Until that “picturesque” dusting of snow isn’t a dusting. It’s a shroud, a silent, white curtain dropping on the whole play. Or that “lovely” coastal breeze, the one that smells of salt and freedom, turns into a humid, heavy, bar-knuckle fist. Suddenly, "storm surge" isn't an abstract term on the Weather Channel. It's a very real, very wet threat aimed directly at your axles.

Most kids today can swipe before they can walk a trail. They know how to scroll, but not how to read clouds. They recognize app icons better than animal tracks. Something’s gone missing, and it’s not in a lost-and-found box. It’s out there. In the mud. In the woods. In the questions that come when there’s nothing else competing for your attention. This is why we go outside. And why we keep going back.