My Bitterroot Story

My fascination with the Bitterroot plant started when I was about four years old and our family drove past the fairgrounds in Missoula, Montana. There were teepees all over the place and Indians, many in their tribal attire, were everywhere.

I wondered aloud what the Indians were doing. My mother explained that they were digging Bitterroots and pointed out the beautiful flowers that seemed to be laying flat on the ground. When I questioned why they were digging up the flowers, she explained that the Indians used the roots for medicine (or at least that is what I remember her saying). I now know the Indians used Bitterroots as food. At the time, I had no idea what a root was or could really care less about any kind of medicine they made. I only knew that when I grew up, I was going to be an Indian, live in a teepee and dig Bitterroots.

My family soon moved from Montana and I forgot about the Bitterroots. I always knew that someday I would move back to Montana so I could be an Indian and live in a teepee. I also wanted to wear their beautiful clothes with fringe.

When I was eleven we returned to Missoula, but by then I was busy making new friends and no longer sure I wanted to live in a teepee. I did learn that the Bitterroot was the Montana State Flower at that time. Maybe for that reason alone, I started to fall in love with this spectacular flower.

As time passed, I still stopped to look at every picture I saw of a Bitterroot and was thrilled when I saw them growing in the wild. But growing up, discovering boys, getting married and raising children seemed to put the flowers further back in my mind. We left Montana again, to California, and I didn't see a Bitterroot for 14 years.

Back for good

In 1993 we moved back to Montana, bought some property, and began building a house. Shortly before the construction crew came out to grade the land, I discovered Bitterroot plants growing in the area. I knew I had to dig up the plants and transplant them elsewhere or they would be destroyed.

Everybody told me that I could not transplant them because they would not grow. I only knew I had no choice. They would definitely be destroyed when the ground was graded and transplanting them was the only choice I had.

I diligently dug up 246 plants, made a mound in my son's yard and called it Bitterroot Hill. To my delight, the plants continued to flourish and the flowers bloomed. I knew then I had at least given them life for one more season.

Watson's Phase

I discovered that I had one very special plant. This one did not have the reddish pink blossom that all the others did. When closed, It had a green blossom. Llike many of the others, the flower was white, but the blossom was different -- it had a yellow center.

This particular Bitterroot truly fascinated me. I could not find any information on it until 2006 when my daughter bought me a copy of Jerry DeSanto's book, "Bitterroot: The Montana State Flower." I now know this particular Bitterroot is called "Watson's Phase."

At the time, I was saddened when the last flowers died away, knowing they probably would not come up again because "everybody" told me Bitterroots could not be transplanted. The following spring, I was ecstatic when I saw the little green plants peeking out of the dried, caked clay. I told myself if other people has been unsuccessful in transplanting Bitterroots where I had been successful, it was because those little plants knew how much I loved them.

A new road

That spring we decided we had to sell some property we had owned for years because we needed the money to finish our house. As we walked the property with the potential buyers, I looked down and saw several Bitterroot plants growing where the planned road would go. Once again I had a dilemma. I had to save the plants. So, I began digging every plant that was in the way of the new road and transplanted all of them. Again, the plants took hold and I saved another few hundred Bitterroots.

As I looked around and saw all the new homes going up in the area, I wondered how many of these plants were being destroyed. I worried that our state flower was going to be extinct some day. I consoled myself by feeling good about the fact that I had saved approximately four hundred of them, and then convinced myself I had to forget all the others and enjoy the ones I had.

Bitterroot Heaven

As fate would have it, we decided we would sell the house we had built in Florence before we ever moved into it. As my husband checked out property and a house in Stevensville, I saw some little Bitterroot plants peeking through the ground. The more I looked, the more plants I saw and knew immediately that this was where I wanted to live. This was Bitterroot Heaven. The house was okay, too. Once we moved in and started to walk the land, I realized I had ten acres of Bitterroots and knew I was home at last. The "teepee" looks more like a modular home, but I can live with that.

Unfortunately, disaster struck. With the spring thaw in 1996, we realized some of the ground around the modular home had to be graded because it was starting to be surrounded by water. We also needed to clear an area to build a future garage.

While my husband, Ben, staked out the land that had to be graded, I worried about all the Bitterroots that would be destroyed. This time I knew I couldn't save them. I still had boxes to unpack, taxes to do, and no time to save the plants. As I worried aloud, Ben kept saying, "Honey, you can't save all the Bitterroots. Besides, you can hardly step anywhere on this ten acres without stepping on a Bitterroot. You won’t miss the ones that have to be graded."

He just didn't understand. I knew I couldn't save all the Bitterroots. I just wanted to save as many as I could. The men were coming in with the bulldozer and I wouldn't have time to save any of them. God, how I hated bulldozers and graders.

Bulldozers arrive

As I watched out of the window, the construction crew started to grade the ground. I was thankful that they started in an area with no Bitterroots, but I knew full well that it was just a matter of hours before they would be destroying the plants I loved so much.

I remember at the time telling God how unfair this was and how it seemed to me that there was something he could do to keep progress from destroying these beautiful little plants. If he had just given me a little more time and some good weather I could have at least saved some of them. I could no longer watch the grading out of the window because that darn bulldozer was now approaching the area where the plants were growing.

Within a few minutes there was a knock at the door. The man who had been doing the grading said he was sorry, but the ground was too wet. He was just pushing around mud and he would have to leave and come back when the ground was dryer. It was like a miracle, my boxes were now unpacked and the taxes were finished yesterday. But better yet, the sun came out and it warmed up.

