Backlighting Devil’s Club Overhead

Devils club leaves photographed by Lorelle VanFossen backlit in the forest.

Traveling to Seattle, a friend and I went to the John Bastyr School for one of their health and herbal festivals. A nature walk through the forest next to the campus intrigued me. It was incredibly informative, discussing how to use plants in the wilderness for medical treatments and health.

The Pacific Northwest forest was dappled with sunlight and the treacherous Devils Club hung over our heads at one point in trail. I worked around the group trying to get a good angle on the plant to capture the details with the strong backlighting.

The Devil’s Club is one that I’ve run into since a child digging around the forests of the Pacific Northwest, and trust me, this is one you do not want to stumble into. Called the Devil’s Club or Walking Stick, it can grow up to 16 feet (5 meters) tall in rainforests and damp environments to which Western Washington is well equipped. Spines are found not only on the stems but the leaves, making it a painful experience to touch in any way, even brush against.

According to our guide, Native Americans used Devil’s Club for medicine to treat diabetes, tumors, chapped lips, and tumors. It can also be used as an analgesic, though it isn’t as strong as traditional aspirin. It can be used in herbal teas and he said that they ate it as food. He didn’t clarify which part they ate, from the red fruits that form in clusters off stems that look like clubs, or from the leaves or root.

For me, this is a plant I’ve endured most of my life, having spent too many hours pulling its little thorn-like spines from by arms and legs and out of my dogs. Still, it is a magnificent examples of the unusual in the world. A plant I think of when I imagine what plant life was like during the dinosaur times.

The Story of the Magical Mystery Door

Originally published on Google+

Shashi Bellamkonda took this amazing photograph of my magical mystery door when he was visiting our home outside of Portland, Oregon. Here’s the story of the door.

When I was a child, we’d make frequent trips over the Cascade Mountains to visit family in Eastern Washington. Just before Leavenworth was “The Alps,” a small A-frame home and candy store between Highway 2 and Jolanda “Lake,” a dammed lake that pauses the river as it rushes down the mountains towards the Bavarian town of Leavenworth, five miles away.

My father could make friends with strangers in seconds, and such was the case with the Marlins when they opened The Alps early in the 1960s. My parents were thrilled with chance to stop, stretch legs, and let the children use the bathroom. We kids were dazzled and thrilled with the handmade candy, paintings, Happy Rock fairies, occasional batches of puppies, but best of all was the amazing yard filled with magical and mysterious handmade things to play on.

There were the usual swings, teeter totter, and other playground equipment, but what always thrilled me was the sight of the door.

It was just a normal door. A door you might find in any home. It grew a little weather worn over the years but it was just a door.

Most importantly, it was a closed door.

An open door means little to a little girl with too much imagination packed between her ears. A closed door offered mystery. Who knew what lay beyond that door. What adventures, what vistas, what strange and wild people, what path would I end up on if I opened that door.

As I grew older, The Alps meant more than the best fudge you’ve ever slipped between your lips. I’d think about that door and imagine what I would find beyond it. I’d paint great cities, wilderness, vast deserts, huge gardens, strange planets…all unfamiliar and exciting terrains. I’d see people wearing colorful flowing outfits, or silvery tight fitting clothing like I saw on funky science fiction shows.

By the time we arrived, I had the vision of what lie beyond the door clearly in my head. I’d race through the shop and down the stairs to the kitchen and out the back door to the yard, a wave hello to old Mr. Marlin stirring up a pot of brittle, caramels or penuche as I raced by him.

I’d head straight for the door, my hand out stretched, then pause as I felt the cold handle under my fingers.
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