More Laughs with Linnaeus

These are scary times we’re living in, and I’m finding that my requirements shift almost by the hour, from needing to soak up the latest facts to needing to “socially distance” myself from the news through laughter and silliness.

When and if you fall into the latter camp, this blog is for you. It’s a follow-up to my previous blog, where I listed some wonderfully odd and often humorous facts about Carl Linnaeus, the Swedish scientist who came up with binomial nomenclature (naming species by a genus and species, like Canis lupus for wolves).

I’ll get back to talking about nature in a more direct way in future blogs, but for now I hope these eight stories provide a pleasant diversion.

1. Linnaeus had a lot to say about sex. A LOT.

Aristotle thought that since plants don’t move, they don’t have sex. Linnaeus put an end to that nonsense. He showed that flowers have sexual organs called pistils and stamens. “Yes, love comes even to the plants,” he wrote.

As Oliver Sacks put it, Linnaeus “made merry with the idea” of sexual organs in plants. Linnaeus wrote an essay called “Introduction to the Betrothal of Plants” and talked about stamens as husbands, pistils as wives, and the calyx as the nuptial bed. Here’s one of his steamy passages:

The flower’s leaves … serve as bridal beds which the creator has so gloriously arranged … and perfumed with so many soft scents that the bridegroom with his bride might there celebrate their nuptials with so much greater solemnity. When now the bed is so prepared, it is time for the bridegroom to embrace his beloved bride and offer her his gifts.

A trillium showing off its reproductive parts. Photo: M.A. Willson

As you might imagine, some people were titillated by all this plant sex talk, which led to an increased interest in botany (seriously). Also as you might imagine, other people clutched their pearls. One critic said, “Such loathsome harlotry as several males to one female would never have been permitted in the vegetable kingdom by the Creator.”

As it turns out, such “harlotry” is not only permitted but quite commonplace across the natural world.

2. Darwin’s grandpa was titillated by Linnaeus.

Charles Darwin’s grandfather Erasmus was so inspired by Linnaeus’s ideas about the sex lives of plants that he penned a couple long poems published together as The Botanic Garden (1789). His book was a bestseller that created an uproar because of its sexually explicit passages. The book also included a hint of Erasmus’s belief in evolution, long before his grandson’s revelations on the subject.

Another favorite story about Erasmus: He was a doctor by trade but also a brilliant inventor of, among other things, a copying machine, a canal lift for barges, and a steering mechanism for carriages that was later adapted for cars.

But my very favorite invention? Erasmus grew so rotund that he had a semi-circle cut out of his place at the dinner table so he could sit closer to the food.

3. Linnaeus was confused about swallows.

In Oregon, we’ll soon see tree, cliff, and other swallows swooping and swerving over waterways. Where have they been since fall? We now know that they migrate south where there are insects to feed on through the cold months. But for his whole life, Linnaeus believed that swallows slept through winter at the bottom of lakes.

Barn swallow. Photo: John Williams

More specifically, Linnaeus believed that swallows gathered in large groups, then dove under a sheet of ice where they slept, gills be damned, until spring came along and they thawed out. This was common folklore at the time, as it seemed impossible that birds could fly thousands of miles twice a year—which is, indeed, an astounding feat.

4. Linnaeus had several other odd beliefs.

Linnaeus knew more about plants than he did about animals, which often led to strange beliefs. For instance, he thought that you could turn a puppy into a dwarf by rubbing the puppy’s back with a flavored spirit called aquavit. If you’re really, really bored during the pandemic, you’re free to try this.

Linnaeus also thought that rattlesnakes used the intensity of their gaze to bewitch birds and squirrels, causing them to fall from trees into the snake’s mouth.

5. Linnaeus gave us “fauna.”

Linnaeus was the first to use the word “fauna” (meaning animals) as the counterpart to flora (plants). Fauna is a feminine version of Faunus, the name of a Roman forest god.

