Early European explorers of the Southern Hemisphere appear to have had a great desire to view their newly discovered worlds* as extensions of their motherland. The British, in particular, saw a little bit of Britain in most of the places they visited. Yet, for the resemblance that many of these places had for their original namesake locations in the northern Hemisphere, I can only conclude that these early seafarers must have been suffering from homesick-induced acute astigmatism. British explorers saw fit to compare land that was as remote and arid as they could endure with the lush countryside of South Wales, Salem, Albany and Bath! Some of these Southern Hemisphere namesakes resemble the original British landscapes about as closely as a sunny, clover covered playing field resembles a dune during a dust devil. Both regions have soil and weather, but that’s about where the similarities end.

British explorers were also terribly uninventive with their names: New South Wales, New Caledonia, New England[1]. This platitudinous naming style extended to plants, and so we have the king billy pine, pencil pine, celery top pine, and the strawberry pine[2]! Apparently the qualifying trait for being called a “pine” was the possession of a stem and green leaves. Now, perhaps I should be more lenient on the British explorers for their banal approach to nomenclature; Shouldn’t we attribute a lack of originality to scurvy or some weird tropical disease and move on? After all, surely one of the uses of a name is to identify something? I am willing to concede this when it comes to place names: afterall, most people know where New South Wales is or are unlikely to mistake the South African city of East London for a spot on the east bank of the Thames. Unfortunately, I cannot be so generous when it comes to the naming of biological organisms.

Many common names of biological organisms do not even get over the first hurdle of uniquely identifying an organism. The Cabbage Tree, for example, is a wonderful, large tree in South Africa (Cussonia), but a type of palm in New Zealand (Cordyline australis). So, common names of plants are often dull and fail to distinguish between two different organisms; we’re not off to a good start. And it gets worse…My much larger, concern with common plant names is that they omit any indication of evolutionary relatedness. To understand what this means and why it is important, we need to understand how scientific names are given to organisms.

Carl Linneaus, the father of modern taxonomy, in 1753 published one of the most influential texts of modern taxonomy called Species Plantarum. In it, Linnaeus described the system of binomial nomenclature, where each species is given two latin names: one for the genus to which it belongs and the other for the species. The system works by grouping individuals sharing similar characteristics into either genera or species: individuals within a species share more characteristics than those within a genus. For example, members of our own species, Homo sapiens (i.e. humans), all share more traits with other Homo sapiens than we do with members of a different species of the same genus, such as Homo erectus (extinct early man). As we move up the tree of relatedness, we observe that we share even fewer characteristics with species of a different genus, such as Pan troglodytes (i.e. Chimpanzees). Knowing the genus and species of an organism helps us to provide a broader evolutionary context for each different organism, which common names often do not capture.

The case for preferring scientific names over common names can be made using the pines that I mentioned earlier: the king billy pine, pencil pine, celery top pine and the strawberry pine. None of these species are pines. True pines are members of the Pinaceae (they belong to the genus Pinus[3]) and were, prior to human intervention, (almost) entirely restricted to the Northern hemisphere[4]. The Pinaceae were named after the Greek Pites, which is a term for resin (This is also apparently the derivation of Pituitary gland). However, none of the Australian “pines” belong within the Pinaceae; instead they belong to sister families (Podocarpaceae, Cupresaceae and Araucariaceae) and only some produce resin. The southern group of “pines” have a very different evolutionary story to tell from the Pinaceae: a story (mostly) of Gondwana, as opposed to Laurasia[5] . The mutual reference to the term pines is based on superficial similarities in the appearances of the leaves and confuses the true evolutionary relatedness of these organisms.

Quite apart from providing accurate evolutionary context for different species, the scientific names are also often more descriptive and informative. The genus of Phyllocladus, for example, is derived from the fact that the “leaves” are not leaves at all, but are modified stems called phyllodes. The common name for Phyllocladus, the celery top pine, was given to describe the superficial resemblance to celery. To name it after a celery is not only tenuous, but also misses the information captured by the scientific name. The same can be said for the strawberry pine, whose female cones only superficially resemble a strawberry[6]. Microcachrys (meaning “little cone”) more than adequately captures the reproductive structures of this species.

My final gripe with common names is that scientific names often tell evocative stories. Proteus was a Greek god who had the ability to elusively change shape. The Proteaceae, a diverse family of plants occurring mostly in South Africa’s Fynbos and Australia’s South West floral regions, is named after this God. Species of the Proteaceae exhibit an incredibly diverse array of leaf morphologies: some, like Leucadendron argenteum (from the latin argenteus meaning silver) have incredibly hairy, reflective leaves giving them a silver appearance, while others are bright yellow. Some leaves are smooth, while others, including several Banksia species, have serrated margins[7].

