the smooth sumac, as the name suggests, lacks the fine velvety texture on its stems that characterizes the staghorn.

Budding branch of staghorn sumac (WikiMedia Commons by Krzysztof Ziarnek)

Planting roots

Beyond its striking leaves and vibrant berries, the staghorn sumac has a unique way of multiplying and thriving in the wild.

Growing from a large shrub to a small tree, the staghorn sumac ranges in size from about 3 to 30 feet in height. It is native to the eastern half of the United States and flourishes on the edges of forests, clearings, and dry, rocky, or gravelly soils. 

The staghorn is a colony forming plant, meaning that they cluster in groups of genetically identical clones, connected through an underground network of roots. The plant reproduces new clones via a process known as root suckering, where vertical growths originate from its root system. In addition to producing colonies, the staghorn sumac also naturalizes through self seeding, the dispersal of its own seeds. 

The flowers of a staghorn sumac are crimson, hairy, and bloom through May to July. Berries form tightly pyramidal clusters and are usually ripe by September, persisting into the winter, even after the staghorn sumac has lost its leaves, though this timeline can vary by geography. 

Staghorn sumac in the winter (photo by author)

The staghorn sumac is dioecious, male staghorn sumac and female staghorn sumac flower separately. The female staghorn sumac produces flowers and seed, while the male staghorn sumac only produces flowers. Due to the staghorn sumac’s colony forming habits we just learned about, and while not always the case, groves of predominantly female-only or male-only trees can be found. The colony of staghorn sumacs that grew around my childhood backyard were all seed bearing, and therefore a colony of female-only sumacs. 

Berries and Beyond

The berries produced by the female staghorn sumac hold the same shade of deep red as the flowers, but also have finer hairs and a denser, round body. As children, my brothers and I were convinced that these velvety, red berries were poisonous, and we handled them with a slight air of suspicion. However, despite their vibrant color, the berries lining our pockets were not poisonous.  While brightly colored fruits may have a reputation for being dangerous, many use bright colors to attract different pollinators. In this case, the bright Staghorn sumac berries are an edible fruit that has been used by humans for centuries. They are high in vitamin c and have a strong, tart taste. Upland game birds, songbirds, white-tailed deer, and moose also eat the tree’s leaves and twigs, while rabbits eat even the plant’s bark. 

The staghorn sumac has been utilized by Indigenous peoples in North America for a variety of different purposes—including traditional medicine—over hundreds of years. The fresh twigs of the staghorn sumac, once peeled, can be eaten, and have been used in dishes such as salads. These same twigs, along with the leaves, can be brewed into medicinal tea, traditionally used to relieve post pregnancy bleeding, alleviate respiratory conditions such as asthma, and assist in digestion. In addition, the roots of the staghorn sumac have historically been used for their supposed antiseptic and anti-inflammatory properties.

A common use for sumac berries is to make sumac-aide, a lemonade-like beverage with a strong, tart taste. Sumac-aide has been used for its believed medicinal properties, or simply as a refreshing summer drink. Sumac berries are ready to be harvested and used for culinary purposes during late summer, once they turn dark red in color.

Staghorn sumac (Josveo5a via WikiMedia Commons

The staghorn sumac trees that once grew lush in my childhood backyard are all gone now, leaving an empty patch of dirt in their wake. Although my family does not understand the events that lead to their demise completely, potential disease could be one contributing factor. The staghorn sumac is a resilient tree that is able to flourish under a variety of conditions. However, like all plants, the staghorn sumac is still susceptible to disease. Fungal diseases such as anthracnose, powdery mildew, and root rot, and bacterial diseases such as leaf spot can infect and kill groves of the staghorn sumac. In addition, invasive pests such as Japanese beetles can strip the staghorn sumac by skeletonizing its leaves and damaging flowers. 

Recently, I was walking along an icy boardwalk near my childhood home and noticed little fuzzy flowers, bright red against the white snow. It took me a closer inspection of these cute crimson flowers to notice the large group of staghorn sumac arching above the boardwalk and over my head. The trees bore their rich red flowers despite the other snow encrusted barren trees of the landscape. 

