This is salal. I think it’s native. The berries are supposed to be good when ripe. We haven’t tasted it yet.
Mosses and lichens make my heart happy, and they flourish here. Not so much in the dry summer, but very much so in the wet, wet winters. The British Soldiers get their red caps in springtime; they are languishing, now.
The funny northwestern hawthorns are turning red already. I’ve decided the hawthorn is my tree.
Blackberry and pine, blackberry and pine. If you want a rough idea of what it looks like around here, think blackberry and pine.
And you’d better believe the blackberries are mean, brother. The visible thorns will come off in your skin, and hurt like hell until you pull them out. What you don’t notice are the tiny hair’s-breadth thorns buried in your skin. Those won’t hurt for another day or two.
But oh, the berries. I have nine gallons in my freezer right now, and that’s after two pies and a deep-dish cobbler. I’m beginning to wonder when it will be time to stop.
This mysterious tree grows in our back border. Early in the spring I thought it might be a cherry, but the fruits haven’t plumped up.
Turns out it is a rare native North American apple: the Pacific Crabapple. Lucky us.