Treasures Of The North And Winter: American Mountain Ash (Sorbus Americana)

Most conversations I have had with people about my northern (i.e. pine tree and really cold winter country) heritage usually include discussions on what exactly grows up in the land of frigid winters and gentle summers.  Many people assume that the farther north one travels, the more one runs into coniferous needle-leaved trees, and that the horizon is nothing but spruce after spruce.  Just as residents of the lower north (southern Great Lakes, Midwest, Northeast) assume that Florida is one giant palm plantation, or that the desert west is nothing but sand dunes devoid of life, residents from said lower north down to the the rest of the continent picture the Boreal north as a land of excellent Christmas trees and the odd moose or bear bursting through the needles.  In truth, spruce are the most northerly occurring trees, right on into the tundra in fact (albeit as a very small form that takes centuries to hit an inch tall).  They are very quickly joined by willows, birch, aspen, and best of all, by something that looks like it should not grow in this land of the anti-leaf, the American Mountain Ash (Sorbus Americana).

Clingmans Dome, Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  North Carolina, with some Tennessee in the background.

 On the upper slopes of Mt. Mitchell, North Carolina.

 As you can see, our friend the grand Mountain Ash looks, like the northern growing sumacs, to be a palm tree that got lost along the way.  Despite growing in an otherwise rugged setting, the tree (others insist it is a tree-like shrub) has delicate looking foliage and a branching structure that looks like it would get absolutely broken apart in heavy snow and ice.  Believe what you want, however, because this fine specimen of a plant really only grows where things get somewhat brutal:

Thanks, USDA!

Most of my pictures of them come from North Carolina, despite the fact that this is indeed a tree I have grown up with for a long time.  The good olf Sorbus is indeed a tree of eastern Boreal Canada, growing right on up to James Bay.  Not until I was specifically plant hunting and noticed it stood out among the Spruce-Fir forests of the higher Appalachians did I really think it was anything unique!  Yes, it has the same good characteristics in both Ontario and North Carolina, and it stands out from the forests in the Laurentians:

Somewhere in the forest north of Brent, Ontario and south of Deux-Rivieres, Ontario.

As well as it does in the Blue Ridge and Smokies:

Off of the summit of Mt. Mitchell in North Carolina.  They really do look weird with the conifers.

Along the main road in Great Smoky Mountains National Park, eastbound side, not exactly sure, but high enough to see the transition between coniferous and deciduous forests.  On the top right there is also a heath bald full of rhododendrons and kalmia!

Yet I always seemed to think of it as part of the scenery, taken for granted.  This is probably because it is not a "northern" looking thing; just as the kid who got excited over pine trees did, so do people who get excited over spruces and rhododendrons which happen to grow best where the Sorbuses do: 

They really do offer a nice foliage effect together.  I am sure by now that any gardeners reading the blog are getting some ideas!  This was taken on the road leading up to the summit of Mt. Mitchell.

Let's face it, you all looked at the flowering Catawba Rhododendron (Rhododendron Catawbiense), and why not?  The Sorbus looks like any old sumac (or worse, a Tree of Heaven [Ailanthus Altissima]) growing in an abandoned city lot might. This holds true until the winter comes, however, and the true glory of Sorbus Americana enters the landscape, it's berries:

Another fine tree from the Ontario Laurentians, probably about 6 or 7 miles from the other one pictured in this post.  Both were set in some fairly dark and lovely spruce-fir forests.

Somewhere in Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, most likely on the path to Munising Falls near Munising, Michigan.

The berries, of course, are preceded by flowers, which truly makes this an all season interest tree:

Flower buds!  This was at Mt. Mitchell and taken mid June.

Clingmans Dome.  I arrived too early at the high elevations, and too late at the lower elevations, to get a full bloom.

