Field Notes—

The Lichen Method Of Mastering March

By Curtiss Clark

The caprice of March always tests my best efforts to approach the world with equanimity, to take things as they come. I try my best not to be thrown off course by unexpected bumps in the road, which at this time of year alternately splash slush and mud in every direction. Steady-as-she-goes goes a lot steadier in the monotony of January, February, June, or July, or in the even flow of spring and fall. But March can be a rough, messy ride for even-tempered souls. The only solution is to adopt a March modus operandi devoid of expectation about what comes next.

My March mode I liken to lichens’.

Lichens are famous for not requiring much of anything to make them happy. They exist quite contentedly in some of the planet’s most extreme places, from parched deserts to frozen tundra. So the fickle forecasts of March are a cakewalk for lichen. The organism doesn’t care what comes next.

Actually lichens are two separate organisms — a fungus and an alga (or sometimes cyanobacteria) living symbiotically. One lichenologist, Trevor Goward, explains it this way: “Lichens are fungi that have discovered agriculture.” The fungi exploit the algal nutrients produced by photosynthesis and in return provide a structure to stand in and against the elements. Depending on the adaptations they have developed for their particular habitat, lichens produce an array of biochemical compounds that protect them from all the things that make inhospitable places inhospitable, from too much sunlight to attacking microbes.

Lichens live on the edge, which is exactly how I feel in March — open, exposed, and vulnerable. They cling to rocks, old shingles of tumble-down sheds, abandoned Buicks, and to the gravelly scree of the last places on earth, putting themselves out there like nothing else — literally. According to James P. Bennett, writing for the National Biological Service, lichens are botanically unique because they lack the cuticle, or protective layer of cells, that is found on other plants. They are connected in an essential way to the atmosphere, directly absorbing water, light, and nutrients. This makes them particularly vulnerable to air pollutants.

Unfortunately, the smog of most metropolitan areas has created “lichen deserts” where they are no longer found. Even in rural areas, including central and southwestern Connecticut, acid rain has sharply reduced the numbers and diversity of lichens. They are ecological bellwethers, and they are now signaling a rather ominous message.

Lichens have been around for 400 million years and were among the first complex life forms on the planet. Time has never been an issue for them. They are extremely slow growing, sometimes expanding their margins by just a millimeter or two each year, obviously in no to hurry to get to this spring or next spring or the centennial of the spring after that. An established lichen colony is a venerable mark of age.

Lichens have colonized the massive stonewall along the western border of our yard probably getting their start when the first stones were put in place more than 200 years ago. Their beautiful muted grays and greens have decorated the ancient stones with a random reticulation that marks the wall as an authentic New England original.

Unfortunately, lichen-encrusted stones from old walls like ours are so highly prized among well-to-do homeowners hoping to impart the patina of age to their new landscaping projects that unscrupulous landscapers have scavenged unattended old walls, knowing they can charge a premium for the stones. I get nervous when I hear a truck idle at the corner near our wall for any length of time. The lichens may not be worrying about what comes next, but I do. I want the stones in our wall to stay right where they are for the next 200 years. And I want the lichens to feel right at home on them for the next 400 million.

But there I go again with the expectations. Is March ever going to end?