Where the Wild Ones Are
By Andy Vanable
When I drive along the various highways and byways of Southern New England, my eyes sometime catch small, pink-rose colored “dots” intermixed within the mundane, huge sea of green. Usually, I note where and when I see these “dots,” for future investigation. More often than not, these tiny pink dots turn into small groupings of a half a dozen or so wild roses, usually of the same specie, coexisting with other wild flora in some of the most extreme conditions that can be imagined. Some of them have the most powerful, intoxicating scents of the rose world. To date, I have noted some 30-40 different groupings of wild roses, and I have stopped to investigate many.
My interest in wild roses began about six or seven years ago. This was the time before I joined the Connecticut Rose Society. I was struggling to keep six or seven roses alive in my garden for any extended period of time, and there was this wild rose growing along the guardrail on the side of one of our major highways. Nobody came to water it, or give it any fertilizer, or any other kind of tender loving care. Nobody in the world knows of its existence, except the state highway mowing personnel, who tried, but couldn’t kill this “weed,” the local bee population, and me. But, it thrived in spite of complete and total neglect.
This past July, I was traveling with my nephew along a small stretch of highway on a road that I must have traveled a thousand times before. Today was different than any other time. There was a fire truck refilling its tank on the bank of the Wenscott Reservoir. The traffic was moving at a crawl, and for some reason, I looked over at just the right time, in order to see a seven-foot-high mound of rose-pink and yellow. I knew it was a wild rose, and it was quite different than any other wild rose I had ever seen. I made plans to come back later in the day after work to see it up close.
That day at work was filled with my nephew and I trying to clear some overgrown trees and brush. The temperature reached 95 degrees. I was quite happy to see the end of that workday, and go investigate my wild roses. On my way home from work, I stopped by the ¼ mile stretch of road which borders the reservoir, but I was unable to find a parking place. I parked 100 yards to the north, past the reservoir, and walked down to the section of roadway in which I thought the rose was growing.
The first people I came across at the reservoir were a father/son duo carrying their fishing poles to the water. They were on their quest to catch “the big one.” I was on my quest to find “the wild one.” I climbed over the guardrail, and started exploring the shoreline. One of the first things I noticed was that there were many small fishing nooks carved in the shoreline. Most were only a few feet across, with most of the vegetation cleared out of the way. I didn’t see any roses at the first few fishing nooks I explored. I wondered whether or not I had seen any roses there. I walked another 25 feet or so, and then started to see some roses. First it was only one or two. These were short roses only a few feet high, with only a couple of blooms scattered here and there. But there were roses there after all. I trekked onward knowing that the “the wild one” was somewhere to be found. After I had explored a few more fishing holes, I came across the big wild rose I was seeking. It was in full-bloom with hundreds of very-fragrant, tiny, rose-pink flowers, with thousands of golden-yellow stamens popping through the early-evening sky. Wow! What a sight! There were more roses here on this one bush, than in my own garden with over 150 cultivated roses. But these roses weren’t on display for me, or the fishermen. No, they were on display to attract the bees and other insects which bring the pollen to continue the circle of life to the next generation. Well, it was starting to get dark, and I knew I would need to come back to the reservoir another time. And this time, I was going to bring my camera with me!
When I came back the next day, I parked in the parking lot south of the reservoir usually used by people who go swimming at the reservoir. I got my coffee, camera, and started to explore. I had the roadway to the left of me, the water to the right of me, and the guardrail was straight ahead. Now let’s go find “them roses!”
Today was a little different than yesterday. I noticed that every time a car or truck went by, a huge gust of wind followed. A lot of sand, dirt, and whatever else was blown everywhere. The roses weren’t looking very good. They were taking quite a beating from the blazing-hot, early-evening sun, and the constant pounding of the 40-mile-per-hour wind gusts from the passing traffic. I walked the complete stretch of highway this time. There were many more roses there than I had originally thought. They were everywhere. There had to be at least 50 specimens. And, I could see a minimum of three different species (probably closer to five or six) growing there. I took about fifteen pictures, but most of the pictures showed signs of the harsh conditions in which the roses were growing. Taking still pictures was nearly impossible. I knew that I had to return again in the morning just after the roses opened.
The next morning was a beautiful morning. The sun was shining, and not a cloud was to be seen in the sky. I came to the reservoir early, parked in the southern parking lot, and readied myself for the task at hand. I knew that today was going to be the day I was going to see the wild roses in their full glory. The early-morning sun created the perfect opportunity for me to capture the roses in all of their great splendor. Many of the roses had just opened, stamens standing at attention, attracting the many bees, who were bathing in them like little drunken sailors.
The traffic was moving at a much slower and steadier pace than it was the night before. Gone were the gusts of wind from the passing cars and trucks. The seemingly endless line of cars was only interrupted by the occasional crossing of the local resident Canadian geese, who just wanted to pass to the other side. I’m sure I was noticed by many passers by, and I probably became the butt of quite a few jokes by the end of the day, but my task was to take plenty of pictures and go smell “them roses!”
I found newly-opened roses, partially-open roses, fully-open roses, and yesterday’s spent roses. I found light-pink roses, medium-pink roses, deep-pink roses, and roses with no blooms on them at all. All of the roses were covered with millions of tiny golden-yellow stamens. Many of these roses had that unforgettable, intoxicating, heavenly, wild-rose fragrance.
One thing I was sure I wanted to do while I was there, was to take some pictures of these roses to try to get an idea of what species were growing there. I wanted to get some shots of the buds, leaves, prickles, flowers, and stamens, in an effort to identify the roses. I took pictures from every angle I could think of, and then a took a few more, just to be sure. I wanted to make sure that I had captured their true beauty. After about an hour or so, I had taken about 50-60 pictures, I was at the end of the shoreline which bordered the road, and it was time to leave. I had a great sense of accomplishment. Now back to the real world!
On the way back to my truck, I realized just how beautiful the surrounding area was. I was spending all of my time looking at all of the roses, and I didn’t even notice it. The surrounding area was just spectacular! It is full of many different types of wildlife. There are hundreds and hundreds of other kinds of wildflowers and shrubs. There were ducks, and geese, and frogs, and birds, and all different kinds of insects. What a shame that not many people know about this place.
Ever since I found the wild roses at the reservoir, I try to go by the reservoir as often as I can. I stop every now and then to look at the roses. And yes, it takes me a few minutes more to travel that way, but I know what the fishermen know. I know where the wild ones are.
The preceding article was written for the Connecticut Rose (published in the Nov. 2008 edition) in response to a request by the editor, Donna Fuss, to submit articles on the wildlife around us. While I had been working on the article for quite some time, it was completed on the eve of her death. Donna and I had many discussions about many different aspects of the rose-growing world. One of which, included the wild roses. She always seemed to have enough time to talk with me. I consider myself very fortunate that I was able to meet her. This article is published with thanks to Donna.
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