A Slightly Naughty North American Peony Safari
Just beyond where the hairy things bloom, nodding, wild peonies rise before snowcapped vistas...
As one might reasonably expect from a proper safari tale, we encountered many hairy things along our way. Three miles through wood and glen. Dozens of stops to listen, touch, eyeball and consider. Hairy Balsamroot, with their wooly, silver-grey-green leaves and orange/yellow flowers were wildly abundant and just starting to bloom while Hairy Clematis proved much more rare. Nearly a third of the bell-shaped flowers on the half-dozen plants we encountered had already been taken in battle, probably by a herd of hungry elk. Those remaining, quite hairy, nonetheless.
It was nearing sundown in an expansive wildflower meadow on the south-leaning, east slope of Oregon’s Blue Mountains; in addition to the two ‘Hairys,’ an occasional Arrowleaf cache (balsamroot), several early scouts of yellow and orange, Harsh Indian Paintbrush, flowering Biscuitroot, a scattered infantry of inky, purple Larkspur, a handful of weary, pregnant, Fritillary scouts, a smattering of Lambstongue Ragwort, lonely Shooting Stars, emergent, Small Camas and at the sunny edges of the woodland perimeter, the cheerful, golden banners of ancient healers, Heartleaf Arnica, blooms unfurling.
Taken altogether, it was a magnificent show of floral life-force.
From the animated kingdom (and feathered family), on the barb-wired, far flanks of this blooming, parade ground, Western Bluebirds and Meadowlarks sang their anthems and called out their locations, while down in the piney draw below us a randy Tom (turkey), hidden amongst ponderosas, gobbled his suitor’s intentions into those momentary, quiet spaces between a red-breasted Robin’s near ceaseless pronouncements, covering at least a dozen topics no one else cared about from his high perch in a ponderosa copse, nearby.
“You know robins,” Andy mused, “singing right up until bloody dark. They must always have the final say.”
We relished these encounters, these hundred floral wonders and half-dozen, feathered, and we moved, only haltingly farther afield (literally), to those more open, more spacious spaces where a scattered tribe of one of North America’s only two native peony species thrives, doing their wild, exquisite, peony things. I refer, of course to Paeonia brownii, aka, Brown’s Peony, an herbaceous perennial named for Scottish botanist Robert Brown by his friend and fellow botanist Scotsman, David Douglas of Douglas Fir fame.
Brown’s Peony, highly drought tolerant and deer resistant, typically grows 1 – 1.5′ tall, blooms in spring to early summer, depending on elevation and then goes dormant after going to seed. Such voluptuous, fleshy blooms.
As adventure stories go, I was the curious and wide-eyed tagalong. I’m sure you know the type. And Andy, the wise, caretaker/chaperone of this entire, untamed menagerie of native wildflowers and critters was both guide and chief informant.
Each of us carried cameras and each were willing to drop to our knees, to prostrate ourselves before the flower gods for intimate glimpses and yes, even photographs of their botanical naughty bits in fading light.
(Oh, yes, you read that line correctly; ‘their botanical naughty bits in fading light.’ How, possibly could an innocent, wide-eyed tagalong like myself make such a thing up?)
See? See what I mean?
I watched carefully as Andy dropped to his knees beside a paeonic being, taking my cues from him, needing to understand just how one already quite familiar, might address such a fleshy-leafed goddess at dusk. He did not disappoint. He brushed back her leaves with careful hands, lifted her nodding blooms, and peered confidently into them, holding them steady, focusing ever so carefully on their blushing, protruding enchantments.
I followed his lead then, tentatively, though thirteen years his junior, kneeling more gingerly and favoring to my right side after a bruising, riverside fall in earliest light, deep in a river canyon two hundred miles to the west that very morning.
I might happily have knelt in hot coals were that the peony goddess’ requirement of me.
…
And then, though the clouds still glowed warm, the sun was gone, the skies began to darken, temperatures fall. We had a few miles yet to walk in this gloaming, back to the comforts of padded chairs and insulated walls, of wood stoves and laptops, and electrically powered lights.
As we stepped and conversed, side by side, a full moon was quite certainly making its way, even then, toward the eastern horizon, though it would not appear for yet another hour.
Robins continued their pronouncements, as well. Shadows deepened and colors faded into a less and less distinctive amalgam of lines and shapes in cooling greys.
I continued to ask questions of my friend and he continued to answer as we traversed the wooded hillside and then descended on a meandering, pine straw, two-track through the woods toward his darkened house. Quiet voices, making room for the awakening realm of nighttime happenings, the affirming warmth of trust built over years of such visits, shared interests and values, genuine affection, curiosity and dozens of such conversant rambles.
We had little doubt that others, unseen were listening and I’m certain both of us would have welcomed them into our conversation had any felt compelled to speak. None did. They have their reasons.
Nightfall in the late April, Blue Mountain foothills. Springtime. The hush of quieted minds. The transforming power of wildflower peonies and fading-light safaris.
These are definitely not your grandmother’s showy, garden peonies… and Andy is quite unlike any other soul you will likely ever meet. Softspoken and pliable of mind. A scientist. A storyteller. A shaman. A woodsman. A floral voyeur.
A north star.
A most excellent man to know as one’s friend.
If you would like to know more about Andy’s most amazing wildflower preserve,
Grande Ronde Overlook Wildflower Institute you may find the answers to a thousand questions at his website:
I'm up here in the Blues on the Washington side; I'll have to keep my eyes open for this wild peony! It would be a fun one to capture in my field journal. I'm kind of surprised there is a wild variety -- I always thought peonies were fully domestic. But I suppose they had to come from somewhere in order to be domesticated and hybridized.
I pray that you reincarnate as a honey bee in your next life so you rejoice and nap in as many naughty bits as you please. Your soul is so very deserving.