Olive and I are winding through a crumbling road hugged by the scarred forest. As we climb higher and higher in elevation, we are soon met with blackened bark and bare branches that clash with the pillowy, off-white morning fog. Yellow and green ferns saturate the steep hillsides, filling the floor with patience and hope. Soft showers of powdery snow add a whimsical energy to the grim, dark land. With the exception of a few birds here and there–who were singing rather ominous tunes or perhaps a warning sign–the other inhabitants seem to have found more fertile ground elsewhere. After their displacement, all that’s mainly left is the decay..leaving behind their shadows in the memory of flames.
Charred spider-like branches hug the granite before they will eventually shatter into dust. The scouts’ lodgings seem to be boarded up for longer than the typical off-season. Sawed segments of stumps are left as they were last used: circled around the fire pit on the border of the still lake.
The smell of burnt pine still lingers in the depression of this mountain with the help of a subtle breeze. The pungent aroma transports me back to my childhood home, sitting by the fireplace. There is also a song carried by the breeze. A song that was once sung by the wolves. A cry if you will. This song belongs to winter for now, as it slowly crawls into the forest..
So good! Thank you for sharing! I love your writing accompanied by your wonderful photos!
Excellent essay. It really hits home for me because I can drive an hour in most directions around us and see similar destruction and devastation.