I don't have any photos of the plant in full bloom or naked in the dead of winter with those bright red berries really standing out against the landscape, but it does not take too much imagination to realize that this is a tree which proves that noticeable seasonal changes are not a bad thing.  Indeed, this tree might have even given a bit of a boost to early colonists who had to deal with an actual winter or were heading into the dark and mysterious mountain or northern interior.  It was a welcome splash of color in the winter landscape, and would have reminded them of their own Sorbus back across the sea, the Rowan Tree (Sorbus Aucuparia), which people had considered to be good for everything from making jelly to fighting off witches.  That said, it seems that Aucuparia still gets more notice and stock in the nursery trade; in keeping with the current few posts and their theme on the blog, it is important to note that this is probably because the European version can be grown in warmer spots than the North American version.  Again, however, this is not say that our version is weak and tender, as it can grow out of some really difficult soil:

Somewhere along the Blue Ridge Parkway near north of Mt. Mitchell.

Somewhere on Mt. Mitchell.  As you can see, the soil is pretty shallow before bedrock is reached.  This particular Sorbus is joined by a nice blanket of blue alpine flowers, Mountain Bluets (Hedyotis Michauxii).

And of course, our version can also handle the colder end of the spectrum better than even some of the hardiest northern broadleaved trees.  This tree just happens to be hardy in the other direction, the one that no one claims to like!

By the way, if any Illinois people are reading this, I would love to hear/see anything on the wild population in your state, which is far more prairie than Boreal. 

Residents Of The Piney South: The Virginia Pine

Head anywhere south of the Ohio River or the Mason-Dixon line and all of a sudden you will find more pines than you can shake a stick at.  The first such wonderful resident is the Virginia Pine (Pinus Virginiana), which looks something like a Jack Pine that moved south and got a bit of a fuller crown and straighter branching as a package deal.

Taken at Cumberland Gap National Historical Park, one of the most cultural significant, scenic, and underrated places to visit in the eastern United States.  Here we see an absolutely stunning specimen of our friend that I would have to rate as the finest Virginia Pine I have ever encountered to date.  Here we see the pine in her full glory, worthy of being counted among the most stately Jack Pines (as featured in the painting of the same name).  The tree also bears a silhouette not far from that of a mature Eastern White Pine (Pinus Strobus).

Needles borne in clusters of two, like the Jack Pine.

Irregular spreading crown, especially while young, also like the Jack Pine.

In the east, they like to wander only slightly far from their mountain homes and thus are found mostly in the backcountry, or Piedmont.  In fact, the Virginia Pine never seems to stray very far from the Appalchians in general, as seen in the following map of their current natural distribution:

Public Domain.  Thank you again USGS, and rest in peace, Dr. Ebert Little.

In Virginia, even right up north near Washington, they seemed to be filling a role comparable to what Eastern White Pines used to, individual trees scattered among deciduous forests, sticking up above the canopy (but in much less of a grand profile). 

Not the best illustration of the concept, but it was the best I could do in 100 degree weather.  This was taken at Manassas National Battlefield Park, just outside of the Virginia side of the DC metro area.

Mind you, they do perform this role further on in their range, even if still only a junior partner to what the Eastern White Pines used to do in forming the supercanopy. 

Also from Cumberland Gap.  All such pictures were taken near the Pinnacle Overlook, which in addition to being a stunning vantage point to take in the Gap itself and the three surrounding states, is an excellent place for the casual explorer to have a taste of central and southern Appalachian flora.

Admittedly, I did not think too much of them for quite some time, a sentiment apparently shared by tree lovers of the past.  I do not recall seeing one at any botanic garden or historic home grounds anywhere one would expect to see them.  This is not overly shocking, as, again, they not present a robust profile as do the other native pines of the east.  Given a chance, however, they can form an elegant profile that makes for a lovely accent to the natural landscape and one that decidedly marks the passage between the Appalachians and the surrounding lands.

Same as above.

US 25 leaving Kentucky and approaching the modern tunnel under the Gap towards the junction of Virginia and Tennessee.

