Specimen Sketch No. 1 : Prairie Crocus

Hand Drawn Prairie Crocus journal page 1 turned into a postcard.

Field notes of Mr. P. E. Maddison

23 April 1853 — South of the Saskatchewan River

Of all the grand subjects a surveyor might be expected to record, the breadth of a river, the height of a ridge, or the distance between two distant stands of poplar, my first official specimen for the Broadbrim Survey Co. is a flower scarcely tall enough to rise above my boot.

I do not consider this a poor beginning.

The prairie remained mostly brown when I found it. Patches of winter snow still occupied the shaded hollows, and the wind had not yet remembered that spring was meant to be pleasant. Yet among the flattened grasses stood several small purple flowers, each wrapped in a coat of fine silver hair.

I nearly walked over them.

This would have been an especially embarrassing start to my botanical record.

The specimen entered upon my journal is commonly called the prairie crocus, though that name conceals its first secret: it is not truly a crocus at all.

The plant belongs among the anemones and is recorded in my notes as Anemone patens. A true crocus grows from a corm and belongs to an entirely different plant family. This prairie flower has instead been given the familiar name because its purple bloom appears so early in spring.

Even the apparent petals are deceiving.

The pale violet pieces surrounding the yellow centre are not true petals but petal-like sepals. Most flowers use their sepals as a modest green covering beneath the blossom. The prairie crocus has made its sepals the most noticeable part of the entire plant. It usually bears five to seven of them around a centre crowded with yellow stamens.

It is an impressive amount of botanical trickery for such a small flower.

The Silver “Fur” Around the Flower

The fine hairs shown around the stem and blossom are not the result of an unsteady pencil. Nearly the entire plant is covered with soft, woolly hairs.

These hairs help shelter the crocus from the cold, drying winds that sweep across the open country in early spring. They hold a layer of still air close to the plant, rather like the fur of an animal or the wool lining of a winter coat. At a distance the flower appears purple, but when examined closely, its outer surface shines grey-white in the sun.

The crocus is dressed more sensibly for the weather than I am.

The Flower That Arrives Before Its Leaves

Another detail easily missed upon the journal entry is the absence of any large green leaves around the blossom.

This was not an omission.

The prairie crocus commonly flowers before its divided grey-green leaves have fully appeared. The bloom rises first from its established rootstock, taking advantage of the sunlight available before the surrounding grasses begin their spring growth. The leaves become more noticeable after the flower has faded.

For this reason, the flower may seem to have appeared directly from the cold earth without warning.

It is one of the earliest signs that the prairie has survived another winter. In some places, it may begin to flower soon after the snow retreats, while many other plants remain dormant beneath the soil.

The date of my first documentation was the start of my 26th year, 23 April 1853.

A Small Cup for the Sun

On a clear day, the open flower resembles a shallow cup turned toward the sunlight.

This shape allows warmth to gather near the yellow centre. The blossom may follow the sun through part of the day, directing light and heat toward the place where pollination and seed formation occur. Small insects may also take advantage of this sheltered warmth during cold spring weather.

At night, or during poor weather, the sepals may fold inward around the centre.

I first assumed the flower was closing because it had grown tired of the wind. After several hours in the same wind, I found this entirely reasonable.

The Shaggy Head That Comes Later

The purple flower is only one stage of the crocus.

After the sepals fall, the centre develops into a loose cluster of seeds. Each seed bears a long, feathery plume, producing a pale, shaggy head in place of the former blossom.

This later form is easy to mistake for an entirely different plant. It is why I intend to revisit the site once the season has advanced. A proper record should show not merely how a specimen first presents itself, but how it changes.

The prairie is never as still as it appears.

The River Named in the Notes

The location line on the postcard places the specimen south of the river now marked on many English maps as the Saskatchewan River (North Saskatchewan River).

Among the local nêhiyawak, I heard the river identified as kisiskâciwani-sîpiy - the swift-flowing river. The English name “Saskatchewan” was formed from this Plains Cree name.

I included the Cree name because a map should not suggest that a place began only when an English label was placed upon it. The river, its crossings and the country surrounding it were known, travelled and named long before the Broadbrim Survey Co. sent me here with paper and measuring instruments.

My spelling is an attempt to record what I heard. I suspect the river would be quite unimpressed by either version.

Why It Became Specimen No. 1

The prairie crocus was selected as the first specimen not because it was the largest or rarest thing observed, but because it revealed the character of the country better than any grand landmark could.

It grows low to the earth.

It withstands cold winds.

It blooms before conditions appear favourable.

It wears its own protection, follows the returning sun and announces the change of season without waiting for the rest of the prairie to agree.

There is determination in it.

The little flower in the journal may appear delicate, but delicacy should not be confused with weakness. The crocus survives precisely because it is suited to this place, its hairs, its timing, its low growth and its long-established roots all belonging to the prairie.

I had intended my first company entry to demonstrate accuracy, confidence and professional composure.

Instead, it records a flower I nearly stepped upon.

Perhaps that is more honest.

Recorded and illustrated by Mr. P. E. Maddison

Broadbrim Survey Company