A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to drive north into the wooded areas of Gogebic County in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. It’s not that far away, less than six hours if you keep a close eye on Wisconsin construction sites. But I tell you, as I walked across those Michigan granite outcrops, among the lush ferns and under the canopy of deciduous and evergreen trees, I might as well have landed on another planet. I tell you, nothing – NOTHING – looked even remotely familiar.

Take sugar maples, for example. This is a tree I learned to identify in middle school. I remember when our science teacher, Mr. Slavik, took us on a walk to learn about tree canopies in cities and pointed out a particularly beautiful sugar maple that grew in a nearby garden. In addition to the shape of the leaves and the tree’s branching structure — opposite, as opposed to alternate — he ran his hand over the brown bark and described it as furrowed, sometimes tinted salmon-colored.

The sugar maples in the Northwoods, however, are anything but reddish. Instead of furrowed, the bark is flaky. Instead of brown, it is gray. There are no salmon-colored highlights either, although many in the deeper forests were adorned with moss and lichen.

Pines, spruces and firs – seen only as individual trees here in Illinois – alternated with maples, birches and aspens. The herbaceous layer of the forest floor consisted of the ferns mentioned above as well as other beauties such as the blue bead lily (Clintonia borealis) and the Canadian dogwood (Cornus canadensis).

Fortunately, there was not a single branch of garlic mustard, the plant restoration plant that ecologists love to hate.

Although I was staying in a cabin with no electricity, believe it or not there was an intermittent cell signal so I was able to access several plant identification websites. I spent a few evenings looking at what I had seen during the day, naming photos and doing my best to understand the amazing biodiversity, even though I had left my field guides at home.

Things came a little easier on a hike along a gravel road, where the sun shone brightly and old friends joined me. I quickly recognized spotted agrimony (Eutrochium maculatum) and wild strawberries—the good kind, Fragaria, as opposed to the seedy mock strawberry (Duchesnea indica) that predominates in Kane County.

By the second to last day, I was starting to feel pretty comfortable with the plants that surrounded us. With some basic identifications under my belt, I could start to look more closely at things like pollinators and other animal associations. What kinds of animals might these plants attract?

I wish I could list these species and describe the wonderful interactions we experienced, but two things happened. First, there was a storm. So severe that it drove even a diehard rain lover like me back indoors. And second, when we went back out, I found a plant so mythical and legendary that I completely stopped trying to identify anything else.

Ghost pipes. Monotropa uniflora.

They were growing a few feet from the path, among a widely spaced group of fir seedlings. Their brilliant white color made them impossible to miss, and their nodding flowers drew me in, just as their enchanting name suggests.

Also known as Indian pipe or corpse plant – a reference to its pale, waxy coloring and the way it shrivels and turns black after flowering – the ghost pipe is not a plant you see every day in either Michigan or Illinois. In the north, its C-value, or coefficient of conservatism, or tolerance to human disturbance, is 5, while here in Kane County it is 10 – as conservative as it gets.

Our famous and legendary naturalist, the late Dick Young, describes the plant in his book, Wild Plants and Natural Areas of Kane County, as “rare” and “one of the most beautiful plants we have. These little cameos, with their waxy white stems and shortened leaves, lack chlorophyll and feed on soil fungi. They are crowned with pristine, nodding flowers of late summer and, as saprophytic spermatophytes, are a striking demonstration of how fascinating and versatile life forms can be.”

Wow! That’s a lot to unpack.

The key findings are that although the ghost pipe is a plant and reproduces by producing seeds, it does not manufacture its own food. It relies on industrious mycelia – the root-like strands of fungi – to digest organic matter in the soil around it. The ghost pipe, or pipes, since there is rarely just one, then taps into this source of nutrients with its roots. (Another, more recent term for this relationship is mycoheterotrophy, from the Greek words for fungus, other, and food.)

We saw a lot of new things on this adventure in the north of the country. In fact, I still look at pictures and try – mostly unsuccessfully – to put names to the mosses, lichens and those damn ferns. But I never thought I would see a ghost…

… Pipe.

Now I have to see if I can find one here.

• Pam Otto is the outreach ambassador for the St. Charles Park District. You can reach them at [email protected].