Densey Clyne 1922 – 2019

I must have been around six or seven years old, but I vividly remember being captivated by Densey’s work on late 80’s Burke’s Backyard. Her subjects were mostly invertebrates, the natural history of which she brought to life with superb macro and timelapse filmography. (For classic Densey and awesome 80’s music check out this vid about cicadas). It might not even be too far-fetched to draw a direct line from Densey’s work—  some of my earliest recollections of a natural history fascination—to my life and work now, preoccupied with the flowers and insects she revealed to me so long ago.

Clyne’s clips of flowers blooming in timelapse made a particular impression on me. In a moment of frustration with a bored and annoying child, I remember Mum sending me into the backyard to wait for a flower to bloom. Soaked in the false impressions of timelapse filmography, I stood staring at a Callistemon for what felt an age before finally conceding defeat and coming back indoors.

In the last couple of years I had the desire and embryonic plan to go and visit her, knowing she was getting on, wanting to meet her and tell her the impression she made on me, and perhaps write up an interview to share her experience and wisdom with others. But I never got around to prioritising it, and now that opportunity is gone.

From the tiniest, dankest little crevices in the bottom of my heart; thanks Densey.

(For more information about her life and achievements, the Port Macquarie news have a nice write-up)

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Photos from the field: The Great Western Woodlands.

The Great Western Woodlands (GWW) form the largest tracts of temperate woodlands left on Earth. They hold approximately 30% of Australia’s Eucalypt species, and close to 20% of Australia’s plant species overall. This is truly an overlooked gem of Australian biodiversity. Last Spring I was lucky enough to visit for my work on pollination in our native plants.

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My target there was Eremophila, a genus of approximately 250 species largely confined to arid and semi-arid Australia. The GWW represents one of the centres of diversity for the genus, and so I chose it as a likely spot to set up a new study contrasting bird and insect pollination.

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Eremophila alternifolia was one of about 15 Eremophilas I saw flowering despite the drier than average conditions.

I was joined by perhaps the best kind of field assistant: a trained and accomplished professional ecologist who also happens to be my beautiful wife. After driving 2800km from Melbourne to field sites near Norseman, Western Australia, we spent a little under two weeks observing pollinators, surveying and mapping populations of plants, and collecting samples for population genetics.

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One of the many viewpoints south of the Nullarbor Plain.

I left in awe of the scale of these woodlands, in love with the peace and isolation they offer, and a bit concerned over their insecure future. Fully 60% of the GWW is tenured “unallocated Crown land”, unmanaged and open access. With more visitors, and more appreciation of the value of these vast woodlands, I hope we can find a way to secure more of it into ongoing reserve for future generations.

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The bluebush understory contrasts dramatically with red sand in many areas. Front left is one of my study species Eremophila scoparia.

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The whole region is dotted with salt-pans.

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As predicted from the small, violet flowers, Eremophila scoparia was visited by a host of native bees.

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Eremophila decipiens has characteristic bird-adapted flowers.

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Camera traps being expertly arranged by Samantha. Footage revealed that E. decipiens was being visited by a range of honeyeater species.

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Eremophila calorhabdos

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This spectacular Grevillea hid a massive bloom of flowers underneath it

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The inflorescences are held on stems that grow along the ground underneath the shrub. The very long style with pollen-presenter is suggestive of adaptation to birds, but mammals might not be out of the question.

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Eucalyptus loxophleba with daggy botanist for scale

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Majestic Salmon gum (Eucalyptus salmonophloia) with Samantha for scale.

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The serenity of wandering amongst giant Salmon gums at dusk was magic.

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Gleaming bark on Eucalyptus salubris

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Elevating on Lake Cowan. Photo: S. Vertucci.

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For the second half of the trip I was joined by collaborator and all-round legend Dr. Renee Catullo. I made us walk 10km to collect camp gear following a single poor decision.

Stay tuned as research results emerge. The study should tell us about the way pollen moves under bee and bird pollination, and how those fine scale patterns play out on a grand landscape level.

Wild yeasts are everywhere. Some of them will even make beer for you.

