Forest Fright

(First published October 31, 2013)


I’ve been saving this story for the right time, and I guess now is as good a time as any. After all, Halloween is the night we face our fears. Whatever you’ve been told about the pagan origins of the autumn festival, it really boils down to a single bit of ancient wisdom. Every once in a while you have to unleash your demons and let them run wild, just so the rest of the year they’ll leave you alone.

Sometimes, a bad scare does you good.



But, I don’t want to get all Vincent Price about it. This isn’t a story about demons or monsters. It’s simply about a fright I had one fall afternoon in the forest…

It was the day I happened upon a strange mound poking up from the forest floor.

To be sure, the forest can be pretty creepy in autumn. It isn’t just the dead stuff—the shriveled leaves and the slimy decay—it’s the light, too. Unlike the flat gray of winter’s naked canopy, the fall forest is still shady, and the lowering sun streaks through the sky-holes like bright swords, practically blinding you from the glare. As you walk, the effect comes and goes, so that one minute you’re fine, and the next, all you can see is a confusing jumble of dark shapes, backlit by searing gold light. Suddenly, mossy boughs seem to reach out from every angle like hairy, twisted arms, and twigs criss-cross everything like inky scribbles. It’s disorienting.





This particular afternoon, I was wandering on the loop trail, trying to get a little fresh forest air and some exercise. It had been a long day of painting in my studio and I had been a bit unsettled by my subject, a giant wolf spider. I could still see the plump, hairy body with all those legs and eyes—eight of each—plus that enormous set of fangs. I try to love all creatures great and small, but wolf spiders give me the serious willies.















As I walked down the trail, I tried to move silently to see if I could sneak up on the resident coyote. I had seen plenty of his scat so I knew he was lurking around somewhere, but the crispy leaves underfoot made too much noise for stealth, so I decided to hunt for mushrooms instead.

I came into a shady spot beneath towering Doug firs, hemlock, and maple. The understory was thick, and most of the forest floor was in deep shade. It was the perfect place for mushrooms. I was investigating a colony of tiny bright orange mushrooms along the side of a decaying hemlock when I noticed an odd shape—a mound—poking up from below a clump of ferns. Maybe it was a giant puffball, or a one of those mushrooms that looks like a sponge. Hmmmm…interesting.

I reached down, parted the ferns and squinted into the shadows. All I could make out was a silhouette—a rounded shape about the size of a melon, half-buried in the forest duff. The domed top was covered with clumps of thin, dark strands gleaming in the rays of golden light. Strange, it looked just like someone’s shiny black…


I leapt backward. The mound was a head. A human head.

I let out a shriek and then froze solid, feeling a sickening surge throughout my body. The forest seemed to suddenly lurch away from me, as if yanked backward by a giant tether. I could see nothing around me, hear nothing but the sound of my own pounding heart. The forest had vanished and there was nothing left but me and the hideous mound rising up from the forest floor.

I knew it was just adrenaline—the heightened yet narrowed focus, rising blood pressure, dilated pupils— it’s the classic “flight or fight” response—nature’s little bag of tricks for the primal struggle of Eat or be Eaten. Without it, our ancestors wouldn’t have amounted to anything but sabertooth tiger chow.

I tried to calm down so I could decide what to do. Had there been anything in the news about a missing person?

Stupid question. Of course there had been, there were always missing people. The TV news was nothing but a grisly string of stabbings, gunfights and murder. And now, I’d be one of those ridiculously awkward headlines, “Hiker Finds Head Hunting Mushrooms.”

I needed to call someone. Dail 911, that’s what you’re supposed to do. Always call 911, even if you’re not sure you should, that’s what they teach you. Better safe than sorry. Soon there’d be sirens and cop cars and flashing blue lights. There’d be reporters and News Vans and Chopper One. They’d tape off the whole forest and set up spotlights, and uniformed people would bustle around holding clipboards and talking on cellphones and picking stuff off the ground with tweezers. Eventually, they’d start hauling things away in black plastic bags.

Call 911! I fumbled through my pockets. Damn. No phone. I remembered now, it was at home on my desk, charging. Crap.

What should I do? Run, screaming, hoping I could find someone with a cellphone? There wasn’t a soul around, I was pretty sure I was the only person in the entire forest. I was completely alone…just me and a severed head.

I peered down at the black hair shining in the beam of sunlight. It was so thick and healthy-looking. How sad. This had been a human being, probably someone young and beautiful and in the prime of life. What a sick world.

The sun disappeared behind the branch of an enormous maple, and the pool of shade around the head dissolved. In the flattened light, it was actually easier to see. I dug in my pocket for my ipod-touch. I should take some photos. The detectives might need photos.

Grimacing, I squatted, balancing on the balls of my feet. I set the ipod on flash and reached out my hand as far as I could. Nice thing about ipods, it’s easier to take photos at arm’s length. I touched the glass to focus on the head, and pressed the button.

