The Bouncy Tree, the Thirsty Matron, and the Grandfather Tree: A Children’s Nature Therapy Experience

Kathy Simulcik is a Certified Nature Therapy Guide. The following is an excerpt from her final project.

First steps

Fall had finally arrived on the day of our Nature Therapy Walk. The sky was overcast, and the air was just chilly enough to make those without proper jackets feel uncomfortable. I was pleased to see that all the students had dressed appropriately for the three-hour walk in the woods, a good sign that they were taking my invitation seriously. We didn’t plan to cover much ground—probably less than a mile in total—but three hours can feel like a long time, especially for kids experiencing their first Nature Therapy walk.

Though I knew the students well, I still felt a twinge of anxiety. I truly hoped this group of kids, who I’d come to really care about, would experience what Cortney Cameron described as “the new old way of seeing”—taking the first steps toward a reciprocal relationship and seeing the more-than-human world from a fresh perspective. As with all Walks, I reminded myself that my role was simply to offer an invitation—the forest would do the heavy lifting. So, on that cool, cloudy afternoon, I decided to begin our walk with some questions about relationships.

Crossing the threshold

Our small group had gathered at the edge of the forest, by a large Poplar tree, precariously clinging to life, completely parallel to the ground, anchored by a few tenacious roots. Many of the students had played on this tree, affectionately calling it “the Bouncy Tree.” Almost without exception, they viewed the old tree as an object, conveniently placed at the edge of the campus for their amusement. Over the past three years, the poor tree has lost limbs and bark from rough play, yet it refused to die. Its roots, exposed to the air, remain tethered to the Earth, likely nourished by her sister trees and the complex mycellial networks underground.  Ironically, the fallen trunk of the tree completely crosses the trail leading into the forest. Every student who hikes into the woods must step over her to participate in a hike, something they had done many times in the past. The children I work with are delightful, generally kind humans, but I don’t think they’ve ever stopped to consider that this impressive tree is a living being—just like themselves.

Every student who hikes into the woods must step over her to participate in a hike, something they had done many times in the past. The children I work with are delightful, generally kind humans, but I don’t think they’ve ever stopped to consider that this impressive tree is a living being—just like themselves.

As we gathered at the threshold of the forest, grounding ourselves with breath, I invited the students to set down the invisible burdens of the day. Preteens, constantly navigating the turmoil of social media and the turbulence of hormonal changes, desperately need the medicine that the forest offers. I couldn’t help but reflect on how this moment felt like more than just a walk in the woods, especially given the political unrest and the suffering of our Earth. After their time in the woods, I deeply hoped they would choose to move toward right relationship with the natural world. Through questioning, I invited the students to observe their world, offering a chance to see their fallen comrade with new eyes. After three years, they finally truly met her. As we crossed into the forest, we paused to touch her bark, marking our entry into the woods. In that moment, I felt the energy shift.

Squirrel language

The students and I made our way towards our first stop, up a familiar path, through the raspberry thicket and Holly trees, deeper into the woods, leaving behind the noisy chatter of the school campus.  At the crest of the hill, we came together, once again, in a woodland clearing. To help ease any lingering apprehension, I invited the students to join me in a simple game which I found in Joseph Cornell’s classic book, Sharing Nature with Children. Before beginning, we briefly discussed the importance of sensory awareness and how many of our natural gifts are fading due to atrophy. After quickly pairing up the students who chose to play, I tasked each group with creating a “squirrel language” consisting of three words: right, left, and throw. One partner was blindfolded and had to use their remaining senses to gather ping pong balls—representing nuts—guided faithfully by their partner’s frantic gibberish.

Although the game was fast and noisy, ending in less than ten minutes,  it clearly demonstrated how difficult it is to use their sense of hearing amidst a cacophony of noise. Humans heavily rely on eyesight, and the blindfold made the students feel incredibly vulnerable. Starting with this simple game served multiple purposes: not only did it illustrate a key concept, but it also raised their adrenaline, sharpening their focus as they prepared to listen carefully to a story. The story, also from Cornell’s book, was about a mountain climber who, after losing his sunglasses, was blinded by the snow by the time he reached the summit. Alone, he had to rely on his senses to navigate back to base camp. Since the story was based on a true event, the students listened intently, quietly reflecting on the vulnerability they had experienced during the game. After a brief round of questions to further process their thoughts, our group set out on the next leg of our walk—a visit the Mother Beech, off the beaten path.