If you know where to look, the staghorn sumac is everywhere, dotting the sides of highways, bike paths, playgrounds, and perhaps even your own backyard.


Helena Venzke-Kondo is a student at Smith College pursuing psychology, education, and environmental studies. She is particularly interested in conversation psychology and the reciprocal relationship between people and nature. Helena is passionate about understanding how communities are impacted by climate change and what motivates people towards environmental action. In her free time, she loves to crochet, garden, drink tea, and tend to her houseplants. 


Sources and Further Reading:

Featured Creature: Cheatgrass

What plant plays an important role in the grasslands of its native hemisphere, but alters soil moisture and fire regimes when introduced in North America?

Cheatgrass (Bromus tectorum)!

Mature cheatgrass, Bromus tectorum
Michel Langeveld (CC via Wikimedia Commons)

A cheatgrass seed had needled its way into my skin again. I thought that I had freed myself of the cheatgrass when I came back east, to the land of ample water and broad leaves, and threw all of my camping gear into a dark corner of my bedroom. This was not so – it was hiding out in my sock drawer. When I pulled up my socks, I dragged the pointed tips of the cheatgrass seeds up my ankles, and I was once again somewhere out west, nursing the delicate white surface wounds that they left. I was, for the first time, not grateful for the tight warmth-trapping weave of my wool hiking socks – it is highly adept at locking the lance-like grass seed into a comfortable chamber from which it can prod at my ankles. The cheatgrass survived the washer and the dryer and my prying fingernails, survived my desperate attempts to wrench it out of my socks and into the campfire. Cheatgrass burns fantastically well– it’ll ignite from marshmallow-toasting-distance and beyond. 

My cheatgrass came with me from Wyoming months ago. Out there, it rolled for miles across the sagebrush steppe, slowly but surely creeping into every space between every shrub. The site where I gathered the seeds into my socks smelled more of earth than sagebrush, which was unusual for the basins where I’d been working. My boss Rachel and I hopped down out of our work truck and took in our site: some sagebrush, sure, but only a few dashes of it scattered between rolling hills of crisp, flame-red cheatgrass. The site was nearly silent; I found myself missing the usual distant whirrr of farm machinery and the cacophonous cry of a startled sage grouse. We were instead accompanied by the whistling of wind and the knowledge that we would be blowing dust into our handkerchiefs for a few days.

“Downy Brome”

Some call cheatgrass “downy brome”, which is a perfect term for it in the early spring when it hasn’t grown into its wretchedness. In early spring, when its long awns have not yet grown stiff and sharp, it is a soft and elegant plant. Its leaves fall in a gentle cascade from the long stem. The downy brome rolls over hillsides and whispers to its sisters in the breeze; as they dry in late summer, the wind knocks the heads of their seeds against one another, and they are scattered to the ground to start their cycle anew. When the cool season rains end and they’ve sucked up all the water they can from the parched earth, their chloroplasts finally falter, and the grass turns a faint purple-red from the awn-tip up. In spring, the dusty green tones of the sagebrush and the brightly-colored grass dapple the landscape. By summer, the sagebrush is nearly overtaken by an orange-brown, foreshadowing the fire which cheatgrass so often fuels. The grass sticks its seeds through your shoes and between your toes and into your socks and the hems of your pants. It doesn’t matter if you stop to pull them out– you will have just as many jabbing and nudging away at you after you walk another ten feet through their swaying abundance. It is useless to shake them out, too. You must pull them, piece by piece, out of your hair and your tent and your boots, and cast them to the ground. This is just what they wish for– you are seeding them for next year.

