Royal Fern
Varieties of fervidity: birds, butterflies, ferns—though ferns rouse more of a subdued reverence.
Black-capped Chickadee, Poecile atricapillus. House Wren, Troglodytes aedon.
If you’ve been outside with me you’ve perhaps witnessed avian fervidity. Bird fervor is a tractor beam. I allow degrees of it. If I don’t want any semblance: no camera, no binoculars.
A birder without binoculars/camera is akin to a gourmand sitting for five courses without flatware. Gourmand: “excessively fond of eating and drinking.” Birder: excessively fond of waterfowl, accipiters, oscines, et al. (see above video).
If I don’t want to get fervid but don’t want to risk missing something: just binoculars. Without the camera, a walk doesn’t have to be a bird walk. With it, I’m attentive mainly to birds. Mid-conversation: “That Osprey has a fish!” “That flash of orange…hope it was a Blackburnian.” “All these vocal towhees!” “Do you hear—is that a Field Sparrow?”
The camera has its time and place. Sometimes that time is “another” and that place is elsewhere. Binoculars keep me from missing anything. We wear seatbelts and hope to not need them. If you need them you need them. Carrying my camera, I have one-track mind; with binoculars, I’m not as blindered—and if I see something I’ve got a seatbelt.
I know it’s absurd to compare binoculars to an invention designed to save lives. That’s avian fervidity: absurd. Is missing a Wilson’s Warbler, Cardellina pusilla, life or death? It can feel like it.1 If I was without my camera and saw a Northern Harrier, Circus hudsonius, I’d be happy to have binoculars. Full-fledged bird mode is a fully charged camera, strap over shoulder, binoculars hanging from their strap around my neck—a mess of competing straps.
My lens serves as de facto binoculars. My binoculars are 10x42, 10x magnification. A 50mm lens is 1x magnification, 500mm is 10x. My 180-600mm lens is 3.6-12x. Freedom to zoom in or out—and the extra 2x—gives it a leg up on my 10x42s (second number: “size of the objective lens,” aperture).
I start at 3.6x and work to the right magnification, photographing as I go. A bird can look best at 7x, sometimes even 12x isn’t enough. The camera lets me eat my cake and have it—see the bird, immortalize the moment.
If a hunting Osprey shows up, Pandion haliaetus, camera with binoculars is the only arrangement. A fish hawk putting piscatorial prowess into evidence demands fervor.
Fern mode is lower octane. Ferns never cause me to curse. Birds? Different story. Birding alone, the soundtrack isn’t PG-13. Birding with others, I aim for PG—but sometimes fail. A bird will take to the wing and depart: “Shi…oot. Sorry.”
On a recent walk I stopped at most ferns. Happy, calm; fronds, pinnae. The only relevant four letter word was leaf. Bracken, Pteridium aquilinum; cinnamon, Osmundastrum cinnamomea; hay-scented, Dennstaedtia punctilobula. Touch some hay-scented fern, “delicate texture and distinctive scent,” you’ll enter fern mode. Same if you touch cinnamon fern, “large medium-green fronds.”
Onoclea sensibilis. Kind of coarse. “Sensitive” doesn’t come to mind. Lady fern, Athyrium filix-femina. Her “light green foliage provides a striking contrast to other wide, dark-leaved shade-tolerant plants.” She thrives in shade and swamps, but is also “tolerant of sun and dry soil, compared to other ferns.”
Fern mode is awe, reverence, ever-renewing curiosity. They “can help reduce stress levels and boost productivity.” Arthritis, asthma, measles—ferns help in a myriad of contexts, the list is long.
Butterflies require fervidity, but different than birds. You can’t be purely calm if you want to get close to a gray hairstreak, Strymon melinus. Focus and sneakiness are required to not startle butterflies. You can’t be purely calm, also can’t not be calm.
The other Saturday I chased a Red-spotted Purple with my camera. The butterfly departed without pausing photogenically on a flower or leaf. The next day, Red-spotted Purples and others were abundant. Pearl Crescent, Decorated Owlet, Monarch. I only had my camera for the owlet. Didn’t want fervor, so left it in the truck.
Maybe I feel less fervid about ferns because you don’t chase them. No need. You can walk with a fern in mind—chase it that way—but they don’t fly away. Instead of chasing, I’ll write about one.
Royal fern, Osmunda regalis.
Why “royal?” According to Wikipedia, it’s “one of the largest and most imposing European ferns.” Also the namesake of the royal fern family, Osmundaceae.
Royal because it’s big? Dissatisfactory, and relying on Wikipedia is something I was repeatedly cautioned against as a student. There has to be more.
