“You’re in charge, Keir,” said Mary Ann Feist, a curator from the Wisconsin State Herbarium and organizer of the Peatland Field Course. “Ok, then I’m just going to walk in until I can’t stand it anymore,” replied Keir Wefferling, a botanist from UW-Green Bay.
Wefferling began picking his way over the gnarled trunks of fallen cedars and around black pools of unknown depth. We, a group of about 20 professional and amateur botanists, followed him gingerly into the dark forest, not knowing what to expect.
After only about 20 feet, Keir called out, “I can’t stand it! There’s incredible diversity right here, we have to stop!” We all gathered in a loose circle, shifting our feet to find solid ground among hummocks of rotten and less-rotten wood and mysterious wet hollows. Each of these surfaces was plush with a carpet of moss.
Keir, who specializes in moss, passed around tuft after tuft of green Dr. Seussian inventions. The scientific names he gave with each sample slipped through my brain in a fog of unspellable syllables. I admired each one eagerly, though, in awe of the kaleidoscope of leaf shapes, textures, patterns, and colors.
I was crouched down, admiring the round, glistening leaves of a unique moss sprinkled in a thick jumble across a small bowl between cedar roots, when Keir finally spoke words I recognized. “And here’s some spilled penny moss…” I couldn’t even see the specimen he held up, but I knew he’d just named my lovely, shiny friend.
A few minutes later, from a different wet spot, Keir lifted another moss with a fun common name: drowned kitten moss. The scientific name of this one is Sphagnum cuspidatum, he lectured. The sphagnum part is easy for me to remember, because sphagnum mosses are common in bogs and fens. They have a particular look about them, with a fuzzy head of compact leaves, and then a long stem with drooping leaves. When they are all packed together in a mat, they look quite soft and inviting.
Except for drowned kitten moss. They grow in the lowest, wettest spots and look as bedraggled as their name suggests, especially when you lift them out of the water. Sad as they may appear, this is their preferred habitat — their happy place, if you will — with just the right mix of water, acid, nutrients, sun, and shade. Their dust-like, windborne spores allow them to grow in wet spots around the world. They are found in Great Britain, Norway, Sweden, Colombia, and the Northeastern United States.
It took a while for the group to make our way back out of this Northern Wisconsin cedar swamp. Northern white cedars grow where cold, clean groundwater flows horizontally near the soil surface, and plants often create quite a thicket. The trees have the advantage of not needing to travel through their own tangled habitat. We all held up forearms to guard our eyes against sharp twigs; several people put a leg through a rotting log; others cautiously found different routes; and then there were the mosses, and flowers, and shrubs, and spiders, and bumblebees, to distract us, too!
After supper, lovingly prepared by a team of Cable Natural History Museum volunteers, and served at the Gatehouse at the Forest Lodge Educational Campus where the course was based, we gathered in the Great Hall to look more closely at the moss samples collected from our field sites.
Keir used a razor blade to cut tiny slices of moss leaves, then placed them onto a microscope slide. Once he brought the specimen into focus, I removed the microscope’s eyepiece and replaced it with a tiny camera hooked up to my computer. Instantly, the delicate line of leaf cells Keir had been looking at popped up on the big screen at the front of the room. We gasped in awe at the delicate beauty.
A chain of clear, round cells was strung on a thread of green. The clear cells were dead, and their job was to soak up water. The green cells were full of chloroplasts, the photosynthesizing, sugar-producing organs of the mosses.
We oohed and aahed at the macramé-like patterns of moss cells illuminated on the screen. For one species, we zoomed and zoomed in again with the microscope until we could see that the cell walls were lined with tiny protrusions, like goosebumps on your skin.
The interconnected mesh of moss cells was reminiscent of the bigger ecological web that these little beings inhabit. The glacial history shaped the landscape; our current cool, wet climate provides the water; and the cedar trees protect the mosses with their deep shade. Pools of water in between the cedars’ roots shape an even smaller landscape and microclimate.
Sometimes, the mind-boggling diversity of our world makes my brain feel a little like a drowned kitten. More often I feel like I’ve discovered a world glittering with uncountable pennies that some giant spilled across the landscape in a colossal bumble, sending the tiny treasures rolling into every nook, cranny, hummock, pool, and inside every leaf of moss. Add up all these spilled pennies, and we find ourselves so surrounded by the wealth of wonder that we can hardly stand it.
Emily Stone is an author, naturalist and the education director at the Cable Natural History Museum. Find out more at cablemuseum.org.
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