A walk through the woods brought me face to face with an owl, the call of a flicker, the sweet scent of pawpaws, and the rhythm of hollow logs. Sometimes the forest carries you, and all you can do is listen.
I was wandering the woods today when I felt the wind coming up behind me. It hadn’t reached me yet, so the forest was still, like it was holding its breath. Then the cool air swept past, rustling the leaves and carrying me with it.
The woods smelled sweet. Pawpaws were falling, softening, beginning to decay. The smell pulled me back to the home I grew up in in Stormville, NY and the pear tree just outside my bedroom window. Late summer afternoons when the pears dropped, I’d stand with a Wiffle ball bat, launching home runs. The ones crushed underfoot turned to mulch, buzzing with yellow jackets looking to gorge on the delicious puree.
As the day cooled, the first drops of rain tapped the leaves. Slow at first, steady and expectant, like the forest was tuning itself. I knew heavier rain was on its way, the kind that leaves the air clean and sharp.
Then came the deeper notes as wind-tossed branches knocked against hollow logs. The sound was so clear it felt like someone was trying to communicate with me, and for a moment I was ready to answer back. That was me tuning in, the forest alive, and me alive inside it.
It was then I caught sight of a barred owl, flying low along the stream. His wings stretched wide, shadows rippling as he landed for a moment and fixed me with his eyes. Just as quickly, he was gone. A little later, the call of a Northern Flicker rang out, the first time I had ever heard it, even though I walk these woods all the time. Proof that even in familiar places, there is always something new to discover.
The owl and the flicker, the pawpaws and the rain, the hollow strikes of logs and the scent of moss. Every sight, every sound, every smell held me there, until it became a peace I only find when the woods carry me.
A week after I made this post about mushrooms, I walked the same path again. The exact same spots where mushrooms had been sprouting were bare. They had completed their cycle. They had done what they came to do.
Nature Journal — Highlights from the Walk
“Mossy roots stretch like giant green fingers — the forest’s own percussion section.”
ID: Mature oak with moss-covered buttress roots.
“A single red leaf caught in summer’s green — autumn’s first whisper.”
ID: Red leaf (likely maple) resting among clearweed (Pilea pumila).
“Berries lining the stream — water and color side by side.”
ID: Autumn olive (Elaeagnus umbellata), invasive shrub with red berries.
ID: Autumn olive close-up.
“Cymbals of color — ringing out in the forest’s song.”
ID: Likely wingstem (Verbesina alternifolia), a late-season wildflower.
On my September 23 walk, the forest announced its changes loud and clear — walnuts thudding down in a mast year, mosquitoes in last-call mode, pawpaw perfume gone, and late-blooming smartweed still holding on. These abundance signals remind me that the woods don’t whisper their shifts; they proclaim them.
Fall is the season for rewatching what lasts. From Halloween with my son to the golden glow of When Harry Met Sally and the timeless lessons of Dead Poets Society, these are the movies that make autumn feel complete — and the ones I want my kids to carry with them.
We moved to the DMV thinking we were immune to allergies. Four years later, we were congested, cranky, and armed with a four-step plan to stop sinus infections in their tracks.
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