In early May, I found myself wandering the woods along the Ice Age Trail, carrying a quiet sense of wonder and looking for any signs of wildflowers or small marvels waiting to be noticed. My walk began near Olsen Cabin, and I followed the trail for a while before veering off toward the John Muir Hiking-Biking Trails. There, I stumbled upon a recently logged section of forest—a raw, unsettled scene, as if a wave of disruption had swept through and left the earth bare and exposed.
Intrigued, I skirted the edges of the logged area and noticed a few ferns, their fronds drooping, looking wilted and weary. Moved by a small impulse of kindness, I sprinkled some water from my bottle over them before moving along my way. On my return journey, curiosity tugged me back to check on those ferns. To my quiet delight, I found them revived, their fronds lifted and full of life once again, as if they’d responded to the smallest gesture with graceful resilience.
In that simple moment, I felt a sense of connection to the woods, reminded of nature’s quiet strength and the way life continues, even in the wake of upheaval.
