Fern Canyon Ramble

The Fern Canyon Trail is an enchanted, serpentine meander, it follows tranquil Little River as it makes its way through the dappled forest light of Van Damme State Park on the Mendocino Coast. The voices of this gentle river are varied; shape-shifting tones that are impossible to categorize; a whisper, a gurgle, a whoosh like the wind, bass notes, entire chords in the key of wonder, even human-like voices can be imagined. The river is narrow, no wider than 20 feet or so at its widest, it winds through log jams and over rocks of all shapes and sizes creating tiny waterfalls, each one giving the river a different sound. I close my eyes and can hear the whispers of the ancient Pomo people, inhabitants of this land for millennia before the rapacious European invaders arrived. The Little River is a timeless pathway that reaches far into the past and hopefully towards the future.

This bucolic forest was the setting for mine and Carol’s latest foray into the wild. We enter nature with no expectations and are always pleasantly surprised at what we discover together. There’s usually a theme that develops on our hikes and today it was all about wildflowers. 

An astounding variety of wildflowers greeted us at nearly every turn along the river. Most abundant were the forget-me-nots, their tiny blossoms painted large swaths of the trailside vegetation a soft powder blue, their slightly sweet and subtle scent filled the air. Even more prominent was the flowering thimbleberry plant. At the center of each pure white blossom is the beginning of a succulent, soon-to-be crimson berry just waiting to be savored when they ripen later in the spring. Thimbleberries can’t be bought in a store, you’ve gotta pick and enjoy them right here in the forest where they grow. A sinewy vining plant tipped with delicate white flowers called morah oregana was nearly as ubiquitous as the thimbleberry. We saw lots of Columbine too, the brilliant red five-petaled blossoms nearly two inches across literally jumping out from the surrounding hues of green. There were white daisies the size of dimes dotting the forest floor, trillium in white and lavender, tiny yellow stream violets, pale pink Pacific starflower, a strange looking plant called wild bleeding heart and irises in the deepest shade of purple I’ve ever seen. What I really love about these forest flowers is their subtle, understated beauty. They appear out of the forest like little jewels.  A slow pace and keen observation is required to fully appreciate what’s out here, and Carol and I had nothing but time!

Besides the flowers, banana slugs were also our nearly constant companions on the hike. The variety we encountered up here are olive green, some with black spots; a much different look than the bright yellow ones we’re used to seeing further south  in Sonoma County. These slugs seemed to be on the move today, it’s spring so I think they’re on the lookout for mates. We did observe one pair locked in a slimy coital embrace!

Another little creature we encountered was a solitary rough-backed newt. Its squirmy body felt cool and smooth and fit neatly into the palm of my hand. The newt’s black back is perfect camouflage while in the water, its bright orange belly not so much so. This individual had only one eye!

As we rambled along the river an occasional side creek or spring would emerge from the thickly vegetated hillside along the trail, we wouldn’t always see them but their sweet voices would give away their presence, they joined the Little River on its journey to the Pacific. For three miles the Fern Canyon Trail hugs the river, it crosses thirteen bridges, two of them temporary metal ones that go up in late spring and come down when the winter rains begin. At bridge #13 the trail veers uphill and away from the river. We turned around here, headed back the way we had come and found the perfect lunch spot: an ancient log on the bank of the river beneath the dappled sunlight of the forest canopy and between two small waterfalls, one that spanned the river to our left and one coming from a side creek in front of us. Each waterfall had its own unique sound, they blended in a pitch-perfect aqueous two-part harmony. 

We arrived back at our camp after spending nearly five hours inside this dappled, green cocoon. The distant “whoo, whoo” of a Great Horned Owl greeted us upon our return. I felt completely filled up, brimming over with joy and wonder, already hungering for our next nature experience together.