The Ghost Orchid

THE GHOST ORCHID

I would never guess that peeking into a redwood grove would change my life forever. One day when vacationing in northern California, I decided to walk a popular trail in Humboldt County, known for its glorious redwood trees. The entrance to the trail was hidden by a thick hedge of young redwoods that had been planted by park volunteers. This was unusual, because most trail heads in the park are clearly visible. When I did discover the entrance, I poked my head inside.

I was surprised to see that the forest interior looked dark on this sunny day. A wide path curved gently from the entrance, then disappeared into the dim interior. This forest was hushed, seemed empty of visitors and now I felt a bit nervous. Would it be reckless to explore the dark trail by myself?

Comsi, comsa—I was excited—this was what I’d been longing for –adventure! I would return to explore the trail.

The next day the trail parking lot was empty, so I knew I’d likely be alone on the trail. In my backpack I’d stowed essentials: water, cell phone, band-aids, tissue, flashlight, batteries and two brownies.

With some heart pounding, I entered the dark redwood grove and was taken aback–it was beautiful beyond my imaginings. Pale lilac-colored hydrangea blossoms appeared in the semi-darkness near the entrance. They can’t possibly be wild hydrangeas can they? Did someone plant them? Wild ones grow in the east, not the west.

Among the shady thickets of berry bushes, trees, ferns and vines, the blossoms appeared luminous as if lit up by spotlights, but the spotlights were actually beams of sunlight breaking through the forest canopy. Admiring the pale blossoms, I felt a rush of pleasure. What other surprises would I find in this dark redwood grove?

The chocolate colored trail was soft and velvety to walk on, composed of years of fallen redwood needles. Verdant redwood sorrel, looking like clover dotted with tiny white blossoms, formed swathes of bright emerald green on each side of the trail.

I breathed in the damp air that smelled of earth and humus. Looking up I saw hundreds of tree tops and branches moving in a soft breeze. I gazed at the redwood tree trunks, craning my neck backward until feeling dizzy, thinking I could easily topple over, being mesmerized by 250 feet tall trees. So for a few minutes I lay on a fallen log to gaze up at the swaying treetops.

After taking pictures of the trees, I resumed my walk and didn’t hear a sound in the hushed forest except the occasional bird call, a small animal scrambling when I walked by, or a falling leaf, with the exception of tree limbs occasionally creaking high above me. Sometimes those creaks became screeches when tree branches rubbed against each other.

The ground was decorated with fallen logs everywhere, some broken in half revealing ochre colored wood chips. Mosses upholstered some logs, and lime-colored ferns occupied those logs like guests in a hotel.

I padded on, inhaling the intoxicating air, my eyes feasting on this dark, benevolent forest. The farther into the deep, the more excited I felt. I sat on a log bench inscribed by the person who gifted it to the redwood grove. I saw that animals had dug holes at the base of the log so I guessed they must be dwelling beneath me right now. After a few minutes of more picture taking, I continued onto a wooden bridge arching over a small creek bed.

Then I came upon the proverbial fork in the road. The dusky park path continued to the right, but to the left, I saw a trail of the opposite nature. This path bore the faint tracks of a vehicle, probably a truck. Grass, weeds and rocks cluttered it. This path wasn’t in the pristine condition of the park trail, where volunteers immediately pluck weeds when they see them. I don’t know why I was suddenly interested in this unknown track. But I couldn’t help wondering, where did it go? It didn’t look like an offshoot of the park trail and it wasn’t noted on a signpost. Would I get lost if I explored it? That seemed unlikely, but I had no idea how large this grove was. The call of the wild won out–I left the park trail to follow the faint matted marks in the grass.

In a few minutes, I had second thoughts about stomping along on an uncomfortable rocky trail in my tennis shoes. Then suddenly something caught my eye a distance away, a flash of white among the crowded brush and trees. I squinted–was it a flower I spied, poking its head above a distant thicket of berries? Maybe a bird? Then I caught a whiff of sweet floral fragrance. Could it be an orchid, a white orchid? To come upon a rare plant in a natural setting is like finding an opal in a bucket of stones.

An orchid! I remembered the white ghost orchid that poachers searched for in Florida, resulting in the best selling book, “The Orchid Thief.” A single ghost orchid sold for $150,000! The orchid that I may have spotted looked ghostly to me, because no sooner did I hurry around a bend to get a closer look, then it disappeared from sight.

