From Muck to Magic:
The First Sign of the Season
There’s a moment every spring when I know—truly know—that winter’s grip is loosening. It’s not just the longer days, not the dripping eaves, not even the sudden urgency in the birdsong. It’s when the skunk cabbage starts to push its way up through the muck and the damp forest floor, those bright yellow hoods lighting up the wetlands like little lanterns of rebirth.
Around here, we call it skunk cabbage, but its proper name is Lysichiton americanus—and I’ve heard it called x’áal’ in Tlingit. It’s one of the first green things to rise after the thaw, and it doesn’t come quietly. It’s bold, showy, and yes, it’s got a certain scent to it—but that musky odor is part of its magic. That smell attracts early-season pollinators and makes sure everyone—from flies to bears—knows it's awake.
And when the skunk cabbage wakes up, so does the wild.
Moose on the Move, Bears Soon Behind
Moose are usually the first big animals we see stirring in the valley this time of year. You’ll catch glimpses of them along river flats and forest edges, browsing on thawing brush and woody shrubs—birch, alder, whatever’s softening up first after the cold. Later in the season, the calves begin to appear—wide-eyed and unsure—and that's when it's especially important to be cautious. A mother moose with a newborn is a powerful thing, and fiercely protective.
Not long after the moose, the brown bears begin to show. Hungry and hollow-bellied after a long hibernation, they often head straight for the lowland wetlands where skunk cabbage grows thick and early. It’s one of the few foods available right away, and it helps ease their digestive systems back into gear. You’ll often spot signs before you spot the bear itself—paw prints in soft mud, or earth freshly turned in search of roots.
The Skunk Cabbage and the Eulachon:
A Perfect Timing
This year, something about the rhythm of spring feels just a little more in sync. As the skunk cabbage begins to unfurl its golden flags in the wetlands, the waterways are stirring with life too. Almost right alongside the skunk cabbage’s bold emergence, the first silvery flashes of eulachon—hooligan, as we call them—have begun to show in the rivers and inlets.
It’s as if the land and the sea are waking together, in tandem.
And with the eulachon come the hungry ones: sea lions, seals, and even the occasional whale, following the fish into the fjords. The water, like the woods, bursts into life—alive with movement, sound, and a kind of urgency that you can feel right down to your bones. It’s a powerful thing, to witness the seasons shift not just on land, but in the tide as well.
The Plant That Kids Know By Heart
What I love most, though, is how unmistakable skunk cabbage is to the kids who grow up here. With its bright yellow bloom and cartoonishly big green leaves, it’s one of the first plants a child learns to recognize. And around Haines, our local kids know exactly what it means when they spot that first cluster pushing through the wet ground: Spring is here.
You’ll see them call it out on hikes with their parents or point excitedly from the backseat of a car driving past a familiar slough. That kind of enthusiasm is contagious—the way they light up just at the sight of a plant. It’s a reminder that spring isn’t just a season here, it’s a shared experience, passed down year after year, bloom after bloom.
Tlingit Uses and Traditional Knowledge
I’ve been told that in Tlingit tradition, skunk cabbage wasn’t used as food—it’s mildly toxic if eaten raw—but the plant had many other practical uses. The huge, waxy leaves were often used to line food storage pits or to wrap foods like salmon and berries for steaming. Some also say it had medicinal value—used for things like lung issues, infections, or even headaches.
It's powerful to think about how even a swamp plant could be a tool, a helper, a protector in the old ways.
More Signs of the Season
This year’s winter was mild—even by Southeast standards. Snow didn’t stack up the way it usually does. Instead of deep snowbanks, what lingered were crusty roadside mounds from the plows, slowly melting into gravel and grit. Still, the snow holds on up the trails, in the timber shade, and on the high ridges. And it's there that spring’s first messengers start to appear.
The Chilkat River begins to swell with meltwater, breaking open along its banks. Trumpeter swans gather again once more, while the last of the magpies slip away. Mountain goats cling to the high cliffs, perhaps still wrapped in shaggy coats. Down at sea level, the eulachon are here—silver streaks darting beneath the surface—and with them, the sea lions and whales sweep in, as the food chain stirs back to life.
Everywhere, life is returning. The kind of wild, hopeful green that only shows up when the timing is just right.
Have you or your little ones spotted skunk cabbage this spring? Or maybe seen the waters flicker with hooligan? Drop us a note or a photo—we’d love to see how spring is blooming through your eyes. 🌱
