Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

By Linden K. Morse

Botany, Bitterroots, and the Brilliant Bill Edwards

A botanist’s insight on the dwindling populations of Montana’s state flower

“So, are you a ‘lumper’ or a ‘splitter,’ then?” I ask, leaning forward in my chair. The library at Hillcrest Assisted Living is bustling on a Saturday afternoon. Tendrils of quiet conversation and rustling pages drift upwards, wrapping about the rafters of the high domed ceiling.

Bill Edwards laughs, glancing at his wife, Nancy. Although he’s unassuming about his PhD in plant science, his eyes sparkle when he speaks of his life’s work. “Well, I would say the splitters tend to be more in the academic world,” he explains, “so I would probably be more toward the lumper side.” According to Edwards, in taxonomy, the term “lumper” refers to researchers who look for commonalities between species, seeking to compile new samples under known categories. Meanwhile, “splitters” search for subtle differences that might result in subspecies classifications, or even new species entirely.

Although he’s taught at universities including Teton Science School, Rocky Mountain Institute, and Yellowstone Institute, Edwards always liked getting his hands dirty in the field. In addition to a stint as a plant technician in Yellowstone, he has extensive experience working as a ranger naturalist in both the Grand Tetons and the Rocky Mountain National Park. As a child, he enjoyed studying the bees droning amongst the hollyhock flowers in his mother’s garden. “We had a wild black cherry tree out in our backyard,” Edwards tells me, “and I collected a lot of seeds one day to see if I could grow some seedlings. That was another little home experiment of sorts.”

Given his hands-on approach to botany, I can’t resist asking Edwards a question that’s long been on my mind: “Let’s talk food. Have you ever tasted a bitterroot plant?”

Edwards has been hesitant to try it himself, partly due to its status as the state flower, but also out of respect for his research sites. In a Yellowstone patch, he discovered only a few hundred bitterroots. This number is unsettling, especially when considering that millions of bitterroots used to populate the area. He explains the decline of bitterroot numbers in the American West is likely related to human population shifts as well as the accompanying changes in food culture. Although he can’t offer personal testimony on the bitterroot’s taste, Edwards recollects a cooking method used by the Salish—a group often associated with bitterroot harvests. “When they cook [the roots], it takes out a lot of the sour taste, or the bitter taste. Then, they mix what's left with meat or vegetable material to make a kind of a stew.”

Revered for its brilliant pink petals and hardy nature, bitterroots were once integral to Indigenous food and medicine. Today, this vibrant flower commonly finds employment as a garden accent. Naturally thriving in high altitudes and dry soil, they don’t need a lot of watering. “And that’s to their advantage,” Edwards elaborates. “They can go into dormancy and come out when there's enough moisture in the garden.” This startling ability to regenerate from seemingly withered roots has earned the bitterroot its scientific classification Lewisia rediviva. The genus Lewisia is derived from the surname of famed explorer Merriweather Lewis, the first westerner accredited with cataloging the species. Perhaps more apt, however, is the term rediviva. Translated from Latin, it means “revived” or “reborn.” Even after being dug up and shelved for several months, its roots dry and withered, the bitterroot can still thrive if replanted.

But given their resilient nature, why are bitterroot populations decreasing? Equipped with a lifetime of experience in the field, Edwards offers valuable insight. Historically, Indigenous people waited to collect bitterroots until just before they blossomed in springtime, when the starchy roots are less bitter. It’s speculated that such harvest practices might have benefitted the species by shifting soil and spreading seeds. Although today’s parking lots and condos churn up ground, they ultimately don’t leave suitable landscapes for new growth.

Regarding wide-spread environmental impacts, Edwards estimates that the significance of decreasing bitterroot populations is indicative of a larger problem: climate change. “Of course there have been very warm spells and very cold spells before, in the history of the Earth. But most of those weren’t when there were 7 billion people living on Earth, and 7 billion plus people have a great influence on what's happening climate-wise. And so, in my mind, there is no doubt that our climate situation is directly related to the population of humans on Earth.”

At this point, I can’t resist stirring up a little controversy. I rap my pen on the table and hedge, “Do you think we’re headed towards another mass extinction event, then?”

Edwards, calm and collected, supplies a thoughtful reply. “Well, I think it's possible. We already are causing mass extinction of certain species. But most of us would probably say the ultimate [concern] is our own extinction versus the other species. And I guess I would say, however, the fact that we’re making other animals extinct is playing back as a feedback mechanism on us too. Therefore, we need to do a better job of maintaining the animals and plants that are here, which at the same time will be better for us as a species.”

Even for pessimists like me, Edwards’ balanced perspective is refreshing. Perhaps we could imagine the Earth itself as a shelved bitterroot. It’s a bit wilted, but even shriveled roots don’t always mean an end. There may be time yet for the tendrils to unfurl, re-anchor, and drink deeply from the soil. It isn’t too late for these petals to blossom anew; all it takes is some careful tending.