For the Love of a Forest

“And into the forest I go. To lose my mind & find my soul!” — John Muir

Ever since I was really young, I knew that I had always preferred the forest over the beach. Something about that peace & quiet really draws me in. Walking past the trees ancient as time, past the birds singing their melodies, past the beetles humming the sound of spring. It’s fascinating, elegant, ancient, majestic. There is something about a forest that feels untouched by the urgency of the world outside it, as though time moves differently beneath its canopy. The forest is kind; it provides everything you need. The forest is accepting; it doesn’t care about where you came from or where you will go. The forest is forgiving; it watches over you, even if you mess up. It asks very little of you. You need not impress it. You need not explain yourself to it. You simply enter, and it allows you to be.

Finally, I had the opportunity to go see the forest. I was overjoyed by that. I packed my bag with everything that I thought I might need. I brought food, water, a compass, and a bag full of other stuff that I thought would help me thrive in the forest. I read posts online, watched YouTube videos, and asked ChatGPT for answers. I packed myself with knowledge. Every question I could think of, I tried to answer before I ever set foot beneath those trees. I told myself what to expect; I thought that I was ready for it. Perhaps that was the arrogance of preparation: the more I learned, the more I convinced myself there would be nothing left capable of surprising me. The night before the trip, I was so excited that I could barely sleep. My body lay in bed, but my mind had already wandered somewhere among the pines.

The morning of the trip, I packed up my car and got on the road. As I got closer, I started seeing a line of green at the edge of the sky. At first, it was barely distinguishable from the horizon. Then, mile by mile, individual shapes began rising from that distant green. The forest was no longer this idea that only existed in my mind or on a screen. It became a reality. It became something that existed in front of my eyes, something that I could actually interact with.

Finally, I reached the edge of the forest.

She stood there.

Quiet, elegant, majestic.

She didn’t beg for attention; she didn’t have to show off. She simply stood there, allowing people to admire her elegance, her beauty. There was confidence in that stillness. She did not need to convince anyone that she was beautiful. She simply was.

As I walked closer, I started to see the beauty of the tree line. The morning dew upon the pines. The mist sat above her like a thin veil. Thousands of narrow trunks disappeared behind one another. The treetops formed a continuous canopy, a seemingly endless sea of green rising and falling against the morning sky.

Then came the scent.

The pine resin created a lovely scent that was carried out by the gentle wind. The breeze brought forth something sharp, yet smooth; something woody, yet clean. Something sweet & earthy. It was unlike smelling pine from a candle, a piece of wood, or something bottled and labeled. This scent was alive. It belonged here. It carried the soil, the bark, the morning moisture, and the trees themselves.

I simply stood in awe, absorbing the different notes of the forest.

It was a weird feeling at that moment. See, I thought that I would be so excited that I would want to rush in there and take it all in. But at that moment, my soul was filled with something else. Something heavier, something solemn, something holy.

For the first time since I began planning the journey, I wasn't thinking about what I wanted from the forest. I was simply grateful to be standing before it.

Instead of running into the forest, I walked slowly past the tree line. Like a believer on their way to worship in Jerusalem.

I crossed the tree line almost reverently.

Now the forest was significantly different.

The forest floor was padded with pine needles, forming a rust-colored carpet beneath me. Fallen cones lay everywhere, like treasures that weren’t hidden. The outside world was muted. Instead, there was the sound of pine needles whispering in the wind, birds having private conversations, and small animals chasing after one another.

Everything outside the forest seemed suddenly distant, as though the trees had closed a door behind me.

I slowly walked down the path, the needles brushing the bottom of my boots, the scent sneaking into my nose. It was stronger than it had been on the outside, yet it remained smooth & gentle, never aggressive.

Every few steps seemed to reveal something that had been invisible from beyond the tree line—a patch of moss clinging to an old trunk, sunlight caught in droplets of dew, the sudden flutter of wings somewhere above me. The forest was not one beautiful thing. It was thousands of small beautiful things existing at once.

