🌲Every Little Thing: An Anniversary in the Forest

Six years married. Eleven years together. And somehow, it still feels like we’re just beginning.

We returned to a place I hadn’t camped in nearly fifteen years—a site tucked deep in the holler, quiet and familiar, even without sewer hookups. The last time Josh and I hiked these trails, Zoey was with us, bounding ahead like she owned the mountain. She’s too old now for that kind of trek, so we brought Levi, letting him sniff and explore the way she once did.

Dinner was decided the way we like best: three rounds of rock-paper-scissors. Pancakes won.
Quick, easy, and just right for a night under the stars. With no antenna channels and barely enough signal to make a hotspot, we curled up in bed and watched Secondhand Lions on DVD. It’s one of our favorites—Josh quotes it often, and I’d forgotten how much heart it holds. Watching it again, side by side, brought laughter and quiet connection. It felt like home.

The next morning, we sat outside in our camp chairs, letting the stream and the rustling leaves speak for us. Levi nosed through the grass while we soaked in the stillness. After breakfast, we set out for the summit of Stone Mountain, choosing the left-hand trail this time to avoid the endless stairs I remembered from years ago. The path wound through dense forest, dappled with sunlight and shadow, each turn revealing something new. I hoped we’d find pawpaw trees along the way, but instead we found winged sumac with its winged leafstalks and its clusters of red berries, (invasive) Japanese barberries that clung low to the ground, clusters of old shelf mushrooms stacked like nature's bookshelves, and a carpet of acorns crunching beneath our feet. They fell from the canopy like whispers, echoing through the forest like footsteps from something unseen. The air was rich with the scent of damp earth and moss, and the occasional rustle of a squirrel or bird reminded us we weren’t alone. We paused often to take it all in—the quiet, the color, the feeling of being wrapped in something ancient and alive.

an Eastern Fence Lizard basking in the sun

The rhythmic crunch of acorns underfoot punctuated the silence, like nature’s metronome. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in golden shafts, spotlighting patches of moss like stage lights on velvet. The trail shifted from soft loam to gritty gravel, each step a new sensation beneath our soles. A hint of pine resin lingered in the air, sharp and clean, mingling with the musky scent of moss. The air tasted clean and mineral-rich, like springwater and stone.

The day was perfect—blue skies, a gentle breeze, and mild temperatures that made the climb feel like a gift. At the summit, the rock formations reminded me of the landscape Aunt Kathy and I saw in the Bisti Badlands. Alien and ancient, shaped by water and time. We found shade beneath a weathered pine and watched falcons, hawks, and a lone vulture glide on the wind. Even the scent of a skunk drifting through the air couldn’t break the spell.

The hike down was easier, though my feet protested. My Hokas weren’t made for this kind of terrain, and about a mile from the campsite on the return back, I peeled them off and walked barefoot the last stretch back to camp. Fitbit said we’d done 4.84 miles, 11,000 steps, and climbed the equivalent of 64 floors. I felt every one of them.

Back at camp, the shift was immediate—like stepping from a storybook into a warm kitchen. Josh made sandwiches while I reclined in my camp chair and let my feet rest, grateful for the cool breeze blowing. We shared a Powerade, its artificial fruitiness oddly satisfying after the mineral tang of mountain air. Levi flopped beside the picnic table, tongue lolling, his fur dusted with trail grit and pride.

I showered slowly, letting the warm water rinse away the forest’s textures— the fine powder of crushed acorns, dust from the trail and sweat. Josh played on his Wii while I napped, the soft hum of the fan drifting through the camper like a lullaby. Levi curled up beside me, his breathing steady and deep, a quiet rhythm that matched my own.

Dinner was familiar and grounding: grilled pork chops with a caramelized crust, corn on the cob slick with butter and creole seasoning, and baked beans that tasted like summer evenings. We sat by the fire afterward, its glow painting our faces in flickering amber. We talked about the past six years of marriage, the eleven years of love, and the quiet joy of simply being together—no need for grand gestures, just the comfort of shared silence and steady flame.

Later, I played with my GoPro’s night settings—still learning, still impressed. I experimented with long exposure and time-lapse modes, trying to capture the stars as they blinked through the canopy.

Adjusting ISO, shutter speed, and white balance felt like unlocking a new language—one that spoke in light and shadow. I watched tutorials earlier in the week and brought a small tripod to steady the frame, hoping to catch the fire’s glow against the night. Each attempt taught me something new, and even the blurry shots held a kind of magic. We turned in early, tired but full, Levi nestled between us.

The next morning, Josh made pancakes and sausage before we broke down camp. Packing up always takes longer than setting up, but we didn’t mind. On the drive home, "Three Little Birds" by Bob Marley came on the radio. We looked at each other and smiled, singing along. It was our first dance song at the wedding—chosen last-minute after Josh held me through a storm of tears and sang, “Don’t worry about a thing, ’cause every little thing gonna be alright.” That song became our mantra. It still is.

Now we’re home. Laundry’s spinning. The house is quiet. And we’re both thinking about a nap. I don’t think I could have asked for a better way to celebrate our anniversary.