I spend a lot of time thinking about flowers and beer. Thinking about flowers is part of my job, and beer—that’s my current obsession. Thoughts collide, and I recently found myself dwelling upon what they have in common: that most marvellous microbe, yeast.

Yeast is that critical fungus that converts sugar solutions into beer and wine, and while we’ve got a handful of domesticated strains harnessed for beverage production, diverse and untamed wild yeasts are everywhere. They are in the air, on plants and animals, on your skin, in your hair. Wild yeasts are particularly abundant in flowers, and that’s because flowers provide a source of freely available sugar by way of nectar.

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Brewers/baker’s yeast (Source: Wikimedia Commons)

Given this obvious overlap, a natural and totally irresistible work-hobby collaboration sprang to mind. Could I capture a wild yeast from flowers of my study species and use it to make beer?

Now I am not the first to try this. Wild yeasts and other microbes have had a long history of use in creating beer. Belgian brewers have perhaps the most celebrated and storied traditions in this area—their Lambic beers are created by leaving fresh, unfermented beer (wort) to be inoculated by whatever yeast and bacteria the atmosphere may gift them. Wild fermentation is a growing global trend now, with numerous craft breweries here in Australia (e.g. La Sirene and Wildflower), and internationally (e.g. Allagash, Trinity) establishing strong reputations for artisanal ales fermented with the help of local microbial biodiversity.

While the diversity of wild yeasts might be wide, not all are useful for producing beer however. Many yeasts die in the presence of moderate alcohol, many cannot ferment all but the simplest of sugars, many produce unpalatable by-products during fermentation.

So where are we most likely to find the best, most useful wild yeasts for beer production? This is where floral biology meets brewing.

Floral biology meets beer brewing

Nectars are produced by flowers as rewards for the service of pollinating animals. Because some flowers specialize in being pollinated by particular kinds of animals, they evolve specific traits that cater to the biology of those animals. For example, moth-pollinated flowers are white so that they are visible in low light, bee-pollinated flowers evolve UV-reflective runway markers to guide accurate landing and foraging, carrion-fly pollinated flowers smell like rotting flesh. In the same fashion, nectar is shaped by evolution to cater to the specific creatures most likely to consume it.

One way nectar becomes tailored to its consumer is by its sugar concentration, which varies wildly. At the concentrated end, exceeding 50% sugar by weight, nectar is very viscous and sticky and difficult to suck up through long or thin mouth parts. These nectars cater to insects with short tongues like bees, flies, wasps and beetles. On the other end you have dilute nectars, with 10 – 25% sugar concentrations, and these are perfect for birds to lap up. By a happy coincidence, the sugar concentrations of bird-adapted nectars are in the same range as unfermented wort. Recognizing this was what led me to try hunting for yeasts in the flowers of my study species—the bird-pollinated shrub Prostanthera walteri.

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Monkey Mint-bush (Prostanthera walteri)

Also known as the Monkey Mint-bush, this is a rare shrub growing amongst boulders on a few misty, granite peaks in remote East Gippsland, Victoria. I have been getting to know the plant for a couple of years now, using it in a study to understand how bird-pollination might differ from insect-pollination. And so on a January field trip to collect some data, I took the opportunity to collect some fresh flowers and take them back to my home lab (kitchen bench) for bioprospecting. At home, I made up a test wort: a low concentration malt-extract solution to mimic the conditions of beer, then I syringed out the nectar from several flowers and spiked the test jars with whatever might be living in the nectar.

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Kitchen-bench inoculation of test wort

And it worked. Most of the test jars began fermentation, and sniffing the results revealed various aromas of bright apple juice, white wine, earth and smoke. After months of re-culturing these initial samples I now have what I think are two different strains* of nectar yeast, one of which just produced its first beer.

So how does it taste?

Interesting, and not bad… and that’s all I’m willing to venture at this stage of the experiment! The yeast fermented very quickly, and chewed through 79% of the available sugars (which is more than some domesticated brewing strains). It has a somewhat Belgian Saison-like character, with strong pear and floral esters, some smoke and spice, and a very slight tartness.