So what’s in a name? If it’s a scientific name it may actually contain quite a bit, including fascinating tales, history and a bit of evolutionary context. Latin may be a “dead language”, but it breathes life into botanical nomenclature.

Notes

*”Newly discovered” for them, at least.

[1] In contrast, early Dutch settlers seem to have been far more descriptive in naming places: In South Africa, for example, one finds many wonderfully descriptive or evocative place names in Afrikaans, such as  “Bloemfontein” (flower fountain), “Vergenoegd” (Far enough! I can just imagine the conversation among two, tired early adventurers: “Jannie, where have we come to now?!” “Far enough, Petra!”) and “Riviersonderend” (River without an end).

[2] The practise of naming every conifer after a pine seems to still exist: as recently as 1994 living specimens of a species known previously from 120 m year old fossils (Wollemia of Araucariaceae) was called the Wollomi pine.

[3] Many Pinus species are widely used in forestry and will be familiar to most people

[4] One species, Pinus merkusii, crosses the equator in Sumatra and is found as far as 2°S.

[5] My next blog post (Thoroughly modern conifers) explores these stories in more detail.

[6] Although “Creeping pine” has also been used to describe Microcachrys, this is shared with several other species.

[7] Joseph Banks was the official botanist on board the HMS Endeavour from 1768 to 1771 on its voyage around the southern hemisphere and which was captained by Captain James Cook. His is a remarkable story captivatingly told in “The Age of Wonder” by Richard Holmes and I strongly suggest reading it.

I am not usually disposed to religious experiences, so the few fleeting moments of spirituality that I recently experienced came as quite a surprise. Although it is hard to convey exactly what I felt, it will suffice to state that my experiences involved sensations of awe and deep reverence. The circumstances that triggered the emotions in all instances – the roots of my splendour – was my close proximity to magnificent trees.

The first experience occurred when I was walking along the Methuselah Trail in the White Mountains in California. The White Mountains are home to some incredibly old, incredibly gnarly trees: the Bristlecone pines[1]. And the Methuselah trail is where the oldest of the Bristlecone pines grow (although to suggest that these individuals “grow” might be an exaggeration: perhaps it is better to say the Bristlecone pines persevere).

Pic. 2: This individual is so old and grows so slowly that the prevailing wind results in “horizontal stratification”: an indication of the vast passage of time in it’s lifetime.

The oldest Bristlecone pine, Methuselah, has been dated as 4800 years old. It was alive before the pyramids were built and the mammoth was extinct. It was a seedling at a time when humans were domesticating the horse and using papyrus for paper. Jesus was not yet a twinkle in God’s eye. Just imagine what incredible scenes Methuselah, sitting atop its rocky perch, must have witnessed in its lifetime: exploration by the first people of America, the building of railways, the first planes flying overhead and people taking selfies with their iPhones. If knowledge comes with age, what incredible wisdom they must have.

Pic. 3: Gratuitous selfies with ancient trees. From left to right: Adam West, Rob Skelton, Ed February. Photo credit: Dr. Adam West, August 2014.

The second sensation of reverence occurred whilst I walked the Massey Track in the Hunua Falls National Park in New Zealand. Situated close to Auckland, one of New Zealand’s biggest cities, this magnificent nature reserve is home to Kauri trees (Agathis australis). Although the Kauri trees are not the oldest (in terms of individuals: the genus is relatively old), they have incredible stature.

Pic. 4: Hunua Falls Reserve near Auckland, New Zealand.

I have also visited giant Redwoods (Sequioadendron giganteum) in Yosemite National Park in California and they are equally as impressive (if not more so; although it is hard to pick between the two without becoming sizeist). The sun-worshiping crown of the trees in Hunua Falls was more than 40m above where I sat[2]. Their height, stature and perpetual focus on the heavens combined to make me feel almost completely irrelevant. I was merely an interested bystander. In one sense this is what links the Kauris to the Bristlecone Pines, to which my lifespan is a mere blink of an eye in its life[3]: I am a pedestrian along their long illuminated paths.

I can only flounder at explanations for the sense of approximate spirituality I felt. People have been worshiping natural deities for centuries. Trees are frequently symbols of life, fertility and natural purity. Trees are providers of shade, bearers of fruit and playgrounds. Evergreen trees symbolise undying life, while deciduous trees often symbolize renewal, rejuvenation or even immortality. To me, all of these are true and certainly add to my sense of respect. But I also think that my most recent personal experiences with some of these trees came with the sense of irrelevance. The trees that I observed would happily go on living without me. And the rest of humanity too.

Yet, unfortunately we are making ourselves ever more relevant to these magnificent trees. Climate change is threatening many different species and ecosystems: California is in the grips of a severe drought, threatening both the Redwoods and possibly the Bristlecone Pines. The Kauris are falling to drought as well, even in the moist forests of New Zealand. Part of the problem there is the presence of Phytophthora, a type of fungus that attacks the roots, prohibiting access to moisture and nutrients and rendering the individuals susceptible to drought.

