A WALK IN THE WOODS

This morning, a brief break in the rain allows me to take a walk in the forest above my home. I need it. I feel a tension building inside me, and the only way to release it is to step outside. I shoulder my backpack. Inside: a snack, water, and a DSLR camera with a telephoto lens already mounted, ready to use. As I step out the door, the sun kisses my face. Finally. Lately, I had started to think that the Dolomite village where I chose to live had become the southernmost region of Norway, given how much rain had been falling. The trail climbs steeply, leaving behind the small group of houses in Valt. Soon, I step off the path, moving off-trail—but following other kinds of tracks. The forest is like a book, telling stories to those who know how to read it: colors, sounds, and scents woven into a delicate and wonderful narrative, even in its harshest forms. In spring, all of this bursts into life under the rain that falls from the mountains. The first flowers pierce through the last patches of snow, resisting the change of season. Above the tree line, in the leks, black grouse sing of love—calling not only to the females, but to the coming summer itself. I approach a spruce tree. Wood chips on the ground catch my attention—or rather, I had been looking for exactly that kind of sign: the work of a very particular carpenter, one who drills straight into the wood to build homes that can last for decades. I look up. About twenty meters above me, a perfectly round hole. The lower edge is worn and pale—evidence of frequent use. I step back and hide behind a nearby tree. I carry a camouflage net, the kind used by the military to hide from above. I use it for the same purpose—but in a far more peaceful context. I don’t have to wait long. A rhythmic call approaches through the clearing. I fix my gaze on the tree—and there it is: a small black head with a red crown appears at the entrance of the hole, just as the bird announcing its arrival clings to the trunk. It pauses, scanning the surroundings. Then, like a black lightning bolt, it disappears into the forest. I remain hidden. From time to time I take a photograph, but mostly I observe the quiet rhythm of their lives. A pair of black woodpeckers—a male and a female. They have carved their nest deep into the trunk. Inside, at least three chicks wait to be fed, growing toward the day when they will claim the forest and the sky. Finding food is no longer difficult for them—especially after the storm of October 2018. Thousands of trees were torn down by the wind, opening the way for a beetle to spread through the forest—devouring what remained, especially the healthy trees. People say misfortunes never come alone. But that is a human thought—our endless attempt to understand natural processes. Sometimes we succeed. Sometimes we wish we could take control and stop what seems unstoppable. The bark beetle doesn’t care. It is hungry. And its family is large. It feeds between bark and wood, carving tunnels, draining the tree of its life. I wonder if the tree feels anything as the beetle digs. It cannot scratch itself like a body afflicted by an itch beneath the skin. It can only surrender—losing its bark, turning a lifeless grey, while all around it others meet the same fate. Just as fire has firefighters as its counterpart, the bark beetle has woodpeckers. In nature, everything moves toward balance. I rise from my hiding place and pack away the camouflage net. I leave quietly. I don’t want to disturb them—especially now, when their chicks are growing. On the way back, I breathe deeply. The air is filled with the resinous scent of freshly cut spruce—stacked wood prepared for winter heating. The beetle has not only fed the woodpeckers—it has also provided firewood for the people of this mountain village. The forest helps me think. It clears my mind, washing away darker thoughts, turning them into something green. I continue wandering, without direction. A fox appears from behind a tree and vanishes just as quickly. In the damp soil, I see the traces of the night: deer, marten, fox—and another canid. I compare the tracks to my hand. Large—around twenty centimeters. No human footprints nearby. It’s unlikely to be the big dog that guards the cattle near Valt. It can only be a wolf. A ghost that has returned in recent times. I can follow its traces—but I cannot see it. Or rather—I have seen it. Once. On a winter morning, driving to work. Of course, as it often happens when something fleeting appears, I didn’t have my camera with me. I keep walking, scanning the forest—above, below—searching for signs of life. What I find instead are the remains of a small blue tit. Its blue feathers stand out against the green. Something hunted here. Not the fox. Not the wolf. More likely an owl. Owls are fascinating creatures. Many find their call eerie—but I like it. I’ve even learned to imitate it, whistling. The sun now stands above Cima Pape. Midday. I sit beneath a tree and take out my food. Nothing special—some grains and dried cranberries. When I’m out like this, I’m rarely hungry. All my senses are turned outward, toward the world around me. The place feels familiar. Of course. Last year, there was a black woodpecker nest here. I find it again and look through my binoculars. It seems empty—but something catches my eye. Two small feathers, caught in the bark. I whistle, half-heartedly, trying to trick something wiser than me. Nothing moves. Better head back, I think. I’ve already taken too much time from the duties waiting for me below. I lift my backpack— And out of the corner of my eye, I see two yellow eyes appear at the entrance of the hollow. I raise the camera. A few frames. Just a moment—brief, but eternal once captured. The boreal owl doesn’t grant me much time. Those yellow eyes vanish into the darkness of the tree. The same hollow that last year held woodpecker chicks now shelters another life. I sit for a while longer beneath an old spruce. Now I begin to feel alive again. My wild self has risen from beneath the weight of civilization. I reconnect with something older—something essential. That ancient bond between man and nature. Like spring following winter. Like wood connecting life and death—of beetle, woodpecker, and owl. This text was awarded 3rd place in the literary contest “La Primavera e il Legno,” held during the spring festival “El Bon de l’Ansuda” on June 16, 2024, in Falcade.