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South
of Hartline,
Grant County, Washington. Photo by George Bedirian

by
Tim Steury
No matter
what you have on the stereo or how preoccupied you are with your
week at work or with the upcoming football game or whatever else
might pull you back to Pullman for the weekend, as you drive
through eastern Washington, you can’t help but be absorbed
by those endless stretches of fields, those fields that just
go on forever. Sometimes they’re covered with snow and
nearly featureless, a monotonous infinity broken only by a distant
cluster of buildings or a spectral windmill left behind by another
time. Sometimes they’re bright spring and startlingly green.
Sometimes they’re absolutely bare, denied even the Russian
thistle or bunchgrass tough enough to make it here where rainfall
can be as little as eight inches a year, every little green thing
rod-weeded or herbicide-sprayed in order to preserve as much
precious moisture as possible so that a crop of wheat can be
teased from the arid soil next year. And sometimes those fields
are all in motion, the relentless prevailing wind out of the
southwest lifting the fine particles of soil loose from the surface,
blowing them, by the thousands of tons, in a billowing, murky
cloud, eastward to wherever the wind drops them.
Steve Jones
and Tim Murray want to change all this.
Jones is
the winter wheat breeder at Washington State University, Murray
a plant pathologist. Together with a small team of postdoctoral
and graduate student researchers, and a growing number of farmers
who understand that their wild vision might just be possible,
Jones and Murray want to make that immense area of eastern Washington—or
at least a good chunk of it—less prone to blow, less often
bare, even more, if you will, unchanging.
The way they’ll
do this is to convince a plant that is content to die after it
sets seed in late summer that it actually wants to live.
Unlike many
of its wild-grass relatives, wheat is an annual. It must be replanted
every year. Somewhere along its coevolutionary journey with agricultural Homo
sapiens, probably earlier rather than later, wheat—or
more correctly, its selectors—decided that making grain
was more efficient if it became an annual.
That genetic
history is not clear, says retired U.S. Department of Agriculture
wheat breeder Bob Allan, who started working at WSU in the 1950s
with legendary breeder Orville Vogel. Wheat derives from three
separate genomes, none of which shows any perennial tendency.
Early farmers
probably selected wheat ancestors for annual-growth habits, recognizing
that the best wheat, like the best weed, as Allan points out,
is an annual. Put everything into your seed to regrow next year,
with no need to put energy into the relatively uncertain roots.
At least that has been the conventional wisdom for the past 10,000
years or so.
Indeed, annual
plants do have certain advantages over perennials. Among them,
says Murray, is that the plant’s death provides a natural
deterrent to insect pests. Annual wheat dies in July or August,
leaving nothing green in the sunbaked fields to harbor insect
pests.
Continued
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A Partial Pantheon of Washington Wheat Geneticists
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