Of Lady’s Slippers and Life.

I took some time last week to try to fulfill a longtime wish--to observe the native orchid Cypripedium acaule, or Pink Lady’s Slipper, in its natural environment. I had it on good authority they could be found in Ross Preserve, just north of the county line, in Covert Township. I convinced a friend, another natureholic, to go with me, and on o fine clear sunny day, we set out. We had our hiking sticks, water, hats, sunglasses--and of course, our cameras.

The path is a broad clear swath, once a road actually, so the hike was fairly easy, even if it was a mile in to the small lake. There wasn’t much in the way of “pretty” vegetation, most of the spring wildflowers were done. We did note the various trees that grew along the lane, and the numerous ferns we found where it was obviously wetter.

As we approached the small lake, we began to scout for the prize--the low growing two-leaved plant with a pink “ball” dangling from a thin flower spike. We skirted the lake, venturing into the woods. Nothing. We headed out into the meadow, which we decided really was a mostly filled in, and very dry, bog. We noted the shriveled and brown fern fronds, the bloomless wild roses, and removed ourselves from wild blackberry vines. There was a certain pride in the ability to identify these things. The meadow was peaceful, though the traffic on nearby I-96 prevented us from hearing the birds that must have surrounded us. We lamented that we hadn’t brought binoculars.

We finally gave up. We never found our flowers, and hiked out of the preserve hot, sweaty and bug-bitten. We had discussed bringing bug spray, but thought in the middle of the day, we’d probably be safe. We were wrong.

I nursed an uncountable number of mosquito bites for two miserable days. I removed over a dozen ticks--finding my last one crawling along the edge of my laundry bag three days after what my friend has dubbed “my adventure.”

As I mulled the occasion over (It’s what writers do, after all.), I couldn’t help but laugh. It’s just like life, you know. You set out eager, full of energy and hope, a dream in your heart. You contrive a plan and gather the things you might need for the journey.

But as you travel the road, you encounter things you didn’t foresee, that were not part of the plan--sometimes these distractions are pleasant, some times they turn out to be bloodsuckers--and you realize you haven’t packed the right tools, or have carted other items needlessly into the swamp.

Thus I harken to an older wisdom, the poet Robert Burns, who makes this similar observation after watching a mouse make and lose her nest: “ . . . foresight may be vain;/ The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men/ Gang aft agley [go awry],/ An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,/ For promis'd joy!” That's life.