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I was quite blown away at how well this yeast performed, fermenting much like a domesticated yeast, yet with a much bigger, bolder, dare I say “wild” flavour. It is stunning to think that it has probably existed in flowers in remote eastern Victoria for some thousands to many thousands of years, and one can just go and pick it up and persuade it to make interesting beer. And as I get to know it better, perhaps that beer will become both interesting and delicious.

 

Thanks to Ruth Barry (Boatrocker Brewery) for inspiring conversation and advice on this.

*These are technically mixed cultures, but I believe they each have come to be dominated by single strain of yeast.

We don’t know what pollinates most Australian plants.

Australian flowering plant diversity is legendary. Within an hour trip outside of our major metro centres anyone can quite easily witness unique Australian plant diversity in subtropical forest (Brisbane), grassland (Melbourne), and sandstone heath (Sydney). The diversity close to home is fairly well catalogued, and while it is hard to discover a new plant species, merely spending time around our native plants is very likely to reveal something that has never before been documented.

Something like 90% of our native plants rely on animals for pollination in order to set seed. Despite this, we simply do not know what pollinates most of our Australian native plants. The fact that the private lives for many of our native plants remains mysterious is due to their great diversity and the limited time and resources available to document what’s going on every day in the bush.

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Two native bees (Hylaeus (Rhodohylaeus) sp.) visiting flowers of the Broom Bush (Eremophila scoparia) in Western Australia.

And these uncharted interactions are totally critical for the functioning of our native ecosystems. Pollination underpins production of seed for the next generation, builds seed banks for post-fire regeneration, and also produces fruits and seeds that are critical food resources for our native animals.

Our ignorance of native pollination networks is therefore vastly out of step with their importance. This is illustrated in the example of bee declines, where we have all heard about the threats impinging on honeybees and pollination service for food crops, yet when it comes to Australian native bees, we lack the basic benchmark data needed to make a solid judgment about whether they too are declining*. It is therefore imperative that we commit effort to recording native pollination networks now, before they are lost to us. While it is hard for long term ecological monitoring projects to attract funding, ongoing development of automated imaging of flower visitors and large scale citizen science projects offer some promise for increased capability in filling this ecological blind spot.

But our ignorance here can also be thrilling. This means that every time you are in the bush, and witness an insect or bird taking nectar or pollen from a flower, there is a reasonable chance it has never been documented before. In my work with University of Melbourne I have been studying several native shrubs to understand their pollination, and for many of these species, it is gratifying to know that my work will be the first documented evidence of what is visiting them. But you don’t have to be a trained scientist to do this, you just need some patience, luck, and some fine weather. And while discovering and photographing an unusual native bee pollinating one of our native flowers won’t win you a Nobel Prize, I guarantee it will provide any enquiring mind with a hit of electric discovery every single time.

 

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Photographed on Mount Buffalo, Ken Walker (Victoria Museum) later identified this bee as the very rare Lasioglossum (Callalictus) callomelittinum. Few photos of it exist. This individual is buzz-pollinating a Fringe Lily (Thysanotus tuberosus).

 

Links for pollinator observations:

Bowerbird: Nature observations database

Wild Pollinator Count

Government pollinators repository

*But given native bees need native habitat, and native habitat is being cleared at astonishing levels, we can, with a high degree of confidence, say that native bees are declining too.

The whimsical long-tongue fly and its favourite colour.

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The flowers on one of these plants conceal drops of sticky nectar. The other is a cheating orchid, presenting empty flowers and false promises. Can you tell which is which? Even if you knew which one carried nectar, how can you tell the difference between them? The two plants might look a bit different to human high-res optics, but now try blurring your eyes. Pretty similar, huh?

What about this pair?

Screenshot 2018-10-30 15.09.50If it’s difficult for our brains and eyes to discern the difference between the flower with the reward and the one that’s falsely advertising, then what hope does a nectar-hunting fly with low resolution compound eyes and a smear of a central nervous system have?

Specifically, I’m talking about this fly…

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If this fly looks embarrassed, its because it has orchid pollen stuck to its face.

