For me, plants are like people at the mall. As the multitudes shuffle by, I accept them only in the most general way; they share my space, but I have no idea who they are as individuals. At Bastrop State Park, I often pass by a dominant stand of bracken ferns while walking my dog—without understanding what they are or what role they play on planet Earth. Two representative kingdoms—one animal, the other a community of plants—living out their separate lives in anonymity. Perhaps you’ve encountered them while hiking in the park as well. So, on a recent stroll, I stopped as a few questions ran through my mind. Why did they choose to live here? How come they were the first plants to return after the big fire? They can survive fire, yet die off every winter? How do they grow? What other secrets do they keep? Like that new neighbor down the street who moved in months ago, perhaps it’s time I get to know them better!
When I think of ferns, I think of shaded canyons, steamy jungles, dinosaurs, Jurassic Park. Dark, humid, and delicate monocultures. But guess what? Bracken grows everywhere! Bracken is perhaps the most broadly distributed of all ferns and among the most wide-ranging of all vascular plants. They are found everywhere except Antarctica and in all environments except deserts. In Texas, bracken ferns grow in the eastern third of the state and above 7,000 feet in Jeff Davis County. Pollen records show that bracken ferns have been around for 55 million years and even 24 million years ago had already achieved worldwide distribution, so they are anything but dainty. In fact, they are highly invasive. In Texas, colonies are usually found on hillsides on the edge of woodlands and thickets in well-drained soil. They can survive in acid soils and their presence usually is an indicator of degraded land. Okay, now I know why Bastrop State Park!
Bracken ferns are deciduous. The largest of our native ferns, bracken drops its fronds in cold weather just like the towering cottonwood. The dark green triangular fronds usually stand waist high in sprawling thickets from a creeping underground rootstock which excludes most other plants. That’s partly because the fern poisons the ground around it for other plants (allelopathic). Combined with its shady canopy and thick litter, let’s just say the fern does not easily abide competing plants. Nothing much else can grow in these dense infestations. Fiddleheads are young, furled fronds. Curiously, given the plant’s toxic disposition, these fiddleheads have been eaten by many cultures throughout history, either fresh, cooked, or pickled; however, cooks must know what they’re doing to avoid the toxins (more on this later).
A plant that has been around for 55 million years has most certainly been subjected to some form of human servitude. And so it is that bracken ferns have, in addition to being eaten, been used as medicine, thatch and livestock bedding, to make dye, to tan animal hides, and as a source of potash to make soap, bleach and glass. Bracken was considered so valuable during the Middle Ages that it was used to pay rents. Around the ole’ homestead, bracken has been used as basket-making material, packing, plant mulch, lining for earth ovens, and as layers to dry food. Its parts have been used in brewing beer, making bread, and used as a substitute for arrowroot. Today, bracken fern is grown commercially for use as a food and herbal remedy in Canada, the United States, Siberia, China, Japan, and Brazil—so there’s still a demand.
I set out to learn what species of bracken I encountered on my walks in the park. Taxonomy is one of those obtuse human disciplines designed to inflict pain on common people for the benefit of “correctness.” But the bottom line is, all of us must put up with it to some degree. Pteridium aquilinum is the most common species name for bracken, yet its botanical classification is quite complex—and controversial. The plant is often separated into 5-12 subspecies; however, many botanists classify most (if not all) of these varieties as separate species. So, if the scientists are confused, what chance do I have? As near as I can determine, though, there are two varieties (subspecies?) that grow in Texas (P. aquilinum pubescens and P. aquilinum pseudocaudatum). The first is commonly known as Hairy or western bracken—which is my guess. The latter is tailed bracken. Now, as to which grows in Bastrop State Park. . .beats the hell out of me!
An early Greek lyric poet once wrote, “Youth is the flower of which love is the fruit.” Using this metaphor, youth could never bloom from bracken—because bracken has neither flower nor fruit. Even though it has vascular tissue like other plants, bracken reproduces by spores rather than seeds. Fern spores are
produced in structures found on the underside of the leaf, called sori. A fern spore is a tough little cookie. One fern frond can produce as many as 300 million spores that can survive all sorts of extreme conditions (there is no dormancy requirement). When the right balance of temperature, light and moisture happens, the spore begins to germinate. Like some type of alien transformation, it develops into an entirely different plant: a dime-sized, green heart-shaped leaf that looks nothing like a fern. Hell, it doesn’t even have roots! Referred to as a prothallium, this new plant contains both male and female sex organs, producing its own egg and sperm. The fertilized egg grows into an embryo complete with roots, stem, and leaves. In time, the baby fern sends out fiddleheads which unfold into lacy fronds just like its grandparent. That’s right, grandparent! It takes 3 generations for a fern to give rise to another individual fern!
But wait, it gets even stranger. Bracken ferns reproduce both sexually (above) and asexually (cloning). One grandbaby fern (produced sexually) then creates more fronds through perennial rootstock that creeps underground to send up cloned versions of itself. The rootstock is riddled with rhizomes which store water, proteins, and carbohydrates so the plant can survive between growing seasons—and for reproduction. These rhizomes can spread as much as 1,300 feet laterally, meaning that a thicket of bracken can be a nuclear family of one mother plant and all her clones. Some rhizomatous clones can be hundreds of years old! Even if fronds are destroyed by fire, some of the rhizomes survive, insulated by the soil, allowing the plant to emerge in the fire’s aftermath. I’m beginning to understand why bracken ferns have been around for 55 million years.
Are bracken ferns safe to eat? Short answer: no. Long answer: yes, after certain preparations—depending on how long you hope to live or how lucky you feel! Bracken contains a carcinogenic compound (ptaquiloside) which damages DNA, and releases hydrogen cyanide when eaten. It is known to be toxic (if eaten in sufficient quantities) to cattle, dogs, sheep, pigs, and horses. Even milk from cows grazing bracken is suspect with links to cancer in humans. Some wild animals (wild boar, for example) are known to eat bracken or its rhizomes, but what is not known is how long they live afterward. Certain insect caterpillars and larvae also eat bracken as a host plant but, generally, most insects stay away. Bracken is not an instant killer like arsenic but appears to require a build-up of toxins over time. Yet, humans in different countries still consume fiddleheads in salads, stir-fry, or other dishes. To render the toxins, some form of boiling or steaming for designated periods before sauteing (or other second method of cooking) is common.
While there are no known conspiracy theories, many myths and legends surround bracken. Religions seem to love myths. Remember that it wasn’t that long ago we believed in the Divine Right of Kings and witchcraft. We still have people today who believe in faith healing and astrology. With respect to bracken, witches were said to hate it because when the stem was cut the Greek letter X—a symbol of Christ—was revealed. In Scotland they believed the plant offered up an impression of the Devil’s foot; while in Venezuela and Brazil, it was used in magic rituals for cleansing the soul. The plant goes back so far in history that it was even mentioned in Shakespeare’s play Henry V. That’s ancient!
So, I’ve made a new acquaintance from the plant world. . .reaching out to better know a stranger. While we all desire to be understood, the bracken thicket at Bastrop State Park doesn’t exactly wave when I walk by. All this time, I had no idea how complex and unusual this plant was. No one enjoys being obvious, but I had no clue how different the hidden and ancient lifestyle of this plant really was. I now feel a certain warmth for the fern when I pass by. Could it be respect?
By Larry Gfeller