The good news is that I suspect trees will outlive humanity. In the meantime (and in the words of Desiderata), we would do well to tread quietly and remember what peace there may be in silence.

Notes

[1] Bristlecone pines, Pinus longaeva, are genuine pines, of the family Pinaceae. They produce resin.

[2] The tallest tree in the world is a Coastal Redwood, Sequioa sempervirens, measured at 115.6m.

[3] A wonderful story from Terry Pratchett’s Reaper Man involves the Counting Pines, trees which are so old that they do not register events on a human time scale. For example, logging is not something that they register and so they keep wondering why their neighbours keep disappearing. Thanks to Linda-Liisa Veromann for bringing this brilliant story to my attention.

The poem Journey to the end of the night suggests that “To travel is very useful, it makes the imagination work”. Certainly, travelling around New Zealand with Derek (a friend from Cape Town) has given my imagination a serious workout and exposed me to a unique world. It was a fairly intense journey: we drove almost the entire lengths of both the North and South Islands in just under two weeks. We started in Auckland in the North and ended up in Christchurch in the South.

My overarching impression is that New Zealand is one of the most dramatic places to visit on earth: the natural scenery is spectacular and remarkably different to much of what I’ve seen before. It is a land of diversity, captured most noticeably by the array of geological formations of the two islands. Parts of both the South and North Islands have ancient landscapes, the oldest rocks dating from the Cambrian (~500 m ybp). The islands forming New Zealand originally formed part of the vast continent of Gondwana, which also explains the botanical affinity with Australia, Antartica and South America (but more on that later). Yet, the North Island also has plenty of volcanic and geothermal activity, which produce relatively recent, fertile soils and plains. On our way to Wellington from Whakatani we stopped off in Rotorua, where the volcanic activity is most noticeable through the sulphurous smell and the boiling mud-pools (Pic. 1).

The complexity of the geological history is reflected in an impressively diverse collection of plant communities. Some of the more ancient landscapes provide a refugia of sorts to ancient Gondwanan lineages of plants and animals. Many of these landscapes struck me as being a throwback to the time of the dinosaurs: I could imagine massive Brontosaurus browsing on the tall tree ferns (Cyathia and Dicksonia) and Kauris (Agathis australis) (Pic. 2). More recently exposed landscapes are dominated by angiosperms (flowering plants of more recent origin than gymnosperms and ferns), including the Southern Beech (Nothofagus) forests. A particularly striking example is Milford Sound in the south west, which is a staggeringly impressive sound with incredibly steep cliffs (Pic. 4). Here, most of the mountains rising straight from sea level are greater than 1500m and appear to be ancient landscapes. Puzzlingly, much of the flora associated with these mountains is of recent origin: Beech trees (Nothofagus) tend to dominate the forest (Pic. 3&4). The explanation is that the vast, tall mountain ranges of the west coast were only uplifted less than 10 million years ago by the action of the north island plate crashing into the southern island plate. Before that the land was submerged.

In contrast to the staggering diversity of plant life, we saw remarkably few animals. Although the fauna of NZ is nothing to write home about in terms of diversity of species, there are some interesting flightless birds and some magnificent parrots. We managed to spot a Kea (closely related to Australian lorikeets) on the South Island: it’s the largest parrot in the world and the only parrot found in alpine environments (Pic. 5). We also spent one afternoon in Whakatani in the North Island tracking Kiwis (Apteryx mantelli, a close relative of ostriches). Perhaps somewhat fittingly, although we managed to track a few down we didn’t actually see any of them (as they are nocturnal and incredibly shy).

Another striking feature of New Zealand is the impact of water on the landscape. I saw vast cave networks (the Waitomo caves), glaciers and deep water-carved chasms (Pic 6&7). Unfortunately, even the refugia of the South Island landscape are not impervious to the reach of human impact: climate change is threatening to vastly transform the landscape. The glaciers are retreating and new land is being opened up for recolonisation of vegetation (Pic. 7 gives a sense of this rapid change).

We spent very little time in cities, for two reasons: Although we intentionally avoided cities as much as possible, there also just aren’t that many people in New Zealand and distances between cities are quite large. City highlights for me included Queenstown (where we spent a relaxing day doing the luge and playing frisbee golf in the botanic gardens), Wellington (where we watched a rugby game…no trip to New Zealand would be complete without witnessing a game of their national sport) and Christchurch (where we spent an afternoon taking in the devastation of the 2011 earthquakes and walking around the museum).

All in all I had a great time. I’m not surprised that dramatic, fantasy films like the Lord of Rings were filmed in New Zealand. I would certainly love to return and do some more exploring: the natural beauty is something to behold more than once. But for now I think I’ll give my imagination a rest.