Pimp my petals: the Denver orchid show

There was snow along the highway as we headed for Echter's Garden Center in Arvada. The Denver Orchid Society Fall Show promised to inject some tropical colour into a rather dull October afternoon. The theme was 'Orchids of the World', and I was pleasantly surprised by the diverse amount of species on display. The usual suspects were of course chosen as class winners in their respective alliances: an electric blue Dendrobium victoria-reginae, a denizen of mossy oak forests in the Philippines;


a vibrant Ascocenda Su Fun Beauty, its petals the colour of overripe persimmons;


and Paphiopedilum Magic Lantern 'Memoria Elizabeth Sulzman', holding its pouch as if the plant itself had just blown it from pink bubblegum. Feed me, Seymour, indeed.


Many strange and unusual specimens were on show, to the delight of jaded orchid enthusiasts bored by saucer-sized vandas and over-hybridized cattleyas. This South American Zootrophion below is a prime example of the bizarre orchids on display. Its small cage-like flowers don't open fully, and are covered in tubercules. What sort of minute insect is brave enough to crawl inside these to pollinate them?


Cleisocentron merrillianum is an astonishing little beast from Borneo: its slate grey flowers had many visitors to the show fiddling with the macro settings on their cameras.


Easily overlooked, Eria coronaria had its flowers hidden away in lush green foliage. This fragrant species has a wide distribution and can be found from the Vietnamese coast all the way to the foothills of the Himalayas.


This sinuous monopodial with subtle chartreuse coloured blooms is called Christensonia vietnamica. It originates in Vietnam - as should be obvious from its name - but curiously was unknown to science until as recently as 1993! It was a real treat to see a newly discovered species thriving in cultivation.


As usual my favourite thing on show is a dendrobium - usually a crystalline white Formosae-type with little black hairs on the canes, or a candy coloured jewel from New Guinea. This time Dendrobium bracteosum won me over: masses of waxy flowers emerging from papery bracts on the pendulous canes. This New Guinea native positively froths over with blossoms, each dotted with a rather impudent splash of tangerine on the lip.


Although I've been awfully good since living in the States, this time around I just couldn't help myself. The lure of the sale tables was just too strong, and I bought my first (non-grocery store Phalaenopsis) orchid since moving to Colorado in 2007. I managed to get a totally sweet deal on a Psychopsis Mendenhall 'Hildos' from Oak Hill Gardens. The clone I obtained, 'Hildos, has been awarded a First Class Certificate, the highest award bestowed by the American Orchid Society. So I got a great looking plant from awesome genetic stock for less than the price of a steak dinner. Below is a photograph of a similar orchid that was on show: Psychopsis Mendenhall 'Lace' x Psychopsis Mem. Bill Carter 'Mendenhall'. Are you jealous yet?



I have many more images from the 2009 Denver Fall Show and previous orchid shows available in glorious Technicolor™ on Flickr. Check it out.

Grad school has swallowed me alive

Yes, I'm still alive. And doing rather well, thanks for asking. Unfortunately grad school has become my whole life this past month or so. I have been silencing genes and counting aphids until it feels my head has been drained of grey matter and stuffed with balls of cotton wool. There are several new stories carefully packed in that cotton wool, of course, but you will just have to be patient with me. In the mean time, here are some images from my research, to tide you over until the next proper installment of (E&E)². The top image shows 3,3'-diaminobenzidine staining in a leaf of resistant wheat after feeding by aphids has caused the massive release of peroxides. The bottom aniline blue image is of callose deposits that strengthen cell walls in response to the little suckers.

Sometimes sciences can just be about pretty pictures, can't it?

