Oct 28, 2026 · 18 min · 9 segments
// YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT YOU'LL FIND IN THE WOODS // JUST WHAT'S WATCHING FROM BEYOND THE TREES // MAYBE A NEW FRIEND IN NEED? WHO'LL RETURN THE FAVOUR... The rabid minds at the Wrong Station have…
Papa had always warned the boy about the forest.
Bears, boy, and wild cats, and moose.
Dangerous moose, he said, without a hint of laughter at the word moose.
The boy struggled to contain a giggle.
Papa narrowed his eyes just a little, and the boy put on a straight face, even as his eyes continued to dance.
But worst of all, said Papa, worst of all are the hunters.
His mama would roll her eyes at this, but the boy believed him.
He trusted his father, because his father was a hunter himself, and proud of it.
So the boy ran through the field of corn, and the raised beds with the beans, and the trout-filled stream that described the western boundary of the property.
He never went in the forest that hemmed the field, or the forest that shaded the beans in the morning, or the forest from which the stream emerged, bright and glistening into the sun.
The forest, which encircled them and held them like a secret, was not a place he went." Not until the summer of his eighth year.
It was not one thing or another that caused this change in attitude.
One day, the boy simply felt it was time to wander the woods.
He was grown enough now, he decided.
Strong enough.
He even collected eggs from the chickens and didn't flinch when they pecked at his hand in irritation.
So, without telling Papa or Mama, he went out to explore the forest.
He had his lunch in a wood bowl with a lid on top, the whole thing wrapped in a kerchief.
The forest then was different than it is now.
It was thicker, with less space between the trees.
The air was more humid.
Where there was mud, skunk cabbage covered the ground.
Ferns occupied any space where the sun shone through the canopy.
The boy was surprised.
From what Papa had told him, he'd expected to find a bear in the first five minutes, or perhaps a big group of jolly hunters laughing and singing like Papa did some evenings when the day's shooting had been good.
Papa had always warned the boy about the forest.
Bears, boy, and wild cats, and moose.
Dangerous moose, he said, without a hint of laughter at the word moose.
The boy struggled to contain a giggle.
Papa narrowed his eyes just a little, and the boy put on a straight face, even as his eyes continued to dance.
But worst of all, said Papa, worst of all are the hunters.
His mama would roll her eyes at this, but the boy believed him.
He trusted his father, because his father was a hunter himself, and proud of it.
So the boy ran through the field of corn, and the raised beds with the beans, and the trout-filled stream that described the western boundary of the property.
He never went in the forest that hemmed the field, or the forest that shaded the beans in the morning, or the forest from which the stream emerged, bright and glistening into the sun.
The forest, which encircled them and held them like a secret, was not a place he went." Not until the summer of his eighth year.
It was not one thing or another that caused this change in attitude.
One day, the boy simply felt it was time to wander the woods.
He was grown enough now, he decided.
Strong enough.
He even collected eggs from the chickens and didn't flinch when they pecked at his hand in irritation.
So, without telling Papa or Mama, he went out to explore the forest.
He had his lunch in a wood bowl with a lid on top, the whole thing wrapped in a kerchief.
The forest then was different than it is now.
It was thicker, with less space between the trees.
The air was more humid.
Where there was mud, skunk cabbage covered the ground.
Ferns occupied any space where the sun shone through the canopy.
The boy was surprised.
From what Papa had told him, he'd expected to find a bear in the first five minutes, or perhaps a big group of jolly hunters laughing and singing like Papa did some evenings when the day's shooting had been good.
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