The digging begins

The next day, my husband dug up an area where there were no Bitterroots and did not have to be leveled. With my little garden spade, I set about saving Bitterroots once again.

I started in an area where bigger plants were and happily transported them to area that would become their permanent home. There was only one problem. To get to the spot where the bigger plants were, I had to walk across an area that had been plowed up two years ago and turned into a driveway. As I walked across this dry caked clay area, I noticed three little tiny plants breaking through the ground. I was amazed at the fortitude these tiny plants had. Not only had they been graded under, they had been walked over and driven over and were still diligently trying to survive.

The first day as I walked back and forth across this area, I was very careful not to step on these three plants. I thought about digging them up, but time was of the essence and I had to dig up the bigger plants. On the second day every muscle in my body was aching. I knew I had to get back to the chore of transplanting every plant I could dig up because I did not know when the grader would be back.

Are you listening?

As I stepped over the three puny little plants in the driveway, a funny thing happened. I heard these little plants say "Save us."

This was crazy. I knew I talked to plants. I did it quite often. But plants can’t talk to humans, so I ignored them and went after the big plants. Every time I stepped over these small plants, I could hear them say "Save us."

To my amazement, I found myself mentally saying, "I can't. You're too puny. I don’t have a lot of time and I have to save the healthy plants that have a chance of making it."

My next thought was, "I'm tired. My body aches all over and I need to rest. Something is wrong with me if I think plants are talking to me, but it's worse than I thought if I start answering them."

So, I carefully stepped over the little plants and went about my business. But those darn plants, not satisfied with talking, started to nag. I finally gave in, got on my hands and knees and dug them up. The only problem was that once I was that close to the ground, I stared hearing other little plants that had been invisible as long as I was standing. They were all starting to say "Save me."

There were hundreds of tiny plants just starting to peek through the dry cracked clay. Once again, I heard myself talking back to them. I explained that I really had to get all the big plants out first. If I had time I would come back for them later. But, just like the first three, they started nagging and I kept digging.

Reality check

Finally I came to my senses and told myself to take a deep breath, get up very slowly, go into the house, take a shower and go out to look for a job. After six years of not working, if I had come to the point where I was not only hearing talking plants, but actually talking back to them and explaining my actions to them, then I was in real trouble. I'd better put myself in a position where I was communicating with living, breathing, human beings or the men in little white coats would soon be knocking on my door.

I got up, went in the house and poured a glass of herbal tea while I contemplated my sanity. I know about communicating with God and Nature, but this was ridiculous. I had carried it way too far. As I drank the tea and relaxed, I realized I had put myself in this position because I really don't like the cold weather.

I love sunshine and warmth and practically hibernated all winter -- venturing out only when I had to. The rest of the time I spent looking out of the windows at how beautiful the snow-covered Sapphire and Bitterroot mountains were and waited for spring. I had also upset myself worrying about the Bitterroot plants being destroyed and knowing I could not save them this time. I realized I must have, at least temporarily, lost my sanity.

Ultimately, I came to the conclusion that I could go take that shower, get dressed up, and go look for a job that I really didn’t want, or I could go back outside and transplant the flowers I loved so much. I would ache all over, but be happy in my own insanity.

Doing the right thing

As the days progressed, insanity didn’t really sound so bad. I kept digging. I found myself in detailed conversations with the puny little plants about how they really deserved another chance. They had already been graded under once and still had the determination to struggle and reach the surface to bring joy to Bitterroot lovers everywhere. They also brought to my attention that I had done the right thing by saving them first. If I hadn’t saved them, they would soon be covered with the concrete for the garage floor and their chances of surviving would have been gone forever.

Not only was I having meaningful conversations with the plants, I found myself making deals with God. On three occasions, I found little plants were in the middle of ant hills. I have a terrible reaction to ant bites and knew I would have to leave those plants. But naggers that they are, those darn little plants would not listen to my explanation of why I could not dig them up. I found myself telling God that I would loosen the dirt around the ant hills, but he had to make the ants disperse long enough for me to get the plants out without getting bitten. It worked all three times.

Time was on my side and I transplanted every plant I could find before the grading began again. There are over fourteen hundred plants getting used to their new homes and looking healthier each day. I will probably have to transplant some plants again someday because they are in a small area. These plants are rather crowded, but they have a chance to dig in their roots, grow into healthy plants and bring me joy for now.

Dreams do come true

Never in my wildest dreams could I have known that I really would be digging Bitterroots someday -- not for food -- but to save their lives so I could look out of my "teepee" window and bask in their beauty.

My mind tells me that some of those tiny plants with hardly any roots may not survive, but my heart tells me they know I transplanted them because of my love for them. Since they have endured all this trauma over the last few years, there is no doubt in my mind that their struggle for survival will be increased with the knowledge that I must have been born to be their protector.

The Bitterroots I transplanted in 1993 and 1994 are strong and healthy. Some of the plants are four inches across. I have never seen them that big in the wild. The "Watson's phase" plant continues to flourish in its own unique beauty.

I guess at this point for the sake of my reputation I should plead temporary insanity for the days I spent talking to, listening to, and sometimes arguing with these precious plants but, for some reason I don't want to. I can't remember a time in my life when I have felt so at peace with the world and myself, or so in tune with nature. If this is insanity then I recommend it for everyone!

-- Dorothy Nantt-Staggs