I’ve learned to read the ground and the air like a map. The way the moss curls around a fallen log tells me the moisture level, the cracks in the bark show age and weakness, and a faint, sweet scent can mean a ripe berry or a poisonous look‑alike. I usually jot nothing down, just note where a certain plant grows—next to a stream, under a particular shade. It’s a quiet cue: if the willow’s leaves are bright and glossy, the water is fresh; if the sage’s needles are brittle, the wind’s carrying salt dust. Those little clues can be a compass for finding food, water, or a safe shelter without the chatter of a compass needle.