In the true Appalachians and plateau country to their west they are an entirely different animal, albeit again acting like the White Pines in certain situations.  Here they seem to favor rocky, well-drained soil and often grow as if emerging right out from the exposed rocks of the grand eastern mountains.  Much like the Pitch Pine (Pinus Rigida) barrens of further north along the Appalachians, or the Jack Pines growing under similar conditions on Georgian Bay, this is where we can find the Virginias often serving as the dominant tree, laughing at even the hardiest oaks and junipers. 

While not as open as the rocky haunts of the Jack or Pitch Pines, probably due to the greater precipitation available to them in their southward approach, the same effect is appreciable.  Both photos were taken at Pinnacle Overlook.

Such a phenomenon of the hardy pines can be found with relative ease by modern travelers: simply drive along any rock cut or past rock outcrops and even a thick stand of Virginia Pine might not be too far away. 

This blurry windshield shot was taken in a rather unwelcoming stretch of US 23 in Kentucky across the Ohio River from Portsmouth, Ohio.  While the valley had some lovely views, the area is lacking in safe pull out vantages.  Here they at least have a reason, as small bluffs press in close to the road.

 

 

Further south along US 23 in Kentucky, somewhere between Louisa and Hagerhill.  Where there are rock cuts, there are Virginia Pines thriving in the rocky, thin soils that wash down onto them and collect in the crevasses.  And yes, another windshield photo, but broad shoulders are far and few between in this part of Kentucky.

But while they thrive in rocky, dry areas, they are perfectly at home in richer soils more befitting of a forest area. 

Taken near Martin, KY, on Kentucky 80.

Virginia Pines are often the first trees to make their way into abandoned fields.  While the Appalachians do have grassy areas, be they summit balds, small pockets of the easternmost extensions of the prairie, or (formerly) buffalo corridors, grasslands here tend to be but the first stage in landscape transformation rather than a permanent feature.  Most seedlings of the region are somewhat vulnerable to intense sunlight and exposure, leaving the hardier oaks and Virginia Pines the job of handling the scorching summer sun that reminds the human traveler and dweller that this is, even in the mountains, a land of heat and the edge of the South. 

But again, this is not the land of pine barrens, and the Virginia Pine does not get to be the star of the show as do the Jack or Pitch Pines.  Eventually, the pines get surpassed by the forest once trees start shading the ground and making conditions a bit more palatable to other species.  Unless they happened to form a dense enough stand in the harsher conditions or can be found where such conditions never go away (as in an outcrop), much like the mighty White Pines, the Virginia Pines find themselves thinned out and striving for the canopy:

It almost looks like a Pinus Strobus, really.

One of the many overlooks along the road to the Pinnacle Overlook.  The town seen beyond the pines is Middlesboro, Kentucky.

"Accent piece" or not, however, Virginia Pines are certainly a lovely and integral feature of the central and southern highland landscape.  They are very much a traveler's tree, being a pioneer that welcomes back the forest from even centuries of cultivation and welcomes the human wanderer into frontier lands beyond the greater regions of both North and South.  Want to see more?  Time to get really into the South!

Rhododendrons: Flame Azalea (Rhododendron Calendulaceum)

This is the third in a series of posts in which we will take a look at some of our native North American Rhododendrons.  Rhododendrons (and their happy sub-genus, Azaleas) occur throughout the continent except on the Great Plains, the eastern interior plains (southern Michigan, western Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, etc.), and all of Mexico other than the mountains of northern Baja California.


"The perfect blossom is a rare thing. You could spend your life looking for one, and it would not be a wasted life."  -Katsumoto, from the Last Samurai.

Azaleas are a subgroup of the Rhododendron genus; they tend to be a bit smaller than their more robust looking cousins, and while they can put on quite the show in flowers, even in nice big bunches of flowers just like their bigger friends, they do not have flower clusters like the full Rhododendrons do.  They also tend to have a different general leaf shape than the familiar long and cold-curling Rhodies.  In North America, the Azaleas can be found everywhere from the usual mountain haunts to well into warmer, lower reaches near the coasts.  Unlike the Rhodies, most of which here tend to be evergreen, Azaleas in North America tend to be on the deciduous side.  We have 16 native species in North America, many of which can be found in the Appalachians.

