Leave the forest
lighter than you found it.
Not a policy page. A list of what we actually do, what it costs us, and the one month a year we do nothing at all.
What one walk costs the forest.
engines past the gate
The last road ends four kilometres out. Everyone walks in, including us.
carried back out
Food, packaging, the ash from the fire. The pocket looks untouched at six in the morning.
circle of stones
Camp has not moved in eleven seasons. One scar, kept small, on ground that stopped being anything but ground.
days the gate is shut
Every May. The nesting month, and the best light of the year.
Three promises, kept by walking slowly.

01 Light
No light we did not bring in our eyes.
Headlamps off at the gate. Twenty minutes and the path shows itself. The forest at night is not black, and the animals that live in it never see a beam.

02 Ground
One path. The same path.
Eight boots on one line do less than two boots off it. We walk single file on the worn ribbon and let the moss on either side stay moss.

03 Sound
Nothing above a voice.
No speakers, no shouting across the creek. The forest is loud when you stop making noise, and that is what people come for.
The pack-out ledger.
Carried out
Food
No packaging past the gate. Everything is decanted at the trailhead into tins that come back.
Creek, filtered
Water
From the creek, filtered, in the bottles you brought. Nothing bought, nothing thrown away.
Ash carried out
Fire
One ring, one night, on stones that have held a hundred fires. The ash comes out in a tin.
None brought in
Light
Eyes, then the sky. No headlamps on the line, no phones out of the pack.
Nothing above it
Sound
A voice. That is the ceiling.
0 kg left
The difference
What comes in, weighed against what goes out at the trailhead. For four seasons the difference has been nothing.
How the path heals.

Day 0
The last walk of April.
The ribbon is bare earth, a boot and a half wide, the moss on both sides pressed flat.

Day 7
The moss lifts.
A week of nothing and the flattened edges stand back up. The ribbon narrows by a boot’s width.

Day 21
The floor takes over.
Ferns lean back across the path. From the gate the line looks like a suggestion, not a road.

June 1
The first walk.
Whoever gets it walks a forest that has forgotten us. It lasts a morning, and it is enough.
Walk with us, or don’t. Either way, May is theirs.
If you book a line you are agreeing to all of the above. Most people find it is the part they remember.