Having
little experience with the pine and juniper forests of the Western
United States, previous to my relocation to Montana – I found
myself looking back fondly to my memories of growing up amongst the
deciduous oak and hickory forests of the Midwest. I spent many an
hour perched high above an open cornfield, tree-stand tied tightly to
the trunk of an oversized White Oak, or Shagbark Hickory. I relate to
the sensations that Muir felt during that wind storm, the cacophony
of sounds the twisting and dancing trees make as the wind tickles and
caresses every branch and twig “The sounds of the storm
corresponded gloriously with this wild exuberance of light and
motion.” The way that Muir describes the smell of the pine forest
“The fragrance of the woods was less marked than that produced
during warm rain, when so many balsamic buds and leaves are steeped
like tea...the gale was spiced to a very tonic degree.” Is one of
my favorite aspects of the western coniferous forests. There is
nothing quite like a warm breeze through the pines after a violent
spring downpour. The sharp, crisp mountain air percolating through
the needles has the inherent ability to comfort the mind and soul
simultaneously. Reminding one that there is more to life than the
errant requirements of modern civilization.
“Winds are advertisements of all they touch, however much or little
we may be able to read them”. Muir reminds us that there is a story
within each breeze, however ephemeral it may be. Through this
non-direct anthropomorphism of nature, we are reminded of our own
mortality. We drift through life, letting each metaphorical branch
leave its' mark upon us, leaving our own mark upon it as well.
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