One such species is the marvelous Flame Azalea (Rhododendron Calendulaceum), which has beautiful flowers that pull off some sort of heavenly combination of orange, red, and yellow.  Orange seems to be the most prevalent color in the wild population, but cultivators have managed to squeeze out brilliant selections from the neighboring colors of the rainbow to the degree that the Flames probably have as many garden children out there as most other Azaleas or Rhodies, even giving the Catawba descendants a run for their plant money.  While searching for wild type Flames at various nurseries, I have seen far more for sale than any other North American Rhododendrons or Azaleas.  And why not?  They are an incredibly beautiful flower that brings a real show of fiery color the garden.

All of these pictures of are of the same plant at milepost 361.2 on the Blue Ridge Parkway, the Glassmine Falls overlook.

Naturally, I just had to find one growing wild.  To be honest, I really had no idea they even existed until I was researching the genus two years ago, and ever since then I have been consumed with trying to find some wild Flames.  I knew I could easily find Catawbas and Rosebays, as their locations and bloom peaks are well documented, but for some reason the same has not been my experience of trying to find Flames.  So it was that when I took my recent botanical pilgrimage to the center of Rhodo heaven, well, even the majesty of Roan could not give pause to the hunt.  It turns out I was largely barking up the wrong tree.

The Flames are sort of in between the needs of the Catawbas and the Rosebays when it comes to elevation and exposure.  Like the Rosebays, they seem to thrive best under some amount of shade, yet they are also more than happy with a few hours of direct sunlight.  As such, they can be found on balds, especially the ultimate place to find them, Gregory Bald (which I did not find out about until I was leaving the Smokies), but they can also be found along slightly open areas in the forest understory.  I found a decent number along the Blue Ridge Parkway growing like this, mainly between Mt. Mitchell and Asheville, but like the Catawbas at Craggy Gardens, they were pretty much mostly done blooming by the third week of June at such altitudes higher than 4,000 feet but less than 5,500 feet.  In some places, they formed a decent patch of orange, but impatient motorists made stopping a pretty nasty prospect.  If you manage to hit the right flowering time for certain altitudes (they apparently can handle much lower elevations) it is likely that you will see a bunch more orange.  I was fortunate enough to find one growing half in the sun and half in the shade at the Glassmine Falls overlook.

For this reason I don't have many pictures of them, but the one I did find was a pretty nice specimen.

It was all alone, surrounded by a bunch of American Mountain Ash (Sorbus Americana), a pair of species that looked really nice and lush together.  As you can see, it (and the others I could not stop for) tends to be a bit more fragile looking than the Rhododendrons.  Flames are pretty delicate looking, but they still have nice globes of flowers (even if they only produce one flower per stem) and decent, somewhat glossy leaves.  I would still go so far as to call Flames such as this one a small tree rather than a shrub, because it was pushing twenty feet.  Among the Ash trees, it looked to be as much a part as the canopy as they did.  Elsewhere, especially among the maples and beech, they tended to function more like a second canopy just as the Rosebays do.  I hope to some day make it to Gregory or a similar bald to see them in their open habitat.

Just as Catawbas are a good sign, even an indicator, if you will, that one is close to if not decidedly in the Southern Appalachians, Flames for the southbound mountaineer are a mark that one has progressed at least as far south as the Central Appalachians.  They can be found infrequently in Ohio, and have been reported up in New York, although Pennsylvania claims they have been extirpated.  Like another showy plant that pops up in Ohio, the Crossvine (Bignonia Capreolata), the Flames look like they belong at the edge of the subtropical world.  I suspect that like the Rosebay, they might have once been a bit more common in the northern reaches, and probably got too much attention as a thing of beauty and thus been forcibly transformed into a hopeful garden dream, but their particular forest associations and preferences of habit leave me thinking they are not as northern in nature as their big leaf cousins. 