6. Sweden loves Linnaeus.

Linnaeus is a beloved national hero in Sweden, where his face is on the 100 kronor note and his favorite flower, the twinflower (Linnaea borealis), appears on the 20 kronor note. If you read the first blog, you won’t be surprised to hear that Linnaeus named twinflower after himself.

7. Linnaeus was first to use the symbols for male and female.

The circle with the arrow for male and the circle with a cross below it for female? You can thank Linnaeus for them. The symbols had been used by chemists (the male symbol referred to Mars and iron; the female to Venus and copper), but Linnaeus was the first to use them as symbols for male and female species.

8. Linnaeus lied about his travels.

In 1732, when Linnaeus was 25, he traveled from Uppsala, near Stockholm, to an area called Swedish Lapland, the northernmost region of Sweden. He kept a detailed, illustrated journal of the plants and animals he saw on his five-month trip.

The funny part? When he got back to Uppsala, Linnaeus exaggerated the whole experience. First, he said he had traveled 4,500 miles, which was about double the miles he actually traversed. The famously stingy Linnaeus was being paid by the mile, so that might be the reason he drew an entirely fictionalized inland leg on his map.

Linnaeus also exaggerated the hardships he endured on his epic journey. A historian named Lisbet Koerner estimates that Linnaeus only spent 18 days of his five-month journey sleeping outside homes or on the coast. Which reminds me of Henry David Thoreau, whose “hardships” at Walden Pond included having his mom do his laundry and bring him sandwiches.

That’s all for now, folks. Please take care of yourself during this difficult time, and spread love to others however you can.

Finding Relief with Linnaeus

Look, I know how nerdy this sounds, but Carl Linnaeus makes me laugh. Yes, I’m talking about the 18th century botanist most famous for coming up with the system we use to name plants and animals.

I’ve been doing some research into Linnaeus that has distracted me from reading more than necessary about the coronavirus, the global economy, political infighting, and toilet paper shortages.

I hope that these seven fascinating, strange, and flat-out funny stories about a quirky scientist will likewise give you a reprieve from the darker stories of the day.

1. Linnaeus hated amphibians. No, I mean, he really hated them.

Linnaeus described amphibians as “these most terrible and vile animals” and listed their attributes as: “ghastly color, cartilaginous skeleton, foul skin, fierce face, a meditative gaze, a foul odor, a harsh call, a squalid habitat, and terrible venom.” See what I mean? He HATED them.

2. Did I mention that Linnaeus hated amphibians?

An “unsightly” treefrog. Photo: Alan St. John

Linnaeus loved to categorize things (rather obviously, since that was his life's work), and he did so using some humorous analogies.

At one point he compares animals to an infantry: mammals are foot soldiers dressed in furs, birds are cavalry beautifully clothed in dyed down. Amphibians? They're “an unsightly, hideous naked mob, with no uniforms, inadequately armed except some who got terrifying poisoned darts.”

To be fair, Linnaeus also wrote one nice thing about amphibians: “Some [frogs] sang so beautifully that you felt newborn, and banished all disagreeable thoughts; others so mournfully that one almost dies of melancholy.” On that, at least, I think he’s right.

3. Linnaeus named noxious weeds after his enemies.

A German named Johann Siegesbeck was offended by Linnaeus’s work. In response to the German’s criticism, Linnaeus named a weed that produces a nasty-smelling fluid Siegesbeckia. Likewise, when a former student of Linnaeus’s named Daniel Rolander refused to show his full plant collection to Linnaeus (so rude!), Linnaeus named a species of beetle after him, Aphanus rolandri. Just to rub it in, Aphanus means “inconspicuous.” (This is fair warning not to annoy word nerds.)

4. Linnaeus was his own biggest fan.

Linnaeus wrote four—four!—autobiographies. In those days, autobiographies were sort of like résumés, so it wasn’t unusual to write one, or maybe two, but Linnaeus wrote four, in which he admired himself in myriad ways (using third person to refer to himself):

• Of returning to his fiancée, after four years away: “Travelled straight to Falun to see his beloved, who for nearly four years had been waiting for her dear Ulysses.”

