Across the central and southern counties, tens of thousands of acres of sunflowers pivot eastward each dawn, and the state remains among the country's foremost producers of both oil and confection seed.
There is no sight on the northern plains quite like a section of sunflowers in full nod, every head tracking the sun from the eastern horizon to the western in the slow choreography the botanists call heliotropism. North Dakota's growers plant both the oilseed varieties, pressed for cooking oil, and the striped confection sorts that end up salted at the ballpark.
Heliotropes by the Acre
The crop suits the plains temperament: it tolerates drought better than corn, roots deep enough to mine subsoil moisture, and rewards the patient grower who waits for the back of the head to yellow before sending in the combine. Blackbirds remain the chief antagonist, descending in clouds on ripening fields near the sloughs.
From the almanac's reckoning:
- North Dakota ranks among the top states for both oil and confection sunflower.
- Sunflowers track the sun by day until the heads mature and fix eastward.
- Blackbird flocks near sloughs are the crop's most persistent late-season pest.
Beekeepers and sunflower growers keep an old alliance, for the bloom feeds the hive and the hive sets the seed. Where the two trades meet, a good year for honey is often a good year for oil, and the almanac marks the sunflower as a friend to both the pantry and the comb.
Elsewhere in the Almanac
Reading the Sky: Drought, Irrigation and the Missouri's Water
In a state where most crops drink only what the clouds provide, the recurring specter of drought keeps every grower's eye on the rain gauge — and turns some toward the water of the Missouri.
Flax Returns: The Blue-Flowered Crop Finds New Favor
Prized for its oil and its omega-rich seed, flax has staged a quiet comeback across the plains, its brief blue bloom once again dotting the northern fields.
Passing the Land On: The Delicate Art of Farm Succession
As a generation of plains farmers reaches its later years, families across the state wrestle with the hardest harvest of all — handing the farm to the next hands, or letting it go.