Let me set the scene for those of you who may never have had the chance to be out in the woods on a rainy May day: Mist envelopes you like a warm blanket, making everything appear soft and mystical. Dark tree trunks melt into white. Steady rain pours down around you, the drops making a music to those willing to stop and listen. Single drops hang on branches and buds, flowers and newly opened leaves. On some, like Sassafras, they collect, the arrangement unique and like a work of art, ever changing. As you walk along, your footsteps are silent–you, a shadow passing through, unnoticed. Scents reach out and shout their presence, or whisper, always changing: pine, or a fragrant flower, rain on wet ground, some mysterious scent unique to the woods. A breeze blows, the leaves silently lift to show their white undersides.
I walk along, soaked from the work of climbing mountains. No one passes me. I see nothing but trees and the thin winding path through trees of every shape and size. I wonder who has passed before me. And who will come after. Will anyone stop at this exact spot? There is gold in the woods… and today, I am rich.