My mot­her mar­ried a man who ow­ned a very re­mo­te farm. She nee­ded time to get fa­mi­li­ar with the sur­roun­ding fo­rest. At that time cat­t­le were al­lo­wed to graze and roam free­ly in the woods. There were no fen­ces, and the cows were free to move around. In the late sum­mer they so­me­ti­mes wal­ked long dis­tan­ces to find mush­rooms to eat.

One day the cows did not come home by mil­king time, and my mot­her had to go out to find them, lis­te­ning for the sound of cow­bel­ls and cal­ling the cows.

There was no sign of them. Mot­her pa­nic­ked and stra­yed away from the path. She rip­ped her new rub­ber boot on a dry stick. She lost her sen­se of di­rec­ti­on comp­le­te­ly. She on­ly he­ard the wind in the trees. It was an an­cient, dark fo­rest. She could hear an eag­le owl cal­ling and a bear whist­ling. Get­ting lost in the fo­rest was just about the most ter­rib­le thing that could hap­pen.

There was a lo­cal story about a lit­t­le girl who had run away from the yard at the time of some spring or sum­mer ho­li­day, when even the nights are light. She had been found at mid­night drow­ned in a bog. Mot­her told us about her. She was cons­tant­ly wor­ried about her own child le­a­ving the yard. She would not have known which way to go to find them. The hou­se was sur­roun­ded by fo­rest on all si­des.

The sun be­gan to set, and it would soon be dark. She fi­nal­ly came ac­ross a fa­mi­li­ar path and al­so he­ard the sound of a fa­mi­li­ar cow­bell. The cows were there. But we, her child­ren, re­mem­be­red our mot­her’s story: the sig­hing of wind in the trees, the steep hil­l­si­des, the au­tumns co­lors of the fo­rest, the fal­ling dusk and the fear of not fin­ding the way home.

I on­ce got lost in the win­ter. There had been mi­li­ta­ry exer­ci­ses in the thick spruce fo­rest ac­ross the road from my home. The fo­rest was full of hard-trod­den ski tracks. My sis­ters and I went out one af­ter­noon to walk along the tracks. We so­me­ti­mes found so­met­hing where the tents had been, if not­hing el­se, then chop­ped pie­ces of dry birch that we could bring home to our mot­her for fi­re­wood.

Sud­den­ly the tracks be­gan to seem all the same. There were many of them cris­sc­ros­sing bet­ween the big spru­ces. Which of them would take us to the road and home? It was cold, and the tem­pe­ra­tu­re con­ti­nu­ed to drop to­wards the eve­ning. The win­ter’s day was short. The spruce trees were thick and tall, the snow crunc­hed un­der our feet, and the sky was high abo­ve us. My lit­t­le sis­ter be­gan to cry. We ran around sca­red. For­tu­na­te­ly, were gui­ded to walk in the right di­rec­ti­on to­wards the road.

As an adult I on­ce went to pick blu­e­ber­ries. There was an old, overg­rown har­ves­ter track in the fo­rest. I took it for the old rou­te le­a­ding to the bog­gy area my pa­rents used to own.

Sud­den­ly I saw an old cle­a­ring and a po­wer line that should not have been there. I felt stran­ge. I had to sit down on a hum­mock to do some thin­king. Which was wrong: the lands­ca­pe or I? Luc­ki­ly, a dog be­gan to bark in the vil­la­ge, and I re­a­li­zed that I had mis­ta­ken the har­ves­ter track for the track I was loo­king for.

How lo­ve­ly it is for a so­me­o­ne who is lost to hear a fa­mi­li­ar voi­ce: Walk this way. Or to see a fa­mi­li­ar light: Come this way. Here is home.

Text: Tuu­la Stång

Trans­la­ti­on: Sirk­ka-Lii­sa Lei­no­nen