As the months and years wear on, taking their toll on our minds and our bodies, it becomes important—even vital—to remind ourselves of what it means to be alive; what it feels like to know, unassailably, that we are truly alive. This feeling is not easy to capture, nor is it simple to explain. Yet it remains significant, because someone who never thinks of the implications of being alive—who never desires to truly feel anything—is little more than a walking zombie, drifting through their days with little conscious awareness.

The feeling of being alive comes easily in the forest after nightfall, with our senses alert and working to gather as much information as possible. As cars pass down this old gravel road, the smell in the air is thick and musty, almost like an old basement; perhaps evoking distant childhood memories of someone’s grandparents’ basement where the kids would play hide and seek on long summer days. As the sun sets, the trees cut up through the huge, open sky that fades from dark blue to purple to orange. Once the stars begin to show, their light bends through the clouds above, effortlessly reaching the earth from almost immeasurable, unthinkable distances.

The car calmly idles on Stockfarm Bridge, resting above the smooth, dark flow of the Chippewa River. The bridge is long and narrow, set atop huge, ancient pilings, and its deep brown road surface smoothed from decades of use. Its structure is wide enough for only one vehicle, and too much traffic at once would likely cause the bridge to splinter and plunge into the river below. Stark thoughts like this help remind us we’re alive, as do thoughts of those who traveled these desolate roads so many years ago—the loggers and the lost, wary travelers. These antiquated bridges and roads are remnants of life years ago, when the land was still being stripped clean of its lumber. These roads were arteries from the heart of the forest, feeding humanity’s hungry expansion. The roads now remain dormant, and rutted, with the gravel compacted from decades of rainfall and the seldom passing of a car. The feeling of being alive comes naturally knowing that we are here, now, actively observing the world and thinking these thoughts, thoughts of those who came to the forest so long ago; those who are no longer with us.

If not for the pines swaying and creaking with the wind, the forest would be completely calm and still. There are no other human beings for many miles, nor are there any power lines, radio towers or other obtrusions. All movements and sounds are exaggerated by the dulling of nightfall in the forest, and the night sounds of nocturnal animals are nearly overwhelming. The ground cover is dense, as are the tall, slender pines penetrating through it. If trees could want, perhaps they would want the unobtainable feeling of being part of the sky. They reach down into the soil and have something firm to grab, to feel; they reach upwards but can never grab the stars or do more than sway with the wind. As the trees are alive, we are alive as well, and like the trees we are often rooted into our mundane existences. Being able to break free is what makes us human, and reminds us that we are alive.