Ambergris: perhaps you'd rather not know

I combed the beaches of St. Francis Bay with my aunt one afternoon, now a lifetime ago. The weather was nasty; it had been raining for most of the day. We didn't mind, of course, since we knew that stormy weather brings the secrets of the sea ashore. That was the day my aunt found the giant eggcase of a paper nautilus, wedged between the rocks. The perfectly white, rippled object was the most gorgeous and delicate thing I had ever seen. I believe that was the first moment my impressionable young mind was filled with a sense of awe at the mysterious creatures that live in the liquid parts of the planet.

Some things that wash ashore are less obviously beautiful: broken jellyfish, reduced to lumps of snot; kelp fronds; dead gannets; ambergris. Ambergris? Yes, ambergris, the stuff of myth and poetry. Sounds romantic, but what exactly is it? Read on, although the story isn't for the squeamish. Sometimes, when something is so... biological in origin, it is perhaps better to live in ignorance.

The sperm whale is the largest predator to have ever existed. It dives to almost three kilometres below the surface of the ocean in order to do battle with giant and colossal squid in the inky depths. Although sperm whales also feed on fish, they are particularly fond of cuttlefish and squid. The problem with a diet high in cephalopods is that those sharp squid beaks are not exactly digestible. So in a process analogous to how a pearl is formed in an oyster through constant irritation, the whale encases these beaks and other indigestible matter in fatty secretions from its digestive system. These lumps are then easily excreted by the whale, without fear of internal nicks and scrapes.

Many people refer to ambergris as "whale vomit", although Hal Whitehead, a whale scientist of Dalhousie University in Halifax, Nova Scotia, is of the opinion that ambergris is more likely excreted via the faecal route. Not to worry; I won't go into much more detail concerning cetacean scatology. The interesting part of the ambergris story concerns what certain land living bipedal primates elect to do when they find the stuff washed up on the shores of the world. Tar-black and viscous, freshly expelled ambergris is strikingly foul-smelling. However, a counterintuitive thing happens when these lumps drift around in the ocean, exposed to sunlight, oxygen and salt water. As ambergris oxidizes, it begins to cure and harden. Well-aged ambergris has a waxy texture and is marbled grey in colour. In fact, the word ambergris is derived from the French ambre gris, meaning grey amber.

The smell of ambergris fortunately also changes with ageing. People try in vain to describe its depth and complexity, but fail. In the end, ambergris smells like ambergris and there's nothing quite like it. It is sweet, but dangerous. It has earthy notes, like tobacco, mulch or mossy pine forests combined with marine notes like sea spray and ocean breezes. But it also exudes something that belies its animal origin: musk, leather and something altogether mammalian. Like the flowers of jasmine, it retains a definite faecal undertone. The elaborate chemistry of ambergris consists of countless compounds, and is particularly abundant in steroid lipids. The most important of these is a molecule called ambrein, pictured here. Ambrein is oxidized during the ageing process, to form several related pungent compounds with names that make them sound rather like the heroines of forgotten Victorian bodice-rippers: ambrox, ambroxide, coronal, ambrinol... It's the combination of all these molecules together which is responsible for the complex fragrance of ambergris.

Gross as its origins are, ambergris has been a highly valued commodity for centuries. Reknowned in China before the year 1000, it was known as lung sien hiang, meaning "dragon’s spittle fragrance," because it was thought to be the saliva of sleeping sea dragons drooling into the ocean. During the Renaissance, small lumps of ambergris were moulded into decorative jewelry. It was ceremonially burned, like incense. It has since found particular use in the perfume industry as a fixative. It retains other fragrance ingredients, preventing their rapid evaporation and allowing the scent to linger on the skin. One classic method for preparing an ambergris extract used "1½ oz. of ambergris, 30 grains musk and 20 grains civet reduced to powder in loaf sugar," to which was added the juice of 1 unripe lime. This was poured into 3 pints of pure spirit alcohol and placed in a stoppered jar. The jar was incubated in "the constant heat of horse manure for 21 days," and the resultant clear, amber-coloured liquid decanted as Tincture of Ambergris. Perfumiers today rely on more scientific methods of extraction, or have switched to using synthetic alternatives. However, real ambergris is purportedly still an important component of such famous fragrances as Chanel No. 5 and Drakkar Noir.