• Of one of his works: “the foreigners will be stunned by it.”

• Of another work: It will live “in the palace of the princes of botany.”

• Of his other works: They’re “masterpieces.”

• On his accomplishments: “No one has been a greater botanist or zoologist.”

5. His system for naming species has saved us a lot of time.

Before Linnaeus came up with the idea of naming things by genus and species, a wild geranium was called Geranium pedunculis bifloris caule dichotomo erecto foliis quinquepartitis incisis summis sessilibus. A particular tomato species was Solanum caule inerme herbaceo, foliis pinnatis incisis, racemis simplicibus.

I think we can agree that those names are not simplicibus at all. To make matters even more confusing, those same plants would often have entirely different names in other countries.

These naming issues increased in the 1730s, when people began to realize that the world had more than just a few thousand plant and animal species. As ships started traveling the world and returning to Sweden with “new” plant and animal species, it became evident that it was critical that we have one clear, simple naming system. That’s what Linnaeus came up with, and for that he’s justifiably renowned.

By the way, there were about 20,000 named species in Linnaeus’s time. Today there are more than 1.8 million.

6. Linnaeus’s grandmother was burned as a witch.

This is not so funny, but it is interesting. Unlike her famous grandson, Linnaeus’s grandma was not exactly rewarded for her interest in botany. Try as I might, I haven’t been able to learn anything more than the fact that she was a botanist who was burned as a witch. It makes you think, doesn’t it, about what more women in history might have accomplished if they’d been able to pursue their interests uninhibited by discrimination and acts of violence.

7. Linnaeus named Homo sapiens.

We can thank Linnaeus for thousands of scientific names that still apply today. Among them is the name of our own humble species (although he mistakenly separated us into four species, distinguished by racist traits). Homo means “male” and sapiens means “wise,” so the first word is true only half the time and the second is true rarely, if ever, as evidenced by Linnaeus himself.

The scary thing is I’m only warming up here. I’ll post part two on Linnaeus soon. As long as we’re self-quarantining, we might as well enjoy some laughs.

Species Spotlight: Curlleaf Mountain-Mahogany

Curlleaf Mountain Mahogany seeds and tails.

I wrote this blog about one of my favorite trees for the Oregon Natural Desert Association. ONDA is a local nonprofit that's absolutely tireless in their efforts to protect and defend the high desert of Central and Eastern Oregon.

You can view the story on ONDA's site—here. It's the first of a five-part series spotlighting species that depend on the habitats ONDA works to protect.

And here's the blog, in case you'd rather not make that extra click.

Curlleaf Mountain Mahogany Trees live their lives on a different timescale than ours, so it helps to slow ourselves down to fully appreciate them. Certainly a shrubby little tree like curlleaf mountain-mahogany (Cercocarpus ledifolius) isn't going to catch our eye if we're racing past along the trail. But take time for a closer look, and you'll probably be adding this one to your list of favorite trees in Central Oregon.

On the topic of timescales, consider that few of us will celebrate our 100th birthday, while at that age the slow-growing mountain-mahogany has barely begun. The tree doesn't reach its full height until about the century mark, and from there it can go on living for at least another 1,200 years. Such a long lifespan is especially remarkable given that the tree grows in some of our most inhospitable conditions: at elevation, often in drought conditions, and on highly exposed rocky ridges and buttes.

One key to the mountain-mahogany's long life is that it's a nitrogen fixer like peas and alders, which means that at least some individuals have bacteria-filled nodules on their roots that convert nitrogen into a usable, water-soluble form-basically, they manufacture their own fertilizer. That can help the trees survive harsh growing conditions, and it's also been shown to support the growth and vitality of the grasses and wildflowers that grow near them.

