Castilleja

You break the tree line to walk into a wild meadow, feeling the long stiff grasses brush your fingertips, the dry, loose dirt shifting beneath your boots, the mountains and evergreens and aspens surrounding the open space. You inhale and smell the sweet and spicy scents of pine and wildflowers and fresh air. The sun shines on your face, warming your entire body, making you feel light, and you can’t help but smile. You look out over the vast yellow-green landscape to see bright splotches of color - the adaptable, resilient flowers that could grow all the way up in the mountains, and all the way down on the plains. Well drained soil and plentiful sunlight are all these flowers need to survive. They are even known to endure through drought-like conditions - they’re determined little things. Especially the bright red stalks dotting the grass, spiking up to paint the field. They’re hemiparasites - they receive their nutrients from photosynthesis, but a large portion of the necessary food it needs to survive is obtained from the roots of other plants. They’re survivors. They have been around a long time, known for their connections to Native American culture and their specificity to North America.   

These flowers capture attention with their vibrant colors, from oranges and yellows to pinks and purples. But the most eye-catching ones are a fiery red, their flame-like blooms setting the prairie on fire in splashes of lively color. Or perhaps it could be described as blood, being painted onto a canvas in a hopeless attempt to brighten the dreary plains. There is a certain beauty in the bright chaos among the monotony of the fields; the wildness of the landscape. The tubular flowers spike into the air, resembling the paint brushes they were used for years before any of us can remember. Standing anywhere from 8 to 36 inches tall, the flame-colored petals lick at the sky, at the grass around it, singing its color forever into the memory of the wild meadow. The stalks sway with the tough grasses around it, refusing to be broken by the wind. 

These flames were not always an echo of a memory, of a culture even. Their life used to be effective, if not revered. They had a purpose, a legacy, a culture. It has faded, content to stay in places like Wyoming that are often forgotten too, to paint in the background. Content to reflect the places it resides, to live in a quiet and unknown beauty. But it used to be so much more. It was used as a spice, a condiment on Native American feasts. It was a medical treatment, boosting the immune system and decreasing respiratory issues. It was an aid for women’s health, used as a contraceptive and to decrease menstrual cycle intensity. It was used and worshipped for its color, a main source for dyes and a representation of love and loss. Legend says that a woman saved a prisoner from a cruel fate of torture and gave up her village to save him. The first Indian Paintbrush grew because the woman, in a wave of homesickness, drew her camp with her own blood before throwing away the stick she used to paint. How fitting that a paintbrush should grow there, ready to paint the world with her sacrifice.