Good plant. Bad pun. And oddness.
Four out of six flower heads miserably drooping and brown.
We had noticed compass plants like this and assumed that they were aborting their flowers because of drought.
But on a tour with ultimate botany guru Floyd Swink, and we saw such plants.
When we asked about them, he said, “A weevil does that. It’s a problem for the plant, but not a bad one. Compared to the devastation caused by the boll weevil in the South, this one is the lesser of two weevils.”
It turns out that the weevil bug cuts the stem and then lays its eggs in the hanging flower-head. Apparently, young weevils like to eat dying greens.
Compass plant roots look like giant multiple carrots and go deep into the subsoil. You’d think these fat roots would have adequate reserves for most anything, but they don’t gamble on blooming every year. One summer there’ll be lots of leaves but few or no flower stalks in the whole prairie. The next summer it seems like every plant is putting up a forest of higher-than-our-heads massive hairy stalks and happy flowers.
Why? One possibility is the “periodic cicada principle” – in which a species overwhelms predators and pests by having few individuals, or seeds, or eggs most years. Then, with pest numbers down, it blasts forth with so-many-all-at-once that the sparse pests just can’t eat them all.
It’s one of the most satisfying things about conservative plants. Do they worry about pests? Doughts? Ho hum.
They’re in no hurry and take what comes. Compass plants have reserves and confidence (and tricks when needed) to kick butt in their own quiet way.