Braiding Sweetgrass

Undaunted, lichens volunteered to put down roots and
homestead stone—metaphorically, of course, since they have no
roots. This is an asset when there is no soil. Lichens have no roots,
no leaves, no flowers. They are life at its most basic. From a
dusting of propagules that lodged in tiny pits and fissures just a
pinprick deep, they settled the bare granite. This microtopography
gave protection from the wind and offered concavities where water
might rest after a rain in a microscopic puddle. It wasn’t much, but
it was enough.
In the span of centuries the rock became glazed with a gray-
green crust of lichen almost indistinguishable from the rock itself, a
bare coating of life. The steep faces and exposure to the winds off
the lake have prevented any accumulation of soil, its surface a last
relic of the Ice Age.
I come here sometimes just to be in the presence of such ancient
beings. The sides of the boulder are festooned with Umbilicaria
americana in raggedy ruffles of brown and green, the most
magnificent of northeastern lichens. Unlike those of its tiny crustose
forebearers, the Umbilicaria’s thallus—its body—can span an
outstretched hand. The largest one recorded was measured at just
over two feet. Tiny ones cluster like baby chicks around a mother
hen. So charismatic a being has accumulated many names; it is
most frequently known as the rock tripe and sometimes as the
oakleaf lichen.
Rain cannot linger on the vertical faces, so most of the time this
boulder is dry and the lichens shrink and get crisp, making the rock
look scabby. Without leaves or stem, Umbilicaria is simply a thallus,
roughly circular in shape, like a tattered scrap of brown suede. Its
upper surface when dry is a mousy shade of taupe. The thallus
edges curl up in a chaotic sort of ruffle, exposing the black