Skunk Cabbage: Past a First Impression

Across the miles of early spring, we are delighted to happen upon dainty, ephemeral hepatica on hillsides, to discover delicate, butter-yellow florets on trailside spice bushes, to glance skyward and catch sight of tender leaf buds on poplar, maple, and birch— the stuff of lyrical poetry. And then there are mornings like this one. We're on a walk— let's be honest, in places, we're on a slog— along Climbers Run in southern Lancaster County, and despite boot-sucking mud, we are moving with great enthusiasm and anticipation. Tracing a gentle bend in the vigorous stream, along the low-lying fringe between flow and meadow, we find the dissonance we've been looking for, one of the surest and strangest signs of the season: eastern skunk cabbage. Emerging, if not from primordial ooze, then from last winter's muck, and a bit prehistoric in appearance, there is a figurative air about skunk cabbage. Apparently, there is also a literal air about skunk cabbage: the bruised leaves release a fetid odor that has been likened to several things, none of them particularly pleasant.

While we've never smelled it, we have given skunk cabbage a good look, concluding that it's both weird and wonderful, something akin to a science fiction nesting doll. Each plant first presents an unusual, hoodlike spathe in variegated shades of deep maroon, verdant green, and electric yellow that sometimes rakishly skewers a fallen leaf on its dramatic rise from boggy earth; an equally unusual knoblike spadix setting forth tiny, unassuming flowers; and eventually, large, not-so-unusual, cabbage-like leaves that seems to glow from within. When we encounter skunk cabbage on early spring trails, we think of inveterate walker and transcendental philosopher Henry David Thoreau, who pondered and then journaled about nineteenth century Symplocarpus foetidus. While the malodorous nomenclature, idiosyncratic appearance, and spotty reputation of skunk cabbage has inspired prose across the ages, perhaps there is a touch— or whiff— of transcendent poetry in this inherently self-reliant, intractably optimistic, often misunderstood plant. — B.

Skunk Cabbage

rising

from mired bog,

from winter's somber grasp,

the wisdom of millennia,

ancient

mottled bloom:

by kinder name or distinction,

might we sing the praises

of these strangely

brave spears?

— B.

Is the first impression the one that counts the most? Fans of the skunk cabbage (Symplocarpus foetidus) might have an opinion about that. Granted, the plant is named for its less-than-appealing aroma— described by many as the smell of rotting flesh. It might take a minute of holding your judgment— and breath— to give the plant the benefit of the doubt.  Skunk cabbage is a native perennial that blooms as winter turns to spring in swampy woodland areas throughout the middle Atlantic, north central, and northeastern United States. It is an ancient species— it was probably growing in its current form over 100 million years ago when dinosaurs walked the earth. Individual skunk cabbages are also determined survivors. It’s estimated that a single plant can live for decades— maybe even a century— if its roots are undisturbed.

Unlike almost all its early-blooming companions, the skunk cabbage is not frost resistant. The clever little plant instead evolved with an amazing ability: thermogenesis, or heat production. Using oxygen from surrounding air, it breaks down the molecular bonds of starch stored in its roots, releasing heat energy in the process. The colder the air, the more oxygen the skunk cabbage takes in— and it can generate heat for weeks on end, melting any snow or ice around it, until the temperature finally warms up for spring. As one of the very few plants with this ability, it offers important cover for birds, salamanders, turtles, frogs and toads, and other lifeforms in its ecosystem. Oh, and that smell? It serves an important purpose as well. It is quite effective in keeping predators at bay while attracting its primary pollinators— flies and carrion beetles. The skunk cabbage may not make a good first impression, but—given its history, role, and ability— it surely can earn your respect. — D.

In a pluralistic, diverse society, we expect disagreement, but it seems that our times are particularly vicious ones for rushing to judgment. Under-researched opinions run rampant, and it is far too easy to let initial observations become harsh and permanent beliefs. Perhaps we could take a little inspiration from the skunk cabbage and consider a different way.  How might our experience of the world change if we were to give others the benefit of the doubt? Try it for just one day. When you have a choice to ascribe good intent or bad intent, pause. Assume that people are trying to do their best. Recognize that you don’t have all the information about someone else’s situation. If someone cuts you off in traffic, imagine that they might be rushing to care for an ailing relative. If someone is gruff with you, wonder if they could have a splitting headache. If someone has an outburst of anger, consider that someone modeled this for them when they were a child. How does this perspective impact your feelings and behavior? Note the distinction between respectfulness and letting people take advantage of you. Caring about others does not mean you don’t hold them accountable for their actions. It means that you think before reacting, setting boundaries with our common humanity in mind. When you can, be calm and respectful as you stand up for yourself and others. In a challenging world, a little grace can go a very long way. — D.

from Journal, 1857

If you are afflicted with melancholy at this season, go to the swamp and see the brave spears of skunk-cabbage buds already advanced toward a new year... See those green cabbage buds lifting the dry leaves in that watery and muddy place. There is no can’t nor cant to them. They see over the brow of winter’s hill. They see another summer ahead.

— Henry David Thoreau, 1817-1862, naturalist, essayist, philosopher