Why Native Plants Thrive in Winter

Dear friend,

It’s the last week of January, and by now, perhaps you’ve strolled through your garden, noticing which plants are still standing proud despite the cold and which have faded back into the earth. There’s a certain grace to the plants that remain interesting even in winter—the seedheads of coneflowers dusted with frost, the subtle evergreen foliage of mountain laurels, or the russet hues of some ornamental grasses swaying in the breeze. It makes me think about how nature equips its own creations to handle the changing seasons.

That’s why I wanted to write today about the native plants of our region and the broader Blue Ridge area—why they do so well here, even in the cold months, and why you might want to include more of them in your garden. Now, I’ll be the first to admit I enjoy a good exotic specimen now and again (I’ve got a beautiful camellia I’m rather proud of), but there’s something special about the way native plants seamlessly fit into the local environment. You can almost see them sigh with relief in the winter wind, as if to say, “We’ve got this. We’ve lived here a long time.”

When I talk about natives, I’m thinking of plants like Carolina rhododendron, mountain laurel, black cohosh, sweetshrub, and the many varieties of native ferns that carpet our forest floors. These plants evolved alongside the wildlife and climate conditions of our southern Appalachian region. So they know how to handle cold snaps, how to eke out a living in our acidic soils, and how to deal with periods of heavy rain that might come in the early spring. They’ve developed defenses, too—waxy leaves, deep taproots, or maybe a thick rhizome that stores energy underground. In winter, these adaptations shine. The plant might go dormant above ground, but its roots remain healthy below, waiting for spring. Or it might keep some leaves all year, providing a bit of green in an otherwise monochrome landscape.

One classic example is the evergreen rhododendron you’ll see all over the mountainsides. You can’t drive the Blue Ridge Parkway without noticing their thick, leathery leaves that curl up tight in freezing temperatures, almost like they’re hugging themselves for warmth. It’s a remarkable adaptation—by rolling the leaves, the plant reduces surface area, thereby slowing moisture loss and preventing damage from icy winds. Come spring, those leaves unfurl again, and gorgeous blossoms follow. Whenever I see that happening, I can’t help but marvel at nature’s ingenuity.

But it’s not just about surviving the cold. Native plants also provide habitat and food for local wildlife. While non-native species can sometimes leave a gap in the ecosystem (birds or pollinators might not recognize them as a food source), natives fit right into the menu. That means you’re more likely to see chickadees nibbling seeds from your native coneflowers or bees buzzing around native asters late into the fall. Even in winter, the leftover seedheads of native plants can be a crucial food source for our feathered friends. And I’ll tell you, on a frosty morning, there’s a special delight in watching a cardinal peck at seeds from a dried-up plant you left standing.

Of course, there’s also a practical side to growing natives. Typically, they require less water and maintenance once established, because they’re already adapted to the local rainfall patterns and soil conditions. During winter, this means they’re less likely to suffer damage or need coddling through cold spells. When I first moved to this homestead, I tried planting a few ornamental shrubs that were popular in big-box garden centers—only to watch them droop and wither when an unexpected freeze hit. Meanwhile, the native sweetshrub in the corner of the yard didn’t even bat an eye. Lesson learned.

If you’re curious about adding more natives to your garden, winter is actually a good time to plan (and sometimes plant, if conditions allow). The dormancy can help them settle in with less transplant shock, provided the soil isn’t frozen or waterlogged. You might look for a local nursery that specializes in natives or check out plant sales held by conservation groups. Some popular picks include the evergreen inkberry holly, which provides year-round structure; the deciduous winterberry holly, whose bright red berries light up the landscape when the leaves have dropped; and various species of viburnum, which can offer berries for birds and fragrant blooms come spring.

Now, if your landscape is more shaded—like so much of our forested region—consider shade-loving natives such as trilliums, bloodroot, or foamflower. While these perennials might not show much above ground in winter, their root systems are storing up energy to burst forth with new growth in spring. And if you’re lucky, you might spy some evergreen ferns like Christmas fern, which stays green throughout the colder months, giving a touch of life to your winter garden.

I love how native plants also connect us to the history and culture of these mountains. Long before European settlers arrived, Indigenous peoples used many of these native species for food, medicine, or materials. When we grow them in our yards, we’re honoring that heritage and ensuring these plants remain a living part of our region’s story. There’s a comfort in knowing that when I walk through the woods and see a stand of wildflowers or a patch of galax leaves shining in the shade, those same plants might be growing in my own garden, bridging a small gap between wilderness and home.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying you have to fill your entire yard with natives only. Gardening is a personal expression, and there’s joy in experimenting with new or unusual plants. But the more I’ve learned about natives, the more I appreciate their resilience, their understated beauty, and the relationships they form with local wildlife. Winter just seems to highlight that strength. While tender exotics might shiver and struggle, natives hunker down and wait for their moment.

If you haven’t spent much time observing your garden in winter, I highly recommend taking a slow walk around—maybe in the mid-afternoon sun when it’s a bit warmer. Notice which plants still have leaves, which are providing seeds or berries for the birds, and which ones have simply disappeared for the season. You might spot a silhouette of a dormant perennial, its seedheads casting delicate shadows on the ground. Or an evergreen shrub that’s quietly providing shelter for small critters. That’s the winter tapestry, woven by plants that know this land and its rhythms.

In closing, I hope this letter inspires you to explore the native side of our local flora. Take some time to appreciate the quiet strength these plants display in winter and maybe welcome a few into your own garden. By doing so, you’re not only reducing the amount of maintenance and worry for yourself but also supporting the biodiversity and ecological health of our beloved mountains.

Stay warm, my friend, and keep the faith that spring is on the horizon. I’ve heard the first notes of birdsong returning, and there’s a subtle shift in the light that promises warmer days are coming. Until then, I’ll be out there with my thermos of hot coffee, marveling at how the garden, though seemingly asleep, is full of subtle signs of life. May you find a moment to do the same.

Yours among the winter hills,
Logan