I am walking through a green tunnel, a swath cut through trees, vines, and shrubs with a sandy, two-lane road at its base. Immersed, I feel carried forward; also, it is easy to imagine the forest would reclaiming its territory almost overnight. Somehow the sky seems very far above.

At first, I pass several houses whose clearings have been carved out of these same woods. Most are summer places, though one gloomy day last spring, I was delighted to find brave yellow daffodils in bloom. Though I’ve met people here before, also a rangy dog who clearly wanted to be free of its leash, I usually have the path to myself.

I come to a crossroads, wide and sandy, where I’ve met up with both chipmunks and rabbits; both froze at the sight of me then dove into the tangle. And here, I, too, take off into the woods. The thought now I really begin to live springs to mind.

Stopping, starting, I move randomly, padding from side to side, muttering. Oh, my! . . . look at those vines, oh, and here are some blackberries. . . slow down, Sally. . .  ooh, that gorgeous leaf, all those splotches of color . . . looks like a butterfly . . . take a deep breath, focus. . . . take your time . . .wow, that big dead tree over there, it’s just imprisoned by the growth around it . . . watch out, is that poison ivy?. . .and this bark on the tree that’s leaning, the patterns, the markings on it . . . looks like an ancient map of English counties or towns. . .

I am inside a natural tapestry: a world whose visual menu spreads inexhaustibly before me.  Photographing, I visually winnow out images, trying to discern something manageable—yet I want to do justice to the profusion of creation. Every sight, every image poses a photographic challenge, also an odd echo of “Can’t see the forest for the trees,” that old saying I remember from childhood.

I see all stages of life, childlike sprouts of new leaves, and fleshy-white berries just inches away from ripe ones black as hematite. Looking down, I find weathered gray roots and logs, like elder statesmen; looking up, among the green, my eyes follow spires of bark-bare trunks, their preaching arms stretched to the sky. On either side of the road spreads a vast carpet of oak leaves, magnificently decomposing. Patches of ornate fungus appear almost ageless. I step around roots that have bulged out in an odd meaty color, as though revealing the anatomy of the earth. Taken altogether, it is though the ground has been upholstered in endless rolled-out bolts of three-dimensional fabric.

As I walk, I realize now how Californian I have become, for my east coast friends have been complaining of drought; here that idea seems positively comical. I sense no hint of deprivation, watery or otherwise, in these woods.

Looking ahead, I spot water— a hole-in-the-trees view of Great Pond. A glorious big lake, really, it is one of Eastham’s natural treasures. At the edge of the woods, I find a great stand of white pepperbush. Oh, that smells so sweet! On the pond’s grassy verge are spread out kayaks, paddle boards, and lawn chairs.

And then the water. Just an access, you might say, no real beach, but water lilies and pickerel weed.

On one of my evening walks, a couple strode by me, the fellow talking loudly, angrily; a few minutes later I watched him stalk into the water, his body practically breathing out, “Oh, God, I need this!”

Bad day or not, I, too, need Great Pond, need this path and places like it—and the memories of them. I take deep breaths of all they give and will give. What will I find the next time, what will have changed? What will be new?

As with walking, there is no real end to this essay. Only the next time.