In that moment, I realized that everything I thought I knew about her was nothing—absolutely nothing—compared with what she actually was.

The scent was only mesmerizing once I breathed it into my nose. The sound was only addicting once I heard it with my own ears. The forest was only real once I truly experienced it.

It’s not until I was in the forest that I understood how little of it could be understood from the outside.

You could study its shape from a distance. You could memorize its species, trace its trails on maps, read descriptions written by people who had walked there before you.

But none of those things could reproduce the feeling of actually standing beneath its canopy. Knowledge had taught me about the forest. Presence was beginning to teach me the forest itself.

I continued down the path, distant shadows of deer disappearing behind trees, eagles flying high above the canopy, fish splashing in the lake.

I let myself be free, and took it all in.

Somewhere down the path, I reached a beautiful tree.

I walked around the tree a few times, simply admiring the strength and resilience of her. Its bark was rough beneath my fingertips, marked by years I could see but would never completely know.

I realized at that moment, people always want to talk about her beauty, her appearance, the shade she brings, but rarely do they talk about her resilience, her history, her strength.

Every storm that she endured, every drought she suffered, every year, every month, every day.

Yet she remained standing.

Yet she remained strong.

Yet she remained beautiful.

And suddenly, beauty seemed like such an incomplete word for her.

The rings inside of her represented more than just the years she had lived, but also a symbol of endurance. A recognition that she made it after everything she had gone through.

Some rings might have been wide, born from years of sunlight and abundance. Others might have been narrow, formed during years when survival itself demanded everything she had. Yet every one of them belonged to the same tree. None made her less whole. Together, they were the history hidden beneath her bark.

A tear fell from my eye. I couldn’t help but wonder about everything that she had gone through to become who she was today.

How many times must she survive a storm before she is considered strong?

How many difficult seasons had passed without anyone stopping long enough to notice that she was still standing?

I gained a new level of love & admiration for the forest. Not for her appearance, but for recognizing the things that made the forest the forest it was today.

As I got closer to the pine tree and laid my hands on the bark, I could almost feel the everlasting life that she produced.

Powerful. Lively. Energizing.

The kind of life that can give life to anything around her.

Birds found shelter among her branches. Small creatures moved around her roots. Her fallen needles became part of the earth beneath her. Even without knowing it, simply by existing, she gave something of herself to the life around her.

Moments later, I said goodbye to the tree and continued on my journey, not because the tree was not good enough, but because there was still so much more of the forest left to discover.

As time passed, the sun had finally risen high enough that its light penetrated the treetops, breaking through the needles and illuminating parts of the forest.

Its radiance was so warm, so gorgeous.

It cast shifting patches of light and shadow on the forest floor. Dust, mist, and moisture floated through the beams, briefly visible before disappearing again into the shade.

Not only did it illuminate the forest, it also illuminated parts of my heart as I bathed in its radiance.

I hadn't realized until then how warm the forest could feel.

A few hours later, I started to hear distant thunder, rumbling somewhere far away.

An unprepared traveler might panic, but not me.

I studied forests. I knew what to do. I brought a raincoat, for heaven’s sake.

I put on my raincoat, calm & collected, of course.

I almost found the situation amusing. Rain? I had prepared for rain. Of all the things this forest could throw at me, surely this was something I understood.

A few minutes later, the rain came crashing down.

It was fine at first. The forest had enough trees that provided some shelter.

Not for long, though.

The canopy became saturated. Water began slipping from the needles in heavy drops. The soft whisper above me became a roar. The trails darkened, the earth softened, and the forest I had been peacefully wandering through only minutes earlier seemed to change its temperament entirely.

The forest finally showed me her temper, the not-so-beautiful & elegant side of her.

So I scrambled for shelter.

I ran down the northwestern trail that led me down to the typically calm stream.

Well, it’s apparently not very calm during the rain.

It became aggressive, making it hard to keep my balance. The gentle water I had expected had swollen into something faster, colder, and far less interested in accommodating me.