The quality of ambergris depends on how long it has been floating around the ocean. Just like wine it mellows with age, and increases in value. Standard grade ambergris trades at almost $20 per gram. Considering that ambergris is sometimes found as giant lumps weighing hundreds of kilograms, finding ambergris on the beach can be quite lucrative. Since, ambergris resembles a smelly, shapeless lump of sea detritus and the delicate eggcase of paper nautilus, most people ignore it witout realizing its value. Pieces of the fragrant flotsam are often sold for tens to hundreds of thousands of dollars to so-called "ambergris brokers". The trade in ambergris seems slightly shady: deals occur behind closed doors in hotel rooms in places like Dubai and Abu Dhabi, and purchases are always made in cash. Just a few people control the world ambergris market, and I suppose they would like it to remain that way.

Through the ages, ambergris has not solely been used for perfume. Its animalistic allure had much further reach. In fact, it formed a vital part of the traditional pharmacopeia of many cultures around the world. It was lauded as a restorative balm. Arab doctors prescribed it as heart and brain medicine. Perhaps not surprisingly, the sensual scent of ambergris was highly in demand as an aphrodisiac. Legend has it that Madame du Barry washed herself with it to make herself irresistible to Louis XV of France. Oddly enough, ambergris has been - and in some cultures still is - used as a spice for food and wine. Beluga caviar? White truffles? How gauche. Surely shavings of first grade ambergris on your eggs benedict must be an unparalleled epicurean billionaire's treat! Personally, I'm sure I could never stomach it. If it disagreed with the whale, it is certain to disagree with me.

Picture credits: paper nautilus © mrpbps; sperm whale © Brian J. Skerry; ambergris © composite from various sources; Chanel No. 5 © Andy Warhol, 1985; vintage perfume bottles © meeralee.

"We should have been foaming at the mouth..."

It was late-July and the Rocky Mountain orchid season was drawing to a close. When two good friends, First Man* and CJ*, invited me to accompany them on a hike in the mountains around Breckenridge, I didn't hesitate. I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to go hunting for terrestrial orchids. I had visions of us locating great species, like the spotted coralroot, the roundleaf orchid, or perhaps the glorious yellow lady's slipper - if we got particularly lucky. Instead, what we managed to do was prove that even three plant scientists, armed to the back teeth with guide books, can still be quite naive and actually very stupid when left to their own devices in the wilderness...

The weather was absolutely perfect as we breached 11,000 ft. in the shadow of Quandary Peak. The mountain itself, highest in the Tenmile Range at 14,265 ft., was teeming with climbers trying to reach the summit. However, we weren't there to test our mountaineering skills. We were there to revel in the botanical splendour that is the alpine summer. When warmth and liquid water have been absent for so long, plants seem to put in extra metabolic effort to really make the most of these summer resources. Wildflowers were everywhere: columbines with their bi-coloured cups; whiproot clover hugging the scree slopes; violets; forget-me-nots; saxifrage and primrose shimmering on the banks of streams; red and yellow paintbrush; asters and monkshood competing to see who had the most intense shade of purple. And higher up, their petals shredded by howling winds, alpine sunflowers. I started to feel giddy from all the biodiversity around me. Or it may have been the altitude, it's difficult to tell. No sign of a single orchid, though. Were we too late? Had they all gone?

We rounded a corner on the trail and came across a stand of the most peculiar plant (above). We stopped dead in our tracks. It was beautiful. Mid-green, pleated leaves bursting towards the sky from large clumps. We had to know what this thing was, taxonomically pin it down on the herbarium cards inside our heads. You could tell by the venation of the leaves that what we had here was a monocot. Which still meant it could be any one of around 60,000 species of plants. Was it some sort of lily? Or was it Cypripedium parviflorum, the yellow lady's slipper orchid? I so desperately wanted it to be the latter. Slippers are unmistakable in bloom, but this one didn't have a single flower on it. So as geeks do in situations like these, we whipped out the guide books. Mine had a lot of interesting text, but the pictures, frankly, were total crap. CJ's book contained more flower porn than you could shake a large stick at, so we elected to look through hers first.

