White Bog Orchid, Writer’s Bloc or Heaven on a Stalk?

White Bog Orchid

The rain batters the window of my study. Bad time for a morning walk, but perfect for editing. I focus on a sentence describing one of the many white bog orchids I saw on the Nation Lakes Canoe Route. This particular one was growing in the meadow surrounding the Tchentlo Hot Springs. Here is what I have written so far: “Take the time to kneel down and smell the flowers on the spike of the white bog orchid, specially in mid-afternoon when they release their spicy perfume.”

The words rekindle memories of the trip. I imagine soaking in one of the pools of the hot springs. Bubbles rise up and touch my skin. Birds tweet in the forest. Monkey flowers, blue asters, and grass of Parnassus show off their blooms . . . but the “spicy perfume of the white bog orchid” does not seem to reach my senses. The description feels aloof, far, unreal. I must be more specific.

Orchids are fragile plants. When I’m lucky enough to find one, I feel it is so perfect, so precious, that I do not dare touch it for fear of breaking its stalk or damaging its bloom. This leaves me with no recollection of its texture and prevents me from using the sense of touch to describe it—which is just as well because I do not want people handling wild orchids just to know how they feel. A visual description is hardly necessary when I have the picture. So I must concentrate on smell.

An orchid’s fragrance is unique. I could never do it justice, but I can try to associate it with familiar smells. I should have done that when I was actually sniffing the flower, but at the time, I was so spellbound by it that I forgot to take notes. Did it really smell spicy? Yes, but with something else, a fruit maybe. What specific spices and fruit am I talking about here? Cinnamon and cloves for sure. The fruit was an orange, but not just any orange. A sweet, plump orange, the kind you only get once or twice a year if you live in Canada, and the smell was not the smell of the flesh, but of the oil in the rind when you peel it off.

Now the collage of memories has more breath. Before I type in the changes, I close my eyes and slide right back into the pool at the hot springs. Tiny bubbles rise in the column of water, so eager to reach the surface, they shimmer. Birds twitter at the edge of the forest. They sound happy, yet subdued, like toddlers playing on a soft carpet. And finally, a warm breeze carries to me the scent of a white bog orchid, a perfect blend of cinnamon and cloves sprinkled over the zest of an orange. For a brief moment, I flirt with heaven.