I have many favorite places. Spots lost in the rural landscape of western Alaska. I love the barren tundra ground. I adore the willow trees. My beaver dams, my river bends, my innocently whisical driftwood collections. But one particular path brings giddiness to my child-like soul. I call it the Alder Path. Quite original. But it has this name for the particular reason that it is the only path in this area that is made purely of alders. No willows, no ferns, no cranberry patches. Everytime I walk down it something happens, like I'm transported into a fairytale. I become Alice in Wonderland. There are rabbit trails at my feet and branches reaching out to shake my hand. They love me, those alders. I'm safe within their company, and they mine. It's a mutual understanding of something only the rarest people and plants can feel. They know me and I know them. It's a love of sorts. For I know all of my plants, my animals, and my landscaped hills, but these particular alders- well they know me back. And they show it in the way they greet me as I walk through their path.
