The woods have a heartbeat.

I walk through a valley and look up to view icicles dripping onto the rocks below. The droplets will nourish the ground this spring so other trees and plant life, such as berry bushes, can pump water from their roots to their branches.

I’ve enjoyed plump raspberries and blackberries from this valley, as I’m sure generations before me have done. Indigenous children may have picked sun-ripened fruit for their mothers to add to pemmican, a mixture of dried meat and tallow that helped sustain people over the winter or during long journeys. Berries from this valley may have become pie-filling shared with settler families and friends. I’ve brought home berries myself and served them with sugar on top of ice cream.

The woods breathe in, breathe out.

I step onto the wooden bridge over the creek. I can hear leaves rustling in the branches as they take in carbon dioxide and release oxygen. A turkey vulture soars above the pulsing underwater spring. She might drink from it later and choose a crevice for her nesting site. 

I pause to look around. From time immemorial, this spring provided fresh water for the generations of birds, animals, hunters, farmers, and families who once lived in this valley. It’s a favorite spot for me since it’s the first place to show spring’s return. Pungent skunk cabbage thrives in the moist soil here and adds welcome splashes of green. In May, dogtooth violets will add dots of violet, blue, yellow, and white. I envision a delighted girl stooping to pick some of the gifts. She weaves them into a crown, then laughs at something her friend says. The wreath-maker places the crown on her friend’s head, and they dance in the sunshine.

The woods have eyes and they’re watching me. 

The wise eyes of the forest warn me to be mindful and to honor this valley and its history. I hear whispers and images flash in my head. 

Children chase one another and play hide and seek.

A woman teaches her daughter how to weave a basket.

Hunters harvest deer, rabbits, and game birds to feed their families.

A young boy ties a hook made from a goose's wishbone onto a sinew string. He catches a trout and proudly brings it home for his family.

A community huddles around a fire, telling stories.

This valley is alive, and past generations who enjoyed this area are watching me . . . they’re watching me.