It’s funny what you can find when you’re looking for something else.
Nearly three years ago, a fierce August windstorm leveled many trees here, ours included. Though devastating at first, we quickly enlisted a logger and a dozer operator to clear the property around the house. Since then, we have had more grass and fewer trees, but subtler changes have only recently become evident. For example, the pond is less shaded now, and the increased sunlight has led to rampant growth.
In the past weeks, I monitored musk thistle’s progress on the pond bank from afar—a tall, beautiful but extremely thorny, non-native invasive plant. The Missouri Department of Conservation says a single plant can produce 11,000 seeds, spread by silky parachutes. In fact, they feel so strongly about it that they require landowners to control it, with a fine as an added incentive.
I planned to dig up the two or three plants I saw before their flowers went to seed, but the ground was dry, the days were busy, and I looked forward to the task about as much as, say, trimming a bobcat’s claws. It’s easy to postpone something like that. Then, a soaking rain left me with no excuse. On a recent morning, I suited up in Don’s Vietnam-era flight suit, sprayed with permethrin, pulled on rubber boots, donned fireplace gloves, and waded into the weeds, ready to deal with thistles, ticks, chiggers, snakes, and cougars. The two or three plants I thought were there turned out to be two dozen plants. Unfortunately, while I was procrastinating, two of the flowers had already headed out, but that morning they were still wet with dew, and I was able to bag most of the seeds. When the few remaining seeds lifted on the breeze, I leaped for them in my ungraceful flight-suit and rubber-boot ballet, grateful not to have an audience. But I didn’t like to contemplate the numbers. Say 20 seeds got away. If only half of them mature, the next generation could produce 110,000 seeds because of my delay. When will I ever learn?
Despite this, my Saturday excursion had a silver lining. The tall thistles advertised their location, and a new blackberry patch was hidden beside them. Our last berries vanished 30 years ago; it’s sweet to see them again. They are small, hard, and glossy red now, and if all goes well in the next few weeks, I'll help them find their way into a pie. I owe it to the thistles.
