i. to take or not to take

I have been told that plants will let a person know when they don’t want to be harvested. I have also heard that plants are emotionless, single-minded, devoid of thought or intellect. I have eaten both wilted, watery vegetables from the grocery store and rich wild greens foraged from forests. I have been stung by nettles and bitten by poison ivy, only for my hives to be soothed with the calming juices of backyard plantain.

Most people don’t think about flora as they do fauna. To put it simply, taking an animal life is bloody. Loud. Messy. Taking a plant life is not. Generally animals are considered capable of having some “feelings”, but to apply that same theory to foliage would be ridiculous. Right?

Regardless of the many perspectives on the morality of harvesting, spraying, modifying, cutting down, and otherwise collecting or altering plants and the environment for our benefit, I feel that there should be a much larger focus on how one gives back. Because while it’s easy to understand the transactional nature of humanity – rarely is something “free” – we don’t usually apply the same thinking to the natural world. Perhaps because it doesn’t seem to expect anything in return; perhaps because we don’t hear a voice asking. It’s become all too easy, from my observations, to take and just keep taking.

But nature doesn’t exist solely for our consumption. I began this train of thought in my recent essay Honouring the Bones: “there is more to nature than what humans can gain from it. . . Understanding this naturally fosters a sense of gratitude and consciousness.” Rarely do we think of other beings as having their own rights (although this does seem to be shifting, what with rivers from New Zealand, Canada, Colombia, and others beginning to be recognized as having legal personhood), and with this mentality our actions, no matter their consequences, can always be justified in some shape. Changing the narrative starts with changing the way we see the world.

Not the easiest thing to do. However, there’s always a place to begin.

---

ii. resin-procity

Soft fir needles had the friendly habit of caressing my face as I walked through these woods. I ducked under their branches and felt bark pull and tug on my shirt. As good of company as these firs provided, I wanted to find the pines.

There – bunchy long needles in orbish clusters caught my eye. I followed a deer trail to their thin trunks and circled them like a hungry predator, except no predator would be collecting pine resin. These pines were too young, but northwest of me on this slope, I could see a clump of thick golden crust on an older tree; I set off towards it.

I have felt myself drawn to bushcraft and what I call wilderness wisdom lately. I want to know how to survive well and intelligently within the woods, but beyond surviving, I’d like to thrive. You’d be surprised at how prevalent pine resin’s role is in this.

As anyone who has accidentally leaned on a conifer would know, certain trees produce a very sticky, stubborn substance that most people conclusively call sap. However, this is actually a misnomer. The correct term is resin, which is an extremely useful material to the savvy bushcrafter or bee. (Propolis, what honeybees use to coat their honeycombs and seal their hive, is made from resin sourced from trees mixed with their saliva.) It can create a surprisingly strong glue or, mixed with terrifyingly dispersible cattail fluff, flammable fire starter that can be used as tinder or a torch. These two latter applications were what my boyfriend and I were after that day; hence, my afternoon excursion to collect the material.

I climbed up the slope and admired my find for a few moments. Resin can sometimes be found in its glacial seep from tree wounds and scars as large as a fist. Its texture and appearance vary, from gummy wads of honey to crystallized, brittle shards of a deep cherry red. I’ve discovered most peculiarly that the scent is reminiscent of creamsicle – orange and vanilla.

Utilizing a hatchet, I carefully tapped the resin into a glass jar with the blade. The jar was nearly full now and the air around me was deliciously heady with orange-vanilla-pine. I was ready to head back down the hill and proudly show off my collection, but there was something to be done before that.

I wanted to give back to the trees that I’d taken from. While I didn’t have, say, an abundance of animal carcasses (furred or feathered “gold” to the forest), I did have to pee. So there was that. Some “liquid gold” instead¹. Also, I’d heard of a local herbalist’s method for compensation. She will pluck hairs from her head to reciprocate for what was harvested; the act of that painful pull mimicked what plants might feel with their leaves, stems, flowers, or roots gathered, and the hair itself, left to decompose on the forest floor, would provide some nutrients. As another remuneration I took a few strands of my hair, pulled them out, and placed them near one of the trees with intentional gratitude.