I struggled to cross the stream, fighting not to fall.

I finally made it.

I kept going down the northwestern trail. But little did I know that the trail became incredibly slippery during the rain. The ground became very soft, the pine needles clinging to me as I stumbled onward.

Everything I had admired earlier—the earth, the water, the trees, the pine needles—was still there. They simply weren't behaving the way I wanted them to anymore.

After hours of struggle, I finally got to a small covering to escape from the rain for a moment.

I was drenched, covered in mud, pine needles, and God knows what else tangled through my hair.

For a while, I simply sat there listening to the rain strike the forest around me.

I thought that I was all prepared.

I thought that I had studied forests enough to know what to expect.

I was proven wrong.

I learned so much more in those few hours about this forest than I ever could have online.

I learned that I had about 20 minutes to clear the stream once rain started coming down.

I learned that I had to avoid the northwestern trail during a storm.

And that was my mistake.

I thought that I could apply the same set of principles, rules, and “formula” to every forest.

But they are all different.

The things I had studied weren't useless. They had gotten me this far. But knowing forests, I finally understood, was not the same thing as knowing this forest.

I had to learn her behavior.

I had to learn her temper.

I had to learn everything specifically about her.

I had to learn what the distant thunder meant here. I had to learn how quickly her streams rose, which paths became dangerous, where shelter could be found, and what signs she gave before everything changed.

And that is a gift to me.

The opportunity to do so is wonderful, and it’s such a privilege.

There was something strangely beautiful about realizing that I would never finish learning her.

Once I dried off, I started to reflect on the rain.

It certainly wasn’t the prettiest part of the forest, but it’s still a part of it. The storm had frightened me, exhausted me, covered me in mud, and humbled whatever confidence I had carried beneath the trees. But it had also shown me something real.

It was something I would learn to adapt to, because I don’t just love part of the forest, or sections of the forest.

No.

I love the whole thing.

Rainbows and sunshine.

Trees & rivers.

Rain & storms as well.

I could not claim to love the warmth of the sunlight and then resent the clouds for occasionally covering it. I could not love the peaceful stream while refusing to acknowledge that sometimes it would rise. I could not admire the strength of the trees while wishing away the storms that had helped make them strong.

As I got lost in my thoughts, I apparently had lost my way too.

I stopped.

Looked behind me.

Then ahead.

Nothing.

No familiar trail. No marker. No indication of which direction I had come from. Just pine after pine after pine, stretching endlessly in every direction.

I reached for my compass.

Then I stopped.

For the first time since entering the forest, I couldn't remember why finding the way out seemed so important.

I was lost.

Completely, undeniably, hopelessly lost.

And God help me—

I smiled.

I actually smiled.

Maybe the storm had finally knocked something loose inside my head. Maybe I had inhaled too much pine. Maybe somewhere between the stream, the rain, the mud, and talking to trees, I had finally gone completely mad.

Because a reasonable person would want to leave.

A reasonable person would look at the compass.

A reasonable person would find the trail, retrace their steps, return to the car, drive home, shower the mud from their skin, pull the pine needles from their hair, and tell everyone about the beautiful forest they once visited.

But the thought of calling this somewhere I had visited suddenly felt unbearable.

Visited?

No.

No, no, no.

You visit museums.

You visit cities.

You visit places you intend to leave.

I don't want to leave.

I looked around me again.

At the ridiculous trees I had become so attached to. At the mud that had nearly sent me flat on my face. At that temperamental stream that had tried its very best to kill me only hours earlier. At the pine needles stuck to my clothes and the dirt beneath my fingernails.

And I loved all of it.

God, I loved all of it.

The beautiful parts. The difficult parts. The quiet parts. The parts that frightened me.

The parts I understood. The parts I hadn't even begun to understand.

I wanted another morning beneath these trees.

Then another.

And another.

I wanted to know what the forest smelled like in winter.

I wanted to see where the deer went when snow covered the trails.

