The Wild Does Not Care
- Alexander Kwapis
- Sep 4
- 2 min read
Updated: Sep 10
The Outset
The trail began innocently enough, a ribbon of dirt through pine and stone. The sun fractured through the canopy in shards of gold, lighting dust motes that spun like forgotten galaxies. On the trail was a traveler who believed the forest was a place to be conquered. They packed light, too light, leaving behind food, tools, and common sense. What he carried instead was confidence, the kind that glows until the first storm arrives.
The forest welcomed them with silence, a corridor of cedar and shadow. Birds watched from branches, their gaze older than any ambition. The earth spoke quietly: every step leaves a mark, and every mark becomes a story. Yet the traveler pressed forward without listening. Their boots scraped stone, broke branches, and scattered needles as if the land were theirs to shape.
The Reckoning
By the second mile, the climb turned steep, jagged switchbacks cut into a hillside that eroded under each step. Their breath grew thin. The pack dug into their shoulders. Sweat stung their eyes. It was ugly, but it worked. They kept moving.
Halfway up, the sky cracked open, and when the storm came, it did not ask permission. Rain fell in sheets, the sky splitting like shattered glass. The traveler searched for shelter, but the hill was steep and the ground slick. They stumbled, cursed, and laughed bitterly. Their fire refused to catch. Their food was gone too quickly. What once felt like freedom now showed itself as arrogance.
In the downpour, they saw the river, swollen and wild, dragging branches, leaves, and human trash along its current. Wrappers, bottles, and fragments from those who believed nature would forget. They recognized themselves in that debris, careless and unprepared, sure they could bend the wild to their will. The mountain did not hate them, but it did not forgive them either. It simply endured.
The Dawn
The storm had ended by first light. The traveler rose hungry and humbled, their boots heavy with mud. They retraced their steps, collecting what they had dropped and erasing the careless marks they had made. Each act of repair was a kind of prayer. Slowly, they began to understand what the forest had whispered all along: the land does not belong to us. We belong to it, briefly, and our task is to pass through without leaving scars.
By the time they reached the trailhead, they carried no trophies and no triumph. Only a new code. Prepare wisely. Move lightly. Leave no trace. Walk as a guest in a sacred house.
The lesson was simple but fierce. The wild does not need us, but we need the wild. And those who walk it with honor, those who tread softly, carry enough, and leave behind only gratitude, become part of something eternal.
