I’m From the Forest

Once, in Peace Corps, my friend Pamela was walking on the beach when she was approached by a Rastafarian man. He looked like most of the “Rastas” we sometimes encountered along the Tanzanian coast: young and handsome, with long dreadlocks a broad smile, and many trinkets to sell; friendly but probably insincere.

Being friendly herself, Pamela allowed him to strike up a conversation with her. He asked her, “Where are you from?”

You think a lot about where you’re from in Peace Corps. Pamela had been in Tanzania for a year by this time. She was just visiting the coast—she and I both lived inland, tucked away in little villages in the cool hills of the Southern Highlands. For that two-year period, in a way, we’d been “from” our adopted villages. Now and then, when we’d venture down to the hot, muggy coast, it felt exotic to see the mild Indian Ocean, the Arab and Indian cultures, the ancient dhows, and the tourists.

Answering his question, Pamela probably said, “I’m from Nebraska,” because she was. I can’t be sure, though. You never know how to answer that question in Tanzania. Do you say your hometown, your state, or your country? Often, it takes effort just to convey that America isn’t in Europe, let alone to explain where in America you’re from.

“No,” the young man admonished, “Where are you from? Some people are from the earth, some people are from the forest, some people are from the sky, and some people are from the ocean. Where are you from?”

Taken aback, she paused. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn! But she realized that she did know the answer. “Well…I guess I’m from the earth.” Pamela loves gardening and soil. Before Peace Corps, she’d gotten a master’s degree in soil science.

Pamela was struck by the conversation and told some of us about it later. What a new way of thinking about where you’re from!

Hearing her story, I realized that I, too, knew the answer to the question “Where are you from?” I’m from the forest. Having grown up in the Pacific Northwest, there’s nothing in nature that I connect with more than trees. In a forest, I feel relief.

The Columbia River Gorge is my all-time favorite place on Earth. It’s just outside Portland, so I grew up with it in my backyard, often going to its forests to think or to hike with my mom, dad, stepdad, and sister. I would lose myself in daydreams of living in the treetops.

And it’s not just my special place. Objectively, the Gorge is one of the most beautiful places on the planet, with jaw-dropping views of forested cliffs plunging down into the river, folding and turning away into the misty distance.

A few months ago I was home in Portland for the weekend and went hiking with my stepdad in the Gorge. It was a characteristically rainy day, and in the rain, the best place to be is in a Pacific Northwest forest. The trees protect you from the drizzle, and the lush green soothes the gray out of your spirit.

We hiked the Wahkeena Falls loop, winding alongside the rapids and plunge pools of the falls. When you’re close to the galloping river, you often have to yell to be heard.

Sometimes, the trail parts from the river and enters the quiet of the forest. It feels primordial. Many of the trees are giants six or eight feet across at the base. They’re clothed in moss, pale green and draping down from the branches and snags, conjuring Dr. Seuss or Lothlorien, the mystical elf kingdom in Lord of the Rings. Taking in this familiar beauty, something in me felt whole, as I always do there.

After moving to Wisconsin, it took me years to get used to the clear, clean, open feel of the Midwestern hardwood forests. The trees are smaller here, with smoother bark and more space between them. Now that I’ve lived in Wisconsin for years, I love this state, too. I love the openness, the big sky, the calming beauty of the lakes, the excitement of the thunderstorms.

But there’s something special about where you grow up. Being in the forest back home, I know instantly that this is where I’m from. It feels good to know that.