Alone and into the wilderness

In autumn, the maple forest is cool inside, a biological dome, as the canopy spreads overhead catching all the sunlight. Rays of light filter through the foliage, now tinged with shades of red, yellow, and orange, casting a warm, signature hue of the season over the entire landscape.

Going deep into the maple forest can easily feel like walking into another world. Maple syrup harvest season typically occurs from February to April.

I still remember my horse, Comanche, well. At the end of winter he hesitates at the foot of the forest, throws his head and stomps his hooves, anxious to be free to gallop swiftly across the snow-covered fields. But, standing still frozen in debate is not an option as it is so cold I can see my breath, and we have work to do, his long legs move through the deep snow more easily than mine.

The trunks of maple trees are tall and majestic, their smooth gray bark stands out against the white snow background. Under the horses' hooves, the thick snow crunched loudly as we advanced deeper into the forest.

To get maple sap, drill a hole in the tree trunk, insert a small trough and attach a bucket to collect the sap. The sap flows slowly and is collected later. The process is quite different from the time I climbed the palm trees in An Giang, that grow up to 20 meters tall, to collect their sap.

Once finished, we will return in two to three days to collect the sap, bring it back to a hut and boil it. In the boiling hut it is bitterly cold. My friends put on their warmest clothes and gathered around the boiling stove, letting the heat help keep us warm in the wooden hut. Occasionally, we would sneak a little maple syrup mixed with bourbon and of course keep it a secret from our parents.

The maple forest seems closer to me: the trees are bigger, older, more mythical, especially in winter. They have been here for 400 million years, surviving extinction events. There is still a lot about them that we do not fully understand.

Since I was very young, every winter I would sometimes go on a long walk into the forest and cut cedar branches, build a shelter, and use straw to insulate the floor. Then, I crawled inside, hugged a few Sheltie dogs and slept. Inside the sleeping bag, I take off my clothes and for a very restful night's sleep.

Those unforgettable experiences accompanied me through my youth, nurturing a deep love for the wild, equipping me with valuable survival skills, sparking my curiosity, and shaping me into someone with an insatiable desire to explore.

Recently, while editing a book about Alexandre Yersin, the great scientist and explorer who discovered Da Lat, I felt that spirit of discovery rekindled within me. It was his love for untamed nature that brought Yersin to Vietnam and ultimately led him to identify the plague-causing bacterium in 1894, a monumental scientific breakthrough of his time.

To find that inspiration, I led two Australian friends to Da Phu hill, in the middle of the pine forest of Da Lat. The pine forest is different from the maple forest: the pine trees are straight and sparse, allowing light to pass through and shine down on the coniferous carpet. That carpet prevents other grass and trees from growing, creating an easy walking path. This is another unique world, especially for insects, thanks to differences in soil and vegetation.

My friends, accustomed to the city and technology, were looking for an experience: a place without internet, without constant news, without phone screens flashing notifications.

We set up camp in a perfect spot to watch the sunrise, far enough away from the city to see a handful of stars. More than a century ago, Alexandre Yersin explored this area, contributing to the formation of today's Dalat. During his adventures, he faced harsh nature and met local tribes. Today, light pollution makes it difficult to navigate the night sky, as Yersin once did.

We arrived late, hastily setting up camp before dark. At night, my friends shivered because they were probably afraid or didn't believe that sleeping naked in a sleeping bag would be warmer. I slept warmly and soundly.

In the morning, I show everyone how to make camp coffee. We chatted, mostly about exciting adventure books, and commented on how big pine trees reminded them of "ents".

Ents, in the fantasy world of Middle-earth by J.R.R. Tolkien, are giant, humanoid, half-tree creatures that act as "shepherds" of the forest. Ancient and wise, they are deeply connected to nature, known for their immense size and a slow, deliberate strength that belies great power.

Horses at a pine forest in Da Lat. Photo by Nguyen Ngoc Ga

Although it was created by Tolkien in 1937, the idea of ents seems to be more alive than ever.

"It feels like the trees here are moving," my friend said.

"They are always moving, never still," I replied.

Plants don't see with their eyes, but they sense and respond to light through photoreceptors: specialized proteins that detect different wavelengths. They connect to the forest through fungal networks, sharing nutrients and information, warning the entire forest of intruders.

Ancient trees stand like elders, pillars of the forest and the planet. Their roots stretch for kilometers, not only drawing water but also sharing resources, sustaining life, and maintaining connections underground. Trees improve air quality by absorbing pollutants and releasing oxygen. They trap dust on their leaves and bark, and draw in harmful gases like carbon dioxide, nitrogen oxides, and sulfur dioxide through their stomata. Here, with my friends in the forest I could talk about trees all day!

Suddenly, a young man wandered into our campsite, almost bumping into us because he was engrossed in talking to his phone. We were able to avoid him because his voice preceded him announcing his arrival from afar, as he walked and streamed through a selfie stick attached to his chest with a complicated harness, chatting non-stop with his followers.

As we sat in quiet contemplation, taking in the forest, the boy’s voice overpowered everything—from the hum of insects and the calls of birds to the creaking of the trees. He, like so many others, seemed to come only to snap a photo and declare, "I was here!" without truly seeing or hearing the beauty of the place.

When he left, we breathed a sigh of relief. But just an hour later, three other young men appeared, placing chairs blocking our view. They set up cameras, talked loudly to the lens, turned on loud music, disturbing the quiet of the forest.

We discussed how music drowns out natural sounds, from rustling leaves to birdsong. A young Gen Z overheard and remarked to his friends, looking agitated. He moved his body challengingly, as if threatening, even though we, three large but gentle Western men, were just sitting, talking, and watching the sunset.

He bragged about his lineage, moved as if ants were in his pants, exaggerated his prowess which one can only do when thinking we didn't understand Vietnamese. Soon, another group arrived, repeating the same ritual: "Look at me—I made it to the forest." They seemed fully absorbed in the virtual world, snapping photos with little regard for their surroundings. Their speaker blasted music directly toward our tents, with no thought to the disturbance they were causing.

When they left, I breathed a sigh of relief, no longer having the music take away from the present moment. We got up and walked around the hill, enjoying the quiet again.

Beautiful places are often found by "influencers" and left as landfills as on Da Phu hill. I have seen the same thing at Chua Chan Mountain, where trash piles up into mountains, growing higher and higher each year.

My two friends, initially excited to go to the forest, now lost their enthusiasm. They wanted to leave and we returned to the concrete jungle in the city.

There’s a stark disconnect between the current generation and the natural world. Instead of gazing up at millions of stars, they lose themselves in their phone screens. It’s not just the stars they overlook—many don’t even notice the trees anymore.

Yersin's spirit of curiosity and exploration, such as learning deeply about insects, small animals, and the nature of plants, seems to have disappeared. Instead, there's only the question "Is it edible?" and "Can I take a selfie?" Filter. Post. Likes. Heart reaction.

They only care about showing off that they are going into the forest and exploring the vivid beauty of the forest.

Go into the forest alone, feel the breath of the forest, listen to it, leave the city in the city and your phone at home.

*Jesse Peterson is an author who has published some books in Vietnamese, including "Jesse Cười", "Funny Tragedy: adding color to life".