Quick question for the group. What’s the first sign of spring you remember noticing as a kid? A smell A sound A flower A bird Something else Nature memories tend to stick with people for decades.

It’s quiet in the morning. A few leaves rustle overhead. Somewhere in the trees a white-throated sparrow calls its clear, whistling note. Farther off, the hollow knock of a pileated woodpecker echoes through the woods as it searches for breakfast. You peek your head out of the tent. The air is cold enough that you can see your breath drifting away in pale clouds. Time to build a fire. You step out onto the damp ground, the chill waking you instantly. The air feels sharp and clean against your face. It’s a fresh morning. Crisp in the way only early mornings outdoors can be. Building a fire is a strangely cathartic task. You start small—tiny twigs, dry needles, a careful nest of kindling. Then a few slightly larger sticks. There’s a method to it. Fire is delicate at the beginning. It needs patience. Small, then bigger. Bigger still. Eventually the flame grows strong enough to feed itself. This morning it only has one job: coffee. Coffee brewed over a campfire smells different. It tastes different too. Not burnt exactly, but touched by the smoke. Campfire coffee has its own flavor—something earthy, something wild that doesn’t exist in a kitchen. You take the mug and wander down the trail toward the lake. The water is warmer than the morning air, and a low fog rises from the surface. A thin mist hangs over the lake like a veil. The early light turns the whole scene pink and gold. It’s the kind of moment that feels almost staged, as if the world arranged it just for this morning. You take a picture. But as beautiful as the photo is, it doesn’t quite capture it. It never does