Into the Woods

By Peter Bowden

He left early in the morning, before the sun had climbed up over the ridge. The pack was heavy but he didn’t mind it. Weight meant he had what he needed—canvas, rope, tin, coffee. He walked the trail slow, steady, with the sound of his boots pressing into the dirt and nothing else. The trees were still. The cold hadn’t lifted yet.

He didn’t think much while he walked. The body moved and the mind went quiet. It was good that way. He knew the trail and the turns. Knew where the stones would slip and where the old pine had fallen last spring. There was a clearing past the stream, just wide enough for one man’s tent and a fire. He figured he’d get there before noon if he kept the pace.

When he stopped to drink, he sat on a rock and looked out over the valley. It was green and hushed, with the light coming down in soft slants. He chewed a strip of jerky, drank from his canteen, and didn’t look at the time. There was no need. The trail would carry him as far as he needed to go. The woods weren’t in a hurry.

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