Nothing. Couldn't find this thing at all. Looked through my book next, but to no avail. Mosquitoes started buzzing around our heads. It was time to move on. The trail was marked on First Man's GPS, so we could always come back this way if we didn't see it again. As we were hiking past stone cairns piled by previous explorers, CJ and I decided that it just might be an orchid, since the leaves looked so similar. Here's a picture of the yellow lady's slipper (left). Wouldn't you agree? Big, mid-green, pleated leaves. Identical. Especially because I wanted it to be identical. Which was a big mistake. We finally found another clump of the mystery plant. Against our better judgement (and park regulations, possibly) CJ and I waded into it. We stood waist-deep in the stuff. CJ caressed the leaves with her fingers, as I turned them upside-down to scrutinize the surprisingly hairy undersides. I almost suggested digging one up to look at its root structure (since terrestrial orchids generally have distinctive underground tubers), but luckily the environmentalist in me vetoed that idea.

Then we noticed the inflorescences. Two plants way in the back of the clump had the beginnings of enormous flower spikes forming, with lots of tiny, green undeveloped flowers forming. This was the evidence that shattered the fantasy. This was clearly no orchid, but something entirely different. In the end, we hiked all the way above treeline, to hidden lakes, and all the way back down again, without discovering any orchids. I had a truly terrific time, of course, but the orchid hunter in me was disappointed. We also failed to uncover the identity of the mystery plant, which was most unsatisfying. So that evening, after dinner and in the warm comfort of the cabin, we turned to every scientist's last resort. We Googled it.

Guessing that its colloquial name may have the word "lily" in it (don't they all?) I spent some time doing image searches with various forms of "lily" or "lilies" and "Rockies" or "Rocky Mountains". And then I found it: Veratrum californicum, the corn lily. Without a doubt. CJ and I excitedly grabbed our guide books again. Interestingly enough, the plant and related species were listed in both our books. The images were just really bad likenesses, so we had simply ignored those entries while on the mountain. Once again, a mistake, as we discovered when I read aloud from the entry in my book.

This plant, also known as the California false hellebore, is poisonous. And not just poisonous, the book informed us. Violently poisonous. "Eating even small amounts can result in unconsciousness, followed by death," we were informed. The symptoms of corn lily poisoning apparently include, "frothing at the mouth, blurred vision, lock-jaw, vomiting and diarrhea" and "people have reported stomach cramps after drinking water in which this plant was growing". Geez. We'd been waist-deep in them, touching their furry leaves. A brush with death, literally. Native Americans used to boil the roots and use the resulting extract to kill lice. I was suddenly very glad I had elected not to dig one up. Veratrum californicum contains the teratogenic alkaloids jervine and cyclopamine, which cause major birth defects such as cyclopia. Oh dear.

Just the week before, I had finished reading Wicked Plants by Amy Stewart - a beautiful and fascinating book all about spiky, toxic, invasive and poisonous plants. How ironic. I guess I learned two valuable lesssons on this trip. One: just because you want something to be true, it doesn't necessarily make it so. Two: assume every creature unfamiliar to you will try to kill you somehow. We so desperately wanted to find an orchid that we did things against our better judgement. Even in the mountains, orchids cast their crazy spell. Days later, when we'd all gone back to work, I noticed that CJ had changed her Facebook status to read, "After seeing the photos... we should have been foaming at the mouth".

*Names have been changed to protect the ignorant.

Photography credit: alpine meadow and Veratrum californicum © The Electric Orchid Hunter (that's me!); Cypripedium parviflorum © David Tees and Melanie Schori