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.