But let's get back to us out on the trail, slowing down to appreciate mountain-mahogany. If it's spring, stop first and listen for the hum of activity. Although the tree is mostly pollinated by the wind, it's also popular with a host of buzzing pollinators, including lots of native bees.

Step even closer to smell the tiny whitish-yellow trumpet flowers-they offer up one of the sweetest aromas you'll find on any of our native trees or shrubs. You can also see the stamens (male reproductive parts) sticking out well past the petals, like tiny arms with fistfuls of pollen that they're offering to the wind.

On warm summer days, scoop up and crush a handful of the inches-deep drifts of orange and rust-colored leaves that have fallen under the trees, and inhale deeply. Sometimes the leaves are too old or dried out and you won't smell much, but oh, when you get it just right-it's such a joy to discover a new scent (rather like a sweet tobacco) in an unexpected place, from a tree that few people even notice.

Late summer is the best time for simply looking at mountain-mahoganies because they'll be covered in seeds with one- to three-inch curly white tails trailing behind (the genus name, Cercocarpus, means "tailed fruit"). When the wind blows a seed from the tree, the feathery streamer helps it fly a little farther. Eventually the seed settles on the ground, with the streamer still attached and spiraled like a pig's tail. When it rains or gets humid enough, the spiral unwinds, effectively drilling the seed into the ground so it can germinate in the spring.

You can test this amazing process for yourself: Wet one of the wispy streamers and place it in your palm, then watch as it slowly straightens before your eyes.

To see (and smell and touch and listen to) curlleaf mountain-mahogany, head to Pine Mountain, the Dry River Canyon, or lots of other public lands that ONDA is working to protect.

Yep, It's Okay to Laugh

Nature is funny.

Which is not to suggest that we have any shortage of very serious, heartrending concerns that we must discuss and confront. That includes nature-related issues like climate change, species extinctions, pollinator declines, and habitat loss, and it most certainly also includes the human-related tragedies that took our breaths away this past week.

Still, nature is funny. And surely those crises only make it more poignant and important for us to revel in the beauty, wonder, and diversity of the natural world. At the very least doing so provides a respite from the world's turmoil; at best, it reminds us of our better angels and the great good that fills this world.

Really, is there any better response to the threats facing the natural world than to laugh and clown around as Katya Spiecker did when a Great Arctic butterfly seemed to mistake her for its host plant?

Black Bear. Photo: Jim Anderson

Black bears. Photo: Alison Hardenburgh

And how else should we respond when a bear sticks out its tongue at us? Or looks like it might be peeing on its cub?

Should we pretend it's not humorous at all that a squirrel can grab a cone, spread its "wings," and soar through the air like it just don't care?

Northern flying squirrel. Photo: Alex Badyaev

What about when we look around our towns and trails right now and see the vibrant reds, purples, yellows, and other colors of native wildflowers: Should we not smile at the grand design of this little world of ours? And when one of those flowers looks like a cow’s head, and another like a long stick with elephant heads shooting out in all directions—what then? Aren't we somehow duty-bound to admire and laugh at nature's wondrous oddities?

Steer's head. Photo: Susan Berger

elephant's head lousewort. photo: M.A. Willson

The fact that there exists a big, slow, tree-climbing rodent with 30,000 quills—is that not funny in and of itself? What about when this so-called poky rabbit appears to flirt with us, yellow teeth be damned?

porcupine. photo: jon nelson

And when a Red-winged Blackbird's very survival appears to depend on the way the wind blows, surely a little mirth is in order?

female red-winged blackbird. Photo: ALice doggett

Should I go on? Because I could. Along with funny photos (please post your own)—we all have funny nature stories. The mouse that jumped on Mom and made her squeal. The horror and regret on the face of a kid who swallowed a chokecherry. The sight of an eagle swooping down to steal the trout right off the line (heard that one just the other day).

When I’m out hiking, I see people laughing and pointing and having a grand ol’ time. Scientific research shows that being in nature is healthy; it helps us relax; it makes us feel good. Those studies seem to be chipping away at the edge of the real story: that we crave wild nature so profoundly because it is our beginning and our end, the very essence of who and what we are as animals on this earth.