The thirsty matron

A short hike took us deeper into the forest, where we settled beneath the silver canopy of a giant Beech Tree, towering above us, easily a century old. Her leaves had long since fallen, no longer needing the marcescence of youth. I invited the students to make observations about the tree and her surroundings, and I was thrilled by their remarks. Even the wiggliest among them were fully engaged in the conversation. We discovered a bounty of beech nuts, and they learned a bit about mast fruiting and the nutritional value of these nuts for humans and their non-human brethren alike. The students speculated about why the old Beech had so few plants at her base, correctly deducing it was because she is a very thirsty matron.

Mapping the creek

Soon after, we wandered down to the banks of a nearly dry creek bed. Though the dry weather had robbed the creek of flowing water, it remained beautiful, with a nest of dried ferns, scattered rocks, pillowy moss, and slippery salamanders—all ready to captivate the young explorers. I gave the kiddos time to roam, allowing their burning curiosity to lead;  igniting the spark that calls them home amongst the trees and creatures. Many of our students, who struggle in the classroom—sitting at desks and quietly absorbing lessons—come alive in this setting. When simple expectations are set, their neurodivergence becomes a superpower. They’re the ones who stare intently at the world teeming with life, under the rotting log, scramble to the top of the rocks, locate the fox’s den, and find the weary toad, black as pitch and ready to hibernate. At this point in the walk, you can almost feel a collective exhale, because all the students know they have finally been given permission to simply be children.

Many of our students, who struggle in the classroom, come alive in this setting. Their neurodivergence becomes a superpower. They stare intently at the world teeming with life, under the rotting log, scramble to the top of the rocks, locate the fox’s den. You can almost feel a collective exhale, because they have finally been given permission to simply be children.

After about twenty minutes of excited discovery, I gathered the students for a quiet activity and asked them to use their nature journals to create a map of the creek bed area they had just explored. I encouraged them to use what they had learned about the Beech trees to identify as many as they could, within the context of their learning and the land they had come to know. They were given compasses to help orient their maps and were encouraged to add other points of interest as personal markers—things that would help them orient themselves and develop a deeper sense of place.

As the shadows lengthened, I began to worry about one of my biggest challenges as a guide (and as a human): I don’t have a strong sense of time. For the last two activities, I wanted to set a tempo that was stimulating but not rushed, allowing enough space for Nature to work her magic and create meaning.

When we reconvened, I asked the students to share their observations and form questions about the patterns they noticed in their maps. Ideally, I would have liked to spend more time reflecting through writing, but I knew that time was running out. I wanted to ensure our last guest of honor had the opportunity to share the final story of the day.

The Grandfather Tree

The students were bubbly after the last activity, and seemed to be enjoying the day.  Saying goodbye to the creek bed, we headed back towards the beginning, our experience drawing to a close. I led our students to a breathtaking Poplar Tree.  He had lived in this land for a very long time, and was easily over a century and a half years old, dating back to the Civil War. For American children, trained to view time through a Colonial framework, this tree represented a distant and almost mythical past. The children had passed under this magnificent tree countless times, but they had never truly noticed its grandeur. As we approached, they were in awe of its massive trunk, and they eagerly gathered around to try and hug it together, marveling at its size and age, marking the beginning of their understanding.  “How many arms will it take to wrap around the Grandfather?” they said with loving kindness.

“How many arms will it take to wrap around the Grandfather?” they said with loving kindness.

Before the group crowded too closely at the base of the tree, eager to connect with one another and this magnificent, non-human being, I had to caution them to give the tree some space. As they examined it more closely, they noticed that barbed wire was embedded in the trunk, rusted and deteriorating, running straight through “his body”. We circled up for our final experience at the tree’s base, with most of the children lying in the damp leaves, gazing up at the branches. For our closing experience, I asked the students to reflect on how the tree, like us, has weathered hardships. Although I should have remained quiet and allowed the students time to process, I found myself moved by the moment.  I remarked that the tree did not ignore the painful parts of his life; instead, he has embraced them, growing tall and strong around—and because of—the challenges he has faced.

The right place

By the end of our Nature Therapy Walk, I felt hopeful and energized. Students seemed engaged and participatory in a way that engendered the first steps of meaningful nature connection. Based on student feedback forms, the students really enjoyed the walk and got a lot out of it. They are looking forward to regular Nature Connection programming next year. For the first time in many years, I believe I am in the right place and have a real shot at giving something meaningful back to the land through my work as a guide.