With February knocking on the door, be on the lookout for the first wildflower of the year to make its appearance. Thrusting its way up through the snow and ice is a pointy, conical structure. Small at first but continuously emerging from the soil is one of our most unique yet peculiar plants, eastern skunk cabbage (Symplocarpus foetidus).
Also referred to as polecat weed, swamp cabbage or meadow cabbage, it is not related to a cabbage at all, but rather, is a member of the arum family Araceae. Plants in this family are known for their unique flowers which are arranged on a fleshy stem and surrounded by a colorful curved, leaf-like structure, known as a spathe. Some of you may be able to relate to this description if one of your house plants happens to be an anthurium.
Found throughout eastern Canada and the northeastern U.S., the perennial skunk cabbage can be found thriving in wet, mucky soils near woodland springs, swamp margins, bogs or wet meadows. The first part of the plant to exit the ground is actually the flower structure, known as the spathe. This mottled maroon-colored, leaf-like configuration acts as a twisted hood, surrounding the knob-like spadix within, a fleshy spike made up of flowers lacking petals. But just how does the plant manage to push itself up through the rock-hard, frozen soil?
Skunk cabbage is one of the few plants that has the amazing ability to produce its own heat! Known as thermogenesis, this warmth is generated metabolically and can reach 20-65 degrees above the surrounding temperatures. The result is dramatic, as the snow around it melts back, away from the plant, exposing bare ground and giving the appearance of a moat.
A distinct scent
If you haven’t yet figured it out, skunk cabbage gets its name from the foul odor it emits. The flowers release an aroma similar to that of rotting flesh and the spathe, with its twisted shape, acts as a chimney, expelling a plume of warm, stinky air upward and outward to lure a host of specific pollinators to its doorstep.
As a result, flies, gnats, carrion beetles and other insects are drawn into the interior of the spathe where they crawl across the developing flowers, unknowingly pollinating them as they search for a meal. Insects, such as honey bees and spiders have been known to visit this unique micro-habitat in extremely cold weather to bask in the heat warm up. In fact, the developing flowers of the skunk cabbage are said to harbor their very own ecosystem!
As spring progresses, the leaves of the skunk cabbage begin their emergence. Beginning as a thick spike, the vivid green leaves begin to unfurl, one at a time, eventually forming a rosette. The broad leaves are impressive, growing up to 3 feet tall and almost 2 feet across, supported by thick stems.
Lucky for the plant, most wildlife species find the leaves unpalatable due to a concentration of calcium oxalate crystals harbored within. Ingestion causes a lengthy, painful burning sensation in the mouth and throat. True to its name, the leaves, too, when crushed or damaged, emit a skunk-like fragrance.
As leaves begin to appear on the trees overhead, closing out the direct sunlight, the foliage of the skunk cabbage begins to fade and decay. Because of their high water content, there is very little plant matter left to decompose and they disappear quickly, the verdant haze of the forest floor reverting to brown. In late summer, the pollinated flower heads fragment, dropping their pea-sized seeds into the muck below for future germination.
As if all these unique characteristics weren’t enough, the plant has one more trick up its sleeve. At the end of each growing season, it contracts its roots, pulling itself deeper and deeper into the soil. Beneath the surface, a dense mat of fibrous roots reaches out extensively in all directions in an effort to absorb and store the nutrients that will be necessary for the following year’s growth and thermogenesis. In a healthy wetland habitat, individual plants can live up to 20 years.
A unique habitat
I have had a special connection with skunk cabbage. During my tenure as a field biologist with Geauga Park District, I initiated a radio telemetry project to closely study spotted turtles, a threatened species in Ohio.
Right on schedule, as the skunk cabbage flowers began to emerge, so did the turtles from their underwater abodes in woodland pools. Armed with an antenna, I would spend each spring plowing my way through waist-high skunk cabbage leaves to try to pinpoint and record the locations of each individual turtle.
One day, arriving home from work, my husband wrinkled up his nose. “I guess you had a close encounter with a skunk today.” I hesitated, “Why yes. Yes, I did!” I said, as a wide grin crept across my face.