Rhododendrons: Rosebay Rhododendron (Rhododendron Maximum)

This is the second in a series of posts in which we will take a look at some of our native North American Rhododendrons.  Rhododendrons (and their happy sub-genus, Azaleas) occur throughout the continent except on the Great Plains, the eastern interior plains (southern Michigan, western Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, etc.), and all of Mexico other than the mountains of northern Baja California.

While I maintain that Catawba Rhododendrons are amazingly beautiful and something that every true plant lover should make a pilgrimage to see at least once, the Rosebays have a special place in my heart.  They grow all the way up to Quebec and Nova Scotia and might have once covered more territory in Ontario.  For a broadleaved evergreen, they laugh at the face of winter cold, more so than even the mountain-top hugging Catawbas, but they also have limitations.  Like the domestic cultivars of the genus popular in gardens, the Rosebay is not really fond of the hot sun of the afternoon.  They also don't tend to get a lot of attention from gardeners outside of their home region of the Appalachians, which is a shame because they can be every bit as impressive in flower and scale as their Catawba cultivar cousins.  Like the Catawba, they are properly considered a tree, having every bit the stature of one.

Great Smokey Mountains National Park, alongside the Newfound Gap Road along the Oconaluftee River in North Carolina.

That said, it tends to take on a bit more delicate of a branching structure than the mighty Catawbas.

The slender trunks of the Rosebay stand out in individual specimens.  This one was found at Cumberland Gap National Historic Park in Kentucky, along the Pinnacle Overlook road.

Like the Catawbas, it can and often does form pretty impressive forests in its own right.

Along the Oconaluftee River in North Carolina.

The difference here, however, is that they don't like the same degree of exposure that the bald species do.  This probably owes to the fact that they are a more intermediate elevation rhododendron, which in the southern portion means that summer brings much warmer temperatures, and anywhere in its range means comparatively less available moisture for the plants.  As a result, one will find Rosebays among the forests, where they can even form a secondary canopy in places that they tend to dominate.  In the southern Appalachians, especially in the Smokies and along the Blue Ridge, they really do dominate, perhaps even to the exclusion of other plant life on the forest floor, an invasive native if you will.  

Along the Blue Ridge Parkway, somewhere between Spruce Pine, NC and Mt. Mitchell.

Same as above.

Still, they do form a lovely understory, and fit in in a variety of surroundings, be they drier forests of oak and pine, where they are less common, and moister, northern forests of beech, maples, and hemlocks, where they can found at home both in the central and northern Appalachians and the Cove Forests of the southern Appalachians which duplicate these conditions in an otherwise much warmer setting.

A cove forest, but I don't recall where exactly.

They seem to perform the best, or at least occur almost without fail, along streams, especially in forests of Hemlock and associated trees.  Here they help to make for an incredible lushness in a darker green setting and reach proportions of size that put the Catawbas to shame.

Along the Oconaluftee River in North Carolina, in Great Smokey Mountains National Park.

Same place as above.  That Rosebay in the left background up there was half the size of some pretty decent trees, well over 30 feet tall.

And speaking of size, they are not called Rhododendron Maximum as a joke.  Their leaves are the biggest of any Rhododendron in the world.  They can usually be identified by these long, relatively narrow leaves even when not in flower.  Herein also lies their main attraction for this particular gardener: huge evergreen leaves that can take northern winters.

Same location as above.

And yes, they flower as well as a Catawba does, in the same big globe clusters, albeit sometimes not always at once, and not necessarily as prolifically.  They also take their time flowering, flowering as early in the southern ranges as March and continuing up into August pretty much everywhere.

These first two were taken off the same plant, again along the Oconaluftee River in North Carolina in that amazing National Park.

This one was found at Cumberland Gap National Historic Park in Kentucky, again along the Pinnacle Overlook road.

