The following is just about everything we could learn and observe about lichens in a short time period.
Lichens, if you do not know, are fungus living in a symbiotic relationship with either alga or cyanobacteria. Pretty much lichens form when fungus grows into algal cells. Fungi cannot use photosynthesis to nourish themselves since they do not contain green pigment, which is essential for the process. Alga and cyanobacteria CAN, however, so the fungus basically farms the nourishment these organisms produce. By all definitions, this is agriculture.
Some of the main structures lichens form are crustose, foliose, and fruticose, although fruticose is not common in this area and we didn’t find any.
Lecidella olivacea (#1), Physcia millegrania (#2), Leparia Incana (#3)
All of these types have subcategories, such as the crustose lichen in image #3. It is a leprose crustose lichen, categorized by its lack of a cortex and the powdery clusters of photobiont cells and fungal hyphae. Photobiont cells are responsible for photosynthesis, and the fungal hyphae serve as a protective layer.
Foliose lichens are the other type we found plenty of. Foliose, unlike crustose, do not fully attach to the surface they grow from and create more of a leafy, plant-like structure as seen in image #2 and #4.
Drawings of two common lichens under magnifying glass (#4), Porpidia albocaerulescens (#5)
What is wild is that lichens are so self sustainable that they can tolerate just about any environment. From hot desserts to rainforests to the arctic, they can slowly colonize such improbable homes and make the environment more suitable for other habitation. And because there are multiple ways for lichens to reproduce, they quickly spread once they find a home. They can reproduce asexually by producing little packages of alga cells encased in protective fungus hyphae or shoot out fingers and lobes that can easily break off and form new lichen elsewhere. But they can also form spore producing bodies called apothecia, which you can see see in image #5. The resulting spores must then find an alga to mate(?) with, often stolen from other mature lichens, and so the cycle continues.
In order to find some sort of direction in the vast realm of lichenology, I turned to Betsy, a family friend. Following her mother's suicide when she was 12, she ran away from home and lived in a tent in the woods for an unspecified ("Several months. I think. How was I supposed to know? I lived in a tent!") period of time. Now that she lives in a house in Somerville, MA, she hikes and does some light foraging out of interest, not necessity. I asked for recommendations of lichen-related activities.
Betsy said that she had attempted to eat lichen, both on its own and as part of a prepared meal, and that it was the worst taste she could remember. So... eating was off the table. She explained the supposed medicinal and hemostatic properties of certain lichens and mosses, and said that unless I planned to slice my hand open and bandage it with moss, it would be difficult to get data. She mentioned that lichens had been used for pigments and fabric dyes wherever they were abundant, and
I settled for trying to dye wool yarn with lichen. As I hung up around 10 p.m., Betsy said, "Remember - lichen is your friend!"
Candelariella aurella (#1), Physcia millegrania (#2), Physcia adscendens (#3), Candelaria concolor (#4) - these were the lichens I used to make each of the dyes; these photos were taken the morning after I collected them.
I googled “how to make lichen dye” and read several articles, most of which explained that lichens must be soaked in an ammonia solution for three months prior to boiling. One, however, had a brief recipe for lichen dye that involved simmering a cup of chopped lichen, a fistful of salt, and 6 cups of water for one to two hours. I thought to myself, That's nothing, I'll only be up until midnight! I was wrong.
I collected the lichens in oddly shaped, otherwise-useless containers. I walked outside in the dark and scratched the loose chunks off green- and blue-dusted rocks. Carrying a chef's knife as long as my forearm (the "outside knife," as my dad calls it) and holding a flashlight between my teeth, I felt like a criminal. The weight of the knife is astonishing the first time you pick it up. I spent half an hour crawling around my porch and backyard, humming Nina Simone songs I had listened to that day and flicking the knife under the spots where the crust of lichen had detached from its rock. My neighbor's security light sputtered on and off until they saw me from their porch and realized the neighborhood weird girl was at it again.
When I got inside, I grabbed the 4 largest glass containers I could find, all of them dreadfully mismatched. I rinsed and chopped any oversized bits of lichen before pouring the pieces, one species at a time, into separate pots of water and salt. After several minutes, I added to each a piece of undyed wool yarn. I was curious to see if boiling the wool with the lichen would affect color retention.
As each potful of water and salt and lichen began to boil, the frothy mixture emitted a truly foul odor. I couldn't lean too far over the pot as I stirred; I made that mistake with the first dye and gagged when I got a lungful of the putrid steam.
It was 3:45 a.m. when I poured the last dye into its cup. I was giddy, but my glee was reduced somewhat by the sound of the earliest house sparrows waking up.
After boiling, I placed one undyed string in each dye container in addition to the already-tinted ones. When I woke up a measly four and a half hours later, I placed the containers on a sunny windowsill and stumbled downstairs to start a drowsier-than-usual class. (I took the above photos around noon.)
Below are the final results. Each set of yarn includes: undyed for reference, soaked in room temperature dye for 24 hours, and boiled with the lichen. On the left are clusters of lichen I removed from each container after boiling and soaking; on the right are samples of the "uncooked" lichens.
Jane, after her interview with Betsy, learned that lichens supposedly grow only on the North sides of trees. Betsy seemed skeptical of this myth, but it is nonetheless used as a navigation tool. As a result, I decided to take a quick survey of the lichens I found near my house (may or may not have gone onto my neighbor’s property). Of course, the sun was setting and this is day before the project is due so I had no choice but to brave mosquito feasting hour. I do not own any sort of bug repellent besides vinegar, and I didn’t want to put that on my skin, so my survey was a bit rushed. However when looking for lichens even under hastened conditions, you inevitably find a lot of things besides lichens such as this furry (2.5 INCH!!) moth:
Anyway, here is the data I collected:
I took a picture of a compass, and plotted a red mark for each data point. You can see the direction most lichens were facing was not necessarily North. However there is certainly a gap south east, which makes it seem that there is some pattern. But this data could be partial, as I may have unintentionally been seeking out more North facing lichens than others. I wanted the myth to be true and so whenever I found a lichen facing north I would get excited and note it, possible overlooking the south facing lichens on the other side of the tree. In fact as I thought of this, the next time I found a North facing lichen, I thoroughly inspected the other sides of the tree. What I found every time I did this is that some amount of lichen could be found on all sides of the tree. While I still believe there could be some truth behind it, it went to show how easily I find only what I want to see, which is a potentially dangerous way to be.
Conclusion: Lichen is everywhere and lichen is your friend.
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