It was a summer ritual. Preparation began when north-facing snow on the bumpy dirt road leading to the peaks cleared. Wax papered sandwiches, apple juice, oranges, peanut butter saltines, and pickles were tucked into the wooden basket pushed up against a square box in the station wagon. The box wasn’t for us. Its homemade cookies, wine, peaches, cheese and the Sunday paper were destined for others. Elsewhere, jackets, sneakers, a first aid kit, binoculars, canteens, canvas bucket, shovel, and a USGS map were secured. Last, but not least, were Parrot and Beagle. One last check that nothing and no one had been forgotten, car doors slammed shut- one, two, three, four – and we were off.

As unending seagreen forests swept by, the wind pushed back my bangs and filled my lungs with the breath of Cottonwood and Douglas Fir. Then, suddenly, the vista transformed. We were catapulted into the dazzling green of the subalpine world strewn with wild orange, magenta, and yellow flowers. At the summit, the car came to an idling pause. Bracing in low gear, we crawled up a nail bitingly steep and narrow trail. My brother and I unconsciously leaned forward as if to help the car’s struggling progress. Finally, we made it. We had arrived.

We sat awestruck by the mountains’ peace. A banging screen door and cries of welcome from veteran lookouts of Dutchman Peak, Mr. and Mrs. Von Stein, broke our reverie. We were wrapped in a huddle of hugs. After a few minutes of chattering friendship, the box was handed over. There would be no cosy coffee klatch or magical lookout tower tour. Today was special. It was the summer’s first picnic. This day was special for another reason: the experience would shape my entire understanding of life and the wonderous beings with whom we live.

Waving vigorous goodbyes, we set out for our favourite spot, a little roadside space overlooking the meadows below. While we unpacked, my mother spread a tablecloth on the grass and laid out lunch. That day, though, we weren’t alone. An unexpected guest arrived.

Carrying a small rucksack and hiking staff, long gray hair tucked behind his ears, the stranger nodded a warm greeting. My parents waved him over, handing him a sandwich and a bottle of beer. My brother stood near, lunch in one hand, binoculars in the other. I sat by the stranger watching a pair of Golden Eagles soar in casual circles almost at eye level.

While looking for Ant Lions and arrowheads, I felt the stranger’s hand touch my shoulder as he whispered, “Look over there.” I followed his gaze, and there, in the shadow of a nearby grove, was a mother Black Bear and two young. The man and I exchanged grins. The Bear looked up, raised her nose in greeting, then settled down in the long summer grass with her frolicking cubs.

“They know you, don’t they,” I said. The man replied, “Yes, we’ve become good friends, but it takes a lot of listening and understanding.” Sensing my puzzlement, he explained, “Belonging somewhere isn’t just up to you. The Animals and the land have to feel you belong. You can live in a place, but you don’t belong until the land says so.”

We watched the Bears sleep and the Eagles glide. After a few minutes, I turned and asked, “Do you think I belong?” The man answered with a question, “First, what do you hear when you walk in the forest?” “Nothing,” I said, “just my breath and the wind.” He shook his head, “No, I don’t mean the wind. There’s something else. When the land feels you belong, the Trees will keep talking- you’ll be able to hear what the Trees are saying.”

As morning turned to afternoon, the stranger rose to leave. Saying his goodbyes, he went down the hill and disappeared into the grove where the Bears had played. I’ve thought a lot about what he told me. It’s taken time, a lot of listening and a lot of care – just like he said. I listened and waited and now, when I wander in the mountains where he walked, the Trees keep talking.