Awaiting the Prairie Crocus

It is a warm weekend in early March and hints of the changing seasons are in the air. Waterfowl have been trickling in, and the south winds have ushered in the joyous songs of returning Red-winged Blackbirds. If I were to visit a particular spring at the University of Wisconsin Arboretum, I'd see the first flowering plants of the year, too. There the strange flowers of Skunk Cabbage (Symplocarpus foetidus) are pushing through the ice, their putrid scent wafting low across the muck. They force their way above the soil by means of thermogenesis, and to me, they indicate the gradual ending of winter, not the beginning of spring. I think this is a very real distinction.

Skunk Cabbage flowering at the UW Arb exactly two years ago. The spadices were warm to the touch on this 25°F day.

Any Midwesterner knows that a March thaw by no means indicates the arrival of spring. We could see anywhere from zero to five winter storms before the needle irreversibly tips toward warmer weather. So, what does mark the beginning of spring? I think it's the Pasqueflower (Pulsatilla nuttalliana), known to early settlers as the May Day Flower, Wind Flower, and - my favorite- the Prairie Crocus. It is certainly the showiest among a small number of plants which seem to sense the very first day it is safe to send a delicate inflorescence into the air. Here in southcentral Wisconsin, it is the prairie's relieved exhalation after spending the long winter with bated breath. Before most vegetation has started to green, the Pasqueflower has pushed its way through the prairie sod and unfurled its perfect petals to quiver in the breeze, loudly declaring the land's return to life.

An early pasqueflower overlooks an approximately 9,000 year old gravel moraine - a priceless remnant of the Madison area's formerly vast prairie landscape.

This plant is a delightful expression of North American wilderness from Alaska's North Slope to the Sandia Mountains of New Mexico, the shortgrass plains of the Dakotas, and the bluff prairies of Wisconsin's Driftless Area. It grows in rocky or sandy places across a vast swath of the continent, but never where the effects of the Anthropocene have stripped away the ancient soil. It is my favorite plant and has been since my first spring in southern Wisconsin. There is nothing - nothing - like the sight of a hill prairie filled with these dainty delights, at sunset, on an early spring day.

Here at the south-eastern periphery of its range, the first few Pulsatilla typically materialize at the end of March or beginning of April. As this happens on the sand plains, gravel prairies, and dolomite bluffs of Wisconsin, there are very few other plants in bloom. The small handful you can rely on are Carolina Draba (Tomostima reptans), Dwarf Prairie Willow (Salix humilis var. tristis), Prairie Buttercup (Ranunculus rhomboideus), and a couple of sedges from section Acrocystis, like Carex tonsa. If you're lucky, you may also find an enterprising Lyreleaf Rockcress (Arabidopsis lyrata), Prairie Smoke (Geum triflorum), or Richardson's Sedge (Carex richardsonii) in an especially warm spot.

The early spring awakening of the prairie flora is in strong contention for my favorite time of the year. The sights, the smells, the sounds, and the anticipation for the growing season ahead - there is nothing not to love, and the Pasqueflower is the undisputed highlight.

It is known that temperate plants operate on a calendar of degree days, but I will operate on a different system. How many times will the blackbirds sing, the Sandhill Cranes call, the migrant sparrows fly, the ground squirrels forage, and the south winds blow over the prairies before it's time? If I blink, I may miss the bird mornings, the rodent afternoons, the wispy cloud evenings, and the nocturnal migrations. I'll remain alert and know the spring by the first Prairie Crocus.