|About to follow the trail through the "trillium portal"|
Yesterday, in the warming afternoon hours following a cool and rainy morning, my husband and I headed for the Trillium Trail in the Redmond Watershed Preserve, seeking to find this trail's namesake flowers, which should have begun to bloom. We'd strolled through the Watershed two weeks ago, more for exercise and fresh air than anything else, but I'd secretly hoped we might catch a few early trillium. Alas, at that time the forest was still well in the grips of winter and there was nary a trillium to be seen among the damp humus of last autumn's fallen leaves.
The spring trillium hunt is an annual tradition for me. When I was a child, my grandpa and I walked through the woods around my house to count as many trillium as we could find. Now that my grandpa is no longer with us, my husband - who is a trillium-spotting pro - accompanies me on the yearly quest for these simple white flowers. The trillium hunt is a way to reconnect to the memories forged in those childhood rambles through the forest, as well as to seek hopeful signs of spring in the bright white flags blooming through a winter's worth of decay.
We parked at the north entrance of the Watershed to allow us to access the Trillium Trail more quickly, since being eight months pregnant has limited the distance I can comfortably walk, and I wanted to spend as much time on the actual trail as I could. Access via the south parking area requires a bit more walking to reach the Trillium Trail itself. Setting off into the woods, I immediately felt doubtful that we'd spot any trillium today. Still-bare salmonberry branches reached for us as we passed, lacking the delicate growth of new green leaves to soften the stark nakedness of their thorny limbs. Very little greenery pushed up from the forest floor, save for a few patches of lacy bleeding heart. It didn't look promising.
We followed the trail as it rounded the north shore of the pond and crossed the wide grassy swath of the pipeline corridor. Taking a deep breath, I received a pungent lungful of skunk cabbage, which was blooming with gusto in the shallow waters of the pond. Those odd yellow flowers with their undeniably skunky scent are another herald of the spring season - just not the one I was looking for!
Around the bend in the trail lay our best hope for finding trillium, if there were any to be found. We were about to step through the trillium portal, the short section of trail wherein one can usually find the motherlode of these white flowers. Hope still intact, I proceeded down the trail with slow, methodical steps and began to search more intently than ever. My gaze probed among the glistening sword fern still looking flat and tired from a long wet winter, among the vivid green bleeding heart leaves holding rain droplets from morning showers, and among the tiny clusters of unknown leaves that aggravatingly tricked the eye into believing they belonged to a trillium.
A few yards back, my husband called for my attention and pointed to something down the slope from us. My heart leapt - had he spotted one? I quickly backtracked and let my gaze follow his outstretched arm... and there it was. The first trillium of the year. No wait... there was not one trillium, but two. My mouth fell open slightly as I soaked in the sight before me. Of course, of all the trillium we might first spot, this trillium - these two trillium - would have to be it.
They were unusual. Two trillium, facing one another with their white three-petaled buds only partially opened and bowed with the weight of clinging rain droplets. They leaned against one another, rain-sodden leaves wrapped together, each holding the other up. I felt like I was witnessing a private moment between two people.
Now, I'm not a fan of incorporating one's own life story in the telling of nature experiences. When writing them myself, I typically prefer that the experiences remain unfettered by our own agendas and narratives and just be what they are, because those experiences stand alone in their simple beauty without us imposing sweeping life lessons or revelations on them.
But in this case, I couldn't help but stare at those trillium and think of the week I'd just had. After enduring a week that was anything but normal, I had stepped into the forest today not just to look for trillium, but also to seek the hope and reassurance that some kind of normalcy still existed in the world - in feeling the mud squish under my feet, the clean earthy air filling my lungs, and in finding these flowers that come without fail every spring. Without getting into the details, I'll just say I had to spend several evenings in the hospital this past week being monitored for what appeared to be preterm labor and was poked, prodded, and frowned over by enough doctors and nurses to make one feel rather nervous. In the midst of wondering whether our baby was okay; whether I was okay; whether we were all going to be okay; my husband and I had just one choice: we leaned on one another. Like the two trillium, we held each other up as the anxiety and fear rained upon us, weighing us down with uncertainty.
And now I stared at the two trillium before me that had endured their own storm and still held one another in a wet, leafy embrace. Everything had turned out okay. I was fine, the baby was fine, and my husband and I were just fine, although coming out of this we are perhaps holding each day a bit closer, a bit more carefully. We now stood before comforting proof that trillium were blooming once again this spring, as they do every year. The world wasn't completely upside-down, then.
Continuing for another quarter-mile down the trail, we spotted a handful more trillium before my increasingly sore hips and back determined that it was time to turn back. Many of the trillium hadn't bloomed just yet, and were still holding their buds tightly closed, like someone squinting against the rain. A few lacked even buds, and were just small stalks with three glossy green leaves.
Comparing this year's trillium sightings with those of years past, it appears that our colder-than-normal winter may have convinced these delicate flowers to slumber in the ground a bit longer and wait for warmer days before sprouting. However, those that have emerged early and braved the rain were met with grateful appreciation from this nature nerd desperately seeking spring.
Check out previous trillium hunts here: