#ammophila arenaria

[sitting-on-me-bum]

"Beach Grass"

"This image shows a 30μm cross-section of beach grass (Ammophila arenaria) stained with Auramin O and Safranin and viewed under fluorescence blue excitation. The grass came from a friend’s garden in Vienna. For the best results, I had to slice the sample as thinly as possible. First, I fixed some stems in warm liquid polyethylene glycol. As it cools down, it turns solid, and the embedded stems are placed in a microtome and sliced with a sharp blade. Staining and preparing the sample was very tricky. I had to use the tiniest brush to manipulate the less than 1mm parts in different staining and chemical solutions before positioning the stems on the slide. After that, taking the photograph was the easy part!"

By Gerhard Vlcek

Close-Up Photographer of the Year 

[ghostowlattic]

Happy looking vascular bundles of faces in a slice of Xerophytic grass, Ammophila Arenaria, observed at the microscope by Phil Gates

[drhoz]

#2751 - Calamagrostis arenaria - European Marram Grass

AKA Arundo arenaria, Ammannia coccinea purpurea, Ammannia teres, Ammophila australis, and Ammophila arenaria.

The current binomial comes from Kalamos, a Greek mythical figure who was turned into a reed, and agrostis, a Greek word for ‘grass’ from agrotes ‘of the field’. arenaria means 'sand dweller'. Since Ammophila means 'sand lover' the previous name meant 'Sand-loving sand dweller'. You'd certainly hope so.

Native to Europe and North Africa, but introduced to other parts of the world where it is now A Problem. Introduced to Aotearoa (by idiots) after native vegetation was removed (by idiots) and the coastal sand dunes were suddenly freed to stroll across the landscape. It's highly invasive, virtually unpalatable to livestock, and rapidly driving native dune plants to extinction. At least there's a native moth that finds it palatable.

Can survive burial in sand for over a year. The blades are tightly furled to trap moist air, making it highly drought resistant.

Dunedin, Aoteoroa New Zealand.

[sci-simulacrumb]

Happy new year! May whatever 2024 brings to your metaphorical ecosystem be as varied and integral as native beach grass.

Whether its Ammophila breviligulata (American beach grass) or Ammophila arenaria (European beach grass), both kinds have interconnecting roots that help sand dunes keep their shape along the eastern North American, northern African, western Asian, and temperate European coastlines. Stable dunes prevent coastal erosion by mitigating the amount of sand that is taken by the sea. Sand dunes also act as barriers against coastal flooding and storms, and provide resources for a wide range of wildlife, from small mammals to migrating birds.

And without native beach grass, sand dunes would be a lot less effective at protecting beaches across the world.

We visited a beach recently and observing the ecosystem reminded me that everyone needs a safety net to hold them together. Having a trusted community or resource to fall back on in times of need will help everyone be happy and healthy. May everyone find their version of beach grass this year!

---Fellowh

[lionfloss]

@angelnumber27 this is from 2009 i think this might be it :)

grass cells under a microscope look happy as fuck

[javiroa226]

[solbacka]

Saturday, softest

[superbnature]

Beachgrass by Ogo https://ift.tt/2IRUB9K

[rebeccathenaturalist]

(Originally posted to my blog at https://rebeccalexa.com/invasive-beach-grass/)

I love sleep, and I love not having to wake to an alarm. It’s one of my favorite things about my current occupation. But yesterday I made an exception, and got up extra-early (alarm included) so I could take part in habitat restoration up on Leadbetter Point with staff and other volunteers from Willapa National Wildlife Refuge. The goal? Continue habitat restoration efforts in an area where invasive beach grass had been removed by planting 300 pots of the native species.

