“Jim, this is nice,” I says. “I wouldn’t want to be nowhere else but here.”
—From the book Huckleberry Finn

I agree with Huck. There are few places I’d rather be than smack in the middle of a savage ripsnorter of a thunderstorm. I love a good storm.

I think most of us do. Weather is integral to the ambience of outdoor Michigan, and thunderstorms are all about ambience. The foreboding rumble of distant thunder; the malevolent scowl of an advancing arcus cloud; the sizzling intensity of lightning; the wet blast of the foreward-flank downdraft; the fresh smell of rain-washed air as the clouds roll off to the east…nothing grips the senses quite like a storm.

You know it’s true. When you were a kid, your mother told you to stay away from the window during a thunderstorm, didn’t she. But now that you’re grown, where is it you go when the thunder rumbles? Right—you head straight for the window. And who can blame you? A good storm is well worth seeing.

But not all storms are created equal. Here in Michigan, thunderstorms commonly line up in a squall line along an advancing cold front. Squall lines are prolific breeders of straight-line winds, intense lightning, and pea-size hail. Shorter squall lines may bulge out in the center, forming what is called a bow echo; the fiercest winds occur in these formations.

During the summer, warm air masses with mild winds aloft also favor single-cell thunderstorms that form and rapidly fade in the late afternoon. These popcorn storms are fairly benign diversions, and those with only an occasional, grudging flash of lightning practically beg you to take a walk in the rain.

On the other end of the spectrum is the supercell, the tornado breeder of the spring months. The isolated ones are the most dangerous, and relatively rare. More common in Michigan are supercells embedded in a squall line. Either way, forget about a walk in the rain. Think instead about a trip to the basement.

When a big thunderstorm is rolling in, though, chances are you’re not contemplating storm classification. No, you’re anticipating the experience. You’ve got a front row seat on a grand spectacle of the atmosphere, and the show is about to start. Overhead, a thin, milky canopy of cirrus has been gradually thickening over the past hour, deepening into gray. Above the distant hilltops, the skies look dark, and you can hear the first far-off mutterings of thunder.

(Look for part two next Friday.)

I’m talking about showy ladyslippers (Cypripedium reginae). Mid June through early July is the time when this crown jewel of Michigan’s native orchids blooms in the wetlands. It is aptly named. Growing up to three feet tall, this is among our state’s more spectacular wildflowers.

From the jewel-like twayblades and the diminutive, globally endangered nodding pogonia, to the tall, luminous spikes of the orange fringed orchid—from the striking, checkerboard leaves of the rattlesnake plantains to the leafless, saprophytic coral roots with their chestnut-brown flowers—wild orchids are a treasure of the Michigan outdoors. But they’re a treasure most of us are unfamiliar with, for a variety of reasons. Many of our native orchids don’t look particularly eye-catching or orchid-like; you’d walk past them without giving them a second glance, or even a first. Others, such as the dragon’s mouth and grass pink, are strikingly beautiful, but they grow in places most people normally don’t care to go. And many are so rare that your chances of finding them range from small to subatomic.

If the showy ladyslipper is guilty of any of the above, it’s the matter of living quarters. This is no shy, retreating plant; the Latin species name, reginae, means “queen,” and a queen it is, tall, stately, and unabashedly splendid. You’re not likely to overlook it if you happen upon it. Moreover, while all wild orchids are uncommon as a rule, the showy ladyslipper is not one of our rare species. The distribution map in Frederick Case’s Orchids of the Western Great Lakes Region shows it occurring in fifty-three Michigan counties and two of our Great Lakes islands, and that is doubtless a conservative figure. However, few of its wetland homes are as benign as the Middleville fen, which is equipped with a trail that takes you right past the orchids. Usually, if you’re going to find this plant, you need to set out with that goal in mind, know your habitat, and be prepared to get your feet wet and dodge poison sumac.

Speaking of sumac, if you do find this ladyslipper and feel inclined to pick a few flowers for the vase on your kitchen table—don’t. Besides being illegal, harvesting this plant is liable to leave you with a rash similar to poison ivy. This queen of the wetlands is not without her defenses.

Photographs, on the other hand, are totally permissible. This photogenic plant is well worth the effort. It practically composes your pictures for you. The next screensaver image on your computer may be blooming right now on a lake shore near you.