A rugged invader

Humans introduced cheatgrass to the Northeastern United States by accident sometime around 1860. You can find it in many places around New England, but in the presence of such an overwhelming amount of water, it often fails to compete with its fellow grasses and is relegated to cracks in sidewalks and highway islands full of compacted, inhospitable soil. Cheatgrass seems lost on this coast; few in the East know what it is or why it’s here. It is a plant surviving as plants do, regardless of the “invasive” status we’ve thrust upon it. In the West, however, its success is something wicked and wonderful.

Any water from the winter’s snowmelt or early spring rains gets sucked up by the eager roots of the cheatgrass, leaving little for the still-sprouting native grasses, forbes, and shrubs, even as their taproots probe deep into the earth. Ecologists curse the plant for its brutal efficiency in driving out those native to the arid steppe; birders lament the loss of woody habitat for their feathered favorites; ranchers sigh at the sight of yet another dry, nutritionally-deficient plant that even their toughest cow is loath to graze. And there is, of course, the fire. Cheatgrass dies and dries in the early summer, long before native grasses do, providing an early fuel source for the ever-lengthening fire season. 

Cheatgrass seeds
Jose Hernandez, USDA (Public Domain via Wikicommons)

The seeds lie in wait in the earth, and in the spring, they unfurl their new leafy heads and emerge from between blackened sagebrush branches. In the grass’s native range in Europe and Southwestern Asia, the plant is no worse or better than any other; it just is. Moths and butterflies lay their eggs along its edges. Ungulates nibble it slowly as their eyes each search opposite directions for the next snack.

Nearly all of the existing research on the plant explores its role far from home, in the United States. It is grass, and it would be hard to imagine that here on the other side of the world, some field tech is cursing its very existence. You’d never know from looking at the cheatgrass that ranchers and federal scientists alike have spent years dousing their own lands in herbicides with the hope of its extirpation. We humans have of course played our role in keeping the cheatgrass strong even as we try to drive it out, since cheatgrass, like many invasives, is far better at taking over already-disturbed soils where the native plant communities and biological soil crusts have been weakened. As extreme wildfires, agricultural use, overgrazing, and the general ravages of climate change continue to impact larger and larger regions, so too does the invasive capacity of the cheatgrass.

 I wore a different pair of socks hiking that day for fear of bringing more cheatgrass to Connecticut. It was silly, though; the cheatgrass already knows this land well. 

Jasmine


Jasmine Gormley is an environmental scientist, writer, and advocate from New Hampshire.  She holds a BS in Environmental Studies from Yale, where she conducted research in plant community ecology and land management. She aims to obtain a degree in environmental law. As a first-generation college student, she is passionate about equity in educational and environmental access, and believes that environmental justice and biodiversity conservation are often one and the same. In her spare time, you can find her rock climbing, foraging, and going for cold water swims.


Sources and Further Reading:

Featured Creature: Asian Giant Hornet

Photo from wikipedia.org

What creature comes from Southeast Asia, is the biggest of its kind, eats animals we need, and  has been tried and convicted of murder in the court of public opinion?

Meet the Asian Giant Hornet!

Warning: This is not your warm and cuddly Featured Creature.  

It was a warm and pleasant day last summer, and some of us Bio4Climate folks were entertaining out-of-town guests at our Miyawaki Forest in Cambridge, Massachusetts.  During lunch, a biologist from central Europe expressed horror at the appearance of a “new” insect.  She described it as the largest wasp she had ever seen (the differences between wasps and hornets are primarily coloring and size).

What do you think?

Indeed, it was a new insect in the Western Hemisphere – it landed in France in 2004.  Before then, its home had been limited to Southeast Asia and Japan for 16 million years as a forest dweller that mostly lives in subterranean nests.  Those in the know suspect that it somehow hitched a ride in pottery imported from China.  Perhaps it’s a bit surprising that the hornet’s international travels took so long, given that globalization has been going on for many centuries.

