Monday, March 17, 2003

One of the loveliest and

One of the loveliest and most prolific trees in this part of this lovely and prolific country is the Bay Laurel.  Laurel, as victory - its cheerful leaves evergreen and its branches seeking light and life even from downed trunks that somehow still persevere and thrive where other trees would lie and rot, the symbol of triumph over even winter and death.  Bay, as in bay leaves, bay rum, gumbo, cioppino, the big herb that you pull out of the soup.  Don’t eat the bay leaf, it’s too tough and strong.  And its got nothing on the Bay Laurel.  I can smell them before I see them, whether an upstart sapling or one of the monsters at Crystal Springs or up Muir Woods.  It’s a fresh, invigorating smell, piercing like menthol, cooling and warming me at once.

Maybe you’ll read this and seek out one of these gracious forest denizens.  You’ll drink in the verdure with your eyes, caress with your fingers the fine grain of the bark, wonder at the delicate network of tiny branches, each crowned with glorious leaves.  The distinctive perfume will waft over you, encouraging you to breathe deep, to take it all in, to maximize your experience of this exceptional scent.  And you should - but keep your hands to yourself.  Whatever you do, don’t pull off a handful of bright new leaves, tender and delicate as eyelids, to crush them and inhale their sweet pungency.  You’ll pay. 

First, your nose will burn.  Then it will burn a lot more, quickly.  You’ll drop to your hands and knees, and the leaves will flutter to the ground.  Too late, too late.... their insidious plan is already in effect.  The pain spreads, filling your sinuses as if you’ve snorted ben-gay.  It gets up to your eyes - your vision blacks out, or turns red.  Your hands go to your eyes but they’re covered in bay oil - you’ve made a bad thing much worse.  You notice your ears are burning too, from the inside out.  Your head is full of searing coals, all bearing the furious purfume of laurel.  You press your hands to your temples as you kneel in the dirt, praying for the end.  And the end does come, eventually.  It’s olfactory wasabi, inhaled napalm.  You stagger out of the woods, forever changed, forecver scarred.  Gentle arboreal friends, my ass.  That shit’ll kill you.

You don’t believe me?  Find your local Bay Laurel, crush four fresh leaves, cup your hands and take three deep breaths.  Once you come to, you’ll know better than to doubt me.  About this, anyway.  I have a fairly high tollerance for pain but Bay Laurel is one hard wood.  And not in the good way.