If Eastern skunk cabbage—Symplocarpus foetidus—were a person, you would avoid him. Inactive for part of the year, skunk cabbage comes alive in late winter. It never looks terribly attractive and most of the time it smells awful enough to justify one of its nicknames, “polecat weed.” People and even animals tend to avoid the plant all together. The only creatures that seem to love this member of the Arum or Araceae family are the flies and other early-rising insects that pollinate it. They, of course, are drawn by its absolutely fetid odor. There is no accounting for taste.
You might know or grow some of skunk cabbage’s more respectable relatives, which include the currently fashionable Jack-in-the-pulpit or Arisaema species. Some of the Jacks, like the common three-leafed variety, Arisaema triphyllum, grow wild in American woodland areas; others pop up in similar situations in Asia. Another socially prominent skunk cabbage relation is calla lily or Zantedeschia. I saw hundreds of them at this year’s Philadelphia Flower Show in an array of colors. They are tender in my part of the world, but the catalogs encourage us to plant them in containers. I suspect that if the Araceae clan were to stage a family reunion, Eastern skunk cabbage and its equally smelly relative, Western skunk cabbage, or Lysichiton americanus, would be relegated to a separate table.
All arums feature interesting flowers that are composed of two distinct parts. The spathe is the leaf-like sheath that encloses and protects the spadix, a fleshy spike that is covered with the plant’s true flowers. The upright “Jack” of Jack-in-the-pulpit fame is the spadix, holding forth from the confines of the “pulpit,” which is the spathe. In Eastern skunk cabbages, the spathe emerges reddish brown with green splotches, gradually revealing a cream-colored spadix inside. This appears well before the large, medium green, cabbage-like leaves. Skunk cabbages can grow quite large, up to 16 inches wide, and whenever one of those leaves is broken or crushed, the smell is quite pervasive.
Most people would never grow skunk cabbage in the garden, unless of course, part of the landscape featured a marshy woodland area. Still the plants have a distinct character and are admirable in their own way. Skunk cabbages long ago developed an adaptation, known as thermogenesis, which allows the plants to generate the heat they need to thaw frozen ground, enabling shoots to emerge in spring. The result of a respiratory process, thermogenesis can create temperatures up to 60 degrees Fahrenheit higher than the surrounding environment. In addition to thawing the ground, the temperature-altering operation creates a warm zone around the plants and helps spread the characteristic fetid odor, both of which lure the carrion feeding insects necessary for pollination. Without skunk cabbage, some of the early-emerging pollinators would be hard pressed for food. Without the pollinators, the skunk cabbage would be hard pressed to perpetuate itself. Thermogenesis and symbiosis are wonderful things and help make skunk cabbage unique.
Thermogenesis is not the only near-magic perpetrated by skunk cabbage. The leaves are mostly composed of water, so they fall over, dry and turn to dust very quickly. Perhaps more remarkable, the plants have the unusual ability to grow not just upwards, but downwards. After the seeds germinate, the roots reach down into the earth. As the roots grow, the roots also contract, pulling the stem downward. This process continues as the plant matures creating extremely deep-rooted plants that resist removal vigorously.
So why should we, who pride ourselves on our ornamental and/or edible landscapes, care about skunk cabbage? Though not conventionally beautiful, it is eye-catching in wet woodlands in the spring. Even more important, its continued presence is a symbol of environmental health, while its absence is symbolic of unhealthy ecosystem disturbance. Other species depend on its persistence. Marsh-loving yellowthroat warblers sometimes nest in the big leaves and wood ducks and bobwhite quail eat the seeds.
Sometimes we gardeners should abandon our clean-up efforts temporarily, don our gumboots and take a walk in the woods—especially as it wakes up in the early spring. You may see and smell skunk cabbage, not to mention trilliums, Jacks–in-the –pulpit and other spring bloomers. If you are observant of shapes, colors and growth patterns, you may even find some ideas for your own garden. Skunk cabbages won’t work, but various species of primrose, with their lettuce-like, basal leaf rosettes, provide a somewhat similar visual profile, plus lovely flowers with none of the nose-wrinkling smell.
Sweet inspiration does not always need a sweet fragrance.