Fieldnotes
From the PNW

After a conversation with my medicinal farming friend, Marae, about the best places to find horsetail, she suggested an “an ancient patch of horsetail just beyond the waterfall at Sombrio Beach…” After encountering horsetail in so many places disturbed by human settlement, I felt called to find this place where horsetail has been living for a longer time in the temperate rain forests.

Located on the Juan de Fuca trail, the Sombrio Beach trailhead is part of the west coast trail that stretches from the north in Alaska down along the coast to California. This part of the trail is on the territory of Pacheedaht First Nations, which has been colonized as part of Vancouver Island, in the province of British Columbia, Canada.

My journey begins on a cool, clear Spring day in April, with the temperature around 4 degrees Celsius. Along the way, there is heavy hail requiring windshield wipers on at high speed, though it did not last more than 15 minutes. There are a few signs along the highway pointing the way, but no sign at the actual turn off onto a logging road. I drove past it a couple times before finding it, then descended down the road to the parking lot. It was packed with cars, many visitors here for the rare opportunity to pitch a tent right on the beach. I found a spot for my car then slung a day pack over my shoulder and locked up.

I breathed deeply, then descended to the beach along a short but steep walk through the forest. I did not see any horsetail, but I noticed a few bright patches of swamp lantern, locally known as skunk cabbage. The odor was distinct--pungent yet invigoratingly fresh and citrusy.

I began breathing more heavily as I was walking along the rocky beach. I passed by more than a dozen campsites, including two in front of the entrance to the caves that led to the waterfall, with one on either side of the tiny creek that lead down to the Pacific Ocean. The water flow was minimal with lots of large rocks in the creek, allowing me to hop across, back and forth, as I made my way up the creek to the cave entrance.

Along the creek bank, I found a stretch of young horsetail. I climbed the bank to see if there was more horsetail up higher and beyond the cave. It was muddy, the kind where your shoes sink in and get stuck so when you pull them out there is loud squelchy sucking sound. Here I found more skunk cabbage, but I did not find any horsetail.

Back down in the creek, hopping over rocks partially submerged in rushing water, I moved forward and slightly upward into a cave that was more of a crevice between a rock wall that split open. There were openings above where I could see moss covered rocks and tree roots hanging down. The sound of rushing water filled my being and I inhaled humid air, saturated with water, fine droplets dissolving on my tongue and moistening my skin. Further in, there was another opening above, where water rushed in and down the rocky cliff, water pooling at the bottom. I allowed the sounds to fill my being and wash over and through me, dissolving my sense of self to merge with the presence of water--cleansing, reviving, restoring, enlivening.

Back with the horsetail I met on my way to the waterfall, I sat with them and reflected on the sacredness of this site, witnessing others arrive with a sense of wonder, having reached this natural wonder, eager with joy to meet this experience. There was a steady flow of children, parents, elders, artists arriving, entering, then emerging, satisfied and glowing, bursting back out onto the beach.

As I sat there, I cautiously selected several stalks, chewing and sucking the fresh juice; it was fresh and grassy, slightly sweet. The stalks were smooth, then fibrous as I bit down and chewed on them. At first there was a dryness in the mouth and then a watery flow as my taste buds engorged. I savoured these sensations and felt a renewed sense of clarity and focused energy within.

I pull over and walk along the water-filled ditches, admiring the horsetail, both fertile and sterile stalks existing together. Fertile stalks releasing their pollen and sterile stalks just beginning to unfurl. Perhaps it will be less than a week before the fertile stems will die off while the sterile stalks will continue to emerge and grow throughout the summer, synthesizing the sun's energy to nourish the rhizomatic network below the surface.

Again, I see skunk cabbage, and I see one clump of horsetail surrounding a healthy plantain (plantago lancelota). There is horsetail on both sides of the ditch and in the ditch. I select a few more stalks to refresh after the hike back along the beach. My thirst is quenched, I feel revived, ready to continue.

Back along the narrow, winding coastal highway, I being to notice more horsetail along the forest edges where there is water running. Just a few small patches here and there. However, just past Jordan River (heading back to Victoria), I pull over to appreciate an especially large patch of horsetail along a ditch filled with fast moving water, a gurgling stream. Again, more skunk cabbage.

Jordan River brings back memories of last fall on a forest hike with my daughter Odette and her partner Jeremi where we visited new growth forests to gather chantarelle mushrooms. Memories washed through me, recalling one morning in the forest, climbing along a creek bank--across and up the other side, looking for golden nuggets of fruiting mushrooms popping out from under leaves that cover a thick and spongy forest floor, covered with criss-crossing logs, fallen and rotting into food to nourish a complex web of life, dominated by tall trees that have been there at least a few decades. Not ancient forest--new forest. And I know that along this stretch there are swaths of clear-cut, so one comes through the edge of a forest to find a bedraggled mass of broken brush devoid of living trees other than a few starts poking up among the brush. One lone tree silhouetted above a vast stretch of clear-cut forest creates a landscape that evokes a deep sadness--a stark contrast against the joy and magic of being in a forest teeming with life.