Until now, you probably thought lion, or elephant, or rhino were the most impressive animals roaming the grasslands of southern Africa. Well you’re wrong, and it’s ok to change your mind after seeing the majestic long-proboscid fly of South Africa. There are several species of these magnificent beasts, and this one is named Prosoeca ganglbaueri.

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That giant proboscis hanging from its face is a tool crafted by evolution for sucking nectar from the bottom of long flower tubes, and it can grow as long as 5 cm (which is longer than the fly’s own body length). Unlike butterflies who coil their proboscises, the long-proboscid flies simply hinge the instrument down, tucking it away underneath their bodies to trail out behind them. And this species isn’t even the most extreme: proboscises in Moegistorhynchus longirostris get up to 8 cm!

Sometimes handling that long instrument can be a challenge…

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In some areas of South Africa, P. ganglbaueri is the only creature capable of extracting nectar from flowers with very long floral tubes, and because of this it has become the exclusive pollinator for 20 species of plant. Altogether, the long-proboscid flies as a group bear the great responsibility as the only pollinator for approximately 130 species of plant, making them a truly important creature for the ongoing survival of many South African plants.

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Figure 1 from Whitehead et al. (2018): Prosoeca ganglbaueri feeding from a variety of nectar sources. (a) Zaluzianskya microsiphon, (b) Scabiosa columbaria, (c) Agapanthus campanulatus, (d) Dianthus basuticus.

An interesting fact about flowers that are pollinated by long-proboscid flies, is that most of them are pink, or white, or some variation in between (with one blue exception). This strong colour preference is a critical feature directing the evolution of the cheating orchid flowers introduced earlier. For a deceptive orchid to attract this fly, the orchids’ flower colour must match the flies’ colour preference, or the mimicry simply won’t work.

In my recent paper, we asked whether the colour preference of flies was something that they learned, like we learn to associate that perfect golden-brown hue of fried food with a mouth-watering culinary experience, or if it was instead a more hardwired innate response, like a moth drawn to a lamp. The answer is important for understanding ultimately what is driving the evolution of false advertisement signals in mimic orchids. So, for example, if flies had an innate bias to pink or white, then cheating orchid flowers would evolve to match that bias, in the same way that any good advertisements are designed to appeal to the fundamental desires of its audience. On the other hand, if flies learned to associate nectar reward with certain colours, their preference should be determined by the colour of their local nectar diet. Under the learned scenario, orchids should be evolving to match local flowers’ colours, not any intrinsic bias of the fly.

To test this, I took advantage of just how easy it is to bamboozle these flies. With a home-made artificial flower, painted to match the pink and white flowers visited by the fly, anyone can fool a fly into attempting to feed. So I mounted a pink and a white model to my “interview stick”, and travelled across the rugged Drakensberg Mountains to interview various populations of flies. In each location, I recorded whether the local flies preferred probing the pink or white model flower, as well as the colour and species of flower that the flies were using for nectar there.


The results were clear. Flies used to feeding mainly on pink flowers preferred the pink model. Flies that fed mainly on white flowers preferred the white model. And flies that fed on both pink, white, and violet flowers, showed no clear preference between pink and white.

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Figure 3 from Whitehead et al (2018): Pink-white preference for flies at seven sites. The x-axis shows colour preference, with pink on the right, white on the left. Measured preference at seven sites is represented, with the colour of local nectar sources depicted in the small pie charts.

This tells us that the flies are very flexible in their preferences, and the strong implication is that these flies are learning to associate colour and reward. A further result showed that as the variation of colours flies fed from increased, this made them less choosy in the pink-white preference choice. So the bottom line is that the colour of their local nectar-buffet strongly controls a fly’s colour preference.

What does this mean for orchid cheats? Well, the colour of nectar cheats is all important, and what matters most for the success of a deceptive orchid is the colour composition of the surrounding nectar-rich floral community.

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Post-script:
Still wondering about which flowers in the opening images were cheats, and which had nectar?

In both cases the deceptive orchid is on the left. The first image features Disa nivea (left), and Zaluzianskya microsiphon (right), the second features Disa pulchra (left) and Watsonia lepida (right).

