The Ghost Orchid

My story begins with me peeking into a forest to check out a popular trail in Humboldt County, Northern California. The entrance was hidden by a hedge of young redwood trees planted by park volunteers. When I found the opening I poked my head inside and I was surprised to see that the forest interior looked dark on this sunny day. I saw a wide path disappearing into the dim interior. The forest was hushed and seemed empty of visitors. I felt daunted. Would I be reckless to explore this dark trail by myself?

Comsi, comsa—this was what I’d been longing for in my life–adventure. I decided to return the following day to explore the trail.

The next day I parked in the empty lot in front of the trail entrance. In my backpack I’d stowed my essentials: water, cell phone, band-aids, tissue, flashlight, batteries and two cupcakes.

Heart pounding, I entered the redwood grove and was taken aback–it was beautiful beyond my imaginings. Pale lilac-colored hydrangea blossoms grew in the semi-darkness near the entrance. They can’t possibly be wild, can they? In the midst of berry bushes, trees, ferns and vines, the hydrangea blossoms were luminous, lit by beams of sunlight that had broken through the forest canopy. The flowers made me happy, like eating candy. What other surprises would I find in this redwood grove?

The chocolate colored trail was soft and velvety to walk upon, composed of fallen redwood needles. Bordering this pretty path were blankets of redwood sorrel that resembled bright green clover strewn with tiny white blossoms.

I inhaled the damp air that smelled of earth and humus. When I looked up I could see hundreds of tree tops with branches swaying in a soft breeze that I couldn’t feel at ground level. Gazing at the redwood tree trunks I craned my neck backward until I felt dizzy. Instead of toppling over backward looking at treetops up to 250 high, I laid down on a fallen log for a few minutes to enjoy the view.

I didn’t hear a sound in the hushed forest except the occasional bird call, a small animal scrambling as I walked by, or a falling leaf, with the exception of tree limbs creaking high above me in the breeze. The creaks sometimes became so loud that they screeched like screech owls.

The ground was decorated with fallen logs everywhere, some broken in half, revealing ochre colored wood chips inside. Mosses upholstered many logs and lime-colored ferns occupied them 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 down on a log bench that someone had carved. Animals had dug holes along the base of the log; I knew they must be dwelling beneath me right now. After a few minutes of taking pictures and gazing at this wonderland, I continued over a wooden bridge arching over a small creek bed. 

That’s when I came to the proverbial fork in the road. The dusky path continued to the right, but to the left, a trail of an opposite nature. Grass, weeds and rocks were scattered near the faint tracks of a vehicle, probably a truck. The trail wasn’t in the pristine condition of the park trail, where volunteers pluck invading weeds. 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 section of forest was. The call of the wild won–I left the park trail to follow the matted marks in the grass.

 I had second thoughts about stomping along on an uncomfortable rocky trail. But just then something caught my eye a distance away, a flash of bright white. I squinted–was that a flower, poking its head above a distant thicket of berry bushes? Or was it a bird? A floral fragrance wafted through the air. Was I smelling an orchid, a white orchid? The thought made me quiver, yes quiver! With excitement!

As a plant fanatic, I can become ecstatic when I see a beautiful plant. Proof of the pudding is the mass of tangled plants growing in my yard, the clay pots bursting with blooms on the window sills, the cuttings and starts that reside in my bathrooms and on any empty ledge (inside or outside) of my home.

To come upon a rare plant in a natural setting is like finding a diamond in a bucket of pebbles.

It just MUST be a white orchid! I willed it to be one and thought of the white ghost orchid that poachers hunted in Florida in the 1990's, resulting in the best selling book, “The Orchid Thief.” A single ghost orchid sold for $150,000! The orchid that I’d surely spotted seemed ghostly to me, because no sooner did I hurry around a bend to get a closer look then it disappeared from sight.

Now I couldn’t see it at all; it must be hiding in a thicket of berry bushes. I continued, the lure of the orchid causing me to walk faster and faster, anxiety building as I got farther and farther from the park trail. I thought I saw a flash of white again, but rounding another bend, no. Gone again. I stopped and surveyed the forest surroundings. Trees, vines, bushes, logs, crammed together under the redwood canopy. I could still make out the old rocky trail but the forest grew darker. I had to blink away blurs from scanning for the elusive flower.

I decided to search just one more minute, I set the timer on my fitness watch and started off again, when I was started by a noise from behind. I halted and turned around, wary, now frozen in place; if I were a dog my ears would be standing straight up! I heard a deep voice calling “Hello.” I saw a man in a uniform standing on the trail about 20 feet back, a park ranger, tall, dark hair, solemn eyes, tentative smile. Yup, for real, the handsome stranger to my rescue.

“Are you lost, Miss, or are you looking for the white redwood tree?” he asked, not moving but acting respectful, keeping his distance.

White redwood tree?

“No . . . I’m looking for a white orchid,” I said, feeling silly. “I saw it that way,” I pointed akwardly, “among some berry bushes, but now I can’t find it.”

“An orchid? I’ve never seen an orchid growing here,” he said. He pulled a map from his pocket and slowly walked toward me, looking at me eye-to-eye.

 “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 stand 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 white redwoods that we know of in existence. We’re not far from it, if you’d like to see it.” His expression was earnest, his hazel eyes were kind.

“I would like to see it,” I said. 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 grassy track and eventually came to an opening in the forest that revealed a sunny cow pasture. At the forest’s edge stood a striking white redwood tree. It looked like a regular redwood tree but had amazing white needles instead of the normal green color.

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

“I will. Thank you for showing me the tree,” I answered. 

“I’ll walk you back to the park trail,” he offered.

Because I felt like a guilty but privileged offender, a state park rule-breaker, who’d trespassed far from the designated trail, along with my fear of getting lost, I promptly agreed—thus avoiding possible handcuffs and arrest and/or jail time, I thought with amusement.

The ranger and I talked and walked the old ranch road and the winding trail back to the forest entrance where my car was parked. I thanked him and he told me his name. Then he asked me, “Would you like to meet for a cup of coffee before I go home? I’ll be off duty pretty soon.”

I said yes.

Like in a trite but irresistible romance novel, months later he popped the question beneath the white redwood tree in the dark forest. He brought champagne in a thermos and we toasted our engagement and 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 still look for it, having fun searching for it but without causing damage to the forest. Once in a while, a sweet fragrance drifts our way, as if the ghost orchid is playing hide and go seek with us.

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

I researched and learned that the orchid I’d 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. For my wedding bouquet I’d love to have a lone Phantom Orchid, but I’ll settle for one made of silk if need be, in honor of the elusive orchid that led me to my life-long love. I am forever grateful.