Plants – Daniel J. Hinkley

The Unimaginable Zero Winter

January 5, 2026 By Daniel J. Hinkley

*Polygonatum tessellatum, collected in northern Myanmar with Shayne Chandler in 2013, is offering an atypical evergreenosity this year, along with an opulent crop of bright red fruit.*

Though an amended ripoff from T.S. Elliot’s Little Gidding, shared sentiments of our respective Unimaginable seasons stuck in place like cars on an icy hill are quite similar. His were the days of a seized-up late winter while waiting for spring that seemingly would not come. Mine are the dark and soggy, alternating with blinding sun; a late autumn caught in an endless loop between the high thirties and mid forties.

A rather large collection of Begonia species at Windcliff are, on January 3rd, 2026, providing an unexpected, never-before-experienced season of backlit foliage.

If this was our norm, I would not be pushing quite so hard to liberate our bottomed-out autumn from the deep ruts of a muddy road. The days are getting only minusculely longer, but minusculely enough for those clever plants of mine to notice. The flower buds of too many shrubs and trees are being seduced and juiced into growth two months too early. Galanthus and hellebores are in full blossom. Begonias and the hardy gingers (Hedychium) are still in active growth. It will take only a minor aerial operation through the Fraser Valley of British Columbia to do seriously bad things.

Edgeworthia chrysantha ‘Windcliff Sunrise’ is a second generation seedling selection from my original collection from NE Sichuan in 2004. It has always blossomed significantly earlier than the more frequently offered forms of this species in commerce, however showing color by New Years Day is a first in our garden in Indianola, WA.

My husband will confirm those things you have always suspected of me. Whatever is happening in my garden, at this precise moment, I want….the polar opposite of things that exist, Kevetch about weather? I just can’t resist, the Pacific Northwest where the rains they are legend as long as you really don’t live here I reckon to see that our soils become dusty dry, (by June if we’re lucky) with smoke in the sky, and our winters are mild… “Right!”, said with a grimace, as the garden gets smaller, no plant with much bigness, and then when it rains, well it comes in a river and measured by feet or at times by the meter. DJH

The early winter flowers of Polyspora longicarpa from northern Vietnam (left)are frequently damaged by early freezes while Steve Hootman’s collection of Polyspora speciosa from Guangxi Province, PRC (right) is generally more resistant to moderate frosts. Both are providing a sensational, extended showing this year. (note to Steve; mine is bigger)

An unexpected and generous harvest of Yuzu (Citrus juno) from our garden specimen on December 27th, makings for enough marmalade to last a few days. Robert eats a lot of marmalade…….

I have tried to get things in order but I have failed. (I can’t do this alone, people!) Today, on January 4th, two days before the shameful anniversary of January 6th, when our Resident-in-Thief began his systematic dismantling of our constitutional democracy, I surrender to what will come by way of a vastly-human-altered and capricious climate. It is windy but warm, the fragrances of Daphne and Sarcococca are aloft, and the sun

Reflecting in a watery mirror
A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.
And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier, T.S. Elliot

Robert and I, along with the staff and volunteers at Windcliff, wish you all the best gardening of your life in the months ahead in this new year. DJH 1/4/26

Windcliff Plants (updated inventory here) is available to visitors by appointment Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays (which can easily be scheduled by emailing windcliff2@centurytel.net ). If you are visiting for a specific plant, please ask regarding its current availability prior to your visit. Additionally, a selection of our plants are for sale exclusively at Heronswood, Ravenna Gardens of University Village in Seattle, Crazy Hill Gardens and Botanicals in Belfair and Bay Hay and Feed on Bainbridge Island.

The Migration of Madrone

September 26, 2025 By Daniel J. Hinkley

On a single evening just before the first rains of autumn, a cyclonic swarming of termites from thousands of colonies takes to the air. While legions of losers uber across town into eternity, a few successful pairings settle down to ultimately eat your house. Butterflies drawn by invisible cues for thousands of miles, across lakes, mountains and deserts never before seen, arrive together en masse to a few hundred fir trees in Central Mexico. A million Sandhill Cranes constringe along a small length of the Platte River near Kearney, Nebraska over ten days in late March. And murmurations of starlings appear at dusk in choreographed, shape-shifting, fluid clouds above the Edmonds Ferry Terminal in late summer. Just a fraction of the highly predictable, byzantine synchronicities of the natural world that shifts me to that state of non-self.