Reference:

Whitehead MR, Gaskett AC, Johnson SD. (in press) Floral community predicts pollinators’ color preference: implications for Batesian floral mimicry. Behavioral Ecology 

Photos from the field: Northern Sand-plains, WA

Peaceful woodlands of widely spaced gnarled Eucalypts lie in mosaic with spiny, scratchy, shrubby heath on the sand-plains north of Perth. They form one of the most floristically diverse regions on earth, with estimates of over 60 species of plant per 0.01 ha (an area smaller than half an an IMAX screen).

With so many species packed on top of one another, it is perhaps not surprising that in the effort to co-exist, some plants have been forced to flower outside the traditional Spring-flowering window. Winter in the sand-plains, while often wet and cloudy, is therefore anything but dull. While daily insect activity is very low, resident birds and honey possums must still feed, and so there are a comparatively high number of vertebrate-pollinated species in full flower at this time of year.

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Omphalina chromacea in its diminutive but sulphureous glory

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Bird-pollinated Astroloma glaucenscens excludes insect visitors with a tiny corolla-tube opening

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Pterostylis sanguinea: a sexually-deceptive trap-pollination orchid

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Astroloma stomarrhena, bird-pollinated. This individual has curiously short corolla tubes.

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Calothamnus sanguineus mixed in with Conostephium

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Calothamnus sanguineus

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An early-flowering Caladenia latifolia

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Diuris corymbosa

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Tiny pgymy Drosera

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One of the most common orchids in the area, but I’ve never seen it flower. Pyrorchis leaf.

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Very rare, and while this specimen is a little tired late in the season, the winter-flowering Cleopatra’s Needles (Thelymitra apiculata) is a stunning contrast of hues.

Plants and their very variable sex lives.

Plants mate. In a manner far more elegant than our own mammalian shenanigans, and far more important for the ongoing survival of the Earth’s ecosystems, plants are out there constantly having sex. And it is a deeply interesting thing involving insects, and wind, and stigmas, and stamens, and enough puzzling evolutionary biology to fill journal articles and occupy a small handful of academic careers.

My latest paper is about plant mating, and rather than wade through meadows of blooms to collect the data for this effort, I remained desk-bound in Milwaukee, wading through 30 years of plant mating literature with the intention of assembling a dataset to help us see plant mating in a new light.

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A mint-bush (Prostanthera lasianthos), caught in the act of mating.

As you may know, the flowers of many plant species are hermaphrodite, i.e. they bear both male and female sexual organs. This means plants can have sex with themselves. It’s called self-pollination, or “selfing”, and it can happen in two ways. First, pollen can move from the male parts of a flower to the female parts of the same flower. Second, on a single plant, pollen can move from the male parts of one flower to the female parts of a different flower.

“But isn’t this inbreeding??” I hear you ask, recoiling in horror at the moral and population genetic gutter down which I have so suddenly led you. Yes! Seed fertilized in a selfed flower is about as inbred as it gets, even more so than sibling mating. But you see, inbreeding is not always a bad thing—in fact inbreeding can actually be beneficial in some circumstances—and here’s where things get messy.

Genes are selfish. As such, they will do whatever it takes to get themselves propagated into another body. Consider then the selfish genes of a mother plant, which want to get into the next generation, and into as many individuals as possible. If a mother plant mates with a genetically different plant (an “outcross” mating event), its seeds each inherit approximately 50% of the mother’s genetic variation. This is because they combine with (and are diluted by) the genes of the pollen donor during pollination and sexual reproduction. On the other hand, if a mother self-fertilizes its own seeds, it transmits closer to 100% of its genetic legacy into each offspring. In the eyes of natural selection, this is a huge difference, and offers a great advantage to selfing over outcrossed reproduction.

So why aren’t all plants selfing all the time? This is because the huge advantage in transmitting genes via selfing is offset by the drawbacks of inbreeding. You can’t often get away with inbreeding without cost, and the cost is that inbred offspring are commonly less fit than their “outbred” siblings. Called “inbreeding depression”, this occurs because breeding from related individuals vastly raises the probability of combining rare genetic variants that harm the individual they are in. In the long run, inbreeding also reduces genetic variation that is essential for adapting to changing environments.

