I’ve found that moss is a quiet memory keeper. The first time I walked through a ridge in late spring, I saw strips of moss that were so thick and glossy on the north side of a stand of birch that they looked almost alive. On the south side they were thin, brown, and brittle. It turned out the north‑facing moss had soaked up all the mist that drifted in from the valley below, while the south side got the harsh sun and stayed dry. When I checked the soil, the north side had a higher pH and more organic matter. So moss didn’t just tell me about moisture—it mapped the whole micro‑climate, showing me where the water had been for weeks. That’s the biggest surprise I’ve had: moss is a living, breathing data log that quietly records the forest’s weather history.