Sandhill Crane Migration, Kearney, Nebraska, March 16th, 2025

Monarchs on Abies religiosa awakening to the first rays of sun in Michoacán, western Mexico, February, 2022

These orchestrations are hardly confined to the poster children of the peregrinate. There are the horned and hoofed, spined or -like trumpeting sycophants- spineless, winged or apterous. All going somewhere in particular or nowhere at all, all at once and always in a hurry. This brings me, admittedly in incongruous fashion, to our most iconic native tree species that guards the bluff edges at Windcliff.

A bird’s eye view of the bluff edge at Windcliff, with Arbutus meniziesii holding it all together, literally and figuratively. Photo Credit; Claire Takacs.

As the Baobab to Madagasgar or the Coconut to tropical islands, there is no tree that more visually brandishes itself to the Pacific Northwest than our beloved Madrona. It was ḰEḰEYIȽĆ to the Saanich People of southern Vancouver Island, a sacred tree to which their canoes were tethered during the great flood. In 1769, the Spanish missionary Juan Crespi was sufficiently schooled in botany to note its resemblance to the Mediterranean Strawberry Tree (Arbutus unedo) and dubbed it Madroño. George Vancouver’s voyage into the Straits of San Juan de Fuca in 1792 carried aboard English botanist Archibald Menzies who returned with a tree that would ultimately be named Arbutus menziesii in his honor.

Sixty four years later, in 1857, cartographer and U.S. Lieutenant George Davidson mistook the identity of the same tree while referencing a peninsula in the Puget Sound as Magnolia Bluff, lying directly southeast of our garden. To this day, this misnomer sallies forth in the significantly-sized Seattle neighborhood of Magnolia.

Davidson was an undeniably brilliant surveyor yet out of his depth botanically while out of his mind in love with a young Ms. Elinor Fauntleroy. In an attempt to curry favor with his future father-in-law, he named all things observable after someone in their family, including Fauntleroy Cove, as well as, in the Olympic Range, Mt. Elinor (his betrothed), Mt. Constance (his future sister-in-law), Mt. Rose (another sister-in-law) and The Brothers (two additional sisters of the betrothed who were, at the time, transitioning)(that is not true)(to the best of my knowledge). So, in actuality, our dendrologicaly-annointed Seattle neighborhood could have easily enough honored in perpetuity a pervy Fauntleroy uncle.

Our beloved Madronas. They change by the hour and by the day and through the seasons. In every interaction, you are introduced to a new tree, never before seen or even remotely imagined, like the recent attempts at rewriting 275 years of American democracy. Though most scintillating during the sunrise and sunset hours, through a window it can by itself warm the room of a chilled and swampy December day.

Dawn

Dusk

April (photo credit; Flower Essence Services)

The ureolate or urn-shaped flowers are a signature floral type of the Ericaceae, an enormous assemblage of horticulturally significant plants including Pieris, Rhododendron, heaths and heathers and the very closely related manzanitas in the genus Arctostaphylos. Chief pollinators include hummingbirds, native bees and honey bees and the spring azure butterfly. The nectar and pollen rich flowers are designed perfectly for a strategy known as ‘buzz pollination’, in which bumblebees in particular dislodge pollen through vibration of their wings.

October

On a good year, the Pacific Madrone can be weighted with succulent, red, rough-textured berries and swarmed by frenzied flocks of frugivorous and omnivorous birds alike. We have been entranced while watching wind-hovering seagulls kite in gale force winds above the bluff while gluttonously plucking fruit on the wing.

Arbutus menziesii preparing to shed its rusty-colored shards of aging skin.

As stately, as imposing and as sacred as they might be, Madronas are ALWAYS losing themselves, whether it be branches, leaves, flowers or fruit. But in that vein, on one day each year, when the conditions are just right, we witness something remarkable. It is something one hears before seeing, a rattly gurgle that I mistaken repeatedly as a gushing broken irrigation line. The sound draws my eyes to its source which seems to build to a crescendo in only a matter of seconds.

