“Moving among a stand of cottonwoods, I notice a summertime ‘blizzard’ all around me. Tufts of cotton released by the trees are backlit by the sun and they’ve become radiant, glowing, floating points of light, drifting unhurried through the forest. I stand transfixed, as if transported into a galaxy of stars.”
-- Turnagain Arm Trail Journal, July 13, 1998 entry
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I can't recall precisely when I began paying attention to — and celebrating — the annual release of seeds by local cottonwood trees, but it was likely in the early to mid-1990s. Back then, I lived on Anchorage's Hillside and regularly walked through woodlands rich with big, old cottonwoods on the Turnagain Arm Trail at our city's southern fringes.
At about the same time, I began keeping a "TAT journal," in which I recorded my observations and reflections from hikes along that trail.
A quick search of my house has failed to turn up my earliest journals. But I did find one from 1998 and others that include entries from 2007 through the present. Within those notebooks, I discovered several references to a summer phenomenon I've given various names, for instance, "the month of falling cotton" and "the time of floating (or flying) cotton."
In just about every one of those references, there's clear evidence that I marveled at what I was witnessing. When the myriad tufts of cotton (which enclose the cottonwood seeds) were backlit by the sun, which turned them into something extraordinary, even otherworldly.
Here's one example from 2018: "July 2. Denali and I do 5 miles on a warm to hot afternoon — temperature hovering around 70 degrees, maybe higher — cooled at times by an offshore breeze. This is the time of blowing cotton — tufts of cotton being blown off cottonwood trees. Looking up into the forest canopy and sky beyond, the backlit bits of cotton are sparkling, shimmering points of light when facing the sun. At various times (depending on breezes), they are floating upward or pushed in a stream of cotton balls across the sky, some of the cotton hundreds of feet high (or even higher?). At times, it seems like a blizzard of cotton, a "cotton storm" reminiscent of a snowstorm. This is an annual hypnotic, mesmerizing light show . . . an absolute delight."
Here's another example from July 16, 2011: "July, Month of Cotton. There's a surreal aspect to the cotton, moving slowly and sometimes in different directions as breezes swirl through the trees, an alternate universe of brightly backlit worlds floating among giants . . . It's an amazing thing to watch."
I got to thinking about the timing of this annual "light show" when I happened upon a similar cotton storm during a summer solstice hike along the Turnagain Arm Trail. It seemed early for the cottonwoods to be releasing their cotton-encased seeds; over the years, I'd come to think of it as a July event. At least that's what I recalled.
Those memories are what prompted my search for TAT journals. And the ones I could find (I'm certain the others are hiding somewhere in my home) confirmed my suspicions. In 1998, and again from 2007 through 2011, every journal entry noted the "cotton blizzard" occurred in July (the dates ranging from July 1 to July 16, and all but one of those on July 9 or later).
Over the past decade or so, I haven't walked the Turnagain Arm Trail nearly as much as I once did, largely because I now live in west Anchorage and also because my hiking habits have changed. Still, in those years when I've noted "the time of blowing cotton," all but twice the dates have been June 29 or later. The exceptions: this year and 2020, when I observed flying cotton tufts on June 16, the earliest ever. In 2021 I noticed the cotton blizzard on June 29, which means three straight June releases of cottonwood seeds.
I offer these observations for a few reasons.
First, though hardly a scientific study, my anecdotal observations of the past quarter-century indicate a clear shift in the seasonal release of cottonwood seeds and the cottony fluff that encloses them. The "cotton" actually being masses of extremely-fine, hair-like fibers that extend from the seeds, allowing them to be blown here and there by forest breezes.
My "data" suggests the "time of blowing cotton" is now up to two or three weeks earlier than it was in the 1990s and first decade of this century, a notable shift.
I'll also mention here that this year's early cotton blizzard is in keeping with other plant observations that I've made this summer, namely the earlier blooming of several wildflowers and the accelerated transition from flower to seed or fruit, which I suspect is connected to our unusually warm and dry weather of the past several weeks.
Second, the annual flight of cotton is considered a nuisance by some —and perhaps many — Alaskans because the cotton tuffs and seed pods from which they emerge can create something of a mess. At the same time, it's generally believed — incorrectly, I'd say — that the trees don't have much value to us humans. Yet the release of cottonwood seeds can be a compelling, even fantastic, experience for those who take the time to witness the annual "time of floating cotton."
Finally, the surreal "light show" that floating cottonwood seeds create each summer is only one of several reasons to celebrate these common yet unusual trees. I will share more about their multiple appeals — and benefits — another time. But, for now, I'll simply revel in the way cottonwoods can turn an ordinary summer walk in the woods into something astonishing.
Anchorage nature writer Bill Sherwonit is a widely published essayist and the author of more than a dozen books, including "Living with Wildness: An Alaskan Odyssey" and "Animal Stories: Encounters with Alaska's Wildlife." Readers wishing to send comments or questions directly to Bill may do so at akgriz@hotmail.com.
