Hello, fellow lovers of all things green. Last week, we spoke about rhubarb—its bold leaves, edible stems, ornamental cousins, and how a delightful brunch conversation with friends who will care for Jolee while I attend Comfort Zone Camp somehow circled back to trust, friendship, and the ways we support one another.
You may recall my mention that rhubarb contains oxalic acid (the leaves, that is), which is toxic to both deer and humans. Skunk cabbage shares rhubarb’s common thread of toxic leaves—along with other fascinating spring woodland traits.
Long before most perennials awaken, skunk cabbage announces that winter is loosening its grip.
Nature’s Earliest Spring Awakener
Our visiting Momma Bear
Legend has it that black bears emerge from hibernation when skunk cabbage begins to sprout. I assumed the correlation was that bears eat skunk cabbage. It turns out they do, but only in early spring before there are better things to nosh on. Black bears eat just about anything when rousing from hibernation and will look beyond the burning sensation caused by the oxalic acid in skunk cabbage.
Long before most perennials dare poke through the cold soil, skunk cabbage emerges with mottled, hood-like flowers that resemble something between a woodland seashell and a strange creature from another era. And then there’s the scent. Bruise a leaf or lean in close, and the plant releases the unmistakable odor that gave it its memorable common name.
Native American Indians used it for medicinal purposes. Today, sold as a tincture, skunk cabbage root is used as an expectorant for nasal congestion and hay fever, though the FDA has not evaluated it.
Skunk cabbage in the garden?
The unusual flower of skunk cabbage attracts early pollinators with its warmth and distinctive scent.
But I’m not the only one who admires how skunk cabbage carpets streambanks and low-lying woodland floors before the surrounding tree leaves emerge. Brian of Washington Township, NJ, asked if he could use it in the garden. I’ve often thought it would make an excellent option in place of hosta—deer candy, as most of you know. Unlike hosta, however, skunk cabbage grows in swampy, often stagnant water, so the cultural environments are quite different. Still, in a boggy garden, skunk cabbage certainly has appeal.
It would be tough to dig and move skunk cabbage, as the roots grow deeper with age, making older plants practically impossible to transplant. I’ve never seen it sold in a nursery, either. Inevitably, as the common name denotes, its smell can be offensive, especially if cut by a weed whacker or stepped on. Yet walking by a field of skunk cabbage carries only a slight musty smell beyond the flower itself.
It’s fascinating how early pollinators find the flower appealing, even though it smells much like a dead animal. So, like most things, it’s all a matter of taste.
Beauty in Unexpected Places
Year after year, I find myself delighted to see skunk cabbage return. Perhaps because it asks us to reconsider what we define as beautiful—or valuable.
Skunk cabbage (Symplocarpus foetidus) is native to wetlands throughout the Northeast and is one of the earliest signs that winter is loosening its grip. Even more fascinating, the plant actually generates heat. Through a remarkable process called thermogenesis, it can warm itself enough to melt surrounding snow and frozen ground, allowing it to emerge when little else can.
Skunk cabbage generates enough heat to melt surrounding snow and frozen ground, making it one of nature’s earliest signs of spring.
Skunk cabbage thrives in wetlands and streambanks, helping stabilize soil while providing habitat and food for wildlife.
Imagine that for a moment. A plant so determined to fulfill its purpose that it creates its own warmth against the cold.
Over the years, I’ve come to appreciate that gardens are not merely collections of pretty plants. They are living communities where each plant has a role to play—even the awkward, misunderstood, or less desirable ones.
Skunk cabbage helps stabilize wet soils and provides one of the earliest food sources for emerging insects. Its massive leaves, which unfurl in spring, shade and cool woodland streambanks. It belongs exactly where it grows—Mother Nature knows what she is doing.
So if you happen upon skunk cabbage during a spring walk and instinctively wrinkle your nose, perhaps pause a moment longer. Beneath its peculiar appearance lies one of nature’s earliest and most determined signs of renewal. Much like life itself, the most meaningful growth often begins under challenging conditions.
Garden Dilemmas? AskMaryStone@gmail.com or tune in on your favorite Podcast App.
Prefer to Listen?
This story is also a feature in this week’s episode of Garden Dilemmas, Delights & Discoveries, with additional reflections from the screen porch:
To learn about rhubarb, which shares the common thread of oxalic acid with skunk cabbage:
Rhubarb Edible vs. Ornamental— Kindness Helps Heal
or Podcast Ep 252. Edible vs. Ornamental Rhubarb — Kindness Helps Heal