Evolutionary biologists have been pondering this tension for decades, and it led to the hypothesis that plants should be driven by natural selection into two polar opposite strategies: selfing plants should be favoured by natural selection when inbreeding depression is weak, and outcrossing plants should be favoured by natural selection when inbreeding depression is strong. Anything in the middle should not be adaptive, and should therefore be rare in nature. Sounds sensible, except numerous studies have now measured selfing/outcrossing across hundreds of plant species, and there is a curious and difficult-to-explain preponderance of plants that are neither exclusively selfing or outcrossing. These plants are having it both ways, seemingly hedging between strategies, and we call them the “mixed maters”.

Now for the problem my study addresses… Over the last 30 years, loads of studies have been measuring the selfing/outcrossing rate of plants in the wild. There have also been important studies which collect all these outcrossing estimates into big global datasets and generate observations like the one above: that mixed-mating is inexplicably common. For 30 years however, much of this discussion on global patterns was centred around average outcrossing per species, and using this to classify a species as a “selfer”, “outcrosser”, or “mixed mater”. We know evolution doesn’t work on a “species level” though. What is more appropriate is what is happening in a population context. And perhaps by averaging away all the variation within each species, my co-authors and I thought we might be missing an important perspective on the data.

What my co-authors and I did then was to collect all the outcrossing estimates from published papers containing three or more population outcrossing estimates. Going back 30 years, we collected data for 105 species and measured the variation in outcrossing within a species, among populations.

What we found was huge variation! There was commonly so much variation in mating within a species, that species averages felt inadequate for expressing where mating system variation lies. The data also showed that variation was difficult to predict. For example, there was an old hypothesis floating about that wind-pollinated plants were less variable in their outcrossing/selfing rate than animal pollinated species. The reason being that animals were thought to fluctuate more in their abundance and service between sites and seasons, while wind was a more consistent, reliable force for pollination. For the first time we were able to test this, and our analysis did not support the hypothesis. We also tested whether mating variation was evolving in a predictable fashion, but found that the relationship of plant species had no bearing on the variation we found in those species’ mating patterns.

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Arabis alpina: revealed in our study as a species with one of the most variable mating systems measured. By Hedwig Storch CC BY-SA 3.0, from Wikimedia Commons.

Ultimately, our study can’t solve the mystery of why we have so many mixed-mating plants. What it does do though is present a new way to look at the known range of variation in plant mating. There are other analyses waiting to be done with the data collected here, and we have highlighted where more studies are needed to answer interesting questions. For example, do different kinds of animal pollinators result in more or less variable outcrossing? Or do populations on the fringe of a species’ range experience more or less variable outcrossing?

As the body of knowledge on plant mating systems continues to grow, this dataset will grow too, and this population-level perspective on plant mating will hopefully provide the basis for the next insights into evolution’s influence on plant mating.

 

Full reference:

Whitehead MR, Lanfear R, Mitchell RJ, Karron JD. (2018) Plant mating systems often vary widely among populations. Frontiers in Ecology and Evolution, 6:38.

Further reading:

Goodwillie C, Kalisz S, Eckert CG. (2005) The evolutionary enigma of mixed mating systems in plants: occurrence, theoretical explanations, and empirical evidence. Annu. Rev. Ecol. Evol. Syst., 36:47-79.

Schemske, DW and Lande, R. (1985) The evolution of self‐fertilization and inbreeding depression in plants. II. Empirical observations. Evolution, 39:41-52.

Barrett, SC and Harder, LD. (2017) The Ecology of Mating and Its Evolutionary Consequences in Seed Plants. Annual Review of Ecology, Evolution, and Systematics, 48:135-157.

First video of bird pollination in Astroloma stomarrhena

I’m thrilled to share this never-before seen sequence of birds feeding on Astroloma stomarrhena, a winter-flowering shrub endemic to Western Australia.

