I lived most of my life surrounded by sweetfern without noticing it. It’s one of those plants that has always been there, sitting quietly around the edges and disappearing into the sea of green if you aren’t looking for it. It doesn’t flash any flowers or fruit, so for years, I just walked on by. 

I was in my early twenties on my first homestead when we officially met. I was walking back and forth from the cabin we were building in the woods to the pile of lumber we’d milled and stacked up in the meadow. “The meadow” was actually the old town sand and gravel pit, but a patch of lupines was holding steady so we named it optimistically. On each trip to or from the meadow, I couldn’t help raising my nose to the familiar smell of summer. I noticed that the smell was especially strong at the edge of the meadow right before I reached the tree-line. I stood there and looked around for flowers but saw nothing in bloom. I followed my nose and it led me down. I squatted and still saw no flowers but noticed I was in a sweetfern thicket - it’s leaves gleaming in the warm sun. I raked my hands through a few leafy branches and pulled my fingers to my nose. It was one of those big shifting moments when you realize something you thought you knew your whole life is actually something else. The smell of summer that I’d always been so fond of, so familiar with, was actually the smell of sweetfern. 

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