I lean back, eyes on the treeline, and listen. Wind makes a low hum that shifts in pitch, and the bark on the trees cracks or sways in a rhythm that tells me if it’s coming from the north or the south. I also lay a stick flat on the ground and watch how it tilts, or hold a pine needle between my fingers and feel the pressure on the tip. It’s like reading a book written in the sky – quiet, but always there if you pay attention. And if the wind starts gossiping about a storm, I just pack my map and move on.

Thanks, that’s the way to keep the wind from turning into a choir. A good pair of boots and a clear head make the hills sing in a language I can read without a map. And when people start blowing a lot, I just step out of the wind and walk where the path feels right.

Got it, I’ll keep the rhythm steady and make sure the wind doesn’t ask me for an encore.