Hiking in the rain is akin to hiking after a powdery snowfall. Much like its frozen counterpart, the rain shrouds a forest in stillness, something rarely found in the buzzing heat of a summer day. Precipitation brings about a special kind of peace and solitude, something that can only accompany inclement weather.

The fallen leaves, soaked through to the soil below, glisten their reds, yellows, and oranges amidst the patches of once green ferns, now lemon and rust, that sway in a gentle breeze which sweeps the forest floor, almost as silent as you. A woman can move without a sound amid the dank and decomposing deciduous confetti beneath her boots.

The moss, at the water’s edge, swollen with the last two days of rainfall, becomes a lush and loamy tapestry beneath her feet, flattening underfoot, and then slowly rising once again to resume its luxuriant form as the boot lifts away. The Sphagnaceae reminiscent of Lewis Carroll’s Mome Raths.

The scent of damp, dark earth surrounds her. If only, she thinks to herself, there was a way to bottle it and keep it, breathing in its elemental magic, infused with the kind of healing properties she will find nowhere else but here, in this moment. Under the trees, the scent of pine rises up to greet her from the fallen needles below.

The birds flit and flutter at ground level. Are you a warbler, little friend? She sees you there, peeking through the thick bramble of the low lying shrubs, with your white underbelly, dusty gray body, and bright splash of lemon. Little bird who is quick-footed and fast to fly, always outwitting the curious observer longing for a proper identification of her allusive feathered forest companion.

White-breasted Nuthatches dance on the thick trunks and bare branches of the mighty Eastern White Pine. A crow calls in the distance overhead, obscured by the overcast sky – a body-less caw on the wind.

Around the bend, where the stream flows to greet the lake, the swamp smells of fish, so intrusive in the misty air, it’s as if she is holding a fresh catch right there in her own two hands.

All the autumnal browns of the lake and swamp vegetation that are making their transition into death are heightened by the muted gray backdrop of a sunless, fog-laden sky. The perfect contrast.

It’s as if she and this wild place have been plucked straight from the vastness of the world and gently tucked inside a water globe. The dense fog is the frost-covered glass of the dome, the gods giving it a shake so that a gentle rain falls all around her, dampening the intrusive sounds of an outside world she can no longer see.

Tiny droplets pool at the sharp edge of a pine needle, pulling and drooping the bundles down towards the ground. The fallen bundle together in pockets and coves to create a golden mosaic that floats and swirls atop a calm, reflective canvas. There is the pitter patter drum beat of droplets as they hit the water’s surface, creating ripples and waves that draw her into a state of soothing meditation.

She, and this swath of forest, lake, and swamp, are encased in a fog-laden wonderland of a grand and wild design.