The moment I closed the car door, I felt it again – that tingling sensation, that welcome impatience. My steps quickened as I walked from the parking lot toward the forest edge. The snow crunched beneath my hiking boots, ten to twenty centimeters deep, untouched except for a few scattered animal tracks. Like a child finally allowed onto the playground, I could hardly wait to disappear between the trees again.
Stefan followed more calmly. He knows this already – this magnetic pull that the forest has on me.
Then we were in. Silence. Only the wind whistling through the fir trees, stirring up small clouds of snow. At first, progress was still easy. But the deeper we ventured into the Franconian Forest, the more challenging the path became. Nine kilometers – on paper. In reality, it felt like twice that.
Tracks kept crossing our path. Deer probably, perhaps red deer. Or could it be...? Involuntarily, I thought of the news reports: wolves, once again at home in our forests. Wild boar also briefly crossed my mind. But then I laughed at myself and banished those thoughts from my head.
The wind grew harsher, driving snow into our faces. Snow drifts made progress difficult. Our legs worked hard against the deep snow. Not a soul besides us – only our own tracks, which we pressed step by step into the white blanket.
When we finally reached the starting point again, we were exhausted. Legs heavy, cheeks red from the cold. The next day, muscle soreness set in. And yet – or perhaps because of it – it felt good. Right. Alive.
Being outside, breathing the cold, crisp air, surrounded by nature – that's what grounds me.
The Franconian Forest in winter. A silent companion that challenges and rewards us at the same time.
B.
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