The pine tree stood alone on a small rise near the creek, its twisted roots clutching the earth like claws. I had noticed it on my first day after the fire, a solitary sentinel in a forest. Since then, it had become more than just a tree. Every morning I returned to it, tracing the rough grooves of the marks I carved into its bark to count the days I had survived. Three marks now, the lines deepening with each scrape of my knife. The tree reminded me that even in chaos, time moved forward, that each day I survived was another victory. I leaned against it often, letting its thick trunk support my weight while I scanned the surrounding forest for movement, listening to the wind stir its upper branches. I tied my water flask, my sharpened knife, and small pouches of dried food to the lower branches, creating a small storage point I could return to, a safe haven amid the uncertainty. The pine smelled of resin and earth, sharp and clean, and it seemed to hum with quiet strength. I would close my eyes and imagine my dad beside me, whispering reminders about patience, observation, and the rhythm of the wilderness. Sometimes I just sat beneath it, hands running over the carved lines, feeling the grooves with my fingers as if counting them would anchor me more firmly to reality. At night, the tree was even more important. The stars peeked through the gaps in its canopy, and I would press my back to the rough bark, feeling its steadfastness, imagining it keeping watch over me while I slept in fitful bursts. It had become my center, a symbol of survival, a witness to every small victory I had carved out of the wild. After long moments of sitting and watching, I moved on to the work that actually kept me alive. I sharpened sticks into spears, testing each one for balance and weight, imagining how it might feel to strike an animal. I scavenged the underbrush for materials to make better traps, tying vines and smaller branches into snares and looping them over fallen logs. I marked each one mentally, planning routes and potential ambush points for deer or elk, thinking about how I could use the landscape to my advantage. Every step, every action, was guided by instinct and careful observation, and the pine tree remained my central point, a place I could return to and reorganize before venturing further. I gathered water from the creek, filtering it carefully with cloth and stones, and collected edible plants where I could find them, learning which leaves, berries, and roots were safe. My first attempts at fire had been clumsy, but now I could coax a flame from the driest twigs, letting it burn low to cook meat or boil water without drawing too much attention. I arranged my campsite to be practical: my bed of leaves tucked against the base of the pine, my supplies hidden among its roots, and my traps spread in a wide radius beyond. Each day was a test, a series of small, deliberate actions to ensure I could survive until the next sunrise. By midday, I would often rest beneath the tree again, eating small portions, checking traps, and studying the forest. The pine was no longer just a marker of days; it had become my anchor, my guide, and my companion. Its branches provided shade, its bark offered shelter from wind or rain, and its roots were a place to lean against when my legs trembled from exhaustion. I found myself talking to it sometimes, muttering about what I had seen, what I planned, and what I hoped to catch. There was a strange comfort in the conversation, even if only one-way. As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, I stood and scanned the forest with renewed focus. The fire-scarred land was quiet now, but I knew the next hunt would be harder. I adjusted the placement of my snares, sharpened another stick, and studied animal tracks near the creek, imagining the size and strength of each creature I might encounter. The pine tree loomed over me as I worked, its presence a steadying force, a reminder that even in the wild, even when every step was uncertain, I had a center to return to. By the time darkness settled over the forest, I had prepared what I could, arranged my small camp, and carved one more mark into the tree's bark. Four days survived. Four days stronger. The pine stood silently above me, a steadfast witness to everything I had endured and everything I was preparing to face.
