A World without Flowers

In nature there are neither rewards nor punishments. There are consequences. 

Robert G. Ingersol

It is late January as I write these words, and the snow that fell a couple of weeks ago has mostly melted, brought about by warming temperatures, then rain, then ice, and now the mud that must invariably follow. This is a trend that would be more likely seen in April. People around here refer to it as “mud season,” but it has arrived early this year, and already there is concern about the likely drought that follows such a winter.

Of course, it is yet January. More snow could come our way, and heavy snowstorms can occur in the mountains well into spring. We like that. It gets a bit depressing to look at the brown mountains, to breathe in the smoky air from nearby forest fires, and to watch the wildflowers wither and die before they have a chance to bloom. That is the hardest part for me.

In 2015 my daughter Leah and I hiked the Washington section of the Pacific Crest Trail during one of the worst droughts on record for the Cascades. I was living on the Olympic Peninsula at the time, and all winter long as I prepared for the hike I would gaze at those mountains that came into view whenever the clouds lifted and puzzle over their appearance without snow in midwinter. Hardly any snow at all fell that year.

Of course we knew this when we prepared for our trip, packing extra water containers and planning our schedule carefully to take advantage of water sources along the trail whenever possible. We had a few thirsty days of hiking, but mostly stayed well hydrated by carrying extra water, which of course adds considerably to pack weight.

I was not prepared, however, for the impact of drought on my senses. We began the trip in mid-July, which in most years would mark the beginning of the mountains in bloom, a joyful occasion when they put on a colorful show. You are a hiker. You know about this. It is for many of us the primary reason we make these hard trips year after year.

But we saw very few flowers that year, almost none in fact. Fragile subalpine plants depend on a blanket of snow to make it through the winter. Those that survive the winter will bloom early, if at all, and if there is insufficient moisture to nurture them, they simply wither and die. The meadows were brown, streams having dried up early. There was much about that trip that was difficult, which I have written about in earlier posts, but mostly I remember how it felt to look at a world that was damaged, to listen to a world that lacked the music of a rambling stream.

The south slope of Mt. Adams is usually a huckleberry lover’s paradise and a reason to slow down and savor the sweetness of those plump juicy berries. We saw only dead fruit on the bushes. The world was changed. It had lost its sweetness. It had lost its color. 

In a few days I will escape from the dark and cold of winter in northeastern Washington and head for sunny skies to the south. Of course, I will board a plane to make the trip, thus adding to the carbon emissions that cause the forests to burn and the wildflowers to wither. As a conscientious environmentalist I dutifully recycle, drive a hybrid vehicle, compost my table scraps, and minimize my consumption of meat, but I am under no pretense that these actions therefore make up for my place on a jetliner. 

What seems more important now is to see as much of this fragile planet as I possibly can in the years I have remaining: to walk through a central American rainforest, to scramble over the red cliffs of the southwestern desert, to admire the fragile bloom of a saxifrage plant in its rocky terrain, as in the photo above. There is still a world to be seen and cherished. I want to spend my remaining time out there doing exactly that.