Intruder in the Forest
There’s a part of the forest in which I always feel like an intruder.
In the midst of the domesticated hills behind my house, there lies a small forest.
It’s wild here. I can smell it. The air is thick with an earthy musk and decomposing leaves. I feel it when I enter. The atmosphere hugs me.
Even the plants seem to be choking on it, strangled by the lack of oxygen shielded by the dense canopies.
Thick and thriving forest floor.
The very air hums with life. Towers of muggies bob up and down on the other side of the clearing. A spider is anxiously spinning its web in the fading light. Not even the sun seems strong enough to enter this thicket. A few bars of light fall into the clearing, before being swallowed by the trees.
This is a place to come and watch - watch life happen around you and thrive without you. If I am very quiet upon entry, I can watch a deer graze on the sweet grass. Or even spy a fox slithering past. There he goes now!
A deer grazing peacefully in the forest
But it’s not just the forest floor in full thrust - the canopies breathe life as well. Crows caw a warning of a stranger, and smaller birds flit through the branches - bouncing from one tree to the next.
There is a single track leading into this woodland, made by a car. A neat stack of tree trunks guard the entrance, so I guess people do come here for timber. Other than that, I have never seen a soul enter this place. I think they sense that they would be unwelcome.
When I enter, I stick to the fringes. I’ve tried to go deeper, but the centre of this den seems sacred and forbidden. I can watch from the outside but I’m too human to enter.
Treetops catching the last of the sun’s light.
Soninke Combrinck
I write about connecting with nature as I chase my own adventures around the world.
