In the Wild

While we were camping last weekend, we ventured out on a short hike through Limekiln State Park.

Side note: A short hike is roughly two miles, round trip.  Yes.  I do realize that for some of you, that's your trek to wash your dishes in a nearby stream.  But when you have four little ones, the oldest of whom is four, you gauge your hikes based on the distance you wish to haul 40 pounds of squirming, kicking exhaustion.  For me, that's roughly twenty feet.  Fortunately, Chad has a longer threshold.

For years, we've tried to get a campsite at Limekiln.  Although we haven't yet done so, we drove to the trail head to check out the campgrounds and the hikes.

In a word, beautiful.

The Kiln Trail meandered through a cathedral of redwoods, the red bark scorched from the fires two years ago.  We walked along the bubbling creek, it's banks swollen from this year's rain.  Low clover-like plants carpeted the forest floor in sweeping green swaths.  Every twist of the path revealed a stunning view of waterfalls, trees, flowers and ferns.  We clumped across wooden bridges and marched single file along a sheer drop.  Our footsteps were muted by the soft pine needles covering the path.  From the time we left until we were nearly back at the site, we were the lone explores on this forest trail.  Joseph and Jackson ran, using branches as "walking sticks".  Arabella walked close to her mother, pointing out the plants.  And the adults?  We were in awe.

The trail ended at giant kilns, incongruously located in the middle of the forest.  Sarah read the history while we all stared, amazed at this hidden piece of California.

All along the path, I kept looking at the bright green ground cover and saying, "Those must be edible.  Don't they look like something from our gardens?"  It nagged at me, my mind worrying it like a dog on a bone.

It bothered me that I didn't know.  It bothered me that I have this...disconnect...with the land I live on.  It bothered me that I don't know which plants are truly dangerous and which ones would have made an interesting addition to our salad at dinner.

When we got home, Tara looked up the plant.  Sure enough, it was edible.  It's called wood sorrel and has, I quote, "a delightfully lemon flavor and can be added raw to salads".

San Francisco has Wild Walks that take novice foragers out into the "wild" and teaches them what is edible and, more importantly, what is not.  We don't have anything like that here.  And that makes me sad.

Because, as much as I want to learn more about my native wildlife, there's something faintly scary about me venturing out, armed with little more than a book on local plants.  For some reason, I feel that it could have disastrous results.

Especially considering I couldn't identify chamomile in my own garden without the help of my entire gardening group.