In 2015, we introduced this “Grazing North Texas” series by highlighting one of our most important forage plants, Sideoats grama.  On this 11^th  anniversary, we will take a closer look at this unique and valuable species.

Every Texan should be aware that Sideoats grama is the Texas State Grass.  It was recommended for this honor in 1971 by the Texas Council of Chapters of the Soil Conservation Society of America and the Texas Section of the American Society of Range Management, and was officially adopted by Senate Concurrent Resolution 31 in 1971.

Resolution 31 states, in part, that “Although there are many desirable forage species native to the State, one variety, Sideoats grama, occurs on a greater diversity of soils than any other grass; on rangelands of West Texas it is the backbone of the ranching industry.”

Sideoats grama is a deeply rooted summer perennial bunchgrass.  It is a mid-grass in height, reaching from 8 inches to 36 inches, depending upon variety and growing conditions. As a mid-grass, it does not produce the total pounds of forage that the tall grasses produce, but the quality of the forage is very good.

Sideoats grama produces high quality, nutritious forage that is relished by all classes of livestock.  Crude protein can reach 11 percent in spring green up, decrease to 5 to 8 percent during summer months, and maintain a very respectable 3.5 to 4.5 percent protein after frost, making it one of our most important forage species.

Sideoats has rather wide leaves that take on a characteristic color and curl as the plant matures.  The seed head is a zigzag stalk containing small spikes dangling from one side, thus the name Sideoats.   Depending upon variety, Sideoats can spread by seed and by small stout rhizomes.  It is often found in colonies.

Sideoats is most at home in the mid-grass prairie section of the Great Plains that receives 12 to 20 inches of annual rainfall, but can be found in all areas of Texas (except the far eastern counties), and is adapted to most of the central and western US.  It blends well with other native summer grasses such as Little bluestem, Indiangrass, and many mid and short species.  It is the most productive of the grama family. 

Being adapted to almost all soil types, it has the widest range of soil adaptation of almost all summer perennial grasses. But the best stands are found on medium to fine textured upland sites. It is also better adapted to calcareous and moderately alkaline soils than to neutral or acidic soils.

Sideoats grama can serve many uses, but the best use is as high quality nutritious forage for all classes of livestock.  It is also recommended as part of a planting mix for earth fill and bank stabilization, and for establishing grass on critical areas. It was noted in 1944 that it was one of the important grasses remaining in large areas that were affected by the drought of the 1930s, and played an important role in reclaiming those damaged acres.  Successful stands can be obtained on rocky and shallow soils.

Sideoats provides some forage for antelope and deer when actively growing.  Elk use it for forage throughout the year, and wild turkey consume some seed.

Several varieties have been bred and produced over the years. One of the early varieties was ‘El Reno’ Sideoats grama, bred and released in Kansas in 1944. Another variety, Haskell, was released in 1983 by the James E. (Bud) Smith Plant Materials Center in Texas.  Haskell is still widely used in plantings today.

A Favorite for Butterflies and Hummingbirds

By Norman Winter | Horticulturist, Author and Speaker

The Mexican bush sage has been blooming for a few weeks now, and like clockwork, it’s proving to be a favorite nectar source for Monarch butterflies heading south. It’s always fascinated me that, with so many other nectar flowers available in the fall, there’s something they especially like about this salvia.

Known botanically as Salvia leucantha, the Mexican bush sage is native to Mexico and Central America. It’s one of those plants I can’t imagine not having in my garden. A short-day (or long-night) bloomer, it starts flowering in late summer and keeps going through several frosts. The fuzzy, velvety purple spikes with white or purple flowers are produced in abundance. For cut-flower enthusiasts, this plant can easily yield a hundred stems for the vase. Even when not in bloom, its gray-green foliage adds interest to the garden.

As I mentioned, it’s a favorite for butterflies – especially Monarchs – but it’s also a regular feeding stop for hummingbirds. They’re drawn to the white blooms emerging from the velvety purple calyces. The ideal growing location is full sun, though the plant can tolerate a bit of afternoon shade. The soil must be very well-drained, so consider planting in raised beds or amending heavy soils with compost or humus. In fact, well-drained soil may be the key to encouraging a surprising spring return in regions farther north than expected.

When preparing your soil, incorporate 2 pounds of a slow-release 12-6-6 fertilizer per 100 square feet of bed space. Space the plants 24 to 36 inches apart, and plant them at the same depth they were growing in their containers. Avoid planting near streetlights or floodlights, as this salvia blooms in response to the number of dark hours.

Provide supplemental water during prolonged dry periods. After the first hard frost in the fall, cut the plants back to ground level and add a layer of mulch for winter protection. Feed again in the spring when you see new growth emerging, and continue feeding every six to eight weeks through September. For even more blooms in the fall, lightly prune once or twice in late April and early June. You can also harvest stems and tie them with sprigs of rosemary to hang in the kitchen – an aromatic and beautiful touch.