And then it goes sort of like this:

The night before I was to graduate from Michigan State University in 1976, I stayed up all night with a devilishly handsome and mischievous sprite of a man named Baron Munchausen. Despite the ridiculously high odds that this is a lie, indeed that very thing for which his namesake was discreditably known, it is in all aspects a true story. Just before dawn we had somehow arrived to the Woldumar Wetlands and hiked along a trail to the edge of an expansive cattail marsh. In late May, it was filled with only the remnants of last year’s growth. The precise moment the surrounding landscape was flooded by the first ray of sun on that morning of my graduation, an unheard snap or bark or splash ignited a concatenation of thousands of roosting red-winged blackbirds that lifted in unison into an opulent gilded light.

Like a pre-thunk flight of birds or butterflies or deliberated cyclones of termites, our Madrone lets loose its skin in a whoosh and whirl to the air, like a direct hit to a piñata by a school house bully. And why I find this so remarkable is probably the same reason so many find me unremarkable. My tree has scattered its skin to the entirety of the garden and beyond, carrying with it in one magnificent holy flight not only its own substance, but those countless things upon which they grow, an inoculation, a migration of my beloved tree and all that belongs on her.

DJH 9/26/25

The garden has been enlivened by cooler temperatures, shortening days and a wee bit of precipitation . We feel it is worthy of a wander and wonder, and we look forward to seeing you here.

Ecstatic for Sassafras tzumu

March 4, 2025 By Daniel J. Hinkley

Bold foliage on a tall tree from China. — *The sensational autumnal transition of Sassafras tzumu intensifies in mid November at Windcliff. Photo DJH*

CH₂O₂C₆H₃CH₂CH=CH₂ is known as Safrole by those of us with lesser minds. It is a clear oil with a sweet, baked-good fragrance that has been distilled from the root bark of Sassafras albidum and used as a medicinal tea for centuries by Eastern Native American Tribes. In terms of phytochemistry, Safrole exists in all three Sassafras species (and a few other unrelated plants) as an antifeedent, i.e. a culinary buzz kill for all things hungry.

The only species to occur in Novus Mundus, Sassafras albidum in autumnal finery. Occurring naturally from southern Ontario to eastern Texas, its dried foliage, Gumbo File, was adopted by Cajun cuisine from the Choctaw Indians. (photo provided by Georgia Native Plant Society)

In 1912, a young German chemist working for then Little Pharma Merck was the first to use Safrole to synthesize methylenedioxymethamphetamine, surpassing in number of vowels and consonants the totality of cerebral neurons in the brains of our country’s leadership; including those elected and those simply self-annointed. Fifty years later, it was the Sixties ……dude…… and its abbreviation, MDMA, appeared suddenly on the streets of the Midwest while ever since lighting on fire Raves across the world. Ecstasy, as it came to be called, was immediately cited as a controlled substance by the DOT, NTP, DEP, IARC, NFPA and the EPA (this is true). Recently it was all blamed on DEI (this is probably true).

Five decades later, underground labs are still using safrole as the precursor to XTC, but its source has shifted 8,000 miles west of the deciduous forests of North America….. Meet Sassafras tzumu, aka Cha Mu, one in only a triad of species in the genus worldwide. Along with such well knowns as Bay Leaf, Avocado, Camphor, Cinnamon and Lindera, Sassafras is bundled taxonomically into the decidedly aromatic Laurel Family, the Lauraceae. Compared to Sassafras albidum and Sassafras randaiensis (Taiwan), Cha Mu is pure kryptonite in terms of quantity and purity of its essential, high test oils. Ornamentally, it offers multi-seasonal effects as well as bold textured foliage to the garden.

Oddly enough, Lindera obtusiloba, a doppelgänger for Sassafras in terms of foliage, and taxonomically closely related, grows with Sassafras tzumu *cheek by jowl* in NE Sichuan. This particular collection, DJHS 8093, possesses near-orbicular, three-lobed leaves that color to rich butterscotch in October. Photo DJH.

