Path of the Forager: A Culinary Odyssey

The mountain path was more challenging than I had anticipated. Though the trail was well-marked, the spring rains had left the ground uneven, with rocks poking out from the soil. Each step tested my balance. Ana, with her ethereal, lithe grace and the lower center of gravity of a 5-year-old, seemed to have no trouble handling the rough terrain. We had paced ourselves well, and while I wasn’t completely out of breath, I could feel the steady weight of the hike. I wasn’t exactly in peak condition—spending most of my time at a computer or in the kitchen—but the surrounding beauty made every step worthwhile. The towering evergreens, the fresh scent of pine, and the soft crunch of leaves beneath our boots created a comforting rhythm.

Ana’s little hand stayed firmly in mine as she walked beside me, her bright eyes scanning the world around us. She was quiet, as always, but the way she looked at everything told me she was taking it all in, absorbing the sights and sounds of the forest.

As we rounded a bend in the trail, I spotted a large, weathered rock formation jutting out from the hillside about 300 feet off the trail. It was an odd shape, almost like a giant’s fist reaching up toward the sky, with a twisted, gnarled tree growing right out of the top of it, as if the giant was holding the tree aloft. The tree was an ancient madrone, its smooth, reddish-brown bark peeling away in papery strips, revealing the lighter wood beneath. The branches stretched out in every direction, twisted and bent as though shaped by countless years of wind and weather. The leaves rustled softly in the breeze, their deep green a stark contrast against the pale bark. The sight of it was both eerie and beautiful, a natural landmark that felt like something out of a storybook.

“Look at that tree, Ana,” I signed, pointing toward the formation. Her eyes widened in wonder, and she nodded eagerly, clearly fascinated by the strange sight.

“We’ll rest here for a bit,” I added, patting the spot next to me. Ana quickly joined me, placing her backpack down with a contented sigh.

The tree seemed almost magical, like something you’d find in a fairy tale. As we settled down, Ana wandered around the base of the rock, her curious eyes scanning the ground. Before long, she bent down and plucked something from the earth, her small hands cradling it carefully as she brought it over to me.

She held up a cluster of small, green leaves with delicate white flowers, her expression questioning.

“That’s wood sorrel,” I said aloud, smiling as I signed the name to her. “You can eat it, but let me show you how to pick it properly.”

I knelt beside her, gently taking the plant from her hands. “When you find plants like this,” I signed, “you only want to pick a few leaves from each plant. If you take too much, the plant can’t grow back, and then there won’t be any left for the animals or other people who come here.”

Ana watched intently, her eyes following my hands as I carefully plucked a few leaves from the plant. “We have to share with the forest,” I continued, signing slowly so she could understand. “If we’re careful, the plants will keep growing, and we can always find more the next time we come.”

She nodded, her small hands mimicking my movements as she carefully picked a few more leaves, making sure to leave the rest of the plant untouched. I could see the pride in her eyes, and it made my heart swell to know she was learning to respect the world around her.

As we continued our break, Ana discovered more plants—wild strawberries, chickweed, and even a small patch of miner’s lettuce. Each time she brought something to me, I explained what it was and how to harvest it carefully. We gathered just enough to add some fresh flavors to our dinner, and Ana seemed to delight in the process, her excitement growing with each new discovery.

I closed my eyes and rested my head back to enjoy the tranquility of the moment. After a few minutes, I glanced at Ana. She was sketching away in her new sketchbook. Her small pencil moved carefully as she captured the essential features of the wood sorrel and the towering madrone tree. Her drawings were simple but had a remarkable likeness that showed her growing skills. She might not have the precision of an older child, but her attention to the shapes and the details of the leaves showed her developing talent. She’d always had a love for drawing, and it had only grown in the past year. I encouraged her to document the plants we encountered.

"Want me to write the names?" I signed, leaning over to look at her work.

Ana nodded eagerly, flipping through her pages to show me the plants she had drawn so far—dandelions, chickweed, the sorrel we’d just picked, and the madrone tree standing above us like a guardian. I carefully wrote the names of each plant next to her illustrations, labeling them so she could have her own journal of our journey.

I smiled, proud of her careful attention to detail and her growing love for nature. She wasn’t just drawing; she was documenting our journey together, creating a memory book of the plants and landscapes we encountered. She paused over her drawing of the madrone, adding more lines to the tree's trunk, focusing on capturing its unusual texture. It was still simple, as you'd expect from a child her age, but the effort she put in made me smile. She settled down to draw the fist and madrone tree, and I gave her that time to capture the unusual sight.

After a few minutes, I took a deep breath, feeling the fatigue slowly ebb away. The rest had done us both good, but the daylight was fading, and I knew we needed to keep moving.

“Ready to go?” I signed to Ana, who responded with a quick nod, her little fingers forming the sign for ready.