Here’s something a lot of people on the west coast don’t know: all those thick swathes of beach grass you see along the coastline from central California all the way up into British Columbia aren’t supposed to be here. There are two species of invasive beach grass, European (Ammophila arenaria) and American (Ammophila brevigulata). The latter is probably better called Atlantic beach grass, since that’s its primary range, though it is also native to some shorelines of the Great Lakes. In their native habitats they help to stabilize and build sand dunes, and other species in the area have adapted to competing with or making use of these grasses.

Unlike these Ammophila species, our native beach grasses like American dune grass (Leymus mollis mollis or Elymus mollis mollis) and tufted hair grass (Dechampsia caesposita var. longiflora) don’t create endless waves of monocultured fields. Rather, they grow in clumps here and there, with plenty of sand in between. This allows other dune plants like yellow sand verbena (Abronia latifolia) and the very rare pink sand verbena (Abronia umbellata), yarrow (Achillea millefolium), pearly everlasting (Anaphilis margaritacea), and seashore lupine (Lupinus littoralis) to flourish.

The presence of greater plant biodiversity allows for more insects and other arthropods, which are important pollinators and the backbone of the food web. The open sand also creates crucial nesting sites for threatened birds like the western snowy plover (Charadrius nivosus nivosus) and the streaked horned lark (Eremophila alpestris strigata), the latter of which has been described as “the most endangered bird in Washington“.

Unfortunately, the early and middle 20th century saw the deliberate planting of both invasive Ammophila grass species all along the Pacific coastline. Intended to keep dune sand from drifting into the homes and businesses along the beach, it quickly spread outside of its original bounds, and over the past few decades has completely overrun most shorelines. As if this wasn’t trouble enough, the two Ammophila species are now hybridizing in Oregon and Washington, creating a third variant that could be even more hardy. But why is this a problem? Grass is grass, right?

(Field of Ammophila spp.)

Not really. It primarily comes down to the growth patterns of the native versus invasive beach grass species. Because Ammophila grasses cover as much ground as they can, with little room to spare, they crowd out the other plant species native to the area. This means fewer food sources for native wildlife, which can lead to the complete collapse of the dune ecosystem. While the beaches along the Long Beach Peninsula may seem to be active, with many gulls and shorebirds right along the water, the dunes themselves are practically ghost towns compared to the diversity of species they once harbored. Only a few hardy dune plants manage to eke out an existence around the edges of the grass monocrops, and a few stunted sword ferns, shore pines, and evergreen huckleberries avoid being completely choked out in the middle of the fields of invaders.

Those shore pines are a vanguard of even worse news for the dunes. Because invasive beach grass holds dunes in place instead of letting them ebb and flow as native grasses do, they allow the shore pines to advance closer and closer to the ocean. This begins the ecological shift from dune ecosystem to forest. Comparisons of aerial photos of Leadbetter Point, located at the end of the peninsula, over the past several decades show that the shore pine forests have expanded north over two miles since the middle of the 20th century, aided by the invasive beach grass. Where the entire point used to be miles of rolling dunes, now there only remains a thin strip of beach around the edge. It’s a microcosm of the much larger problem that has destroyed native dune ecosystems all along the North American Pacific coastline.

There’s another piece to the story, one that has been becoming more prominent in recent years as anthropogenic climate change has brought greater drought even to our normally rainy area, and Pacific Northwest fire seasons become longer and more severe. Historically the dunes would be subject to periodic fires, first natural, and then later controlled burns by local indigenous people. These fires served to keep the shore pines from overtaking the dune ecosystems, and because they kept dead vegetation and other fuel from piling up most fires stayed low-intensity.

However, as European-American settlement increased on the Long Beach Peninsula (and elsewhere along the coast), these fires were suppressed, and controlled burning was no longer practiced. By the time invasive beach grasses were introduced, nothing kept them from growing far out of control. And because the invasive grass grows so thick and fast, and creates large fields with no space between plants, dry, dead vegetation built up very quickly. Now the dunes are covered with literally decades’ worth of highly flammable fire starter with no natural firebreaks left.