The idea of this reciprocation, often called a “gift economy”, isn’t new or particularly unconventional. (Robin Wall Kimmerer’s The Serviceberry was part of the inspiration for this piece.) In the present era and economical stage we’re in it may seem outlandish, but nature has been practicing this strategy since the inception of our planet. There is a collective understanding – that most of humanity has yet to pick up on – that what is gleaned must be compensated for if life is to continue in its cycles. However, there doesn’t seem to be much preoccupation about “how much”, “when”, or “where” this payment is given. Even what it is doesn’t seem to matter: excrement, death and decomposition, behavioral patterns². All have their individual roles to play.

One of the key ideas of a reciprocal economy is a focus on cooperation rather than competition. The natural world has gotten a lot of attention on its so-called “dog-eat-dog” or “eat before you’re eaten” philosophy. While it does seem that life can be cutthroat for both animals and plants, what isn’t seen or shared as much are the equal parts of connection and mutual generosity between and beyond species. A sacrifice on both sides. What I’ve noticed lately is that we’ve lost our understanding of the sacrifice we owe.

———————

¹Human urine is high in important nutrients for plant growth, including nitrogen, carbon, and phosphorus. I’ve seen the effects from regular urine supplementation in gardens and was amazed at how vibrant and large the plants become from it.

²Just one example of many, wolves along the West Coast of British Columbia have the habit of dragging ripe salmon carcasses into the woods to dine on. They prefer consuming the head, which is fattier than the body and avoids flesh more likely to host parasitic habitat; with the rest of the body left behind, the extremely nutrient-rich fish corpses fertilize the rainforests and feed scavengers such as ravens and foxes. This is unique to wolves. While bears also bring salmon into the forests along spawning grounds, they have not learned to fastidiously consume only the fish heads. Thus, wolves are providing even more nourishment for the forest or other animals.

---

iii. a story of greed & grief

When my family and I first moved to British Columbia and were looking at prospective properties, there was a day when we visited the Wynndel area to view a home. For those who aren’t familiar with the Creston Valley, Wynndel is a small community north of Creston along Highway 3A nestled between the Purcell mountain range and the flats. Perhaps the most infamous aspect of Wynndel is the huge, blocky scar cut into Blacktail Ridge, a small mountain that overlooks the community. Years old now, the clearcut has been densely grown in by foliage such as ironwood, mullein, and vine maple. In the spring its bareness is softened by such growth, but in late summer the area is dry, brown, and a stark contrast to the tall coniferous woods along its borders. The slashes of dusty, slanted striations of washed-out logging roads are there for everyone to see.

I clearly remember stepping out of our vehicle once we got to the property and taking in, at very close range, the scale and severity of the clearcut for the first time. Its ugly juxtaposition from the surrounding landscape alarmed me. With somewhat of a scoff, I thought, What a sad view. We’ll never life here.

I turned out to be hilariously wrong. Half a year later we were hurriedly moving into what became our homestead on Cory Road, right below Mike Jenks’ handiwork³. While we don’t live in Wynndel anymore, the logged area is still clearly visible even from across the valley.

I have never been against logging when it’s done with the forest in mind. This is entirely different. Logging such as Wynndel’s cutblock shows how devastating and destructive this scale of forestry practice is; when the forest was freshly logged, concern was raised for mudslide risk from the exposed soil just a few hundred feet above homes on the mountainside’s slope, and an emergency building was constructed just off the highway below the looming threat. While thankfully a mudslide never did occur, most residents in Wynndel continue to be upset at the very least by the aesthetic damage. In the year before we relocated from the area, cougar sightings and incidents became concerningly frequent and bears seemed to be steadily encroaching on human habitat as well.

I’ve learned from nature that there’s never one cause to blame from an outcome, at least when it comes to the natural world because of its complex interconnected relationships; however, this growing trend of wildlife being seen more in, and becoming accustomed to, urban areas could be easily traced back to loss of habitat from extensive logging.

Heck, even flying from Cranbrook to Vancouver, a mere half-hour journey across southern British Columbia, tells a story of greed and grief that shocks me every time. Not far below the plane lie bunches of mountain ranges like gathered folds in a blanket, spread evenly with coniferous forests a deep and calm green. Except – chunks are missing. Left behind are tan mountainsides cut with switchback roads. Nowadays it’s difficult to observe a large area of forest untouched by these far-reaching bites.

