The tree with no name

The Douglas fir, Pseudotsuga menziesii, is widespread in the Pacific Northwest and the Rocky Mountains, and as such is quite important ecologically. It's not the least distinctive of trees, either, with its tall straight trunks and the conspicuous bracts like three-tailed ribbons poking out of its cones. For all that, though, this tree can be said to have no real name of its own! Both its common name and its Latin name are made entirely of references to other species.

Let's break that down, shall we? We'll start with the common name, "Douglas fir". "Douglas" refers to David Douglas, the botanist who first brought the species to Europe and more specifically to Scone Palace in Scotland. It's not a name for the plant itself -- it's a name for the man who made it famous. "Fir" is also a misnomer, since Pseudotsuga menziesii is not a true fir. True firs belong to the genus Abies; they have (among other things) upright cones that shatter as they ripen, no bracts on their cone-scales, and longer, softer needles that leave circular leaf-scars. Douglas "fir" has hanging cones that stay intact as they ripen, conspicuous bracts on the scales, and shorter, sharper needles that leave oval scars. "Douglas fir" is neither Douglas nor a fir.

The Latin name is no better. "Pseudotsuga" means "false hemlock": it states only that the species resembles the hemlock trees of genus Tsuga but is not in fact one of them. "menziesii" refers to Archibald Menzies, a globetrotting botanist of some renown, who was the first European to collect a great many North American plant species. Again, it's a name for a person, not the plant. "Pseudotsuga menziesii" is neither a Tsuga nor Menzies.

It has a few other names, but they are still not its own. An older Latin name, Pseudotsuga taxifolia, means "false hemlock with yew leaves". "Douglas pine" is no better than "Douglas fir": Pseudotsuga is no more a true pine than it is a true fir. "Oregon pine" is even worse, since the tree's natural range stretches well beyond Oregon.

This species has been formally known to Western science since at least 1889. You'd think that in over a hundred years, someone would at least have given it a name of its own.


Thanks to Barbara Ertter for pointing out this bit of trivia.
Sources: FNA, IPNI

Silly names: Holosteum

The members of Holosteum, a genus of plants otherwise known as jagged chickweeds, are all quite small and very fragile. The one species found in North America, Holosteum umbellatum, is a delicate little thing whose straight, upright flowering stems -- the tallest part of the plant -- top out at no more than about fourteen inches. It is easily knocked flat, trampled, or crushed. When it's pressed and dried for a herbarium specimen, it will fall apart if you even think about handling it roughly.

That fragility is proof positive that Carolus Linnaeus had a sense of humor. When he named the plant, he picked out an ironic Greek phrase: holos for "whole, entire" and osteon for "bone".

Yep. He basically named this little plant, whose skeleton crumples at the drop of a hat, the equivalent of "unbroken".

Source: FNA

Silly names: Kodachrome bladderpod

Today's plant is Physaria tumulosa, a little member of the bean family with a very odd name. Its Latin name is normal enough, but its scientifically-accepted common name is -- I kid you not -- the Kodachrome bladderpod. That's straight out of the Flora of North America; it doesn't get much more official than that. I want to go and find one now, to see for myself where it got a name like that! Unfortunately, it's a species of conservation concern with a pretty limited range, so that might be harder than it sounds. At least it's in Utah, and not too far from me.

Sources: FNA

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Update: Barbara Ertter has pointed out that there's a more plausible explanation for the origin of this name. "Botanists can't take credit/blame for this one," she writes; "the common name is obviously derived from Kodachrome Basin, where there is even a Kodachrome Basin State Park." I stand corrected. As much fun as the idea of a ludicrously-colorful little Physaria was, I'll freely admit that a whole basin painted as bright as color film makes a delightful mental image too.


...I think I know where I'm going next time I visit Utah.