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"There is a steady drone throughout The Meadow as the bees do their work, moving quickly from flower to flower ..."
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By Buzz Trexler
The Ripshin Scribe
It's the Thursday after Easter at Ripshin and the skies are overcast, foreshadowing a rainy Friday to come.
Some of the clouds seem impatient: they shake out an occasional stray shower as the afternoon winds down.
Given a choice of heading out on the lake for our first fishing foray of the season, or going for a wildflower walk, Donna and I choose the latter. It's not often we arrive on "fringed phacelia" weekend when spring wildflowers begin to really show their beauty -- especially the white fringed Phacelia -- but Easter came late this year and thus did the "preacher's Sabbath."
We mill around close to Ripshin, capturing images of Trout-lily (Erythronium americium), Trillium, red and white (Trillium erectum), the latter of which seem to be found in communities. (Did you know it takes six years for a Trillium to flower?)
We continue to marvel that the rare white fringed Phacelia is now found in our yard at the Ripshack, first noticing in spring 2017 that it had "jumped the road" -- our phrase for when a plant naturally crosses the manmade barrier -- from The Meadow, where it is found in abundance.
Peterson's Field Guides' "Wildflowers Northeastern, North Central, North America," by Roger Tory Peterson and Margaret McKenny, notes that Phacelias are usually blue, but "rarely white."
The book "Great Smoky Mountains Wildflowers," by Carlos Campbell, William F. Hutson, and Aaron J. Sharp, says this of Phacelia fimbriata, "The plant is widely distributed at elevations from 2,500 to 5,000 feet and blooms in April and May."
Fellow Ripshin member Steve Gilreath, Greg Houchin and I were hiking the Appalachian Trail through the eastern half of the Smokies in late April 2012 and came upon a group doing a wildflower walk. Cameras were snapping photos of a hillside blanketed with the white flower in such abundance that it resembled a snow-covered hill.
"Wildflowers of the Shenandoah Valley and Blue Ridge Mountains," by Oscar W. Gupton and Fred C. Swope, says the flower itself -- sometimes called Miami Mist -- is rare and found at stream sides, moist woods, and low roadsides. The area back o' Ripshin known as Chestnut Ridge offers such an environment for this "rare" beauty to inhabit and once again supports what we at Ripshin know and should respect: we are shepherds of a unique ecological zone in the Unaka Range.
Donna and I head to The Meadow and from the road we see the white carpet stretching forth toward the remnants of the old logging road. We step up the bank, walk past the big rock, and I stop.
"Can you hear that?" I ask.
There is a steady drone throughout The Meadow as the bees do their work, moving quickly from flower to flower -- so quickly it is difficult to capture a photo of one in the midst of its labor.
Having been exposed to news of a decline in bee populations due to disease and insecticides, I smile at the sound, saying, "This is good news."
In the flowering expanse, we also find dwarf Larkspur and violets, creating dots of purple along with in the snow-white cover, the occasional Trout-lily and Spring Beauties, communities of Trillium, and Squirrel Corn, which we at first believe are Dutchman Breeches; however, a close study revealed the difference.
Also fair in number is that mountain delicacy known as ramps. In a section titled "Spring Wild Plant Foods" from "Foxfire 2" we read: "There is a great deal of disagreement as to their tastiness; it seems people either love them or hate them. One gentleman said, 'They's not for ladies or those who court them.'"
If you're game and willing to be gamey, you can find a few mountain recipes in the book, but Clifford Connor suggests this: "Most important, go into solitary in the woods somewheres, stay for two or three weeks, because nobody can stand your breath after you've eat 'em." We recently saw a few people hunting ramps in The Meadow, coming out with bags of the lily-like plant. We won't name them, but if you run across them in the near future you'll obviously know who they are.
I find myself walking ahead of Donna; realizing I am far ahead of her, I wait until she reaches the road. We head west and there is ample evidence that this is a heavily trafficked route for the four-legged creatures of our God and King. Also visible: more deadfall left by an extremely wet and windy winter. On a previous visit within the past year, I found it almost impassible in spots.
I can tell Donna is a little apprehensive after hearing a bear had visited the Gilreaths' porch on Tuesday, and we found evidence of a bear grubbing a stump on our own lot. Yet, she gamely follows as I walk ahead, breaking through spider webs and pushing aside what deadfall and overgrowth that I can.
As we approach the first leg of Carver's Field Branch -- sometimes called Double Springs Branch -- Donna points out a "cairn" that I noticed in my last visit. The word "cairn" has its roots in a Gaelic term that means, of course, "a heap of stones." Hikers use cairns to point the way to various points or interests or necessities to fellow sojourners. They also use cairns to guide the way in places where the traditional blazes on trees are impossible. From the first time I I saw this particular cairn, I've wondered what it signifies.
A few steps beyond the cairn, my right foot breaks through a watery tunnel and I sink to about six inches above my ankle. Donna gasps as I stop all forward movement and slowly pull my leg out of the hole.
Gratefully uninjured, we continue on and I point out a solitary Trout-liy, Donna notices Prince Pine and nearby Princess Pine, and again we see an extended display of white fringed Phacelia.
Just short of the far leg of Carvers Field Branch, we begin to turn back.
Donna asks, "Do we have to go back the way we came?"
I ponder the thought of making our way through dense rhododendron.
"I'm afraid so," I said.
It was a most excellent walk in the woods.
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