Whispers of the Wildwood
A Family’s Journey into the Wild Unknown
They arrived on a rainy day in early spring—tiny figures in bright colors, dwarfed by the shadows of my ancient trees. Winter had not yet released me from its icy grasp. I heard their voices shrill and unfamiliar in the wind. I felt the tread of their boots heavy and clumsy on my roots. I tasted the blood of the youngest one on my rocks. They were family: a father, a mother, and three young ones, like birds just learning to stretch their wings.
I felt their excitement, yet, I did not welcome them all at once; I held back, observing these newcomers who dared to walk my ancient pathways. It was an old ritual, one that I had practiced for generations, quietly testing those who sought to move through my depths.
To know me, to truly belong, meant to understand my strength—the way life here ebbed and flowed, shaped by cycles of endurance and resilience. So, slowly, intentionally, I raised my trials.
I began with slick, jagged rocks and tangled roots that snaked across the narrow path, forcing them to step carefully, lest they stumble. With each misstep, each scrape and bruise, I gauged their patience, testing whether they would curse my rough edges or learn to move with the rhythm of the earth beneath them.
They moved through my world slowly, carefully, and I observed them as I have observed the countless others who dared to cross these sacred halls. Their footsteps whispered against my roots, a curious intrusion, and yet, something about them was different—a family, close-knit and determined, with the soft, raw glow of humans just learning to understand what it means to tread softly on the earth.
With each step, they entered deeper into my embrace, trading asphalt for soil, noise for silence. My rivers, cool and swift, kissed their ankles as they crossed, and my winds tugged at their clothes in greeting. The youngest child looked up in awe as if hearing my voice in the rustle of the leaves.
Two times I forced them out with my icy push, but two times they returned, humbled, yet more prepared and with a renewed air of quiet determination. They were seekers, travelers with purpose. Their laden packs suggested they wanted to know me, to see my raw truth.
They paused to listen to the songbirds. The children traced my winding creeks with their fingers, played in my fallen leaves, marveled at the mushrooms clustered on old logs, and the light that crept through my bare branches.
At times, I felt their fatigue, the slump of shoulders under heavy packs, but still, they moved steadily forward.
As the days grew warmer, they reached my balds, standing tall against the blue sky as if made of sky and stone themselves.
The middle child—curious, with a gentle spirit—was always the first to ask me, in a way, about the secrets I held. He would squat low, inspecting beetles scurrying along my bark, or caress the soft moss blanketing my rocks. I saw a kindred soul in him, a spark that was my own. I whispered to him through the wind, and he heard me, I know he did.
The youngest, who had grown stronger with every step, stood taller now, his eyes reflecting the vastness of my mountains as if they had taken root inside him. He tested the swiftness of my waters by throwing leaves and sticks into my veins. He laughed, a sound bright and sharp, ringing out through my hollows, and I let my winds carry it back to him as if in greeting. And when they gathered around fires at night, I felt his joy radiate like warmth.
As they climbed further into my mountains, the eldest child’s footsteps were sure and steady, and he gazed into my depths as though looking for the secrets hidden in every shadow. I welcomed him, let my branches part to give him glimpses of valleys wrapped in mist, mountains unfolding one after another like waves against the sky. He had a quiet strength that resonated with light in my heart.
I recognized their mother, strong yet softened by her love for the young ones. Having passed through my halls before, she moved with reverence and protected me fiercely from the roughness of her kin. The father, quiet and gentle, spoke of lives led outside my wild places. I sensed their connection, felt the weight of their sacrifices with every step. They sought peace within my embrace, and I cradled them, shielding them from storms with my broad branches, covering them in shadows on hot summer days.
They lingered in my meadows, watched the last bit of light squeeze past my ridges, and admired my beauty. They let rain sting their faces, insects taste their blood, and cold chill their bones, yet they pressed onward.
As the months stretched on, my winding pathways tested them in all the ways they could. I raised steep mountains in their path, tangled roots beneath their feet, introduced them to wild beasts and plants of fire, winds that howled and powerful floods.
At times their steadfastness began to waver yet I did not retreat, for I knew that in this pain is where they would find what they were seeking. With each mile, I weighed their resolve, watching to see if they would bow under the weight or adjust, finding a pace that honored their bodies and the land.
When the rains came, they came fiercely—cold, relentless storms that soaked them to their core, making every step heavier, every shelter harder to find.
After the others were asleep, I listened to the mother whisper into the night air. I spent many nights alone with her and her deepest thoughts. I saw my beauty reflected in her eyes.
By midsummer, I intensified my trials. Dense clouds of insects rose from the humid undergrowth, biting and buzzing, testing their endurance against the small, persistent irritations of life here. The heat bore down burning and soaking their coverings. But still, they moved forward, learning the art of acceptance, adjusting to my whims, and in doing so, earning a deeper understanding of the wild.
Seeing signs of exhaustion. I waited to see if they would turn back or embrace my wildness in its entirety, the beauty woven with discomfort.
They pushed on, even as autumn crept in, painting the trees in fire and gold, and their breaths grew misty in the morning air. They wrapped themselves in fleece, huddling together under my shelter and warming themselves by fires built without harm, from fallen branches, leaving my green limbs intact.
Yet once more, I forced them out with my violent temper and treacherous waters.
And, once more they returned. They were stubborn, like the hardy alpine plants that cling to my rock faces, tenacious and brave.
Slowly, I began to trust and I unveiled my beauty, my layers and secrets, welcoming them now as part of my grander tapestry.
I recognized their respect, their awe, and their gratitude. They had come not as conquerors or explorers seeking to take, but as visitors, humble and willing to listen. And because they showed they valued all of me, I opened to them, offering safe passage, revealing glimmers of beauty at every turn, allowing them to become part of my eternal story.
As the family continued their journey, I saw their love reflected in the care they took not just for me, but for each other. I saw how the parents would quietly support one another when fatigue weighed heavily, how they would offer a shoulder, a word of encouragement, a steady hand. I saw the way the family laughed together at night under the stars, sharing stories and secrets. I saw their concern for me as parts of me died not knowing my plan for the future.
In their final days, as they stood upon my grassy highlands, I accepted them fully. I recognized their spirit, marked with the patience, humility, and resilience of those who had come before and passed the same trials. They had proven their place within the cycle, their readiness to be woven into my eternal, living web.
They stood on my ridges, looking out over the land I have guarded for millennia, and I knew that they had become part of me, just as I had become part of them.
The journey was not easy.
They left me as the last of the leaves had fallen, their footsteps light and their spirits fuller than when they arrived. They had crossed my halls with reverence, their spirits touched by the wisdom of the wild, and though they returned to their world, part of them remained within me, rooted deep among my stones, woven into my branches. They had become a part of me, just as I had become part of them—etched into their memories, as they were now etched into mine.
I will await the return of the young ones in their own time with offspring of their own. Time may lead them far, yet I will remain, timeless and patient, knowing that they will find their way back. For they carry a part of me with them, and one day, I will welcome them home once more.
by Mel “Lovely” Heurich
Bravo Melanie, beautiful writing. I hope you publish that some day. What a journey you all have been on.
Once again you are a word smith. Beautifully written through the earth view. Thank you for sharing your inner most thoughts of your journey.