An integral aspect of the reciprocal economy is understanding not to over-take. And yet – future logging plans in the Duck Creek watershed of Wynndel remain in place, closer to the important, relatively wild and untouched water source for human and non-human residents than before. This was despite loud public outcry from the community, by the way.

Those who live or have lived off the land, such as Indigenous peoples, Doukhobors, generations of farmers, and homesteaders, for instance, generally have a shared quality of knowing that the space they thrive on and from is dependent on their mutual care. This care is done through different practices depending on the culture, background, and perspective of the individual: permaculture, fertilizing, composting, or even just selective picking while foraging or harvesting timber. There is usually an aspect of a “giving back”. The people who depended on the quality of the lands they lived on understood that to take too much from it would result in their own suffering. Why isn’t this kind of thinking more universal? How can this cognitive dissonance be so prevalent?

———————

³Mike Jenks is a notorious name in the Kootenays, known for buying large plots of private land to extensively log as clearcuts despite public pushback. Jenks has claimed he “follows or exceeds all the rules for logging on private land”; no matter one’s opinion on his work, the cutblocks left in Jenks’ wake are ill-received and have created cascades of consequences such as accelerated erosion, wildlife displacement, and dwindling watershed quality. While it’s easy to blame what appears to be the instigator, he’s not the only one responsible for this. It’s the overall mindset of our society that makes these situations possible in the first place.

---

iv. to be eaten in the woods

If you were looking hopefully to me for the answers, all I can give you are the practices I implement in my own life. I know I have much more to learn; however, as always my writing is an invitation to expand awareness and ignite curiousity.

1. When I harvest from a plant, I often ask permission first. This is a tricky thing to do, because if you haven’t noticed before, plants don’t really talk. At least, not in a way we can interpret. Maybe it seems a bit woo-woo, especially when you hear what I have to say next, which is that getting an “answer” from flora requires more like an intuitive connection or sense. If this seems too out there for you, fair enough. Sometimes I even struggle with knowing when a plant might be subliminally telling me to go stuff myself. A “no” could be interpreted from physical resistance when harvesting (a berry just won’t come off a twig), a feeling of unease, or something more sinister like a branch falling nearby. The forest is interconnected, after all. I feel that at least asking beforehand and taking a moment to pause, to see if anything comes up, shows respect and an acknowledgement that I realize I’m taking away from this plant for my own benefit.

2. I try to leave a sacrifice of my own. To be honest, I need to get into this habit more, and I’ve only recently been using the hair-plucking method. Peeing is great, but at the same time I can’t control my bladder for imperative moments while foraging, and I also don’t really consider it a sacrifice. Many herbalists often use other plants like tobacco or sage, known for their important spiritual properties, as offerings. If I don’t have anything with me at the time, the least I can do is show my gratitude and appreciation verbally or with a warm caress. It has been scientifically proven that plants grow better when surrounded with positive intent, kindness, and nurturing words. (Hmm. Sounds a lot like people.)

3. I go into the woods knowing I could be eaten. I am just another being in this world that lives and dies like anything else; I eat other beings to survive and am learning to hunt them. If I can hunt and kill something, then something can also hunt and kill me. I suppose this is a two-part logic that recognizes both the cooperative give-and-take of nature and its competitive, uncompromising customs. Of course, I’ll do everything I can to be safe and smart, but in the forest there is always that chance. Such is the way of the food chain.

As I leave you with these thoughts to ponder (and hopefully not arachnophobia), I invite you to contemplate the idea of a reciprocal economy. While I do feel we overlook plants even more than animals, our remunerations should not end at just the flora around us. The entirety of nature provides for life on a daily basis. For plants, animals, and humans alike, we glean from this constant abundance sustenance, energy, shelter, heat, and more. Gratitude is a good place to start. How else might these offerings be returned?

---

This piece was inspired by a conversation with my parents on the gift economy idea, and a rather poetic thought my boyfriend shared with me about, more or less, being eaten in the woods from the perspective of a hunter. This essay was largely prompted by their ideas and what was sparked from our dialogue; I appreciate it all.