Many years ago, at the end of a particularly wet, wind-blown winter, I wandered one late-February afternoon about San Juan Island looking for signs of spring. I stopped by the Land Bank's West Side Preserve and while exploring the glacially-tilled slopes overlooking Haro Strait found a single tiny wildflower tucked in grasses and moss down by the bluff. "Oh my, who are you?" I wondered.
The plant was a deep pink six-tepaled gem radiating a stunning purple sheen in an unexpected burst of sunlight. It perched atop a 12-inch stem with narrow, silvery-green grass-like leaves. What a captivating presence along the rocky ledge of this ancient mountaintop beside the inland sea. The plant's name, I learned from a plant guide, was satin flower.
Only days before my sighting, it had snowed. The night before, gale-force winds had buffeted the slopes above the strait yet there, miraculously, satin flower bloomed announcing that spring was on the way. I was thrilled by my discovery. I went back three weeks later and found several dozen satin flowers along the west-facing slopes. Every late February since then, I have visited the Preserve hoping to catch a glimpse of those first bright blooms under a still-granite sky. It has become a meaningful ritual in my island life. Satin flower has never let me down.
Satin flower is a northwest native, a member of the Iris family (Olsynium douglasii var. douglasii) - a revision in genus years ago from Sisyrinchium. It is also called grass widow and purple-eyed grass. It prefers prairies, south-facing slopes, coastal bluffs and open rocky outcrops. In bright sunlight, the flowers cast lustrous sheens of pink, lavender and magenta that announce its common name.
Scotsman David Douglas discovered satin flower near Celilo Falls in the Columbia River Gorge in 1826. Botanist Leslie Haskin wrote eloquently of the iris in Wild Flowers of the Pacific Coast many years later likening the blossoms along a bluff as appearing to "... dance and flutter like purple butterflies."
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This year's island winter has been relatively mild, thus my hope for satin flower's early emergence. (One year, I spied the icon at the end of January.) But we had a hard freeze and snow that lasted for several days in early February. I suspected the grass widows might continue their slumber into March. I checked the Preserve in mid-month. No luck. Then a warming spell. I drove to the west side on the 26th under a gray but hopeful sky. By noon, the temperature was in the mid-50s. Surely satin flower would make an appearance.
It was quiet with calm seas at the Preserve. A red-tailed hawk leisurely circled overhead, the Olympics shown snow-white across the straits, and a pair of pigeon guillemots whistled their mating calls to one another just offshore. I knew where to look for the satin flowers. It did not take long to find them. There, by the lower reaches of the trail, was a pair in bloom. They were tucked on a rocky outcrop, the buds partially open and nodding in the mosses, lichens and short grass of the till. The flowers' delicate coloring was subdued in winter light but still, the purple luster evoked their names. After a lingering greeting of the duo, I continued my search and found another single flower - a lighter shade of aubergine - among leaf litter and licorice ferns. And all about, the celery green shoots of emerging leaves foretold fistfuls of glistening flowers along these greening slopes until the vernal equinox. Now, if only the deer would keep their distance. I kept mine so as not to trample fragile ground off-trail. One quick photo would tell the tale and document the event.
I sat a spell on a rocky knoll savoring the view and the moment, then walked back up the trail noting early buds on the big-leaf maples that shared their hillside domain with the Pacific madrones. Soon, I knew, camas would emerge beneath the maple's sturdy boughs but not before shooting stars, field chickweed and ragged starflowers joined the satin flowers by the bluff.
I emailed the good news about satin flower to Doug McCutchen, San Juan Island Preserve Steward for the Land Bank. He had been monitoring the plants, too, for many years as part of his work and, I suspected, out of a shared admiration for the species. Doug had been out to West Side Preserve three days earlier looking for the little iris but "...there was not a bloom in sight." He happily reported, though, that a friend had seen a rufous hummingbird at his feeder on February 25 and that the frog chorus had been in full voice at his place the night before. "Hold on to your hat," he wrote. I knew Doug was excited about the seasonal shift. Aren't we all.
And so, another satin flower spring is upon us. Those first blossoms tell the story of a steadfast little herb that has, over the years, endeared itself to islanders with its early proclamation of a turn into the light. I know of several folks here who share my enthusiasm for seeking those first blooms on the west side, or on Cady Mountain, or near the Redoubt at American Camp.
Such a happy event in our island lives. How marvelous that a tiny, unassuming wildflower can deliver such a wondrous forecast of spring. Undaunted by the harshness of winter and uplifting in its bright beauty along the still-cold slopes of West Side Preserve, it offers us a bit of soulful connectedness between the fragile natural world and our hopeful/mindful presence in its midst. Satin flower is in bloom. Isn't it wonderful!
Susan Vernon is the author of RAINSHADOW WORLD - A Naturalist's Year in the San Juan Islands and SITTING STILL WITH TWILIGHT OWLS - exploring the web of life on San Juan Island. San Juan Nature Notebook © 2025. All rights reserved.