A flora of western Norway

"So quickly, without a moment's warning, does the miraculous swerve and point to us, demanding that we be its willing servant."             - Mary Oliver

Top of the waterfall at Kjeasen, end of the Eidfjord

After a combination of driving and hiking, we made it to an improbable cluster of stone dwellings set on a ledge 1,800 feet above sea level. Still a working farm, we found vegetables, grains, animals - and a range of plants common to the places that have long known humans. In the surrounding forests, where glacial runoff feeds an endless stream of water during the warmer months, we also found bogs with more rare, wonderful plants.

Lupinus perennis, common lupine

Impatiens noli-tangere, touch-me-not

In late July, the waters of the fjord - far below us, a dizzying drop - are fully opaque, a light turquoise color. We had been out on the water in small boats before climbing to our vantage point, and had run our hands through it. It was so cold! I cupped some of it and brought it to my lips, expecting the familiar saltiness of the sea (the fjords are, after all, fingers of the Atlantic ocean reaching over 100 miles inland), but the water tasted soft, and sweet.

Rosa rugosa

Artemisia vulgaris, mugwort

Alchemilla vulgaris, lady's mantle

Valeriana officinalis, valerian

A mess of nettle and cleavers (Urtica dioica and Galium aparine)

The milky turquoise whiteness comes from the glaciers. The fresh water runoff - more than six feet of it in the summer - floats, frigid, over the warm, dense salty sea below. The white comes from anorthosite, a bright mineral deposit that's mostly feldspar, found only here in Scandinavia and in parts of Newfoundland (once the same land mass). The glacier, grinding boulders beneath its huge weight, powders it into a fine flowing dust, and the melt waters wash it away.

Geranium robertianum, herb Robert

Rhodiola rosea, rose-root

Corydalis lutea, fumewort

Alchemilla alpina

But the anorthosite deposits may have a deeper, fantastic origin: long ago, when the Earth was very young, a gigantic rock covered almost entirely in this mineral slammed into her, and the moon (who still glows white with anorthosite) was born. Perhaps the rocks that are here are part of a smudge, a scar left over from that early, seminal encounter.

Pinguicula vulgaris, butterwort (purple flower on the left)

Eriophorum angustifolium, swamp cotton-grass

Melampyrum sylvaticum, cow-wheat

Dactylorhiza maculata, bog orchid

But it's not a scar: it's turquoise water and it's sweet and now I'm standing almost two thousand feet above it, at the edge of this waterfall that's pushing moondust past my feet. And it's then I become fully aware of the plants around me. They are suffused with an inner light, like a glow that makes them seem to stand much taller than the eye reports.

Achillea millefolium, yarrow

Hypericum perforatum, St. John's Wort

Angelica archangelica

Galium boreale, bedstraw

And there is yarrow, and angelica, St. John's, clover, bedstraw, daisies and dead-nettle, thistles and the lanky speedwells, rising tall and bright, aware of me as much as I am of them. A quick nod, the gratitude for the time we took to get to know each other, then they return to bending in the wind, and I begin the climb back down.

An herb walk through the high Alps

I've been away from technology for a few weeks. Wandering the Alps, valleys where I grew up, in deep old forests carpeted with wild bilberries and up above the treeline in full view of the Dolomites. I've walked some really well-worn paths, visiting with the plants along the way and thinking about consciousness, presence, perception. These mountains are us - or, at the very least, I can feel the boundaries of my consciousness bleed into the the rocks and forests, the trail becoming more than a footpath, the walk becoming a habit the whole ecology has practiced for a long, long time. Do you know what I mean? Mountain telepathy, Euphrasia mind-meld, or really just finally resting in the place where "I" really feels like a composite of everything here.

Start in the warmer valleys, where the water slows down and there are many rock walls. It's shady here, maidenhair (Adiantum) grows thick and wild yam (Dioscorea) vines thread through.

 

By the streams, old friends. Wild monkshood (Aconitum), deadly toxic, hot and dry root by the cool streamside, pops up once in a while. With luck, some late-blooming narrow-leaved orchids (Dactylorhiza traunsteineria) come up in a patch, remembering days from the earlier season. 

 

 

Getting higher up, the spruce stops and a few low junipers and mugo pine are left clinging to the white crumbly soil. Above the treeline, in the bright sun, so many familiar species: first the wild creeping thyme (Thymus serpyllum), classic bronchial remedy that's always found in the kitchen.

Alongside the thyme, eyebright (Euphrasia) appears in big patches, parasitizing the native grasses. It's an old remedy for itchy, tired eyes (especially during allergy season), and has a unique, multicolored flower. The patches are everywhere along the rocky trail.

And, more rare but still fairly available, are clumps of wild gentian (Gentiana campestris), also known as German gentian or field gentian with a characteristic five-parted flower. This isn't the official medicinal species (that's G. lutea), but it is nevertheless still quite bitter and local folk use the whole plant as a digestive aid (even the flower has an intensely classic bitter taste).

Where the grass gets taller, among the Campanula, sit a few Arnica montana plants, with their big, lone, yellow flowers. When I was young, we'd collect these, soak them whole in grappa (60+ percent alcohol), and use the product as a liniment for all manner of bruises, scrapes, falls, and sprains - which often occurred on walks to harvest the Arnica...

And, of course, no walk through these mountains would be complete without the flower that most embodies the spirit of this magical realm. She's soft, silvery, and hardy. Her medicine is that of shining white beauty of the mountaintop, and you can't pick her. Even if you could, the power comes from being there, walking there, sitting up there next to her. Edelweiss (Leontopodium) is the reward for those who breathe the high, clean air. She'll nourish you for a long time. Her mind is my mind.

Late winter lichens

Yes, the Equinox has passed, but here in the mountains of Vermont we still have two feet of snow in the fields. I've been jealous lately looking at the pictures of spring greens everyone is starting to harvest!
Well, short of digging for goldthread and wintergreen, we decided to visit with the thriving local lichen population. The first stones to emerge from the feet and feet of snow we had this winter were in the graveyard.