As the season warms, Nature clothes the forest in finery. Where once bleak moss-covered trunks stretched to the sky, there are delicate light green petticoats as huckleberry unfurls its leaves, reaching far above my head. Now the landscape has depth and heft.  Along the trail, tender shoots of salmonberry and salal joust and jostle for space, threaten to overtake the trail.  Elegant creamy white trillium stand alert while the feathery foliage of bleeding heart hides dainty blossoms in fuchsia and pink.  Suddenly, a rare and tiny splash of yellow comes into view—Montane’s violet with its cheery five petals, veined with the faintest hint of red.  Fuzzy fronds of sword fern slowly unfold. The odiferous stench of skunk cabbage wafts up from stream depression long before the distinctive flowers are visible.  The lazy drone of busy insects fills the air with buzzing.  A raucous chorus of croaks picks up, each voice louder than the last, a veritable paean to spring.  Outlasting all the others, a solitary voice refuses to shush.  What prompted them to burst into song? Did they sense danger in my footsteps, or simply succumb to an irresistible urge? Here, an industrious squirrel has nibbled on Douglas Fir cones, carefully discarding the duck-footed bracts in a small pile at the base of the tree. Gashes in the earth along the path reveal dirt as red as the decaying stumps of once-majestic cedar—a rich burnt umber.

A small stream bubbles and gurgles with renewed vigour—perhaps the snow melt from mountains high sends cascades down. Only last month this gentle waterfall was frozen. Now, a trickle drips over thick carpets of moss. 

Everything is set in motion, constantly expanding. Nothing is still.