I stood up and shouldered my pack, feeling the weight settle back onto my shoulders. It wasn’t far now, and the thought of reaching the campsite gave me a renewed sense of energy.

“Almost there,” I signed to her with a reassuring smile. Ana mirrored the sign back, her determination clear in the set of her jaw as she stood up beside me.

We continued down the trail, the rhythm of our footsteps picking up once more. Ana had been a trooper the whole way, her little legs working hard to keep up, even as we covered the four miles to our first campsite. We had done plenty of hikes before, even a few overnight trips, but this was the most remote spot we’d ever camped at. It was just us and the mountain, no easy bailouts, no conveniences, just the two of us and the gear on our backs. I could tell Ana was excited about that—she loved the adventure of it, the feeling of being out in the wild.

With each step, the trees began to thin, and I knew we were getting close. The anticipation built as the clearing that would be our home for the night came into view, nestled within the protective embrace of the mountain.

The trail began to level out as we neared the campsite, the trees thinning more to reveal a small clearing. The sun was starting to dip behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the ground. I could see the perfect spot to set up our tent, right by a cluster of trees that would offer some shelter from the wind.

“There it is,” I signed to Ana, pointing ahead.

Her face lit up with excitement she let go of my hand and picked up her pace, her steps a little lighter now that she could see the end in sight. When she reached the middle of the clearing she started spinning around slowly taking it all in. I reached the clearing, and I set down my pack with a sigh of relief. My shoulders ached, but it was a good kind of ache, the kind that comes from hard work and knowing you’ve accomplished something. Ana ran back and tugged on my hand, and I crouched down to her level, catching the question in her eyes.

“Let’s set up the tent first,” I signed, watching her closely. She nodded eagerly, her small hands mimicking my movements as she repeated the signs back to me.

Together, we worked to set up the tent, Ana holding the poles steady while I threaded them through the fabric. It didn’t take long before we had it up, the bright orange fabric standing out against the greenery around us.

“Look!” I signed, stepping back to show her our handiwork. “What do you think?”

Ana held up her hands palms out shaking them side to side, her version of applause, and her smile was all the approval I needed.

“Now, let’s get a fire going,” I signed, more to myself, as I reached into my pack for the firestarter kit. The temperature was already starting to drop, and I knew we’d need the warmth once the sun disappeared completely.

We gathered some dry sticks and leaves from around the campsite, and I showed Ana how to build a proper fire pit, circling the area with rocks to keep the fire contained. Her small hands were busy the entire time, helping to place the rocks just so. With a bit of effort and some careful strikes with the flint, the fire sparked to life, crackling and popping as the flames grew.

Ana watched the flames dance, her eyes wide with fascination. I could tell that the fire’s warmth and light brought her comfort, a soothing counterpoint to the exertion of our hike.

“It’s warm,” I signed, placing my hands near the fire. She copied me, feeling the heat on her palms and giving a satisfied smile.

With the fire crackling, I turned my attention to dinner. We had packed plenty of food, and our foraging from earlier would add a fresh touch but I wanted to see what else was around. I grabbed a small collapsable basket from my pack and motioned for Ana to follow me.

“Let’s see if we can find something to eat around here,” I signed. “Maybe some berries or greens.”

Ana nodded, her eyes bright with curiosity. We wandered around the edge of the campsite, scanning the ground for anything edible. I had taken a foraging class last year when I was 19, so I knew what to look for and what to avoid. Ana was there with me but wasn’t as interested in the plants or being around the group of people, so she spent much of her time by herself drawing and looking through our foraging books. It wasn’t until she and I went on our first hike alone after that trip that she started asking questions and getting interested in plants. She began sketching plants in her sketchbook. At first, her sketches were typical for a four-year-old—basic shapes and stick figures—but over the last year, her skills had noticeably improved. I had bought her a new sketchbook and colored pencils for this trip to document what she sees and how she feels. She grabbed her sketchbook and walked with me around the clearing to see what we could find.

After a few minutes, we came across a small patch of wild onions and some dandelion greens, both of which would add a nice touch to our meal.

“Look,” I signed, crouching down to show her. “These are wild onions. They’ll taste good with our dinner.”

Ana leaned in close, her nose wrinkling slightly as she sniffed the small green stalks. She gave a small sign of okay and carefully picked a few, placing them in the basket I held out to her. She put the basket down and pulled out her sketchbook to draw while I continued to look around. I found some mushrooms and other herbs.

We continued foraging until we had enough, then headed back to our campsite. The sun had almost completely set by now, and the sky was a deep blue, with stars just beginning to peek through.

I could feel my stomach growling, and I knew Ana was hungry too. We had brought some basic ingredients, but thanks to our foraging, I had an idea for something more nourishing—Chickpea and Wild Green Stew.

I grabbed the small silicone pouches from our pack, unsealing the one filled with dried chickpeas. We had brought enough food for four people, expecting our friends Alex and Sam to join us. With just the two of us here tonight, I only needed half the amount of what I’d planned.