It was not until my fourth trip to China in 2003 that I first met in person the subject at hand in the extreme northeastern corner of Sichuan Province. In a clear example of the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon, it then, everything, everywhere, all at once, seemed to appear at every turn in our subsequent travels over the years within China, growing under extraordinarily diverse habitats, from the rich and moist mountain jungles of Guizhou to the dryish pine lands in Hunan and Hubei.

“It was in late October of that year (…..cue in a wrinkled old man with a large lit Habanos in hand) when I first met this divine creature by chance on a mountain trail above the village of Tao Yuan”. While cloud-chasing, he continues, “Tao Yuan. The women. The dancing. The drugs. Always the drugs….truthfully, never the women.” In all seriousness, it was only by way of noticing its distinctive three lobed foliage vividly carpeting the trail upon which I walked that year that made me aware of its presence. Every limb of every tree above me was devoid of foliage. I did not even consider looking for seed.

*Sassafras tzumu is the most consistent of the three species in possessing three lobed leaves, though all may exhibit foliage with none, one or two lobes. Photo DJH.*

I had grown up near the northern most distribution of Sassafras albidum in Michigan, and this kiddo was entranced by its variably lobed foliage (right mitten, left mitten and mutant child mitten) that smelled, if crushed, of a well poured pint of root beer. I was quite comfortable in my identification on that day in 2003. It was the raison d’etre of my return to the same mountain 11 months later, September 2024, with traveling companions Scott McMahan, Ozzie Johnson and Dave Demers. As we had hoped, the branches of numerous 50-75′ tall specimens of Sassafras tzumu remained laden with fleshy drupes of glistening blue.

*Scott McMahan, of the Atlanta Botanic Garden, gathering seed of Sassafras tzumu in NE Sichuan above the village of Tao Yuan in 2004. Photo DJH.*

Though the seed we collected that year germinated extremely well in the spring of 2005, the resultant seedlings were highly susceptible to collapse, presumably from a root pathogen. Heronswood Nursery did manage to produce enough of this collection to offer, and three specimens were planted at Windcliff in 2005. (The only Sassafras tzumu at Heronswood, still alive and well, was purchased from Camellia Forest Nursery in North Carolina. It does not have provenance and is remarkably different in constitution from our Sichuan collection.)

To this day, Sassafras tzumu remains the earliest blossoming tree in our garden, with flowering commencing in late January and lasting through February. Although the individual flowers are small, held in lax, terminal racemes, they are collectively comely in effect and read remarkably well from a distance during a long-shadowed time of year with a rare blue sky as a backdrop.

*DJHS 4230, now approximately 40′ tall at Windcliff, 2/18/25. A miserably bad photo by DJH.*

Sassafras tzumu (and its Taiwanese counterpart, S. randaiensis )are monecious, with both male and female flowers on the same tree. The American species, Sassafras albidum, is dioecious, with separate male and female plants. Photograph taken 2/18/25, DJH.

If the conditions are right and the beehives alive, and because we have multiple clones, small crops of its fertile seed are regularly produced at Windcliff. These will easily germinate the following spring if given an adequate period of cold during the winter. As an aside, in putting the final touches on this post, I visited our specimens for another photo, and was grateful to experience for the first time a small flock of Bushtits in the upper reaches of our specimens flitting from flower to flower; whether they were supping nectar or simply eating insects attracted to its nectar, it was too distant to determine (they are known to be dietarily catholic). But then again, perhaps they were just trying to get high.

DJH 3/2/25

P.S. To Our Dear Friends to the North, the South and across the Oceans, ChatGPT, along with some work on my end, send to you

A Prayer for Forgiveness, A Prayer for Strength

In a land once filled with joy and light,
We lost our way in greed and might.
The soil we tilled, the gifts we shared,
Were cast aside by hearts that dared
To take, to hoard, to claim as own,
What once was meant for all to grow..

But deeper still, beyond our shame,
Are those we loved, yet turned to blame.
Our friends, our allies, hands once near,
Now drift afar in doubt and fear.
To them, we offer humbled cries—
For trust once shattered, drowned in lies.