Because I couldn’t see the orchid at this point, it must be hidden in the berry thickets farther along. I continued, the lure of the orchid making me walk faster, ignoring anxiety as I walked farther and farther from the park trail. I thought I spied a flash of white, but rounding another bend, no. Gone again. I stopped to look at my surroundings. I could still see the faint grassy trail, but the forest had grown darker. I had to blink my eyes to get rid of the blurriness from peering into the dimness.

I would search just five minutes more, I decided. I set the timer on my phone and then a noise startled me. I stopped--wary, frozen in place, my ears alert—listening . . . I heard a deep voice call, “Hello.” I glanced behind me and saw him standing on the road about 20 feet back, a park ranger, tall, dark hair, solemn eyes, tentative smile.

“Are you lost, Miss, or are you looking for the white redwood tree?” he asked.

“White tree? No . . . a white orchid,” I said, feeling a bit silly. “I saw it that way,” I pointed, “among some berry bushes, but now I can’t find it.”

“An orchid? I’ve never seen an orchid growing here.” He pulled a map from his pocket and slowly walked toward me, looking at me eye-to-eye the entire time. As he came closer I saw his badge pinned to the front of his khaki shirt. His name was Ernie.

“See here,” he said, now next to me, pointing to a spot on the map. “This is where we are—on an old ranch trail. This redwood grove ends at a cow pasture and that’s where a rare white redwood tree grows.” He paused and looked at me seriously. “There are only sixty albino redwoods that we know of. We’re not far from it, if you’d like to see it.” His expression was earnest and his eyes were kind.

I hesitated for only a moment. “I would like to see it,” I decided. He is a park ranger, after all, I thought, and he radiates safety and concern. I will ignore my anxiety and take a chance on adventure! We walked slowly down the old track and eventually came to an opening in the forest that revealed a sunny cow pasture. Just before the pasture entrance stood a striking white redwood tree. To me it resembled a young redwood tree with straggly bleached hair. I later learned that albino redwood trees are often very weak, lacking nutrition.

“Only a few people know about the tree, besides the locals,” the ranger said. “Otherwise, visitors would be tromping up and down this trail, which leads to private property. Best to keep it a secret.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“I’ll walk you back,” he offered.

Because I felt like a guilty but privileged offender, a state park rule-breaker, who’d trespassed far from the designated trail, I promptly agreed, maybe avoiding handcuffs, arrest and/or jail time! Or a fine? A warning?

The ranger and I talked as we walked back on the old ranch trail, then we took the winding park trail to the grove entrance. I thanked him again for walking me back and for the interesting stories he’d told me about the Humboldt redwood groves.

“My pleasure,” he answered, smiling at me. “By the way, my name’s Ernie,” he added.

“Lisa," and of course I knew his name.

“How about a cup of coffee from the famous Eternal Tree House Cafe?" he asked, gazing at me with his warm hazel eyes. “I’ll be off duty in a few minutes. It's in Redcrest, a couple miles away and you can follow me in your car."

“Yes! I'd like that.” I didn't hesitate.

As in a romance novel, weeks later he proposed to me. We were sitting beneath the white redwood tree in the forest. He’d brought champagne and glasses in his backpack and so we toasted our engagement, then toasted the elusive white orchid that had lured me down the wild track. It became our “ghost orchid,” because it was a ghost, wasn’t it? We look for it still and once in a while a sweet fragrance drifts our way, as if the ghost orchid is playing with us.

Our ghost orchid, as I remembered from my fleeting glances, was full, bright white, with perhaps rounded petals. Not like the real Ghost Orchid (Dendrophylax lindenii), who has long, white spindly-looking petals and a skinny nectar tube, looking weird like a ghost orchid should.

I researched and learned that the orchid I may have spotted and that we’ve chased after could very well be Cephalanthera austiniae, nicknamed “The Phantom Orchid.” It grows in the Pacific Northwest and elsewhere. The article did not mention the mystical qualities of the orchid, that I am telling you about now. How it emits a compelling fragrance that lures you though the forest. How it magically moves from one place to another. I would love to have a Phantom Orchid in my wedding bouquet, but of course I would never pick one if I found one. I’ll settle for a silk replica in honor of the elusive flower that led me to my life-long love. I am forever grateful.