The Color Green
It would be easier to name the species in a Pacific Northwest rainforest that are not some shade of green than to list the many that are. There is the Ghost Pipe, a nearly translucent white saprophyte that is only occasionally seen and, according to Indigenous lore, the site where wolves have urinated. There’s also the Chicken of the Woods, a brilliant, orange fungus that is edible and described as “choice” in some mushroom books. Other fungi, as well as slime molds, provide a spectrum of colors, including the bright yellow Witches’ Butter and Dog’s Vomit (a less than appealing name but quite apt). Red and blue huckleberries and pale orange salmonberries provide little buttons of color; the white leaves of bunchberry dogwood spread out in spring across the forest floor like little pinwheels. Yet, by far, the color that edges out all others is green.
This is hardly surprising. Given the tremendous number of species growing in close proximity, all of whom are busily photosynthesizing, it’s no wonder that even the air of a forest can seem green at times. As the trees, shrubs, and forbs begin turning the sun’s rays into energy, the pigment chlorophyll in their leaves and needles absorbs light in the violet, blue, and red wavelengths. At the same time, chlorophyll reflects light in the green wavelength, thus making the pigment appear green to us humans. It is good to know the scientific process behind what I’m seeing as I walk through a forest, but photosynthesis and chlorophyll are not usually what I’m thinking about when I’m out in these verdant landscapes.
I have sometimes spent hours hiking in the forest and been far away from the forest at the same time. While my feet walk the path, on trail or off, my thoughts wander wildly. There is my job and home, my wife and friends and co-workers, and various interactions with all to fill my mind. Plans and hopes waft through beside regrets and opportunities not taken. I linger in the past, race ahead to the future, with so much in my head creating a barrier between me and the forest.
Then a grouse bursts from the bushes and my heart pounds; I am jolted back to the present. The bird’s flapping wings and squeaks seem to say, “Pay attention!” or, perhaps more kindly, “Welcome back!” A Douglas’s squirrel has the same message, but in the form of a scold. I have come too close for the squirrel’s comfort, or perhaps it is alerting everyone that an owl is nearby. The staccato calls of a Steller’s Jay are also perfect for breaking through what can seem like a suffocating array of thoughts and worries. Finally, I’m pulled around to what is before me. I’m reminded where I am. Then I remember why I’m here.
Each season is different too. Spring births the bountiful green, summer is the height of the many shades of this color. In the fall, vine maples stand out with vibrant reds, while bigleaf maple leaves turn brown and yellow and float lazily to the ground, resting on the path like paper plates spread across a picnic blanket. Winter arrives and the whiteness brings a quiet so profound there is no doubt that beginnings and endings are real, that everything is impermanent, that what lives will die, that what grows will one day fall back to the earth.
The forest has always been a refuge for me, an escape from an at times fraught childhood, a place that fostered dreams of great adventure. The tall fir and hemlock trees are like sisters and brothers. The forest is another family, one that is deeply familiar, even as its residents also remain mysterious. The forest, the green leaves and needles, the lichen and moss, and the hues of lime and jade and deep olive, welcome me, but this other world doesn’t require my company. I feel I have nothing to give this place beyond my grateful notice.