All in all, a nice, if not as dramatically special Rhododendron that the Catawba is.  They certainly are more common, and in some places it was hard to miss them.  I have yet to find some of their natural populations further north, where they do thin out a bit more in comparison to the thickets of the south, but they are pretty common as escapes from cultivation, and they can even get weedy in character as they like to take advantage of disturbed areas, something odd for a plant that likes being cool, moist, and shaded.  

A chance meeting near a highway widening project, where land looks to have been opened for some time, along Gap Creek Road near Elizabethton, Tennessee. 

This was the canopy above those Rosebays, which this far south means drier conditions than they would normally frequent.  Eastern White Pines (Pinus Strobus) are a true northern species, but down here they seem to also make a lower-middle elevation home among the dry and hot conditions favored by oaks.  I would figure sand would have something to do with it.

One can find tons and tons of them along I-80 in Pennsylvania, especially on the stretch between I-81 and I-476:

Many more where this came from.  Sorry for the blur.  This was in the thirties in February, and they did not really look overly concerned about the cold.

To return to the White Pine picture for some closing comments, I have to wonder about just how widespread these things used to be.  Current botanical thinking is that they are opportunists that have taken advantage of artificial changes brought by humans in modern forest settings, akin to how the Eastern Red Cedar (Juniperus Virginiana) is more prevalent than it once was.  While I don't argue with the evidence that backs up this line of thinking, because they really do tend to be opportunistic for a Rhododendron, the evidence also focuses on disturbed conditions, and in some decent growth forests they still do form an integral part of the scenery.

My thinking is, owing especially to their tolerances and favored conditions (I mean come on, they can handle cold just fine and they can pop out of rock hillside soil like its made of Miracle Gro), they were perhaps once a feature of forests in Ontario and decently into the Canadian Shield.  They do grow in upstate New York and Quebec, including parts of the Adirondacks and even Erie County, where urban development in Buffalo has probably removed a bunch of the wild population (I would looooove to find some if anyone knows of any wild ones there).  I could imagine that perhaps once, along with maybe Prickly Pear Cacti, grew happily in the sands of eastern Ontario below towering White Pines.  Sure, they might colonize disturbed areas bearing such conditions, but they are no stranger to somewhat dry pine lands, as this particular part of Connecticut demonstrates:

The Most Unusual Natural Area of Connecticut

Oh, and they are also movie stars, as far as plants go.  You can see a few flowering ones in the woods during the opening running scene in Last of the Mohicans!

Tomorrow we shall come across something a little different, an azalea!

Rhododendrons: Catawba Rhododendron (Rhododenron Catawbiense).

This is the first in a series of posts in which we will take a look at some of our native North American Rhododendrons.  Rhododendrons (and their happy sub-genus, Azaleas) occur throughout the continent except on the Great Plains, the eastern interior plains (southern Michigan, western Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, etc.), and all of Mexico other than the mountains of northern Baja California.

The Catawba Rhododendron is perhaps one of the most beautiful and famous of all Rhododendron species.  It was triumphantly paraded around to wealthy plant hungry patrons in both the New and Old Worlds, and then cross bred with just about any other Rhododendron that would allow for it.  Many of the most beautiful and vibrant species in cultivation today owe their primal botanical existence to the Catawba.  Many are hybrids that have been crossed with Himalayan or Black Sea species, while many others are cultivars of the original.  Most of these children of the original grow in habitats far removed from their mother groves, often forced instead to dwell in shade instead of the open sunny spots they are proper to.  Don't feel bad for them though, as they make their tenders irrigate them and probably laugh (however plants laugh) when they see gardeners struggle to acidify their soil to their liking.

It is a lovely tree, and I say that with certainty, as it can grow to fantastic proportions beyond the range of most shrubs.

Roan

Roan

Roan

It certainly has a trunk and branch structure worthy of being called a tree.  One of the most amazing things to do in a Rhododendron bald is to actually walk into and under the canopy and see the underlying "bones" of the heath forest.

Roan, albeit it gets really awesome to do this at Craggy Gardens, where the immensity of the older plants just swallows the traveler whole.

Of course, the real stars of the show would be the flowers:

Roan, and Roan for the next six.  Seriously, go to Roan.

