Bryology: The study of mosses and liverworts
Did you know that camels have three testicles? Well, if you did, you’d be wrong – and anyway, this article is about moss. That green stuff that grows on trees, rocks, and those trolls from Frozen. The stuff that goes unnoticed most of the time…
When you think about the natural world, it tends to be the big things: animals, forests, the ocean. In Aotearoa New Zealand, we’re brainwashed on bird propaganda. While Americans are divided along red or blue political lines, here you’re either a kererū or a tūī household. Not to mention the fact we’re all united under the term Kiwis.
But what about the flora that provide the foundation of life for these fauna? They’re the backstage crew that keeps the whole environmental show running. Deciding that birds have had more than enough air time (pun intended), I sought to learn a little more about moss. I’m no expert – I know almost nothing about it. I am, however, quite the expert of admiring pretty green things, especially when they come in shiny plastic baggies. Surely this couldn’t be much different?
A quick Google told me that New Zealand is home to about 500 species of moss, and roughly 108 of these are endemic (meaning they’re not found anywhere else in the world!) With these sorts of numbers, I figured I was bound to find something if I went looking. The mission: traverse deep into the Pineapple Track – one of the larger hills between the city and the airport, for those not in the know – to classify as many different kinds of moss as I could. For the sake of half (or maybe even quarter)-assed science, I risked my camera, dodgy ankles, and shiny Doc Martens in the quest to be an ecologist for the day.
Spoiler: I managed to find about four or five of the 500 before becoming too aware of the fact that I was alone in the bush with hardly any cell reception and no knife. Like swimming in a lake too long – sooner or later you start thinking about the unseen depths beneath you and what creatures might find your toes appetising.
At the very start of my hike, I was greeted by an entire retaining wall of moss – a convenient excuse to stop and catch my breath in admiration. This was your classic storybook moss: thin, clinging closely to the dirt, and of a lovely green hue. It was basic-ass, whimsical-ass and old-ass, too. I have recently learned that mosses are amongst the earliest land plants to have evolved from aquatic ancestors, and have been around for more than 400 million years. Technically, if you touch moss, you can claim you’ve basically touched a dinosaur.
Despite their association with deep, dark forests, some species of moss like Byrum caespiticium (commonly known as ‘sun moss’) actually thrive in sunny areas. As I said, I’m no expert, but Google would never lie, right? Generally however, mosses prefer moist, dark environments – like the mould in my wardrobe, apparently. Mosses are non-vascular, meaning they don’t have true roots. They absorb water straight from their surroundings, which is why they’re happiest in humidity. Maybe moss should be introduced to U-Bar.
Further into the track, some of the most fantastic mosses I came across (not that it’s a competition, all mosses are wonderful) were growing upon the stones of the rushing Ross Creek. Deep in the gully, I spotted Monoclea forsteri, a ‘liverwort’ species – named so because their bodies resemble liver lobes. That’s one for all you Health Science freaks. For everyone else, they look a bit like if a mum slimy ruffled fungi loved a dad lilypad very much. Just a bit gross.
Alongside this slightly discomforting sight, nestled among damp rocks, was Cyathophorum bulbosum, or quill moss. Its slimy appearance means it can sometimes be mistaken as a member of the liverwort family. However, its structure is quite different – small leaves lay in neat rows along the stem, giving it a fern-like appearance. If you spot this species, you can sleep soundly at night knowing that the surrounding forest is healthy: quill moss needs a clean, stable habitat to survive.
Visually, the most beautiful moss I came across was Hypopterygium rotulatum, or umbrella moss. Surprise surprise, this was also beside the river. Slender, peacock feather-like leaves stem from its centre and reach outward, giving the appearance of, as the name suggests, an umbrella. Scientists are pretty straightforward like that. It’s not cutesy, either. These mosses act like tiny insulation blankets, buffering moisture and creating habitats for tiny invertebrates like springtails and mites.
A bit further up the river bank, growing on some wonderfully decaying logs, I found Dicranum majus (greater fork moss). This moss was probably my second favourite, and would definitely have a place in my fairy home. In terms of texture – because you know I had to get all up in that moss – this was lovely. It’s a fluffy, pipe-cleaner looking species that can grow up to 7cm tall, carpeting forest floors, rotted wood and the bases of trees. It’s pretty majestic stuff.
After my discovery of the greater fork moss, I figured I’d seen enough variations of green things for one day. It was time to moonwalk through some tall grass to dislodge the dirt from my docs, drive a bit too quickly down the winding road, and walk the streets of North Dunedin once again.
As it turns out, I may be something of a moss connoisseur. To say the least about the expedition: it was shit (I was cold, damp and dirty). To say the most: it was magic. I felt that childlike wonder of backyard exploration return, and I had to refrain from picking enough moss to build a fairy village at my flat.
In a Nat Geo sense, I felt like I had the potential to be one of those people observing little things in nature while comparing my notes to other little things in books and then writing bigger things about them after that. Scientists, I think they’re called.