Earlier this year, I decided A. stomarrhena looked like a perfect candidate for my new study on pollinators and gene flow. What I needed was a bird-pollinated species of plant, closely related to an insect-pollinated species. This one seemed to match all the criteria I needed, except there was no evidence that it was bird-pollinated. But with those long, tapered corolla tubes, and that pink-red coloration, I believed that birds absolutely had to be the pollinator.

The danger was, that while birds might be visitors, the plant could be somewhat “generalized”, and also use insects. This is pretty common, especially in places like Australia where European Honeybees (Apis mellifera) have invaded ecosystems that evolved in their absence, and honeybees will visit absolutely everything whether the plants are adapted to bees or not.

By deploying a new camera-trapping method that I am developing to record insect visitation, I was able to gather several days of pollinator observations, despite some very bad weather. After initially being baffled as to what honeyeater might visit such a low ground-hugging shrub, I got my answer after day one, when I captured video of my new favourite bird: the Tawny-crowned Honeyeater (Gliciphila melanops) feeding on the flowers. Furthermore, the recordings of honeybee fly-bys are sufficient to rule them out as pollinators.

This little result is a win on two fronts: a successful trial of new pollinator-monitoring cameras, and vindication of predicting pollinators from flower morphology.

Click here for the full HD video.

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Bumping into old floral friends, and pollination with a hug.

Rare plants nurseries are like second hand bookshops. It’s always so tempting to browse on the off chance you find that little treasure. I recently visited a charming rare plants nursery in Mt Macedon (boutique-y town outside Melbourne, Australia) where I discovered these for sale:

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Hello old friend! (Hesperantha coccinea)

The last time I saw this elegant iris, it was flowering on stream banks 10,000 km away in the Drakensberg Mountain range in South Africa. There in its natural habitat, it is pollinated in some areas by a very special butterfly: the Mountain Pride (Aeropetes tulbhagia). In other places, it is pollinated by the amazing long-tongue fly (Prosoeca ganglbaueri). The two forms are a wonderful example of “pollination ecotypes”, where different populations are undergoing adaptation to their unique pollinators. The fly-serviced ones are a pink hue with narrow petals, while the butterfly-pollinated ones are much redder with broader petals.

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Hesperantha coccinea at home in South Africa with its pollinator (Prosoeca ganglbaueri).

Fast forward two weeks, and I’m home walking the dog in my quite unremarkable Melbourne suburb, when who should I see?

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Hello old friend! (Diascia sp.)

It’s winter here, with very little in flower, but these brilliant little pink blooms volunteering themselves from underneath a fence in suburban Melbourne really made my day. The last time I saw a Diascia, it was growing amongst the boulders on creek beds and on cliffs in the Drakensberg Mountains. These are Diascia, or “twinspur” and its this common name that alludes to their fascinating pollination story.

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Hug-pollination by oil-collecting bee (Rediviva sp.) in Diascia.

Diascia have two spurs on the back of the flower, which is distinct from the usual arrangement of a single nectar-spur. The difference is that these flowers don’t reward pollinators with sugary secretions, instead they provide oil to specialised oil-collecting bees in the genus Rediviva. The bees use this oil to line their nests and provision their young. In order to collect the nectar, they must reach deep into the twin spurs with their lanky forelimbs, and comb it out. In so doing, they effectively hug the reproductive parts of the Diascia flower and effect pollination.

In Spring, I plan to take some cuttings from this little Diascia. Keeping species with special personal significance is a deeply satisfying part of cultivating plants. A plant can be kept like a souvenir or memento marking a time in one’s life, just like a photo or trinket. But plants have an advantage over these inanimate reminders. Because biological reproduction requires the physical donation of part of the mother’s cells to the daughter cells, my keepsake plant can be viewed as a physical part of the plant that appears in my fond memory. If I could see in four dimensions, I could literally look down the line of cell-divisions all the way back to where the Hesperantha in the nursery physically intersects as the same individual with the Hesperantha I observed flowering in the Autumn sun of the Drakensberg Mountains in South Africa.

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The Drakensberg Mountains, South Africa, Autumn 2014.