Ana watched as I pulled out the pot and set it over the camp stove. I started by sautéing the wild onions and greens we had foraged earlier in olive oil, the aroma rising quickly and mingling with the scent of pine. Then I added the chickpeas, some dried tomatoes, and a vegetable bouillon cube dissolved in water.

"Do you think Alex and Sam will make it?" Ana signed, pulling me from my thoughts. She was sitting on her small camp chair, sketchbook in hand, touching up the rock formation we had seen earlier.

“I hope so,” I signed back. “But if not, we’ll be okay. We have each other, and we’ll make do.”

As the stew simmered, Ana returned to her drawing, absorbed in capturing the details of the landscape. Her little fingers worked quickly, and I could see the concentration on her face, a reflection of her quiet determination.

Ana sat close to the fire, her hands outstretched to soak up the warmth. She was quiet, content, her eyes reflecting the firelight. I could tell she was in her element here—away from the noises and crowds that sometimes overwhelmed her, surrounded by the calming sounds of nature.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” I signed to her, stirring the pot.

She nodded, watching the fire flicker and dance. The quiet between us wasn’t uncomfortable; it was peaceful, a shared understanding that words weren’t always necessary.

Finally, dinner was ready. I ladled the warm stew into our foldable bowls and handed one to Ana. "Careful, it's hot," I warned as I signed. She blew on her spoon, cautiously tasting the savory mixture of wild greens, chickpeas, and tomatoes. A satisfied smile spread across her face, and she signed a quick "thank you."

Ana took a cautious bite, her eyes lighting up as the flavors hit her tongue. She gave me a thumbs-up, her silent way of telling me she liked it.

I smiled, taking a bite of my own. The wild onions added a nice kick, and the dandelion greens gave it a fresh, earthy flavor. It was simple, but it was exactly what we needed after a long day of hiking.

As we finished, Ana carefully set her bowl aside and flipped through her sketchbook, showing me her drawings from the day. I added labels next to each plant and landmark, making sure everything was documented. She had even drawn a perfect replica of the rock formation, the giant fist jutting out toward the sky, holding the madrone tree aloft.

“That’s amazing,” I signed, watching her face glow with pride. I could tell she loved every moment of it—being out here, surrounded by nature, her sketchbook filled with memories.

I leaned back glancing at the night sky. The stars were out in full force now, twinkling like diamonds against the dark canvas of the night. I pointed up at the sky and signed to Ana, “Look at all the stars. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Ana tilted her head back, her eyes wide with wonder as she gazed up at the sky. She nodded slowly, her small hand reaching out to grasp mine.

I squeezed her hand gently, pulling her close to me. We sat there for a while, just enjoying the quiet, the warmth of the fire, and the beauty of the night sky. This was what I had hoped for—a moment of connection with Ana, away from the noise and stress of everyday life, surrounded by the calming presence of nature.

Eventually, the fire began to die down, and I knew it was time to get some rest. “Time to get into the tent,” I signed, knowing she was probably as tired as I was. We put out the fire and made one last pee break before heading in for the night.

Ana yawned, nodding sleepily as she made her way to the tent. We packed up our things, making sure the fire was completely out before crawling inside. I zipped up the door, sealing us inside the cozy space.

Ana curled up in her sleeping bag, her eyes heavy with sleep but still watching me as I moved around the tent, making sure everything was in place. I tucked her in gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. She signed slowly, her exhaustion evident, “Goodnight, Mommy.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” I signed back, leaning down to kiss her gently on the forehead.

She yawned and closed her eyes, her small body relaxing into the warmth of the sleeping bag. I watched her for a moment, feeling a wave of tenderness wash over me. These moments—out here in the wilderness, away from the world—felt like treasures, little slices of time where it was just the two of us, and nothing else mattered.

I settled into my own sleeping bag, listening to the gentle sounds of the night. The rustling of the leaves outside, the distant hoot of an owl, and the soft, even breathing of Ana beside me created a calming rhythm. I pulled the sleeping bag up to my chin, my body finally surrendering to the exhaustion of the day.

As I lay there, my mind wandered back to the hike, to the towering fist-shaped rock, to the plants we had foraged, and to Ana’s drawings. Her attention to detail, her quiet focus—it reminded me of how I used to be when I was younger, lost in my own little world, finding comfort in the small things. I smiled to myself, thinking about how much she was growing, not just physically but in her curiosity and understanding of the world around her.

My thoughts drifted, the warmth of the fire still lingering in my bones, and I felt a deep sense of peace. Tomorrow, Alex and Sam would join us, and our adventure would continue. But for tonight, it was just the two of us, tucked away in the safety of our tent, surrounded by the beauty and quiet of the mountain.

The last thing I remember before drifting off was the soft glow of the stars through the tent fabric, their light shining down on us like a gentle promise of another beautiful day ahead.