Sometimes we learn about the world through a narrow lens. My impression of orchids, for instance, was shaped by my tropical plant-loving father. He spent his army service in Queensland, and so admired the epiphytic orchids there that he later grew some in his makeshift hothouse in Sydney. His patience in propagating these difficult-to-grow plants was rewarded in the form of exotic, showy and award-winning flowers – dendrobiums, if my memory serves me correctly.
When we moved to Tasmania in 1980, I didn’t expect orchids would remain a part of my life. Large, tropical and epiphytic were not things I associated with the cool temperate island state. But then I didn’t realise that the orchid family was far larger than my childhood impressions. In fact there are more than 30,000 species world-wide. While many of these are to be found in the tropics, and many do grow on trees or rock faces, many others are terrestrial. And a respectable 214 orchid species are native to Tasmania, with at least a dozen species present in The Patch.
It took many years of wandering there, however, before I even saw, let alone could name, any of these beautiful, shy local residents.
As I began delving into orchid lore, I learned not only about their unusual biology, but also about the rich layers of story and myth associated with them. Although they’re incredibly diverse in form and habit, there’s one thing that distinguishes orchids from virtually all other flowering plants: the male portion of the flower (the stamen) and female portion (the pistil) are fused into a single structure known as the column.
If that biology is all about reproduction and sex, so too are many of the myths associated with orchids. The name itself comes from the Greek word orkhis, which means testicle (the tuberous roots of the plants are supposed to resemble a male gonad.) In Graeco-Roman mythology, it was sex that brought about the fall of Orchis, the son of a satyr and a nymph. His crime was the attempted rape of a priestess, and his punishment was to be torn apart by wild beasts. Afterwards he was transformed into a flower.
The sexual associations have continued throughout history. Greek women thought they could control the gender of their unborn children with orchid roots – if the father ate large, new tubers, the child would be male; if the mother ate small tubers, the child would be female. Later European legend had it that orchids grew from ground on which wild animals had copulated.
Given all this, you might think it wise for us to carry a fan on our orchid hunts in The Patch. Surely we need something to cool us down in the presence of what John Ruskin referred to as these “prurient apparitions”. In fact our searches are far more innocent, and our joy at finding these often cryptic creations is pure and simple. The flowers of the mayfly orchid (Acianthus caudatus), for instance, are easy to miss. Their attempts to resemble an insect – or twigs and sticks – are given away only by the small, green, heart-shaped leaves that hug the ground beneath the single, slender flower stalk. Even so, we’re often reduced to crawling through the leaf litter to be sure of seeing them.
When it comes to orchids of the Diuris genus, the imagination of orchid fanciers has become a little fevered. Different species of these rather showy yellow orchids are named for some supposed resemblance to tigers, leopards, moths, wallflowers and donkeys. The Diuris part is plain at least: it refers to the “double tail” look of the sepals hanging beneath the flower. But those common names …! I think I prefer the simple approach taken in Western Australia, where there are numerous Diuris orchids. They’ve solved the naming issues by referring to most of them as donkey orchids, after their ear-like petals.
Rosy hyacinth orchids (Dipodium roseum) seem more straightforward. In late spring and early summer, they simply erupt from seemingly barren earth, looking uncannily like dark asparagus shoots. After a few days the stalk sprouts deep pink flowers, giving them the look of a rosy-coloured hyacinth. But there’s more strangeness to their story. They are also saprophytic, meaning they rely on fungi rather than chlorophyll for food. Most orchids have fungal partners that supply nutrients for germination and early development, but subsequently rely on the more standard from of photosynthesis. However, saprophytes, like the rosy hyacinth orchid, gain nutrients from the soil and leaf litter via fungi throughout their life.
If we’re allowed to declare a favourite, it would be the elegant caladenia (Caladenia cracens). On the informal track we call the Orchid Path, spring is heralded by the appearance of tiny pink buds. On the end of a single slender stalk, the blushing buds are just visible against the muted browns and greens of the bush. As the days pass, the buds open, and elegant pink-tinted white flowers open like a tiny gloved hand. One day we’ll count five or six along the path; a week later, 30 or more. In a good season we’ve counted more than 60 elegant caladenia in flower on this path.
How strange that we lived alongside these beauties for so many years without knowing it. How special that we’ll be on the path of orchids for the rest of our lives.
Peter Grant lives in the foothills of kunanyi with his wife. He worked with the Tasmania Parks and Wildlife Service for 24 years as manager of interpretation and education. His passion for the natural world led him to write Habitat Garden (ABC Books) and found the Wildcare Tasmania Nature Writing Prize. More of his writing can be seen at naturescribe.com.
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