Asian Hornet Size Comparison
Relative sizes for comparison, from vespawatch.be CC BY 4.0 license

In many places where this creature newly appeared, authorities put out the alarm and asked citizens to take a photo of it with their cell phones but do not touch it or disturb it in any way!  It has a quarter-inch stinger and plenty of venom for repeated attacks.  It’s rarely lethal to humans, but the sting has been described as driving a hot nail into your flesh.  “Just tell us where you saw it and we’ll send in experts to try to find its nest” – no simple task with nests that are usually underground.

As it happens, people mostly mis-identified other black-and-yellow wasps as Asian Giant Hornets so the alarm was somewhat false – but the threat was real.  And the spread could happen quickly, as it did in Belgium:

Asian hornets in Belgium: August 2018, ©Vespa-Watch
Asian hornets in Belgium: August 2020, ©Vespa-Watch
Asian hornets in Belgium: July 2022, ©Vespa-Watch

If these maps resemble our recent and devastating infectious global invasive-species explosion, Covid-19,  it’s not a coincidence.  Zoonotic diseases – illnesses that jump from nonhuman animal hosts, including insects, to humans – present in patterns that resemble the spread of hornets.  The threat of another potential pandemic, albeit non-microbial, should ring alarm bells everywhere.  

But that’s a story for another day.  The current question is, “Why are we so worried about the Asian Giant Hornet?”  True, it’s a painful sting, but is there something else?

Yes, indeed.

This hornet’s favorite food is honey bees.  The bees don’t stand a chance against these aggressive and much larger adversaries.  A small crew of invaders can decimate a nest of thousands of bees in a few hours.  Their powerful jaws quickly decapitate their victims; they proceed to chew up the body into “meatballs” and deliver the meals to their own offspring.  Hence the nickname “murder hornets,” although that is rather overly dramatic – all carnivores eat other creatures.  After all, it’s an essential job in almost all ecosystems to keep a habitat’s checks and balances are working.

Bees in the hornet’s native South Asian habitat do have a defense, at least against only one or two invaders.  A team of bees surrounds the hornet, beats their wings, and raises the temperature beyond hornet tolerance – and to victory!  

Photo: Takahashi
A defensive ball of Japanese honey bees (Apis cerana japonica) in which two Japanese hornets are engulfed, incapacitated, heated, and eventually killed. This defense is also used against the Asian giant hornet.

Unfortunately, non-Asian bees haven’t had millions of years to figure out how to smother hornets.

Since honey bees are essential pollinators for many crops in addition to producers of honey, the appearance of Asian Giant Hornets in North America in 2019 mobilized beekeepers and agriculture big time.  In 2020 officials warned that if the hornets become established, they “could decimate bee populations in the United States and establish such a deep presence that all hope for eradication could be lost.”  As with many invasive species, when they establish themselves in a new place their natural predators usually don’t come along, and that disrupts the ecosystem’s function.

In the hornet’s defense from a homo sapiens perspective, it has some redeeming qualities. It’s only fair to say that it also attacks what we would call agricultural pests, and its larval silk proteins “have a wide variety of potential applications due to their [many] morphologies, including the native fiber form, but also sponge, film, and gel.”  

Finally, given that every animal eats and gets eaten eventually,

In some Japanese mountain villages, the nests are excavated and the larvae are considered a delicacy when fried. In the central Chūbu region, these hornets are sometimes eaten as snacks or an ingredient in drinks. The grubs are often preserved in jars, pan-fried or steamed with rice to make a savory dish called hebo-gohan. The adults are fried on skewers, stinger and all, until the body becomes crunchy.

In gastronomy, there is hope!


P.S. “Vespa,” by the way, is the genus of wasps and hornets.  So the next time you’re riding your bike and you hear an ever louder buzzing behind you, be grateful when it’s a gas-guzzling scooter and not its eponymous insect.

Extra featured-creature feature, red in tooth and claw: 

By Adam Sacks


Sources:
https://www.discoveringbelgium.com/asian-hornets/
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Asian_giant_hornet
Alfred Lord Tennyson In Memoriam A. H. H., 1850:
   Who trusted God was love indeed
   And love Creation’s final law
   Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw
   With ravine, shriek’d against his creed