What Do Trees Think Of

I wonder what trees think of? I only wonder this because I recently recalled a story my parents used to tell when I was young. A forest at the edge of town that stood like an impossible wall of darkness. Most ever went in the forest; everyone knew the stories. Many told tales of folks going in and never coming out. Some stories told of monsters and otherworldly creatures living there. I’m not sure what I believed, I just know I was always afraid. Which, I suppose that was the point of the tales; to keep kids out of the woods where they’d most likely be injured by completely normal means. Nonetheless, that forest held a mystical notion to anyone who grew up this way. Throughout my life, there were dozens of news stories about missing people, who were last known to be going hiking or camping in those woods. But, honestly, the real stories never scared me as much as the woods from the stories. I always thought it was kind of funny that I feared stories about trees more than going on a hike and being mauled by wild animals.

I recall being able to see the forest from the highway on the way to the city. From far enough away, it looked to be a line of green trees, and then just black. Beyond the first treeline, you couldn’t see the forest floor. I was knowledgeable enough to know that this was just a very dense forest, but that didn’t stop my feeling that it was something more. Over time, I suppose folks stopped telling the stories to me because I was older. There was no reason to put the fear in me any longer, it was seeded quite deep. I stopped thinking about it for the most part. It became like a faint fire in the back of my mind. I would only acknowledge its existence while passing it on the highway. By that point, my feelings about the forest were that it was simply haunted. Like a silly campfire ghost story or a myth you pass on to your younger cousin but embellished because you enjoy seeing the fear run through him. I had become like most others in town, only thinking of the forest briefly when another person went missing. “Those are dangerous woods, I just don’t know what compels folks to keep trying to camp in there”, my father would say each time.

When I reached high school, the most you would hear about it was juniors and seniors daring each other to enter the woods. The foolish antics of angsty renegades brought on by the sheer lack of concession and entertainment in a small town. Even as I went through those years, I had no interest in the forest. It wasn’t until I was grown, with a child of my own that I remembered just how scared I was. I was laying my daughter down for bed one night, and she asked for a story. She would often do this, and I obliged because it got her to sleep faster. I rummaged through her books, and both of us agreed that they had been read far too many times. So, I thought for a moment of a story to tell, and the forest came to mind like a bullet that had been chasing me for decades. I told her the story of the forest just as it was told to me.

She cried, and I read her one of the stories that had been read too many times instead. The forest story was not a good idea.

The fire had been lit. I recalled all my fear for the forest in an instant, and I struggled to fully understand why I felt that way about it. I suppose, from my perspective, I had written it off as stories my parents would tell and nothing more. But those very stories had instilled great fear in me. Honestly, I was kind of miffed about that, so I decided to fix it. The next day I went to the store and bought some camping gear. A tent, lanterns, backpacks, canteens, solar-powered cell phone chargers, seven packs of lighters, and various other bits and bobs. All the standard camping gear a family would need. I convinced my wife and daughter to go on a camping trip the next weekend, they seemed delighted. My daughter didn’t remember the story I had told her, and my wife grew up in another town. They didn’t have the same fear. But to me, the fear had been sewn so deep that I was angry at it. It was childish and needed to be conquered. Decades I had spent ignoring this beautiful part of my home, and all because of children's tales.

That weekend, we headed to the forest for a fun family camping adventure. In about thirty minutes we came to a dilapidated parking lot, overgrown with weeds and shrubbery. An opening in the treeline revealed a trail that seemingly hadn’t been used in years. We loaded up all our gear and entered the woods. I had to cut back some greenery to clear the path, it did look like no one had step foot there in years. We pressed into the darkness of the forest, and the deeper we got, the more it seemed normal. The pressing darkness felt more like a bit of welcome cool shade on a hot summer day. The forest was darker than outside, for sure, but only due to the thick canopy. I felt good, nothing about being in the forest gave me that fear. I felt like I was overcoming it.

We stayed the night, no excitement, just a nice relaxing time with family. It was serene and beautiful. The next morning we packed up and hiked out of the wood, got in the car, and left. That was that; no fear, nothing bad, just forest. I still wondered what the trees were thinking though. I’ve always wondered that. On the drive home I wondered if they thought we were beautiful in the same way we do for them. I got lost in this thought. I pondered on the personality of trees, how they communicate with each other, how they grow with each other, and how they see things happening below them each day for centuries. I suppose I must have been lost in thought so much that I don’t remember getting home. The whole trip seemed like a blur, but when I ‘came to’, so to speak, I was home. For a moment I was confused, my memories playing tricks on me. I felt like this home was not mine, like I was in the wrong place. I assumed this feeling came about because of my daydream while traveling, so I shook it off and settled in. I always enjoyed being home, just nestled in place. My feet reaching through the soil, arms outstretched into the sky, feeling the wind blow through my hair, my body creaking slightly as it too is moved in the wind. It always feels good to be home. It feels good to always be home. I wonder what trees think of.