I wanted to learn which birds returned in spring. I wanted to know which trees caught the first light of summer and which leaves surrendered first to autumn.

I wanted to learn every trail until my feet knew them without asking my mind.

I wanted to recognize the sound of her rain before the first drop ever touched me.

I wanted to know her storms well enough that thunder no longer frightened me.

I wanted to sit beside that stupid stream after another storm and laugh because this time—this time—I knew better than to cross it.

I wanted years.

God, that's what terrified me.

Not another afternoon.

Not another trip.

Years.

I wanted to watch this forest change.

I wanted to change with it.

And suddenly the thought came so naturally that I almost laughed again:

I could stay here.

No.

That's ridiculous.

I should find the trail.

I should leave.

I should—

I looked at the compass still sitting uselessly in my hand.

I put it back into my bag.

I could stay here.

I could actually stay here.

What would be so terrible about that?

I have food.

Well—not enough.

Fine. Details.

I have water.

Probably.

Shelter?

I'll figure it out.

This is insane.

I know.

I don't care.

I…

I will stay here.

I will.

I will stay here.

I will never leave again.

Yes.

Yes, that's it.

I'll never leave.

Are there other forests?

Of course.

Are there prettier forests? Bigger forests? Forests with taller trees, clearer lakes, easier trails, gentler storms?

Probably.

I'm sure there are.

I don't want them.

Let someone else have them.

I don't want another forest.

I want this one.

Give me these trees.

Give me this ridiculous stream.

Give me the mud.

Give me the rain.

Give me the sunlight breaking through these particular branches.

Give me the scent that I now recognize before I even realize I'm breathing it.

Give me the peaceful mornings and the violent afternoons.

Give me the paths I know and the ones that will still manage to surprise me.

Give me the storms I haven't learned yet.

Give me another hundred years and I will happily spend every one of them discovering another corner of this place.

And if a hundred years isn't enough—

Fine.

Give me another hundred.

I don't care anymore.

Because somewhere along the way, this stopped being a forest I wanted to explore.

It became the forest I wanted to return to.

Then it became the forest I didn't want to leave.

And now—

God.

Now it feels like home.

So yes.

I am lost.

Hopelessly.

Laughably.

Completely.

I have lost the trail.

I have lost whatever good sense told me that eventually I was supposed to turn around.

I have lost whatever part of myself believed that I could walk into this place, admire it, and walk back out unchanged.

Maybe John Muir was right.

Maybe this was always the point.

Maybe I had to lose my mind here.

Because standing there—mud on my clothes, pine needles in my hair, my compass buried uselessly inside my bag, smiling like an absolute idiot at a forest that had thoroughly defeated every expectation I brought into it—I finally understood something.

I hadn't come all this way just to find a forest.

Somewhere between the first tree and the last storm, between her sunlight and her rain, between everything beautiful about her and everything difficult about her, I had found something I didn't even know I had been searching for.

So let me be lost.

Let the trail disappear.

Let the compass spin.

Let it rain again.

Let me wander until I forget there was ever somewhere else I was supposed to be.

I don't need to find my way out.

Because somewhere in this forest—

after thoroughly, wonderfully, hopelessly losing my mind—

I have found my soul.

Epilogue

The rain eventually stopped.

Somewhere along the northwestern trail, half-buried in the mud, lay a compass.

Its glass was scratched. Its face was streaked with rainwater and soil, but the needle still worked perfectly. It trembled for a moment before settling faithfully toward north.

Beside it were footprints.

One set.

Deep at first, pressed heavily into the softened earth. Then lighter as they continued away from the trail, disappearing between the pines.

They did not circle back.

They did not hesitate.

They did not lead toward the road.

They led deeper into the forest.

The evening wind moved gently through the canopy, carrying with it that familiar scent of pine—sharp, woody, sweet, earthy.

The compass remained where it had fallen.

Still pointing north.

Still perfectly capable of showing the way home.

But the footsteps continued in another direction.