There was only a millisecond before the flash went off, but it was long enough for the thought to register. I was going to see this thing fully lit. I hadn’t considered that. I knew it was only half-buried, but was the face showing? Would I see eyeballs staring back at me?

Before my imagination could kick into full panic mode, the flash went off and for a few long moments I saw the afterimage still burned into my retina: a melon-sized rootball of maidenhair fern, probably partially dug up by some animal, and topped with an odd-looking tuft of shiny, black, hairy fungus. Weird, but perfectly natural.

Roots and fungus.

I laughed out loud and fell over backward and lay flat on the leaves for a moment, staring up at the darkening sky. What an idiot. Scared of fungus. Thank goodness my phone was dead. I cringed thinking how embarrassing it would have been to call 911 to report a fungus.

As I walked back home, I thought about how fear affects us. These days, it seems like the whole world runs on fear, and most of it is based on miscalculation, misperception or hype. The least likely things to harm us seem to occupy most of our concern. We’re afraid to walk in the forest, but not afraid of driving on the freeway. We’re afraid of being un-armed, but not of a world where everyone is armed. We’re afraid of kidnappings and serial killers and mass-murderers, but not of climate change and mass extinctions. The fear response that once saved us from being eaten, is now eating us up.

I knew I wouldn’t ever be afraid in the forest again. It’s not good for the body or soul to be paranoid all the time.

A good fright once a year is enough.


Happy Halloween!

Wet Labs at Magnuson Park

A few months ago, my clients at the U.S.G.S. contacted me for some interpretive signs at Magnuson Park.

The topic was: Wet Labs.









No, not those kind. (Although, with Seattle’s first Dog Swimming Beach, Magnuson Park has plenty of those, too).

The U.S.G.S. runs the Western Fisheries Research Center with state-of-the-art Wet Labs to study fish. The facility is located adjacent to the park, but part of their equipment is inside the park, so they wanted me to create 2 new signs to help visitors understand a bit about their work.

The Center originated more than 70 years ago through the efforts of Dr. Frederick Fish, a visionary scientist who pioneered improved methods of studying Pacific Salmon.

(With a name like that, I hope he had a good sense of humor.)

Here are the signs I wrote, designed and illustrated. They will be installed soon.


This sign will be installed near a new pump station. The USGS figured park visitors would see the pump and wonder what it was, so they took the opportunity to educate them a little about their work at the Center. Seattle’s Magnuson Park was a pre-World War II era Naval Airfield and is now a huge complex of sports fields, tennis courts, trails, beaches, wetlands, and a Dog Swimming Beach.



This sign will be installed near a reconstructed wetland complex which provides rich wildlife habitat. Cleaned and recycled water from the lab helps keep it wet year-round.


If you visit Magnuson Park, watch out for the wet labs! Both kinds.


Forest Sketch

This post was originally published in May, 2013


On one of my forest walks, I came upon an elderly gentleman who was standing by the trail, gazing up at a gnarly bigleaf maple. It was one of those Seattle-summer days when the sun comes out unexpectedly, and after weeks of dismal gray, the world was in full-color once again. The whole forest was glowing.

As I passed, the man tipped his hat to me in a polite, old-fashioned way that seemed out-of-place in West Seattle. He must be from a foreign country. Or at least, a foreign time.

“You know what I wish?” he asked, smiling. “I wish I was an artist. I wish I could paint this!” He swept his hand across the lovely scene.

I stood with him for a moment admiring the lumpy, twisted old maple. The sunlight was filtering through the leafy canopy, falling in streaks against the brilliant moss-covered trunk. I imagined painting the tree, how I would drag brushloads of sap green over raw umber to capture the colors and play of light.

I was just about to share my art-thoughts with him when I noticed his eyes had teared up a little. “I want to remember this tree,” he said. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, but by the time I get home, I’ll have forgotten. It’ll all be lost…like it never existed. If I was an artist, I could paint this and take it home with me. I’d have it forever.”

I realized we weren’t really talking about art at all, but about how it feels when things we love slip away. Was he afraid his beautiful world was disappearing…being erased into blankness?

He was still standing with the old maple when I continued on my walk. I hope he remembers his tree.

I wish I had painted it for him.


An acrylic sketch I did of a maple in one of Seattle’s beautiful forested parks. This one didn’t have a mossy trunk, but it was beautiful anyway.



A sad note to end this story…

A few weeks ago, I learned that this same gentleman — a well-known park visitor — was knocked over and badly injured by a couple of (illegally) off-leash dogs in this same park.

Increasingly, people are treating urban natural areas as places to let their dogs run free. It is only a minority of the dogs that cause damage or injury, but that minority is causing serious problems—not only to other visitors but to the plants and wildlife that depend on these natural areas for survival. For that reason, ALL dogs need to be leashed where the law requires it. Unless everyone cooperates, those few trouble-makers will simply say “Everyone does it.”

