The Path She Almost Missed

I took the usual path through the woods this morning.

The ground was damp from yesterday’s rain, and the roots had developed opinions about where I ought to put my boots. I know this route well enough to step over most of them without looking.

Most of them.

The woods are still green, though the green has begun to loosen around the edges. A few copper leaves have gathered in the hollows between roots. Here and there, the canopy is thinning just enough for pale light to reach places it could not reach a few weeks ago.

That was how I noticed the turning.

Or nearly didn’t.

I had already walked past it when something about the light made me stop. There was a narrow opening behind the ferns, half-covered with fallen leaves and so thoroughly tucked beneath the undergrowth that it looked less like a path and more like the woods had briefly forgotten to finish growing there.

I went back.

The ferns had leaned across the entrance from both sides. A thin branch hung at precisely hat-catching height, which felt deliberate. Beneath it, I could just make out a strip of damp earth winding between mossy stones.

I knew that path.

I stood there for a moment, trying to remember the last time I had followed it.

It used to lead toward the stream by way of the old roots, though “by way of” makes the route sound much more cooperative than it is. The path bends twice for no apparent reason, squeezes between two stones, and then makes you climb over a root that could easily have grown somewhere else.

Trees are not interested in efficient travel.

I moved the branch aside and stepped closer.

The path was still there.

Less traveled than I remembered, certainly. Fallen leaves softened its edges, and moss had begun making quiet advances over the stones. There were no recent footprints in the damp ground. No broken stems. Nothing to suggest anyone had come through lately except a beetle proceeding with great confidence in the opposite direction.

I asked whether there was anything ahead I ought to know about.

The beetle declined to comment.

Still, the path did not feel abandoned. Only unused.

There is a difference.

The stones were where I remembered them. So was the long root crossing the trail, now wearing a fine green coat of moss. Farther in, the path curved out of sight beneath the trees.

I could have continued along my usual route.

I had intended to.

But the usual route would still be there tomorrow, and I wanted to see whether the stream sounded the same from this side of the woods.

This seemed reason enough.

So I tucked my skirt clear of the wet ferns, ducked beneath the branch, and followed the little path into the trees.