Add in the increasing number of tourists, the popularity of the peninsula as a place for people to gather from across the region to build bonfires and set off fireworks on the beach, and ocean breezes that can fan flames from a tiny fire to a huge conflagration in little time, it’s amazing we haven’t had more large, dangerous dune fires. While our local fire departments do an excellent job of responding to incidents, it’s really only a matter of time before something gets out of control on these increasingly hot, dry summer days. And there are many houses and businesses built near and even in the dunes.

Which is why yesterday’s planting activities are so important. The staff and volunteers at Willapa National Wildlife Refuge have been working for years to restore habitats all across Refuge lands, from wetlands to meadows, and of course the dunes. We were working at the latest location where Refuge staff used heavy earth-moving equipment to bulldoze and bury 150 acres of invasive beach grass in late January. When we arrived, it was almost disorienting to see so much land laid bare, without the endless waves of invaders. But it was also thrilling, and made me a little giddy, for this was the first step in bringing back the native dune ecosystem that had been all but exterminated in the last few decades.

The next step, of course, was to start bringing back the native plants. And we were laying the foundation with 300 gallon pots of Leymus mollis mollis. Though most were less than a foot high, they were healthy, and their roots were eager to spread out into larger spaces. With a team of three staff members, and three volunteers in addition to me, we set out to get these pioneers planted in two separate locations.

Thankfully, many hands made light work, and we had the job done in less than three hours. It didn’t hurt that we had a perfect day for it, just enough cloud cover to shield us from bright sunlight, and a cool ocean breeze that wasn’t quite enough to keep us from removing our coats once we got warmed up. The Refuge biologist on hand explained how these first plants would go on to seed more patches across the open dunes, and later plantings would add more species like pearly everlasting and the two sand verbena species. With time, and careful hand-removal of any Ammophila attempting to return, this could be a showcase example of how to start to undo the massive amount of damage done by the invasive beach grass.

But we need to do more. We need to educate people about the story of the dunes, what has been lost and what could be regained. More importantly, we need to cultivate a mindset, both individually and culturally, that takes into account the ecological effects of our actions before we put them into play. Granted, we weren’t as aware of the effects of invasive species back when Ammophila started showing up on the wrong coast, but that was in part because few people had even considered that it might not be a great idea to add a species to an ecosystem it had never evolved in. When we think ahead and consider all the possibilities before we take action, we are more likely to head off these massive problems. It doesn’t mean we shouldn’t also put forth the effort to try to correct past errors, but it does hopefully mean we’ll have fewer messes to clean up in the future. After all, we’ve got our hands full to overflowing as it is–hands that can be used to plant a little hope into a southwest Washington sand dune.

Did you enjoy this post? Consider taking one of my online natural history classes, checking out my other articles, or picking up a paperback or ebook I’ve written!

[newtonpermetersquare]

Happy Little Stomata (A microscopic view, Cross section of the leaf of marram grass Ammophila arenaria)

[sitting-on-me-bum]

Ammophila arenaria (grass stem)

By Anatoly Mikhaltsov.

Nikon Small World Photomicrography Competition

[nisor]

https://beyondthehumaneye.blogspot.com/2009/06/dune-builder.html?m=1

[donalddelahaye]

#nature : Beachgrass by Ogo https://ift.tt/2IRUB9K

[sciencespies]

Two invasive beachgrasses are hybridizing

https://sciencespies.com/environment/two-invasive-beachgrasses-are-hybridizing/

Two invasive beachgrasses are hybridizing

Two species of sand-stabilizing beachgrasses introduced to the Pacific Northwest starting in the early 1900s are hybridizing, raising new questions about impacts to the coastal ecosystems the non-native plants have been engineering for more than a century.

Researchers in the Oregon State University College of Science identified the hybrid in a paper published in Ecosphere.

In addition to their ecological implications, the findings are important in the context of coastal vulnerability to the effects of climate change, including increasing danger from flooding and erosion from storms and rising water.

