It was a cool rainy October day, many years ago. I remember taking shelter in an ancient grove of trees in British Columbia. The old giants that had lost their battle with the wind and elements were lying on their side amongst the ferns, soft green moss coated and comforted them and their fallen comrades.
The stillness was broken by the sound of water dripping from Old Man’s Beard into the puddles on either side of the muddy trail. The funky smell of decaying plant matter infused the moist salty sea breeze creating an elixir that involuntarily made a person inhale slowly and deeply. There was a faded, hand-painted sign that was nailed to an enormous fallen Sitka spruce that kindly stated the obvious, ‘We ask that you not use the trail in extreme weather conditions.’