Now, I know, seeing the humor in nature won’t erase climate change or end racism, or save our thousands of endangered species. But it can remind us how much we love the living world—and why it’s worth preserving that world for the young ones of this generation and those to come.

Great Horned Owlet. Photo: Sue Dougherty

On Being an Amateur—and Proud of It

monarchs are one of the hundreds of species i'm still learning about ... and happily so. Photo: Sue anderson

The book's not even out (it will be on Wed., June 8!) and already I'm hearing the questions:

• So you're not a wildlife biologist?
• Are you a botanist?
• Wait, so how long have you lived here?

The implication is clear: If you're "just" a writer and have no nature-related degrees or even the credibility of being a lifelong resident, how could you possibly be an expert on Central Oregon's plants and animals?

The simple answer is that I'm not an expert. So when I get those skeptical questions, I have to take a deep breath, raise my chin, and reply with pride: I'm an amateur.

Why do I say that like it's a good thing? Because the word "amateur" means "one who has a taste for something." It's derived from the Latin amatorem ("lover of"). So when I say I'm an amateur naturalist, I'm saying that I'm a lover of nature—and I look forward to remaining exactly that the rest of my life.

As to whether an amateur naturalist can write a nature guide (shouldn't that be left to the experts?), consider that one of the best nature writers in the business is Diane Ackerman, an English professor with four degrees (!) not in biology or enivronmental science but in English and creative writing.

Or think of Mary Roach (author of Stiff and Bonk and others), who writes bestsellers filled with research and scientific studies—and yet has no scientific degree or any particular qualifications beyond being curious and a writer and somebody who lived for a time in a trailer next to Gorilla World at the San Francisco Zoo.

Now, I'm no Diane Ackerman or Mary Roach. And of course there are also scientists like Alan St. John (see note below) who write glorious nature books. But I would argue that the key ingredient isn't "expertise" (in quotes because experts tend to be humble folks who recognize they don't know it all and will forever be learning—that's why they already know so much).

Rather, I believe the key ingredient is love, followed closely by curiosity. Whether you're in love with a person or with the combustion engine, you'll look closely, ask lots and lots of questions, and get to know your subject so well that you may eventually decide to tell the world all about what you've learned so far.

Or at least you might tell your friends, and maybe the four other people who buy your book. Because you're an amateur, and you're in love, and that's enough.

Correction: I assumed incorrectly about Alan St. John. He's such a good naturalist that I assumed he had advanced scientific degrees. As it turns out, he too is a proud amateur.

A Few Favorite Nature Quotes

Photo: John Williams

There are some great quotes in The Nature of Bend—lyrical lines from John Muir and funny stuff from Mark Twain and others. Even Franz Kafka makes an appearance (talking about squirrels of all things). 

But there are a lot more quotes that didn't make the cut, usually because there wasn't enough room. Here are a few of my favorites, including a few by local folks:

“No one will ever be able to tell me that there isn’t power in mountains, glowing sunsets, owls, flowers, beetles, whales, little children, and you and me.” — Jim Anderson (local naturalist in his book, Tales from a Northwest Naturalist)

"If my brain were made of dynamite, I still couldn’t blow my nose." — Jim Anderson again (who else?)

“Nobody sees a flower—really—it is so small it takes time—we haven't time—and to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time.” — Georgia O'Keeffe

"When I get to know a new place my world gets bigger. I see beauty that makes my heart sing." — Sage Clegg (thru-hiker, known for being the first to hike the Oregon Desert Trail, as quoted in 1859 magazine)

“The more often we see the things around us—even the beautiful and wonderful things—the more they become invisible to us. That is why we often take for granted the beauty of this world: the flowers, the trees, the birds, the clouds—even those we love. Because we see things so often, we see them less and less.” — Joseph B. Wirthli