The forest in spring is the forest primordial. Everything seems new and untouched, especially by humans. This morning I set out with my camera into the forest gleaming with the remnants of overnight rain. I stepped gingerly over carpets of single trout lily leaves. Islands of lush blue cohosh and wild leeks rose from the leaf litter, populated with scattered native flowers like trilliums and mayapples.
I had been wandering and snapping random pictures for while when I stumbled across a familiar tall plant with white flowers – garlic mustard, an invasive species we tend to find near the road and along our driveway. Aghast, I spent the next ten minutes or so pulling every plant I could find, both tall and tiny, trying hard to coax all their roots from the wet soil. Finally I set out towards home with a wad of fragrant plant material held tight in one hand.
Except that I wasn’t entirely sure where I was. After casting about for a bit, I ended up having to cross through an unfamiliar stream bed. This area was wreathed in the most brilliant green. Huge skunk cabbage and young jewelweed decorated the hillocks where fern heads were unfurling. Horsetails stuck out of the dark, still water, glistening with rain drops. And there I was, stomping through this prehistoric scene like Godzilla, clutching a whole mess of invasive species which had not managed to reach this oasis on their own.
As far as I know I didn’t drop any, but this incident reminded me that sometimes we are the most immediate danger to these woods. All I can hope is that by managing invasives when we can, we are doing more good than harm.
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