I recall calling my neighbor when I saw smoke rising along the edge of his field over the trees.
“Thank you,” Frank said after hopping in his truck to see what was happening. “That’s something I’ve never seen.”
The smoke above the trees was actually a cloud of mosquitoes undulating along the pointed pine tops.
That particular field along the edge of the woods was a magical space. It’s where I watched a silvery fox playing with frogs. It’s where I saw a rainbow actually touch down in front of the trees.
It’s where I ran off the road. Frank drove his old tractor through the snow to pull me and our two small children safely out. (After that the children and I sang “Slo-o-ow down, you move too fast” on every curve.)
We live on the edge of wild woods, but there are other more domestic woodlands: tree farms, backyard woodlots, city parks. I believe in those woods, too. They can give us space to breathe: a bit of freedom in a regulated life.
This magazine was born to share woodland experiences. We hope to create a put-your-feet-up in front of the fire, start-the-purr on the cat in your lap and sip-hot-chocolate type of reader that makes the trip to the mailbox worthwhile.