the woods behind my house

were once full of wonder.

The woods behind my house are filled with coyotes. Or so I was told as a kid; I have not actually seen one myself.

I have, however, spotted plenty of squirrels and the occasional herd of deer — these are prey animals, and if what I learned in school about the food chain is true, there must also be predators. And why not coyotes to fulfill this purpose?

Sometimes I thought I heard yips and growls in the night, which frightened me. This was the coyotes' other purpose: to guard the divine natural wonders that lay within the woods.

When I was five or six, a neighbor kid told me that deep in the woods was a secret pond filled with frogs and fish, an oasis where birds nested in the cattails and deer hung their heads to drink. He showed me the evidence: a bucket full of tadpoles, wriggling around in muddy water. I was astounded and became determined to find it.

The entrance to the woods was covered by low-hanging branches which formed a thickly foliaged archway in the summer, an enchanted portal that a kid could run straight through but an adult would have to stoop under.

Past the initial stretch of wiry trees and fallen leaves was a slope I used to sled down in the winters, though never alone (per the coyotes).

One peculiar winter, the weather conditions had lined up perfectly — there must have been a light rain, then a quick freeze, then a heavy snow — so that the tall dried plant stalks were coated in a thick layer of ice and snapped cleanly in two as we barreled through them on our sled. This made us feel immensely powerful, and we charged back up the slope, aiming for the frozen stalks on each successive run.

This particular wonder was never witnessed again.

Down the slope, farther into the woods, ran a small cascading stream — the barrier into the true woods. I was older before I grew bold enough to leap over, and felt like I had crossed the river to Terabithia.

Beyond the stream was a long stretch of shaded woods. This area was eerily cool and quiet, with dark twists and turns that threatened coyote ambush.

But if you held your nerve, the woods led out into a wide open field with flowering trees and bumblebees and long grass with spiky seeds that stuck to our shirts and pants. Later on, in our adolescence, we biked freely through these fields, belting Bohemian Rhapsody at the top of our lungs.

Then came the final challenge: a steep, thickly vegetated incline — nearly a mountain to us. We threw aside our bikes to scale it hands and feet, grabbing shrubs and branches for support, securing our heels on exposed roots. It was arduous, exhausting, and we got scratched up bad by thorns. But it was worth it.

Over the top was a spectacular sight. We stood atop a high ridge that extended in a crescent around a deep basin, the center of which was the pond, bright and glimmering, filled with cattails, surrounded by trees and bushes. Birds chirped freely all around, a cacophony of song and language. Ladybugs and dragonflies zipped through the air. Three deer ran off upon our approach. Afternoon sun gave the whole place a soft glow, and we scrambled down the ridge, kicked off our shoes, and ran into the water, letting tadpoles wriggle around our toes.

We stayed there until the sun set over the distant woods, and we had to get home for dinner.

You grow up, and the wonder drains from your life. A once-grand expedition becomes but a short hike. A once-spectacular view becomes a familiar sight. You learn in school that coyotes avoid humans, and the guardians vanish from the woods.

Over time, the pond has dried up. Only a small stretch of cattails remains, the rest crowded out by thick bushes and young trees that take root where they formerly would have drowned. I do not know if the tadpoles remain.

But the memories live on.

I went back year after year until the summer before college, when I brought my girlfriend to the ridge overlooking the pond. We laid down a blanket, then laid each other upon it, two animals in the wild, tufts of grass tickling our feet, thin branches poking our faces, mosquitos whispering sweet symphonies in our ears.

Somewhere in the distance, a coyote might have howled.

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👻 what I’ve been up to:

• I’m back in NYC! Friends let’s hang out.

• For the last week I was home in Michigan, which felt like a solid mental reset. Visited the botanical gardens near my house (pics below). Thinking and writing a lot about childhood so apologies if I wax nostalgic for a while.

what a cutie