I would like to report that the chubby red squirrel navigated its way up the pine tree to the fifth level of branches with no assistance from me whatsoever.

You may be amazed to learn — as I was to see — that Red carried a small pinecone in its jaws while performing this feat.

Look, I know squirrels do this sort of thing very well without me. But it just seemed so important to me at the moment.

The things you might miss if you are racing through the forest (click on any image to enlarge):

The moment of which I speak was in a pine forest, amidst the glens and braes between Balmaha and Rowardennan, beside Loch Lomond. Walk through a stand of pines long enough and you become subject to reality distortion. Things like squirrels, ferns, mushrooms, and trickling brooks take on a significance beyond that which they might when walking to your neighborhood 7-Eleven.

Reality distortion was in full mode today as the hike took us through the most artfully curated forests that I think I’ve ever experienced. Stands of pine were interspersed with groves of beech and oak. The grounds around the Beech were covered in ferns and moss and vines and wildflowers.

The bottoms of the occasional toppled pine might already be decorated in moss and ferns, along with other plants. It was an eyeful, I tell you, all along the 7.5 mile trail.

Steps and more steps. Pine-needle carpet trails and other ways and means to get from one end of the forest to the other:

Along the shore, too, there was plenty to see. An endless string of unique coves, each decorated with a different natural architecture. The path frequently veered off over steep hills and cascaded down the other side. Each path was different — some with steps, some with imaginary steps, some gravelly, some curvaceous, some straight up like an escalator.

And let’s not forget Loch Lomond:

Each day seems to reveal something new about the landscape of Scotland. Maybe you can see it in these pictures. I know that today, I paid more attention to the tiny things — the almost microscopic plants, the mushrooms, the way new vegetation feeds on the decaying tree trunks and stumps.

The evidence of Scotland’s rainy summer was everywhere. Streams were running full, but parts of the trail were boggy where no more moisture could be absorbed.

I found myself telling a fellow hiker that I just didn’t want to leave these woods today. He understood.

Twice I stopped to meditate on my surroundings. It was shocking how little sound from outside — like lorreys and camper vans on the roads — penetrated the forest.

In the morning, I heard the wind rustling through the treetops and the dew droplets falling from leaf to leaf until they hit earth. A distant bird’s cry occasionally broke through the trees. The Loch lapped against the gravel beaches. Some branches groaned in the wind — those aging limbs are something I understand. The sun occasionally broke through the canopy and clouds and lit up the moistened ferns and flat leaves with a silvery glistening.

How do you walk away from such a symphony?

The forest sang a different tune by the afternoon. The brooks still burbled and the wind still blew but the sun stole the tumbling dewdrops. Winds rustled now-dry leaves. The waves still lapped the shore and the shifting sun opened new vistas across the forest floor, turning moss carpets to a florescent green.

I thought of friends and family as I walked, those still here and those who are now part of the same life-cycle occurring in this forest. I wished they were all with me to feel this day’s amazing grace.

I guess a walk in the woods really does have the power to change you.