Even when just getting ready to bloom they look pretty nice.

That said, the leaves are pretty amazing, too.  They are stay green and alive on the trees even in the harsh points of winter, where they roll up and close tighter to conserve moisture.  The leaves are not particularly big, at least not as big as tomorrow's featured Rhododendron, the Rosebay, but they can get up to about six inches or so.  They are a lovely deep green, not too fancy, but bearing an elegant simplicity.  They mostly stand somewhat erect from the plants, although some droop, and in the winter they do so while tightly rolled.  Part of their appeal to this particular northern gardener is that they are one of the few large plants that do stay green year round in a colder climate, learning perhaps from the spruces that being able to photosynthesize once things head into the upper fifties is pretty advantageous in a land where the mercury takes its sweet time getting there.  They also don't have to mess around with losing and expending too many nutrients to keep shedding and growing new leaves so often, another advantage in a place where the soil is far from garden rich.

 In our last post we explored some of the finest natural settings for the Catawba, namely Roan Summit and it surrounding ridges. 

Roan

More Roan

We explored how it grows on the open, grassy balds, in some places almost dominating the scene, as it does on some places at Roan, and more so at, well, "heath balds" like Craggy Gardens:

It's the shorter looking lighter green stuff.  I know, I know, it would be easier to see in flower, but it was done doing so this "low", a mere 5,500 feet.

In such places, it can form a forest unto itself, as at Craggy Gardens:

And yet in other places content to grow as islands of floral ornament amongst the grasses, sedges, and other fun high-altitude Appalachian stuff.

Roan

Roan

It also sticks around down as far as a mere 200 feet in parts of North Carolina, but it seems to like the conditions past 4500 feet the best.  Down past the spruces and firs, where the deciduous forest begins to dominate, a few decent sized specimens grow among the leaf-shedders:

Not sure where, probably along the Blue Ridge Parkway between Craggy Gardens and Mt. Mitchell, but if you were wondering what those awesome other trees are, they would be American Mountain Ash (Sorbus Americana).

Off of the road to Mt. Mitchell, around 5,200 feet.

But they get fairly common and just really tend to stand out among the spruces.  While not as prolific or large among the conifers as they are alone on the open balds, the Catawbas seem to be an integral element of the spruce-fir forests.

Just below the summit of Mt. Mitchell, probably about 6,500 feet up at this location.  And yes, that is another American Mountain Ash, a tree at home both with the leaf-shedders and evergreens. 

That said, they can definitely handle the dark shade of such places, which is not surprising from a plant that can handle some decent winter chills of as low as -34F and practically grow out of rocks:

Rhododendron Catawbiense, v. "Chandelier".  Cultivar made by God.

On the slopes of Mt. Mitchell.  I think this was closer to 6,200 feet.

For the most part, they do indeed have to put up with cold, or at least coolness.  Their peak performance happens in areas that never really break 70F and feature January days akin to what one would find in Detroit or Buffalo.  Like many spruces and other "mountain" vegetation, it seems to do well in such places, but it needs some of the comforts of home; it can't take low elevation baking summer sun, and it definitely needs an acidic soil like its spruce-needle laden mountain turf.  Its moderate to low temperature preferences, along with soil needs and forest associations have long made me wonder why this or most Rhododendrons do not range further north into the Canadian Appalachians and Laurentians.  Perhaps it is because the northern winters are much more severe than the relatively wetter and warmer southern high-altitude Appalachians, and that is pretty much where the Catawbas stay, disappearing from sight largely in northern Virginia. 

One thing is certain, however, and that is that they and their children are extremely popular and have found their way into many gardens, even in alkaline Michigan gardens! 

Roan!

To see them in the wild, head to the Blue Ridge Parkway, Roan Mountain, Mt. Mitchell, Craggy Gardens, or many other 4500 foot + areas in that general region of the world.  To see them bloom, the second week of June is good for elevations lower than 5,500 feet, and the third week better for those above.