An OSU collaboration led by integrative biology Ph.D. candidate Rebecca Mostow and professor Sally Hacker employed multiple analytical techniques to show that the beachgrasses that dominate the Northwest’s dunes, Ammophila arenaria and A. breviligulata, have hybridized.

A. arenaria is a European species and A. breviligulata an American species. Scientists say the hybrid’s traits fall between its parent species in many ways, but the hybrid is taller, which is particularly important because shoot height is an indicator of dune-building potential.

“Understanding the ecological and population genetic consequences of the hybridization is critical in a system where any change in dominant beachgrass species can have large effects on both biodiversity management and coastal protection,” Hacker said.

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Dunes comprise nearly half of the combined coastline of Oregon and Washington and a quarter of California’s. Starting in the early 20th century, the intentional planting of Ammophila beachgrasses has been used as a tool to stabilize an otherwise shifting sand environment.

Beachgrasses grow in stiff, rugged clumps capable of reaching 4 feet tall. Their strong rhizome mat — the mass of underground stems — helps stabilize the sand and allows for fast colonization. These clumps are able to capture sand and build dunes at rates of up to 3 feet per year.

“By the 1950s, Ammophila arenaria had spread from Mexico to Canada while building tall, continuous coastal foredunes,” Mostow said. “Midway through that spread, in the 1930s, Ammophila breviligulata was planted in dunes near the Columbia River. Over the next 50 years, it moved north and dominated the sandy Washington coast. And there’s no doubt the spread of these beachgrasses has had a positive impact on development by stabilizing the ground and building dunes that protect the coastline.”

As with many introduced species, though, the beachgrasses come with ecological costs to the native flora and fauna. Resistant to pests and grazing, the hardy, densely growing plants have changed the ecology of dunes by displacing native plants and animals, including pink sand verbena and the endangered western snowy plover.

The OSU researchers say the hybrid of A. arenaria and A. breviligulata has been found at a total of 12 locations in Washington and Oregon. Plant morphology — what they look like and how they are put together — are consistent with hybridization, and genotyping and genome-size comparisons show the hybrid is a first-generation blend of the two introduced beachgrasses whose ranges overlap.

“Novel hybrid zones are an ecologically important upshot of species introductions and invasions,” Mostow said. “Hybridization between different species can lead to gene flow between parent species or produce novel taxa that can alter invasion dynamics or ecosystem services. As far as we know, the Pacific Northwest is the only place in the world where the two Ammophila species have had the opportunity to hybridize.”

A. breviligulata, Hacker notes, is better than A. arenaria at establishing its place in an ecosystem — it competes better — but A. arenaria builds taller dunes. The strengths and weaknesses trace to differences in grass density, morphology and growth form and their effects on sand capture.

“If the hybrid exceeds its parents in traits associated with dune-building, which it very possibly could, then its spread could affect dune shape and size and have huge, ecosystem-scale consequences,” she said. “Hybridization could end up resulting in a really invasive taxon or increasing the invasive potential of either parent species.”

Story Source:

Materials provided by Oregon State University. Original written by Steve Lundeberg. Note: Content may be edited for style and length.

#Environment

[thecommonmag]

By CATE LYCURGUS

Tolowa Dunes State Park, California

Sandy showed us how. She placed the shovel’s tip a few inches from a tuft’s base. Angled the handle back a bit, just enough to loosen the grass before she lowered, hand-pulling. This way, she explained, down to the source. Awards went to the biggest pile, longest root (you cannot burn grass off the dunes; the network just shoots back again), cleanest area too. Tawny tips waved in small breeze from the lagoon, off the lip of sea. But the grass is pretty, C said, and somebody murmured, agreeing. He traced the rake in arcs, looking down, but couldn’t swirl it far. European beachgrass (Ammophila arenaria) grows in clumps from rhizomes that spread four meters each year, so it’s no surprise beachgrass defines large stretches of Pacific coast. Pretty till you get a spine in your glove, E admitted, wincing. Until you get down close.

