On a September walk, I found a forest full of surprises — seedlings sprouting late, fungi bleeding liquid, ants feasting on mushrooms. Each moment carried a question, and each question carried a lesson.
We set out on the trail with the water running low, the creek thinned to a trickle over rocks. It hasn’t rained much lately, and the land shows it. The riverbed felt exposed, like a skeleton reminding us that nothing flows forever.
A shallow creek crossing — proof of how little rain has fallen this month.
It was strange to see seedlings pushing through the soil this late in September, tiny leaves crowding along the base of roots. Too late for them, I thought. Winter is around the corner. But the forest doesn’t ask permission for timing. Seeds germinate when the moment feels right, even if most won’t survive. Maybe that’s the first lesson — sometimes you have to start anyway, even when the odds don’t favor you.
Saplings sprouting in late September, defying the calendar.
A little further on, I spotted a mushroom growing out of a nut shell, a bolete rising from decay. Nuts are supposed to feed animals, but here they were feeding fungi. Life always finds another use for what we think is spent. Nothing is wasted in the woods.
A bolete mushroom sprouting from a cracked nut — decay becoming life again.
Goldenrod still burned bright along the water’s edge, golden fireworks in the last days of September. It feeds bees and butterflies when little else remains, a reminder that even at the end of a season, there’s work left to be done — service still to offer.
Goldenrod blooming in late September, a final feast for pollinators.
Beside it, I noticed white snakeroot, delicate and poisonous. I learned long ago that cows eating it poisoned people through their milk. Beauty with danger laced inside. The lesson there: not everything attractive is good for you.
White snakeroot — delicate blooms with a poisonous history.
The most startling moment was a tree covered in fungi that seemed to bleed orange sap. It wasn’t the tree at all — it was the mushrooms themselves exuding liquid. Fungi can “sweat” when they’re growing fast, pushing out excess water and chemicals. It looked unnatural, but it was only growth at work. Sometimes progress is messy, oozing at the edges.
Lacquered polypore fungi “sweating” orange liquid during growth.
Later, ants swarmed a honey fungus, feeding on its gills. I had always thought of ants as kitchen raiders, drawn to sugar bowls and crumbs on the counter. But here they were, harvesting the forest’s version of a feast. Ants don’t care if it’s a mushroom or my sandwich — they’re relentless. Persistence is their way of life.
Ants harvesting a honey fungus — proof their foraging never stops.
By the time we crossed the creek again, stepping from stone to stone over shallow water, I realized how much the forest had taught me in a single walk. Start when you can, even if the season seems wrong. Waste nothing. Offer what you have until the end. Recognize danger even when it wears a pretty face. Accept that growth might get messy. And above all, keep going.
Nature has been teaching these lessons long before we ever tried to write them down. All it asks is that we walk slow enough to notice.
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.
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.
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