The wooden bridge over Bear Creek leads past mallards on rocks, salmonberry bushes (and once upon a time, past Devil's Club, but it is not a plant to be trusted where a curious child may reach out, all unknowing, to touch a pretty berry and be stabbed for his temerity) ... Where was I? Going into the native garden section of Bear Creek Park. It's a quiet, green tunnel through an evergreen forest, the sky hidden beyond the evergreens overhead, the only sound the trickle of the creek below the path, our way hedged with rhododendrons, salal, tall ferns, and Indian plum. At their feet, bleeding hearts and vanilla leaf make a green carpet.
|Salal flowers, fuzzy and sticky.|
|Indian plum, ripening|
|Graceful curve of a fern tip|
|New fronds, unrolling|
|Newer still, all curled up|
At the end of the trail, we cross the main path through the park, and enter the tall trees section. We were looking for owls here, where we'd seen a family long ago, and stumbled along the trail, craning our necks to look for round, fuzzy shadows in the deep, round, brown shadows of the trunks and branches far overhead. There were no owls, at least, no owls visible. But there was this:
|Knitted tree scarf|
Looks like someone had figured it was a cold winter, and the trees might catch sore throats.
|A thoughtful touch, maybe?|