Forgive us, you who stood so true,
When we betrayed the faith we knew.
Forgive the silence, cold and deep,
When you had wounds, we let you weep.
Forgive the hands that let you go,
When you sought strength, yet stood alone.

Forgive the harm, the lives betrayed,
The peace undone, the trust decayed.
May we relearn to stand as one,
To heal the wounds, to right the wrong.
Though darkness lingers, hope remains,
And through compassion, good sustains.

Amen.

Valiant Rodgersias

June 20, 2019 By Daniel J. Hinkley

Boldness Incarnate for PNW Gardens

Rodgersia pinnata ‘Elegans’ with deep pink flowers — Rodgersia pinnata ‘Elegans’ from Sichuan in 1998

Can you even imagine? Only a bit over a century ago, all you need do was sail a boat into a harbor in Asia and your legacy would be cemented into the genus of a plant. Sometimes even a good plant at that. This was the case with Admiral John Rodgers who commanded the expedition to Japan in 1850. I am tempted to refer to him as Mr. Rogers, however that would probably only reveal more of my bitterness. He probably didn’t even like plants. These days, after days of flying and driving to remote regions with the express purpose of studying the local flora, the acknowledgement I receive is generally a small bag of pretzels and a disposable toothbrush I have spirited away from the plane lavatory.

For such a small genus of plants (only five recognized species), they are not only associated with some pretty heady plantsmen (but for the aforementioned Mr. Rodgers) but add a brilliant dash of bold foliage and, in some cases, dazzling color to our gardens. Heronswood boasts a rather immense collection, with all of the known species represented. Many are from wild collections of known provenance.

Rodgersia podophylla was the first described from Rodgers’ voyage to Japan. For what it lacks in floral punch- tall clusters of white flowers- it makes up for in foliage, with immense compound leaves often emerging in resting tones of purple or copper.

Pere Armand David (aka Davidia involucrata, Acer davidii) is responsible for introducing both R. aesculifolia (leaves like an Aesculus or horse-chestnut) as well as R. pinnata.(possessing leaves ostensibly pinnate). Their ranges overlap in W. China where natural hybrids between the species occur. Undoubtedly it is from these two species that come the most beguiling in flower, while there are forms with deep purple bruised foliage that can cause minor heart afflictions when encountering them for the first time at just the right moment in spring.

Rodgersia sambucifolia (leaves like a Sambucus or elderberry) is very distinctive and easily recognized, as each leaf extends to 3′ in length. It is present at Heronswood but does not sing as loudly as the others and very few people inquire as to its identity. In some ways, it is similar to R. nepalensis. This too has long pinnate foliage and is represented in the garden by only one plant from seed I collected in Nepal in 2002. It is the only species of Rodgersia that remains geographically segregated from the other species, making it rather certain you are collecting the real McCoy and not a hybrid.

Mr. Rogers plants (sorry, I simply could not help myself again) are at their prime in at Heronswood this week, both in foliage and flower. Come explore the valiant Rodgersias and discover in the process the magic inherent to the collection in our garden.

Paths to Linnaea

June 16, 2017 By Daniel J. Hinkley

Charming pink bells held in pairs of the Twinflower, Linnaea borealis — The still extant colony of Linnaea borealis in the woodland at Heronswood

In June of 1987, our realtor brought us back to the property at 7530 288th St NE for a second look. We had been uninspired by our first viewing on a cold, dreary January day earlier that same year. And besides, the asking prices of $89,000 was appreciably beyond our budget.

On that early summer’s day, however, the skies were crisply blue while from the canopy of Doug firs and cedars came a cacophony of birdsong. I ventured into the thick native undergrowth of the woodland to get a better feel of the property and its potential for garden making.

On a mound of duffy soil surrounding a rotting stump, I encountered a generous colony of Linnaea borealis in full blossom. As I kneeled down to admire the plant that had long been a favorite, a black-capped chickadee arrived to the stump with a fat grub in its beak and entered a hole to a chorus of hungry nestlings inside. We made an offer on what would become Heronswood that evening.
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