Please. Leash. Your. Pets.

It is your responsibility.


Wild Home


This week, I’d like to share a special interpretive signage project I recently completed.

Last summer, my clients at the Upper Deschutes Watershed Council near Bend, Oregon, contacted me with a specific request: they wanted an interpretive sign on the topic of stewardship, and they wanted to use student-created artwork and poetry.

I’ve discovered over the years in my business that using student work for an interpretive project—or any design project—requires a special touch. Sometimes, people are surprised to find out such projects often involve more time and can end up costing more in the long run. They are not merely design projects, they are learning experiences as well.

But, if done right, it is most definitely worth it.

In this case, it worked out great. The Watershed Council staff and their partners spent a lot of time working with the students, and they generated spectacular results. It was my job to take their finished work and tie it all together, designing a sign to feature the artwork—adding one illustration of my own for context—and to make the topic complete.

The basic design was done to coordinate with an earlier series of signs I did for the Upper Deschutes Watershed Council. Click on the sign for a larger view.

The basic design was done to coordinate with an earlier series of signs I did for the Upper Deschutes Watershed Council. Click on the sign for a larger view.


To give a background and context for the more imaginative student work, I painted a watercolor of the mountains and the headwaters of Whychus Creek.


Peaks from left to right: Broken Top, South Sister, Middle Sister, North Sister.


The other illustrations were done by high-school and middle school students.I particularly liked the center mandala. If you look at it closely, you will see it is amazingly intricate, with gorgeously designed elements pertaining to the river and the life it supports.



And the salmon! Each one has its own wild design within the contour of the species—truly an artistic expression of the concept of Wild.


Equally compelling were the poems.


“This place is a home,

to the fractured

and the ones who

never had

one of their own.”


-Alaina Todd, Sisters High School.


For me, this poem is deeply affecting. It really says it all—why we so desperately need to preserve the wild places left on earth. The Wild is our home.

Our only home, in so many ways.



If you’re ever in the vicinity of Bend, Oregon or Sisters, Oregon, be sure to visit the Whychus Creek Area and the Three Sisters Wilderness.



Heart of the Tree

Ever since our remote human ancestors first swung down from the African treetops, we’ve shared a deep connection with trees. In a sense, humankind was born in trees, and since then, almost every culture worldwide has featured trees in their stories of Life and the Cosmos.

I think winter is a good time to contemplate trees. Leafless, they seem to display even more of their individual character with twisting trunks and gnarled bark, and seen through a maze of twigs, the dull gray sky is transformed into a fascinating, complex design.

Yesterday, as I walked through my neighborhood, I was struck by the beauty of this English Walnut. It’s one of the biggest trees in the area and I suspect it was planted in the early 1900s, probably soon after this section was cleared of its native Douglas firs and hemlocks. It was probably a sapling when my house was built in 1907.

English Walnut is actually a native of Central Asia, brought to Europe by Alexander the Great. This one seems to have come with its own Dryad. When I imported this photo into Photoshop and applied a filter, I was startled at the image that emerged. I highlighted it a bit with the dodge and burn tools and voila! The tree-spirit of Walnut Avenue!

English Walnut is actually a native of Central Asia, brought to Europe by Alexander the Great. This one seems to have come with its own Dryad. When I imported my photo into Photoshop and applied a filter, I was startled at the image that emerged. I highlighted it a bit with the dodge and burn tools and voila! The tree-spirit of Walnut Avenue!


In honor of those who planted this tree—and those who have nurtured and preserved it—here is a poem by Henry Cuyler Bunner, published in 1893 in The Century Magazine:

(and thanks to my mother for sharing this beautiful poem with me—recited from memory!)

The Heart of the Tree


What does he plant who plants a tree?

He plants a friend of sun and sky;

He plants the flag of breezes free;

The shaft of beauty, towering high;

He plants a home to heaven anigh;

For song and mother-croon of bird

In hushed and happy twilight heard—

The treble of heaven’s harmony—

These things he plants who plants a tree.


What does he plant who plants a tree?

He plants cool shade and tender rain,

And seed and bud of days to be,

And years that fade and flush again;

He plants the glory of the plain;

He plants the forest’s heritage;

The harvest of a coming age;

The joy that unborn eyes shall see—

These things he plants who plants a tree.


What does he plant who plants a tree?

He plants, in sap and leaf and wood,

In love of home and loyalty

And far-cast thought of civic good—

His blessings on the neighborhood,

Who in the hollow of His hand

Holds all the growth of all our land—

A nation’s growth from sea to sea

Stirs in his heart who plants a tree.

-Henry Cuyler Bunner, 1885 – 1896