Sensitive Fern & Butterflies
There’s more to appreciate than birds. Ferns, butterflies, trees, sunsets. Concludes with a farewell to a good dog.
Sensitive fern was found in the 1700s, in Virginia. “Sensitive” because its fronds “suffer almost immediate damage from the first fall frost.” It doesn’t flower or produce seeds. No fern does, they sporulate.
Sensitive is the only fern within the genus Onoclea. The Pteridophyte Phylogeny Group classifies it as such; my fern guide concurs. If I let my guide open to where the spine is cracked from use: Onoclea sensibilis, my favorite fern.
Onoclea is derived from Greek. Onos and kleio—meaning vessel and to close, “a reference to the bead-like structures that enclose the sori.” Sori are groups of sporangia, where spores form.
Ferns have a language. Its terms don’t always apply only to ferns.
“Anadromous” exists in a piscatorial context. Anadromous fish, like striped bass or salmon, are born in freshwater, spend their lives in salt, and go back to freshwater to spawn. With ferns, anadromous is a type of venation. Let’s take a stab at some more fern-speak.
Their stems are referred to as rhizomes or rootstocks—where roots grow from. They are on or underneath the soil, can be mistaken for roots themselves.
Then the frond. When you think of a fern, you think of the frond. It’s sometimes called the leaf—the leaf blade and stalk.
The leaf blade can be divided into pinnae, or leaflets. Pinnae can be divided into pinnules, then pinnulets. Discussing this can feel reminiscent of unstacking Russian nesting dolls. Fern, frond, blade; pinnae, pinnules, pinnulets.
When a fern is pinnate, the blade is divided into pinnae on each side of the stalk—“two rows of lobes, leaflets, or veins arranged on each side of a common axis resembling a feather,” explains Master Gardeners of Northern Virginia. If they are divided again: bipinnate. If divided once more: tripinnate, or thrice-pinnate.
Pinnate comes from pinnatus, Latin for feather. It is not limited to ferns. Black locust and hickory have pinnately compound leaves.
As is common with ferns, parts have multiple names. A stalk is called a rachis when within the leaf blade—the same term for the similar part of a feather. Below the blade, a fern’s stalk is a stipe or petiole.
“Pinnatifid” means the leaf is divided into lobes, but the divisions do not go all the way to the rachis—“half to three-fourths to the rachis,” per my guide. Sensitive fern is pinnatifid.
A fern’s leaf blade is commonly divided once or twice pinnately. Some aren’t divided at all, called “entire” or “simple,” like walking and hart’s-tongue ferns.
Fronds can be sterile or fertile—vegetative or reproductive. Ferns sporulate, that’s where this distinction matters. As explained by the Forest Service:
Some ferns have two kinds of fronds: fertile fronds (leaves with sporangia) and sterile fronds (leaves lacking sporangia).
We’ve been using many terms, so quick reminder: sporangia is the plural of sporangium, where spores form.
Ferns with two kinds of leaves are referred to as dimorphic. Examples of dimorphic ferns are deer fern (Blechnum spicant) and cinnamon fern (Osmunda cinnamomea).
Sensitive fern, Onoclea sensibilis, is also dimorphic. Its sterile fronds are pale green, up to 40 inches tall. They die after frost.
The fertile fronds are shorter, woody, and last through winter. They release spores in spring and can last over a year, with bases lasting longer.
Sensitive fern likes moisture—floodplains, swamp, streambanks, marsh—and usually grows in colonies.
With a preference for moisture, Onoclea sensibilis is drought-sensitive. It’s rhizomatous and deciduous. The rhizomes “branch and creep, forming colonies.”
Onoclea exists within the family Onocleaceae, alongside the genus Matteuccia.
Each of these genera is represented by one species in New England. For the latter, Matteuccia struthiopteris, ostrich fern; the former, Onoclea sensibilis, sensitive fern.
A joy of getting outside is the beauty of things “—earth, stone and water, /
Beast, man and woman, sun, moon and stars—” to quote Robinson Jeffers’ poem of that name.
Also: ferns and butterflies. Hermann Hesse, author of Siddhartha, called butterflies a “little door to the ineffable, this lovely and effortless pathway to awe.”
Trees, too, are pathways to awe.
Sassafras. The origin of root beer, used for tea and soap. The bark has intersecting ridges, the leaves vary in shape. Two- or three-lobed, not lobed at all, often on the same tree.
Grasses, overlooked. Little bluestem, switchgrass, bristly foxtail. When I call grasses overlooked, I’m complicit. Working to rectify that, paying closer attention when I’m outside.