So we moved, bandanaed, low to the ground and followed each root with slow hands, first clutching masses of dry-rust spikes, taking care not to wrench. I cringed at the snap of a crackling tuft—no good in doing that, I told the team, calling them over. We have to be more careful, more thorough. I watched them run fingers along each chord under topsoil of silt and go—two, four, eight feet out before a group heave-ho! To eradicate means being ever at-the-source, putting down one’s foot before bending, before ripping into light. The sun blazed full and as we burned I knew the piles would burn too, those mounds of grass stacked like monuments, like expansion razed.

As a Californian born and raised twenty miles from the coast, I grew up assuming beachgrass was natural. Native. Looking back, I’ve no reason to think this; most of my surroundings were not native, not eucalyptus lining our block, car models hugging the sidewalks. Even my parents came west from elsewhere, just before my birth. Most things had a newness to them: new tech, new development, new arrivals.  Even the oldest buildings had to have survived the quake in 1906, again in 1989.

Given their own age, I thought these teenagers might balk at days of weeding. We’d come with groups from all over the West to create intentional community, work on construction and repair projects, and learn from a place unlike home. We thought we’d be raising things up. Digging, pouring concrete, erecting decks/ramps/stairsets, awnings against the sun. Which had started to beat stronger. Our piles towered tall as a regulation-rim, but looking in the opposite direction, the acreage felt endless. Z turned to our Tolowa Dunes guide—after we leave, won’t it just grow back? She pointed to the ground where a stalk of reed peeped above sand. Good eyes, cleanest sweep, and it won’t completely—so we yanked and we yanked and we played games of Contact, hoping it reseeds less.

You don’t have to go far to uncover the tangled roots of a place, one dependence stacked on another. In corners of this home state of mine, while roofing trailers at dead-end service roads where no way cuts through and no water runs—smelt rivers have been dammed dry—I tried to explain the satellite dish, the plot of pot nearby. How it’s really impossible to judge anything in all or any cases. And everyone’s an invasive, D reminded us, all a little squeamish. It’s hard to know who’s who, when intruding, intruded upon. Sandy explained that in coming West, along with murdering or removing hundreds of thousands of native people (120,000 in twelve years in Northern California, not to mention entrenched Rancheria enslavement), settlers also ushered in beachgrass, conquering vast swatches of dune, crowding out whole worlds.

No hordes of sawzall toting folks, truckloads of concrete, or board feet of lumber can suffice; none can bring back thousands of lives long-ago wrenched.  So maybe more than repairing roofs, it’s attention that we’re fixing. On what we’d rather not see. Weeding like this might even be a certain type of reparation: pulling out what invaded, uprooting our givens. As the afternoon slumped on, we paused for salty breaths. Sand loosened, ground shifted under our feet, as will layers of history. C pulled a tuft and uncovered beach buckwheat (Eriogonum latifolium), a bona fide native surging back as the seascape changes. Coral-colored pompoms shook off confetti flowers, lifting across the mounds and sprinkling patties of elk dung, drying. They caught in a mat of velveteen leaves—Phacelia argenta found only on these beaches, in this stretch of county. From which bees collect silver hairs to line their ground nests, not to mention the dips and divots of hollowed warmth where western snowy plovers lay clutches of creamy eggs—oh little lovelies, flit close, flit closer, show us what we do not know.

Cate Lycurgus’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in American Poetry Review, Tin House, Gulf Coast, and elsewhere. A 2014 Ruth Lilly Fellowship Finalist, she has also received scholarships from Bread Loaf and Sewanee Writers’ Conferences and was recently named one of Narrative’s 30 Under 30 Featured Writers. Cate lives south of San Francisco, California, where she conducts interviews for 32 Poems and teaches professional writing.

Photo by Flickr Creative Commons user throgers

[javiroa226]