Mexican bush sage is mostly sold generically, but there are some standout selections worth noting: Midnight (with dark purple flowers), Kathiann Brown (a dwarf with lavender blooms), and the similar Santa Barbara (also a compact lavender variety). The standard form of Mexican bush sage typically reaches about 4 feet tall, while the compact varieties stay under 3 feet.

For companion planting, consider pairing with classic fall-blooming yellow mums – they’re an obvious but perfect match. In the herb garden, Mexican bush sage pairs well with rosemary, garlic chives, and lavender. The fall-blooming forsythia sage (Salvia madrensis), with its massive yellow flower spikes, also makes an incredible companion. Other great partners include yellow marigolds and golden lantana.

Mexican bush sage is perennial in USDA zones 8 and sometimes in zone 7, especially with perfect drainage and a protective layer of mulch. Even in cooler climates, it’s worth growing as an annual if you have a long enough season – just know it won’t bloom until August. In places like St. Louis, it typically blooms from mid-August through frost. It’s also one of the easiest plants to root from cuttings or propagate by division.

Spiky flowers always bring energy and visual interest to a garden, and Mexican bush sage is one of the best – providing nectar for pollinators, beauty in the landscape, and cut flowers by the dozen. At this time of year, it’s practically without equal. I hope you’ll give it a try.

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Cutlines

The Mexican bush sage is the perfect complement to fall planted marigolds, sometimes called Marimums.

This Ruby-throated hummingbird finds the Mexican bush sage to be just perfect.

The Golden Thyrallis is becoming popular in Texas and makes an ideal companion for the Mexican Bush sage.

The Mexican bush sage also dazzles in fall mixed containers.

I spend a lot of time and money every year trying to convince wildlife that I do not exist.

By bow season, I’ve got it down to a science. The right camo pattern for the terrain. Face covered. Hands covered. Everything sprayed down with whatever scent is supposed to make me smell like dirt, leaves, or possibly a rock that hasn’t been disturbed since 1987. I climb into my stand well before daylight and settle in, careful not to bump metal or do anything that would announce my presence to every deer within a quarter mile.

That morning, I was feeling especially confident about my setup.

The wind was right. The stand was tucked in perfectly. The camouflage blended so well with the tree that even I had trouble finding my own knees when I looked down. I remember thinking, If a deer spots me today, it deserves to.

That thought turned out to be a little premature.

It was still dark enough that shapes were more suggestion than detail, and the woods had that quiet, holding-its-breath feeling that only exists right before daylight. I was leaned back against the tree, bow hanging on the hook, watching the woods slowly come into focus.

That’s when I heard wings.

At first, it was just a soft rush of air. Subtle. Close enough that it registered, but not loud enough to make sense. I tilted my head slightly, trying to locate the sound without moving too much. The last thing you want to do in a tree stand is start acting suspicious.

Then it got louder.

Much louder.

I looked up just in time to see a large shape coming straight at my face.

There’s no graceful way to describe the reaction that followed. I didn’t scream, but I also didn’t not make a noise. It was some sort of half-grunt, half-gasp that came from deep in my chest as I instinctively leaned back into the tree.

The owl pulled up at the last second.

We were close enough to make eye contact, which is not something I recommend experiencing unexpectedly while twenty feet off the ground. His wings flared, feathers spread wide, and he hovered there for a split second like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

To be fair, neither could I.

We stared at each other, both clearly shaken by the encounter. I’m fairly certain he had planned to land on the tree right where my head happened to be. My camouflage had done its job so well that I had successfully fooled an apex nighttime predator.

There’s a strange mix of pride and terror that comes with that realization.

He banked hard and flew off, disappearing into the timber with a few annoyed wingbeats. I stayed frozen against the tree, heart pounding, trying to convince myself that my soul had not, in fact, just left my body.

I sat there for several minutes afterward, replaying the moment and wondering how close I’d come to becoming part of some owl’s story about “the weirdest tree I ever tried to land in.”

Once things settled down, daylight finally started to creep in. Birds picked back up. The woods returned to normal. I eased back into position, telling myself the worst part of the morning was over.

It wasn’t.

About an hour later, I caught movement to my right. A doe eased through the trees, cautious but unbothered. She passed under my stand without ever looking up. A few minutes after that, another deer followed. Still no alarm. No snorting. No busted hunt.

Apparently, owls are pickier about personal space than deer.

By the time I climbed down that morning, I hadn’t loosed an arrow, but I’d gained a healthy respect for just how invisible you can become when everything lines up. We spend so much time worrying about deer seeing us that we forget the rest of the woods is watching, too.

And sometimes, if you’re really doing things right, they won’t see you until it’s almost too late.

Next season, I might still wear the same camouflage.

But I’ll probably keep one eye on the sky.