I’ve been thinking about Rock & Hawk’s premise.
Birding with my uncle, he’d ID flowers and plants, watch butterflies. I thought of Carl Ingwell: “focusing more on being a well-rounded naturalist versus a bird chaser.”
My uncle was being a well-rounded naturalist. Me? Bird chaser. I looked at butterflies and plants, but was focused on seeing a Red-cockaded Woodpecker.
When I started my Big Year, my mindset became: I care only about birds. For birding, that’s been good. I’ve exceeded my year goal of 150 species. I’m tempted to keep counting and see what I reach, but might stop and just enjoy the birds.
Even if I stop counting, there is more to enjoy outside than birds.
Scat and the eastern coyote were steps in the direction I’d like to take this newsletter again. Now ferns.
This wasn’t always purely about birds, just mostly. It’s become a bird newsletter. For better or worse, that’s what it’ll predominantly stay. They’re my chief interest, but my inspiration in creating Rock & Hawk was Jeffers: “Nothing more timely, nothing less real.” Not “strictly birds.”
Birds aren’t always timely. They can be—it makes headlines when there’s a Steller’s Sea Eagle in Maine or a Yellow-billed Loon in Vegas—but they’re always real. They don’t have a monopoly on realness; sensitive fern and swallowtails are real.
I don’t see myself as a well-rounded naturalist. Let’s say curious omnivore. I want to be a well-rounded writer—I’m not birdy enough to write solely in that niche.
Regardless, right off the bat I wrote about birds here. Northern Harriers, American Kestrels. Then not birds. Photographing deer, learning plant names, light pollution. Then some ongoing health matters, but we’re back to birds.
Looking back on old writings, I remain proud—even if they got no engagement.
Light pollution led to Whitman’s poetry, a Nicholson Baker novel, Thoreau, Jeffers, Edwin Way Teale. Birds can do the same, but they tend to commandeer my attention.
There’s a birding spot where I’ve spent many a sunset—and time in the nice light just before sunset.
For too long I didn’t care about sunset. Just the avian silhouettes set against it, even if almost entirely Canada Geese. Appreciating the sunset felt lazy, watching silhouettes felt like active awareness.
I’m more inclined to slow down now, appreciate a setting sun. Contented idleness, just being there. Maybe I should write about that. I’d like to return to writing the way I started, “nothing more timely, nothing less real.” Maybe sunsets, tides, moon phases—not just primary and secondary warbler songs.
Bear with me as I readjust my aperture.
Concluding Thoughts: Great Writing and a Great Dog.
Substack introduces me to talented writers. I’ve mentioned Carl Ingwell, there are many others. Rebecca Wisent graciously compiles Substack’s nature newsletters.
This platform offers great work to read or listen to when you need it.
Hours before the family dog’s final breath, Substack showed me a morosely coincidental essay. Jenna Woginrich’s poignant words in Cold Antler Farm about losing a dog—honoring the memories of dogs and people. Reading it, sadnesses I’d been masking became evident as ugly tears and snot.
“We can’t control when good dogs die.”
Duke was a good dog. Like others in his family, stubborn—but he was also intelligent, kind, patient, proud. Very much a Duke. He lived 14 years, a long time for a bigger dog. He’d be proud to have made it to 14. Held on for his final years. We needed him.
Then he needed rest, was ready to move on. It was time. He’d been in decline, suffering without complaint. Couldn’t walk well, get up, or always control his bowels; couldn’t really see or hear. With his passing, that’s over. He gets to be who he was.
Duke is with my grandfather. Two stubborn guys with a special bond. At Papa’s end, Duke hopped on the hospice bed to lick his emaciated face. They’re both gone. One is chasing cows while the other leans against a fence, watching and smiling.
I will always love them both. Each was a formative presence. To me, Duke will always be the ten-month-old Bernese mix in the “big dogs” room at the shelter, leaning against his cage to be pet. My grandfather will always be standing lakeside in Maine with a fishing rod—catching largemouth, pumpkinseed, and perch with a Canadian nightcrawler enticingly wrapped around an ambitiously large hook.
The image of them together helps.
Thank you for learning so much and sharing so willingly. Please know that I am with you for every step you take along your awe inspiring journey.
James, this is such a great post. I do agree, although the birds are at the top of the list, there is so much more to nature. I'm a big fern lover too, and insects. This is such a great post. I really enjoyed the wonderful photos, the nature, the life and the valuable information and research done to present it. Thank you, I learned something new today!