Connection to the wildness of the land, I think, comes through the intimacy of the details: a flower, a riffle in the river, the reflection on the lake. The closer in I have to lean to decipher a footprint, the more real the critter that left that track becomes. Watching my feet as I hike serves two purposes — keeps me from tripping over a root, for sure; but also brings to my attention the richness of the purple in that wildflower, the lichen of many colors coating the granite underfoot, and the remains of one who came before. The last sunglow on a tree trunk and sunshine through virgas, rainbows and stacks of rainbows make tangible the details of light. Stillness of breath and movement allow the true owners of this landscape to reappear from their sequester to pursue their own initiatives. If I pass through this wildness gabbling like so many geese, I distract myself from my surroundings and the reason I’m here in the first place. To be at rest here is to be unseen, to not intrude where I am the interloper. Then I become part of the grand landscape.