Field Notes—

Skunk Cabbage: Spring’s Little Stinker

By Curtiss Clark

Why should spring be any different from the rest of us?

I know when I awaken from a long, deep sleep, there’s a little unpleasantness — in my temperament, my general aspect, and, ok, my breath, too. I try to recover my composure and comportment quickly before too many people notice. First impressions are important.

So when the vernal equinox reminds winter dreamers to rise and shine, some of the first to poke their heads from beneath their leaf-litter comforter are, let’s admit it, a little rank.

The skunk cabbage is up. Their claret-colored cloaks twist up out of marshlands still caked with ice and corn snow, looking like netherworld minions steaming from a recent dip in the River Styx. And what’s that smell?!

Symplocarpus foetidus is indeed fetid, not to mention a little feverish. It sweats its way up out of the frigid mud of March through cellular respiration, a metabolic process that enables it to generate temperatures perceptibly higher than the ambient air temperature. (Stick your finger in one, and see for yourself.) It is not uncommon in early March to see newly emerged skunk cabbage spathes standing on an island of thaw in an ocean of freeze.

The blossoms of these springtime stinkers are encased in the thick encircling spathes, which they wear like the hoodie of a surly teen. The foul “skunk” odor that rises on the intemperate heat mimics carrion, attracting flies as pollinators.

Spring is an old friend, and I’m more than willing to overlook this initial unpleasantness each year. To my winter-weary eye, any plant emerging from the March mud is beautiful. By April, I may be a little more discerning, but for now I love the smell of skunk in the morning.

(This and more than 60 other “Field Notes” essays can be found in an online archive at www.field-notebook.com.)