Comox Valley Naturalists Society

March, 2003
Frank Hovenden

Gazing out my window at our mid-March snowfall, it is easy to forget that I started out to write of spring and its manifestations here on the coast. Starting in late February, I get a kick out of finding that first telltale sign that winter has loosened its grip and the sun has gained the upper hand.

For many naturalists spring means the return to our sky of the birds known as neo-tropical migrants, such as the warblers, bedecked in their colourful breeding plumages. While visiting, they entertain us with their beautiful and distinct songs, which if translated, could probably be interpreted as the boastful bragging of a rich neighbour returning from a winter vacation. These are only fair-weather friends in my estimation. They are quick to desert us in late summer for a winter of lolly-gagging about Costa Rica or Belize leaving the rest of us to face the monsoon season alone and shivering in the rain. No, these birds in my eyes are not worthy of proclaiming the coming of spring to our region.

That task must be given to a local who has endured the winter storms and spring snows. It must be a bird that has persevered through the tough times and therefore can truly recognize the changing of the season. There is no doubt in my mind that this honour should be bestowed upon the winter wren. Diminutive in stature, the winter wren lives in our forests year round. Cognisant of its humble role, the winter wren forages on the ground and among the roots of trees and stumps. It is never seen in the treetops but seems content with its station in life, toiling amongst the litter of the forest floor. For most of the year its call is a disapproving "tich-tich" letting all know he is around. As spring approaches a new persona takes hold.

No longer content to toil in the shadows, this bird, the smallest of the wrens, suddenly grows an ego as hormones start to quicken its pulses. As rays of spring sunshine finally penetrate our forest, the winter wren suddenly becomes the loudest singer in the woods. It will perch conspicuously on a stump or broken snag and let loose with a long complex song, consisting of high tinkling trills and tumbling warbles. It is the winter wren that proclaims spring has arrived to the coast.

While the song of the winter wren fills the air there is another sure sign that spring has taken hold. Look to the swamps and wet spots in the forest for what is more often described as a botanical oddity rather that a botanical beauty. Perhaps it is my ingrained bias, that loves an underdog, which lets me bypass the delicate beauty of the fawn lily or the flaming colour of the flowering red current and instead praise the lowly skunk cabbage. Its name does it a disservice and one lover of the plant has begun a movement to get it referred to as the more aesthetically pleasing ‘swamp lantern’.

At this time of year it emerges from the muck, not with its leaves ready to work, but rather with its distinctive flower in celebration. The swamp lantern is a member of the Arum family, which is primarily a tropical family. Perhaps it is in deference to its origins that it emerges with a gaudy display, brightening our temperate rainforest. Its huge shiny leaves would not seem out of place in a tropical jungle. Native peoples used these leaves as a sort of natural waxed paper for wrapping food.

The flowers are actually small structures found on the prominent spike. Surrounding it is the bright yellow spathe, which is actually a modified leaf. Unfortunately the smell of many members of the Arum family is carrion-like. This allows the plant to attract insects to pollinate the flowers. This characteristic allows the flowers to remain undisturbed by casual pickers so we all can share in its celebration of spring.

Click on a link below to view the CVNS newspaper column.