Minnesota Wildflowers says “Royal Fern gets its name from [its] ‘crown’ of capsules at the tip of [its] leaf.” The capsules “containing the spores are attached to a stalk growing at the tip of a leaf.”
I wanted to see if my guide had anything to add. It gives info on European vs. American royal fern. American was made into its own species in 1810. Osmunda spectabilis. In 1857 it was determined regalis and spectabilis were “too similar to justify this.” Spectabilis became a variety of regalis, but I’ve also read spectabilis should be considered its own species. Wild Adirondacks explains: “recent genetic studies suggest that the Royal Fern found in North America is a separate species and should be recategorized as Osmunda spectabilis.” North Carolina State Extension treats it as its own and Wikipedia calls it “a species”—not a variety. Let’s treat it like its own species. I took these pictures in North America, so Osmunda spectabilis.
The guide’s entry on Osmunda regalis concludes with a note on regalis: “From Latin for royal.” What about Osmunda? It is potentially derived from Osmunder, a name for Thor.
The view that a crown is the reason for regalis is taken by Wild Adirondacks: “Royal Fern (Osmunda regalis var. spectabilis) is a tall, deciduous fern with fertile fronds crowned by clusters of rusty-colored spores.” Emphasis: crowned.
“The common name (Royal Fern) is apparently a reference to the ‘crown’ of fertile leaflets which appear at the top of the fertile fronds.” Ferns don’t have a monopoly on spores, which are “conspicuous in the non-seed-bearing plants…liverworts, hornworts, mosses, and ferns.” That ferns sporulate is a fun thing to know about them.
What else to know about royal fern? It likes swamp and marsh, is “tolerant of saturated soils.” It’s also called flowering fern, even though ferns don’t flower. Explained here: “The spore-producing inflorescence at the top of the plant resembles a group of flowers.”
When I see royal fern, it takes my breath away. That “airy appearance.” It looks delicate, a visual delicacy to be savored. I see royal fern when I’m birding, but stop every time. Birding becomes ferning. I bird in the early mornings. The light makes the fern’s verdancy pronounced. Ferns don’t fly away. What I once I saw as something to focus on when the birding was slow courts my attention even when the birding is good.
Housekeeping
For a little I won’t write here as regularly. The plan was to not write anything until winter. I love Substack too much for that, just won’t be able to do a weekly pace.
When I started this in December 2020, I never expected Rock & Hawk would mean this much to me. After a year there were 35 subscribers. Two, 90; three, 121. As I write, 367. Still small, but it astounds me 367 people want this in their inbox.
Early on, I’d debate what writing was best. Researched bird stuff? Species Saturday? Personal essays? Personal essays do well but feel icky. “Am I revealing too much?” “Does anybody care?” “Will l be laughed at?” DFW again: “You will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realize how seldom they do.” I just write what feels right when it does.
What began on a whim is now a pillar. Rock & Hawk was here when not much else was, the way birds are there for you but not there for you. Substack makes my life better. I’ve been on a friend’s case to start one for years—a gifted storyteller with encyclopedic knowledge of deer. (He started one, nothing to link to yet. Come fall he’ll be in a tree stand until 2025.)
This platform has extraordinary writers. If I need positive affirmations, there’s a Substack for that. A Mallard in ferns? Substack. A special place, a glacial erratic—Substack. Perspective on what makes a “touchstone”—Substack for that. There’s a Substack about how plants see us. Assigning meaning to birds? Substack for that. I subscribe to over 100, I’ll stop before we get “Substack for that” over 100 times.
A week before I first wrote here, I saw a species of bird I haven’t seen super-frequently since. A couple weeks ago I saw it. Maybe the birds tell me when to write or take a break. (Assigning meaning to birds.)
I’ll intermittently revisit/reshare posts from the archive to keep Rock & Hawk active. Posts go behind the paywall after six months. I’ve had this newsletter going on four years—much to revisit, update, reshare.
It means more than you know that you read these. Sincerely, I thank you.
James, I really enjoyed this post and the photos. I always learn so much from your posts. I really appreciate the mention and hope to see you here again soon. I totally get you with this, "Substack makes my life better."
Great essay James. I've been on and off with carrying my binoculars these days. I do always have my camera though. I've been compensating with my camera as it has a decent zoom lens (Nikon P900.)
I'll probably go back to carrying the binoculars on my hikes once later summer/early autumn rolls around and the cooler weather arrives.
Awesome images as well and love that Osprey video: "An osprey fishing in spectacular super slow motion."
I do admit to noticing ferns on my hikes these days. Hat-tip to yourself for that as these posts have helped me appreciate ferns much more on my Nature hikes.
Thanks for the mention of the "Mallard in Ferns." :)